Lament by k8ec
Genre:Angst
Rating:T
Set: Season 5
Spoilers: Meridian, Smidgens of others through S1-5
Disclaimer:SG1 belongs to MGM, Gekko and the actors who so wonderfully portray the characters. I just get to play with them for a short while (cries forlornly into pillow).
A/N: Warning: Dark, Dark and more DARK.
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"… the past seems a storm-swept desolation, life a vanity and a burden, and the future but a way to death."
- Mark Twain
So it all came down to this. All the struggles, the study, the toil, the insults and the petty irritations were now reduced to a finite period of hours of regrets and missed opportunities.
He was trying to be stoic.
He didn't have to be. No-one would expect it of him, given the circumstances, but he just wasn't into the whole 'rend the shirt and rage against fate' thing that some people did to cope.
It all just seemed inevitable, really. That he would end his life with a whimper rather than a bang - basically alone - as he had been for the majority of his life.
He couldn't blame anyone but himself - it had been a situation from which there were no good options. But that didn't stop him from feeling slightly bitter.
He would never get to experience the joy of having a family of his own - a wife, children to love and nurture, normality - such as he could expect, given his job.
He would never get to see his theories vindicated - though there was no guarantee that he would have seen that during a normal life span anyway; never again get to stand in front of his peers and present a paper that would not be laughed out of the building. Never again lecture to a room full of students (in all their varieties), nor realize the joy of discovering another mind eager to acquire knowledge and understanding of the ancient world.
He would never again be permitted to see Giza, and view the sun rising over the pyramids; or to hear the call to prayer from the minarets in Cairo; or to smell the spices for sale in the old Souk. To converse, barter, argue, experience and simply live and breathe-in the languages he loved.
He would never more witness the incredible beauty of a new-born Spring morning - even if it meant that he spent the next several hours sneezing.
He would never have the opportunity to truly express his feelings for his team; his friends; the closest thing to a family he'd had for a long time - a privilege he didn't feel he had fully appreciated for much of these the last two years.
He'd been too busy closing off from real or imagined slights. Too quick to doubt, or challenge, or dismiss them and their points of view. He, of all of them, should have realized that nothing lasts forever and that life has a habit of snatching away the good things in the blink of an eye. He should have made it his responsibility to ensure that all the petty differences that had come between them never amounted to much. Never drove them apart.
Yet another blame to be laid at his door.
He had so much to atone for, how could he possibly leave? So many people to apologise to, too many to whom he wished to express his appreciation for their help, friendship and kindness.
Catherine - who befriended him at the lowest point in his adult life. Who gave him a new job, a new goal, a new zest for life. And who indirectly gave him the greatest gift of all - Sha're.
Kasuf - who trusted him with the life, love and protection of his only daughter; and whom he had failed so badly.
General Hammond - who despite initial doubts, had trusted him with representing the SGC and Earth in First Contact situations, and who never let his lack of military status affect the way in which he treated or responded to him.
Janet - who had saved his life on numerous occasions and even now was trying everything imaginable and then some to prevent the inevitable.
Teal'c - who despite his obvious ineptitude in all things military had patiently trained, assisted and protected him, and who had displayed more loyalty and care towards him than many of those with whom he had been friends for years.
Sam - his sister in all but blood. Who challenged him to greater efforts - both intellectual and physical. Who shared his love of knowledge and of striving to achieve one's best at all times. Whose sense of humor and caring nature had helped him weather disappointments and heartbreaks which would otherwise have laid him low.
Jack - his mentor; friend; brother. Who stood by him through the darkest times and laughed with him through the rest. Who prised from him his thoughts and stretched him to the limits of his abilities. Who refused to let him give up, even now at the end of all things him.
His mentors. His guardian angels. His friends. So many obligations. So many regrets.
He peered closely at his bandaged hands. So heavy now and hard to move.
He would miss the feel, the art of writing; of expressing himself through the written word. The sound of pen on parchment, the thrill of watching his thoughts manifest upon a blank page. The physical act of transcribing his thoughts into understandable prose.
The smell that only books and parchment gave out - that indescribable smell of knowledge being passed from one generation to the next - something that modern electronics could never hope to replicate.
The feeling of holding open and reading an aged tome; dusty, ink fading, pages brittle from the passage of time, binding creaking from lack of use. The beauty of the text, the exquisite lettering - if it predated the printing press - all parts of an overall sensation never fully appreciated until lost.
How many times had he played in jest: What would you do if you knew you only had a month - a day - an hour - to live?
How trite and trivial his answers now seemed - now that he was facing that very circumstance.
How much he wished he had the time to just say a proper goodbye to those he loved, unhindered as he now was by the trappings of life - the petty insecurities, the false modesty, the fear of how he would be perceived or judged.
If he was unhindered by the pain of his condition: the burning of his skin, the agonizingly slow degradation of his organs - how much could he have crammed into his remaining hours?
Instead, he could feel his organs slowly refusing his will, feel them failing. Could feel himself slowly drowning in their putrefying remains, until all that was left was his slowing heart and his brain, still processing all the sensations, all the pain, until it too ceased to be - the final victim of his impetuous actions.
His breathing is difficult now. His heart, faltering. He can now only sense the presence of his friends - sight and hearing have all but failed. Like his life.
After all he's seen, did he still believe in an afterlife, in peace for the weary soul?
He'd like to think he did; and that some day he could meet again with those few to whom he had given his trust and love.
He'd like to think that his actions had not been pointless. But as with so much else, he would never know; and so his life would end with just a whimper …
"My grief lies all within, and these external manners of lament are merely shadows to the unseen grief that swells with silence in the tortured soul"
- William Shakespeare