Sabine Bauer - Mirror, mirror

"He has bum wounds?" She didn't bother to conceal her surprise. Those were hard to come by on a fishing boat.

Wex let out a startled hiss of breath. "By the Ancestors! I hope you aren't wondering why people walk in fear of you," he growled. "His hands are burned. How could you possibly have known that?"

"I may be unable to see, but my nose works just fine."

His only reply was another growl. It hung, finely balanced, in the void between amusement and doubt. Then he tugged her on, eased her to a seat at the edge of his cot.

"I have put your basket right by your feet. See what you can do for him," Wex muttered. "He is unconscious and barely alive, and there's nothing much else I can tell you, except that we found a sheet of metal nearby. It seems he was smart enough to use it as a float, but I couldn't say how long he has been in the water."

Too long, likely as not. She nodded absently, no longer listening to Wex. Now it was her fingers she listened to, carefully heeding everything they said. Some of it was obvious, like the fact that the men had either stripped the foundling or he'd lost his clothes in whatever accident had caused him to end up in the sea. Other things were far more subtle, such as the distinction between the blistering caused by sun and saltwater-mild, all things considered, for it was early in the year yet-and the deeper burns that must have been caused by some other agent. Or the signs of starvation, which this one didn't show. True, he hadn't eaten in some time, and she could feel ribs, sharp and fragile, standing out from taut skin, but she also felt strong, well developed muscles, far from the hollowness that would have told her his body, in a doomed bid to stave off death, had begun to devour itself.

Even so, he was lucky to be alive. He was burning with fever, its heat rising from clammy skin. He had also broken two bones in his left leg, though she couldn't begin to imagine how he might have achieved that by falling from a fishing boat.

Then she realized what she was doing-gathering reasons to hope-and shrank back. This foolishness would have to be stopped and stopped now, and there was one sure way of bringing an end to it. Her hands reached up, found his face and started to explore-to look. Sunken cheeks under a rough beard. A high forehead, plastered with thick, damp hair, evenly arched eyebrows, straight nose, well-formed lips, now chapped and swollen from thirst. He was handsome, no doubt, and yes, much as she'd wanted to deny it, there was indeed a chance, but-curse her blindness! — she had too little to go on. She needed to know the color of his hair and eyes, needed to see him…

Her hands drifted from the foundling's face to his neck, chased a thready whisper of a pulse-too shallow and too fast, but that would improve once she got some water into him. And maybe a stimulant, to be-

The tip of her left index finger retraced its path. Low on the neck, just beneath the pulse point, it had noted a spot of unevenness where the skin had thickened. The old woman felt her heart begin to race, fast enough and hard enough to hurt within her chest.

It couldn't be. After all these years, after endless waiting, he couldn't simply come falling from the sky and be brought to her at death's door. Then again, it seemed just the thing the man she'd known would do. But surely Wex would have recognized him, wouldn't he?

"What is that?" she asked Wex, gently turning the foundling's head so the neck was exposed.

"It's a scar. The shape looks familiar. Could be-" He broke off to let out a low whistle. "It looks exactly like the bite of an iratus bug! But if it were that, he'd-"

"Be a dead man," she croaked, nowhere near as dismissively as she'd intended, but still capable of faint satisfaction at not having told an outright lie. A potent mix of elation and terror churned in her mind and soul-not unlike those heightened sensations she recalled from the moments just prior to battle-and it punished a body long since unused to such fierce emotion. For the first time in a life that had lasted too long, she fainted.

She came to steadied by the strong arm of Wex, who must have prevented her from falling off the side of the cot. "Can you hear me?" he barked, voice rasping with concern. "Teyla Emmagan! Talk tome!"

Why was everyone so intent on remembering her name today? Perhaps this was a sign, too.

"I'm fine," she murmured, hating how weak she sounded. Teyla Emmagan, indeed! Teyla had been a warrior.

"No, you are not fine!" Relief at hearing her speak made Wex's concern snap into anger. "I shouldn't have brought you here. You must have been up all night! I'll take you back to your cave now."

"No! I cannot leave. He will die."

"He'll just have to take his chances. I would rather have him die than you."

"No! I'm telling you!" She sensed that Wex was not going to yield, but perhaps that was an advantage, because it gave her an excuse. "Alright. Take me back to my cave. But tell your men to bring him, too, quickly and carefully. He will need constant care, and I don't want to have to do it in this reeking tent of yours."

The warmth was a good thing. And he was dry. Surprisingly, he also was still alive. John Sheppard decided to consider the ramifications of this astonishing development at a later date-preferably when his head hurt a little less-and fell asleep again.

The next time he woke, he noticed that it wasn't just his head that hurt. Clearly, survival had come at a price, and there were several things seriously wrong with him.

What the hell had happened?

Being able to remember stuff would help, but the only thing he could recall was feeling unreasonably cold and wet. That, and being carried. A bunch of guys, a very old woman, and… Wex? But there'd been no kids, he was sure of that. Only a bunch of guys and an old woman. Avery old woman, in-

"You are awake again. Good."

He'd been right about the old woman at least. He recognized the voice, a gentle, oddly familiar lilt, brittle with age. It had been woven through some really strange nightmares, the only constant in a scarily unstable dreamscape.

A scrawny hand and arm threaded under his neck, raised his head.

"Ow," he said, trying to sound indignant in a polite sort of way. He didn't want to upset the natives just yet.

"Your head hurts because you are dehydrated. Drink this. All of it."

The rim of a cup touched his lips and triggered a vague recollection. He'd been made to ingest several gallons of Drinkthisallofit since arriving here-wherever here was. Of course, he could simply open his eyes and find out, but that carried a risk of aggravating the headache.

"Drink!" the old lady ordered again and jogged his head for emphasis.

Ow!

Drinkthisallofit was hot enough to allow only small sips and tasted healthily-in other words, revoltingly-herbal. He had no idea of its precise curative properties (if any) or if Dr. Beckett would approve of them, but refusal wasn't an option. Been there, done that, got yelled at. His eyeballs felt as if they were coated in ground glass, but he forced his lids open anyway. If he had to drink it, he at least wanted to know whether the stuff really was as Day-Glo green as it tasted.

John found himself squinting into some kind of outsize mug without handle — a gourd? — and felt a small stab of dis appointment: the liquid was colorless. Strangely enough, his frivolous foray into the world of the living hadn't prompted any reaction from his nurse. He closed his eyes again, took another sip, swallowed, and pulled a face.

"God, this tastes foul," he whispered. If a wet towel could talk, it'd sound like him.

What the hell had happened?

He'd asked that before. Maybe he should try to get-

"I know that, Colonel Sheppard. Drink it anyway."

What he did instead was swallow the wrong way, flying into a coughing fit that wreaked havoc on his head. She'd gotten the rank mixed up, but she knew his name. How? To the best of his knowledge-which, admittedly, didn't amount to much-he hadn't been lucid enough for introductions.