Look for my AN at the end of this chapter...I didn't wanna ruin the story ahead of time.

Chapter Two

When Sheppard's eyes opened again, it was well into noon the next day. The sun was right overhead, its rays trying to poke through the dense forest to reach him. He lay there for a while after he woke, content to simply take in everything around him. There was some kind of frog nearby, its chirping song reminding him of the Spring Peepers back on Earth. Various birds also called from their perches high in the trees, sometimes squabbling over whatever fruit and nuts they had found there.

The slight breeze brought the smell of both flowers and berries, and the latter made Sheppard's stomach growl impatiently. Reluctant to disturb the tranquility around him, he took his time sitting up, grimacing at the knot in his back, one that he had most likely gotten from sleeping on the hard ground. As he pushed himself to his feet, he noted that the pain in his leg had grown worse, and he feared that it was indeed infected. If he wanted to keep the limb, he would have to find that lake and wash the wound out, as he'd planned. Breakfast would just have to wait.

"Damn," he growled, having been looking forward to the sweet taste of wild berries. His fire had died down during the night and morning, and now was little more than coals. Sheppard kicked some fresh dirt over it, sufficiently putting it out. Forgetting his injury, he reached for his vest with his left hand, immediately dropping it as pain shot up his arm. Cursing loud enough for his voice to echo off the trees, he grabbed the vest with his right hand and slung it over his shoulder, then did the same with his pack before heading to where the lake was located.

He worked his way through the forest slowly, taking ample time to rest his leg and catch his breath. The trees soon became repetitive, each looking identical to the last, so he busied his mind with thoughts of his friends rather than the scenery. As of this moment, he could honestly say he missed sparring with Ronon, even though the sessions ended with Sheppard laying flat on his back, looking up at the large, dread-locked man. He wondered if they had even gotten his message, if they had decided that he'd been gone long enough and begun looking for him yet. Ronon would probably be clamoring to take the lead by now, arguing that if he were in Sheppard's position, Sheppard would be out "there", looking for him. Sheppard agreed with that; he had indeed done much the same thing already, when the Wraith had taken Ronon to be a runner for a second time. Of course, they had barely made it off of Sateda – Ronon's home planet – alive, but they had made it all the same, and with a grateful Ronon in tow.

The next time Sheppard stopped to rest, he stomped his boot hard into the ground, leaving an unmistakable boot-print in the soft dirt. If Ronon happened to show up, he would definitely notice and follow it. As would Teyla, he realized then. She had spent a lot of time in the woods before she had met Sheppard, and as she had explained to him one night as they walked the East Pier, her father had taught her much about tracking, in the hopes that she would be able to distinguish between a Wraith track and one of her own people. Due to her father's intensive training, her eye was much sharper than most, and she could often see things that others could not.

A bird suddenly squawked nearby, making him jump. Frowning self-consciously, he glanced up and saw the bird, sitting only a few feet overhead, its head tilted and its black eye peering cautiously back down at him.

"You mind not giving me a heart attack?" He asked the bird, who squawked again and then used its dark orange beak to preen its emerald-green feathers. Sheppard watched her – he decided that it must be female, to be so concerned with its looks – for a while before he started off again for the lake. On the way, he ended up finding more berries, and he allowed himself to stop and collect a few handfuls. He ate them as he walked, the dark purple juice staining his fingertips like the ink from an exploded pen, but they tasted so good, he didn't care. Too soon, they were gone, and he found himself thirsty, his throat dry and scratchy.

Just as he was beginning to wonder if he would ever be able to find the lake, the trail he was on ended, and he stared down at the water from atop a fairly high drop-off. The wind ruffled his hair, and he suddenly took a step back, fearful that the edge of the cliff would crumble away, taking him down with it. He scanned the cliff face for any way to get down and finally saw a more gently-sloping path, about a mile to his left. Glad that he would not have to resort to climbing down the wall of the cliff, he headed for the path, though his pace had slowed considerably since he had begun. His leg wound felt tight and hot, and he grimaced at the pain in each step.

"Great," he muttered, and was echoed by a familiar squawk. Even as he knew what he'd see, he looked at a branch above his left shoulder. Sure enough, the parrot-like bird sat near him, her eyes bright with curiosity. At first, he tried to ignore her, simply walking in the direction of the path he'd seen. He figured that once he was out of sight, she would forget about him again. However, the bird kept pace with him, hopping from one branch to another, giving a little whistle now and then. Finally, he gave in, and plopped down on a fallen log near the cliff's edge. Slowly, he raised his hand toward the bird, inviting her to come to him, and she whistled once before fluttering gently down to him. Her rough feet curled around his fingers, the claws on their ends only just touching his skin, and she bent down to rub her bright beak on his shirt. He was pretty sure it meant that she liked him, so he smiled and said, "Thanks. I like you, too."

The bird climbed from his hand up his arm, and when she had reached his shoulder, she gave a happy-sounding whistle. As her claws poked at the ticklish spot near his collarbone, Sheppard chuckled aloud as he thought about what kind of horrid pirate he must look like – his leg was torn open, his left arm tucked against his chest, there was a huge gash on his forehead, his plaid flannel shirt hung halfway open, its sleeves tattered from thorns and briars, and now, there was a green parrot sitting on his right shoulder.

Speaking of the bird, Sheppard thought as he finally got going again, she needs a name.

How about the obvious, Polly? He stopped short at that, as the voice he'd heard hadn't been his own, but Rodney's. Was he finally going crazy, he wondered. Then, he shook his head. It was more likely that he missed his team so much, that he was just imagining what they would say if they were there.

As he walked, he continued testing a few names out, but none of them sounded right. "Let's see," he said aloud as he stepped over a large fallen branch, "you're very bright-colored, and seem pretty smart."

The bird chirped and ruffled her feathers, and he chuckled. "And a little vain, it seems." His mind scanned through the list of baby names Nancy had drilled into his head years ago, when she'd begged to start a family. Back then, he hadn't wanted one – kids were so much work, and he had thought that he would be away for long periods of time – it wouldn't have been fair to her to be stuck with a baby, alone, for weeks or months at a time. Finally, she had given up asking and simply withdrew from him, first emotionally, and then physically.

"Molly," he murmured then. "It was always my favorite. It's close to Polly, I know, but Molly always reminded me of red hair. And, my mom's nickname was Molly." The parrot whistled and rubbed her beak against his stubbled cheek, and he smiled. "Molly it is, then."

Finally, he reached the gently-sloping path he'd seen earlier, and he started down to the lake, anxious to feel the cool water on his skin. He tripped over a root and nearly fell face-first into the dirt, but he managed to grab onto a tree trunk, effectively catching himself. Molly had flown off of his shoulder as soon as he'd tripped, hovering just nearby until he regained his footing. His leg was beginning to burn even worse, the tightness having traveled all the way up to his hip, and he was forced to flop into a meadow halfway down the path. Both hands grabbed at his pant-leg, as if their mere touch could drive away the pain, and his eyes squeezed shut against the bright sunlight as he lay there, suddenly feeling very hot and sweaty. He involuntarily rolled from side to side, willing the searing pain away, and hot tears dripped down his temples. Molly landed close by, her dark eyes watching his every move. She squawked and backed up when his hand suddenly flailed out, his palm getting cut up by the sharp saw-grass he was unknowingly grasping at, but as the pain slowly ebbed, she moved close again.

Panting, Sheppard lay there in the grass, his hands still resting on his leg. Sweat ran down his face and neck, and he rubbed his eyes against the shoulder of his shirt before it could run into them and burn them. He was aware of a soft, chirruping noise, and when he opened his eyes, he saw Molly sitting on the ground beside him, her beak slightly open. As soon as she saw his eyes were open, the noise stopped, and she waited expectantly for him to stand, so that she could resume her usual position on his shoulder.

"Thanks, Molly," he said quietly, and she bobbed her head but continued waiting. He understood what she wanted him to do, but he no longer had the strength to oblige her. The searing pain had gone, but it had been replaced by a slow, dull ache, and he knew that if he tried to stand again, it would return with a vengeance. Despite the heat of the day, he had recently begun to shiver, the sweat pouring off his body chilling him as well as if he'd been back in Antarctica. He didn't need to look at his leg to know it was infected, and that if help didn't come soon, he would die out here.

No, his mind shouted at him then. You will not give up! You didn't come this far, see and do all the things you have, just to lay here and die. Get up!

He tried, but his leg refused to let him. Sheppard slammed his fist against the dirt, cursing the Wraith. If they hadn't damaged his Jumper, he wouldn't be in this mess right now. He'd be home on Atlantis, sleeping in his bed, warm and cozy, instead of lying here, his body broken, so tired he could barely move. Angry, he pounded the ground again, and was not surprised at the rush of adrenaline he suddenly felt through his veins. Now more determined than ever to get up, he let out a loud shout, releasing through it all the feelings he'd held in for so long. As the echo died away, he looked around for the bird, afraid that he'd frightened her away. The sudden noise must not have bothered her, for a moment later, he found her perched on a rock nearby. When she saw him looking at her, she cocked her head to the side and squawked loudly, as if she were imitating his hollering. Sheppard grinned and pushed himself to his knees.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" He asked her, and she bobbed her head, drawing a chuckle from him. "You got that right. Now, let's get our asses down to that water, okay?"

Molly chirped, and as soon as he was on his feet, she flitted to him, carefully settling once more on his shoulder. Sheppard limped slowly down the path, his eyes watching for any flash of blue water ahead of him. A few times, he tried to stop and rest, but Molly nipped at his ear each time, telling him to keep moving. The last time, she'd nibbled him hard enough to draw blood, and he cried out and swatted her off his shoulder. She flew to a nearby boulder, her gaze surprised, and he felt instantly guilty. He held out his hand to her, but she would not come to him.

"I'm sorry, Molly," he apologized, even as he felt silly for talking to a bird and expecting her to understand. "It just surprised me, that's all."

After a moment's consideration, Molly bobbed her head and flew back to him. When she was situated, he turned his head slightly so he could see her, and said, "If you promise to stop biting me, I'll promise not to try and stop anymore. Okay?"

The bird chirped, and he nodded. "Okay."

Finally, three hours from when he'd stood at the top of the cliff, he burst out into a clearing and skidded to a stop, as he found himself staring at the sapphire-blue water of the lake. So relieved he could have cried, he hurried toward its glassy surface as fast as he could, not bothering to stop to remove his ragged clothes. When he was waist-deep in the water, Molly flew from him to wait on the beach, and he ducked his head under the surface, feeling the water wash away all the dirt and grime from his warm skin. He came back up gasping, the cold of the water nearly taking his breath away, but at that point, he didn't care. All that mattered was that he was wet and cool, and as soon as he boiled some of the lake water, he'd have something to drink. Turning onto his back, he floated on the surface, his arms stretched out at his sides. His boots were heavy and kept dragging his legs downward, and he supposed he should have at least removed them, but it was too late now. He was enjoying the water too much to get out now.

He lay there for a while, letting his pores soak up every drop that they could, and then rolled over and dove underwater again. His hand brushed against something scaly, but when he opened his eyes, he saw that it was just a small fish. The water was so clear that he could see the bottom ten feet below him, the sandy clay a light tan color. A few freshwater mussels were scattered across the bottom, their dark shells as far from camouflaged as they could get, and as soon as he saw them, his stomach grumbled. Breaking the surface just long enough to get a good amount of air in his lungs, Sheppard swam down to the bottom and collected a handful of the mussels, stuffing them into the pockets of his flannel shirt for safe keeping.

Slowly, he made his way back to the shore, feeling the tension in his muscles draining away. It was the best he'd felt in days, and he was reluctant to abandon that state now. But the sun was setting again, and he had yet to set up a fire or shelter. As he lazed in the water, he scanned the shoreline for any natural caves, but the cliffs were solid, and he guessed he would have to do as he had the night before – build a nice fire, and use the cliffs as a sort of heat-reflector to keep him warm. He could see the dark, twisting outlines of driftwood spread out on the beach; it would make good wood for a fire, but as it burned quickly, he'd need quite a bit of it.

A few moments later, he dropped onto the shore, exhausted yet happy. The sand clung to his wet skin and clothes, but he simply brushed his hands off on his pants and lay back, scarcely remembering his aching wounds. Molly gave a disapproving cluck as she landed nearby, and he grinned. "Shoulda named you 'Teyla'. You sound just like her."

Molly tipped her head, but remained silent. Sheppard sat up and peeled off his flannel, letting it fall in a heap on the beach. One of the mussels fell out of it, and Molly poked at it with her beak. Sheppard laughed and gently took it from her. Shoving it back into the shirt's pocket, he said, "You don't want that. I'll find you some fruit later."

He unlaced his black boots and kicked them off, tipping them upside-down to drain the water from them. Then, he stripped off his pants, careful to avoid the large wound on his leg. As soon as the bare skin of his leg was revealed, his heart dropped into his stomach. The wound itself was larger than he had originally thought, more than five inches long, its edges red and jagged. There was a fair amount of dirt and debris in the wound, and when he touched the skin around the gash, he had to hold in a shout of pain. Infection was beginning to spread from the wound, radiating both up-and-down as well as sideways, wrapping around his calf like the strands of a spider web and spiraling up to his thigh. His shivering had stopped, but that could be due to the hot sun beating down on him, drying his skin before it had a chance to chill him. Pressing a hand to his forehead, he could still feel the warmth of fever there, and he frowned deeply.

Sheppard pulled his combat knife from his backpack and removed the sheath. The sun's light glinted off the blade, reflecting onto the sand at his feet. He dug the blade into the sand, then pulled the spare rag from his pants' pocket and slung it over his shoulder. He tried to find the mug he carried in his pack, but there were too many things in the way, so he dumped the entire pack onto the ground. The mug lay there on top, and he grabbed it and took it down to the water's edge, filling it with cool, clear lake water. Molly flew alongside him as he carried the mug back up the beach, then landed on top of his pack and watched him closely. He set the mug down next to the knife, lowered himself until he was seated in the warm sand, and tossed a half-hearted grin at his bird.

"Here goes nothing."

Molly whistled.

Sheppard picked up the knife and took a deep breath, steadying himself. Before he could change his mind, he slid the blade into the wound on his leg and then pushed it down toward his ankle, opening the scab that had begun to form. As fresh blood poured down his calf, his breath came out in a hiss, smothering the scream that wanted to escape. He pulled the knife out, turned the blade upside-down, and had just touched the tip to his skin, when his vision suddenly began to swim. His head felt like lead, his eyelids drooping closed of their own accord, and he knew he was about to pass out.

"Molly," he called, as the dagger slid from his hand and his torso fell back against the sand, "help."

TBC...

AN: Okay, first, sorry about the cliffie. I couldn't help it.

Second, the bird, Molly, is modeled after one that I used to have as a pet when I was a teenager. She was an Indian Ring-Necked Parakeet named Markie...I loved her green feathers and bright orange beak...she looked so exotic. I thought she'd make a good friend for Shep, as she was very patient and intelligent - something he needs in a pet. LOL