Fractured Moon 2/4

[tari_roo]

Title: Fractured Moon 2/4

Author: Tari_roo

Rating: PG13/R (Gen)

Fandom: SGA


*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a*s*g*a

John awoke to blessed, blessed relief. The party after the executions had lasted long into the night, with the mass of tattooed villagers only really quietening down as the moons disappeared beneath the horizon. Freak had carried him, still tied, to a large hut, presumably his, and had dumped him outside the door. In incredible pain, John had fitfully dozed, trying to endure the agony, escape it a little, the immense relief of a near escape making him shake even as his muscles screamed in concert with the death cries from outside the village. Vaguely aware, nearly blind with torment, John saw Freak return as the party died down and the rush of agony and relief as he cut the ropes, both at his elbows and knees, had sent him into unconsciousness.

He’d awoken briefly to the sensation of small feathery touches on his feet and had seen the disappearing tail of some weird bug as it ran off disturbed by his stirring. Wrists and ankles still bound, but infinitely better than before, John returned to sleep even as he tried to plan for what might be coming in the morning. He may have escaped death but who knew what Freak had planned for him.

Now though, with the bright hot sunshine of mid morning beating down on his face, John awoke for real, already feeling the stiffness in his limbs. The village was still quiet, the excesses of last night still keeping them abed. The Jungle around the village was also quiet, the bonfire a smouldering, smoking mess. The pole which would have been his fate, lay forgotten near the white statue visible from anywhere in the village which, he idly realised, was horseshoe shaped, the statue and fire at the centre.

The strange dinosaur type reptiles which the villagers had ridden with such success in the attack on the other village near the Stargate were penned at the base of the horseshoe, a definite stink emanating from that area.

Reluctant to move, mostly due to the certainty of the protest of abused muscles, Sheppard stayed on his stomach, scoping out the village, noting the narrow tracks which disappeared into the Jungle, the baskets and bundles of food suspended on the doorways of homes, the complicated looking well on the right. Eventually, he turned over and onto his side, grimacing at the aches and pains, but it also felt good to move. It took a little more effort than he’d like and eventually John was sitting, bound legs before him, back against the post of the porch-like overhang all the huts seemed to have.

There wasn’t much in the way of handy sharp objects lying around, and as John studied the immediate area looking for something to use to cut through the ropes, he couldn’t help worrying about his team. Where were they? What had stopped them from immediately pursuing the raiders? Grimacing a little, Sheppard leaned his head back and looked up at the leafy porch roof, streaks of light and sky peeking through. He’d been pretty out of it with that red fruit, barely feeling what Freak had been doing and only Rodney hadn’t eaten any, his usual paranoia about citrus in full bloom. If they’d survived the attack, which John had to believe they had, they might not have been able to pursue... and there had been more raiders than just this village. The sudden sharp fear that Ronon and Teyla, or Rodney, had been captured by another village of these Reptile guys and had not escaped being impaled...

The urge to hurl was unrelenting but fortunately he had nothing left after the extreme bout of vomiting last night, but it took a good long while to calm himself down, to stop dry heaving. The only silver lining was spotting a nice sharp rock as he bent over to the side. Shoving aside fears and worries he could do nothing about, Sheppard shuffled around and felt with numb fingers for the lump of stone. The edge was hardly a razor but it would most certainly do. Glancing now at the still silent hut behind him, John set to work on freeing himself. It would take some time, and effort, but he had plenty of motivation. He shuffled until he backed against the post so that his hands were hidden should anyone walk by, but it was a good half hour before he spotted any sort of movement in the village. Keeping his hands out of sight, Sheppard continued to work, slowly fraying the very tight, well made ropes.

A few kids emerged first, and it was shocking to see that they too already had tattoos and mutilated faces. The smallest, a little girl, was the only one to stare at him, and as her friends called her, she stuck out her tongue, her forked tongue, and ran off. The small crowd of kids, five or so, ran towards the edge of the Jungle, no doubt to see the three new gruesome impaled corpses.

The trickle of activity grew as more villagers emerged and John felt his own anxiety rise, as the adults most certainly did not ignore him, many passing by the hut, glaring at him, openly hostile. Normally John would have smiled, attempted some sort of overture, but the memories of the night were still too fresh and he felt nothing but anger - and healthy fear. These people did not want him, wanted him dead in fact and only Freak’s strange fascination with him had saved him.

There was no hustle and bustle though, everyone seemed to go about their business slowly and carefully. The heat was growing, the humidity levels cloying, and John had been sweating from the get go. A few men and women disappeared into the jungle, some drew water and others just puttered about their homes, making and eating food. A few joined their children at the edge of the Jungle and while Sheppard couldn’t see the gruesome spectacle, thankfully, he could hear their raised voices and laughter.

It was nearly midday by the time Freak emerged from the hut and John was nearly through the ropes. It had taken far longer than he’d liked and now with everyone wide awake and active, cutting through the ropes no longer seemed like a good idea. Freak would not doubt check his bonds and notice the frayed ropes, almost free and well... Sheppard didn’t want to lose his opportunity to escape before it even arrived.

Freak stepped out of the hut, yawned widely, his forked tongue sticking out, and stretched, joints and back cracking. Shaking himself, he glanced down, spotted John and smiled. It was no less a disturbing smile in daylight, his black lips cracked and dry, but the nose and eyebrows were even worse in good light.

He dropped to his haunches so that he was face to face with Sheppard and reached out to grab John’s hair again. Not resisting, instead shoving his stone into the back pocket of his BDUs, Sheppard tried not to growl as Freak roughly ruffled his hair, laughing at how it stuck up on its own.

Freak continued to study Sheppard, idly touching his hair, then fingering his jaw, running over the stubble, rough, curious and well... weird. His strange face was far closer than Sheppard was comfortable with but he kept his expression bland, disinterested even as he furiously tried to hide the frayed sections of the rope behind him.

There were definite thought patterns running through Freak’s head, his eyes keen and intent. Pressing one last firm overly harsh thumb into Sheppard’s jaw, Freak leaned back into the hut and pulled out a small wooden tub. Something black and pasty was inside, and Freak stuck a thick finger into it, nearly filling the small opening, and began painting John’s face - under his eyes, down his nose, across his chin, streaks on his cheeks and then finally his mouth. Then he fingered the paste into John’s hair, laughing when all it did was make his hair shiny, already too black. “You are strange, Offworlder. I still don’t know what to do with you.”

Lips feeling thick and gummy, Sheppard said drily, “Could let me go.”

Freak shook his head, serious, but did not stop rubbing more paste into John’s hair. “Cannot. You are Githa’s. Your words and belief meant she did not have to Judge you, but you are still hers. Still an Offworlder.”

Freak was now eyeing John’s chest and his tattered BDU shirt. Without warning, he hauled John forward and, before Sheppard could be certain his fingers were covering the frayed rope ends, a sharp knife pricked thumb and fingers and then his hands were free.

“Take it off.”

“Hmm?” Sheppard was slowly, wincingly, bringing his arms around, watching Freak for a reaction, a sign that he had noticed the ropes. Freak gave no indication but tugged insistently on John’s sleeve. “Take if off.”

Arms on a slow burn, aching and stuff, Sheppard slowly complied, unbuttoned his shirt, grimacing as his shoulders protested but it also felt good to move, to be alive, free.  Freak snatched up the shirt when John was done, sniffing it and rubbing the material on his face.

Black t-shirt followed, just as hard to pull over his head, back and shoulders screaming in protest. Shaking, sweating now in combination of effort and the growing heat of the day, Sheppard looked down at his chest, wincing at the purple bruises, mottled with red and pale skin. No doubt his back was far worse.

He nearly jumped, nearly slapped Freak’s hand away when the guy reached out to touch his chest hair. Narrowly catching himself, his arm twitching nonetheless, Sheppard let Freak poke and prod him, study the deep bruises on his arms from the ropes, seemingly fascinated by the many colours, purple and red against pale skin.

And sure enough, the paint was picked up and those thick fingers which caused the bruises in the first place, painted around and on the bruises and welts.

“Ah,” John said tentatively, noting Freak’s intense expression, but not really sure what to say, what he wanted to frame beside a pre-emptive protest, as Freak’s hands drifted lower. Luckily, Freak shoved him down, exposing his back in an awkward twist over bound legs, his face pressed into dirt and pebbles which moved with each puff of pained breath as Freak ‘treated’ the larger, deeper bruises on his back. He spent some time painting a  spot near his spine, in the middle of the boot print. Freak may not have been trying to hurt him, but his ministrations and decorating was sending sparks of pain through John’s brain and it took a lot of self control not to twist away, fight it. Sheppard was very conscious of the precarious nature of the stay of execution, Freak’s interest in him alone only really saving him.

Freak eventually hauled him to his feet, ankles somehow untied in the same motion, and Sheppard swayed briefly, light headed with thirst and hunger ... and pain. “Come.”

A rough basket of some twisted plant material was thrust at him, and then he was shoved forward. Stumbling a little, Sheppard followed Freak out of the village, very aware of the glances and glares directed at him - them. At the back of his mind, John was cognisant that their path was heading directly to the site of the executed villagers, but he was still shocked by the grisly sight. It was difficult to look away, seeing a fate he had oh so narrowly escaped displayed in such grotesque spectacle. The children were still there, chattering excitedly, one of them actually running his hands on a stake, showing the others how his hands came away red.

Freak reached back and yanked John away, “Come!” Looking away in relief, the grisly sight disappearing from view as he followed Freak into the dim confines of the jungle, their bare feet smacking along a hard trail through the undergrowth. It was no cooler under the trees, in fact it was worse, more humid, more close. There were Githian’s at the base of several large trees and Freak was making his way to a particularly big one, heavy with purple and red fruit. Pulling the basket from John’s hands, Freak pointed him towards the tree and said, “Climb. Knock down the lightest, palest ones.”

John looked up at the tree, its broad trunk, thick branches looked both easy to scale and perhaps deceptive. There was an odd knot and crack in the otherwise smooth wood and at Freak’s insistent shove, John leapt up, grabbed hold of a handy knot and ignored the protest of his muscles to slowly make his way up into the branches.

Watchful for weird bugs and alien creatures, and possible escape avenues, Sheppard reached the branches with lighter fruit and inched his way over. The pause in activity gave his muscles opportunity to verbalise their protests some more about their unhappiness with the required activity, but he pushed on regardless and tugged the nearest fruit off the branch. Dropping it, he heard the corresponding thud below.

The bark beneath his fingers was smooth and hard, did not give at all - a very tough wood. It was quiet in the tree, the rustle of leaves in the wind, the occasional voice from Githians in the trees and on the ground. The fruit had a sickly sour smell, not at all appetising and as John reached out for another, the skin of the fruit felt thick and tough, like the bark. It barely seemed to ‘give’ as he tugged on it, the flesh firm and unyielding under his fingers. This one was also dropped and Freak called up, “Good. Even lighter, higher up.”

Sheppard looked up into the branches and sure enough, paler fruit was above his head, almost white, a pale pink. Brushing past thicker, almost purple black fruit, John scrambled up, balancing on the odd branch and hauling himself hand over hand at times. The familiar motion of free climbing was comforting, the practiced ease of testing his hold, pushing his body to stretch and lift.

Picking fruit as he went, letting it drop down to Freak, John made his way to the very top of the tree, the highest branches still sturdy and thick enough to support him, feeling confident in his abilities and the strength of the tree. Reaching the canopy, John found the whitest fruit so far, those exposed directly to the sunlight. Balanced in the fork of branches, leg braced on one, hand holding onto another above him, swaying with the motion of the tree John looked out over the roof of the jungle.

The canopy was like a green ocean, stretching out for miles around, a bright mix of greens and browns swelling on every side, with the occasional break in the expanse. There was a cool breeze that ruffled the leaves and John felt the sweat on his face cool a little, his hair moving stiffly with all the paint in it. Squinting against the bright light, Sheppard studied the expanse and noted a very unnatural looking spire jutting out from the trees. Looking closer, peering to see more detail, it looked like several tall buildings had been swallowed by the jungle, only the roof and towers visible. The structures were several miles away, and even then the distance was probably greater as who knew if the jungle floor ran straight and true, the odd twist and swell of the trees hiding gorges and ravines.

Looking to the horizon, far in the distance, many miles away, a range of blue mountains were visible, their peaks solid and sharp, like knives. One of the moons was still able to be seen, a pale counterpart to the previous night’s bright glow, and it hung above the mountains like they were propping it up, or it was caught on their jagged edges. As the mountain range disappeared into the horizon it looked like something massive had smashed into them and created a corresponding crater edge disappeared into the jungle. The shattered remains of the mountains and landscape were mostly covered but the crater was still discernable, even covered by the forest.

“Offworlder!”

Freak’s voice was distant, faint but John didn’t really want to descend on any means or terms but his own, so he yelled, “Yeah!”

He picked the closest fruit, hoping Freak wasn’t already clambering up after him and then slowly made his way down. As expected, the climb down was harder, his legs shaking with exhaustion and strain, while he was dripping with sweat, the black swirls and whorls over his chest and back sticky and uncomfortable. Freak nodded when he jumped down, landing lightly but still heavier than normal, wincing. The guy held out a full basket and John reluctantly took it. “Come.”

The rest of the day, John spent trying to open the fruit. This task was made more difficult due to Freak only giving him a sharp stick to pry them open, and no instruction on how best to do so. And adding to that, it wasn’t just his basket he had to open, but Freak’s neighbours as well. The fruit was just as tough as it looked and he stabbed himself a couple of times before getting it right, fruit braced between his knees, stick angled away. The flesh inside was thick, dense and juicy. Freak gave him a bowl to scoop the fleshy fruit into, the hard skin and pulp into another. On the third, or maybe fourth one, John couldn’t help himself and licked his hands, savouring the moisture and surprising sweetness.

The blow was unexpected and caught him by surprise, Freak moving far faster than usual. Rocked by the blow, but unmoved, John stared at Freak who snarled, “No. Not for you.”

Freak actually grabbed his face, squeezing hard, smearing the paint and adding to the litany of bruises, and hissed again, “Not for you.” Nodding his understanding, John straightened and licked his lips, not surprised to taste blood. Going back to work, John scraped out the delicious looking fruit, but decided to press his luck even more.

“Thirsty work.”

Freak was leaning against one of the posts holding up the porch roof, while John was seated opposite leaning against the other. The other bachelors Freak shared the hut with came and went, stepping over them, either ignoring John or staring at him. Freak smiled, tipping his head back and looking up at the thatch above and said, “Githa sates her thirst from the blood of her prey.”

“What does Githa eat?”

The pulpy flesh squirted and oozed as John dumped it into the bowl, a messy pile. Freak didn’t look down, still gazing at the roof and said, “Everything. Githa consumes the world.”

Tossing the empty gourd, Sheppard picked up the next, many still to go, and asked quietly, “And me, what do I eat?”

“What Githa decides to give you.”

Ah, very helpful that, and John sighed, attacking the fruit with a sharp jab. “Githa likely to give me anything, anytime soon?”

Freak just hummed softly and shrugged, “Maybe. Her hunger is great... she may not wish to share.”

Determined, John pressed further, trying to gauge if his questions were offending Freak’s odd beliefs, “And water... does she share that?”

Freak looked down, eyes flat, his paint freshly applied and grim, and growled, “Her tears are sacred. They are forbidden.”

Great. “So you guys drink... fruit juice? This stuff?”

Freak nodded, “Githa provides; her Jungle gives life to her children. Root and branch, seed and fruit. A bounty.”

“Which is not for me.” John didn’t exactly phrase it as a question, more a statement of clarity but Freak nodded.  “For her children.” And to illustrate this, Freak scooped some of the fruit up, and licked it off his hand, his forked tongue darting in and out like a true reptile. “Great.”

John worked in silence for a while, several fruit meeting their own grisly deaths, Freak watching through hooded eyes. Eventually, the guy leaned forward and said, “Do you eat flesh?”

Well aware how loaded that question was, last night’s ritual wording and horrific scenes undiminished at all by the new day, John deliberated for a moment before saying, “Define flesh.”

Freak blinked, narrowed his eyes and grabbed John’s upper arm and squeezed, saying “This. This is flesh. Do you eat this?”

Staring at the black painted hand squeezing his already bruised arm, John hissed, “Let go.” Freak was slow to do so, but did eventually, re-iterating however, “That is flesh - meat, blood and bone.”

Tempted to lie, very, very tempted to become an instant vegetarian, and if a lie saved his life... Sheppard said instead, “Why is eating flesh so ... ah ... wrong? What’s the ...”

A bark of outraged laughter, and Freak leaned back, slamming his hand onto his chest with a dull thud. “All flesh belongs to Githa! It is an offense to eat the flesh of any creature, but especially her children. She punishes those who eat what is hers, turns it to poison, venom, death. Madness and destruction follow eaters of flesh.”

Paused in motion, stick poised over fruit, Sheppard watched Freak warily, and the guy continued with, “I ask again, Offworlder. Do you eat flesh?”

The lie would be easy, probably save him, but Sheppard asked quietly, “What do you mean, ‘eat her children’? You’re her children, right? Or are all animals...”

Snarling, Freak growled, “We are her children. The beasts and birds that live within her are prey and life and death. We, we are her children.” He smacked his chest in emphasis again, looking more and more worked up.

Putting the pieces together and not liking the picture that was forming, Sheppard asked as calmly as he could, “So, when you said the villagers... ah, others, were eaters of flesh, and that they ate the Children of Githa ... you mean they ate... ah, you?”

Freak was vibrating with emotion, and he leaned close to John and hissed, “Yes, Offworlder. So, are you an eater of flesh?”

With absolute conviction, Sheppard looked straight into Freak’s angry eyes and said, “No.”

They stayed that way for a few seconds, Freak apparently seeing the truth, or maybe not caring after all and sitting back, definitely not as relaxed as before. Sheppard however had a growing pit of real unease in his stomach. Ignoring the glowering Freak, half heartedly stabbing at the fruit, John thought back on the previous night and day.

The villagers, the Heskets, all had admitted, in some way, to being ‘eaters of flesh.’ And Freak seemed to think that meant they were cannibals. Therefore his team, hopefully his still alive team, were with a village of cannibals. Suddenly his lack of rescue had a whole slew of dire implications - and not just that they couldn’t find him. Images of his friends in the hands of cannibals, trapped, tricked or even just dead flashed through his mind.

The immediate, desperate need to get out of there, away from Freak, away from the angry glare, and to go check, make sure his friends were ok, that the villagers were not in fact cannibals was urgent and insistent. It would have to be tonight, had to be. Despite his very real danger, it seemed John was the one in safe hands after all. Who knew what was happening in the village... to his team.

Unable to stop, uncaring now if he offended Freak, John asked, “So, the villagers... the others, they worship the sun by eating flesh... humans.”

Knuckles white, Freak nodded, “Heskth, the abomination. They kill Offworlders, the Children and pour out their blood to the Sun and then eat the flesh, believing it makes them strong, alive, real.”

“Ah... they do this often? Daily... weekly...”

Freak’s towering anger seemed to dip a little, and he said with less venom, “With ritual. Their ways are strange - weeks, months go by before they lure a Child, trap a man. Maadth says they eat the beasts and birds daily, saving Flesh for rituals, for ceremonies to Heskth. You worry for your friends?”

It was easy to nod, a glimmer of hope emerging as Freak nodded as well but that glimmer was hardened into resolve to escape when Freak said, “Their deaths will be slow. We buried the Gate, so the Traitors will not kill them until the Gate is uncovered... save them for the ceremony of opening.”

With that news weighing heavily on him, certain that if Ronon and Rodney were helping uncover the Gate in order to get help for him and the work would be done quickly, John went back to his own work. He had to escape, make it back to the village and the Gate before any ceremony could take place. The fear, the doubt that maybe it was already too late, Sheppard ignored, liking to think that his friends were busy and alive, rather than filling the pots of cunning cannibals.

The attack on the village was a blur, the affects of the fruit they had eaten and drunk already in full swing. The Githians had been riding the oversized lizards and had been detonating some sort of explosive, creating smoke that smelt weird, sickly. John vaguely remembered seeing the Gate go down, a scream of metal, but Stargates were sturdy and Rodney was persistent. He’d been running towards the Gate, Ronon and Teyla behind him, when Freak had crashed into him, body slamming him with the lizard thing he was riding. Between the smoke and fruit and concussion, Sheppard had barely heard Teyla’s shout, but as Freak hauled him onto the lizard, he remembered clearly seeing an upside down Teyla and Ronon trying to reach him through the press of white clad villagers running in the opposite direction. Rodney was a strident voice over the noise, yelling something about the smoke and fruit.

He had woken up with a jolt when Freak had tossed him off the lizard and he’d been too out of it to really fight the complicated knots and bonds later.

His team was alive, they had to be... Rodney alone was probably assuring their survival, his promise of getting the Gate working quickly keeping the cannibals at bay... hopefully. Maybe.

By the time John was done with all the fruit his hands ached, his throat was as dry as the desert, but he was no longer hungry. The sun was setting, the air already cooler, and the village came to life, more people moving around, the passage of visitors to huts more frequent. The moment the fruit was done the bowls had been whisked away, skin and flesh, and as fires were lit, the atmosphere in the village became far more lively.

Huddling back into a corner, the increasing passage of people resulting in far more curious and angry looks, John ran through as many escape plans as he could, the need to escape burning through him now. Rescue was not coming, he had to do the rescuing, of that he was certain.

Freak had been joined by his hut mates and several other bachelors, all hulky and muscle bound. They did not dwarf John in height, but they were far heavier, thick in thigh and chest, their dark skins glistening with fresh paint and dark tattoos. They all had the same angry expression, slitted tongues, flat noses, black mouths. Not exactly the most comforting bunch of dinner guests, no matter that they were vegetarian. Their angry looks at him hardly made Sheppard feel at ease... at all.

A sour woman brought the bachelors some food, several bowls steaming in the early evening. John watched the village instead, ignoring the men, refusing to heed his own stomach’s growls at the delicious smells. The village was not large, John able to ‘note’ everyone. There were only five children, one infant. Maybe fifty people in total, very few women, far more bachelors.

There was a burst of laughter from the men near him and John felt their gaze, heard Freak’s booming laughter. He was close enough to hear what they were saying, but they spoke so fast, and between their mutilated tongues and thick accents, it was difficult to follow the conversation.

Sheppard kept one ear on the men to his right, a watchful look on the village, making sure he didn’t seem to stare at anyone, and ran through the half formed escape plan that was unfolding in his head. There were a lot of variables and one major obstacle... he had no idea in which direction the Gate lay. But hopefully if he climbed a tree at night and could see the lights of the village, he’d be able to make his way there. Once he was free, pursuit evaded.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a thick-set man lunge towards him but, as quick as he was, the other guy was quicker and he slammed Sheppard into the post behind him, a hand at his throat. Unfortunately nor was he alone, but John wasn’t out of it tonight, high on happy fruit, and he kicked out, punched one guy in the throat, another in the nose. There was the accompanying howls, but there were too many of them, and one good crack of his head on the post, and someone already pinning his arms behind him, and all too soon all Sheppard could do was wriggle and writhe as they tied him in place.

His arms were getting the same treatment as the night before, wrist and elbows bound together, bindings cutting into already bruised flesh and he couldn’t help crying out as the guy behind him starting pulling on the ropes, tightening them, wrapping them higher and higher up his arms. Two others were tying his knees together, behind the pole, the wood pressing between his legs, the stretch of muscle and limb unnatural and painful. Someone else was cinching his ankles together, viciously tightening the ropes, uncaring of the accompanying moan. In a parody of the position of a condemned man, the four men tied his ankles and wrists together so that his back arched against the pole and an almighty fire of pain and agony ran through him, everything, everything straining for relief, a concert of pain.

Uncaring of the tears that streaked his face, Sheppard cursed loudly, pulling against the restraints but as they let go, the weight of his torso dropped him forward and he only stopped when the pole met the mess of rope around his arms. Chest heaving, bathed in sweat, helpless and furious, Sheppard glared at Freak who suddenly swam into view, yanking up his head with a fistful of hair.

“What the hell... “

Freak smiled, his pupils wide and blown... the guy was freaking high. “Jisth said that maybe Githa wanted to Judge you after all... but Maadth is not here to decide, so... we compromised on this. Your flesh is not pierced, but Githa can still judge your pain, and agony...” Freak seemed happy, his smile broad and toothy. John would have spat at him, but he didn’t have the moisture so he said instead, “Well screw you too.”

Freak dropped his head and John groaned, the strain on his shoulders and back immense and it was an effort to look up, but he did so anyway, glaring angrily at the laughing men around Freak’s fire. They were drinking something, and the heady smell of alcohol was in the air. Great, just great. He’d been hoping that if Freak tied him up for the night, he’d still be able to free himself with the stone in his back pocket, but this... there was no way he was getting out of this without help. He was in for a long night.

As the night wore on, and John fought the rising pain, unable to shift himself into a position that didn’t hurt, nothing going numb, the tingling fire of his hands losing all feeling hardly comforting. The men drinking and laughing a few feet away, kept on looking over and bursting out in guffaws of laughter, their wide black smiles and forked tongues surreal in the flickering firelight.

Eventually resigning himself to just enduring, waiting it out, John tried to push the pain to one side, maybe doze off, but it was difficult, the awkward angle on his neck making everything ache and burn. It was just an effort to breathe, find the will not to start screaming until they just cut his throat to silence him.

It was late, the raucous laughter dying down, but no sign of turning in, when John noted one of the men approaching him, crawling on all fours. Past caring, vaguely hoping that he was either going to untie him, or kill him, Sheppard silently sweated, and shuddered, muscles twitching and shaking. The guy had the same nose and mouth as Freak, but had more tattoos on his face, less scars and ridges. His bald head was covered in paint as well, and he had no ears, only two small holes, faint scars around them.

The guy opened his mouth, a wide smile, and showed John his tongue, and it was spilt almost in two, not just forked. It was even harder understanding him but John hoped it got it right when the guy said, “Orath says you are black and white... like Githa.” He elongated Githa into a long hiss, flapping his tongue at John, like a snake. “Black and white, like her belly and eyes... glint of scales.” The guy touched John’s hair and skin, running a sharp nail down his quivering chest.

“Get. Lost.”

Ignoring John, the guy wiped his thumb across John’s face, noting the tears and sweat and said with the distinctive lisp, “I agree. Githa claims you.”

“Githa can go to hell.”

Fortunately, the guy didn’t react, instead he pulled out a pot... of paint. John rolled his eyes and hissed, “You guys are freaking obsessed, you know that.” Strangely gentle, the little guy slowly spread thick white paint over John’s face, the tub larger than Freak’s little thing. The gooey substance felt cool, but soon turned sticky as it absorbed his sweat.

Covering Freak’s efforts from before, the guy painted John’s entire face white, and up into his hairline, over his ears, into his nose. Snorting and pulling away, Sheppard hissed, “Enough. Go away.”

Undeterred, the guy ran both hands over John’s corded neck, quivering shoulders and heaving chest, covering everything with white. He was methodical and ignored John’s litany of complaints, painting the ropes over John’s arms as well. Wiping his hands on John’s pants, the guy opened another pot, this one black and then proceeded to add black detail.

He did less than Freak on his face, down his nose and chin, one long stripe, eyes and lips. He traced out John’s ribs, the ridges of his bones easy to find, his collar bone, solar plexus. He finished with a complicated swirl over John’s heart, running up onto his shoulder. Packing away the pots, the would-be artist studied Sheppard, and John said as clearly as he could through the pain, “Untie me, you snake obsessed moron.”

The guy just smiled and rejoined his much quieter friends, who were now slumped and drifting off, Freak already collapsed onto his back, pointing up at the stars, muttering something.

It was becoming unbearable, and John hissed to himself, “Come on, come on, please... just ...” he shifted, pulled tried to find some angle that didn’t mean he was carrying his weight on his arms and shoulders, but it was to no avail. “Damnit!”

The soft patter of rain woke John from a pain filled daze, the thatch above rustling as the raindrops fell. Only Freak and his roommates were left and the rain woke them, Freak sitting up, his eyes looking red and angry in the dull firelight.

As he stood and staggered towards the doorway, Sheppard didn’t know if his ‘please’ was audible or not, but Freak paused and looked at him, face lost in shadow, expression hidden.

All three moons were up, one already waning, no longer full and Sheppard tried to meet Freak’s gaze, tried to summon up enough air, to ask, plead, uncaring if he was begging. Grunting, Freak stepped forward and carelessly cut John free, slicing his arm in the process.

Sheppard didn’t care though, the immediate relief was instantaneous. Freak disappeared into the hut, leaving John still tied at wrist and ankle, the pole still between his legs, but Sheppard happily took several long, pain free breaths. The temptation, no... need, to sleep was immense, but now was the time to start working on an escape... and there was no time to waste.

SGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGASGA

Part 3