This time they locked the door.

For the first time in days, possibly even weeks—since at this point he’d entirely lost track of time—the door to his cell closed and locked with a loud clank as soon as Turlough pushed Jack through it. Without his collar and chain, apparently, Morgana and Company were not taking any chances of accidentally misplacing him in the middle of the night.

Swell.

Standing in the middle of the dark cell, with only a small glimmer of light shining through the barred window in the door, O’Neill ground his teeth in frustration. He was in a sorry state. He was locked up in the dungeon of a castle, barely clothed, his voice was on vacation, and his brain and body kept losing their connection.

Just peachy.

At least he didn’t hurt anywhere. That was a pleasant change, but who knew how long that would actually last.

This evening had been a nightmare—and one he would probably relive time and time again if Morgana had any say about it. It had been painful to sit twenty feet away from Daniel and Carter. He was forced to watch their every move, all their familiar gestures and quirks—Daniel constantly playing with his glasses, Carter tucking the longer strands of her blonde hair behind her ears—but completely unable to speak or do anything but stare. Even though he had managed to catch Daniel’s eye several times throughout the evening, the lack of recognition had been disturbing. To Daniel, Jack was just one more face in a crowd. Jack was a nameless face without a voice. One nameless, voiceless face without the will to get the hell out of Dodge.

Glancing back to the closed door, Jack rubbed his hand roughly across his face and into his short gray hair. He’d discovered that as long as Morgana wasn’t in sight he was pretty much himself, the noise in his mind dropping down to a tolerable level, allowing him to think—and perhaps plan his escape.

Squinting through the dimness, he crept to his pallet of blankets wishing he had a tall glass of crystal clear mountain spring water. His throat was dry again—probably due to his forced abstinence before. As long as she didn’t give him that firewater again, he’d be okay. Long after she had left, he had writhed in agony until the pain had finally dissipated, allowing him to fall into a restless sleep. Of course, that luxury hadn’t lasted long. She had awoken him just so she could drag him upstairs for her nightmarish version of show and tell.

It wasn’t as if he could actually ask for a glass of water, he thought savagely. Besides, he wasn’t the type to do the whole sign language/stick figure drawings thing. That was Daniel’s job.

Daniel, Jack thought, his breath going out in a long sigh. Daniel had looked tired. Probably not taking care of himself again, too busy wrapped up with one artifact or another—forgetting to sleep and eat as he usually did.

Thinking back, he realized that Carter had looked a little highly strung as well—probably due to her new position as leader of SG1. Since he was gone, there was nothing to hold her back. Jack knew that she was more than capable of commanding an SG unit. People respected her, looked up to her—he did, and he was the hardest sell of all. She didn’t have anything to worry about. Hammond loved her—as a surrogate child and as the brilliant scientist who had pulled their asses out of the fire more times than he could remember.

Leaning back against the cold stone wall, he pulled a blanket around his body, trying to keep warm. While the Great Hall had been heated, the rooms in the castle foundation were anything but warm. Drafts abounded and the blankets never fully covered his lanky frame. It was one of those constants that convinced him that the universe was playing one big practical joke on him. No matter where he had gone throughout his life—whether it was on earth or another planet—his feet were always cold due to a substantial lack of blanket length. Ildanach was no exception.

Trying to conserve as much body heat as possible, he drew the blanket tighter around him and pulled his feet up toward his chest, resting his elbows on his knees. The uneven stones of the wall dug into his back but he welcomed that small discomfort because it reminded him of where he was and what had happened to him—not that he would forget anytime soon, he thought, his mouth turned down into a painful grimace.

He was tired, but he knew he was too wired to sleep. His team was here—minus Teal’c apparently—and they didn’t know who he was. And from the looks of things, they didn’t even know that he was here. And they probably weren’t even looking.

Things were not looking up.

There had to be some way he could contact them to convey to them that he was still here, that he was still waiting for that one chance, that one small fighting chance, to go home.

He was still thinking that thought as he drifted off into a fitful sleep, his head cradled in his arms.

Egan glided through the silent halls of Meath Castle while its occupants slept soundly all around him. This night he was finding it difficult to sleep. His mind would not quiet.

He had sat through the sessions in the Great Hall this evening—in the back among the shadows—while his brother played Lord, presiding over the event in a grand fashion—as he usually did when there was an audience to impress.

While he agreed with the alliance they were outlining, it was Lord Kentigern and Lady Morgana’s motives that concerned him. His brother had changed these past few years, moving away from the warrior’s path that he had at one time cherished.

Egan nodded quietly to a passing servant, smiling gently in greeting, his mind a million miles away. The servants were accustomed to his nightly strolls, as infrequent as they usually were. He realized that, as of late, these walks had almost become nightly, his restlessness beginning sometime after his first meeting with the strangers who stepped through the great stone ring.

His actions of late weighed heavily on his mind. He was the one who had greeted them and extended the hand of friendship that they had gladly returned in kind. He had brought them to his home, to his family, his people, without a word, without a warning of what could happen.

He had seen the hungry look in Lady Morgana’s eyes that first evening and he knew that things would not go well for these strangers, especially for O’Neill. He was the strongest one—full of energy and vitality. He was a warrior, one educated in the art of war and in the ways of honor. Egan could see it in O’Neill’s eyes, in his bearing, in his very being. O’Neill had a warrior’s soul and walked the warrior’s path.

After he had escorted Daniel Jackson and his colleagues to the Castle this day, he had spent the remainder of the afternoon deep in thought, walking through the gardens trying to gain a measure of peace.

Peace, however, would not come.

He trusted Lady Morgana and Lord Kentigern with his life. Kentigern was his brother and, even though he had his faults, he was family. When they were growing up, Kentigern had always been the center of attention, winning awards at the various contests and fairs each year, excelling in all things until he was eventually selected as Lord.

Lady Morgana was his wife and Meath’s high priestess, but she had changed over the years. Egan remembered her from when he was younger, when she first had come to the village from the outlying territories, asking for protection and a home. Immediately, his father had welcomed her, for not only was she a priestess in service to our God Lugh, but she was beautiful. Throughout the years, she had aided both his father and his brother to become powerful rulers, bringing a peace to Meath that had not been seen in years.

However, even though she claimed to be trained in the path of warriors, there were times when Egan doubted her word—and her motives.

Just as he did now.

Glancing out a window as he passed, he noted the flight of several birds against the lightening sky. Dawn was soon to break. He sighed. This was another night where he would find no rest.

Egan paced though the silent halls, his hands clasped behind him, his expression thoughtful. But time and time again, his steps led him to the hallways and stairs that he wanted to avoid. Twice already this night he had turned from this very doorway, but yet three times his feet—or was it his heart—had led him here.

This time he did not turn away.

Stepping carefully down the scarcely lit staircase he made his way into the depths of the castle, the cool damp air caressing his face. There were no guards present on this lower level this night, as per Lady Morgana’s order. Apparently, she felt secure, confident in her own abilities. Egan, however, suspected that O’Neill would surprise her.

Walking to the closed cell door, Egan peered in, trying to see the figure slumped in the shadows. Even though it looked as if O’Neill were sleeping, crouched uncomfortably against the wall, O’Neill was a light sleeper this night. Just as Egan started to turn away, a glint from O’Neill’s open eyes caught his attention.

They stared at each other through the darkness for several moments before Egan moved to grab the key and the torch, opened the door to the cell, and stepped inside.

He placed the torch on the wall, eyeing O’Neill carefully, waiting to see if he would do something. O’Neill just watched Egan warily, his expression guarded. After a few minutes of locked eyes and tense silence, Egan kneeled down, finally getting a good look at O’Neill in the flickering light offered by the single torch. O’Neill looked better than he had several nights before, which was not saying much. His face was gaunt and pale and covered with a salt-and-pepper beard. His eyes were tired, but still held a small spark.

For Egan, that was all he needed to see.

"O’Neill, how much of the tea did you drink?" Egan asked, getting directly to the point, his eyes fastened to O’Neill’s. Dawn was breaking and the guards would soon return. Egan knew he did not have much time.

After a moment’s hesitation, O’Neill raised his hand, three fingers raised. Egan’s eyes widened slightly in surprise while O’Neill looked on, a perplexed expression on his face. Egan explained a moment later.

"Normally, men such as yourself drink much more of the tea, double what you have had. Are you sure that was all you drank?"

O’Neill’s firm nod was answer enough.

"Good. The confusion you are currently feeling should dissipate within the next day or so, allowing you to act independently of Lady Morgana." At O’Neill’s disgusted expression, Egan continued. "I know you are not pleased, but I assure you, it will wear off. Take pleasure in your fortune. Most men find themselves at her mercy for much longer. How much of the Riordan did you take?"

O’Neill shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

"My apologies," Egan said. "I am inquiring about your voice. Did Lady Morgana give you something to drink or eat?"

O’Neill nodded vigorously and pantomimed drinking, holding up a single finger.

"You drank one glass?" Egan asked, needing confirmation. At O’Neill’s affirmative nod, he continued. "Good. Try saying something."

O’Neill’s forehead furrowed, his eyebrows drawing close together in distrust, but he tried—without success. O’Neill shrugged apologetically.

"No, it is I who should apologize, but that must wait for another time. You will probably recover your voice within the day. Riordan, while effective, lasts only for a short time, usually less than a day. With your physical differences from my people, the time may be longer or shorter, unfortunately, I do not know which." Egan paused, his eye critically going over O’Neill’s face. He reached out his hand to tilt O’Neill’s head, but stopped quickly, realizing what he was doing. "O’Neill, I need to examine you. I am sure Morgana will return once the sun rises. I do not have much time."

O’Neill nodded, somewhat reluctantly.

"I aided another man, much like yourself, years ago when I was much younger," Egan admitted, taking O’Neill’s head in his hands and tilting it to get a better look at him in the dim light. O’Neill drew back slightly, fighting Egan’s hold until he finally acquiesced and relaxed his muscles, allowing Egan to work. "He was a formidable warrior and Lady Morgana took a personal interest in him—much like she has in you. He managed to escape, never to be found again. I can help you as I did him. Give me your hand," Egan ordered, and much to his surprise, O’Neill complied with a roll of his eyes and a sigh.

The man had not lost his spirit.

"Do you trust me, O’Neill?" Egan asked after a few moments, sitting back on his heels, giving O’Neill more room to move. His quick examination of O’Neill was promising. He was in fair health, in no pain, and his eyes were clearing quickly.

O’Neill narrowed his eyes and shook his head slightly back and forth.

The answer did not surprise Egan. "Before I go, let me tell you this. You can choose to believe me or not, it is entirely up to you," Egan said, speaking fast and keeping his voice low. "I think you are past the worst of what Lady Morgana’s potions can do. I do not think she will give you more this day. She underestimates you, thinking she has already won. I, though, can tell the difference." Egan smiled without humor. "Morgana has limited control over your mind and it will continue to decrease as the day goes on. Remember that, but do not misuse the freedom it gives you. Your voice should also return soon. Use it wisely."

Egan stood, glancing back over his shoulder toward the door. If anyone saw him now, he would have a hard time explaining himself—even as the brother of the Lord. What he was about to do amounted to treason—and called for death.

He did it anyway.

Egan reached into the leather pouch at his hip, pulling out two small leaves. Looking above the greenery at O’Neill, he came to his final decision. From here there was no going back. "O’Neill, I know you do not trust us, but we are a good people. Take this. It will give you energy when you need it and it will help clear your mind—but remember this, it will only be a temporary solution for you. You must find your own way home."

Leaning down, Egan handed the green leaves to O’Neill and turned, walking out the door. Looking in the cell as he locked the door, Egan noticed that O’Neill had not moved, still holding the foliage in his outstretched hand.

Had Egan stayed, he might have heard the strangled whisper, barely louder than a gentle breeze.

"Thank you."

It was afternoon on the second day of the negotiations and they were just about finished. Lady Morgana, Lord Kentigern, and the team from the SGC had reconvened first thing in the morning—with an equally large audience in attendance as the night before—and things were moving smoothly.

For Daniel, it was a blessing. He was eager to explore the village and some of the farms on the outskirts of the city—and the talks were boring him to death. Intellectually, he knew his place was here, but his emotional side had other thoughts on the matter. Maybe it was the fact that he really wasn’t supposed to leave the table that made him so jumpy—especially when he knew the treasure trove that was outside waiting for him.

So, instead of wandering around in the sunshine, he was sitting in the Great Hall sandwiched between Sam and Stan Kovachek and trying not to be obvious about his boredom. Glancing to his right, he caught Sam’s eye and smiled quietly at her. Daniel could tell from her expression that she also wished she were anywhere else but here. Paul and Stan, on the other hand, had jumped in with both feet and were having the time of their lives—at least that’s how it appeared from Daniel’s perspective.

Glancing around the room, he noticed most of those present in the audience were listening intently, some even taking notes. Egan, Daniel noticed, was standing once again in the back of the room doing a fine job of blending in with the tapestries.

Daniel glanced at his watch again. It was only one o’clock, fifteen minutes later than when he had looked the last time. He sighed quietly, trying to pay attention to what Paul and Lord Kentigern were discussing, something about mining rights. Apparently, the mineral samples they had brought back looked promising and the SGC wanted to get their hands on more. Although the samples didn’t contain a lot of naquadah, there was enough to make some of the scientists very happy.

"The mineral you seek, why is it important?" Lady Morgana was asking.

"We have found it to be useful in many aspects, especially for defensive technologies such as shields," Sam said, drawing Morgana’s attention away from Stan. "Unfortunately, naqahda is not plentiful on our planet."

Apparently, Sam was leaving some of the more interesting uses of naquadah—such as in ribbon devices, the Stargate, nanotechnology, power generators, and explosive devices—out of the conversation, Daniel thought absently, his mind and his gaze wandering around the chamber once again. An empty seat in the front row surprised him. Lady Morgana’s friend was gone. He’d been there all morning. They’d caught each other’s gaze on more than one occasion, Daniel usually turning away first, uncomfortable with the man’s cool, level gaze.

Daniel leaned over to Sam, whispering quietly, "I’m going to the little boy’s room." Sam nodded her understanding, her mind focused on naqahda and mining rights.

Daniel slid from his chair, quickly excusing himself from the table. Once he was out in the hallway, however, he was unsure why he was there. He really didn’t have to go to the bathroom. Glancing around the empty hallway, he headed for the back of the castle, toward the bathroom and what he thought was the kitchen area. Since there was no one around, he didn’t think it would hurt if he just poked his head into some of the rooms he was passing. You never knew when you would get another opportunity like this, to walk through a castle, he thought, convincing himself that his snooping was justified.

Halfway to the kitchens, he was pulled deeper into an empty room, nearly swiping him from off his feet. When he finally caught his balance, Daniel found himself face to face with the tall stranger in the dimly lit room. The stranger tried clearing his throat several times, but when he spoke, his voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, and very rough. The message, though, was crystal clear.

"Help me."

Daniel glanced at the open door, expecting someone to walk in the room. "What?" Daniel asked. "How can I help you? What do you want me to help you do?"

The man closed his eyes briefly before he answered. To Daniel, the man looked frustrated, which perplexed Daniel all the more.

"Need…help…gate."

"You need help with the gate?" Daniel was confused. Gate education would start once the treaty was signed. Did he want a jumpstart on the education? And why? "What do you want to do with the gate? I don’t understand."

The man turned around, his hands running through his hair as he took a few steps away from Daniel deeper into the shadows. Several beats passed before the man turned around once again, moving in quickly and stepping close to Daniel, causing Daniel to back up several paces, nearly standing in the open doorway.

"Home."

"Home? What about your home? Did something happen to your home?" Daniel glanced away, gazing across the hall at the hanging tapestry. Looking back at the stranger, Daniel breathed in deeply and took a leap of faith. "What do you want me to do?"

"My lord?" came an inquiring voice from the hallway, making Daniel jump nearly out of his boots. He turned to face the girl.

"I am sorry, my Lord, if I startled you. I was just inquiring if you required something," said the young girl. Daniel figured she was no older than Cassie was, probably around twelve or thirteen.

"No. I was just looking around a little before I went back to the Great Hall," Daniel answered.

"Very well, my Lord. If you require anything, please do not hesitate to ask," she said, curtseying and walking away.

When Daniel glanced back in the dim room, his eyes narrowed in bewilderment. Squinting through the half-light, Daniel realized that he was alone. The stranger had slipped into the shadows and vanished without a trace, without a sound.

Confused, Daniel stepped back into the hall and slowly made his way back to the Great Hall. When he found his seat, he was surprised to see the stranger sitting across from him, occupying the same seat as before with the same blank expression on his face that he had worn throughout the talks.

This time, however, Daniel was unable to catch his eye. The stranger sat perfectly still, his eyes focused intently on Lady Morgana.

That was a stupid idea, O’Neill, his mind chided him, as he strode down the passageway back to the Great Hall. If he stayed away any longer, Turlough was sure to come looking for him. But when Jack had seen Daniel roaming the hallways alone, he couldn’t think of a better plan. What made him think that Daniel would understand what he was trying to say? Jack grumbled to himself. Sometimes that boy was denser than a ton of bricks. Why did it have to happen now of all days?

It was times like these that Jack was convinced that Daniel had had much more successful communication with dogs on more than one occasion.

Sliding back into his seat next to Turlough, Jack leaned back in the chair, relaxing his muscles, his hands clasped loosely in this lap. Normally, it was nearly impossible for him to sit still for any length of time. But right now, his life depended on it. The white noise in his mind was nearly gone and his voice was returning, albeit slower than he would have liked. If he took it slowly, freedom might only be a few steps away.

He just needed to get outside.

Focusing his attention on Lady Morgana’s collarbone, Jack let his mind wander, thinking of the various possibilities, various situations. He knew he wasn’t up to his usual levels, but even if he wasn’t at his best, he should be able to get himself to the gate and somehow get himself home—even if he took a side trip to Abydos or Chulak. One thing he knew for sure—he didn’t want to end up splattered against the iris just because he couldn’t get his hands on his GDO.

Vaguely, he realized Daniel had returned to the Great Hall as well, sitting down at the main table. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack could tell that Daniel was trying to get his attention, but any contact that obvious would mean death for him—and Jack was positive on that one point. He wanted to stay alive. Jack remembered what Lady Morgana was like when she didn’t get her way. He’d rather take hundreds of spoiled brats—just like the one he had seen in the grocery store just a few weeks ago, throwing a temper tantrum because she couldn’t get a chocolate bar—than be subjected to what this overgrown spoiled brat Celtic priestess could throw at him.

But, all his plans hinged on one thing: he had to be outside of the castle.

While a zat gun would be nice, he didn’t think Carter or Daniel would just let him borrow one—especially not in their present state. He probably couldn’t rely on Davis or Kovachek, either, Jack thought. Morgana had probably managed to get her mitts on them as well.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Stan Kovachek glancing at his wristwatch before speaking up again. "Lady Morgana, Lord Kentigern, would it be possible to take a recess for an hour or two? We would like to rest briefly. Additionally, it will give me some time to draw up some of the documents about which we were speaking. Would that be acceptable to you?"

Even before Lord Kentigern could respond, a figure materialized beside him. Egan bowed deeply. "My lords, please pardon my interruption, but perhaps a short walk around the village would help clear everyone’s mind, since you have been seated for the majority of the day."

"Thank you, Egan for suggesting that, but I believe our guests would rather take the time to rest and relax—" Lady Morgana said, only to be cut off by Daniel.

"Uh, actually, a walk would be good. It helps to get the brain cells working again," Daniel said, glancing around the table for support.

"If it is not too much trouble, I would also love to walk around the village again. Perhaps even others could join us. If they have questions, I’m sure my team would be delighted to speak with them in person," Stan said. O’Neill almost huffed in disbelief when Stan said "my team," but he managed to restrain himself before the sound emerged. From the look of fire in Sam’s eyes, Jack was sure that Kovachek would get an earful from her later on tonight.

"My lord," Egan said, bowing his head in respect, "your idea would be pleasing to us as well. The people of Meath have many questions for you."

"Very well, then, if everyone is in agreement, then let us walk. The weather is fine," Lord Kentigern said, rising from his seat, his hand entwined with Lady Morgana’s.

Jack was ecstatic. He was sure that the utter glee of the situation was shining brightly in his eyes, so he kept them downcast, meekly following the crowd and the leading of Turlough’s hand.

After only a few paces, Lady Morgana stepped close to him, whispering in his ear. "Stay with the group and behave yourself and you will be rewarded this night."

Jack nodded his head in understanding, watching Morgana glide forward to walk alongside her husband. He could have jumped for joy, but decided restraint was the better option. The white noise was gone and he felt no compulsion to obey Morgana’s command.

He glanced at his surroundings surreptitiously, looking for escape routes. The group was large, but he realized that as long as Turlough was at his side, he didn’t stand a chance. He could wait. He’d waited this long. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

The weather was ideal—not too hot, not too cold. If it were Earth, he would have called this Indian Summer. He’d be okay out in the open tonight. He just had to get away. He knew how to survive in the woods overnight. He’d done it often enough—as a kid, running away from home and a situation he found intolerable at times and as an adult, on special ops missions and on planets far, far away.

He was self-sufficient. He knew how to take care of himself. On many occasions, he was the only one he could really rely on when things got tough. He couldn’t even depend on his team or the SGC—they’d left him for dead.

Maybe it was time for him to retire—for good this time. He’d thought about it often enough, but the promises made to his dead son and others kept a hold on him. If he gave up now, he would fail them all and that was something that he wasn’t prepared to do—yet.

Daniel, Sam, and Paul Davis were scattered throughout the crowd, small groups hovering around them. Daniel, of course, had his digital recorder out and was busy filming as they walked. Sam was chatting animatedly with Lady Morgana up near the front of the group, while Stan was holding court with Lord Kentigern.

Paul Davis was speaking with Hywel but keeping an eye on Daniel, making sure he didn’t stray too far behind the group. Good luck, Paul, Jack thought, smiling to himself. It’s been four years now and I still haven’t been able to keep him from wandering off.

All the while, Jack kept his eyes peeled, looking for an opportunity to slip away unnoticed.

"Turlough," called Lady Morgana, her hand waving high in the air.

When Turlough answered her and advanced his way through the crowd to be at her side, Jack almost sighed in relief. He wished he could hear what they were saying, but they were too far away and there were too many people around, too many conversations, and too many voices.

A few moments later when Turlough loped off heading back to the castle, Jack realized that it was either now or never. He’d never have a better opportunity. Keeping an eye on Lady Morgana and watching for the impending return of Turlough, Jack maneuvered his way to the edge of the group, carefully waiting for the moment that could very well make or break the rest of his life.

Daniel was having a hard time paying attention to what Hywel was saying. Recording the sights and sounds of the village was far more important right now—at least in Daniel’s eyes. Glancing over quickly, he flashed Paul a grateful smile. At least one of them was paying attention—and responding coherently.

Daniel panned the camera around, catching glimpses of faces and buildings. They were nearing one of the village walls, closer to some of the residential areas of the city. Between some of the wooden and stone structures small gardens grew, most of them past the harvest and picked clean, leaving the plants to wither and die in the cold of winter that was soon to be upon the valley.

He maneuvered his way to the back of the group so he would be able to film without getting too much of the group in his way.

This was fantastic, Daniel thought, as he stopped suddenly, zooming the camera in closer, trying to get all the details of the carving outside a door they were passing. He didn’t remember reading about any intricate wood carvings on Celtic homes before, but then, on Earth there really was never anything left for the archeologists to find—just dust, stone, and rubble.

If they could only see just a fraction of what I have, Daniel mused. They wouldn’t know where to begin. One day, perhaps once the Goa’uld threat was no more, his colleagues would be able to see some of the things he had been fortunate enough to behold on planets far, far away.

Panning back the way they had come, he vaguely heard Lady Morgana call for someone. But, when the call was not repeated, he continued filming, realizing that the group was in a section he had not visited previously with Hywel.

Taking his eye away from the camera, he let it run, panning the village while he gazed about, looking for something else to record. Up ahead was a gap in the wall where two large gates stood open, allowing cattle and people to come and go. Beyond the gate, Daniel saw a river, not wide, but flowing swiftly. Several men were standing knee-deep in the water, their cloaks on the riverbank, their feet bare, their pants rolled up as high as they would go, and holding spears. Other men, several yards downstream, were handling fishing nets catching some of the smaller fish.

In the few minutes they stood at the gate, and Daniel observed the men as they caught several fish. On the edge of his awareness, he heard Hywel explaining about what was happening. Daniel smiled to himself when he caught a glimpse of Paul’s bored expression. At least now he knows how I feel, Daniel thought.

A huge splash distracted them as one of the fishermen tripped and fell into the river. Seconds later, he regained his feet and the man walked to shore amidst the joking and teasing of his friends.

As Lord Kentigern called for them to keep moving, Daniel stayed to get one last glimpse of the fishermen. This was a way of life that was nearly extinct on Earth, replaced instead by machines, global commerce, and the mighty dollar. Although primitive, it certainly served its purpose.

Movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention. For a moment he could have sworn he saw something, but he reckoned that it was just his imagination or an animal in the brush.

He quickly turned to catch up with the rest of the group before he was left behind and had to listen to Sam’s complaining later that night.

There were some things that never changed. That was one of them.

Jack O’Neill ran.

As soon as he was past the fishermen and out of their sight, he ran as fast and as hard as he could. He followed the river, remembering distantly that the path from the Stargate ran parallel to the stream.

Jack didn’t think anyone had seen him. For a brief minute, he thought Daniel might have given him away—Daniel and his stupid camera—but, when no angry shouts or running feet followed, Jack breathed a small sigh of relief.

Once he hit the shelter of the forest, he planned to stop, to rest briefly before pressing on. He only had a two-hour hike back to the gate—if he took the direct route, which was unlikely. He’d discovered that over the years of missions, the strangest things happened when you took the easy route. Better to be safe and go slow, than head directly for your ultimate destination—and perhaps a waiting army.

Soon he would be off this godforsaken planet and going home—back to his bed, his shower, warm food, crystal clear water, and comfortable clothing.

Only a few minutes into his escape and he was already winded. This was not part of the plan. He could see the darkness of the forest just ahead, the river turning, meandering deeper into the woods beyond, the dense foliage swallowing it whole.

A few more yards and then a few more and he could rest. That was his mantra. That’s what was keeping him going—that and his sheer determination and bull-headed stubbornness. He was not going to die on a planet light years from home.

Stones and rocks kept digging into his feet with every step, piercing through the soft-soled shoes Morgana had given him. While they were fine within the village walls, he wouldn’t recommend them for long distance running. Not enough support where you need it most, he thought, chuckling humorlessly to himself.

He ducked his head as he plowed his way into the undergrowth, trying to avoid tree limbs, twigs, and thorn bushes—but managing to get several scratches in the process.

A few more yards and you can rest.

He was wheezing. It was loud amidst the silence of the forest. The sound was all consuming.

A few more yards and you can rest.

His heart was pounding so strongly he was nearly convinced that it would burst out of his chest. He was confident that it could be heard beating several feet away from him.

A few more yards and you can rest.

Sweat poured down his face, into his eyes, obscuring his vision. He wiped savagely at his eyes trying to clear them enough so he could see where he was going. He leaped over fallen tree limbs time and again, nearly losing his balance each time, but regaining it to push on further into the forest.

A few more yards and you can rest.

There was a small clearing up ahead. Rest stop number one was fast approaching. If he didn’t stop now, he was sure that he’d just end up passing out a few feet farther down the path.

Collapsing on the ground, his chest heaving as he tried to pull in oxygen to his body, he tried to calm his pounding heart. For several minutes, he simply sat there, reveling in the peace and quiet and the absolute pleasure of breathing fresh air.

His ears were open to the sounds of the forest, listening intently for what could be the end of his life—the sound of movement, the sound of people in the forest, the sound of people in the forest looking for him.

Except for his heaving breaths, which were quickly evening out, the only sounds came from the forest itself—the rustling of the leaves, the twittering of birds high above, the scuffling sound of small feet against trees. Nature at its best.

Peace.

Solitude.

Freedom.

He was free. Now he just had to get to the gate—and that was easier said than done.

Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the two leaves that Egan had handed him earlier that day, even before the sun broke over the horizon. Examining them with a careful eye, he twirled him in his fingers, mesmerized by their quickly changing color as they caught the light.

As if by some internal force, he came to a decision.

He didn’t really trust Egan, but he didn’t have much choice. Why did Egan offer assistance to me if his only intention was to kill me? Jack thought, his eyes narrowed in concentration, focused intently on the leaves in his hand.

He would take one now to get as far as he could before nightfall, and then take one tomorrow morning.

Tucking one leaf away, he sniffed the remaining one carefully. It didn’t smell like anything with which he was accustomed. It had a sweet odor, but was mixed with other smells—foreign, alien smells.

Dropping it on his tongue, he closed his mouth and started chewing. The aroma filled his senses, lifting his spirits. It slid down his throat, leaving behind a sugary aftertaste.

Sweet, he thought, gazing around, a half-smile on his face.

After a few minutes, he was ready to move on, this time slower and more carefully, covering his trail as he went. He traveled for several hours—at least that was what he estimated since he no longer had his watch. He doubled back on his trail several times, leaving false trails as well. The people of Meath—at least the warriors—were doubtless very good trackers. He wanted to make sure they had problems following him.

Several times he considered walking directly to the gate, trying to beat the guards that were sure to be pursuing him. To him it was obvious where he’d go—to the gate. But, if he bided his time, he might stand a better chance of getting away unseen—if they thought he was already gone. It was convoluted logic, he thought, but it was the best plan he had.

Evening had fallen a while ago—an hour or two, or so he thought. It was time to make camp for the night.

The leaf, stimulant—whatever it was—had worked quickly, giving him the boost of energy he needed.

He’d covered a lot of ground, and hoped he was still on the right path to the gate. He stayed off the main path, remembering that patrols might be doing their rounds. One thing was for certain: he did not want to meet anyone tonight.

The nearly full moon was giving him ample light, but the night was getting cold. He needed to find somewhere to rest for the night—preferably someplace quiet that didn’t already have an occupant.

Detecting a small clearing up ahead, he scouted around, looking for signs of habitation. Once he was satisfied that it was clear, he settled down under the bows of a great pine tree, its limbs nearly brushing the needle covered ground.

The pine needles would provide a soft mattress of sorts, while the tree itself would give him cover. It was perfectly positioned at the foot of a small rocky hill, providing protection for his back.

The needles were thick, thick enough for him to dig in, covering as much of his body as possible, insulating him from the cold of the night.

The hooting of an owl and the rustling leaves of the trees surrounding him followed him down to a peaceful sleep.