Chapter 3

As Sheppard blinked his eyes open to the real darkness of the hut, he could still feel a hand holding his. Could it really be...? When he focused, it wasn't his mother's face he saw, but Teyla's worried expression, upside down, too, just to add to the confusion. It took a moment or two for him to realise he was lying down with his head resting on her knees, then it all made sense.

'John...are you all right?' she asked, stroking his hair back from his forehead.

'That was...weird!' he replied, pushing up and clutching his head as the hut began a slow swaying dance around him. His stomach lurched, but he refused to go with its demand to vent again.

A few of the natives were also gathered in the hut, holding burning torches to give some basic illumination. Sheppard looked down at his torso to find he had been decorated while unconscious, his chest now bare and covered in various painted designs. 'Oh, hey. Did I get a makeover?'

'It is all part of the ceremony,' Teyla explained. 'It is meant to give you...spiritual protection.' He could see from the intensity of her gaze that she was silently begging him not to make fun of it, and he figured that was good advice. These people clearly took their traditions very seriously; it wouldn't do to undermine them when his life was still in the balance.

'I think I already have enough of that,' Sheppard told her, struggling up to his feet now and feeling Ronon's steadying arm propping him up vertical. Though he suspected the whole purging experience had been nothing more than a drug-fuelled hallucination, it had still left him feeling a little unsettled. So much for releasing his burden.

'So...did you see any spirits?' McKay asked him, amusement lighting his eyes. It seemed he thought the whole thing was hokum, too, but that was the way Rodney viewed anything beyond his comprehension, so his cynicism was hardly surprising. Teyla shot him the same look she had given Sheppard, and the scientist stopped smiling, assuming a suitably contrite pout instead.

'He must not speak of what he saw,' one of the tribeswomen told him, stepping in to prevent Sheppard giving a reply. 'The journey he undertook is a private one, never to be shared.'

'Huh...convenient,' McKay muttered, folding his arms and glaring at her. Thankfully, that was as far as he took it.

Untooka entered the hut then, giving Sheppard the vaguest of smiles when he saw he was awake. 'You have completed the first part of the initiation. Come, share a meal with us before the next part begins.'

Though he wasn't sure he could keep anything down, Sheppard accepted the offer and staggered out into the daylight again, where a meal had been laid out on woven mats on the ground. The sun stung his eyes, so he shielded them and looked for the simplest food lying on the floor coverings, choosing some form of flat bread and picking at it while sipping from a bowl of water. Though his stomach flipped and flopped in protest, the bread stayed down and gave him some strength to face the rest of the trials ahead.

Without a word, a young male knelt beside him, setting down a bowl containing a dark liquid and taking hold of Sheppard's right arm, cutting off his wristband.

'Hey, back off!' Ronon barked, catching hold of the back of the boy's vest and yanking him away.

Untooka quickly interrupted the skirmish. 'Sheppard must be given the appropriate mark to ready him for the next test. Please, let the boy work.'

Ronon turned his gaze toward Sheppard and waited for his instruction. Though he really didn't like the look of the needle sitting in the bowl of inky liquid, the thought of taking a dip in the boiling lake made it look a hell of a lot more appealing. The colonel gave Ronon a nod and the big guy released the terrified youngster. The boy dropped to his knees again, re-establishing his grip in Sheppard's arm and beginning to prick deep into his skin until it bled. The black liquid was added to the wounds, staining the pattern and increasing the stinging sensation nagging at his already abraded skin. The only upside was that the tattoo was relatively small and neat, just some unidentifiable symbol as far as he was concerned, although it would probably prove to be the highest possible insult to some other society they were yet to come across, knowing his luck. Still, it would sit beneath the sweatband he usually wore if he couldn't get rid of it, so hopefully it would go unnoticed. At least if he could keep it covered most of the time it wouldn't have to be a constant reminder of this debacle...which was now officially the worst birthday party ever.

Once it was finished, Untooka announced that it was time to begin the next trial. Although he felt a little steadier on his feet, Sheppard wasn't entirely sure he was up to a challenge just yet. But, since he didn't have a choice, he figured he'd better suck it up and stop feeling so sorry for himself. His mom's voice echoed in his mind; That's your father talking again. Perhaps she was staying close by, after all.

Untooka led them on a short journey into the surrounding jungle, where bugs as big as a fist buzzed them and rattled their eardrums. Not being the biggest fan of Pegasus bugs, Sheppard instinctively hunched his shoulders to protect as much of the exposed skin on his neck as he could. The last thing he needed was some damn great ugly tick latching on and sucking the life out of him right now, although it would be par for the course as far as this day was concerned.

They came to a standstill a few yards away from three particularly tall, straight tree trunks. The lower few feet of them were entrenched in mounds of dirt. But there was an order to that earth, a design. They were some kind of nests. This was starting to look bad...

'These are the killaba trees, providers of food and shelter to the mascala. You must climb one and remain within its branches for the duration of the ceremonial song during which time the mascala will imbue you with their venom to make you a strong warrior, worthy of the role of protector of my daughter.'

Rodney had sauntered his way over to the trees and was peering down at the insect mounds. 'They look kinda like...ow!' He slapped at his shin and scurried back to his friends. 'Fire ants. Bite like 'em, too. Great, now I'm gonna swell up like a balloon.'

Sheppard just gave him a sour look, his brow puckering. 'Thanks for that, McKay. Now you made 'em angry.'

'I think they were pretty pissed anyway,' he said defensively, rubbing at his leg. 'At least that one was.'

'Are you ready to begin, Sheppard?'

Was he ready to climb the smoothest, straightest tree he'd ever seen, and, if he actually even managed to reach the branches, sit there so the local insect population could all take a piece out of his ass? Hell no. He was beginning to think he might be on candid camera, with all his worst fears coming to life. He didn't do marriage, self-examination or bugs, yet so far he'd been forced to agree to them all. All he needed now was for a car full of clowns to roll up and start performing, and this nightmare would be complete. Despite that fact, he gave a nod, and a single loud beat rang out from behind him. He and his team all turned to find the whole village population now gathered behind them. Damn, they were stealthy.

With a sigh, he puffed out his chest in a show of mock bravado and headed for the middle tree. If he shinnied up quickly enough, hopefully those little bastards wouldn't think it was worth the effort of following him. He set one foot on the insect mound at its base and boosted himself up, wrapping his arms around its girth and gripping on tight with his knees and boots as he began his ascent. He doubted the sight of his backside wriggling its way up that bole was the most elegant or skilful movement his team or these tribal folk had ever seen, but it worked, and for a short time the mascala didn't bother him either – approximately three minutes to be precise. Then, taking great offence at the fact his military issue boot had just crushed the top levels of their carefully crafted fortress, they came after him with a vengeance.

Resisting the urge to swipe them away for fear of losing his tenuous grip on the smooth trunk, all Sheppard could do was grit his teeth and bear it as he continued to climb to the lower most branches that were stretched out a good forty feet above the ground. All the time he could hear the steady thump-thumping of the tribal drum, as if he was a variety act and it was sounding out some kind of weird, slow-motion drum-roll.

Closing his eyes, he took a moment to catch the breath he'd been holding to ward off his protests. He got the feeling screaming like a girl wasn't going to win him many fans since he was trying to prove himself worthy of the chief's jailbait daughter's hand. A horrible thought suddenly struck him as he clung to that tree, one that almost made that small amount of sustenance he'd ingested revisit right there and then. What if part of this initiation involved some kind of...intimacy with the girl – to prove he could perform? Crap! There was no way...no way he would do that. If it came to that he guessed he was in for one of the shortest and hottest baths of his life.

Stay positive, John, he ordered himself. It might not come to that.

That brief moment of panic had made him forget all about the mascala bites, but only for a moment. Now the stinging returned far worse than it had been before he'd had his nauseating daydream, and he realised with a certain amount of disgust that the tiny little buggers were now crawling all over him, and they sure as hell had no respect for any part of his anatomy. Double crap!

He started climbing again, this time a little faster. The steady beat accompanying him didn't sound much like a ritualistic number, so he figured it was just some kind of musical interlude to keep the audience amused until he got to the branches. You really should work on your repertoire, pal, 'cos that's getting kinda tedious if you ask me. But no one was asking him, of course. All they needed him to do was climb up that tree and get bitten.

In his hurry to get the task over with, Sheppard lost his grip and slipped a few feet, thankfully catching himself before he fell too far.

'Sheppard!' he heard Ronon bellow from beneath him. He looked down to find the Satedan had already covered the ground between him and the tree and was waiting to break his fall.

'I'm okay, buddy,' he called down, except for the friction burns and the several hundred bug bites. But his sweaty palms didn't convince him of that. Hooking one arm at a time around the tree, he wiped them dry on his trousers and started again, this time not stopping until he reached the relative security of the outstretched and leafy branches...which would have been comforting if they weren't covered in thorns – a discovery he only made when grabbing hold of one to haul himself up. Oh, now Pegasus was just messing with his head, pure and simple! Why didn't a bird just crap on his crowning glory and have done with it? When something stirred in the foliage above him he threw it a death glare, just daring it to even try fulfilling that thought. Whatever it was got the message and swiftly departed.

Dragging himself up while breaking away what spines he could see, the final insult came when he managed to park himself straight on one. So the bites aren't enough? he silently asked no one in particular, picking out the spike and rubbing the puncture mark until the pain subsided.

Below, the drums began something more resembling a tune. He hoped the Bratalans preferred their equivalents of etudes to symphonies and this would all soon be over. The original stinging sensations from the bites each slowly developed into an agonising, throbbing, burning numbness that seemed to pound in time with the rhythm. The bites were tiny, but had to number in the hundreds now, so the cumulative effect felt like he'd been thumped with a baseball bat over just about every inch of his body. The only comfort he could draw from it as the beats from the drums continued was that the recovery from bites would be much quicker than that of a pummelling...as long as they really weren't too venomous.

He sat perfectly still, gripping the branch he was perched on so hard that his nails dug into the bark. Reducing his movements did lessen the attacks from the tiny brutes, and he lost himself in thought to try to block out any further injuries until the drums fell silent again. As he sat there, watching the bugs crawl all over his dangling legs, he remembered birthdays in years gone by, before his time in Atlantis, realising it wasn't only Pegasus that had it in for him on his special day.

The event had caused arguments between him and his brother and father on numerous occasions, although that was usually down to the fact he wouldn't show up for the society parties his father arranged, trying to set him up with some charming and vacuous socialite no doubt, preferring instead to go out on drinking binges with his buddies. His dad seemed to think he needed help with women, having no idea just how many offers he'd accepted, and declined for that matter. Oh, he'd had no shortage of willing girls trailing after him like obedient puppies in his younger days – but the fact they were well aware of the money his father had made him mistrustful of their true motivation. So he'd used them and moved on. Nancy had been the only woman he truly felt loved him for who he was, but his birthday had even screwed them up in the end. Their final argument had arisen from the fact she'd planned a meal and a weekend away for them both to celebrate it, and he'd gone on a mission, leaving only a hastily scribbled note with a brisk apology that hadn't quite measured up to her expectations. Well, when he got back to Atlantis, he planned to follow the example of his youth and get completely bombed. It was the only sensible way to finish off a birthday this bad.

The drumming suddenly built to a crescendo and then ended. He waited, half-expecting them to strike up again, but they didn't. He moved his gaze to the gathered audience, barely flinching as the mascala continued to let him know how they felt about his invasion of their territory.

Untooka strode forward and looked up to where he sat. 'John Sheppard,' he called to him. 'You have completed the second rite. You are now imbued with the strength and tenacity of the mascala. Climb down to prepare for the final test.'

Sheppard didn't have to be asked twice. He levered himself off the branch, gained what little purchase he could with his boots, then started to shin his way back down to ground level. It was going well until his sticky palms betrayed him again and his hands slipped. At only half way down, that left him with around twenty feet to plummet, his fall then broken by the mascala mound beneath him. He remained there in an undignified heap for a moment or two while his brain caught up with the speed of his descent, then the angry surge of mascala clambering all over his body reminded him he needed to get moving.

Brushing off the furious minibeasts, he rejoined the group for the walk back to the village, his bruised rear and ego adding to the general sense of misery threatening to overwhelm him.

'So,' McKay blurted out, trotting to catch up with Untooka. 'Just one test left then, huh? So we'll be back in Atlantis before the day's out?'

The chief gave him an odd look. 'You three are free to leave at any time. Sheppard must remain with us now...if he completes the final trial.'

'What? You never said anything about that.'

McKay glanced back at Sheppard, looking utterly mortified, but Sheppard didn't feel any kind of surprise. His remaining there had been implicit in the fact they were initiating him to the tribe. He doubted that was a day-pass handed out to passers-through. The trouble was the others were never going to leave unless he did. He could already see the grim determination burning in Ronon's eyes as he walked at his side.

'Now don't go doing anything stupid, Chewie,' he ordered, keeping his voice low. 'We'll bide our time, and we'll all get out of this in one piece...including the Bratalans. Okay?'

Ronon grunted something incomprehensible, but it had a general tone of agreement about it so Sheppard felt happy he was on board with the plan. Teyla, at his other side gave a single nod of approval. This could still end well, at least relatively well if you ignored the various scrapes, bruises, bites and the lingering after effects of the hallucinogenic he was currently experiencing.

Rodney was swiftly heading toward one of his hissy fits, but Sheppard threw him a look that told him to shut up and play ball, and for once the man seemed to grasp the need to stay calm. These people were easily offended; if Rodney was sensible, he'd keep his mouth shut until they were out of there, or he might be the next one to find himself in imminent danger of being lobsterised for his misdemeanours.

A/N: Once again, thanks for all your comments; they keep me inspired to write. And thanks also to all those putting my story on alert. I hope you continue to follow it. :D