Summary: Jack goes missing for twelve years at the end of season 8. This is the story of his life of imprisonment and his recovery when he finally makes it home, mute and injured, with two surprises in tow.

The Guardian is not like my other story Climbing the Abyss and its sequel Abyss of My Soul, in which Jack deals with the aftermath of his two year imprisonment by Ba'al, though there are obviously similarities.

This is a Jack/Sam ship, it doesn't go into their relationship much beyond their friendship until the very end, though he frequently mentions how much he loves her and what she means to him which is considerably sappy.

The story is completely written and just needs to be typed up (I write everything by hand), but I'm open to rewrites if you offer suggestions. Hope you enjoy, and please review.

Bixata

STORY WARNINGS: rated T for language, descriptions of torture (not too graphic)

The Guardian

Prologue

They call me the Guardian.

Does that grab your attention? I was going for profound and inspirational, something exciting that would get you to buy this book with the hopes of reading it cover to cover and learning something from it, something about me, about yourself, about humanity.

Did it work?

I'm sure my publisher will let me know, not that I need or want your money, although there are plenty of things I could do with loads of cash. Showering the love of my life with gifts, for instance, though she frequently tells me she has everything she wants in life. I'm pleased to say that includes me and our two kids, who I thoroughly plan to embarrass somewhere in this historical account of my life. If this book supports their college fund then I deserve to have a little fun with them.

I don't suppose that really interests you. If it does…you probably don't want to read this story. No offense, but if that's all you hope to get form this then I don't want you to read it. So put the book down and go find the biography of some glamorous movie star, or some old president or…Bob Hope. I've got more important things to say.

Like why I'm called the Guardian.

My real name is Jack O'Neill. I was a member of the United States Air Force, and proud of it. I've spent most of my life in the field, special ops, covert operations, classified missions I'm not at liberty to discuss and would never tell you about anyway. I've done some things I'm not proud of, but I'm by no means an evil person. Just loyal to a fault. Loyal to my country, my friends, my family.

I don't want to make you uncomfortable. This is just my background, to show you who I was before to compare with who I am now. Not that I'm a different person, per se, I've just got different priorities.

So who is Jack O'Neill?

Colonel Jack O'Neill always sounded the best to me. Way better than Major O'Neill, even better than General O'Neill. It just kind of rolls off the tongue, Colonel O'Neill. That's how I remember myself, though they did finally give me a pair of stars. Something to brag about at high school reunions. Major General Jack O'Neill. I turned down the third star to do the right thing, to live a life for me, to get what I wanted more than anything in this life. My wife.

I waited five years for her and I was sick of waiting. Unfortunately it was another twelve years of waiting before we could be together. This is her story, too, because at this point in my life I can't even think about my life without her. What I mean to say is she defines me, who I am, what I am. I'm the man who loves Samantha Carter O'Neill. I can shout it out to the world if I want, because I'm allowed to say it. I'm supposed to say it. I don't have to hide it anymore. Fifteen years is a long time to hide a secret as big as that. But I'm pretty good at hiding secrets. Part of the job.

This is not really a romance novel. I'm not usually prone to sharing such personal information but I feel it is my duty to inform you all about our relationship. Not that I'm bragging because I've got the most amazing woman in the Universe…actually I am but that's neither here nor there. I'm just trying to paint as clear a picture as I can about who I am and how I came to be the Guardian. Not that you're going to find that out yet. The specifics come later in the book, how I earned that title.

Honestly, I've always considered myself a guardian of sorts, a protector of the innocent. I divide my life into four parts by three defining moments. My youth I disregard entirely for in no way am I the same man who…never mind about that.

The first defining moment was the birth of my son, Charlie. That's when I learned how to be a guardian. That's when I learned to love something more than myself, more than life, more than anything in this vast universe of ours.

And that's when I learned abject failure. When Charlie died I had become a failure. It was my duty, my honor, to protect my little boy and I failed him miserably. His death was the second defining moment of my life for two reasons. I died, and I was reborn.

For you religious nuts, either for or against, I am sorry to say I did not mean that in the literal sense. Though technically I have died on numerous occasions my resurrection was never a miracle. Usually it was the result of devoted doctors like Janet Fraiser, a brave woman I was proud to call my friend, who died saving lives. Sometimes it wasn't, but I'm not at liberty to discuss it. Classified you know.

Anyway, I was discussing my death. Parents aren't meant to outlive their children. It's unnatural. It's painful, excruciatingly painful, and I didn't handle it too well. Thought of suicide, actually held the same weapon which took Charlie's life between my teeth. Luckily I never pulled the trigger.

Took a suicide mission instead. Fortunately I failed there too and found a way home. But that isn't what this story is about, though I could probably write another book, maybe a series, of where exactly that turning point led me. Thoughts of a diverging road come to mind and I'd have to agree with Mr. Frost that I most definitely took the road less traveled by. Although I hate to end a beautiful phrase like that with a preposition. Oh well, poets never play by the rules. Not that I do either.

So there was life before my son, life with my son, and life after my son. This story is about none of those. This story is about life after my death.

I'm not a ghost, in case you're wondering. I've just been legally dead for twelve years. Dead to this world, to my friends, and yet, never dead in the eyes of Samantha Carter. Which is one of the reasons I love her so much. She's always kept me alive, saved my life as many times as I've saved hers, which, in the military sense, is not a figurative statement. But sometimes it is.

She just won't let me off myself. I haven't been suicidal since Charlie's death, I cling to life like a leech, I suck it for all it's worth. But sometimes I just don't care for the options I'm given. Sometimes I'm just too tired. But then she asks me to live for her, and I can't say no. I can't leave her like that, because despite the regulations imposed on us as officers in the US Air Force we love each other. As her commanding officer I wasn't allowed to do anything about it. I wasn't really allowed to care about her as much as I did.

Screw the regs. You can't help who you fall in love with, especially if that someone is Samantha Carter. I could have retired, transferred, shot myself in the foot, and you may wonder why I didn't. If I had, I wouldn't be there to protect her. Our work is dangerous, and I'd rather have her as a live subordinate officer than a dead lover (I wish I hadn't phrased it quite like that, that's a disgusting image).

They don't call me the Guardian for nothing.

Anyway, that was years ago and I'm pleased to say the regs are no longer a problem, and we're happily married with two kids, a dog, white picket fence, the whole nine yards. But you probably don't care about that. I'm quite biased. I like my happiness. I'd rather write about my wife and kids but that's not what they're paying me for. Or why you bought this book. Don't worry, I'm getting there.

Most of this story is about pain and you may wonder why I'm being so lighthearted right now. It's a defense mechanism, one I perfected years ago. If you're smiling, nobody asks you how you're doing. The truth is, there are a lot of painful memories that I stirred up in order to write something that had meaning to all our lives.

I'm no philosopher, and I'm certainly not a prophet. I'm a soldier. A soldier of misfortune perhaps, but in the grand scheme of things I wouldn't trade my life for all the cake on Earth. I should clarify, I have a serious obsession with food, especially cake. It's a wonder I'm not grossly obese. Or even just plain fat. No, I'm a scrawny 150 pounds on a 6'1" frame (if it's not the Asgard it's gravity shrinking me). Side effect of being the guardian.

There's that defense mechanism. Making light humor of my condition. There are some memories I'd like to forget, but I'm told I have to face them front on in order to move on with my life. Frankly, that's a load of crap. I don't need to remember. I've moved on just fine. They just want a piece of the action. Profits of my misery, so to speak. Although some of them are just plain curious. They want to know what happened to me, where I'd been for ten years, how I survived it. They want to know why I'm called the Guardian.

So here goes.

Chapter 1

It was twenty below the day I was born. Snow was six feet high, my folks couldn't get to the hospital in time. Or at all. I was born the place I was conceived, in the bedroom of an old Minnesota cabin. No electricity, no hot running water, no blankets, no roof.

Just kidding. I was actually born in Chicago. You gotta have a little fun.

To be continued…