Day Nine Hundred Fifty-Eight

It's like a dream of drowning, except in reverse. The blackness begins to fade into gray, and he feels himself rising slowly, like a diver decompressing in mid ocean. The silence gradually gives way to voices and sounds tumbling over him, half heard, before they're gone.

The steady thump of a heart beat, and shu-shush sound of blood pumping through his body overtakes the voices, until he's poised upon the moment of awakening.

Atlantis is gone from his mind, but the honeyed, thick, hot feeling of power is back, thrumming underneath the sound of heart and blood, and John carefully reasserts himself to the feeling of bone and muscle and gristle.

He blinks. The lights are low, and for an instant, he wonders where he is. Neela's face leans into his line of sight, peering down at him with her wide grin full of bad teeth, "I said you would be back."

The only thing that John can think is, 'Thank God', as he struggles to sit up. John looks down to see that he's still wearing the scrubs from Atlantis' infirmary. He wonders why he's lying on the floor as he looks around the room, the carpet is rolled up against the plain, whitewashed walls, the filigreed shutters cast delicate shadows on the stone floor, and it's so typical that it's hard to place exactly where he is.

Neela helps him with a glass of tea, lukewarm but still sweet and delicious as he drinks it down. "Next time, do not stay away for so long." She keeps her hand on him, constantly touching him, and the gentle trickle of power is comforting.

John swallows thickly, and Neela hands him another glass of tea. He thought he'd been so close to regaining his old life, but John wants to be alive more than he wants Atlantis. Even though this time there's a Stargate, and the makhuqat'an, the feeling of being exiled still stings. John tells himself to buck up—it could be worse, he could be dead. "Yeah."

"How are you feeling?"

"Better." John's doesn't want to try and stand up, afraid that he'll fall over like a newborn meslat. "Where are Anbur and Zuhair?"

"They went to pick up the rest of the Council."

"Anbur's flying?"

"Laith. They should arrive soon. Come, you must stand. There are many people who want to see you, and you must see them."

Neela's main prescription is to allow him to sit in a chair on the deeply shaded porch of the Ludahsediat, while she sits beside him, her hand on his shoulder feeding him slow, hot trickles of healing. It's mid-afternoon, and heat is shimmering in the air, but the courtyard is packed with people, shifting, murmuring and spilling out into the street beyond the low retaining wall.

John greets and speaks with every person that approaches him. For the most part they are content to simply be there, and he feels their devotion tickling at him. It's not much more than the feeling he had at low ebb on Atlantis, but Neela reassures him, "It will return, but slowly. Do not be so impatient."

Throughout the afternoon, Laila brings fresh pitchers of water and the occasional snack. The deep gnawing hunger inside of John is slowly abating, and he quickly regains a sense of balance. He feels rooted again, not only by the heavier gravity, but also by the sense of power flowing through him again, however weakly.

Dusk is fast approaching and the lavender sky darkening to a dusty mauve when Anbur and Zuhair return with the Council of Patern, Laith, and his father, Haitham, trailing behind them. The visitors in the courtyard part easily and begin dispersing as Anbur greets John with a brief embrace, leaving a hand on his back.

"My friend, it is good to see you recovering."

"Yeah, I feel much better." Physically anyway, he mentally added. Now that he's not in immediate danger of expiring, his still-divided loyalties and permanent exile are weighing on him heavily.

"I cannot say that I am sorry for your return, but I do grieve with you for your loss of Atlantis. Such a wondrous place."

John just nods as the rest of the Patern catch up. He acknowledges them in turn as they head into the school.

"The Council requires your presence. Are you able to meet at this time?" Anbur scrutinizes John carefully, looking for any sign that he's too unwell for this duty.

John glances at Neela. "Am I well enough for a meeting?"

"No. Tomorrow will be soon enough, Anbur."

"Ah, it is no matter. We will eat and rest, and you must tell us of your adventures upon Atlantis."

He doesn't think that reading reports and getting whacked on by Teyla will make for a very exciting story, but real food sounds like an excellent idea.

~*~

John rests for a few hours, and Laith takes Neela's place at John side, always keeping a hand on John. Laith pushes harder than Neela, and John can feel the familiar, hot tingling sensation of his hand.

It's no longer embarrassing, and John's learned to separate the feelings; now it's comforting, and fulfilling in a way that goes far beyond sexuality.

John and the Patern dine with the rest of the school, rather than engage in a formal meal, and the loud chattering of the student body is a welcome change from the near silence of Atlantis. Yusrah is on his right, acting very protectively, and Laith is on his left, and if he’d let him, he'd be holding John's hand. As it is, Laith's constantly touching John on his shoulder, his arm, his thigh.

Yusrah is unknowingly mimicking Laith as she reaches out and touches John, as if to reassure herself that he's really there, and he hasn't disappeared in a flash of unseen light. John catches Neela's eye, and she laughs at him when he blushes.

John tries to ignore that he's being man-handled and tells a few stories about Atlantis, the ocean that surrounds it, that there's only one large moon, and about the people that he knows there. He's never really spoken at length about Atlantis; it was too painful to recall, before the Odyssey, and now he has to learn to put it behind him.

Tazim is particularly interested in how Elizabeth is doing, and is fascinated by the stories of Teyla, and the fact that she was able to best the Quaralyn in battle. John tries to explain, but to no avail, he's already let the cat out of the bag.

Neela brings John's participation in the dinner to a close after he yawns once. Haitham, Laith and Neela haggle over the rotation schedule; she feels it's critical that they watch over John and keep him balanced while he sleeps.

Laith takes the first watch. This time he does take John's hand, and he's tired enough that he falls asleep in the middle of Laith's story about his few adventures in the makhuqat'an.

 

Day Nine Hundred Fifty-Nine

John awakens in the early morning, startled by the fact that Neela's snuggled up behind John in the bed. He shakes his head as he extricates himself without waking her; she has to be exhausted, too.

He does a quick wash in cool water and digs around the room, locating some fresh clothing. John feels a little better, not nearly so direly ill, but he knows that he's a long way from being himself again. He leaves Neela sleeping and pads down to the kitchen.

Laila is already there, and preparations for breakfast are well underway. She sits him down at the table with hot, sweet tea, a plate of fresh khabez, and a pot of soft, tangy cheese to tide him over, until breakfast is properly served.

He's taking his first bite when Laith pokes his head into the kitchen. "There, I have found you."

"I didn't know I was lost." John pushes the food over as Laith sits across from him.

"How are you this morning?" Laith slathers cheese over the bread and thanks Laila when she brings him a glass of tea to wash it down with.

"Much better." John lifts his glass slightly towards Laith, "Thank you.

"I am glad for that. I have never seen Neela or Anbur so furious as when they stepped through the orbis with your body."

John shudders to imagine that he was close enough to being dead that he'd been a body. "Do you know what happened?"

"Only that the Lanteans were stubborn and nearly allowed you to die."

He avoids Laith's gaze, and he allows John the illusion of privacy as John considers the strong feeling that he could've given up, that he nearly wanted to. He suddenly remembers that Rodney told him that Shen hadn't wanted John to return to Dominat, and he puts it all together. John's momentarily angry that she'd been willing to allow him to die, but then he recalls that he hadn't trusted Shen and she hadn't trusted him either. He briefly wonders if it would've ever been possible for him to work with her.

It's all sand in the wind, though, and there's no point in getting worked up over it. He wonders how Rodney is, what they're all doing right now. It's probably evening, and he hopes that they're not mistakenly mourning him. He should probably dial in and let them know he's fine.

They finish off the khabez without further conversation, the clatter and clanging and shouting of the kitchen staff masking their silence.

~*~

John's burst of early morning energy is slowly wearing away; leaving him weary, gnawing over the unfinished business he’s left behind on Atlantis. He seeks out Anbur, who's alone in his classroom, his students farmed out to other instructors or given the day off.

"Ah, John. I hope that you are much recovered. Very upsetting."

"That's kind of why I wanted to talk to you. Tell me what happened."

"Director Shen is very difficult, yes?"

"I think she’s just afraid of me. There was a war with people who worshiped Ascended beings that had some similarity to me."

"Dr. McKay explained some, yes. He was the one to break the argument between us. For that she did not allow him to return with you, even for visit."

John asks, "What did he say?"

"That Dominat is the answer to the problem with the ZPM, and if you were to die, then we would be unlikely to share. I gave weight to his argument, that if you died, for us it was the Will of Qaral, but also the end to any discussion."

"I bet she liked that."

"Dr. McKay said she looked like she was sucking a lemon."

John laughs at that. "I can imagine."

"The Council awaits to meet with you, we would like your guidance on these matters, as it is still very confusing to us."

"Well, that's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about. I left Atlantis with a lot of unfinished business hanging over my head, and right now I feel uncomfortable leaning one way or the other."

Anbur nods. "Hmm, yes. Not like when you left us at all."

John hears the hurt in Anbur's voice, and he has another twinge of guilt that he caused the pain, and that it was all for naught. "Exactly."

"We can wait, it is no matter. You are still not well, and perhaps a few more days rest, yes?"

John sighs softly in relief. "Yes, a few more days, and I will decide on a course of action—for the Council and for myself."

Anbur gives John a sly look. "Yusrah was most concerned when I told her that you had returned very ill."

John manages to not blush or laugh hysterically with the embarrassment that his flirtation is now common knowledge. "Oh, really?"

"Yes. Perhaps I should look to arrange a hand fasting?"

John backpedals fast. "Oh, no. No. It's fine, we're friends, and she was worried. That's all."

Anbur laughs at John, "If you say so."

John stands up and waves his hand towards the door. "I guess I'd better go, uh, lie down or something."

~*~

It's late in the day when Neela rousts John out of his nap. "Come, you have a visitor from the circle."

John sits up and groggily wipes a hand over his face. "What?"

"You have a visitor, very fine figure of a man, too."

"Neela, just how old are you?"

"Old enough to appreciate young men. Come now, he is waiting below."

John runs his hands through his short hair and laughs helplessly as he trots down the stairs to the common room on the first floor. He stops short when he sees Colonel Reynolds standing in front of the statue of Qaral. "That's the Ancient that brought the people to Dominat."

"I was going to say that it looks like you, Sheppard. I'm relieved to see you looking so well."

John glances at the statue and doesn't think it looks like him at all. "No thanks to Director Shen, I hear," he says darkly.

Reynolds has the grace to look embarrassed. "True. As I understand, it was her opinion that it wouldn't be prudent to have you out running around the galaxy, until it was pointed out to her, that you apparently can't survive off Dominat."

"Apparently."

"In part, that's why I'm here. I told you that I'd make sure that you were taken care of, no matter what. I admit, I was thinking of the SGC at the time, but... Considering the circumstances, if you'll accept it, I have separation papers for a medical discharge."

John has to sit down, before he falls over in relief. "Really?"

Reynolds sits down across from him and begins to pull papers out of a satchel. "You've got your twenty in, Sheppard, and as much as I regret not having the opportunity to serve with you, it's probably the best option for everyone involved."

He stares at the papers in Reynolds' hands for a few moments, and then, "Why this? Why not just boot me out?"

Reynolds smiles, a wide toothy grin. "There's two ways to look at it. My way, which is that you didn't ask for this, it was unforeseeable, and you were injured on TDY, or the IOA's perspective."

"Which is?" John prompts.

"That they needed to make sure that you're not alienated any more than you have been already, such as court martial and dishonorable discharge."

John's jaw drops. "Is this a bribe?"

"Only if you look at it in a particular light. I'd much rather you consider that's it's the least we owe you for your service."

The best part of the entire scenario is that he'd be free to move forward on Dominat's behalf and not feel like he was betraying one set of masters. The generous retirement pay would be nearly useless to John, sitting in a bank on Earth, but if they wanted to soften him up, he wasn't going to say no. Plus, if he pisses them off, and they rescind the retirement pay, it won't cause him any undue suffering. "Alright. I think that's a more than equitable solution to both of our problems."

"I hoped that you'd see it that way." Reynolds slides a pen and the stack of forms across the table.

John reads through the long, boring legalese that lawyers love so much, and it's all standard boilerplate discharge papers. John's hand shakes as he signs the papers. "Thank you, Colonel."

Reynolds hands him back half of the papers, "This is your copy. Once I transmit these to Earth, they’ll push the paperwork through in three or four days. Oh, here. Dr. McKay asked me to give you this." Reynolds hands over an envelope, stuffed fat and barely sealed.

John tears it open, and it's another set of legal papers assigning McKay power of attorney, with a scribbled note attached. 'Just in case they really go through with it. RIM, PhD, PhD, PhD.'

Only Rodney. John chuckles over the signature and with relief that Rodney's fine.

There's another letter attached, written in beautifully scripted Qaroptimat that Shaaziya had at least penned, if not actually composed. John folds it and puts it in his pocket. He signs the rest, stuffs them back into the envelope and returns it to Reynolds.

"I took the liberty of bringing your personal belongings from your quarters on Atlantis with me, the young lady in the control room said she would take care of them."

"Sabat. I'll catch up with her later, thank you. I hope it wasn't too much trouble." Being forced to retire is one thing, and yes, he wanted the stuff, but to John it felt faintly like being kicked to the curb.

"Not at all, Major Lorne did most of the work." Reynolds shoves everything to his satchel. "Now that we have that all taken care of, one last item."

"Okay," John says carefully.

"The SGC and the IOA would like to open up negotiations with the leaders of Dominat, for use of the ZPM manufactory."

The old one-two punch, and while John isn't surprised by that, he is surprised at the level of information that Rodney had had to divulge in order to get John home. "We can certainly discuss it," he says in a guarded tone.

"Good. As soon as the representatives arrive from Earth, we'll advise and set up more specific arrangements." Reynolds stands up and they shake hands. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Sheppard."

That appellation, more than anything, strikes it home to John that he's a free man; it's gone, over and done with, finito. John Sheppard: former Lieutenant Colonel, fly-boy no more. "Yeah, thanks," John says in a daze.

After Reynolds is gone, John goes back upstairs, takes his dog tags off, folds them inside the discharge papers and carefully stows them away. He feels naked without them, but that too will pass, like so many other things.

He takes deep breath, and sits on the bed. True to Sabat's word, there's a small stack of cardboard boxes in the corner, looking woefully out of place, but he really doesn't have any place to unpack them. He stares at them for a while, reflecting on how pathetic it was that his entire life could be crammed into a handful of boxes.

Shaking off the moodiness, John remembers the letter and pulls it out. As expected it's really from Rodney:

Sheppard,

I'm sorry that I wasn't able to return to Dominat with you to explain all of this in person, and more importantly, verify the fact that you were really still alive. All of us had our doubts, even Carson, but Neela assured me that it was not too late. Anbur dialed in and gave us the good news late yesterday; it was very tense here for a while.

As you've probably already discovered, I had to pull out the really big lever to get Shen to budge. I know that you wanted to wait, until you had a better idea of how to handle it, but I truly believed Anbur when he said that all negotiations were off if you died. I didn't want to lose that opportunity, though the critical point to remember is that I didn't want you to die. Now that Reynolds' is giving you your walking papers, I'm comfortable knowing that you're there to handle it, and that you'll do what's best for Dominat—and hopefully Atlantis, too.

The news that there might be a way to build our own ZPM has raised spirits here tremendously. We're all really just in a daze. The records in the database are very specific, and I've attached a bit of background information on the following page. Please do not go off and try and find the site; one, it's possibly dangerous, and, two, I want to be there.

I believe that Shen is feeling the backlash of her stubbornness. I have a feeling that she won't last long on Atlantis; her intractability and fear have proven her unsuitable for the position, and I'm certainly going to personally hammer home that point to anyone that will listen and perhaps even a few who won't.

In regards to your finances—assuming that you signed the POA—I'll look over the options the Air Force has on offer, they're probably incredibly safe, and compare that with the open market. It'll take months to correspond with Earth, so whatever it is, it'll be very long term.

I'd better bring it to a close so Evan can get this to Reynolds, before he leaves.

Take care, and good job on not dying.

RM

Too much has happened in too short a time, and it's almost impossible to comprehend all of it. He feels whip-lashed and exhausted, and, despite having slept most of the day already, he falls back on the bed and escapes reality for just a little while longer.

 

Day Nine Hundred Sixty

In the morning, John's feeling more balanced, willing to accept circumstances and move on. He arranges to meet with the Council later in the day, and is energetic enough after breakfast to go for a walk around town, though Neela insists that Laith accompany him. It's their usual sort of walk, browsing the market vendors in the brilliant, white sunlight, except for the small crowd that is constantly swarming around them.

Three anam past, when he was prowling around this same courtyard, a P90 strapped to his chest, heartsick over the Daedalus' crash and losing Atlantis, he would never have believed that he could find another place where he was so patently accepted.

John doesn’t mind the crowd; no, he loves the crowd. The low, warm buzz eases his heartache and fills him up in exchange for a few words, a smile and the occasional child held up for a blessing. Maybe he's simply getting better. Two days ago he was still in shock, but now... Now, he's floating on a sea of bliss generated by love—all of these people belong to him, and he belongs to them.

The realization that he would never be thrown out, ejected, rejected or separated from these people, from this affection, that this is home in a way like no other place has ever been, is a heady, thrilling thought.

Dizzy with the revelation, and the love and devotion that are flowing all around him, John falters and stumbles. Hands reach out to steady him and hold him up. John knows he's grinning like an idiot, but he needed this so badly, he's always needed it, and now he has it, forever.

Laith takes the stumble as a sign that their excursion is over. He takes John's arm and gently pushes through the crowd to return to the Ludahsediat. John doesn't resist, even though he wants to stay longer, because he knows that this will always be here.

~*~

The Patern meet in Anbur's office in the early afternoon, the windows shuttered against the heat of the day, which still seeps into the room. There's a fine haze of dust in the air, swirling in motes through the light leaking around the edges.

They are arrayed around the room, draped into chairs and couches as they watch John pace nervously. "I am not certain of what to say, there is so much to consider."

Anbur gives him an opening. "Then let us start from the beginning."

John takes a deep breath. "Dominat, long before Qaral brought the people here, was the place where the Ancestors made their power sources, very much like Makhuqat's Power of Qaral, but more powerful, because of the unique properties caused by the combination of distance from the sun and rare minerals in the ground. These are the same things that cause the fires to burn in the north and the colors in the night sky. It is in everything you eat and in the air that you breathe." John looks around to make sure that they're all following the explanation; he's barely got a handle on it himself—Shaaziya had been translating Rodney-speak.

"Once the Ancients decided to leave this galaxy, they abandoned the planet and removed the Stargate. Qaral chose this planet for you because light in the night sky also acts like a shield, and you would be as safe as possible from the Wraith.

"The city of the Ancestors uses this power source, but it is very old and very difficult to create. The production is science beyond what those on Atlantis can understand.

"Now, because of the information from the Avaxqaral, Dr. McKay was able to locate the instructions to these ZPM's. Dominat is the source of the material, and the place where they are made. It is very, very important to them." That the Avaxqaral is the source isn't strictly true, but that's one secret that he's still keeping. Although in a roundabout way, it could be construed as the truth.

Zuhair adds, "And so we must consider what we want in return."

"Yes, but we must also discuss if anything we ask for will be enough. It is very dangerous, and even with Dr. McKay in charge of the project, it is possible that the entire planet could be destroyed—at any time and without warning."

John looks at each of them, trying to calculate if they understand the risk. Qahira says in a soft voice, "Then it is the Will of Qaral. If it is our time, then it must be." All of the Patern bow their heads and murmur, "Qaral's will," under their breath.

He doesn't know if he'll ever reach this level of peace with fate, or if he can live knowing that there's a time bomb on the far side of the planet. The thing is, he knows how much Dominat needs, and the Patern for all of their life wisdom, don't have an inkling of what is even possible with the kind of bargaining power they have. "So, you are agreed, that we should see what they can offer us in return?"

The seven Patern glance around the room, nodding in assent at each other and John sighs deeply. He'll just have to learn to deal with it.

John moves onto the next scenario that he'd though of in his fit of paranoia back on Atlantis. "Okay, but here's another possibility. The people of Earth are very powerful; they have defeated many foes and built space ships like the Daedalus. If we ask for too much, they may try to take what they want by force. Makhuqat is no match for them."

"Do you truly believe that they would do this?" Anbur tips his head to the side as he considers Caldwell and Weir's attitude over the Makhuqat incident.

"I don't know. It has happened before."

"What do you think we should do?"

"Ask for everything, but be willing to negotiate."

"And you will do this, negotiate on our behalf? I believe you are well suited to this task."

John watches the dust eddying in the sharp, tiny beams of light as he thinks about his karma. He'd known that eventually it would come down to this. "I will, if it is the desire of the Council."

Not one of them dissents, and John's left with the gargantuan task of balancing the needs of the planet against everything that they can gain—or lose.

 

Day Nine Hundred Sixty-One - Nine Hundred Seventy-Eight

Neela is satisfied that he's not going to keel over in a light breeze, and John gets to work. He spends a few days hammering out a list of things that he'd like to get in return for allowing McKay the opportunity to blow up the planet, and giving the Patern a good idea of the scope of the things that Dominat needs to thrive, and to pull them out of the downward spiral of decay.

John thinks about logistics, and realizes that they will be coming here, as he has no intentions of falling into a relapse during the negotiations.

He consults with Anbur and Zuhair for a suitable place to hold a conference, and they all agree upon a house just outside the Quarter that can be quickly gutted and remodeled to his specifications.

Once the conference site is chosen, the houses in the Quarter are slated for cleaning in preparation for visitors. John squirrels away the forged tools, equipment and one spare naquadah generator for the nonexistent rainy day, and the rest of the stuff that had been left by the former residents is distributed to anyone who wants it. John has no idea how many people will be coming, but he has an idea for offering the Quarter as permanent housing for the future science, medical and military teams he hopes that he can lure to Dominat.

Once they have an agreed upon list of demands, and the remodeling is underway, John and Laith take Haitham and the Patern to their homes, and set out on a short holiday.

This is mostly to blow off some steam, but it also gives John an opportunity to let his people get some face time. Though he was only gone for twenty-six days, his departure had been intended as permanent, and they need the reassurance that he's not leaving again.

The season of viat is beginning, and they stay in Halavasan for a week. John gives tours of Makhuqat and he's amused to find that they are usually standing room only. Very few people outside the Patern, the Idon and the Abnepa are even aware that such marvels exist, and he gets a huge kick out of proudly revealing the treasure of their heritage to them.

After Halavasan, they meander through various towns, stopping for a day or two to offer Laith as healer, or to just enjoy the hospitality.

Near the end of their journey, they camp out near the violet lakes of Jasrah and John teaches Laith to swim in the clear, purple water. Hamza, an old fisherman, takes them out with his son and daughter on the long flat skiff, and they spend a day hauling in heavy nets of fat, wriggling fish in exchange for dinner with his family. The hard work leaves John overly tired and sunburned, but he's glad for the work and the distraction.

The happy chaos of family, the warmth and joy of a home filled with memories and mementos and the feeling of being tied to the land and water is so attractive to John in that moment. It's almost enough just to be there, but he's also envious. He's been an itinerant traveler for too long.

At the end of the evening, Laith insists on taking the controls of the makhuqat'an and taking John back to N'vellesem, and John's just exhausted enough that he doesn’t fight being chauffeured home.

 

Day Nine Hundred Seventy-Nine

John feels great the next day, in spite of the lingering sunburn that pulls the skin tightly across his nose and cheeks and the protesting ache in his back. He slopes into the kitchen, and even though it's late morning, cadges a meslat sandwich from Laila before tracking down Anbur.

"Ah, John. You are rested and refreshed?"

"I feel great. A little sore and tired, but great."

"There was a message received for you while you were away, it is in the computer in the control room."

"Okay, I'll go and get it in a few, but I wanted to run something by you. If these negotiations work out the way we want them to, I'm going to need to be in N'vellesem a lot. Not that I don't appreciate your hospitality, but I think it's time for me to find some kind of permanent housing of my own."

"Qahira's cottage is too far away, yes?"

"Yeah, plus it was like renting." John chuckles at Anbur's confused expression. "It wasn't really mine, I was just borrowing it. And not that the Quarter wasn't fine, but there are too many bad memories that I don't want to be reminded of."

"You wish for something new?"

"Not necessarily, just somewhere I can call home. I've been a guest of someone or another since Landing Day."

Anbur gives him an evil grin, "Big house, for many wives and children?"

John's not willing to admit to that yearning just yet, not even to himself. "Oh God, no. Please stop with the matchmaking, I'm scared that I'll wake up accidentally married, like Rodney." He grins, because even now, the idea is still hilarious.

Anbur laughs out loud. "It is very funny. Maybe only room for one wife at time? Much less trouble, I think. I will find a suitable domicile for the Quaralyn."

He hadn't thought of that. John shakes his head, "Whatever, Anbur."

John leaves Anbur laughing at him and heads down to the gate room. Sabat isn't there, and he doesn't know the name of the young man on duty. He calls up the encoded message on the little control panel scrounged from the Daedalus.

It's a long chatty note from Rodney, with a few stories filled with glee over how pissed Shen is that Rodney's stock in both the SGC and the IOA is rising. Shaaziya's doing fine, and is no longer sick every morning, and Rania continually wants to know where is Uncle John. Rodney allows how life on Atlantis is boring and quiet without John, but they are managing.

Rodney's real scoop is that the two representatives that are on their way are none other than Jack O'Neill and Richard Woolsey, and they should be arriving in a couple of weeks. He doesn't know when the rest of the delegation will be decided upon, and if he can run another gate 'test', he'll let John know.

John quickly converts the time difference in his head, and reckons they've got sixteen days left. He closes the message and saves it in case he wants to reread it, and thanks the tech on duty. He makes a note to have Rodney get him a PDA or a data tablet. The gap between the rough paper and tiny brushes of Dominat, and the information technology of Earth or Atlantis seems too wide to bridge, there's not even the simplest ink jet printer attached to the new control room.

With the possible date in mind, John trots over to the Quarter. The houses are clean and ready, and the remodeling on the new conference center will easily be completed on time. The small room is missing most of its interior walls, and inside is a table of polished stone so large that the room will have to be finished around it. It's made of the same granite with which they'd rebuilt the House of Makhuqat; John approves completely, it's a nice nod to the local craftsmen and also quite beautiful.

John mentally looks over the room, and realizes that as the main negotiator, he'll need to make a similar statement. The scarlet robes are too worn, and the rest of the clothing he's been given, while stylish, has been made for comfort.

There's no way that he's going to go to Anbur again today, not after the discussion over a house. John sucks it up and goes to see the ladies at Frostman's shop. The worst they can say is no.

Izdihar and Suha are suitably thrilled to have John in their clutches, and he smirks at their blatant flirting. They try and foist onto him some of the more bizarre, mishmash designs that Frostman had hallucinated, but John is firm about what he wants, and they haggle over the terms. They'll make exactly what John wants, but in exchange, they insist that he also be given one of their 'originals'.

John shakes his head and gives in; a little free advertising would give them a hand, and it certainly won't kill him to wear it. He chooses one of the least eye-popping designs; a near perfect replica of the Expedition uniform in a soft, black material, but inexplicably embroidered with hearts, clubs, diamond and spades.

He laughs at himself as he considers actually wearing that instead of his first choice. Rodney will get a kick out of it, anyway.

 

Day Nine Hundred Eighty - Nine Hundred Ninety-Six

Time weighs heavily on John. He mulls over flying to a few places he and Laith missed, Gadon in particular, but even that attractive possibility doesn't override his creeping aversion to the nomadic lifestyle he's led for so long.

The only place John would really like to go, is to check out the site, but Rodney insisted that he not go, that it was even likely to be perfectly hidden. It had never appeared on any scan or flyover.

Instead, John remains in N'vellesem, obsessively rereading his notes and adding things to his wish list as he thinks of them, in an attempt to mentally gear up for the treaty conference. This is so far out of his skill set, that it's not even amusing. He writes them out in order of preference, developing a meeting agenda of sorts, in case he's actually allowed to run the meeting. He should be in charge, they are the supplicants, and he has what they need.

He checks in with Izdihar and Suha for a fitting, and his extravagant compliments aren't even hyperbole, it's exactly what he had in mind. He checks on the progress of the conference center, even pitching in with the craftsmen when he thinks he's going to lose his mind.

Finally, Anbur gives him a list of homes to approve or reject. John has too few other things to do, and he takes his time inspecting and debating on the various merits of each of them.

Despite what John had told Anbur, he chooses a house on the southeast side that's far too large for just one person. If John were talking to a realtor, they'd classify it as a fixer-upper; it's been vacant for a generation but all John can see is the possibilities. Three stories made of the ubiquitous white stone, with the first completely underground, and a large courtyard in the back surrounded by high walls.

The plantings in the courtyard are mostly dead, except for one straggly tree that's barely hanging on, the glass in a few windows is broken, and all of the filigree brass shutters are tarnished almost black. It desperately requires some extermination of the creatures that have moved in, along with cleaning up the thick layer of sand and dust on every surface.

It's perfect.

John gathers together the tools and equipment he's scrounged and throws himself into doing household repairs during the early morning hours when it's cooler.

In the hot afternoons, John returns to the Ludahsediat to rest and comb through his notes, or check on the conference house. In the evening he joins Anbur for the salon, to gather suggestions and problems that need addressing, either as the Quaralyn, or via the possible largesse from the treaty.

One or two nights a week, John takes a break from the serious business at the Ludahsediat to visit with his old friends at Fakih's teahouse, sipping ekal and tea, gossiping and swapping jokes and stories.

Upon his return to the house every day, some unknown benefactor has swept and cleaned; the floors and walls are scrubbed until they shine. New furnishings mysteriously appear overnight, or a window has been glazed here and there, and notably, one day the brass shutters gleam brightly in the morning sun.

John accepts these housewarming gifts with equanimity; it's not only that that the Quaralyn is moving in, but this is traditionally how every new household begins.

By the time that Rodney sends another message on the sly, warning him of the imminent arrival of the Apollo at Atlantis, John's ready to move into his house. He's beyond ready for a little privacy; living at the Ludahsediat with forty or fifty students and almost as many Idon and support staff is grating on him.

 

Day Nine Hundred Ninety-Six

John drafts a couple of students to help carry his boxes from Atlantis to the house. It's still only a matter of a few minutes to put them away. The few books look lonely on the wide shelf, and the garments hang far apart in the closet, but he stands in the middle of the room, with his hands on his hips, smiling with the satisfaction that this is his.

He wants to do nothing more than plunk down onto the bed and read, but the upcoming treaty is looming in the near future, and he feels like he should be doing something constructive.

John's indecision over giving in to his personal wants is interrupted by a voice calling up the stairwell. He bounds down the stairs to find Izdihar looking curiously around the room. "Hi."

"Ah, Shepherd, here are the clothes, we finished them this morning."

"You didn't need to bring them to me, I could have picked them up," he chides her gently. John takes the pieces from her one by one and holds them up with a shake. Duplicates of the scarlet and black outfits, and a knee length straight cut jacket with a short, stiff collar and loose trousers made of finely woven material that's been bleached nearly white by the sun. The embroidery is gorgeous; prayers and blessings in stylized Ancient run down the placket in a wide swath, echoing the aurora in the night sky, a rainbow of every possible color.

The expedition uniform would be a sad reminder of the past, except for the whimsical stitching, but John resolves to hold up his end of the bargain, regardless of the memories it will invoke.

Izdihar's arms aren't empty, and she holds them out. "These are for you, a gift."

John takes them, a long white shift suitable for sleeping, and more amazingly, three black Hanes t-shirts and a pair of running shorts. "Where did you get these?"

"Frostman left us many things, but these I do not think we could sell to anyone else. They are yours." She hands John the last item, a pair of woven leather shoes, beautifully tooled with tiny beaded designs that mirror those on the white jacket. "Ziaul-Haq came to visit us, and thought perhaps you would have need of them."

"Yes, I will go and thank him. They are exactly what I needed." The sandals would be far more appropriate and comfortable than the patent leather loafers that he'd intended to wear. "Thank you, Izdihar, I appreciate the hard work you and Suha have done, everything is just what I wanted, and done very well."

"It was our pleasure to be of service. It was a great relief to us when you returned, and these tokens are the least of our appreciation." Izdihar gives him a shallow bow, barely a nod.

"I'm glad to be back." John fidgets for a moment, but gives into the impulse. "Would you like to see the house?"

Izdihar gives him a cheeky grin, "Of course I would, why do you think I delivered?"

John snickers, "Of course. Well, come on."

He proudly shows off the house, though, except for the first floor, it's still mostly empty rooms. Izdihar flirts with him and makes leading comments and suggestions. John curbs his tendency to flirt right back; he thinks that she'd probably move in with the slightest provocation.

He doesn't want to be rude though, and he allows her to linger, until she realizes that Suha will be furious that she's been gone from the shop for so long. John sighs in relief as she runs out the door and up the stairs.

As John puts away the t-shirts, still in their plastic wrap, he makes a note to go and see what stores are left aboard the Daedalus. If he can't use them, there are plenty of people who might like to have some of them.

~*~

Late that evening as the gathering in the salon of the Ludahsediat is winding down, John suddenly realizes that he's been reacting and not taking an active stance in regards to Atlantis. John pulls Anbur aside, "I need your help. I want to send an official invitation to Atlantis, for the negotiations."

"That is a fine idea. How do you intend to deliver this invitation?"

John muses over the possibility of delivering the invitation in person, but discards the idea immediately; he simply doesn't want to reopen any old wounds, though some day he'll go and visit.

He doesn't have the skill necessary to craft a handwritten document with the tiny brushes, and though Anbur would be pleased to write it out, John thinks that he needs to show at least some level of technical expertise, so he settles on a transmitted message.

John spends a couple of hours on the text of the invitation with Anbur kibbutzing over his shoulder, and then borrows the console from the on-duty tech to type it up. It feels surreal, strange to dial the Atlantis address, knowing that he's not dialing home, but contacting a foreign entity.

Its mid morning on Atlantis, and John speaks briefly with Chuck as he sends the message through. The Apollo is due in system later in the day, and Chuck will advise when the envoy's schedule is set.

 

Further Disclaimers: SG1 characters belong to Double Secret Productions, Gekko Film Corp. and Kawoosh! Productions.

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