Filling the Spaces

Truth Serum

Undercover as a Couple

Forced Marriage

Amnesia

Part Two

Set in Season 7 between "Lifeboat" and "Space Race".

"Where the hell did all these people come from?"

Carter hadn't been blowing smoke. The people of Frigganheim loved their weddings. Behind the Meeting House, hundreds of them had gathered to witness the event—everyone from the very old to babes in arms. Somehow, they'd already erected an arched bower at the center of the expansive meadow, where a gently sloped rise provided a convenient spot for such events. At the far edge of the lawn, large fires had been banked around blackened stones, providing heat for the meat being methodically turned on spits over the coals.

"I believe that runners were sent to the outlying villages announcing your nuptials, Colonel O'Neill." Teal'c was enjoying this a little too much.

"It's political as well as religious." Daniel ducked a look out the window. "Everyone wants to see the Earthlings seal the deal, so to speak."

"Thorsten informed me that the celebration will likely extend into the late morning hours of the morrow."

"As long as Mills and Shaw are home by then, it's all good." Jack stepped back from the window. "Let's get them out of here and then worry about ourselves."

Daniel, in his element as Best Man, stood ready with the ceremonial sword Jack was supposed to wear on his belt. "Thurid and Frida just told Gorm that Sam's ready."

They'd given him a tunic, and some soft, fitted leather leggings. His wide, borrowed belt was ornately tooled, and already equipped with a heavy pair of leather loops for the sword's scabbard. Some poor soul had even donated his boots to the cause, just so that Jack could walk down the aisle looking like a native Frigganheimer.

O'Neill raked his hands through his hair, ducking to look into the polished piece of metal that served as a mirror in the Meeting House. Why he cared what he looked like was something he couldn't quite figure out, but there it was. He fiddled with the laces at the neck of the tunic, tightening them, then pulling them loose again.

"Are you nervous?" Daniel squinted at him through the lenses of his glasses. "Because you look nervous."

"Perhaps Colonel O'Neill is anxious about his wedding night, Daniel Jackson." The Jaffa's mouth turned up at one corner. "At his age, he may be concerned about performing his husbandly duties."

Great. More Jaffa jokes. "Just shut up, you two, will you?"

"You know, Jack." Daniel wrapped both hands around the hilt of the sword, weighing the weapon experimentally. "I'm kind of glad that Siler's ring was too big. I would not want to be in your shoes right now."

"Boots." Jack gestured down towards his feet. "They're boots, Daniel."

"Boots. Whatever." His eyebrows steepled over the bridge of his nose. "I'm just saying that I wouldn't want to be the one who gets hitched to Sam today."

"She agreed to it." O'Neill frowned. "And we're not really getting married."

"Still." The archaeologist shrugged. "It's the first time she's walking down the aisle, and it's not even real. That's got to sting a little, doesn't it?"

"I don't know." His frown deepened. But actually? He'd thought about it. Truthfully, he'd been thinking about that during the entire time they'd spent sitting with the village Hofgothi—the pagan elder who performed rituals for the Frigganheimers. The old man had smiled broadly as he'd explained the ceremony, obviously enthusiastic about the prospect of helping two outsiders renew their vows in the tradition of and in reverence to Frigga.

Jack had done his best to appear excited about the whole thing—acting his part to the tee. Carter, on the other hand, had reverted to that smile from earlier. The wan, listless one that never quite reached her eyes. She'd said all the right things, but her cheeks had been pale, her body language stilted. It was worse than when he'd returned from Edora. Worse than when he'd returned from the black ops mission he'd run in conjunction with the Tollan and Asgard. She'd barely looked at him, gazing downward, instead, to the diamonds sparkling in the wedding set she'd borrowed from one of the nurses in the infirmary.

"She'll be fine." He wanted to believe that. And if not? Well, he'd promised that he'd be there to listen to her rant about it. He'd take the hit. He was good for that, at least.

"Colonel Jack." Thorsten appeared in the side door, his hand on the hilt of his own sword. "All is in readiness."

"Thanks." Jack nodded at the young man, then turned, reaching for the sword. He was a little surprised when Daniel held it against himself rather than handing it over.

"Jack—"

"Yeah?"

"About Sam." Daniel's voice had dropped to a bare whisper.

"Yeah."

"I'm worried about her." The younger man swallowed, his eyes narrowing. He hugged the sword in its ornate scabbard to his chest. "So, I'm asking you. Don't do that thing."

"What thing?"

"This thing." Daniel wiggled his finger between them. "This boneheaded, pretend-idiot, smart-assy thing that you do."

For some reason, that made perfect, convoluted sense. O'Neill was serious when he answered. "I'm not a complete bastard, Daniel."

"I'm just saying."

"Me too."

"Okay, then."

"All right."

Straightening, Daniel hefted the sword and angled it through the hanger on Jack's belt, until the lip of the scabbard seated neatly against the upper leather loop. He tilted a wry smile up at his friend. "Do you need any pointers for the honeymoon?"

"You can go straight to hell."

"Noted." Tweaking the laces on Jack's tunic, he pretended to straighten the neckline, then clapped his friend firmly on the shoulder. "Go get 'em, tiger."

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Jack pivoted on the toe of his boot and headed out the door. Thorsten was waiting just outside, gesturing for the three of them to follow him towards the center of the meadow. As they wended their through the crowd, the locals slapped Jack on the back or arm, pelting him with loud—and sometimes bawdy—well-wishes as the rest of the villagers laughed and shouted encouragement.

"Up here." Thorsten emerged at the base of the rise, pointing towards the flowered arches at the apex. "The Hofgothi is there."

With a last look at Daniel and Teal'c, Jack hiked up the mound, stopping next to the ancient pagan priest. As he turned into position, he could see the entire village looking up at him—hundreds of faces smiling in his direction. Far in the back, near the Meeting House, he could see Nichols standing with Shaw and Mills, while a contingent of swarthy young men kept watch nearby.

He'd expected music. Or some pronounced start to the festivities. Instead, the crowd simply quieted, and Jack raised his head to see the back doors of the Women's House swing wide.

She was dressed in white. Well—mostly white. Her ivory dress was long—slit to the hips at the sides and front to reveal a long ice-blue skirt underneath. The neckline draped wide and low, secured by laces similar to those on his own tunic, only more useful than decorative. The fabric clung tenuously to her shoulders, revealing the delicate lines of her neck and collarbones, while hinting at the fullness just beneath. A belt made of heavy silver discs linked with leather thongs rode low on her hips, catching the rays of the afternoon sun as she walked. Sam's short hair had been brushed and teased into a random tumble of waves, then crowned with a silver circlet from which a gauzy length of veil tumbled down her back.

Rather than flowers, she carried a sword of her own—bearing the weight of the weapon in both hands as she walked across the grass in a stride so purposeful that nobody would have guessed that her actions were motivated by anything other than truth.

She was so beautiful. Strong. Composed. Elegant and intentional. Even knowing that she was angry with him—with the situation—with life in general—the mere sight of her was a jolt to his senses.

If only this were real. If only this were possible—

If only she were walking with such intent towards him because of something other than duty, or the mission. If only it were because of him, and not in spite of him.

Jack sucked in an unsteady breath, shifting his weight on the slick, heavy grass beneath him. Beside him, the priest sighed out what sounded like an oath, and a quick look sideways told Jack that the Hofgothi was just as taken with the vision as he was.

Something within him surged. Pride? Friendly affection? Not protectiveness—nothing so honorable as that. It was possessiveness. He wanted her. Not just in a physical way—although that desire burned in him, as well. But he wanted to claim her as his own.

Damn. He knew he'd let things go too far—let himself get too comfortable with the stalemate in which they'd found themselves. But how had he allowed it to get to this point? To actually think that he could participate in this charade—this farce—and not have it come back to bite him in the ass?

"She is quite lovely, Colonel Jack." The priest leaned close. He smelled of mead, and leather, and something mystically smoky that was probably incense. "Frigga has been most gracious to you."

"Yes." Jack couldn't quite pull his gaze away from Carter, knowing full damned well that he was losing himself even more in the fantasy of it all. "She has."

She'd reached the base of the rise, and needed to adjust her hold on the weapon so that she could gather her skirts in one hand to climb the hill. She was barefoot—some part of the local tradition, probably—her toes gripped the heavy grass as she ascended towards him. And then she was pivoting in a slow circle until she'd placed herself on the other side of the Hofgothi, facing O'Neill across a few feet of grass.

She took her time situating herself, holding the weapon in the crook of her arm as she arranged the full skirt around her feet. Finally, she took the sword's hilt in both hands again, settling the tip of the scabbard on the grass near her toes as she looked up at Jack.

Her eyes were troubled. Stormy. Her jaw was tight.

"Are you ready, my dear?"

Sam tilted her chin downward again, glancing over at the priest. "I'm a little nervous, actually."

"Well, then." The little man smiled, reaching out and patting Sam's hand where it rested on the hilt of the sword. "Let's just get to the good parts, shall we?"

—-OOOOOOO—-

The vows had been the same for both of them.

The Hofgothi had coached them on each step of the ceremony, holding out his wizened hand for their rings even as he guided them through unsheathing their blades, then kneeling to lay their swords in the grass between them. His husky voice had pronounced an ancient blessing on their union as they'd exchanged the weapons.

Gorm had already explained the symbolism of the act. Her sword—borrowed from Thurid's family—would have been taken from Sam's father and given to her new husband. The gesture symbolized a bride taking leave of her family of birth and aligning herself with the family of her husband.

His token sword—no doubt taken from Gorm's own collection—had been stolen many years before from the grave of a fallen warrior. As Jack had placed the weapon in front of Carter, the priest reminded them both that, in giving her his blade, O'Neill pledged to care for her. To provide for her. To lay down his very life for her comfort and protection. To love her until the end of time.

But then—Jack was already fully prepared to do all of that. He'd been doing his best to keep her safe, to show her he valued her, for seven long years. And would keep doing it all for as long as she still needed him. Or hell—as long as she wanted him.

He'd had to close his eyes as the Hofgothi had prompted him through his vows, because looking at her would have been his undoing. Even so, his voice had cracked as he'd tripped over the important parts. "For you, I labor and fight. With you, I share my body and my life. To you, I give my heart. All this I choose as a free man. By so speaking, I pledge myself to you."

She'd studied him as she'd said her part, her eyes—the same color as the sky overhead—taking him all in at once. For the first time that day, she'd sounded like herself. Sure, clear, and vital. She had needed no help from the priest. "For you, I labor and fight. With you, I share my body and my life. To you, I give my heart. All this I choose as a free woman. By so speaking, I pledge myself to you."

"Now for the rings." The priest reached into the pouch at his waist and withdrew a long silken cord, delving in again for the rings. Threading the bands onto the cord, he lifted the silk above his head, nodding as the crowd cheered and clapped in response. Apparently satisfied, he removed the rings from the silk rope and bent over, carefully placing Jack's ring on the wide blade of Sam's sword, and her ring on his. "Colonel Jack? You first."

He took her proffered hand. It was the first time he'd touched her during the ceremony, and he was struck by the coolness of her skin. How slender her fingers were, how soft—even with the calluses of their trade on her palm. He picked the borrowed band off the blade of the sword and angled it on her finger, sliding it past her knuckle and fitting it just so.

She looked at it for a moment before flitting a glance back up at him, meeting him in the eye. Without looking down, she unerringly found Siler's ring on the broad blade of Jack's sword, lifting it and turning it a bit to and fro. He extended his left hand, splaying his fingers, only to watch as she smiled and took his hand.

"Knuckles the size of walnuts." She leaned in to whisper at him. "Isn't that what Daniel said?"

He grinned, unable to not respond when she was finally looking—acting—more like herself. "I can't help it that he has pianist fingers." He hadn't said the word right—slurring it so that it sounded like the joke he'd intended earlier.

She slid the ring home, holding onto his hand longer than she'd been coached to. Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, she suppressed a laugh. "You're such a child."

"Thanks for noticing."

The priest smiled down at both of them, producing the scabbards for the swords and watching as they sheathed the blades. He then gestured for them to rise. Taking each one by the wrist, he urged them to hold hands, then draped the cord around their wrists once—twice—and a third time before tying it in an intricate knot.

As soon as he stepped backwards, the crowd erupted in cheers—the din echoing between the buildings and trees and through the crowd even as a new sound started building.

"Kyssa!" The word came first from the back of the crowd, repeating here and there until the chant gained strength. "Kyssa! Kyssa! Kyssa!"

O'Neill angled a look back over his shoulder at the Hofgothi, who smiled and offered a little shrug.

"Go on." He leaned in to be heard over the clamorous chanting. "Kiss your bride!"

Gorm hadn't mentioned a kiss as part of the ceremony. Neither had the priest, during their meeting with him. But Carter's hand tightened on his, connected as they were by the silken rope. She tugged at him, pulling him towards her.

Jack tilted his head down to speak into her ear, his temple brushing hers. "Are you sure?"

"Just kiss me, Sir."

They were close, her skirts pressed between their bodies, billowing around his legs. He could see her pulse pounding in the hollow between her collarbones, and a pale pink blush as it spread up her throat. He watched as her pupils slowly dilated as she watched him, as her lips parted slightly.

"Jack."

It was awkward, with their hands tied together. Handfasted—that's what she'd called it earlier. Her thumb teased at the back of his hand, roughing against the fine hairs there. It was almost intensely intimate, personal.

"Kyssa! Kyssa! Kyssa!"

The chanting grew in vehemence, and Jack made a quick look towards the back of the crowd—near the Meeting House, where Nichols still stood with the remainder of his team, arms crossed across their chests, their expressions unreadable at this distance and in the failing light.

"Jack?"

Damn it.

He raised his free hand, trailing his fingertips along the fine arch of her cheek, the smooth plane of her jaw. "You're beautiful. Have I ever told you that?"

Her mouth curved upwards in the sweetest smile he'd ever witnessed—even sweeter because he could still see it in his mind as he bent and tasted it, meeting her lips with his own. She was heat, and light, and comfort. She was softness, and strength. She was life.

She was his life.

He pressed closer, urging her lips to part with a touch of his tongue, with his thumb applying gentle pressure at her chin. And when she finally opened for him, he delved deep, angling his head to take more of her, to discover her completely.

The crowd erupted—deafening cheers rising up towards the evening sky, as the setting sun sent its last rays sideways around the couple on the hill.

"Kyssa! Kyssa! Kyssa!"

But Jack couldn't hear them—all he could hear was the delicious way she moaned deep in her throat as his tongue found hers, as his hand traced the side of her throat, teasing down the supple curve of her shoulder.

She went up on her bare toes, her hand gentle against his waist, soothing upwards to rest on his chest, her fingers splayed against the fine linen of his tunic as she briefly captured his bottom lip between her teeth.

Damn. He wanted more—more, now. But there was the crowd, and Daniel and Teal'c, and three-fourths of SG-5 still standing there watching, and he pulled away, instead. Just enough for her to let go, and for him to breathe his name.

"Jack."

Against his lips, her whisper was felt, more than heard. She angled back a bit, sucking in a deep breath as she looked at him before tilting up for more.

Gentler, this time. Softer. He pressed his lips to hers once—and again—then brushed his nose against hers, gratified when she smiled again and framed his jaw with her free hand as she pressed her forehead to his.

"Sam—I—"

He wanted to tell her right then. Tell her how he felt. Tell her that he'd marry her for real right here—right now—if she wanted it. He'd retire, or ask for a transfer, or whatever he needed to do so that he could fulfill the promise he'd made while kneeling with her in this soft grass, with borrowed swords and rings, but wants—needs—so genuine, so much their own— that it had felt more real than anything he'd felt in years.

For you, I labor and fight.

With you, I share my body and my life.

To you, I give my heart.

All this I choose as a free man.

By so speaking, I pledge myself to you."

He'd say it all again. For real. If only. Oh, if only—

But the Hofgothi was suddenly hovering, urging them to retrieve their weapons, effectively ending the moment. Awkwardly, they bent and grasped the swords, the task was made more complex because of their bound hands. So they helped each other, Carter using her left hand to fit his weapon through the loops on his belt, and O'Neill holding hers in his free right hand.

The crowd cheered again, applauding as the newly married couple carefully descended the hill, the men slapping Jack on the back and women whispering encouragement to Sam. And as the crowd swallowed them up, Jack decided that he was kind of glad that he had knuckles the size of walnuts.

—-OOOOOOO—-

"A toast!"

The tables from the Meeting House—and presumably every other building in the village—had been brought out to the meadow. Gorm sat at the head of the largest one, with Jack and Sam sharing a bench near the middle. Thurid directed the serving of food and drink, a veritable army of young single girls doing her bidding with cheerful grins and willing hands.

There was food—all kinds of food—and drink in abundance. Each reveler had a plank of polished wood on the table in front of them, upon which the village girls would deposit meat, or roasted vegetables, or bread and cheese whenever a lack was perceived.

Earthenware cups and bottles littered the tables, too. Young men served mead from pitchers the size of buckets, each round eliciting more laughter, more raucous jibing, and more lewd suggestion aimed at the guests of honor.

A huge man that O'Neill had never met had called for the toast. He stood near one of the hundreds of torches which had been sunk into the soft ground, one beefy hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword, the other holding his cup aloft. "A toast to Frigga and her beneficence!"

"To Frigga!" The crowd shouted back. "To Frigga!"

Daniel sat on Sam's left side, while Teal'c had immediately stationed himself on O'Neill's right. More than an hour before, Nichols had ushered Mills and Shaw back to the 'Gate, promising to inform Hammond that SG-1 would follow as soon as trade relations had been established.

Given the impressive quantity of mead, beer, and ale being consumed, however, O'Neill was under no delusion that they'd get away much before noon of the following day.

"For your men!"

One of the young men set a tray on the table next to Jack, offloading three more of the clay bottles that seemed to hold the 'good stuff'. The Colonel shoved one down towards Daniel and then set one in front of his 'bride' before taking the last one for himself.

"I haven't had this drink yet." Carter tilted towards him to speak into his ear. The musicians had struck back up, drowning out everything except the toasts. "What's it like?"

"Beer." Jack pulled the cork out of his bottle with his teeth, dropping the stopper to the table. "Weak, sweet, herby beer."

She angled the bottle towards him, grinning when he automatically understood what she wanted.

He used his right hand to yank the cork out, positioning it next to his own. "It's not bad. But it's not Guinness, either."

"Well, in that case, maybe I'll actually like it." Lifting the bottle to her lips, she took a hesitant sip, then a longer draught. "You're right. Not bad."

"It's got to be better than the wine you've been swilling."

"That stuff has been watered down." She drank again from the clay bottle. "They're giving it to the kids, so it's obviously made weak for a reason."

Jack picked up a piece of crusty, dense bread, taking a bite. He chewed and swallowed before speaking again. "It's probably little more than grape juice."

"That's why this is better." Sam raised her bottle. With another long swig, she lowered the empty vessel to the table with a dull 'thunk'. "It's got a kick to it."

She'd finished picking at her food. They'd managed to cut and serve the meat and larger bits of potato and cheese using their free hands. Still, she'd never been a big eater, and had been full before the second serving had hit her trencher.

Jack, Daniel, and Teal'c had helped to clear her plate, with Jack picking the best bits off her wooden platter and sharing them with the rest of the team. When Daniel had attempted to take a random carrot from her place, a sharp sound from Thurid had stopped him cold.

Point taken. His wife—his responsibility to see to her needs. Jack had portioned it out from then on.

He looked down to see Sam playing with her bottle, absently spinning it on its side. "Are you already done with that?"

"I was thirsty." Sam leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. "What I want is water, but they don't seem to serve that."

Jack watched as she yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. "Tired?"

"It's been a long day." She sighed, her breath warm on his shoulder. Catching sight of Thurid, she raised the empty earthenware pot, jiggling it between her fingers in a request for more.

"Maybe we can get out of here. Go hit the hay."

"Wouldn't that be rude?"

"I highly doubt that this party needs us in attendance to continue." He shrugged. "So yeah. We could go to the bridal suite, pretend to do the deed and get some shut eye."

"Why pretend?" Carter drew their bound hands into her lap, scooting close enough to him on their shared bench that she could capture his earlobe with her teeth. Flicking it with the tip of her tongue, she angled southward, kissing the sensitive skin directly below his ear. "We could just not pretend, you know."

Ooookay. Jack frowned down at her. She was doing the hard-sell on this marriage thing. Playing her part to the fullest.

And Daniel had noticed, straightening on his padded seat and casting an odd look over the top of her head in Jack's direction.

"You smell so good." She nuzzled him again, kissing his neck, brushing her forehead against his cheek. "I've always loved the way you smell."

"Uh—Jack?" Daniel was doing his squinty-querulous-worried thing.

"I think it's pheromones." Carter kissed his jaw, closing her eyes as she inhaled against his skin. Her free hand had started massaging his thigh just above his knee.

Yeah. This wasn't normal.

"Daniel doesn't smell anywhere near as nice as you do." She inhaled him again, making an odd sigh deep in her throat before turning towards Daniel on her left. "You're pretty, though. Did you know that?"

Clearing his throat, Daniel frowned over at Carter. "I'm what?"

"Pretty." Sam tilted her head back and forth, studying him. "All the girls say so. Janet, Larissa, Lieutenant Chen—even Karen in accounting has the hots for you. You could have a harem of chicks at the SGC."

"A whole harem, huh?" He squinted over her head. "Jack?"

"And don't worry about what the Colonel said earlier." She leaned over to shout-whisper conspiratorially. "You don't have penis fingers."

"Uh—Sam—that's really not appropriate—"

But Carter wasn't paying attention to Daniel anymore. She scooted forward on the bench, glancing down the table past Jack. "Teal'c could pretty much have any woman on base, too. There's a club."

"A club?" Jack cracked half a smile. What the actual hell?

"A fan club. You should hear how they talk about him in the women's locker rooms." She leaned across Jack's body, tapping Teal'c on the arm with her free hand. "If you're interested, I could make a list for you."

"Thank you very much, Major Carter." The Jaffa raised that single brow of his, tilting his head to one side. "I do not believe that will be necessary."

"How do you do it?" Carter stared at him. Intently. "The eyeliner thing. Or is it eyeshadow? Do you buy it, or is it something that you make?"

"I do not understand your question, Major Carter."

"Major O'Neill." She corrected, thrusting her left hand towards their Jaffa friend. Sam admired the diamonds on her finger. "We got married!"

"Colonel O'Neill."

"Yeah, Teal'c?"

"I believe that something has affected Major Carter in some adverse way."

"Yeah." Jack nodded, hauling his wife back upright. "I'm getting that, too."

But Carter wouldn't be denied. She leaned sideways, resting her elbows on O'Neill's thighs, her right arm dragging Jack's along with it. "About the eye makeup, though. How do you get it so perfect? Do you use a template?"

"I do not." Teal'c shook his head. "My accuracy is the result of practice and tradition."

"Tradition." She frowned at him. "I don't have any of that."

"My eye makeup serves a purpose. It is not merely decorative."

"Getting chicks?"

"I have no use for young chickens."

Gesturing towards her face, she grimaced at Teal'c. "I tried to do cool eyeliner once—that smokey eye thing—but ended up looking like a raccoon."

"Perhaps I could demonstrate my technique once we return to the SGC."

"Cool." Sitting back up, Sam straightened the silver circlet on her head. "This thing is kind of a pain."

"You could take it off." Jack futzed with it, untangling the veil and draping it down her back.

"But it makes me feel like a princess." She tried to look upward at it, nearly tipping herself over backwards. "I've never been this kind of girly girl before."

O'Neill honestly had no ready response to that. Nor was he prepared for what she said next.

"You know what I like about this place the best?"

"No." He really didn't want to ask, but some sick fascination made him do it, anyway. "What?"

"No bras." She made a random gesture towards her chest. "None of them wear one. Or corsets, either. Do you have any idea how good it feels just to let the girls fly free?"

Oh, dear lord in heaven above. The images that stirred up in his brain. He was going to go straight to hell. Sucking in a stilted breath, he schooled his features into something mild. "Sam?"

"Yes, husband?"

"What have you eaten?"

"Meat. And vegetables. Same as you." Her eyes sparkled at him, and she dimpled into a broad, heady grin as her hand landed on his upper thigh. "But I could go for something different."

"Sam—"

"I love it when you say my name." She touched his face, measuring the new stubble on his jaw, on his throat. "Did you know that? It makes me feel all tingly."

Jack watched as she drifted closer to him, as she rubbed her cheek against his chest, her eyes drifting closed. Hoped—against hope, really—that she was getting sleepy. Maybe she'd just drift off.

But there was no joy on that burn. She suddenly sat up straight and pointed. "That guy has an amazing butt."

"Carter—you probably shouldn't say stuff like that."

"Teal'c has the best butt of all of us. Daniel's second." Leaning back on their bench, she balanced herself using their joined wrists to get a better look at his behind. "Yours is the flattest of all of our butts, but that's okay. I don't want to sleep with someone who has a better ass than I do."

She was getting louder. And more obnoxious, frankly. She grabbed her empty bottle again. Holding it aloft, she shouted, "Thurid!"

Gorm's wife trundled across the lawn towards her, bending over the table. "Yes, Samantha?"

Carter turned to Jack. "She likes to call me Samantha. Isn't that precious?"

"Sure." O'Neill passed a look between Carter and the Harald's wife. "I don't think Samantha's feeling very well."

"I feel fine, honey." Waving off Jack's concern, she thrust the empty container towards Thurid. "Can I get some more of this?"

For a moment, Jack thought that the older woman's face was liable to break. Her eyebrows lifted high, her expression going glassy.

"Did you drink this bjorr, Samantha?"

"It's better than the wine."

"The whole bottle?"

"I'll take more if you've got it."

Thurid tucked the empty clay pot into the pocket on her apron, shuffling sideways and bending towards Jack. "Did not the sveinn tell you that this was for your men?"

The sveinn—the young man who'd served them the stuff. Jack thought back to that moment. The tray, the server—he'd placed three bottles on the table and said, "For your men."

He'd meant it literally. For. Your. Men.

The musicians were wrapping up one song and starting another, the crowd applauding their efforts. In the clearing, couples fell into position for the next round of dancing, while other villagers milled around at the tables talking and eating.

Thurid waited for the clapping to wane before speaking again. "This bjorr contains herbs that affect men in one way, and women in another. That is why you were warned that it should only be consumed by your men."

Daniel was the one to ask the question. "And theoretically—if a woman were to drink this bjorr stuff?"

The matron's expression fell, and she clasped her hands in front of her. "She may lose her inhibitions. She may say things that she normally wouldn't say. She may be—quite affectionate. And she will not remember much of it in the morning."

"Perhaps it would be best if you took Samantha to your quarters, Colonel O'Neill." Teal'c spoke quietly, preparing to stand. "Daniel Jackson and I are prepared to guard your privacy."

"We have the Bridal Suite prepared for you in the Free House." Thurid stood up straight, scanning the meadow for someone specific. Waving them over, she turned back to Jack. "Frida will show you the way. She will fetch whatever you might need."

"Water." Jack tugged on Sam's hand, pulling her up with him. "We need some water to drink."

"I will send some over." Thurid nodded. "Go, Colonel Jack. And Frigga be praised."

Abso-Frigga-lutely.

To be continued. . .