He had come! He had come to her!

Nalia dashed into the kitchen to swipe up a starched white towel, and quickly pumped up cold water from the well to dampen it. Skidding back to the door where the man lay gasping and moaning, all-but-unconscious, she gently lay the cloth on his fevered forehead and awkwardly patted his shoulder until the cough calmed enough for him to rest.

He needed her. He needed help and he had come to her.

Just before John had pounded on the door, she had been arguing violently with her father, giving up all pretense and begging Naden to let her see the plaguer again. Naden, for his part, understood the girl's motives, but wrote off her desperate infatuation to silly adolescent puppy love. There were few handsome men in their town; life was hard and the plague had creased and saddened every face. He could understand his daughter's attraction to the dashing stranger, but it only fueled his hatred of the man who was beginning to represent everything that Naden wasn't: strong and proud and honorable. The man would turn even his daughter against him. Furious, Naden had stormed away from the house to drink in the town bar. At least he could have the pleasure of discussing the stranger's funeral with Davka when the shopkeeper returned from the final questioning…

Nalia had slammed the door after her father, wishing she were brave enough to sneak back to the prison that night and knowing she was not. But then, here he was instead; standing in her door and asking for her! As she quietly mopped his brow, having exchanged no words but his plea for help, the longing she'd suffered since the first smile he'd sent in her direction blossomed into a frightening kind of passion: She loved him. She was his. She would do anything for him.

And he was hers.

Her mind raced as she sat, and she soon had a plan. "I'll be back in just a second, then we'll find a place to go," she whispered lovingly to him and then darted through the house gathering up the things she thought she would need: her coat, a pile of blankets, a cup and a box of matches, a glowing lantern that she'd just filled with oil. She shoved everything but the lantern into the simple canvas bag that she used to bring home items from the market, slung it over her shoulder and then knelt again by the man's head.

"Colonel?" She tapped his face lightly even as she hesitated over his name; he had so many. Her father had called him Colonel since their introductions. His friends had referred to him most often as "Colonel" or "Sheppard," but the Cinnamon-haired woman had called him "John," and Nalia desperately wanted to use the name that had sounded so intimate when it followed a warm "good-night." But she didn't dare, not quite yet.

She tapped harder and he blinked at her with enough comprehension that she continued, "We need to leave here. I can take you somewhere safe, where Davka and my father won't find us. But you need to get up. Can you walk?" He struggled to understand, then nodded, pushing himself up into a crouch. She heaved on his arm to help him stand, wrapping her arm around his waist to support him, and looping the lantern over her other arm. Together they took faltering steps, out the door that she opened for him, and into the yard beyond the house.

She guided him to an overgrown path that led even deeper into the forest away from the mill, and even though she was panting from the exertion of bearing a good deal of his weight, she kept up a cheerful patter of whispered conversation. "The woodcutter's house is just down this path. He died in the plague. His house has been empty since, but I think they've left most of his things still there." She held the lantern high as they reached a fork and turned surely into the left one.

"There will be wood for a fire, and a bed you can rest on. I'll heat some water for tea, and hopefully I'll be able to bring back some food from my house before my father returns from town…"

For John, the journey in the dark, with nothing but pale lantern light bobbing along on Nalia's elbow, was a nightmare of pain and despair. The exertion forced air through his raw and battered lungs. Every step was agony. Every step was steeped in the fear that he'd failed his friends: he hadn't found a cure. He was already dead -- Already a ghost, walking in a dim circle of light with darkness all around that threatened to swallow him up forever.

But Nalia was as giddy as if she were celebrating her wedding night. When they at last reached the gloomy simple hut, she kicked the unlocked door open to drag John, coughing and gasping again, through the door and towards a large straw-mattress bed. Her lantern flooded the one-room dwelling with warm light. After easing him down carefully, he immediately curled up into an agonized ball and the wracking coughs finally drove him to blissful unconsciousness.

Nalia tenderly covered him with her blankets, started a cheery fire in the fireplace just at the foot of the bed and, rummaging in the kitchen, set an iron kettle of water over the fire to heat and a cup of cold water by the bed. Before leaving the now warm and glowing hideout, she sat on the edge of the bed and watched him for a long time. He was so beautiful, she thought, and she reached out to stroke his cheek as she had done in the prison cell last night. He neither awoke nor moved at the contact.

"I'll be back…John," she whispered to him with affectionate daring. "You need some food to gain your strength back. Then we can be together, forever."

Nalia smoothed down the unruly shock of hair that, had she known otherwise, stood up most of the time, bent to kiss him on the cheek, then threw her coat around her shoulders and shut the door behind her as she left into the night.

Atlantis, 11:00 p.m.

One hour passed in the quiet infirmary on Atlantis, then two. It wasn't late, but already tired from nearly no sleep the night before left Elizabeth dozing in the chair by 10:00. The nurses dimmed the lights, seeing that she was mostly asleep and performed their regular checkups on John as quietly as possible.

When Elizabeth roused from her fitful sleep, she realized she had company. Teyla had quietly pulled the second chair next to hers, and sat with her legs curled up against her chest, her chin resting on her knees. Elizabeth stretched and yawned, then rubbed her neck that was stiff from the awkward position she'd been resting in. She saw Teyla's eyes flick in her direction and Elizabeth threw her a questioning smile.

"I couldn't sleep," Teyla admitted sheepishly, then turned her gaze back on John. Elizabeth understood completely. The feeling of anticipation, of anxious waiting, seemed even thicker in the gloomy dimness. She left for a moment to raid Carson's pot of freshly brewed coffee, and wasn't surprised when the Doctor followed her back to the bedside with a cup in his own hand. She was surprised when he found another chair and dragged it over to join them in vigil. She rarely saw Carson just sit with a patient that didn't require immediate attention, but he seemed happy to simply watch with them.

The three sat in comfortable silence, sipping the fragrant beverage and Elizabeth idly wondered if perhaps the wonderful smell of the coffee could encourage John towards wakefulness.

"John. We need you. It is time to wake," Teyla whispered the words so softly they were almost reverent, and Carson and Elizabeth nodded silently in agreement.

G3C-187, Day 2

The first time John woke in the woodcutter's hut, he was alone. Not even having the strength to sit up or look around, he simply opened his eyes, took in the flickering quality of the light against the walls and felt the heat of the room penetrating his pain locked body. A cup of water sat on the simple box nightstand just in front of him as he lay facing a smooth wood wall. With the urgency of pure survival, he eagerly reached a shaking hand out to take the cup and swallowed every drop in one blissful gulp. Plain water had never tasted so sweet. He thought about getting up to look around for more, but was unconscious again even before he could set the cup down.

The second time he woke, Nalia sat perched on the bed crooning to him and urging him to drink from the cup again. He shook himself to clear the fog and reached for the offered drink even before he really understood where he was or why. This time the cup held a rich broth, similar to the soup he had eaten at the table with Naden and his team his first night here. The broth was warm, but not hot and again he swallowed it all without pause; and although it was just a small amount, it left him feeling full and more satisfied than after that previous large meal.

He let the cup drop onto the mattress and frowned. Some thought was nagging at him; there was something of importance he needed to remember. If only he could think straight, and his chest didn't hurt so much, and he didn't feel so hot. He slipped under again into restless nightmares where Teyla and Ronon and Rodney were being fed on by Wraith, except they were lying in beds with blankets wrapped around them like mummies…

He awoke with a hoarse cry to find Nalia still there, or there again, this time reaching for his forehead with a cool cloth. He felt it touch his hot skin and suddenly he remembered. With an imperative thrust, he snatched Nalia's arm, holding it tight, pulling her towards him as he still had no strength to sit up. She had to understand, she had to help him or people he loved would die.

"Nalia. You have to listen…" His voice was so hoarse and raspy he feared she wouldn't be able to hear him, so he pulled her even closer and she leaned her face in, close to his. "You have to help me. Your father has a cure for the plague. He can stop this. He can save me and a lot of other people."

Nalia's face was perplexed then sad, "No. He would have stopped it if he could…"

"He's lying, or hiding it, or something! I saw it in his face, in his eyes. You must have guessed it, too. Something you said before…I thought you knew!" John closed his own eyes in frustration at her continued skeptical expression. He was sure. Sure that Naden did have a cure, and that for whatever reason he was withholding that cure from his people, feeding them the cock-and-bull story about a test and faithfulness. And he'd been reasonably sure that Nalia had at least started to suspect something. He couldn't figure out why she seemed so surprised and doubtful.

A sudden wild thought occurred to him. "Nalia, listen." His breath was growing short again, and he wondered if he should be frightened by the fact that he didn't even feel like coughing any more; the tickle in his chest had simply solidified into a lump that pushed out any room for air. "Listen. Naden said Davka was cured by his faith. But you have to think. You have to remember. Did Naden give Davka anything unusual before he got better? A pill, or a shot, or anything?"

Nalia frowned in concentration. John willed her to remember, to have seen something. Finally she hesitantly spoke, as if revealing an uncomfortable truth, and was worried about what he might think. "Well. I remember that when Davka came to Father's office with the fever, he was terrified as everyone always was. They talked for a long time. Davka was a good friend to my father, even before the plague. Father told him to seek the Ancestors and come back that night after dark, which was odd." She was silent for a while and John held his tongue, not wishing to frighten her from voicing the thought she was putting together.

"Before Father left that night, I found him rummaging in our icebox and he told me to sterilize the needles, which he only does if he's administering a drug. I did and he left." Nalia shrugged, trying to downplay the observation, "Davka got better, and my father claimed him as proof that the Ancestors could save someone who was faithful." Wild hope sprang in John's aching chest and, exhausted and weakened by fever, he blinked back tears at the emotion.

"Nalia. You have to find whatever it is that your father is hiding in the icebox and bring it here. Bring a syringe, and bring that medicine."

She started to protest, started to say she wasn't brave enough, or strong enough to doubt her father, when John suddenly lost patience and twisted her arm brusquely with what little strength he had left and barked, "Do it, woman! Go and get it now!"

Immediately regretting his loss of control, he let go and buried his face in his hands. Nalia slid off the bed and backed away from him, her expression unreadable. "I'm sorry, Nalia," he whispered through his fingers, "I'm sorry. I don't want to die this way." Lost in pain and regret, and terrified that he'd destroyed his one hope for help, John didn't see her slip out of the door a few minutes later.

Nalia was confused and she ran down the dark path, lit only by the late rising moon, letting the wind whip her hair around her face and feeling the chill take her breath away. She had created a perfect little fantasy as she tended to John in the warm hut: She would nurse him to health and then they would live together in the house they'd claimed. When he was well, they would confront her father, declare their love and Naden would give them his blessing.

As she coaxed John to drink the broth and brought him cool cloths to tame the raging fever, she imagined him walking in the door after a day of exploring through the Stargate. He would sweep her up and kiss her and then tell her about his adventures over the dinner she would lovingly prepare for him.

The beautiful dream pushed away the reality of his illness, the reality of her miserable life, and soothed the loneliness she suffered day in and day out. So when John began to desperately ask her to believe in a cure other than her own tender care, she fought him; not only would believing in it indict her father in a horrible crime of omission, and in an indirect way, herself for choosing not to pursue her suspicions, but believing in it would mean accepting that John himself had the plague.

He continued to press. Still she resisted; she desperately wanted to forget that he was dying. For a moment she even feared that thinking it would cause it to be. And yet, paradoxically, a part of her was afraid of what would happen if he did get well. In a twisted way of thinking, she realized that at least, if he did die, he wouldn't leave her to return to his friends and the cinnamon-haired woman who called him John.

But when he'd grabbed her arm and spoken harshly to her, she had seen such fear and panic in his eyes that the fantasy had melted away and the real world had come crashing in upon her. She wasn't angry with him; she loved him. His quiet apology tore at her heart. She still didn't want to believe her father had withheld a cure all these months. And she didn't wish to face her part in the deception. But she would look now, whatever the consequences. For John. Because he had asked her to. And because she didn't want him to die that way.

The hours after Nalia left were John Sheppard's darkest. Certain that Nalia had abandoned him in the hut as her father had left him to die in the cell, his hope failed and fever and delirium consumed him. The lump in his chest squeezed out all breath and he began to panic, fighting for air, drowning in heat and sweat and despair.

When Nalia found him, he was twisted in the blankets, writhing and gasping, wild fear on his sweat-slicked face. In a panic of her own, Nalia yanked at the covers to free him, and with a strength surprising for her slim frame, she managed to pull John upright and prop him against the bedframe, hastily arranging the pillows behind him.

The sensation of drowning eased as he sat up, and through a haze of labored breathing, he felt his sweat soaked T-shirt being tugged off. Even the warm air of the balmy hut felt cool against his hot skin and he began to shiver a little. A cup of water was placed at his lips and he managed to take a few sips. He felt a sharp sting, then another, in his thigh, but it was such a drop in the ocean of pain, he neither flinched nor even thought to look at what it was. Next came cool cloths draped over his chest and shoulders, and he shuddered harder.

John's whole world was fire and ice, shadow and hollow sensation. Finally, a pale dawn crept its way through the windows to find him in an exhausted sleep, his breath coming quietly and easily, the tousled, delicate form of the girl curled up, asleep, next to him on the mattress.