"Report," Elizabeth ordered as soon as she got into the control room. "Dr. Grodin, I see the Stargate is active. You'd better have something to tell me."

"We do," Grodin confirmed, but he didn't sound too happy about it. "We were right—there was more data stored on that projector. The Stargate address of the planet where the Ancients hid the machine, to be precise."

Elizabeth folded her arms across her chest. "So why do I get the feeling there's a catch here somewhere?"

"We dialed the planet and sent a MALP through." He motioned towards a monitor. "Take a look."

Elizabeth bent over and looked more closely at the screen. It showed mostly darkness and a thousand tiny specks—illuminated by the MALP's lamps—flying straight at the camera. If it hadn't been for the green markings indicating a camera feed, she would've thought she was looking at a computer screensaver. "I don't understand."

Grodin flipped on the microphone. A howling noise came out of the speakers for a few seconds, and then he switched it off again.

It took Elizabeth a second to understand. "Sounds like there's one hell of a wind blowing."

"Exactly. As best as we can tell, there's a massive sandstorm around the Stargate on that side. No one we send through right now will have a chance."

"Then we'll just have to wait it out." She dropped into the nearest empty chair and hit the intercom button. "Lieutenant Ford, Teyla, I want you in the control room immediately."

Grodin looked over at her. "You really think this is where we should be looking, ma'am?"

"It had better be," said Elizabeth grimly. "Because I'm sending Teyla and Ford there the instant we know it's safe."

-----

It was still dark outside. This wasn't terribly surprising—it was, after all, nighttime—but nonetheless it pissed the hell out of Rodney, because he had enough problems already. For one thing, he was no longer sheltered in a downwind-facing cave, and he'd had to rip a big chunk out of his shirt and tie it over his face just to be able to breathe, which meant that his bare skin was now being pummeled raw by flying sand. For another, he hadn't been able to find a way to protect his eyes, which meant they were also having an extremely painful time of it.

And, worst of all, he'd just discovered that he was falling in love with a man who was currently possessed by a being who wanted to kill him.

Yeah, life pretty much sucked at the moment.

Still, Rodney wanted to hang on to it for as long as he could, which was why he was currently scrambling blindly up an obscenely steep dune which might or might not decide to collapse underneath him at any moment. Until the dune simply . . . ended. All of a sudden, he was at the top, and the other side was sufficiently close to being perpendicular to the ground below that there was no way he was going to get down it intact.

Rodney spun around to look behind him, gasping for breath through the thick fabric covering his nose and mouth. Below him, the light of the sword blade was growing steadily clearer now. It was glowing more brightly, too; its light had grown from a dull grey gleam to a silvery-white blaze. He could only just discern John's face behind it, a mass of shadows in contrast.

As the distance between them grew still smaller, Rodney began to see that the storm did not even touch John; he was surrounded by a bubble of clear space, the sword no doubt repelling the sand that whirled around him. And he could see, too, that the face of the man approaching him wasn't John's after all. It was the same skin, stretched over the same skull and facial muscles, but that was all. The eyes set into the skull were jet black, and the muscles were twisted into a hateful expression that John would never have worn. Because that wasn't really John any more. It was the Swordbearer, whoever the hell that was, and John himself was dead. Or worse.

"So you are the one for whom Sheppard cared so much," the Swordbearer sneered. The words were perfectly audible, even over the shrieking wind; he was close enough now that his bubble of protection enclosed Rodney as well. "I can see why he was so concerned for your welfare. You do not appear as though you would be a particularly skilled fighter."

Was. Rodney clenched his fists tightly at his sides, although it was half to stop his hands from shaking. "Would you like an opportunity to test that hypothesis?" His words were muffled by the cloth, but he didn't dare take it off.

"Not just yet." Without warning, the sword blade disappeared, leaving them once again in pitch blackness. Rodney braced himself, but the storm remained just barely at bay. The Swordbearer was circling him slowly now; that much could be told from the sound of his voice. "I wish to understand you better first."

"Why?" Anything to buy time. Anything to give him a chance to think of something.

"I exist to destroy," the Swordbearer answered simply. His voice, like his face, was like John's and yet not, a grotesque hissing parody. "The better I understand those I must destroy, the easier that task becomes."

"Well, then . . ." Rodney swallowed hard and tried to keep his voice level. He was wishing more than ever that he could seem although that was far from the only thing he was wishing for. "What do you want to know?"

"I am curious about your motivations in coming here. You placed your life in grave danger by following Sheppard when the Machine drew him here, and yet you chose to do so nonetheless."

Rodney's nails were digging into his palms now. "I came here," he said slowly and carefully, "because I knew what was happening to John—more accurately, what you were doing to him." He set his jaw, fury beginning to overwhelm fear. "I couldn't just abandon him."

"So I see," the Swordbearer agreed thoughtfully, stopping just behind Rodney's left shoulder. "Nonetheless, you were not able to save him, were you?"

"That would be self-evident," Rodney gritted.

"And now," the Swordbearer declared triumphantly, "you are now angry because you failed."

"You're wrong!" Rodney yelled, whirling around to face the Swordbearer. The cloth around his face came undone and fell away, but he no longer noticed or cared. "I don't blame myself for this. I consider the responsibility yours and yours alone. John is—was—" he gulped again—"the most resilient person I've ever known. Up until now, I could never imagine him succumbing to anything. But that's what you've achieved. You broke him down and you completely destroyed him. That's why I'm angry, you bastard."

"Interesting." A hand came up and squeezed Rodney's chin for a second. "Perhaps you are not so weak after all. We shall see." The sword blade flicked out again, illuminating the Swordbearer's face. He was grinning.

And, dear God, when he smiled he didn't look like John at all.

-----

Ford reached over and flipped on the audio, more out of nervous energy than for any real reason.

The howling of the wind on the other end was unnerving, and Elizabeth was about to ask him to please turn it back off when Teyla held up a hand. "I hear a voice."

"What?" He looked as though he already regretted having chosen that particular switch to fidget with. "It's just the wind."

"I think not. Listen."

The sound came again, louder this time, a sharper and shriller note carried by the wind. It was certainly a human voice, but with no words. None were needed.

"Oh my God." Ford slammed the switch off. "That was someone screaming."

"Ancestors preserve us," Teyla whispered. Her face was very pale.

Elizabeth buried her face in her hands.

-----

Somewhere, deep inside the mind that rightfully belonged to him and him alone, there drifted a spark that called itself John Sheppard.

At the moment, he was quite busy wondering what kind of trouble his body had gotten into since he'd lost control of it for good. Probably a lot, he guessed, which raised the question of whether he really wanted to know what was happening.

John decided he did.

It was curiosity that brought you to this point in the first place, was it not? The voice sounded amused; then again, it almost always sounded like that. And yet you still desire information that can only bring you unhappiness.

Maybe he was just dumb like that.

Very well, if you insist. But you were warned.

In an instant, John had his body back. He could see, feel, hear. But that relief was short-lived. He couldn't control his own muscles. Which, right now—well, always, but especially right now—was a very bad thing.

He saw darkness all around him, broken only by the glow of the sword, and sand blowing around with alarming force, although it didn't seem to be coming near him. He felt the sword in his hand. He heard the wind whipping past.

John also discovered that Rodney was curled at his feet, moaning in pain and bleeding profusely from a dozen ugly wounds. And he was gripping the sword with both hands now, lifting it over his head, preparing for the last blow straight through Rodney's chest.

John shrieked out something inarticulate, but it was too late. The blade came whistling down . . .

. . . and at the last second, Rodney managed to roll out of the way, but the stroke still succeeded in laying his side open. The gash was several inches long at least, and nearly bone deep.

Oh, no, please no, John gasped. I can't watch this, I can't.

There was no response. He'd chosen to watch. He was trapped in his own eyes now, and he didn't even have the option of closing the lids.

He was kneeling down at Rodney's side now. Not to offer comfort, of course, because John still wasn't the one in control here. He was pressing the edge of the blade against Rodney's throat.

No elegant, quick killing now. This was going to be slow and deliberate.

The sword was biting in deeper, more and more of Rodney's blood welling up around it.

He remembered kneeling, grief-stricken, in a pool of that blood, remembered Rodney's nearly-severed head grinning up at him.

As the sword cut deeper, Rodney managed to choke out one word. "John . . ."

The last straw.

John summoned up all his might—more than he'd thought he had—and shoved.

----

The Swordbearer faltered. It was only for a few seconds, but it was enough. The sword blade vanished, he dropped the handle—and Rodney's hand, which he'd reflexively brought up near his throat, caught it.

"That is mine," the Swordbearer hissed. "Give it back."

'Not any more," Rodney said hoarsely. He raised himself up on one elbow, wound up as best he could, and hurled the sword handle into the night.

The storm immediately announced its continued presence in no uncertain terms.

At the same time, John began to sway and then crumpled limply to the ground beside him.

Rodney couldn't find anything to protect them from the sand, although it seemed to be easier to breathe now. It occurred vaguely to him that he should get them both back to the cave, but there was no way in hell that was going to happen. Even trying to shift to check on John made his side feel like it was about to split open. He wondered absently whether his intestines were spilling out. It didn't feel like it, but he didn't particularly want to check either.

"Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?" he quoted aloud to John's still form, and began to laugh hysterically, even though it made his side want to fall apart more then ever and his head feel about to fall off. He kept right on laughing until he passed out from the pain.

The wind was dying down, and the dawn finally broke. But no one noticed.

--------------------------------------------------

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I know this was supposed to be the thirteenth chapter, not the twelfth. But the first scene of this comprises the entirety of what I was planning to use as chapter 12. Obviously, that wouldn't have worked very well.