"The Touch of Your Hand" by ellijay

Summary: While on a dig at a former settlement of the Ancients, Daniel encounters a woman whose life has been profoundly changed by the mysteries of the ruins. Set between the second season episodes "The Fifth Race" and "Serpent's Song."

Author's Notes: This is an old story, written back when SG-1 was new and shiny. I'm reposting it now mainly to have all of my fic in one place, but also in the hopes that it finds new readers or maybe makes its way back to previous readers who might want to reminisce. This story was originally published under another name, but I'm still me, many years of life experience notwithstanding, and the title and contents of the story are the same.

(Original Author's Notes: This is one for the Daniel Channel – All Danny, All the Time. If you insist on having more than passing references to other members of the SGC, run away quickly – this story is not for you!)

Chapter 1

"Latin is a language, as dead as dead can be…"

It had been so quiet for the past hour Daniel couldn't help but overhear what Ryan McConnell was muttering. He automatically joined in. "…First it killed the Romans, and now it's killing me." He smiled without taking his eyes off of the translation notes spread out on the worktable in front of him, finishing the sentence he was working on before looking up. "Should I call the medic, McConnell, or are you beyond help?" He was pleased to get a slight laugh in return. Private McConnell had been so serious ever since this mission had begun, but that could very easily be bewilderment and awe, plain and simple. He was new to the SGC, after all, and Daniel could still recall the wonder he himself had experienced when he first saw the Stargate – forget about actually stepping through it and landing on another world.

He returned his attention to the scattered pieces of paper, weighted down with rocks and smaller artifacts to keep them from blowing away in the wind that seemed to whisper incessantly over the fields of wheat and barley surrounding the nearby village of peaceable farmers, their technology little advanced from the Roman culture from which they were apparently descended. From time to time, Daniel found himself a bit disturbed that many of the transplanted human cultures they had encountered had evolved so little from their ancient roots. The Romans, though – the Romans had a lot going for them, and he found it somehow gratifying to see much of their simple but effective technology preserved here: aqueducts to bring fresh water from the nearby mountains, a meticulously maintained bathhouse (far superior to the icy cold streams or carefully rationed bowl of lukewarm water he'd had to resort to more than a few times in the past), beautifully simple buildings with open architecture and central courtyards, even a form of central heating in many of the homes. The village was called Arus Seyus – from the Latin "aureus seges," golden field of grain, part of his brain noted automatically.

They'd been here for three days already but had barely begun to scratch the surface of the literally thousands of inscriptions carved on practically every surface in the ruins. It was without a doubt a former settlement of the Ancients, located on one of the worlds Jack had programmed into the SGC computer when his brain had accidentally been filled with knowledge of that older than ancient race, the Makers of Roads, the builders of the Stargates.

He knew good and well that the hope of uncovering some leftover piece of Ancient technology, or even some reference in the inscriptions, was the only reason such a large contingent had been sent here. If this had simply been a matter of archeological curiosity, he would've been lucky to get half a day with whatever equipment he could carry himself. Despite early assurances that the cultural and archeological significance of each world would be evaluated, he'd noticed the change of focus ever since Apophis' near-disastrous attempt to attack Earth. It was only because of his dumb luck in stumbling into an alternate universe that the catastrophe had been avoided.

To be perfectly honest, dumb luck (or "serendipity" as Sam liked to call it) was responsible for many of the more important discoveries they had made, such as Jack stepping across a circle of inscriptions and then looking into the device that caused him to slowly loose the "fallatus" to speak properly. Dumb luck led to dumb luck – it was only because of his work with Jack during that disturbing and oh-so-fascinating experience that had led to him being appointed to head up the research wing of this mission. A military presence was still maintained in the form of SG-7, ostensibly tasked with ensuring the safety of the ad hoc linguistic team, but Daniel found it hard to believe there could be anything life-threatening here.

The people were friendly enough upon their arrival, a fact he chalked up in part to the very effective first contact work of SG-5. Five was one of the few other teams augmented by a civilian linguist, and he liked to think the non-military perspective contributed to the high number of successful first contacts that particular team had made.

The locals had been more than happy to provide them with a few native laborers to help the team excavate some of the half-buried ruins and had only placed two restrictions, really more like polite requests, on the proceedings. The first was that no artifacts be taken from Stat'okto, as the locals called the ruins. As much as Daniel was disappointed at not being able to take any of the relics back to Earth for further study, he supposed the sophisticated video and still photography equipment they had would provide some very close facsimiles. Sam had even worked up a system that could take a piece of video or even several still photographs and produce a surprisingly accurate 3-D computer model of artifacts.

If he was perfectly honest with himself, he was also a bit disappointed about not having another souvenir to tuck into a corner of his office, but he could make do with some photographs. Maybe he could even get a physical model of an artifact made from one of the computer models.

The second guideline imposed by the Arusians was that all work in the ruins be accomplished during the daylight hours. From dusk to dawn, all members of the team, and all of the locals for that matter, were to withdraw to Arus Seyus. Some sort of local superstition, he supposed. He couldn't really complain, though. They'd been given comfortable accommodations in the village, and the evenings provided him with an opportunity to observe the living culture. Besides, transporting the lighting equipment and generators necessary to light the ruins well enough to work by night would've been a waste of resources. Despite the focus on this mission, there were still limits to what could be committed to any one expedition in terms of both material and personnel. Daniel was far happier to have a few extra linguists, including a few military language specialists who had been brought in for the expedition, their clearance granted in a record amount of time. Private McConnell was one of those linguists.

Looking up from his work, Daniel eyed the young man – blue-eyed, freckle-faced and red-headed in a perfect stereotype of his Scottish surname. In the rush to get the team outfitted and off to Arus, he hadn't even had the chance to review the curriculum vitae (how apropos for this particular assignment) or service records of the linguists assigned to the team. Most of them he knew from prior associations at the SGC. McConnell, however, was a completely unknown quantity, although he'd quickly demonstrated a rather comprehensive understanding of Medieval Latin.

Daniel got up and stretched, feeling and even hearing several rather uncomfortable pops along his spine. Military-issue campstools were not exactly the most comfortable seating in the world. Military coffee, though – he closed his eyes as he inhaled the aroma of the two cups he was pouring. Strong enough to eat a hole in your stomach, but that was just the way he liked it. McConnell apparently shared his affection for industrial strength coffee. He'd matched Daniel cup for cup on this mission thus far.

McConnell mumbled a distracted "thanks" as Daniel set the cup down next to him. Daniel then leaned back against one of the poles supporting the tenting over them and watched with amusement as McConnell downed half of the scalding-hot cup without so much as flinching or taking his eyes off of his work.

"So how'd you end up on this assignment, McConnell?" Daniel asked, waving his coffee cup at the soldier. Unlike the young private with tastebuds of steel, he preferred to let his beverage of choice cool a bit before tossing it down his throat.

"Huh?" McConnell looked up, his expression distant, conjugations and declinations dancing in his eyes. "Oh, uh–" He paused a moment and leaned back on his stool, picking up his coffee cup and sipping a bit more carefully at what was left after his first gulp. "I, uh, was pulled from DLI." At Daniel's frown at being faced with yet another military acronym, McConnell added, "The Defense Language Institute. At the Presidio in Monterey."

"Oh, right. Of course." Daniel nodded his understanding. "You know, I actually applied for a position there teaching Arabic back before I went to work on the Stargate project. They turned me down flat. I guess they didn't much care for my shady reputation in the academic community. Just as well, though. I might never have ended up here. So, has the military found some obscure reason to teach Medieval Latin? We haven't known about the Ancients long enough for any kind of program to wade its way through the bureaucracy."

"Ain't that the truth." McConnell smiled good-naturedly before adding, "I was studying Croatian at DLI. I learned Medieval Latin when I was at seminary studying to be a priest."

Daniel raised a skeptical eyebrow at that. "So how does one go from wanting to be a priest to being a private in the United States Army?"

McConnell shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. Celibacy kind of sucks for one thing." Daniel choked on the coffee he was about to swallow. Somehow he hadn't been expecting such a blunt answer, and he had to remind himself that Jack O'Neill wasn't the only one in the U.S. military with a talent for full frontal verbal assault. In fact, he'd noticed it seemed to be some kind of competition among the enlisted personnel, at least when there weren't any officers around to supply the disapproving frowns.

McConnell handed him a napkin and went on. "Let's just say I had a few, umm, 'philosophical' differences with the Catholic Church. Didn't much take to university life, either, so that left me with trying to find a job or joining the army. Work at the local grocery store and see Poughkeepsie – or join the army, have adventures, see the world. Hell, a whole other world now. Who ever would've thought Medieval Latin would get me a ticket to another planet?"

"I know what you mean, McConnell. Medieval Latin, Egyptian Hieroglyphs. Serendipity. More coffee?"

"Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!" he rapped out with a smirk as he handed Daniel his coffee cup with his right hand and tossed him a sloppy salute with his left hand.

"Oh, God, you don't have to 'sir' me. You'll never see any stripes on this sleeve. No offense."

"None taken, Doctor Jackson. The military's not for everyone. Different strokes and all that."

Daniel set both of the coffee cups down, but before refilling them, he turned a very serious look on McConnell. "Uh-huh. You might want to watch that salute around the major, though," he said, imitating McConnell's left-handed salute, and then executing a proper military salute with his right hand. McConnell made a face like he'd just swallowed a particularly large and crunchy bug. Daniel chuckled as he poured out more coffee. Military coffee, as black as black can be, first it killed the– Never mind.

"Damn!" Daniel rummaged through the contents of his backpack one more time, then glanced accusingly around the room. "I know you're hiding here somewhere." He overturned the piles on the small table serving as a desk, then picked up the camp lantern sitting on the table and scanned every corner of the room, even shaking out the covers on the bed. He must've left those notes back at the dig site. He knew the villagers had asked them not to go there between dusk and dawn, but really, it was more of a request than a hard and fast rule, wasn't it? Besides, he could be down there and back before anyone noticed he was gone. He had been on a roll with that translation and wanted to finish it before going to bed.

He quickly and quietly crept out into the streets of the village, thankful it was late enough for most of the locals to be fast asleep. There were two full moons, which made him doubly thankful since it meant he wouldn't need to take a flashlight that might betray him. Of course, the moonlight that lit his way might also reveal his presence to anyone who happened to be looking in the direction of Stat'okto, so he made a concerted effort to keep to the shadows cast by the trees lining the path down to the ruins.

The night was cool and clear, a thousand stars blazing across the velvet night in unfamiliar patterns. It didn't matter how many alien skies he had seen. For some reason he always expected to see the familiar constellations of home and was always a bit disconcerted when he looked up at night, as if the patterns of Earth's night sky were somehow imprinted on him like a gosling to its mother.

He was so wrapped up in the silvery hush of the night, the only sounds his own breathing and the whisper of wind through fields of grain and early autumn leaves, he didn't notice the voice at first. When the faint sound finally registered in his conscious mind, he stopped dead still in his tracks, his ears straining to catch the elusive melody. It was singing, or at least he thought it was. There didn't seem to be any words, just a pure outpouring of sound, clear and sweet and profoundly sorrowful.

His breath caught and his eyes instantly stung with tears. Such a beautiful sound, but so very sad. It was like an aching heart transformed into music. He crept slowly and carefully towards the sound, not wanting to disturb the spell of its simple beauty and not wanting to frighten whoever was producing that song of sorrow.

He came to the edge of the ruins and froze in place as he saw a shadowy figure moving among the stones, her body draped in black from head to toe. At least he assumed it was a she. The voice had a decidedly feminine tone to it and the liquid grace of the figure as it walked had an unmistakably female sway to it. He held his breath, thinking his imagination must be playing tricks on him. No one was supposed to be here, not even the villagers. But if it was an illusion, it was an amazingly solid and substantial one.

He took a step forward and cringed when his foot snapped a dry twig. It was a small sound, but in the still of the night, it may as well have been a clap of thunder.

The figure whirled towards him and stood still for a moment, pale face glimmering in the moonlight. He was too far away to make out any of her features, and in the next moment, she yanked a veil over her face and darted away among the ruins. He called out to her to stop, but in his haste, he didn't look where he was going. His foot caught in a hole, and his ankle turned with a sickening snap as he lost his balance and pitched forwards.

He tried to break his fall with an outstretched hand, but he went down so hard and so fast, the wind was knocked out of him. He groaned and rolled over onto his back, staring dazedly up at the sky for a few seconds. Everything seemed blurry, but when he fumbled at his face with his hand, he found his glasses were still in place. The stars spun around him, making him dizzy, and he didn't seem to be able to catch his breath.

Just as his vision blurred even further and a darkness that had nothing to do with night began to creep in at the edges, the veiled figure appeared above him, kneeling down at his side and gently touching his forehead with warm hands. He shivered at the contact of warm flesh against his cold and clammy skin, but the pain and the nausea were fading away. He sighed in relief, dimly thinking his ankle still hurt like hell, and then he blacked out completely.

"Doctor Jackson. Are you all right? Sir? I mean– Oh, hell. Doctor Jackson, wake up."

Daniel groaned and slowly opened one eye, squeezing it shut again as a ray of sunlight sent a stab of pain through his head. He threw his arm across his eyes and lay there for a minute, disoriented and not sure where he was. There had been a voice, singing, and then– He sat up abruptly, immediately regretting the sudden movement as last night's dinner threatened an instant replay. His stomach quickly settled, though, and he pulled his arm slowly away from his eyes, blinking hard against the early morning sun.

He had tripped, hadn't he? Twisted his ankle? Or had he broken it? Now that his brain was beginning to function again, he was positive he had broken it, but as he experimentally wiggled his toes, he didn't even feel a twinge of pain. He was a bit stiff and sore all over and had a headache, but that could easily be accounted for by having slept on the ground all night. Or having been unconscious on the ground all night. Which was it? Maybe he'd been sleepwalking, and it all had been a dream. But he hadn't sleepwalked since he was a very small child.

He looked around and saw McConnell crouched down next to him with a concerned look on his face, the team medic at his side. "Are you all right?" the medic asked.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. I think. Help me up, and I'll let you know for sure."

The medic didn't comply immediately, insisting on asking Daniel what his name was, what the date was (which Daniel provided in both Earth and Arusian terms) and how many fingers he was holding up. (Four. A frown from the medic. All right five, but a thumb's not a finger.) The medic finally allowed McConnell to give him a hand up.

Daniel felt a little dizzy when he was standing upright again, but that quickly passed. Everything was still a bit blurry, though. He went to adjust his glasses and found that, this time, they weren't there. McConnell extended a hand, Daniel's glasses carefully folded and laying in his palm. "They were all fogged up, so I cleaned them off. You must've been lying out here half the night."

"Yeah, I think I was. I left a notebook down here–" He broke off as he noticed one of the young men from the village standing to the left of McConnell and a bit further back.

The villager had a highly disapproving look on his face, longish brown hair flapping wind-tossed around the edges of the severe expression, as he said, "Please understand there are reasons for our request that you leave Stat'okto at dusk. Consider this a warning."

He turned to go, but Daniel's curiosity got the better of him as he asked, "Does it have something to do with the woman I saw here?"

The villager turned back towards Daniel, eyeing him suspiciously. "Woman?"

"Yes. Dressed in black. She was… singing." The villager just stared at him for a moment, hazel eyes fixed and expressionless, and Daniel was starting to feel like he really must be going crazy. Maybe he had imagined it all.

"The Healer," the villager stated flatly, a hint of some emotion, maybe fear, flickering across his face.

"Healer?" His ankle twinged, an ankle that he certainly shouldn't be able to stand on right now.

"Yes. The ruins are off limits to all but her at night. It is… the only payment she asks." The villager paused and seemed to be about to say something more, then changed his mind. He sighed and approached Daniel, fixing him with a very serious stare. "Please do not violate the curfew again. I ask this not only for your own sake, but more importantly, for the sake of the Healer. There is so little she asks of us." With that, he turned and started to leave.

Daniel called out to the villager to wait, his mind racing with unanswered questions, but the other man only paused long enough to look over his shoulder and say "please" one more time before departing. "Please." Not a request, not a command, but the purest form of the word – a plea. An almost helpless, futile begging, like it didn't really matter, but also as if it were the most important thing in the world.