From: "Lyra Cartwright" Date: Thu, 04 Nov 1999 03:39:07 GMT Subject: Dark Shroud By Lyra Source: direct Author: Lyra Archives: Anywhere, as long as my name is kept at the top and I'm informed of where it's archived. Disclaimer: This news brief just in. The X-Files does not belong to Lyra! The show, the files, the characters, everything belongs to Chris Carter, 20th Century Fox, and Mr. Carter's production company, 1013. Dedications: Since this is my first fanfic, I guess my dedications first go out to Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny, who will forever be known as Dana Scully and Fox Mulder to all the x-philes in the world. Feedback: Love it, crave it. After all, isn't feedback the life-sustaining substance of fanfic writers? Feed me at LtElana@hotmail.com. Just a little bit of shameless self promotion: visit my new site at www.geocities.com/Area51/Quadrant/4337/ Synopsis: Sorry to disappoint, but any synopsis would give away the story; suffice to say this has a major character death in it. Miscellaneous Notes: I have yet to find a beta-reader, and would love for anyone to offer to be mine. Also, do you think this story has a predictable ending? Now, on with the show... (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) (X) Dark Shroud Fox Mulder stood silently, several yards away from the crowd gathered in the cemetery. The priest's words were nothing but a steady drone to his ears and his usually quick eyes saw nothing in particular through the dark amber lenses of his sunglasses. A woman came up to him and touched his arm. "Are you okay?" she asked gently. He turned his eyes from the somber scene and looked at her. "I'm fine," he replied, his voice lacking its usual serious, yet teasing tones. "I know it must be hard for you, Fox," she continued, "I know you two were close..." He shook his head slowly and looked back up at the crowd gathered around the freshly dug grave as the coffin was lowered and shovelfuls of dirt were tossed in the rectangular opening. "We were never very close," he informed her contemplatively, "Even though, for the life of me, I can't figure out why. We went through a lot together, and yet I don't feel like I've lost a big part of myself." "She wasn't like you," she reminded him, attempting to look into his blue eyes, which were hidden behind the dark glasses, "She didn't believe in the work like you did, like we do." He nodded and looked up to see the crowd dissipating, leaving behind a large mound of flowers that obscured his view of the gray headstone. He held up the small bouquet of daisies he had been carrying and began to walk towards the newly covered grave. The woman followed along side him. "You know, she betrayed me," he spoke up as they walked. "I know," she answered simply. "You tried to tell me that she would, because she wasn't like you and me, but I never believed you and trusted her anyway," he added. "You didn't have any reasons not to trust her," she reminded him, "She hid who she was and her true intents very well. There was no way you should have known." He bent down near the mound of flowers and added his own small contribution to the pile. After having done so, he straightened up and began to walk away. "Are you coming?" he asked the woman. "I'll be right behind you," she promised, staring at the headstone. When he was out of earshot, she spoke again. "I know we weren't the best of friends before," she began, speaking to the dead, "Truth be told, I was a little resentful of your presence. He and I don't have that relationship that you two seemed to possess, and I suppose I was jealous. I know it may be too late, but I just wanted to thank you, for watching over him and protecting him when I wasn't here to do it." She reached for the single lily she had brought with her and laid it beside the other flowers. Taking one last look, she turned and walked away. A soft unexpected breeze flew by, blowing some of the flowers aside to reveal the words carved on the simple gray headstone. "Diana Fowley, 1957-1999"