I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
two roads diverged in a wood, and I –

I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

“Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost

–

Her funeral is held on the Tuesday evening that follows.

John stands in front of the casket, hands drawn behind him in a poise that was meant to be stoic. His face is expressionless. His eyes are barren of any hint of emotion. And his voice, when he chooses to speak on this particular day, is void of any of the normal humor that regularly distinguishes it from a thousand others. The entire facade is meant for only one thing - to signal any who approach him that he was not in the mood for company.

It works, but only for those who don’t know him well.

“It was a memorable service,” Teyla comments, faltering for a second before continuing, “I understand that the casket is to be released onto the ocean waves come nightfall?”

John nods, in a detached manner, “Fitting, considering the circumstances.”

Rodney clears his throat from the other side of him, speaking in rushed words, “Yes, well. I think Elizabeth would have liked it . . . a burial at sea has a sentimental touchy-feely flavor to it that I think she would have been pleased with. Granted, the actual reasons for it manages to suck all traces of sentimentality from it with the same power as a hurricane-forced breeze . . . but still,” he reluctantly continues, his voice slowly dropping an octave and becoming uniquely gentle, “I . . . I think Elizabeth would have liked it. I really do.”

John just grunts, leaving his opinion on the matter ambiguously vague and crude.

Carson sighs, from somewhere behind him, “Oh, bloody hell, son. You can at least manage to speak words like the rest of civilization. Do us that favor, at least?”

John takes a bit of perverse pleasure in grunting his acknowledgment back.

Teyla speaks before Carson has time to muster enough ammunition in the form of foreign profanity, “The night is nearly upon us. Perhaps we should begin to make the necessary arrangements?”

John nods, momentarily glad to be doing anything besides gazing at the casket in front of him, before he realizes that making arrangements meant he had to be moving the casket in front of him instead of simply staring at it. He feels a momentary surge of aversion overcome him, before he manages to push it back down by sheer will power. It’s the same will power that has managed to keep him emotionless for the last forty-eight hours.

John Sheppard’s lost people before in his life. Numerous people, in fact. In a variety of ways. Even when he was a child, he was no stranger to death. His mother had died of breast cancer when he was twelve years old. His older brother had died in the Gulf War just two years after that. He’s seen fellow comrades and friends die in battlefields that ranged from the deserts of Iraq to the ocean waters of Atlantis. He’s seen all imaginable types of death and carnage. It was just an expected part of any soldier’s life.

This is the first time, though, that John finds himself unable to accept or deal with the aftermath. He’s always been practical in his dealings of death. Yes, death was horrible. Yes, death was crippling. And yes, his many inadequacies were often responsible for exasperating - if not outright causing - the situations to occur in the first place. But today, John seriously questions whether he’ll ever be able to recover from this one like he has all the others. This one wasn’t going to simply haunt his nightmares. It’s going to haunt his waking hours, as well.

Elizabeth’s death, he knows, will affect him for the rest of his life like no other. He chooses not to delve too deeply into the whys of that statement. He just knows the utter veracity of it, and examining it won’t make him feel better. In fact, he’s fairly positive that examining his feelings when it comes to Elizabeth . . . when it came to Elizabeth . . . would make him damn near self-destructive.

And now, as the sole leader of this entire expedition, that’s so profoundly not an option. And, he silently adds without the slightest outward tick, that he’ll be damned if he’ll let Elizabeth down for a second time. The first time he had done so had cost him her life, if he did it a second time, it could very well cost him nearly everyone else’s.

“Ford,” John calls out, knowing the young lieutenant was silently standing only a few feet out of his line of sight, “Grab the aft end of the casket.”

He doesn’t wait for any reply. He closes in on the few feet between him and the coffin, grabs one end of it, and lingers no more than a second or two before Ford has a secure handle on the other end. Together, easily, they lift up the coffin.

John reflects, with a piercing stab through his chest that’s quickly muffled, that an empty coffin was all too light for his liking.

“It really is disheartening,” Teyla comments, somberly, “that we were unable to recover her body.”

–

Forty-eight hours earlier . . .

Elizabeth stares at the man before her, feeling a type of emotion she can’t even begin to describe. “Ascend?”

It’s a notion too surreal for her to properly comprehend right now. Her mind is still trying to wrap itself around the fact that she’s not in ice cold water anymore - a blessing that Elizabeth is highly grateful for, no doubt, but the concept of it is still too jarring for her to make sense. She can still recall every second of the pain and fear she was in for the last few hours, and although now she’s suddenly warm and dry, the lingering sensations from that room will take some time to shed off.

“You’re two breaths shy of dying, Elizabeth,” the man before her replies, “I’m offering you an alternative to death.”

Elizabeth feels the wind knocked out of her, “Are those . . . are those my only two options? Is there no chance that my people will save me?”

He looks sympathetic, “I can’t answer that. We can’t see the future any better than you, but we do know the odds. I’m sorry to say, Elizabeth, they’re not in your favor.”

She stares at him, growing desperate, but feeling whispers of a familiarity she can’t begin to name or ignore any longer. “Who are you?”

He smiles, “Forgive me, where are my manners? It seems I fell into old habits again. I forgot that you don’t know who I am anymore.”

“We’ve met?” Elizabeth asks, confused on several levels.

“Not precisely, no. My name is Janus.”

The name strikes a familiar cord with her immediately, “Janus? As in the Ancient who helped the other Elizabeth - the old one - save Atlantis?”

He looks a little embarrassed, laughing, “Well, yes, I suppose. I would prefer if you didn’t call me Ancient, though. Makes me feel terribly old. Mind you, I am terribly old, but it’s still not a trait I prefer to be known by.”

She smiles, too, although for entirely different reasons. She’s trying to be polite and get a hold of the situation. It’s just that the current circumstances are little too unusual for her, even taking into account her unique past experiences. She’s standing in front of an Ancient, whose offering her the guidance to ascend, and the expected reverence she should feel of the situation seems to have completely bypassed her all together. She feels no awe of this man before, although she should. She feels no flattery at being asked to ascend, although she should. All she does feel is . . . bewildered and disoriented.

She knows it must be her imagination, but she can still taste the salt water in the back of her throat. She can still feel the residual desperation and fatigue course through her body. She can still hear the words she wanted to say to John echo inside her head. Going from that to this was . . . disorienting, to say the least.

Janus senses her turmoil, somehow, “I know this is confusing, Elizabeth, but take your time. We have all the time in the world in this place, and not even a second of it passes by in your world–”

“What is this place?” Elizabeth interrupts, suddenly impatient. “It looks like Atlantis, but it’s . . .”

She trails off, her bewilderment slowly taking a backseat to her awe. It looks like she’s standing in Atlantis, but it’s at a greater glory than she’s ever seen it before. The windows are all open, the view is spectacular, and the weather is perfect. There’s breathtaking art on the walls that she’s never seen before, and she feels an overwhelming presence of life and history and spirit in the entire place that she’s only felt an echo of before. And although they’re the only two people present, as far as she can see, there seems to be an electrified force in every inch of the city, powering it, making it run well enough for an entire city’s worth of people. Atlantis is alive and well. She’s fully active, a potency Elizabeth’s only been able to catch a glimpse of in all her time here.

This is the way Atlantis should have been, Elizabeth realizes, if fate hadn’t handed them a barely active energy source to run the city with.

Janus laughs, amused at something, “You have on the same exact look. Elizabeth - the other one - she had the same expression on her face when she saw Atlantis, too. A look of absolute wonder.”

“It’s justified,” Elizabeth replies, “I’ve never seen Atlantis fully powered before . . . Which only means one thing - this has to be an illusion of some sort.”

Janus tilts his head, surprised by her assessment of the situation, “Well, I suppose technically. This entire environment exists only in our two imaginations. It’s not an illusion, though. Think of it more as a vision come into being. Or another plane of existence, if you will. Here, you can create your own world. I chose Atlantis at its best, since I figured you could use a little familiarity right now. Unless, of course, you would prefer something else. Perhaps something from Earth?”

Elizabeth stares at him, unwaveringly, “I’d prefer answers.”

He nods, “Of course . . . Shall we go for a walk?”

She hesitates, then slowly nods, and falls into step beside him.

–

Teyla watches from her position on the balcony as the coffin is lowered onto the surface of the water. She silently confesses that she does not see the purpose of this ritual. What use is a coffin if it holds no body? What use is putting it to rest if it holds no restless soul? There is much about Earth customs that Teyla does not understand, and although she has firmly come to a point where she no longer feels the need to question every perplexing tradition of these people she has come to call friends, this time, she barely manages to temper her puzzlement only because of the heavy grief she carries with it.

She sees the vantage of a funeral, though. Elizabeth Weir, whether with body or not, deserves the respect and honor of a remembrance. The Athosians have often had to have such services themselves, since the Wraith cullings obviously leave no remains behind to the villagers. The coffin, however, still remains a mystery to her despite her best efforts to understand it. Beyond the symbolic nature of it, Teyla does not comprehend how lowering an empty casket into the waters could at all fill the unrest that has plagued the people of Atlantis since the demise of it’s leader. Beyond that, the demise of what many consider to be a close friend.

Elizabeth Weir was a person - a great person - that guided those beneath her with a sense of integrity and solidarity that Teyla feels connected to. But Teyla focuses little on the leader, and more on the friend that came to embody the woman to her. She only feels disheartened by the fact that although Elizabeth Weir was a good friend, they had not the opportunity to become great friends. Both women had much in common, but whether by a constraint that came with time they were never afforded to have, or simply because they misspent what time they did have together, Elizabeth and Teyla never bridged that chasm that would have tied them into a lifelong friendship that would have been secondary to none. ‘Best Friends,’ she believed those from Earth called it. It is a missed opportunity that Teyla knows she’ll never have another chance at, and feels a sense of loss and sadness that nearly threatens to falter the Athosian’s normal steadfast composure.

Behind her, the Athosian people stand on mass, paying condolences for a women many did not know well, but still had respect for. Not a single Athosian is absent from the ceremony, although Teyla will admit the reasons for such are two-part. Most have come to pay respect to a honorable women, but Teyla is aware of a scant few who come for purely aesthetic reasons. The harsh winter weather has driven them all in from the mainland, and the City of the Ancients is once again a reluctant sanctuary for her people. She wonders if a few here, the ones that always manage to cause the most controversy in any given situation, have come to the ceremony only because they were aware of the impropriety that would be felt if they took sanctuary in the city, yet failed to offer respect to it’s fallen leader. A hollow gesture, Teyla feels, and plans on speaking words to those few.

Teyla pulls her woolen coat tighter around her body, fending off the chill of the weather. She is unused to such weather, as are her people. The Athosians have taken refuge inside the shelter of the city for the second week in a row now, but uneased by the confining walls of the city, are already beginning to grow restless again. They are modest people, farmers and hunters, and although they notice the elegance of Atlantis, Teyla has the feeling they do not appreciate it on the same level as do those from Earth. That is why she has chosen to stand with her people today, during this ceremony, instead of with her team that stands at the opposite end, where the coffin is being lowered.

Still, she looks towards Aiden and McKay, and especially Major Sheppard, and is surprised by the sense of the longing she feels to be by their sides. It is the first time Teyla feels such a heightened sense of duality in her loyalty, between her people and those of Atlantis, and is disquieted even further by it. A time of mourning should not be charged with this type of emotion. The unease of her people clash with the grief of the Atlantis’s personnel, and it does not bode well for the relations between them.

Sadly, Teyla is certain that Elizabeth Weir would have managed to sooth such tensions with her unique talents as a ‘diplomat,’ but most unfortunate, her services as such will never be rendered again. Teyla marvels at the losses that have occurred on so many levels by the death of this one women. Friend. Guardian. Confidant. Leader. Peace maker. So many losses. Too many.

From behind, Jinto escapes the hold of his father, and rushes forward to stop next to Teyla at the edge of the balcony. The ritual is nearing its end, and Jinto, keenly fascinated with an innocent curiosity possessed only by children, climbs the railing and dangles precariously outside its safety in the effort to catch all its detail.

“What is inside the coffin?” Jinto asks softly, well aware that loud voices were unwelcome at such an occasion.

“Nothing,” Teyla responds, hiding her own frustration at the answer, “Caution, Jinto.”

She reaches across to place a firm grip on his shoulders, lest he slip, but chooses not to remove him from his position. A nod from Halling, both done in gratitude and embarrassment, brings a brief smile to her face before the somber atmosphere of the situation bears down upon her again. She feels trapped by the grief the covers the area like a fog, and not once in the last forty-eight hours has that fog released its hold. It is becoming almost too much for her to bare anymore, and she looks for respite in any place she can.

“Who will be their leader now?” Jinto asks, somberly, “Dr. Weir had no next of kin here.”

Teyla turns her full attention to him, “We do not choose leaders by bloodline, Jinto. We choose them by ability and strength.”

Jinto nods, “I know, but . . . your father was our leader, too. I just thought . . . it couldn’t hurt to have . . . you know.”

Teyla regards him with a patience that took her many demanding years to master, “My father was our leader when he was alive, yes. But that did not guarantee my position as leader in any way. I was chosen by the people, as their representative. If it was a contest of bloodline, there were others whose fathers had come before mine in the line of succession. They would have been chosen instead.”

“Alright, alright.” Jinto replies, ears burning, “But who will take Dr. Weir’s place now?”

“Who do you think should take her place?”

Jinto grins, then quickly hides the sight from the mourners around him, “Major Sheppard. He would make a great leader. He’d defeat the Wraith single-handedly, reclaim Athos from them, and still have time to teach me how to fly a puddle-jumper.”

She barely suppresses her smile, feeling the lightest she has felt in the last two days, “Will he, now? He will manage all that and still have time to teach you?”

He shrugs, “Maybe he’ll teach me before he defeats the Wraith. I think in a year or two I’ll be able to fly ‘em.”

“In a year or two,” Teyla counters in jest, “your height will barely allow you to reach the control panels.”

He shrugs, a gesture that seems to mean nothing and everything depending on his mood, “You control it all with your mind, anyway.”

Never contend with children, Teyla reflects with silent amusement, they are sure to have an apt reply to everything. Conformed to their own form of reasoning, of course.

She stands to his back, hands still firmly secured over his shoulder, and observes as the ritual draws to a close. She watches Major Sheppard intently throughout the entire proceedings. He has not once, in all the seconds that have passed since Dr. Weir’s death, faltered or succumbed to emotion. He is holding it all in, and Teyla, slightly irritated at the stubbornness of the man, also worries intensely about him. She has not known him for long, but she knows him well. There are, in fact, many similarities between the Major and herself. A warrior’s connection that both recognized upon first meeting. A tendency to hold emotion in is one of the common features among them. But here, Teyla knows, that line of action will only lead to more problems.

John will need to release his grief, or be swallowed whole by it.

As she watches him, she worries with each passing moment that the latter will be the most likely. In fact, as the coffin slowly submerges underneath the icy waters of Atlantis, that fear has reason to grow stronger and stronger. She recalls with crystal clarity the last moments heard of Dr. Weir’s life, and closes her eyes against the look of defiance that had marked the Major’s face at the time. Until the very end, he held out hope. Foolish hope, some may say. Dangerous foolishness, others had said. It was that resolve that had influenced the Major to ultimately use the C4, despite Elizabeth’s own persistent admonishment of the plan.

He had risked the destruction of a considerable portion of Atlantis to save a women who was most likely already dead. Her communications had already ceased a full thirty seconds before Major Sheppard had been able to secure the C4 onto the correct position and been able to evacuate the personnel from the immediate blast area. It was this C4, meant to be the last resort at rescue, that had ultimately lead to another loss - Elizabeth’s body.

With a blast that Teyla can still hear ringing in her ears, this cursed C4 (which in Teyla’s personal opinion had caused more trouble than was worth) worked its unique magic and burst the room wide open - directly into the sea. What had once been a small bothersome hole which leaked icy cold water into Elizabeth’s classroom, had suddenly opened wide with the blast. It took up her body and swept it away into the ocean before the Atlantis teams even possessed the time to enter the room, and now with that, John’s guilt not only covers the failed attempt at rescue, but also holds claim over losing her body as well. It is a burden that should not be his, but Teyla is well aware that it would be fruitless to attempt to convince the Major so.

The coffin, devoid of its rightful claim, has completely slipped beneath the waters of Atlantis now. Not even a corner of it is seen through the murky waters of this dark night, and Teyla hopes that it may join Elizabeth’s body, somewhere out there, at the bottom of the ocean so as to serve its purpose.

“May light find you in the darkest of places, Elizabeth Weir,” Teyla whispers, recalling the Athosian farewell, “For your light will be sorely missed here–”

“–and forever more,” Jinto finishes, surprising her.

The crowd slowly begins to disperse, and Halling makes his way over to retrieve Jinto. Before Teyla turns away from the balcony, she looks for the one face that has her the most worried. When she finds it, her heart freezes for a moment in ache. He is not grieving, she observes with a keen eye - the opposite in fact. It brings to mind an old saying of the Athosians, “Rain that has been denied its fall for weeks, will plummet with a vengeance when released.”

At this moment, she fears the saying has too apt a meaning for Major Sheppard. He will need to release his grief soon, or else, when it finally is allowed freedom, the fallout will be too great for him to handle properly. She sends two more prayers to the heavens above - oneforElizabeth Weir, in the hopes for her safe journey to the Promised Land, and the other, for John Sheppard.

She prays for his soul and his peace of mind, and then slips quietly away from the balcony with Jinto’s small hand in hers.

–

Forty-eight hours ago . . . continued

Elizabeth and Janus walk side by side for an indiscernible amount of time, doors automatically shifting open and closed in their presence as they make their way through this empty faux-Atlantis. Janus steers the conversation for the most part, Elizabeth listening with a half an ear at first since her mind is too busy preoccupied with thoughts of cold water and people she cares for and worries intensely about.

She wonders what they’re doing right now, and interrupts Janus to ask him so.

“As we speak, your people are frozen in time,” Janus replies, “Like I said before, not one second has passed in your world since I pulled you out. Time has stopped until you’re ready to decide.”

“To decide between death and Ascension?” Elizabeth clarifies.

Janus nods, “That’s the one.”

She pauses, disquieted. Back there and then, in that classroom, there had been no time or effort wasted in thinking about death, at least beyond the fact that she wanted to avoid it at nearly all costs. Now, though, she has the time to think about it and all the morbid fear it inspires. She doesn’t want to die. There’s too many things left undone . . . unsaid in her life. The leader in her, the one constantly held responsible for everything, wants to see Atlantis return to her full glory. She also wants to, quite plainly, kick the Wraith’s ass and return some semblance of vitality to this entire galaxy. A lofty goal, she knows, but she’s always been an ambitious person.

The woman in her, however, wants more simpler things. She wants to see Earth again - to curl up with a book and blanket and concentrate on nothing that has anything to do with responsibility. She wants to see her family again, especially her father. She also wants to see John Sheppard again, although for entirely different reasons. She has no idea how or when or why, but somewhere over the last year, she’s come to see him as more than her second-in-command. More than a friend. Somehow, her rational brain manages to fail for the first time in her entire life, and against all logic and sensibility, she’s starting to feel feelings for a man who should have, at best, been nothing more than a good friend. She tried to suppress it - in fact, she had suppressed it.

Months of repression, however, seems to have caved completely in a matter of hours.

Elizabeth now can’t deny what she would have starkly refused earlier the same day - she’s starting to fall for one Major John Sheppard - big time. She can’t say she’s in love with him, not yet anyway. But the possibility is there, and it frightens her almost more than the notion of death. She’s finds herself incredibly curious about how he feels, and whether he feels the same way as her, but knows she’ll be equal parts terrified and relieved at any answer she gets back.

She’s suddenly aware that Janus is talking, and seems to have been for some time now, “ . . . in a blink of an eye, we can see everything. Since we exist in a higher plane of existence, like I’ve previously mentioned, it’s easier to move through the flow of space and time . . .”

Elizabeth silently curses in three languages while keeping up pace with the man, angry at herself for catching only the tail-end of the conversation. It’s not like her to be so distracted, especially when the topic is so important. But the matter of John Sheppard always manages to blind-sight her. She firmly resolves to put him completely out of mind, so she can actually think without her eyes glazing over. She’s Elizabeth Weir, dammit, not a love-struck teenager.

It takes some time and effort to do, but Elizabeth finally manages to put most of her thoughts of John Sheppard firmly behind her - although some stubbornly manage to linger, trailing over all others with a light-feather touch.

Janus smiles, “I know what you’re thinking.”

Elizabeth freezes, and blurts out before she can stop herself, “I certainly hope not.”

Janus falters for a second in confusion, then continues to smile, “You’re thinking - it’s all well and good to know what an Ascended does, but how do you actually achieve Ascension? Am I right?”

Elizabeth forces the smile that got her through Washington onto her face, “You read my mind.”

He nods, “I thought as much. There are in fact many ways to Ascend. I’m here to offer you the assistance you need to find your own path. Enlightment is different for everybody. For some, it is simply accepting that life is over. For others, it is simply accepting that their responsibilities are over. For most, it’s accepting that whatever’s to come - will come. We have no sway in how the world is. Not really. The highlighted key praise in all of this is actually one word - ‘acceptance.’ Without it, we can’t go on.”

“Acceptance?” Elizabeth repeats.

“Yes. I know this is all sounding rather vague and preachy, isn’t it?”

Elizabeth wisely chooses not to insult the man here to help her, “A bit, yes.”

Janus grins, “ Just be glad you have me. I’ve dumbed it down, considerably. The one who guided me was Oma. I nearly chose death over Ascension because I had no inkling of what she was talking about. You should have heard some of the things she said -‘The journey must be one with the destination. Only then will you find the golden pathway which you seek.’ What exactly is that suppose to mean? I’m an Ascended now, and I still have no clue.”

Elizabeth, for the first time since she talked to Sheppard earlier that morning, grins back at someone in genuine mirth.

Their conversation, which had been stilted at first because of Elizabeth’s rather uncharacteristically divided attention, slowly picks up momentum after that. Janus tells her about the Ascended. About their powers. About their history, although so far what’s she’s heard is nothing more than what she could have hazard at guess at. Any time her attention starts to stray, to cold waters or worried Majors, she refocuses on the man before her. Then Janus says something that sparks her puzzlement. He says that she’s been chosen, one of the few among her race, to be offered the opportunity of Ascending.

Which brings to mind the obvious question - why her?

Janus’s reply is more than she expects, “We’ve been observing Atlantis for a long time. Since the moment you’ve stepped through the Stargate, there have been hundreds of eyes watching over every single member of this expedition.”

Elizabeth stops short in her walk, shocked. “The Ancients have been watching us?”

Janus doesn’t notice that she’s missing from his side until he’s a good four feet away. When he does notice, he stops abruptly with a comical look on his face, “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“The Ancients,” Elizabeth repeats, “They’ve been watching us this entire time?”

He looks at her with an expression of surprise, as if the answer to that question should have been obvious to a two-year old. “The Ancients, as you insist on calling us, have always been watching you. You’re our second evolution. And when you came to Atlantis, you naturally acquired quite an audience.”

Elizabeth stands there, mouth opening and closing in the vein attempt to form words.

“Elizabeth, are you quite alright?”

She blinks, fighting back against emotions that suddenly want to overwhelm her. Elizabeth’s upset, not an uncommon experience for her, but usually, she manages to hold it in - remaining the eloquent diplomat to the last. This time, however, the diplomat seems to have left the building, and all that’s left behind is a women who’s been through too much in the last twenty-four hours to be anything but brutally frank.

“No,” she replies, “I’m not alright. I’m actually approaching the extreme opposite of alright. You wanna know why? In the last twenty four hours, I have faced pain, imminent death, heartbreaking goodbyes, and last but not least, we cannot forget this otherworldly intervention. Now I find out that the Ancients, the race of beings that I have looked up to for so long that I actually traveled to another galaxy just to meet, have been watching over us the entire time we’ve been in Atlantis. But you wanna know what point is currently demanding my undivided attention?”

Janus looks a little hesitant, “What?”

She stares back, unwavering in her accusation, “We’ve needed your guidance and help from day one, and you’ve done nothing.”

Janus’s expression slowly turns abashed and sympathetic, “I know.”

But Elizabeth’s feels indignation begin to flood her, and she’s not nearly finished with what she has to say, “My people are dying out there, Janus. Do you wanna know how many of my people have died in the last year? In the last twelve months? Twenty-two. Of only a handful of people, already twenty-two have died. Would you like to know their names? Their ranks, age, hobbies? Their nationalities or what jobs they were given while staying in this majestic city of yours? Would you like to know how each and every one of them died? I can tell you. I know all of that by heart–”

“Elizabeth,” Janus cuts in, “I know you’re upset, but it is the way of the Others. They strongly oppose intervention of any kind. If I had my way, we would have helped. You would have had an army of the Ascended at your beck and call, but there are rules that we have to follow–”

“Rules?” Elizabeth repeats, disdainfully, “Some rules are meant to be broken. I took seven months hand picking these people - the best of the best - only to lead them to their deaths. So don’t talk to me about rules and regulations. Even the military knows that rules are meant to be broken sometimes!”

“Eliza–”

She doesn’t let him get in a word edge-wise, “What good could I possibly do my people as an Ascended, if I can’t help them?”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the only reason she hasn’t already jumped at the opportunity to Ascend. At first glance, Ascension may seem better than the other option she has available - death. But Elizabeth’s smart enough to know there’s more to it than that. She doesn’t quite know what she would get herself into by Ascending, but she’s well aware of the Ancient’s policy of ‘Look, don’t touch.’ Their rule of non-intervention is what left the Old Weir trapped in Atlantis for over ten thousand years. And although she’s aware that Janus is the exception to this rule - that it was his defiance of the order of things that had ultimately saved them all - right now, she sees him as one of them. She sees him as an Ancient, and demands justification. People are dying, and the all-powerful and all-knowing Ancients are doing nothing but watching?

Janus pauses, to measure his words, “You’re absolutely right. We’re the worst elitists in the entire known Universe - possibly even far worse than the Goa’ulds. At least they don’t mask their superiority complex with a cover of benevolence . . . But Elizabeth, some of us are good people that want to help. We trying to change the system from within, but we need more allies. We need a bigger voice among the others.”

A spark of recognition lights in Elizabeth’s eyes, “You’re talking about politics?”

Janus nods, “An appropriate name as any other. Personally, I’ve never had the patience for it.”

She sighs heavily, releasing a significant portion of her anger out with it. Only disappoint remains behind. Even here, even now, she has to deal with the worst parts of bureaucracy. Still, even as she laments over the fact that an advanced race such as the Ancients can be weighted down by politics, Elizabeth can’t deny that it doesn’t come without its’ benefits. A small part of her brain points out that she knows how to play the political game. She couldn’t have reached this point in her career without being supremely talented with it. Politics, as unseemly as it could be sometimes, was Elizabeth’s prime specialty. It was warfare that she never quite acquired the taste for.

“The question you have to ask yourself, Elizabeth,” Janus continues, softly, “is where do you think you can do the most good? As an Ascended? As a deceased? . . . Or as a peaceful leader during war?”

Elizabeth falters, all righteous anger now gone out of her as if it was never there to begin with. She stands there and Janus’s words have the resounding effect it was meant to. She can’t deny the fact that her best skills have been sourly languishing away in the Pegasus Galaxy.

“But my people need me,” Elizabeth counters, softly.

“Yes, they do,” Janus replies, “I cannot deny that. In fact, it’s more than likely that if you chose to Ascend, you will be forced to live by the same stubborn rules that I have been forced to live under - no intervention of any kind with the lives of humans.”

Elizabeth looks keenly at him, wondering how this was suppose to convince her to Ascend. The idea of watching without intervening, especially if her people’s lives are in danger, is a thought too much for her to bear.

Janus sighs, “But as I said before, you’re two breaths shy of death. If you chose not to Ascend, you are not choosing to help your people. You are choosing death, and then what good can you possibly do anybody?”

Elizabeth pauses - Death or Ascension?

She could, truly, second guess herself and debate over this issue for hours on end. It was not a decision to be made lightly. But if this is really the choice she has, then the rational answer is still obvious. And if Elizabeth was ever any one thing, it was rational.

At least as an Ascended, she thinks, she can still watch over her people.

And with that thought resounding in her head, final acceptance slowly washes over her like a storm, and Elizabeth makes the biggest decision in her entire life amidst its turmoil. Janus sees it, somehow. She’s not aware of him, though. Instead, a sense of determination and resolve has sprung up, and she clings to it before she can have time to second-guess herself.

She looks up, eyes watery with tears she refuses to let fall, “I want to say goodbye, first.”

Janus looks surprised at her sudden decision, “Are you sure, Elizabeth? I’m not asking you to make a decision right now. I still have much to tell you. You have time–”

“I’m ready,” Elizabeth says softly, feeling ready as she’ll ever be.

–

Not even one hour after the burial service is over, Rodney can be found working relentlessly in his laboratory.

The workbench is littered with design blue prints and small intricate parts of several Ancient devices, seeming to all but Rodney to be scattered about in a haphazard manner. But there’s a method to his madness that many have long since decided not to question anymore, but with his abrupt manner and irritation even worse than usual today - a feat many had thought impossible - within five minutes of entering his workstation, Rodney’s managed to clear out the entire laboratory of all other personnel by blasting his ever-so-sunny disposition at anyone who dared approach him. He’s already sent one girl running out the laboratory, fully in tears, but unlike usual, he doesn’t even pause to feel any tinge of guilt over it.

He continues to work with a single mindedness that was not uncharacteristic of him, but this time, there’s an underlying reason for it that seems obvious to everyone except him. Rodney’s focused only on his work, though, and does not catch the slightly sympathetic looks people throw his way even as they rush to leave the laboratory to escape his abhorring company.

“Ow!”

His normally nimble fingers fumble over a metallically segmented object, slicing his right index finger with a particularly nasty paper cut.

“Terrific,” Rodney grumbles, shaking his fingers to sooth the sting, “Now I’m going to bleed to death. Just perfect. The foremost expert of Gate theory and wormhole physics in all of Pegasus Galaxy dies from excessive bleeding from his right index digit . . . Just fitting–”

Then, he’s distracted from the thought as he stares at the metallic object in his hands and uniquely pauses to wonder where this piece of metal goes. Then he remembers, of course, picking up the dismantled Image Recognition Device that lays near the corner of the table. It was one of the new trinkets they had recently picked up when exploring the East Wing of Atlantis. Rodney’s already spent three days working over its design, trying to figure it out and see if he could somehow reverse engineer parts of it in modification for his own purposes. It’s slick and sophisticated, and while its great for high speed pattern recognition and image processing, he can still see other valuable applications for the device as well–

“Rodney,” Radek greets, entering the room, “Still working?”

“No, I’m practicing to become an intergalactic mime.” Rodney replies, cheekily, “What the hell does it look like I’m doing? Having a vacation in the Bahamas with two blondes?”

“Not even in another galaxy can you get two blondes,” Radek mutters, teasingly, “One, maybe. If she is sufficiently blind enough and does not speak English.”

Rodeny glares, “Do you mind? I’m trying to work here.”

“You have been working for over five hours, Rodney. You need to rest. You need to eat. Fainting is so not attractive these days, right?”

“I do not faint,” Rodney replies, burying himself back into his work, “I pass out from manly hunger. And it hasn’t been five hours. I’ve only been working for two.”

Radek looks at him pointedly, “Time is a relative thing, I know. But not so in this case. It has been five.”

Rodney looks up, surprised, “Really? Well, yes . . . I’ve just been making so much progress that I lost track of time. I’ve just figured out the range of the wavelength detectors on the Image Recognition Device. It’s not as good as the Tricorder Scans, but it has promise–”

A Power-Bar slides across the lab bench, stopping several inches away from him before he hears Radek’s voice interrupt, “You need to take a break. Come down and have dinner with us. I have noticed that you haven’t eaten anything all day.”

“Nonsense.” Rodney grumbles, for once in his life ignoring a Power-Bar’s presence, “If I hadn’t eaten anything all day, I’d be dead. I had lunch two hours ago.”

Radek tips his head to the side, curiously, “Two hours ago in reality, or two hours ago in this make-believe world you live in?”

“I am perfectly fine,” Rodney snaps, annoyed. “I don’t need a mother hen.”

Radek agrees with him, “No, you do not need that.”

“Thank you,” Rodney mumbles.

“What you need,” Radek continues, “is a swift kick in the šoust.”

That stops Rodney from tinkering with his device for a second. Curiously, he quires, “Head?”

“No,” Radek replies, smiling smugly and changing the subject. “You need to rest. You are an irritable man when like this. You are an irritable man when awake, yes, but especially like this.”

Rodney goes back to work, “No, I’m really not . . . Irritable, that is. I just demand the same perfection from everybody else that I demand of myself. It may be asking the impossible, but it’s not irritable–”

“We will all miss her terribly, Rodney,” Radek cuts in with a gentle voice, dispensing with everything else and getting to the exact topic that Rodney had been desperately trying to avoid. “You do not need to carry the grief by yourself. You and the Major both are the same. Peas in the pods, yes?”

Rodney doesn’t comment, finding the external casing of the I-R device to be suddenly fascinating and demanding of his undivided attention. He fiddles with it for a second, trying to place it this way and that, before he returns it back to the corner of his workbench. He looks up to find Radek has not moved one inch, a look of sympathy on his face that Rodney hates.

“There were not many women like her,” Radek says, “At least, not where I came from.”

Rodney grunts, amused. “I didn’t even know there were women like her where I came from. I fairly sure they’re aren’t. She is . . . was . . . ah . . . dammit, I hate this! It shouldn’t have been her! It should have somebody else trapped in that water! It should have been somebody less important . . . to the mission.”

“Nobody should have been trapped there,” Radek corrects.

“Yes. Yes. Of course that’s what I meant,” Rodney replies quickly, avoiding eye contact, “But she just . . . you didn’t hear her, Radek. She . . . sounded so different in the end. You could hear it in her voice.”

After a moment, Radek speaks again, softly, “I have been curious . . . what did she say in the end?”

–

And then she’s back, in the horrible chill of the icy cold water.

It assaults her immediately, and Elizabeth gasps a surprised breath that mingles instantly with pain. She seems to have returned in the exact same condition she left this miserably place in - cold, wet, in pain, and dying. The chattering of teeth is back, and her body is just as weak as it was before. But this time, she can handle it. This time, Elizabeth finds strength that she previously didn’t have. She’s armed with the knowledge that this pain is going to be momentary, and focused on that, Elizabeth finds the effects not as debilitating.

In the darkened and disaster-filled room, with wet hair clinging to her face, she can vaguely make out John calling her name. It’s not through the radio clutched tightly in her icy-blue fingers, though. Instead, she can hear his voice through the walls. He’s yelling for her to answer back, fearing the worst.

She takes a moment before she can regain enough strength to speak, “I’m . . . here, John.”

There’s not even a moment’s hesitation in the answer, “We’re using the C4! I’ve already started evacuating the personnel from the immediate area. Get away from the east wall, Elizabeth. No arguments!”

She smiles, even though she knows he'll be defiant to the end, he's doing it in an attempt to save her. Yes, she could have easily come to love this man. If only they had time. Her head suddenly dips under the water, and she fiercely comes back up with more fight in her than she thought she was capable of. Moments. That’s all she has left. Moments.

“I . . . wanted to say . . .”

She takes a deep breath, and changes her mind about what she’s going to say in the last second. The words of intimacy die on her lips, and Elizabeth suddenly realizes that now is not the time. Not anymore. Not yet. Her last words to John won’t be about her feelings towards him.

They’ll have time for that later, she suddenly promises. She’ll make sure of that.

Her last words, instead, turn into a promise she intends to keep, “I’ll . . . be watching . . . over you.”

And then there’s a glowing, bright light again. It’s different from when Janus pulled her out, though. This time, she feels something course through every fiber of her being. She feels energy and power and clarity flow through, from the very depths of her soul to the very tips of her fingers, and blinded by the ambient light, she doesn’t notice that her body has lost its physical form entirely. At least, not until she’s floating above the water, nothing more than ball of white light.

And thus, Elizabeth Weir Ascends . . .

--