Warning: This chapter contains violence that some of you might find disturbing, so please tread carefully. I debated for a long time on whether to change the story rating from T to M, but instead I am informing you here that if you are sensitive, you will most likely consider this chapter to be M rated. Since I know Stargate fans are generally no strangers to whump, though, I felt compelled to attempt gritty realism. If you still feel I should adjust the overall rating of the fic, please do let me know – I appreciate any feedback.
18.
Truths
"Why," Amun drawls, gesturing towards Anoki's body, "is this still here?"
"He is here for Ma-eh-vah, my Lord," Sani hurriedly replies. "Anoki was a part of your reawakening - of your return to us. He must be prepared for a priest's final journey."
"Get rid of it."
It's the first time that Sam has seen Sani... horrified. Pleased, disgusted, enraged, fearful, yes, but not horrified. The old man's face pales in the now warm torchlight, greyed and almost skeletal looking as his mouth hangs open in apparent shock.
It doesn't really surprise her when he turns his attention towards her then, clamping his mouth shut, his eyes turning sharp with something more... accusatory.
Because of course - why the hell wouldn't this be all her fault?
Sam can't help but roll her eyes at him.
She's done with placating this dangerous old man.
Amun doesn't miss the exchange, his haughty, self-satisfied laugh filling the chamber.
"You do so remind me of her, Tau'ri," he says, chuckling to himself.
"You mean Amaunet?" she replies, fixing him with a glare and purposefully ignoring Sani and his assistant as they sweep across her to quickly gather Anoki's body.
"Oh, yes," he responds after a beat, matching her glare with nothing but calm indifference.
She wants nothing more than to shake him, but she can play his game, too, so she waits; waits for Sani and his assistant to leave while she forces her expression to relax - to meet Amun's gaze with a mirror of his own superciliousness.
"Is that why I'm here?" she says with feigned disinterest as the old priest and the boy finally exit the temple with their bundle.
He folds his hands casually behind his back as he begins to circle her. "I will not touch what Apophis has touched," he replies abruptly, as though not for the first time.
"That would be Sha're that you're talking about," Sam corrects him matter-of-factly, carefully keeping the anger from her voice.
"Ah, yes, your companion's wife," he says, his face contorting in a knowing smirk. "He begged me to choose him so that they could be... reunited.
"It was pathetic. Foolish."
She suppresses the swell of sympathy in her chest at that. She can only imagine the depths of Daniel's desperation and heartache if he'd been willing to risk being taken as a host, but Amun was right about something; it was definitely foolish to have offered himself up like that. Not when the SGC's efforts would be seriously hampered without his skills and knowledge. They'd need Daniel to find Daniel, but Jack... Jack would consider himself expendable if it meant he could save someone's life. From a completely objective viewpoint, they were lucky that the Colonel had ended up as a host and not Daniel, or even herself.
Sam can't bring herself to feel very comforted by that truth, though, even if she's willing to attempt using it to distract the Goa'uld that's beginning to listlessly pace around her - perhaps even extract some information about what he was planning...
Because if there was one thing she knew about the Goa'uld, it's that their arrogance wouldn't allow them to be wrong.
"You chose your host poorly then," she says archly, jutting her chin out and tilting her head back in the most judgmental display she can manage from her very unhelpful kneeling position.
"Have I?" he says, halting in his tracks as he turns his gaze on her. For just a second, his brows furrow as an uneasy look ghosts across his features - so fleeting that if she'd blinked, she would've missed it, but his conceited, self-assured expression is firmly in place again as he strides forward and drops to his haunches right in front of her.
She resists the urge to lean away from him.
"You and I both know that you do not believe that," he says, dropping the Goa'uld voice and cocking his head to one side as he traces his eyes over her face in some sort of pointed display of lasciviousness.
The hairs at the nape of her neck begin to rise - watching Jack's eyes and knowing it wasn't him looking out of them made her blood run cold.
She sucks in a steading breath, and hopes he doesn't notice her hesitation.
"You think my feelings for your host, matter?" Sam says with a force that surprises even her as she channels the anger churning in the pit of her stomach. "You think sentiment matters? Even after all this time, you let her influence your choices - you let her guide your thoughts.
"You called me a slave before, but it's you that's the slave."
She's staring at him now, eyes wide with a ferocity that is more real than bluff - and the seething fury that stares back at her is equally real, hard and flinty as though he could cut her down with a glance.
He strikes so fast then that she's foisted into the air before she can even register his movement, his hand like a steel vice around her neck as he lifts her practically over his own head, her feet dangling uselessly. She grips at his forearm with her bound hands, scrambling for some kind of purchase as the pressure around her throat increases, and the excruciating throbbing inside her skull begins warring with her desire for breath.
She tries to focus, the edges of her vision beginning to recede as her brain fights for oxygen, but she finds his eyes again.
She wills him to see her... knows he must see her...
"Jack," she gasps, barely able to get the word out.
There is a moment where she doubts - where she thinks that maybe she is wrong; that maybe there really is nothing left of him.
And then her feet hit the floor, her legs crumpling under her as she collapses hard on one side, unceremoniously dropped by the Goa'uld that now spins away from her and stalks across the chamber. She inhales deeply, ignoring the thumping pain in her temple as she coughs.
"Do you know what this is?" Amun says, gesturing at a glyph-covered wall before turning back towards her, his voice flat like nothing at all has happened; like he hasn't just attempted to choke her. She pushes herself up and back onto her knees with difficulty, her body beginning to ache from her exhaustion and the constant ebb and flow of adrenaline through her system.
Rubbing idly at her neck, she clears her throat, and feeling stupidly bolstered by the purely optimistic notion that Jack would never let Amun kill her, she decides that she's just going to keep pushing.
"From what I've been told," she says with as much strength as she can manage, stifling another cough. "It's the story of how Apophis kicked your ass."
He blinks, his nostrils flaring as he appears to draw in a deep breath, and then he quickly reaches his right hand behind his back, pulling something from the waistband of the simple trousers he wears. She doesn't realise what it is until his arm is outstretched, feet slightly apart in a very familiar stance, levelling it at her threateningly.
It's a handgun - Jack's own Beretta from what she can tell.
She can't help herself...
She laughs.
"You think I do not know how to use your primitive weapons?" Amun barks at her, his exasperation finally seeping through, raising the pitch of his bassy Goa'uld voice in a way that just makes her laugh all the more. Her muscles, her head, hurt with each shake of her shoulders, her chuckle devolving into a painful cough before she manages to rein it in.
"No, I don't think that," she replies quietly, honestly, and swallows thickly as she gives herself a moment to breath. "But I do know the difference between someone who's just learned to use a gun, and someone who's trained to use one. That weapon feels familiar to you, doesn't it...?"
His eyes shift from hers to the gun in his hand.
"... Colonel," she adds, letting her surety - her belief - bleed into her voice, hoping the connection to his training, to who he is, will help pull him back.
That look, that fleeting uneasiness, flashes across his features again, and then he laughs, scoffing at her while he relaxes his stance and tucks the gun back into its spot in the back of his waistband.
"Nothing of the host survives, my dear," he smiles, his voice light like they were just having a casual conversation, and she knows that he's not going to keep entertaining her prodding of that particular idea.
She needs to try a different tack with him.
"Our weapons may seem primitive to you, but we have a lot of them... and some very powerful ones at that," she says, pulling her legs under her in preparation to stand. "And we have some very powerful friends."
"You threaten me?" he replies, mockingly placing his hand across his chest, his smile broadening ever so slightly as he watches her carefully push herself to her feet.
"No, I don't," she says, wishing she had something to lean on as her legs waiver under her for a second. "You must know by now that we're also looking for Apophis and Amaunet."
"So, you propose an alliance?"
She can't tell whether the look stretching his features is pleased or amused, but either way he seemed curious, and more importantly, willing to continue the discussion. Every minute she could keep him interested was a minute she was buying Daniel and Teal'c, because she was absolutely certain at this point that they'd escaped - Amun's choice of weapon was evidence enough.
"Why not?" she responds with a shrug of her shoulders, matching the casualness of his tone. "Our interests align, Amun."
She uses the Goa'uld's name this time, hoping that her acknowledgement of him will stroke his ego, and he tilts his head to one side as if contemplating what she's saying, as though inviting her to continue.
"It's a simple trade; we need the Stargate addresses of Apophis's territories, and you need... firepower," she adds, pointedly letting her eyes scan their surroundings as she raises one eyebrow in what she hopes conveys how underwhelming this all is.
It's a step too far, apparently.
"You think me weak, Tau'ri?" he says, stalking towards her and grasping her upper arms, his fingers digging into her painfully. "My Jaffa will rise in my name! I have armies at my command!"
"If that's the case," she says, forcing her voice to remain steady in the face of his rage, "then where are they?"
She watches as his jaw works, silently, furiously, and she realises that the question is as much for her as it is for him, because there has been a variable missing from this equation the entire time; something that, in all the fear and urgency and confusion, she's overlooked. From the very beginning, Anoki had displayed some disturbing behaviour for a young boy, and when Amun had revealed himself to her in her cell in the mines, she had just assumed that he was always the Goa'uld - not giving it another second of thought.
Only, that theory collapses miserably under any amount of scrutiny.
Why wait until now to take action?
Why keep a child as his host for so long?
The canopic jar.
"I have waited centuries for my revenge," Amun finally manages through gritted teeth, pulling her from her thoughts.
"You've waited?" she practically shouts, her incredulity at him and her annoyance at her own stupidity merging into a potent mix of emotions that she can't seem to keep hold of. "So, what? You were just biding your time while you were buried alive in your little jar?"
He shakes her, shaking the rest of her words right out of her, gripping her with bruising force as she fights to stay on her feet. "Oh, you are more of Amaunet than you would wish to admit, little slave. Your scheming... your manipulations..."
"Jack, stop!" she exclaims, unable to hide the panic in her voice because it feels like he might snap her very bones.
He stops.
/
/
He sees hands that are his but not his wrapped around her upper arms, and for a moment he thinks that he must be dreaming - that he's back in the parking lot in O'Malleys, her staring up at him with that mix of defiance and surprise and anger, and that same determination that he'd seen in her in the hangar at Hurlburt Field.
Only, she looks exhausted and bruised and scared in a way that is just wrong.
He wants nothing more than to release her, but he cannot move.
And he is definitely not dreaming.
He shouts - screams - that he is here, that he can see her, that she should run, but his tongue, lips, jaw... nothing obeys him.
He cannot force a single sound out of his own throat.
And all the while he feels it... pressing against his consciousness, gliding across his very mind; an intruder looking for its way in. He presses back in an attempt to keep it out, but the response is violent - tearing pinpricks of pain like claws trying to rip him open, piercing into his brain. It's like the worst migraine he's ever had, or rather, more like the time he cracked his head open like an egg on that black ops mission. He imagines that he's gritting his teeth against the pain, against the presence, but he knows now that he isn't. He can't be, because he is not in control of his body.
Somehow, though, for some reason that he has no capacity to interrogate right now, he's managed to wrestle back a portion of his own awareness, and he will not give that up without a fight. So he pushes back again; pushes with all the strength he can muster...
And this time, his efforts are met with... surprise.
The piercing pain eases; hooks loosening momentarily, and he feels... actually feels the warmth of his hands. No, not of his hands - of her skin beneath his palms, and the give of her flesh as his fingers dig into her.
He doesn't want this - doesn't want her anywhere near him.
She needs to be away.
Away from him. Away from this place.
He watches as his fingers begin to move, begin to open, and before he realises what he's done, she's stumbling backward at the force of his shove.
His hands are open now, rigid, meeting nothing but air, and the momentary sense of relief that he feels distracts him from the fact that he's no longer staring at them - he's staring at her.
And she's staring back at him.
Her lips part and her brows furrow, and he knows that she's realising...
He is here.
"Samantha..." is the only word he manages to get out - the only word he knows will convince her.
He hopes that she sees him.
/
/
The word hangs in the air between them as she stares, her thoughts scrambling to make sense of what has just happened.
He is here. And he just pushed her.
Pushed her right out of the Goa'uld's grasp.
He has control, she thinks, and immediately holds out her bound hands towards him. "Untie me," she pleads, but can't bring herself to close the gap between them, wary that it's all some trick to win her trust.
For what feels like interminable seconds, he is perfectly still, unmoving - except for his eyes. They dart strangely to one side, and then finally, his head jerks. At first she thinks it's some kind of involuntary twitch, and then she realises that he's trying to shake his head; that the movement is being aborted. Whatever control he has is either extremely limited, or it's slipping, but he twitches his head again, this time his eyes flicking down and to one side as though he's trying to look over his shoulder.
Sam realises what he is indicating.
The gun, the gun the gun the gun...
She moves fast then - faster than she thought she could on her tired, aching legs - around to his side, and she sees now that he is shaking, limbs trembling like he's straining against his own body as she reaches her hands out towards where she knows the gun is tucked away. He lets out a stifled groan, and she can't stop herself from pulling back reflexively, preparing to run if he's lost whatever control he seems to have, but he pitches forward onto his knees instead, clutching his head and doubling over.
The motion pulls up the leather vest he wears, exposing the gun.
She grabs for it.
It pulls free of his waistband, and she backs up quickly, flicking off the safety and training the gun on him as he twists towards her, but all he can seem to do is stretch out one flailing hand in a half-hearted attempt to grab at her.
Taking a few more careful steps back towards the archway leading out of the temple, she glances over her shoulder as she puts some distance between them, and pauses. Head cocked to one side, she focuses her attention towards the entrance, but there is nothing - no sign or sound of movement.
They are still alone.
And aside from the fact that he has turned in her direction, he has made no attempt to get to his feet. She breathes into the silence stretching between them, unsure of whether her best move is to attempt to restrain him, or just leave.
"Finish it, Sam," he practically whispers, the pained expression he wears shifting into something closer to resignation.
She sucks in a jagged breath and blinks as though she's been struck, not bothering to hide her confusion - her disbelief - at what he is asking of her.
"Do it," he adds, more forcefully this time.
"No!" she finally responds, incredulous at his insistence.
"Carter!"
"If we can get you back to the SGC..."
"Don't be stupid, Carter," he says, cutting across her, his tone bordering on vicious now. "You know what happened to Kawalsky."
"We've learned from that - we can get that thing out of you," she counters, ignoring his blatant attempt to undermine her conviction; to make her question herself.
"You will never know if it's really me, or if it's just pretending, and as soon as it gets half a chance..."
"I will. I will know." She cuts him off this time, nodding her head determinedly despite knowing that she has precisely zero objective support for her statement.
And he knows it.
"How?" he adds quietly, flatly, challenging her clearly unsubstantiated argument. "You got a doo-hickey for that sorta thing? - "
"Because - "
" - cause I must've missed that memo," he continues.
"Because I will know!"
Despite their force, she knows her words sound weak, but she cannot bring herself to say it; the truth that she feels settling on her - the truth that she doesn't know will make any difference at all to him.
She's never really admitted it to herself until now, but she thinks a part of her has loved him from the very first time they met – recognised something in him that just pulled at her very being. For a long time, she had thought that it was just gratitude; gratitude for sacrificing himself for her, for seeing her as more than just a soldier, for challenging her. She'd thought him dead, and it had haunted her. She looks at him now, and the sheer terror she feels at the thought of having to go through it all again, knowing what she knows now...
She can't do it.
She blinks, and feels a tear escape the corner of her eye, unwanted, unbidden, gliding down her cheek - a symbol of the frustration and despair that is beginning to creep over her. And he can see it all, because her hands are still bound and she can't even wipe it away - afraid to take the gun off of him for even a moment.
He is looking up at her from where he still kneels, a wash of emotions playing over his face – pain and regret and something else that she just can't decipher.
"All the more reason, Sam," he says softly, as though he can read her very thoughts.
"No," she says again, with finality this time, because she was not going to continue entertaining this ridiculous notion of his. "I can't claim to have all the information here, but there is something different about this, Jack. Amun is a mature Goa'uld, and we've both seen what they are capable of. Sha're and Skaara... they are both strong people with strong wills, and they couldn't fight the control of their symbiotes.
"So how, Jack?" she demands, raising her voice. "How are you speaking to me now?"
He looks away from her, evidently uncomfortable under the intensity of her gaze, and sits back on his haunches like he's preparing to stand.
She takes another cautious step back.
"I don't know how, Sam," he replies, shaking his head, refusing to look at her. "I dreamt, I dreamt..."
"What is it?" she asks as he trails off.
/
/
He blinks, and images like broken shards of glass skitter across his consciousness, flooding his senses. They scratch and pull and pierce; memories that aren't memories trying to embed themselves into his mind. He sees Apophis's sneering, gloating, face, and he wants to punch that smug look right off of it. There is a woman. He doesn't recognise her, but he knows that she is Amaunet, and then there is darkness; a consuming nothingness. He shudders as he is confronted with the horror reflected in the eyes of a young boy, a boy that he does recognise - the moment that Anoki was taken.
His stomach flips unpleasantly at the image, and he feels something twist inside of him; a pressure in his head and down his spine, and then that feeling again - hooks digging, clawing, pulling - pain searing through the very fibre of his being as the thing that is trying to inhabit his body fights for control.
But there is something else; something about the way it fights - the way it writhes within him.
It feels unmistakeably like desperation.
His stomach churns again, and he thinks that maybe he is going to be sick.
Sick.
He exhales a jagged breath, and he is suddenly acutely aware of the sweat beading at his temples, dampening his hair; of the unnatural flush of heat all through his body.
He is sick.
And she is right - there is something different about this.
He looks up at her again, and cries out.
It's too late.
/
/
Sam feels a hand on her left shoulder, boney fingers digging in painfully, and then there is a sharp pinch of pressure just below her shoulderblade.
It's unlike anything she's ever felt.
Shocked, she inhales, and feels like she's sucking in water, the burning sensation in her right lung immediate and consuming. It ignites, exploding all through her body, and she takes several gasping, shallow gulps of air before coughing violently.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
But she can't – it's like someone is sitting on her, or has reached into her chest and is squeezing, squeezing, squeezing...
The hand on her shoulder is pulling her backwards, and she can't help but follow it, her vision swimming as she hits the ground heavily and the force of the collision pushes more precious air out of her, leaving her lungs in a strangled yell.
She sees a bearded face hovering above her, shadowed in the dim lighting of the temple.
Sani.
"Ha-shek! Woman! You have defiled this holy place!" he shrieks, and she can see the whites of his eyes in his wild fury.
He uses both hands to bring something up over his head; a knife - a knife that is covered in blood.
"You have tried to seduce and betray our God! Adulteress!"
Her blood, she realises, watching distantly as she readies herself for his strike before the solid weight in her hands pulls her sharply back into the moment.
She's still clutching the gun.
She raises it, heavy, so heavy, and feels her arms begin to tremble with the effort, struggling to sight the damn thing...
But it hardly matters at this close range.
She blinks, and his twisted, angry face falls into focus in a split-second of crystal clarity.
Sam tightens her finger on the trigger.
/
/
"Fool!" Amun bellows, leaping to his feet and lunging at Sani.
He grabs hold of one of the old priest's wrists with crushing force, feeling the satisfying snap of bone beneath his fingers as he flexes his thumb against them.
He doubts that Sani has a chance to even register the break as a loud crack issues from the Tau'ri weapon, resonating off the walls around him in a nearly deafening screech. A large wound opens near the top of the old man's shoulder, and the priest stumbles backward before striking first the wall, and then collapsing to the floor in a pitiful heap.
He is momentarily surprised by the noise, the brashness of the weapon's operation, and is almost appreciative of the uncouth efficiency of the Tau'ri device.
His eyes shift from the old man to where she now lies at his feet, and smiles, just about ready to applaud her ceaseless determination, but she points the weapon at him again and he finds himself disquieted by the shaking of her hands, and her ragged breathing.
Pathetic creature, he thinks, and is immediately drowned in a wave of concern that is not his own.
It is somehow stronger than it was the previous day in the healing hut.
It reaches... further.
He lowers himself to his knees beside her, and grasps her arm with one hand while pulling the weapon free from her fingers with the other. She resists, but for mere seconds, her grip evidently weakened, and he watches her follow the device with her eyes as he tosses it across the chamber and into a corner, where it clatters across the floor and into the shadows.
It is then that he notices that two of the men Sani brought with them stand at the temple entrance, staring stupidly at the scene before them.
"Take him!" Amun shouts, dismissively waving a hand at their fallen leader.
They edge forward into the room, and he feels his patience wearing thin.
"Take him!"
He knows they do not understand the words he uses, but they would have to be abject imbeciles to not understand his intent, and they finally scurry forward like insects to retrieve the old man.
He watches them go before he looks back down at her.
His queen, he thinks, and feels an undeniable no pushed at him.
He does not understand this resistance. It is unthinkable.
A host's struggle is usually so brief that it is laughable – a wretched flailing that is extinguished as effortlessly as a candle flame.
He wipes at the sweat of his brow with the back of his arm.
No, he does not understand this - illness is not something that plagues a God.
He must receive a treatment.
She gasps loudly, and his attention snaps back to her as she tangles her fingers in the front of the leather vest he wears, gripping him tightly.
Such arrogance, he thinks, but finds that he has no desire to remove her hands from him, the usual anger or amusement he would feel at such impudence conspicuously absent.
Instead, he feels unsettled - something akin to sympathy.
His face contorts with disgust.
Impossible.
"Please," she manages to wheeze out, and he notices that a small amount of blood seeps onto the hard stone she lies on.
It seems his new queen will not live long at this rate.
Such a waste, he thinks, casting another appraising eye over her - what a golden Goddess she would've made.
His blitheness does not sit well with him, though, quickly fading into more woeful uneasiness. He should be revelling in his power, in his superiority over this fragile creature... this mortal...
So far beneath him...
Suddenly, he is on his feet, and he finds himself watching as hands that should be his but are not his scoop the old man's blade from where it had fallen, before he is propelled across the chamber to one of the nearest torches burning in an alcove. Numbly, he watches as his hands pass the slim dagger through the flames of the torch. It blackens and smokes, and then he is being turned, compelled back to her side.
He kneels once again, and dully notes how one of his – not his - knees now touches the blood that is slowly spreading across the floor.
He blinks at her, and golden strands become flowing ebony.
His beloved's life blood.
"Amaunet," he hears himself say as he leans over her, "you betrayed me."
She shakes her head and sputters, a few droplets of blood peppering the skin of her cheek – he suspects that she no longer has the breath to speak, but she still reaches for him; brushes the knuckles of one hand across his own cheek before letting her still-bound hands drop back down.
His Amaunet - always so determined.
What would he do without her?
He moves the hilt of the blade to his right hand and cups the side of her face, thumb brushing across her skin, smearing crimson, and he stares at it for a second before shaking himself. He runs his hand down; over her neck, her shoulder, coming to rest below the collar bone and above her breast.
He pushes.
Her eyes widen at the pressure he exerts, and he can see her confusion, her uncertainty; she has not seen the weapon in his other hand.
Good.
Better for it to be over and done with before she knows it.
With a quick, deft thrust, the knife slides up and under the side of her ribcage, and shocked, she inhales sharply, mouth opening in a silent scream while the muted sound of air escaping fills the space between them.
She takes another raspy breath, deeper this time, and he idly notices the fluid beginning to stain the tunic she wears, seeping from the puncture wound he had just made.
Her next breath is steadier, and it should not sound as good to him as it does - it should not bring relief, and yet he feels lighter, like a burden has been lifted from him.
A pressure at the back of his mind that he was not even conscious of begins to ebb.
His gaze drops to the blade still gripped in his hand, and he stares, feeling her eyes on him now, and he marvels because he does not know where the knowledge of what he has just done has come from; images were forced into his mind, and his limbs acted them out without thought.
It was disconcerting, this loss of control.
"It's you," she says softly, her voice hoarse, and his eyes fly to hers.
His face hardens into something he hopes projects impassivity through the daze he finds himself in.
Of course it is him, he thinks.
For who else could it possibly be.
/
A/N: My longest chapter to date. Oof... is all I can say (I'm sorry!).
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.