Naem knelt in his woods; Zarye and Aarye beside him, as they always had been.

He had not come to this decision lightly, but once made, he knew the time in which he would remain capable of following through was disappearing away from him, slipping through his fingers like the leaves of autumn through the sky. Soon he would not be capable of completing this task, or any other. Soon, his spirit would be the leaves on the wind.

Karael would have done this for him, but it would not be right; they deserved Naem, his final act of the love he bore them.

Everything he had done had been for love.

His family, his people, his Jaem.

Why? Why had they taken his son from him, when he had been so close to leaving this world with a clear conscience and a joyful heart? He had never meant to hurt anyone – hadn't he shown Jaem the wonders of Arstaem, taught him to see with more than his eyes, taught him that through obedience comes the power to serve wisely? Had he not shown Jaem that he loved him enough?

Why had Jaem left without seeing him, without allowing Naem a final plea to save his people…their people!

A beak nudged his hand, and Aarye's clear, deep eyes met his when he looked down.

"That my life would have meant something, Aarye," Naem said, broken. "That my son would have ruled and saved them."

He knew Joros and Baela stood a distance away, allowing him his privacy. Now, when he needed more…when he needed his son.

The sobs that came were not welcome, but Naem lacked the strength to care. They shook his body, already weakened by the disease. What were tears compared to the loss he had suffered, the pain he had felt, to the hope he had coveted?

Zarye, disturbed by the motion, pranced uneasily around Naem's legs, and joined Aarye, resting his beak against Naem's hand.

He knelt in the pristine snow, among the bare trees, and remembered the promise he had felt only a week ago -- he had rejoiced inwardly at the return of his son and the hope for his people.

Raising his face to the sky, Naem made no attempt to stop the cries, instead, he sobbed harder upon the cold of winter, let it seep from him, into the ground and the trees, hoping it would be as a leech. His pain so great, one mere body could not possibly contain it and survive.

To share even an ounce of his misery and defeat with the world under his knees – to live long enough to see Jaem again.

This disease had all ready darkened his sight, and Naem could barely see. Kneeling amongst the old trees of despair, he did not feel so much a king as a beggar, and the sobs that broke free were not a terrible thing for a beggar.

He had been abandoned, left, without his wife, child, and soon, his life.

There was nothing left for him now. His death loomed, Jaem was gone, never to return, and his falcons must go free rather than whither away inside the aviary. They had stayed out of love, but they could not understand the meaning of death. They would not understand why Naem stopped visiting and hunting with them, and he could not bear to let his falcons feel an ounce of that uncertainty and pain.

Exhausted, and spent, his birds leaning against him, as if to give to him their strength, Naem climbed unsteadily to his feet. The snow left his clothing cold and wet against his knees, the snow chill against his hot skin. The fever had begun yesterday, and it was the last stage before the end. He had misjudged how long he had. Apparently, he had misjudged many things.

"You must go, both of you," he whispered, the dampness on his cheeks not only from the falling flakes. "It is the end, and I must be brave and say my goodbyes now."

Extending his arm covered in the leather buckler, he breathed raggedly.

The falcons had been his children when he had none, and at least with them, he would be allowed this. A final farewell, as much as it may hurt, and he almost wished that he had not been strong enough to make this trip.

Aarye was first, and instead of launching when he tried to send her off, she nuzzled her beak against his fevered brow. "I will miss you," he murmured, his words breaking through the thickness in his throat. He could not be strong; not anymore. He would be alone, truly alone; Sareal, Zarye, Aarye…Jaem. All of them gone.

Swallowing, and trying to regain some semblance of composure so that he could finish, Naem straightened, and stretching his arm, he said firmly, "Fly bravely, Aarye, and think of me!"

Then he threw her up, up into the sky.

Zarye jumped to his arm next, and Naem smiled weakly through his pain. "You and I are not meant for such things, are we?"

The falcon stared at him wisely and waited.

Stealing himself, Naem whispered, "Goodbye," and thrust his arm upwards one final time.

OoO

They were coming home.

Elizabeth stared out at the rough water, choppy and full of whitecaps, tumultuous in the gusts of wind rushing up off the ocean, and she repeated it, just because she needed to hear it, over and over.

They were coming home.

When the Daedalus had finally contacted Atlantis, it was to report, almost casually, the hyperdrive was fixed, and they had arrived safely at P6X-371.

Their ETA for returning to Atlantis was two hours, and, oh, by the way – five missing sheep would be returning to the pasture, alive, if not a little worse for the wear.

She had kept her composure in the control room.

Caldwell had signed off, saying, "See you in two hours, Doctor Weir."

It was then, that she had promptly found an excuse to leave, escaping to the balcony to deal with the strong emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She had felt it before, the same elation and relief. Near misses weren't new for them, nor returning from the supposed dead.

But that didn't mean that each time she didn't feel the fear, the worry, the mind-numbing panic that this would be the time there wouldn't be a miracle. Finding out that her people…her friends and co-workers were alive…it was as strong this time, hitting her harder then ever before, because this time their absence had stretched across weeks, and into months.

She had wallowed in her memories of them for over two months, secretly visited their rooms and sat amongst their things, just to keep their presence near to her. Elizabeth had never imagined she would form this kind of deep reliance and trust with John, Rodney, Carson, too. In Teyla and Ronon, she had found people to appreciate and learn from. And they all meant so much to her.

Soon, she would see their faces again, be able to touch them, and she would – Elizabeth would find some excuse, and she would touch. It might only be a hand on an arm, but she already knew she would need it. As much as she fought to keep some kind of distance between her, and them, it wasn't really working, and after fighting to hold it together for so long this time, Elizabeth really didn't care what rumors might fly. She would touch them all, hell, if she didn't think the five would be mortified, she'd gather them in a group hug. God knows, they all probably needed it.

With a smile now, she continued to stare out at the sky. Imagining Ronon's reaction to a group hug was almost worth trying just that…

"Ma'am?"

Feeling more relaxed and in control now, Elizabeth settled for looking over her shoulder, instead of straightening. Her arms were crossed and pressed against the rail.

"Yes?"

"Colonel Caldwell wanted you to know that Colonel Sheppard and Doctor McKay will be arriving ahead of them in an F302?"

The 'gate tech said it with a puzzled look, and Elizabeth had to admit, her eyebrow notched up a few levels. They would, would they…

"Thank you, Thomas. Let Caldwell know we'll be waiting for them."

Somehow she gathered this would be an interesting explanation.

She waited, and watched the horizon, and when she first spied the fighter descending through the clouds that cluttered the sky, the smile was a reflexive action that she fought hard to hold back, but she probably ought to give up bothering. In fact, Elizabeth wondered if she would be able to stop any time soon.

Walking as fast as she could without looking like a child, Elizabeth left the balcony and told Thomas she would be on the docking bay, meeting Colonel Sheppard and Doctor McKay. The trip took forever, but then she was out in the open air, the fighter already landed and the canopy opening.

Two familiar figures climbed out, and Elizabeth felt her breath hitch painfully.

She didn't lose it, she kept control, but her feet did stumble, at least for that moment when the physical impact of seeing them hit her. It'd been over two months – two, long, terrible months, when she hadn't known if they were alive or dead. All she'd had was her own desperate hope to cling to, and their left behind belongings and memories.

And there they were, walking towards her; familiar swagger and annoyed faces…their hair…those gruff, handsome faces…Oh, God.

They weren't paying attention, didn't see her by the door, engrossed in some conversation that had started in the ship, and continued now.

"You've got guilt," Sheppard said. "I understand that's rough for someone like you."

Rodney looked as if he'd swallowed something foul tasting. "I hate guilt. Honestly, there isn't a worse feeling in the world. When I was six, my sister broke my toothpick bridge. I took all her Barbies and cut off their hair. She cried for days and I had guilt. It sucks, and it's a completely useless emotion."

Guilt?

They were nearing the door where she stood, and still hadn't realized she was there, and the leader in her let them continue because she wanted to hear what this was about, even as desperate as she was to welcome them home with as much emotion as she could get away with.

"Look, I understand assumptions were made."

"And you know what they say about assumptions," sing-songed McKay, looking disgusted.

"Will you shut up and let me finish, I swear to God, I'm going to pass out in a minute and you won't let me finish."

"No, I'm not going to shut up. I want to make this right between us."

They had stopped walking, and were facing one another. The tension between the two was palpable, and Elizabeth felt the smile slipping. What was going on that had the two of them bickering? Was this why they had returned in a fighter? But if they were mad at each other, why spend the time together flying in an enclosed F302? If John wanted to avoid Rodney, that hadn't been very smart of him.

And now she was concerned – John did look alarmingly pale, and whatever had happened, she'd rather he didn't faint before she got to say 'welcome back'.

"Look, get this through your head, because I'm not gonna say it again. This isn't about you, it's about me, and when I'm ready, I'll let you know."

The smile finished evaporating as she took in the stricken expression on Rodney's face, the seethingly angry and scarily vulnerable one on John. A sick feeling gathered in her stomach, and she started to move forward. Sheppard turned, saw her and faltered.

She watched as he paled more.

"Sorry about stealing the ship."

His legs folded under him and with barely enough warning, McKay lunged forward, just in time to keep him from hitting the ground.

Staring at John in Rodney's arms, then at the F302, she asked, bewildered, "Stealing the ship?"

OoO

"He bloody well knew he shouldn't have been in that ship," Beckett swore. "Elizabeth, Colonel Sheppard was in no condition to be playing pilot, and Rodney --" Beckett fixed his glare on McKay who scrunched lower into his infirmary bed.

"Hey, McKay – I can still see you."

Weir folded her arms. "Colonel, that's enough. Carson, continue."

Ronon shook his head, thinking maybe it was time to cut his losses, and leave before the situation got worse than some of the fights he'd had on Sateda. Doc had been vibrating anger since he'd realized Sheppard had taken off, and when he'd found out McKay had split with Sheppard, well, Ronon was amazed Doc was still alive. He'd sort of looked like he was suffering some kind of fit or something.

"As I was saying, he's recovering from multiple injuries in a relatively short amount of time, physically, he'll recover, but not if he keeps playing Maverick!"

Sheppard rolled his eyes and looked at McKay. "Does that make you my Goose?"

"Shut the fuck up, Sheppard."

Rodney was shooting daggers at Sheppard so Ronon figured whatever this Goose was, it wasn't a compliment. Weir was looking her own kind of mad and she sort of got all clenchy and raised her hands. "Both of you, stop it now, or so help me, I will turn you over to Caldwell."

She raised her eyebrow at them in a look Ronon had all ready learned meant watch out; problem is, Sheppard never did mind it much.

"No, Elizabeth, I won't stop," Sheppard said with forced politeness and Ronon saw the wreck coming a mile away. "You've had your fun talking about the tragedy play that my life was, fine. I'll be a good boy, take my vitamins and apologize to Caldwell for my misappropriation of one of his ships, but in return I want to handle this my way." He pointed at his chest. "McKay wants to follow me around until I do…" Sheppard looked like he was searching, and he looked sideways at McKay, "…what is it you want anyway?"

Rodney seemed as surprised as Ronon by the question, but after he looked around, finally coming to rest on Sheppard, he huffed. "Since there seems to be a definite lack of privacy, suffice to say, I will haunt your footsteps until I think this…thing…is better."

As weird as it sounded, Ronon understood what McKay meant.

They'd all believed some not so nice things about Sheppard back on that planet, he and McKay the guiltiest of the four of them. Ronon would like to say he felt like he owed something to Sheppard, but all he really felt was his own failure. He'd believed what that king had wanted them to believe, and it wasn't a lot different from the time Sheppard had tricked him when he'd been under the control of Thalen.

Being gullible, as McKay put it, wasn't something he felt a debt for. Sheppard hadn't been enjoying his time as prince, and that's the way it was, but what made him seethe was his inability to get them out of there, starting from the first night and up to when they'd had to be rescued by the Daedalus.

Didn't mean he wouldn't want a few hours alone with Naem, the guards, or anyone he felt bore the blame for what had happened on Arstaem. No, Ronon wouldn't mind some one on one with Naem, but short of that, they were back, rescued, and all he could do was feel anger over his failure at getting them out of there before Sheppard's abuse had happened, and Teyla's.

"I believe what Rodney is trying to say, Colonel, is that he will not feel satisfied until he has 'made it up' to you."

McKay smiled at her. "Thank you, Teyla, that's exactly what I said."

"You do realize, John, that sessions with Kate will be mandatory." She looked at all of them, including Ronon. "For everyone, in fact."

"Definitely, Elizabeth. I know I for one will not mind unburdening myself to the lass."

Doc looked tired. Ronon hated to think about how much more tired he'd feel when Ronon told him he wasn't talking to anybody.

He didn't think Sheppard was all that interested either, but seeing how he'd made everyone mad when he'd stolen the fighter, Ronon guessed that Sheppard might not have much of a choice.

He did though. All he had to do was tell Weir he was leaving. Last time he'd done that she'd started apologizing and trying to get him to stay, and all he'd meant was that he had finished eating breakfast.

One thing Ronon had learned is that people can surprise you.

"I'll talk to Heightmeyer," Sheppard agreed. Ronon was definitely surprised. "But one condition – I want to go back to Arstaem."

Surprised wasn't what Ronon saw on everyone else. Doc and McKay, they looked sick. Teyla looked angry, and Weir just looked like she thought Sheppard was crazy.

Things got a little confusing then, everyone shouting why they thought it was a bad idea, so Ronon settled in, closed his eyes, and tried to imagine the hills on Sateda in the spring time. He didn't have anything worthwhile to add to the discussion, his own feelings conflicted. Part of him could understand why Sheppard wanted to go back, get revenge. A survivor always did seek out the places they suffered the most when they'd recovered, just to go back and show everyone they'd won.

Ronon had done it enough times to know.

It wasn't till he realized it'd grown quiet, that he opened his eyes and saw them looking at him. "What?"

Weir knew he hadn't heard anything, and she gave Ronon a sympathetic look he didn't need, but he appreciated it anyway. "I've agreed to let Colonel Sheppard return, but, with certain conditions and one is an armed escort. Do you think you can handle returning to Arstaem?" She softened. "No one will blame you for saying no, Ronon."

"I don't have a problem going back."

Did they think he was that weak? Raking his eyes over Sheppard and seeing the carefully concealed tension, Ronon felt bad for thinking that. None of them were exactly weak, and he couldn't blame Sheppard for having problems. If they wanted him to go, he would. He'd try to help Sheppard as best as he could, but Ronon didn't think it'd be worth much.

It was Doc that cleared his throat and explained, "Son, what's she trying to ask, is if you think you can go back and not kill anyone."

"I can do that too."

Didn't mean he'd like it, though.

OoO

Going back to Arstaem felt like going back to his childhood.

The Daedalus had restored the 'gate before they had left for Atlantis, and a MALP verified no one had tried to topple it again. Carson had signed off on his physical health, pointedly refusing to do so on his mental status. He wasn't physically where he should be, but John had argued that Naem wasn't going to live long if his suspicions were true.

The thought that he might all ready be dead made John feel things he couldn't explain. A sense of loss, something indefinable, even to himself, and that made him feel every bit more vulnerable.

The snow was deeper, the river banks iced along the shore but flowing sluggishly down the middle. Dead grass poked up from the drifts, themselves blanketed in white. What struck him first after they walked through the 'gate, his team and Lorne's, was how quiet it was. No people running to greet them, no birds or kids. It felt like a pall had fallen over Arstaem, and he felt like it was his fault.

He hadn't even been conscious when the Daedalus had left, and maybe that was a good thing, because he would've insisted on returning once he could stand…to do what he was doing now. To face his demons, but these demons weren't easily dealt with. It wasn't so simple as saying Naem had tortured and abused him, like some stupid kid that can't protect themselves – he'd made Sheppard feel helpless, had made him dependent on Naem, and then he'd turned around and loved John. Cared for him. Comforted him, when he'd been in the pits of his despair, something that John had never had before.

Not from his real father.

They were waiting for him to give the signal, watching. Rodney was being true to his word and staying close, but Sheppard wasn't giving him absolution. For one, John didn't actually believe McKay owed him anything. He'd thought the worst, and he'd been wrong. That alone was suffering for Rodney.

Was he pissed at Rodney for thinking it, sure, but he was more pissed at himself for being in the position where McKay knew the truth.

He was quiet for the entire walk to the manse. Teyla and Ronon understood, but Sheppard knew it was making the others uneasy. Tough shit, they could deal with it. The last thing he felt like doing was playing a round of 'how's the weather'.

There weren't any guards at the main entrance, and John strode in, surprised at how fast his heart sped up.

Oh, God, not now – as his breathing grew rapid and hard. The vise around his chest was tightening, and all he could think about was for everyone to get the fuck away.

Thankfully, Carson knew what was happening, and he told the others, more tactfully, to give him space.

With Rodney hovering as a screen, Beckett popped a syringe and pulled John's sleeve up, exposing his upper arm quickly and plunging the needle in.

"What…is -?"

Beckett's smile was sympathetic as he pulled the hypodermic away, briskly rubbing the skin. "Something to help calm you, Colonel, nothing more." He pushed John's head down between his legs and counted softly back from ten. By the time he got to one, Sheppard could see without the black spots, and though he still felt like he wasn't getting all the air he needed, the vise had loosened.

"Thanks, Doc," he rasped.

John straightened, working hard to slow his breathing down. Kate was gonna have a field day with him for sure. Panic attacks. That's all he needed, hell, he was beginning to feel like McKay.

"What was that?"

Speak of the devil. Rodney was looking back and forth between Sheppard and Carson.

"What was what, Rodney?"

"That – what just happened, and don't make that face at me, Carson."

Beckett was looking at John as if to get permission to explain, and John really didn't want him to, when Teyla interrupted. "There are guards coming, Colonel."

Guards, his team, Lorne's team…a powder keg just looking for a fuse.

Sheppard was only here for one reason, and that was to settle this…thing. Well, that, and to see if his suspicions with the poison was right. He understood Elizabeth's need to send enough people that she thought he'd be safe, but he was probably the only one most likely to survive anything on this world, seeing how he'd been crowned their prince and the king was lying on his death bed.

When he saw the guards running into the corridor, he at least had the satisfaction of seeing Joros and Baela. That suited him fine; John could start with them, but first, he needed to get rid of the clown troupe.

It took less effort than he'd hoped for. The library was just off the hall, and the prospect of seeing some of the ancient books was intriguing enough for Lorne's scientist, which meant that Lorne felt pulled to go with, and Sheppard could count; four down, four to go. Persuading the others to leave wasn't easy, but he was desperate, and maybe it showed. Maybe he looked a hell of a lot worse than he felt, because when he'd turned his face to them and asked, "Please," they'd looked worried, annoyed, irritated – mostly worried – then reluctantly agreed, as long as Sheppard could call for them if they were needed.

The audience chamber was empty. Looking at it now, he couldn't tell there had been a massive celebration only a week ago. Music, lots of people, and even more food. Naem had been in high spirits, and Sheppard could remember it as being one of his lowest.

As he walked in behind Joros, he remembered the appalled look on Rodney's face when John had eaten from Naem's hand. He hadn't had a choice; he'd never had a choice. So why did he blame himself?

Joros headed for the dais, sitting on the bottom step, and gesturing for him to sit next to him. Sheppard kept standing. It wasn't because he was trying to make a point, it was just that sitting…it reminded him even more, and he just couldn't.

"My Prince." Joros tilted his head to acknowledge Sheppard now that they were settled. "His Majesty is very ill. I am curious, why did you come back?"

John exhaled, thinking that was the twenty-four thousand dollar question, wasn't it?

"To see him."

It was the simplest answer, and in the end, the basic truths are sometimes enough. He had returned to see Naem…it was what for that was still eluding him.

"He thought he would never see you again." Joros shifted his sword and smiled sadly at John. "We all believed we would never see you again."

Sheppard laughed somewhat bitterly. "I thought I'd never see you again, too."

They shared a moment of silent consideration before John couldn't hold out. From the time he'd first heard about the mysterious disease to when he'd been rescued, it'd weighed on Sheppard's mind. The old book had been his only lead, and Beckett had managed to figure it out and confirm his suspicions – of course, that's all it was at this point. With the bodies burnt, their ashes in the mausoleum, any real evidence was gone, destroyed long ago.

The last to die from the disease was a sister of Naem's.

Stealing himself for what might turn into a very big mess, John moved first, because hadn't Naem taught him that a king waits for no man? "Who does it? The First Advisor…was it Gaemal?"

A shadow passed across Joros's face.

"It was you," John breathed. "You poisoned Naem."

He searched the guard for proof, and saw it. Regret bent the guard's shoulders as he stood.

"Come to the library with me," Joros said. "There is something you should read."

Sheppard followed silently.

The revelation hadn't been that much of a shock – he'd all ready figured it was one of the people close to Naem. The king had never attended feasts in the town, and the only people with access to his food, drink and water were the servants, guards and those members of the town with positions that allowed them regular meetings with Naem.

But Joros?

Sheppard remembered the man as the last person that would harm Naem, and staring at the guard's stiff back as he led John to the library, he wondered why – because it wasn't only this Joros, it'd been thousands of previous Joros's.

Maybe Beckett could help Naem, if Joros could give him a sample of what was used?

Then the king didn't have to die…

…but didn't he want Naem to die?

Sheppard stumbled when he realized the answer wasn't what he expected.

He didn't want Naem to die.

Joros paused at the double doors leading into the library, nodding to Baela. The other guard scrutinized John, seemed to know what was going down without having been with them in the audience chamber. He hesitated, but with a final look at them both, he left.

"Does he know?"

"Yes, Jaem."

Joros opened the doors and waited for Sheppard to walk in. His use of Jaem made Sheppard feel things he didn't want to feel. A sense of belonging, hate, wistfulness…he wasn't meant for this life, it wasn't his. It had belonged to a baby that had died a long time ago, and it had only been the desperation of a ruler that had made him into that other person. Or tried to make him into Jaem. Would Naem have been successful? If the Daedalus had taken another month, or two, would it have been John Sheppard they rescued, or Prince Jaem?

His team looked up from the conversation they were having at one of the long tables; the same tables he'd sat at before, both in pain, and in study. The flash of insight that they would never know how he felt made John feel sad and awkward as he waved to them.

"Read this, then I will answer your questions."

Joros stepped to a spot on the floor, right under the apex of the dome. He knelt, and pushed on a series of stones. The middle stone rose, letting Joros lift it free. A small compartment was revealed, and in it were several vials and a small, thin leather bound book. It was the book he gave to John.

"The first page is everything you need to know, the pages after contain every account of past poisonings."

The guard looked older, aged under the weight of the revelation, and while John took the book and moved to a bench, Joros replaced the stone and waited.

This book looked like the one he'd found before, old and worn. It was probably copied down over the millennia to prevent the records from being lost to age, but this copy was fast approaching that point in time. He purposefully sat away from his team, away from their prying looks. Not sure of what he expected to find, Sheppard opened the volume.

The Order
By Bilael Daud,
Third Adjudicate

A brief summary:

In the first year of the Third Age, the first king of Arstaem was ordained by the First Adjudicate Naesil Gadara. The appointment was seconded by the Second Adjudicate Haegal Tormod.

Conferred in secret, ordained by the council of twenty and four upon the day of their disbandment, The Order shall thereafter become Guard to the People. From father to son, from mother to daughter, the oath to ensure that Arstaem's people shall never be ruled unwisely, and unjustly.

To this end, there must be only one King, or one Queen, descended from the royal lineage, and so forth every generation, and, upon the ascension of the new prince or princess, the old King (Queen), and any remaining heirs that live, must be delivered to the Ancestors.

The reasons are thus:

It is never wise to have one throne, and multiple possibilities. In the ages before the council of twenty and four, there had ruled a King and Queen. Sons battled for the right to ascend, and daughters were used as leverage. The cities allied behind the different heirs and there came wars. Brother murdered brother, and father murdered child.

This is a burden we would not have happen again. In the failure of the council to rule wisely, the wars came again, and now the people are left with ruins and one path. It is said that the unwise fail to learn from history, so we shall not be unwise.

There will not be multiple heirs.

The ritual murder will allow the Guards of the People to prevent the same events that ripped Arstaem apart, and ensure that the mad and twisted do not rise to the throne.

It is an unpleasant task, but entrusted to every member of the order is such that it must be carried out to the fullest extent of oath and duty.

The Haveala poison is odorless and colorless, it is of all the known poisons, the least painful.

The Order will confer at the onset of Autumn and deliberate upon the fate of the people and the possible heir to the throne. It is known that not every year demands action, but a vigilant watch so that when the time for decision is upon the order, the right choice is made. A good, wise match is a must.

If a Royal family has multiple heirs, decisions against shall be weighed, considered and declared in a manner so that the King and Queen will have the benefit of time to blunt their grief on the losses they shall be forced to suffer.

On the Structure of The Order

The Order will consist of four from each category, and two more from the Royal Guard; those that know the Royal family best.

Guard

Adjudicate

Healer

Agrarian

Mouth of the Ancestor

The number shall be twenty and four, like the council of old, and a majority vote of twenty must be reached to declare an heir, and therefore seal the fate of the remaining Royal children.

If no heir lives, The Order must do every reasonable action to ensure that one is produced. It is their duty to ensure the royal line does not fall.

So shall the Oath be made:

I, of the Order, do declare my vow to protect the people, of the people, by the people; let no man come between the moral value of what is right and what is wrong; that I will execute my responsibility to the people, and the Royal family,

In my name, I declare.

John closed the book and murmured, "For every season there is a price."

Ritual murder, ritual abuse – these people had it all. Was it their right to judge? They say winners always write the histories, but in this case, it looked like the losers had the last say in things. If it hadn't been for the wraith decimating Arstaem, they would've prospered. For generations they had, apparently. This method had a higher success rate than any monarchy had ever had on Earth.

But Sheppard wasn't one of those people that believed the means to an end were justified just because it worked.

Joros came back to him, seeing that he'd read what he needed. The old guard smiled wanly. "Now you know what no member of the royal family ever has. You can order me killed, if you like, it is your right as prince, but as you can see, you will have many more deaths to order." He withdrew his sword from the scabbard by his side, and Sheppard sensed his team and Lorne's reacting. Joros had, too, because his hand paused, the sword partly drawn.

"It's okay," Sheppard assured them, standing and holding his hands out in a gesture for them to lower their weapons.

When they did, warily, John turned back to Joros. "It isn't my right. It never was."

Joros's sad smile never wavered. "Jaem – you were, are him. The infant child held a promise of what you are, and do not doubt for one moment that we did not believe otherwise. You are my prince." Joros stepped to him, pulling the sword free of the scabbard and bent to his knee, the point pushed into the floor in front of him, clasped in a two-handed grip. "I would have served you faithfully and given my life for you."

"You would've poisoned me."

"At my age, I would have been spared administering the Haveala, because I would have already preceded you in death."

Sheppard felt everyone watching him and Joros. He closed his eyes impatiently and opened them just as quick, struggling to keep things together. "Get up." He tugged at Joros. This guard had saved his life, along with Naem. It didn't matter that if circumstances were different, he wouldn't have been out in those woods…what mattered was that Joros's intentions weren't evil, and it gave John the hold he needed to pull himself off the precipice he hadn't even realized until then that he was on.

Joros hadn't poisoned Naem out of some twisted plot, he hadn't kept Sheppard at the manse or helped put him the shackles from any deep darkness in his soul. Everything he had done, had been because he'd believed he was serving faithfully.

The bitter taste in his mouth was from realizing, that unlike his team and probably everyone on Atlantis that would find out about what had happened, Sheppard didn't see any good or bad in what had been done to him anymore. When good intentions make people do bad things, all you get in the end is a whole lot of gray. Revenge, harsh words, anger – none of it would give John what he needed. His battle wasn't with Joros, or even Naem. They were the catalysts…in the end, his war was with himself. How he walked away from this and what he believed about who he was.

John Sheppard would never have let Naem feed him. Prince Jaem hadn't had a choice.

"Is there an antidote?"

Before Joros shook his head, Sheppard knew.

Maybe Beckett could…

The doors were thrown open, and Baela scanned quickly before settling on Joros…and John. He rushed across the room, and knelt before John. "Prince, His Majesty is failing. The healer believes his time is near." The guard's eyes shone as he looked up at John. "Jaem…he calls for his son."

Joros laid a hand on his arm, and Sheppard looked at the lean, worn fingers, knowing what Joros wanted. He raised his eyes to the man.

"Would you go to him? I would wish that he would find peace before the end."

"It shouldn't have been the end," Sheppard accused.

"You were our prince."

The guards waited, subdued and solemn, and when John looked away, it was to see all the eyes of Lorne, and his team…everyone watched, waiting, and knowing that something was happening. They wanted to see what he would do, and Sheppard wondered what they expected – did they think he should turn around and leave, let Naem die without the comfort he was calling for? Would they find one more reason to label him screwed if he went to Naem now?

It was a good thing that John had always done what he wanted, instead of what others thought he should do, because he'd always known what his answer would be, even if he hadn't admitted it to himself before.

"I'll go."

But first, he'd give Beckett the book, tell McKay to stay, because this was something he had to do alone. He didn't want Rodney there. John was smart enough to know what he had to do wouldn't be understood by McKay. "Give me a minute," he said.

He pulled the book off the table, and headed over to talk to his team.

OoO

Naem was alone, and death was so dark. Would that he had ended in his sleep and not lived to wake another day. Every night – but it was always night now – he would pray to the Ancestors to take him. Naem had nothing left to fight for, so why he lingered when he only wished to leave, no one could answer.

"Sire?"

The woman held his hand, tying to comfort her dying king.

Her comfort was the coldness of winter to him.

"Leave me," he struggled to say. Weak, and raspy. Alone…he was alone. "Please…leave me."

"No," she whispered near his ear. Sounds hurt him, like physical blows. "Sire, there is someone here to see you, and I must leave, for a little while."

"Who is there?"

Were his words like leaves on the wind; snatched away before they could be heard? Naem thought it was surely so, as the hand withdrew, and footsteps faded. He was alone, but for the emptiness in his soul.

"It's me…Jaem."

"Jaem?" he cried. His son? Could it be true, that he had returned to Naem before he was gone. "Let me feel you." He stretched shaking hands, reaching…touching, that face…his hair. Naem had always loved his hair, so soft. "It is you," he whispered lovingly. "My son."

"I'm here."

Naem wished his sight had not been stolen, that he could have looked upon Jaem one final time, but this was enough. He smiled tiredly, and let Jaem take his hands from his face and hair, and hold them within his own.

So strong, so full of life.

"You will save our people," he said, finding his own strength. "I knew you would, Jaem. I always knew."

"You should rest," Jaem murmured, so close Naem felt his soft breath upon his cheek.

Naem was tired. His body felt numb, as if he were floating away. A light in the end of the forest grew, so bright, that it hurt his eyes and burned away the darkness. Suddenly, Naem was afraid. He clutched Jaem, and cried out. What was in the light!

He was afraid.

Soft fingers stole across his forehead, the sensation growing dim in his mind. "Jaem," he whispered, but he could not hear. "Jaem…I loved you…" the light brightened and dimmed. His woods! He was in his woods, in the falling leaves of autumn, swirling around. Naem gasped at the beauty, the peace. "It is so lovely."

A touch of lips to his brow, so dim was he now that he barely recognized it. Naem hated to leave his son behind, but the woods called to him. Behind an old, crooked tree, a familiar face stepped out, her flowing black hair blowing in the breeze, falling leaves coming to rest, tangled in her curls.

"Sareal," he breathed…

OoO

Sheppard pulled away, and though he hadn't been able to tell the lie of love, he had given Naem the comfort of his son at the end.

He lifted the silk sheet that he knew with intimacy, and raised it over Naem, letting it fall over the king, covering him.

The road for Naem had ended, but John's stretched ahead. He would return to Atlantis and face the forced counseling sessions, and the worried stares. It would've been a lot simpler if everything had ended here in this room when Naem died. If he could've walked through those doors to his team waiting and said, "It's over," but he couldn't.

The things he'd been put through, the truths about himself he had to face, they didn't end on this bed, or in this room.

He'd thought about Naem's people, what would happen when he left, this time for good. The wraith would be back, they'd cull and keep culling until nothing was left. The guilt he felt over that pissed him off, because it went deeper than the usual sympathy for a world that had to get by like everyone else out there. Instead, he felt an obligation to fulfill Naem's only wish – that his son save his people.

John had come to a decision about that when he'd sat with Naem. The mainland had plenty of room, and he knew the Athosians wouldn't mind new people, but before Sheppard let them go through that 'gate, he was going to make it clear that the government they'd had, the practices they'd had, would be left behind. With the Royal family dead and ended, maybe that's all it needed anyway. There wasn't a king to train a prince anymore, and there weren't any heirs to murder.

Staring at the room where he'd suffered, Sheppard knew of one last thing he had to do.

Walking to the middle of the room, he bent down and searched for the spot that dropped the beam. He found it quickly, and once it was lowered, Sheppard got his P90 from the dresser and aimed at the chains.

The End