Did he really blame him? Did he really hate him that much, was he really that angry? It was inconceivable. Not for this. He didn't do anything wrong.
Right?
Sheppard's burning eyes had seared into his mind. As long as he breathed, he would never, never forget that look, or the fact that he was the cause of it.
It made him shrink back further, one arm wrapped an increasingly cramping stomach.
He wanted to stop. Needed to. Breathing was hard, he hurt, dammit, all over. Nausea overwhelmed him, and he stopped, retching bile, his body quaking with each heave, his brow salty with sweat. He waited for the arm around him, for his friend to help like he always did. But it never came.
Rodney pushed away from the tree, afraid of losing the only person that could get him back home. An hour later, they were at the edge of the village.
The people slowed their activities, watching warily as he walked toward the center of their small establishment. Probably waiting for him to collapse, he figured, but he was confused by their reaction. No one rushed to help him, and surely he at least looked like crap. Rodney stopped, and suddenly felt a rough shove that put him in the midst of the growing crowd. "Here he is," Sheppard said, and Rodney turned to look at him in astonishment.
The people pounced.
Rodney yelled out in stunned fear as arms grabbed him, dragged him painfully down to his knees, secured his hands behind his back. "Hey, wait! What the . . . Major! Stop them, what are you doing? What are they . . ." he was backhanded, and coughed.
Misner Caugh leaned over him. "You have the madness. You have caused great distress amongst my people, and we must do what is necessary to prevent it spreading." He nodded to two men, who grabbed him by the shoulders and held him still.
"What are you talking about? I'm not mad!" Rodney forced out. He looked to Sheppard for help, but the man just stood there, his arms casually crossed over the end of his weapon. He looked relaxed.
Rodney didn't understand. Fear tightened his body. His already fuzzy vision became more obscuring.
"You were seen by this man," he pointed a chubby finger at Sheppard, "running through the village. You trampled the children, you had a weapon. You shot it into the air. Do you deny this?"
"Yes! I-I think . . ." he looked at Sheppard. "A little help here?"
Misner Caugh waddled over to Sheppard, and tilted his head back toward Rodney. "This man denies it. Do you say it's true?"
Rodney held his breath as the major considered. His eyes were narrowed at Rodney, and he almost looked amused, as if to say, 'let your brain get you outta this one, punk'. He gave a solid nod. "Yes." He looked the bound man in the eyes. "It's all true."
Rodney's mind stopped, then and there. Sheppard? John? There was no reason for this, for him to just lie . . ."No! No, it's-it's . . . I never did that!" Rodney yelled. "Trampled kids? It's true I can't abide them, but I'd never . . . Sheppard, tell them!" The man just watched him. Rodney looked around for a sympathetic face, but there was none, and he knew he was in trouble. "Dammit, say something!" he hissed.
But Sheppard just shrugged. "Sorry, Rodney."
"Whoa– wh-sorry-you – I . . ." Rodney could only sputter as a feeling of dread grabbed him. This was a ploy. Surely it was a ploy. Something had happened, and this was a part of the plan, and Sheppard would get him out of this. He begged his friend with his eyes, trying to look through the disguise, trying to see what Sheppard was really up to. Because there was no way this was happening. His friend would never turn on him, not for a mistake. "Major, please. Tell them there's been a mistake."
Sheppard continued to look down his nose at Rodney. "No," he said flatly. "There's been no mistake."
Rodney just shook his head, slowly, then more quickly. "No. NO! You fucking liar, what the hell are you doing to me?" He tried to stand, but the men behind him wrestled him into submission.
Misner Caugh stood before him once he was still. "You deny this?"
"Yes! Completely and totally yes!"
"Then you have called this man a liar. This is a serious accusation. Do you know him to tell the truth, or not?"
This was bad. Things were going too fast, and from bad to worse. He was dizzy and ill, no one was helping him, no one cared. Rodney glared at Sheppard, who looked back calmly. There were no facial clues, nothing to tell Rodney to hang in there. This was real. He really was trying to get rid of him. Rodney's expression settled from realization, to calm, to cold. "No," Rodney said quietly, "I don't know. I guess I don't know him."
"Then you say his words are false."
He had no idea what to say. "Yes." Sheppard was giving no cues. He stood there his face growing colder by the minute. Come on, Rodney thought, throw me a bone here!
There was a commotion behind him, and three men hurried forward. They snatched Sheppard's weapon away, and pulled him to stand about ten feet from Rodney. Those hazel eyes never left Rodney's, even when the confiscated gun was aimed at Sheppard, point blank at his chest.
"This is the worst accusation to befall my people," Misner Caugh said gravely, "to be accused of a falsehood, and especially to wrongly accuse another. Such a person is not worthy of our presence, or yours."
The tables had turned too rapidly for Rodney, and he tried desperately to hang on. John stood still, his arms held behind him, the gun shoved against his breastbone. Rodney's eyes flashed from Sheppard's to Caugh's. "Look," he said desperately, "he's not of your people, so the rules don't apply. Just let us go and we'll pretend this didn't happen." Or sort it out back on Atlantis, which would amount to a quick transfer on his part.
He was startled to see a moment of clarity. Misner Caugh suddenly looked more real to him, to the point where he wanted to reach out to him. "The madness continues to speak." Misner Caugh nodded and turned, waving his arm to the people who had gathered. "You see what the madness brings. He babbles, he makes no sense. You understand what must be done to prevent this from spreading to our children. Are we in agreement?" There was a positive chorus, with a few fists pumped into the air. Rodney stared until the scene blurred again.
Misner turned. "Kill him" he said calmly.
The weapon was aimed, and fired right into Sheppard's chest.
He jerked back in surprise, his body jolting under the impact, and fell into an unmoving heap.
Rodney started to hyperventilate. He screamed around it, forcing air deep into his lungs, twisting under the grip of the men who held him, straining at the ropes around his wrists, yelling so loudly and deeply it hurt . . .
Sheppard lay still, his eyes unseeing, thick blood pooling and spreading from his body.
The gun was aimed at Rodney, and he closed his eyes, and prayed for death.
"Stop! Drop it now!"
Rodney was bent double on his knees, waiting for the shot. He looked up to see not a gun, but a knife pointed at him, ready for a downward plunge. Wincing, confused, he blinked rapidly and heard the voice again.
"I said, drop it!"
The voice. . . it wasn't possible. The knife landed on the ground. Rodney's breath quickened. He looked to his left, but Sheppard's body wasn't there.
He closed his eyes tightly, gasping. His stomach reeled, his head ached, dammit, he didn't understand . . . he swallowed thickly and tried to stay conscious.
Scuffed footsteps approached him, and he felt his guards release their hold. Rodney slumped forwards, then fell back to his heels, his eyes still closed, confusion marring his brain. Maybe they shot him already. Maybe he was dead. He shook his head lightly.
"No! Dammit, back off, I'll do it. I said, back off! Is this the way you treat all your guests?"
Rodney had stopped gasping for air, stopped breathing all together. His eyes flew open as he felt hands on his, and he jerked away violently, landing hard on his side, scooting away from the ghost that hovered over him.
The ghost reached out, and Rodney yelled.
"Rodney!" John frowned, falling to his knees, his weapon hanging by a strap. "Rodney? It's okay, you're okay, I found you, christ, what'd they do to you?" He looked up, and his voice grew in anger. "What did you do to him?"
"It is the madness," Misner Caugh said. "We do not wish it here."
"What madness?"
"The madness that caused this."
"This . . .what?"
"He was stricken. I am told he was the one with the weapon."
"The shots . . .he fired those first shots? The ones that started the . . ." John looked at his friend, who was staring back with wide disbelieving eyes. "Rodney," he said softly, "listen to me, let me untie you and we'll let Carson take a look at you, okay? Just let me . . ." he reached out carefully, flinching as Rodney tried to roll away, but the man apparently had little strength left. John touched his forehead. "He's burning up," he muttered, more for his own commentary than concern that the villagers would even care. "He was ill before he came, we should've kept him back home."
"Then take him now, before this madness spreads." Misner Caugh looked disgusted, and backed away, signaling for the others to do the same.
John had about four pages of unhelpful dialogue to spout at the man, most of which had to do with proper diplomacy and courtesy and the possible lineage of his mother, but he kept it in check. Instead he frowned and worried at the knots binding Rodney's wrists. "Hey buddy," he said gently, "you with me?"
"Me?" Rodney managed to croak. "Am I . . .you, you're . . ." he looked over where Sheppard's body had lain, where it had fallen after being riddled with bullets. Fevered eyes hazed over.
John grabbed the knife that lay on the ground and cut the ropes. He guided Rodney onto his back, not liking the way his eyes darted around him as though expecting an attack from all quarters. The eyes were bloodshot; he was trembling and sweating. John quickly radioed Atlantis while making Rodney comfortable, picked up his gun, and sat watch over his friend until help arrived.
The people grew tired of the show quickly. They walked off, offering a sparing glance but no assistance whatsoever.