Teyla had suspected something was not right with John, and the last time she had seen him, the feeling had solidified into something she could no longer ignore. With only one source she felt she could go to for an answer, Teyla went to Leal. She had told Ronon the truth when she had said she knew no more than they, but her suspicions apparently went in different directions than their own.

Leal was someone Teyla was becoming to regard as a friend, and she was fairly certain, the healer felt the same. After Teyla had spoken her innocence to the healer, she had made created an opening in the woman's mind. The days she had spent recovering, Teyla had explained the true events of that night from her memory. How they had returned to the bungalow and settled down for bed; how Colonel Sheppard had been on first watch. She had explained their waking later, knowing they had been drugged.

Leal had listened, stonily at first, with more interest as Teyla argued for the healer to consider the situation and ask herself why Doctor Weir would order them to stage such an attack, what was the gain in destroying people that grew the food they had needed?

In order for Leal to confide in her, Teyla had been required to promise, to swear on her honor that she would not tell the rest of her team, about the truth behind John's isolation. Leal had understood, that to Teyla, her word meant a great deal. Her fears being that if the others knew, they would act rashly, and put her people at risk.

After Teyla had given her word, Leal had confessed that the king had named John as not only his heir, but his son reborn to him by a gift from the Ancestors. Some of the things she described shocked Teyla to her core, but she could tell from the simple way Leal related the events, it was normal on Arstaem, this process of raising a prince to assume the crown.

What bothered her deeply was that Leal talked about John as if he were Jaem. That she wanted John to be their prince as much as it would seem the king did.

When Leal had disappeared for two weeks, Teyla had grown concerned that Naem had found out they had been sharing two sides of the truth, but then last night, Leal had returned.

She had explained that Colonel Sheppard had almost died while they sat in her room, talking in confidence, and all the while his other teammates sat in the main room discussing him as if he were becoming a conceited arrogant pawn of Naem's.

And her oath obligated her to sit by and let it happen.

This was…intolerable.

Truthfully, Teyla did not know how much longer she could keep her promise to Leal. Rodney, Carson and Ronon needed to know the truth, and John deserved for them to be told.

OoO

John's world narrowed to lessons with Ascaria, Naem's feedings, and the books in the library. Sheppard asked about his team once a day, and usually someone was able to give him an update. Then he'd let himself search titles and references for anything to do with the disease.

The few references he did find made him even more convinced that something was seriously wrong. In all the recorded deaths, there wasn't a definable pattern, such as the disease striking only certain ages, or times of the year, and with that many, there should've been something. John was trying to find anything that might prove to be a potential lead for what made the royal line susceptible, and apparently only the royal line.

Instead, it almost looked like the disease was a winnowing away of heirs and potential kings and queens. Some times it killed the oldest and left the youngest, while other times it did the opposite. There had been cases where it had killed only female children and left one male heir, then there were times when it'd killed all the male children and left one female heir.

Sheppard wasn't Carson, but he wasn't stupid, either. Diseases weren't known for being picky.

And that reminded him of what he needed to do next – get this information to Beckett and see what he could make out of it.

The problem was, Naem was being obsessive. He'd been slightly unstable before, but John's encounter with the Lupere had made the king lose any defining line between John Sheppard and Jaem, his son.

He told John that the Lumival slowed his reactions, and he could be hurt if he was outside in the snow and something happened. Naem ordered Joros to let Sheppard only move freely within the manse.

If anyone had been telling the king that all John did was search through dusty books, Naem hadn't mentioned it.

"Prince Jaem?"

John turned, surprised at how easily he'd grown used to being called by a different name. Maybe because it wasn't so far off from John. "Do I know you?"

"His Majesty has asked me to serve you dinner tonight."

The man pointed at the library doors, as if to have John follow him. Not really sure what was going on, Sheppard looked over at Joros. The guard stood impassively, waiting, and didn't show an overt reaction or alarm, so Sheppard figured whoever this was, they were okay.

He followed the servant to a table in the main dining hall. The room was massive, instead of a glass dome, there were timbers rising obliquely to a central point. All he could see above the thick, round logs was grass, but Sheppard figured there was more to the roof than just that. Maybe the grass served as insulation, because the room felt warmer than the others. They probably wanted the food to stay hot as long as possible during meals.

He wondered if this was the room where the supposed crowning feast was going to be held. The celebration in question was only a couple of weeks away, and still the Daedalus hadn't arrived. It would mark their second month here, or maybe a little more. Sheppard had lost time recovering from the wound to his arm and he'd woken to find his calendar gone, the stone polished smooth where his careful scratches had been.

A lone plate was waiting in front of a chair at the far end of the table.

There'd been a time when Sheppard wouldn't have hesitated, but one routine that had never changed was Naem's feeding him. He hated it, and was thankful they ate only two meals a day on this world. John could accept a lot of things, but being fed wasn't one of them, and every morning and every night he had to battle the disgust he felt with every bite he had to take.

He never had given in and opened his eyes during the process. It was the only defiance Naem had allowed him to get by with. And yet, now he'd supposedly told the servant to have him eat, down here, alone.

Just him and the damn spoon, and no king telling him to open. Had he passed some milestone he didn't know about?

Sheppard would never have predicted he'd allow himself to be kept in this situation, but two weeks hanging by his wrists changed his mind about a lot of things; two weeks without any food. Two weeks of agony that Sheppard was pretty sure he'd never forget. If Naem was really going to let him eat like a normal person again, then John should probably take it for the relief that it was, before Naem changed his mind.

The meal was delicious. Meat that he knew the falcons Naem was so proud of had killed, one of those little rabbit like animals. Vegetables and something that tasted exactly like pumpkin pie. He finished it, and drank the glass of wine, feeling an amazing sense of freedom for the first time in a long time. He only wished he'd had company – his team, for one. It was pretty damn lonely here and Joros standing over him like he always did wasn't the same as having Rodney bitch at him about the native menu, and asking if there was citrus in the dishes every five minutes.

John had dragged the mea out longer than necessary, but he did finally, reluctantly, stand. Joros held the wooden door open and Sheppard headed for the corridor. He wasn't sure where Naem had been all this time, but it'd be a good bet he'd seem him soon. Naem was trying to teach him their version of a chess game. It wasn't hard for Sheppard, with his mind for numbers, and Naem liked the fact that John had already managed to beat him once.

It wasn't until Joros had led him past the door that led into the chambers he shared with Naem that John realized something was definitely off. "We just…passed my room?"

He stopped and waited. Was he going to get his own room now? Because if he was, then things were definitely taking a turn for the better.

"Tonight you have a special room, Prince."

The edge in Joro's voice made Sheppard's positive thought begin to drain away. Tonight. Joros had said tonight, which meant it wasn't likely to be a permanent changed, and what was going on that he got to feed himself and now got a special room. Sheppard was really starting to worry.

"What kind of special room?"

The eyes that turned and locked onto his were full of regret. "You should not have eaten the meal."

"What are you talking about?"

His feet were frozen to the corridor floor.

Instead of explaining, Joros walked ahead, pushed open a door and gestured for Sheppard to go in. The Lumival kept him from being able to fight Joros (and win), and they both knew it. Frustrated, Sheppard walked past the guard and into the room. It was bare except for a toilet and a pile of blankets on the floor along with some towels and water. What the hell was this?

Joros didn't say more, he pulled the door shut, leaving Sheppard alone.

He didn't know what was going on, and while this wasn't exactly luxury, it was private. No Naem, or guards, just a room to himself. If this was some kind of a trick, there wasn't much he could do about it.

Tired, John went ahead and arranged the blankets into a make-shift bed with a pillow. He laid down and thought about his team. Thought about Elizabeth. His favorite Jumper, and that made him chuckle a little.

When the first cramp hit, he was surprised. The next one made him swear out loud. It was then that the door opened and Naem stood, silhouetted by the torchlight in the hallway. "I see it's begun."

Four small words from Naem, but they cut into John like a knife, in tune to another gut wrenching cramp. "What'd you do to me?" he gasped around the pain.

Naem stepped in, but Joros left the door open, which told Sheppard that the king wasn't staying long. He knelt, and touched John on his forehead, as if feeling for a fever, before he told John to lie on his back. Sheppard almost argued, but the thought of being put on the beam while he was in this shape kept him from saying something he'd regret. He rolled over and Naem pushed gently on his belly, causing a fresh wave of pain. Satisfied by what he saw, the king sat back, away from John.

"Every stage of training ends in a test. With Ascaria, your exams are written. With me, they are practical. I told you never to eat food by any other hand than mine."

Through the fire that was in his stomach, Sheppard grated, "The servant said you'd given him the order. Why would I believe he lied?"

"Did you seek me to ask?"

Of course he hadn't.

Because the chance to feed himself had been too tempting, and Sheppard hadn't wanted to risk finding out it was too good to be true. His silence was damning in Naem's eyes.

"Exactly, Jaem."

The king stood. "Obedience is the hardest lesson to learn; for young princes and apparently for the old, as well. In the wine was a drug that causes your body to reject food and drink. You will spend a very miserable night, and maybe morning depending on your body, and I hope you will think twice before accepting something at face value in the future. You could have saved yourself the discomfort of this night if you had merely had the willingness to obey."

John didn't protest again. He realized he'd made a critical error. He'd begun to believe that Naem had lost himself in his fantasy about John being Jaem, and that he wasn't going to hurt him again because of it. Had believed it especially after he'd recovered from the Lupere attack, but now was definitely proving Sheppard's assumptions were way off base.

With another powerful cramp, John had just enough time to get to the toilet before he started throwing up.

OoO

Naem spent the night at his desk, reviewing reports, and staring at the flame from his tallow candle. He was too disturbed to even bother with attempting sleep, and truthfully, without Jaem sleeping near, he knew he would not be able to rest.

Seeing how Jaem was spending a very hard night in the room above, Naem considered it only fair that he suffer through the long hours, at least awake in sympathy. It did not have to be this way, but he was not surprised or upset. Every lesson needed to be learned, and every behavior had a consequence. No, he was certain Jaem was learning well enough, better even then he had expected.

A set-back from time to time was not the end of the world.

The purging was not dangerous, but it was very uncomfortable. Every prince in his year before assuming the crown had to learn to take food only from his king. Since Jaem had only recently been returned to him, Naem was going to shorten the time required, but his son would have to understand there would be no feeding himself until he was crowned as prince. Depending on how much training Naem believed Jaem needed after mid-winter, it might have to continue. Being crowned did not mean Jaem assumed the throne; it was a promise, for when the king passed to the Ancestors, that there would be no time from Naem's death to Jaem's ascension to the throne.

The winter had been mild, reports from Kaleb were promising about next year's harvest. Gaemal had reported that two infants had been born and a record eight were confirmed for a summer arrival. Naem knew it was likely at least one or two of those would not make it, but still, it was a good number. Jaem was only part of the solution – if his people were to prosper again, they would need to grow and have as many children as a family could support and nuture.

The children in the manse were being trained, taught and would assume posts as servants. Their needs taken care of, and if they wanted to have a family, they would be allowed to. Many of his servants did, and many of them lived in the north wing. He and Jaem stayed in the south, away from the noise and possible influence. Jaem did not need to be around so many children still learning how to behave.

"Sire?"

Baela stood at his door.

Loyal Baela – he had been with Naem as long as Joros, since he had been only a boy. The man's hair was as white as the snow outside, but he still carried himself with the strength of a man who could fight and kill with ease. Unlike Joros, he did not wear a beard, saying that they should be balanced. Joros wore a beard but had no hair on his head, having lost most in the autumn of his years, and Baela's thick hair had turned from gold to white, and kept his jaw clean shaven.

"Jaem is through the worst."

Naem waved an understanding hand. "I will be there soon, see him transferred to my private room."

Baela inclined his head stiffly, and left.

Time – it was running out on Naem. Just yesterday morning, he had felt the first stirrings of the disease. When he had given Jaem his Lumival, his arm had trembled. Naem had known he would not escape it, every member of the royal family died from the disease except those taken for natural deaths of childbirth and accidents…but some lived long productive years of ruling before it claimed them. Naem had been one of those; his father had died from the disease younger than Naem was now, and he had assumed the throne at only ten and six of his years.

He stood and shuffled the papers into a pile, leaned across his desk, and blowing out the candle, left his office.

OoO

When Sheppard was twenty, he'd gotten food poisoning. A cook in the chow hall had been lazy and left one of the batches of potato salad out overnight then served it the next day for lunch.

The pain in his stomach had been the first symptom he'd gotten just hours after eating. He'd been doing touch and go's, and it'd been all he could do to get his plane down with both of them in one piece. The flight surgeon had been notified while he was landing, and was waiting off the flight line with an ambulance. They'd carted him off thinking his appendix was the problem.

He'd started throwing up en route to the base hospital, where an exam ruled out appendicitis. He got to have another ride downtown to the local hospital in Lancaster and spent the next twenty-four hours hooked to an IV, throwing up, doubled over in pain, and wishing he'd just die and get it over with.

By the time he'd recovered, he'd never wanted to eat potato salad again.

It was kind of like that, all over again. John wasn't even sure he'd ever eat again after last night. He'd thrown up so much he felt hung-over, shaky and his throat hurt as much as his stomach. When Joros and Baela helped him to Naem's room afterwards, he had to be carried more than walked.

He didn't care about the Lumival dose, he didn't care about Naem, hell, right now, he didn't care about anything other than curling up and sleeping.

While he was doing just that, Naem must've arrived, because when John woke up, the king was sitting by his side again, frowning. When he saw John's eyes crack, the frown turned to relief. "I was about to send for Leal; you've slept most of the day."

Yeah, well, being fed poison will cause that.

Naem waited for him to say something but John wasn't really up to it, and if he said what he was thinking, it'd probably earn him some more trouble. Finally, Naem got up and came back with a glass of something, it wasn't clear like water, but red, like the wine he'd drank and John automatically pulled away from it.

"It's to help your stomach heal, Jaem."

He settled on the bed and pulled John up against his chest. Sheppard wanted to fight it, but last night had left him weaker than a baby, and he let Naem bring the glass to his lips, and swallowed when it was poured into his mouth.

The taste was bland, almost chalky. When he'd swallowed enough, Naem set the glass on the chair and ran soothing hands through Sheppard's hair. "I am sorry for your pain, Son, but lessons learned easy do not linger as long as they should."

How long he slept after that, he wasn't sure, but when he woke, Naem was gone. Joros was there and told him to get dressed. It wasn't until he was done washing and dressing and feeling almost human, that Naem was back, bearing a tray with breakfast, that Sheppard realized he'd lost another day.

He wanted to eat fast, to get the feeding part done with as soon as he could, but today his stomach was too touchy, and John had to take a bite at a time and wait. Naem had another glass of the chalky drink and gave it to him, then his Lumival.

All drugged up and fed, he wanted to say when it was over, but instead he just felt like his world was falling apart even more in front of him, the pieces slowly being replaced by this mockery of a life. Sheppard was beginning to fear for his own sanity if this continued for another month. Was it even possible for an adult to adapt to such a radical change? This wasn't something inconsequential – this, all of it, was an entire way of life that went against everything Sheppard was.

Maybe Naem sensed he was falling today, into some deep pits of despair, because when breakfast was finished he told Joros they would be going into town today. Sheppard was going to get to see his team.

But what surprised him, was how much he really didn't want to.

OoO

Ascaria made him fight through lessons; they were harder now, more open-ended with John having to think through scenarios of disputes and address essay responses to 'what if' possibilities. What if the wraith arrived tomorrow, what would you do to protect your people – what if neighbor A claims neighbor B stole his bird, but neighbor B says it was his to begin with, how could you find the truth when both claim they are right?

When she finally released him, John went back to looking for a book on the disease. Sheppard had thought she could help him find what he was looking for, but when he'd explained he was trying to find any book that talked about the royal disease, she had asked him why he would want to do that?

She'd explained that their finest healers had failed to discover anything, and there wasn't likely to be any books on the subject in the library. Then she'd suggested that rather than waste his time on such wasteful pursuits, he should be studying.

So, his one possible accomplice eliminated, Sheppard had kept searching. He wanted to have something to slip to Beckett when he saw him next. If anything, the search gave him something to distract himself with, and without that, Sheppard wasn't sure he'd be able to hold onto who he was anymore. He had nothing left of who he'd been to remind him.

Was it two months, now? Or had it been longer?

The only thing he was sure of, was that the Daedalus should've been here by now, and it wasn't, which meant something had happened.

Scrolling down a row, John's hand paused as he read the title.

Ailments of the Royal Family: a hypothesis on cause by Siroun Gadara

Feeling tightness in his chest, Sheppard pulled the book from the shelf, and opened it, while blowing off the dust. The first page included a date, and while he was kind of vague on what it meant, he got the feeling that this was written a long time ago. The vellum was brittle enough that he had to handle it carefully.

Taking the book to a table, Sheppard sat and began to read.

When I was twenty and one, my teacher, Master Healer Somael Borod, brought me to help attend to the Princess Magda. The disease had struck her in her ten and fifteenth year, the same as it had with her younger sister a year before; the palsy began first, then the altered vision. Within two weeks, Magda was almost bereft of sight, and the trembling was severe enough that we found only a new drug would give her respite from the tremors and resulting muscle fatigue.

Master Somael named the drug Lumival, based in part upon the plant it is produced from, the Luman, a pretty violet flower that grows wild in the forests of summer.

I spent many days caring for the princess, and watching her decline, yet all our efforts were to no avail. After a month from the onset of her first signs of the disease, Princess Magda was born away to live with the Ancestors.

It was after that experience that my master began to teach me at length about the disease that plagued the royal line. It is a puzzle that no healer has so far been able to decrypt. It strikes at random, and always winnows the heirs to one, sometimes within months, other times, it is a slow process of elimination over years.

There are records of royal couples bearing only one child in fear of losing subsequent children to the disease, but that, too, proved to be ineffective and did not protect the only child. In half of the instances, the child passed on from the disease, and the royal family rushed to produce another heir.

I spent the next ten years studying at length every account my master had on the disease and its odd pattern of affliction, only to find a frustrating pattern of having none.

Further, it would appear that past attempts were hidden, and destroyed. A search of the library revealed missing volumes in historical accounts. I was discouraged from questioning the absence by the First Advisor, and while I ceased my public interest, I have continued on in quiet.

In my thirty and fourth year, Prince Obaem assumed the throne after his mother passed from the disease.

I cared for her as I had the others before her, but the disease took Queen Idaen to the Ancestors sooner than it had taken her daughters, and she breathed her last breath smiling and calling out to her dead children. I have often believed it was her sorrow that allowed the disease a faster claim.

Our new King was a strong man, a far greater ruler than even his mother had been. He allowed me unfettered access to the past accounts, but as is our tradition, her body was burned upon the pyre at sunset and I was left with no physical account of the disease.

I truly believe that Obaem wished to find answers, but there were none to be found.

In light of the disturbing lack of information, I have begun to keep this journal, so that in the years to come, perhaps some healer like myself, will read this account and prove more intelligent and quick-witted than I have been.

I fear that without that evidence, I shall die myself never knowing what the cause is, and therefore, this plague will continued to murder the royal line at whim until the end of Arstaem's days.

"Prince Jaem, His Majesty is waiting to leave."

Sheppard looked up from the book, surprised to find he'd lost track of time and where he was. Joros was watching him carefully and Sheppard nodded, closing it. "Let me put this back," he said, lifting the old volume up for only a moment, before dropping it out of sight.

The guard nodded abruptly, and turned to the door, murmuring to the other guard, Baela.

John headed to the shelf where he'd found the book, doing a quick cursory glance at the other titles. He turned his shoulder to Joros and pulled a book in brown aged leather, similar to the one he'd found, and tucked the copy by Gadara into his waistband, pulling his tunic smoothly over the slight bulge. No one would see it if they didn't expect to, then turning into clear view, he pushed the other volume back in place, and smiled at Joros. Now at least he had something to give Carson.

The walk wasn't bad; he was handed his cloak by Baela, and they walked into the bright sunshine of mid-day. The snow glittered brightly in the daylight, and the path to town was already hard packed by the carts that had been running back and forth from the town to the manse.

When they arrived, Naem escorted him to the bungalow, but he got a sinking feeling in his stomach when he didn't see Carson anywhere. Teyla was sewing in a chair by the fire while Ronon polished steel.

Awkwardly, he greeted them, feeling rusty from being around anyone other than Naem, his guards and Ascaria. "Hi, guys. You look good." What he meant was that they didn't appear to be being mistreated.

Ronon shrugged and kept polishing, which made John frown and feel even more out of place. Teyla's smile was at least kind, if not worried, and Sheppard felt a surge of cold in his stomach. It looked like she knew, and he almost preferred the offishness from Ronon. "Where's McKay and Beckett?"

"Rodney is helping Kaleb with this idea he had; a conveyor belt?" she arched an eyebrow at him, unsure if it were the right word. When he nodded, she continued, "And Carson is helping Leal deliver a baby."

"Jaem, I have business to attend to, we cannot stay."

Sheppard knew enough not to embarrass himself by asking to stay while Naem did whatever he had to do, so instead, he headed across the room quickly, knowing this was the only chanced he'd have for a while. He faked tripping, and literally fell into Teyla, both of them falling to the ground. With his back to Naem, he slipped the book free and shoved it up her skirt, trying to make it look like he was smoothing it back down, and apologized roughly, "God, I'm sorry. It's that stuff, makes me clumsy." True enough, 'cause it did.

Hopefully the title of the book and its contents would be self-explanatory.

Her brown eyes narrowed shrewdly and she quickly covered for him. "I understand, John."

"Jaem," Joros corrected. "His name is Prince Jaem, do not forget."

Teyla's face darkened, but she nodded slowly. "Jaem," she agreed softly.

Baela had reached John already and hauled him to his feet, his eyes raking over Sheppard before he seemed satisfied, and helped him back towards Naem. Ronon was watching him with concealed curiosity, and shot a surreptitious look at Teyla before looking back to Sheppard.

"I'll tell McKay you said hi," he offered gruffly.

John waved half-heartedly as he was hauled out the door. "Thanks, big guy." Then he was through the door and away from them, feeling both relieved and upset.

OoO

"What'd he give you?"

Ronon stopped polishing and looked over at Teyla.

"A book."

She pulled it from where he'd hidden it underneath the skirt she'd taken to wearing when her work kept her inside. Her uniform was not going to last if she wore it every day, and they had no idea of when the Daedalus would finally arrive.

The letters made no sense to her, but she knew Colonel Sheppard had been taught to read their language. What had he hoped to accomplish by giving them a book that none of them could read?

"A book," Ronon grumbled. "He brought us a book we can't read." The Satedan shook his head angrily, and went back to polishing.

Teyla set the volume on the table, and stared down into Ronon's line of sight. "What do you expect him to do, Ronon? He is as much a prisoner as we are."

"Yeah, well, it doesn't look like it from here."

He attacked the steel with the cloth in his hand and a determination to convey to her that as far as he was concerned, they were done talking about it. Apparently he had forgotten Teyla's bravery in the face of adversity. She never did hold back from telling what she thought or felt.

"Then you are as blind as Rodney," she said coldly, holding his gaze. "Something I did not think was possible." She grabbed her cloak from the wall and stormed out the door, leaving Ronon behind.

He stared at the door, then the book, then the polishing rag in his hand and swore. Maybe she was right. He was going along with everything he was told, and he could blame the drug that made his body uncoordinated and weak, he could blame Sheppard for being in a big house with people waiting on him, but the truth was somewhere in between, it always was. He wanted to blame everyone else because he hated to admit he was as much at fault as any of them. Standing abruptly, he threw the rag to the table, and headed out after her.

OoO

Naem's walk through the town was enjoyable, even though the cold was making his limbs ache. He saw smiling faces despite the food rationing, everyone enthused for the crowning ceremony next week.

A small boy ran to him and jumped on his arm, the mother right behind, flushed with embarrassment, but Naem grinned at the boy and lifted him high, throwing him like his father had done to him at that age, and catching him. The child giggled and hugged Naem tightly before saying, "Momma says Prince Jaem is going to save us all from the wraith!"

He ruffled the boy's hair and dropped him to the ground, his arm almost giving out first.

"He will."

Behind him, Jaem had looked uncertain, but had distracted himself looking at his companions working off to the side.

Always his companions, Naem allowed the bitter thought to chase away some of his good mood. Maybe after the crowning, if Jaem accepted the next level of training with grace, he would allow them to live in the manse. Naem knew his days were counting down now; his own autumn had arrived, and in Jaem's winter, he would need his friends to keep him strong, much like Naem had needed Zarye and Aarye.

With one part of his mind on greeting his people, Naem walked through the rest of the town, while the other part lingered on the disease. He had seen Leal that morning and she had confirmed that he had one, maybe two months. The disease stole women away faster than the men.

That gave him one month, in which he would need to crown Jaem, and have his son declare for a princess. He did not want to go to the Ancestors without knowing the royal line would persevere.

Before they left, Naem stopped at the home of the Widow Gadara. Her family had served his family faithfully for generations back, starting with Siroun, a healer that had tried to find a cure for the terrible plague.

Her life's dedication had not gone unrewarded, and ever after, a pact with the family had existed between the royal family and hers. Now, Sebouh was on her death bed, one of the few of his people that had lived into old age.

It was the pact that had kept her alive. Whenever a culling began, the members of the Gadara family were granted the privilege of escaping to the manse and to the safety of the underground chambers. Not all made it, though, because the road to the manse from the town was, while short, still open.

He ordered Joros to keep Jaem outside, and ducked into the darkened home. The bedroom was across the room and acknowledging the deep curtsey from the healer on duty, Naem went to her.

"Sebouh, it is Naem, your king," he greeted, speaking softly.

The wizened, aged face turned towards his voice; her milky white eyes long ago having lost the ability to see.

"Sire." Her voice crackled like parchment. "So you have come to see an old woman on her final journey."

He smiled, even though she could not see it, and sat on the bed beside her. "I have. What would you ask of me before you go?"

A wrinkled, thin hand reached for him, and she smiled weakly. "Merely your blessing to leave." The smile fell away, replaced by regret. "My watch has ended and I failed to solve the puzzle entrusted to me by my mother, and my grandmother before her, and many generations ago."

A painful cough wracked her thin, frail body, and Naem held her to him, trying to ease her pain. "Your King absolves you from your duty," he murmured gently.

The smile returned, blissful. She was old, older than anyone Naem had ever known, her voice, aged and tired. He did not like to see her die, for all that she had spent her life searching for the cure that might save him when his time came. He did not have the heart to tell her he would follow her soon into the woods.

Her wrinkled and spotted hand reached for his face, brushed away the tear. "Thank you," she whispered, before closing her eyes.

Naem softly laid her to rest, wiping away the silly betrayal of his own training. Sebouh had been there when his mother gave him life, she had been there when Sareal had died, training Leal. For the deaths of his brother, and sisters. She was the last of a life he had known before he had suffered the loss of everyone he had ever been allowed to love – except for Jaem.

Jaem was back where he belonged, by Naem's side, and in two months, Jaem would close Naem's eyes, and send him to his pyre.

Leaving the room, Naem told the healer Sebouh was gone. He stepped into the sunshine that seemed dimmed now by the pall of her death. Jaem did not even seem to realize the cost of today, and it incited an anger that Naem both recognized as part of the disease, but also, his frustration. The prince had come far, but it was times like now where Naem worried he would not go far enough before the disease claimed him.

The walk to the manse was long, and when Naem and Jaem went up to his chambers for dinner, all he wanted was to feed Jaem and sleep.

It was poor timing that Jaem was out of sorts and cranky, and asked irritably if he was ever going to be able to feed himself again. Normally, the comment would have earned Jaem a reminder of who he was and what was required of him. That the training would end only if and when Naem believed Jaem capable of ruling. But tonight Jaem's slight defiance – in his closed eyes at meal time, the cutting comments that Naem should not have let pass before – all of it served to ignite his fury.

"Joros, the restraints," Naem ordered severely.

His time was running like the fast days of autumn and Jaem must learn. He must, or Arstaem would suffer for Naem's inability to train his son.

He saw the look on Jaem's face. The brief flash of alarm, even fear, but the boy schooled himself well and it was gone in an instant. If he had been looking anywhere else, he would have missed it.

Joros and Baela did their duty, then Naem sent them to their rooms for the night. There would be no need for them with Jaem restrained. Withdrawing the whip, Naem turned to Jaem. "I have tried to be patient and understanding, Jaem, but time is not infinite, nor is my patience."

"Look, I'm…not sorry…"

Jaem had begun as if he were going to apologize and then Naem saw the same defiant look steal across his face. Naem froze and waited.

"In fact, fine, you want to hurt me, go ahead. I'm sick of this game you're playing with me. I'm not Jaem, I'm John. Colonel John Sheppard. I came to your planet to broker a trade alliance and you wrongly drugged me, accused my people and coerced a false confession, and have made me into something I'm not. I've been humiliated, tortured and nothing I do is enough. Your Majesty, this is what you got when you decided to make me your son – I'm not from your world, we don't do this to our people where I come from, and you can torture me into submission for a while, because every man has limits, but you can't take away who I am. So if you want to beat me, go ahead, you want to make me suffer and cry out for it to stop, go ahead, but never forget inside, I'm still John Sheppard."

Naem's fury spilled over. He never had spoken to his father like Jaem was doing now. He would never have dared to be this defiant in the face of his training. He had been sorely indulgent with Jaem, and it was his fault the boy stood before him, angry and fighting against what was inevitable.

Walking to stand behind Jaem, he brought the whip up, and down, with the strength needed to cut into Jaem's back only enough to draw blood. The first trails of blood snaked down and pooled against the white cloth of his underwear. Once, twice, three and four whips, and Jaem did not cry out. On the fifth, he did, and again on the sixth, seventh and eighth. Naem was using all his restraint and he knew the cuts were shallow enough to hurt but not cause unnecessary damage. He would call for Leal to come and treat Jaems back to prevent scars.

On the thirteenth strike, Jaem's head lulled forward, his body boneless. Naem was not finished. He strode to the cabinet and poured a glass of wine, stepping in front of Jaem and splashing it on his face, watching with satisfaction as his eyes flickered open, and he groaned.

"Not done yet?" he grated.

Naem was both impressed by his son's strength of mind, but saddened. His anger was leaving him now, as he looked at the sagging head, the blood dripping to the floor from his torn back. And yet, Jaem defied him.

"Apparently not."

He hoped the dry response would help Jaem realize the lashes to come were bought with his sarcasm. Naem made it to twenty-three before Jaem lost consciousness again, and this time, he decided to let his son rest. The cuts were not so deep that he would loose a dangerous amount of blood, and perhaps the weakness from it would serve as a reminder for the next few days, along with the pain that healing would bring.

Naem could not afford to be gentle any longer.

OoO

Sheppard thought it was kind of ironic that he'd always complained that McKay had a big mouth, when apparently, so did he – it had just taken the right set of circumstances for him to find out how big. Monumentally, and maybe with even worse timing than Rodney had ever had.

He coughed, and shifted in the restraints, the pain almost driving him back under. God, he hurt, and he couldn't imagine what Teyla had felt like. Sheppard could add one more experience to his list of things he'd rather not repeat; being flogged. Naem had woken him in the morning with water, first in the face, then ordering him sternly to drink, he'd raised the cup to John's lips and with a coldness John hadn't felt since their first meeting, Naem had added, "Keep your eyes open or you will earn five more lashes – and believe me, on your injured back, it will hurt unimaginably."

Sheppard wasn't sure about that, he'd always had a good imagination.

No Lumival, and at some point, Leal arrived and treated his back while he kept hanging. He tried not to dwell on the thought that he might be in for another marathon on the beam, and Sheppard definitely told himself that the shaking in his knees was from the pain caused by Leal washing his torn skin, and not fear.

It was just pain. He'd had a lot of it lately and he hadn't died yet.

By that evening, he was swearing out loud.

Naem made him drink water then had Joros and Baela take him to use the bathroom, before he was returned to the beam.

"I will expect every comment that comes from you to be polite and civil, do you understand Jaem?"

"Fuck off."

Sheppard couldn't help it. He was screwed anyway, and he'd had it, completely. John had thought Naem had broken him before, but he hadn't, not really, set him back a few pegs, definitely. Thrown him mentally and physically. The two week torment from before, the lack of food, and everything Sheppard had done after was to survive till the Daedalus arrived to rescue them, but Caldwell wasn't anywhere in sight, and Sheppard was sick of it. He was fed up with being fed by Naem, being called some dead kid's name. His team thought he was living it up, and maybe that was the final straw that had given John the edge to just not care.

He was already hurt, already hanging, and since Naem was already going to make him pay, why not go for the hat trick?

Naem's face grew even colder than before. "I do not understand where this depth of defiance has come from, Jaem, but it will not be allowed to live."

Instead of the whip, Naem returned with two Bracelets of Rememberance, the tool he'd used earlier when he'd probably thought Sheppard was going to be an easy victim, and a small vial of liquid. Knowing John was watching, he liberally rubbed the liquid over the spikes. "This is Kalahi lotion, made from the poisonous trout in the river, extracted and diluted. It is rarely used in training because the pain it causes can be excruciating." He attached them tightly to John's thighs, one on each leg, so that the metal tips bit into his skin. Thin rivulets of blood ran down his bare skin. "I have personally never felt or endured its effect, but you have left me with little choice."

Damn it. He really needed to learn to shut up, and now would be a good time.

"I have had to postpone the crowning ceremony. I am not pleased, Jaem. Tomorrow morning I will see if you are more amenable to reason."

Yeah, well, John wasn't pleased, either.

That night was the longest he would ever remember. His back burned, and ached, and every movement tugged the cuts created by the lashes. His shoulders and wrists ached to the point of burning, and then they would grow numb before it all started again, worse than the first time through. His knees were heavy and felt swollen from the awkward position. And his thighs – they were a constant, unrelenting source of pain, sharp and hot, and always like little pokers of fire sticking into his skin. Whatever Naem had put on the metal spikes, it was meant to make that pain last.

Somewhere shortly before Naem woke, Sheppard knew he wouldn't last another day. He wouldn't last for a week or two weeks. He'd better hope his earlier smart ass comments were worth it because they were the last he'd be saying for a while.

When Naem stepped to him with a fresh cup of water and eyes full of regret over the mess that John had become during the night, and asked, "Will you agree to be respectful, to eat from my hand with your eyes open, to do as you are told and stop defying me with words and thoughts?"

John rasped, "Yes."

Right then, he would've done anything to end the pain.