Author's Note: Alright all, there's been an exciting development. I actually proofread this! Really. A few times. So there should be fewer typos than you are perhaps accustomed to from my work. Huzzah. Also, I thank you all for your input, and I shall try to work accordingly. I can't change much as far as the story, because it's all outlined already and I hate to mess with it, but I will try to work faster and better so that there is no long delay between chapters. I would love it if you would continue to feedback on this. This chapter was a bit taxing, and I would really like to know how you all feel about it. Also, the back ten start tonight! Again with the Huzzah!

Forgiveness is the sweetest revenge. Isaac Friedmann

It was black.

This was not a natural dark. This was the sort of darkness that settled in a man, that coiled about him, that worked through him. It was a cloaking darkness, neither warm nor cold, neither loose nor tight about him. He could see nothing, feel nothing, hear nothing. But it was that he could feel nothing that he was most struck by. There was no pain. Though he could not see his flesh he knew that if he could, he would see no bruises. He was not bleeding; not hot ooze tickled his skin, no metallic tang tainted his mouth and nose. When he flexed his muscles, they did not protest. Nothing was perceptible but his own existence, floating disembodied in a dimensionless space.

Gradually, where he stood, floated, existed became a place, and that place began to lighten. He saw… realized… the floor first, and felt the coolness of the marble under his bare feet. The light seemed to spread up him more than out, so that next he saw his legs, sound and strong, and then the lower edge of a garment he had never seen before, a white tunic, trimmed with gold and belted with a golden cord. He saw then his hands, the left bearing a gold ring with a strange device affixed upon it, and his arms, both with neither a scratch nor bruise. The skin of his chest where it was exposed was unbroken and unblemished. He felt refreshed, hale and hearty, as if he could have run a hundred miles without tiring. A sort of music, both merry and solemn, filled the space around him, with the sound of harp and flute and upraised voice.

Then the soft glow radiated out, as though his very body was its source. The marble floor seemed to go on forever, its plane interrupted occasionally but towering pillars the capitals of which he could not see. The floor and the pillars were all there was. No matter how far the light reached there was no ceiling, there were no walls, and there were no doors. Still, he was not alarmed. He was aware now that he had come to this place by no natural means, and it would be by no natural means that he would leave it.

While he was watching, the glow brushed upon a flurry of motion, so suddenly there and gone that he doubted he had seen it at all until the light embraced it fully. Two whippets gamboled and wrestled at the foot of what appeared at first to be another pillar, the one with a gilded collar, the other with a collar of iron. He saw then, dangling near them, a sandaled foot, and followed it up to a knee, a leg, a body reclining on an elaborately sculpted marble throne. The legs were crossed and thrown over the armrest in what he would have called an undignified pose, were it not for the nature of their owner. She, a girl of perhaps seventeen or eighteen years, was attired much the same as he was. Though he could see no instrument about her, and her mouth was closed in a sultry smile, he was sure the music was, at least in part, coming from her. Thick black tresses fell about her shoulders, with two short, rebellious locks framing a fine-featured face. Her coloring was dark, almost swarthy, and her large eyes were the most dazzling shade of green he had ever seen. She said no word as she watched him watching her, but those eyes seemed to dance with such delight that he almost laughed.

No sooner was she illuminated fully than another figure appeared, sitting easily in an identical throne perhaps ten feet to the right of the first. This one, a man, also wore the white and gold tunic. He seemed to be of an age with the girl. Considering them closely, he could not imagine that there was not common blood between them. The boy's hair was shorter, but as black and as thick as hers, cut in a wild and rakish style. He had the same tawny complexion, the same casual grace, the same large eyes dancing merrily at him. The boy's eyes were blue, though. The music seemed to be coming no less from him than from her, though he did not have any instrument either, and his slightly smiling mouth did not open. As Lee considered him he noticed slight movement near the young man's sandaled feet, and was startled to discover that what he had taken for a carving before was the largest, whitest snake he could have imagined, coiled around the base of the throne.

"You are Lee Adama, called Apollo."

He would have said that neither could have spoken, because he still did not see their mouths open, yet the voices that formed the words were undoubtedly male and female, and seemed to fit the figures as perfectly as the music did. It seemed to him the male voice took particular delight in the words.

"I am," he said, though it had clearly not been a question.

"And the son of Zeus it is said," the two chimed together.

"Son of Gideon" the she-voice lilted.

"Warrior of Kobol," the he-voice intoned.

"Where am…How…Who…" Lee had no idea which of these questions he wished to ask first, or even if he was wise in asking any of them. Lee's eyes flitted back at forth between the two, searching desperately for he knew not what. The iron collared whippet leapt upon its mate, bowling the other over, and Lee thought he heard the sound of breaking glass. It had to have been the music, however; there was nothing here but flesh and stone. He wished the music would stop. He wished the dogs would be silent. He wished he knew what the hell was going on so he could pull himself together and stop looking like a fool.

His stumbling seemed only to amuse them, if it was indeed him they were reacting to at all. Though their eyes remained fixed upon him, he could not have said with certainty that they took any real notice of him.

The voices came together again, playing off and with each other. As the light continued to expand, the voices began to echo. "The worshipper of He has unknowing offered you up to us. You will listen now, and take warning. The supplanter works among you. One of many, he is, but close to you. You must root him out and destroy him before aught else may be. Before you meet your brothers, he and his must be undone."

"Whose? What supplanter?"

"They are the worshippers of He."

"The worshippers of… cylons! You mean the cylons in the Fleet." He had heard enough cylon blather about their one true god to catch the reference, though he was otherwise feeling impossibly confused.

"Just so. The great sin of the sons of Gideon must be undone, that the children of Kobol may be remade."

"We can't find them. Sharon told us weeks ago…Boomer did… There are…"

"Nine." The snake at the base of the male's throne slowly uncoiled itself, and pursued the fleeing darkness.

Lee shook his head. "Yes. But we can't find them," he repeated. "We've been screening for cylons in the Fleet since the first days after the attacks."

"Look first to your own. Seek first the supplanter, the worshipper of He that gave you to us. His is the first of the threefold threat. Know him by the signs which we will show you."

Lee said nothing for a time, waiting, naturally, for some sort of sign to be shown to him. But the voices said nothing more, and no image materialized out of the space in front of him. They only watched him, expectantly, almost curiously, while he considered what he had been told.

"You said there is a threefold threat? What are the other two?"

"There is one who is with you, but not of you," said she readily.

"There is one who is of you, but not with you," said he in turn.

"These," they said together, "you must answer."

"How will I know them? More signs?" Lee was getting frustrated. It was this, exactly, that had driven him away from religion as a boy.

"These you must answer," they said again. "Know also that in all times, in all places, no power of ours will stay the hand of your enemies."

A lyre appeared in the hands of the male, and he plucked at it dispassionately. Lee felt a sort of heat rise in him, like anger and frustration and uncertainty and passion all burning together. He was sure that more was being asked of him than ought to have been his alone to bear, but, at the same time, he had very little idea even what was being asked of him.

"How can I do any of this?" he demanded. "I'm strapped into an infirmary bed." How he knew that he was, and just when he had realized he was neither physically in the chamber, nor conscious in the strictest sense, is not known to us, the tellers, any more that it was known to him.

"Your hand we may strengthen. But we do not direct it or anything it wields and we cannot," they reiterated, "stay the hand of your enemy."

"Yeah I got that."

"Take it with you."

It was black.

Doc Cottle was checking the charts on the ends of the beds.

It was little more than a matter of form, really. There were not many patients in the infirmary this afternoon, and he knew what was wrong with each one without having to read about it. There was nothing to alter in any treatment plans, no emergencies that required his immediate attention, not even any decent wounds to be checked for sign of infection. So he went from bed to bed, dispassionate and resigned, to glance over the charts and exchange a word or two with the occasional alert ward. Times like this a man needs a good spot fire or mass shooting, keep him on his toes. He shook off the thought.

Lee Adama's bed was at the end of the infirmary farthest from the hatch. It had been a hell of a chore getting him here, with the young captain thrashing and howling the whole way. At the time, Cottle had wanted to take the CAG as far as he could away from the other patients; it was rare that he had opportunities like this, to shield his charges from the pain of watching one of their own screaming and crying and bleeding. Even after Apollo had settled down, this had seemed like the best place for him. His shipmates had become so concerned that they were meddlesome, and Cottle wanted to keep distance as well as curtains between them and the captain.

The gruff old man hesitated as he drew near the pilot's cot, as he always did. The pup, the one called Caprica, had risen immediately as he approached. At first Cottle had not known quite what to make of the dog's reaction to him. He had not spent much time with the animals, and did not know how aggressive they might be. There were not aggressive at all, as it turned out. Just very strange. Caprica advanced to the end of her rope and waited, silent, with her black little eyes intent upon him. Starbuck had left the dog on a long leash, so there was no way to get close to the bed without coming within range of the dog.

Cottle huffed and raised a bushy brow as he considered her. She was small yet, being only a puppy… or at least she was smaller than she would be later. If reports from the Caprica team were true, this one would be a monster before long. Even now she was the size of a small spaniel, and he had no doubt he would feel it if she bit him.

He paused only a moment. He was growing accustomed to his little dance with Caprica. Two steps more and he was within range of her. She stood on her hind legs, straining against her rope and reaching towards him. He thought he saw her tail wag a little. It's just a game to her. The little nose twitched, and when he came closer she dropped to all fours and sniffed vigorously at him. Cottle had seen all four pups at least once over the last few hours, as their various handlers came to check on Apollo, and each and every one of them had sniffed him this way.

His grandchildren, when he had had grandchildren, had always said he smelled funny. It was the cigarettes. Their mother told them to say that so I'd quit.

Once more, Cottle shook off the thought. He nudged the pup aside with his foot, cursing when he nearly got tangled in the rope. Mechanically, he unhooked the chart from the end of the bed. The pain killers had worked to a limited extent when he was first brought in, but that had not lasted, and now Captain Adama was on a heavy sedative. They had knocked him out in the hope of sparing him the worst of the pain, and because they had needed to remove the restraints; the straps on his ankles and wrists, which were the only thing stopping him from pitching himself to the floor, were also cutting into him, deeper every time he moved.

Cottle checked the IV line. He gentled opened Lee's eyes to shine his penlight into them; the pupils were reactive, and there were no more burst blood vessels than there had been an hour ago. There were no fresh bruises or cuts either, that he could see, and Apollo's breathing was not so labored. So that was something. Just because we've got him knocked out. It'll be bad again, second he wakes up.

There was no real need for him to step away from the bed to jot his notes on the chart, but he did regardless. Old men do hardly anything consciously, but move with the assurance of memory through well-established paces. If his orderlies and medics had been the types to complain, they would have said that it was impossible to read his scratching. But that did not matter. What mattered was that he would come back here, one hour from now, and recall what he had seen an hour before. No one would look at the chart to do something without his approval in any case.

Doc Cottle glanced from the chart, to the man…boy really…and back to the chart again. He sighed, because that is what old men do when confronted by the suffering of the young, and because no one was around to hear him.

"Let me know if there's any change," he commanded the dog absently. She cocked her head at him, and he smiled wanly in turn.

That was the point and which Cottle would have hooked the chart back into its place on the bed, jammed his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, and moved on to the next bed. And he very nearly did, because that is the way of old men, and because he did not see any reason why he should not. In fact, he back was almost completely turned when he heard it, the sound that pulled him up.

It was like a whimper, but more desperate and strained, and it was the dog that made it. When he turned to look at her, he half expected to see her choking herself on her collar as she strained to sniff him even while he walked away. But the pup was not sniffing for him now, or even looking at him. Caprica was trying to reach the bed. If she reared up, she could almost get her forepaws to the top of the mattress. But not quite. She was hopping, and could probably have jumped up, if she had not been scolded so sharply last time she had tried. Now she just whimpered and strained, trying to reach the hand on the cover.

A hand, he realized, that had moved.

The movement must have been slight, because it was not so far from where it had been when he turned his back a moment ago. But the palm had been down when he looked at it last, he was sure of it, and now the hand was on its side, palm in, fingers curled. While he watched, the fingers extended, then curled in again. It was not possible. They had pumped enough sedative into Lee Adama to keep him out for hours yet. But even as he thought so the captain made a sound, not so very different from the one the pup had made, like straining.

"Captain?" Two long strides had Cottle back at the bedside, and when he checked the eyes again Lee shrank back from the light.

"Where…" he rasped. His throat was dry.

"Timmons!" Cottle barked. The young orderly, a civilian volunteer, appeared with terrified immediacy. "Bring some water. And notify the Commander that Captain Adama is awake."

Apollo was in hiding.

He had been so tired, after Cottle had finally, in a state of utter bemusement, released him. He could no more explain how he had overcome the sedative than he could explain why the pain had lessened, and how it was that there was no more red in his eyes. Lee had been examined more thoroughly than he would have thought possible, then held over for observation for a time, before the doctor had seen fit to let him leave. His mind then had been on his rack. Maybe a nice hot shower.

The well-wishers, with their thoughtless pats on the back, had only deepened his exhaustion. He found that he could not go back to the duty locker to lie down, because he was immediately set upon by pilots telling him how glad they were that he was alive and on his feet. And that was fine. He was glad too. But not half as glad as I'll be after a few hours of good, sober sleep.

Of course he was not surprised when she found him. He could not remember ever telling her about this place, this remote storeroom he retreated to when the demands of rank and blood became too much. He probably had. Either that, or she had had Geminon track him, but that seemed less likely. Regardless, there she was, standing just inside the hatch with her arms crossed. She had not turned on the overhead, but he could feel her there, and there was illumination enough from the floor lights that he could see her outline.

"You stupid cocky son of a bitch," she growled.

It was a very different tone than the one she had soothed him with when he was still in the infirmary, and it took him by surprise. He sat up.

"I'm a what?"

"A dumbass. A godsdamn deceitful motherfraker." She advanced on him, closing the distance to within a few feet.

"That's not very nice."

"Frak off."

Lee was standing now, though he was not really sure how he had managed. The crates stacked around where he had put his bedroll down gave him something to balance on. Not even that would be enough, if the fury that was Kara Thrace did not let up. He could not remember the last time she had been so unrestrainedly pissed at him. On Caprica probably.

"And why, lieutenant, am I a 'godsdamn deceitful motherfraker?' Exactly?"

"Oh cut it out Lee. You've been sick. All this time. Since Caprica. For ten weeks you've been sick and you didn't tell anyone."

"Not all ten weeks," he said lamely.

"Does it matter? You're the CAG, a pilot! We go up with you every day and you shouldn't have even been in a cockpit."

"Oh come on Kara," he scoffed. "You don't give a damn about that. What's getting you is that I didn't tell you."

"Yes, dammit!" He would not be expecting her to admit it that freely, she knew, so she hit him with what she had. Kara had been so worried and frustrated over these last hours, and so annoyed and confused over these last weeks, that she could practically feel her seams ripping now. That'll teach him to run off and hide. "You should have told me. I'm your friend Lee. I was your friend. What the hell's been happening to us? I mean it's you and me. And you've been in constant pain for weeks and I didn't know about it."

"Didn't you?" he murmured.

"I saw something was wrong sure, but I thought you were still…" …holding Caprica over my head.

"I wasn't." He understood. She sensed him smiling in the darkness. "Well, I was a little."

"Well, you're a bastard." Her voice was softer now. The relief that had been battling all this time for supremacy was finally making itself felt, and she had expelled about all the self-righteous anger she cared to.

The silence stretched between them. Kara had run out of things to say. All there was left to do was stand there, in the darkness, in the nearness. She was aware of him moving, but did not really register what he was doing until his hand closed around her wrist. She jerked back, but his grip was firm. Slowly, deliberately, he raised her hand to his cheek. Rough stubble brushed her palm as he drew one arm up and over his shoulder, then reached for the other. Her breath froze in her chest. I'll hurt him. I shouldn't touch. But she couldn't pull away.

Lee's hands were on her hips in the next instant. There had been so much apartness between them, and he was so tired.

With one thought they drew each other close. She could feel his body shudder, quaking in protest, but he would not let her draw away from him. Lee had not held her like this since her first return from Caprica. She could feel the same sudden tensing in him, the brief hesitation before he pulled back just enough. This time she was not surprised. This time she did not start back when his lips met hers. This time she let her fingers run up through his hair, and leaned into him. This time, Kara Thrace kissed back.

It was not until the kiss was broken that either realized what had happened. Their foreheads touched, their breath mingled, and each one struggled with the reality of what they had done, were doing. There was no turning away now, no laughing it off, pretending it never happened. Even if they could have, they would not have. Kara's fingers found their way back to Lee's cheek, brushed over his lips.

With the force and fervor of passion long restrained, they kissed again. The kiss was not broken again for a long, long time.

If Daniel's timing was right, and he knew it was, he would have very little more to worry about from Lee Adama. Neither dead, nor fully among the living, the captain would serve the purpose he had been set aside for unknowingly, passively. With the task begun there was nothing left for Daniel to do but finish it, and that could wait. Now there were more pressing matters demanding his attention.

The corridors were sparsely populated, since they were in the middle of a rotation and everyone was either at work or at rest. The one he was aiming for was not heavily used anyway. Still, he knew it would not be wise for him to be seen there alone. Being lost had been a successful pretense the first time, but it would not work again. Two of the other nuggets were with him. They had been easily lured, when he told them excitedly about how he had seen the cylon, and that the marines would let pretty much anyone in, and about how weird it was. They would be dispatched easily enough when the time came. After today, he would have no further need for them anyway, or for anyone aboard Galactica. He savored the thought that Grunt might be on watch with particular relish.

The three young men chatted amiably with each other as they made their way, stopping now and again to talk to a deck hand or pilot one or another of them had become friendly with. Daniel did not mind the occasional delay; he was in no rush. They even encountered the one called Hotdog, who stopped to answer questions about their training with a superior air. It was getting on supper time, so they talked about what slop was being served in the mess that day. Jammer met up with them on his way there, and invited them to a pick-up pyramid game with some of the deck gang after chow. Everyone he met was so oblivious, Daniel almost laughed outright.

Taking out the two nuggets without alerting anyone would be easy, especially if they were inside the holding area when he did it. The Marines might give him a bit more trouble; he did not doubt that he could kill them, but it would be difficult to do so silently. After that, he would somehow have to get Sharon off the ship. He had a plan for that too, and if Sharon did not kick up too much of a fuss, he should be out of here before anyone had any idea something had happened. Or, rather, he would have her out here, and he would be left spotlessly innocent behind her. There was more for him to do yet. The next phase would soon be set in motion. The will of God would soon be done.

They arrived at the place relaxed, strolling. The company had even picked up a few more hangers on, but Daniel was not bothered; he would be able to dispatch five as easily as two. They were only heathenish children after all, and relatively new recruits; they had not been trained in hand to hand, and they were not armed. They laughed and joked easily with each other, and when the Marines came into view they were smiling too.

He had heard situations like this referred to as "unraveling," as if a careful weave were slowly coming apart, or "dissolving," a piece at a time. But it was not like that at all. When it happened, when he became aware of it happening, it was as if the whole of it exploded in one terrific instant, and the best laid pieces scattered irretrievably out of his grasp. The Marines (and it was indeed Grunt and Easy standing guard again tonight), were smiling, but not at him and his entourage. They were not even smiling at each other. They were smiling at a wraith, at a phantom. They were smiling at a man that should not, could not have been, standing hale and whole before them.

The ones he had brought with him raised their voices in excited and surprised chatter and Daniel, by necessity, joined in.

"Captain! We heard you were in the infirmary!"

"Quinn said you were dead."

"I didn't!"

"Ok so he said you were dying."

"I said he was sick. Anyway how would I know?"

"How would you know? How would that stop you!"

"It's good to see you sir," chirped Kat, who had joined their merry band on the pretense of keeping the nuggets out of trouble.

"It's good to be seen." Apollo turned to face them, looking calm and self-satisfied. Starbuck was with him, and the two stood with a sort of natural grace in each other's company. "Where are you all off to?"

"Getting into trouble Mick?" Starbuck accused playfully…too playfully, he thought, based on his experience with Starbuck.

"Mick" blinked at her, partly because of the unfounded, teasing accusation, but mostly because his name was not, in fact, Mick, but Jacob.

"N…no, sir," he stammered, much to the amusement of all. "We were just headed for the mess."

"Jammer said there's a pyramid game down there after chow tonight," Quinn picked up. They all knew that it would not be wise for them to tell their superiors where they had actually been meaning to go.

"You boys gonna play?"

"Maybe. It's been a while…sir."

"Well watch out for those knuckledraggers," Apollo said lightly. "They spend all day pounding on things."

"Right!" Grunt guffawed. "And a Viper pilot might as well be a Viper to them."

"With dents," Easy added.

"Get out of here you guys. Score a few for the pilots."

"Yes sir!"

Daniel glanced over his shoulder as his little group went on its way, heading now for the mess with only (in most cases) mild disappointment. Starbuck, Apollo, Easy, and Grunt were stepping into the hatch, no doubt to get what they could from Sharon about what had made Apollo sick. When his group entered the crowded mess, he slipped away.

There was work to do now.