Hello Readers! This story happened because I rewatched the episode 'Epiphany' and I decided the Ancients in their little 'cloister' were rather like the villagers at the beginning of Beauty and the Beast. I imagined John running along with that song in his head - he wants to get out in a similar way to Belle wanting to leave her village. So I was going to rewrite that episode. But then I thought, no, let's just do a whole McShep version of Beauty and the Beast, because that'll be fun. Which it was, from once upon a time to happily ever after. I hope you like it!

Apologies to Cameron Mitchell, who plays the villain of the piece. Kolya would have been good, but I'd just used him in Hoglantis and fancied a change. Sorry, Cam!

Posting schedule will be three times a week, Friday, Sunday and Wednesday.

Chapter 1

Once upon a time there was a beautiful city of glistening spires and graceful towers that could rise from the land or the ocean and fly through the starry heavens. But the people who made the city weren't happy. They said to themselves, "Our lives are full of wonder and delight; but how much more wonder and delight would we know if we could leave our bodies behind and leave our city behind and fly through the starry heavens ourselves?"

So they found a way to accomplish this. They left their fair dwelling and became all-powerful creatures of air and light, and for a long time the city lay abandoned and desolate.

Then one day, an expedition of scientists and soldiers arrived and their leader said, "We will make this place our home." And so the city came to life once more, and the scientists made great discoveries and the soldiers protected them.

But the ancient makers, who dwelt in the heavens, looked down upon the new inhabitants and wondered, "Who are these people? Are they worthy to live in our great city? We will test their kindness and their generosity of spirit. And if they prove unworthy, they shall be punished!"

So, one of the sky dwellers disguised herself as an old woman. She approached the city and was taken inside and there she spoke to the leader, saying, "I have heard that your city possesses three great, golden crystals of power."

"That is so," said the leader.

"Then please, may I borrow one? For a terrible evil approaches my planet, and the shield that would protect us has failed."

Now the chief of the scientists, though he was indeed a man of immense intellect, was also a very foolish young man - vain and prideful, impatient and cruel, and above all jealously protective of the wonders of the city. He said to the leader, "Who is this old woman who asks for our precious crystal? How can we give her what we so sorely need, knowing nothing about her or her people? Tell her, no!"

(And, children, it is said that the scientist also used many impolite words and even curses that are not suitable for your ears.)

The leader replied, "But surely we could spare just one of our power sources for a short time?"

Then the scientist grew angry, but he was cunning and subtle in his anger. He befuddled and bedazzled his leader with many convoluted and intricate words and diagrams, which tangled and writhed in the leader's ears and sight, and painted a picture of great wisdom on the scientist's part and great danger if the old woman's wish was granted.

So the leader returned to the old woman and denied her request.

Then she revealed herself in her full power and might, and the city blazed with the brightness of her fury.

"For your selfishness you will all pay a great price! Because you would not share the gifts we have left you, I bind you forever to stay within the environs of the city! I strip you of your humanity and condemn you to the state of inanimate objects. And as for you…" She turned her direful countenance upon the chief scientist, who cowered and trembled before her. "You alone will remain a witness to the evil you have wrought - to live out your solitary, skulking existence, hiding your shame and ugliness in darkness and shadow. For I will take the power you hoarded for yourselves, all except one of your golden crystals. The least of them will be left to you, slowly losing its power over the long, empty years until you have but bitter cold and endless darkness left to hoard within your hateful realm."

At this, the scientist fell to his knees and begged for forgiveness. But the ancient being would not relent.

"There is only one way in which you might redeem yourself and restore the city to light and life."

"Tell me," pleaded the scientist. "What must I do?"

"Before the light fades from your solitary crystal, before its power is completely drained, you must, through kindness and generosity of spirit, gain the true and lasting love of another."

Then the all-powerful being departed and the city fell dark and silent. And the scientist despaired. For who would ever love a hateful, hideous wretch such as himself?

oOo

Dr Rodney McKay let his quill pen fall and pushed away the sheets of parchment that he had covered with uneven, ink-smudged script.

"So, what exactly was that supposed to achieve?" He pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and fingertip. "Because all I've got from it is a thumping headache."

"I am sorry. I thought it might help." The coffee pot poured out a stream of fragrant, brown liquid into a chipped china cup.

"Well it didn't." He reached for the cup. "Stop jigging about, Ford. You'll scald me again."

"Sorry, Dr M," said the cup.

Rodney picked it up and slurped a mouthful of the bitter brew. Thank God he'd been able to replicate the taste of decent coffee. That year after the supplies had run out and before he'd perfected the process had been awful. Almost as bad as the two whole years it had taken him to revive a few members of the expedition from their dormant state; and even that had only been a partial success. He regarded the floral coffee pot with a weary eye.

"Talking about this stuff doesn't do any good, Teyla. I don't know why you thought writing about it would."

The coffee pot remained silent.

There was a hollow, wooden, rattling sound, which only the few inhabitants of the city would have recognised as a clock, clearing its non-existent throat. "I believe it's past time that you retired for the night, Dr McKay." Woolsey waggled his upward-pointing fingers which, Rodney blearily registered, indicated a time that might futilely be described as 'past his bedtime' - as if he had anything to get up for in the morning.

"Fine. Whatever." He snapped his fingers. "Radek!"

The candelabra shuffled close enough for Rodney to grasp his stem.

"Goodnight, Rodney," said the coffee pot.

He grunted. Which Teyla could construe as a 'goodnight' if she chose. Her spout had the attitude of incipient speech. "Don't say it, Teyla. Just don't." Rodney bit his lip and breathed slowly in and out through his nose, tamping down his flooding despair. "Every night for nearly ten years you've said it, and I can't stand it anymore. Nobody's going to come. Not tomorrow. Not ever. And even if they did…" He shook his head and the candles guttered as his shoulders sagged. "Even if they did, they'd never love a monster like me."

oOo

The General was worried. And when Generals were worried, even retired ones, it usually meant things were about to get pretty bad.

Captain John Sheppard (honourably discharged), paused on his way to the kitchen and leant on the doorframe of the General's study.

"Everything okay, Pops?" This form of address might have been considered a little complacent, even insulting, were it not for the fact that, since the peace treaty had been signed, and the troops sent back to their normal lives, General Hammond had taken on the role of father, or grandfather, to the rootless ex-captain.

The General closed the ledger he had been working on and sat up straight, his military bearing smoothly overwriting any hint of his tense posture and furrowed brow. "Nothing for you to worry about, son," he said. "Are you going into the village today?"

"Yeah."

"To Beauchamp's?"

"Yeah." John was indeed going to the booksellers, in the hopes that, once again, M. Beauchamp would exchange the book he had finished for one of equal value. Books were expensive and John couldn't afford to buy outright. "I'm hoping he's got some more advanced math or something about how stuff works, you know? Or just something… different."

The General smiled. "I think you've pushed M. Beauchamp as far as he'll go, John. You know you're the only one who reads those books? If it wasn't for you, he'd just stock romances, a few farming texts and the news sheets from the city."

John shrugged. He'd just have to reread some of his favourites. "You hungry? I'm making an omelette."

"No, you go ahead. I've got more bookwork to do." The furrows returned to his brow.

John glanced out of the window at the empty fields and grey sky. The weather had finally settled, after a wet summer and poor harvest. "It's not paying enough, is it? The farm."

The General's smile was forced. "Don't you worry, son. We'll manage. But I might have to go up to the city. Sell a few trinkets."

He spoke lightly, but John knew what he'd sell - his medals. He'd sell his hard-earned, honourably won medals; they were the only things of value the General had left and John had nothing. "Don't. Don't go. I can work harder. And put in a few hours behind the bar at the Inn."

"You can't work harder than you already do, John."

John's chest ached to see the beaten-down weariness in the General's eyes. He didn't deserve this, not after his long career of service to his country. "Well, there's only one thing for it," he said.

The General raised his eyebrows in question.

"I'll have to marry money."

This raised a chuckle, which had been the idea. "I'll get you some silk and ribbons when I'm in town. Get you properly decked out."

John struck a pose and batted his eyelashes. "I'll snag myself a Duke at the very least. Or maybe even a Prince."

A bark of laughter escaped. "Go on. Get along with you!"

John grinned, and kept his grin pinned firmly in place; until he was in the kitchen, where he let it slide away and, though he set about cracking eggs and heating a frying pan on the range, his thoughts ran in circles. How far were they in debt? How could he make money? How could he pay the General back for his kindness?

oOo

The grey skies had cleared by the time John made his way down the rutted track toward the village. He cut through a copse of hazel trees and set out across a stubble field that had yielded a disappointing wheat harvest. From there he could see down to the village and across the valley and over the line of little, wooded hills to a further line and then another, far off in the blue distance.

Sometimes John thought about walking to the village and then walking on, and on, and further on, just to see what else there was in the world. He'd seen a few things in his time in the army. But not enough, and not the things he'd really wanted to see. He had so many questions that it seemed no one could answer. He learned what he could from books, but always he ended up with yet more unanswered questions. He took things apart to see how they were made, but what happened if you carried on taking things apart, into smaller and smaller pieces? You could take any number and split it into fractions and then ever smaller fractions - what if you did that with things, with objects? John looked at the book, tucked in his hand. What was it made of, if you divided the paper into smaller and smaller particles? Or his hand? What really went into making a human hand? And what forces held it together? None of the books he had read would tell him.

The breeze picked up and small clouds skittered across the sky. That was another thing John wondered about - the sky, and especially the night sky with its myriad stars set in the immensity of space. What was it like up there? Were there other people, living on different planets? He'd never know. Nobody would. Because even if you climbed to the top of the highest mountain, you'd still not be much closer to the stars. And he couldn't possibly afford a telescope.

John's musings had brought him as far as the mill at the edge of the village. Suddenly he wanted to turn and run, to run back to higher ground, to escape the stifling smallness of the lives lived entirely within this tiny valley. He wished, madly, that he could fly, or that he could invent a machine that would fly for him so that he could soar among the clouds, or even among the stars. But such things were the dreams of children. Or so he was always told. And if that was the case, John decided he should never have grown up at all.

"Hey there, John Sheppard."

He mentally cursed himself for not paying attention; he could (and should) have easily avoided the attentions of Captain Cameron Mitchell; celebrated hunter, renowned lover, all-round great guy and (which had a lot to do with his reputation), son of the town's Mayor, who was the wealthiest and most influential man for miles around.

"Mitchell." John willed his fists to relax, the fingers to uncurl.

"Captain Mitchell."

Call this ape Captain? No way. John had said goodbye to his military rank when he was discharged and the General had put in years of hard service to earn the use of his title during his retirement. And anyway, John was pretty sure Mitchell's captaincy was self-bestowed - the only fights he had ever been in were of his own making.

If only he'd taken the other route, round by the pond.

"But you could call me Cam." Mitchell pushed his broad shoulders away from the wall of the mill and flicked his cigarette on the ground, grinding it into the dirt with a turn of his gleaming boot. He had some kind of blunderbuss dangling from his other hand and a game bag at his belt. "It's time we were on a first name basis… John."

He resisted the urge to punch the guy in the face and kept his tone as pleasant as he could. "Going hunting?" In a red velvet jacket, for God's sake - the game'd see him coming ten miles off.

Mitchell ignored his question. "You know, John, I'm really not sure I can protect you much longer."

Here we go. Here it comes again. "I can look after myself." John got two steps further before Mitchell was in front of him, cold blue eyes boring into his, then darting to his lips and back.

"I heard your harvest had failed. What's the old man going to do now?"

"We're fine."

"I could help."

"We don't need your help." John's fist was telling him that it urgently needed to be in this guy's face.

Mitchell shook his head and tutted.

"That's not what I heard. You won't make it through the winter. Times are hard - and another rent increase on the way." The General owned the farmhouse. But the surrounding land was rented from the Mayor. The 'Captain' touched one finger to his chin and frowned deliberately. "How much does Hammond owe now? Twenty gold, is it? Or maybe fifty? You know how these accounting errors creep in."

"Our figures are up to date. Any accountant can go over them, check the receipts and invoices. We don't owe anything."

"Is that what he's told you?"

The General had done all the accounts himself this year. He'd said John had enough to do. Was he hiding something? Were those worried looks because he hadn't been able to pay the rent?

Mitchell laughed softly and slapped John idly on the shoulder. "Oh, John, John, John! Why do you make life so difficult for yourself? Let me help! With my protection you'd want for nothing. You and the old man." He looked down at the book in John's hand. "You could buy as many books as you wanted from old Beauchamp and not ever have to give them back. What's that you've got?"

John gripped his precious volume more tightly. "It's a math text."

"Really? How… unusual. A whole book on math? Surely once you've got past adding up and taking away, the novelty wears off?"

"Yeah, but if you study real hard, you get to use numbers higher than ten." John was fully aware that smirking sarcasm was the wrong move.

Mitchell dropped the honeyed tones. "You know what I want, Sheppard. And sooner or later, you're going to give it to me." His lingering glance up and down John's body was sickening.

"Won't your old man want grandchildren to continue the family name? Not sure I can oblige you, there."

John took a step backward, but Mitchell loomed closer, forcing him toward the wall of the mill, his hot breath wafting over John's face. "Oh, I can do that too. I've got plenty of energy for a wife and for you." He touched a finger to John's lips and let it trail lightly over his stubbled jaw, down his throat and further, until the lacings of John's shirt stopped it.

How could John let this slimeball touch him? Why didn't he grab that finger and snap it? Was he really going to let Mitchell do what he wanted? It crossed John's mind that he might have to. Winter was coming and, in this part of the world, winters were long and hard - maybe there'd be enough food and fuel to get through it and maybe there wouldn't. If it was a case of their animals or maybe even himself and the General starving, he might have to do a few things he didn't like. But he wasn't about to give in yet.

John took another step backward. "I've got things to do at the farm. I need to be back soon."

"If you allow me to help you, you could employ men to do the work." The brickwork dug into John's back. If Mitchell pushed the issue now, he wasn't sure what he'd do. But suddenly, the Captain stood aside and waved John toward the village, with an exaggerated flourish. "But you're on your way to Beauchamp's. I'll come with you!"

"Great."

"I was going out after pheasants, but I'd rather spend the time with you." He tucked the gun under one arm, linked his other in John's and began strolling toward the village, as if they were already an item. "And it's time I staked a claim in front of the villagers. There's been too much talk in the tavern lately about you and Beauchamp's daughter."

"I just talk to her about books. And you don't have a claim."

The arm around John's squeezed a little tighter. "I'll have you in the end, Sheppard. You know it and I know it, so why don't you just give in?"

"You won't get a wife if you're seen with me."

"Of course I will. Girls are realistic - they know a man of my appetites would never be satisfied by just one partner. And if I have a male lover, they won't feel as threatened."

It seemed that Mitchell was right. They passed the blacksmith and rounded the corner into the town square, where the daily market was in full swing, and the finely-clad hunter attracted plenty of giggling female attention as well as tipped hats, curtseys and respectful greetings. He responded with jovial good nature, puffing out his chest at the attention and preening as he caught his reflection in shop windows.

John glanced at his own reflection. He was a similar height to Mitchell, but thinner, wirier, reflecting his poor background and choice of career. As usual, his hair stuck up in wayward spikes. His shirt had stains around the collar that he hadn't been able to wash out and his woollen waistcoat had holes that needed darning.

"We make a fine couple," announced the Captain in a booming voice.

John tried to pull his arm away, but was held fast.

"You there, lad!" A loitering boy jumped to attention. "Take my gun to my father's house and give it into the care of the groundsman. Careful, now!" He turned back to John. "There, now I have both hands free." He winked.

John's omelette flipped over in his stomach.

The Captain hovered close by John in the bookseller's, dampening his enthusiasm and making M. Beauchamp nervous, so that he offered John the same book three times.

"Thanks, Mr B, but I think I'll go with this one." John held up a slim volume on 'natural philosophy', which was what books seemed to call stuff about how the world worked. Or how the author thought it might work, at least. "Okay?"

"Of course, John. Any time." The bookseller glanced at John's reluctant companion. "Perhaps I might interest you in this recent acquisition, Captain Mitchell? The army lists for the past ten years? You will no doubt find yourself and your illustrious colleagues listed therein!"

"No doubt I will," he said. "In fact, consider it sold and package it up instantly and deliver it personally to my father's house. And no peeking, understand? I don't want grubby fingerprints all over my book!"

"Yes, Captain. No, Captain, of course not."

Mitchell glared, until the bookseller took out a roll of brown paper and began wrapping the book securely. John slipped his own book inside his shirt. He wouldn't mind a look at the army list. He'd find 'Captain John Sheppard' easily enough, but he suspected he'd search in vain for Captain Cameron Mitchell. The fire in the great hall of the Mayor's house would blaze more brightly tonight.

Mitchell gained possession of John's arm again and towed him down the steps and out once more into the market. His mood had changed though, and cheerful greetings were barely acknowledged with grunts and sharp nods. John really needed to ditch the guy, and soon.

They crossed the market, passing stalls of vegetables, fruit and flowers and small pens of animals where an auction was in progress. Mitchell steered them toward the butcher's shop, but then headed for the alley between the rows of hanging game and the chandlers, next door.

"Look, Mitchell, I really need to be getting back."

The alley was a dead end.

"I told you, John, call me Cam."

"Okay, fine. Cam, I'm not doing this. I've got work to do."

"And I've told you, if you let me look after you, you'll never have to work." He pushed John past a stack of barrels, toward the back of the alley. "Come on. Give me something, here."

This wasn't going to end well. John dodged to one side but skidded in the evil-smelling slime draining from the butcher's back door and Mitchell pushed him into the wall, pinning John with his weight. Rough kisses landed on John's cheek and his jaw and roving hands groped at the waistband of his pants. He couldn't do this. No matter what happened, he'd find another way, even if they had to sell up and move on. The grasping, claiming hands slid up beneath his shirt, pulling at his hair, pinching a nipple.

"No, dammit, no, get the hell off me!" He twisted away from his would-be lover but Mitchell grabbed the front of his shirt and forced one arm up behind his back, slamming him into the wall.

"I've waited long enough. I've you're not gonna give, I'm gonna take!"

A bolt rattled and the butcher's side door swung open. John exploded into action, driving his knee upward as hard and fast as he could into his attacker's groin, his fist meeting a solid jaw as the groaning man folded forward. Then he dived through the door, pushed the astonished butcher's boy out of the way and ran through the forest of swinging carcasses, through the shop and out into the marketplace.

He kept running, dodging through the crowds. They wouldn't help him if Mitchell got himself together enough to give chase. John took the route opposite to his way home, heading past the lock-up and through the clusters of tiny dwellings and up into the scrubby fields which bordered the woodland. It would be a long route back to the farm, picking his way through the trees, but at least Mitchell wouldn't find him.

He'd really blown it now. The rent would go up and they wouldn't be able to pay and then they'd have to sell up and move on in the middle of winter; a bad time to be on the road. What would the General say? What would he think? That it was John's fault?

He pushed on up the slope, higher and higher, knowing he was getting further and further away from home, but not really caring. He reached the crest of the hill and on the far side the ground fell away, so that he could see all the way down into the next valley. His arm hurt from where Mitchell had twisted it and his back was bruised from the rough stone wall. What kind of state would he be in if he'd let the bastard carry on and do what he wanted?

Shuddering, John sat down on the nibbled-short turf. There must be a way out of this life, he thought. There must be more; more to experience than scratching a living, constantly fighting for hand-to-mouth survival, for the right to be who he wanted to be. There must be. Out there somewhere.

Smoke rose from the chimneys of another village below, out in the middle of the valley. It would be just the same as his own village; full of people doing the same things their parents had done, and their parents before them. John's eyes travelled across the hedgerows and tiny, distant roofs and up to the far ridge. Over that, there'd be another valley, another cluster of dwellings and people and animals, and then after that another and another. Were they really all the same? Was there nothing else out there? In the whole, great, wide somewhere, was there nothing and no one for John, no place where he'd get to experience the wonders that life really should hold?

He got up. He rubbed his sore arm. He turned away from the vista and headed for home and work.


Poor John! But adventure and excitement is coming his way soon! Please comment and kudos, thank you!