The worst word in any language had to be battlefield.
The thought passed through Daniel's mind as their small contingent made its way towards Minas Tirith. Bodies littered the field like refuse; piles of what had once been proud men growing as the survivors sorted through the dead. The moans of the dying were quiet compared to those of the living; soldiers calling out for their brothers in arms, some openly weeping as a friend or relative was found. More than once the archeologist saw a would-be rescuer bring his sword slashing down, the empty silence that followed deafening.
Even older children were called upon to help; boys and girls carrying the living into Minas Tirith in a thin trickle compared to the steady stream of the dead carried or dragged outside the city walls. There were moans and cries here as well, as men and women sorted through the remains.
Daniel veered back onto the field, quick steps taking him to a hand flexing slowly beneath the body of an orc. "Methas?" In his memory the boy, barely turned eighteen, was dancing on a table in Edoras celebrating their victory in Helm's Deep with laughter making his brown eyes sparkle. Now they were glazed, his teeth and lips red with blood. How long had he been lying there?
"Da... dan..."
"Don't talk," Daniel told him, laying a comforting hand on his forehead. The boy's skin was cold. His eyes went to the Methas's chest. The plated leather armor was slashed through in a long arc extending from right shoulder to left hip. "Over here!" He shouted, trying to get the attention of a carrier.
"No..." the man's hand shifted from his side and Daniel shuddered. The wound was mortal, his insides held together by the armor alone. Even if Methas did make it to their doctors, he wouldn't survive. Brown eyes locked with blue, and Daniel knew what he was asking.
The archeologist shook his head. "No... I can't..."
A hand lifted, locking on his vest with surprising strength as his eyes darted down looking for his short swords. "Please..."
There was no way to know how long Methas had laid there, no way to determine how long he would suffer. Daniel had read accounts from centuries past of generals and kings who suffered for days, even weeks, before succumbing to blood poisoning or other ailments. A scrap of one, an Old Kingdom manuscript, came to him.
If the victual sack is punctured, death is slow, painful, and assured.
Daniel nodded, one hand lifting to catch the one clutching his shirt. His hand drifted to his short sword and faltered, then moved to hover over the man's mouth. Short, humid breath wafted over his palm.
Please...
His hand covered most of the man's face, cutting off his air. The fingers gripping his tightened. He didn't know any prayers for the dying, not for Rohan, but something tickled at his memory, a scrap of an old poem.
"May Freya fill your cups with wine, warrior, when you enter her halls," he said softly, slowly. It wasn't a prayer but it would have to be enough. "And your feet know the touch of soft grass." The suction on his palm was weakening, the fingers going slack " May peace be found in death's embrace, to which we all must go."
He kept his hand in place for another minute before he reached out to press Methas's eyes closed. When he looked up people were still milling in small groups, finding survivors and carrying them away, adding bodies to the piled dead. Across the field an old soldier, Ulta he thought, met his eyes and nodded his head solemnly before picking up a corpse and slinging it over his shoulder.
He'd thank you, if he could, Daniel told himself as he placed the boy's shattered sword on his chest, etching the name onto the mental list he was keeping of the dead. It was better than lying there, waiting to die.
The thought was cold comfort.
The next few days were like moving through jelly.
It was years since Jack experienced shell shock, not since Charlie died and that shock replaced the other. He remembered spending whole days staring at nothing, feeling nothing. Rubbing his wrists raw trying to remind himself that there was nothing there; no shackles, just skin and bone. Waking up in the middle of the night smelling dried sweat and blood, feces and baking sand. Pelenor Field brought back all those old memories, fermented and well aged.
At least here the cold kept down the smells.
So many had died in the battle of Pelenor Field, more in Minas Tirith itself and at that last stand at the very gates of Mordor, that it boggled the mind. More had died than had lived, and it would take generations to make up the manpower lost in that last battle.
Everything had happened so fast he barely had time to think, just react. It was pretty sweet, fighting when the ghosts (he still had a hard time wrapping his mind around that) had already cleared a wide path. It didn't keep him from getting hurt, unfortunately for him. Jack had just enough time to realize his leg wasn't just complaining for no reason before he was dragging himself back outside Minas Tirith with the rest of his team. By rights, he shouldn't have been there, not with a busted leg. But if Merry could drag his ass out of bed to fight after damn near dying so could he. They were all running on pure adrenaline by then, even Legolas. Jack had chuckled to himself when he realized that if they managed to live through all this they were going to crash for a week, minimum.
The final battle, as it happened, was rather anti-climatic.
Jack knew evil, knew the glee with which a guo'uld could torture and main innocent people, but that didn't compare with the malevolence that he felt staring at them when the Black Gates opened. That kind of darkness the snake-heads could only dream of achieving, thank God. He had vague impressions to go by after seeing that big ass eye in the distance: crowds of sweating, screaming orcs and men, rumbling ground, the feel of his sword sinking into something slick and oozing. Then nothing. The first real impression he had after that was waking up to someone changing the wrapping on his leg. Not only had he managed to break it, he also sprained his ankle on top of that.
Figured.
At least he wasn't the only one laid up. Sam had a lot more bruises than the last time he saw her along with several stitches along her arms, and Daniel was sporting another line of stitches across his chin. Teal'c had a patch of pale lines running over his scalp instead of a good scar, thanks to his symbiote. Even Legolas, Mr. No-Matter-What-Happens-I-Always-Look-Like-I-Just-Stepped-Out-Of-The-Shower had a few bruises and a broken wrist. Jack knew he shouldn't have been happy about that, but he was.
The colonel was currently limping down a hallway, hiding from his overzealous nurse and her entourage of giggling ladies. Seemed being a hero also made him a prime catch, and he had girls as young as fifteen waiting in line to show him how caring and responsible they could be. He would have been flattered if he didn't know each of them was sniffing for a husband.
"No balm for my pride," he muttered to himself, taking a shaky hop forward. The makeshift crutches he was using were better than nothing, and that was about all he could say.
"If you fall, Ilna will skin you."
The words came from his right and Jack jumped left. Or tried to. His crutch chose that moment to plant itself in the smooth stone floor, and the colonel was losing his balance. A hand reached out of the alcove and steadied him before he went full sprawl.
Aragorn watched Jack curse in his own language but resisted the urge to help further. His guards were already telling tales about the foul tempered colonel yelling at anyone who tried to help him. He shouldn't have startled the other man while he was so focused on staying upright.
"Morning," Jack said when his legs were firmly beneath him again. "How goes the ruling thing?"
A smile lifted half the man's mouth. "As well as can be expected."
"Ahhh…" Jack continued down the hall. There was a kitchen somewhere in this place, and he was sick of broths and bread. "You're hiding too."
"Attempting to find a moment of peace, Jack."
Sure, the colonel thought but didn't let out. All Jack O'Neill had to worry about at the moment was finding something to eat, not busting his leg up any worse than it already was, and waking up married to a sixteen year old (not a bad thing. He'd woken up married before. Fun, until he started aging in moth years). Aragorn had to worry about fixing Minas Tirith, rebuilding a kingdom, and caring for the sick and injured.
And that was before lunch.
It was a wonder he didn't look more… henpecked. Jack would be tearing his hair out in large clumps if he had half the things to deal with. Point of fact, Aragorn looked rather spiffy. A good bath, some soap, and the mother of all conditioners certainly did a lot for the Ranger's appearance.
"Any luck on finding the DHD?" He asked, changing the subject.
That at least had been a silver lining on a very dim cloud. A week ago Aragorn had sent teams into Minas Morgul to catalogue whatever the stone citadel held and to search for the stargate at his friend's insistence. The gate was easy to find, since it was hard to hide a nearly fifteen foot tall circle. The DHD, however, was playing a game of hide and seek.
"Not yet." Aragorn fell into step next to him. "They have searched non-stop since the restiina was discovered."
Which meant that they would have to dial home manually if Carter managed to think of a way to power the gate in the first place.
Damn complications.
"Okay, try it now, Pip."
There was the sharp crack of electricity, the smell of ozone, and the sight of a hobbit waddling over covered in char that greeted Sam when she looked up from her experiment.
"Did it work?"
If she could, Sam would smuggle Pippin onto Earth if she ever managed to get the battery she was working on up and running. He was one of the best assistants she'd ever had. The hobbit had been burned, shocked, scorched, and soaked since he agreed to help her with finding a way to charge the stargate, all without a single complaint. He was actually pretty bright when he calmed down, and came up with some of the most ingenious ideas for storing power without the advantage of advanced tools. She was actually starting to make some headway.
At least, until someone noticed that five tanning vats were missing, along with ten sword blades, gallons of vinegar and mass amounts of copper from all around Minas Tirith.
The end result of a week's worth of tampering, guesswork, and outright stealing were the five vats, each as tall as she was, filled with vinegar with a sword in a copper cage floating in each. It was promising, if she wanted to wait a few years for the gate to collect enough power to turn on.
"I think we're getting there, Pippin," she huffed, packing away her makeshift voltmeter. She needed something more acidic. Sulfuric acid, maybe. Easy to make, hard as hell to store, though. Something a little less strong, then. She had the run of the city's alchemical works on Aragorn's order, she could cook up something.
"So you'll be going home, then?" Pippin asked. The question was meant to be light, unconcerned, but Sam could feel the shadow hanging in the words.
"Not for a while," she answered, swinging the large door on the barn they overtook shut. The way things were looking, getting home was turning into an impossibility.
The two walked through Minas Tirith, skirting the piles of rubble still littering the city. Most of the smaller debris was already gone, but the larger chunks of stone required more manpower than they had available.
Mithril, Sam thought. Maybe mithril would be a better conductor than copper. If they could predict the next lightening storm she could power the gate that way. Daniel and Jack had done it before; it would give her 500 MJ to work with instead of a few hundred volts. If the weather in Middle Earth proved to be like that of their earth, she'd have to wait months before a good thunder storm hit the area. An image flashed in Sam's mind, one of Gandalf standing on the bridge in Moria, lightning called out of nowhere hitting his sword.
As mental slaps went the one Sam gave herself should have left bruises. She'd been wasting her time with simple batteries when she could have been using their own lightning in a bottle.
Middle Earth was definitely bad for her brain.
"You think this one's better than the others?"
General Hammond paced around his office, aware of the large eyes following his every move.
The shorter one, Loki, nodded. "We have searched over five thousand permutations resulting from this address. Of that, only a fifth are capable of establishing contact."
The general stopped and stared at the three-dimensional image floating above the conference table. It showed the stargate centered in a grove of trees. The image twisting every now and then, affording a new angle. "SG1 wouldn't travel far from the gate without leaving some sign that they were there."
"Perhaps they were forced to leave for reasons unknown." That was Odin, the chief science officer of the Asgard assigned to help with finding his team. "We've yet to see signs of violence, but there were definite life force readings the last time the wormhole was established."
"Humanoid life," Loki clarified. "Perhaps twenty males and ten females. The language was not comparable to English."
The Asgard ran his hand over the device and the sound of several men talking echoed through the room.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to get this to our linguist."
"Certainly." Odin pulled out a small disk. "I believe this will be compatible with most of your computer systems. There were other sounds you should be aware of, General Hammond. We detected sharp metallic resonances, which indicate weapons and armor. Sending your men to this location may prove dangerous."
The general sighed. "What are the chances of this planet being the one SG1 was sent to?"
Odin blinked placidly. "The chances that this is the correct permutation are incalculable as there are infinite dimensions."
"General, perhaps it is time to face that there may be no finding your men," Loki's voice was soft but insistent. "They are well trained, and will survive in any environment that is remotely hospitable to human life."
"I won't give up on my team," Hammond's voice was soft but firm. "So long as you are willing to continue, so are we. Tell the search and rescue team that it's a go."
The two Asgard nodded. "We will inform your men that you approve of searching the area. We will inform you of any new information."
The three walked to the gateroom before Loki spoke again. "Corporal Hennessey and his team would like to extend their time with us, General," the alien said. "They would like your permission to remain for another week."
Hammond smiled ruefully. "Inform SG12 that the assignment was for two week stretches, and we have plenty of personnel waiting for a turn to search for SG1. No extension is needed."
The general watched the two aliens go through the stargate with a heavy heart. Almost four months of searching and there was still no evidence that O'Neill and his team were alive. Some part of him wanted to let go, face that they might never come back. The larger part of him, the part that kept him alive throughout his career, told him not to stop. Four people were out there looking for a way to come home, and as long as he was in command they wouldn't give up.
"You better be alive when we find you, O'Neill," he muttered to himself. "Otherwise you'll have a lot of explaining to do.
WOW:::looks at last time I updated and falls out of chair:
As always, I apologize for taking so long to get this chapter out. It's filler, I know, but… well… okay, no excuse, but I didn't think you guys wanted me to go over the whole last thirty minutes of the film, which strangely enough was what got me stuck. My muse has been cheating on Stargate, the shameful hussy. I had a wicked case of Stargate writers block, but there's only one more chapter left, so hopefully it will stay gone until it's written.
Special OMG cookies for all thanks goes out to everyone who reviewed the last chapter and my little (okay, not so little) rant. You're support means so much to me, and thank you hardly covers it. If I could, I would bake cakes for you all and send them through the mail, but since the postal service frowns on this practice, you'll have to settle for mental glomping.
See ya next time, which hopefully won't take six months
Writegirl.