From: Patty S Date: Fri, 28 Sep 2001 17:37:42 -0700 (PDT) Subject: NEW: Field of Dreams (1/1) by Patty S Source: xff TITLE: Field of Dreams (1/1) AUTHOR: Patty S EMAIL: scully4723@yahoo.com CLASSIFICATION: SA, V (part of it), Post-ep KEYWORDS: UST, Dream-sequence (I don't know if that's a category, but I just felt I needed to include it) RATING: PG (for violence) SPOILERS: Let's just say that if you haven't seen The Field Where I Died, then this story will probably make no sense to you. SUMMARY: Mulder reflects on his relationship with Scully after the events in TFWID and dreams about his past life as Sullivan Biddle. ARCHIVE: Anywhere, just please let me know so I can visit! DISCLAIMER: I don't own these charaters. 'Nuff said. Author's Note and Thanks at end. ================ "Do not mourn me dead... we shall meet again." ~ Major Sullivan Ballou - July 14, 1861 Field of Dreams (1/1) by Patty S The door to apartment #42 opened slowly, the light from the outside hallway spilling into the darkened room. Mulder stepped inside and closed the door, not bothering to turn on a light as the room was swallowed again in darkness. He shrugged off his coat and tossed it on the back of his chair, then wearily trudged into the living room. With a sigh, he dropped heavily onto his leather couch, leaning forward and putting his face in his hands. His cheeks were rough with the two-day growth of beard he had neglected to shave, and he could feel the heavy pressure of bags under his eyes, the consequence of going without sleep for over forty-eight hours. He was exhausted, not only physically but spiritually. *My soul is tired,* he repeated to himself silently, remembering the first time he had said those words. After Melissa underwent hypnotic regression to bring out the past lives that dwelt inside her, Mulder had decided to submit himself to the procedure. He had told himself it was to confirm whether Melissa had told the truth about the guns that she said were hidden in a bunker in the field outside the Seven Stars compound, but in actuality he wanted to know if Melissa was right when she told him that he had died in that field over a hundred and fifty years ago, as a soldier in the Civil War. What he saw in his mind - what he recalled while he was under hypnosis - was overwhelming. He indeed had been a soldier, Sullivan Biddle, who had fought for the South. And he had indeed died in that field, along with hundreds of his brothers-in-arms. Scully was his sergeant. She had died too. Mulder lifted his head, staring ahead into the Darkness, remembering the conversation he had had with her after the procedure. "Dana, what if early in our four years together somebody told you that we'd been friends together in other lifetimes... always. Would it have changed some of the ways we look at one another?" "Even if I knew for certain, I wouldn't change a day." I wouldn't change a day. Had she really meant that? Mulder had a hard time believing it. He had dragged her into a quest that had everything to do with him and nothing to do with her, a quest whose path was wrought with treachery, danger, and death. He had already put Scully through so much pain and grief; her abduction and the murder of her sister had already tested her will and faith. Despite this, she was still with him - still on that quest - searching with him for that elusive truth he so desperately sought. *Why is she still with me? All I've done is cause her pain. I don't deserve her.* Mulder sighed, his face once more in his hands. If he allowed her to continue with him, she could very well meet the same fate that her past life had met so many years ago on that field. *Souls come back together. Different, but always together. Again and again, to learn.* Was it true? Was Scully destined to be with him forever? It was a nice thought, and Mulder wanted to believe in it so badly. His love and trust in Scully was endless, and he would gladly die for her. *Is it possible? God, how I wish it were true.* Slowly, Mulder turned and stretched out on the couch, taking off his shoes and unbuttoning his shirt. He fixed a pillow beneath his head, and closed his eyes. Behind him, his fish tank hummed softly, its rhythm soothing, reassuring. With this quiet cadence in his ears, Mulder's eyes slowly began to close, his mind echoing his previous thought, *Souls come back together...* ~X~ A bright, intense light blinds me. I shut my eyes, shielding them from the brilliant glare. I feel the light begin to fade. Slowly, I open my eyes. I am standing in a field. I know this place. This is the field next to the Temple of the Seven Stars compound. But the compound is gone. A small farmhouse now stands where the building used to be. The grass around me is brown and dead, it's life and color crushed by the cold's firm grip. Winter has come. There are no telephone poles or electrical wires, only the naked skeletons of trees. Mountains rear up miles away to the west, their distant peaks painted crimson and orange by the setting sun. As I gaze out across the field, I see men gathered on the other side. Small, even rows of tents rise above the grass. I can make out the wispy outline of smoke rising from campfires. I step forward, toward the camp... another brilliant flash, and I find myself in the center of the camp. Men huddle around campfires, trying to warm Themselves, sitting on logs or empty crates or barrels. Their gray uniforms are ragged and threadbare. Some of them don't even have jackets, and wear only thin scraps of shirts. Many are without shoes - their feet are swollen and discolored from the cold. I look down, and see that I am clothed in a tattered brown jacket. I am a soldier... one of them. A man sits near one fire, clutching a bandaged arm to his chest. His hand is missing. A battle was fought. These men were there. I was there. As I draw closer to the fire, another soldier sitting next to the wounded man looks up at me. I realize he is not a man - he is a boy, no more than sixteen. He has probably never shaved before in his life. But his face is that of one who has seen things no one his age should ever have to see: war, death, destruction - the result of mankind's wickedness to one another. His eyes meet mine - they are like two dark pools, filled with a grim realization of fate and of a resolve to meet it without fear. Too many boys are like him - ready to die on a distant battlefield, away from their homes and loved ones. I force myself to look away. A fiddle begins to play somewhere up ahead. The tune is slow and sad, an expression of what every soldier encamped on this field feels. I look to the mountains, and see that the sun has disappeared behind them. My last sunset. I am filled with a nostalgic sense of loss. I am not like that boy - I am here among my fellow Tennesseans. My family lives just over those mountains. But I will never see them again, for THEY will come in the morning, marching across the field - thousands of Federal soldiers, their bayonets glistening in the early morning sunlight. Yes, they will come, but they will not be expecting us. They thought they had us on the run after they overwhelmed us at Missionary Ridge yesterday - thought that we would retreat all the way to Dalton, in Georgia. But not us. We stayed behind. This is our home, what we fought so hard to keep and protect. Never again will we leave Tennessee. I reach the end of the rows of tents. A campfire burns unattended. I sit down on an empty apple crate, and stare into the flames, becoming mesmerized by the orange and yellow tongues of fire as they dance upon the burning logs. The sound of footsteps behind me interrupts my trance. I turn, and see a soldier with a short, scruffy beard looking down at me. "May I join you?" he asks, gesturing to a log on my left. I shrug. "If you want." He sits down with a sigh, and takes a brown infantry cap off his head. "Ah. Feels good to take the weight off your feet, doesn't it?" He chuckles, and turns his face toward me. He is a good deal older than I am; his hair and beard are mostly gray, and his weather-beaten face is line with wrinkles. A long, thin scar runs along his right cheek. But his eyes - his eyes are bright blue and contain a warm, youthful glow. This is my sergeant, John Lovejoy. When I enlisted a year ago as a private, he was the one who showed me the ways of a soldier: how to march with a pack on your shoulders, how to charge with a bayonet, how to pitch a tent, and a great many other things. He is my teacher, my mentor... my friend. We've been through many battles together, and have saved each other's lives more times than I can count. I have a strange feeling that I've known him forever... but that's impossible. He must have noticed me staring, because he asks, "What is it, Sullivan?" Sullivan. My name is Sullivan - Private Sullivan Biddle of 3rd Company F, 35th Infantry, Hamilton County, Tennessee. I blink, realizing that he has spoken. "What? Oh. Nothing. Just thinking." His face is sympathetic, understanding. "Are you scared about tomorrow?" he asks me softly. I open my mouth, ready to deny my fear of dying, and then think better of it. I look down at my hands. He knows me too well. He deserves the truth. "Yes," I reply at length. "I'm afraid to die." I draw a deep breath, then continue. "I'm afraid of what awaits me on the other side." John is silent for a moment, then asks, "What's on the other side?" "That's just it - I don't know." I look up at him, into those intense blue eyes. "What happens when we die?" I ask him, almost pleadingly. "Is this life all there is? Do we have anything to look forward to after it's over, or are we condemned to spend our eternity alone in darkness and silence, with no hope of ever seeing the ones we love again?" "I don't know, Sullivan. I don't think anyone knows. But I can tell you this: God has a plan for all of us, although we may not realize what that plan is. Those whom we love and care for - a bond links them to us, a bond so strong that even death cannot break it. They too are part of that plan." His voice takes on a dreamlike tone. "Souls come back together... different... but always together... again and again... to learn." I stare at him, stunned. Someone else said that... I said it. When? A flash, and I find myself in the field once again, only this time I am not alone. Confederate troops - hundreds of them - are with me. We kneel behind an old stone wall that separates the field from the forest. We are positioned on the forest side, looking over the wall across the field. The troops are all silent, their eyes fixed upon the trees that border the far side of the field. Every soldier is armed with a rifle. I look down at my hands, and see that I hold one as well. Its long iron barrel feels cold against my sweaty palms. I'm a fair shot, but I wonder if I'll be dead before I have a chance to use it. Behind me to the east, the sun begins to rise above the trees, chasing away the gray mist that covers the field. They will be here soon. I turn to the right, and see that John is next to me. I am not surprised - we are never far from each other in a battle. He rests against the wall, his gun propped up beside him. He catches my gaze and smiles, putting a firm hand on my shoulder. All the anxiousness that I have felt drains away at the sight of that warm, friendly expression, and I feel reassured by the steady force that grips my shoulder. I smile back. Neither of us speaks. We don't have to - we already know what's in each other's hearts. I owe a debt of gratitude to this man, my sergeant. He has always been there for me, to pick me up when I fall, to push me when I feel that I can't go on, to comfort and encourage me when I am afraid - just like he's doing now. I don't know what I would do without him. A nearby soldier whispers hoarsely, urgently, "They're coming!" John and I immediately grab our weapons and peer over the top of the wall. We cannot see any movement across the field, but the distant, all too-familiar sound of marching feet and clanking equipment reaches our ears. A minute passes, and the vague, shadowy outlines of men become visible through the trees. Soon, they manifest into solid figures of soldiers in blue uniforms. They step out of the dark protection of the trees and onto the open field. Company after company they come, strung out in a long line that reaches across almost the entire length of the field. Thousands of them, all armed with rifles and bayonets, marching toward us, drawing closer with every step... A flash. Men surround me, soldiers in blue uniforms as well as gray. The air is filled with the sounds of battle, of gunfire and the screams of dying men. Thick smoke hangs about the field, blotting out the rising sun, filling my nostrils with its acrid aroma, stinging my eyes. They are fighting each other, gray against blue, Federal against Confederate, each seeking a way to kill the other. A bluecoat is locked in combat with a gray soldier. The gray desperately tries to hold off his opponent with his rifle, barring the way as the blue presses down, attempting to force the graycoat to the ground. After a few intense moments, the bluecoat finally succeeds, and the other man falls, landing on his back. In one swift motion, the Federal soldier brings his rifle down - bayonet first - into the man at his feet. The gray shudders, and lies still. All around me, men are dying in a similar manner. Sometimes the man that falls wears the uniform of the North, but more often, it is one of my brothers-in- arms. We knew the odds were against us - our hundreds against their thousands - we knew that this would be our last battle. We made a choice to stay here in Tennessee and face the oncoming storm. We were tired of running from the enemy after every battle... we would never run again. We would make our final stand on the land that our fathers tamed and called their own, the land which we know and love. Sudden movement out of the corner of my eye makes me turn. A bluecoat is rushing straight at me, his rifle aimed right at my chest. I raise my own, ready to repel my attacker, but he is too quick for me. He hits me in the stomach with the butt of his rifle, stunning me. He knocks my weapon away and strikes me again, the force of the blow throwing me to the ground. The same scene I saw earlier is about to be repeated, with me as the intended victim. The bluecoat stands over me and raises his rifle, ready to drive the bayonet deep into my chest. I am powerless to stop him; all I can do is watch. A hole suddenly appears in the Federal's chest, and blood begins to gush from it He cries out and drops his gun. He falls to the ground next to me, dead. John's face appears over mine. "That bluebelly almost had you there," he says as he helps me to my feet. His cheeks are smeared with soot, and a cut above his left eye bleeds profusely, running down his face to mix with the dirt and sweat in his grizzled beard. Still dazed from the bluecoat's blows, all I can do is nod. "Thanks," I manage to gasp after a few moments. John grins, nodding. The smile is suddenly replaced by a look of intense pain. He falls forward. "John!" I catch him as he falls, and slowly lower him to the ground. I kneel, cradling his head in my lap. "John! Are you alright?" I ask. His only responses are deep gasps. He clutches his chest with his hands. They are covered in blood. I see a bullet-hole in the jacket and quickly put my own hands over the wound to stop the flow of crimson that flows freely from it. The gasps come much slower than before, and his eyes are almost completely shut. I am frightened now, and can feel the tears as they well up inside my eyes, threatening to fall. The edges of my vision begin to blur, and all I can see is the man lying before me, the life slowly ebbing from his body. This man. My sergeant. My friend. I never thought he would die - he always seemed invincible to me, able to reckon with any force that stood against him. I always relied on his strength and determination, his undying loyalty to his fellow soldiers, his love for Tennessee. He has taught me so much... how can I go on without him? John coughs, and looks up at me. "Don't mourn me, Sullivan," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "My time has come." He coughs again. A trickle of blood runs from his mouth. I grip his hand, feeling the thready pulse beneath his palm. "Don't worry about the other side... remember, the bond we share is stronger than death. This life is not the last... we will meet again." He sighs, and slowly closes his eyes. I feel his hand go limp in mine. He is gone. I bow my head, letting the tears come freely now. Sobs rack my throat. "John, please... don't leave me." I cling to my sergeant, trying to draw strength from his still-warm body. I feel as if a part of me has died. In a way, I think it has. My best friend is dead. I feel lost. I don't want to leave him alone, vulnerable to thieves and bluecoats. But I realize that John wouldn't want to me to watch over his body. He'd want me to keep on living, to fight for what we both love and cherish. Filled with this new resolve, I stand, grasping the rifle that John had dropped. I look around, seeing the two armies locked in their bloody struggle for victory over each other. The Federals are overwhelming us, forcing us to fall back. Many of our men begin to retreat, a few even give themselves up. A sudden, terrible rage takes hold of me, and I raise my rifle in the air, waving it furiously above my head. "Tennessee! Tennessee! Rally to me, Tennessee!" I yell above the roar of battle. "Fight! Fight for your homes! Tennessee!" A high-pitched scream fills the air. It is the rebel yell, our battle cry. Like a fresh breeze filling a lifeless sail, my fellow Confederates now surge forward, pressing against the Federal forces, driving them back across the field. The bluecoats do not expect this - they cannot believe that a defeated, demoralized army could fight back with so much strength and determination. They do not know us boys from Tennessee. We will fight to the bitter end, to the last man standing. We give no quarter. We do not give up. "C'mon!" I yell, still waving my rifle. Gray soldiers press forward, yelling and screaming as they charge. Suddenly, a great force strikes me, throwing me to the ground, and pain like I've never experience explodes in my chest. I hit the ground hard, landing on my side. I touch the source of the pain with my hand, and feel something warm and wet on my fingers, and I slowly bring them up to my face. They are red with blood. I try to lift my head, to see the wound, but suddenly I am too weak to move, and I become dizzy. On the ground beside me is another body. I slowly turn my head to look at it. It is John, his face peaceful in death's embrace. I blink. John's body is gone, replaced by that of a woman's. Her short auburn hair falls delicately across her face. Her eyes are open, revealing the same clear blue eyes that John possessed, and the same warmth that burned within his. "Scully." I don't know how I know her name... I just do. She seems so familiar. I feel like I've known her forever. Maybe I have. Scully smiles, and her eyes meet mine. As I stare back, a feeling of warmth envelops me like a blanket, and I feel strangely at peace. The pain in my chest is gone, vanished with that smile, as are the sounds of the battle around us. She stretches out her hand to me. I take it, grasping it as if it were a life ring in a stormy sea. "We will meet again." Her voice is calm, soothing, yet filled with a quiet, reassuring strength. Tired, I feel so tired. My eyes begin to close, my vision of her smiling face growing darker and darker, until all is black. A flash. I am rising above the field. Below me, the battle has ended. Bodies of soldiers lie everywhere, their gray and blue uniforms darkened by blood. The Union flag flies above the farmhouse. We may have lost the battle, but we did not retreat or surrender. We died protecting the we loved and cherished so dearly: Tennessee. I see my own body amid the sea of carnage, and next to me lays John Lovejoy. Away to the east, the sun rises above the treetops, casting its rays upon the field, bating everything in a golden light. I feel myself rising higher and higher, until all I can see of the field is a tiny speck far below. I look up, and see a light above me, its source glowing brighter and brighter as I draw near... "Dana, what if early in our four years together somebody told you that we'd been friends together in other lifetimes... always. Would it have changed some of the ways we look at one another?" "Even if I knew for certain, I wouldn't change a day." ~X~ Mulder awoke with a start, gasping as he pulled himself up on the couch. He felt his face with his hands, making sure that what he felt was real. He touched his white cotton undershirt, felt the soft fabric against his chest. *No blood, no pain,* he thought, relieved. He turned abruptly and scanned his apartment. Besides the gentle humming of his fish tank, all was silent. It was still dark outside, and the blinds on his window were shut. He sighed. It was only a dream. Yet it seemed so real. He closed his eyes, and could still see the field clearly in his mind, the naked skeletons of the trees that bordered it, the gray mist that hung above the dead, brown grass. He saw the Confederate camp and the battle. He saw himself, Sullivan Biddle, in a ragged gray uniform. He saw John, saw his clear blue eyes - so warm, so reassuring. "Scully." Mulder reached for the phone, then stopped as he picked up the receiver. What was he thinking, calling her at - he glanced at his watch lying on the coffee table - 3:03 in the morning? He didn't want to wake her. Besides, she would laugh, telling him that it was nothing more than a dream, that these sorts of dreams were normal after such an intense case. She would tell him not to dwell on it, to go back to bed, and the matter would be forgotten. Such were Mulder's thoughts when the phone he held in his hands began to ring. "Hello?" he answered tentatively. "Mulder, it's me," Scully's voice replied. She sounded anxious, upset. "Scully what's wrong?" "I'm sorry if I woke you, I know I shouldn't be calling at this hour..." Mulder interrupted her. "No, it's ok, I was awake anyway. What's wrong?" he repeated, his tone gentle but urgent. Silence from other end of the line, then Scully finally answered. "Mulder, I just had the strangest dream..." END ================ AUTHOR'S NOTES/THANKS: This is my first fic posting (yes, I am a newbie author!), so I'd love to hear what you thought of it, good or bad. Many, many thanks to Emily for beta reading this and to the gang over @ the MSR_Fanfic_Cheerleaders for their help and very creative ideas. You guys rock!! :O) ===== "Is this the Pepsi Challenge?" ~Mulder "The writer is an explorer. Every step is an advance into a new land." ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882) I you think you are too small to affect the world around you, then you obviously haven't been with a mosquito.