A/N: Due to the number of pleading emails I have received as of late, I am continuing this story at a frenetic pace that will leave me a shell of a man in no time. The final act will play out soon, but until then, enjoy the ride. Read! Review! Email! I know it's short, and it's not as good as the others...but there are real good parts coming up. I promise.

A man rushed from the darkness, a bearded axe raised high. Jack swung around to face him, slashed at the man. He backed off, fell into the shadows warily and awaited another opportunity for the attack. Jack and his mate continued to circle warily, ready for the next inevitable attack. The moonlight glinted off shadowed blades. Drums boomed and pounded in the distance, setting the tempo for the battle. He felt Sam take a swing behind him, fall back into place. The dance continued.

Keep moving. Keep Sam safe.

Like in so many battles before, Sam felt like her senses were on overdrive. But this particular skirmish was different. She could smell Jack, his sweat. Feel his heat, the proximity. It was almost sexual. Death was distant, now. It was her and her mate against the world- as it should be. How many triumphs had they shared, dangers had they faced? And each and every time, as long as he had been by her side, they had won. They had beat impossible odds time and again. The fear of death was gone with him so close.

This won't be any different.

Bodies were piling up around them. Jack was bleeding quite a bit, having shield Sam with his body. He limped as he turned, feeling the tip of a sword lodged in his thigh shift. Only the thoughts of Carter kept him moving. The knife was like lead, so heavy his hand drooped. His head was surprisingly light, however. He couldn't tell Sam's condition, but hoped she could run. Jack forced his legs to tense, ignored the shooting pains, and prepared to leap forwards and sell himself dearly to cover her escape.

I'm losing blood. I hope I bought her time...

She felt Jack tense behind her, knew what was coming, prepared to follow him. The familiar feeling of icewater in her gut was there, the fear of losing him. She couldn't. She refused. She refused to let her man go. She could feel him limping, leaning against her. The imperative in her mind was to help her mate, but she couldn't. Not right now. So, she steeled herself for the onslaught.

I'll see you in heaven, beloved.

The command was barked, short. A female voice, by the sound of it.

"Stop!"

There were growls from the darkness, feral grumblings of adrenaline-laced men.

"They aren't Kan. You, tell your male to put down his knife. We apologize for the attack."

Jack slumped against her, fell. Something warm and wet against her leg.

"Your other two slaves fled through the Chappa'i, the cowards. Had we known you to be Heralds, we would not have attacked."

Sam was confused. First, she was fighting for her life...now, she was being treated with respect. A heavily scarred woman stepped from the shadows, tall and rangy. Her arms hung limply by her sides. One eye was covered by a crude leather patch. The other looked her over, then shifted to Jack. Sam tried not to stare at her.

"This slave, he is...exceptional."

Lust in her eyes. She looked down at Jack herself, felt the blood drain from her face. His leg was bleeding rather badly, and there were a few long cuts along his arms. His vest was in tatters. She had never seen anyone hurt that badly- not on combat missions, not even when Jack had taken the staff blast to the chest. She was panicking.

"Christ!"she exclaimed, eyes suddenly blurry, "Oh, Christ. Jack. Jack."

"Ah...I take it this particular male is special to you, mistress?"

"Yes. Oh God, save him!"

"Yes, mistress."

Jack. Please, please live.

Jack faded in and out of consciousness. He caught glimpses as he was carried gently along. Carter, crying over him, indigo eyes wide. Scarred men, armed, with thick leather collars. Trees. Dark sky.

Aww, shit. Iraq all over again.

"He's bleeding...oh, Jesus. Do something!"

"We have an Altar of Healing at the camp, Herald," the scarred woman said as calmly as she could. The timber of her voice was cracking.

"Faster, maggots! For each bruise on the male's body, ten lashes!"

"Yes, Mistress Melinda!" they said in unison, panting as they jogged. The Colonel was suspended between them via a series of leather straps, his body barely moving. Carter ran along with them, noticing the marks of forced servitude on the men around her. Viciously scarred backs, collars. An aura of fear. She didn't care, all that mattered was Jack. Her man. Her mate.

Oh God, don't let him die.

Jack could hear voices as he lay in a familiar, glowing white place. A very familiar white place. A place without Carter, without pain, without anything but himself. He could hear her voice in the distance, little more than a murmur. The pain in his leg was gone. For that relief, he was thankful. He struggled to capture Sam's words.

Where is she?