Chapter Text
When Daniel woke groggily in his luxurious bed in the Zharian palace, he knew he would be in for a long day. It was, nevertheless, an important day. The Zharian people on P3J-425 had agreed to share their advanced weapons and technology with them in exchange for medical knowledge and supplies. Today concluded the negotiations with the signing of a trade agreement he himself had drawn up at the Zharians’ request. SG-1 would also meet their ruler, who had thus far been absent from the proceedings.
The past three days spent on Zharia had been great. While the other three members of SG-1 were busy inspecting the technology and showing the Zharians a preview of the medical supplies the SGC planned to offer, Daniel had immersed himself fully in the Zharian ancestral language, which contained interesting elements of ancient Chinese. He’d learned a lot about their culture and their history. There were even some ruins not far outside the city he’d gotten to visit.
Nevertheless, it was hard work negotiating the terms of the agreement. There were a lot of things to consider on both sides, and once both parties had finalized the terms yesterday evening, the Zharians requested him to write up the document by the following morning for approval by their leader. It was a task that had taken him almost all night to finish, and now, after only about two hours’ sleep, he was paying the price.
Daniel got out of bed reluctantly with an ear-splitting yawn, his mind still lost in a haze of slumber. He soon left his room in search of coffee, which the Zharians admittedly made well - much better than the dubious stuff they served in the commissary. He met the rest of the team in the dining hall in a similar pursuit.
“Mornin’, Daniel,” greeted Jack over a plate of breakfast foods and a steaming mug.
Daniel yawned again, too sleepy to do more than grunt in reply. He got coffee and breakfast, plopping down at the table next to Sam with another yawn and dug into his omelette.
“Ready for the big day, Daniel?” said Sam.
“Uhh, yeah. Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Daniel guzzled his coffee and scarfed down his breakfast, then left to make sure everything was in order to meet the Zharian ruler in a few hours’ time.
“He looks tired,” Sam remarked, watching Daniel yawning profusely as he exited the dining room with stooped shoulders and a sluggish gait.
“Daniel Jackson has worked hard on this trade agreement,” said Teal’c.
“Yes, that he has,” O’Neill acknowledged, raising his mug in a solute to the retreating archeologist before downing the last of his coffee and standing up. “Better him than me. This diplomacy stuff…” he waved a hand as if shooing an insect, “not really my cup of tea.”
“We’d better get going if we’re going to make our check-in on time, sir,” said Sam, also standing. Their dress blues would soon be sent to them through the Stargate by General Hammond so they could look their best in front of the many Zharian dignitaries slated to attend the Signing Ceremony to be held that evening. The medical supplies they were giving to the Zharians in exchange for technology would also be sent through.
“We should be back in plenty of time to meet the countess,” said O’Neill, looking at his watch.
“I will assist Daniel Jackson with the additional preparations before the ceremony,” said Teal’c, and SG-1 split up to attend to their respective duties.
Daniel stood up from his chair after putting the finishing touches on the trade agreement document he had prepared in the hope of impressing the Zharian ruler. He’d learned that the Zharian people valued artistry and embellishments in many aspects of their lives. In fact, the library in the palace had a whole section dedicated to arts and crafts, which was where Daniel had taken the trade agreement to pen some decorative designs on the cover page. He rubbed his eye to remove the annoying spot that prevented him from properly inspecting his work, but when the spot grew bigger and started swizzling with silver zigzags, Daniel belatedly realized what was going on.
He was having a migraine.
It wasn’t the first one he’d had in recent months. Janet had warned him that they were the result of the number of times he’d had the Goa’uld ribbon device aimed at him. He was still figuring out exactly what triggered them, and realizing that sometimes they came on without rhyme or reason. More importantly he’d learned that the best way to manage them was to take the medication Janet had prescribed and lie down in a dark quiet place as soon as the first symptoms started. At least he’d finished embellishing the document to his satisfaction and could go back to his room and do just that for an hour until Countess Battria was ready to meet with SG-1.
“Daniel Jackson.” Teal’c’s urgent voice called to him softly across the library to avoid disturbing the other patrons. “I have just received word that the countess is on her way at this moment. Are you prepared to present to her your document?”
Drat. She was early. Guess lying down was off the table. At least he could take his meds. “I’m ready. Just give me a minute… gotta find…”
The migraine medication was in his backpack along with the allergy pills. It had to be here, right here, just under the – “Crap.”
Teal’c raised an eyebrow. Dammit, he must have forgotten to pack it. What horrible luck. Worse, the act of bending over had worsened the visual disturbances. The whole right side of his vision was alight with jagged silver lightning. The first tendrils of pain began to lick at him, testing his defenses, retreating only temporarily to gather themselves up again all the more strongly.
“It’s nothing, Teal’c, I’ve got the document right here,” Daniel assured as they exited the library. At least this would be fast, a quick hand-off of the trade agreement to Countess Battria, and then he could lie down until he was needed for the Signing Ceremony in the evening.
“Daniel Jackson?”
A foreign shrill voice with an exotic accent called to him from somewhere. Daniel and Teal’c both turned around to see a diminutive woman bedecked in furs and surrounded by an entourage of nearly a dozen men swooping down the hallway. The way her brittle grey hair sat piled precariously atop her head evoked images of a beehive. Her aging face was caked with so much makeup that Daniel couldn’t tell what color her skin actually was. She exuded an air of pampered royalty and of someone used to being obeyed without question.
Daniel bowed at the waist, ignoring the way his stomach had begun to churn in response to the strong cloyingly sweet scent of the ruler’s perfume. The tendrils of headache pain sent out another scouting party.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Countess Battria,” Daniel greeted respectfully while Teal’c bowed his head deeply in deference. Sam and Jack joined them at that moment having just returned from picking up the stuff sent by the SGC. “We’d like to present you with our trade agreement.” He handed her the document with another half-bow suppressing a yawn, and risked raising one hand surreptitiously to knead his forehead, trying to alleviate the developing ache behind his eyes. If what he experienced now was any indication, this migraine was setting up to be a doozy.
The Zharian ruler made no move to take the document. Instead she squinted down her ample nose at the proffered pages with a frown playing about her thin lips. “This is unacceptable. We will need the words on here,” she pointed to the document, “to be written by hand in our ancestral language on Xinsa paper.” She spoke as if Daniel was particularly dim-witted and didn’t understand ordinary speech. Daniel wilted and suppressed a wince while bowing his head with a respectful, “of course.”
“You will go to the Writing Room with the rest of my scribes to complete this work.” Now Countess Battria spoke as if talking to a naughty child. “My Chief Scribe will show you the way. You will wait here until he arrives.” She turned her back on Daniel with a dismissive gesture as if he were nothing more than her personal servant.
“Come,” she commanded the other members of SG-1. “You will accompany me for tea and biscuits with my inner circle. We will collect your scribe in four hours, by which time I expect him to be finished preparing things properly.”
Jack’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline in response to the countess’ treatment of Daniel while the archeologist stood there, papers in hand and an unreadable expression on his face. Jack glanced at the rest of the team. Carter looked every bit as indignant as he felt, and Teal’c wore a deep scowl, indicating his complete disapproval.
“Unbelievable,” said Jack.
“Indeed,” growled Teal’c, glaring daggers at the countess’ retreating back.
Daniel let out a long exhalation. “I mean, I’m happy to write things up by hand, but… why did none of the Zharians tell me this? Usually I learn about this kind of thing way ahead of time. I spent a lot of time acquainting myself with Zharian culture, and this never came up.”
Sam patted Daniel’s shoulder. “It’s alright, sometimes you miss things,” she tried to soothe. “We’ll catch up with you later.”
Daniel nodded and swallowed hard. His visual disturbances were retreating, however, the headache pain had begun to attack in full force, his skull growing tighter and tighter as if someone were squeezing it in a vice, and it was only going to get worse. Lights seemed many times brighter than they should have, and sounds were magnified, both of which were causing him significant distress.
Something of his silent struggle must have shown in his expression, because Sam asked, “are you okay?”
“Fine,” Daniel responded automatically. “See you later.” He watched the rest of his team catch up to Countess Battria’s retreating entourage while he stood there alone in the too-bright corridor waiting for the Chief Scribe to come and collect him.
The Writing Room turned out to be a sparsely-decorated space with a number of Zharians engaged in writing at partitioned cubicles set up with rather nice-looking wooden desks and leather chairs. A collection of painted portraits hung on the walls, all depicting Countess Battria in various poses, but Daniel barely noticed the artwork. There were no windows; the room was lit by banks and banks of fluorescent lights that bored into his retinas and drove sharp wedges of pain into his eyes and skull. The migraine had sent its battalions of torment to strike at the heart of his brain, and its heralds to assail his stomach.
The Chief Scribe led Daniel to an empty cubicle. On the desk was a fountain pen and ink, and a stack of what looked like parchment - Xinsa paper, Daniel presumed.
“Ring this bell if there’s anything else you need,” said the scribe, and left.
Daniel heaved another sigh, rummaged in his pack for some Tylenol to combat the pain and began his work.
As time wore on, Daniel found the Tylenol to be an ineffective weapon against his migraine. The squeezing pounding pressure in his skull repelled the Tylenol like a group of seasoned fighters surrounding inexperienced troops. Daniel retaliated with some aspirin, imagining the drug like a staff weapon blasting away the pain, and threw himself deeper into the work of translating and writing the treaty document into the Zharian language. He couldn’t stop now. He had to complete this task or risk losing the weapons and tech the Zharians had promised them, and that was unacceptable.
Daniel soon lost track of time. He had no idea how long he sat in the (admittedly comfortable) leather chair, scribbling away in his neatest handwriting with the elaborate fountain pen onto the off-white, official-looking parchment. Like Chinese characters, the difference between the Zharian characters could sometimes be subtle. His task became harder by the minute as his hands shook with fatigue and the pain kept renewing its assault, beating back the aspirin and threatening to ruin his hard work by disrupting his concentration.
He groaned, took off his glasses and rubbed burning, watery eyes, then buried his face in both hands at the start of another wave of terrible pain and building nausea. By now, the headache was agonizing, and his stomach had begun to experience the full force of the migraine’s wrath, but he wasn’t about to let this get in the way of his work. He checked the clock: only ninety minutes remained until the four-hour deadline imposed on him by Countess Battria. He shoved the agony and nausea to the back of his mind, replaced the glasses and continued translating and transcribing.
Three more pages to go… two more pages… one. The characters he’d written blurred and swum in front of his watering eyes. He hoped Jack, Sam and Teal’c were having a better time drinking tea with the royal Zharians than he was. He finally finished penning the document with forty five minutes to go.
Daniel’s breath gushed out of him in relief. He set the pen down and closed the ink jar, putting the newly-written pages off to one side of the desk to dry. Only then did he allow himself to succumb to his exhaustion and suffering, and he folded his arms on the solid mahogany desk and let his head fall heavily onto them.