Farewell, beloved. I will carry you in my heart all the rest of my days.

The pen slid from his lax fingers as the words he’d written blurred. But no tears fell. None had come in all the dreary, agonizing days since that final loss.

He dropped his head into cupped hands, covering those damning, too-dry eyes.

Sha’uri. His beloved friend and wife. She who orchestrated the most deliriously happy year of his life.

No tears.

He stood, joints feeling like they should belong to a man of eighty, and drifted toward the balcony door. The glass was cold against his cheek, cooling the flush of sunburn—small legacy of that final, sad trip to Abydos.

His beautiful, vibrant Sha’uri, cold and still, wrapped in harsh linen and covered with sand. Gone, gone, forever gone.

Where was that sense of eternity, that conviction of her presence he was supposed to feel?

Of course, the loss of a beloved partner wasn’t supposed to take three agonizing and bizarre years. When had he lost her? When she was wrenched from him on Abydos? When Ammonet stole her body? Or when the actions of a friend finally ended her long ordeal?

His hands tightened into fists as he searched for that conviction, so strong just a short week ago, that she’d been there, spoken to him as the Goa’Uld she carried was taking such pleasure in killing him. She had been there. Had touched him.

And even as he caressed her cheek, felt the life leave her body—no tears.

What was wrong with him? For three years he’d yearned, ached for her. Now, having lost her forever, he found no outlet for his grief.

He moved back to the desk, stared down at the words he’d written. His personal eulogy and farewell for his adored wife.

It wasn’t complete. Couldn’t be complete. The words were hollow and meaningless. Surely there was more?

He sank into the chair, but allowed his gaze to drift back to the view through the glass doors. He’d tried talking to Jack, whose life had its own terrible tragedy. But it hadn’t helped. Jack talked about never truly losing, about the spirit of his child being with him. But he knew it was all talk. Jack hadn’t dealt with his loss any more than Daniel was dealing with his.

Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes against the too-bright sunlight. The damned sun shouldn’t be allowed to burn so brightly when such a spirit was gone from the universe.

Such a spirit. He remembered the glow of her face in the torchlight, that first night. That bizarre banquet, marked by imperfect communication and stunning impossibility. But her face was somehow the only real thing he remembered.

He saw again the trepidation in her eyes as she slid that dress down over her shoulders. Heard the music of her voice as she spoke his name for the first time.

Dan-yell.

And he could visualize the bright intelligence in her eyes as they’d puzzled through that first connection between the living language she spoke and the dry artifactual symbols he knew. His first experience with the hot breath of animation bringing the phantoms of his long studies to life.

Could recall their first night—her shy advances and the passion of their connection on so many levels.

Remembered countless days of domestic joy—her graceful hands guiding his clumsy attempts to learn the basic skills she’d known virtually from birth, her teasing scold as he returned, late again, from the cartouche room, her laughter as he turned his boundless curiosity toward tasks no man in her tribe would consider appropriate.

He caught his breath, abruptly aware of the moisture on his cheeks, of the warmth in his chest.

She was there. She’d always been there. He’d just needed to look for the connections, and she was with him.

He looked again at the somehow incomplete journal entry, and a tiny memory tickled the back of his mind, words heard long ago.

He reached for the pen, and completed the eulogy, ignoring the small puckers created by his falling tears.