The Samrai

By Badgergater

Category: Action/Adventure/Hurt/Comfort

Season: Indeterminate, but not 6 cuz Daniel’s in it

Episode: None

Spoilers: None really

Summary: Jack goes hunting with the natives, and hunts up trouble

Warnings: Violence, a bit of grossness

Rating: PG; Jack has a mouth on him when he’s mad

Pairing: None

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, but respectfully acknowledge the power of those that do...

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He lay in darkness, not knowing how he was still alive. Not knowing how much longer he would be alive. He could feel fresh blood flowing sluggishly, hot and sticky against his chill skin, and old blood, crusted and dry. How much was his, how much was the others', he didn't know. It didn't matter, though, because he knew death was close now, hovering just above his shoulder like a black cloud.

His mouth was desert dry.

His body was nothing more than a source of pain.

His breath was ragged and agonizing.

Long beyond rational thought, his world had shrunk to the desperate fight to draw another breath, and another. He had no air to call for help, to give voice to his suffering, or to pray.

He thought his eyes were open, but he could not tell. The darkness was complete. The air was fetid with the foulness of death. The dampness of blood soaked his clothes, caked in his hair, crusted his skin.

He wasn't sure what kept him going, how he kept going, only that, deep inside him there was a spark that refused to go out. It sputtered yes, like a candle buffeted by the wind, but the last tiny flame would not concede to the darkness.

Not yet.

But even Jack O'Neill had his limits.

And they were soon to be reached.

**********

Six days they'd been on the planet before everything went to hell in a handbasket.

Jack had liked the natives, at least the ones SG-1 had first met up with. While Carter and Daniel happily studied some ruins covered with inscriptions in symbols that seemed to be related to the writings of the Ancients, Jack had been spending his time with the tribal leader, Llaktal.

They'd been hunting and fishing, Jack riding the sturdy, pony-sized horses belonging to the tribe, even if he knew he looked more than slightly ludicrous with his long legs stretching nearly to the ground. That had been what he'd thought, when he first saw them, he thought wryly.

"Tomorrow, we go on the Great Hunt," Llaktal told Jack that morning as the warrior sat beside his fire, honing the long deadly sword he carried in a sheath at his hip.

"The Great Hunt?" Jack asked, curious.

"We hunt the most dangerous of prey, the Groktak." Llaktal looked up at his new friend. "You will come with us? You will baptize your blade? It is the mark of the true warrior, to bathe his blade in the blood of the Groktak."

Jack looked down at the sword he'd been presented at the tribal feast the night before, after he'd killed a bepta, one of the planet’s large, hog-like creatures, with a borrowed sword. Well, hog-like in appearance, if you pictured an oversized, aggressive wild boar the size, and temperament, of a rhino. "More dangerous?" Maybe he shouldn't, but then, Daniel had kept telling him to make nice with the natives, and refusing to hunt with them might be the insult to end all insults.

Besides, the whole thing had been an adrenaline rush of the kind he relished.

"Sure."

Llaktal smiled broadly, slapping O'Neill on the shoulder with one of his large, meaty hands. "Ah, that is wonderful, our new brother shall truly be one of us! A true Samrai! I will have Kotta prepare provisions for you. We leave within the hour, and shall return after the sun has set four times."

"Four days?" Jack suddenly wasn't so sure this had been such a good idea. Though he liked riding, since it beat the hell out of walking which did nothing for his sore knees, that many hours on horseback was bound to make his butt ache in ways his knees never had. "Oiy," he muttered softly.

"Is something wrong?" Llaktal frowned.

"No, no, just thinking I need to let my people know what's going on."

Llaktal's smile returned. "Good. They may remain here with the tribe, while we bring glory to the people, and seal the bond between the Tau'ri and the Samrai.”

*****

"Are you sure that's wise, Sir?" Carter asked, with a concerned frown, pulling her gaze away from the keyboard of her laptop.

"Llaktal wants me to go, become a real Samurai..."

"That's Samrai, Jack," Daniel corrected, nodding his head in agreement with the idea of his CO establishing a bond with their hosts. It wasn’t usually Jack’s sort of thing to do, but he did seem to fit right in with the proud hunters of this primitive tribe. "Jack bonding with the tribe will give us status in the negotiations," he reminded Sam. "It could be a huge advantage for us." He paused, looking over at the gray haired man. "But maybe you should take Teal'c with you."

Jack shook his head negatively. "You know Teal'c makes them uncomfortable. Besides, they don't have a horse big enough to carry him." He threw an apologetic look at the Jaffa. "Stay here, keep an eye on these two. I'll be fine."

O'Neill turned to leave.

"Jack, just don't have too much fun, okay?"

*****

It had been fun, O'Neill admitted at the end of the first day. Llaktal's daughter Akina had painted his face before they left, using streaks of charcoal, mottling his skin like Special Ops camouflage. He'd also been given a warrior's long leather shirt, decorated with fancy stitching. Once he pulled it on in place of his military-issue green cotton shirt, he realized he looked very much the part of the primitive warrior.

Mounting their ponies, the hunting party of nearly fifty men rode twice around the village, shouting and waving their weapons. Dust swirled upward as the women, children and old men stood outside their tents, cheering and waving, before the warriors finally rode away into the forest.

Llaktal set a steady pace. The ponies, though small, had a unique gait that wasn't a trot, but a smooth, super-fast walk that covered a lot of ground quickly, yet was easy for the rider. Even at that, after four hours, Jack's backside and legs hurt.

At mid-afternoon, they took a break. O'Neill was sure it was for the sake of the horses, but he was grateful for the chance to get off the steed and stretch his legs. The men broke out rations, and passed around a waterskin. Jack took it with a grin, and squeezed out a mouthful, fighting not to choke as the liquid turned out to be an unknown but definitely strong alcohol of some kind. It reminded him of Ska'ara's moonshine, back on that first return visit to Abydos.

The warriors laughed heartily at his reaction, clapping him on the back with glee, encouraging him to drink more. To save face, he squirted another stream into his mouth. Prepared this time, he swallowed it easily amid the cheers of the warriors.

All too soon, the break was over, the men remounting the ponies, and starting off once more.

They rode until well after dark, one of the men leading the way through the maze-like forest. When they finally made a hasty camp, no fires were lit, and a pair of guards were set to watch, patrolling the perimeter of the camp.

"Why the extra security?" Jack asked as he sat on the furs which had been included in his pack.

"We are near the land of the Groktak. We must use caution. They are clever."

"So, just what do these Groktak look like?"

Llaktal grinned. "Oh, you will know them when you see them, O'Neill."

The conversation left Jack with an uncomfortable feeling as he rolled into his blankets for the night.

*****

Their rest was short. Before dawn, the warriors began to stir. Again, no fires were lit, and the men ate a quick breakfast, quiet now, exchanged only a few words in hushed, low tones. Even the ponies seemed subdued as the men loaded their packs onto their saddles, checked their weapons, and mounted, riding off into the morning mist.

Hours more they rode in quiet through the still forest.

Finally, the man who was guiding them raised a hand high in the air, and the column stopped. Jack watched and waited as Llaktal and the man talked. Two men dismounted, trotting ahead stealthily while the others waited. Within a few minutes, they returned, exchanged words with Llaktal, and jumped back on their ponies.

Llaktal turned to the men, a feral grin on his face as he silently waved the hunting party forward.

As they moved, Jack caught a quick glimpse of sunlight through the trees ahead, there must be a clearing, he thought briefly. And then he had no more time to think as Llaktal suddenly clapped his heels to his pony's side, and the animal shot forward at a gallop, the whole column accelerating in his wake.

They flew down the trail, emerging from the forest into a wide open valley where tall slightly bluish grass grew several feet high, waving in the wind. Jack still hadn't seen their prey, still had no idea what they were hunting, even as the men around him shouted, waving their swords aloft.

Following their lead, letting his pony simply charge along at the heels of the others, O'Neill drew his sword. They cleared a small rise, splashed across a stream as icy water flew, and then he saw it...smoke spiraling upward in a lazy stream from a cluster of tents.

Jack jerked back on his horse's reins. "Son of a bitch..." This wasn't a hunting party, it was a raiding party, an attack on fellow humans, an attack he'd let himself get suckered into.

The horse didn't stop. The animal reared, nearly unseating O'Neill, then grabbed the bit in its teeth and charged after its companions, unwilling to be left behind.

And then it was too late, Jack's reluctance didn't matter, because warriors were running out of the tents, weapons in hands. Some sort of airborne missile, an arrow of a kind, he supposed, flew past Jack's ear. As they reached the village, the defenders, caught on foot, charged recklessly into the invading force, swinging long clubs and swords. Jack no longer had a choice, it was fight or die.

He fought, swinging the sword at a warrior who ran at him, knocking aside the man's club, delivering a blow with the flat of his weapon that drove his attacker to his knees. That was all he needed, as O'Neill's horse carried him on past that man, and he found himself facing another.

Jack fought with desperate fury, and then, with absolute horror, he saw a figure emerge from the largest tent in the middle of the village.

This man was no native.

O'Neill recognized the form as the figure strode calmly into the midst of the melee, clad in shining gaudy gold armor, carrying a tall staff. In his other hand, he held an equally familiar weapon.

Jack saw it, and futilely tried to turn his horse, tried to avoid the blast he knew was coming, but his efforts were too little, too late. With a flash bright as lightning, O'Neill saw the weapon go off, felt the shock wave hit, felt his horse stumble as both he and it lost consciousness due to the all-too familiar effect of a Go'auld shock grenade.

*****

O’Neill woke to darkness, well, he'd expected that, since he knew the first major effect of the stunned state was a literally blinding headache that would last half an hour or more. Lying still, senses straining, Jack tried to judge where he was and what was happening.

First, he realized that he was lying on his stomach, on damp grass, his hands bound uncomfortably tightly behind him. He could smell blood, and fear, and hear moans and harsh breathing around him, which meant he wasn't the only captive. There were quite a few, he thought, as the noise surrounded him on all sides.

Lying still, he waited impatiently for his eyesight to return.

"Grak tak mal shak tar. Kree!"

Oh shit.

He didn't understand the words, but he recognized the dialect, and the harsh, harmonic tone.

Goa'uld.

Son of a bitch.

Some of the men around him, the Samrai, were talking now.

"Quiet!" the Goa'uld voice ordered. He could hear heavy footsteps, then thudding and grunts followed by silence. Obviously, the speakers had been kicked into silence.

Time stretched.

The meadow was silent except for the ragged breathing of the men around him, an occasional cough or moan from one of the wounded, the soft sound of leathers scraping against the grass as someone moved, and the tread of guards who were walking around them.

Gradually, O'Neill's sight returned, hazy and gray at first, but it cleared rapidly. Opening his eyes a bare slit, all he could see was one of the Samrai warriors lying next to him. Loathe to lift his head and reveal that he could see, Jack stayed still.

Around him, the others stirred as their eyesight returned.

"Get up!"

The Groktak were moving among them now, grabbing onto the bound arms of their captives, pulling them to their feet. O'Neill could see that there were dozens of the Samrai around him, some bloody, most looking dazed, and all of them bound.

A hand grabbed Jack's arm, yanking him upward. He staggered on numbed legs, trying to catch his balance in the awkward bindings. As soon as all of the men were on their feet, the Groktak, at the urging of the Goa'uld, were pushing the men forward.

It was hard going. Jack stumbled as his feet caught in the tall, tangled grass, sliding to his knees. A Groktak approached, not offering help, but jabbing at the gray haired man with the tip of his sword.

Jack swung his head at his tormenter, snarling in futile rage, struggling to get his legs under himself. Relentlessly, they were marched into the village, into an area fenced off by sturdy, upright tree trunks, one that, by the smell, had previously held horses. Now, it held the remnants of the Samrai raiding party, and one thoroughly pissed United States Air Force Colonel.

As Jack spun to watch, the gate was swung shut and latched behind them. Several Groktak warriors, spears in hand, stood watch beside it. “Hey, how about untying us?” Jack shouted at them.

His request was ignored.

Around him, the warriors sank down to the ground. Some were wounded, others looked simply defeated.

O’Neill walked over to the fence, kicking at several posts only to discover that they were very well seated.

Meanwhile, his long, agile fingers were trying to get hold of the binding on his wrists. Looking at the others, he could see that the material appeared to be a thin, sturdy vine. Unable to get at the knot with his fingers, O’Neill pulled and twisted his wrists, trying to break the material, or loosen it.

His efforts accomplished neither. Whatever the stuff was, it was not only tough, tight and unyielding, it was sharp. A sudden stinging pain made him gasp. “Shit,” he muttered as suddenly he could feel the warmth of blood sliding down onto his hands.

Finally, unable to do anything else, he paced back and forth along the fence, peering out through the tiny gaps between posts, but the guards ignored him and none of the villagers came close.

He didn’t see the Goa’uld again either.

Frustrated, he turned from the fence and went in search of Llaktal.

The man was seated in the far end of the enclosure, staring listlessly downwards.

“Llaktal, what the hell is happening here?”

The tribal leader looked up at O’Neill, his warrior’s eyes dull and dead with defeat. “We have been captured.”

“That I knew.” Jack twisted at the waist, showing his bound hands. “What’s with this? Leaving us tied up like this.”

“We have been captured. We are no more.”

“What? No more what?”

Llaktal continued to look down. “We are no more. We are the dead.”

Jack shook his head angrily at the defeatist attitude he wouldn’t have expected from the proud warrior. “We are *not* dead, at least I’m not, and you’re not either, or the rest of these guys. We should be working on a way to get out of here. Starting with getting our hands free. Then we can try for some diversion, make a run for it.”

“We cannot. We are no more….”

“Would you just cut it out with the ‘we are no more’ nonsense! We are here, I’m right here in front of you, and I for one am *not* about to just calmly accept being locked up in a horse corral like, like, like, like a horse.”

“We can do nothing. We are no more.”

“Oh for cryin’ out loud! Just get up and try to untie my hands, huh?” Jack turned his back to the man.

Llaktal did not move.

“Okay, then I’ll untie your hands.”

“It does not matter.”

“To hell it doesn’t,” Jack steamed. “In case you haven’t noticed, we are in big trouble here. We’re tied up, and locked up, and those guys have weapons. And on top of that, the guy with the knockout weapon, he’s a Gould…”

Llaktal’s expression looked bewildered.

“Gould? Big tall guy with armor, gaudy over-the-top gold outfit, and a staff weapon, long spear thingy that shoots fire…”

Llaktal nodded. “Shalgak, the God of war. Yes, we are prisoners of the god.”

“He’s no damn god.”

Llaktal turned his face up to meet the eyes of the off-worlder. “You do not know. You are new to the Samrai. He is a god. He will work his will on us.”

“Look, I may not be from this planet, but I’ve met his kind before, on other planets, and he’s no damn god. Get that through your head…”

“He can work magic.”

“It’s not magic anymore than my gun is,” a gun he was desperately wishing right then that he had in his hand. He didn’t know where it was. Last he’d seen it, it had been in his pack, on his horse, who might be halfway back to the Samrai village by this time. “Listen, he’s *not* a god, how many times do I have to tell you that? He pretends to be one, he uses his tricks to fool you, but he’s an alien, a creature hiding inside the body of a man…”

But Llaktal was no longer listening. Still seated on the ground, he began rocking back and forth, chanting to drown out the stranger’s words he did not want to hear.

The others began joining in the chant.

The sound sent a chill shuddering down Jack’s spine, because he was suddenly quite sure that what he was hearing was their death song.

*************

O’Neill spent the better part of the next hour with his back against the fence, working his hands up and down the rough hewn wood, trying to shred the bindings. As far as he could tell, he didn’t accomplish anything except ripping most of the skin off his wrists.

He couldn’t convince any of the others to try.

Finally, he sank down to the ground, and tried to think of something else.

**********

The day passed slowly, the heat of the midday sun rising steadily. The prisoners were not brought food, or water.

By mid-afternoon, Jack’s shoulders were an agony of cramped muscles. He struggled to his feet, twisting at the waist as he walked, lifting his arms, then moving them as far side to side as he could, attempting to relieve the muscles spasms, but it did little good as long as his arms were locked into the rigid, uncomfortable position.

Evening fell. The captives were still ignored, as if the village denied their existence. The only sign that anyone remembered them at all was the silent presence of the guards. As the sun sank below the horizon, O’Neill was glad for the cooler air. Soon, however, the air began to chill. The men huddled together, trying to share their meager warmth.

It was a long and miserable night. He’d endured worse. He could endure this, Jack reminded himself grimly.

*********

The sun was just rising when the Groktak warriors approached the pen where the Samrai were held. The Goa’uld stood well back, near the center of the village, staff weapon in hand, watching silently, as the Samrai were prodded to their feet and marched across the meadow. Once again, the captives made no move to escape, shuffling along, heads down, shoulders slumped in defeat.

That wasn’t his way. Jack watched, noting how the guards seemed to be lulled by the passivity of the Samrai. Inconspicuously keeping his own head down, he looked for the chance to make a break, his gaze sweeping the grass, checking the location of the Groktak warriors, judging distances and angles.

He had no chance to escape, surrounded by the other captives who plodded along in abject defeat. "Run when I yell," he whispered, but none of their heads or eyes turned his way, and he didn't know if they'd heard, or would heed his words or follow his lead.

It didn't matter, Jack O'Neill was pretty sure where they were going and why, and he wanted no part of it.

Determined to make a run for it, alone if he had to, the man from Earth watched the guards with one eye, making his way carefully toward the edge of the group, plotting a break as they approached the treeline.

They were only some fifty yards from the forest when Jack decided it was time.

"Go!" he shouted, and ducked left, running toward the trees as fast as he could. From the corner of his eye, he saw only a few others join his desperate flight, scattered figures racing toward the trees.

Running hard, his feet tangled in the tall grass, and with hands bound, he wasn't able to catch his balance. Jack landed hard on his chest, rolling toward his feet. The fall saved his life, momentarily at least, as the blast of a staff weapon flashed through the air so close he felt its heat sear his skin. Scrambling to his knees, skidding and sliding, he heard someone come up behind him. O'Neill feinted left, then spun right, his knee catching even as he heard the whistle of a weapon slicing through air. Before he could react something thunked him solidly in the shoulder, sending him crashing to the ground.

Dazed, he couldn't resist as hands grabbed him roughly by the upper arms, dragging him back toward the others and on toward a cleared area where the Samrai were already being herded.

O'Neill was pushed to his knees, the other men ordered to kneel around him, the Groktak stepping back, forming a line beside the Goa'uld.

Jack's stomach curled as he realized what was about to happen.

Llaktal and some of the warriors realized it, too.

The Samrai leader raised his eyes, turning to look over at Jack, eyes dark and intense, but staying stoically silent.

Apparently, such action wasn't unheard of among the natives, O'Neill realized.

No one of them was about to beg for his life.

So maybe they wouldn't beg, but damned if Jack O'Neill was going to die on his knees, he thought, surging upward.

The Goa'uld fired his staff weapon.

Jack ducked instinctively, but the shot wasn't aimed at him. He smelled the sickly sweet stench of burnt flesh, the coppery smell of blood, as a body, Llaktal's body, was thrown into him, knocking him over and pinning him to the ground. As he fell, O'Neill heard the crackling energy of the staff weapon discharging again and again.

"Ensure they are dead!" the Goa'uld ordered.

More sounds then, sounds he didn't recognize, and then a shadow moved above him and he heard the distinctive sound of a blade penetrating flesh and withdrawing.

Before he could move, he felt the body lying atop him shudder, and then something razor sharp tore into him, and he bit his lip not to cry out before the rushing blackness consumed him.

*****

O’Neill woke, startled.

He was surprised to be alive. Disoriented, it took him a long time to sort through the scattered thoughts that swirled around in his recently unconscious brain. Battle. Capture. Goa’uld. Executions. Staff weapons fire, followed by the mop-up crew administering the coupe de gras via swordpoint.

Plain and simple, he should be dead.

The only thing he could surmise was that the sword blade had pierced Llaktal's body first, so instead of skewering him through and through, it had only penetrated a few inches into his chest.

Not that it would make much difference in the long run.

It would just mean a longer, slower death.

He was pinned under a multitude of bodies. The Groktak must have piled the dead atop each other, on top of their leader, who had fallen on O'Neill, saving his life.

In the short term.

His bitter laugh turned into a gasping painful choking for air that wasn’t there.

The pain in his chest was a constant. He felt like there was a heavy blanket all but smothering him, and every breath sent a sharp pain stabbing through him. He desperately wanted to sit up, to clear his clogged air passages, to breathe deeply enough to fill his lungs.

What he really wanted was to stop hurting and for all the weight of those dead bodies to get the hell off of him, and for someone to untie his wrists, so he wouldn’t die all wrapped up like some human pretzel.

He nearly laughed again, at the thought of Jack, the Tau’ri pretzel.

Which told him how far gone toward insanity he was.

And that thought prompted him to try once more to take a deep breath, and then he wanted to cry, at how bad it hurt, and how alone he was, and how stupid this all was, to be here, buried alive beneath all those who’d been killed. But Jack O’Neill didn’t cry. First, because it was something his Granddad had told him long ago, that shedding tears wasn’t what a real man did; and second, because there wasn’t enough moisture left in his body to be wasting it on something so useless as crying, out loud or otherwise.

So buck up, Airman, and get yourself out of this mess.

He tried.

With a herculean effort, twisting his shoulders, digging into the soft dirt with his toes, pushing with his legs, he gained an inch, and another, and then the bodies piled atop him shifted, pinning him once more.

Bastards.

They were supposed to be his friends, helping him, not holding him here, not holding him down for death to claim him.

Anger flashed through him, and gave him strength.

Pushing once more, he slid forward several more inches. The body lying atop him shifted again, and stiff now with rigor mortis, slid sideways. Feeling cool, fresh air brushing against his back, Jack pulled up his knees, wiggling his shoulders upward. Teeth gritted, his mouth fixed in a snarl of anger mixed with pain, he pushed his upper body away from the ground.

Pain tore through him, and he couldn’t suppress the hoarse groan that rolled from his swollen throat. His chest screamed with pain, his knees, held so long in one position, wobbled and threatened to spill him back into the reeking pile. Stubborn will held him up, forcing the pain aside as he made himself concentrate on the impossible task of getting somewhere close to upright.

He managed to lift his shoulders upward, get his head free and clear as he swayed, on his knees. Jack desperately wanted to suck in a lungful of the fresh air after hours of the foulness of death, but he knew that would be painfully stupid. Instead, he forced himself to take shallow breaths, trying to clear his nose and mouth of the fetid odors of decay.

As he gave his battered body a chance to adjust to the new vertical position, he realized that it was night. Above him, stars swam in an inky black sky, shedding only a miniscule light on the eerily quiet meadow. There was no noise from the village, no light of a watchfire, no smoke smell in the air, though he wasn’t sure the odors of death weren’t masking them.

He could see the village, or where the village had been. There were no tents there now, no sign of the pony herd.

The Groktak were gone.

The Goa’uld was gone.

That was good.

Now, if only he could only find the strength to make use of the fact.

Water was his first priority. He remembered the stream that the charging Samrai had crossed. The water had to be nearby.

He had to get there.

Gathering himself, he planned his next move. If he pulled his right foot forward, placing it flat on the ground, then he needed to pull his left foot forward and shift his balance to stand. God, it would be so much easier if only his hands were free, if his muscles weren’t already quivering with weakness, if he weren’t so dizzy and thirsty.

If. If. If.

Nasty word, if.

He’d lived with that other if, that big honkin’ one, the one relating to that day at his house, his son and his gun…if only…

He knew all about ifs.

And this was no time for ifs.

Jack ordered his right foot forward. For a moment, it began to comply, to slide along the grassy ground, and then it caught on something. He really couldn’t see what in the dark, but it seemed like it was a hand, grabbing at him.

A dead hand.

Dead hands don’t…

Looking down, he looked into Llaktal’s eyes.

For a moment, they seemed to be staring back at him, accusing him.

He panicked.

Biting back a scream of horror, he jerked his foot again, harder, and this time, it popped loose, too quickly for his fragile balance. O’Neill fell forward, smacking down solidly on his injured chest. Agony exploded, and he never felt his face hit the ground, or the fresh blood begin welling from the reopened wound.

Evening had fallen in the Samrai camp. Daniel and Sam had spent another long but fruitful day studying the inscriptions on the ancient temple. Supper finished, they sat side by side in the tent they’d been given, staring intently at Sam’s laptop.

“I really think that’s a Goa’uld, although it’s a name I’ve never heard of… Shalgak,” Daniel was paging through his notebook.

“Are you sure you translated it right?” Sam questioned.

“Yes. Shalgak.” He shook his head, the firelight reflecting off his glasses.

“So maybe it’s not a Goa’uld?” Sam turned toward the alien member of SG-1. “Teal’c?”

Teal’c spoke up quietly from the far side of the tent where he was performing his evening ritual of kel’ no reem. “We have met other Goa’uld whose names were not of your Earth gods, have we not? Klorel, for one.”

“True,” Daniel nodded in agreement. “But rarely.”

“I have never heard the name before, but neither have I heard the name of this planet.” Teal’c added.

“So, what, this is some backwater planet that the System Lords have bypassed?”

“Indeed, such could be the case, DanielJackson.”

The archaeologist nodded. “So there was a minor Goa’uld here at one time…”

“The question is, is he still here?” Carter wondered.

The scientist and the scholar continued their quiet discussion as they reviewed the day’s notes, Sam inputting data into the computer.

They were preparing to turn in for the night when they heard the pounding of hoofbeats, then frantic shouting.

Teal’c’s eyes snapped open and he leaped to his feet, hands reaching automatically for his staff weapon. “Something is amiss.”

Sam grabbed her P-90, and stepped out the door behind the Jaffa, Daniel following on her heels.

The shouting increased, and as the three SG-1 team members walked toward the center of the village, an awful scream was heard, following by wailing cries and even more hoarse shouts.

“Something’s wrong,” Carter insisted, and began running toward the noise.

They arrived at the center of the village only to find chaos. Many natives were on their knees, wailing and crying. The few remaining young men who hadn’t gone with the hunting party were looking around with wild eyes, gesturing and shouting orders.

“What’s happening?” Daniel asked of one of the women, who could only look up at him and burst into tears. “What’s wrong?” he asked of another, and another, getting no answer.

Finally, they reached the cleared space in front of Llaktal’s roomy horsehide tent. Akina was bent over her mother’s form, Kotta lying flat on the ground, sobbing.

Nearby, Daniel noted a sweat stained, exhausted looking pony, and leaning against it, a young warrior he recognized as one of those who had gone with the hunting party.

“What happened?” Daniel grabbed the man’s shoulder. “Where are the others? Where’s Jack?”

The young man, blood smeared on his face, looked at them with despair. “They are dead. They are all dead, Llaktal and your friend and all the warriors…”

“Dead?” Carter’s voice shook with shock.

“We were ambushed.”

“By whom?” Teal’c demanded.

“The Groktak. The God of War was on the side of the Groktak…”

“The God of *War*? I thought that was a hunting party,” Daniel demanded.

The native nodded, still trying to catch his breath. “We hunt the Groktak, they hunt us. It is our way for many generations. Llaktal believed, with the aid of the warrior spirit of your Colonel, that we could defeat them. We rode to their village, and sprang the attack, taking them by surprise. And then… then the God of War revealed himself…”

Sam’s stomach lurched as a terrible realization hit her, and she turned to Daniel.

“This God of War, does he have a name?” the archaeologist asked.

“Shalgak.”

“Damn it!” Carter cursed.

“What has happened to O’Neill and the warriors?” Teal’c questioned.

“The Shalgak used his magic, and a ball of lightning struck them down.”

“How did you escape?” Carter demanded.

“My pony was lame, and I feel behind the hunting party. I was only to the edge of their village when the lightning struck. Somehow, I was spared. Perhaps the god did not see me. In the confusion, I fled into the forest.”

“He killed them all? With the lightning?” Daniel asked in a shaky voice.

“No. The lightning knocked them down, men and horses together fell to the ground as if dead. But I saw them stir…”

“So they’re not dead!” Daniel’s eyes gleamed with hope.

“They were captured, and, at dawn, sent to the Darkness.”

“What? What does that mean?” SG-1’s archaeologist demanded.

“At dawn, the warriors of Samrai were marched into the place of death, and struck down, not to rise again.”

“How?” Carter was still searching for answers.

“Shalgak used his rod of fire to burn them.”

“A staff weapon? Like this?” Teal’c held his weapon forward for the warrior to see.

The man nodded.

Sam’s face had gone pale. “So they were all executed?”

“Yes, killed, all of them, their bodies left for the scavengers.”

“You are sure O’Neill was among them?” Teal’c’s question was uttered in a soft and disbelieving voice.

“Yes. I saw him among the captives.” The man’s eyes rolled in fear as he watched the frantic activity swirling around them. People were already gathering up their ponies and striking their tents. “We must move now, find a new camp, salvage what we can of the tribe before the Groktak find us, and destroy us. We are too few now to defend our families.”

Teal’c stared as the man, still leaning on the small horse, staggered away toward the tents. Around the stunned Stargate travelers, frantic activity was going on in the camp as they hurried to pack necessities before fleeing.

For long moments, nothing was said by the contingent from Earth.

“We need to get back to the gate and report this to General Hammond,” the stunned Major stated at last.

Teal’c shook his head. “I will not believe O’Neill is dead until I see his body for myself. I will search for him.”

“Teal’c, you can’t go alone,” Daniel objected.

“I will not leave him behind,” the Jaffa answered, stubbornly. “You may go to the gate if you so wish. I shall not.” With that, he turned and began walking briskly back toward their tent to gather up his gear.

Daniel looked from Carter to Teal’c, then shrugged, and turned, jogging after the Jaffa.

Carter followed.

*****

Awareness came slowly and painfully. Disoriented, Jack lay still for a long time, trying to remember where he was and why he was lying in the grass and what that god awful smell was, and why he couldn’t move his hands, and why it hurt to breathe and why his mouth was bone dry and wondering why the hell he still cared.

He did.

With his swollen tongue, he tried to lick dry cracked lips.

Water.

He had to get to the water.

O’Neill pulled his right knee up, and then his left, pausing to steady himself with shallow breaths because the one and only deep breath he’d taken had been so agonizing it had nearly caused him to pass out. Silently counting to three, he drew his left leg up and forward, planting his foot firmly on the ground, pushing upward. He dragged his right leg forward, catching his balance.

Upright.

There, see, no big deal.

Yeah, right.

It was hard to get his bearings in the darkness, but he was pretty sure the village had been over that way, which meant the stream should be right over there.

Staggering like a drunken sailor, he managed one step, and two, barely avoiding tripping again over another body. Somehow, he was able to keep his feet, shuffling forward, unable to get fully vertical because the wound in his chest, the awkward position of his bound arms, and the constricted muscles of his back and shoulders flat out wouldn’t let him.

Still, the cool night air felt good on his face as he made another half dozen steps, gaining confidence with each halting stride. Pull one foot forward, check your balance, catch your breath; pull the other foot forward, check your balance, catch your breath. He thought he had it all under control, and then the tangled mass of the long meadow grass tripped him up. Sliding to his knees, landing with a bone jarring impact that drove the breath from his lungs with an audible “Ahhh,” he wavered, head down, kneeling for long minutes.

Finally, once he could breathe again, Jack pushed himself to his feet and stumbled onward.

He lost count of how many times he fell. Hell, he didn’t want to count. Though the grass was soft, there were rocks scattered across the ground, and he knew the knees of his trousers were shredded while the skin beneath them was bruised and lacerated.

Each time he fell, he got up.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Falling once more, landing bruisingly hard on his already battered knees, he lay still, cheek pressed into the moist soil, unable to muster the strength to try again. He closed his eyes, the pain overwhelming him for a moment, sapping his will, that traitorous little voice whispering in the back of his skull, telling him it was all futile.

Telling him that it was time to give up.

Urging him to quit.

Call it a day.

Let it end.

He was wounded and exhausted, and alone.

So very alone.

So very far from home.

Too far.

He was only human.

No one expected him to do the impossible.

It wouldn’t be so freakin’ hard if only he could move his arms, use them to balance, to catch himself when he fell; if they weren’t another source of misery adding to the overwhelming total. Regardless of the inevitable consequences, he jerked his arms as hard as he could, trying to pull them free.

His bonds held.

He bit back a cry of pain and frustration, turning the sound into a croaking noise that resembled laughter, mad laughter.

And turned it into anger, anger at the bindings that held him all twisted, anger at the pain that drained his energy, anger at himself and his pitiful weakness.

Anger at this world and those people and that freakin’ snake.

Anger.

Hatred.

Powerful forces.

He’d used them before, to survive, to overcome impossible odds.

Jack O’Neill wasn’t going to go out with a whimper.

Hell, no.

Yeah, maybe he’d die this time.

But he’d die on his feet.

Die trying.

Die hard.

Somehow, he dredged up one more effort, reeled upright, and stumbled onward.

Jack could see the edge of the stream now, the water a black ribbon in the dark meadow, hear the small sounds it made as it tumbled over the rocks, smell its lifegiving freshness.

Staggering blindly forward, he fell once more, the enticing water just a few feet away. Crawling, heedless of the cold bite of the water on the raw flesh of his knees, he sank down into the stream. Bending over to drink, O’Neill nearly fell face first into the liquid, barely catching himself.

Despite his raging thirst, he drank only a mouthful, sucking the liquid between dry cracked lips, savoring it as he let the precious moisture sink into the desiccated tissues of his mouth. He took a second mouthful, rolling it around on his tongue before swallowing it cautiously. His aching throat was so constricted he could hardly swallow it, but he felt the coolness trickle down and land jarringly in his empty stomach.

Forcing himself to deny the urge to gulp down more, he sipped slowly, sinking back to sit on his butt in the water. He let his hands dip down into the liquid, its coolness easing the bite of the raw patches on his wrists where they had swollen against the bindings.

He stayed there a long time, until the glorious relief of the water gave way to reality. He could once more feel his aching chest, feel the cold seeping into his hips and thighs, the burning of the open cuts on his knees and the stinging of raw flesh on his abraded wrists.

Finally, shivering , thirst assuaged and feeling stronger, O’Neill once again forced his battered body upright. He lurched out of the water, across the sandy far bank, toward the woods, and the trees and shelter.

Funny, he’d made a cranky remark once about trees, and everyone seemed to think he didn’t much like trees, but hell, they could be a man’s best friend, well, almost. They provided shade from the sun, and shelter from the rain, and a place to hide. True, your enemies could hide there, too, but that just meant you had to hide better than they did.

Nearly to the trees, Jack suddenly felt his wrists slide further apart. He stopped, swaying on his feet, surprised. Twisting his hands, he pulled, and felt the binding give. With a jerk, his hands popped free.

What should have been a relief, wasn’t.

His arms flopped forward, but after more than a day fixed in the rigid position, his muscles couldn’t tolerate the movement. The dull numb ache that had been his shoulders and arms suddenly roared to life, threatening to overwhelm the steady throb of his painful chest.

He collapsed, falling to his knees, then sliding down to sit on his butt. Gritting his teeth, he pulled his arms forward, into his lap, fighting the tears that swelled in his eyes, the scream that wanted to erupt from his throat. Agony raced through muscles, tendons, joints as he slid down to lie flat on the ground, shaking. The movement aggravated the pain in his chest. Jack could feel warm, fresh blood seeping out of the wound.

He had to do something about that; he could, now that his hands were free.

He could tear a piece off his shirt, and make a bandage.

Jack wanted to laugh. Yeah, right, rip it with his teeth? His hands were throbbing, tingling as the circulation returned, his arms so weak he probably couldn’t lift a feather. Finally, with nothing else to do, he rolled onto his right side, pinning the wound beneath him, against his arm, hoping the pressure of his body would stem the bleeding.

A long time he lay unmoving, waiting for the pain to dissolve, for his muscles to regain enough strength so he could move his arms. At long last, he was able to lift his left arm and place his hand against the wound, holding it tightly.

When it got light, he’d take a look, not that he wanted to of course, but it was what you did. Maybe he could find a sharp rock and tear a piece from his shirt.

And maybe pigs would fly.

He’d seen weirder things in the universe, actually.

O’Neill hadn’t meant to sleep, but, as he contemplated his next move, exhaustion overtook him and he drifted away.

*************

By the time SG-1 had hastily gathered up their weapons and packs, the Samrai camp was already on the move.

The three teammates didn’t bid farewell to their hosts, but set off down the trail long before dawn, following the directions Teal’c had secured from the raiding party’s only survivor.

They traveled in stony silence, each alone with his or her thoughts, all of them disbelieving that their leader could have met such a fate, each fearing what they would find at the end of their journey.

The sun rose, bringing the forest to life around them. None of them noticed its beauty, not that grim day.

The rising sun roused him.

Jack shuddered, groaning as he rolled onto his left side, his left hand instinctively going to clutch the wound on the right side of his chest. Closing his eyes in concentration, he braced himself with his right hand and got into a sitting position.

An awful stench, as of something several days dead, assaulted his nostrils, making him gag. Forcing himself to breathe steadily through his nose, he fought down the nausea. First, he thought the wind must be blowing towards him from the carrion pile he’d left. And then he made the awful realization that the smell was all over him, his clothes, his hair, his skin. Not even last night’s immersion in the stream had lessened the stench. It was going to take a real scrubbing and a bucket of soap.

Moving cautiously, bit by bit, he managed to work his way to his feet, and stagger back to the stream. Once again, he drank, drinking more, washing his face with his hands. Damn, it was hot for so early in the day, he was sweating already. It was going to be another scorchingly hot day.

And he had no way to carry water with him.

Delaying the decision on whether to stay near the water, and wait for rescue, or attempt the trip back to the Samrai camp, Jack decided first he needed to bandage the wound in his chest. Sitting down carefully along the edge of the water, he fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, his fingers still stiff from long disuse. Finally managing to open his shirt, he discovered it was glued to his skin by copious amounts of dried blood.

Not good.

Grasping the fabric firmly, before he could change his mind, he ripped the cloth away from his body. “God!” he swore, fighting back another wave of dizziness that threatened to spill him back to unconsciousness.

After a minute of fruitless cursing, which didn’t make the pain stop but did oddly enough make him feel better, he slid the cloth back and looked at the wound.

“Shit.”

He should have known. It had been a couple of days now, and the wound, though only a small slit perhaps an inch long, pierced the skin of his chest about five inches below his armpit, and near the outer edge of his ribs. The puckered skin around it, what little he could see beneath the crusted black of old dried blood, was bright red and hot to the touch, swollen and shiny.

Hurting like hell.

Infected.

Damn.

Jack used the hem of the long native shirt he wore over his BDUs, soaking it in the stream. Once it was saturated, he brought it up to his chest and squeezed the water from it. It felt cool against his skin, and was soon running down his side in pink-tinted rivulets. Eventually, he managed to wash off the worst of the gore in the area immediately around the wound.

A bandage was next, and the long shirt was all he had. He tried to tear it along the seams, but Kotta or Akina, whoever had sewn it, had made it strong. Then again, maybe he was just that weak, he thought, shaking his head. Giving up on the idea of ripping the garment apart, he finally settled for awkwardly wrapping the whole thing around his chest.

Muscles shaking with fatigue, sweat dampening his face and hair, he rested, thinking.

He had two choices, both of them ugly: stay and wait for rescue, or try to make his way back to the camp.

If he stayed, and no one came, he’d probably die of the infection in his wound long before starvation claimed him.

If he started back, he’d probably die of the infection in his wound long before he found help.

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t, O’Neill.

Part of him desperately wanted to go with option one, stay lying here in the grass, with plenty of water to drink.

His ever present self-preservation instinct, however, was already shouting in his ear that to lie here was to die, so he might as well have stayed in that pile of dead bodies and saved himself the agony of staggering this far, because the rule of survival was always, move or die.

Why couldn’t he ever ignore that stubborn voice inside his own head?

Drinking his fill, he turned away from the water and into the forest.

They had come this way. Though he was a stranger to the planet, Jack had the true outdoorsman’s knack for directions. Honed by years of military missions, on world and off, often at night, often on the lam, often through hostile territory, Jack always knew the way home.

Getting there, of course, was all too often another story.

On the edge of the forest, he found a long, stout stick and using it as a walking stick to help balance himself, Jack began his long trek.

*****

Teal’c had taken point, leading his comrades along a well-worn path. The imprints of the unshod feet of dozens of ponies were plain… the path of the ill-fated raiding party.

After several hours of steady, brisk walking, Teal’c raised his hand, signaling the others to halt. “Tendal explained to me that we could take this path,” he nodded toward a tiny, barely discernable track that turned off the main trail. “It is a shortcut that the ponies could not use, but one which we can traverse on foot. He stated that we will save a considerable distance, but there is one extremely steep climb.”

“If it’ll save us time, I vote for it,” Daniel Jackson agreed.

“Go for it, Teal’c,” Major Carter nodded.

For hours they toiled through the forest before coming to the base of a cliff. There they found a narrow, steep path. Roping themselves together, they climbed as quickly as they could, and set off once more, finding another dim trail. “This will take us to the Groktak’s camp. We must be cautious, and make no excess noise. While Tendal believes the Groktak will have long since departed from the valley, he could not be sure.”

*****

Aching with weariness, Daniel walked doggedly onward, following Teal’c’s broad back. He tried not to think about what they might find at the end of their journey. First, of course, they ran the risk of encountering a large force of hostile natives. And second, they were going to find bodies.

Just so Jack’s body wasn’t among them.

Behind him, Carter also walked silently. Warily scanning the woods, she couldn’t keep her mind from drifting back to the terrified image of the Samrai warrior, and his description of Goa’uld weaponry used to stun, and then kill, the raiders. She could do nothing but hope that her CO wasn’t among the dead.

They were getting close to the valley when they heard a noise to the left of the trail. Working their way cautiously toward the unidentified sounds, they discovered one of the native ponies. The animal’s trailing reins were caught in the limbs of a downed tree. It still carried its saddle and the gear of its vanished Samrai rider.

Speaking softly, Teal’c walked up to the animal, which nickered softly at him.

“Should we turn it loose?” Daniel asked.

Carter was about to agree when the Jaffa dissented. “The animal may be useful to us, in transporting a body.”

*****

He didn’t realize when the fever driven hallucinations started.

Jack knew he was hot, hellishly hot. Sweat rolled down his face in rivulets, stinging his eyes and the cuts on his face; down his arms, and his back. He would walk, and then stumble to his knees, staying there for long moments before his brain broke through the haze of fever and pain, forcing him to his feet once more.

Walk, stumble, fall, get up. Walk stumble, fall get up.

Endlessly, he repeated the movements, something he no longer understood driving him forward, forcing him back to his feet, demanding he go on.

Under the canopy of trees, he didn’t notice the darkening sky. The first raindrops felt cool against his skin, refreshing. As the rainfall intensified, he tilted his head back, opening his mouth, letting the rain fill his mouth.

*****

“Damn!”

“Sam?” Daniel stopped, turning back to look at his teammate.

“Look at that.” She pointed ahead to where a small gap in the trees showed the sky overhead turning a threateningly dark shade, clouds billowing and roiling, heavy with rain.

“Rain will wash away tracks, obscure our search,” Teal’c’s solemn voice sounded especially grim. “We must hurry.”

They were too late. By the time they reached the edge of the meadow, the storm had already passed it by. The landscape was dotted with puddles, the trails slick with mud, rivulets of water washing along them, smoothing over the tracks Jack O’Neill’s military issue boots had made as he entered the forest.

Teal’c paused at the edge of the woods, studying the empty valley. “There is no sign of life here.”

“The Samrai said the Groktak would most likely attack, so they’d move their camp, wouldn’t they?” Carter questioned.

“Indeed, it is unlikely they would stay in this place.” With that, Teal’c stepped forward into the open, treading on the wet grass.

They’d gone only a few dozen yards when they smelled it.

“Oh God, what’s that?” Daniel, gagging, had one hand over his mouth.

“Something has died,” Teal’c answered bluntly. “Over there.”

Walking carefully, watching for the enemy, the three teammates made their way across a small stream. An area of trampled grass, littered with the ashes of old campfires, animal bones and other trash revealed to them where the village had been.

Nearly to the other side of the meadow, they saw the bodies, and stopped.

“Oh no,” Sam muttered.

The bodies were bloated and blackened now, beyond recognition, barely discernable as human. Scavengers of some sort had torn at them, making the carnage even worse.

The smell was unbearable. They tied their bandannas over their noses and mouths, but even then, they inhaled the stench of death with every breath.

“You may stay here,” Teal’c pointed to an area well away from the bodies. “I will search.”

“But how will you?…” Daniel let the rest of the question hang in the air, unspoken. “He was, he was wearing clothes like the Samrai.”

“O’Neill was wearing his boots.”

“And he had his other gear, his watch, and… dogtags. Maybe they wouldn’t have taken it all,” she added hopefully.

“Perhaps, MajorCarter.”

She nodded.

Teal’c walked up to the remains, prodding at them with the end of his staff weapon. Finally, after long minutes, he wiped the weapon on the wet grass, and returned to the others.

“I could not find him among the bodies.”

“So maybe the Goa’uld took him prisoner,” Daniel’s thoughts raced with sudden hope. “If Shalgak saw that Jack was different, maybe he didn’t kill him.”

“Tendal said the Colonel was in the group that was marched out to be executed.” Teal’c looked down, then raised his gaze to meet the grim stares of his teammates. “It is possible that he was there. I saw a shirt like those that we wear, on one of the bodies, but I did not find his boots. The bodies were badly damaged. It appears some parts may have been taken away by the scavengers…”

“So we don’t know?” Sam asked, very quietly.

“We do not,” Teal’c said, very matter-of-factly.

“What are we going to do?” Daniel looked from one to the other of his teammates. “We can’t just give up…”

“I shall not,” Teal’c promised. “I will reconnoiter the area, and search for other clues.”

They split up, Teal’c taking one area to study, Sam and Daniel the other. Long, fruitless hours they searched the area where the Groktak tents had stood, and the path by which the natives had left. Frustrated, they decided to take a break, and it was Daniel who picked a spot along the stream.

Sam and Daniel sat on a pair of large, flat rocks, toying with their food, unable to eat. Teal’c stood nearby, his expression troubled, or what passed for troubled on the ever-stoic countenance.

“Teal’c…” Carter began.

“I do not feel like resting, Major Carter,” he told them, and began to walk along the creek bank.

The sign was so small that even his keen eyes almost missed it, half-hidden under a sandbank that had probably sheltered and preserved it from the rain.

A footprint.

A bootprint.

A United States Air Force bootprint.

Teal’c very nearly smiled.

“Major Carter, Daniel Jackson!” he called.

Dropping their meals, they ran to the Jaffa.

Teal’c pointed to the remnant of a bootprint. “O’Neill was here. ”

“But how do you know if it was after the others were killed?” Carter always needed evidence, it was how her scientific mind worked.

“I cannot say for sure, but I believe the track was made recently. I shall search for more.”

Once again, the trio began carefully walking in concentric circles, studying the ground, searching.

This time, it was Daniel who found the other path into the forest, and there, protected by the overhanging trees, were several more partial prints.

“O’Neill has started on this path for the village of the Samrai, the one the warriors would have used to arrive here,” Teal’c exclaimed, bending down to study the path closely. His near-smile, however, turned quickly to a frown as his eyes followed the tracks.

Carter’s smile dimmed. “Teal’c, what’s wrong?”

“The strides are erratic. And there,” the Jaffa pointed ahead several feet to where a smeared handprint was clearly visible next to more footprints, “O’Neill fell. And there is blood.” Teal’c raised his face to the others. “We must hurry. He is wounded, perhaps badly.”

It was easy to follow the tracks. Though in some places where the trees thinned the rain had washed away the footprints, most places they were easy to see, and revealed the man’s poor condition. Rarely did the tracks follow a straight line. Every few yards, there was a handprint, or the smudge where a knee had landed, indicating he was having trouble staying on his feet.

Here, a spot where he’d knelt and drank from a puddle of rainwater.

There, he’d fallen to his knees, using a hand to break his fall, or push himself upright once again, small reddish-brown drops of blood showing starkly against the green leaves of a tiny forest plant.

The tracks went on and on.

And then they disappeared altogether.

O’Neill had left the trail.

-------

His mouth was dry as dust.

The small benefit he’d gotten from the rain, and the one tiny pool of rainwater, was long gone. The moisture had helped ease his parched mouth and throat, but there wasn’t enough liquid to help his body cope with the rising heat of the raging fever that wracked his lanky frame.

He heard their voices.

Someone was coming after him.

Through the gray haze that clouded his brain and obscured all thought except the subconscious demand to keep moving toward home, Jack realized that he was being followed.

Enemies.

Groktak.

Goa’uld.

Ghosts of the dead he’d left behind, come to haunt him.

Hide.

Get off the trail, get away from the open, go to ground. Find concealment. Evade and escape.

Raising his head, he looked around the forest. The brush was thick here under the high canopy of the trees, affording shelter from his pursuers. Jack staggered off the trail, into the brush, looking for the thickest cover, like a wounded animal seeking a place to nurse its injuries and hide from the predators who pursued.

++++++

Once he’d left the trail, tracking O’Neill was difficult. As experienced a tracker as Teal’c was, the terrain made the task maddeningly slow. The tall brush grew so thick that he could not see his teammates, though they were only a few feet away. Underfoot, lush, thick fern-like plants with long, slender leaves grew wildly to the height of his knees, covering the ground completely. The Jaffa had to part them with his hands to study the soil beneath, looking for signs of footprints.

++++++++

Unable to keep on his feet any longer, too exhausted to climb the steep hillside he found himself on, Jack had resorted to crawling, making his way into the heavy thicket, surrounded by the greenery.

He had to hope it was enough to hide him.

Sinking down to the ground, stifling the groan that welled in his throat, he let his eyes fall shut, exhaustion sapping his will.

He had done all he could.

He had no more strength to go on.

If they found him, he had no strength left to flee.

Jack only hoped the end would be swift.

Dying slowly hurt way too much.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

The awful truth had dawned on Teal’c several minutes ago, but he continued the fruitless search, unable to concede defeat. There must be a sign, there would be a sign, if only he could find it.

“Teal’c,” Daniel called, pausing to wipe the sweat from his face. “Haven’t we searched here before?”

“Indeed we have. It was somewhere in this area where I lost the trail. O’Neill changed direction.”

“Jaaaaack!” Daniel suddenly shouted, the call reverberating oddly through the forest. “Jaaack?”

Carter threw the archeologist an odd look.

“Well, why not try the obvious?”

“Because he probably left the trail for a reason, most likely to hide,” she suggested.

“From us?” Daniel asked, surprised.

“He is injured. He may not be in his right mind, and if so, he would fear all pursuers,” Teal’c speculated.

“So he’s hiding from us?”

The tall Jaffa nodded. “That is a most likely explanation. It is obvious from his tracks that O’Neill is badly injured. He could not travel far, so he would attempt to evade us.”

“Then yelling, letting him know it’s us, makes perfect sense,” Daniel insisted.

“He may not be aware enough to recognize us.”

“Or,” Carter added thoughtfully, “he might not be able to answer.”

“It is worth an attempt,” Teal’c added, then shouted, “O’Neill!”

“Jack!”

“Colonel!”

+++++++

Odd. That sounded like his name.

How had they learned his name?

Jack opened his eyes, blinking once and again, finally forcing them to focus only to see nothing but moist dirt and the green leaves of plants.

He managed to raise his head, but his view was still the same, plants and dirt and more plants.

The sound echoed through the forest once more, the sound that resembled his name, repeated now in different tones, tones that were familiar.

Drawing on his last reserves of energy, Jack O’Neill drew himself up onto his knees, grabbing the trunk of a sapling with his left arm, pulling himself shakily to his feet. Unable to get fully upright, he staggered forward a half dozen steps, pausing to lean against a tree trunk. Blinking rapidly, trying to keep the sweat out of his eyes, he stumbled forward. The ground, rough and uneven, caught at his feet, and then he fell, sliding on the slope of the muddy hillside. His hand slapped ineffectually at the trunk of a tree, scraping the skin from his palm, and then his leg caught on something, a bush of some sort he didn’t recognize, ending the precipitous slide.

For long moments, he lay still, unable to move against the overwhelming force of gravity and his own weakness. Pulling his arms beneath his chest, he weakly tried to lift himself off the damp ground, a moan rippling from his throat as his trembling arms collapsed and agony exploded in his chest.

His fall back down into the darkness was short.

+++++++

Daniel, searching through the waist-high brush some fifty yards to the left of Teal’c’s position, suddenly stopped. “Did you hear something?”

Teal’c shook his head negatively. “I did not, DanielJackson.”

“What did you hear?” Carter asked hopefully.

“I don’t know, it just sounded like something moving. And maybe someone… in pain.”

“Where did you hear this sound?” Teal’c inquired.

“I’m not sure. It’s hard to tell, things echo in here,” Daniel waved a hand at the forest around him. “Maybe over that way.”

“Then we will move our search there,” Teal’c stated.

Once again, the three teammates began methodically searching, pausing to call out their leader’s name.

There was no response.

++++++++

He lay unconscious now, blood seeping once more from the reopened wound in his chest.

++++++++

Carter was working her way through the underbrush, and nearly fell into the mud-slicked side of the steep ravine. Rainwater had obviously washed the soil away, carving a path for itself through the forested hillside.

“Sam, you okay?” Daniel called out to her.

“Yeah.” She answered, “there’s a steep…” she stopped, coughing.

That smell, one she’d smelled too many times today, of something dead.

Coughing again, she reached for her canteen, hoping a drink would wash the odor out of her throat.

“What’s wrong?” Daniel was working his way over toward her.

“Just there’s an odor here…”

Daniel was close enough now that he could smell it too. “God that smells just like…” He raised his eyes, his gaze catching Sam’s… “just like, those bodies…”

Dashing forward, Daniel slid down into the wash, oblivious to the mud on his clothes. “Jack!” Desperately, he used his hands to push the plants aside, to look for their lost CO. “Jack! Damn it, answer me!”

“Colonel!” Carter was shouting now too as Teal’c joined them.

“Jack!”

There was no answer.

-----------

Daniel was pushing forward, wading through the tall plants, when his foot kicked something, something that yielded and gave.

A groan rolled out of the thick greenery.

“Got him!” Daniel was pushing the plants aside. There was Jack’s foot, military issue boots now a muddy brown, green BDU trousers equally coated with mud brown and something else, something a deep rust red staining the back of the native shirt he wore, obscuring the embroidery that decorated it. The smell of death was almost overwhelming, and Daniel gagged.

“What’s wrong? Daniel?” Carter was beside him, Teal’c moving toward O’Neill’s head.

“God,” Daniel raised one hand to try to cover his mouth.

“It is the smell of death,” Teal’c stated solemnly.

“He’s not dead?” Carter’s face went pale.

“No,” Teal’c was kneeling beside his friend, one hand resting on the steel gray hair, darkened and sticky with blood.

Carter was looking down now, as the two men rolled the wounded man over onto his back, a groan escaping the pale lips.

O’Neill’s eyes were closed, his breath rasping weakly.

“There’s too much blood here, too much…” Daniel looked up at Teal’c.

“It cannot all be O’Neill’s. Perhaps he was with the others…”

“Oh God, in that pile of the dead?” Daniel looked horrified.

“It would explain the odor of death on one who yet lives.” Teal’c always perceived the logical explanation.

On his knees beside Jack, Daniel carefully checked the Colonel for wounds. Finding no apparent injuries on the man’s legs, except for minor abrasions on the knees, he worked his way up Jack’s torso. Skipping over the shirt knotted around his chest as a bandage, Daniel felt carefully of Jack’s head and neck, finding no signs of cuts or other visible wounds.

Jack lay unmoving as he worked.

Finally, Daniel turned his attention to the crude bandage. Untying the knotted cloth, he slowly pulled it away from the wound.

Jack moaned, moving feebly, eyelids fluttering but failing to open.

“Sorry, Jack,” Daniel muttered, then pulled back the shirt, and gasped. Blood was caked along O’Neill’s skin, some old and crusted, some fresh and red. The skin itself was hot to the touch, streaks of deep crimson running out and away from the cut in the man’s chest, a hand’s width below his right armpit.

“Damn,” Daniel breathed.

Carter already had the first aid kit out, but both of them could see that this wound was far beyond what they, and the basic equipment they carried, could effectively deal with. They all looked at each other, wordlessly, knowing the situation was grim. They would have to make the best of what they had, and get O’Neill to medical help as quickly as possible.

While Carter held the Colonel’s head, and talking soothingly to him, Daniel used an antibacterial wipe to daub gingerly at the wound.

Jack arched his back off the ground, face contorted in a rictus of pain as he thrashed weakly at the touch.

“Shit!” Daniel stopped, sitting back on his haunches, looking up at Sam. “Maybe we should give him something for the pain.”

Carter shook her head. “I don’t think so. Pain medications can suppress breathing.”

“Writhing around like that can’t be good for him either.”

Carter frowned. “I don’t think we should give him the morphine, and I don’t think he’s awake enough to swallow Tylenol.”

“Okay, then. Teal’c,” Daniel raised his gaze to the Jaffa, who had been standing watch while the others tended to SG-1’s leader. “Hold him down.”

Teal’c switched places with Sam, the Major stepping up to take watch while Teal’c knelt beside the wounded man, holding his shoulders. “Proceed, Daniel Jackson.”

Daniel nodded. Once again, he took a disinfectant wipe, and swabbed the area around the wound.

Jack moaned, hands flailing, but Teal’c held him down.

“Gawd,” Jack gritted his teeth between mumbling curses, his left hand digging furrows in the soft dirt, as he threw his head side to side. “Stop…” the whispered plea escaped O’Neill’s tight control, “hurts… damn…ahhh…”

“Jack, I have to do this,” the archeologist’s face twisted in concentration as he forced himself to perform the task, knowing he was hurting his friend, but that he had no other choice. He tried to be as gentle as he could, but just the soft touch of the material against the angry red skin caused Jack to writhe weakly. Daniel bit his lip, his hands shaking as he finished cleaning the area and quickly put a clean bandage into place.

By the time he was done, O’Neill was still.

“He is unconscious.”

“Probably for the best,” Daniel noted, removing the gloves he’d donned.

“I think we should get him out of those clothes,” Sam said.

“Sam?” Daniel spun to look at her.

Carter blushed. “They’re wet and muddy and they reek with the smell of death. God only knows what they’re contaminated with, the blood and…fluids… of all those others.”

“And we will not be able to let the horse carry him. The animal will not bear a rider who carries the stench of the dead.”

“Okay, then. Sam…”

“I’ll bring the pony, and keep watch on the trail from over there,” she called, and climbed out of the ravine, back toward the path.

Teal’c was already pulling his spare shirt out of his pack, along with his emergency blanket. “Use this,” he offered, handing the things to Daniel.

Quickly, trying to work as gently as he could, the young man cut through Jack’s torn shirt and t-shirt, then washed as much blood and gore from O’Neill’s chest and upper body as he could. He used water from his canteen to clean the dirty, mud and blood streaked face before rinsing the worst of the blood from the gray hair, thankful that Jack stayed unconscious and unaware. Finally, carefully, he slipped the clean t-shirt over O’Neill’s head, then added his own long sleeved shirt over it.

Unlacing the mud-caked boots, Daniel slipped the first one off Jack’s foot. When he reached for the second, the foot jerked away. “Hey, Jack, easy.”

“Why are you stealing my boots, Daniel?” Jack’s voice was shaky, the brown eyes open mere slits, confused and fever bright.

“It is good that you are awake, O’Neill,” Teal’c answered gently.

“How are you feeling?” Daniel asked the obvious.

“Like…”Jack licked dry lips, “like crap.”

Daniel quickly offered him some water, and O’Neill sipped gratefully from the canteen.

The young man then pulled out the Tylenol they’d been unable to give earlier, and popped them into Jack’s mouth, helping him drink to wash them down.

“That should help.”

“Should,” O’Neill agreed, closing his eyes once again.

Finally, after long seconds, Jack weakly waved a hand at his legs and asked again, “My boots?”

“We’re getting some clean clothes on you.”

“Clean?” the Colonel’s brows were furrowed as he tried to concentrate on the words.

“Yeah, there was a bit of an odor…”

“Forgot to pack the Right Guard I guess,” Jack mumbled.

“What happened to the others?” Daniel asked.

“Dead. Executed. Missed me, somehow,” O’Neill paused, needing to catch his breath. “Had to crawl out of the pile… Sorry ‘bout the smell.”

“Not exactly your fault. Now, let me finish, before Sam comes back, okay?”

“Yeah.”

Taking up his knife once more, Daniel slit the tough material of the trousers from waistband down to the ankle on each side, pulling them carefully away. He then took his extra trousers from his own pack, and slid them up O’Neill’s legs. They were a little short for the long-shanked officer, but adequate. “You might not pass inspection, but you do smell better, “ Jackson decided.

“Ssss.. good,” the tired brown eyes were sinking closed once more. “Can I sleep now?”

“Just a bit. Until Sam gets here with the horse.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Getting the wounded man onto the back of the pony proved difficult. Unable to bring the horse in to the ravine, Teal’c ended up carrying the Colonel out of the draw, down to level ground where Sam waited with the animal. Despite their efforts to clean up the injured man, the pony was still skittish, dancing sideways and pulling away every time they got the Colonel close to it. It took the combined efforts of both Teal’c and Daniel to get the wounded man mounted while Jack cursed under his breath, biting his lip, sweat breaking out on his already far too pale face.

In the saddle at last, O’Neill grasped the pony’s mane with his hands, leaning over the animal’s neck.

----------

It was a long trek back to the gate. Daniel walked beside Jack, steadying the swaying man. Several times they stopped, offering the feverish Colonel water, and letting the walkers rest. Mostly, though, they pushed on, back toward the Stargate, home and the desperately needed medical care.

---------

Teal’c’s keen ears heard it first. He turned at the same time the pony spun around to look behind them, the sudden movement causing the injured man he carried to slip sideways. Daniel caught O’Neill just enough to keep him on the horse.

“What?” Carter had turned, watching as did Teal’c. She could hear something now, too, a strange thrumming sound she was unable to identify.

“Someone is coming,” Teal’c ordered. “We must get off the trail. Quickly.”

Carter grabbed the reins of the pony, leading the animal into the brush, Daniel pulling the semi-conscious man off the horse and easing him to the ground. Teal’c, meanwhile was still on the trail, using a tree branch to sweep across the dirt, obscuring their footprints. He managed to dive into the brush just seconds before they appeared around a bend in the trail behind SG-1.

They were the Groktak.

Dozens of armed warriors, on horseback, led by a man in the armor of the Goa’uld.

Teal’c breathed a quick sigh of relief when the column swept on past the spot SG-1 had exited the trail. The war party had been moving so quickly they obviously, and fortunately for SG-1, hadn’t been looking for signs or footprints on the trail.

“Teal’c, what’s happening?” Carter whispered.

“I believe the Groktak are in pursuit of the Samrai. In revenge for the raid. It is what the Samrai feared.”

“But they moved,” Daniel reminded him.

“Indeed.”

“So where will they go? When the Samrai aren’t there?”

“Perhaps they will follow.”

“P’raps the Stargate,” Jack added hoarsely.

The teammates all turned to stare down at their leader, sitting on the forest floor, his shoulders propped against Daniel's supporting hands.

“Why the Stargate, Sir? The natives of this planet don’t know how to use it,” Carter wondered.

“The Gould,” Jack rasped.

“Did he realize you weren’t like the others?” Daniel inquired

Jack shook his head. “Don’t think so. But my gear,” he had to pause to catch his breath before going on, “my guns, other stuff, was in my pack on my horse. If they found it, the Gould would know… something… was wrong.” Jack let his eyes sink closed, the effort of talking proving to be too exhausting.

“So we have to assume they, or at least their leader, knows we’re here.”

“Right. ‘Gate could be… watched.”

Carter sank back on her heels, staring over at Daniel. If the Stargate was being observed, they were in big trouble, or at least, the Colonel was. O’Neill needed real medical care, and soon. His wound was badly infected. “So what are we going to do?” she asked quietly.

“Find out,” O’Neill ordered.

----------

Daniel and Teal’c helped the Colonel to his feet, while Carter held the reins of the pony. Jack swayed, legs wobbly, feeling the sweat trickle down his back at the effort it took to get upright. Closing his eyes, he gathered himself, then opened them, nodding at the others. He stepped slowly forward, his two teammates supporting most of his weight as they helped him to mount the horse once more.

They proceeded more carefully now, which meant even more slowly, Teal’c on point, checking at every bend of the trail.

They didn’t encounter any more natives, Groktak or Samrai.

Until they got to the gate.

------------

Teal’c trotted back to rejoin the others, O’Neill draped over the horse’s neck, Daniel supporting him with one hand, Carter bringing up their six, P-90 held at the ready.

“The Goa’uld is at the Stargate,” he informed his teammates.

“Damn,” O’Neill muttered.

“How many?” Carter asked.

“It appears to be the war party that passed us earlier. The Goa’uld, four Jaffa and ten natives.”

“Bad odds,” Jack whispered. “We need to come up with a plan.” Turning to Daniel, he laid a hand on the man’s shoulder, sliding off the pony, Jackson catching him as he staggered, nearly falling. Teal’c hurried to assist, and they eased O’Neill to a sitting position, his back against a large boulder. Daniel handed him his canteen and he drank deeply.

Carter and Teal’c, meanwhile, had gone ahead with O’Neill’s monocular to check the enemy position.

Jack waited, head thrown back, eyes closed which held the dizziness at bay. He felt like crap, his chest aching with every breath, his head spinning, hot one minute, cold the next. He didn’t need to look at the wound to know the infection was spreading.

“Daniel…”

“I’m right here…”

“Are they back?” he didn’t open his eyes.

“Not yet. You should rest.”

“’Kay. Wake me… when they come. I’m going to get… a little beauty sleep,” he ordered. Opening one eye, “Promise?”

“Promise.”

O’Neill dozed.

Jackson paced, and fretted.

----------------

It was half an hour later before the Major and the Jaffa returned.

“Jack, they’re back.”

O’Neill’s brown eyes opened, momentarily confused at the shimmering pattern of green before his eyes, then he remembered. Forest, they were still in the forest, because the Stargate was in enemy hands. Daniel helped him to a sitting position, back propped against a tree trunk. Wiping away the sweat that threatened to drip into his eyes, he blinked, forcing his eyes to focus on the approaching figures. “What did… you find?”

“The Goa’uld and his forces remain,” Teal’c informed the leader of SG-1.

“Right… at the gate?” the Colonel needed details. “Weapons?”

“The Go’auld and four Jaffa each have staff weapons. Thebnatives appear to be armed only with spears and bows,” Carter added. “And yes, Sir, they’re right at the base of the gate.”

“Damn.” Jack let his eyes slide closed, thinking.

“Sir?” Carter’s voice sounded worried, scared even, he thought. Had he drifted off?

“Carter?” his voice sounded weak even to himself.

“Sir, are you okay?”

“Not exactly,” he admitted, forcing his eyes open, making himself focus once more. “We’ll just need to wait. They won’t stay by the gate for long…”

“I do not think waiting would be wise…” Teal’c countered.

“You mean you… don’t think… *I* can wait,” O’Neill disagreed.

“He’s right, Sir, we need to get you home,” Carter stated. “We need to drive them away from the gate.”

“Three against fifteen, bad odds,” Daniel offered.

“*Four* against 15,” Jack insisted.

Daniel thought that the wounded man wouldn’t be much help, but it never paid to disagree with Jack, especially an injured, cranky, anxious-to-get-home Jack.

“Right. Four.”

“Still… isn’t enough firepower… for a frontal assault…,” Jack insisted. “Need a distraction.”

Jack paused to catch his breath, and plan. “Carter, you and Teal’c…and Daniel... go… ‘round the other side… of the gate. Then I can…”

“Sir, you’re going to need to let us take over, Colonel. You’re…”

“*I* give the orders, Carter, ‘m not dead…yet.

“No Sir, but you can’t…”

The brown eyes opened wide, the shoulders lifting as he straightened, every inch the commanding officer. “Major, I may not… be at full… strength, but I can… still… think. Plan. And be part of this…”

“Yes, Sir,” she answered. “But…”

“No buts,” he waved a hand weakly in front of his pale face. “I’ll be… the distraction.”

“You?” Carter and Daniel questioned simultaneously.

Jack waved a hand in the direction of the gate.

“I’ll ride out… into the clearing. They’ll all come to see… you guys come up from behind, get the drop on them…”

“No, Sir.”

“No?” his voice didn’t have the bark he intended, instead, dropping into a coughing spasm that seemed to suck all the air out of his lungs, leaving him feeling weak and drained. And angry at his inability to control his own body. When at last he could catch his breath, O’Neill looked up to see the others’ all staring, concern, even fear, on their faces. “I’m okay… damn it,” he glared at them.

“Riiiight,” Daniel offered, arms folded across his chest.

Carter knelt down beside him, “Sir, we’ll take care of this while you rest…”

“No,” he insisted, staring into her face. “I’ll be fine…”

“You are not fine, Sir, we can all see that. We’ll find another way…”

“My way… will work.”

“Yes, Sir, it’s a good plan, and we’ll use a diversion. But, Sir, you have to let us do it. You wait here.”

“Carter…”

“I’ll plant some C-4 there, on a timer,” she pointed a short distance away. “The explosion will work to draw them away from the gate…”

Jack closed his eyes, thinking, then conceded. “Good plan, Major.”

“Thank you, Sir,” she stared at him for a moment, then pulled the 9mm from her hip holster and handed it to him. “As back-up.”

O’Neill took it, smiling grimly, watching her and Daniel depart.

Teal’c stepped forward to stand beside the injured man. “We will return quickly for you, O’Neill.”

“I know.” Jack tried to shift his hips a little, to find a more comfortable spot. The tiny motion sent a flare of pain racing through his chest. His breathing lost its rhythm, and he had to gasp for air, which only made the pain intensify as he sagged forward, his hands clutching at his shirt. The black cloud which had been hovering around him steadily slipped ominously closer, but defiantly he willed it to recede.

Just when he wasn’t sure if he could hold onto consciousness, a hand touched his arm, steadying him. “Breathe easily, O’Neill. “

“Easy... for you…to say.”

“Indeed, it is. But it is still good advice.”

Jack patted the strong arm that was bracing him, grateful for the alien warrior’s presence. Of all his teammates, it was ironic that it was Teal’c, who had not been born on Earth, who understood him best. Brother, Teal’c had called him, and Jack had never told the man how much that word had meant to him. He raised his eyes now to acknowledge that, and saw in the Jaffa’s face that he didn’t need to do so… Teal’c knew, and understood, and didn’t require the words.

With a stately nod, the alien turned and left.

---------------------------------

Jack was alone once more.

He watched and waited while the rest of his team put the plan into action. Carter set the C-4 and the timer while Daniel and Teal’c worked their way around to the far side of the Stargate.

Minutes passed slowly as O’Neill counted down the seconds. Soon, now, soon.

And then he saw something, saw one of the Jaffa tense, and turn toward the Goa’uld, speaking urgently, pointing into the trees.

Damn it, Jack realized, one of them had been spotted, Carter most likely, from where Shalgak was now looking.

Shit.

Jack was too far away to shoot the damn snakehead, the 9mm didn’t have that kind of range against even a lightly armored Goa’uld.

Pushing with his good arm, groaning with the effort, Jack forced himself upright, his legs rubbery, the ground and sky spinning dizzily, blackness wavering at the edge of his vision. Not now, he told himself angrily, you can pass out later.

Staggering forward, he made his way to the edge of the forest. Bracing himself against a tree trunk, praying he could keep on his feet, he raised the 9mm. “Kree you son of a bitch!”

His shout, though not loud, had the desired effect.

Shalgak, his Jaffa, and the native warriors all spun to face the newcomer, surprised.

And then all hell broke loose.

The explosion was deafeningly loud in the quiet forest, the sound of the C-4 going off rolling through the woods as dirt and rock and shattered bits of tree trunk flew through the air, a giant tree toppling slowly toward the ground.

O’Neill, already wobbly on his feet, was sent tumbling by the concussion.

The warriors at the gate ducked and took cover, then began looking around in surprise.

Teal’c ran out of the woods. “Kree!” he shouted, drawing their attention. “Drop your weapons! You are surrounded.” Even as he said the words, Carter, P-90 up and aimed, stepped out of the forest, as did Daniel, a zat in his hands.

The Colonel struggled to his feet once more, bracing himself against the tree.

The enemy was surrounded.

For long seconds, no one moved, then Shalgak waved a hand at his warriors, and they began setting down their weapons.

All but one.

Even as the others obeyed the command and dropped their weapons, O’Neill saw one of the Jaffa slide to the ground, behind the shelter of a tuft of tall thick grass, still holding his staff weapon.

Blinking the sweat out of his eyes, Jack shouted, “Halt!”

The warrior jumped up, aiming at the Colonel. O’Neill fired, the 9mm rounds bouncing off the Jaffa’s armor with a loud ping-ping-ping.

Shalgak screamed, “Take them!” and raised his hand, a glowing beam lancing outward from the device on his outstretched palm.

A blast whipped past O’Neill’s head, and he ducked, the sudden movement causing him to lose his balance and slide to his knees, which probably once again saved his life. A staff weapon blast cut in two the tree he’d been leaning against.

They were all firing now, guns and zats and staff weapons, even the primitive bows and arrows of the natives were brought into action.

Teal’c’s staff weapon fired again and again, even after return fire seared across his arm. Carter and Daniel, in good cover, kept firing.

Two Jaffa were hit, and several of the natives.

Shalgak was raging. Suddenly, he waved at his followers, and fled for the woods, leaving behind the wounded, the dead and the dying.

Silence fell.

Carter ran for the DHD, Teal’c headed to check the downed enemies, and Daniel ran for the spot they’d left SG-1’s leader.

“Jack!” He could see O’Neill was down, slumped against the blasted tree stump. Daniel reached his friend, dropping to his knees beside the wounded man, fearing the worst. “Jack?”

O’Neill raised his head. “I think you better get me home,” he mumbled, and let consciousness fade away.

********

Oh crap.

He knew where he was, and who was talking to him, and he really, truly didn’t want to be here.

Though here was admittedly much better than where he’d been.

“Colonel? Colonel O’Neill?”

She was insisting, so finally, Jack O’Neill opened his eyes to see a familiar face. Even as he watched, the worried frown morphed into a relieved smile. “Hello, Sir.”

He tried to answer, and found he couldn’t, the attempt to talk spiraling downward into a throat spasm.

“Easy, Colonel, easy,” Dr Fraiser soothed. “You’re still intubated. You can talk later. I just needed to know you were still with us.”

He lifted a hand and waved the fingers vaguely, hoping she understood.

“Your team is fine. They brought you back three days ago.”

His eyes, which had started to drift around the room, snapped back to focus on her face.

She grinned. “Ah, so you *are* paying attention, Colonel. That’s good. You’ve been unconscious for more than seventy-two hours. A bit worrying, but now that you’re awake, we’ll quit worrying so much.”

He tried to smile, to reassure her worrying wasn’t needed, not anymore. The time for worrying was over. He was home, obviously on the mend, and his team was okay.

Anything else, he could handle.

After all, he wasn’t alone anymore.

-------The End--------