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