Cedarfiction.net - Apostasy

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Previously On Stargate Atlantis:

His voice cracked as he looked across the woven pallet on which Teyla's possessions, including the little hand carved crib, had been reverently placed, waiting for the time when – in lieu of her body – they would be carried through the Gate to the settlement of her people, to lie in state, before the pyre would take them all; reduce them to ash and dust that was all that remained of the woman herself, floating endlessly in the vast cold of space.

"Two days," Sheppard said. "Forty-eight hours… two thousand, eight hundred, eighty minutes. One hundred, seventy-two thousand, eight hundred seconds… since we lost Teyla… and I've lived… every single one of them in a darkness… deeper for knowing the absence of her gentle presence in this galaxy…"

Burning… The whole of his flesh was dissolving in the fire of a bitter maelstrom that had taken root inside of him. His dreams were dark and too confused to even grasp the edges of any sense to wrap around them.

Quickly, he threw back the soaked covers, and turned to put his head into his hands, as the familiar darkness of his quarters, and the bubbling hum of the city of Atlantis wrapped her comfort around him… and when he could stand, he padded to the bathroom to remove the evidence of his night terrors.

"I'm not asking you to tell me anything, Carson, I just want you to listen. If I'm being stupid then fine, frankly, I'll be glad, but I'm going crazy right now because I can't stop worrying about it and just… I've gotta tell someone. I can't tell Sheppard because whether or not I'm right or wrong won't matter, he'll just go… tearing off after Todd and likely end up getting himself killed. Ronon too, but—"

"I told you before that I thought that Todd might have either fed on Jennifer or forced himself on her, but… I think it's more complicated than that," he said.

"Well, you know?" McKay shifted in his seat and Carson thought he looked slightly constipated as he said, "that thing the Wraith can do, the way they can… mess with your mind…?"

He nodded, as noncommittally as he could, trying hard not to remember the touch of Michael's mind inside his own, and hoping his expression would encourage McKay to keep talking.

"I worry that's what he did to Jen, that he somehow… manipulated her, I mean… she was so… goddamn… defensive whenever I mentioned anything to do with Todd. It's like… like she was…"

"Carson!" McKay's raised voice brought more than a few stares their way. He looked around before leaning over the table to hiss at Carson, "You can't possibly condone that, you—"

"What I'm saying is that it doesn't matter what you or I think," Carson said firmly. "What matters is what Jennifer thinks, how she perceives it. The only time it becomes my business to make a judgement is when it starts to involve medical issues."

"But that's just it," McKay said, his face creasing from indignation to worry. "Look at what's just happened. What if it does, Carson?"

The serum flooded into him like icy fire. Michael could track its progress as it burst as an ache inside his head and down to squeeze his heart as if some massive bellows worked to crush him. After only a laboured breath, the pain of it began.

He clenched his teeth against the bubbling and churning that began deep inside him, but all too soon the intensity of the agonising change that was sweeping over him, and through him, overcame his resistance. He cried out, "I will kill you for this… all of you!"

But even the defiant cries became wordless as the agony took hold, as his transformation accelerated, and even above his own screams he could hear the crackling and popping of his bones, sinews and flesh.

She caught him by the elbows as his strength began to fail, even as he tried to brace himself against the wall behind her.

"What have they done to you?" she gasped softly, sinking down with him as he came to his knees.

Dismayed, she ran her eyes over his altered, injured form, from his short cropped, bone white hair, over his face, fully reverted now, the butterfly shape around his eyes swollen and bruised as if from many beatings. His lips were thin and bloodless, over his pointed teeth, and were parted in pain as he tried to catch his breath.

She could not stop herself from taking in the sight of the all of him. Her eyes passed over the blackened, hardened patch of Iratus-like skin on the side of his neck, over the filthy blood stained shirt to the twisted, painful looking swelling of his hands and fingers.

Tears for him welled in her eyes, and releasing his elbow as he swayed, dangerously close to falling, she caught his side briefly, and he hissed with added pain. She pulled her hand away again, wet with his blood.

"Nothing… that cannot…" he gasped softly, moving to support himself against her shoulder, his grasp tightening. "…be undone."

"McKay! Go!" Ronon's voice cut above the cacophony of the battle. "We can't get pinned here – go!"

"Leave Halling to me," Ronon growled, already moving the Athosian's way, not stopping the onslaught of his blaster as he moved. "Beckett, go!"

Everything slowed down; as if time itself were dilating to show, step by sordid step, the moment that everything went wrong. The leading sub-commander raised his weapon, and high sound warbled, distorted, through the air. The flash at the muzzle of the Wraith blaster he held was like the opening of some exotic, but deadly flower, spitting its venom into the almost safety of space that Ronon and Halling had made for themselves.

Ronon stumbled, as if pushed from behind by the one remaining drone that Halling still fought. The stumble became a fall as the big man toppled forward, a spray of red erupting in the space beside and before him.

"Come with me," he said urgently. "You know as well as I do, Colonel Sheppard will not make it back aboard this Hive."

"Then he, too, will meet his end," Michael said finally. He let go of her then, turning to lean heavily against the scout ship as he joined his hybrid in returning fire against the drones. "Live or die, Teyla. Time to choose."

"When Michael returned me to Atlantis people here whom I thought my friends failed to believe that what I was telling them was true. Their mistrust became untenable. Their treatment was… uncalled for at best and an insult to my right to privacy at its worse level. During that time, Carson, I truly came to understand his plight."

"Michael's?" he queried softly, knowing somehow that between the two of them there would be no deception, no hiding sophistry, just the naked, honest truth.

"We treated him abominably, Teyla," he said and heard in his own voice the sorrow that gripped him, the sorrow and the shame.

"Then, Carson, why?" she said, her voice a fervent hissed question and she reached out to grasp him by the wrist. "I have always known you to be a good and honourable man; your grasp on the justice of a situation strong. What… possessed you—?"

"You know," Carson started, his soft voice cutting her off. He sighed then, not sure how to go on. "Your understanding, your empathy, your… compassion… it means a lot to him."

Teyla shook her head. "Not enough," she said and there was no mistaking the hurt and anger in her voice, but he knew her well enough to hear that there was more beneath it, and looked at her softly, but challenging none-the-less, until she said, her voice full of anxiousness and emotion, "He has my child, Carson, my son. He took my people, made them into… into things to do his bidding; he— Hundreds of thousands of people are sick and dying because of what he has done."

Carson got up from his stool and walked to stand behind her, wrapping his arms gently around her shoulders and rested his chin against the top of her head, to say softly, "And you're sitting here thinking: how could I love such a monster? You and I both know there's more to it than that."

"And there it is," Carson said, tears coming to his own eyes, "The truth that only you and I will ever dare to voice; to accept and understand. The Athosians… and all those hundreds of thousands of people infected with the Hoffan protein… the millions that will die in the war to come… their blood is on our hands. Mine as the geneticist that perfected the Hoffan drug and the architect of the retrovirus that created Michael, and on yours for bringing me the Wraith he used to be."

Malcolm banked the scout ship at breakneck speeds through the ongoing battle, rolling to avoid an incoming salvo from an enemy Dart and returning fire, flying straight through the blossoming fire and debris of the destroyed craft as he made his way back to the Hive.

That he had successfully carried the Queen to safety was small comfort. There was one that remained aboard the Hive that his honour demanded he find.

He rolled again, pulling up sharply to avoid a collision, and saw the enemy Hive full on, and for the first time noticed the spire-like attachment to the forward section of the hull, and the slight glow surrounding it as the energy began to gather to a single point at the head of the spire.

Recognition hit with the force of dread so great he barely remembered to breathe and he reached out with all the urgency he could muster to find the mind of the Hive Commander.

"Doctor Beckett, this is Teyla. I will not make it to you in time. You must leave without me. Take Ronon to safety."

"I am sorry, John," Teyla's voice sounded in his ear. In her voice he could hear a mixture of sadness and resolve, but also fear. "There is no other way."

"Find a way," he insisted. "I won't leave you here, Teyla. Not chasing shadows."

"I will find an alternate means of escaping the Hive," she told him, sounding almost desperate. "Please, go. Save Ronon."

Spiralling out of control, spinning toward the planet's atmosphere, Malcolm embraced the pain flowing through him. Trembling… hissing in agony he fought for the control to slow his ship; achieve a safe velocity for re-entry into the atmosphere so that he could join the survivors… assist the Queen in rebuilding for the future.

Desolate, breathing in snatches he managed to commit the only act possible; the only act necessary and demanded of a Wraith in such a position as he.

{Mmmy Queen} {my Queen} {my Queen} {my Queen} {I am coming. do not despair} {despair} {despair} {despair}

"Damn it, Sheppard, we have to move!" McKay's hands started flying over the console, abandoning the cloak in favour of being able to use the weapons to blast an escape route away from the Elder Hive. "The Hive's going critical. If we get caught in the blast, we—"

"No!" Sheppard yelled, as McKay tried to wrest control of the Jumper from his native ATA gene. It was as much in denial of what was happening as to prevent McKay from piloting the Jumper away. "Teyla, this is Sheppard. Please respond."

"McKay open a channel to that Hive. Teyla, this is Sheppard. You need to get the hell out of there. You need to get out now!"

"Todd, this is Sheppard," he said urgently, barely pausing for breath. "If you can hear me, stand down! I repeat, stand down. I have people on that Hive!"

Teyla's voice sounded again, so broken as to be unintelligible, even with McKay's obvious efforts to clear up the signal.

Sheppard wasn't listening to McKay's protests. A member of his team was in danger, and in his book, no one gets left behind.

"John, can… …" Teyla's broken voice crackled through the speakers, "…fire. … need… assistance."

A bright, yellow tipped inferno erupted beside them, inside of him. Filling him with agony, pushing him beyond the limits of anything he could endure. He practically punched the console as he abandoned what little mental control he still possessed and grabbed the manual sticks, banding the craft and accelerating to maximum.

From the rear compartment the fizzling crack of exploding crystal blowing out the panel became a deafening cascade of sound, and then… everything dissolved into the whiteness of nothing.

"Find peace, Teyla," he whispered as he stepped up to the event horizon. "Four years is penance aplenty. You've suffered long enough… find peace now…"

And with a breath, and closing his eyes to send his wishes out into whatever powers might hear and grant his plea for her among the stars of the Pegasus Galaxy, Carson stepped into the wormhole, letting the cooling liquid rush of it surround him and bring him, for just a moment, that which he craved for Teyla.

Act 1

Rain beat against the darkened windows. It had been raining almost continuously since Sheppard and the others had returned from the Athosian settlement. It sounded like an incessant hissing to him and he hated it; unable to ignore the similarity it bore to the occult hiss inside his mind – where, even now, she hadn't let him go.

The latest nightmare haunted him still, even as he paced wakefully. It had been an almost physical pain, the thrust of demands that were now impossible for him to fulfil. Teyla was gone – vaporised – and no demand or punishment that could be visited upon him would make him able to deliver her to the comforts, colder than death, that he had no doubt that one wished to lavish upon her.

"I can't," he murmured as he paced. It became almost a litany, punctuated by the harsher fall of needle-sharp raindrops against the window. "Can't-I-can't-I can't…"

They hadn't come to him. Not one of them had sought him out to talk, to unload the grief they so obviously suffered. It made him feel pushed away. Even the report of the loss of the Hive – so welcome to him for the freedom he'd thought it represented, even with the price they had all paid – had been perfunctory; grudging at best. Did they know? Had they guessed his aberrant behaviour, rash decisions and change of heart in many things were the result of his complicity…? It worried him that they had, but he had no choice. It was either that or—

"I don't have a choice," his voice became more desperate as the words he muttered changed. "No-choice-no-choice. I can't-I can't…"

Even the dim light of the home in which her commanders had established her chambers was too bright and the Elder Queen hissed in the pain that stabbed into the depth of her mind whenever she opened her eyes.

She sweated and strained against the fevers that wracked her, barely soothed even under the careful, reverent ministrations her handmaidens ceaselessly gave to her. She moaned, lashing out wildly to catch one of those loyal worshippers a blow that sliced across the top of the woman's shoulder.

"Where is he?" the Queen demanded, shifting her hand until she could grab the soft fabric of the dress the Human wore. Its weave caressed her aching, weeping hand, and she moaned again.

"My Queen?" the young woman queried softly. "Tell me who it is you wish for and I will see to it that he is found and brought before you."

The young woman then ran her fingers into the Queen's unbound hair, to massage soothing circles against the tightness of her skull, merely a brief respite against the madness.

"My Commander!" the Queen cried, pushing away the furs they'd used to cover her, suddenly hot, suffering and drenched in the evidence of her fevers. "My Second! They have forsaken me!"

The handmaidens laid trembling, restraining hands against her body as she sought to rise. She could feel their fear; smell the stink of it, and she fought them, hating the weakness that bound her to the straw filled mattress that they had covered with the softest fabrics they could find to try, she knew, to provide her with a similar comfort to that which she expected.

"No, my Queen," the older of the handmaidens purred softly, passing gentle fingers through her tangled hair. "You are not abandoned. They forsake you not. Their duty demands only that they work tirelessly to secure this community for your safety. Let us bring them to you, my Queen."

"Yes," the Queen gasped, lost once more; pulled down into the delirium that had gripped her since the destruction of her Hive. "Yes, bring them. Bring them… I need them. Need… need them."

Jethera looked up as the handmaiden in charge of them grasped her wrist. The other woman gave her a worried look.

"Go, Jethera," she whispered, as if she did not wish for the Queen to hear. "Find either one of them and explain to them what happens here. Her fever will not break, she is gripped in madness. I do not know what we must do. I fear to lose her."

Jethera nodded, taking another look at the Queen as she writhed atop the bed, her pain and suffering clear. She swallowed hard.

She wasted no more time in argument, the urgency of the situation was clear. She must find one of the commanders and bring him to help the Queen, and if that meant that she was punished for interrupting them, so be it.

Fearfully she slipped from the house, out into the equal chaos of the street. The drones still worked to marshal the prisoners – marked to be either new worshippers or a necessary food supply, most likely both, for the dispossessed Wraith – into locations that could be guarded more easily.

Other drones and sub-commanders alike directed incoming Darts to land in the fields beyond the village. Though they were many, Jethera knew that if an enemy Hive came upon them before arrangements could be made to bring their allied cruisers back to their position, they would be the last defence. Their position was desperate, and it was a wonder that, without the strength of the Queen to direct them, there was not more chaos than she saw.

Someone must be holding the Wraith together, and glancing toward the house wherein she knew she would find the Queen's Commander, she had her doubts that it was he. Instead she searched around among the other tall commanders that she could see, searching for one among them who might, at least, be reasonable to her approach, though rumour had it that since the destruction of the Hive, the Second had become a harsher, more forbidding Wraith.

Not looking where she was going, Jethera collided with the work-hardened muscular bodies of two of the Handlers.

"Where are you going, Handmaiden?" one asked, grasping her arms. "The streets are not a place for you. Your duty is to our Queen."

"It is at the Queen's behest that I walk this street," she answered, lowering her gaze, respectful of their authority, even over her. "I seek the Second."

The Handler shook his head. "He is in the field, with the others, organising repairs to the Darts. He will not have time for—"

"You and I both know that the Commander hides behind his concubine from all that has come to pass," she snapped. "If I disturb him now, I will be lucky to escape with my life and still the Queen will be wanting of her Commander."

"Still, protocol demands that you should go to him first," one of them said finally.

"Protocol be damned! My duty is to our Queen, not to the appeasement of a mere male's ego!" she said vehemently. "Take me to the Second."

Breathing hard, Sheppard caught hold of the punching bag to halt its relentless swing. His already bruised hands ached, his muscles burned and still he couldn't banish the thoughts and images from his mind.

It was late. He should be sleeping. Instead he was down there, in the gym, the one place where almost everything reminded him of Teyla. He couldn't leave it like this. He hadn't been able to do anything to save his friend, but there was one thing he could do – had to do. It was only right.

Letting go of the bag, he reached over and grabbed the towel from the bench, wondering if McKay was still awake, or if the scientist could even begin to help him try and track Michael's people.

The other Hive had made the jump into hyperspace even before the brightness of the explosion that still haunted his waking and dreaming had faded, and there had been no answer to his desperate hails. It had been the weapon that Todd had used against Michael's cruiser before that had destroyed the Elder Hive, of that Sheppard had no doubt, and since he knew of no other Wraith faction that had that kind of weapon than Todd's, then he had to be responsible… and for what he had done, Sheppard would make him pay.

He started for the door, not even bothering to radio ahead. If he had to he'd get McKay out of bed. This couldn't wait. He had to do something, and working out until he collapsed from exhaustion didn't at all constitute the kind of something that would, in any way, help to assuage the pain of his guilt.

Malcolm fired instructions at the pairs of drones faster than the sub-commander working along side of him could easily follow. He could tell the other Wraith was floundering from the uncertainty of the mental contact between them – the neural connection was fragmented. It was clear that none among these Wraiths had ever spent any significant time away from the shelter of a Hive.

He glanced up to the Darts flying defensive patterns overhead, and to those coming in to join the garrison on the ground. There were so many unaccounted for, his head spun with the attempt to keep up… and that was just among the Wraith.

Malcolm let out a soft hiss as his pain increased with the thought, an empty hollow in his gut that filled him with a kind of dread that he could not quite explain, but which gripped him none the less. He could not allow himself this weakness, not when so much could hinge on the cohesion of those around him, should an enemy faction find them so vulnerable.

Sensing someone behind him, he turned to find a trio of Humans, two Handlers and one of the Queen's handmaidens.

"Forgive the intrusion, Lord," one of the Handlers said quietly, "but this woman insists that she must speak with you."

He looked past the men to the tense, almost tearful expression on the young woman's face, and without another thought waved the Handlers away, before holding out his hand to the woman even as they turned to leave.

"Walk with me," he instructed, waiting until she slipped her cold fingers onto the palm of his outstretched hand. He steadied her as they began to move over the uneven ground, away from the others.

"Lord," she said softly, "it is the Queen. I would not trouble you otherwise, as I know you see to our safety, but it is as though she sickens… and she has asked for her Commander, or for you."

"As with a fever," she answered. "And what she says makes little sense, and from time to time she will contort as if in pain."

"She reacts to the loss of the Hive," he said with a sigh. He had seen it before and suspected that the severity of it was compounded by her Zenith, which she held to still. She needed to be grounded – given a solid presence of mind on which she could focus. "Has the Commander not come to her?"

He saw the handmaiden look away and ascertained the answer to his question was a negative one. He could make a reasonable guess as to what kept the Commander from his Queen. It angered him, and his grip tightened on the Human woman's hand.

He took a breath to try and calm himself, but his mind was a maelstrom of anger and contempt. Twice had the Commander neglected his duties – his Queen – for the physicality of his Human concubine.

"Return to the Queen," he instructed the handmaiden, "try to keep her quiet and calm. I will come as soon as I am able."

He released her then, and watched as she made her way back toward where he knew they had housed the Queen. He stood without moving, without taking his eyes off the retreating figure of the worshipper, as he reached out with his mind, strengthening his presence within the neural connection between the Wraith.

If he had to make his move against the Commander, though he was not ready, he would need their loyalty.

As the door closed behind them, Michael sagged against the supporting presence of his hybrid, who had brought him to private quarters, following the instructions that he had left as though they had been given only yesterday, not long months ago.

The serum had long since worn off, leaving him weakened and feeling the pain of his injuries more acutely than before. Such had been the price, but it was one that he had no choice but to pay in order to escape the Elder Hive.

As the hybrid eased him to the top of the bed, lay him down where he could be tended, treated for those hurts that marred his body, his mind keened for that which was lost.

The hybrid knew better than to disobey. He knew that once the pain had dulled; once time had taken the beast in hand, it would serve back all of the emotions in the cold dish called revenge. The Wraith, the Elder Queen, they would pay for what they had done, but he also knew that, aboard their own Hive, on which they served The Cause, it would be a long time before they would settle to the relative comfort of emotional ease – if ever.

He paused outside the door, watching as the two soldiers came closer, coming from the Dart Bay, through corridors that he had cleared in order to be able to move he-that-led-them. The one they led between them tugged indignantly on their restraining arms.

"Release her," he instructed as they reached him. "She is here as our guest, not as our prisoner,"

At least for now. He couldn't help the thought that followed, hard on the heels of his orders to them.

He watched as she rubbed at her wrists where their grasp had been overzealous. Someone would pay for that as well – if he noticed.

"He's inside," he told her softly. "I'll bring you what you'll need. I doubt he'll allow any other hand to tend him."

Already aware of the Hive enough to know that they were travelling in hyperspace, Teyla looked between the door and the hybrid that had enabled their escape from the Elder Hive.

"We are following his standing instructions," the hybrid answered, drawing himself up straighter as he addressed her. "If he wants you to know, he will tell you himself."

She sighed in irritation. She might have expected such an answer from Michael's people, but her irritation gave way to worry as the hybrid opened the door for her and stood out of her way so that she could enter.

She didn't even notice when the door closed behind her. All of her attention was focussed on Michael, curled as he was, on his side, protecting the wound low on his belly.

She crossed the room to kneel beside the bed and laid a gentle hand on his back.

"Do not…" he gasped, but his voice failed at the end of the sentence as he grimaced in pain.

"Try not to speak," Teyla told him softly, "He has said he will bring what is needed in order to help you. Just rest."

"No," Michael gasped, and as she started to move, closed his long-fingered, pale hand around her wrist. "You. You must—"

"You. Must. Rest," she interrupted. It wasn't that she didn't want to know what he was going to say as much as she was afraid for him. She knew how much he was hurting, could feel the pain come off him, as close as they were, physically, to one another after so long. "There is nothing more to be done."

McKay rubbed his eyes and then looked up from the computer to fix Sheppard with a withering stare.

"You know, if someone hadn't dragged me out of bed at some ungodly hour in the morning," he said, "perhaps what's left of these horribly fragmented sensor records would make more sense."

"I need to know where they are, McKay," Sheppard said, and McKay felt as if he hadn't been heard at all. "We gotta keep tabs on the survivors of that Hive, and I owe it to Teyla to finish what she started… find Michael's people so that we can find her son."

"Sheppard, you've lost your mind!" McKay snapped. "Even if I could piece together the Daedalus' sensor records to find out what's happened to the Wraith from the mother-of-all-Hives – or where Todd ran off to, what could you possibly hope to do? And how the hell do you hope to find Michael's people when Teyla herself—"

"Just tell me where the hell he went!" Sheppard raised his voice, pointing at the computer again. "When I want an argument, I'll ask for it."

"No, McKay, just… stop!" Sheppard wouldn't allow him to continue. "All I want from you is the location of Todd's Hive ship… if you can't do that—"

"Look, I get that you're upset," McKay refused to be silenced, "we all are, but yelling at me – expecting me to do the impossible isn't going to bring her back. She's gone, Sheppard, and as much as you want to sit there wallowing, and blaming yourse—"

McKay broke off with a yelp as Sheppard grabbed the lapel of his shirt and dragged him closer, leaning down until he was right in the scientist's face.

"This isn't about me," he snarled. "This is about doing something that Teyla wanted, and finding her son, freeing him, bringing him home. This is about finding that Wraith bastard and letting him know that he can't presume on what happened between us in the past; that he crossed a line he can never come back from."

McKay held up his hands, "All right, all right," he said softly, then pulled his shirt straight again when Sheppard let go, and pointed at the computers once more. "I did mention the records are a mess, right?"

"Just that it's going to take a while for me to piece together what information I can, and even then there's no guarantee that it'll be at all useful." McKay said, watching Sheppard pacing from the corner of his eye as his fingers moved over the keyboard. "You should go and get some rest while you're waiting."

McKay shook his head, and stopping again, asked softly, "When was the last time you slept, John?"

Beckett walked the length of the darkened infirmary, checking that the patients were still resting, picking up charts and examining them, adjusting medication where he felt it was needed.

He couldn't be still, his mind kept drifting to another time… another place…

Beckett jumped, and as he felt Marie's soft touch against his back, and turned to see her concerned face looking up at him he realised he must have been standing staring at the injured pilot as the memory had washed over him.

"It's Ronon," she said. "His pressure's dropping again and the medication isn't helping."

"Damn it," Beckett hissed. "Must be another bleed. Prep him for immediate surgery. I'll be right there."

He set the chart he was holding back into the holder at the foot of the bed, and turned with a sigh to go and get ready for several more hours in the operating room. This would be the third time he'd had to take Ronon back under the knife to repair the damage caused by the Wraith blaster. As fast as he healed one injury, it seemed another part of Ronon's body broke down under the strain, and Beckett started to worry that despite his best and ongoing efforts, the big man might not come back from this.

"Doctor Beckett," the soft voice of the pilot reached him before he had moved too far. "He'll fight. He'll be all right, you'll see."

"Aye, son," he answered quietly. "We're doing everything we can to make sure of it."

"No," the pilot argued softly. "He won't let a bunch of Wraith finish it, no matter what. He'll fight."

"I am, Doc," the young man said, a calm smile coming over his own face. "I promise you. I'm resting."

Her soft flesh and the hard cries she gave as he grasped her hips and pulled her back against his thighs as he buried himself inside her compliant warmth reminded him of the power he wielded, of the strength he possessed and the Commander snarled, hungry for satisfaction in that knowledge.

They had taken nothing from him. He still commanded and as soon as they had been recalled he would command her entire fleet, not merely a single Hive.

He hissed, his pleasure increasing with the thought and swelling inside of his concubine, he felt the spreading of his glans and was rewarded with the sharp cry she gave to the moment. He opened his mind to drink in the hurt, increased the rhythm of his possession until he could revel in the cruelty of the pain he wrought on her, anchored and bucking wildly to relieve himself, and the frustration of his temporary setback on his loyal and willing companion.

He felt the press of the mind against his gathering pleasure, the disruption and deliberate interference, and tore away from the pliant flesh beneath him, not wishing to be found so compromised. Her cry, a near scream, did nothing to moderate the smouldering anger kindled at the interruption.

He barely had time to pull on sufficient clothing to be decent before the door was pushed open.

As the white of the agony at his sudden withdrawal faded and she was able to uncurl from the ball into which she had fallen, her knees drawn up to protect her aching sex, Hanna heard the edgy triple tones of the Second as a soft menace that whispered across the room to find her Commander.

Hanna looked up in time to catch the contemptuous expression the tall Wraith Second threw her way before he fixed an uncompromising stare on the Commander.

"Your conduct here is inappropriate," the Second hissed, and then tilting his head, added for her benefit, "Leave us."

Though she knew, with the press of the mental instruction behind the simple words, that she would not be able to resist the command, Hanna took her time in gathering the sheet around her vulnerability, holding it against her, to cover her just enough that both Wraith would see the barest glimpse of skin beneath.

Already at odds with one another, if she could wind the Commander to her whim and play him against the Second, she could solidify her position among worshippers, regain her former influence; ensure her safety.

As she passed him, she treated the Second to a winning, coquettish and hungry smile, pausing to ensure that her Commander also saw her apparent advances. She could not deny her disappointment when the Second's only action was to reach out and propel her more quickly toward the door.

"What is the meaning of this!" the Commander snapped as the door closed behind his concubine.

"That you have to ask almost proves my point in coming," Malcolm snarled in response, taking an involuntary step toward the other Wraith.

"Make your point, Second," the Commander said dismissively, "and then withdraw from my presence."

"The settlement is in disarray, the Queen in need, and where are you?" Malcolm spat. "When you were given Intelligences; were given instructions that would have saved our Hive, what were your actions? When the Queen sounded a general quarters alarm, Where. Were. You?"

Malcolm growled angrily and crossed the room more quickly than he thought he would move, incensed at the answer the Commander had given. His feeding hand mantled over his shoulder as he snarled, "You are not fit to command even the lesser of our Queen's Cruisers let alone her Hive!"

The Commander answered, snarling and lashing out until his own feeding hand hovered inches from Malcolm's chest, the two Wraith roaring and rumbling at each other like wild cats as they barely held their equilibrium.

"You will attend the Queen and see to the needs of our people – this settlement!" Malcolm growled, and lashed out to catch the unwary Commander a glancing blow that sent him flying to crash against the far wall.

The Commander flipped himself back to his feet, and Malcolm saw the cold fury in his eyes as he stalked across the room. He would not back down, however, standing his ground until the Commander came to a halt right before him, tilting his face barely a breath away from Malcolm's.

"Enough of your posturing… underling," the Commander hissed softly. "If you wish to challenge me…"

"What remains of our Hive can ill afford the turmoil it would bring," Malcolm snarled slowly, annunciating each word. "But you can be sure that this is the only consideration that stays my hand. Now… see to your duties, and not to your pleasures, Hive Commander."

With the sarcasm staining the air between them, Malcolm turned and, without waiting to be dismissed, left the Commander to consider what had happened.

Michael moaned softly as Teyla eased the soaked bandage away from his wounded abdomen. The wound was raw and enflamed, and bleeding still. She swallowed hard and glanced toward the doorway. Where was the hybrid with the medical supplies?

As the question burned against her worry, Teyla became aware of a change in the sensation from the Hive, both in the vibration and the light pressure she felt from it inside her.

"We are no longer in hyperspace," she said, shifting her gaze to find Michael's pain-clouded eyes fixed on her. "Where are we?"

Easing himself up slowly, he looked past her for a moment before shifting his gaze back to meet hers.

"Then where are we going?" she demanded, reaching out toward him, meaning to encourage him to lie back, but he pulled away from her touch, virtually dragging himself to sit up against the padded trim behind the bed.

"Sooner or later, Michael," she said, trying, but failing to keep the hint of anger from her voice as she stalked to the viewing port to look out on the swirling grey mass, cloudlike, all around them as she continued, "you are going to have to—"

"Yes," the echo of her own word from his lips made her turn back to him. She frowned, puzzled, and he said, "The time is coming."

"Then why not now?" she asked, imploring as she crossed the room again to perch near to him on the bed. "What harm can it do for you to tell me? Have I not demonstrated my intent, Michael? I came for you."

She looked at him, at his Wraith features, at the many hurts and injuries and the evidence of the torture they had visited against him, as the echoes of his denial swirled around and around in her mind – intangible, not at all the touch she had known. It spoke to his condition, and she worried all the more.

He watched as her eyes moved over him and saw her concerned protestations before she could even voice them. Anger flared without the real energy to express it. His triple toned voice was cold, more Wraithlike than it was of himself.

"The plan for my escape from my Wraith brothers was long since put in place and executed without the necessity for assistance from you and your friends. Why should I believe that your motives have anything more than self interest at heart – the self interest with which you have, so expertly, been corrupted, by the Atlanteans?"

He saw his words hit the depth of her, meant to stop, but his anger got the better of him and his vitriol and resentment toward the Atlanteans continued to be misdirected toward her.

"How many times must you see what they are… what they do to others before you realise their abrogation of responsibility; of common decency is anything other than deliberate, unconcerned." He snorted in his frustration. "And you have the audacity to name the Wraith as merciless; call me insane!"

"Would see the error of their ways?" Michael pushed himself up into a more upright position. "Spare me, I—"

"I hoped that they would change, yes," this time she cut him off, her voice earnest, "but what you did—"

"What I did?" he said and from somewhere found the strength to find his feet. "You have found something else for which you wish to blame me?"

"You returned me to Atlantis in a unique position to understand," she said, "and I do understand. I came to understand there would be no change. I left, returned to my people. At least until I put them in danger."

"Have always been a presence in your life," he cried, her backward step; her excuses were a dagger thrust into the heart of hope within. He backed away even as his tone implored her and he reached out, his hand trembling, casting deep shadows across the bed that stood between them. "Where is your understanding? Where is your compassion?"

"Strained," she spat, her vehemence like salt, "in the knowledge of all that has come to pass. Crushed under the weight of countless lives destroyed, lost to sickness and death. Murdered by the same continuance of a wrong so deep it cleaved the very essence of who. I. Am."

The ache inside him deepened and, lost in it, he did not hear the door open, or the quiet steps of the hybrid that crossed the room to bring the small case to his side. His entire focus was Teyla.

"When will you see that you cannot fight fire with fire?" she appealed. "That the more fuel you give to feed these flames—"

Michael's breath sounded to Teyla to be heavy and tremulous in the sudden silence and his shadow moved as he reached within the case the hybrid held. Her eyes fixed to his pale, clawed hand as he lifted the syringe from within and after looking on it briefly, held it out in her direction. Still he did not look up.

"Help me, Teyla," he said. His tone was low, and calm in contrast to the heated passion of mere moments before. He raised his gaze then from the narrow cylinder to find hers, the spark of hope within desperate – dying. His anger that had lent him strength gone, the reality of his condition crept over him again.

"M-m-my retrovirus," he said. The spasm of pain that prevented the words from coming shattered his resolve and he stumbled. The hybrid reached out, clearly meaning to catch him, but Michael twisted aside and consequently hit the floor, and snarled at the soldier, "Get out!"

Teyla did not break the tense silence that followed until the door closed behind the retreating hybrid, nor did Michael move from where he had caught himself on the edge of the bed with one knee tucked beneath him. His face was creased in pain.

Michael nodded once, and she saw the effort necessary for him to draw breath enough to speak. Her belly twisted. She feared the knowledge of what was coming.

"The means… by which," he said, his voice shaking, "I will return to who…I am."

"You're insane," Teyla hissed, taking a step toward him, but halting herself before she could reach him, before the urge to drop to her knees beside him and support him through his trials got the better of her. "In this condition, it will kill you." She shook her head snarling through clenched teeth, "I will not be a party to that!"

She turned away from him then, struggling with a hollow cold that crept and curled within her belly at the memory, and she remained uncertain as to whether she cried out in denial of the memory or of his demand and held little desire to examine herself too deeply to discover which. Instead she stood, drawing shallow, trembling breaths, fighting to control the whirl of confusion, the flurry of emotions beating against her.

He watched as her shoulders shook with each breath and listened to the uneven breaths she drew. Painfully he reached with his mind along the tattered strands of the connection, trying to feel for the turmoil he could so clearly see.

Moving slowly, he forced his feet under him and staggered to find his balance as he pulled himself upright, moving toward where she still stood, breathing hard, as if she shared his pain.

He reached out slowly, almost afraid to let his hand come to rest on her shoulder, burning where the warmth of her skin feathered against his own. She stiffened slightly, and her breathing came in shorter gasps still.

"I will not stay like this," he said, his voice barely a whisper in the shuddering silence. "I… chose… a different life."

She tipped her head back, as though looking into the dark space where the ceiling met the bulkhead wall.

"They have brought you to within a moment of your life," she murmured between breaths, "And you would take yourself closer still to death. Michael, you cannot do this. You cannot survive this transformation—"

"I must," he said as strongly as he could, rumbling the words from deep in his belly, sending new blossoms of agony roiling within.

"—unless you can heal these wounds; regenerate," she took a breath, tremulous and fractured before she said, "Unless you feed."

"No!" the word rose and fell and he snatched his hand away in rejection of her words. "I will not suffer that weakness any more! I have no need to feed!"

"Then you condemn yourself to death," she said harshly. "For these wounds will not heal quickly, and I know what others you will suffer if you take your retrovirus."

She took half a step toward him, but he shuffled back, away from the reaching hand she stretched his way, but not before she caught his hand in her own and pulled him to a stop.

"Already, you are dying, Michael," he saw her eyes flick to the syringe, still lying on the top of the bed where he had dropped it as he fell, then to his right hand that she held in her own. "Give yourself the chance… to live…"

He shivered and took an almost gasping breath as her thumb brushed softly against the ache in the centre of his palm, where his feeding slit wept with the need that he denied.

"I have eliminated the necessity," he said stubbornly, refusing to submit to the grip of the rising burn of hunger; his body's demands. "I will not subject myself to that madness any more. I will find another wa—"

"There is not the time," Teyla argued, shaking her head as she tightened her grasp on his hand. "Michael, I would support your decision if it were possible but… you must face it – they have forced on you the need to feed. How long has it been?"

He shook his head, refusing to answer. There was no rational reason he should keep it from her.

"I… have not," he admitted, "and the desire has been… long since vanquished."

"You are afraid," she accused, and he pulled his hand from hers, almost stumbling, and his attempt to catch himself; his balance sent another ripple of agony through his gut.

"It has everything to do with this," she said. "You are afraid that if you submit to the need to feed it will make a lie of everything you have worked for to separate you, those of your Cause from the Wraith."

"No," he said, but his voice faltered. Once, he had been desperate for her understanding, but as she spoke, in the depth of his fatigue, his failing faculties he somewhat wished that she was not so astute.

"You would martyr yourself for a principle that would be better served by your survival," she spat. "You have never before shied away from doing what you had to do in order to survive. Why now?"

"The end justifies the means?" he almost laughed, bitterly, as the reasoning fell from her lips.

"Why!" she demanded, and the relentlessness of the truth she thrust on him was a crushing weight, as heavy as the irritation of knowing she was right to press him on the matter.

"Enough!" he cried out, finally unable to remain calm in the face of everything that began revolving in his mind. A second time, more quietly, he said, "Enough. I… accede… to your point."

Truly exhausted, Malcolm finally reached the house that had been assigned as his quarters, expecting to be alone and to find peace. As he entered, however, the worshipper within turned from lighting the lanterns and crossed toward him, her eyes downcast.

Malcolm sighed, and as he began to reach for the fastenings on his leather coat, he said quietly, "I do not want to deal with this."

"Lord?" the worshipper asked, the reverence clear in the hesitation of her voice.

"I have no need of assistance," he said, trying to maintain his temper. "You may go."

Subduing the growl that began in the back of his throat as everything suddenly became clear to him, Malcolm acquiesced, for the moment, moving his hands away as the worshipper reached to take over the unfastening of his armoured coat. Still the sound of his displeasure startled her to silence. That act of sending her to him was meant to taunt him. The Commander knew of the loss of his servant and under the guise of providing him with a replacement to assist in his needs, was silently mocking him.

He felt the weight of the coat lift away as the worshipper moved behind him to strip the coat from his broad shoulders. Unconsciously he waited for the hand that would pass a soothing touch across the top of his back. It did not come, and its absence struck like a dagger.

Hurt, and angered beyond all sanity, he rounded on the woman and snatching the coat from her trembling hands he roared at her. "Leave me!"

She scrambled to obey, even as he threw the coat to the top of the nearby table and advanced toward her, snarling. He picked up a chair as he passed it and swung it in fury at the closing door. Wood splintered and the chips of it flew in all directions, ignored by the overemotional Wraith who thrust his hand against the door as it bounced on its hinges, slamming it closed.

Behind him, his coat slid to the floor while he stood, breathing hard, staring at the door in front of him. He had made a promise, a vow upon his honour to one sacrificing her life, and now, he had not kept his word.

His Matron lived upon the sullied tatters of his nobility, and to have tainted Her with his failure only compounded the agony of his own loss.

Teyla watched him for a long time, watching the change in his breathing, his expression, the way he drew himself up, his head tilted at a certain angle, as if contemplating what he had agreed to do.

"What is it you see?" he asked as she refocused her eyes, looking at him, watching the way he panted softly in pain that was almost tangible around him.

"A moment in time," she told him, then trembling with the same dangerous compulsion as before she added, her voice almost as a whisper, "Michael… Let me be the one."

"No!" he cried, and it was almost as if an appeal against her quiet plea. "You cannot crave— This is madness!"

"Answer a question," she interrupted. "If I had not agreed to come with you from the other Hive, would you still have given the order to fire?"

"Do not… ask questions," his voice became strained – choked and he backed a step away, continuing, "to which you do not wish to hear the answer."

Teyla shook her head, refusing to give him quarter. She knew that even if she had not offered, this was the only way; the only possibility and she knew he saw it too, or he would not so vehemently refuse.

"Yes," he said at last, barely audible, though the triple toned voice whispered around the chamber, an inescapable rope twisting around them. "There was no other choice."

"Then by the same logic there is no reason that you cannot feed on me," she said, and her voice trembled. "If you were prepared to give the order that would have killed me, then—"

"It is not the same," he implored her. "I will not harm you. I told you that!"

A lightning strike of movement, she crossed the space between them and caught hold of the hand he raised to fend her off.

"You cannot call on any of your people. You are their leader; you cannot show weakness before them," she reasoned urgently. "I am your only choice."

"Teyla!" he howled, emotional agony written more deeply on his face than his physical hurts.

"You must do this, Michael," she whispered after a silence longer than she could bear fell over the room. It was punctuated only by his laboured breathing. "You must."

She let go of him and he closed his eyes then. For a moment he covered his face with his hands.

He could not fault her logic or her understanding of the situation aboard his Hive, but if he were to feed on her; to take from her the life he needed in order to survive, his every promise to her would dissolve and what then would stand between them? How then would he show that he was faithful to his word and to his wishes for her?

And yet… as harsh as he had been, for all the words that had passed between them, her resolve; her need to be the one that would help him to keep alive the Cause for which he fought so hard had been steady – insistent.

If he denied her, was he not also rejecting that which he had craved for so long? In doing this, would it not be one step closer to bringing peace between them?

A wave of nausea and pain swept over him, reminding him once more of the more practical necessity and he looked up to find her eyes awash with compassion. He reached for her then, to lay the barest of touches against her cheek.

His fingers were cold against the almost fevered burning of her face, and she almost leaned in to the uncharacteristic touch. She would not deny that she was afraid, and yet, to come full circle, to the moment they had almost shared so many long years before…

"Not here," he murmured in return. His eyes flicked past her, to the bed. "When it is done, you… you will… need to rest."

With another breath she nodded, and turned, swallowing hard to make her way to the bed, to sit against the pillows that rested against the padded board between the bed and the wall of the chamber.

She closed her eyes in a long blink, hearing Michael move to follow, his shuffling, limping steps more pronounced and for a moment she worried that even with this, even were she to sacrifice all of her years, they may have left it too late.

She felt the bed move as he settled near to her, felt a querying touch brush against her hand. She opened her eyes and looked up to find his.

"I am ready," she said, and as he tilted his head, she reached up to unlace the neckline of her shirt, forgetting the evidence of another Wraith's hands on her.

Michael frowned, a hiss escaping his throat in anger when he saw the fading abrasions of another hand at her chest.

She shook her head and reached for him, her insistent touch bringing his eyes back to meet with hers.

"It is nothing, Michael," she told him, and her voice was low and earnest. "The commander of the Hive attacked me when I tried to get aboard the first time, before I had to go and ask the others for help. It was but a second or two, and he paid for the attempt. I promise you that."

He let out a long, slow breath, and then slowly, visibly trembling, he reached out to her with his feeding hand.

She swallowed as his fingers brushed against her chest, her breathing quickened, her chest rising and falling under the chill of his hand as it came to settle against her.

His breathing, too, became more laboured as he paused, waiting, and for a time she thought he would refuse at the last moment. She opened her mouth to speak his name. Then she felt the brush of his fractured mind against her own, pained and lost, and she opened to him as best she could, reaching to support the failing bond between them.

She barely had time to take another breath before the trembling of his hand against her ceased under the sudden pressure that brought the bite of the sharp barbs against her skin.

An intense rush of cold left her dizzy, and hard on the heels of it a visceral piercing clawed at her, cell by cell. At the edges of her vision, blurred by tears, darkness hovered, waiting to close in on her and her fluttering heart sounded overly loud inside her head.

She cried out. The echo of his answering cry sped along their bond to reverberate inside of her and in spite of having wanted this for him, she suddenly, desperately, clawed at his wrist.

Life and strength flooded along the pulsing ache that possessed all of him as feeding pushed his body into an explosion of regeneration so painful it was almost a pleasure. He felt the edges of the wound in his belly knit so quickly it stole his breath, and deeper still, the internal damage faded almost to nothing.

Her cry, her nails at his wrist pushed their way into his awareness, her physical agony seeped over him and he answered her cry with one of his own, before he tore himself away from her; fled to the far bulkhead, breathing hard with the realisation of how close he had come to losing control.

He leaned against the wall, fighting for breath, but stronger now and still feeling the buzzing flow of his regenerative healing against the strain of the rock that weighed his chest.

He reached for her mentally as his shredded synapses began to resolve themselves.

She was breathing hard, small sobbing gasps that escaped irregularly. He knew he should go to her, be sure that he had not gone too far, but he could not bring himself to turn and face what he had done.

He knew she felt his fears, for a moment later she said, breathlessly, "I am all right."

Still he dared not turn, stayed where he was, leaning heavily against the bulkhead, filled with self recriminations.

As he pulled away, the sudden absence was almost as much of a shock to her system as the act of his feeding, and she tried to keep hold of him as he freed himself from her grasp.

Her body shook, and for a moment she couldn't catch her breath. She wanted to call out to him, needed his closeness to be sure that what they had done could be resolved; felt like weeping but hadn't the strength, was weary but dare not rest. She felt the brush of his mental query, but could not answer.

Finally, knowing what she must do, still fighting for breath, she climbed to her feet, and pausing only to collect the drug from the foot of the bed, made her way, somewhat unsteadily, across the room to him.

Sheppard sidestepped to avoid the sparks from the engineer welding the deck plating on the Daedalus' bridge as he went in search of Caldwell. He wanted to be sure the colonel was on board with his plan, though given the condition of the battleship he was sure he could predict what Caldwell would say.

"Sheppard," the other man greeted him tersely as he turned away from the earnest conference he was having with the con. officer.

"We're about as far from being ready to mount a tactical assault against the Wraith as we've ever been," Caldwell snapped bluntly. "To be frank, I think your plan is another insane risk, and given what's just happened, and the condition of my ship, even with standing orders to assist the Atlantis Expedition at this time I'm disinclined to take her anywhere near another battle."

"Colonel," Caldwell interrupted, "even if we could find Todd, and as I understand it, McKay was only able to piece together a projected trajectory based on the coordinates of the forming hyperspace window, the Daedalus is in no condition to mount an assault. Look around you."

Sheppard did look, and while he understood the colonel's feelings, he had considerations that he couldn't just drop.

"It's enough," he argued. "We have to find him. He can't be allowed to get away with this."

"I understand your feelings, Sheppard," Caldwell retorted sharply, his voice conveying anything but sympathy.

"Besides which," Sheppard said, raising his voice slightly over that of the other man, "According to McKay, there's no sign that the Wraith that escaped the destruction of that Hive made it out of that system. They're still there, vulnerable, down on that planet. It's the perfect chance for us to take them out."

"You don't know that," Caldwell argued. "For all we know they could have contacted a dozen other Hives by now and we could be jumping right into the middle of them."

Sheppard sighed in frustration and ran his hands exasperatedly through his hair.

"I need the Daedalus, Steven," he said, "and I need your experience in command of her."

"Then give me time," Caldwell hissed, lowering his voice slightly. "I've lost Asgard weapons, the shields are shot to hell and—"

"I'd love to," Sheppard admitted, "but I can't. There's only a certain distance Todd can go before he has to stop for his ship to regenerate. If we don't catch up to him before he leaves from that stop, there will be no way of knowing where he went."

"Then?" Sheppard growled the question, anger flaring in his gut as the video in his memory played over and over. "I'm gonna blow the bastard out whatever sky he happens to be hanging over."

He was aware that the flinch he gave as the relative warmth of her hand closed on the top of his shoulder was more than noticeable and that now, so close, Teyla would see his hands, still clawed against the bulkhead, and the stain of her own blood that trickled from his palm, a visible trail along the deep blue of the wall, staining the Hive purple – the Human colour of royalty.

He stiffened still further as she leaned against him, her other hand trembling against his shoulder blade.

"I am… all right, Michael," she said, repeating her words of only moments ago, as if she thought they would give him comfort.

He tilted his head, slowly as if he were afraid to startle her as he turned, first his head, then as she stepped back to allow the movement, his shoulders and his body followed until he stood facing her. He ran his eyes over her – her face now lined, and the beginnings of grey in the strands of her once vibrant hair – but though her youth was withered, her beauty and grace remained untainted.

"Ssh… Michael," she would not allow him to finish the promise he had been about to make to her. Instead she reached out toward him, toward the blood stained shirt. He froze, hissing softly as her fingertips connected with his sensitive, newly knitted skin. He watched, near trembling, as she drew her hand away, looking at her fingers, before looking up at him, breathing hard. He tipped his head, almost a query, his eyes following hers as she looked over the whole of him.

"I remember…" she told him softly, reaching out again, to this time stir the fine, but still short hair that graced his head; sweep the briefest of touches over the pale, Wraith-green skin until her fingers encountered the hardened, blackened skin at the side of his neck, where the transformation had been flawed.

"As do I," he hissed, turning his face away. She had been magnificent then – strong and uncorrupted. Not so now… with so much passed between them and so much interference from others.

She did not need the bond to feel his self loathing in that moment. It poured from every cell in his body. This was not as he had chosen for himself – for his life, so changed, so violated, first by her friends, with her complicity, and afterward by whatever Wraith scientist had forced this parody of a reversion upon him.

He did turn back to her then, to meet her eyes, his own burning with unconcealed anger, though she knew this time that it was not aimed her way.

She shook her head, knowing he was not telling her the whole of the truth. Slowly she pulled the syringe from where she had tucked it in the folds of the waistband of her fighting skirt and looked at it for a long time.

"No," she said, her voice lowering almost to a growl. "You knew that they would do this."

He said nothing. His silence hurt; his lack of trust; his rejection of her, upsetting. Frustrated, she pulled the cap from the needle.

"Because it does not matter any more," he said. "What they did to me… has come to nothing."

"Tell me then," he said softly, taking a step toward her, reaching to catch her elbow when, stepping back too quickly, a wave of dizziness made her stumble, almost fall. "Honestly… what difference would it make for you to know what it was they planned?"

She tried to shake off the tightening grasp of his mind in hers, but as his regeneration continued, and as her own condition became more acute, she knew she stood little chance.

"…that which I am… the future to which I would bring those of this galaxy… is not lightly taken from me… though they have tried. The evolution I would bring… is not… does not… will never belong to the Wraith!"

She trailed off as he tilted his head again and captured her eyes with his own. She took at trembling breath. It was almost painful, in her growing fatigue. He was right, she needed to rest, but…

Swallowing, she drew his arm toward her. He did not fight and she knew he sensed her intent, and was grateful when she felt the guiding touch of his mind against hers. Even so, her hand trembled as she set the needle to his skin, above the deep coloured line of a vein, before she carefully injected him with the drug.

Michael hissed softly as he felt the cold of the serum containing his retrovirus beginning to burn through his veins. Formulated for his specific DNA he knew its action would be swift and its effects brutal. Still, he was not prepared for the first intense rush of the twisting disintegration of his RNA.

The agony of it drove him to his knees, and in spite of his resolve, he gave voice to the conflagration of the necessary ordeal. His collapse tore his arm from Teyla's grasp, a deep loss registered within the whirl of pain he had become, and a second cry flew from his lips even as he fought with himself to release the mental bond between them.

He fell, and she could not hold him. His agonised cry ripped through her senses even though Teyla could no longer reach his mind, no matter how hard she tried. Unable to stand helpless in the face of his, albeit self inflicted, torture, she turned away, breathless. Her own chest a mass of tight pain, that became too much to bear as the continued sounds of his distress beat against her defences, until at last she flew toward the door as quickly as the fatigue in her limbs would allow.

Desperation given voice, the call halted her in her tracks, her hand raised toward the control that would have opened the door, trembling with unshed tears.

Another wordless cry sped to lodge in the tightness within her chest, and she turned from the door, hardly daring to raise her eyes to meet with his across the space between them. For barely a heartbeat he held her gaze before another spasm of pain tore him from her.

Equilibrium shattered and as quickly as she had sought escape, she threw herself down beside him, lifting his convulsing form into the warmth of her arms, holding him tightly as he juddered and moaned through the worst of it; bathing him with the water of her tears.

"Jennifer," Beckett eased his way through the narrow gap between the edges of the screen just as she finished buttoning her blouse. "Sorry to have kept you waiting."

She shook her head and turned to him, biting her lip fearfully, and moved to compassion, he reached out to grip her shoulder gently.

"You know I'm not going to do that, because right now, every single test we're running is coming back inconclusive," he said softly, "and while that doesn't necessarily mean there's anything wrong, it certainly suggests that there's something going on that isn't exactly right."

"It's showing us exactly the same chemistry as last time," he said with a sigh. He couldn't explain the results; shouldn't be seeing the results that he was, not after this amount of time.

"Aye." He sighed again. "Even the enzyme. I've never known it to decay this slowly, Jennifer, and I'm sorry, I can't explain it. There is so much we don't know about the Wraith and your… contact with Todd was entirely different to that of someone being fed on." She blushed and blanched within the space of a moment and he added softly, "I'm sorry."

"I know you are, Love," he answered, "and I promise you, I'm doing everything I can to discover what's going on."

"You…" she swallowed, and he waited patiently for her to formulate the end of the sentence, understanding how frightened she was. "You said you wanted… to do a scan."

"At this point it's just about the only thing we haven't done," he answered. "Given your recent medical history I'd have been much happier if we'd done it a week or so ago… just to be sure."

"Aye, to be sure no damage was accidentally caused during the procedure," he frowned, considering her reaction again in light of everything he knew of what had occurred. "Jennifer, is there something else? Something you're not telling me?"

"No," she answered, and he wasn't certain that the answer hadn't come just a little too quickly. He tried to give her the benefit of the doubt.

"All right, well, listen," he started to suggest, "Why don't we schedule the scan for later this week, go from there, and in the meantime, I'll assign light duties, scale back your shifts; give you the chance to rest."

"We'll cope," he told her, reaching out to squeeze her hand. "It wouldn't be the first time, and I'm certain it won't be the last."

Beckett sighed. The surgery had been a fight, with Ronon close to crashing almost the entire way through the four hour ordeal, until the hidden damage caused by the Wraith blaster had been found, and the necessary grafts and sutures made. Since then he seemed to have stabilised.

"The last surgery was tough," he said. "Touch and go, but I think he'll pull through. He's a fighter."

"Yes, you," she said. "It can't have been easy for you – knowing you were going aboard that Hive to… well, you know…"

"No, go on," he prompted, guessing where she was going with what she'd been about to say. "People avoid the subject far too often. I'm not Carson. I'm a clone, a construct. Aye, granted, I might have his knowledge, his memories… his personality and worries, but… when it comes down to it, Michael made me as surely as Carson made Michael. Has a kind of… poetry, in a way, don't you think?"

He sighed and ran his hand over his face, the weight of his guilt rising up to pull him down under the surface of the tumultuous waves of consequence.

"Right now, I have to be," he said, his voice barely audible, "because otherwise I'm going to lose it. I did this, all of it… what happened to Teyla… to Ronon… Colonel Sheppard… to you—"

"You can't think like that," Keller told him, reaching over to squeeze his hand.

Michael stirred, took a breath and let it out slowly as consciousness returned. His entire body ached, though in some places the discomfort was more acute than others. Those places where the worst of the Wraith torture had been visited on him remained the worst of all, but the reversion, coupled with the regeneration catalysed by the brief time he'd fed had fully healed the damage to his shoulder and his hands, as well as to other, more vital parts of his body.

Teyla's stillness brought him more quickly to awareness, and he sat up, drawing himself carefully out of her limp embrace, supporting her as she began to tumble sideways, murmuring, but not waking as she did.

An icy dread rushed over him, and he reached quickly for the side of her neck to feel the sluggish pulse against his fingertips; fearing, especially now, that he had fed too long. Her skin was cool to the touch, and her mind, where he brushed a careful, tentative query, remained dull and unresponsive.

He pulled away, never quite letting go, to cast his gaze downward to the orifice that still marred the palm of his right hand, stained as it was, still, with Teyla's blood. It would take a more deliberate manipulation to remove it again, and this time he would take greater care to ensure that he did not repeat the misalignment of the gene sequence that had caused such damage to his system that it had necessitated the madness that had been the last few months of his existence.

He swallowed hard as he looked up from his hand to Teyla's pale face, her eyes closed as if in a peaceful sleep. Dare he? What would it be to share such a moment with her? How much would it change the both of them?

Moving slowly, he slipped his arm beneath her knees and braced himself to rise, lifting her into his arms as she held him for… how long?

Her shallow breath against his neck, as her head came to rest on his shoulder as he moved, ignited a deeper emotion than the guilty concern he felt, and he paused to take a trembling breath, before he set her down carefully against the pillows of the bed.

Malcolm sighed, unable to find rest. His mind too busy, and the echo of the barely contained chaos of the Wraith around him was an ache, dull but persistent, behind his eyes. He sat up, and slowly massaged his temples with long fingers, before another sigh escaped him as he covered his face with his hands.

Taking a deep breath he pulled himself to his feet, suddenly chilled, and crossed the room to the banked fire – removed the sods and added more wood until the flames rekindled, leaping in yellow and gold reflections around the walls.

"Where is reason now?" he asked the crackling flames. "Or has all come to madness in this peak, untended?"

It took Teyla a moment for her eyes to focus properly as they fluttered open in response to the insistent call inside her mind, but when they did, she raised a hand that weighed heavily toward the concerned face that looked down on her.

The eyes that looked on her were his own, though still Wraithlike and the slightly mottled, hybrid skin held warmth that the colder, Wraith-green had not displayed. Gone was the blackened, hardened patch on the side of his neck, and the hair that fell, slightly mussed around his face, had colour, though it was still muted by some grey-white strands amid the brown.

He caught her hand against his wrist before her fingers could touch his face and guided the touch aside.

"Can you sit?" he asked and his voice was the rich dual tone that she remembered, the third, counter-tone a mere whisper, as it had always been.

He nodded then, giving her a moment to fight her way into an upright position. Dizziness assaulted her at the moment, and she felt herself beginning to topple to the side.

His fingers closed around her upper arm to steady her, and in the next moment slipped down along her arm to guide her hand to rest against his shoulder. She shivered slightly when he released her wrist and circled her with his arm, his fingers splayed against her back, warm and strong.

"There is… a need in both of us that has remained unfulfilled for too long…" he answered slowly.

His right hand moved to settle once more against her chest, over the painful burning that remained of his feeding on her and the pressure of his fingers against her back increased as instinctive fear made her pull away.

The same, sudden bite and dizzying rush of cold subsumed her. Their eyes locked as her head fell back and a gasping cry came from her lips. Michael breathed out a long, slow hiss and the harshness faded from his gaze.

It began as an almost tingling vibration that spread from the momentary pain until the heat of it, swirling and dancing within took her beyond hurt and fear, into a brightness that pushed its way into every fractured cell that he had left in the wake of his feeding. The rapture of it gripped her, leaving her breathless and trembling, the very nature of him becoming a part of her – so intense a presence, a bliss, that she gave another cry, and even grasping his shoulder for support fell against him, sobbing.

She barely felt the withdrawal of his touch, only the warmth of the hand with which he cradled the back of her neck, holding her against his chest, breathing as hard as was she, his mind within hers an echo of the rhapsody… the Gift.

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