Welcome to insanity. The fic you will be reading here is all part of a fic "Face Off" from two different authors, both who will be writing about John Sheppard and Teyla Emmagan and the relationship between them. The trick to the "Face Off" is that each chapters' finishing sentence will be the one the other will have to use for their first sentence in the next one-shot. Hope I made sense and hope you enjoy.
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(Part 1) Author M.
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away lived a man who was quite unlike all others. He lived in solitude for most of his life and spent very little time outside the four walls of his dank, cramped, dingy, little home. The mounting years seemed to pass slowly for him; though everyday when he looked into the small cracked mirror of his den he noticed his youth gradually slipping away. He did this everyday until one day when his eyes reflected in the small, dirty mirror he saw youth no longer, only the wrinkles and evidence of the old man he had become; one with hands that wouldn't stop cramping and eyes that couldn't see much farther than the very end of his reddened round nose.
He knew his time was ending and he regretted nothing of his sheltered life, knowing his choice to live this way had been the right one to make. He knew in his heart, that the power and the knowledge he possessed were far too dangerous to be out there, released into the real world, and that life would be very different for all mankind if they had the power, as he did, to know what's to come.
"The Secret Keeper" they called him and factually he was. One man to each generation held the power of true prophecy in the Pegasus Galaxy and he felt blessed that the heavens had chosen him above all others, though he often wondered what kind of life he might have had if things were different.
He hobbled over towards his desk with his hand crafted wooden cane that was far too short for the length that he was and began rustling through the many pages of omens and "secrets" that he always scribbled down when the moment came. One particular prophecy had been troubling him as of late; often this happened when he saw something dark, though his worry was in vain since he had never broken his solemn oath of solitude.
He stared closely at the drawing he had sketched, practically pressing the paper to his face in order to see, and admired the detail in the woman's soft face and the man's messy hair. He wondered what their names were and smiled for moment, rubbing gently at the white whiskers on his chin. Then his eyes caught the words he had written beneath and the smile quickly faded away. There, written in his messy handwriting was: "They will bring forth the end."
Sometimes though, he knew, one phrase could mean a great many things.