From: zara hemla <shutupmulder@yahoo.com>
Date: Fri, 11 Feb 2000 12:14:50 -0800 (PST)
Subject: revised "At The Ragged Edge/This Is Your Lullaby" (1/4)
Source: revision


Title:  At the Ragged Edge/This Is Your Lullaby
Author: Zara Hemla
Email:  shutupmulder@yahoo.com
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Mulder and Scully visit Faerie, where they find 
that things are not always peachy and nice, and no one has 
wings or grants wishes.  Mulder saves Scully from a fate 
worse than death. Lots of blood and cool people, too.  
About
15,000 words.  


At the Ragged Edge/This Is Your Lullaby

--Cast Disclaimer--The characters of Skinner, Mulder and 
Scully are owned by Chris Carter and Ten Thirteen 
productions and are used without permission.  Tirorvan, 
Blaise, Miorunach, and other minor characters are out of my

 wicked imagination.  This story is not about David 
Duchovny or Gillian Anderson, (I imagine both DD and GA 
espouse the Cure song which says, "Please stop loving me/I 
am none of these things,") but about some fictional 
characters
whose fictional lives I am mucking around in.

Comments and constructive criticism are welcome and can be 
sent to shutupmulder@yahoo.com.  In fact, I'd really love 
to know what you think.  Seriously.  Flames will be 
ignored,
though.  Poetry credits and apologies to those who live in 
Wolcott are at the end.


           At the Ragged Edge/This Is Your Lullaby  


One: At the Ragged Edge


        At the ragged edge of the silence
In the calm that only comes with the
violent
         Sleep
Inside the heart and the hope of  
redemption
                -October Project


It crouches outside the hotel room, sniffing delicately the

air of pollution, exhaust, human habitation.  Fingers like 
slender wires, curled.  Silver, savage eyes.  It hates 
being among the things of humans, but it cannot disobey its

orders.

It has been told explicitly what to do.  Scare them, and if

that didn't work, take them.  They must not be allowed to 
interfere with the celebration.  And of course the hunt.  
The hunt.  The creature crouched on the window ledge makes 
an inarticulate sound of longing and bloodlust.  A
mouth that is not in the right place rasps polluted air.  
Sores ooze, broken bones grate, the air of nightmare clings

to the thin form.  Slender hands clench and unclench.  It 
is past time.

It slips into the room, to where the woman is sleeping, 
where one slender leg pokes out of the cheap bedspread.  It

touches her forehead with slender fingers like cords, and 
she moans.  It is a sound painful to hear.  It strokes her 
forehead like a lover.  The fingers should leave brands, 
but
don't.  There is no mark where the tracks of the fingers 
caress, but the moaning gets louder.

It slides out of the room, through the window.  There is no

sign of its passing, except for the woman in the bed, who 
is thrashing now.

It is a particularly terrible dream.


Smoke fills the room and she is tied again to the silver 
rack and this time it is her poor dead sister, dear 
Melissa,  who applies the small drill to her abdomen this 
time it is her poor dead father who leans over her with a 
needle and a light.

Open up, Scully.  Open up.  And her mother, holding her 
hand, breaking the fingers one by one.

Dana.  Dana.  Everything will be fine, you'll see girl 
won't it girl won't  it?  She tries to speak but her mouth 
is filled with the needle, slipping down her throat like a 
particularly vile sort of snake and she cannot move her
hands and they crowd around her while her fingers are 
broken one by one.

Everything will be fine won't it girl won't it?  You'll 
see.

And the silver-eyed monster over all.


Fox Mulder is woken out of a sound sleep at 5:24 in the 
morning by his partner's screams.  He grabs his gun and 
takes a moment to pull on his t-shirt. _No sense in scaring

her more,_ he thinks wryly.  The connecting door to her 
room has been left unlocked, for these kinds of 
emergencies.  He
would never think of using it for anything else.  Well, 
maybe he would, but that thought would never resolve 
itself. _I'm not stupid enough to jeopardize my friendship.
 
Really._  He traipses over to the connector, wondering what

in the world could make a normally calm Scully howl like a
trapped wolf.  He is a little apprehensive, because a 
screaming Scully is a Scully without control, and Scully 
without control is a terrifying thought.

Scully is still screaming, her voice getting scratchy but 
still audible.  He shoves the door open and does the jump 
inside that he can't help but think of as the "Good-cop 
Jump."  One step, gun forward, elbows locked but loose, 
sweep the room.   There is no one else in the room but his 
partner. She thrashes in the midddle of the bed, jerking 
her arms against her chest and throwing them out again, 
trying to push away a terrible dream.  He notices her plaid

pyjamas with a grin and then goes over to her.  He puts the

gun on the bedside table, and sits on the edge of the bed.

"Hey, girl.  Hey, Dana.  Hey, wake up, Scully."

She does not and he gets alarmed.  He touches her face, 
hesitantly.  Her skin is flushed but smooth and soft.  He 
becomes bolder, stroking her cheek and then shaking her 
shoulder, gently.

"Hey, Scully!  Wake up!"

And she does, so suddenly that it takes him aback.  Wild, 
terrified blue eyes flash open instantly.  The eyes of a 
cornered badger, he thinks before she uncoils gracefully 
and with one movement knocks him to the floor, her thumbs 
unerringly finding his windpipe.

He is stunned.  His head has hit the floor hard, and he 
sees stars, while his air supply is dwindling 
astonishingly.  He tries to move his arms but he can't even

think of how to make them move.  Just as he is sliding into

blackout territory, he feels her let up her thumbs and he 
can breathe again. She is staring at him, wide-eyed and 
panting, and he chokes, gasping for breath.  When he can 
finally speak again, he does so in a croak.        

"Hey, Scully.  Hell of a . . . way to say . . . good 
morning."

He makes an abortive movement to get up, and she finally 
notices that she is sitting on his chest.  She rolls her 
weight off, and sits up shakily. Looking at her hands.   

"Mulder . . . it was the worst nightmare.  I was back in 
the abduction room, back on the framework that they held me

on for testing . . . ."her voice trails off and she looks 
confused.  "Now I can't remember.  It had to do with my 
family, and my sister, but I can't think of the rest of 
it."

He smiles tentatively.  "If I get up, you won't try to kill

me again?"

She says, "I am so sorry, Mulder, I don't even know what 
got into me."  He sees the barrier slam back over her eyes,

and knows she won't talk about this ever again, unless 
prompted unless pushed.  He sighs, inwardly, and stumbles 
back to his room.  It will not do to be too close to her 
with only
his underwear on.  It wouldn't be proper, and one thing Fox

Mulder tries very hard to be is proper.  With a name like 
Fox, who could really be proper?  But he does try.

The only place he cannot succeed is in his dreams.


Dana cannot understand why she would have had such a 
horrible reaction, knocking poor Mulder down on the ground 
when he was only trying to save her life or some other such

heroic aim.  _Why is it always Mulder who gets the
brunt of my attacks?_   In fact, she knows why -- he is the

only person close to her on such a day-to-day basis.  She 
wonders what it was that she dreamed . . . it seems very 
important but all she can remember is the face of her 
sister.  And a shadow hanging over her face, as she was 
levered backwards on the silver frame and the. . . .

Suddenly she remembers it all again and it makes her 
cringe.  She hates thinking about the abduction, those lost

months in her life, _hates_ it.  She hates her 
subconscious, too, for pairing Melissa up with the 
abduction, the thing she loves most with the thing she 
hates the most.  She carefully
slams the drawer on her dream and locks it with several 
keys.  Things that disorder her life are usually locked up 
in there. She is never going to tell Mulder what she 
dreamed, and never going to think about it.  It is a 
defense
mechanism.  To have something missing like the abduction 
time,  to have something like that dream running around  in

her neat and carefully slotted life is to have a time bomb 
ticking inside of her.

And sometime, it will go off.


Their current assignment takes place in the unlikely place 
of Wolcott, Connecticut, and they are there because demons 
have invaded the town.   

"Buying up real estate?" Fox had asked with wry humor when 
he was given the assignment.  It had been four days before 
Hallowe'en, and he had been sure that it was some sort of 
prank concocted by the local high school, who, like most 
other high school kids, always seemed to have too much on 
their collective hands.   

"No," Skinner had responded, shooting the _Gimme some R-E-
S-P-E-C-T_ look. "They claim that there are real demons 
running around.  Four fingers, slanty eyes, some with 
horns, some without.  There have been fifteen varied 
sightings around the area."

Scully, characteristically, had looked very calm and very 
skeptical.   But her demeanor could not sway Skinner, and 
they had gotten on a plane one day later.  Routine, 
routine.  Routine.  Mulder had sifted quickly through the 
composites given him in the file.  "Check this out, Scully.
 
It's
Mephistopheles!"  Scully had not looked amused.  She had 
not known what to make of it, though.  Mulder had asked her

specifically if the pictures reminded her of something.  
She had answered with a shrug, "White Wolf player's guide 
covers?"

They had certainly reminded Mulder of something . . . but 
he just couldn't remember. Now, in the car,  he stares at 
them again.  What?  Something more like Tolkein than White 
Wolf, that was for sure.  Mark Rhein*Hagen uses lean, 
elegant characters.  Tolkein and some of his more recent 
fantasy
contemporaries prefer the extremes: either beautiful or 
ugly.  Except for the hobbits; they are the mediocrity that

bind the two together.  In fact. . . .   

"We're here," says Scully.  "Snap out of it."  "Here" is 
the Wolcott Police Department, and a very small one it is, 
at that.  The town of Wolcott can barely be called a town. 

The biggest collection of buildings is the town square, and

houses surrounded with beautiful lawns lead away down the
winding roads until the  township stretches out for miles 
and miles with very few actual inhabitants.  Very New 
England, reflects Mulder.   And so is the police chief.  
Big man, big handshake.  His name is Bill Tate, and he has 
the same ideas as Mulder. 

"I bet it's the high school kids.  It's so close to 
Hallowe'en that they are getting restless.  But usually it 
isn't bad.  The principal's car gets egged or something.  
Nothing this organized, and nothing this big.  I just
don't understand it."

"Could we have an address for one of the bigwigs at school?
 
Maybe I could put the fear of God into him."  Mulder's grin

is feral, and for a minute Bill Tate's hand clenches into a

fist.  _Damned FBI.  Why do they have to send the spooks 
out after me._  Mulder sees the fist and his face tightens.
Scully watches him closely. _Don't pull anything stupid._

"I don't want him harmed.  These kids are just kids."

"Don't worry," says Mulder, and he has the gall to look 
innocent.  He is given the address, of course.  That is 
what the badge is for, at any rate.


It doesn't work.  The tall, dark haired, somewhat good 
looking boy, Brian, is sullen but cooperative.  No, they 
have not been scaring the townspeople with demon 
impressions.  No, he does not recognize any of the 
sketches.  His parents vouch for him, giving iron alibis 
for many of the sightings.  No. No, no, no.   

It seems that Brian already has the fear of God, and it is 
healthy and thriving.  Mulder is weary and frustrated.  His

pet theory has come to naught, and they must stay in this 
place, this town where he gets lost on the roads.  He lets 
Scully drive, and she navigates like she was born here.
He has told the police chief to call his cellphone if there

are any more sightings.  Now all he wants is time to think.
 
He really doesn't understand this -- there are no killings 
and nothing really malevolent, only sightings. So, time to 
think about the future would be welcome.  He expects Scully

to pull into the hotel parking lot, but instead she makes a

noncommittal noise in her throat and pulls into a tiny 
Chinese place.  Mulder stares at her.

"How in the world did you know this was here?"

"The policeman told me about it while you were stalking 
around muttering," she responds with a smile.  They go 
inside, wooden doors swinging slowly closed behind them.  
Trapped in a warm room twined with dragons and other
Chinese symbols.  Live lobsters crawl happily around in a 
glass tank.  Scully obtains a table and seats herself, 
smiling sweetly and patting the table.  Come on, Mulder.  
Sit down.  She glances at her hands and a slight frown 
crosses her face.  Her dream is vague but present.

They eat all kinds of things.  Mulder is not picky and lets

Scully order. Scully likes variety and soon sweet and sour 
pork, beef, egg foo young, fried rice, roasted duck, and 
some unidentified fish cover the table.  Scully digs in and

Mulder has only time to wonder where she puts it all before

she is asking him if he is going to finish that.  The 
fortune cookies come, and Mulder breaks his open to find 
the piece of paper.  Scully's is sticking out and she pulls

it out,  intending to eat the cookie whole.  As she pops it

in her mouth and begins to chew, an almost comical look of
surprise comes over her face.  She opens her mouth, holding

her fingers out towards Mulder, and blood gushes from 
between her lips.  He is over to her in a moment, prying 
open her mouth.   

A piece of glass has stuck in the roof of her mouth.  He 
pries it out, cutting his own fingers in the process.  He 
thanks the FBI silently for the rigorous blood tests that 
reassure them both that no one will get AIDS.  He almost 
tells Scully, but decides that this is not the time to be
flip.  Her breath bubbles now, sobbing in and out as she 
tries to breathe and swallow blood at the same time.  He 
grabs a napkin and applies pressure, putting her hand to 
the rapidly soaking napkin.

"Hold that there."

And he slinks off in search of the kitchen.  Gun at hip.  
But he wouldn't think of  using it oh no even though he 
would love to hit the bastard that made Scully bleed hit 
till he made the bastard bleed from every pore  _how
do you like that how do you like that huh?_


They know nothing, of course.  The cook is almost in tears 
at the disaster that he caused.  "I did not put glass in 
her fortune cookie!" he says, stubbornly.  Mulder can get 
nowhere, and soon gives up, even though he is very 
suspicious and very angry.  He goes back out to Scully, who

has regained her doctor's composure. 

"My, hhat wah a wot a bwood, wahnt it?"  Her voice is 
muffled by the fingers she has in her mouth.  Mulder smiles

at her, making light of something like almost swallowing 
glass.  "That was a lot of blood, Scully. Do you need to go

to the hospital?"

"No, I don whink wo.  I would wike some sweep hhough."

Sleep.  She wants sleep.  Get her sleep, then -- whatever 
she wants, as long as  I don't have to watch her bleed 
again.


Mulder drives back to the hotel, with her giving muffled 
directions.  At her door, he insists on seeing the roof of 
her mouth and she obliges as best she can, submitting like 
a daughter to her father's preserving instinct, even 
producing a small flashlight when he mutters about lack of 
light.

His fingers brush her soft-rough lower lip as he pries her 
mouth open.  Something takes hold of him that he stamps 
down with feet of iron.  Her mouth looks reasonably okay, 
the cut closing up nicely, and he cautions her not to eat 
anything rough for awhile.  She smiles dutifully at him and

retreats.

He stomps into his own room and strips back down to his 
boxers.  It is a very warm October or the manager has left 
the heat up on high.  His flushed skin has nothing to do 
with that velvet underlip.  Nothing.  From his coat
pocket, he retrieves a medium-sized something and turns it 
in his fingers.

He looks at the piece of glass that has so recently been 
covered in Scully's blood.  It should be -- should be -- 
yes, it is right here.  He can dimly see the rune carved 
into the glass.  No one can resist leaving their calling
card, he muses, and resolves to send the glass down to 
Frohike and the boys tomorrow.  If they couldn't find out 
what the rune meant, no one could.  Odd that it should be a

rune, though, he muses, crawling under the covers.  It
doesn't look Oriental -- their pictograms are fluid and 
beautiful - this one is ugly and odd, looking like it was 
scratched in with a rusty nail or some other clumsy 
implement.  He tries to think of what gangs or 
organizations
use runes, and he is nine-tenths asleep when he feels a 
brush on his forehead.  Light, cold fingers caressing his 
face.  He smiles, his eyes already racing back and forth 
under their lids.  It will be a good dream, he thinks.

But he is wrong.

She leans over him, smiling.  Her hand has taken his.  She 
wears plaid pyjamas and her feet are bare.  Her eyes bore 
into his as she bends over to capture his lips with hers.  
Her silver eyes.   As he feels her mouth touch his, he also

hears a snap in the vicinity of his hand.  He looks around,
surprised, to see her pulling off his fingers. One by one 
by one.  There is no pain, only a deep revulsion.  She 
stands up with his fingers grasped in her hand like bloody 
pieces of chalk, and sticks one in her mouth like a cigar. 

She takes a gold lighter from her pyjama tops and lights up

the finger.  Like such things happen in dreams, it blazes 
nicely.  He can smell burning flesh.   

"You like that, boy?"  Scully says with a laugh.  She 
reaches for his other hand.  "Have we reached the limits of

your imagination?  Guess where I'm going when I'm done with

your fingers?"  She leans back into him and smiles around 
her finger-cigar.

"It'll burn really fine, Mulder.  How will you like being a

girl, I  wonder?" She dances around the room, crudely, 
bumping and grinding to a tuneless song that she growls 
around her cigar.  Mulder sits up, trying to find his gun,
to shoot Scully to shoot her down cold and dead, and she 
bursts into flame and he lifts up his hand to reach out to 
her.  But he has no hands, and she touches his forehead 
with her four fingers and the smell of flesh is closer.
Much closer.

He panics when he awakens, simply because he is coughing 
out smoke.  The room is on fire.  He is on fire -- his 
shirt is burning.  Frightened, terrified of fire, knowing 
what fire can do, he rolls off the bed and grovels in the 
carpet.  After putting out the fire, he crawls under the 
smoke
towards his things.  Toward his gun.  There is safety in 
weaponry.  The gun is warm to the touch, and he grabs his 
badge, gun, and the piece of glass which he has wrapped in 
toilet paper  and pulls open the window, crawling out, 
coughing.  The grass is cold beneath his feet, and no 
crickets singing.

Once again he meets Scully at night in his underwear, but 
this time it is outside, on the lawn.  The hotel flames 
beautifully, and when the roof collapses, he wonders what 
in the world he is going to wear.  Scully seems much more 
prepared, wearing some old jeans and a revolting yellow 
sweatshirt that says "SPAM" in large navy-blue letters on 
the front.  She is even wearing shoes.  The disgusted 
Mulder looks daggers at her and she shrugs half 
apologetically.   

"I was going to take a walk.  I couldn't sleep.  I'm sorry 
. . . ." and she trails off into half-giggles.  "You look 
very silly.  Did you singe off your chest hair?"

He will never be proper, it seems.  "Ha, ha, very funny -- 
I don't have that much to singe off.  I'm going to sleep in

the car.  I refuse to be seen like this . . . . you can 
settle with the manager."  He is not a prude, but the 
thought of facing the emaciated hotel manager in his 
boxers, not to mention any of his motel neighbors, makes 
him shudder inwardly.  Scully has nabbed her purse, and she

gives him the keys and wanders off, giggling still.   

The night gets cold and colder still.  Scully climbs into 
the car with him, takes pity on his poor shivering form, 
and gives him her sweatshirt.  She is wearing a pyjama 
shirt underneath.  Plaid.  He is stuck with "SPAM," and 
manages to fall asleep for minutes at a time.  He dares not

leave the heater on while he is asleep and he can't sleep 
when he is this cold, so he ends up staying awake with the 
heater on, and bugging Scully.

"Scully?"

"What?"

"Did you remember anything more about your dream?"

The barrier is in her voice.  Nothing personal, but . . . .
 
"Not really. Why?"

He tells her about his dream, leaving out nothing at all.  


"I was kissing you?  Really?"  Her voice is muffled.   

"And pulling off my fingers, don't forget."  A small 
attempt at levity.  The dream has started to fade, and he 
feels satisfied that he has told Scully everything he 
remembers.   

"Scully?"

"What."

"When Bugs Bunny dresses up like a girl, do you find him 
attractive?"

She laughs.  "Mulder, you have seen too many movies.  Try 
to get some sleep, won't you?  I don't think I can keep my 
eyes open much longer."

She looks over at him.  His hair is pulled up into funny 
twists, and he is all over goosebumps.  She resolves to get

him some clothes as soon as possible.  It is five in the 
morning now, and she can see the delicate shadows under his

eyes.

I kissed you?  Really?

She closes her eyes.


They are awakened by Scully's phone.  Insistent ringing.  
There are prints from the seat upholstery on her cheek.  
She answers groggily.  It is 8:32 and they have slept 
almost three hours.

"Scully. . . . what?  Do you have him in cus -- it?  What 
do you mean, "it"?  Well, who sent in the alert?"  She 
laughs suddenly.  "All right. Give me the address and we'll

be over in, what do you say around here?  Two shakes of a 
lamb's tail?  Well, maybe two and a half."

She says her goodbyes.  Mulder waits, frenziedly impatient.
  

"What did he say?"

She laughs again.  "It seems that the Neighborhood Watch is

more alert than the FBI.  They have caught one of their 
demons and have it imprisoned in Ken Farnsworth's tool 
shed.  They say it's screeching like a hyena in heat.  We 
have to get over there," her gaze sharpens, "we have to get

you some
clothes.  And your chest is blistering.  Good thing you 
didn't sleep on your stomach.  We'll get something for that

as well.  Then it's onward to Ken Farnsworth's tool shed, 
where we will soon be forced to humiliate ourselves
and admit that the FBI was less alert than the Neighborhood

Watch."

Mulder groans tiredly.  "This is worse than a five-night 
stakeout." 

She grins.  "Indeed.  Now haul over and let me drive."
At the drugstore she buys a clean t-shirt and a tube of 
antiseptic cream.  She insists on smearing it liberally on 
him, wearing her "Doctor Scully" look while she does it.  
His chest is indeed raising in welts and the cream
hurts him, even though she tries to be gentle.  She then 
makes him put the t-shirt on and they visit the nearest 
available clothing store.  She comes out with some jeans 
and a plaid shirt, green and black plaid, and some tube
socks and running shoes.  Mulder grimaces.  He doesn't like

plaid very much (except on Scully, shut up, shut up) -- his

style is more the pinstripe.  

He wriggles into the jeans while an amused Scully leans 
against the hood of the car, ostentatiously looking the 
other way.  It hurts to put on the shirt, but he manages 
with a little trouble and then slumps back down into his 
seat.  Scully casts a worried look at him.  "Are you sure 
you don't want to go back to bed?  I can investigate 
whatever is going down over there." 

He looks at her, and she shrugs and gets back into the car.

Ken Farnsworth lives in a little house with a big yard, off

of a side street called Blansfield Lane.  The toolshed is 
in the corner, and Scully and Mulder stare at each other in

disbelief, amazed at the volume of the howls that are 
coming from the small structure.  A man attired very 
similarly to Mulder walks over to them and extends his 
hand.

"Hello, ma'am, I'm Ken Farnsworth."  Scully shakes his hand

as he stares narrowly at Mulder.  "Who're you?"

"Special Agent Mulder of the FBI," answers Mulder wearily. 

Scully nods at Farnsworth, who leads them over to the shed,

muttering about how some FBI agents can't quite pull off a 
plaid look.  Then he looks over at Scully.  "We tied it up.
 
It was running through Bill Pullman's yard, just a-wailing
like the hounds of hell were after it, excuse me, ma'am. 
And it hasn't stopped since we stuck it in there.  We'd 
appreciate it kindly if you'd take it away from here."

"We'll do what needs to be done," says Scully.  All 
business.  She shoulders Farnsworth aside and ducks into 
the shed.  Immediately her voice filters back.   

"Mulder.  Come look at _this._"


It walks beside them, staring at them, mutely appealing.  
It had stopped wailing the moment Scully entered the shed, 
and now that they have it quiet, it seems even more non-
threatening, just a child.  It is certainly small like a 
child, and its face is unlined.

But it cannot be a child.  It is not a human.

Scully stares, mesmerized.  It _could,_ almost _could_ be 
human, but something is wrong with it.  Besides the four 
fingers and the small goat's horns poking up from its 
forehead.  The too-white skin.  Those things were 
perceptible, could be seen.  Something else prevents it 
from being human, and she cannot make it out.  The doctor 
in her is saying coldly, _I wish we could kill it so we 
could cut it up._  They had hustled it out, past 
Farnsworth's self-promoting comments, and had begun walking

down Blansfield Lane, past the school at the end of the 
road.  Now it stares at them, and they don't know where to 
start.  It --he-- speaks, suddenly, in a husky voice 
completely unlike the screeching one it had used to wake 
all the people up and down Blansfield Lane.  And he says, 
"You must let me go."

The accent is all wrong, like this thing had learned 
English by reading and had never spoken it to anyone.  "You

must let me go, for I must warn my fellows."

Mulder leans closer, intent.  Hands absently rubbing chest,

where blisters are oozing even now.  "What fellows."

He looks up at them, blond spiky hair, guileless as a 
child.  Old, wise eyes.  Perfectly guileless, yet Scully 
does not believe in perfect guilelessness.

"My fellows?  Why, the Sidhe.  The Seelie Sidhe."

(end 1/4, cont part 2)
__________________________________________________

(2/4)

Mulder gives a big fat grin and stops walking.  They are 
standing in a park, with a baseball field to one side, 
surrounded by trees.  Late morning sunshine illuminates the

river that flows crazily around the field.  "The  who?"

Scully gives him a look.  "Did you miss out on your fairy 
tales as a child? The Sidhe.  The little people.  The 
fairies."  He cannot tell if she is serious or not.

"Oh, _those_ Sidhe.  Of course.  The American strain.  
Aren't you supposed to have an Irish accent or something?" 

He is droll, but suddenly serious.  He leans forward again.
 
"Why do you have to warn your fellows."

The so-called Sidhe looks at him. _Humans._  "Why should we

have an Irish accent?  This is Connecticut."  It pauses, 
looking confused, like that isn't really what it meant to 
say.  "The Unseelie Court is planning to hunt my fellows 
down this year at Samhain.  We are considered," and it 
ponders, searching for a word, "traitors, yes,  to the 
Unseelie Court.  Please let me go, or they will all die 
most horribly."

"Samhain," Scully forestalls her partner, "is the ancient 
Celtic holiday eventually transmutated into All Hallows 
Eve, which in turn developed into Hallowe'en."

"Thank you, Scully.  Now," he addresses it directly, "what 
is your name and who are you really.  None of this bull 
about fairies.  I know what fairies are, and the American 
kind mostly hang out on Haight and Ashbury in San 
Francisco.  What do you want?  What.  Do.  You.  Want?"  
His voice is tight with anger.  Scully knows he thinks he 
is being put on.  But Tirorvan answers with perfect 
equanamity.

"My name is Tirorvan, and I am of the Seelie Sidhe.  My 
clan name is unimportant, but I am kin to many.  Your name 
is Fox.  A good name."  Mulder growls, angrier by the 
second.  _Don't,_ he had warned Scully, _call me Fox._  
Tirorvan continues.  "We are not fairies, in the sense that

you think of fairies.  And we are not, not," he searches 
again, "ah!  Gay.  In that sense.  But I tell you, the 
danger to my folk is real.  In past times we have rebelled 
against the Court of the Unseelie, and now we will be made 
to pay unless I can get my fellows out of harm's way.  The 
Unseelie King is very angry, and he will release the bogans

and wights and the Wild Hunt will ride.  We need to stop 
the King from influencing Herne to ride against us. We need

to give him another direction.  We only have until 
tomorrow's moonrise.  Please.  Please let me go."

Tirorvan's unlined face is pleading.   

"I doubt it most sincerely.  We can't let you go until we 
have questioned you properly and all things considered, and

DNA sampling -- if you'll agree -- and pictures, oh, lots 
of pictures and then we'll figure out whether you're 
playing at Masquerade or not."  Mulder is looking tense and

excited at the same time. _What if this thing is real?_ He 
is poised on the balls of his feet, leaning forward in his 
excitement.  Dana almost thinks he is angry, and steps 
forward to stop him from whatever he may be thinking of 
doing.

And they are in the park and out of the river rises 
something large and terrifying.  Fog rolls from its body, 
and it makes an inarticulate growling noise.   Tirorvan 
keens, in terror, and Scully steps forward to put her hand 
on his arm.  "Don't worry, we'll take care of you."  She is

having a lot of trouble believing in this Faerie stuff, 
_but maybe being Irish helps credibility a little._  And 
seeing that thing coming out of the river. It is not a 
geek, or an alligator, or a leech-mutant, or, Heaven 
forbid, even Jaws.  How can you help but believe what is in

front of your eyes? Yet, she does not want to believe, but 
can't look away from the emerging thing, something Unseelie

for sure, if you could believe this stuff. 

"You are out of your jurisdiction, FBI agents," comes the 
gravelly reply, not from Tirorvan, but from the thing 
rising out of the river.  It pronounces the word as 
"yurisdeection."  It is a tall thing, with long exaggerated

fingers.  Silver eyes, cold, cold eyes.  "Ah, Lady," gasps
Tirorvan, and he is not speaking to Scully, "have mercy."

Its laugh is sort of cold and bubbly, like old lettuce.   
"There is no mercy for you, Tirorvan.  You have been out of

your hole for too long, rabbit, and there will be no 
escape.  You see, I grow already, for Samhain approaches 
quickly, and I grow ready for blood.  Your blood."

Scully pulls out her gun and points it towards the still - 
advancing creature.  No use in passive resistance.  "Why 
don't you just stop right there?"  she asks politely.  
Unmoved, it points its long, slender, wire-like fingers at 
her, and she drops the gun, gasping, staring at her hands.
"Momma?  Melissa --" She falls to the ground holding her 
head.  Screaming.

She is back with her sister and her father, and they are 
coming towards her with drills, now, big ones.   

"By our King," comes the gravelly, amused voice, "you 
humans do grovel nicely!"  It turns to Tirorvan.  "See what

happens when you consort with humans, Seelie?  You grow 
weak and soft like them, and your dreams can be manipulated

as easily as breathing."

Mulder tries to run to Scully, how can she scream like that

and not have her head split open, but he cannot move, and 
it seems as if his head is full of rocks.  Scully seems to 
fade to minimal importance, like a noise from another 
world.  Then something knocks him over.  He falls to his 
hands, panting.  Tirorvan is staring at him, perplexedly --

but it is not Tirorvan, it is someone who looks like him.  
He sees that Tirorvan is over by the monster, shouting at 
it in words Mulder understands only vaguely.  Heavily 
accented English, now.  No pretense.

"You are not strong enough yet to face us!  Go cower home 
to your master! Leave us alone!  Get!  You!  Gone!  Flee 
from the skin of this world!"  As Tirorvan throws his hand 
up in a complicated gesture, the thing seems to shrink, and

howls.  It growls, "I was sent to kill them, and kill them 
I
will.  One way or another."  It stoops and grabs a limp 
figure, and reaches for Mulder, but cannot reach him, for 
Tirorvan has thrown his arm out again in a commanding yet 
strangely despairing gesture.  

"Get you off the skin of this world!  Flee and tell the 
Unseelie Bastard King that his people are no match for the 
powers of the light!  Go!" 

A flash of auburn hair, a glint of silver eye, and the 
thing is gone.

Mulder remains.  He is now the only human in a clearing 
that has seemingly stuffed itself, gorged itself with 
Tirorvans of all shapes and sizes.  He thinks despairingly 
of a red-haired woman he used to know, and stumbles a step,

losing consciousness in a moment.  As he falls, he hears 
Tirorvan, ". . . bargain with Herne. . . ." and he is gone.


She awakens on the stone-covered ground.  Her head is 
splitting.  What is her name?  She can't remember if she's 
ever had a name.  She is in a hall of some sort, with 
quatripartite vaulting, she can't help but notice with the
back of her mind that it is some sort of twisted Late 
Gothic.  It's a reflex, comes from noticing little things, 
she has to notice little things cause she's a --

Well, what is she, anyway?  She can't remember, doesn't 
even want to.   She sits up and there, reclining on a large

chair in front of her, is the most beautiful thing she has 
ever seen.  

He is not human, and his inhumanity gives him an alien 
beauty.  He is tall, and slender, and his eyes are amber 
with brown flecks.   His mouth is finely shaped, and has a 
cruel twist, a beautiful cruel evil twist.  He is wearing 
old-style clothing, a doublet and hose with slashed sleeves

and a long, green cloak.  A belt of teeth encircles his 
waist and a human head grins from a pole on the side of the

chair.  

Words suddenly seem unimportant and she cannot, cannot and 
will not stop looking at this divine creature that has her 
mouth dry and her mind wishing that he would say something 
to her, command her, for she is his, of course his, all his

to command.

Something in her mind says warningly, _Da--_ but is cut 
off, because she has no name now.  She is only an extension

of _him_.   

And now he rises.  Her spellbound eyes watch the white fall

of his hair, the graceful way his knees bend, his wrists.  
He beckons to her and she stands, stumbles, staggers to 
him.  Adoring.  There is nothing she won't do for him.  He 
says, in a gentle and melodic voice, "Hello.  What a pretty
little plaything you are, then.  My name is Miorunach."  He

pronounces the name as "Meerunach," with the "ch" given the

germanic pronunciation (as in Bach).  "Now, dear, tell me 
your name, what you are doing here and who you have told 
about what you know."

And suddenly, words are the most important thing in the 
world.

Mulder is shaken awake by an anguished Tirorvan.  "I cannot

leave him!"  he is saying to a group of other things 
clustered around him.  "It is my fault that he is hurt and 
his woman is taken.  Can you understand me, Mulder? Wake
up, Mulder!" 

"I understand," he says.  His head feels like those huge 
stone heads on Easter Island, a mile wide and fifty tons.  
"I'm getting up, just stop shaking me."   

Taken his woman?  Who is his woman?  And his mind jumps 
straight to Scully, limp in the arms of something large and

very ugly.  He grabs Tirorvan.

"What happened to Scully!  Where's Scully!  What was that 
thing!  I have to go and find it and bring Scully back!"

"Hush," says the Sidhe.  "I don't know if your woman is 
alive.  If she is, you can be sure that something even less

pleasant is happening to her.  The bogan probably carried 
her straight to Miorunach--"  

"Who?" interrupts Mulder.  Whoever this Meerunach guy is, 
he isn't going to last long against a very angry, almost 
hung-over Fox Mulder.

"Miorunach.  The King of the Unseelie Sidhe.  The one who 
wants to murder all of us."

"Oh."

"Now can I finish?  She is probably being brought to him as

we speak, and he will either give her to Herne, or use her 
to trap you.  Out of those alternatives," and he shudders, 
"I would pick death for her, myself.  But obviously, you 
don't.  Fox, you will have to come to Samhain with us to 
make a stand against the Unseelie Court.  Sometimes, humans

are very beneficial to us, and the Court hasn't realized 
that.  We have to change with the times, and humans are 
part of the change.  We will make a bargain.  If you
will stand with us against the Court, and assuming we get 
out of that alive, we will help you get your woman back.  
Is that a bargain, then?" 

"She's not my woman."

"Nonetheless."

"Yes."  His voice roughens.  "I will stand with you against

the Unseelie Court --" it sounded so stupid, saying that, 
but how could he disbelieve anymore? " and you will help me

rescue Scully."

"It must be sealed in blood," says one of the Sidhe 
standing nearby.  "Or we will have no bargain with the 
humans.  It stinks of bogan dreams, and I do not trust it."

"Yes, yes," replies Tirorvan, and produces a knife.  Mulder

stares, disbelieving for some reason.

"Steel?  I thought you couldn't stand iron."

"Those of us who have interacted in the human world can 
stand steel or any other alloy, but not straight iron.  The

Unseelie, now, there's another story.  They will run if 
they can from anything even remotely iron-related. That's 
one of our advantages.  But bogans can be taught to work 
around it." He makes a quick cut on the palm of his hand, 
not deep, but bleeding well. 

Mulder has no choice but to hold out his hand. 

The cut doesn't really hurt and the two are clasping hands 
before he can even grunt in reaction.  Tirorvan intones, 
"The blood is mingled, the bargain is struck.  Let the two 
heal each other."  He lets go of Mulder's hand and 
gestures.  "Look."

A thin scar runs across Mulder's palm.  "The sign of our 
bargain," says the other Sidhe.  "Break it on pain of your 
destruction."

No worries,_ thinks Mulder.  Nothing could make him try to 
get out of this one.


Later, he shows Tirorvan the piece of glass he has been 
hoarding.  Tirorvan will not touch it, saying that it 
stinks of bogans.  But he studies the rune closely, and 
then tells Mulder that it is the King's seal.
 
"He wants you two dead.  That was a warning of sorts.  So 
were the dreams."

"Ah," says Mulder in dawning comprehension.  "The bogan 
triggered the dream it had planted in Scully to make her 
fall down like that."
 
"And yours, you know.  It paralyzed you with your own 
psyche.  It is the bogan's way.  It works with dreams-- it 
is very dangerous.  We will probably have to face them, 
too, in this fight.  But we can do nothing until Samhain,
when the Unseelie Court gathers to meet Herne.  Would you 
like to go back to your own room or come and spend the next

day with us in Faerie?"

Mulder looks at himself, and remembers that  his own room 
is probably being hosed down by the fire department.

"I'll go with you."

"Then watch.  And do not cry out, for you may surprise 
something that is best left undisturbed.  The borders of 
Faerie are a dangerous place.  Please make no noise."

Mulder smiles and mimes  'zipping' across his mouth.  
Tirorvan smiles back.

And the world flips on its side.


There is grass on the ground, but he cannot see the sky.  
This quiet, fog-covered world, then, is the border to 
Faerie.  Mulder had never really thought about it, but he 
supposed he was thinking more along the lines of border 
crossings he had seen; stone-faced guards checking 
passports, or something.  But it is not so much a border as

a misty plain.  The fog leads off as far as he can see, and

the Sidhe tiptoe quietly through the mist. Tirorvan has 
Mulder by the wrist, and is leading him as quietly as the 
human can go.  Mulder is amazed at how quietly the Sidhe 
can move -- they are wraith-like, and Mulder wonders if 
Tirorvan would ever have been caught by Ken Farnsworth if 
he had not been howling at the top of his lungs.      

From ahead, another Sidhe makes a sharp gesture, and 
Tirorvan tugs on Mulder's wrist to stop him.  The Sidhe are

conversing together, using hand gestures.

Tirorvan nods, and pulls Mulder's ear to his mouth.  "When 
I slap the back of your hand, you run like the Fiend of the

Fells was after you.  But run after me!  And don't deviate 
from my path, for if you get lost in the borders of  
Faerie, you will be lost forever."

_At least until something unpleasant happens to me,_ thinks

Mulder.  He can imagine some pretty gruesome things 
happening here, in the impenetrable fog. _This place must 
be where the X-files come from._

They are sliding silently between fogbanks, and Tirorvan 
jerks Mulder's wrist.  Mulder  looks down at him, and then 
stares ahead.  Something impossibly huge is rising out of 
the fog, something that seems to have no end in sight.  
Mulder is grateful for his running shoes, because the huge
creature is also moving.  Fast. 

Tirorvan slaps Mulder on the back of his hand.  The sting 
wakes up his adrenaline, and he sees the Sidhe almost 
disappearing into the mist.  He takes off running after the

fleeing Faerie, thanking his lucky stars for all the 
exercising he did. _If Scully could see me now,_ but she 
couldn't.  The huge mass is behind him, now, but he can 
imagine it, slipping up behind him, reaching out, and 
tearing his head from his poor mortal body.  It isn't hard
to keep running.  He follows the Sidhe closely, twisting 
when they twist, and finally they burst from the fog and 
into the most beautiful place he has ever, ever seen.

They have arrived in Faerie.

(end 2/4. cont part 3)
__________________________________________________

(3/4)

Two: This Is Your Lullaby

All in green went my love riding
on a great horse of gold
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
my heart fell dead before.
                -e.e. cummings
  

Once, when he was a boy, Mulder had decided that he was 
going to be a writer.  He had devoured everything literary 
that he could, poetry and stories, from classics to horror 
fiction.  He had also started writing poetry when he was 
fourteen or so.  By the time  he was sixteen he had taken
a look at his passable verse, nothing special, and he had 
soon given it up as a bad job.  But while he was still on 
that kick, he had dug into sixteenth and seventeenth-
century Romantic English poetry.  Wordsworth, Shelley, 
Tennyson, stuff like that.  He had read the whole of 
Tennyson's epic "The Princess"  on his lunch breaks, safely

hidden in his history teacher's classroom so that any kids 
who were, well,  upset by his literary tendencies wouldn't 
be able to prey on him.     

One poem that had interested him greatly was a Romantic 
look at a strange, exotic land.  The story Mulder had read,

fascinated, was that this poet, Coleridge, had gone off on 
an opium trip and had written this fantastic poem, and then

had come down from his high and couldn't write the rest of
the poem!  It had seemed to the sixteen-year-old Mulder a 
great shame, for he had loved to imagine the place that 
Coleridge was talking about.  His eidetic memory threw it 
back up to him now:


"And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
 Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
 And here were forests ancient as hills,
 Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.  
 But O! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
 Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
 A savage place! as holy and enchanted
 As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
 By woman wailing for her demon-lover!"


Now, standing in a great field  watching clouds sail across

the unpolluted sky, Mulder  shakes his head.  Coleridge, 
helpless beneath the sway of opium, must have stepped  
straight into Faerie.  There is so much green that he is 
overwhelmed for a moment.  No highways stretching black 
into the distance . . . his memory will have a field day 
with this.  No telephone poles.  The sky is clear and even 
the air is warm.  Turning, Fox sees a barrier of fog behind

him.  That, then, is the border which he has just exited.  
Two thoughts come to him then.  The first is that he has 
just called _himself_ Fox.  but it seems right that he 
should be Fox here, just as he is Mulder back on Earth.  
The second thought goes like this:  _If they don't show me 
a way out -- I can never leave._  But he is not sure he 
even wants to leave.   

Tirorvan tugs on his arm.  "Fox!  Are you all right?"

Fox has a huge grin on his face.  "Tirorvan?  What was that

huge moving thing that we passed on our way through the 
border?"

"I don't know," says the Sidhe, and cracks a small smile, 
"but it seemed best at the time that we didn't stop to find

out."

They grin at each other.  Fox feels like he is seven years 
old again.  He falls on the ground and laughs as he never 
did when he was on Earth.  It is that beautiful.  The other

Sidhe look on in fascination as he rolls around in the 
grass, yelling.

"Perhaps it is some sort of human ritual."

"A giving-thanks?  Perhaps some kind of magic."

"Tirorvan!  Is the human performing a magic?  Is he 
betraying us?"

"I believe," says Tirorvan, "that he is only being joyful."

"Oh!  How strange.  Joy."

Mulder grins at all and sundry.  This is the happiest that 
he has ever been.  He wishes Scully were here to say, "Get 
up, Mulder.  We're wasting time." and give him her dazzling

smile.   

And as suddenly as that, his happiness is gone.


They walk across a verdant meadow (that is the only way 
that Fox can think of it -- "verdant") and Tirorvan walks 
beside Fox as they follow the other Sidhe.  Fox's sneakers 
scuff through grass and bluebells and liles-of-the-valley. 

Small creatures jump away from him.    

"This is Earth as it could have been," says Tirorvan.   

Fox rolls his eyes.  "Yah.  Sure.  Another ecology lecture.
 
Look, I don't need a bleeding-heart elf pleading the cause 
of the debilitated rain forests, okay?"

"What is an elf?" Tirorvan asks, puzzled.  Fox starts to 
try to explain, some mix of Tolkein and Andrew Lang, and 
gives up entirely.  Tirorvan accepts it with good humor.  
"So the humans think that the Sidhe are some sort of 
magical being that either grants them wishes or steals 
their children.  How amusing."

They continue this sort of banter, and then Tirorvan 
hurries to catch up with another Sidhe to have a 
conference.  Fox is left alone again, and of course his 
thoughts zip right back to Scully. 

_Why didn't you move, Mulder?  Huh?  You could have had her

out of there. You could have split that demon five ways to 
Sunday.  What was wrong with you, Mulder?  She's been there

enough times for you, hasn't she?_

He remembers, for some reason, Pusher.  He remembers 
pulling futilely at the trigger when it was put to his 
head, hoping that the bullet would go into his brain so 
that he wouldn't have to point that deadly muzzle at
Scully.  He remembers the tears in her eyes and damns 
himself again and again, Mulder-style, for not breaking the

control of his own fear.

_Why didn't you move, Mulder?_ taunts that demon thought. 
_She's the only thing you have that's worthwhile in that 
charming basement life of yours. She is your balance.  And 
when she needed you to be there, you weren't.  You weren't 
there.  How does that sound to you?  You great big FBI 
agent, you. Can't even pull a gun, can't even move a step 
toward saving the one thing that makes your sorry life 
valuable._

"Shut up," he says aloud, savagely.  "Shut up."  He wants 
to cry, he wants to sit down and wail for all his life is 
worth. _She is probably already dead._ And thus he spends 
the rest of the afternoon, trailing behind the Sidhe, 
alternating in thoughts of guilt and fear of death.  But 
not his own death  -- for if Scully is already dead, there 
will be nothing to lean himself on anymore.

And he will fall.


They camp for the night in a meadow much like all the other

meadows they have tramped through for the day.  Fox is very

glad to sit down; he hasn't walked so much in ages.  The 
Sidhe pay little or no attention to him, conversing among 
themselves in another language.  Then one nods and steps
out into the darkness, pacing back and forth.  Tirorvan 
comes and sits next to Fox.   

"Tomorrow I will explain to you what must be done.  For 
now, you need to sleep and not have any dreams." 

Fox grins wryly.  "I don't think I can help it, Tirorvan.  
They come whether we humans want them to or not."

Tirorvan smiles back and passes his small-fingered hand 
over Fox' eyes.  "Tonight you will not dream."

And he is not particularly surprised to find that he 
doesn't.


She sits in a carved wooden chair by his side, and cannot 
look away from him.  He has given her new clothes, for 
which she is absurdly grateful.  They are lightweight, and 
she shivers a bit in the growing Faerie dusk.  Her master 
Miorunach notices her shiverings and smiles.   

"Mortals.  They cannot stop being susceptible."

He hauls her up to his lap and she curls up into him, 
feeling unutterably lucky.   

"Do you love me?"  she whispers plaintively.  "You love me,

don't you."

He smiles down at her indulgently.  Blood slicks his  
teeth.  She wants to lick it off.  "Of course I love you, 
pet.  Do I not give you everything you want?"   

She sighs up at him.  "Yes.  Yes, you do."  He draws her up

to him, and kisses her, not for the first time.  It is a 
painful assault, and she loves it.  Some of the blood on 
his teeth is hers, and she has bruises on her body
from his touch.  But she cannot get enough.  He is her 
master, and she would do anything for him.  Anything.    

He finishes kissing her and says, "Now, sweetling, there 
are some things I want you to do for me tomorrow night.  
Will you do them?"

She grins fiercely up at him, a Doberman's smile of love.  
"Of course I  will."

He begins to whisper, his gaze firmly fixed on her.  By the

time he finishes, she is smiling.


The Sidhe allow Fox to sleep until late morning.  When he 
demands to know why, the Sidhe who had woken him only 
smiles at him kindly and answers in heavily accented 
English, "What would you have done, then?  Sat around or
been in our way, I suppose.  You couldn't have helped us, 
and you need the rest.  So what are you howling about?"  

The Seelie Sidhe spend the afternoon preparing for Samhain.
 
Tirorvan takes it upon himself to explain some things to 
Fox.

"We Seelie, you see, don't consider the humans a scourge.  
We're kind of your biological conservationists -- we want 
to coexist with all living things.  We sometimes live very 
peacefully in your world.  Ireland was one place where we 
could live in harmony with the people.  But eventually, the
Unseelie would come over and upset the humans and we would 
have to move."  

"But why Earth?" interrupts Fox.  "Why not some other 
world?"

"I honestly don't know," replies the Sidhe.  "We have 
always been coming there.  And I don't know what our 
ancestors were thinking when they chose Earth.  Perhaps our

scholars would know differently, but I am really only a
soldier."

"Wait a minute!  I thought you Sidhe lived forever."

"No, but in peacetime we live a very long time.  It must 
seem like forever to you humans.  I will eventually grow 
old and die, but you will never see it.  Unless I am killed

tonight, in battle."  The chill in his normally cheerful 
voice brings a small shiver up and down Fox' back. _I could

die today._

"So why are the Seelie hunting you specifically?"  he asks 
in an effort to hold back the chills.  Tirorvan smiles, a 
trifle sadly.  "Ah, Fox, it has been so long since I told 
this story to someone who will help us.  We are the last of

a clan whose leader resisted the Unseelie attempt to take 
over some land that we had held.  It was a better way to 
get to the humans, you see, and Miorunach was fair rabid 
trying to get it.  He was only a lord, then, but he became 
King as a result of the fighting.  Blaise held Mirrowdowns 
for so long, fighting day and night even when they sent 
wights past the guards to kill his wife and son.  They  
killed my lady, you see, but not the son.  I took him away 
before they could have him.  And six days after he had been

spirited away,  the whole Court went hunting a giant, and
when they caught it they dragged it in chains to Blaise's 
door and let it go.  How they laughed that day --Miorunach 
took his cousins and the Court hawking through the castle, 
and they let the hawks feast on my lord's eyes while he was

in chains." 

Tirorvan's voice breaks in grief, and Fox is caught up by 
the story.  "What happened then?"

"That was the day that Mirrowdowns fell, and gentle was the

sound of its passing.  We gathered the ones that were left 
and we fled into the lands of the humans for safety.  So 
much iron, you see, often will dissuade Miorunach from 
sending the Unseelie to those lands.  It has been fifty 
years since the fall of Mirrowdowns and we have been in the

human lands ever since.  Miorunach has been occupied in 
taking over the court of the Unseelie and he has actually 
left us alone for quite some time."

"Well, why in Heaven's name is he hunting you down _now_?" 
asks Fox.  He is perplexed.  Fifty years is an awfully long

time to hold a grudge.  But if these Sidhe live as long as 
Tirorvan says, he can begin to imagine fifty years as a 
short time.  Only begin, though; his imagination soon fails

him.  He eyes Tirorvan again.

"It's the young lord, you see.  He's grown up now.  We had 
thought to disguise our taking of him until he had become 
older, but Miorunach seems to have gotten word of his being

among us.  He sent bogans for us -- that is why I needed to

be loud, to warn my friends and my lord of the coming  
peril.  Now, by Unseelie law, we are traitors to the Crown 
and we will be destroyed at any cost.  And so we must 
prevail.  Do you see?"  he asks, searching Fox's face.  "If

we lose, we only lose our lives.  But Mirrowdowns is very 
close to the human world.  The Unseelie Court could start 
sending bogans through to clear the way.  Not just one, but

several thousand, all iron-resistant.  They can be taught 
not to fear iron, though it takes a long time.  That is
probably why Miorunach hasn't started in on you humans 
already."  Fox imagines thousands of those silver beings, 
all converging on FBI headquarters, and has to suppress a 
smirk.  This is really quite serious. 

Tirorvan continues, "We must prevail with the Wild Hunt or 
Miorunach may conceivably start taking the Earth, piece by 
piece.  And he doesn't coexist.  It's him or you.  And you 
will be the losers."

Fox gestures.  "Why can't he just be content with this?  
It's the most beautiful place I've ever seen.  I'm sure he 
could be happy here."

"No, he is not like that.  He hates humans, you see, and he

wants to have their lands just so they won't.  The Unseelie

don't think like you, Fox.  They are like greedy human 
children, and they don't want to share.  Luckily, most of 
the Seelie understand our plight and are willing to fight. 

Around Samhain, almost everyone is looking for a fight.  We

-- and you -- are lucky that they realize how important 
saving Earth as a refuge is.   Usually they won't band 
together for a matter of hours, let alone days.  But Blaise

has a little power, enough to bring us together for 
Samhain.  We will fight the army, and you will fight  
Miorunach with your knowledge of iron." 

Fox ponders upon that for a few moments, and then nods.  
"Two questions, then.  Who is the new young lord?  Have I 
seen him?"

"Yes," says Tirorvan.  "He knocked you over when you were 
paralyzed by the bogan.  His name is Blaise, like his 
father."  Fox remembers the Sidhe, how Fox had thought he 
looked like Tirorvan.  He thinks, _I will have to have
another talk with that young one._

"And the other question?"

"What do I have to do?"

Tirorvan's face breaks into a grin.  "Ah, now there is a 
good question." They begin to speak, quietly, two dangerous

creatures in their own right, plotting the downfall of 
something much more powerful than they are.   

So passes the afternoon.


It is evening,  and the moon climbs the sky though it is 
still light.  She watches it from atop the stone slab.  Her

red hair is flung out behind her, and her face is turned up

to the light in the sky.   She wears a face of ecstasy that

even her lovers will never see.   She is not cold anymore, 
and not hungry, though she has had nothing to eat in two 
days.  This will be the night, then, that she can prove her

love to the being that has commanded her existence.  She is

to give herself to the hunter.  And kill anyone who gets
in the way. 

Something she is fully prepared to do.  She is a deadly 
weapon in her own right.


It is evening, and the moon climbs the sky though it is 
still light.  He watches it from atop a hill.  His dark 
hair stands up in spikes and his face is still, looking 
down the hill to where a hundred watch-fires burn.  He is
cold, and hungry, though he has eaten some bread and 
wrapped himself in a spare Sidhe cloak.  This will be the 
night, then, that he will prove himself or die.  Prove 
himself or die. _That has a mighty harsh ring to it, 
doesn't it?_ He has decided, though.  He let Scully be 
taken, and he will get her back, or die trying.  It is as 
simple as that.   

He will do one thing or the other.  He is a deadly weapon 
in his own right.

"It will be iron, of course," Tirorvan had said.  "It may 
sound like every fairy tale you ever heard has come to 
life, but that really is the best way to kill any Sidhe.  
We have brought a knife with us that is pure iron, and
you are the only one who can carry it comfortably.  Thus, 
it must be you who gives the killing stroke.  Do you 
understand?  No matter what happens around you, Fox.  No 
matter what you see and who you may think will help you.  
Dana will only be free from the glamour when the sorcerer  
Miorunach is dead. And once he is dead, the Unseelie will 
disperse and begin the process of deciding who will succeed

to the throne of the Court."

"What is a glamour?"  Fox had asked, interested in spite of

himself.

"A spell that can hold humans bound."

"Like the spell that the bogan cast on us?"

"No, that was not a spell.  The bogan only reflected your 
fears back to you and caught you with them.  A glamour is 
much more serious -- it keeps a human prisoner of the Sidhe

as long as the spell lasts.  And usually, they last a 
lifetime.  So, you see, Dana will not be happy to see you, 
and will not do what you say.  You must understand this.  
She will only obey Miorunach, for he is the one who holds 
the glamour.  By killing him, the glamour ceases, and she 
will fight for you again.  Do you understand?"

"Yes," Fox had muttered.  Now, looking down from the hill, 
he wondered. _Can it be that strong?_ Could it be strong 
enough that she would not answer the desperate sound of his

voice?  That idea pleases him not at all, and he scowls.   

Earlier that evening they had given him the knife.  It had 
been kept in a thick wooden box with those clumsy runes 
carved in it.  Though the hornless, goatfooted, redhaired 
Sidhe who had fetched the box had made no sound of 
complaint, Fox had seen the welts that had been raised on 
her hands, just by being in such proximity. _At great 
cost,_ Tirorvan had said.  For such a small, sharp thing.  
It was in his belt, now.  They had made a scabbard for
it of leather, but he had been the one to lift it out of 
the box.  It was honed to a keen, sharp edge, and looked a 
lot like those replica daggers that Fox had seen in D.C. 
weapons stores.  But he had known by the blistered
hands of the patient Sidhe that if Tirorvan wasn't lying 
the dagger was pure iron and was causing him great pain.  A

heavy and not particularly effective weapon -- except in 
this case.  Even these city-bred Sidhe hadn't liked to
come near it.   

Fox absently rubs his hand up and down the scabbard, 
warming his palm with the friction.  He must kill at close 
range.  The Sidhe have told him again and again that they 
will protect him, but he cannot believe them.  He must
fight on his own, and he must kill something that has 
existed for thousands of years before he was born, if you 
could believe Tirorvan.  He has never killed a man close 
up, though he is a crack marksman and has shot enough men
in his time. _This killing stuff must be easy, though,_ he 
muses, _six or seven thousand teenage New Yorkers can't be 
wrong._ He is not really amused by his own thoughts.   


More and more Sidhe had gathered to Blaise's banner that 
afternoon, as if all the Sidhe in Faerie knew what was 
going on and had to come see.  Most of them passed Fox 
without a second look, though many others gawked and
pointed.  Blaise had quickly and efficiently sorted them 
out -- Fox admired his generalcy, even though by Sidhe 
standards Blaise was just a boy.  And the Sidhe had gone, 
and stood in line, and been good soldiers, just as if
they were not about to die over a piece of land and honor. 

Blaise had come smiling up to Fox, saying in a gentle 
voice, throwing a long arm around him, "Look who we have to

protect you."  And, leading Fox out where the troops
could see him, "Look what we have to protect!"  Standing on

the hill, Fox knows that he is the weapon.  He wonders if 
they have a couple more humans with iron knives, standing 
by.  Spares.  He decides that they probably do. Blaise 
strikes him as that kind of general.  The Sidhe take 
advantage of him simply because he is desperate.  He 
strains his eyes in the darkness, wondering where Scully 
is.  What she is doing, what she is thinking.

_Will she recognize me from the desperate sound of my 
voice?_

Now, he is not so sure.

And night falls.

(end 3/4: cont part 4)
__________________________________________________

(4/4)

It really does fall -- here in Faerie, night comes like an 
anvil, pounding into the earth like a dagger to the ribs.  
In one moment, a perfectly light sky sheds its luminescence

like a velvet dress.  Fox cannot recall seeing the sun set,

yet it obviously has.  He stands still, frightened now that

the time has come.  Before, all he could think of was 
Scully.  War has become concrete and he fears for his own 
life. _Ours is not to question why,_ he thinks, and then 
stops thinking as best he can.  This is certainly no time
for thinking.  If one goes about thinking too much about 
what one will be doing, one invariably ends up talking 
oneself out of things.  Fox has discovered that sometimes, 
you could just think too much.

Tirorvan tugs at his arm, an irritating habit, but the 
Sidhe's size excludes most everything else but biting Fox' 
knees.  Fox looks down and Tirorvan points to the moon.   

"The Lady is climbing, and the Wild Hunt stirs.  Soon Herne

will run with her, wherever he is sent. Miorunach will try 
and tell him to go into the human lands, but if Blaise can 
get there first, then he will command Herne to go into the 
wildlands beyond Faerie.  You must silence Miorunach before
he can give the command, do you understand?  Herne will not

be patient long and he will not listen to you, so don't try

anything.  If we cannot get there in time, he will take 
Dana Scully, for she will be a willing sacrifice,  and his 
Hunt will feast on humans.  Your life will possibly be
forfeit if we cannot protect you.  Try to find Miorunach's 
throat, that would be best, then he cannot speak.  While he

is being silenced, Blaise will step in and invoke the High 
Magic to command Herne.  You must not let Miorunach speak 
the command!  It is imperative."

"I understand," says Fox.  "I won't let it happen, if it is

within my power at all.  The King of the Unseelie Court 
will be silenced for his crimes."  His words sound oddly 
formal and echo in his ears.  It is a death sentence
that must be carried out.

Down the hill a little, Fox can see Blaise, his light hair 
whipping in the night breeze, motioning the Seelie troops 
into place.  Soon, they are ready and Blaise leads them 
towards the crest of the hill and then down the other
side.  As they pass Fox, most of them give him odd salutes,

smiling in approval at the tousled-haired human with the 
sober face.  Fox nods his head to some of them.   At 
Blaise's signal, he and his Sidhe companion slide into
place and the well-oiled machine of war is on its way.  The

Sidhe are marching, and the moon rises. 

As they get closer, shouts go up, presumably from the 
sentries.  Ten of the Sidhe break off sharply, and 
Tirorvan, Blaise, and Fox follow them, silently, leaving 
Blaise's second to lead the main body of the army.  They
circle quietly around the camp and then two of the vanguard

soldiers motion them to stillness.  They glide into the 
shadows -- there is no noise, and they are back.  It has 
been  successful, then -- the guards are dead.  The 
soldiers lead the way into the Unseelie camp.  The camp has

disintegrated into shouts and chaos, now.  Apparently, most

of the Unseelie hadn't known that the army was coming, 
though Miorunach must have realized it.  They are 
scrambling into armor, and running in the general direction

of the Seelie army.  Most of them pass the small party 
right by, and those who do not are dispatched efficiently 
by the Sidhe.  

Fox can now see the difference between Seelie and Unseelie 
Sidhe.  The Seelie are short and rather ugly, and have many

animal attributes, such as horns and fur or fangs or owl's 
eyes or somesuch.  The Unseelie are exactly how elves have 
been pictured in contemporary fantasy -- long, thin, and 
beautiful, though cold.  Fox shivers, thinking that all the

fantasy writers in the world have been picturing and 
idealizing creatures that would love to have them dead and
dismembered -- a sobering thought, but again, he must stop 
thinking and simply follow Tirorvan.  Which he does, with 
minimal  success at being quiet.  He seems to be 
stumblefooted.   

They come upon the clearing suddenly.   It lies in the 
middle of the camp -- cleared land surrounds a large stone 
almost like a dais, upon which sits -- Scully.  In some 
sort of diaphanous thing, looking around in a frowning
sort of petulance.  She cannot understand why everyone 
isn't looking at her.

Isn't she supposed to give herself to Herne in a moment of 
glory?  Why was everyone running around bleating like half-
dead goats? Quite upset, she frowns sulkily.   

Fox is appalled, shocked, and so happy to see her alive 
that he almost bursts.  "Scully!"  he shouts, and then 
ventures, "Dana!" And he sees what else has arrived on the 
dais and wishes fervently that he had kept quiet.  But even

Tirorvan's sigh of disappointment cannot keep him down for 
long. She is alive!  Alive!  Even if she does not look up 
at the sound at her name, but continues staring at the 
stone, a frown on her mobile face.  The tall Unseelie Sidhe

comes up behind her, and _then_ she looks up, with a
sycophantic expression.   

"Where is Herne, Master?" she asks, whining a little.  
Mulder can do nothing but stare.

"He is coming, pretty pet."  This being must be Miorunach. 

He is easily six and a half feet tall, with long plaited 
white hair and an unlined face. His face is streaked with 
blood and it is caked under his white fingernails.  His 
eyes are so light they are almost clear, and seem to glow 
with a bluish radiance.  He strokes Dana's hair like a pet 
cat.  Fox hears a growl resounding around in his head, only

dimly aware that it has escaped. Miorunach raises his head 
and sees the party, his eyes fixing on Blaise.

Fox suddenly feels his legs kicked out from under him.  He 
falls, heavily, and Tirorvan is suddenly beside him on the 
ground.  Angry, he starts to protest, but Tirorvan cuts him

off.

"Now!  Go and imitate your namesake.  You can stop this."

Fox nods as well as he can and starts wriggling commando-
style towards the back of the dais.  He hears most of the 
following conversation as periphery.  He has stopped 
thinking.

On the stone, time has seemed to stop.  She is angry that 
Herne has not come and there are these usurpers here ready 
to challenge her master.  She tugs at her master's leg, and

he absently backhands her halfway across the stone.  
"Quiet, pet.  Your master is having a conversation and 
doesn't want to be  bothered."  There is no particular 
malice in his tone.  She lies flat on the stone, 
unbreathing, her chest turned to iron. 

It probably saves her life, even though her later actions 
don't really warrant it.


Miorunach smiles down upon the company.  "Greetings, boy 
pretender.  What do you here, among your sworn enemies?"
The words are oddly formal, as is Blaise's reply.  The 
Sidhe are a traditional people, if nothing else.

"I have to come to avenge my father and take back my lands,

Miorunach."  The deliberate omission of title does not 
change the Unseelie's face a whit, though his eyes grow 
colder.

"You come ill prepared.   You see, I have an army."

"Listen," says Blaise.  The sounds of fighting can be heard

clearly in the silence, and eddies of fighting Sidhe swirl 
past the stone.  The bloodlust of Samhain is upon them, and

they scream as they fight, scream as they bleed and die.  
Miorunach smiles in appreciation.  

"That does not change things," he says.  "It is Samhain, 
and the Hunt will be upon us.  Where is your little human 
chattel?  Creeping up behind me, no doubt."  He whirls in 
exaggerated fright and then laughs.  "Humans mean nothing, 
and he is just an extra sacrifice, Seelie.  When I command 
Herne, nothing will stop us from taking your scrawny boy-
head and putting it up on my gates where it belongs."

"Then we will have to stop you from commanding him, won't 
we?" says Blaise and vaults lightly onto the wedge of 
stone.  His company follow.  

Miorunach laughs cruelly.  "It is too late.  He comes. You 
have no sacrifice, and he comes!"

In the distance, the fighting stops, and all Sidhe look up 
into the sky where a hunting horn blares, shaking Faerie.  
A figure is riding through the sky, trailed by a pack of 
animals that look like hounds, but aren't.  The figure 
rides a horse, and as it comes nearer, the viewers can see 
it clearly.  It is Herne's man-face, neither kind nor 
cruel,  is surmounted by huge horns.  She looks up, still 
spreadeagled in a corner, sees the face of justice towering

over her, and wonders for a brief flash whether she can get
away.  Then love overwhelms her again, and she smiles up at

the face of destiny.  

Fox, crawling up over the back of the rock with the knife 
clenched between his teeth, does not see the face at all.  
His cloak has half-torn from him, and his fingers are 
scraped almost raw.  His blistered chest is agony.  His 
face is screwed up tightly in concentration, and he moves
patiently, for one slight wrong movement might raise 
Miorunach's interest level.

The air stills, except for the baying of animals who are 
not hounds, milling in the air behind the Hunter.  Said 
Hunter stretches his hand out towards Miorunach and Blaise.
 
Long claws glimmer in the moonlight. 

"Is there one of you who has brought me a sacrifice?  I 
will not be commanded by simple force of will.  There must 
be one freely given to sway my Hunt.  It is the High 
Magic."

Miorunach opens his mouth to speak, and everything happens 
very quickly after that.  Fox, having reached his optimum 
position, stands up.  Suddenly the knife is snatched from 
between his teeth, almost slicing his mouth open. He 
stands, almost stock still, watching Miorunach wheel in 
slow motion, and watching the woman who now holds the 
knife.  He had forgotten her.

Forgotten!  Because he had wanted to believe that she would

not hurt him. And now he will pay for that.

Her voice is a wail.  "You will not kill my master!  I will

have my destiny!"  A fey light glints from the iron knife 
as she brings it down towards Fox's chest.  Suddenly, 
Tirorvan is in front of him and takes the knife in his 
shoulder, which is about the height of Fox's breastbone.
Tirorvan moans, animallike, and clutches at the knife in 
his shoulder, raising welts on his hand.  A smell of 
sizzled flesh comes from his shoulder.   

Miorunach smiles slightly.  "Good, my little pet.  You're a

regular watchdog, aren't you, dear?  And you handle iron so

well.  What a foolish mortal he was to think that he could 
hurt me with you around." He makes a peremptory gesture, 
and a bogan vaults out of the night and onto the stone.
Miorunach instructs him to guard Fox and Tirorvan, and 
paying no more mind to either the human or the Sidhe, he 
turns back towards Herne. 

Tirorvan looks at Fox, an anguished grimace stretching his 
features. "Please, Fox.  Take out the blade.  It must be 
used on Miorunach before the bargain is struck.  Please, 
Fox."

Fox is struck to stone with the weight of his failure.  He 
had not paid enough attention to Scully.  He had been 
almost sure that she would at least been confused by his 
presence, but she had not even recognized him.    

Tirorvan's eyes narrow to slits in pain.  "Fox!  You make 
my sacrifice vain!  Get.  This.  Iron.  Out.  Of.  Me.  
And.  Where.  It.  Belongs."  He draws every word out, 
holding Fox's eyes like a fishhook.  Fox nods, and pulls 
the knife easily from Tirorvan's flesh.  As he begins to 
stand, Tirorvan says "Fox" again.  Fox looks down at him.

"You are a credit to your namesake.  Fly true."

"Fly true," echoes Fox.  It is a farewell of sorts.  When 
he stands again, Miorunach is speaking with Herne, and his 
voice comes through clearly. 

". . . We will speak in the human tongue, for my pet to 
understand exactly what is to happen to her.  You will have

her, will you not, and then the Hunt will take her for 
sacrifice?  Then you will go into the human's world and 
Hunt it clean?  All the humans will be destroyed?  Yes?  
That is the bargain?  That is the High Magic?"  His voice 
is eager.  Fox realizes that it will be very hard to get to

Miorunach now; he recognizes the stance that Miorunach has 
adopted.  The Sidhe is ready to whirl around at any minute;

 he is watching movement from the corner of his eye.  For 
one small moment of desperation Fox wonders how he ever 
thought that he could kill this creature.  

Herne replies to the King in a deep, sonorous voice.  "Yes,

that is acceptable for a Samhain Hunt.  Is your pet  
willing?"
Miorunach turns halfway to Dana Scully.  "Are you willing, 
pretty thing?"

In answer she drops her gown to the stone.  She is wearing 
several ankle-rings and nothing else.  Fox is paralyzed, he

cannot think rationally, though a thousand Sidhe die beside

him.  This cannot be -- it is unthinkable, these actions 
that Scully is performing.  In his mind, he jumps and 
slashes at this creature who makes his best friend defile 
herself this way.  His body does not move, though his anger

pounds his blood to ash.   He does not move, and the moment

ticks swiftly by. 

Suddenly his eidetic memory saves him.  His mind flashes 
back to Oxford and something he hasn't thought about for 
years, something he has tried very very hard to forget.  
The time when he had been interested in the SCA and he
and one of his flatmates had fought for Phoebe's honor, for

fun of course.  She had given him her token, a flat purple 
ribbon around his wrist, and had kissed him deeply while 
the whole field looked on, grinning.  Then he had gone out 
and been beaten soundly.  That was the last time he ever 
fought tournament-style in the SCA, but he had done some 
target archery and Mark, the juggler, had taught him how to

swallow fire and to throw a knife. 

He remembers it now, as clearly as ever, and though his 
conscious mind is paralyzed by Scully's white skin, his 
body remembers as well as if he were in the SCA house and 
flicking homemade daggers at a bull's-eye for hours at
a time. _You hold it like so,_ he remembers, and weighs the

haft in his hand.  It is not really well-balanced, but he 
knows he can do it, for Mark's daggers had been off-balance

on purpose. _This is how you learn, Mulder. It's in your 
wrist.  Up, and back and forward.  Don't take your eyes off

the target._

Time slows down.  Herne is reaching for Dana, and she has 
held out a slim white wrist.  He can still only see her 
back, but then his focus shifts to Miorunach and stays 
there.  Up, and he focuses tightly on the slim white
throat behind the braid of white hair.  Back, and he hears 
Herne saying something in a deep voice, and Blaise yelling,

"Wait, Herne.  Wait."  And forward, and his whole soul 
seems to go with the throw.

The slim silver blade streaks like a shooting star towards 
its target.  The bogan's lightning-quick reflexes would 
have saved the King's life, but it reacts towards the wrong

place, for it is sure that Fox would aim for Miorunach's 
back.  

Three or four things happen when the dagger hits.
Miorunach slumps to the ground, black blood welling from 
his throat. Scully lets out a yell of panic and tries to 
tear her grip from Herne's.  And Fox sees a very unsteady 
Tirorvan make a run past the collapsed King of the Unseelie

Sidhe to fall on his knees in front of the hunter.   

Blaise makes a noise of denial, stepping forward to try and

stop what has already started. Tirorvan is already 
speaking.  Blood streams from his shoulder, and his voice 
is unsteady and hoarse.

"This humble Sidhe willingly submits to sacrifice and asks 
only that the Hunter goes where his lord, Blaise, commands 
him to go.  This humble sacrifice surrenders to Herne the 
Hunter without any reservations and gives Herne his soul to

aid the cause of his sworn liege, Blaise.  Will the Hunter
accept this sacrifice in lieu of the false one given by the

King of the Unseelie Sidhe?  Will the Hunter accept the 
bonds of the High Magic?"

Herne stretches out his hand.   "The Hunter accepts.  This 
is the High  Magic." 

And the animals who are not hounds bay and howl in the 
night.  Tirorvan has but a glance toward his lord and 
perhaps a sob of relief before they are on him.

And the night echoes.


Afterwards, Blaise seems older and more tired.  Nothing is 
left of Tirorvan but a belt buckle, and the animals who are

not hounds are milling and wailing with bloodlust.  Herne 
looks to Blaise.  "The Hunter has accepted the sacrifice.  
He will go where he is commanded.  Does the young Sidhe 
lord wish there to be a scourge of the human lands?"

"No," says Blaise as wearily as if he had done all the 
fighting himself.  "No.  I command you out into the 
Wildlands, where you would have gone anyway had not the 
Unseelie Lord insisted you come here.  There are things 
there that will keep your interest, Lord of the Hunt."  He 
stands tall and proud, graceful like a cat on a railing.  
There is grief in his face.  

"As the lord commands."  Herne wheels his horse and the 
Wild Hunt trails into the sky.  The fighting has stopped, 
at least between Seelie and Unseelie.  Everywhere, tall 
spare figures are forming into ranks under their commanding

lords and the fight for the succession begins.  The mobile 
Sidhe gather under the rock to hear Blaise speak, with 
traditional eloquence, about the great battle that had just

been fought, and Tirorvan's great sacrifice.

_Yada, yada,_ thinks Fox.  His strength has mostly been 
used up, and he really only wants one thing.  He stumbles 
over to where Dana Scully, with her diaphanous gown pulled 
back around her, is sobbing fit to break his heart.   

"Mulder," she says, looking up at him.  Her eyes tear at 
him.  "I had no control.  I lost c-c-c-" and she cannot 
continue.  He understands, though. He wraps his torn cloak 
around her and holds her towards him, away from the
chill of the rock and the Faerie night. Holds her, and does

not say anything for a long time, for whatever he could say

would be no consolation.  He cannot help her, but longs to 
comfort her.  Suddenly he remembers something else, a bit 
of a song he had heard a while ago that had stuck with him,

and he begins to sing to her, softly, rocking her as if she

were his daughter and afraid of crocodiles under the bed.  


        "Sunday morning
         Yellow sky
         The sun is floating diamond high
         Hours passing
         A baby cries
         In the arms of someone you imagine

             Close your eyes
             This is your lullaby

             Close your eyes
             This is your lullaby"

His voice is nothing stunning, but the song lulls her 
somewhat.  She stops crying after awhile and looks up at 
him, sniffling.  She looks a little angry now.  "Mulder," 
she says again, and it clicks back into place -- he is
Mulder now.  "Mulder, I didn't even know my own name!  I 
was ready to kill you to get the approval of that -- that -
-" and she gestures at Miorunach's body, still slumped on 
the cold rock.  Her face twists into a semblance of
disdain.

"Doesn't matter.  Don't worry," he says, "I would have done

the same to you.  It's called a glamour, Scully.  It 
doesn't leave you a choice."  Then he gives her a patented 
Mulder Leer and says, "Bezidez, I like fiolent weemun."

"Did you see -- anything?"  she asks, coloring to the roots

of her copper hair.

"No," he lies gallantly, "There was a bogan in front of me 
and he was blocking my view, dammit!"

"How rude," she says drily.  And begins to laugh.  It is a 
clear, pure sound that rings out across Faerie, and Mulder 
cannot help it.  He begins to laugh as well.

Blaise asks to speak to Mulder alone, and he assents.  The 
new general and Lord of Mirrowdowns thanks Mulder for his 
help.

"If you need a place in Faerie, just call, for there is 
always a home for you in the Mirrowdowns."

Mulder looks at him, this being who is no larger than him, 
but who will live much longer.  "Can I bring Scully with 
me?"

Blaise has a glint in his eye.  "Of course -- if she 
behaves herself."  Then he looks at Mulder.  "I will send 
you back tonight.  We will send you by spell, and none of  
us will go with you.  But rest assured that we will watch, 
and if you need help, we will come."

Mulder thanks him and goes back to Scully.  She makes a 
place for him.  And they fall asleep there, on the rock, 
after Mulder borrows another cloak from Blaise.  And when 
they wake up, they are on benches in the park underneath
the school in Wolcott, Connecticut.  It is morning, and 
mist is rising from the grass of the baseball field.  There

are no signs of any outlandish creatures running around.  
No Sidhe or anything similar  -- not even children or dog-
walkers.  The park is as silent as the grave.  Scully sits
up, alarmed, and jabs Mulder in the ribs.

"Mulder!  Wake up!"

She is frightened that he will not wake, even though she 
has felt the comforting lull of his breathing.  But he 
knuckles his eyes and stares at her.  "What is the problem,

Scully?"

"Mulder!  Did we get knocked out or something?  Why are we 
here?" 

He grins at her.  "We got abducted into Faerie, Scully."

She wants to deny it, and does.  "We did no such thing, 
Mulder.   Fairies don't exist."

He picks up an edge of the cloak that she is wrapped in and

tugs it a little.  She is forced to look down then, to 
actually see what she is wearing.  A soiled blue cloak, and

underneath it -- something she would be arrested for 
wearing in public.

"What will we tell the Bureau, Mulder?  What will we tell 
Ken Farnsworth?"

He shrugs elaborately, still grinning.  It has been heaven 
to hold Scully for one night, though he is just getting the

circulation back into his arms.  "We'll tell them that the 
case has been solved.  We're the FBI, Scully, we don't have

to tell them anything.  They'll believe better that way.
Conspiracy, and all of that stuff."

"Mulder . . . ."

"Hm?"

"I've lost the car keys.  And my badge.  We're going to 
have to walk."

"Scully," and he offers her his arm, "I'd consider it a 
pleasure to walk into town with you."  And as they walk 
down Blansfield Lane, he in a tattered shirt and muddy 
jeans and she in a cloak, they begin to laugh again.  The 
sound carries to the occupants of the adjacent houses.   

"What could those two ragamuffins possibly have to laugh 
about?" mutter the neighbors, wondering if they should call

the police.

But in the end, they don't.  The laughter is too pure -- it

peals clearly, like it belongs in another world.  And in 
it, the listeners hear their dreams. 

--The End--
Completed July 12, 1996

--Poetry Disclaimer-- The title and beginning quote (as 
well as the song at the end) is from a song by the band 
October Project, called "Sunday Morning Yellow Sky," lyrics

by Julie Flanders and Emil Adler, used without permission. 

The poem by e.e. cummings is entitled  "All in green went 
my love riding," and can be found in his poetry collection,

"Tulips and Chimneys," also used without permission.  The 
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge is called "Kubla Khan," and

can be found in any reasonably good collection of English 
poetry.  Aside: Miorunach means "malice" in Gaelic
(:)) and should be spelt with the Gaelic "i" although I 
don't know if it came through in the transcription.

--Location Disclaimer--Any persons from Wolcott will 
recognize some street names and perhaps even the 
restaurant, but I have taken a few liberties with
the town which I hope they will forgive me for.