A/N - Hi, sorry for the delay in posting this week, but hopefully, I intend to post every day until the story is finished. Thanks again for all those who have taken the time to review, and to those who are still following the story.

Well...we left John on the mend, and feeling a little more positive about the future - so what now?

DAMAGED

CHAPTER 11

Garmend had missed his lab. In his youth, he had been an accomplished inventor, but when his father died after only a short illness, it had fallen upon him to assume the mantle of leadership at only nineteen. Now, back in the small dingy room where he used to spend so much time, the years seemed to melt away, and it almost seemed as if it were yesterday.

As he rolled the small metal device taken from the slave in his hand, Garmend wondered what it could be. Under the microscope, the badly deformed metal revealed no obvious clues, but he'd heard rumours of other planets that used metal chips to identify slaves or prisoners, and this was certainly small enough to fulfil that purpose. Something he would have liked to develop, if he had time, but now Garmend had a more pressing concern to deal with - how to handle his nephew once his enforced confinement was over.

Gamend really hoped that Ballam would be a more humbled man once he was released from his chambers, although somehow he doubted it. His nephew's comments at being locked up had been so offensive, that he'd left him with no choice but to teach him a lesson, the young man completely stunned when he'd brought out the cane, that Hamlane barely needed to use any of his considerable strength to keep him restrained…at least at first.

It hadn't given him any pleasure to hear his screams, but at least he'd spared the boy from the humiliation of a flogging, a punishment he'd richly deserved, except knowing Ballam, the young man would never see it that way. Of course, Garmend blamed his upbringing, as the Tower, a place of excess and immorality, was an unsuitable place to grow up - especially for his heir. On several occasions over the years, Garmend had asked him to come and join him, but he was under no illusion that his nephew only finally agreed to come after the nobles were overthrown and he was left penniless, with nowhere else to go.

Garmend was concerned that it had been necessary to discipline the boy, but he'd considered the painful lesson essential, not only to punish Ballam for the needless death of the young slave, but also to give him a taste of what real pain felt like. He just hoped it would teach him to use harsh discipline, such as a flogging, as a last resort in future, and would also make his nephew treat him with more respect. However, Garmend was also aware that if he wanted Ballam to get past this incident, he would need to give him a little more leeway in future and encourage him to play a bigger part in the management of the estate, in order to regain his trust and co-operation. Otherwise what he had meant as a lesson in humility could result in Ballam becoming more untrustworthy and resentful than ever.

ooooOoooo

The agony of before was more of an ache, although his arm still hurt like a bitch, but considering everything that had happen since he'd arrived, John reckoned things were looking up.

He still couldn't remember why he'd been whipped, or anything else about his past life for that matter, but the blurry images that came to him in his dreams seemed so real, he had to believe they were. Besides, at least now he didn't feel quite so alone, as there were two people on his side - Streya, who had risked punishment to find his jacket, and Hamlane. He was the one who he was really pinning his hopes on, because as Chamberlain, John knew he was the most influential.

Bleary eyed, he watched as the man himself walked into the room and came to sit on the chair close to his bed. "Good morning, John. How are you feeling today?"

Freaked out would have been the honest response, John still uncomfortable with the concept it was the man who had branded him, then put him in chains, who was now caring for him through his illness.

About to say 'fine', John thought better of it, in case his sojourn would come to an abrupt halt. "Honestly, I feel like crap…and I'm starting to wonder if this arm is ever going to work again." He tried to lift the heavily bound arm and winced, beads of sweat glistening on his brow as the damned limb barely moved.

John clenched his teeth as Hamlane reached over, and, surprisingly gently for a big guy, unwound the bandages to check the raw, livid wound underneath. "The incision still looks infected, John," he said, sounding concerned. "I'll try another poultice on it, but you may have to accept you won't regain full motion in this arm again."

"Damn...that would mean I won't be able to fly again," John moaned, with a panicked edge to his voice.

"Are you a pilot, John?" Hamlane asked, sounding surprised.

He shrugged, then wished he hadn't, as the small motion sent ripples of white hot agony searing through his limb - man it hurt.

"John…John! I asked you a question." John could barely hear Hamlane's persistent voice penetrating at the edges of his pain.

"Sorry…" His voice was slurred, but John realised despite being in agony, he must get a grip, as Hamlane wasn't a man to be ignored. "I honestly don't know where that came from. Maybe I am…do you have any craft in the castle?"

Hamlane paused, then gave him a searching look before eventually answering. "The young master arrived in one, but I doubt he will let you test out your theory."

"Suppose not," John replied, feeling depressed at the thought, then suddenly realised there was something he'd never thought to ask before. "Was that how he brought me here?"

"Yes, Master Ballam brought you here in his ship, although why it matters to you, I don't know," Hamlane snapped, and John noticed his expression had turned cynical.

John chuckled slightly, before wincing and moaning softly. "You're right…it shouldn't, but for some reason that doesn't make any sense, it just seemed important for a …"

"Enough!" Hamlane interrupted "While I may have reason to believe you, John, until the Master has decided on the matter, you are still a slave here, and as such need to watch your tongue. It will not help your case with the Lord Protector or with me, if you start roaming around this castle unsupervised…do you understand?"

John's smile swiftly faded, and he nodded very slowly - he did understand, only too well. Understood if he wanted to be set free to search for the life he'd lost, he would have to be a very good boy and toe the line. Therefore, he would do what he was told…or at least appear to, and definitely not get caught searching for that craft.

"You still have a temperature, I see." The awkward moment of before seemed to have passed as Hamlane proceeded to place the back of his hand against John's brow. "As you know, I have spoken to the Master on your behalf, and while he is willing to grant you an audience once you are recovered, in the meantime I have been instructed to keep you locked up…I'm sorry."

As John watched, Hamlane rose to his feet and walked over to the foot of the bed. Once there, he pulled up a manacle that was attached by a short chain to the bed post, then firmly secured it around his ankle. With the snap of the chain his heart sank, John realising the tight, cold metal put paid to any slim hope of escape. Now painfully aware it was going to be up to the Lord Protector if he was ever going to be a free man again.

ooooOoooo

If there was anything John had learnt about himself over the last few weeks, it was that he was a stubborn SOB. That, and he didn't scare easily.

Right now, though, he was terrified, frightened that on the say of one man he could lose his freedom for good, knowing if that happened he would never again be able to determine his own fate. Worse still, the loss of liberty would also deny him the chance to search for his home and the people who appeared in his dreams. He still didn't know who they were, as although the faces were becoming clearer, their names, and even the beautiful city set in the background, were proving as elusive as ever.

John didn't know how long he'd been sick, but once back on his wobbly legs, Hamlane had, with reluctance, removed him from the small but comfortable room and returned him to a cell. Just like the last one, it too lacked a bed, but while it wasn't much warmer, at least this time John was allowed to stay clothed, and was given a couple of blankets to keep out the worst of the cold. His chains through remained, although he wasn't forced against the wall at night, which was a blessing, since his right arm was still pretty much useless, and he was unable to lift it higher than a few inches without causing extreme pain.

Today, though, would determine the rest of his life, and although he was confident in Hamlane's support, it was his Master, the Lord Protector, he must convince or else…well, John really didn't want to go there.

Dressed in fresh clothes, and having been allowed extra water to do more than wipe the grime from his face, he felt reasonably clean. Hamlane also seemed to approve, as he gave him an absent nod and grunted, before firmly taking hold of his good arm and leading him back into the main body of the castle.

Time had lost all meaning since coming here, but John shuddered when they passed the room where he'd been branded, wondering how long ago the horrendous events of that day took place. It seemed like an eternity since he'd been literally brought to his knees and lost all hope, but today, somehow things felt different.

Although he couldn't remember everything, his gut told him he was John Sheppard, a man who belonged to the city in his dreams, where there were people, friends, who cared for him…who were probably searching for him right now. John realised that might seem like so much hooey to others, but it was that belief that kept his hopes alive.

As they waited outside the green, leather-lined door, John was pretty sure Hamlane had put his job on the line for him. The big man seemed apprehensive, his relatively relaxed demeanour of before gone, now replaced with a bland, impassive mask, as he raised his fist and knocked firmly three times. He was just starting to wonder if anyone had heard them when a distant voice within the room bid them to enter.

John tried to still the violent thudding of his heart as he was ushered into the room. It was huge, with long, narrow wooden beams set into the high ceiling, and coloured light streaming from the numerous stained-glass windows lining the sandstone walls. Even the throne looked impressive. It was made of gold and almost dwarfed the elderly man ensconced there, but the steely, grey eyes of the Lord Protector told a different story. His expression firm, suspicious and belied the sickly pallor clearly visible even from where John was standing.

"Bring the slave forward, Chamberlain." As John was guided forward, he had the chance to get a better look at his Master, and realised immediately that although the man was no longer young, the firm set of his jaw told him he was definitely not a guy to mess with. "So…I understand you have convinced my Chamberlain you are a free man?"

John swallowed, trying to get some moisture in his throat before speaking. "Thank you for agreeing to see me, Lord Protector, and as to your question, while I can understand the circumstances of my discovery were a little weird and did raise some questions, I none the less still believe I am a free man." While he was speaking, John stood up as straight as the chains would allow, and put as much conviction into his tone as he could manage.

For a moment there was silence, and he felt like a freaking exhibit, as the statesman scanned him up and down, just like he was a piece of cattle coming up for auction. "Tell me, John…how can you be so certain when you've lost your memory?" he asked.

He was expecting this question, so answered easily. "Thankfully, my memory is starting to return, and although I still don't know where I come from, I have started to remember some things like my name, and the faces of my friends." John realised he'd nearly forgotten something, so carried on talking before the old man could interrupt. "I also have the jacket I arrived in, which I understand is the same uniform as some visitors who came here recently, so, if you could just allow me to meet them - "

"Silence!" John felt Hamlane's hand on his arm tighten at the old man's interruption, a clear warning it was time to keep quiet. "From your forthright manner and the way you hold yourself, boy, I can understand why you have my Chamberlain fooled, but you will find me less easy to convince. To begin with, I already know that one of our housemaids told you your name when you arrived, besides, what would you say if I told you there was someone here who knew John Sheppard?"

A smile pulled at the edges of his mouth at the thought of meeting one of the people in his visions. "That would be great…who is it?"

"Ballam, would you come forward please?" The Lord Protector's smile turned cynical, and out the corner of his eye, John could see Hamlane looked confused, as from the shadows a blonde-haired man stepped forward.

John didn't recognise him, however, his ornate robes marked him as family, so he guessed this was the man who had found him in the desert.

"It isn't him uncle. This man is not John Sheppard from Atlantis."

"NO! You're lying…why would you do that?" John heard the panicked edge to his voice, but couldn't help it - he couldn't believe this was happening. Then gasped, as much from the mental gut punch he'd just received, as the sharp sting of needles biting into his skin. The all too familiar drowsy feeling making itself felt, as he quickly collapsed, only Hamlane's strong grip preventing him from sliding to the floor.

"Hamlane, I have heard enough of this slave's lies…gag him."

"Wait…"John slurred, pleading more with Hamlane than the Lord Protector as a thick wad of cotton appeared in front of his face. "If I'm not John Sheppard, then why was I wearing his clothing and the chain bearing his name?" As Hamlane paused, John was pleased to see the old man's eyes narrow as he gave his nephew a suspicious look.

"I wondered about that myself," Ballam responded, unfazed by John's accusation. "Initially I thought this slave must have stolen them, but in light of Colonel Sheppard's disappearance, I'm now convinced he must have murdered him, and disposed of the body."

John countered quickly before Hamlane had the chance to silence him. "Not so fast, pal, you can't have it both ways. If you knew the chain around my neck belonged to Sheppard, then why did you automatically assume I was a slave?"

"How dare you accuse my nephew - I've heard enough," The Lord Protector interrupted and glared at him. "You were found bearing the marks of punishment which is good enough for me. You are a slave, John, if that is your name, and I will not tolerate your lies any longer." With the old man's harsh words, he felt sick, knowing his fate was sealed.

Bewildered, he glanced sideways and saw Ballam trying to suppress a smile. It was a cruel, malicious imposter of a smile, more of a sneer, and John was puzzled as to why this man was telling such lies. Hamlane's expression now also hardened, as he shoved the thick wad of cotton forcibly into his mouth, then pushed him onto his knees. All of his worst fears suddenly realised as now, not only was he destined to spend the rest of his life enslaved, but also branded a murderer.

Unable to speak, or even move now the drugs were taking complete control over his body, John could only kneel there, held down by Hamlane's firm grasp while the Lord Protector made his pronouncement. "Interrogate him, and find out what he knows, as it would be good if we could give our new allies some information on their missing commander. Then punish him…thirty lashes, and make sure he feels every one...Now get him out of my sight."

"As you wish," Hamlane answered, his face now scarlet, but just as John was roughly dragged to his feet, he stopped. "What would you have me do with him after that, Master?"

Already screwed, John didn't think things could get much worse…but as usual, he was wrong. "Leave him to die, or sell him…whatever you wish, Chamberlain. I'll leave that up to you…"

ooooOoooo

He was afraid, but tried to stand tall as Hamlane dragged him to his feet and tied his chains to a high, wooden beam. The Chamberlain's anger, palpable, his rage clearly visible even in the gloom. John knew the wrath he was to face wouldn't be pretty, as he watched him pull on a pair of tight, black leather gloves and ease them into each crevice of his large hands.

Blood from his wrists was already starting to trickle down his arms, the warmth it brought tempered by pain, so did nothing to alleviate the shivers wracking his body or the chill in his heart. The man he trusted had failed him, but worse still, his friend was now his enemy, as it was clear from Hamlane's twisted expression he was relishing getting revenge for his perceived betrayal, and John knew the ache in his heart was nothing compared to what lay ahead.

Tears pricked his eyes…he already hurt so much, his shoulders aching under the strain, but his arm worst of all. Hamlane had dragged him by the limb all through the castle, his rough treatment bringing it to new levels of agony, so painful he'd cried out, but his cries were stifled, as he choked instead on the dry cotton gagging his mouth. For a moment he panicked when he couldn't catch a breath, then a wave of calm engulfed him, born of anger, pride and injustice. What they were doing was wrong…the man, Ballam, had lied, yet why? He didn't know, but John knew he must stay strong if he was to survive.

ooooOoooo

Hamlane surveyed the battered body of the man hanging from the beam, and knew his mother would have been ashamed of his handiwork.

On the day he'd been appointed Chamberlain over twenty years ago, although she'd been happy at his elevation in authority, she had also expressed some misgivings about the role he was about to fill. "Never forget despite your fine title you are still a slave, my son, and be prepared to lose your friends the first time you need to discipline one of your own. That being said, I am proud of what you've achieved and believe you will be a fair Chamberlain, and if not held in affection, at least respected by our people. Just remember one thing…never wield your hand in anger."

They were wise words, which he'd carried with him, even after her death. His temper, while often bubbling under the surface, never allowed to consume him…until now. Normally a cynical man, he'd allowed this slave to get under his skin, convincing him not only of his amnesia, but also his claim to be free, even to the point he'd cast all reservations aside to do something he'd never done for anyone before …arrange an audience with his Master.

He was so incensed at the slave's deception, calling both his judgement and reputation into disrepute, he'd dragged his worthless carcass along the corridors, deliberately pulling on his injured arm, ignoring the man's obvious pain. Back in the dungeon, he'd strung him from the highest beam until his feet barely touched the ground, and watched satisfied, as blood trickled in rivulets from the shallow cuts torn into his flesh from the sharp metal bands. Then, just as he had been embarrassed, so he humiliated this man, gloating at the flush of colour flooding his cheeks, as he sliced off his clothes, stripping him naked, then tying on a loincloth to prepare him for burial if he didn't survive the ordeal.

The interrogation he subjected him to was both brutal and protracted, using every means at his disposal to coerce a confession out of the man who had disgraced him in front of his master. Yet, while John groaned as his fist drove into his gut again and again, even screaming as the red hot poker seared his skin, the man said nothing. His eyes, now glazed with pain, remained the way they were before he started…dark, empty. John's once pallid face now bruised and covered in deep, weeping cuts, completely devoid of any expression.

As he hung limp, his head bowed, Hamlane knew that while the man may have succumbed to his injuries, he was far from broken. It was still light when he'd started and now the rosy hue of dawn was streaming through the windows, but he was done, finished, and Hamlane couldn't help but wonder if he'd been wrong to go against his original instincts and disbelieve this slave, therefore committing the biggest injustice of his career.

Ballam's story was still niggling him, as despite the conviction of the young master's words, he was loath to believe anything he said. Since he'd arrived, he'd become a disruptive influence, a lazy man, with a cruel streak who Hamlane knew was already draining his master dry with his gambling habit and love of fine things.

Yet, he was the heir, and although Hamlane was aware of the Lord Protector's concerns, in this instance the Master clearly believed his young ward, so regardless of what he thought, he must carry out his wishes…like them or not.

On instinct, he turned to give John one last look before he walked away. His torso was covered in deep, livid bruises. Raw, angry burns littered his sides and chest, and welts from the master's cane lined his thighs, and back with deep bloody cuts…but he was alive, and still to endure thirty lashes of the whip.

ooooOoooo

Silence descended upon the small dejected group as they left the conference room, and even Rodney couldn't find a single thing to say. Woolsey had regretfully informed them that, as every viable address had been searched, every possible contact utilised, and each last slim lead now completed exhausted - it was over. Lt Colonel John Sheppard was now officially declared MIA.

With unspoken consent, Rodney strolled slowly with his team-mates, his friends, along to Sheppard's quarters. Their usual table in the mess hall too social for their mood, plus no one was hungry despite Carson's pleas for them to eat. Away from prying eyes, they stumbled into the deserted room hoping something other than memories would jolt some idea, a new brilliant plan to present to Woolsey, which could help them extend their search.

Unfortunately, though, John's aura was sadly missing, and the solitary man staring from the wall seemed to set the tone, as they all sat slumped, staring aimlessly into space. Memories of laughter shared over beer and pizza making his eyes moist, as everything was the same as it had always been, almost as if the man himself would walk in at any minute…but he was missing, nowhere to be found, and none of them could take it in.

Rodney jumped to his feet as the buzzer went, and both Ronon and Teyla looked up surprised as Carson stood at the door.

"When you weren't in the mess hall, I thought I might find you here," Beckett said, his tone accusatory, knowing they'd disregarded his instructions. But the agitation in his voice hinted at something else.

"What is, Carson?" Rodney lifted his chin to look him in the eye, "We're trying to think here, at least I am. Ronon and Teyla are just keeping me company."

As Ronon narrowed his eyes, and Teyla looked hurt, Rodney felt bad, as he hadn't meant to offend his friends. Uncomfortably aware, that when he failed to solve a problem, as in this case, his old obnoxious arrogance sometimes made a reappearance. "Sorry…ignore me. I'm just mad at myself," he ranted. "I'm the foremost expert on wormhole physics, and can write a program to take down the replicators, but I can't even find my own friend – some freaking genius I am."

Teyla came over and put her arm round his shoulder to give him a hug. "You've done everything you can, Rodney. None of this is your fault."

"Ahem." Rodney heard Beckett pretend to clear his throat, and saw him standing there with his arms crossed, looking irritated. "Well, as much as I hate to interrupt this brain storming session, I think I might know who is holding John…"

ooooOoooo

TBC

Why does Ballam hate John so much? And will the team get there in time? Tomorrow's installment will give you the answers. Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and please review.