Hearth Fires

Fandom: Criminal Minds, Stargate SG-1
AU: Children of Fire
Series: Four For Fire
Word Count: 10,446
Characters: Aaron Hotchner, Baal (Stargate), David Rossi, Derek Morgan, Emily Prentiss, Jack O’Neill, Jennifer Jereau | JJ, Pele (Original Goa’uld Character), Penelope Garcia, Sam Carter, Spencer Reid, Tages (Original Goa’uld Character)

David Rossi is not the first life they’ve lived, and it’s been a long time since they were Tages and a very curious symbiote traveled away from his sister and brother and mother to feed his hunger for knowledge. Now, they’ve sent that sister’s last host to rescue the brother from his own folly, and are waiting for the tau’ri to react to the loss of one of their own.

Sam isn’t sure why she’s rescued Baal, even if she was asked, and she’s really not sure why she’s taken him to what he’s calling home, with a goa’uld she’s never heard of, and a distinct lack of a stargate for her to get home. All she knows is it seemed like the right thing to do, and she wants answers.

Baal isn’t happy to be back on the world where he began, the world which he hid from everyone, even his own clones. He’s furious and hurting, and he wants everything he lost back. Right now, though, he’ll settle for being alive and safe, and plotting his revenge.

Notes: First part of a four-part series. Time discrepancies between the canons are mostly ignored. Set during season seven of Criminal Minds, and sorta during Continuum for Stargate SG-1, in that I borrowed a small part of it. There are loose ends, some of which are to be dealt with in the later stories in the set, some of which will probably have side-stories.

---

She is power, fiery goddess of the mountain, before who all shadows are banished. Her sons are fertility and wisdom, who carry the fire into the dark places beyond the stars. One of their own, the brightest and strongest and best-loved among their young men, offers to be the vessel for the younger. The older already has a vessel, bred for the purpose, and uses that one to take him from their home.

Memory fades, and even the best loved of the gods die, but the story is danced and chanted, and lives on over generations. The sons are not forgotten, and the goddess is worshiped at her mountain, and stories become legends. Until the younger son returns, bloodied and beaten, with only a loyal woman to guard his back. His brother is missing, vanished among the stars, and he is hunted.

His mother takes him back, and folds him in her arms. Welcomes the woman as a daughter, and soothes their hurts. For the dark has sharp blades, and weapons greater than the simple ones borne by their people. Weapons that will be met with their goddess’s fire, in retribution for their ill-treatment of her son.

---

After his lunchtime meeting with Lieutenant Colonel Carter, Rossi knows it’s a matter of time before the military comes looking into him. Particulalry if she actually goes through with what he’s asked her to do, since it will look like betrayal and treason – hell, is treason, though for him, loyalty to family is far more important than loyalty to a country that will change, at best, or vanish entirely over time.

/She will free him, even if it’s not because we asked./ Tages is far more confident of whatever memories Carter may have left of Jolinar than Rossi is, even after being part of each other for more than two millenia.

/I don’t care why, I just hope she does. Neither of them deserves losing the other./ Rossi stirs a pot of marinara, looking over the rest of the cooking food. The team is coming over tonight, though none of them are aware of exactly why Rossi has asked them for another team dinner. He suspects they’re aware it’s more than just team-bonding or any excuse in that vein, but he’s also fairly certain none of them are aware of the real reason.

Tages doesn’t respond to that in words, but in the sense of affection and agreement that Rossi had already been certain of. It’s going to be interesting explaining Tages to the team – and then to the SGC, if they decide to send someone who might be able to tell Tages is present without him making a production of it.

The two settle into their usual routine of making dinner while they wait, and Rossi is almost glad that the first person to arrive is JJ. He isn’t certain what she’d done while at the Pentagon, but he does know she’d been in contact with General O’Neill and more often, with his aide, over the course of the year she’s spent away from the BAU.

“JJ. Will.” Rossi waves them both inside, glad to see they haven’t brought Henry with them. It’s going to be complicated enough explaining to his team – and a handful of others, if not all here at this dinner – without having to explain it to a couple of children. Especially without being certain if either Jack or Henry think aliens are cool or scary.

“Dinner’s almost ready, and the rest of the team should be here soon.” He hopes. The longer he has to hold onto this secret tonight, the more those here are going to ask questions that might uncover more than he would like them to. More than they would like the team to uncover.

It’s not long before Aaron, then Morgan and Garcia, arrive. Reid shows up with Emily; she’s brought another bottle of wine to share.

Rossi greets them all with his usual mix of cheer and snark, the team gathering in the formal dining room that he rarely uses – and often, only for this sort of thing, and that because he has the best house for team gatherings. No one asks what this is about until they’re lingering over dessert, and starting to get truly curious.

/Showtime./ Tages has picked up modern idioms as he has, though sometimes Rossi wonders at what his symbiote picks and choses from the slang of the era. Although the eagerness of Tages to get this over with may be as much about wanting to have a chance to do more than provide snarky remarks and observations to Rossi. He’s been getting bored with this life, even though he’d been as much part of the decisions that made up the life of David Rossi as his host had been.

“I know you’re all curious about why I asked you all to dinner.” Rossi pours more wine into his glass as he speaks, looking around to meet each of his team-mates eyes, holding JJ’s for perhaps a split second longer. She’ll be the one least surprised by the idea aliens are real, and probably the most concerned that Tages exists and is part of him. “I’m going to have to ask you to suspend your disbelief for a little while.”

That gets him a couple raised eyebrows – Aaron and Emily – and a small frown from JJ. She may also figure this out before he finishes his explanation. Which means getting this out as quickly as possible.

“Let me tell you a story.” He holds up his hand when Aaron opens his mouth, probably to ask about the relevence. “Trust me, all of this will be relevent. Though if you’ll bear with me, it might be a bit long.”

Tages chortles in the back of his mind at that, knowing just how long the story could be, if they didn’t just hit the highlights. Which means, some of the beginning, a little of the middle, and a lot more toward the present. Rossi takes a sip of his wine, and starts to weave the story, hoping he gets to the end without JJ calling General O’Neill, or one of the others taking exception to the tale, or to Tages.

---

Sam paces the room she’s been given, worrying at a thumbnail as she finally lets herself actually think about the last weeks. Being approached by an FBI agent who was far more than met the eye, and who pled for the life of a man she’d long called enemy. Speaking with Baal a few nights before he was to be extracted from his host, and the decision – almost impulsive – to help him escape his fate. Finding a few j’affa still loyal to Baal, and executing a plan that she hadn’t really expected to lead to anything more than her death, and those of her co-conspirators.

She hadn’t really been certain why Baal had told her to take him home, hadn’t recognized the coordinates he’d given her. Sam had only hoped he’d survive to make it to wherever they were going, after he had been hit by a staff blast. That he had was more a testiment to his stubborn nature than her skill at first aid. She hadn’t let herself think about the fact she wouldn’t be able to go home again, not then.

They had come out of hyperspace near a blue and white jewel of a planet, and almost immediately been hailed by an automated sattelite. Baal had provided a code to transmit to it, and they’d been given coordinates to land the cargo ship at. Sam hadn’t been sure what to expect after that; certainly hadn’t thought she’d be welcomed, no matter that she had helped Baal.

She’d even less expected his warm welcome by the goa’uld who clearly ruled this planet – a woman dressed in red and gold, with an elaborate feathered headdress. Sam still doesn’t know what the relationship is between them, though at least she’s been given a guest room instead of a cell, and left to her own devices.

Peering out into the hallway again, she wonders why she’s been so welcomed, and why there aren’t even guards outside the curtained arch that marks the entrance to the rooms. It isn’t behavior she expects from a goa’uld, particularly one who is on friendly terms with Baal.

Turning back toward the room, she studies it again for a long moment, as though it might give her insight into what is going on. The open architecture and abundant use of living plants and light fabrics gives it the feel of a tropical paradise, even more than the balmy weather. Simple furniture belies the luxury of the space, though the sunken bath she’d contemplated making use of earlier more than makes up for that pretense of simplicity.

A soft sound behind her makes her turn to the doorway again, where a young woman is standing, watching her with a look that was almost hero-worship. She blushes when Sam catches her gaze, and drops her eyes to the floor.

“My mistress requests your presence at the feast to celebrate the return of her son. If you will follow me, I shall lead you there.” The young woman looks up again, her expression still one that makes Sam uncomfortable with her decision to rescue Baal. “It is to thank you for bringing him home safe to her. You are to be honored above all others.”

Son. Which made the goa’uld who ruled here one of the queens, of which Sam has met two and is in no real hurry to meet another. Although there is a niggling sense at the back of her mind that whatever Pele is, she’s not quite like either Amonet or Egeria. A feeling that Sam would almost bet comes from what buried memories she still has from Jolinar.

Sam gives the girl a tight smile, hesitating for a long moment before she nods, waving a hand toward the door. “Lead the way.”

The young woman smiles again, bright and open, and turns to lead her through the airy passages of the palace, and out onto a narrow jungle path that leads down the sometimes steep side of the mountain. Steps switchback down, and the path leads out onto a beach where a shade is set up, beneath which the goa’uld who’d greeted her the day before is sitting on a low throne.

“Colonel Samantha Carter.” Red-painted lips curve in a smile, and the goa’uld waves to one of the ornate chairs on her left. “Sit with me, please. My son will join us when he is ready.”

Sam looks at the set up of the dais, the goa’uld’s throne the highest of them, and each of the other seats taking up different levels. The chair she’s been invited to sit in is higher than the other, or the lounge that is on the goa’uld’s right.

She knows she shouldn’t be surprised by goa’uld claiming family relationships, though the last time she’d heard one calling another son, it had been Apophis addressing Klorel, and that had been almost expected from the mythology surrounding the roles they’d taken on.

“Thank you.” She manages a smile that’s almost genuine before carefully settling on the seat she’s been offered. It’s far more throne-like than she’s comfortable with, though it’s not as elaborate as what she can see of the goa’uld’s own throne. “I never caught your name.”

The goa’uld chuckles, leaning back slightly in her throne, hands resting lightly on the carved arms – Sam thinks she sees tiny human skulls among the feathers and flowers, and twitches slightly. “I have been called many names, by many people. I liked best those who called me Pele.” She looks over at Sam again, a smirk on her face that’s a challenge. Daring Sam to react to the name, with fear or anger or defiance.

“I don’t have an archeology degree, and I’m not really into reading mythology for fun.” Sam shrugs, refusing to let herself show anything but some curiosity. “I did go to Hawaii a couple of times, though. Pele is their goddess of volcanos, right?”

Pele tilts her head, her smile more amused now than challenging. “Their goddess of fire, who created the islands, yes. The goddess of the mountain, as they call me here.” She looks out over the humans who are working on the beach a moment, her smile fading somewhat. “Tell me, Colonel Carter, why did you help my son? You wear the uniform of his enemies, and I have heard of you being part of those who destroyed his empire and his works.”

Sam is silent for a long moment, shifting uncomfortably in her chair as she looks out toward the ocean that washes the beach – there aren’t any great waves close to shore, but their are some impressive ones further out. The question is too close to what she’d been thinking earlier, and is still trying to figure out herself.

“I don’t know,” she finally answers, meeting Pele’s gaze. “I wasn’t planning to, until almost the last minute.” It wasn’t the genuinely heartfelt plea from Agent Rossi, it wasn’t the grandiose promises Baal made that she doesn’t think he meant.

Pele watches her with a remote expression for a moment, then nods, and turns her attention back to the preparations for celebration, leaving Sam to stew in her own thoughts.

---

Baal wakes to the familiar glow of a sarcophagus, and waits until it opens, taking the hand that’s held out to him. It costs him nothing to allow those servants Pele allows into this room to assist him. They are familiar with the needs of their gods, and do not speak of them to others.

A robe is held for him to shrug on, and he pads from the sarcophagus room to his own, the simple elegance familiar despite the centuries since he’s last been here. A lo’taur waits, a bath already drawn, and clothing laid out for the celebration Pele is no doubt holding.

“Go. I do not need your assistance tonight. You may return in the morning.” Baal wants the peace of solitude for the moment, or at least the privacy to vent his frustrations. He had built an empire, had thought he’d vanquished his enemies, and had it brought to nothing by the tau’ri. That he had been forced to rely on one of those same enemies to escape with his life, and that he had needed to return here, is a humiliation he doesn’t care to admit.

The bath at least serves to wash the evidence of his injuries off, and the knowledge that the clothing left for him will draw some reaction from Carter is enough to restore his good mood sufficiently to make his way down to the beach he knows Pele will have set up for a celebration. In many things, Pele may be unpredictable, but never in how she celebrates.

Smells of roasted meat and spices meet his nose before he’s quite emerged from the jungle, and Baal smirks at the familiarity. It has been a long time since he has enjoyed a meal cooked quite the same way he recalls from his youth, when his host had not yet joined with his symbiote. Whole roasted pigs, sweet fruit, and the rich, creamy roots that grew nowhere else in the galaxy. He’s missed those perhaps most of all, but never enough to wish to come home or even acknowledge where he had come from.

A weakness, after all, can be exploited by his enemies, and he’s gained far more of those outside the paradise that Pele has made of her chosen world. Even his own clones had never been given the earliest memories he possessed, all believing that the world he’d first landed on to be the world he – and by extension they – first came from. It had been a feat of genetic engineering he’s still proud of, and has not come to ruin like the rest.

He can feel Carter’s gaze on him as he strides across the beach toward the pavillion where she and Pele wait. He manages not to let his surprise make his step falter, but he is surprised to see her seated in the third chair that had always been empty to his memory. Baal had only asked why once, and Pele had told him it was for his sister, if ever she came home. She hadn’t done so before he left, no more than Tages had chosen to remain once he had been ready to take a proper host.

“Mother.” He hesitates a moment before he kneels in front of her throne, if only until she touches his shoulder, giving him leave to move, and settle in the wide lounge he’d always enjoyed before he left. It is perhaps not as imposing as he would prefer, but here, he is the beloved son, not the feared god.

---

They’d known it would eventually come to the attention of Homeworld Security – among other, less savory agencies – when they’d contacted Colonel Carter. Neither Rossi nor Tages had expected General O’Neill to come to the BAU himself, despite the concerns they and JJ had shared about his reaction. When she looks up at his office while leading the general and an aide toward the conference room, her expression clearly says this isn’t what she was expecting, either.

Aaron is at the door of his office, watching the two military men a moment before he glances at Rossi. Most of the rest of the team are carefully not looking, though Rossi is certain they’ll be glancing toward the conference room, and speculating on the conversation until it’s over.

“Do you want company while you talk to General O’Neill, Dave?” Aaron lifts an eyebrow slightly to emphasize his offer, and the fact that it’s not just made to Rossi.

/They’d all join us in there if we asked./ Tages is still somewhat gleeful at the support the team had shown, despite what had to be one of the weirder secrets they’ve ever heard.

/I’d rather not let O’Neill know that the entire team is aware of you, not yet. Let’s keep that in reserve in case we need it./ Rossi shrugs his shoulders, glancing over the team a moment. “I think the general will probably be more comfortable if he weren’t talking about this in front of everyone, but I appreciate the offer. JJ should already be familiar with O’Neill, though.”

“Of course.” Aaron nods, though he doesn’t return to his office as Rossi heads for the conference room.

JJ is waiting, and gives Rossi an encouraging smile before she makes the introductions that aren’t entirely necessary. “General, this is Agent David Rossi. Agent Rossi, these are General Jack O’Neill of Homeworld Security, and Major Paul Davis from the Pentagon.”

“General.” Rossi is ready for the singing of naquadah in his blood when he shakes hands with O’Neill, and isn’t surprised by the momentary tightening of the man’s grip. He offers his hand to Davis, nodding to him as well. “Major. What can I do for you gentlemen?”

O’Neill glances at JJ with a raised eyebrow before he returns his attention to Rossi, watching him with a sharp, wary expression.

“I have some questions about what you discussed with Colonel Carter when you met her for lunch a couple weeks ago.”

“Questions to which you’re already expecting answers that aren’t entirely the truth, if they’re not outright lies.” Rossi smiles, brief and with a hint of predatory sharpness behind it. “Have a seat, General.”

/Shouldn’t they have promoted the poor Major by now? He’s been the liaison between the Pentagon and the SGC for years now, I think./ Tages is amused by the choice of companion for O’Neill, and perhaps simply by being able to make use of otherwise useless trivia. /I don’t think they were expecting any real trouble./

/I don’t think O’Neill expected JJ to keep information on a goa’uld from him – or he thinks she’s unaware of you./ Either one is laughable, but Rossi knows JJ wouldn’t betray the family she’s built at the BAU, even when that family is more than a little strange.

O’Neill keeps a wary eye on Rossi as they both take seats at the table. He clearly doesn’t like being read even the little bit Rossi had, but then, few people like being profiled, no matter how briefly or shallowly.

/He should have thought of that before coming in person to an office full of profilers./ Tages gives a mental snort, observing O’Neill as Rossi does the same, curiosity echoing between them. /Do you think he’ll want to kill us more if he thinks we’re Tok’ra, or if he thinks we’re as strange as we actually are among our species?/

/He’ll want to protect others from us either way, but I doubt he’ll accept us as Tok’ra if he knows how long we’ve been together./ They’ve never called it blending, despite the overlap in their personalities. They don’t like the tok’ra term any better than they like the idea of Tages being completely in control.

“I have a few questions myself, General, but they can wait a few minutes. Ask your questions, and I’ll answer them as truthfully as I safely can.” Rossi gestures as he speaks, an indulgent wave of the hand that is almost rude.

O’Neill snorts, a skeptical expression crossing his face a moment. He still doesn’t trust Rossi, but then, in his position, trust is an unfortunately rare commodity. Rossi doesn’t envy him his job for a moment. “Why did you ask Colonel Carter to meet with you?”

“I wanted to ask her a favor, and I couldn’t approach just anyone in the line of work she’s involved in.” It’s perfectly true, and entirely useless as an answer, and he knows O’Neill is aware of that.

“What sort of favor?” O’Neill could have been more specific with his follow-up question, but Rossi suspects he’s playing the game in deference to where they are. The only real question is how long he’s willing to play before demanding they continue this someplace more secure.

/And how long we’re willing to let him play it,/ Tages reminds him. Right now, though, he’s willing to keep up the word play of skirting classified material if Rossi is, but only so long as O’Neill shows no signs of changing the rules. The first sign of danger to them is license to throw all the rules out the window.

“A favor to someone I know who is currently out of my jurisdiction.” Rossi shrugs, leaning back in his seat – a show of unconcern that he can fake for a while yet. “And before you ask why, let’s just say she has the right experience and connections.”

Let O’Neill chew on that tidbit of information, and make some assumptions that aren’t true.

O’Neill’s eyes narrow a moment before he lets a brief smirk cross his face. Either he’s come to the conclusion Rossi would prefer he reached, or he’s recognized the tactic and dismissed the information as misdirection. Either way, Rossi knows he’ll have made a binary decision based on what he knows of Tages’ species that precludes the actual truth.

“How did you convince her to talk to you?” There are unspoken implications in that question that Rossi could choose to answer or ignore, both about his actions and Carter’s, and about the nature of his being.

“I told her the truth.”

/It would have been nice to talk to Jolinar again./ There’s a wistful note to Tages’ voice that Rossi has long been familiar with from times when family is involved. /Or to at least have been the ones to destroy her murderers./

/Yes, it would have been. Or even to have told Carter about what we knew of Jolinar./ Really, what Tages remembered of Jolinar, though he’d only ever really known her as larvae in the spawning pool, before each had been chosen for a j’affa to incubate to maturity.

“Why don’t you tell me what you told Colonel Carter?” O’Neill is good at the game, but Rossi and Tages have been playing this game since O’Neill’s ancestors were blue-painted barbarians away to the north and the west.

“It’s personal, and not something I’m inclined to discuss right now.” Rossi smiled blandly at the brief flash of frustration that O’Neill quickly suppresses. “Now, I have a few questions for you. Why is a lunch with a colonel worth an interrogation by a 3-star general? The Major, I could understand, but why bother to come yourself?”

He knows that O’Neill and Carter were on the same team before O’Neill was promoted out of the field, and knows very well the sort and depth of bonds that creates, even after a team has gone their separate ways. What he doesn’t know is what O’Neill will give as a reason, and that will be as telling as anything else. Particularly with O’Neill being as adept as he is at hiding, disguising, or suppressing his emotions.

“Colonel Carter is a friend.” The relationship isn’t a reason, but like Rossi’s earlier offer, a way to let Rossi draw his own conclusions rather than providing concrete information. His use of the present tense is potentially reassuring though, at least for the results of what he’d asked Carter to do.

“And?” Rossi raises an eyebrow, not letting O’Neill get away with so simple an evasion.

“And I wanted to know why an FBI agent had an interest in her.” The exasperation in O’Neill’s voice is probably exaggerated for effect, and to deflect attention from the lack of any real information in that answer, either.

“Now you know.” Rossi gives O’Neill another brief smile without moving from his seat. This isn’t over yet, and they both know it.

“Not all of it.” O’Neill doesn’t shift either, watching Rossi with a mulish expression on his face that’s probably a mix of real stubbornness, and more mind-games.

“All that you need to know,” Rossi counters, refusing to back down. He’d been willing to tell his team about Baal and Jolinar and Tages, and the mother all three had left to go in search of a greater destiny out among the stars, but he’s not nearly so willing to share that same information with the US military.

---

Sam wakes to the warmth of sunlight on her face, and the muted roar of distant surf. It takes her a long moment to remember where she is, and she sits up abruptly, sending a spike of agony through her head. It makes her groan, adding to the pain as she tries to combat the nausea it creates.

“Careful, mistress.” A cool hand is rested on the back of her neck, and Sam flinches, though it at least seems to quell the roiling in her stomach a little. There’s a quiet chuckle, and the hand tightens a moment, encouraging her to raise her head some. “Drink. It will help.”

A cup is brought to her lips with something sweet-smelling and cool – though there is a faintly bitter aftertaste that makes Sam grimace. Whatever it is does help, the pain fading from the blinding agony to a dull throb that will fade with enough time and water, like any hangover.

It’s enough to allow her to look up, and meet the amused gaze of a heavy-set woman with white-streaked hair.

“Thank you.” Sam manages a wan smile after a moment, trying not to shift away from the woman until she removes her hand from the back of Sam’s neck.

“It was needed.” The woman stood, shrugging, and standing so Sam isn’t looking into the sun to look up at her. Shadows puddle at the base of everything, giving an idea of the local time, at least. “You should return to the palace, mistress. The goddess of the mountain is as jealous as she is generous.”

“The goa’uld aren’t gods,” is an almost instinctive response, and Sam bites her lip after, hoping she hasn’t deeply offended the woman who’s just saved her from the worst of her hangover.

She’s surprised when the woman laughs, grinning widely. “Only a few of the children of the great mother-serpents are worthy to be called gods. Most would pretend they are, despite being found wanting.”

Sam blinks, nonplussed. Most native populations SG-1 had challenged on their belief that the goa’uld were gods had not reacted well – either denying, sometimes violently, that they could be mistaken, or taking SG-1’s words to heart, and rebelling against the goa’uld.

“Go, mistress. You can hear the old songs of the goddess of the mountain’s children another day.” The woman waves her hand toward the distant heights of the volcano that is central to the island. “She will know you’d not the ability to return when she and her son did. But you should not completely leave aside her hospitality.”

Managing an apologetic smile, Sam nods, and gets herself to her feet with a little effort. She’d fallen asleep behind the dais that held Pele’s throne, and the three others. Three children she acknowledged? But if one is Baal, and the other Rossi, who is the third, and why had she let Sam use that throne? Offered it, even?

They’re questions she might have to ask Pele, but Sam isn’t going to risk pissing her off by doing so, not right now. Better to wait and see what she can find out before she does, especially if she’s going to be here for the foreseeable future.

---

Even being the center of attention until dawn doesn’t allow Baal to remain asleep long, and when he wakes, he shoves away the women he’d allowed to join him in his bed, going to the balcony that overlooks a small garden, and the low walls that separate it from the wilder rainforest. He can see the ocean, a wide expanse of blue beyond the jungle stretching unbroken to the horizon. It’s a different view from the first palace, but it’s been over two thousand years, and no doubt the island has erupted since he’s been gone.

His hands close around the heavy wood of the railing, his expression carefully kept blank until he hears the rustle of clothing, and the soft murmurs of thanks that herald the two women leaving. It wouldn’t matter if he did nothing but allow them to sleep in his bed, they would be seen as blessed by the other humans who lived on Pele’s paradise world. Her carefully cultivated water world with its scattered islands, watched over by an automated system of satellites he had helped her to design to keep out unwelcome visitors.

And not a chappa’ai to be found, even sealed under the heavy stones of her one permanent temple. No escape but ships if his enemies come to seek him here. Baal’s bland expression darkens with emotions he is familiar with, if not fond of.

Helpless anger, simmering under his skin and burning in his blood. Pain, from the loss of everything he’d built, the empire he’d intended to present to Pele as proof of his worth. Confusion that she’d still called him her beloved son, and allowed him a throne on her dais when he’d failed to bring any proof of that worthiness. And a deep-seated frustration that he still felt the need to buy her affection, or to prove his ability to anyone but himself.

The railing creaks beneath his hands, but doesn’t crack. Every structure in the palace would be sturdy enough to stand up to the simple physical expression of fury that he is capable of without the assistance of weapons. Weapons that he does not have with him, had been stripped of by the tok’ra, and which Pele would not have allowed him to bring into her palace anyway, not into his rooms.

He can hear the whisper of bare feet on the stone floor behind him, the owner of those feet stopping outside of arm’s reach, just standing there. Too far to be sure if the person is a human who’s never been a host, or a j’affa. Baal doubts it would be Samantha, and Pele would not give him room or silence if she decided to approach him herself, rather than send a servant to summon him to her presence.

“What?” he asks after several long moments, the irritation audible in the snap of the word.

“Your breakfast awaits, my lord, and the Lady Carter has asked after you.” The voice is quiet and steady, not at all concerned at his anger. The humans here don’t fear their goddess, or the goa’uld, the way humans on other planets do. Even the tau’ri, for all their bravery, are motivated by fear in their fight to destroy the System Lords. A visceral fear that leaves the galaxy with a power vacuum and few candidates to fill it that are any better.

Baal raises an eyebrow, not bothering to turn to look at the human male. “Does Colonel Carter wish to talk to me?” If she does, she’ll have to come to him. He may be willing to come when summoned by Pele, but he will not be summoned by some human, not even one who had borne a symbiote and had rescued him. Especially not by his rescuer.

“She did not say that she did. She only wishes to know if you are well.” The man is still standing where he’d stopped earlier, patiently waiting for Baal to dismiss him or to acknowledge him with more than a response to his words.

“You may tell her I am.” Baal raises a hand, giving a sharp gesture of dismissal. He will serve himself his own meal from whatever the servant has brought, or he will locate where Pele has the dining hall – likely in the same place as before, the layout the same as the palace where he’d grown as a boy.

“Yes, my lord.” There’s a shift of fabric, the man likely bowing, before he retreats from the room as quietly as he’d entered earlier, leaving Baal to his brooding in peace.

After another long look at the landscape, Baal leaves it to find what had been brought – cut fruit and cold meat, and a steaming bowl that proved to have the same rich tubers from the night before, cut fine and sweetly spiced. A simple enough breakfast, and well suited for the day after a great feast. He remembers this being the only meal in the kitchens when he was a boy, whether or not there had been any feast the night before.

He smiles a moment, a thought passing through his head that Carter would probably be surprised at the simplicity of the meal – and of much of Pele’s everyday. The elaborate beauty and pageantry of the celebrations are the exception that he recalls, not the typical. Or perhaps she will find it familiar, if more comfortable, than her life before she had offered her aid to him.

It does not matter, though, what Carter thinks of Pele’s world, unless she should decide she wishes to leave and return to the tau’ri with her knowledge of it. Even if Pele would allow her to leave, Baal cannot risk Carter telling the rest of the universe where he calls home, of the paradise he still loves, despite long having been gone from it. It is this that he tries to recreate in his worlds, and often fails to. All too often, the humans and j’affa of the rest of the galaxy fear the goa’uld as much as they revere them, and they bow and scrape and serve because they know nothing else – or they try to destroy everything that their gods try to build.

“My lord?” The voice is female, coming from beyond the curtains of the arch into the hallway as the speaker waits there. Properly polite, but unlikely to be patient – he recognizes the voice, and wonders that she still lives.

“You may enter, Tutu.” Baal sets aside the remains of his meal, watching the woman as she pushes past the curtain. Her face isn’t as familiar as her voice, though she has the same build as in his memories, the same gray streaks in her dark hair, the same cadence to her voice, even the same timbre.

She is quiet for a long moment, studying him. “You remember the voice well, my lord,” she says after a moment, the measured tones of her voice still echoing the woman in his memories. “I would ask to know the stories of your journey, if you would tell me.”

Stories she would repeat to the humans who live in the village, and to those that come from other islands to hear the words of their goddess and her priestesses. Baal watches her for a long moment before gesturing for her to sit on one of the benches near the balcony, moving to join her. He will not allow all his life to become stories for Pele’s servants, but the stories of his triumphs, some of those he will share.

---

“You know, the show of support is welcome, but we hadn’t intended to play that mind-game with General O’Neill.” Rossi waits until he’s closed the door behind Reid and Emily, the last of the team to arrive at his house after the meeting with O’Neill that afternoon. It’s just as well he has a large driveway to accommodate the vehicles, or he suspects Morgan, at least, would have parked behind the car down the street with a surveillance team. He’s almost surprised no one had anyway.

“Well, we’re going to play it for you.” Emily smiles, and hands him the bottle of wine she’d brought before heading for the back yard where everyone else has gathered. Rossi shakes his head, following, and leaving the wine in the kitchen. He doesn’t want to crack it tonight, though he might do so when they do another team cooking night – if they do another team cooking night.

/There is no if. There is a when./ Tages has stubbornly been insisting that they will not be taken by the US military, despite O’Neill’s suspicions. /You know they won’t allow us to disappear without looking./

Garcia could probably find them if that happened, which is a comforting thought. Rossi pauses in the doorway, looking at the team. His team. Their team.

“You going to stand there all evening, or are you going to tell us what went on with O’Neill earlier?” Morgan has his most inscrutable expression on, which means he’s more worried than he wants to let on right now. Possibly because he’s not certain what to make of Tages, or maybe because he’s not sure what to make of the involvement of the US military.

Rossi shrugs, moving outside toward the collection of chairs they’re using. It’s easier to keep the conversation from being overheard by his observers out here, though he’s not sure of all the tools they have scavenged from the rest of the galaxy for their use. Maybe they’ll still hear every word, and he’ll damn them by opening his mouth.

“We talked, and danced around the classified subject of the existence of aliens, and carefully avoided giving each other any real information.” He settles into his favorite chair, leaning back as he watches his team. JJ had come alone this time, but beyond the lack of Will, the group is the same as the one for the dinner when he’d told them about Tages and some of what that meant. “He knows I have a symbiote, but only because he’s had one in the past, and still has enough naquadah in his blood to pick up on the naquadah in mine.”

“He’ll probably keep you under observation until he decides it’s time to bring you in.” JJ is the most familiar with O’Neill of them, and the troubled expression is back on her face again. “What I’m not sure about is how much he’ll tell the FBI about why he’s having you taken into custody.”

Tages grumbles in the back of his head, and Rossi gives JJ a wry smile. “Tages doesn’t think it’s a when, but he tends to be an optimist about these things.”

“The real if is what they decide to do with the rest of us.” Emily grimaces, shoving her hair back and tucking it behind her ear. “I’m sure they’ll want to ask us a few questions about you – if you’ve had any changes in behavior or personality, if you’ve had any illnesses or injuries that healed miraculously.”

“Not recently.” Rossi gives her a brief smile at her curious look. “This isn’t the first time I’ve worked in a job which has a short life expectancy.” It’s why he still has a sarcophagus, though there have been times when it’s been difficult to hide, or difficult to get to when he’s needed it. There is rarely any happy medium, and even with the speed of travel now, he still must get home to get to the sarcophagus. “And there’s only so much Tages can heal without risking his own life in the process – and if he dies, I’m not going to outlive him by long.”

“Why not?” Reid tilts his head slightly, watching Rossi with a curious expression. “I know you said you’ve been together for over two thousand years, but if you were still a young man at the time, at the rate which aging appears to have been retarded, wouldn’t you still live another fourty or fifty years without Tages?”

Rossi wonders if it might not have been a better idea to have opened the bottle of wine Emily had brought, after all. This is not going to be the easiest of conversations. “Most symbiotes can only, on their own, extend the human lifespan to two, maybe two and a half centuries.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair as he glances at each of his team mates. “It would be easier to show you what actually keeps us from aging, but it’s not something I want to share with the US military, and if you don’t know where it is…”

“We can’t tell them if they ask.” Aaron has a knowing expression on his face, though he doesn’t look too happy about being kept in the dark. At least the rest of the information should allow him a little peace – though certain aspects of it, he’ll keep to himself. Aaron doesn’t need to know that there had been a slim chance to have saved Haley with the sarcophagus.

“And if you don’t know where it is, they can’t assume you’ve been in it.” Rossi gives him a brief smile, before looking back at Reid. “It’s an addictive technology, with side effects that can include psychosis, delusional thinking, narcissism, violence, and paranoia.”

/Amelioration of guilt over necessary actions, confidence, a healthy respect for the dangers of being different, and a very healthy self-image,/ Tages counters, amusement in his mental voice.

Reid grimaces at the list of side-effects, or at the mention of the addictive tendencies of the sarcophagus. “And I assume the withdrawal symptoms can be lethal if you’ve already outlived a normal human lifespan?”

“Exactly.” Rossi suspects the withdrawal symptoms could be lethal even if someone had lived most of a normal lifespan, but he hadn’t wanted to experiment with that risk when it had been applicable, and since then, he’s preferred to keep his tinkering in the range of what he might actually survive. Or others, depending on just what he’s done, and if he’s been able to find a suitable subject.

“Why start using it in the first place?” Garcia looks puzzled, fiddling with her purse as she tries to wrap her mind around the new information. “Especially if you know it can kill you if you stop?”

/Do you want to answer that directly?/ Rossi holds up a finger to ask Garcia to wait a moment. /Since it’s not just my answer that matters./

Tages takes the chance to speak himself with a brief spark of thanks, and a blink of their eyes before they flare gold. Garcia flinches slightly, and the rest of the team each have their own tells at their discomfort with that bit of reminder that this is truly out of their experience.

“Each symbiote carries the genetic memories of their mothers. We’re essentially born addicted.” There’s clear amusement in Tages’ voice, deepening the vibrato effect somewhat. “Those who chose not to use a sarcophagus are constantly fighting a battle with their own memories and desires. I’ve never been much into a self-denial that’s more self-flagellation.” Tages shrugs, smiling at the expression on Garcia’s face. It’s a mix of surprise, approval, and amusement. “Dave’s reasons were more in line with the typical arrogance of a System Lord.”

/Hey!/ Rossi isn’t really denying that idea, but he’s not sure how the team will take their banter spoken out loud, and from Tages’ point of view when they’re not familiar with him yet.

/Sorry./ Except that he’s not, and Rossi hadn’t expected Tages to be.

“What do you mean?” Emily looks more curious than anything else, and certainly more so than anyone other than Reid. She’d been interested when Tages spoke the first time, as well, but with her background, Rossi isn’t really surprised.

“He did mention he was posing as a god when I met him.” Tages’ smile widens into a grin, and Rossi gives a mental roll of his eyes. “It’s hard to keep people believing that without some visible effect, like remaining young and vital. Even the showier effects of technology aren’t always enough, particularly with the sort of god he was pretending to be.”

“Tages, the Etruscan god of knowledge.” Reid had been reading up on the mythology, what information that could be found, since the dinner. He’ll regale them with all the details he found if they let him. “Why keep that name, instead of whatever name you had before you met Rossi?”

Tages is quiet for a long moment, though he isn’t really thinking about it. It had never been a question what name they would keep, and for a long time, there hadn’t been any difference between them. “It suited me, even in a changing world,” he finally says, quiet and more contemplative than he’d been a moment before. “Knowledge is a wealth that outlasts empires, Doctor Reid. I’d rather that power than all the world at my feet in worship.”

---

The palace is almost quiet when Sam slips in through a smaller side door that she suspects is meant for the human slaves who serve Pele, rather than for her guests, but she doesn’t want to find out if the large doors that she’d come through the day before are locked, when there’s a way in that isn’t. She pauses, looking around for someone who might be able to direct her to her rooms, wondering after a moment where the servants are that she’d expected to be present in a place this large.

At least there aren’t the same myriad archways along this corridor that she remembers there being in the wide main halls. There aren’t any doors, really, just a hallway that leads to an arch – and apparently, the kitchen beyond that. She gives the cooks and their assistants an embarrassed little smile, biting her lip a moment before she asks, “Um, can someone tell me how to get back to my room?”

“We can, my lady.” The oldest woman in the room watches her with a small, but warm, smile. “Though you look as if you would be best given a meal before, if you wish it.”

Breakfast sounds better than Sam had thought, and she wonders just what was in the drink the woman had offered to her on the beach. A painkiller, clearly, but there had to have been something else, because she’s not normally hungry when she has a hangover.

“Um. Sure. What is there to eat?” She lets herself be directed to a table that’s off to one side, in a bit of an alcove – a place where the kitchen staff can rest periodically, and eat when they need to, clearly. A cup of water is handed to her, and a bowl of mashed roots set in front of her which steams and smells sweet and a little like potatoes and a little like carrots. There is a plate of cut fruit as well, and Sam smiles in thanks, digging into the meal gladly.

She’s just finished when there’s a flurry of movement at one of the doors into the kitchen, a pair of women slipping in, and heading for the table Sam’s sitting at. They stop abruptly when they spot her, one of them shooting a worried and curious glance toward the woman who appeared to be in charge of the kitchen. The woman just snorts, and nods with a bit of an exasperated expression on her face.

“I’m not getting in the way, am I?” Sam glances between them, and the question makes one of them giggle, and shake her head.

“No, my lady. We did not wish to offend by joining you at your meal-table.” The two settle onto the bench on the other side from Sam, giving her a bit more room than she’d expected.

“It’s not my table.” Sam tries to smile, but she’s not really feeling up to doing so, not when everyone’s acting as if she’s someone important – and she doesn’t feel important. She feels lost and uncertain, and while she’s sure she’ll get past that, it doesn’t help when everyone steps carefully around her. “It’s like a mess-hall table, it doesn’t belong to anyone.”

There’s silence from the two for a long moment, as they watch her, and then share a glance that Sam can read almost too easily. They think she’s not behaving the way she ought to, and Sam doesn’t like it when everyone expects her to act in a way she doesn’t intend to.

“All of this belongs to Pele, and you are her daughter, so it belongs to you.” The other spoke this time, her voice gentle, as if speaking to someone who needed to be handled carefully. “It is not our place to intrude upon the gods.”

“I’m not a god.” Sam frowns, giving them an irritated look. She doesn’t know when Pele declared Sam her daughter, and she doesn’t know why, but if everyone is going to be dancing around her like this, it’s more trouble than it’s worth. “No goa’uld is a god.”

There’s a snort behind her, and Sam turns to look at the older woman, who hasn’t moved, even as she’s directing others to their tasks. She waits for a long moment, wondering if the woman is going to actually say anything.

“Kanani, fetch your brother, and send my lord’s meal up with him before you show the Lady Carter the way to her rooms.” She doesn’t address Sam directly at all, doesn’t even look in her direction, but it doesn’t feel like the careful dance of the other two. It’s more pointed dismissal, and Sam smiles briefly at it. It stings a bit, but she likes that she’s not being treated like she was above everyone just because of something Pele had said or done.

A girl slips out at the command, returning with a young man in tow, who takes a tray from the woman in charge while Kanani beckons Sam to follow. The young man follows them, and there’s silence for a long moment, until they’re out of easy earshot of the kitchen.

“This is my brother, Kaleo. He’s to be lo’taur for the goddess’ son.” Kanani sounds proud, and Sam glances down at her a moment, smiling even though she’s not sure what she should feel about that. Kanani returns her smile with a beaming one of her own. “I’m glad you brought him home, because now Kaleo can be lo’taur, and maybe he will be able to go out among the stars to face the darkness with the goddess’ son.”

Sam blinks, nonplussed. “Um. Good?” She glances back at Kaleo, who shrugs slightly, amusement in his expression that Sam suspects is at her expense. “Do you want to serve Baal?” she asks him, a little curious.

“I wish to go out among the stars, and only those who are the servants of Her children, or who give themselves over to Her children, will ever leave here.” Kaleo’s lips twist upward in a wry smile when Sam slows to walk beside him. “There are none of Her children who she has said are worthy to be given greater forms since Her youngest son who you call Baal.”

“The whole galaxy knows him as Baal.” Sam tilts her head, curious why Kaleo had phrased it the way he had. “What was he called here?”

“Tama.” Kaleo pauses as they come to a split in the hallway. “But if he is to be Baal, then that is what we shall call him now.” He nods down the hallway where Kanani is waiting for Sam to follow. “Rest well, my lady.”

Sam nods distractedly, turning away, and then back to watch as Kaleo walks down a different hallway, that would have to lead to wherever Baal’s rooms are. Only for a moment, and then she follows Kanani through to her own rooms, where the tub is full of warm water, and there are robes of a brilliant blue laid out on the bed. She frowns, and looks over at Kanani, asking, “Where did those come from?”

Kanani blinks, looking confused. “The goddess would want you to have clothes. Malie made those for you, as the goddess told her to do. Should I tell her you do not like them?” There’s an anxious note in Kanani’s voice, and Sam tries to give her a reassuring smile.

“I just didn’t expect them, that’s all.” Sam reaches down, fingering the soft material – silk, she thinks, which is little surprise. “Did she make a lot like this?”

“I don’t know. I could ask her for you, if you wish, my lady.” Kanani smiles hopefully, her eyes bright. As if there’s more, perhaps, to Sam asking her to do so than simply Sam wanting the answer to her question.

“Actually, if you could show me where to find her, I should talk to her myself.” If she’s going to be here for long, she will need more clothes – she hadn’t been able to pack anything before rescuing Baal – and Sam would rather have something that she likes than something Pele’s decided to gift her, since getting anything from Earth is not going to be easy, even if it were possible.

Kanani nods, though her smile is dimmed for a moment before she beckons Sam to follow her through the halls once more. Back the way they came, and down another hallway to a room which has walls made of shelves of fabrics and other items for the making of clothing. A young woman is standing at a table with a piece of blood-red silk spread across it, laying a pattern over it.

“Malie, the Lady Carter wishes to speak with you.” Kanani sounds proud to be announcing Sam’s presence, and beams at Malie when the woman looks up with a startled expression.

“My lady. Are the robes satisfactory?” There is a mix of pride and worry in her expression – pride in her work, and worry that Sam doesn’t like it, which makes Sam wince. Another person who is going to step too carefully around her, for a role that Sam doesn’t want to play.

“Um, they’re ok, but I was kinda hoping you could make something more like what I’m wearing now?” Sam gives her a bit of a smile, and wants to groan when it only make Malie tense more for a moment, though she does relax after a moment.

“I can, if they can be sent after they’ve been cleaned.” Malie glances at Kanani a moment, before putting on a smile of her own that Sam isn’t quite sure is real. “Do you wish them to be made in a particular material, my lady?”

Sam looks around the room, not quite sure what her selections are. “Something comfortable and not too bright?”

Malie raises her eyebrows, surprise quickly concealed. “The Lady Pele wishes more bright colors, but I can speak with the dyers to have colors more suited to your desires made. Would you wish for any particular shade?”

Shrugging, Sam grimaces. “Just something less bright. Maybe black, too? And not yellow or orange.”

“Of course, my lady.” Malie watches her for a moment, before adding, “Though if you would not be offended, perhaps I might use more of the blues of the robes I have already made so that you might have something to wear sooner?” She pauses, a small frown on her face as she moves to the shelves of fabric, pulling down a bolt of green as bright as the jungle foliage outside. “And perhaps some in this?”

Blinking, and hesitating a moment, Sam nods. It’s not a color she’d normally wear, and she’s not sure she’ll wear it often, once she has something that is as close to her BDUs as they can make here. But it’ll be something to wear while she waits.

Malie smiles, this one genuine and all pride. “Then I shall have your new clothes ready as soon as I might, my lady.”

Sam nods, and after a moment, backs out of the room, Kanani waiting in the hallway to show her the way back to her room again.

---

Baal finds Pele on a barely-cooled lava flow when he searches for her, watching a glowing river of molten rock that still heats the air around it. The lava hisses as it meets the ocean that beats the shore to their left, steam billowing in clouds that are driven toward the land by the constant breeze.

“Tell me of Earth.” Her voice is rich with the vibrato of her symbiote, and her shoulders stiff with tension, both familiar signs of her anger, unchanged in all the time he has been gone. “Tell me how they have changed, and of your brother who has long chosen to live there.”

A small grimace crosses his face before he smooths it away – he had not wanted to talk about Tages, of Earth, or of the tau’ri – and joins her watching the lava build the island. It is and is not same island he left when he left this planet, the jungle is the same, the palace the same, but the land ever expanding. Familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. “How much do you want to know?”

“All of it that you can tell me.” Pele doesn’t even look at him, her eyes fixed on the glowing river, and her expression sharp with an anger that Baal isn’t certain of the origins. “But if you would have me tell you where to begin, tell me of your brother. Tell me what he is become and why he did not return with you and all that is left of Jolinar.”

Baal is silent a moment, keeping his expression neutral from long practice. He watches the billowing steam, and thinks of what the land will be when the lava cools enough for life to take hold. Rich and lush as the islands that dot the oceans Pele had chosen the planet for. “He is known as David Rossi, a writer and an agent of one of the tau’ri governments – the same one that has control of the chaapa’ai.”

He tells her what he knows, as little as it is, of the conversations they’d had while he’d been on Earth. Conversations that he is surprised Carter had not know of, and wonders if the others ever discovered, or if Rossi had been lucky and remained undetected. It would amuse his brother to manage to fool the tau’ri in such a fashion, after he’d been made aware of how much they knew of the universe beyond the bounds of their own planet.

It is easy enough from there to share what he knows of the extent of the tau’ri’s advances in technology, and of their incursions into the territory of the System Lords. Of the fall from power they’d engineered in so few years where the tok’ra’s millennia-long efforts had failed, of their bringing the attention of another great enemy – and defeating the same.

The sun is setting when he’s told Pele all he cares to share, and his irritation at being reduced to this seethes under his skin, hidden with an effort.

“What do you wish to do to them?” Pele’s question makes him grimace, and Baal doesn’t answer immediately, watching the glow of molten rock seen through the steam that’s becoming all but invisible in the fading light.

“To defeat them, and to rebuild the empire that they shattered.” Baal’s aims are as they had been even when he’d been held awaiting his destruction by what the tok’ra call extraction of the symbiote. He cannot imagine himself as two beings, of watching as part of himself is torn from him and destroyed. “They will always seek to destroy what I build, even if I am the best of rulers, and the most generous of gods. They believe me a petty tyrant, if a somewhat more clever one than most.”

“You are more cunning and intelligent than other goa’uld.” Pele lets out a huff of laughter. “You are my son, and I would allow nothing less from one born on my altar.”

That much is true, and Baal has long known it, even as he’d fought for his birthright among others who intended to become System Lords. Fought and schemed, and failed to account for the tenacity and collective intelligence of the tau’ri when they’d found their way off their planet once more. It was a defeat that stung more than any other, and one that had brought him closer than he likes to death.

“I do not need your presence any longer.” Pele doesn’t look in his direction as she dismisses him with a characteristic abruptness. As changing and temperamental as the volcanoes she loves so dearly.

Baal waits for a moment, watching the glowing lava flow, before he turns to leave. He will have his revenge, and have his empire again, whatever it takes to achieve those goals.

---

Originally Posted: 3 June 2014

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