Chapter 5
The woman asked Carter to talk to him, to tell him that they did not want to hurt him. She had heard the curses and groans as they tugged on his drenched uniform, fumbling with the zippers and snaps they were unaccustomed to . They managed the boot laces although they were caked with mud. The left boot came off easily but pulling off his right boot elicited a grunt of pain. He tried to push away their hand but hadn't the strength to even slow their progress of stripping him.
He sat on a stool, a man behind him holding him up with a hand under each of O'Neill's arms. There were two others washing off the mud and the blood so the woman could assess his wounds. They had removed most of his sodden muddy clothing except for a patch of his t-shirt which had adhered to the burns on his chest. They had soaked it thoroughly. The woman held up to his lips a cup of a special medicinal tea she had brewed. No sooner than he swallowed it than it threatened to come back up. Her manner was stern and brooked no refusal of her orders, but she was not without compassion. She tipped the cup up to his mouth again. Somewhere in the part of his mind that was not focused on pushing down the pain he knew they were just trying to help him.
"Tell him that I don't want to hurt him. Tell him I'm sorry."
Carter murmured to him, his eyes fluttering open occasionally. His skin was an ashy gray, his lips bloodless, his breathing shallow and he was shivering. He turned to her, glassy eyed. As she took his hand in hers, she told him over and over again as if to convince herself, that he was safe and that they were going to help him.
"Do it." He said.
They tore the remaining piece of cloth from his chest; he crushed her fingers, sucking in his breathe. Then he went slack and her finger flew to his neck.
She realized something she knew in her bones but wouldn't allow her mind to acknowledge. She loved this man. How could she? It wasn't right; it wasn't allowed; he was too old; they were incompatible from the word go. And the Cosmos, the existence of a God she would leave to the philosophers, was laughing its ass off at her. He was dying in front of her. It all had become too goddamned impossible for her. It was just like finally figuring out how to defuse a bomb as it blew up in your face.
Impatiently the healer said, "He lives. Now let's lay him on the bed so we can dress his wounds."
They pulled the blankets back, covered the bed with towels and, struggling with the large unconscious man, lay him on top of the bed.
The woman addressed one of her assistants "Take her to get dry clothing and something to eat."
And to Sam she said "We will do our best. Let us tend to his wounds and you can come back when we are done."
She wasn't sure her words were registering with Sam and so she reached out with her bloodied hand and got Sam to look at her. Sam's eyes focused on the blood; he was hurt again, just too, too many times. When everything happened: the sound of the Jaffa horn, the Alkesh and gliders in the sky, Teal'c calling on the radio, Jack with his ceramic plated vest half off, and the shale wall exploding in their faces, he lurched in front of her and she grabbed him and pulled him down. They saved each other but she was too slow. He was hurt again and again she felt as though it were her fault.
"Let us tend to him. I will stitch up your arm when I am finished here. Come back, he will need someone to tend to his needs and we are very short handed. Trust me, it is mostly exhaustion. Yes, he is badly bruised and he has lost a bit of blood but this is nothing for a warrior. The burn concerns me and I do not know if there are broken ribs under it but I don't think so. If you will tend to him – rest, nourishment and my medicines will restore him."
With that Carter reluctantly left O'Neill to their care.