From: Rose Vanden Eynden Date: Mon, 27 Nov 2000 15:08:01 -0500 Subject: NEW: Light the Candle, John by Avalon (1/1) Source: xff TITLE: Light the Candle, John (1/1) AUTHOR: Avalon EMAIL: avalon@fuse.net RATING: G (Did I actually write this?) SPOILERS: Up through season 8, but nothing in particular CATEGORY: S, A, MSR KEYWORDS: Character death, post-colonization (again, did I write this?), but check out the rating! It's G...that should give you a hint that this isn't your normal death thing here. DISCLAIMER: Not mine...Chris'...but if he is still writing this far in the future, then he can have this tale. FEEDBACK: Always welcome and answered, thanks. ARCHIVES: Spooky's, Gossamer, Ephemeral, anywhere, really, but if you are not one of those, please drop me a note so I can come visit. SUMMARY: "Sit here by my side For the night is very long There's something I must tell Before I pass along." AUTHOR'S NOTES: At the end, please. Light the Candle, John "Oh light the candle, John The daylight has almost gone The birds have sung their last The bells call all to Mass Sit here by my side For the night is very long There's something I must tell Before I pass along." --Loreena McKennitt, "Skellig" The door to my cell protests as it swings open, and the familiar footsteps shuffle in. The night is falling fast around us, and I can barely make out the figure as it approaches my bedside. I know he cannot see me in these shadows either, so he does not know that I am smiling. "Light the candle, John." My voice echoes off the stone walls. I cringe a little, not used to the sound of it anymore. It is hollow, feeble to my ears. I don't remember when I got so old, yet I know that I am. We both are. "I can barely see you. I don't know if it's the darkness, or just my terrible eyesight." A flame jumps in the dim stillness of the room, and his face flickers into form before me. He brings the candle closer and sets it on the nightstand next to the bed, pulling up the lone straight chair as he limps toward me. Underneath the deep, jagged lines, his face has not changed all that much since the time when I first met him, so many long years ago. I try to count back and realize that I can't remember what year it is anymore. "John." He has settled into the chair now, and he leans forward to hear me better. He has lost most of the hearing in his left ear, and he tilts his head to the right to be sure that I am audible. His eyes are dark in this light, but I can still remember how blue they used to be. Icy blue, like the sea I recall seeing the time I left Antarctica. That was long ago, too. I didn't know him then. That was before he and I worked together. "John," I repeat, a little more insistently. "What is it, Dana?" His voice is rough with disuse, too, and I wonder how often he talks with anyone beside me. The invaders don't use language. They communicate telepathically, that annoying, crawling feeling that takes over your brain whenever they want information. There are not too many of us left now that remember the spoken language. It is strange, too, to hear my first name again. Sometimes, when the days without human conversation stretch into weeks, I find myself struggling to recall it. It repeats now in my mind, like a record needle stuck in the groove of an album, and my thoughts leap to my sister Melissa. When we were girls, we would dance around our bedroom, a band called the Eagles singing "Hotel California" as we swayed and giggled. Missy would slap the record player on the side whenever the cheap needle would stick and cause the album to skip, and we would laugh harder. Strange the things you remember, and the things that slip away, covered in the cobwebs of time and distance. "What year is it, John?" I seem to recall something, one of those things from our lost culture that nags at me for recognition. "Is it my birthday?" He is silent for a moment, his face an eerie shadow. I can see his mind reaching backward as my own had, but finally, he shakes his head in frustration. "I don't know the year." His inflection is flat and laced with fatigue. I wonder suddenly what it must be like for him, living out among the invaders, pretending to keep an easy peace with them while anger and hatred simmer underneath. I feel grateful, somehow, that I have been put here instead, in this ancient convent of sisters, where I can at least find some comfort in the dying faith of my childhood. "But it is February. Isn't it, John?" I don't know why I am so interested in this. This is not why I asked for him tonight. I realize, though, that I am not just delaying the conversation we need to have. Apprehension creeps into my body, the feeling I used to get before I would slip into the confessional at church to lay my soul open before the priest. Even though I am not afraid to die, I suppose it is just like me to try to postpone it. He sighs, and the end of it becomes a cough. When it passes, he murmurs, "Yes, I think it is February, Dana." "Two birthdays in February, John." I clutch the thin coverlet and pull it closer to my chin, chill filling my body. My room has always been drafty, but it has never bothered me until the last few days. My body knows, just as my mind and soul, that my time is near. "Mine, and Christina's." He shifts in his chair a little, his discomfort apparent. He doesn't like to talk about my daughter, but he knows it is inevitable, like the rising of the sun each morning. He knows he is my only link to her, the only one they will allow. "How is she, John?" He raises his shoulders in a shrug and turns his face into the shadows so that I cannot see his eyes. "I suppose she is as good as anyone can be, Dana. Anyone in her position." I nod, and I smile. He sees this, and I watch as his brow knits in confusion. I don't usually smile about Christina. He is used to dealing instead with my tears. I reach out my hand and grab his wrist, the touch of another human being's skin searing my own and sending a powerful sensation of connection through me. I pull him forward so that our faces are close, and I can see, even in this light, that his eyes have not lost the spark that I remember. "I know she is fighting, John," I whisper, even though I am confident that they have not monitored our conversations for many years. "I know that she is mounting a resistance, and I know that the rebellion will succeed." His mouth drops open, and I can see from his expression that this information is not something that is surprising to him. The fact that I already know it is what is shocking him. "Dana," he mutters, his eyes boring into mine. "Dana, we have to be careful-" I drop his hand and tug once more at the blanket, shivering now in spite of myself. "I am dying, John," I say abruptly. "I have things to tell you before I go." He takes his fingers and rubs them over his eyes, finally pressing them to his cracked lips. He is silent for a moment, and when he speaks, there is emotion underneath. "You don't know that, Dana. You're a tough old broad." "I'm still a doctor, John. I can tell when my body is falling apart. I know the signs." I pause, considering him briefly, and then go on. "Do you know why I asked to be imprisoned here?" He shakes his head and folds his hands in his lap, and I am reminded of how Charlie used to sit in the pew at Mass when we were children. He always looked like the picture perfect choirboy, saying his prayers and listening with rapt attention as the priest broke the bread and blessed the wine. It is amusing to see John Doggett look this way now, after all the hell we both have been through. I find myself wondering where his faith lies, and if he finds any comfort in it in the face of annihilation. "When they were finally finished with me, I asked them to put me in this convent because the only thing I had left was my faith." My voice is steady, and I am glad. I had thought that it might quiver or break, but it doesn't. This is the way I want John to remember me: a tough old broad. "Here, they allowed me that. Nothing else, but at least I had my God. They allowed me to see you occasionally, and you brought me hope. You brought me hope, John. And you brought me Mulder." He looks away again, and he fiddles with the candlestick, pretending that it needs adjusting in the draft. I pick up one of his hands again, and it forces him to look back at me. I smile softly at him, and I see his lips move slightly into that half-amused look that is his alone. "I had nothing else, John. They had broken me. They took my child...the child that Mulder and I had created together, our miracle...and they took baby after baby, using my body as an incubator for their creations." His eyes are wet now, and I squeeze his hand, giving him some of my strength. "And when they were finally finished with me, you would come here to me, and you would whisper about Mulder, and about how he was out there fighting, building a rebellion, about how soon I would be liberated and we would all save the world..." My voice trails off, and I bite my lip as I smile again. "They were beautiful stories, John. And they gave me so much hope." He swallows and tries to grin at me, but John doesn't smile often, and I don't know if he can remember how. "But I know now that they were just stories, John. I know you were lying. I know now that Mulder is dead. That he has been dead all these years." He opens his mouth to protest, but something in my face must tell him that this is futile. He leans forward and drops his head, and his voice is muffled and full of sorrow. "I'm sorry, Dana," he begins, choking slightly on the words. "I'm so sorry-" I chuckle and pull his head up with both hands, one on either side of his face. "Don't be sorry, John. I want to thank you for it." His shiny eyes search mine, and he shakes his head slightly. "I don't understand. You're not angry with me?" "No," I say simply, patting his cheek. "Don't you realize what you did for me, John? I wanted to die, and they wouldn't let me. They forced me to live in this mad existence that they created for us, something that would have driven me insane if it weren't for the hope that I had. All I could think of, through all the lonely days and the terrifying nights, was that Mulder was out there fighting as he always had. That someday, he would come for me." I sigh in happiness. "And now he has." "But you just said..." He stops and starts again. "You just said that you realize that Mulder is dead. He isn't...he isn't coming for you, Dana." "He is, John," I breathe. "He's standing right behind you." John straightens in his chair as if called to attention, and he whips his head around to look behind him. I know he cannot see Mulder as I do, but it doesn't make him any less real. I bring my eyes up to my partner's face. Mulder is smiling, regarding John with a playful expression and shaking his head slightly. He looks exactly as I remember him, dressed in simple jeans and a white t-shirt, his feet bare as if he just came walking off the beach. The lines around his eyes that were just beginning to deepen when he was taken from me remind me of my own age, and I wish suddenly that I were thirty-five again, instead of well past seventy. He reads my thoughts as he has been doing the past few nights. "You look beautiful, Scully," Mulder tells me. "You will always be beautiful to me." I let out a laugh, and John looks at me quizzically. I know he believes that I am hallucinating, and the realization that I am truly dying seems to sink into him. He grabs my fingers and clutches them, his eyes a little wild. "Dana!" "I'm alright, John. I'm not crazy. I know you can't see him, but I can." I settle my head back contentedly on the small pillow. "He has been waiting for me all week. But he knows I wanted to talk to you first. When I am ready, then he will help me cross over." John is silent for a moment, and I know he is processing all of this. His analytical mind is reaching, trying to wrap itself around what I am telling him. There was a time in my life when it would have been me trying to draw a logical conclusion from this illogical situation, but I have seen too many things now to categorically dismiss anything. And I know my eyes are not playing tricks on me. Mulder taps his wrist, even though he is not wearing a watch. "Scully," he says softly. "We need to go." I nod and turn my attention back to John. "John," I murmur, and he shakes himself out of his reverie. "John, I have to go." "No!" He is afraid, and my heart swells in sympathy for him. He has no one left in this world. I touch his cheek one last time. "John, tell Christina to keep fighting. Tell her that her father and I are proud of her. Will you do that?" He shudders a little. "Dana, please-" "Tell her, John." My hand drops down by my side, and I can see Mulder coming closer to the bed, stretching out his arm to me. "And you need to keep believing, John. We will see you again. Keep believing." Mulder is next to me now, and I feel his hand on my own. A tremor runs up my arm, and suddenly, my whole body feels like it is vibrating. There is a hum in my ears, a steady drone that swells into a chorus of angelic voices. I can pick out some of them: Mulder's smooth baritone, Emily's sweet lilt, Melissa's raunchy laugh...they blend together in a beautiful symphony that causes me to shiver in anticipation. The white of Mulder's t-shirt sharpens and engulfs us, emanating around the two of us in a blinding flash as I feel myself being pulled forward and up. And then I am standing by his side, his fingers entwined in my own, the top of my head brushing against the cotton of his shirtsleeve. A stray strand of my hair sweeps across my eyes, and I can see that it is red again, replacing the silver that has been there for longer than I can say. I can see my old body in the bed below me, and I watch as John lays his head down on my chest, burying his face in the blanket. I feel Mulder squeeze my hand, and I look up at him. He has never been more handsome, and my chest feels like it will burst from the straining joy in my heart. I reach up to stroke his cheek with my free hand, and he smiles at me, the most radiant smile I have ever seen. "Welcome home, Scully." He pulls me to him, and I am laughing against his chest, my arms tight around his waist. "Welcome home." ***End*** AUTHOR'S NOTES: My deepest thanks to Loreena McKennitt, a musician whose work always inspires me. If you have never had the pleasure of hearing her, look for her stuff. You won't be disappointed. I got to thinking about the scene in my favorite movie, Excalibur, where Arthur comes to see Guinevere at the convent, and I imagined that Scully might some day end up at a place like that without Mulder in her life. And Loreena's music inspired the rest...what would you say to someone on your deathbed? And what would your passing truly be like? It is my belief that we all have people waiting for us on the Other Side...I'd like to think that Mulder would be waiting for Scully there, too. Feedback is always appreciated. avalon@fuse.net Thanks for reading...hope to see you again soon! -- "Have the Father say a few 'Hail Mulders' for me." --Fox Mulder, The XFiles "Redux II"