From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: 11 Aug 2005 23:46:15 -0000 Subject: NEW: \'Passing On The Ritual Torch\' by XSketch Source: direct Reply To: XSketch@hotmail.com TITLE: Passing On The Ritual Torch AUTHOR: XSketch (XSketch@hotmail.com) WEBSITE: http://thesketchfiles.bravehost.com RATING: G CLASSIFICATION: V, SA, AU SPOILERS: Conduit, Closure, Requiem, This Is Not Happening SUMMARY: She closes her eyes and counts to ten. She knows he won't be there when they open again, but she still prays. DISCLAIMER: Still not mine - never have been and never will be. FEEDBACK: Warmly hugged at XSketch@hotmail.com! I can only continue and get better with your encouragement or help :) ARCHIVE: I'd be honored, but please ask first. AUTHOR'S NOTE: After losing everything I'd written when my computer crashed, this a desperate attempt at getting back into the swing of writing so many apologies if you don't like it! * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * He once told me of a ritual; a ritual that he'd desperately relied upon for the entirety of his childhood simply because it had offered the tiniest thread of Hope that one day he would walk into his bedroom to discover that Samantha had never been abducted - that her disappearance had been nothing more than a bad nightmare. It had sustained him, but he'd said that even in adulthood he felt, every day, as if he was still closing his eyes, holding his breath and walking into that room. At the time - only our fourth case since being partnered - I'd looked upon his ritual and regarded it as something that only helped to fire his blind, obsessional quest. In my inexperienced eyes it was exactly the kind of thing Blevins had assigned me to keep an eye out for. Seven years after he first told me about the ritual, the real truth of his sister's fate was revealed to us. He couldn't talk to her, hug her or even thank God for her, nor could he pretend she'd never been taken, but the news of her death had successfully, *finally* shut and locked the door to his mental bedroom. Closure offering contentment and the chance to aim for a future was given, and the ritual... The ritual, no longer of any use, was discarded and believed forgotten. Until two months later when I discovered he hadn't pushed it aside or abandoned it: he'd safely tucked it away so that I could use it, become dependant upon it. His final gift. You'd think me crazy if I told you how something that leaves me in so many tears can be considered a 'gift' - I know Skinner does, Doggett has that pitying look on his face whenever I'm nearby that gives the impression he's fairly certain I'm not far from insane, and my mother--...My mother doesn't know or understand even half of what she believes she does, so when she insists on reminding me that it's been four years since...since we found him in those woods, and that he only ever wanted me to be happy, it's no wonder I become so hysterical with denial. The fact is, though, that no matter how miserable it may leave me, the ritual gives me the same tiniest thread of hope that one day I'll awake to discover this torturous pain that killed a majority of my soul one-thousand-five-hundred-and- ninety-three days ago has been nothing more than a nightmare, and if there's one thing he ever did always give me, it was Hope. I have you to attest that. So, every day before I leave home I pause with my hand on the door knob and squeeze my eyes shut as tightly as possible for several minutes. Pray and wish. In my dreams I always open my eyes to find myself in his embrace at the Bureau and able to convince him not to go back to Oregon - sometimes with the news that I'm pregnant - or discovering him only unconscious on the wooded ground in Montana, or getting to Jeremiah before the ship arrived, or taking Jeremiah with me when Skinner tells me that they've found your father. Of course reality is nowhere near as kind, and my eyes always open only to focus on the closed, white door in front of me - my heart cold, bereft, robbed of every possible incarnation of love he filled me with for almost eight years, and as guilt-ridden as hell. When you're old enough I know you'll want to know why I carry that weight of guilt - you'll even, so much like your father, try to shoulder the burden yourself. But this is mine to carry alone... Paths were taken, choices that could have been handled differently were made, and if I ignore those, the only things I'll be left to feel are anger for his stubbornness, hatred for his quest, bitterness at his decision to leave me behind while he went chasing a UFO... And how can I feel those things in memory of a man that enriched my life, gave me the miracle that is you, showed me nothing but the truth? How can I hate the partner and man I loved for his determination to keep me safe at all costs - even his own life.- and live with myself? What kind of mother would it make me, having already deprived you of his presence, to tarnish any thoughts you'll ever have of the man that was, *is*, your father, when all he ever did was good? The ritual must go on, to teach, remind and comfort. It took him twenty-seven years to gain his freedom from the ritual, but I know I never will be, nor do I want to - closure and avoidance are not an option. The only thing that can put out the torch of ritual he passed on is for me to be able to open my eyes and find him alive and well. My partner. My constant. My own one-in-five-billion. My Mulder. ---------- THE END ---------- 'You know, when I was a kid I had this ritual: I closed my eyes before I walked into my room 'cause I thought that one day - when I opened them - my sister would be there, just lying in bed like nothing ever happened. You know, I'm still walking into that room every day of my life...' ~Mulder in 'Conduit' (1X04)