Jack O’Neill woke to complete darkness. Not the darkness normally associated with nighttime, but an all-encompassing darkness—heavy, smothering.

"Huh?" he said, hearing the sound echo off the walls. He tried to sit up but discovered that his muscles were stiff. It was like he had slept in the same position for hours. His mouth was cottony as if he hadn’t had anything to drink in days. But that couldn’t be right, could it? Come to think of it, he didn’t remember closing the door either, but it was apparently closed now.

He cautiously sat up on the bed and swung his legs over the edge to rest his bare feet lightly on the cold stone floor. The room was cool and the air hitting his legs and arms made the hair stand up on end. He rubbed his hands briskly across his arms, trying to warm them.

His head felt a little fuzzy, but from what he could tell, he was in one piece. He rubbed a hand across his face, trying to clear his mind, and encountered a few days worth of stubble. That was not encouraging. He waved his hand in front of his face, trying to see it before him, but was unsuccessful. The blackness was absolute.

It was time to do a little reconnaissance.

His initial feeling when he woke was that he had to be in a very small room inside the castle in which he had fallen asleep. There’s only one way to find out, he thought grimacing. He leaned forward, his hand outstretched, feeling for the wall he instinctively knew was there. Sure enough, only inches away—and much closer than he had originally thought—was a solid stone wall. He got up; swaying slightly as his stiff muscles tried to adjust to the new position. The darkness didn’t help with his equilibrium.

This was not looking good, he thought, as he felt along the wall, searching for a door. He found it soon enough. The room wasn’t large, barely big enough to fit the bed in which he had woken. The door, of course, was like every other door he had seen here—big, thick, and impenetrable.

His watch was gone and in his exploration of the dark room, he noticed his pack was not there either. The rest of his clothes had also absconded, leaving him with only his black T-shirt and boxers. Not the best attire for any long-term…situation. How long he had been in here—wherever here was—he did wasn’t sure. He could feel a few day’s worth of stubble on his chin, but that just confused him. It couldn’t have been that long, could it? All he was sure about was this was not the same room in which he had fallen asleep.

Where was his team? He tried calling out to Carter, Daniel, and Teal’c, his voice echoing strangely in the small windowless room, but got no reply. Maybe they were incapacitated. Maybe they were still unconscious. Maybe they were somewhere else.

With nothing to see, he decided that since he had few other options, he would sit and wait until someone came for him. Not that he had much choice in the matter, he thought ruefully. He settled himself down on the bed, pulling the blankets over him.

How much time passed before someone came for him, he didn’t know. He drifted in and out of sleep while he waited. He tried walking around, just to keep the muscles from stiffening up too much, but the room didn’t give him much in the way of space for movement and besides, he was very tired. That in itself should have tipped him off that something was wrong, but he was too tired to realize. He was sleeping lightly when they came, but he heard them in the adjoining room. Muted voices. More than one.

"Hey!" he said, getting up and pounding on the door. "Hey, what’s going on? Where’s my team?"

Moments later, he heard scraping on the other side of the door. He stood back, waiting for the door to open before him.

The light blinded him and he covered his eyes with his hand, trying to squint through slitted eyes and fingers at the figure that stood before him. He was grabbed roughly by the arms and dragged into a larger room and into the light, his eyes tearing, as he tried to make sense of the blurred images before him. He was placed in a chair and two pairs of hands held his shoulders, effectively confining him to the chair.

This is not a good sign, he thought, wiping the tears from his eyes. His eyes were adjusting, but it was taking some time. Once his eyes focused, he was surprised to see Lady Morgana before him.

"Lady Morgana?" he asked, confused. He had to have been in his cell a long time in order for him to be so sensitive to the dim lighting in the room. That worried him, but he tried not to let anyone notice his discomfort and confusion. "What’s going on? Where’s the rest of my team?"

She gestured to the two men behind him and immediately he felt them remove their hands from his shoulders. They stood back, within reach, but at least they weren’t holding him down any more. It was a start.

"Your team departed two mornings ago," she said matter-of-factly. "I watched them go through the great stone circle."

"What?" O’Neill said, disbelieving. "They wouldn’t have left without me."

"Whether you believe that statement to be true or not does not matter. It is simple. It is a matter of facts that can be verified very easily. They are gone. You, however, are here because I wanted you to remain." She smiled and stepped closer to him, holding his face in her hands. She gazed directly into his eyes. "And, soon enough, you will wish to remain here with me, of your own free will."

O’Neill tried not to flinch as she stared into his eyes, but it was tough. Especially since he sat there in his boxers and his black shirt. Somehow he had managed to misplace the rest of his clothes. He made a mental note to himself: from now on, remain fully clothed at all times. "I don’t think so."

She stepped back, a pleased expression on her face. "I knew you would be stubborn, but I assure you of this: you will be mine."

O’Neill’s facial expression indicated that he thought that would happen about as soon as hell froze over or pigs started flying, but he kept his mouth closed, his comments to himself. He had spotted the door several minutes ago, but he had yet to figure out how he was going to get through it. He was working on a plan, however.

"You can do this the easy way or you can be difficult. It is your choice. Either way has the same outcome."

"Lady, there is no way I would stay here with you. No. Nadda. Nope. No way. You must be outta your cotton pickin’ mind to think I would stay here." He looked at her directly, accusingly. "Besides, don’t you already have a husband?"

She crossed her arms over her chest, looking down her nose at him. "Lord Kentigern has his uses, but one day he will outlive his usefulness and I will require someone new. You are that someone. You will teach me the secrets of the stone circle and we shall rule this world side by side."

"Oh no, no, no, no, no, no." O’Neill said, shaking his head emphatically, his hands gesturing wildly. His eyes were as cold as steel. "There’s no way I’m staying here with you and there’s no way I’m going to tell you anything about the Stargate. What part of ‘No’ don’t you understand?"

She smiled at him. She was enjoying this. That little fact worried him. It worried him more than he was willing to admit to himself.

"Come, leave him to his thoughts. Perhaps they will convince him, if I cannot." She motioned for the two men to leave the room. She followed behind them but paused at the door, turning back to O’Neill. "We will speak of this again, soon."

She closed the door behind her and he heard something slide down on the other side. He quickly got up, yelling through the closed door. "Hey! How about some food? How about my clothes?" He banged on the door for a little while, but either they were ignoring him—which was highly likely—or they had left the area. He tested the door while he was at it, and sure enough, it was secured in place from the other side. There was no budging to be done. He was stuck in a big, empty room with no heat, no light, and from the looks of it, night was fast approaching. Great, he said to himself, just great. Now what?

He stumbled back to the room where he had awoken hours ago, grabbed a blanket off the bed, and wrapped himself in it. He prowled around the main room, looking for a crack, something, some way to get out. He found nothing except the obvious exit from the room—the thick wooden door. As soon as he had the opportunity to escape, he would make the best of it. But, since there was nothing else to do right now, he settled down to wait.

The time alone gave him a chance to think and that was not always a good thing. On a positive note, at least, he was sitting in the large empty room instead of trapped in that small room in the dark. At least there was a little light from the windows at the ceiling, a good twenty feet above his head. The small, dark room just brought back unpleasant memories of Iraq and those memories wouldn’t do him much good here.

What if she was telling the truth about his team? What if they had gone back home? Why would they have left willingly? Did they think he was dead? If so, how did he supposedly die? A quick examination showed him what he already knew; he had no injuries to speak of. If they thought I was dead, he mused, why didn’t they insist on bringing back the body? Unless…they did bring something back. His mind was awash with the possibilities.

O’Neill, you’re getting maudlin, he chided himself. But, how else would they return home without him? They wouldn’t leave him behind. He’d trained them better than that. It was simple: we don’t leave our people behind. It was their standing order, their rule, and their motto. They knew that. But from where he sat, wrapped in a blanket, slouched against the thick stone wall across from the door, they had done just that.

His stomach growled uncomfortably. He was hungry and thirsty. His mouth was cottony and his tongue felt huge. Who knew how long it had been since he had last eaten or drunk anything. The way he felt, it had been quite some time. A day or more. If his team left two mornings ago, then it was closer to three days. That wasn’t good.

Waiting was always hard to do, especially for him. He was a man of action. He’d rather be doing something, anything. Waiting gave you time to think. To think about the things you had left behind, the life you’d had, the life you could have had, and the life you wanted. It gave you the chance to think about the people in your life—past and present. It gave you the chance to examine the choices you had made in life. The choices that were right, and those that were wrong, and those that were dead wrong and had cost a life.

They’ll come back for me. I know they will, he thought drifting off to sleep.

Jack O’Neill again woke to darkness. It was becoming a habit and one he wasn’t hoping to continue. Sometime during the night, he had shifted his body to lie on the floor. He lifted his head, trying to see through the high windows. From his vantage point, the sky above was dark and clear. The light from the moon provided a little illumination, but not enough to be useful in any way.

He realized a moment later that he wasn’t alone. He turned his head, squinting in the darkness. He could feel the presence of someone, but he couldn’t see him or her, although he had an idea just who it might be. He sat up slowly, resting his back against the wall. He pulled the blanket closer around him trying to keep the cold at bay.

"Are you going to stare at me all night?"

Instead of an answer, a light flashed in the darkness. Lady Morgana placed the now lit candle on the floor next to her. She had moved the only chair in the room to the wall opposite from where he sat and was perched upon it. He was certain that there were guards outside the door. There was no way she would be here alone with him without some sort of protection. She wasn’t stupid, that he could tell. She was probably the smartest one here.

"You know the answer is still going to be no." The cold from the floor and the wall were seeping into his bones. He was getting too old for this. He pulled the blanket tighter around his body wishing he had some more clothes on. Next time I sleep with all my clothes on, no matter where I am, O’Neill quipped to himself. I wonder where my boots went, and my pants, come to think of it, he thought as he eyed the Lady Morgana suspiciously. She wasn’t here for the repartee. Of that, he was sure.

He held his tongue. He waited. He was the epitome of patience. He had all night. He could wait. He had nowhere else to go. Carter would have been proud.

He groaned inwardly at the thought. Carter, his team. He hoped his team was okay. Please let them be home safe and sound like she said they were, he thought. Please don’t let them be stuck in this cold, damp castle far away from home. It was bad enough he was here. If he was the only one they wanted, maybe for once, he could protect his team. Maybe for once, no one else would have to die because of him.

Lady Morgana shifted in the chair. She was still staring. He could feel her eyes upon him. They never left; her gaze never faltered. He lifted his head, returning her gaze with a determined, hardened look.

"Why must you be difficult?"

The words were spoken softly, barely audible across the room.

"Because it’s my nature," he replied simply, smiling humorlessly in the half-light from the candle.

"You do not understand our situation."

"So, explain it to me." His eyes were hard, determined, his voice steel.

She took a breath, as if to settle her thoughts. "You would not understand," she finally said.

"Why? What wouldn’t I understand? That you’re just someone else looking to live forever? That you’re just looking out for numero uno? That you’re just one more alien having delusions of grandeur? I understand that well enough. With people as shallow as you, you’re not that hard to figure out." O’Neill found himself on his feet without realizing he had stood up. He settled the blanket around his shoulders as best he could. He was mad. He was tired. He was angry. He was cold. He was hungry. He didn’t give a damn and he had finally had enough.

Lady Morgana stood, her posture stiff with anger. "Just who do you think you are speaking to a Lady in such a manner and tone?" she asked, her voice raised in anger and surprise.

"I’m Colonel Jack O’Neill. That’s all you need to know. I don’t answer to you. You don’t own me," he shot back, pacing around the room.

"Well, Colonel O’Neill, perhaps you shouldn’t judge us so harshly. Your motives for coming here were not philanthropic."

He couldn’t argue with that, but he didn’t have to tell her that. "And just how would you know?"

"From the questions you ask, to the weapons you carry, to the very members of your team."

He stopped suddenly, turning to face her, his eyes hard and cold. "What about my team?"

"You command a Jaffa. Surely you do not think we are stupid. You may think we are a primitive people compared to you, but we are not stupid. Far from it."

He waved his hand absently as if the very action could make her, this conversation, and the whole planet go away. "Teal’c’s harmless."

"To you perhaps he is harmless, to us it is another matter entirely. He is at your command. He answers to you. We are familiar with the Jaffa and their leaders. If need be, we can defeat them—and you—again." Her eyes flashed with anger.

"What do you mean again? When were the Goa’uld here?" O’Neill vaguely remembered Daniel digging up a ribbon device at the ruins near the Stargate, but there wasn’t any other sign of Goa’uld technology. What was this woman talking about? His eyes widened as he thought about what she had said. "You think I’m a Goa’uld?"

"You do have a Jaffa under your command."

"Yeah, but if you hadn’t already noticed, my eyes don’t glow and I don’t go around pretending to be a god and trying to take over the planet—unlike some other people I know," he said looking pointedly at her. "Besides, Teal’c’s not like that. He left the service of his false god years ago to join us in our fight against the Goa’uld."

"So then, we are on the same side. Why do you choose not to aid us?"

She was determined, he’d give her that, but he’d had enough. "Because," he said, getting in her face, "I don’t particularly like domineering, egotistical women who think they can bat their eyes at me and think that I’ll just roll over for them. I’m not that kind of guy." He had gotten close to her and with a quick movement spun her around, one hand across her face to stop her from screaming out and the other wrapped around her waist, effectively pinning her arms at her sides. He started moving across the floor toward the small side room. She struggled, but for the moment he was in charge. The element of surprise had given him the upper hand.

He spoke quietly, harshly, into her ear. "Now, we’ll see how much you enjoy this nice little cage. I think it’s time I went exploring."

He got her inside the room, quickly releasing her and tossing her toward the bed, shutting the door behind her. He secured it quickly, sliding the wood in place. The dull thuds started almost immediately. She was pounding at the door. She’d give that up sooner or later. Now, he thought, rubbing his hands together, it was time to get rid of the guards.

The door was closed, so peeking out of it was not an option. Peeking would just give him away. Besides, he was black ops trained—there was no peeking in black ops. He just had to go for it. He had plenty of training in hand-to-hand combat. He was sure he would be able to make a fairly clean getaway. That is, if the guard was where he thought he would be.

He shrugged off the blanket, braced himself, regulating his breath, and gave himself a mental count of three before he swung the door open quickly, surprising the guard. The guard was right where he figured he would be standing. O’Neill moved quickly. A blow to the back of the guard’s neck rendered him unconscious immediately. The guard slumped at his feet without raising a cry of alarm. Actually, without a peep. For a big guy, he sure fell easily. So far, so good, he thought. Not bad for a half-naked old guy who was a little worn around the edges. Bra'tac would have been proud.

He was glad there had only been one guard. If there had been two or more, he might have been in trouble. He was still a little shaky on his feet. Dehydration and lack of food would do that to you. The sudden exercise didn’t help either.

He started moving cautiously along the hallway, his bare feet hardly making any sound on the tiles. He tried to take his mind off the cold and the dampness of the castle. Wandering around in your skivvies in a dark and drafty castle was not generally recommended. Neither was getting left behind in that castle, come to think of it. He chuckled to himself. Not a good sign, Jack, he thought. You’re talking to yourself.

Torches in the hall provided adequate light. He figured he was in an unused part of the castle, since many of the rooms he was passing were dark and empty of furniture. One or two had furnishings, but they were few and far between. He passed several dark doorways leading to other parts of the castle. One such doorway led to a narrow passageway that sloped upwards, toward the center of the castle, probably to a turret or something similar.

Luck was not with him tonight, however. Unbeknownst to him, two figures stepped out from one of the darkened doorways he passed. While he was peering around a corner, they came up quietly behind him.

"Colonel O’Neill? What are you doing out here?" the first figure asked quietly, eyeing the scantily clad, barefoot, and shivering Colonel. O’Neill’s head snapped around at the sound behind him, quickly recognizing Turlough, but surprised he hadn’t heard him approach. For big guys, they sure could be quiet, he thought absently.

"What?" he asked. Where had they come from? They stood for a moment, staring at each other, confused.

Turlough and his buddy came to their senses quicker than O’Neill did. They lunged for him, realizing that Lady Morgana was nowhere to be seen. He sidestepped Turlough and managed to throw a good left hook. It connected solidly, but didn’t stop him. O’Neill shook his hand out, wincing in pain. He felt as if he had just punched a brick wall—and it might not be that far from the truth. If he had thrown the punch any harder, he might have broken his hand. His knuckles were tender and sore already and he was just getting started.

Turlough shook off the punch and threw one of his own. O’Neill, usually good at ducking, found his reflexes weren’t up to snuff tonight. He took the punch square on the jaw. He stumbled back, his head thrown back against the wall, hitting it hard. He slumped back, shook his head, but kept his feet. He saw stars but shook it off. Turlough’s buddy, seeing an opening, decided to take advantage. One of his fists got through O’Neill’s feeble attempt at defense and landed solidly in his middle. O’Neill thought he felt a rib crack and a sudden pain flared up his side. He took a breath, trying not to curl up in a ball to protect the sore spot. He had to keep on his feet.

Even though his head was ringing, he continued to put up a fight. He dodged a number of punches, but managed to catch quite a few. At one point, he was sure another cracked rib was added to the mix.

In the melee, he vaguely noticed Turlough’s buddy was gone. He didn’t have time to think about what that might mean for him in the long run. All he could think of was trying to get out of this in good enough condition to walk out of here. He knew he was slowing down, that there wasn’t much time left. The dehydration had left him weak and this beating was doing a number on whatever stores of energy he had remaining. A hard punch to his solar plexus knocked the wind out of him and he instinctively bent over to protect his already bruised ribs. That was going to leave a mark, he thought vaguely, realizing Turlough was coming in for the kill. He knew it was a losing battle, but he couldn’t just give up. He halfheartedly threw a few more punches that were easily sidestepped. After a brief struggle and a few more well-placed bruises on his already aching ribs, O’Neill found himself pushed face-first against the wall, his cheek uncomfortably rubbing against the stone, his arms pulled tightly together behind his back. His cracked and bruised ribs, pressing into the wall, spread fire all along his side. For a gentle guy, Turlough sure packed quite a punch—so did his friend come to think of it. His body ached and his head was swimming.

Apparently, Turlough’s friend had gone down the hall to release Lady Morgana from the room in which O’Neill had locked her. He had also stumbled over the guard O’Neill had incapacitated who was already starting to come around.

Lady Morgana strode down the hall, her head held high, and her green eyes blazing.

She spoke once she got near the struggling man. "O’Neill, I see you have chosen your path." She leaned in closely, whispering harshly in his ear. "Before we are done, you will beg for my mercy. You will beg for my forgiveness. I will see to it. But know this; remember this night. From this point on, you belong to me. "

O’Neill renewed his struggle, trying unsuccessfully to break the hold Turlough had on him. But it was no use. His energy was just about gone and the adrenaline rush was passing.

She turned to Turlough, issuing an order. "Bring him." She turned, striding back down the hall toward one of the darkened doorways he had passed, surprisingly enough, the same doorway Turlough and his friend had come through earlier.

O’Neill had little choice but to follow as Turlough pushed him along, still holding onto him with a secure grip. His arms were starting to ache because of their awkward position behind his back. It was also doing a number on his bruised torso, straining the already sore area. Through the door a narrow passageway led to an equally narrow staircase leading deeper into the castle’s foundations. Torches lit the way. It got cooler and damper as they descended.

Someone had left the light on, O’Neill thought vaguely as they passed yet another set of torches burning brightly. Apparently, someone had been planning on coming down here whatever the outcome was tonight.

They reached the bottom of the stairs and Lady Morgana pushed open a door. They passed several rooms, clearly dungeons, but from the looks of them, infrequently used. Those cells were not their destination—at least for now she had other things on her mind, other plans. He sighed slightly, relieved that he wouldn’t be spending time in one of those cells, but none too happy about the current situation.

Turlough was holding his arms so tightly that the circulation was starting to leave his hands. The floors down here were dirt covered, peppered with pebbles and larger stones and his bare feet were taking a beating. Apparently, not too many people came down this way.

She strode to the end of the corridor, opening the door at the end. Instead of being lit by torches or candles, she pressed something just to the inside of the door and the lights came up—modern lights in what could be considered a Goa’uld inspired decorator’s nightmare. It didn’t take a scientist or an archeologist to figure this one out. This did not belong here. His eyes widened in surprise. He tried struggling again, but Turlough’s grip hadn’t loosened. It wasn’t time to start panicking—at least not yet. But this didn’t look good.

"Sit, Colonel," she said indicating a single wooden armless chair in the middle of the room. He didn’t have a choice in the matter. Turlough sat him down hard, releasing his grip on his arms. O’Neill thought better of fighting right now, especially with Ugly standing guard at the door. He was just about the biggest thug he had ever seen. Besides his circulation was just coming back and it was giving him a bad case of pins and needles. He rubbed his hands together carefully, trying to hasten their recovery. Once some of the circulation was restored, he rubbed a hand lightly across his jaw, wincing when he encountered a tender spot. He’d have a nice bruise in the morning that was for sure. His searching fingers moved to the back of his head. The matching bruise there wasn’t feeling so hot either. He withdrew his hand, looking at his fingers. No blood. That was a good thing.

Meanwhile, Lady Morgana rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a pair of trousers similar to those worn by all the men in the village, and some wool socks. She threw the items at O’Neill, but they ended up on the floor at his feet. "Put these on. I do not want you succumbing to the elements. We are just getting started."

O’Neill obeyed slowly, but bent down a little too quickly. He got lightheaded and almost sprawled on the floor. Turlough’s hand was the only thing that stopped him from toppling over. He dressed carefully, mindful of his newly acquired bruises. Once he was dressed, he sat back in the straight-backed chair, waiting. His eyes widened when he saw what was in her hands.

"Now wait a minute," he said, starting to look a little panicked. "Just what do you think you’re doing with that? You can’t think you’re going to put that on me!" She held a metal collar in her hands and was advancing on him. Attached to the collar was a short metal chain.

Instead of answering him she ordered the guards to hold him. After great deal of swearing and struggling on the part of O’Neill, the collar was placed around his neck. It closed with a hiss, sealing itself. You could not tell where it ended or began. It was as if it was one piece of metal.

Turlough still held him firmly and for good reason; there was murder in his eyes.

"How dare you!" O’Neill said through clenched teeth. "How dare you think you can treat human beings as animals. You’re just as bad as the Goa’uld—even worse. You try to pass yourself off as a human being. At least with the Goa’ulds, you know where you stand." His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. If only he could get loose…

"Don’t be so dramatic, O’Neill. This hostage chain will not hurt you. It will just teach you obedience." She walked around the room slowly, causing O’Neill to follow her with his eyes. With Turlough’s hands firmly planted on his shoulders, he wasn’t going anywhere else.

"You see, O’Neill, this is one of the many tools we will use to convince you to help us. You see, it could be much worse. When we overthrew the Goa’uld on this planet a millennium ago, they were forced to leave their technology behind. We are not the primitive people you thought we were. We used their technology, our metals, our special gifts, and our methods to improve on what they left behind. If you are lucky, you will never need to experience some of the more inventive methods we have of obtaining your obedience."

O’Neill was furious, but held his tongue. She stopped in front of him, looking directly into his eyes. If looks could kill, she would be dead—several times over. No such luck, however.

She clicked her nails on the metal collar. "This device cannot be removed by the wearer, only by the one who placed it around your neck. This will teach you humility and it will teach you your place in our society." She paused for a moment, letting the statement sink in. Apparently, she wanted to make sure she had his undivided attention.

"Until you agree to help us, you will be considered lower than our enemy. To us, you are worthless and you will be treated as such. You have no value in our society. Everyone here contributes something to our village and it is because of that contribution that each person continues living. You, on the other hand, are only living due to my mercy. And it is only due to my mercy that you will continue living. I have every right to kill you where you sit."

"So, what’s stopping you?" he growled.

She paused, her eyes narrowing. "This night, I have asked myself that question many times. I believe you will be very useful to me once I can convince you that it is in your best interests to aid us."

"Well, that will never happen."

She leaned in close, an evil smile on her lips. "Never say never, Jack O’Neill. I have broken bigger men than you, and I’ve done it many times. I’ve actually already begun. Tonight, I take your dignity from you. I have already taken your team. There is nothing left but your misplaced loyalties, your almighty holier-than-thou attitude, and your life." She stood, turning her back to him.

"My team? What do you mean? What did you do to my team?" He tried struggling, but the goons weren’t letting up.

She walked to the door, turning to address the guards. "Place him in the first cell and secure him there. We’ll continue this discussion in the morning. I’m tired of this conversation, his endless dribble."

They acknowledged her order, echoing "Yes, my Lady" as she retreated down the hall.

O’Neill’s angered cries followed her out. "What the hell did you do to my team? What did you do to my team?" The last call ended in a strangled cry. His mind was whirling. What had she done? How? Why? He had no answers, only questions.

Once she was gone, they roughly dragged him to his feet and led him down the hall, switching off the light and closing the door behind them.

At least they know how to clean up after themselves, he thought, laughing to himself. He must be going crazy. This was so not happening.

As ordered, they brought him to the first cell, leading him to the back wall. Pushing him to his knees, Turlough secured the end of the chain to the wall. They left without a word, leaving the door open. It wasn’t as if he could reach it, some ten or more feet away, especially since his chain was barely two feet long. He tried pulling at it but managed only to irritate his neck. At this point, choking himself was not an option.

He contemplated his situation and realized that they couldn’t have left him in a more uncomfortable position. Not only was it impossible for him to stand, he couldn’t sit either. He had to spend the night on his knees. This was not going to be fun, especially since his knees were already protesting and he had only been here a few moments.

He carefully checked himself over, making sure he wasn’t in worse condition than he felt. He probed carefully around his ribs, feeling them give a little more than they should have. Pains raced up his side and he gasped, seeing stars. Just about what he had expected, but that didn’t make him feel any better. They were definitely cracked, perhaps even a little displaced, but it didn’t feel like they had punctured anything. At least that was a good thing.

He tried to settle himself in the best he could, getting as comfortable as possible. Who knew when he would get the chance to sleep again, he thought. He had to take every opportunity to save his strength—something, he noted absently, he didn’t have a lot of lately. Soon enough, with his back against the cold, damp rock wall, his head drooped forward, and he was asleep.