No-one but him.

He looks out over the city in the morning sun.

The burghers bring their wares out to the market square, and the priests wail their song down the street to the Sun Gate. The beggars bring out their begging bowls, and the women go down to the wells to bring back the water for their households. The scholars make their trips up to the scriptoriums, and the farmers out to their fields.

They are his people.

Now.

In the distance, far to the north, lies the Stargate through which he came here.

In the distance, far to the north, lies the Stargate through which his friends went home.

There are moments when he hungers for it - so close, and yet so far away.

His team need him.

They need him there beside them to make bad jokes, and cheer them up; to drag them out of their self-imposed solitudes and back into the world of the living; to haul them out of trouble and kick Goa'uld butt.

Something in him knows they need him still.

But these people…humble, simple, content…they need him too.

They are his people.

He is their protection.

Do you understand now?

Yes, he understands. After the last seven days of exhaustion and pain, he understands. The weight of responsibility has fallen on his shoulders and there is nobody else to carry the burden.

It is not such a terrible life, you know.

He knows. But it is not this life which aches in him, but the one he left behind - the friends he left behind.

They will remember you, and you will remember them, long after they are dust and you live on.

And this should comfort him?

No. You would not be the man you are if it did.

His hand clutches at the chain around his neck - the last bastion of his desperate need to remain who he was. Who he no longer is.

Slowly, he takes it off, and holds them in his hand. He is not the man he was five moons ago when he walked down the stairs from the Stargate and declared, "Oh, how I love those trees."

Fingers close around the dogtags, and he turns as his aide coughs softly from back at the staircase. "My Lord…"

"In a moment, Akherr."

He holds the memories of his team close. His friends. His family.

They will always be his, and he will always be theirs.

Long after they are dust and he lives on.

One by one, he lets them go - releasing them like birds into the sky. They will return to him many times, and he will welcome them with open arms. But what they were to him, they can never be again.

He can finally accept it.

It is a fanciful ritual for a soldier - were that all he is.

Not any more.

He turns and walks past the aide, dropping the dogtags in his hand. "Set these aside with the rest of my stuff, Akherr." Before he descends the step, he turns, giving the man a warning look, "Make sure you don't lose them, okay?"

"Yes, my Lord."

Letting go does not mean forgetting.

He'll never forget.

But these people need him and there is no-one else.

No-one but him.

*