The morning was a long time coming. Neither man slept, both were too agitated by not only the odd feeling of something being 'off', but by the constant chatter in the surrounding tents, chatter they had not heard since their arrival. The sun rose in a jaundice-colored sky. The sick yellow light filtered through pale clouds. For Rodney, everything reeked of a half-life, and he was feeling physically ill. The pain in his hand didn't help a bit, and he was on the verge of telling Carson so when both men were yanked from their tent and forced to the center of the village.

Carson found himself held by two men, facing a small group of people. The rest of the villagers formed a large circle around them. Rodney was held just to the inside, where Carson could see him, but not where he could interfere. Carson pulled his arms away, only to be grabbed even tighter. He could see the anger and confusion on Rodney's face, and had to admit he was feeling a wee bit uncertain himself.

One man stepped forward. He slowly raised a long finger and pointed at Carson, speaking in a tongue he had not heard. One glance at Rodney showed his puzzlement as well, and then he found himself flat on the ground, with something sharp poking his back. It was a staff, the one the leader kept beside his bed. Carson raised his head, and felt a foot press him back down, pinning his shoulder.

"What's happening?" Rodney sounded nervous. A turn of the head showed the man pulling towards him, a movement which one of his guards didn't seem to care for. His wrists were forced behind him, eliciting a quick cry of pain as his injured hand was abused.

"You come to help." The man was someone Carson hadn't seen before. He stood between him and his view of Rodney, who was throwing curses into the air as quickly as he could say them. "You caused pain."

"It was not my intention, I assure you," Carson said softly.

"You caused pain." He pointed behind him, targeting Rodney without looking at him. "Our way of protection is gone."

"Wait, he was trying to repair that! It exploded, it wasn't his fault! He was trying to help, just as I was."

"Our leader was very ill. Yet he did not die peacefully. You sent him down the unstable path, rather than the clear one."

Carson had no idea what to say. How did one counter another's ideology, especially in matters of death? "All I can say is, I'm really, really sorry. I wish things could have been done differently. If I had the proper supplies, more idea of what was happening. . ." But that was shifting the blame, and he refused. "Look, I take full responsibility for what has happened. I wasn't prepared. I apologize."

"If you were prepared, would our leader have lived?"

Carson decided the best action was to tread carefully. "It is possible, but to be truthful, I believe he was too far gone."

"So instead you interrupt a peaceful departure."

"It wasn't intentional! I had no idea he would have such a reaction to the medicine!"

"Carson!" Rodney hissed, and Carson realized, tardily, that he'd just dug himself a rather large hole.

The men raised his hand, and Rodney was shoved into the circle. Carson noticed his hands were now bound, and it was all the physicist could do not to fall to his knees. He glared at the man holding Carson down. "I knew this was a mistake," he muttered, "I knew it when Elizabeth first said we were coming here. I could have had a sonic device that suited their purpose within a day, but I honestly didn't think I was coming back here."

"Rodney, is there something you're not telling me? Because now might be a good time to hear it, although a bit belated." He winced as the man's foot pressed harder on his shoulder.

"Listen, let the man up, he didn't do anything wrong! If anything, I was wrong through neglect." Rodney's steely eyes met the man who now stood before him. "I could have arranged things where you would have an unlimited supply of protection. I chose not to."

"And why is this?"

Rodney's jaw clenched. "I don't know. But there is something about this place. I thought maybe I was crazy last time because no one else sensed it, but now that I'm in the village. . .I never want to come back."

"With your help, there will no longer be a village to return to." Rodney suddenly found himself flat on his back beside Carson. He yelled out as he landed on his injured hand, and clammed up as the large man who had eyed him upon their initial arrival knelt on his chest, and tipped a knife at his throat.

"WAIT! Wait. . ." Carson tried his best to raise up, ignoring the pain of the staff in his back. The knife moved threateningly, and he paused. "We can still build another protection device, can't we? We can still help your people. Am I right?" He angled his question towards Rodney, who was in obvious pain.

"Sure," he huffed, unable to breath easily. "Can have it here tomorrow."

"That is too late."

"It's the best I can do!"

"No. Your companion will pay his price, as you will pay yours. For you, a box within a hill. You will be locked in to die the slow death we will suffer though your negligence." Rodney paled slightly. "And you," he addressed Carson, "you will provide a cushion for our leader's grave."

It was as dire a threat as he'd ever heard. Carson's eyes closed, and he heard Rodney mumble, "Any time now, Colonel." But there was no rescue.

Carson was raised to his feet as the body was carried out. He saw a mound of dirt in the distance, and a sick feeling grew like a cancer in his gut. Rodney was still pinned, unable to move or see what was happening. He wasn't looking at anything, really, even when the defacto leader knelt down beside him. The knife was raised, and angled.

All rational thought fled. Maybe it was the mound of dirt, or the ill sun, or the fact that the trees cast no shadows. Maybe it was his headache. Maybe it was the way Rodney closed his eyes, preparing himself for the inevitable. He could see Rodney's pack at the entrance to their tent, and knew his gun lay beside it. What the villagers did not know, was that this medical doctor was also packing.

His gun whipped out, and he circled, keeping the detested weapon at arm's length. It served its purpose, people were starting to back away. Carson aimed at the man holding his friend, and he slowly rose, as the new leader slowly backed away. Rodney caught his breath and rolled to his knees, then to his feet. Carson stood just in front of him, guiding him backwards towards his pack. "Nae," he said, his accent thickening in fear, "I've tired to be reasonable. Ye've suffered a great loss, and I'm desperately sorry. But you'll not hurt me nor my friend here, so I suggest you just let us go." He was using his best authoritative voice, the one he used to get overly large soldiers to submit to testing. They backed against their tent, where Rodney managed to reach down and grab his pack, holding it awkwardly behind him. "Get my things," Carson muttered, and Rodney did so, but only because they were just inside the entrance. Carson took the pack, his weapon not wavering. The people just watched, not really scared, but more curious. Actually, if anything, they looked empty.

"My wrists," Rodney said quietly, and Carson shook his head.

"There's a small knife in my pack, but. . ."

"Right, let's get clear of this first, shall we?"

Carson nodded and started to walk. They headed towards the trees, keeping a careful eye on the people who watched them, quite disturbingly, rather like they were either uncertain that their party meant to leave, or that they had supreme confidence in recapturing them. They turned slowly, expressionless, most still covered in rags but some more exposed. Rodney recognized Tiran, and he looked the same as the others.

"Bloody hell, let's go," Carson said, taking the packs once they got to the path.

And the raged charge that bellowed behind them sent them to their heels.

They whipped through the brush, hearing the cries of those pursuing, knowing that they were outnumbered. But it was apparent that their illness slowed them, and the two men quickly gained ground, enough to where Carson was able to pull Rodney aside and go for his knife. He sawed through the rope, noticing Rodney's injury bleeding again, but said nothing. They hurried on, passing trees that by all rights should have been various shades of green, but instead were grey. Carson felt himself slowing, even as he pulled Rodney along. The air was growing thicker, harder to breathe in. And as they slowed, the others gained.

Rodney fell to his knees, felt Carson pull him up again, and knew the other man had little run left in him. They hid behind a thick clump of bushes, hearing the people approach. Rodney had his gun ready, and he saw Carson fumble with his. There was a sharp crack near them, and Carson fired, hoping to scare them away. He had intended to fire into the air. He knew that. Knew that. But the body that fell down the hill from his shot stilled him, froze him, and forever seared itself in his memory.

It was a tiny child. His chest was blown open.

Carson stood in shock. Rodney couldn't breathe, didn't want to, because that child was close to them, and the smell of blood was his. He braced Carson as the doctor wavered, then tried to run to him. "NO! No, Carson, don't, it's too late. It's too late, come on, we have to keep going." He patted his friend's arm firmly. "Come on."

And that was when it happened.

"He shot a child?"

"He didn't mean to. It just happened." Rodney swallowed thickly. "That was his last coherent memory, god, why did it have to be that?"