Jack O’Neill woke suddenly, freezing cold water splashing on his face. He nearly strangled himself, jerking his head up and away from the offending liquid. A moment later, self-preservation set in and he tried to collect the remaining droplets of water on his face in his mouth with his tongue. The small taste of water only served to worsen his thirst.

Opening his eyes, he was greeted by the grinning countenance of Lady Morgana. Turlough still held the bucket in his hand.

"Well, my pet is awake," she said, nearly purring. Someone had a good night’s sleep, he thought sarcastically, shifting on his aching knees, trying to get into a more comfortable position. His fitful sleep throughout the night had proven to be anything but restful. He’d be grateful to sleep in the dirt at this point—anything to get the weight off his knees.

"Yeah, and what’s it to you?" Cold showers didn’t tend to make him a happy camper in the morning. Besides, he wasn’t much of a morning person—especially without his coffee.

She glared at him, her eyes narrowing, a frown finding its way to her face. "Apparently, my pet has not learned anything. Perhaps a lesson is needed." She clapped her hands and Turlough’s buddy from last night entered with a tray of food and water in his hands. O’Neill tried not to show the longing on his face, but he knew that she perceived exactly what was going through his mind. His hands clenched at his side as he tried to restrain himself from lunging at the tray, knowing that he wouldn’t get far, especially since he was still collared and chained to the wall.

"Place it on the floor," she said, indicating a spot on the ground, just out of his reach. O’Neill’s eyes never left the tray as it was placed in the designated spot. He licked his lips hungrily, his stomach already churning. "Perhaps later today, he will have earned the privilege of having something to eat and drink."

He looked up at her suddenly, all but tearing his eyes away from the sight of food before him, a questioning look on his face. Earned? How was he supposed to earn that, he wondered?

"Now, my pet, what can you tell me about the great stone circle?" Morgana asked.

What? Even though he didn’t say anything, his face reflected his unsaid thought.

"What is the address of your home world?"

He shook his head firmly, shrugging his shoulders, his eyes never leaving the tray. "I don’t know." It was a bald faced lie, but he had to start somewhere. He shifted his weight again, trying to ease the pain in one of his knees. He was getting too old for this.

"Very well, my pet. Shall we go for a walk?" She indicated for Turlough to release the chain from the wall. He did so, pulling O’Neill roughly to his feet. His knees protested violently, nearly causing him to fall flat on his face. The pain in his ribs made him groan. He had almost forgotten about them. God, they hurt, but then, what part of him didn’t hurt? He considered the question for a moment, realizing that his hair didn’t hurt. That was a good sign.

Turlough’s rough handling brought him back to his senses quickly, as Turlough bound his hands tightly in front of him with a length of leather. Turlough’s buddy was also returning to the room with another length of chain in his hand, attached to a metal cuff. O’Neill hadn’t even noticed him leaving in the first place. He shook his head, trying to clear it. His gaze, however, wandered back down to the tray of food near his feet. If he could only lean down…

Of course, he had no such luck. Lady Morgana took the chain from the guard’s hand and attached the length to the chain that hung from his collar. The cuff she attached to her own wrist. He was now leashed to her. A rising fury swelled, but he bit it back. It seemed like he was getting out of this dark and dreary castle. Outside, he would stand a better chance of escape.

"Now, my pet, let us go for a walk and I shall show you my kingdom." She pulled the chain savagely, causing O’Neill to stumble. His sock clad feet caught up with him, and although his knees were protesting violently, he followed with Turlough on his heels. With him along for the ride, escape seemed even farther from a possibility.

They walked upstairs and through the narrow corridor leading to the main hallways of the castle. He tried to remember each and every turn. He could never tell when it might come in handy. They stopped briefly before they stepped out of doors, Lady Morgana collecting a midnight blue cloak from Nerys.

O’Neill tried to catch Nerys’s eye and, when he did, was surprised to see the hatred there. This woman, who only days before had served him and treated him with respect, now loathed the very sight of him. And what a sight you are, O’Neill’s mind countered. You haven’t bathed or shaved in days and now a woman with delusions of grandeur is dragging you around like an animal.

As they toured the village, her kingdom, with Turlough watching him like a hawk, he discovered Nerys was not the only one who now treated him with contempt. Children savagely kicked him before their parents could pull them away. Others spat at him as they passed. At one point, a rotting vegetable hit him on the side of his face, sliding down his arm to drop on the ground. He wiped the foul smelling juice from his face the best he could with his bound hands.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, his hushed voice harsh.

"Because I can."

"But why…?" he asked, at a loss of words. His rage boiled, just below the surface. How did you explain this?

"They know all about your refusal to aid us. As the days progress, it will just get worse. They would rather see you dead. As I said last night, it is only though my mercy that you live."

"Then kill me. It’s better than this," he growled.

"That is the point. Killing you is too easy. You need to feel our pain, our displeasure."

A young adolescent ran quickly through the crowds toward them. O’Neill guessed he was probably around fourteen years old. The young messenger bowed to Lady Morgana and spoke when she indicated it was appropriate.

"My Lady Morgana, another group of strangers has come through the stone circle and they approach the village along with Egan and Hywel. They are dressed like the strangers who came before."

Although the messenger’s eyes were properly downcast while speaking to Lady Morgana, O’Neill saw the boy’s eyes slide over to him, taking him in. An expression of disgust briefly passed over his face, but was quickly replaced by his otherwise bland exterior. Only O’Neill, who was staring at him, even noticed.

A delegation of strangers? Perhaps it was the SGC. Perhaps they were sending a rescue party for him. A flame of hope ignited within him. Maybe this nightmare would end. But why had Hammond waited so long to send someone for him? Wasn’t it plainly obvious he wasn’t there when SG1 returned? But what if he had returned? What if a clone or a robot or something had returned with them? Then, the base and his team were in danger. He shook his head slightly, trying to clear it.

He was confused and half out of his mind with hunger and thirst. He was lightheaded and he knew he wasn’t thinking straight. He was starting to fade in and out, missing bits and pieces. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he was starting to weaken. If this kept up, he didn’t know how much longer he could last.

"Very well, Calder. Inform Lord Kentigern. We will speak with these strangers in the Great Hall. Inform him that I will attend him shortly."

Calder bowed and sped away toward the castle. Lady Morgana turned to O’Neill and saw him in obvious discomfort.

"We are not yet finished today. We still have to meet with these strangers and see what they have to say. Shall we?" She smiled savagely, pulling O’Neill cruelly behind her, the metal collar digging into his neck, rubbing against his already raw skin. "Perhaps when we are finished, and as long as my pet behaves, he will be permitted to eat this day."

At the mention of the very possibility of food, his head jerked up, his eyes widening—maybe food was in his future. She saw his reaction, but just pulled him along. He could do little but stumble along behind, trying valiantly to keep up.

The abuse on the way back was worse than before. This time, some parents became emboldened, even sending their children to throw things at him. At one point, he thought he felt a rock strike him. He glanced around, his rage ready to boil over looking for the culprit, but it could have been anyone. They all stood watching him, hatred burning in their eyes and etched into the lines of their faces.

Apparently, she had decided to take the long way around because O’Neill did not think it took this long to get back to the castle. It seemed like she was doing this just to piss him off. Well, if that was the case, it was working.

When they arrived at the castle, O’Neill figured he would be brought downstairs immediately, but his assumption was wrong. Nerys waited at the door for Lady Morgana.

"My Lady," she said curtseying, "the strangers have only just arrived."

"Good. Please bring them some refreshments and make sure you mix a good amount of the Mahtab in. I don’t want to have any problems later."

Nerys bowed her head. "Yes, my lady." She moved quickly to the rear of the castle, toward what O’Neill surmised were the kitchens, disappearing into the darkness. Morgana pulled O’Neill along, walking deeper into the castle. Turlough followed behind at a discreet distance. They moved quickly through the empty hallways, O’Neill losing his sense of direction more and more with each step they took.

She paused near a half-open door, listening intently. O’Neill could not make out anything, but he heard the low mumbling of voices. Someone was speaking. He took the opportunity to lean back against the wall, in an attempt to distribute some of his weight.

Nerys approached quietly a moment later, waiting patiently for Morgana to acknowledge her presence. Morgana gazed coolly at her, indicating her to report.

"My Lady, the refreshments have been placed in the Great Hall and your guests are partaking of them. Lord Kentigern is waiting for you to arrive before he begins." She bowed low, stepping back. She then hurried back to the depths of the castle.

"Turlough, please tell Lord Kentigern to begin." Her eyes found O’Neill’s. "We will be along shortly."

"Yes, my Lady," she said, speaking softly. She moved quietly through the door and was gone.

Morgana looked him over carefully, her eyes piercing. What a sight I must be, he thought, returning her gaze. He was leaning heavily on the wall, barely upright. He was filthy and looked downright repulsive. If he could have looked in a mirror he would have been shocked at the reflection that stared back at him. Dark circles under his eyes did nothing but emphasize his gaunt and pale features. She smiled at him knowingly. It was then that he realized she knew exactly what she was doing. She knew just how much this ordeal was taking from him both physically and mentally.

"My pet, can I trust you to behave yourself?"

He nodded slowly, carefully, trying not to jostle his head too much. He was dizzy and having a hard enough time staying on his feet. He knew the very act of nodding put him one step closer to where she wanted him, but he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t up for a fight—at least now.

"Good. You shall see just how powerful we are for a ‘primitive’ people. Come, my pet, and observe." She dragged him forward, almost causing him to lose his footing. They entered the Great Hall through the door and O’Neill realized he was standing at the back of the small dais—the same dais he had shared only days before with Lord Kentigern.

A small party of four men stood before Lord Kentigern, eating and drinking, waiting patiently for Lady Morgana to arrive. They had already polished off a tray of food and two pitchers of some type of beverage. It took a moment, but O’Neill finally recognized them as SG5, led by Colonel Nathan Yearwood.

As they stepped to the front of the dais where Lord Kentigern sat, SG5 turned, seeing the approach of Lady Morgana. Colonel Yearwood began to bow in respect, but his eyes caught sight of O’Neill trailing behind Morgana.

O’Neill could almost picture what Yearwood saw before him: a filthy man in rags, chained to Lady Morgana by a leash, his wrists bound tightly together before him. It was probably the dog tags that gave it away, he realized. Recognition took a moment, but once Yearwood realized who stood behind her, he straightened up quickly, anger stiffening every muscle. The rest of SG5 tried not to show their shocked expressions, but to O’Neill they were plainly obvious. They had not expected to find him here—especially in his current condition.

"What is the meaning of this?" Yearwood asked pointing at O’Neill, barely holding his temper. His hands trembled with anger. The rest of SG5 were gripping their P90s tightly, threatening to aim them at the two regal figures before them.

Lady Morgana had the audacity to look confused by the question. Cold determination and a steely gaze looked down at Yearwood. "How dare you speak to me in such a manner. Do they not teach you manners where you come from?" She yanked again at the chain securing O’Neill to her wrist, pulling him forward into the light. She looked at O’Neill sternly. "Kneel."

No matter how tired he was and how much he knew he needed to sit down, he couldn’t do it. His pride wouldn’t allow him. He fought back the only way he could. "No," he said quietly, pushing the word out through his cotton-dry mouth.

One more pull on the chain and O’Neill quickly found himself on his knees. He tried to get up, but didn’t have the energy. He was barely holding on as it was. Black dots danced before his eyes.

Through his bleary vision, he could tell that Colonel Yearwood was furious. He could see the rage boiling just under the surface, threatening to overtake him. He knew what Yearwood was thinking. It would have been his thoughts if the situation were reversed. A few well-placed shots and they could get out of there. Yearwood would be concerned about him, though, wondering if he would be able to make it back to the Stargate. It was quite a hike, he knew, even in good health and, right now, he was sure he looked like death warmed over. Even kneeling, he was having a hard time staying upright.

A quick glance around the room showed that big men and lots of metal surrounded them. Those big men looked menacing. Getting out of there in one piece might prove to be a challenge if they had to fight their way out. Discretion might be the better option.

Yearwood gritted his teeth, holding his temper the best he could. "They teach me manners, but they also teach me not to treat men like animals. How dare you treat him this way. Do you know who he is?"

"Of course. He is my pet, my project. How else should I treat him? If it were not for my mercy, he would be dead already. I give him his life and he is grateful for it every day he is alive."

Behind Yearwood, O’Neill heard Bigelow’s muttered remark. "Dead would be better." He couldn’t agree more.

Yearwood took a threatening step closer to the dais. Enough was enough. Before he could issue an order, Morgana’s hand flew up and those menacing men, their long swords drawn, surrounded SG5.

"Hey! Wait a minute! What do you think you’re doing?" Yearwood protested as someone ripped the weapon from his hands.

"We will not have you interfering with us," said Morgana. She gestured and each member of SG5 was held securely, their arms behind their back. O’Neill could do nothing but watch. He tried to protest, feebly lifting his hands to stop Morgana. She easily backhanded him across the face and darkness swam around him. He landed heavily on his side, his bruised ribs protesting strenuously.

Through a haze of pain, he watched Morgana remove the cuff from her wrist and place it on Turlough’s wrist. He was stuck, tied to an immovable object. O’Neill couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a look of pity and remorse cross Turlough’s face. Since it was gone so quickly and since the world around him was spinning painfully, he couldn’t be sure.

Morgana approached Yearwood as he struggled, trying to free himself from the vice-like grip in which he was held. Morgana lightly placed her hand on his forehead and started speaking. O’Neill tried to concentrate, but couldn’t make out the words, but he was sure that if Daniel were there he’d be able to figure it out. Daniel was good at ancient alien words. O’Neill had no idea what she was saying, but from the tone, he knew it couldn’t be good. Moments later, Yearwood slumped against the guard holding him, his eyes closed, as if he were asleep.

Morgana moved down the line; each member of SG5 putting up a fight, but finding it impossible to escape her hand and her ice-like gaze.

When Morgana finished with Major Bigelow, she stepped back, swaying slightly, her hand on her head. Lord Kentigern stepped forward quickly, grabbing her elbow and guiding her to his chair.

She graciously accepted his assistance, slumping back heavily in the chair. Lines of exhaustion were etched on her face.

Kentigern indicated for one of the older men to step forward. "Yorath, return these strangers to the clearing where Egan met them. They will not remember anything that has occurred this day and they will not be back to disturb us. Let us rejoice tonight when they are returned through the great stone circle."

Yorath bowed and indicated for the four men holding SG5 to accompany him. Seconds later, O’Neill watched as SG5 was carried out, any hope for a rescue leaving with them.

O’Neill let his head drop to the floor, his eyes closed tightly, as a moan found its way out of his throat. His worst nightmare had come true. He had been abandoned. They wouldn’t be back for him. No one knew he was here. He was alone.

SG5 woke from their brief nap in the clearing. After traipsing what seemed like halfway across the planet, Yearwood had called a halt at the clearing. It was time for lunch and then back to the gate. There was nothing to see here: no natives, no village, no animals, nothing. With nothing threatening them, Yearwood felt it was safe enough for them to relax. The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. They enjoyed the weather and scenery. What else were they to do on a planet where there was no sentient life? Might as well enjoy it while they could.

When 1600 rolled around, Yearwood headed back to the gate and at precisely 1700, they dialed home.

Stepping through the event horizon and onto the ramp at the SGC, Yearwood looked up at General Hammond’s hopeful expression. Unfortunately, the news wasn’t good. SG1 appeared suddenly in the gateroom, expecting something, but not this.

"Colonel, what happened? Where’s Colonel O’Neill?" Hammond asked hopeful.

"Sir, there’s no sign of life on the planet at all. We spent the entire day exploring and we didn’t meet a single person. I’m sorry, sir, but there’s no one there. There’s nothing. It’s just an uninhabited planet."

Hammond looked crestfallen. He tried not to let it show, but the defeat was in his voice and his posture. "Very well, SG5. We’ll debrief in one hour. Get yourselves down to the infirmary to get checked over."

"But…but…we were there!" Jackson exclaimed, running his hands through his short hair. "We met the people. We spoke with them. We even stayed with them. How can you say that they don’t exist? Are you blind?"

Yearwood looked at Jackson, his eyes full of pity. SG1 had finally become unglued. They were seeing things, hallucinating. Maybe the stress had finally gotten to them. "Jackson, there’s nothing there. Anything you say you saw must have been your imagination."

By the time they returned him to the dark reaches of the castle, O’Neill was exhausted. He couldn’t understand exactly what had happened, but he knew it wasn’t good. At least now he knew what had happened to his team, though. She had made them forget. Whether it was permanent, he did not know, but it explained a great deal.

He stumbled along, barely keeping up with Lady Morgana. He couldn’t believe that she was up and about only minutes later, nearly recovered after what she had done. Several times, O’Neill found himself dragged along, the chain stretched taut. When they got back to the cell, she instructed Turlough to leave the extra chain on and secure it to the wall. At least he would be able to lie down, O’Neill thought gratefully, sinking to the floor, trying to stop his head from spinning.

Turlough released his hands from the leather bindings as well and O’Neill rubbed his red raw wrists. He remembered the tray of food they had left behind, but when he reached for it, Lady Morgana quickly stepped in and struck him, tipping him over onto his back. He lay there sprawled out, shock registering on his face: his eyes wide in surprise. Food was part of the deal. He had walked around getting stuff thrown at him and now he got to eat. He had sat there in the Great Hall and watched her steal memories from his friends and colleagues. He was sure that was the deal.

"My pet, you did not earn a meal today. You must learn to be more obedient. Turlough, place the tray just out of his reach. He will be able to look at what his attitude took from him." When Turlough did as he was instructed, O’Neill whimpered. It was so close, but he knew, no matter how far he stretched, he would never reach it.

Lady Morgana heard his soft moan and bent down to stroke his head, forcing him to look at her. "Perhaps, my pet, if you can behave yourself this night, you can get something in the morning. Can you do that for me?"

O’Neill glared at her, part of him yelling not to give in, it was just food, but it was almost as if his head was separate from his body as he nodded slightly, accepting her terms for the hope of a morsel of food.

Lady Morgana smiled. He knew that she had won this battle. She helped him sit up and gestured for Turlough to bring the water goblet. She helped him sip some of the water, but took it away quickly. "You get the rest tomorrow if you behave. Right?"

Again he nodded, his eyes only seeing the goblet before him. She replaced the goblet on the tray and left the room with Turlough. O’Neill was sure there was someone just outside the door, but he couldn’t see who it was and he didn’t care. For the next hour or so, he tried desperately to reach the tray, but nothing he did got him even an inch closer.

Trying not to moan, he slumped down, curling up on his side in a fetal position—still facing the tray of food. Despite the torture of keeping it in view, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. He would never admit it to himself but that night his whimpers followed him—a Colonel in the US Air Force—down into a restless sleep.

A gentle caress through his hair and down the side of his face brought O’Neill back to his senses. He unconsciously snuggled his cheek against the soft, gentle hand. He could almost forget where he was—almost. A moment later, the pain of his injuries made themselves known and he jerked his head away and opened his eyes wide. What was he doing? His sudden movement caused a blossom of pain throughout his body. He closed his eyes tightly, moaning, and instinctively curled up again. As be bent, cradling his bruised ribs, he realized what was happening. He couldn’t show his pain, his weakness, to these people. He tried to straighten up a little bit. Once he got the pain under control, he opened his eyes again, gazing levelly at Morgana. He was in control, at least of his emotions, for the moment. Morgana was sitting back on her heels, watching his every move, his every twitch.

He slowly raised himself up to a sitting position, trying not to groan. The room spun a few times and black dots flashed before his eyes, but sheer determination kept him conscious.

"Well, my pet, how do you feel after a long night’s sleep?"

He tried to lick his lips, but his mouth was dry. "Peachy. Thanks for asking." O’Neill tried to smile pleasantly, but he knew Morgana wasn’t convinced.

"You still continue to lie to me, my pet. Why is that?"

O’Neill shrugged wordlessly. Why answer when he could save that energy for later, for something else?

"Very well. Shall we continue where we left off yesterday?" When O’Neill didn’t object, instead choosing to stare intently at a spot just above her eyes, in the middle of her forehead, she continued. "How do you use the great stone circle to travel to other planets?"

When O’Neill’s steady gaze did not waver, she leaned in closer, making him look directly into her eyes.

"Colonel, I asked you a question. If you do not answer, I will have to punish you, and you know I don’t want to do that."

He narrowed his eyes. "In a pig’s eye," he muttered just under his breath. Morgana, though, heard it loud and clear, just as he had intended.

She leaned back, sighing slightly and gestured for Turlough and his friend to step into the cell. O’Neill still didn’t have a name to go with the second attendant. Maybe Bubba, he thought chuckling to himself. He looked like a Bubba. A big guy, wide all over and a little slow. It would work.

When Bubba came into view, O’Neill knew he was in trouble. Bubba held a scourge in his hand, lengths of leather with pieces of bone tied into the ends and it looked like he knew how to use it.

Oh for cryin’ out loud, that’s what I call primitive. O’Neill exclaimed silently, the more detached part of his brain amused by the irony of using such a method to convince him of their advanced status.

O’Neill tried to grab Morgana to get some type of protection; something between him and what he knew was coming, but she stepped expertly out of his way, allowing Turlough to swoop in and get a firm grip on him. O’Neill was roughly dragged to his feet and held securely while Morgana quickly bound his wrists together tightly, expertly. No amount of struggling was getting him out of Turlough’s vice-like grip. His bound wrists were then secured above his head to a metal ring on the ceiling, adjacent to the back wall. His face and ribs rubbed against the wall, aggravating his injuries. He knew this was not going to be pretty. This was not his idea of a good morning wake up call.

Morgana stepped close and drew his black shirt up, running her hands lightly over his back, like a lover’s caress. She leaned in close, her hands still moving gently across his skin. She spoke softly, whispering in his ear. "We do not have to go through with this if you would only answer a few of my questions."

He gritted his teeth. "Not on your life."

"Perhaps another night, my pet." Morgana sounded disappointed. She stepped away quickly, motioning for Bubba to get started.

Whatever Bubba’s day job was must have prepared him for this because he got it right the first time out. The pain lanced through Jack as the bits of bone pierced his back, leaving lines of blood behind. He held his breath, trying to hold the pain in, trying to keep control. His ribs strained against the stone wall, lighting another fire along his side.

How many times the scourge pelted his back, he did not know. After the tenth stroke, he lost count. Yelps and barely controlled screams flew from his mouth unintentionally. Every once and a while, Bubba would hit an unusually tender spot and a full-blooded scream would emerge from the depths of his body. During it all, he could hear Morgana asking questions, urging him to answer so the pain would end. He could feel the blood running down his back, his hot blood, running down to his waist, being absorbed by the waist band of his pants, dripping down his legs. His wrists were rubbed raw. It was sheer agony, but he couldn’t let her know. He wouldn’t give in. He couldn’t give in.

But he was tiring.

After a moment or two, he realized he was sagging against the wall, breathing heavily, and no more strokes fell. Without the support of his wrists above his head, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stand. His knees didn’t want to straighten, to support his body weight. He took a chance and glanced back, trying to see what was happening. His eyes, though, didn’t want to focus. Drops of sweat trickled into them and pain glazed them over, making it hard to see clearly.

Lady Morgana was gesturing about something or other, that much Jack could tell, but anything more than that was lost to him. Moments later, however, Turlough stepped close and pulled Jack’s shirt down over his wounded back streaming with blood. He then released his wrists from the metal ring where they were secured and gently lowered Jack to the floor, mindful of his new injuries. Fresh waves of pain from strained muscles, excruciating lacerations covering his back, and bruised and battered ribs welled up, threatening to push him over the edge into darkness, but he held onto the pain. It proved he was alive. It proved he had held on, that he hadn’t given in, that he hadn’t broken.

Morgana stepped close, gently rolling him onto his stomach. He groaned as his bruised ribs came in contact with the cold, rough ground but he was in no shape to protest.

"My pet, what have you made me do?" she whispered, her hand running through his hair. She lifted his shirt, gazing at the wounds still oozing blood. They were many but only a few were deep.

"Turlough, retrieve the small healing device and please bring me water and a cloth." Her hands found the leather strips binding his wrists together. While she waited for Turlough to return, she untied his wrists, allowing him to lie a little more comfortably on the dirt floor.

"Why?" he whispered harshly, barely getting the words out. He had to know. It was hard to breathe with the pain in his chest.

"Shush, my pet, rest," she said, stroking his brow. "Tomorrow is another day. Maybe tomorrow you shall please me once again. Until then, you can rest."

He didn’t argue. He didn’t have the strength. But why was she doing this now? Had he given her what she wanted? Had the words he was trying to hold back somehow emerged? What had he screamed? Had he cried out? Had he howled out answers to her questions? What had he said? He could not remember. All he remembered was the pain: the pain of bone, digging into his back, pulling away pieces of flesh with every pass of the scourge. Pain had become his friend, his constant companion.

A cool wet cloth pressed against his back brought him to his senses. Morgana was carefully sponging and cleaning his back, taking great care not to hurt him. He tried to pull away, but had no energy to move from her light grip.

Soon, warmth replaced the dampness. It penetrated deep, healing as it went. The pain was lessening, but he tried to hold onto it with all his strength. It was all he had left that was his and she was taking even that away from him.

"No," he cried, shuttering as the pain left his body. "No."

"Shush, my pet. Rest," she whispered.

The blackness that was threatening slowly came to take him away—away from the torture, the pain, and her kindness. What had he done?