That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight.

Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower.

We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind. - William Wordsworth

Major Scott Bradshaw stepped off the plane and was immediately greeted by cheers. A small crowd had gathered at the base of the gangway and were clapping up at him enthusiastically. As nice as it would have been to imagine they were clapping for him, Bradshaw knew that wasn't the case. The small group of people were there to celebrate the first arrival of a plane in their airport in nearly 18 years. Not to greet some unknown soldier. Even so, he shook more than one hand as he made his way through the crowd and in search of the man sent to meet him. He found his Corporal a few yards back from the crowd holding a tattered piece of cardboard with Bradshaw's name scribbled across the front.

"Corporal Morris?" Bradshaw inquired as he approached the Marine and Morris threw up a stiff salute.

"Welcome to Wisconsin, Sir."

Formalities exchanged, Bradshaw followed Morris out of the airport and to an old Lincoln Towncar that was idling in the firelane just outside the airport. Bradshaw slipped through the door Morris held open for him and settled into the back. The car had seen better days and the leather was worn and ripped in places, but Bradshaw hardly cared. Half the time on trips like these, he was hailing a cab to wherever his job took him next. So having a car and an actual driver was not something he was about to turn his nose up at. Morris situated himself behind the wheel, and a moment later, they were off.

It did not take long for the commerce of downtown to give way to the sprawling lawns of the suburbs. And even less time after that for the houses to disappear entirely and for the corn fields to take their place.

"First time in Wisconsin, Sir?" Morris asked from the driver's seat, catching Bradshaw's eyes in the rearview.

He nodded.

"We should get to Blue River in a little under three hours. I think they set you up in a little hotel not far out of town. I'll be your driver till you're finished. If you need anything, just let me know."

"Thank you, Corporal," Bradshaw said. "I appreciate that."

Morris continued. "I know you can't tell me anything about why you're here, but I have to ask, anything I should be worried about?"

Bradshaw studied his driver through the rearview. He was a young man, but likely not much younger than Bradshaw himself. He had a sturdy look about him with a prominent brow and close-cropped, sandy blond hair. Bradshaw decided he liked him. "Nope. This is just a routine visit."

In actuality, there was nothing normal about this visit, but Morris didn't need to know that.

"I know I'm not supposed to ask," Morris went on, "it's just, you're the first real VIP we've had come through here in a really long time."

Bradshaw couldn't help but smile at that. He was hardly what anyone would call a VIP, but the Corporal's awe was endearing. "Just doing my job."

The Corporal looked like he wanted to question Bradshaw further, but mercifully stopped talking and focused back on the road. Bradshaw took the opportunity to retrieve a file from the briefcase lying on the seat beside him and lay it across his lap. Its contents were heavily redacted and he let his eyes wander over the angry black lines hoping this time they might reveal something. But just like every other time before, the service record in his lap kept its secrets. Sighing, Bradshaw flipped back over to the front cover of the file and to a faded photo someone had added to it long before it had ever reached Bradshaw's hands. The man who stared back up at him had unruly hair that stuck up in every direction and mischievous eyes that seemed to glint up at Bradshaw from the faded photograph. They were eyes that held a glint of challenge, as if the man were just begging Bradshaw to come and find him.

Just come and try to find me. I dare you, they whispered.

Well, Bradshaw had found the man, and now he was currently headed to the small town of Blue River, Wisconsin where the former Air Force Colonel had apparently settled down.

Bradshaw pulled his eyes away from the photo and glanced out his window at the Wisconsin countryside. The cornfields flashed past his window in an endless brown blur and Bradshaw tried to see the appeal. He'd spent his entire life in New York City before joining the military, in a little apartment his mother had owned above a bakery in Greenwich village. In his youth, he'd always meant to visit places like these, but he'd just never had the time. And then the Wraith came, and well… traveling just never seemed like a priority after that. And besides, he had other things to worry about back then. Like attending funerals for empty caskets and making sure his family member's names made it onto the Wraith Registries.

The people out in these more rural areas had been lucky. There were entire towns out here that hadn't even been touched by the Wraith. People who would never know what it was like to watch your entire life disappear right before your eyes, or the profound grief that came with burying every single member of your family. Some people had used their grief after the war in some pretty destructive ways. Bradshaw had chosen to focus his energy on joining the military. Back then, there wasn't much left of the various branches, so the people in charge made the executive decision to just revamp the entire system and create something new. And so, the United States Strategic Force was born. Everything was basically the same, it was all just run on a much smaller scale. It had to be, considering the planet had lost nearly a quarter of its population during the Wraith attack. One billion, seven hundred thirty-two million, eight hundred and sixty-five thousand, if you wanted to get technical. They called it The Great Culling.

Bradshaw had bounced around various posts for a while after basic. He was a good soldier, and good soldiers were in short supply, so he rose in the ranks pretty quickly. Lately, he'd been working out of D.C. on a special task force that had been set up to try and track down some of the old military leaders from before the war. It had been 18 years since The Great Culling, and the world was finally starting to wake back up. But that was not necessarily always a good thing. The Wraith might have decimated Earth's people, but it certainly hadn't destroyed their ideals, or their weapons for that matter. Borders were being reestablished, and old grudges reignited. Angry eyes were once again turned westward, and the USSF needed leadership. To swell the ranks with men and women who remembered the old days and could help protect the country against outside threats.

One good thing to come out of the reformation recently was the reactivation of several top-secret government projects. Bradshaw's boss hadn't seen fit to read him in on many of the details, but he knew the SGC existed, and that it had something to do with the Wraith and the man he was headed out to see today, but his knowledge ended there. Everything else he'd pieced together from the rumors flying around and what little he'd been able to glean from the heavily redacted service record still lying in his lap.

Bradshaw once again glanced down at former Colonel John Sheppard's photo and wondered, not for the first time, what he might be walking into. Part of his job with the Office of Acquisitions was to track men like Sheppard down and try to talk them into re-enlisting, but Bradshaw knew so little about Sheppard's history at this point that he was a bit apprehensive. Everything about this felt rushed, and it had been like that ever since he'd run into his boss' office less than 48 hours ago and let him know that Desirable #1, the man on the top of every single recruitment list that circulated through their office, had been found.

Bradshaw was still patting himself on the back for that one. Sheppard's name was well known in his office, so was the knowledge that the recruiter lucky enough to find him was likely in for a big promotion. It had been Bradshaw's facial recognition that had tracked him down in the end, and to a small little backwater town in Wisconsin called Blue River.

But none of that changed the fact that Bradshaw was going into this blind, and with very little information. Trips like these were difficult at the best of times. Not every old soldier he approached was happy to see him and he'd been chased off his fair share of porches by angry men with even angrier shotguns. But most of the time, if he was careful, the visit at least ended on a high note. He hardly ever talked anyone into re-enlisting, but he'd learned a lot from the men and women he'd interviewed over the past several months. He knew a visit was going to go well when their eyes fell on the full dress uniform he always wore and their eyes lit up. That was the moment he knew he would be pulling up a chair and hearing old war stories for the next hour or so. That was the only time he felt comfortable in full dress. Every other time he felt ridiculous. Especially when he found his recruits in dive bars. One he'd even approached in a casino. Talk about sticking out like a sore thumb.

The uniform in question was packed away in his luggage, mocking him from the trunk. What would Sheppard think of it, he wondered? The design was different and all the insignias had changed. Would it throw him off? Make him mad? Normally Bradshaw had a pretty good idea of what he was walking into. With Sheppard it was different, and he had to admit, he was a little miffed at his boss for refusing to fill in some of the blanks in Sheppard's file. The man knew more than he was letting on, but kept everything so close to the vest. And he had been acting downright cagey ever since learning John Sheppard had been found. All Bradshaw had were breadcrumbs and he could only hope the few trigger words he'd been given and the handful of names he had to drop were going to be enough to get the former Colonel to at least talk to him.

Whatever. It was going to be fine. Bradshaw had been doing this a long time now and was fairly certain he could take whatever was thrown at him. Maybe when he got there, Sheppard would jump at the idea to re-enlist. Everything about his service record gave Bradshaw that impression that he just might. Well, everything he could read, anyway.

True to his world, Morris got them to the outskirts of Blue River in about three hours. They stopped off at an old, dilapidated Holiday Inn one town over so Bradshaw could change into his uniform before heading into town. He met Morris in the lobby an hour or so later and tried not to blush as the clerk who'd checked them in earlier stared at him with mouth agape as soon as he exited the elevator. He ignored her and climbed into the back of the Towncar before Morris could even say anything.

Blue River Wisconsin was populated by 438 souls according to the pathetically executed 2020 census; though only 437 names appeared on the official registry. The town was big enough for a bank, a few restaurants, and a handful of churches, but its residents were mostly farmers. The tiny community was located just south of the Wisconsin River and about 3 hours outside of Madison.

The Madison airport was where he'd flown into, and on a historic day, no less. Bradshaw was counting his lucky stars, because if the airport hadn't opened up just as he was getting ready to leave for Wisconsin he likely would have had to drive the 912 miles from D.C.. Either that or catch a lift on some military flight. Bradshaw would rather have flown with an elderly Howard Hughes than risk getting strapped into the back of some cargo hold. This was so much better.

Morris wasn't familiar with the area, so Bradshaw had to direct him towards Sheppard's home. It wasn't difficult, just a right onto Martha from Hwy 133, a few blocks past Blue River's only fuel station. Martha, he recalled, would take them to Smith Street, which would then lead them to the inconspicuous dirt turn-off that had no name, and likely never would. Sheppard's house sat at the end of that unnamed road.

Bradshaw found himself staring out his window again. Not out of boredom this time, but out of awe. The lane was picturesque and tree lined, though being the dead of winter, the branches of those trees were bare. Even so, the dark bark glistened under the light dusting of snow that covered nearly everything. The thin kind that always seemed to come with frigid temperatures. The region was in the middle of a cold snap and Bradshaw was not looking forward to traipsing around in the cold trying to find Sheppard's house. Not in the ridiculous and ineffectual shoes he was wearing anyway.

But the view more than made up for it. The wind kicked up little tornadoes of snow every so often as Morris maneuvered the Towncar down the primitive avenue that was little more than two worn trenches excavated from flash-frozen mud. But before Bradshaw could even voice his concerns for the Towncar's ancient suspension, they broke through the tree line and Scott Bradshaw got his first unencumbered look at the place John Sheppard called home.

The old clapboard cabin was tucked back against the banks of the Wisconsin River and surrounded by a wide lawn and walled in with thick clumps of dead vegetation. But there was an underlying order to things that Bradshaw picked up on immediately and he knew, come summer, this place would be spectacular. Even the cabin retained its charm under the bleakness of winter, from the fresh coat of red paint on her exterior, to the smoke that curled idly up and away from the chimney. There was even a handmade porch swing standing sentry near the front door and swaying idly in the winter wind. Bradshaw figured he understood why the former Colonel had settled here. It wasn't a place he himself would probably choose for retirement, but he could see the draw.

Besides the smoke drifting from the chimney, there were no other signs of life from within the cabin and all of her windows were dark. Suspecting Sheppard might not be in, Bradshaw ordered Morris to keep the engine idling while he went to check things out. The young corporal seemed perfectly fine with this and started playing on his phone. Bradshaw unfolded himself from the backseat, stuffed his uncovered hands into his pockets, and made a bee-line for the cabin's front door.

Some of the more stubborn leaves on the trees greeted him with a shiver of dry rattling as he approached. He had to make his way carefully as the plunging temperatures had frozen the mud and fossilized the signs of previous foot traffic. The ground was uneven and it attempted to trip him up on more than one occasion. He made it onto the front porch without incident, and peered into one of the darkened windows before knocking. As he suspected, there were no signs of life, just a sparsely furnished main room with a few ratty-looking high-backed chairs circled around a smoldering fireplace. He pressed his nose against the little window in the center of the front door for good measure, but it was no use. Sheppard was not at home.

"No luck?" Morris asked when Bradshaw climbed back into the car a moment later. He bent over to warm his hands at the vents supplying heat to the backseat and shook his head.

"Nothing."

"Back to the hotel then?"

Bradshaw considered it for a second then made up his mind. He was already in his monkey suit, they might as well keep trying. "Let's head back into town and try there. I'm not ready to give up just yet."

The only place that looked promising when they got back into town was a sad little bar called The Grumpy Girl. Morris parked them under the gaudiest Pabst Blue Ribbon sign Bradshaw had ever seen and agreed to give him some time alone in the bar before coming in himself. Bradshaw felt a little guilty making the kid stay in the car so much, but this first part he needed to do alone. Too many uniforms and it might spook the locals. Or worse, Sheppard himself.

Bradshaw pushed into the bar through its swinging front door and stopped just inside to give his eyes time a chance to adjust to the gloom. There were no overhead lights in the place, just the occasional deer antler chandelier suspended over a few rickety-looking tables with red and white checkered tablecloths. Every other surface of the place was covered in knotty pine. Not tasteful knotty pine, either. It was just like every other dive bar he'd been in over the course of the past several months.

"There something we can help you with, Son?" a large, booming voice asked him from across the room, and Bradshaw had to squint to see who was addressing him. The bartender - a gigantic man with a camo cap and a towel draped over one shoulder - was staring at him incredulously. So were the five or so other patrons playing pool in one far corner of the space. There was one other person seated at the bar, but his back was to Bradshaw and he hadn't turned around

"I was wondering if any of you knew where I might find John Sheppard?"

Bradshaw's eyes had adjusted to the gloom by then and he did not miss the glance the bartender shot at the man sitting on the other side of the bar. The one paying very close attention to the half-empty beer clutched in his hands.

"No John Sheppards around here," the bartender answered gruffly. "Have you tried Port Andrew?"

"No, I'm looking for the John Sheppard who lives up in the cabin off of Smith Street," he tried again. "The former Air Force Colonel?"

The man at the bar stiffened instantly and Bradshaw knew immediately that this was his guy. What he didn't understand was why the Colonel was ignoring him and every single person in the bar right now was ready to jump him and throw him out. The skin on the back of Bradshaw's neck prickled as a chill ran up his spine. This is exactly what he had been afraid of. Something more was going on here and Bradshaw had just stirred up the hornet's nest.

"I think you should leave," the bartender said, rounding the bar and coming to stand between Bradshaw and Sheppard. The patrons still pretending to play pool on the other side of the room dropped their cues and flanked him on either side.

Bradshaw put his hands up in surrender. "I'm not here to cause any trouble. I just need a few minutes of the Colonel's time. That's it."

"Like I told you before," the bartender practically growled, "ain't nobody named John Sheppard around these parts."

"Look big fella, I think we just got off on the wrong foot. I'm Major Scott Bradshaw with the USSF. I just..."

"And I'm Eddie Nostrand of the Crabby Girl," the bartender interrupted. "Now that we got that out of the way, why don't you get the hell out of my bar."

Nostrand and the other patrons were slowly backing Bradshaw towards the door. Maybe, if this had been someone other than John Sheppard, he would have given in and left, but the Colonel was too important. If he went back to D.C. having not even talked to the man, he was going to lose his job and get sent to some god awful place like Antarctica. Maybe that was why he ignored every instinct screaming at him to just let it go and leave.

"Colonel Sheppard, please," he implored even as Nostrand and his goons closed in. "I just want to talk to you!" It was time for the big guns. "It's about Atlantis, Sir."

His back was all the way to the door by now and the only thing that kept him from getting thrown out completely, was what John Sheppard said next.

"Stop."

Nostrand and the patrons did so immediately, though they didn't step away from Bradshaw.

Colonel Sheppard's head had fallen forward and he was shaking his head. "Let him in."

The pool players obeyed, Nostrand hesitated. "You sure, John?"

Colonel Sheppard spun around on his stool and Bradshaw finally got his first good look at the man of legend. The one who had gone on so many classified missions, his service record was nothing more than a collection of pages covered in thick black lines. Bradshaw had been right. His hair might be salt and pepper now, and the lines around his eyes more pronounced, but John Sheppard looked exactly the same. Bradshaw could see it even around the thick winter beard he was sporting.

Sheppard nodded and Nostrand finally backed off.

Adjusting his uniform, Bradshaw made his way over to the bar. Sheppard had already turned back around and was draining his beer.

"I really didn't mean to cause you any trouble," Bradshaw said quietly, unsure if he should be so bold as to take the empty seat beside Sheppard. Every signal the man was throwing him told Bradshaw it probably wasn't a good idea.

"Who sent you?" Sheppard demanded. They were alone now. Nostrand having wandered off to start wrangling up the pool players and make them leave.

"General Landry," Bradshaw replied.

"Landry's dead."

"Hank Landry junior , Sir... General Henry Landry's nephew. I'm here on his orders."

Sheppard looked over at him sharply and appeared to be sizing him up. It was an intense gaze and Bradshaw had to work very hard not to squirm under it. Once Sheppard was apparently done with his assessment, he turned back around with an angry sigh. "How in the hell did you even find me?"

"Eagle Cave, Sir. They had a photo of you up on their website."

Eagle Cave was a local tourist attraction just outside of town. It was the largest Onyx cave in all of the midwest. Before the War it had been a popular destination for Boy Scout camping trips since the owners of the cave actually let the kids sleep in the caverns hidden deep underground. Or at least, that's what the website had claimed. Sheppard had apparently taken a part-time job there as a tour guide under an assumed name. In an effort to get the word out that they were open again, the tour company had re-launched its website a few months ago, adding photos of some of their more popular guides to the page. Bradshaw had read through that website before heading out to Blue River... and even he had to admit the place sounded cool.

Sheppard seemed to agree and Bradshaw thought he saw the ghost of a smile touch the former Colonel's lips.

"Why are you here, kid?" And just like that, the smile was gone.

"I'm part of a special task force within the USSF, Sir. That's the new…"

"I know what the damn USSF is, Major. Get to the point."

As appealing as discussing all of this in the middle of a dive bar was, Bradshaw knew it was better if they had this conversation somewhere else. And away from nosy bartenders who were trying to hide the fact that they were eavesdropping. The pool players had thankfully vacated the premises. "Is there somewhere we can go to talk that's maybe a little more private?"

Sheppard's eyes were practically twinkling when he looked back over at Bradshaw.

"It's just, some of this stuff is still technically classified, Sir."

"Not my problem, kid," Sheppard practically laughed. "I'm a civilian now. Anything you have to say to me, you can say to my friend, too." Sheppard tipped his empty glass towards Nostrand who came over to refill it at the tap. Bradshaw was not offered anything.

"You better get crackin', son. Time's a wastin'."

He was a little annoyed at being called son. But seeing no other alternative and knowing he'd never get a chance like this again, Bradshaw set his hat on the sticky bar top and took the stool beside the Colonel. Sheppard bristled physically, but said nothing. He just sipped at his beer and let his eyes wander up to a TV that was silently broadcasting a football game.

"You probably know this already, but the branches of the former US Military have joined forces to create the new United States Strategic Force. I'm part of the Office of Acquisitions. We're a task force that was created to help track down retired service members and see if they'd like to re-enlist. We just don't have the numbers we used to, Sir. Or the experience. So that's why I'm here today. It wasn't to cause you trouble or disrupt your life."

"A little too late for that, I think," Sheppard muttered under his breath. Bradshaw went on, unfazed.

"I'm just here to make you the offer and to let you know they would like you to come back to the SGC. I'm authorized to tell you that this would be as the leader of the newly reformed Atlantis Expedition, along with a promotion to the rank of Brigadier General."

There was an entire speech Bradshaw had prepared for these trips and he could tell instantly that his decision not to use it on Colonel Sheppard had been a wise one. The hostility coming off the man in waves leant him to believe that the Sheppard wouldn't appreciate getting preached to about loyalty or patriotism. Or honor for that matter. Bradshaw wouldn't do him the disservice.

"Did you fight in the Wraith War?" Sheppard asked him suddenly. He was swirling around the last dregs of his beer at the bottom of the glass and did not look up.

"No, Sir. That was a bit before my time," Bradshaw replied, knowing exactly where this was going.

"Ever see combat?"

"Yes, I have," Bradshaw answered forcefully, expecting some kind of response from Sheppard but getting none. The service men and women he visited always tried to throw the combat card in his face, and were always surprised to learn that he had actually seen it. "Afghanistan, two tours."

Sheppard set his glass back down onto the bar and finally looked over. His eyes had darkened and his gaze was intense. But it was a different kind of intensity. One Bradshaw knew only too well. They were about to have a very dark, and very difficult conversation.

"You see anyone get killed over there?"

Bradshaw swallowed thickly. "I did."

"And of those people you saw die, were any of them your fellow soldiers?"

Memories flooded Bradshaw's brain, making him feel nauseous and it took him a moment or two to answer. "Yes."

"How about innocent civilians? See any of them get killed?"

Bradshaw wasn't sure where this was going, but he answered anyway. "I did, Sir. Yes."

"Alright, I think we understand each other now. So I only have one more question for you. And I expect an honest answer, Major.

Bradshaw waited.

"Of those people you saw die, at any time did your superior officers order you to kill them?"

"Sir?"

"It's a simple question, Major. At any time when you were over in Afghanistan, did your superior officers order you to kill any of your fellow soldiers or fire on innocent civilians?"

"Of course they didn't!" Bradshaw exclaimed, confused as hell and pissed beyond measure that Sheppard could even suggest such a thing.

"That's good, Bradshaw. That's exactly the answer I wanted to hear." The former Colonel picked up Bradshaw's service cap and pushed it into his hands. "Now walk your sorry ass out of this bar, get into whatever car brought you here, and get the fuck out of my town."

Sheppard's words were like a slap to the face and Bradshaw recoiled. In the blink of an eye, Sheppard was out of his seat and yelling for Eddie to come remove Bradshaw from the bar. They were halfway to the door before Bradshaw found his voice again.

"Aren't you even going to tell me why?"

Sheppard was leaning over an ancient jukebox along the far wall with hands planted on the glass, obviously very upset and trying to control his breathing.

"Ask your superiors," he spat, the words so acidic Bradshaw half expected them to etch the jukebox glass. "In fact, why don't you give them a message for me. Tell them John Sheppard told them to fuck off. And that if anyone from the USSF ever steps foot in this town again, I swear to God I will shoot them on sight. And you can tell Richard Woolsey the next time you see him that I keep my promises. And that includes the one I made to him 18 years ago."

That was the end of it. Nostrand shoved him forward and pushed Bradshaw bodily out the door. He stumbled a bit but regained his footing and stood there staring at the door as it swung back and forth on squeaky hinges.

"Everything ok, Sir?" Morris asked, rushing up to him.

Bradshaw just brushed him off. "I'm fine. Just… give me a minute.

The Corporal seemed confused, but left him alone as requested and returned to the car.

When he had left for Blue River this morning he had pictured this day going in a completely different direction. Now he was wondering if he had made the right decision to even come here. He'd known it wasn't going to be easy, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

And now Bradshaw was pissed. Not at Sheppard. God, not at all. How could he be? He was pretty sure he'd just made life a lot harder on the former Colonel. Bradshaw was pissed at his boss who had just sent him into the lion's den armed with a bb gun and some charm. Bradshaw considered himself a reasonably intelligent individual and even he could tell there was so much more going on here than met the eye. That was years of repressed anger back in that bar. And those questions he was asking…. Bradshaw could read between the lines enough to know that he never should have been sent to Blue River. This should have been handled by someone with security clearance, and who knew the former Colonel's backstory. Not some desk jockey Major who, if he was honest with himself, had been looking at this as nothing more than a meal ticket since the day John Sheppard was located by his software.

But what was really bothering him were Sheppard's last words.

And you remind Richard Woolsey that I keep my promises.

John Sheppard had just referred to Bradshaw's boss by name. When he eventually got back to the office tomorrow, Richard Woolsey had some explaining to do.