From the Ashes

The trees surrounding us are a brighter, more vibrant green than anything Mother Earth ever conceived.  As we aren't on Earth, however, that isn't as odd as one might think.  I walk along the rubble-strewn path and hear no rocks crunch beneath my feet, and I look up at the too-green treetops as they reach vainly for the heavens.  The sky of this world is particularly breathtaking: blue with violent tinges, softly laced with the whitest clouds, with two great, milky-white moons hung as though for decoration.  The air is fresh and pure, the air of a planet that has never known industrial revolution, combustion engines, or nuclear weaponry.

Still marveling at the preternatural beauty of this world, wondering why none of the other radiant planets we have visited have affected me so profoundly, I pull up next to Colonel O'Neill.  He's not looking at the trees, or the rocks, or the moons.  He doesn't see the unsullied spectacle of scenery encompassing him, he doesn't see me, he doesn't even see Jonas, Teal'c, and Adamich's backs as they fade into the riot of colorful plant life further up the path.  He told them to go on ahead, to explore, to report back via radio, that he would prefer to keep the Gate in sight, but the two of us are the only ones who know why.

He doesn't want them here when it happens.

For a long while he says nothing, merely staring off into space.  The silence is companionable and I'm content merely to watch him take in the dazzling natural wonders of this world.  The breeze is so soft and sweet, the branches of trees beckoning us closer with such familiarity, that I'm utterly shocked to hear him mutter, "What a dump."

Dump?  This untouched paradise?  I look around me in abject confusion.  Dump?  Those four rugged spires of jagged stone in the distance, far enough away to be as picturesque as any painting... those two perfect orbs suspected magically overheard... the sunshine winking down at us from just beside the closer of the two moons?  Why, any moment now there should be a solar eclipse like Earth has never seen, and I know intuitively that it will be amazing.  I understand the Colonel's philosophy - that once you've seen one alien forest, you've seen them all - but 'dump' seems unduly harsh.

With a pensive look down the path where the others have gone, he turns back towards the Stargate, which is just barely visible past the bright green, friendly waving fronds of two enormous trees.  The ring of metal is even more brilliant in this setting, almost as though it's a natural outcropping of stone worn into a peculiar shape by centuries of wind and rain.  If the Colonel appreciates this effect he doesn't show it, stopping after only a few steps and unslinging the P90 from across his shoulder.  He sets it down next to a multicolored boulder, then his pack, his vest, his jacket, all in a pile upon the soft carpet of moss, until he stands there in his black undershirt, only the M9 handgun remaining in its holster.  I watch, silently but with great forbidding as he slowly removes it, Velcro clasps scritching against fabric and metal, weighing the piece in his piece in his hand, turning it over and looking at it as though he's not sure what it is.  But he knows.  So do I.  And slowly his distressed expression is replaced by one of pained relief.

"Sir," I say haltingly, but I stop as his face hardens, darkens.  I turn my face skyward in time to see the bright fire of the sun begin to slip behind the moon, frowning as I perceive that even the heavens are turning against me.  I look at the Colonel again; he's distracted by the deepening shadows, but he won't be for long.  'Sir' won't reach him now, I realize.

"A dump," he repeats, mumbling, giving no sign of having heard me.  "But somehow... it works."  He holds the gun now as though shaking the hand of a dear friend, and as the unnatural twilight dims to its deepest shade I see the mortal danger; I understand why I'm here.  I should be filled with fear, standing before him, a silent and impotent witness as he calmly raises the weapon to his right temple, gently placing its cold metal mouth against the skin there.  Fear for him, sadness for the others, horror that he's traveled so far since the death of his son only to come full-circle.  But a strange tranquility takes place of the panic, sating me like a drug, because I know that whatever happens the darkness will only be temporary.  The sun will always come out again.

Even as his finger tightens to squeeze the trigger, even as his eyes close to look towards eternity, I reach out and clasp the gun hand in a firm grip.  I cannot feel the cool, indifferent metal or the warm, resilient flesh, but I imagine that there is a slight energy seeping through his hand into mine and back again.  His eyes don't open and mine don't close, but suddenly our surroundings are not what they were.  No peaceful garden planet.  No wide, unfettered sky.  We're back There again, only now I'm seeing those final moments through his eyes and not my own.  The memory is as dark and frigid as the dead depths of cold space.

The Jaffa lays his staff down on him once, twice, a hundred times, as though Jack is not a man at all but a railroad spike to be driven into the hard ground.  Jack crumples quickly under the assault, too quickly for his pride and certainly too quickly for him still to believe in any chance of survival.  His hope once was for the General to note their lateness and send a rescue team, but now his hopes are geared towards the present and not the future.  There is no future.  Again, again; the metal connects unchecked against bone and tissue.  It seems only a matter of time until the staff falls upon a crucial spot and his injuries become permanent... and fatal.

If the band of Jaffa who had captured them had had allegiance to a certain Goa'uld, SG-1 might have stood a chance.  The fabled team was surely a prize and a great boon for any slave to bring back to his lord and master.  But this group had apparently realized that their so-called God was merely a poseur; they had mutilated the skin of their foreheads with blades and burning implements until their tattoos were invisible behind a lump of blisters and scars.  If they did know anything of SG-1 it would only fuel the passion behind their blows.  How many Jaffa had been punished by their Gods for failing to capture or kill three weakling Tau'ri and a sniveling shol'va?

These five were rogues, answering to no one but their own anger and resurgent bloodlust.  They had restrained Teal'c but seemed to have little use for him.  Perhaps their shared status of shol'va meant that he would not be physically harmed, or maybe they were simply saving him for later, a particularly tasty cut of meat.  He lay on the earthen floor only a few feet away, struggling mightily but in vain, succeeding only in saturating his bonds with his own blood.

Jonas had done the smart thing in falling unconscious early on; it was of little amusement to beat a man when he was not able to properly appreciate the torture inflicted on him.  Jack had seen that particular logic in use back in Iraq.  He'd always had a hard time passing out on command, unfortunately, but Jonas would be spared.  At least for a little while longer.

Jack found himself actually wishing for deliverance from the pain and humiliation as it outmatched his fear of what lay beyond.  He might have prayed - as he had in the past - but this time he couldn't bring himself to.  He was exhausted.  He was destroyed.  He no longer even had the strength to reach up and try to ward off the Jaffa's blows.  But he was still aware of Carter, and when he turned his head slightly - giving the Jaffa a new spot to beat on - he could see her as well.

Two of the hulking men lorded over her, their dark, glittering eyes set deep in broad, scarred faces.  They used their fists and feet instead of their staffs, hollering in ecstasy each time flesh pounded flesh, reveling in the tactile abuse, jeering as she flailed out or curled up to deflect or avoid their punches.  Jack's assailant just wanted the entertainment of beating him to death, but those two were enjoying an even sicker game, toying with Sam, playing with her.  Just enchanted by the idea of attractive women fighting alongside men.  Probably furious that she rarely elicited an uttering of pain or pleading.  Though battered and broken, blood marking strange patterns on her face, she took it.  As one of the Jaffa grabbed a handful of her jacket in one meaty claw, hauled her off the ground, then issued a clouting backhand that slammed her back into the hard dirt floor... she took it.  Suffering soundlessly.  Making Jack proud even as he wanted to scream and rant and cry.  Occasionally looking over towards him but never making eye contact.

A fourth Jaffa was standing guard over the motionless Jonas and writhing, toiling Teal'c, frowning as he watched his comrades, unhappy to be missing out on the fun.  A fifth, the apparent leader, was rifling through the packs and equipment SG-1 had been stripped of.  He smiled faintly at each stifled groan or muffled blow, as though enjoying a great musical work by an esteemed composer.  After a long while of pawing and shaking and examining, he finally picked out two items from the pile, grinning at them with kid-at-Christmas enthusiasm.  One of the P90s, and one of the M9s.  A chunk of destructive metal in each large, hairy-knuckled hand, different in size but just as lethal. 

He barked out an order, not "kree" but something with the same intention, at the rest of his merry men.  The guarding Jaffa gave Teal'c a rueful kick in the pouch before turning towards his leader.  The two tag-teaming Carter were watchful enough to come to attention immediately.  The last man, still pummeling his prisoner even though Jack had long since stopped feeling the individual blows, had to be screamed at repeatedly before he reluctantly set down his staff. 

In the sudden silence, every small sound seemed magnified a thousand-fold.  The Jaffa's malevolent chuckles.  Teal'c's heels scouring the ground as he tried to sit up with his hands and feet tied.  Jonas' shallow, quiet breaths.  Carter's short, labored ones.

The leader walked calmly around them, simply strolling in a rough circle as though considering each.  It was hard to make out his expression - the stone room had only one window and the morning light outside was dim - but he positively reeked of malicious mirth.  Carter struggled to rise but only made it as far as her knees, which further amused their captors.  Jack wanted to whisper to her to stay still and quiet, but the staff weapon had landed more than once across his throat and the words came out as nearly inaudible wheezes.

The leader stopped beside Carter... and thrust the M9 down at her.  Jack saw his Major freeze, her eyes regarding the weapon with raw hunger but sensing the evident trap.  Her hands, resting atop her knees, clenched into fists.

"Take it," said the Jaffa.  It was the first time since their capture that he had spoken, and Jack was mildly surprised to realize that his voice was just as rough and guttural as it had seemed before.  Not in any natural way, not like someone with a hoarse throat or a glottal accent, but the voice of a man injured and maybe even tortured until his vocal chords were as feeble as a guitar with supine strings.  Slowly, Carter reached up and took the gun from him, setting it back in her lap with her finger on the trigger guard, not making any quick movements but quite obviously waiting for just the right moment to do so.  Jack knew he should be watching too, but his paranoia at this turn of events occupied his entire mind... or what was left of it.

The leader favored his colleagues with an impish grin, and then demanded, in his tires-over-gravel voice, "Shoot him."

The audience of Jaffa chortled wildly, looking at each other and their brilliant boss in delight.  What a wonderful idea! said their expressions.  What fun this will be!  "Him," said the leader again, pointing a stubby, square-tipped finger at Jack, who felt sick fear and even sicker relief rush through him.  The Jaffa all but giggled like schoolchildren.

Eyes flashing in ill-hidden disgust, Carter set her jaw determinedly and let her hands go slack.  The handgun tumbled from her limp fingers onto the ground, sending a slight puff of dust into the air.  The Jaffa appeared ready to boo in protest, and they looked towards their leader in desperation, pleading with their eyes for him to get the stubborn female to cooperate.  His flat face contorted in annoyance, and in one fluidly powerful movement he brought the business end of the P90 around to bear directly at her head.  As a soldier of some anonymous Goa'uld, he must have seen the weapon in use and had taken good notes.  "Pick it up!" he demanded, flecks of spittle appearing on his thin, pale lips.  "Now!  Do it or suffer the consequences!"

The threat was empty - these monsters were without honor, and the promised consequences would be the same no matter what happened next - but they couldn't stall forever, Jack thought.  The Jaffa would stop their assault only as long as they thought that some unique executions were in the near future.  Jack strained to lift his head from the ground, feeling pain in every inch of his body, staring at Carter who would not look at him, trying to communicate the message: it was okay.  She could do it, shoot him, maybe kill him, amuse the others, maybe spare herself some pain, maybe even keep herself and the others alive long enough for rescue to come.  As though by the force of his will she finally met his eyes, exchanging her impossible, vehement sadness and loathing for his reserve conviction.

It was a strange place for a private moment, but it became one all the same: a few sacred seconds that reminded Jack of another time when death had been imminent.  Only this time they weren't being brow-beaten with strange, painful realizations.  They weren't trying to deny the impossibility of the situation, either, because they had both known that this day would come.  Had denied it, had ignored it, but had known. 

The Jaffa screamed at Carter again, saliva raining down on her, and as the first real ray of sunshine slipped into the room, the quavering doubt left her eyes.  She nodded to herself, relaxing after having finally come to her decision, picked up the gun and fired the one remaining bullet from its chamber.   

With a sound no less tremendous than thunder, the projectile punctured the stomach of the Jaffa who had beat Jack half to death.  He twitched, as though mildly surprised at the sudden pain in his gut, at the unnatural shade of blood that began to seep through his gray tunic.  Carter had hit both the man and the larval Goa'uld that lived within him in the same shot. 

The dying ex-Jaffa pitched towards the ground, but even before his bulky frame impacted the earth, his leader had opened retaliatory fire on Carter.  One brief spurt, just a half-second volley was all that was needed to empty enough lead into her brain to kill her instantly.  There was no time to shout out a warning or protest, no time to take a final breath or even blink an eye, there was only the chattering sound of the P90 and then tombstone silence as force slammed Carter - Carter's body - down on her face.  Retching, Jack turned his head away, but not quickly enough to miss the damage done.  The wound, the ruined skull, the blonde hair dyed bright red with blood. 

If the room had been quiet before, now the air had simply ceased to transmit sound waves.  It was as flat and arid as the vast barrenness of space.  There was no seductive rustle of the foliage outside, no sweet, misplaced birdsong, no string of indecipherable epitaphs as Teal'c, angry tears shining in his eyes, cursed the murderers.  No disappointed murmur of Jaffa who felt Carter's death had been too quick and painless.  No scuff of dirt as the leader shoved his boot under Carter's body and flipped it over.  Drawn like a magnet to its pole, Jack turned his head a final time and found himself staring into her dead eyes, vacant and empty as a sheet of opaque glass.  No words remained to be said, and he was unable to speak anyway.  Darkness was closing down over him like a smothering blanket of snow: cold yet welcome, both repugnant and mollifying.  At last, one final sleep.  Where pain and humiliation had failed, Sam Carter's death had succeeded. 

Teal'c told them afterwards that SG-6, rescue/reconnaissance, had arrived only seconds later, before even one more punch could be thrown.  Just in time, but much too late.  Surprised, all four of the remaining Jaffa had been quickly dispatched.  Five of those lives for one of theirs.  It hardly seemed like a fair trade. 

Jonas had woken up halfway back to the Stargate, being carried by Teal'c even though Teal'c's own injuries were substantial.  Jonas had looked around, bleary and confused, asked once where Sam was, and at the lack of response had closed his eyes again.  Two members of SG-6 had remained in the crumbling temple with the body, and to make sure no Jaffa remained to devise another ambush.  The rest of the team would return later with the... proper accouterments for Carter's homecoming. 

Overall, the SGC mourned for a day... and then got back to business.  Teal'c was furious and scornful, storming around the base, regarding the people going about their designated tasks with bitter disdain.  Something told Jack that the other man had never grieved quite so hard or quite so passionately for any of his old comrades in service to Apophis. 

Having no memory of his friend's violent death, Jonas was spared the worst of the physiological trauma.  But he was restless, moving ceaselessly from his office to the control room... sometimes staring out at the 'Gate with that same bleary, confused expression, as though still wondering where Sam was and when she was coming home. 

Jack, the most injured surviving member of SG-1, had spent two weeks at the Academy hospital - three days of that in the ICU - before being transferred back to the SGC under Doctor Frasier's militant care.  It was accepted fact that he would have been better off staying at the hospital, away from the memories and the front line, but no one seemed to trust him to recover on his own.  Like he might inject an air bubble into his bloodstream or maybe just throw himself out a window if Frasier, Hammond, Jonas and Teal'c weren't there to hover over him at all hours.  In truth, Jack was incapable of planning anything further ahead than which side was less painful to lie on.  He showed no emotion, least of all grief, settling into a numbed apathy that chilled everyone around him more than Teal'c's anger or Jonas' acceptance. 

Weeks passed interminably into months.  Doubtlessly General Hammond was waiting to be called into the infirmary and handed a letter of resignation from the languishing patient, but for once Jack couldn't bring himself to retire.  To leave this place would be to sever ties with the last worthwhile things in his life and to lose forever the most profound parts of Sam Carter's legacy. 

Frasier continually tried to get him to talk about the attack, passing it off as having cathartic medicinal value.  Jack explained with clinical professionalism how he had led them all unblinkingly into the ambush, how they had been tied and beaten down, but stopped just short of describing Carter's final act of defiance.  When the doctor pressed, Jack simply told her that he had been knocked unconscious by that point and had seen nothing.  If Teal'c knew about Jack's lie, he never let on.  As time slipped away and Jack continued to heal, he was almost able to convince himself that it was true, that he hadn't seen anything.  That all he had to deal with was the plain facts of her death and not the scalding image of her sightless eyes forever emblazoned on his mind.

Six months after Carter's funeral, Frasier allowed him to return to light duty.  Two weeks later, Lieutenant Peter Adamich was added to SG-1.  Adamich, who - bless George Hammond's infinite wisdom - shared no physical or mental characteristic with Carter, however small.  Finally, the General okayed this new team for a brief, standard recon mission to an uninhabited planet.

Of course, they were all standard until the very real inhabitants tried to kill you...

The mission had gone off without a hitch, but the indelible sensation of 'Gate travel reawakened a torrent of emotion in Jack, stirring the few memories he had been trying to deny.  The small, resolute nod.  The cacophony of bullets.  The wound, the ruined skull, the blonde hair dyed bright red with blood.  The guilt, like needles in his eyes, that he couldn't have done anything to stop it.  That seemed unreasonable and counterproductive - after all, why feel guilty over something that was out of your control? - but Jack had never needed a good reason to feel accountable, especially when it came to those whom he loved.  That night his last thought before shifting into troubled sleep was the mortal weight of that responsibility.  And the next night, when he dreamed of Charlie, of his dead son standing at the foot of his bed and mouthing soundless words, he knew what was expected of him.

The next scheduled mission was P6X-015, a fermented debris field, a planet laid waste by a long-forgotten war.  All signs of life had been blasted from its surface, replaced with the scorched skeletons of metal monsters.  The planet's sky was foul and soupy with latent poisons, and its two gargantuan moons were dimpled with impact craters and smudged with dead arsenals.  Jack sent Jonas, Teal'c, and Adamich on ahead, watching them leave with a strange mixture of longing and respect.  They were good men, all of them.  They deserved better, just like Carter had.

He left his equipment lying on the sooty ground, brought out his handgun, and studied it.  If there was anything about this he would regret, it would be the mess he left behind.  The others would hear the single shot, and they would know, and when they rushed back to him what they saw would probably always lurk in a corner of their minds.  He supposed that he could use a Zat instead, that he could squeeze the trigger two or even three times before losing possession of his faculties, but somehow the M9 seemed so much more appropriate.  The bullet inside, waiting for release, was the one that had rightfully been his eight months ago, the one Carter had refused to feed him to save her own life.

As the weak, distant sun hid behind the more charred of the two moons, Jack raised the weapon to his head and closed his eyes.  It wasn't a coward's way out of overwhelming grief, he told himself.  It was justice.  It was retribution.  It was a misguided plea for forgiveness to a God he had shut out of his soul on that fateful day.

And then... a strange feeling spreading over him, starting at his right hand and moving out.  A whiff of a pure, fresh breeze.  A warmth, not from the reemerging sun, but from somewhere much closer and much more startling.

Jack's eyes open, not focusing on my face, because I'm as invisible to him now as I was when he stepped foot on this world moments ago.  The hand holding the gun drops slowly to his side, and his expression is filled with amazed confusion as he looks from side to side.  I know that he is seeing what I've seen: not the ruined, battle-scarred planet that actually exists, but my idealized rendition of this world - the plants, the trees, the perfect sky - the past or maybe future version of this very spot.  The gun falls to the ground, forgotten, but I don't release his hand.

"Sam?" he asks, his voice nothing but an awed whisper, still taking in his surroundings, gazing all around him like a blind man miraculously healed.  A man who had led less of a paranormal life might doubt what he was seeing, or refuse to accept why, but it's amazing what else belief in extraterrestrial life opens your mind up to.

I squeeze his hand, and imagine for a moment that I can actually feel the warmth of his flesh beneath my palm.  I know that his belief makes all the difference.  "Right here."

His head snaps around.  His eyes focus on me, directly on me, and I'm filled with a grateful astonishment that must be a mere fraction of what he's feeling.  He can only stare - can't speak, can't even blink, for fear I'll vanish when he does - and I smile at his bewilderment.  I don't know precisely what he sees when he looks at me: maybe my body as he knew it, dressed in uniform or maybe some flowing, theatrical garment meant to represent the raiment of heaven.  Maybe he doesn't even see a corporeal being, just a faint glimmer he knows is me, but I would like to think that our eyes DO meet, that he's seeing me as I once was, before the ambush that led to my death.  No blood, no bruises, no skull crumpled under a barrage of weapons fire.  The furthest thing from my mind right now is vanity, but I don't think it's too much to ask that Jack finally be allowed one last, clean memory of my face.

"I'm okay," I say softly, wondering if he is receiving the words as they're spoken, or if the ephemeral barrier between us distorts their meaning at all.  "We're all okay.  But... this isn't how it's supposed to be.  It's just not time for you yet.  You can do the most good here.  You have to."

Jack chances a blink, looking doubly shocked to see that I haven't faded away, taking with me the last of his sanity.  "That's... a cliché," he says weakly.

My smile wavers, but where I should feel sadness I'm again encompassed by the strange feeling of peace and tranquility, a profound knowledge that this, here, is what's right.  "It's a cliché for a reason," I gently admonish him.

"Yeah, but if it was a good reason, you wouldn't need to use a cliché."

I shook my head, smiling at his obstinacy.  "I'm not here to argue semantics with you, Jack.  That's what you have Jonas and Teal'c for.  That and a lot more."

His brow furrows.  His lips curl as he snarls in self-hatred.  "Then... why are you here?  Playing guardian angel?  You really came all this way to keep me from blowing my brains out?"

"Yes," I say quietly.

He looks perplexed by my simple answer, as though he had expected me to argue more about my own motives.  What he doesn't want to accept is that where I am, there are no motives, just truth and destiny and above all, love.  "It's nice where you are, isn't it?" he asks, solemnly, jealous of an existence where drawn-out deceptions aren't needed.

I crane my neck, lifting my face to the sun as it brightens the sky once more.  "'Nice' doesn't begin to describe it," I say with feeling.  "It goes so much further beyond clouds and pearly gates, or pretty forests for that matter.  It's purity.  Perfection."  I sigh, frustrated at my inability to explain.  "I don't think it's anything that can be talked about.  It's just something that you have to experience."

Jack squeezes my hand, either to anchor me to his world or him to mine.  "Then why won't you let me experience it?"  The question catches me off guard, and he continues.  "I'm tired of being stuck here, Sam.  In the dump.  The anger.  The pointlessness.  The stupidity of it all.  Parents who kill their own children.  Monsters who want to die and take a hundred people with them.  I'm not like that.  But I've seen more death than life and I'm tired of it."

I look around the planet, seeing both the utopian beauty and the cold embers of a world that has burnt itself to ashes.  I have to remember: the ashes real to him.  "It's not all like this."

His voice goes up a notch in volume and intensity.  "Yes, it is!  It's been like this ever since..."

"Since I died?"  I finish mildly.  The idea causes me more disorientation then pain.  I certainly don't feel dead.  If anything, I feel more alive then ever, aware of not only my emotions but his as well.  He's caught in a maelstrom of feeling right now, as turbulent as the fiercest storm on the darkest night.  The incredulity, the impossibility of arguing with a ghost, the gladness at seeing her again, the realization of what her presence means, and of course, the soul-rending guilt.  His anger at himself was a sucking wound in his heart that would eventually leave him a dry and hollow husk.  He had started on this path before, I knew, but had been diverted.  That was what I had to do.  Get him to look past the dump, past the death, into the parts of his life that truly meant something...

There is a boy at school who Jack knows only by the names the other kids call him.  Mean names.  The boy is in Jack's class; he's overweight, wears glasses thick as Coke-bottles, is un-athletic, and the teachers all like him, which immediately puts him at odds with his peers.  Today, in retaliation, the other kids raid the boy's desk during lunch and steal all of his pencils.  Juvenile but effective, as they are to be given a math test that afternoon.  As the worksheets are handed out, Jack watches the bewildered young man searching madly for his stolen belongings, and hears the triumphant snickers of the thieves at his back.  Knowing that he will never live this down, not even if he transfers to a school on a different planet, Jack squares his jaw.  He stands, crosses the room, and hands the boy his spare pencil.  He looks up at Jack through those ridiculous glasses, blinks owlishly, and stammers a thank-you.  Jack returns to his seat.  The others stare, but Jack has a hard time feeling that what he just did was wrong...

The nurse brings out the bundle, cooing as much at the father as the baby.  Jack is in awe.  How could any human being possibly be that tiny?  On the other hand, how could Sara have carried this big boy around in her stomach for all those months?  Either way, Jack is shocked.  But it's a good shock, he thinks, smiling down at his little Charlie. Charlie, who would bring his family so much joy and amazement during his short life. Charlie, born as we all are with death inside.  Charlie, whose existence now was that of a distant star: one of many, too far away to touch and hold, but shining his sweet, brilliant light down on those who had loved him...

 Names... faces... vague images.  Those he had killed, and those who had been saved by the killing.

The four of them stand out on his porch, braving the cold night air with only sweaters and liquor -- or, in Teal'c's case, hot chocolate.  Their faces are tilted towards the endless expanse of night; they are silent in breathless anticipation.  Suddenly, Jonas steps forward - "Look, there" - and points to the east.  They turn.  Jack squints, and then smiles as the others take up the call.  The falling stars arc across the nightscape like tiny pieces of heaven falling to Earth.  Celestial rain.  Odd how such a normal stellar occurrence could seem so magical in the company of the right people.  Feeling impetuous, he jovially throws an arm around Carter's shoulders, and she looks up at him with a smile that dims the stars.  Jack can't help but remember how these people - not only in a physical sense but also in an emotional and spiritual one - saved him.  These people, and others who are no longer among them.  With their wit and vivacity and determination, they brought him back to life, back from a place darker than space.  They taught him how to love again, not without the fear of loss, but in spite of it.  With full knowledge that the risk is not only worth the benefit, it's why we were put on this planet.  To care.  To love.  To believe that the sun will always come out again...

Jack pauses as the images fade, closes his eyes, winces as though in pain... and then nods.  He understands, not just what I've told him, but everything that I've brought with me.  The awareness that death is not the end.  The certainty of a better, more beautiful life after this one that can only be communicated to the living through metaphor.  He wanted to die, once.  He wanted to leave behind the pain, regardless of what he was exchanging it for.  But fate had other plans.  It made him fight, sink or swim, and while he struggled to keep his head above water he rediscovered life and what makes it so important.  To end his life now would be to disregard the progress made - the kind action, the miracles, the quiet, powerful moments of beauty - and to throw aside the chance at rediscovery. 

There's simply no good way for a bereaved human and a visiting spirit to say goodbye.  I might have told him that Charlie says hi... that we're all here rooting for him with our minds and souls... that we love him... but the power of language is insignificant and insufficient in times such as these.  Thankfully, my friends have always had remarkable timing. 

"Colonel!" 

Jack jumps, turning towards the twisted metal alleyway - or, from my perspective, a meandering woodland path rich with thick green shadows - as Jonas hurries out into the sunlight.  Teal'c and Adamich aren't far behind.  Jack tenses, but Jonas goes right by him, back towards one of the tall silver structures framing the Stargate.  To me, it's a massive tree with fat leaves and a gnarled trunk.  To the rest, it's an imposing naquada pillar with strange markings near the base.  It's to these that Jonas rushes, gesturing excitedly.  "I just remembered," he declares, beaming, his eyes alight with discovery.  "I remembered where I saw these markings.  I think that they would correspond to the writings on P4Y-998.  Remember?" he prods Adamich, who looks perplexed and a little dazed by Jonas' enthusiasm.  "The natives there talked about the great sky-boat that descended from the heavens seeking... seeking..."  He trails off, eyeing Jack, not missing his glazed expression even in the throes of enlightenment. 

He's more at peace than he has been in months, but all the others see is his tumultuous expression - as he looks to the spot where I stood and finds it empty - and the pile of clothing and equipment heaped on the ground.  Teal'c, standing closest, slowly bends down and picks up the discarded M9.  His usually placid expression is caught between concern and fear for his friend.  "O'Neill?" he begins, a note of apprehension in his voice.  "Are you well?" 

Jack blinks, the simple motion clearing the agitation from his expression and replacing it with such abrupt equanimity that Teal'c actually takes a step backwards.  "Nothing's wrong," says Jack calmly.  He looks at each of them in succession, and as I move away into the green shadows I hear him add, "I was just thinking... what a nice place this must have been."

 

 There's night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon, and stars, brother, all sweet things; there's likewise a wind on the heath. Life is very sweet, brother; who would wish to die?

~ George Borrow ~

 The end.