From: "Joylynn Wing" <aljoyw@a-znet.com>
Date: Tue, 28 Mar 2000 19:00:04 -0500
Subject: New: Called To Rise  1 of 2  by Joylynn Wing
Source: xff



Title: "Called To Rise." 1/2
Author: Joylynn Wing
Posting Date: March 2000
Rating: PG for Adult Themes
Classification: Character death??? MSR, angst, post 
colonization/mythology, AU?
Archive: Gossamer, Ephemeral, Xemplary, Spookys 2000;
others, please drop me a line. 
Spoilers: None 
Summary: 'We never know how high we are till we are called 
to rise...' 
Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to 1013 and Fox. 
Feedback: Are you kidding? Make my day at aljoyw@a-znet.com
Author's note: This story is a little different from my 
usual. It has been haunting me for a long time and it took 
that long to write. As for the questionable character death,
make it what you will. Take a walk on the dark side with me.
Only when you truly appreciate the darkness can you truly 
appreciate the light. My undying thanks to Wendy, Pita and
especially to Tracey, for giving good beta. This is for you,
Amy.


'We never know how high we are
Till we are called to rise;
And then, if we are true to plan,
Our statures touch the skies.'

Emily Dickinson


It is now 1430, and I take a deep breath as I try to focus 
myself on this most important of days. I look up at the 
newly blossoming trees; the tiny white flowers of the apple 
tree dropping delicate sprinkles of fluttering petals with 
each gentle breath of spring. 

My nose tickles with the essences of spring roses and other 
early risers which waft about me, stirring my neatly styled 
hair into a frenzy of curls. 

I have to go in soon, but my heart isn't quite ready yet. 
It has been twenty years since that day, twenty long years, 
which seem just like yesterday. I glance down at my 
forearm, the black numbers just as clear as the day they 
were put there. I rub my fingers consciously across the 
serial number; many of the survivors have had theirs 
removed but I haven't. 

I never will.

It is my tangible reminder of my mortality: of the 
precariousness of our existence on this planet.

I will wear *this* proudly until the day I die. It 
signifies *my* strength, *my* fortitude during one of the 
darkest days of humanity. The day that *they* came.

I had been outside playing, when the ships came over head. 
At first they only had been caliginous shadows that blotted 
out the ocean blue of the sky above. But as our oddities 
grew closer, their origins were obviously not of this 
world.

We watched and waited until the scattered despondent 
reports came in on our short wave radio of mass 
eradication, and then my mother and I took refuge down in 
the root cellar of our small home. 

We lived there, huddled in the thick darkness, as we prayed 
to God every second that we were awake. We prayed for 
ourselves, for those who suffered about us but most 
importantly, we prayed for those who would deliver us.

We lived off of canned goods for what could have been 
weeks, prayed, and slept. The only things which seemed to 
drown out the grating whirring sounds of the engines, were 
the collective screams of those who were not as lucky as 
we.
 
After the screams had subsided and our supplies had grown 
low, we finally ventured forth. That was when the real 
nightmare began. We were taken just afterwards, and that 
was when the living breathing tormenting dream began. It 
never seemed to end: only grew worse through the tests, the 
pain and the humiliation still ebbing freely in my veins 
even today.

I never thought that I would ever awake, but I did; 
eighteen years ago today. That is why I sit here, my face 
soaking up the life that stirs about me. It is New 
Independence Day, and my first day at my new job. I am the 
newly hired charge nurse at the New Brownsville Home for 
the Elderly. 

I stand up and smooth down the navy blue of my cotton 
skirt, the stiff breeze slides up my stocking clad legs and 
I shiver slightly. I walk briskly across the courtyard, my 
excitement over the moment barely contained in my slight 
body.

I open the door and walk in, the smell of antiseptic and 
air conditioning filling my senses with awe. I have worked 
hard for this moment, we have worked hard for this moment. 
It has been many, many years since our liberation day, but 
the rebuilding of our world and of our lives has been a 
slow process.

To ensure our complete and unfettered domination, they had 
destroyed all that there was. The Earth was a barren, 
desolate landscape, not much different from the moon which 
circles above us at night, devoid of all except the most 
basic of existences. We existed in small nomadic groups, 
constantly moving to keep one step ahead of the harvesters.

Many still eke a meager existence off the land, barely 
making ends meet, but I was one of the lucky ones. I was 
adopted by a former teacher as an orphaned teen and she 
gave me every advantage which has allowed me to be here. 

There were no schools left after the occupation, so I 
worked on her land during the day tending to crops and at 
night she taught me at home. When she thought my studies 
complete, she arranged for me to attend one of the only 
colleges which exist to provide any schooling beyond the 
basics. I owe her everything, she is the only reason why I 
am here today.

I walk towards the nurse's station and I look at a small 
bronze plague that I walk by, its words well known to me 
even though I have never seen it before. Those words, in 
one form or another exist in nearly every newly built 
building since liberation. It is our homage to the great 
ones...to the ones that have made all of this possible. 
'In memory of those who had the courage to sacrifice for 
the many...'         

I wipe the heated tears that fall freely down my face with 
the back of my hand, not out of shame since I feel none, 
but out of the professionalism and dedication which I wish 
to emulate. As I turn around, a heavy set woman dressed in 
white walks toward me, extending her hand in greeting.

"You must be Mira Gentile."

I nod and I offer my hand in congeniality. She smiles and 
takes my hand, her grip firm and her skin cool. I take a 
deep breath in relief, my thought now focused on the here 
and now and not on the past which we all share. She smells 
of antiseptic soap and of starch. A familiar strangely 
comforting smell which makes me feel instantly at ease.

"I am Victoria Sears. I have heard a great deal about you." 
Deep brown eyes shine with humor and grace, their extreme 
intelligence floating freely across the surface. Soft black 
hair flows almost effortlessly, like a moonlit waterfall, 
into a pony tail which sits at the back of her head. This 
leaves her smooth, round face open for all to see. A smile 
parts her rose tinted lips and perfect white teeth 
glimmer faintly in the artificial light.

She turns to walk behind the neatly kept station, her stiff 
skirts swishing softly behind her. Her back is straight and 
tall, her pride seeming to drive each and every step that 
she takes. She sits down in the gray and white chair with a 
grace unmatched by any I have seen and gestures with a 
strong arm for me to sit with her.

I do so quickly, rubbing my anxiety dampened palms firmly 
across the nappy material of the arm rests. I can't explain 
it, but I feel so at home. I feel as if I had been on a 
very long and tiring journey and I have finally found where 
I belong. 

I lean back with a smile and a wink of my eye and say "I 
hope that it wasn't all bad." I look about the desk, the slim 
lines and sparse items quite unusual from my past experience 
during my clinicals.

"On the contrary it was all good," she offers with a 
genuine smile as she gestures with an open hand to the list 
before her. 

"This is a list of our clientele. We have the capacity to 
care for approximately 35 residents and we are currently 
full. We have a low turn over rate due to the stability of 
our clientele's health and due to the environment which we 
provide here." 

I glance at the list carefully, attempting to learn as many 
of the names as possible. This is the moment, which I have 
dreamed of for all of this time. A chance to give back to 
those who have given so much of themselves for all of their 
lives.

"As you can see, we do have quite a blend of residents 
here. However most are quite self sufficient to a degree. 
We encourage our clients to strive for as much independence 
as possible. Maintaining dignity, that is the motto by 
which we base all of our decisions."

Names of faceless but significant individuals flash before 
me, the letters all blending into an endless stream of 
black on white. They are impressionless, like the white 
canvas beneath the painting. I need to connect, and bring 
the colors to life. I need to give breath to the names 
which will become my closest family in the future. 

Suddenly a name falls into my line of sight, and it nearly 
stops my heart dead. My head starts pounding, my lungs 
burn. I can't believe it. Never in my wildest dreams.... I 
close my eyes, that name still indelibly burned into my 
soul. "Oh my God... I can't believe it...." The words fall 
out of my mouth effortlessly, like raindrops off
rose petals.

"Oh yes," she says as if it weren't such a momentous 
memory. "Our most famous resident and quite popular with 
the staff as well as the residents: more than a pleasure to 
have here. We have quite a few veterans here. They seem to 
congregate with one another. Shared experiences and alike." 
She lets out a soft sigh and slowly stands up stretching 
her arms above her head.

"I need to attend to some matters. If you like you can 
stroll around and make yourself acquainted with the 
facility as well as our clients. We like to think that we 
are more like family here than your typical home; so please 
keep that in mind."

" I will..." I tender, as I try to bring my wandering 
thoughts back to focus.

She walks away and I look once again at the list. That name 
sits heavy on my thoughts; a true hero to us all. Many have 
made great sacrifices for us to overcome our enemies, and 
to rebuild our world but none so much as the individual 
reduced to a room number and a nondescript name such as 
this. I take the number to memory and I also stand up, 
preparing myself for this encounter.

Considering what day it is it seems more than apropos.

To find the truth, I must come full circle.

End 1/2
See 2/2

                       *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Called To Rise." 2/2
by Joylynn Wing
aljoyw@a-znet.com


I march over to the pastel tinted wall, and after gathering 
my bearings I follow the other room numbers to my destiny. 
I walk slowly allowing the soft, caressing sounds of this 
environment to envelop me. The tapping of my footsteps fall 
into step with the lub-dub of my heart and finally, I come 
to the end of my journey.

Room number 25.

I trace the black engraved numbers with the index finger of 
my right hand, careful to note the tattoo, which seems to 
be of the same shade. The surface cuts gentle ridges into 
my soft skin, the moment marked indelibly within my psyche 
for all time. A sense of awe overcomes me and I nearly lose 
my cool once again right then and there.

But I shove that down deep where it will sit until a more 
appropriate time. In spite of my emotionalism, I will 
remain strong. This is sort of a spiritual pilgrimage for 
me and I will not sully the moment with such nonsense.

I knock on the doorframe, and await a response. None 
arrives so I step in and walk forward. "Hello?" The room is 
brightly lit, the glimmering sunshine glittering of the 
gleaming white tiles like moonlight off a pool of water.

I look about, the small, smartly appointed space and its 
proud contents challenge me to investigate its mysteries 
which it offers humbly. I walk up to the wall nearest me, 
my soft soled shoes thudding softly upon the impossibly 
smooth floor. 

Carefully framed pictures lined the eggshell colored 
surface. Pictures of heroes long dead, pictures of 
ceremonies celebrating proud moments. Medals of every sort 
are neatly hung next to the heroes, almost a shrine of 
their accomplishments. 

I have seen these individuals, immortalized forever in the 
textbooks which expound their exploits: which in the end, 
freed a whole world from the brink of annihilation.

"So, you are the new girl." I hear as I turn around to 
meet the one that I have emulated all of these years.

My eyes are stunned by what they behold. The textbooks 
didn't do proper justice. Even age hasn't faded the 
greatness, which sits there. A slight figure sits in a 
well-padded wheelchair. Impossibly blue eyes glance at me 
from under dark auburn lashes, belaying their careful 
assessment of me. Her once bright red hair; the color that 
I have been so envious of all of these years now is white 
with streaks of faded red.

"Yes, I am. I am Mira Gentile." I say, as I offer my hand 
to her. My hand shakes slightly in nervousness and I force 
myself to calm down. It isn't every day that I get to meet 
a real hero.

She wheels herself over to me, offering her slight hand in 
gesture. Her hand is graceful, unlined and youthful unlike 
the fine lines which are indelibly etched into her pale 
white skin. 

I take it and her strength is incredible, inconsistent to 
the frail body to which it belongs. I swear that her hand 
radiates a heat which I have never felt before. I know that 
I am experiencing the indomitable force of her spirit, the 
driving force which helped to liberate mankind.

She brings her hand back into her lap, folding the fingers 
together gracefully as she tilts her head in thought. Her 
hair is still quite similar in style as it was before, the 
smooth bob slips and falls into her face, obscuring her 
swirling blue eyes from my view. She reaches up and tucks 
the smooth lock behind her small ear. She smiles softly as 
she mumbles, "beautiful name, very unusual. I am..."

"You are Dr. Dana Scully. You are the one." I look at her 
and sit down, wanting to be able to speak to her eye to 
eye. I study her carefully, her eyes showing me all that I 
have ever needed to know. I see strength, extreme 
intelligence, honesty, and integrity. But I also see the 
passion and the pain that lies just beneath the surface.

"Please, I was one of many. One of the many dedicated, 
selfless individuals who did what they had to do." She 
looks over at the wall and gestures with her hands. Even in 
the whisky smooth dulcet tones of graciousness, I can hear 
the sorrow which lurks there. This was not how I pictured 
her to be. Heroes are always smiling and happy in their 
accomplishments, they are not supposed to look like this.

"We read about you, and the others in school. What you did 
was...was..." I try to convey my deep respect for what she 
has done but my feeble words fail me. I let my words fall 
off, not wanting to make myself look like a bigger fool. I 
glance down at my skirt, fumbling with the neatly pressed 
hem with my clumsy fingers.

"Nothing," I hear her deny softly as she begins to wheel 
her chair over to the pictures which her eyes never seem to 
leave. Her hands move the wheels flowingly, the squeaks of 
the spinning spokes filling the silence which swallows the 
deep even breaths which we are both taking. "I did nothing, 
that others didn't do also." Her voice is strong, almost 
lyric in quality.

"You are a hero, you have won so many awards. We all owe 
our lives, our freedom to you." I raise my hand up to 
gesture to the numerous commendations neatly arranged on 
the plain wall. Doesn't she even realize that she is 
a hero? Doesn't she even realize what she has done for 
humanity?

It is as if it doesn't mean a thing to her.

She looks at me, her face emotionless. "You owe me 
nothing...they are the true heroes. They are the ones that 
you supposedly owe. They are the ones that sacrificed it 
all. I sacrificed nothing. I lived, they died..." She 
reaches up and trails her trembling fingers along the 
smooth shiny surface of the frame. 

She may think that she has fooled me. She may think that I 
can't see the pain that she trying so hard to deny, but I 
can.

As a nurse, I am trained to minister to the body as well as 
to the spirit. I may not be able to do anything for her on 
the outside, but I maybe can help on the inside. My 
clinical mind goes into diagnostic mode, descriptions of 
what I hear in her voice abound...

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

Trauma induced Dementia

Depression

All of them seem right, but none really seem to fit.

I need to understand what she is feeling in order for me to 
better help her. I slide to the edge of the bed, raising my 
hands out in front of me as I plead, "but you... "

"I lost my use of my legs in the war for independence," 
she interrupts curtly as she gestures down to them as she 
shrugs. "They were a small price to pay for the millions 
which now live free...." 

She then takes one long last look at the momentos and then 
turns to face me, her face suddenly looking tired and 
confused. I can see all the pain that she carries inside of 
her, it oozes to the surface like beads of sweat. I wish 
that I can take away all of her pain, but I know logically 
that I am just losing my objectivity.

But who wouldn't?

"All of them are...are...." I ask in a trembling voice as 
tears sting by vision and make my head spin. I can't seem 
to finish what I was trying to say, I seem to choke on the 
words like a bad meal.

"Dead... Yes, they are." A lone tear falls from her 
fathomless blue eyes and it steaks down the lines of her 
face. "They were all wonderful people, giving people. 
People who were not afraid to stand up for what they 
believed in."

Oh God, if I do not get my mind off all of this tragedy, I 
am going to lose it. So I stand up and walk over to that 
wall, letting my eyes see for myself what my heart and soul 
should know.

Such life once existed here. Such heart. True heroes 
dedicated to sacrificing it all for what they believed in.
Can I ever live up to what they represent? I suddenly feel 
small and insignificant to the whole. As I valiantly blink 
back my tears, I come across one picture with her in it. 
One picture where she is standing next to someone that I 
also remember. Someone also ingrained into my memory with a 
brand etched in fire.

"This is Fox Mulder, isn't it? Oh my God. The pictures in 
the text book did not do him justice."

I take the picture down and look at it. Bright hazel eyes 
stare back at me, their depths only hinting at the man 
behind the legend. Then I look at her, the grace of youth 
bringing out the very best in her. And as I study it 
carefully, I see it.

Yes, 'It'. 

That special something that one never expects to see in a 
photo. Love...unconditional love and acceptance.

She loved this man and he loved her.

I walk over to her and carefully place it in her lap, as I 
kneel beside her. As she looks it over carefully, a bright 
smile creeps across her face, dimples and all.

Yes, I was right. I have always been perceptive about these 
things.

"Yes, he was handsome," she offers as she drags her 
fingertip across the glass. "And stubborn, lewd, 
opinionated, sarcastic and crazy as hell. But he was also 
the most wonderfully caring, dedicated, selfless, 
intelligent, perceptive man that I have ever had the 
pleasure of knowing. "

"Ah, the tragic hero. So what was his Achilles' heel?" I 
look down at him, trying to get a better sense of the man.
He would seem to fit the part. Although books are few and 
far between, I have been blessed by the opportunity to look 
at a few of the classics. I must say that much of it I do 
not understand, I guess the lack of a good formal education 
had seen to that, but I did find that I was quite 
entertained.

"Not what, who. I was. I was Mulder's fatal flaw."

I look up, my jaw hanging in mid air somewhere near my 
sternum. Did I just hear what I thought that I heard?

"Throughout our whole time together," she continues as she 
sighs in realization. "I was the one who they used to get 
to him. They knew how to pull his strings... and they would 
hurt me to really hurt him. He didn't care what happened to 
him. It was all about me. He would have gone to the ends of 
the earth for me. In fact he did. And in the end, to repay 
him for all that he did, I was the one who ended up killing 
him."

"What?" I snort as I nearly fall back on my heels. What 
secrets has this woman been carrying for all of these 
years? Why now, and why me most importantly, has she chosen 
to reveal this information?

I close my eyes and try to steady the incessant pounding of 
my heart. Whatever she has to say, I will hear it. I owe 
her this and so much more.

She puts her hands down on the arm-rests of her chair and 
grips it tightly, the knuckles turning white almost 
instantly. "It was the day of the final assault upon their 
last stronghold. We had been successful in administering 
the Trojan Horse-"

"Trojan Horse?"

"A virus which we engineered which would effectively kill 
off the embryonic versions of the aliens. It was very 
successful but we had been unable to eradicate this last 
assimilation station. I guess that we had killed off so 
many of them over the last few months that they weren't 
taking any chances on this station."

"We and the rebels had come up with a two pronged approach 
to the situation. A well-armed distraction coupled with a 
small advance team which would infiltrate and infect the 
system." 

"We were all there; the Lone Gunmen, Skinner, Mulder and 
me. The plan executed flawlessly; the moles had been able 
to get in undetected. However, due to a miscalculation on 
our part, we ended up getting pinned down, not able to 
escape. We knew that we had precious little time. When the 
system malfunctioned, the ship would lift off and self-
destruct. We were trapped until the advance team arrived. 
They gave us cover, so that we could escape." 

She stops and closes her eyes, trying to get control of 
what she feels. Every muscle trembles in her body as she 
fights an inner war more deadly than any fought outside.

"They knew that they would die," she says shakily as she 
finally herself under control. "But they sacrificed so that 
we might have a chance. We ran like hell, trying to use the 
chance given to us, but the firefight was too intense. 

"I was hit; in the back." She turns her head and gestures 
to her lower back. "I couldn't move, so I had resigned 
myself to the fact that this was the end. But it wasn't... 
Mulder had come back to save my ass once again." She closes 
her eyes once again and this time I am prepared for tears. 
After what she has been through she deserves this chance to 
mourn for her losses.

But no tears come; bright blue eyes meet the bright light 
once again with strength renewed.

"When I woke up, he was gone. After the fight, he couldn't 
be accounted for. They found Skinner and the others, but 
not Mulder. He became one of the statistics. One of the 
many which were never accounted for."

"After I was released from the hospital, I looked for him. 
I looked for him for years. My whole life became helping to 
rebuild and looking for Mulder-"

"You loved him didn't you?" I ask as I nod towards Mulder's 
likeness. To spend a lifetime looking for the one you love 
is profound, to say the least. I only hope that I one day 
find that kind of love myself.

"And you never told him...." I finish as I bring my hand up 
to rest on her now trembling shoulder. My heart pounds 
painfully in my chest, my lungs burn with each breath that 
I take.

"We...I..." She shakes her head, her voice low and husky, 
like honey over ice. "We never really had to say the words. 
I guess that we just knew how we felt about one another..."

Ah, to have such a love. A love that transcends words, and 
blossoms with adversity: a rare priceless gift indeed.

"So I take it that you and he never...." Now I know that I 
am crossing some lines here, but this love story needs some 
happiness. I need to know if she has something to keep with 
her, something to soothe her broken heart.

"We weren't like that. That wasn't what we were about."
Her eyes reflect the truth, which she speaks. However, one 
doesn't need to be incredibly perceptive to notice the 
blatant disappointment dripping from every syllable. She 
lets out a deep breath as if just telling her story is 
cathartic.  

I guess that in a way it is.

"Why? You obviously loved one another very much." I smile 
and feel myself blushing profusely. Now I know that we are 
both medical professionals but I can't help feel nervous 
about asking this. This love story moves me on so many 
different levels that I have this almost obsessive need to 
know it all.

"I guess that there was always something more that had to 
be done." She looks out into the room as if half expecting 
something to happen. "The work was above all else, at all 
times. We knew that. I guess that when you have the world 
to save, other things seem to have less importance."

"But you have regrets..." Of course, I know how totally 
stupid this sounds but she needs to voice it. To accept and 
to hopefully get some closure for her and for the ghosts 
which haunt her room and her heart.

"Loneliness is a choice. We both chose the life which we 
led. It was necessary, so that the whole of humanity might 
have a chance: a chance to live and to love. We all have to 
make choices and we all have to live with them. I have 
lived with them: the good and the bad."

"Dr Scully..."

"I haven't been a practicing doctor for decades, please 
just call me Dana." She reaches over and for once in our 
discussion, she touches me. And I feel it clear down to my 
toes. She is letting me in. She is letting me know the 
heart that beats within the breast of this woman. 

I am truly honored.

"Dana, I'm sorry." Tears start to fall down my face in 
heated torrents. They do very little to wash away the pain 
or the guilt that I feel. But I guess that they shouldn't.
I shed them for her, not for me.

"Sorry?" She furrows her brow, her eyes cloud with worry. 
"You're sorry for what?" For a woman that spends so much 
time and energy hiding what she feels from others, she is 
incredibly empathic.

"For how it all turned out," I blubber uncontrollably as I 
stand up, turn away and attempt to wipe my eyes. "You gave 
so much, yet you couldn't even have the one thing that you 
wanted. We all owe you so much." What an impression I have 
just made, walking in here and asking personal questions 
until I lose it all together.

I am such a pathetic mess.

"But you are so wrong...so wrong." She rolls to me and 
touches me on the forearm. "I did get to love. I loved a 
lifetime in the years, which I knew Mulder. We may have 
never consummated the relationship but we were still 
lovers...in the deepest truest sense of the word."

She looks up at me and smiles. "Our souls were reunited; 
our hearts were one. We loved with a love that time and 
death could never sever."

"And as for you or anyone owing me anything," she arches 
her perfectly curved brow admonishing me as quickly as 
words could ever do. "If you want to repay us, repay me... 
there is something that you could do. Live your life fully.
Do not waste a single moment."

"Take this time that we have given you and use it wisely.
Not everyone gets a second chance. This is yours-"

Suddenly the fire is gone, and the room literally grows dim 
without its presence. Her shoulders slump, her eyes narrow 
and darken. "Now if you would please leave, I need some 
time."

Wiping my eyes on my sleeve, I nod and walk out of the room 
pretending not to notice the hitch of her shoulders and the 
soft sounds of sobbing. As I reach her doorway, I pull it 
shut and lean my forehead against the wall.

Funny, legends always seem to make heroes larger than life. 
Society can make heroes out of almost everyone, just do a 
good deed and you can live forever. However, now I know the 
truth. 

Being a true hero isn't that easy.  

A true hero is a person who is not afraid to make the tough 
choices. They make those choices in an instant without even 
worrying about the repercussions that might hurt them. They 
only think of others, not of themselves. 

I met one of them today. 


Well? Feed a starving artist at aljoyw@a-znet.com