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15.
Ancient history
From the advantage of a slight hill, Teal'c sees the glint of moonlight reflected from the metal of the Stargate where it rises above the trees surrounding the clearing. He is dismayed to see that it is not the only source of light present; the brighter light of torches clearly visible through the trees. They shift and flicker, circling the gate in a manner that appears disorganised to him, meaning that their holders were likely to be men from the village rather than Jaffa summoned by Amun - a group of Jaffa certainly being the worst scenario that Teal'c had imagined greeting them following their long journey to the gate.
It is impossible to tell how many men there are, though.
Teal'c veers left, towards the closest grouping of trees, where they will have cover and the possibility of a better vantage point - Daniel Jackson offers no protest or comment, having fallen unconscious about half an hour previous, most likely from bloodloss.
With the doctor over his left shoulder, and his staff weapon gripped firmly in his right hand, Teal'c works his way slowly and carefully into the tree line. The ground is softened by the extensive rain, dulling and cushioning his tread so that there is no rustle of leaves or snap of twigs.
He is nearly completely silent as he makes his way closer to the gate.
At a distance he considers safe, and with sufficient cover, he lowers himself onto one knee and quietly shifts Daniel Jackson from his shoulder, and gently to the ground. The man does not stir, and Teal'c's concern grows - they did not have time to deal with a group of misguided villagers.
Keeping low, he edges forward until he has reasonable line of sight to the Stargate, and finds that his initial assessment is correct; they all look to be villagers - a few with hunting spears, but the majority with knives bound around forearms, or tucked into belts. By Teal'c's count, there are about twenty men, and they pace the platform, the grouped light of their torches making it even more difficult for them to scan the surrounding trees.
These men were certainly not trained warriors, but it mattered not with their numbers; if he engaged them, he could not guarantee Daniel Jackson's safety.
Teal'c is still for a time, observing the men guarding the gate, listening to the steady drip of rain water from the trees, and considering his options. As the moment stretches, he feels something akin to a gap in his surroundings - a silent space somewhere behind him that has the hairs on the back of his neck rising.
He is being watched.
Tightening his grip upon his staff, he spins on his knee, raising and activating the weapon to take aim at where he knows his assailant stands.
The figure is shadowed, but discernible, and Teal'c identifies the silhouette of a bow, drawn and at the ready. The shadow moves forward, and a break in the trees allows the dim moonlight to reveal the face of a young man, his skin unmarked by tattoos.
Teal'c pauses, and so does the young man, who not only managed an impressively stealthy approach through the trees, but was able to draw and aim his bow without Teal'c hearing the stretch of the string - the Jaffa knows that a man that skilled with a bow could have already sunk the arrow into his back, if that was his intention.
Teal'c inhales a steadying breath, and follows his instinct. "You bear no mark on your forehead," he states, his voice low.
The young man is still, but he blinks, his eyes flickering in the shadows. "And you do."
Surprised at the response, Teal'c's eyebrow curves high. "But not one you have seen before," he says, guessing that the young man's curiosity was far greater than his sense of caution.
The young man gives a hesitant shake of his head, and Teal'c decides that he must make the first gesture of peace; bowing his head slowly, he deactivates his staff weapon.
A few seconds pass where the other man remains still, but he finally nods, and responds in kind, lowering his bow, and easing the tension of its string.
"Your companion appears to require assistance," the young man states as he sheathes his bow, and drops the arrow back into the quiver at his side.
"He has been wounded," Teal'c replies.
"By whom?"
The youth's tone is sceptical, questioning, and Teal'c pauses, casting a pointed glance over one shoulder towards the clearing, and the indistinct shouts of the men guarding the gate. "It would be wiser to explain in a safer location," Teal'c says, hoping the youth will understand his implication.
The young man nods, just once, and approaches Daniel Jackson's unconscious form as Teal'c rises to his feet. Together, they lift the doctor from the ground, positioning him between them.
"This way," the young man states with a lift of his chin, and Teal'c allows himself to be guided.
The rumble of thunder in the distance signals the approach of yet another storm.
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It is dark, and the rain falls in sheets, sleusing down his back and arms and soaking him to his skin, causing the unfamiliar clothing he wears to cling to him uncomfortably. The cacophony of the rainfall is accompanied by the persistent rolling of thunder as he stands in front of a darkened building that could only be one of the village huts. It is a little larger than some, but its features are blurred by the water falling into his eyes, and he blinks rapidly, trying to clear them.
It makes no difference at all.
He raises a hand then, and swipes at them instead, but everything remains slightly unclear, like looking through an unfocused lens. It is disorientating, and he's not really sure where he is, or how exactly he came to be standing outside in the rain, somewhere in the village he can't remember ever being brought to.
A bolt of lightning suddenly arcs across the sky, bathing his surroundings in brilliant white light, and the form of the building in front of him shifts into something he does recognise: his own home.
A warm orange glow spills out of the open front door; familiar and inviting, tempting him out of the incessant rain, and he happily submits, ascending the steps and up to the threshold before hesitating.
Because through the open doorway he sees an interior that is definitely not his home.
A large fire burns in the centre of a room that is as plain as it is primitive, bare of any furniture, matting made of dried grass covering the floor, and a solitary figure sits at it. She is an inky silhouette with her back to him, her hands stretched towards the flickering flames as she warms herself, and he is not surprised to realise that he knows her.
He doesn't need to see her face.
He stares at the figure, his eyes drawn to the recognisable lines of her, and startles as a crack of thunder splits through his focus and the drumming of the rain. It is followed quickly by another flash of lightning, and for the briefest of moments, the fire is a circle of light - a sun rising over a desert horizon, stretching over sandy dunes towards her silhouetted figure.
He blinks, and it is just a fire again, but the silhouette laughs before shifting to look at him over her shoulder - her features now glowing like ivory in the firelight.
She fixes him with her blue eyes, and they glint with something that he feels low in his gut; they are like shards of ice splintering in an ocean of flame, and he wants to burn in their depths.
Only, he realises that the foot that he willed to move forward towards her is still at the edge of the threshold, planted firmly on the ground.
He tries again, but again, his foot does not move - not even an inch, and he feels the panic stir in his chest, capturing his breath in a sharp inhale.
He finds that his hands are also locked at his sides, disobedient and stiff, and a shiver makes its way up his spine, raising the hairs on the back of his neck, because he knows there is something else in the room. It is there, just at the periphery of his vision - a distorting of the shadows as they bend to some unseen form.
His eyes dart wildly in their sockets as he tries to locate the presence, seemingly the only part of himself that he can still command, because he finds that his head is as immovable as his limbs as he wills it to turn. He pushes and struggles, and searches the darkness of the edges until there, low to the ground, he finally catches a glimpse; the firelight reflecting off a surface that looks as slick and smooth as oil, undulating in a slow glide across the floor.
He can feel it slithering - the weight of its very being pressing in on him, and his panic swells, his heart hammering in his ears, the rhythm accelerating relentlessly until another sharp crack fills the air, immediately accompanied by blinding white light.
The fire goes out, plunging the room into complete darkness, and for a moment everything is still, including the incessant pounding of his heart.
The silence is deafening.
But he knows it's what it has been waiting for - the space filling oppressively with a sense of malice that is almost tangible. It coils and writhes, and he still cannot move.
A secondary flash of lightning illuminates the darkened space, this time lighting up the papery panels of the hut's thin walls and revealing a second silhouette.
The figure stands over her, reaching, his eyes like two gleaming opals hanging in a void - a pit of nothingness that will take and take and take to fill itself.
It wants to take him. It wants to take her.
And still he cannot move...
She laughs.
She laughs, and it slices through the shroud of darkness surrounding them. His mind grabs for it, a lifeline in this inexplicable place, and it pulls him in.
He lets it, closing his eyes against the growing emptiness.
But when he opens them, he is no longer standing at the threshold: he sits next to her.
It is quiet, almost peaceful, and the only source of light is the now ebbing fire, its previous fierceness reduced to just glowing coals. The soft light they emit make her shape indistinct, like the strokes of a paintbrush, and she leans towards him, capturing his hand and turning it slowly in hers. She is warm against the damp coolness of his skin, his fingers still stiff as his paralysis lingers, and she eases them open, positioning his hand palm up.
He blinks disbelievingly as she reaches into the firepit to lift a single coal, white and pulsing with heat, and she does not flinch as she places it gently into his upturned palm. The agony of it is immediate, mercilessly searing into the flesh of his hand and stabbing down his arm, but his instinct to drop it is thwarted by his frozen limbs.
He has no choice but to endure it, and he is surprised to see that it glows a little brighter as he does.
She cups his hand in both of hers and stares at it along with him, watching it throb like the tiniest of heartbeats, until eventually she swallows.
It is so quiet that he can hear it, and his eyes flick to her lips - waiting for her to speak.
"Maybe someday, when you're ready, you should give that to me."
Her voice is a whisper, and the words resonate in his mind, reflected by a memory that he can't quite grasp. It twists, and slips away from him, and when he looks back down at his hand, the hot coal is gone, replaced instead with a small bundle of clothing: a child's Cubs jersey, stained with blood.
His eyes widen in horror as the stains begin to spread, the fabric growing heavier and more fluid as it's engulfed, until finally it runs right through his fingers.
It is so much blood, and he cannot hold onto it.
All he can do is stare.
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Weak light fills the hut, and he kneels next to a figure. She is lain out on blankets near a dying fire - her face turned away from him.
He doesn't need to see it to know that it's her.
He lifts his hand, and he is almost surprised by the movement, his motions jerky and hesitant as he reaches for her, sliding his fingers carefully across her jaw to turn her face towards him. She exhales a soft breath and tenses before falling back into the languidness of sleep, her head lolling gently to the side. He sees now the ugly bruise discolouring her temple, and his brow furrows with concern as he wonders what has happened to her - the last time he saw her she was escaping the mines.
He doesn't notice how his thumb idly brushes across her cheek.
"Jack?"
Her eyelids flutter, still heavy with sleep as she tries to focus, and he offers her a small smile.
"Hey," he says, his voice low, but playful - hoping it will keep her from panicking. "Easy there, Carter."
She smiles back at him, and he finally notices how his thumb rests against the pale ivory of her cheek, and how it is marred by a bright red smear.
Blood.
He flinches, pulling his hand away abruptly to examine his palm, and stares at the blood coating it.
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Sam feels the lightest of touches against her cheek, rousing her from her sleep, but her eyelids are heavy with more than just sleep - she is exhausted. There is an intense ache radiating from her temple, and she is reminded of her frenzied run through a very dark and very wet forest.
She remembers falling.
Finally, with much effort, she manages to force her eyes open enough to attempt processing her surroundings, and confirms what she already suspects - that there is someone hovering over her.
She should be concerned, but the familiarity of the figure dampens it as she waits for her vision to sharpen a little.
She knows it's him.
"Jack?" she manages, her voice still hoarse with sleep.
"Hey," he says, his lips quirking in a soft, almost teasing, smile. "Easy there, Carter."
She shifts slightly, leaning just fractionally into the hand that still rests against her cheek, and offers him a smile in return. The movement draws his attention, and she watches his eyes dart towards it as though he's just seen something alarming, confusion creasing the line between his brows for just a moment before he pulls his hand from her cheek like he's been burned.
The sudden change in his demeanour has her blinking rapidly, and her adrenaline spikes, causing her steadily increasing headache to begin pounding uncomfortably.
Pushing up onto her elbows, she watches him, her bewilderment growing as he continued to stare at his hand, turning it and scrutinising it with a look of sheer incomprehension on his face. It was as though he was seeing something she couldn't, his hand clean and unmarked to her eyes, and the longer it went on the more she could feel her uncertainty shifting uneasily into dread - cold and heavy in the pit of her stomach.
There was something off about him.
"Jack?" she says tentatively, unable to hide the disquiet in her voice.
He looks at her then, his eyes wide, and filled with something she's seen only once before: that night at O'Malley's.
Only, despite his fury at her presumptuousness that night, she'd barrelled on like a bull in a china shop because she'd known there was something hidden from her - something to be reached.
But there was nothing to reach for in the eyes that were gazing down at her now, practically black with rage, like two stones of impenetrable onyx set into a now expressionless face.
She leans her weight back into her elbows as far as she can, working against the ache in her muscles, but she has nowhere to go - he is too close.
His eyes flash white, and her heart drops, her breath stuttering in a jagged inhale as it meets resistant lungs.
No.
It can't be.
His fingers curl into a threatening fist as he presses in, looming over her now, filling the space with a seething bitterness and a promise of violence that practically drips from him.
It is poison, and she finds herself paralysed by it.
"I am your God," he booms, the metallic edge of the Goa'uld voice forced from his mouth resonating inside her skull painfully.
But it is.
It's Kawalsky all over again.
He doesn't wait for a response, but draws back unexpectedly, rising to his feet with an unnatural smoothness and deliberateness that was so unlike Jack. He is like a coiled snake, silent and predatory as he skirts the dying coals of the fire and glides towards the door of the hut she's realised she's been brought to. She is completely alone in the room, and she knows without a doubt that she is a prisoner here.
He turns to look at her once before disappearing into the saturated blue of a pre-dawn sky.
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Amun descends the steps of the hut. The tediously persistent rain has finally ceased, and the sky begins to lighten as it prepares for the rise of the The'beshian sun. He spies a familiar shadow making its way towards him, and for a change he welcomes the distraction, for he has no memory of seeking out the Tau'ri woman this time.
"What news, priest?" he asks, stopping to allow the old man to bow before him.
The corner of his mouth twitches with pleasure as the priest drops to one knee.
"The usurper's servant and the slave did not reach the Great Ring, Amun," he replies, before rising to his feet once more.
There is such delight in his voice that Amun feels his own spirits rise.
"So, they are recaptured," he states.
Sani ducks his head, averting his eyes momentarily, and Amun knows that he is mislead.
He feels his face harden with disapproval.
"No, my God," the priest responds, his hands rising in a futile gesture of appeasement as he races to explain himself. "But the Great Ring has been heavily guarded all night, and they have not approached it."
"All night?" Amun questions incredulously, knowing full well that the old man's words are a blatant lie.
"It is impossible that they would reach the Great Ring before our men, oh God," Sani says, his tone meticulous in its measure of respect and great surety. "Our pursuit was immediate, and the slave was injured."
"And yet, you do not have them," Amun says, his words slow as he stems the rage unfurling within him - he finds that he does not have the energy to entertain it, and he suspects that a treatment may be required sooner than desired.
"We are positive that they are hiding in the forest surrounding the Great Ring. Our trackers will locate their trail with the rising of the sun, I assure you."
"Trail?" Amun says, indignant, raising his voice and pointedly casting his eyes to the sky. "With such incessant rain?"
Sani nods his head placatingly, evidently choosing his next words very carefully. "We will not fail you, Amun."
"Mmmm..." Amun hums, unconvinced by the old man's earnestness - it was a feeble emotion, filled with impotent hope and inaction, and he allows his gaze to drift over his shoulder, back towards the dwelling he had just exited.
"I wish to return to the temple, Sani," he continues, fixing his eyes on the old priest once again.
"Yes, my God."
"Bring supplies..." he orders, "... and the female slave."
Even in the relative darkness Amun can see the widening of the priest's eyes at the demand - his hesitation.
"Yes... my God."
His disgust.
It is as amusing as it is tiresome, and he allows himself to imagine what vicious lessons his Amaunet would have exacted on this man, his lips curving almost gleefully as he watches the old man leave him to approach the men standing guard outside the hut.
He pauses, the coolness of the breeze that is beginning to stir at the approaching sunrise drawing his attention to the dampness of his clothes, and he is reminded that he did not consciously leave his bed in the priest's dwelling.
He lifts his hands, palm up, remnants of an image of them drenched in blood spilling into his mind.
This host vexes him, and for the first time he wonders if he had perhaps chosen... poorly.
If perhaps the younger slave may have suited him better.
But no.
He had chosen many hosts, and he knew a good host - knew that this host was strong, commanding...
Intriguing.
And it would submit.
He allows his eyes to lose focus as he concentrates on that thought, the command coalescing into an indisputable point of clarity before he forces it outwards like a tidal wave; powerful, consuming, crashing and rolling into the meagre defences that the host attempts to rally. His eyes fall closed, a sense of calm descending upon him as he feels them give way under his superior authority.
Finally, a smile eases its way across his features.
In the end, all hosts were weak.
All would submit.
He was whole once more, and he would revel in the power of this form: he would take, and he would kill.
And he would have what was his again.
But even as he turns in the direction of the priest's dwelling, he feels something.
Like the tiniest of blemishes scoring the surface of a valuable gem.
Like the shifting of the air after something has moved through it.
There is something still closed to him in this mind, twisting out of his grasp, thwarting his attempts to examine it, and it feels somehow... advanced.
Defiant.
Ancient.
Amun pauses on his path through the village. The sun has not quite broken the horizon and deep shadows stretch long across the ground, and between the buildings. Nearer to him, they are softened slightly by the light of an early morning fire, lit out in the open by one of the female villagers, but further away they are nothing but silhouettes that even his superior eyes cannot penetrate.
A tendril of dread coils at the base of his spine then, because this something felt like staring at an object in the darkest of rooms; one could be so sure that the object was one thing, only to find that it was something entirely different in the revealing light of day.
He suspects that this host is something more than Tau'ri.
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A/N: There is a section of this chapter that was written long before anything else about the story was conceived – it was the spark. I'll let you guys decide which section it is. The song this time: Precipice by The Flashbulb.
As always, thank you so much all followers/favouriters/readers/reviewers!
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of the Stargate franchise. All other characters mentioned in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.