Sweetness Follows
by Carrie

At first, the dreams came to him only at night.

They hadn’t seemed dreams as much as echoes in the beginning. He would awaken, his body tense with the effort of listening for the original call of those nighttime visions. He never seemed nearer to reaching them, even as the dreamechoes gained power and began encroaching upon his waking hours. When this started, Arrom had segregated himself even more from the kind people who had taken him in, then, afraid his waking dreams would only make him seem stranger in their eyes. None of them seemed to notice his withdrawal, but he suspected that was simply because they chose not to or because there was not much difference in how he behaved toward them. He was grateful for their hospitality but bore no illusions about his lack of place in their community.

Only Shamda had ever spoken with him on a regular basis and was the only one who continued to do so. Shamda, who had the wisdom to call him the naked one and not because he had been so, physically, when he had been found. He wasn’t quite so naked anymore, though the garments he wore still felt inadequate. Someday he might have enough to cover himself completely. Arrom smiled at his strange mental ramblings. He looked around his tent. It was dark, quiet, as the others all slept. Sleep was something he rarely did anymore. The dreams…they kept him from attempting it. When they came, they were so much stronger at night than during the day, and yet not strong enough. He lit several candles, the warmth of their glow aiding against the chill and fighting the shadows spiriting around the tent. He didn’t know why, but he always found comfort in the smell of wax melting, the flicker of the flames.

There was something from his unknown past, perhaps, possibly even a religious connection. That idea seemed so alien to him. Arrom might not be able to remember who he was, but he had a distinct sense he was not one to believe in unseen powers. Or…perhaps he did. But not in the sense that the people here did. He could not imagine himself praying to some omnipotent deity. Nothing was all knowing, so powerful. He could not believe that. No, his affinity for candles had nothing to do with religion. He stared at the wall of his tent, watched it ripple fluidly in the slight breeze and tried to determine what he should do with his night. He picked up a lighting stick and ignited it on one of the candles.

“Some believe a person will die from lack of sleep before he will die from lack of food, Arrom.”

Arrom jumped, nearly dropping the stick he held. He looked toward the door, saw Shamda peering in at him from the shadows. Speak of the devil and he will come. He tipped his head down, recognizing he had been caught. He wondered how long Shamda had known of his sleepless nights. He motioned the older man in, though he had no wish to speak with anyone. He never did.

“Good evening, Shamda,” he greeted, waving the old man to take a seat.

While it was true he wasn’t desirous of company, Arrom thought having someone to speak with for a fraction of his night would make time go by faster. Shamda was as good a person as any for that. Arrom blew a harsh breath from his nose. Shamda was the only person, he reminded himself. He knew many of the people laughed Shamda off as a senile old man, but he had watched and listened closely since his arrival. If there was one thing Shamda was not, it was senile. His stories might often seem incomprehensible on the surface, but digging deeper often reaped much insight. He didn’t mind a visitor after all, he decided.

Shamda groaned as he settled himself on the mats, nodding at Arrom’s greeting. For several minutes, they spoke no words. It did not take Arrom long to become disconcerted by the silence. He studied the dancing silhouettes the candlelight reflected onto the tent walls. In turn, he felt Shamda studying him.

“You are unhappy here,” Shamda announced at last, shifting around as if trying to distract Arrom with an exhibition of discomfort.

“No, that’s not true,” Arrom said, shocked by Shamda’s assessment even though there was truth to it. “You all have been so kind.”

“Kind, yes. Strangers can offer kindness but cannot help you find what you search so painfully for.” Shamda shifted on his mat again, then picked up a stick and rolled it between age-gnarled fingers. His gaze was so intent upon him, Arrom had to look away. “You are haunted, Arrom. Any fool could see this.”

Shivering, Arrom huddled closer to his candles and wished for a true fire. Haunted was a more astute description than Shamda could possibly know. But then, if he didn’t know, he wouldn’t have said it. It bothered him to know his emotions were so apparent. His breath seemed to catch in his throat, and there wasn’t enough of it. He shouldn’t be so upset, but he wanted to disagree, just to show Shamda his observations weren’t accurate in a childish show of will.

“I know who I am must be in me somewhere,” he said instead, unsure how that had slipped out. He stared up at Shamda, as if the old man could give him explanation. After a moment, Arrom shook his head. “That sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

“Not so much as you might think. You try too hard, my friend, and I worry for you. Sometimes the only way to find answers is to forget the questions.”

Now that…that was ridiculous. Arrom barked out a laugh and shook his head again. He could not simply forget he didn’t know who he really was, and he could not forget the cold feeling his dreams left him with. His skin prickled. He knew he couldn’t have become so blank without reason. He had to know why this had happened to him—it was a need so deep and desperate it frightened him almost as much as the cold remnants of dreams. He feared he would never know himself again. If he had ever known himself.

“Time for a parable?” Arrom murmured. “I wish you could tell me one that would help.”

“No, I have no stories to tell on this occasion,” Shamda said, in a voice quiet and more sober than was customary for the jovial storyteller. “Though I do have one about a young woman and her tendency to watch her cooking pot.”

Blue water, surrounded by gray that wasn’t harsh, but warm. Almost familiar, and not at the same time.

“It never boils.”

“Ah, you know this one.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Arrom’s pulse raced. It felt as though he had had this conversation before. He stared at Shamda, half expecting the other man to look different somehow. He didn’t know why. He blinked. Dark, nearly black eyes looked back at him. He blinked again and Shamda’s watery, kind eyes were there. He shivered, drawing himself even closer to the candle flames. His fingertips burned, and he flinched but kept them where they were. An acrid smell rose up to him as one of his fingernails scorched.

“Remember what I said, Arrom. Do not try so hard. The answer will come to you.” Shamda struggled to his feet, waving off Arrom’s halfhearted offer of assistance. “Perhaps when you least expect it. You should sleep. I should sleep.”

“But sleep brings me no rest,” Arrom whispered to himself, watching Shamda’s form blend with the darkness outside.

“You do not allow it to, my young friend,” Shamda called back. “Empty your mind of its thoughts, and you will find peace enough to sleep.”

He jerked in startlement, spinning to glare out the opening of his tent. In doing so, his hand went directly into a flame. Hissing, Arrom drew his hand back and cradled it close to his body. The burn was negligible but stung as if much worse. He scowled out at the darkness and saw no more evidence Shamda remained around his tent. He leaned down and blew out all of his candles. The smoke hung thickly around his head, making him slightly dizzy and sick to his stomach.

His hand stung. The smoke wafted into his nostrils. It was strong and seemed tainted with the smell of burned flesh and cloth. He choked. Worse than the stench, was the terrible smell came intense pain and panic that accompanied it. He fell to his side. He wanted to curl into himself, hide from the agony searing him but it came from his shoulder, not his hand. It was so real, so close. Arrom moaned. He was afraid of what was happening to him. He was more afraid he’d never understand it, that he’d done something wrong and these dreams and the thrums they left behind were part of his punishment. The pain would not dissipate completely, tolling through him. Torture for the rest of his days.

It was this last thing that always brought the soul chill, always ended the dream with jarring suddenness and left him with aching reverberations. He felt that now and was again surrounded by the silence of the encampment. Arrom uncurled enough to pull up a blanket. He could pile twenty of them on and still remain cold. He did not think sleep would come for him this night, the chances of it even less than on a normal night. Shamda was right—he was haunted by the ghost of his past self. His burned hand itched. He clenched it so he could have something else to focus on besides the terrible shudders of the dream. The pain wasn’t great, but it was sufficient.

He thought about nothing, centering on the tingle in his hand for a good number of minutes until he was relaxed. What do you know, Arrom thought, Shamda had been right about that, too. Shamda seemed to be right about a lot of things. It might have taken him a couple phases of the moon to figure out just how wise the bumbling man was, but now that he had—he knew there was at least one person in his lonely life he could turn to. For the first time since his arrival with the travelers, he didn’t feel quite so disparate.

Arrom stretched his legs out a little more, warming a bigger pocket underneath the thick blankets. This existence wasn’t a bad one. He could learn to not try so hard to seek out a life he wasn’t even certain he wanted, spend more time providing what he could to the travelers. He burrowed into his bedmat, relaxing even more. He was so tired. It had been so long since he had slept well. In the dim light, he could see the fuzzy outlines of his candles. Their arrangement seemed to become a grotesque face staring back at him. His heart started to beat faster again, because…no. No, no, no, no, no. He shut his eyes. This wasn’t going to happen again. He inhaled, keeping the air in his lungs until they burned as sharply as his hand had. He opened his eyes. The candles were just candles.

How could he expect to lead a normal life when he couldn’t go more than five minutes without being struck with a feeling he was experiencing something he could not be experiencing? Arrom rolled onto his back, limbs flailing out from his warm cocoon into the shock of cold. He squeezed his sore hand again, but this time the trick did not work. These fluctuations—of memory, mood and decisiveness on his course of action—were unacceptable. He had to choose a path and walk it, leave the other behind. Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he would go into the woods and think about his choice. More than think. Decide.

Arrom blinked, pressure lifting almost bodily from him. He could hear his own breathing, and the susurration of his blood pumping was a faint hiss in his ears. Mortal sounds, more real than anything his disjointed, terrible dreams gave him. In and out. In and out. Life. Alive. One thing his blank mind could not whitewash—he was alive. In and out, he breathed. In and out.

A child screeched, then laughter and shouts filled the air.

Sleep was yanked from him. Arrom sat up. He gasped, disoriented and uncertain where he was. Confused haze faded quickly as he saw two blue-robed people walk by his tent’s open entrance, carrying buckets that sloshed water as they moved. So he had managed to sleep well after all. Shamda would be pleased with that information. He had to admit he was happy himself. The rest had done him good. He felt fresh and rejuvenated. He scrubbed a hand down his face and reconsidered fresh as a viable adjective. He stretched his arms up and began moving to ready himself for the day. He remembered his resolution from the night, had every intention of following through with it. While he was out doing his soul searching, he thought he might make himself useful and harvest some of the mushrooms Shamda enjoyed so much. He shuddered. He hated mushrooms.

Anxious to get started on both tasks, he strode to his washbasin and peered down into the water. He scowled at the strange face eyeing him with suspicion…or perhaps it was apprehension. Fool, he thought to himself and the reflection, that’s your face. He dipped his hands into the water, and the image rippled away. The cool water stung his burned hand and his face. He choked, feeling a strong charge of energy course through him. Shaking his head, he kept his eyes shut tightly as he fumbled for a rag with which to dry himself.

He patted his skin gently, finally dared to look back into the basin. His reflection was normal. He sighed with relief, glad he wasn’t already undergoing a waking dream. He kept staring at the pool of water. His face looked the same as it did yesterday, but…had his hair grown so much already? The collar of his robes should be blue, not green. No. He was making things up now. Arrom jarred the bowl, making the still surface of the water wave. The reflection broke apart, and he backed away. He had managed some control over the dream visions last night; he could do so again. Until he decided if he had to battle them or nurture them.

Pulling on the outer layer of his robes, Arrom ducked out of his tent. He tried to smile at a woman who had started noticeably at his arrival into public. The poor woman scrabbled with the load of firewood she carried, nearly dropping it onto her feet. Apparently he needed to work on that particular facial expression. After that incident, he kept his eyes to the ground, navigating through the collapsed buildings the travelers and he sheltered in, until he left everything behind. In truth, he had learned watching where he walked was as much to keep himself from tripping on the uneven ground as it was to shield himself from stares.

He glanced back at the bustling people, all of them oblivious of his presence. Or his absence. As was usual, and by his own design, he reminded himself. Arrom gathered his robes slightly and began walking at a faster pace. The air was still chill, the leafless trees unwelcoming. Despite that, it was here in the woods where he found the most serenity. He was certain the landscape was lovely when not in its barren, winter state. He gravitated, as he always did, to the spot Shamda told him he’d been discovered. He had no real memory until waking up dressed in scratchy blue robes and swaddled in thick blankets as if he was a small baby.

His entrance into the travelers’ lives was mysterious and spectacular, Shamda told him. A bare patch of ground marked it, exhibiting nothing particularly special and revealing none of his past’s secrets. It never had, during any of his visits here. He sat down, folding his legs beneath him and stared at the spot as if today, all of a sudden, it would be different. Like it would be a sign telling him which direction to go. Arrom tipped his face toward the sky and studied the looming gray clouds. They appeared to threaten rain, pregnant with the possibility of bursting. He would understand if they ended up pouring everything out of themselves, letting all the pressure build-up release onto the planet below them.

Lightning flashes, sparks shower, and in the blink of an eye you’ve missed seeing.

Arrom blinked. Where had those words come from? The clouds didn’t answer his unspoken question, nor did they look as dangerously stormy as he had thought. He frowned. He had sworn…cold washed over him and he shivered so hard the small of his back locked with spasms. He knew this sensation. The dreams were coming to him so seamlessly. He didn’t know how he could avoid them. If he wanted to do that. Had he thought he could? He bent forward until his forehead was nearly on the ground. He saw black clouds, unnaturally swirling and savage. Clouds didn’t mean anything, couldn’t be a dream, he told himself. He felt fear and awe and hope and desperate loss, but wasn’t really feeling those things at all. He was so confused. He lifted himself back up and crushed the clouds in his mind.

Mushrooms.

He got to his feet, determined to carry out the mundane task he had given himself. Don’t try so hard to remember, he reminded himself of Shamda’s advice. What he meant, though, was run, run away. It was cold today. Arrom rubbed his hands along his roughly hewn robes, hissed when his tender, burned fingers stung. He lifted his hand so he could see it better, and was suddenly standing in a strange room, touching an image of himself. But not himself, again. In one instant, he could read the feelings of this other person, by expression, by something indefinable. He felt a stranger among people who should be friends. Pain. Confusion. Fear. So much fear he choked and stumbled back a step. The dreams were becoming more potent and portentous.

No. This must stop, this torture had to stop. He could control this.

He flung both arms out in front of him, spreading his fingers as if to ward off evil. Arrom had thought he needed to weigh the choices regarding his past, his memories, but knew now that he had known the answer for some time. The reason he could never progress to a point that would give him tangible, meaningful memories was because he always suppressed the dream images and fought with the lingering thrums. It hadn’t been a conscious act on his part, not really, which told him there was a good explanation for the repression. Whoever he was before, he was not someone good. Somewhere deep down, he must know that and want to protect himself. He was better off not knowing.

Arrom clenched his jaw and his fists in unhappiness. The tortures he had suffered these last months were of his own doing, but that would change. He banished the image of the long-haired, green clad man from his mind’s eye easily this time. If that was truly him, Arrom no longer cared. From this point on, he was a nomad. He would live an uncomplicated life. He yearned for peace, and forsaking a life he knew nothing abut was not a great loss. The skin at his nape began to tingle. He reached back to brush away the irritation.

He walked deeper into the woods, intent on beginning his new life. He would have to learn a trade of some kind. Arrom wondered if Shamda had ever considered writing down his stories and anecdotes or if the people would accept a written history. His past might remain a mystery, but there was no reason the travelers should be the same. He had always been drawn to the markings on the pillars and walls of the ruins and sensed there was something deeper to that inclination. Smiling, he found a thick patch of mushrooms. He squatted down and began picking. Things were going to be okay. The answer had come as easily as Shamda said it would.

He finished foraging quickly, frowning with distastes at the ripe smell the fungi caused in the air around him. He wanted to get back and share his decision with Shamda, and perhaps even speak with some of the other people. Start living. Head down, Arrom concentrated on his footing and made good time back toward the camp. He tried not to think about how making the decision to follow this path of life wasn’t a guarantee that the dream flashes would stop. He would deal with that when it arose. And it would. He couldn’t delude himself into believing that wouldn’t.

A cool draft chilled through his robes, cut right into him. Arrom knew before he took his eyes off the ground that he would see something he did not wish to in his path. He suspected his life was going to be difficult for some time, and that the visions would persist. They would go away, though. They had to. He looked up to face his new vision anyway, because there was nothing else he could do.

People he did not recognize stared back at him, pointed big menacing devices that seemed weapons of some sort. Coldness thrummed. In all his dreams, what he saw was himself, as if looking in from the outside somewhere. This was different. This was worse. Were these people real or figments? He couldn’t tell, but the resonant waves of chill seemed to indicate…he attempted to make the images go away. He closed his eyes and shook his head, but when he looked again, the men were still there.

“Doctor. Doctor Jackson?” one of them said at last. He sounded as if the words caused great pain.

Arrom had no idea what to make of the greeting. He shook his head slightly and shrugged his shoulders. This was not happening. He didn’t recognize these people. But…but he recognized the green, uniform clothing the strangers wore. He felt sick with cold as it took him over.

“Colonel O’Neill’s gonna blow a gasket!” man number two blurted.

“You can say that again,” Number One agreed, nodding at his companions while smiling at Arrom. “Doctor Jackson, you’ve had a whole helluva lot of people worried about you.”

Arrom blinked. These men knew him. He clamped his teeth together tightly. This wasn’t right. He had chosen. He glared up at the men, noting their shocked expressions and pale complexions. He didn’t care about them. He knew what they meant for his life, his future.

“Who are you?” Arrom demanded. “Why are you calling me that…Doctor Jackson?”

“Oh, Christ,” Number One said.

He had chosen. His mind was clogged with thought. He had already chosen. Arrom didn’t think that mattered. He saw himself, wearing green just like these men. So terrified, so confused, guns pointed at him. His hands were on his head. Please. What was going on? This wasn’t right. Not him, not his memory. He didn’t want this. It wasn’t what he had chosen. He was a fool.

“Oh, Christ,” Number One said again. “Don’t do that.”

Arrom was on his knees, his hands at the base of his skull. He was afraid. The fear reverberated through him, from the dream vision and from something else. He knew. He wasn’t going to get the life he had chosen. He knew it. He didn’t know how he knew, but he was angry about it. He lurched to his feet, jerked away when Number One laid a hand on his arm to help him. They might want to take him wherever it was they came from, but he’d not go easily.

The shock of his first view of those people lingered with him, even after a couple of hours. It replayed over in his head, not unlike the dreamechoes. Odd coincidence. As he had entered the village, Arrom had known his life path had already changed, but seeing them…he had known why. He hadn’t known any of them. He still didn’t. He didn’t want to. He didn’t have a choice any longer, it seemed. He glared at the tent’s opening, the dusty ground outside, the people on the far side of the village mall.

He had felt an immediate spark when the older pale-skinned man had said that word. Daniel. He was supposed to believe that was his name. Daniel, Arrom said in his head, testing it out. Daniel Jackson. It sounded both wrong and right in his head. It sounded better than Arrom. It sounded worse. He was ridiculous. He looked away from the green-clad cluster of people. He re-lit the candle he had extinguished when Samantha Carter had invaded his tent. He needed centering and calming effects of the candles now more than ever.

He had lied when he’d told—what did that guy say his name was? Jim?—when he’d told Jim he tried to reach out and grab his memories, but that they always disappeared. He wasn’t sure why he had done that. Fear. Denial. He was still angry, he supposed, after garnering a small portion of peace in his life only to have it turned completely upside down in a matter of minutes. Something deep within himself had wanted to punish Jim…for what? Arrom was tired. He just wanted to settle into the life he had resigned to lead. No, not resigned. He had accepted his existence here, embraced it, wanted it. Admitting he had more than floating, vague inclinations of his past would be a contradiction of his decision to be Arrom. A betrayal.

Yet despite his anger at being yanked from that decision, Arrom wanted to go with these strangers. It felt as though he were attached to them with a string and couldn’t do anything but go with them, and he resented that his choice had been removed. His brain raced with the information Samantha Carter and Jim had shared with him, and his heart beat with excited terror. Could he simply give up the life he had chosen based on their words? The flames from his candles danced with chaos, giving him nothing to ground himself to. He snuffed one of them out between his fingertips, hissing when the action reawakened the burn from last night. His mind continued to race.

Being told he was someone’s friend, that he belonged somewhere, that he had been a good man didn’t make any of it truth. Arrom continued to have a nagging feeling that he wouldn’t like much of what he might remember about this Doctor Daniel Jackson. About himself, he corrected. His dreams held only horror. He absently looked around his humble tent, the only home he knew, and saw Samantha Carter through the entrance. She now sat alone across the village square, glancing around with seeming casualness. More frequently than not, her gaze landed in the direction of his tent. He heard voices in his head, echoes of reality this time.

“All I know is that if I were you, I would definitely want to get to know me…you.”

“Hey, why are any of us here? Honestly, I don’t know, but you’ve gotta trust me. You are Daniel Jackson.”

Arrom cupped his hands over his ears, even though he knew the words hadn’t actually just been spoken. He was being childish. But since the soldiers from another world had disrupted the village, he had felt faint reverberations of cold. He was transmuting actual words in this instance, confusing them with dream visions. He knew this. He could not stop it from happening. It felt as though the dreams and the lasting thrums had changed places, that what he was experiencing was a precursor to something else. Something worse. He wanted to stop it before it happened. This was the only thing keeping him here, trapped in his tent and scared out of his mind. The words of Daniel Jackson’s friends, apparently his friends, were compelling but they couldn’t know what it was like to see things and not know what the visions meant. To be left with cold hollowness that was a tangible wound.

He watched Samantha and found he wished he remembered her. Her visual scans of the village once again led to his tent and their eyes locked. Arrom immediately looked down at his hands, feeling a fool. He couldn’t have it both ways—he couldn’t not want to remember to forestall pain, while all the same wanting nothing more than his memory intact. It would be nice if there was a way to just get everything back at once, clear and distress-free. If that would be the case, perhaps he wouldn’t be so hesitant. Life, what little he had even experienced, did not seem to work that way, however.

“Daniel.”

He closed his hands into fists, watching as the action made his knuckles more defined. His flesh thinned out and whitened, making the bones underneath protrude. Arrom shivered, unnerved by a wild, sickening thought of his knucklebones ripping through the scant layers of skin.

“Daniel…Arrom.”

Oh. Not hearing things. His hands weren’t split apart and bleeding. He unfisted them, tucked them into the folds of his robes and looked up to see Shamda’s kind but blurred face peering through the tent flaps. Arrom could read the concerned expression easily enough, though, and felt guilty for causing it. Shamda’s words about answers coming when least expected sang through him as he nodded the old man in. He had misinterpreted the decision he had made this morning as the answer, he thought. Clearly.

“It is very strange to call you by this name,” Shamda said, entering but not sitting. “Daniel sounds foreign.”

“Because I am Arrom,” he said. He didn’t feel like Arrom now any more than he did Daniel. Confusion was the only thing recognizable in his life, an unwelcome constant.

“Yes. And no, it would seem.”

This wasn’t helping him. Arrom shivered again, thinking he’d never be warm. The cold was becoming all, giving no room for anything else. He hadn’t had a waking dream since seeing those people in green. He didn’t know what that meant, if anything at all. He should feel glad for the reprieve but he could not. There was no amnesty in the lack of visions when he still dealt with similar, pervasive effects.

“I don’t know what to do, Shamda,” he admitted.

Shamda didn’t speak. No matter how much Arrom wanted someone to tell him what to do, he knew no one could. Not Shamda. Not Samantha Carter. Not Jim O’Neill. He had no desire to think about it anymore. He looked up at Shamda and suddenly recalled the mushrooms he had picked. He searched for his bag and proffered it to the storyteller. He detected the overpowering smell of the fungi through the fabric. He tried not to wrinkle his nose.

“I got these for you this morning. Hopefully they’re still good.”

“Ah,” Shamda said as he opened the bag and looked inside. “Arrom, you are kind to think of me. I know you do not have a taste for these.”

“That’s an understatement. Enjoy, and thank you for being my friend.”

Shamda lost his smile and closed the bag. He looked down at Arrom with fondness in his eyes. “I wish we could have known each other better and for a longer span of time.”

“Shamda?” Arrom said. There was finality in the old man’s words that he did not like.

“I have seen how they look at you, Daniel. Even if you are not Daniel, you would be lucky to walk beside them, I think.”

Another vote cast. It seemed he would go after all. As if that had been in question. He had known as much from the moment Jim had uttered his new name. Or his old name, Arrom corrected. He nodded, but couldn’t give spoken acquiescence just yet. He blinked, opening his eyes to see a strange bald man, decorations of some sort on his shirt, glaring at him. He was filled with a desperate, feral need to be with the people sitting next to him. He felt the others beside him, their presence already impacting his own life though he didn’t even know them. He had to be with them, he had to be at their side when they went…where? Arrom’s whole body tensed with purpose so strong he gasped.

“Are you ill? Daniel…Arrom?”

Shamda was before him again, stooped down until their faces were only a short distance apart. Arrom realized he was doubled over. He couldn’t breathe, the force of the waking dream was great upon his lungs. Shamda patted his shoulder awkwardly. He reached a hand up, meaning to signal he was on the way to recovery. He wasn’t convincing to himself, let alone the old man. His hand shook like a leaf.

“I will get help.”

No, no. The idea of being exposed to prying eyes, even if well intentioned, was not a pleasant one. There was nothing anyone could do for him, anyway. He could ride out the aftershocks of cold, just like he had been doing for at least two weeks now. And for the past several hours.

“No, I’m fine, Shamda,” Arrom said. He was a liar. He cleared his throat and straightened up. Shamda stared at him with concerned suspicion. “I’m fine, really.”

After a moment, Shamda frowned and backed away a little. The old man nodded his head once, narrowing his eyes in continued disbelief all the same. Arrom rubbed his forehead, then pinched the bridge of his nose. His head ached from the intense vision and feelings that had wracked him moments ago, and from the knowledge that if he indeed went with Da…his friends they would very likely only get worse.

“You are certain?” Shamda said, clasping his hands together. “You still look unwell. Your skin is pale.”

“I’m positive.” Already, he felt better, warmer than he had been all day. More solid. He didn’t want to discuss it anymore. Time to change the subject. “I guess you were right about finding the answer when I least expected it.”

“Yes, though I would say the answer found you rather than you it.”

“True enough,” Arrom said, laughing slightly. The sound was bitter, not cheerful.

“If you are well, I believe I will seek out Colonel O’Neill. He seems fond of my stories, a quality I find rare among our…” Shamda paused and blinked at him several times. “…or I should say my people. I should like to prove my feeling about them correct and can think of no better way than to spend time with them. Something you should consider, my young friend.”

Oh, he would miss this man. Arrom smiled up at Shamda, wondering if he would ever allow anyone else to see the un-bumbling side of him. Someone should understand and appreciate. Perhaps one day he could return here and fulfill his idea of writing down Shamda’s stories and the nomadic journeys these people had lived. He still regretted he could not simply stay and do so now.

“I’ve considered. I know what I need to do.”

“Good, good.”

With that benediction given, Shamda picked up his gift of mushrooms and shuffled out of his tent. Arrom was alone again, but it was now no longer a state he wanted. In truth, the echoes left behind with his most recent vision—which he should really accept was a memory—continued to wash through him. He was still terrified to face who he used to be, to feel the coldness that accompanied the good memories, and to imagine what it would be like to remember the really bad ones. He knew there would be ones worse than the jumbled flashes he’d already seen. Jim told him he had died. He shuddered.

He was without choice. He knew this. It was stupid to sit around, steeping in his fear until he became toxic with it. He knew he was about to leave this place, but he didn’t want to leave it all behind. The only physical possessions he had here that brought him comfort were his candles. They’d likely have them where he was going. They wouldn’t be the same. He couldn’t take many. Arrom blew out three.

“Are you…are you okay?” Samantha Carter said as she burst into his tent. His hand, still cupped behind a wick, jerked. The candle tipped over, dribbling wax down the side. Arrom stared at his unexpected guest. Her question confused him. “Daniel?”

“What?” he said.

“I saw Shamda leave. He looked worried. I thought something was wrong.”

“I’m fine.”

“Oh. Okay. I’ll go, I’ll leave you alone then,” she said and withdrew again before he could even blink.

Arrom wanted to call her back. He wanted to tell her of his decision, but his voice failed him. He turned back to the candles, blowing the rest of them out and gathering the first three, which had hardened enough to pack away. He flicked off a bit of the wax dripping from one of them, rubbing his fingers together. The wax clung to the tips. He was Daniel Jackson. He was Daniel Jackson. He didn’t believe it quite yet. For the first time, though, it didn’t sound like such a bad name or a bad thing to be. He heard voices outside, listened to them for a moment before taking one last look around his home, and then stepped through the tent flaps.

“What of Daniel Jackson?” the big guy, Teak, was asking Samantha.

“He’s going home,” Arrom said, pleased his voice demonstrated more determination than he felt.

His announcement earned small smiles from Jim and Sam, a head nod from Teak and a broad grin from Jonah. Arrom frowned a little. Of all of them, Jonah was the only one with whom he felt no string, no sense of vague familiarity at all. He didn’t think he had known that man very well. So why was he grinning so widely? Maybe he would find out he and Jonah were really good friends. Jim walked over and spread his arms out a little.

“Great, knew you’d come around,” Jim said happily. “Remember me yet?”

“Nn-ot really.”

“Oh.” For some reason, the disappointed look on Jim’s face chilled him as much as the visions always did. It felt as if the other man was somehow dependent on his memory for survival. Arrom wasn’t sure where that idea came from. It seemed silly. Jim scowled and dropped his arms. “Well, let’s go then.”

Arrom found himself amid an entourage, marching in time with those hovering around him. He shared a silent farewell nod with Shamda, then did as always and fixed his eyes on the ground. The chances of stumbling were greater than usual. His legs were unsteady. Every step increased both his fear and his determination. But come what may, he could do this. From the looks of it, he wouldn’t go through it alone.

They walked in silence but he could feel them all throwing glances at him every so often. He speculated if they wanted to speak but couldn’t find the right words. That was how he felt. There was nothing to say, nothing they could tell him. He must see for himself. Arrom dreaded the idea of going through another waking dream, but felt a stirring of excitement in him grow as they approached the Stargate. Many times, he had tried to imagine what the giant stone ring was used for, never had he considered he would actually find out.

“If I,” Arrom said. “If I don’t remember, I want to come back here.”

He hadn’t meant to speak. He looked up from the ground. Ungrateful. He sounded very ungrateful. He didn’t know what had possessed him to say that. Jim stopped walking, his shoulders stiffening before he turned around to look at Arrom.

“That won’t happen,” Jim told him. He didn’t sound angry, just weary. Arrom wondered what had happened to Jim to make him sound like that, why his eyes were that of someone much, much older than his appearance spoke of. Arrom had to look away from the intensity of the gaze. “You’re going to remember, Daniel.”

“Of course you will,” Samantha said.

Of course he would. Arrom did not yet believe. The Stargate loomed ahead, like a giant eye staring right through him. His excitement waned but didn’t disappear. This all seemed to be happening so fast, too fast. Arrom began walking again when the others did, casting a look behind him. He couldn’t see the village anymore. He felt hollow inside. He returned his attention to his footing, feeling as though he could fall over despite being so cautious. If he fell, his hollow bones would shatter.

“Carter, dial us up.”

Arrom watched Samantha…Sam, she said he used to call her Sam…walk over to the device that had always reminded him of a misshapen mushroom and press glyphs with efficiency. He startled when the Stargate came to life with a massive flux of energy. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath.

“It’s a breeze,” Jonah said, nudging Arrom with his shoulder. The point of contact burned strangely. Arrom stepped away and rubbed his bicep. “You’ll love it.”

He wasn’t so sure about that. Jonah’s grin was still a little too wide for him to believe in its sincerity. Hurtling through the heavens by stepping into a vertical pool of water didn’t sound like it could possibly be a ‘breeze.’ He wasn’t even sure what that meant. He assumed it was some kind of expression, similar to the morals to the odd stories Shamda loved to tell. Arrom raised his eyebrows skeptically.

“How exactly does this thing work?” he asked, needing more than a simple assurance.

“Well, when you step—”

“Anh, Carter. Now really isn’t the time,” Jim cut Sam off, looking at Arrom with a shrug. “Trust me, Daniel. You don’t want to get her started. You’ll thank me later.”

He frowned, thinking Sam could speak to him for hours about something she found fascinating and he would not mind. He saw her nod, though, and start for the shimmering portal with no other attempt at an explanation. As she passed by him, she lifted her hand as if to take his elbow, but then pulled away. He regretted shutting out any type of contact from her before, from all of them. He had been so angry and confused. He remained confused most of the time.

“I will?” he said.

“Oh, yes. You will. Don’t think about the hows. Trust me on that, too. Now, to Earth?”

Right. Earth. His palms were damp. He tucked his hands into his robes and hoped it wasn’t obvious how nervous he was. Without warning, he saw the Stargate, no, a Stargate, not this one. Its glow filled a vast and bleak gray room, and it felt as though he were being invited toward it. Blue was an icy color, but it felt warm. He had never been more terrified and exhilarated in his life. He blinked and was again standing in a field of brown grass. Arrom sucked in a breath, relieved the flash of a vision didn’t leave him cold. This would be all right. He could make this journey. He’d done it before, apparently.

“Okay,” he said, and followed them to the Stargate. His new life awaited.

He didn’t know what he had expected, but this was not it. That made very little sense at all. But then, his life in the past day hadn’t made much sense. He stared at the stark gray walls as he was led through corridor after identical corridor. For a brief moment, he thought they were leading him in a complicated path intentionally, to make sure he didn’t know where he was going. That was foolish, though, because if he was Daniel, then he belonged here. His head was beginning to ache, and he remembered he had not eaten.

“What is a doctor, again?” he asked, more than a little uneasy about undergoing the tests the others had hinted at.

“Don’t worry. Doc’ll be so happy to see you she’ll be extremely gentle,” Jim said.

That didn’t answer his question.

“What the colonel means is, a doctor is someone trained to care for a person’s body and overall health,” Sam said. “Janet—Doctor Fraiser—will want to make sure you’re okay, that there haven’t been any adverse physical effects in taking human form again.”

Taking human form again. Was this reality? It didn’t sound or feel like it all of a sudden. He felt a resurgence of panicked dread.

“Doctor Fraiser is a most learned physician, Daniel Jackson,” Teak said. “There is no cause for alarm.”

“I’m not alarmed, I’m just…alarmed,” he said. In his head, he reminded himself he was Daniel Jackson. “It’s been a strange day.”

People stared at them, at him, making him self-conscious. Teak and Sam shifted their positions, blocking him in and buffering him from the frequent glances. He smiled when Sam looked over at him, but became startled when she got a very unsettled expression on her face. He tipped his head down until his gaze was fixed on the floor, a posture he didn’t really need—the flat, man-made surface didn’t hold the dangers of uneven terrain. His robes weighted down, pulling his shoulders into a slump. He was out of place here among all this military structure.

“Here we are. Ten bucks says the doc elbows everyone else aside to get her hands on Dannyb…him…Daniel,” Jim said as they filed into a room.

Gadgets and things with buttons and knobs and lights were everywhere, strange sights for him to take in. They had no such items on Vis Uban. He scanned the room, half looking for anything that might jog his memory, half dreading the same. He heard a sharp tap-tap, pinpointing the sound as coming from a tiny woman in a white coat. Wide brown eyes focused solely on him, and he figured everyone had been wise not to take Jim’s bet. He assumed this was Doctor Fraiser.

“Oh, my God,” the woman breathed. “He…you almost the…it’s like time…”

“Yeah, that’s about it, isn’t it? A real kick in the pants,” Jim said, affable but sounding forced.

He frowned, shooting a glance at the other man. Something wasn’t right. He had no idea what or even why he thought that, but the inclination was strong. He wondered how close he and Jim had been, truly. Friends or teammates? Teammates and friends? What was the foundation of their relationship built on? He realized this was the first time he had actually wanted to delve into his past, understand if and how he fit into these people’s lives.

“Daniel,” Doctor Fraiser said, reaching out toward him.

“Janet, he seems a little sensitive to touching just yet,” Sam said. She held her hand out, stopping Doctor Fraiser’s before it reached him. “I thought maybe we should take it easy?”

The doctor immediately dropped her hand and straightened her shoulders. He was disappointed. He said nothing.

“Oh. Well. Yes, you’re probably right. SG1, if you’ll just head over there for your post-mission, I’ll begin with Doctor Jackson.”

Doctor. He was a doctor. He furrowed his eyebrows. Being a doctor should have made the equipment, this infirmary, trigger a memory, if anything was going to magically do that for him. He looked around the room again.

“You’re not that kind of doctor,” Jim said to him, as if reading his mind. SG1 walked past him to where they’d been directed. “There are different types. It’ll come to you.” Jim paused. “Remember me yet?”

“No, I’m sorry.” The man was persistent.

“Had to ask.”

“Right.”

“We’re going to go do our thing over there, then go do another thing with General Hammond. By the time we’re done with that thing, your thing’ll be done. I’ll come back and take you to your room.”

“Okay,” he said. He had a room?

Jim tromped off after the rest of his team, back to business as usual, apparently. He watched them and was envious. He wanted. He needed. He would remember.

“Daniel…” Doctor Fraiser said. He looked down at her, his heart jumping a little at the bare happiness that seemed to flow from her whole being. She blinked. “Should I call you Daniel? Is that what you want?”

No one had asked him that. He wasn’t quite sure how to answer. If he really wanted to move forward in his new old life, he was going to have to stop thinking of himself in terms of time spent with the travelers. Reminding himself alone wasn’t going to help him, but he couldn’t take the idea of abandoning his nomadic experience quite yet. He stared at the ragged tip of his footwear, which stuck out from beneath his robes.

“Daniel’s fine,” he said at last. It was. It had to be.

The doctor relaxed into a smile. “All right then, Daniel, I should prepare you for what’s going to happen. I’m going to run a number of tests to determine a good number of things. The two most important for the time being are that you are healthy and that you are indeed Daniel Jackson. This will involve taking a blood sample as well as an examination of your physical person.”

“I understand.”

“To do that, I’m going to have to touch you. Will that be a problem?”

He clenched his jaw and shook his head. She shouldn’t feel it necessary to ask permission, he didn’t think, since she was someone whose responsibility it was to care for people. He presumed she cared for him. He considered it might be possible Daniel had never been a particularly tactile person. The thought brought back that hollow feeling. Maybe it had more to do with the warning Sam had issued before.

“No. No problem,” he said. He swallowed. His throat was raw. “Before, when Sam said that…I…it was…I was…”

“Overwhelmed?” Doctor Fraiser guessed. When he nodded, she said, “I can only imagine. If you’re feeling anything like what the rest of us are, overwhelmed is a bit of an understatement.”

“I don’t know who I am.” What a brilliant thing to say. “And back with the travelers, I didn’t understand anything. I still don’t, but the shock has worn off some.”

Why was he telling her all this? He looked down at her shoes, noticed the heel was quite high, yet he still towered over her. He didn’t feel big, though. He scrunched his eyes, and Doctor Fraiser’s feet came into better focus. Warmth on his arm, penetrating layers of robes, prompted him to raise his head up. She was touching him, more than a fleeting pat on the back or brush against his shoulder. It was an actual touch. The warmth spread until it filled him. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, feel hers around him. Perhaps Daniel Jackson wasn’t remote at all. He could not recall if he had ever felt such comfort from a simple touch before. Couldn’t recall—that was a good one.

“Everyone will tell you it’ll get better. Some of them probably already have. No one can make those wishes turn into guarantees, but you should know right now that there are many people here who will do just about anything to help. We’re here, Daniel. Now, we’re here.”

Oh. There were tears in her eyes. She was starting to cry. He didn’t know what to do for her. He felt useless, helpless. He lifted his hand and placed it on top of hers.

“Thank you,” he said.

Doctor Fraiser nodded and brushed her free hand across her cheek. Her job must be difficult in a place such as this, where danger likely happened often and without warning. How many injuries did she treat, how many people died despite her care? From even a small amount of interaction with her, he could tell she was dedicated to her job and patients. Something in her eyes told him everything, assured him of this. Every death must affect…his death. He realized somewhat belatedly that he had ‘died.’ She must have been there.

“I know you do, but I don’t remember. Anything,” he said quietly, as if that would make her feel better.

“Be grateful for that, Daniel,” she said after a pause.

She didn’t elaborate but pulled her hand away and ushered him out of the medical room. Following silently, he wondered where she was taking him. It wasn’t far, just around the corner, to another room isolated from the main one. It was filled with some of the same devices, plus additional ones. He shivered, all the warmth he had gained from her touch depleting from him quickly. Doctor Fraiser went in, but he seemed trapped in the doorway.

“I thought it would be better if we did this without onlookers.” Doctor Fraiser turned around and noticed he had not entered. She looked at him nervously, clasping her hands together. “People have been buzzing about your return since the news was delivered. I thought you might appreciate some privacy.”

He remained standing in the doorway, but leaned in. He glanced around and saw large windows high up along one wall. Behind the clear barrier, he could see another room was adjoined with this one, apparently for the express purpose of looking on. He smiled to himself as he finally understood what Doctor Fraiser was talking about. He remained at the door. There was something about this room, the same vague something he’d felt before and so he knew a memory about it had to be buried within him. Still, nothing here made anything of his past clarify. He was both disturbed and glad he hadn’t had a waking dream yet. It was strange, to be sure. Perhaps the test results would indicate he did not actually belong here. He felt a pang at the thought.

“Those rooms are locked,” Doctor Fraiser informed him. She smiled at him. “Don’t worry, I’m not charging for a peep show.”

“What’s a peep show?” he asked.

She barked out a little laugh. “Never mind. Let’s get you out of those robes and down to business.”

He might have been a simple nomad for a couple of moons, but that sounded like a very lewd suggestion. He arched his eyebrows and took a step back instead of forward.

“Uhm.”

“I can’t examine you while you’re wearing so many clothes,” she explained. “It will impede the tests.”

“Oh.”

“You’re going to have to trust me, Daniel.”

“Everyone keeps saying that.” Well, one person had said it, but he could sense the same idea from nearly everyone he had been in contact with.

“I knew this wasn’t going to be as easy as you were letting on,” she sighed. “You never were one to show much skin.”

“Well, I guess waking up naked in a field with people staring at me hasn’t really helped with that issue.” Since that day on Vis Uban, he had draped himself in robes. He wore them like a blanket of armor.

Doctor Fraiser didn’t respond, looking a little like he imagined he did after trying Shamda’s mushrooms for the first and last time. He recalled the moment well. He shuddered. He suddenly missed his home. Irrationally, he wished he had asked Shamda to come with him here so he would have more than a few candles to remind him of all he knew. But Shamda wouldn’t appreciate Earth. There was something too sterile and unnatural about anything he had seen. It couldn’t all be like this. He reached into his bag and made sure the candles were still there.

“Naked in a field…” Doctor Fraiser said at last. “Uhm, oh my. Maybe you’d prefer if we went back to the main infirmary. We can just cordon off a section with a curtain. That way you’ll be near the colonel—Jack—and Sam and Teal’c.”

He considered that option and decided it wouldn’t be much better than this. He was overreacting. His robes were not truly armor. He shook his head and lifted the bag of his meager possessions over his head. Handing it to Doctor Fraiser, he moved closer to the single bed occupying the room. Here, alone, he wouldn’t have to deal with feeling everyone else’s anticipation. The doctor appeared to check her expectations with more professionalism than the others; that must be why he felt more comfortable around her. He saw a garment folded into a square on the bed. He picked it up and it came undone.

“While you put that on, I’ll see if I can find something for you to put on after we’re done. I should have thought of that before.”

“I want to keep my robes,” he said.

“Of course, just like you kept the ones from…” She stopped, held up his bag and studied it for a second. She put it on a tall stood with wheels and backed out of the room, repeating, “Of course.”

He blinked. Robes from… Sand. Bright sun and heat surrounded him, but he was cold and there was only darkness within both his body and his soul. His hands—Daniel’s hands placed a white feather on a scale. He waited. He hoped. He looked down at his hands and they were covered with gauze. He clenched them, making bright red spots discolor the pristine bandages. Pain, not the same pain as what the feather caused. He frowned. That wasn’t right, was it?

“Daniel? Why haven’t you changed?”

Something pressed into Arrom’s back and the sand disappeared. His hands were free. Clinical brightness replaced sunlight. He was still cold. It was the metal bedframe that dug into his back. He felt something on his hands, looked down expecting to see gauze. He had the gown wrapped around them. He tried to get himself loose, releasing his fists. He watched the piece of clothing flutter to the floor like a feather.

“I lost track of time,” he said stupidly. Too much time. He was certain the sensations normally lasted for a mere flash.

“Okay,” Doctor Fraiser said. There was no conviction in her utterance. “Doing what?”

“Thinking.” Kind of true. The images stayed with him. They weren’t right, didn’t belong together. “I was trying to remember.”

At those words, the doctor paled, and he wondered why. “Do you?”

“No.” Also kind of true.

“Oh.” She looked at him for a couple seconds, then extended a pile of drab green toward him. “Once you get settled in, I promise I’ll take you shopping for a better wardrobe.” Instead of giving him the uniform, she set it on the bed and leaned down to pick up the gown. “For now, though, let’s get you into this. Do you want me to turn around or something?”

“No, it’s okay.” He figured he should get used to being in various states of undress around her, if some type of examination was routine around here. He felt a draft of air ruffle his hair. “You could shut the door, though.”

“Right.”

As she was doing so, he shed his robes and slipped his arms into the gown. It swung open in the back, and he struggled to find the strings to bind it up enough to provide at least some cover. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to stay standing or sit on the bed, so he lifted himself onto it. He crossed his right leg and removed his shoe, then did the same with his left.

Doctor Fraiser began the examination, running her fingers along his head, his neck, his back. Her fingers were chill at first, but they warmed. She spoke to him in soft tones as she proceeded with each step. He heard her. He didn’t listen to the words. He lost himself in a haze of nothing, just waiting for her to be finished. He was afraid now he had had a waking dream that more would follow. That something would make him remember. A touch, a smell. Only minutes ago, he had wished for such a reaction. And while he tried not to, but he thought of the feather and the scale. Of sand and bandages. All of those things were loss. He sensed it. He wondered again how much he really wanted to remember about his life as Daniel Jackson.

He was urged through the examination. Stand up. Turn head. Cough. Look into bright light. Blink. Sit down. Tap on knee, leg jerk. Read chart. Blood drawn. Lie still. Pull jumpsuit on, follow Doctor Fraiser where she led. He went through it all, barely aware, responding only when asked questions. Responding in what he hoped was a normal tone of voice. He thought he did all right, or at least she didn’t indicate anything he said or did was out of the ordinary.

Before he knew it he was sitting again, in the main infirmary this time. Ji…Jack sauntered in. He looked up at the other man but didn’t speak. Neither of them did.

“Well, I’m happy to say, sir, that he’s in perfect health, except for one small exception,” Doctor Fraiser announced.

She extended something to him, but he couldn’t see it clearly. He reached for it anyway, and recognized the object from seeing something similar on others throughout the base. He unfolded the bows and slipped the object on. His vision became sharper.

“Wow, that’s different,” he said. He looked up at Jack, who stared back at him with expectancy he was now accustomed to.

“You recognize me now?”

He wished he had another answer. He blinked a couple of times and tried to think of what to say. “Has your hair always been that way?”

“What way?” Jack asked, sounding a bit offended.

Wrong comment to make, then.

“Never mind.”

He saw Doctor Fraiser wave her hands in the air out of the corner of his eye. Jack rolled his eyes, and then tipped his head toward the door and raised his eyebrows. He yawned with his mouth closed, and his stomach growled. He hoped no one heard it. Right now, tiredness outweighed hunger.

“Come on,” Jack said to him.

He trailed after Jack, drifting into the wall once or twice. Sleepiness was overcoming his motor skills. He kept his eyes focused on the broad shoulders of the man in front of him, and that helped. He felt as though he should be speaking with Jack. All of his few words had been used up. So they moved silently. He wanted to rest his eyes. The world was strange and clear now that his vision was corrected. It was disorienting.

“Here we are,” Jack said and opened a plain metal door wide, ushering him to go in. “Not exactly home, but…we unpacked some of your stuff.”

Items littered the room, clearly in an attempt to make it more hospitable. He didn’t recognize anything, but was amazed by the gesture itself. Facets of Daniel Jackson’s life were apparently better than the brief snippets of confusion he had experienced. He picked up a statue.

“You kept all this even though you thought I was dead?” he said.

“To be honest, we tossed out a ton of junk,” Jack told him. He had no claim to these items at this point, but felt a stab of hurt. Jack looked uncomfortable. “A lot of which seemed to be very valuable.”

He set down the object and looked around the room again. There was a photograph of a person on the table on the other side of the bed. He was compelled toward it, picked it up. The face smiling back at him was beautiful. It struck something within him.

“I…kept a few of your…personal things alive there,” Jack told him.

More was said in tone than in words. He studied the woman, wanting so much to recognize her.

“I know her,” he said.

He did. He had to. He thought of sand and sun and wind.

“Really?”

“I mean, I must. Right?”

“Yeah.” Jack sounded disappointed.

“Who is she? What’s her name?”

“You tell me,” Jack told him, then backed out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Jack was right not to tell him, he knew that. He looked down at the picture in his hands. The skin at the back of his neck tingled.