The Queen of Mist and Memory

A WIP by Avalon 

Rating:  	Some parts will be NC-17, but not 
		all... 
Spoilers:	Set season 7, post-all things
Category:	Mulder-Scully Romance, Alternate 
		Universe, Mulder Torture, Angst
Disclaimer:	Mulder, Scully, Skinner, Diana, 
		Spender, Krycek, Samantha, The Lone
		Gunman: they all belong to Chris 
		Carter.  Lancelot, Guinevere, 
		Arthur, Morgan le Fae, Agravaine, 
		Mordred, Nimue, Gareth, Bors, and 
		all the rest belong to legend.  No 
		infringement intended.
Feedback:  	Well, it is a WIP, after all...it 
		can't hurt to ask for more...
Archive:	Please, no archive until it's 	
		complete. Then, it's all yours.
Summary:	During a trip to England, Mulder 
		and Scully find themselves trapped
		in the legendary court of Camelot. 
		As they search for a way to return 
		to their lives, Scully finds 
		herself forgetting who she truly 
		is.
Author's
Notes:		This story gives me the chance of a
		lifetime: to play with the 
		Arthurian legend, stories I dearly 
		love.  There are nods to many, many
		stories in this tale, including but 
		not limited to "The Mists of 
		Avalon," "Le Morte D'Arthur," "The 
		Once and Future King," and the film
		"Excalibur."  No infringement is 
		intended in relation to these 
		works, either.  I just wanted to
		play in this world for awhile...so 
		I brought Mulder and Scully along 
		with me.  Hopefully, you'll enjoy 
		the journey, too.
		Special thanks to sallie, for her
		dynamite beta, and to jeri, for 
		creating a website just for this 
		story.  I will do my best to live 
		up to all their hard work!

Website:	http://avalon.phile-phans.net/
-- 

Prologue (1/?)

The Queen of Mist and Memory

Prologue

She sat on her throne, watching them.

To her servants, she appeared to be sleeping, 
although her head stayed straight and proud on 
her long, elegant neck.  Her dark hair flowed 
over her shoulders like thick molasses, making 
it impossible to tell from a distance where it 
ended and her heavy black robes began.  On the 
armrests, her hands draped like limp, wet rags 
of alabaster, and they twitched every so often, 
as if she were caught in a dream.  Her closed 
eyes moved restlessly beneath their lids, her 
vision turned inward, following them with her 
inner eyes.

Viviane had always called it the Sight.  But 
Viviane, although a good teacher, had never 
exercised the kind of power she now had.

Closer they came to the trap she had laid.  She 
felt the buzz of excitement that careened off 
the man like a wild stallion broken free of its 
pen, and the cool assessment of the red-haired 
woman who followed close behind him.  She had 
watched them both for quite awhile before 
deciding how to bring them to her.  The magick 
she had conjured to open the portal between 
their worlds had drained her mercilesslybut 
she could still watch, and she could still 
summon just enough strength to cast her fetch 
into their world, the shimmering image they 
chased through the woods.

She had watched them long enough to know her 
apparition would be enough to catch and hold 
the man's attention, and that he would be able 
to convince the woman to continue along with 
him.  They would find her magick, spinning and 
alive in the glen she had chosen, and the man's 
relentless curiosity would propel them into it.

And thenoh, then, everything would happen just 
as she planned.

Her son would ascend to his rightful kingship.  
All her enemies would be crushed, and she would 
finally receive the worldly power she deserved.  
Melded with the magick that she wielded so 
easily, she would rule all of Britain with a 
might no one could possibly challenge.

And this man and woman would either yield to 
her, tooor die.

Morgan le Fae smiled.

*****

If there was one thing in the world Fox Mulder 
hated, it was being wrong.

It wasn't because he was overly arrogant.  It 
also wasn't because he thought he was so much 
smarter than everyone else, although he had 
heard himself referred to by various people as 
"brilliant" on myriad occasions.  And this did 
make him proud, as it would any man.  But it 
was not in his nature to be overbearing about 
it, or to belittle others when they discovered 
that he was constantly right.  His eidetic 
memory, howevernow that could easily be cited 
as part of the reason for his brilliance, and 
probably for his penchant for nearly always 
being correct.  It was hard to be wrong about 
anything when you just couldn't forget a darn 
thing.

But the reason he hated being wrong was not 
because he couldn't admit mistakes.  It was 
because he was so rarely in that position that 
he really didn't know how to behave once he was 
there.

So when his partner, Dana Scully, turned to him 
in the thick of the Welsh woods and said, 
"Mulder, you are so wrong it's not even 
funny," he couldn't think of a single retort. 
He suspected that, for once, she was indeed 
right and he was, well, wrong.

Scully spun around in the clearing where they 
stood, her russet hair looking like a crown of 
fire in the rapidly setting sun.  She wore a 
pair of faded blue jeans, so nicely tight that 
it made Mulder's groin ache every time his gaze 
fell on them.  The jacket that she had needed 
to stave off the chilly morning air when they 
set out on their hike now hung around those 
shapely hips, tied around her waist by the 
arms.  The skin of her chest, accented by a 
snug, scoop-necked t-shirt, glittered with 
sweat, and she wiped her forearm across her 
brow.  It was hotter than he had expected in 
Wales this spring, but he knew that wouldn't 
last long.  If they got caught out here in the 
woods past sunset, things would start cooling 
off quickly.

She held her arms up in the universal gesture 
of inquiry and stared at him.  "Well, there's 
no one here, Mulder.  I told you, you're 
wrong."  She smiled a bit, but he could tell 
she was beginning to lose her patience.  

He circled the meadow with his eyes, assessing 
the quiet thicket the way he would a crime 
scene, trying to pick up any movement or 
details she may have missed.  He shook his 
head, but he couldn't shake the feeling that 
had stolen over him, the excitement of the 
chase.  

In other words, he still didn't want to admit 
that he was wrong.  

"I know I saw someone, Scully.  I know she came 
this way."

She sighed.  "Mulder, what would someone be 
doing out here in the wilds of England all by 
herself?  Especially this far from the trail, 
and this close to nightfall?"  She eyed the sun 
in the west, which sank further into the tree 
line.  "Speaking of nightfall, I think we need 
to head back.   I don't think it's wise to get 
caught out here after dark."

He crossed to the far side of the clearing, 
straining to see beyond a particularly dense 
copse of trees.  "Since when are you afraid of 
the dark, Scully?"

"Since you lost our compass and didn't have the 
sense to bring a flashlight."  She followed 
him, albeit reluctantly.  "Come on, Mulder.  
I'm tired and hungry."  He felt a tug on the 
belt loop of his jeans that pulled him up 
short, and her tiny hand pushed its way into 
his back pocket.  "Besides, don't you want to 
break in that mattress back at the bed and 
breakfast?"

He smiled down at her, thoroughly enjoying this 
playful version of Scully that had emerged ever 
since they stepped off the plane at Heathrow 
Airport.  Something niggled at the back of his 
mind, though, something that had caught him in 
its web and wouldn't release him.  That woman, 
dressed all in black, like an undulating shadow 
just beyond his visionhe was positive he had 
seen her.  And something told him to follow 
her; she would be the start of some great 
adventure, something that he and Scully just 
couldn't miss. 

"All right, you win," he answered.  "Just five 
more minutes, and we'll head back.  I promise."

She nodded, and he tugged her forward by her 
hand, pushing aside some stray branches ahead 
of them.  "Besides," he said to her over his 
shoulder, "maybe she'll lead us straight to 
King Arthur's final resting place.  Or maybe 
even the Holy Grail."

Her retort was cut off by a roar of wind so 
loud it startled him into a freeze.  His hair 
whipped back from his face, and he squinted his 
eyes reflexively.  His mouth dropped open in 
disbelief.

Just beyond the last tree in front of them, a 
tornado spun in the center of a meadow.

It was a small tornado, and Mulder's precise 
mind told him it was most certainly some sort 
of energy vortex.  He had encountered stories 
about such things in his paranormal readings, 
but he had never seen a claim substantiated 
like this.  His memory reeled back over the 
years to another forest clearing in Oregon, one 
where he had witnessed similar phenomena, but 
one that was attached to an alien abduction.  
He instinctively looked up, but nothing 
appeared above him except a wide expanse of 
purpling twilight sky.

Scully's fingers tightened in his, and he 
glanced over at her.  Her azure eyes were wide 
and staring.  She quirked an eyebrow at him, 
one that screamed, "What the hell?"  

He leaned down to speak in her ear, doubtful 
that she would hear him over the rushing 
thunder of the wind.  "I think it's an energy 
vortex."  He started forward toward it, only to 
be snapped back by Scully's hand in his, 
pulling vehemently.

"Don't you dare, Mulder," she yelled over the 
din.  Her eyes flashed a warning at him.

He smiled again, trying to disarm her.  The 
excitement in his stomach drove him forward, 
and it was completely against his nature to try 
to squelch it.  "Scully, don't worry.  I just 
want to feel it."

"Mulder, it's dangerous.  You have no idea what 
thatthat thingcould do to you."

He led her gently forward with him, his hand 
insistent on hers.  "I'm just going to stick my 
hand in, Scully, to see what it's like.  You 
can hold onto me to make sure I don't go 
anywhere."

"Mulder, you're just like a big kid!  You've 
always got to stick your fingers in something!"  
She sounded exasperated, but her feet were 
moving with his, and he knew he had won her 
over.  

He paused just outside of the whirling dervish 
of debris.  Every nerve in his body sang, and 
he could feel something foreign, something 
incredibly powerful, pulsing just beyond his 
reach.  "This is amazing, Scully," he breathed, 
and his hand glided slowly forward, his 
fingertips just brushing the edge of the 
vortex.  "It's like a whole new world"

The rest of his words drowned as if in water as 
his hand plunged into the swirling frenzy.  He 
felt a pulling sensation, one so strong it made 
the muscles in his arm jump, and his other hand 
tightened automatically around Scully's 
fingers.  Without a sound, he slipped into the 
vortex, and Scully's small body followed, 
yanked forward by the motion of his larger one.  
They were instantly gone, and a moment later, 
with a huge crack like the shot of a musket, 
the vortex disappeared.


End Prologue

-- 

The Queen of Mist and Memory

Chapter One

Banging.  And yelling.  Lots and lots of 
yelling.

Scully cracked one eye open, peering through 
the slit into the semi-darkness that surrounded 
her.  The rumbling noise of male voices seeped 
into her fuzzy head, a muffled ruckus that 
reminded her of the times she spent the night 
with her frat-boy college sweetheart in his 
pledge house on campus.  She moved slightly, 
lifting her head a bit to peer around the dark 
room, and behind her, Mulder grumbled in his 
sleep and tightened his hold around her naked 
waist.  She smiled sleepily and let her head 
drop back onto the pillow, nuzzling back into 
his embrace.  His breath fell warm and even on 
her bare back, and she sighed, starting to doze 
off again, the musky scent of Mulder's skin and 
their recent lovemaking heavy in her senses.

A loud bang outside their room startled her 
eyes open again, and she frowned.  What the 
hell was that?  She focused her mind, trying to 
remember where they were.  England.  Bed and 
Breakfast.  That must be it.  She could recall 
being with Mulder out in the wilds of the Welsh 
countryside, hiking through hedgerows and 
complaining to him about being lost.  She 
remembered something about a compass, and about 
the end of the day slowly descending upon them.  
And she could still see the image of the 
whirling tornado of leaves in the middle of the 
clearing, the strange anomaly that had 
fascinated Mulder to the extent that she had 
had to latch onto him to keep him from stepping 
into it

But she didn't remember coming back to the bed 
and breakfast.  She didn't recall eating 
dinner, or the two of them heading upstairs to 
the quaint room they had checked into this 
morning.  She couldn't even seem to remember 
the sex, even though the sweet stickiness on 
the insides of her thighs told her another 
story altogether.  

Had they been drinking?  That didn't make any 
sense to her.  They both enjoyed a beer or a 
glass of wine with dinner on occasion, but 
neither of them was the type to get so rip-
roaring drunk that it erased their memories.   
The most logical conclusion was that they were 
both so exhausted from their trek in the forest 
that they fell into bed as soon as they found 
their way out of the woods.  

But how had they gotten out?  Why couldn't she 
remember that?  And if they had been so tired, 
then why could she feel the slightest twinge of 
soreness from their extracurricular activities?  
And, come to think of it, why did this room, 
with its thick shadows and black corners, look 
so different from the bed and breakfast where 
they had left their luggage?

She started to sit up, but Mulder's arm over 
her was heavy, so she shifted and turned to 
face him, intending to push him onto his back.  
Her hands on his chest stopped herbecause for 
a moment, it didn't look like his chest.  

She brought her face closer to his torso, 
squinting in the darkness, her eyes running 
along the familiar slope of his muscles and the 
soft down that covered it.  It was the samebut 
it was different, too, and she suddenly 
realized why.   Her fingers went to his 
shoulder, the one where she had put a bullet so 
many years ago, searching for the scar that 
normally puckered there.

It was gone.  The skin was smooth and unmarked.  

She felt the furrow run over her brow, and she 
groped under the heavy bedspread for his left 
hand.  He mumbled again as she seized it, 
bringing it up close to her eyes, her own 
fingers fumbling along the joint of his 
smallest digit.  It curved gracefully around 
her hand, relaxed in sleep, with no crookedness 
to be seen.   The brutal break the terrorists 
had inflicted upon him, the one that she had 
set too late, was gone.

It was as if it had never happened.

Something was very, very wrong.

Scully scrambled around, moving so that her 
head was right next to Mulder's.  In the ebony 
stillness of the room, it was difficult to see, 
but she hunched herself over him, looking 
directly at his face.  The hollows of his eyes 
and the whole right side were obscured in the 
shadows, but she recognized the strong line of 
his jaw, the pout of his full bottom lip, and 
the angle of his cheeks and nose.   She let out 
a ragged breath of relief, reaching to stroke 
up his sideburn to where it arched into his 
hair

And her hand just kept going, through hair 
longer than she had ever known Mulder to have.

Her heart pounded hard in her chest as her 
fingers combed through the dark waves that 
nearly reached his shoulders.  Her mind 
staggered a bit, trying to make sense of what 
she was feeling.  This was Mulder, without a 
doubtafter seven years with the man, and 
several intimate months, she knew she had not 
mistaken who was sharing this bed with her.  
But she couldn't dispute that he looked 
different, somehow seeming to have changed as 
they slept, and she couldn't reconcile that in 
her logical mind.  
 
What the hell was going on?

The shouting outside their room grew louder, 
and Mulder stirred under her hand, his eyes 
starting to flutter as he came awake.  
"Mulder," she urged him in a whisper.  "Wake 
up."

His eyes flashed in the dimness of the room as 
he opened them, and the familiar rumble of his 
baritone filled her with unspeakable comfort.  
"ScScully," he slurred, his tongue still thick 
with sleep.  "Wassa matter?  What's all the 
racket about?"

She shook him a little to rouse him faster.  "I 
don't know, Mulder, but something strange is 
happening."  

He became instantly alert then, probably from 
the note of concern that colored her voice.  He 
sat up in bed, searching around with his hands 
for the light switch on the nightstand.  He 
didn't find it.

There was no nightstand next to the bed.

Scully could feel as much as see him turn to 
look at her.  "There's no lamp," he told her, 
annoyance bleeding into his speech.  "Where the 
hell did the lamp go?"  He stopped suddenly, 
and he leaned into her.  She felt his hand 
stroke her hair, the sensation sending a 
pleasant shiver through her.  But he gave a 
small yelp of surprise, and she could feel his 
fingers tracking along her collarbone, down 
over her shoulder, and nearly to her elbow 
before they stopped.  "Your hair, Scully.  Your 
hairit's long!"

Her hand sprang up to her neck, and she was 
stunned to follow the same path of her hair 
that he had just traced.  Her hair had never 
been longer than her shoulders, and now, it 
seemed to have grown a good foot or more over 
night. 

"Mulder," she whispered, trying to keep her 
voice steady, "this is so strange.  Yours is 
longer, too."  She twined her fingers into his 
and gave it a gentle tug so he could feel it.  
The insane part of her wished that she could 
see the reaction on his face.

Another yell outside made her cringe, and 
suddenly, from another part of the room, a beam 
of light sliced across the foot of the bed.  
Scully whipped her head around to look past 
Mulder, to where a door had just been thrown 
open.  She pulled the bedcovers up over her 
breasts instinctively, just as a woman dressed 
in a long white shift ran into their room, 
holding an old-fashioned lantern lit with a 
candle.

The woman set the lamp atop a huge trunk at the 
end of the bed.  Her hair flew in wild, blonde 
streamers behind her as she charged over to 
Scully's side.  "My lady, you must get up!"  
Her speech seemed strange to Scully's ears, 
thick and melodic with a heavy British accent, 
but there was something underneath it all that 
she recognized.

"What the hell is going on?" Mulder asked, his 
pitch rising.  The strange woman stopped 
momentarily and regarded him, her face 
contorted in fear.

"My lord, please get up.  Get up and get out!"  
She turned to a large wardrobe on Scully's side 
of the bed that she hadn't noticed in the dark 
and threw open the doors, rummaging through a 
collection of clothes inside.

It struck Scully then, why the woman seemed so 
familiar to her, and she pushed up on her 
knees, reaching out to catch the woman's wrist.  
She looked at Scully as if she were possessed, 
and the information hit home in Scully's brain 
like a lock clicking into place.

Kimberly.  Kimberly Cook, Assistant Director 
Skinner's secretary.  Her hair was much longer 
than Scully ever remembered itbut then again, 
so was Scully's.  She shook that thought away 
and tightened her grip on the other woman.

"Kimberly?  It's me, Dana Scully.  What are you 
doing here?"

The woman looked utterly dismayed.  "My lady, 
we haven't much time.  Please!  You must get 
dressed before they come in here!"  The woman 
yanked her wrist out of Scully's hand and 
managed to pull a heavy robe from the wardrobe.  
She threw it onto the bed and ran back toward 
the open door.  "My lord, you must hurry!  I 
will fetch your armor."  She disappeared 
through the doorway.

Scully stared after her mutely, her jaw hanging 
open in disbelief.  Mulder stirred after a 
moment, and his eyes were wide when he looked 
at her.  "My  <armor>?  Why do I feel like we 
are trapped at a bad Renaissance Festival?"  
She gaped at him, her heart pounding so 
violently that she was sure he could hear it.  
He blinked and tried to smile.  "What, Scully?  
What are you staring at?"

"Your eyes, Mulder."  She swallowed, trying to 
get the words out that were stuck in her 
throat.  "Your eyes are blue."

He blinked again, then swung his legs out of 
bed and stood up.  Scully watched the movement 
of his muscles, his naked form cast golden in 
the glow of the candle by the bed.  He crossed 
to the wardrobe door still standing open, and 
his reflection flashed in the mirror that hung 
there.  Scully followed him with her eyes as he 
touched his hands to his hair again, smoothing 
it down so that it hung loose against his neck.   
He craned his head forward, searching his own 
face, and then he shook it in disbelief.  

"It's me," he said, not much louder than a 
whisper.  "But II'm different, too."  He 
turned to her, and she found it almost 
disconcerting to be the focus of the intense 
blue gaze he now trained on her.  But she could 
still see deep into his eyesand she knew she 
was seeing Mulder's soul, the only soul that 
had ever touched hers with its profound caress.  
He held out his hand to her.  "Come here, 
Scully.  You gotta see this."

She was almost afraid to look, but she put her 
hand slowly in his, and he pulled her gently to 
her feet to stand at his side.  In the cloudy 
looking glass, she saw the body of a woman, 
still tiny next to the lanky form that was 
Mulderbut the woman who looked back at her was 
softer somehow, less lines and angles than 
curves and slopes.  Her hair still shone with 
its copper fire, but its tremendous length, 
loose and cascading over her breasts, made her 
look younger, more vulnerable.  "Look at my 
eyes, Mulder," she breathed, and she tilted her 
face up to his.

He stepped closer to her, his hands on her 
cheeks, the skin of his palms feeling rougher 
than it normally did.  The look of wonderment 
that he wore was astounding to her.  "They're 
green, Scully.  Yours are green, and mine are 
blue."

She swallowed again, finding it harder and 
harder to stay calm.  "What is happening to 
us?"

The commotion outside their door seemed to be 
closing in on them, and Mulder squeezed 
Scully's hand.  "I don't know, but it sounds 
like we're going to find out."  He moved to his 
original side of the bed and bent over, pulling 
a pair of tight leggings from the floor.  "Do 
you suppose these are mine?"

Scully shrugged helplessly and reached for the 
robe that Kimberly had thrown on the bed.  
Weighty and cumbersome in her hand, the robe 
was ornately embroidered in silver thread on a 
midnight blue background.  She pulled it on, 
but she couldn't figure out how to do the 
buttons so that it stayed shut.  She was still 
contemplating them when Kimberly scurried back 
into the room.  She was followed by a young man 
with long blond hair, who struggled in with 
several pieces of flashing, polished armor. 

Kimberly came immediately to Scully's side and 
fastened the robe, working with deft, trained 
fingers.  "Richard," she barked, and the man 
jumped, dumping the armor on the floor with a 
tremendous clatter.  "See to my lord Lancelot."

At the sound of the legendary name, Scully 
started and threw a look at Mulder.  He had 
stopped dressing, his head and one arm stuffed 
into a loose white shirt.  His eyes locked with 
hers, and he mouthed the name to her, the 
question clear on his face.   

Kimberly stepped past Scully to the bed, and in 
one swift, sure motion, stripped all the 
bedclothes from the mattress.  She stuffed them 
into the bottom of the wardrobe and slammed the 
doors shut.  Scully watched as she tore open 
the nearby trunk and began to remake the bed 
with clean linens.

She stood there, feeling uncharacteristically 
useless, not knowing what to do.  The shouting 
outside continued unabated, and she could swear 
she now heard something that sounded like metal 
hitting metal.  It was a sharp, cold sound, one 
that sent a bolt of dread into her every time 
it rang out.  It jarred her mind a little, 
though, and she heard her voice before she 
realized she was speakingand at least she 
sounded like she was in control.

"What is going on outside?"

"Sir Mordred's men have come, my lady, bent on 
catching you and Sir Lancelot together."  This 
answer came from the man helping Mulder dress, 
and the nasally twang of his speech registered 
in her head.  It must have snagged Mulder's 
attention as well, because he stopped for a 
moment, staring rapt at the blond man before 
him.   

Langly.  Richard Langly.  Scully shook her head 
in disbelief.

His hair was the same, tied back from his long 
face with a piece of leather string.  He 
appeared comfortable in the leather jerkin and 
fitted trousers he wore, and he moved close to 
Mulder, lifting the bulky armor up and over his 
head to fit it around Mulder's chest.  And he 
squinted as he did it, obviously missing the 
glasses that he wore in

In what?  Scully thought to herself.  In our 
time?  In real life?

Jesus.  What if <this> was real life now?

Mulder recovered a little faster, and he gave 
Langly a stern look.  "What do you mean?"

Richard blushed and stepped back a little with 
a wave of his hand, indicating that Mulder was 
ready.  Scully could hardly believe her eyes.  
He was decked out now, head to toe, in a silver 
suit of armor, so shiny that she could 
practically see her reflection in it.  Richard 
turned and retrieved the finishing touch, a 
sword nearly as long as Mulder's arm.  

This has to be a dream, Scully told herself.  
Mulder lookedhe looked

He looked like a knight.

Mulder regarded the sword for a moment, but he 
didn't move to take it from Richard.  "You need 
to tell me what's going on."

Kimberly strode over to the two men, her brow 
furrowed in determination.  "My lord, you must 
go.  Now.  If Sir Mordred finds you here, he 
will kill you."  She glanced over her shoulder 
at Scully. "And he will kill my lady 
Guinevere."

"What?"  Mulder roared.  The expression on his 
face was one of astonishment.  Scully couldn't 
tell if he was more surprised to hear about the 
men trying to get into their room, or by the 
name that Kimberly had just called her.

But Kimberly was having none of it.  She stood 
toe to toe with Mulder, and her face was bright 
red.  "My lord, go now!  Richard will take you.  
Your horse is ready outside.  There will be no 
saving either of you if Mordred finds you 
here."

Mulder set his jaw and glared right back at the 
woman before him.  "I'm not going anywhere.  I 
won't leave her behind."

The fighting in the hallway grew still louder, 
and Kimberly clamped her hands over her ears.  
"Are you mad, my lord?" she practically 
screamed.  "If they find you here, the best you 
could hope for is that Mordred will kill you 
both quickly!  Would you rather he held you 
both prisoner until the King returns and 
sentences you both to death?  Would you have my 
lady Guinevere burned at the stake?  What kind 
of nobleman are you?"

The words echoed in Scully's reeling mind.  
King?  Guinevere?  Lancelot?  Dear God, was 
this woman saying what she thought she was 
saying?

Was this really Camelot?  And had they somehow 
been transported here, locked into the bodies 
of two of the most famous players in the 
legend?

It couldn't be possible, her scientific brain 
screeched at her.  There was no way this was 
really happening.  But Scully knew that she 
didn't have time to reconcile everything 
together at this moment.  Right now, there were 
more pressing issues that they needed to deal 
withand Mulder wasn't budging.

She crossed to him quickly, noting how Richard 
and Kimberly both stood back as she approached 
him.  "Mulder," she said, touching him on the 
arm.  The armor felt cool and hard under her 
fingers, and it seemed to steady her a bit.  "I 
think you should do what she says.  I think you 
should go."

He shook his head vehemently, the long strands 
of his hair falling over his eyes in shaggy 
bangs.  "No, Scully.  I'm not leaving you here 
with some madman who is ready to kill you."

"He won't kill me, Mulder.  Not if he doesn't 
find you here."  He pressed his lips together 
in a firm line, but she plunged on, lowering 
her voice.  "Mulder, these people think we are 
Lancelot and Guinevere.  I don't know why or 
how, but they do.  And in the legend, Lancelot 
and Guinevere were loversbut Guinevere was 
married to King Arthur.  It would have been 
considered high treason for her to sleep with 
another man.  Apparently, these men outside 
think we have done just that, and they are 
determined to mete out their own justice.  If 
they don't find you here, they can't prove 
anything.  And then we will be safe to figure 
out what the hell has happened to us and how we 
can reverse it."

"Scully" he started, but his words were cut 
off by a thunderous pounding, one that set the 
whole room shaking.

"They are breaking down the door, my lord!" 
Kimberly cried.  "Please, go now!  It is your 
last chance."

Richard tugged Mulder by the arm, still holding 
his sword.  Mulder bit his lip and swung 
around, grabbing the sword from the other man 
as he allowed himself to be led away.  "Scully, 
be careful," he yelled to her as they ran to 
the door.  "I'll be back for you, I swear."

"I know!" she called to him.  He was gone then, 
and Kimberly turned frightened eyes to her as 
the sound of splintering wood filled Scully's 
ears.

"They're coming, my lady.  They're coming."


End Chapter One



-- 


The Queen of Mist and Memory

Chapter Two

In the anteroom of the bedchamber, Scully heard
the heavy oak door finally give way with a
deafening crash. The noise was followed by the
triumphant call of male voices, and she glanced
at Kimberly. The other woman had moved behind
her in an obvious show of deference and respect
for her queen's rank and position, but the
terrified expression on her face made Scully
set her own in defiance. She drew herself up
to her full height and turned to face the door,
her lips pursed in a scowl.

In a flurry of movement and sound, the bedroom
filled up with men. Most of them wore suits of
armor similar to the one that Mulder had
dressed in before beating his hasty retreat.
All of them assembled in a neat row on one side
of the room, and Scully noticed how they
positioned themselves near the door to block
any attempts at escape. She also noticed, with
a sense of wonder, how each man gave her a
courteous bow as he came in the room.

Once all of them seemed to be assembled, Scully
watched as they genuflected as one unit. They
stayed on one knee except for one man, who rose
to his feet and stepped forward. He gave
Scully a curt nod of his head, and she returned
it, but not before she noted in her mind who
the man looked like. His hair was the same
nondescript brown, longer and hanging in loose
curls, and his small face was framed with a
matching beard, but she would have known his
ferret-like eyes anywhere.

Spender. Jeffrey Spender.

She decided to speak before he had the chance,
hoping to gain an advantage somehow. And she
desperately hoped that playing outraged was the
right choice.

"What is the meaning of this intrusion?"

Spender looked pained for a moment, and Scully
found herself glad that he did. But his
countenance changed almost instantly back to
one of determination, and he cleared his
throat. "I think you know why we are here,
Queen Guinevere. But I shall defer to Sir
Mordred for an explanation."

"Well then, where is he? I would like to know
what madness drove him to break down the door
to my bedchamber and disrupt this whole
household in the middle of the night." Scully
could scarcely believe that these words came
tumbling out of her mouth, almost of their own
accord.

"Ah, so it is to be the innocent act? Well
chosen, Guinevere." The smooth voice moved
over her like a well-oiled machine, and Scully
shuddered, suddenly aware of who spoke to her.
She glared at the man standing in the doorway,
a figure dressed all in black, the same color
he favored in the other life from which she
knew him. He smiled as he crossed to her, the
green of his eyes familiar and repulsive at the
same time. His hair, like the other men's, had
grown longer, and he wore a tiny, groomed
goatee, but he was still the same Alex Krycek
in her mind.

She didn't have a chance to respond, though,
because Kimberly appeared at her elbow. "Do
you dare address the Queen with such
irreverence, Sir Mordred?" she spat at him, the
contempt shining bright in her dark eyes.

He turned on the woman so quickly it barely had
time to register in Scully's brain. Before she
knew it, Kimberly was sprawled on the floor,
her hand to her cheek where Mordred's red palm
print blossomed. He stood over her, his breath
hissing. "Do you dare address <me>, you
conniving whore? You're in this just as thick
as your Queen. Do not think that I am unaware
of who changed the linens on the bed."

Scully grabbed Mordred's arm and pulled.
"That's enough, you bastard!" He shook her off
easily and took her by the shoulders, roughly
yanking her up next to his body, so close that
she could smell the scent of sweat and fire
smoke on his skin. He smiled down at her, a
smile so evil that she felt her skin crawl with
fright.

"Bastard, you call me." His smile broadened.
"And tis true. I am a bastard, to none other
than the High King of Britain, your beloved
husband. What do you think your husband, my
father, will do when he learns of your
infidelity this night, my Queen? Do you think
he will burn you at the stake, or will he kill
you and Lancelot himself with his precious
Excalibur?"

Kimberly cried out behind them from the floor,
her voice filled with anguish. "Sir Gareth! I
plead for your reason, on my behalf and on
behalf of your Queen. Tell your brother to
hold his hand!"

A man came forward, helping Kimberly to her
feet with a gracious, gentle hand. "I shall,
Lady Leigh." He pivoted around to face
Mordred, and Scully sucked in her breath as a
knight identical to John Byers yanked the other
man's hands from her arms. "You have done
enough, Mordred. You dare not raise a hand to
your Queen."

Mordred moved back a step, the terrible grin on
his face still present. "Perhaps you are
right, brother. I would not want to soil my
own hands by touching her."

Gareth's face contorted into a look of anger
like none Scully had ever seen on Byers before.
"Not another word, Mordred. I will not allow
you to insult her."

"She insults the kingdom with her infidelity!"
Mordred exclaimed, obviously trying to incite
the remainder of the knights who still knelt
inside the door. "She insults my father, by
bringing to her bed his best friend, right in
his very castle! I know what I saw tonight,
with my very own eyes: I saw Sir Lancelot of
the Lake enter this room unattended, with the
Queen already inside. And from below, I saw
the candles blown out as if making ready for
bed. An ignorant fool could deduce what
happened here tonight!" A murmur arose from
the other men assembled. Mordred seemed
satisfied with this reaction and turned to
gesture to Spender, who was shifting uneasily
from one foot to the other. "My brother
Agravaine saw it as well. Speak, brother, and
tell honestly what you marked."

The one called Agravaine lifted his squinty
eyes to Scully's face for a brief moment. He
hesitated for a split second and then spoke.
"I did see it, brother, just as you describe
it."

"There!" Mordred spun on his heel and glared
at Scully. "We know what we saw. How do you
answer these accusations, Queen Guinevere?"
The sarcasm dripped so heavily from his tone
that Scully was surprised the floor wasn't wet
with it.

Scully stared at him, her mind working
frantically. She knew the legend...well, at
least she thought she did. Lancelot was found
in Guinevere's room, which started the war
between Mordred and his father, Arthur, the war
that was to be the downfall of the legendary
Camelot. But was this really the beginning of
that? In the stories, Scully could remember
Lancelot having to fight his way out through
Mordred's supporters, killing Agravaine in the
process. And here was Agravaine, very much
alive, standing before her.
Did that mean that the legend wasn't playing by
the book?

Had she and Mulder somehow altered the story
when they assumed the roles of Guinevere and
Lancelot? Or was this really how the action
unfolded, and the storytellers got it wrong?

It didn't really matter much right now, anyway.
All eyes in the room were trained on her, and
no matter how the story had been told,
everything now revolved around her answer to
the question Mordred had just posed.

Arthur. She needed to see Arthur. Something
within her, something that Mulder would have
recognized as a leap of intuition, told her
that Arthur could protect her. Arthur loved
Guinevere--that was clear in all the legends.
Even after he learned of her infidelity with
Lancelot, he still loved her. And Scully knew
she needed to rely on that fact to keep her
alive long enough so that she and Mulder could
get out of this mess.

She masked her face in ice and used her most
authoritative tone. "You insult me, Sir
Mordred, with these accusations, and I will not
answer to anyone except the King himself."

An oppressive silence filled the room. Mordred
simmered for a moment, his face flushing
scarlet with anger, and then he strode over to
her, his hand on the pommel of the sword at his
waist. "Well, you need'nt worry, my Queen.
Arthur has been sent for, and he will be back
in Camelot by the dawn of the day. I am sure
he will be most interested in hearing your
answer tomorrow in the Great Hall, before the
Bishop and the entire court. And until then, I
will detain you here in your chambers, with
guards posted outside as befits a prisoner
accused of treason."

Gareth stepped forward, his compassionate eyes
searching Scully's face. "I will attend the
Queen, Mordred. You have no need for any other
knight."

Mordred gave him an appraising look and nodded
decisively. "Then I leave her to you, my
brother. And I will come for you myself, Queen
Guinevere, when my father the King summons you
to the Great Hall." He smiled again at her,
and her stomach turned sickly. "Good evening,
madam."

Mordred and his men departed quickly, their
boot heels echoing as they retreated down the
hallway. When the last of the sound died away,
Scully cast a glance at Gareth, who stood
staring at the floor. He looked so much like
Byers that she was hit with a sudden rush of
homesickness, and she squelched the urge to run
to him and throw her arms around his neck. She
reigned in her emotions, but her voice still
cracked a bit when she addressed him.

"Sir Gareth, I...I thank you for your pains."

The phrase sounded so odd coming from her, but
the words seemed to spill out without her
having formed them. He raised his head, and
from the small smile that she saw, she knew she
had somehow said the right thing.

"My lady Queen, my lord Lancelot means more to
me than all my brothers combined. And no
matter what the outcome to all of this, I tell
you that I shall remain true to the man who
knighted me." He bowed stiffly to her. "I
shall leave you and the Lady Leigh to your
sleep." With that, he left the room, and
Scully imagined that he stood outside the
mangled door to the antechamber, watching and
waiting.

Watching and waiting. It seemed that there was
nothing more to be done tonight but that.
Scully sank to the bed as Kimberly, the one
Gareth called Leigh, approached her. The other
woman slipped to the floor beside the bed,
surprising her by burying her face in Scully's
lap and bursting into tears. Her hands went to
Leigh's head, and she absently stroked her
hair, her thoughts turning to Mulder. She said
a silent prayer for his safety and bent over
Leigh, whispering soothing words to her as they
rocked there, comforting each other as best
they could.

*****

They fell asleep like that, clutched together
like two frightened, exhausted children, and
Scully was roused from her position by the
heavy thump of boots in the hallway outside the
room. Leigh pulled away from her with a
chagrined face, moving silently to stand at the
foot of the bed. Scully got to her feet
shakily, the lack of sleep and the edginess of
her nerves wreaking havoc on her body. She had
hoped that the next time she awoke,
circumstances would be changed. She had wished
for Mulder, asleep next to her again, the two
of them tucked into the bed and breakfast she
still remembered from yesterday. Or, better
yet, she had hoped they would find themselves
tangled together in her own bed back in
Georgetown, the entire trip nothing more than a
vivid dream. But as she stretched the soreness
from her neck and noted the needles of pain
that shot through her, she realized this whole
scenario was not a dream. The first rays of
light that peeked through the casement window
across from her brought her no comfort, and her
mind connected what Mordred had told her in the
night.

Arthur would return at daybreak. And the first
person he would want to see would be his wife.

She was peripherally aware that Leigh had
dropped into a deep curtsy, and that an escort
of four knights accompanied him into the room.
But the sight of King Arthur, regaled in his
flashing armor and a blazing red cloak, so
stunned her that she nearly passed out.

King Arthur. Assistant Director Walter
Skinner. They could have been twins.

This man had hair, although it was thinning,
combed back from his broad, high forehead, and
his graying beard made him appear handsome and
wise. But like so many of the players in this
strange little world they had stumbled upon, it
was his eyes that Scully recognized. The same
intense brown ones that had regarded her
countless times through wire frame glasses at
F.B.I. meetings now bored into her from across
the room of a castle lost somewhere in time.

Her mind was teetering again, and she brought
it into focus with a sharp exhale of breath.

"My lady Queen Guinevere." His voice boomed
with the same depth and timbre she remembered.

"My lord King Arthur." Their greetings seemed
silly to her, considering that they were
supposed to be married, but she knew that these
legendary people bowed first to the demands of
courtly life and chivalry.

He was silent for a moment, simply staring at
her, and she found herself shivering in his
gaze. He finally cocked his head to the side
as one of his attendants reached up to take his
cloak from his shoulders.

"Leave it," he ordered. "And leave us."

One of the men behind him shuffled his feet.
"My lord King, Sir Mordred does not wish the
Queen to be left alone."

Arthur didn't even bother to look at him. "She
will not be alone. She will be with me." When
no one moved, dark anger clouded his face, and
he rounded on the men. "I said, leave us! I
should hope you all remember that my orders
carry more weight than those of Sir Mordred."

All the knights bowed at once and made their
way to the door. Leigh followed them, but not
before throwing a backwards glance at Scully.
She tried to smile weakly at her as the woman
slipped out the door, but Leigh's worried frown
did not change.

Arthur crossed the room, but he went to the
window by the bed. Scully watched him, feeling
dwarfed by his size, and by the stately grace
he seemed to radiate. The red cloak billowed
behind him as he moved, and she noticed a huge
dragon embroidered on the back in gold thread.
The Pendragon. The symbol of Camelot. The
land of dreams and ideals. Scully felt
suddenly quite inadequate.

"How could you be so reckless, Gwen?"

He turned to look at her, and his voice was so
soft that Scully could barely hear him. She
blinked, not fully comprehending his question.
"Reckless?" She repeated the word carefully,
as if it were made of glass.

"I thought we had an agreement. That you and
Lancelot would show some restraint. Especially
at Camelot, where the whole court can take
notice."

Her brow furrowed as her mind struggled to
piece together what he was saying. Could it be
true? Could he really be acknowledging his
awareness of the affair between his wife and
his greatest knight?

And could he actually be <condoning> it, as
long as it remained a secret?

He was waiting for an answer, and she had no
idea how to respond. "I-I don't know what to
say."

Arthur sighed. "He will make this into a war,
Gwen. This will divide the kingdom. You know
this is exactly what Mordred has been looking
for to rally support against me."

So that was it. She had been at least partly
right about that story in the legend. But it
still didn't track with what she remembered.
Then again, perhaps it would be enough to help
them all out of this situation.

"They didn't find him here, Arthur. They have
no real proof that he was here."

"It doesn't matter, Gwen. I will still have to
allow Mordred's accusation, and you will have
to answer it. And you will have to lie." He
moved to her, his large hands cupping her face
lovingly. "I don't want you scandalized, Gwen.
Even if Lancelot defends you on the field,
which is probably where this will end, your
good name is still being dragged through the
mud."

She smiled a little at his nobleness. "And
yours."

He shrugged, returning her smile with a small
one of his own. "There will always be smudges
by a king's name, Guinevere, no matter what.
But I would have saved you from that."

She was struck by the sweetness in his words,
and by the love that enveloped her in his
presence. He was a good man, a man determined
to do the right thing, a man upheld by these
chivalric notions that penetrated all of his
actions.

Scully found herself pitying the real Guinevere
for having to choose between two such wonderful
men, and admiring her for being able to keep
the love of them both.

Arthur pressed a kiss to her forehead and then
pulled her into his embrace. Scully allowed
her eyes to flutter shut as she accepted his
tenderness. She had never shown much affection
toward Skinner; their roles as superior and
agent did not lend them much room for
friendship. But over her years on the X-Files
with Mulder, she had come to trust Skinner, and
to realize that he held a precarious position
in their universe of conspiracies and lies. It
occurred to her that King Arthur did the very
same thing in his own time and world.

She took a deep breath, relishing the moment of
security. "So what will happen?"

Arthur spoke into her hair as he folded himself
above her, seeming to protect her with his
bulk. "The court will be assembled at midday.
I must allow Mordred to make his formal
accusation, and then you will have to respond."
He pulled back a little to look at her. "Will
you lie, Guinevere? I fear that you must, or I
will be forced to..." He drew a shuddering
breath. "I will be forced to pass judgment on
you."

She nodded mutely. Then a thought crossed her
mind, and she spoke, her voice low. "And
Lancelot?"

"He will not be in court, as I am sure you
already know. He is back at Joyous Gard. Once
you answer the accusation, I am certain that
Mordred will challenge him to a joust, to try
to prove that Lancelot is false. I have every
confidence that Lancelot will prevail...but I
fear what will happen to the kingdom
afterwards."

Scully's stomach rolled at the word "joust."
The thought of Mulder on horseback, trying to
knock another knight to the ground, would
actually be funny if it weren't for the dire
nature of the situation. She didn't even know
if Mulder knew how to ride a horse, let alone
engage in a swordfight for his life. A
horrifying image struck her. "What...what if he
does not prevail, Arthur?"

"He will, Guinevere. I will not even entertain
any other notion." Arthur touched her cheek
briefly and then moved back from her. "I must
go. I will see you in the Great Hall." He
strode toward the door, then stopped and looked
back at her. "Do not be afraid, Gwen.
Everything will be alright." And he was gone.

Scully stood there for a moment, breathing
deeply, trying to shake the picture of a
wounded Mulder from her mind. She sank to the
bed again and let her face fall into her hands.

But as many times as she scrubbed at her tired
eyes, the image just wouldn't go away.

*****

The morning crawled by, her isolation doing a
merciless job of chipping away at Scully's
normally calm veneer. By the time Leigh
arrived with a tray of food and two other
servants to ready Guinevere's bath, Scully was
wishing for her sidearm so that she could blast
her way out of this godforsaken place, find
Mulder, and get the hell out of Dodge.

Leigh coaxed her into eating a few bites of
apple and some bread, but Scully's nervous
stomach wouldn't accept any more. She became
even more anxious when Leigh and the other
girls filled a standing tub with jugs of hot
water for a bath, the idea of another woman
sponging her off and washing her hair foreign
and unacceptable to her. She was able to
convince Leigh to leave her alone to bathe, and
the warm, scented water worked its magic on
her, settling her down and returning to her
some semblance of control. As she soaked, she
reasoned, her scientific mind delighted to have
a mystery to solve.

It had to have been the vortex in the woods.
Although Scully couldn't remember her or Mulder
stepping into it, perhaps it had been part of a
larger energy field, a field that was somehow
capable of transporting people backward in
time. It made sense, at least abstractly,
although she obviously had no scientific fact
on which to base this theory. They had been
hiking in Wales, where many people believed the
original site of Camelot to be. They had been
talking about the Arthurian legends, and Mulder
had even joked about finding the Holy Grail.
All these things added up to something...but
Scully still couldn't figure out what.

One thing was certain: she and Mulder would
have to go back out to the woods to
investigate, and to try to find the portal that
had brought them here. She was positive that
this would be one of the keys to getting them
back to where they belonged.

But how? These people would never allow her
and Mulder to be alone together. The notion
that they would let the two of them ride off
into the woods together was completely absurd.
And yet she knew that they would have to find a
way if they were to return to the year 2000.

First things first, though. She had to get
through this appearance at court, and she had
to somehow help Mulder in this fight that
seemed inevitable between him and Sir Mordred.
An ironic smile touched her lips as she thought
of him. She was sure Mulder certainly wouldn't
mind beating the tar out of a man who so
resembled Alex Krycek.

She emerged from her bath, her impossibly long
hair hanging in a heavy curtain down her back,
her skin glowing pink from the heat and the
perfumed water. Leigh sat her down on an
ornate, short stool and set about braiding her
hair. As she worked, she weaved ribbons into
the cinnamon-colored strands, her fingers
moving at a practiced, steady pace that left
Scully amazed. Scully watched their
reflections in the looking glass for a while,
lost in the marvel of seeing herself staring
back, a woman who was so much like Scully, and
yet so very, very different.

It took nearly three quarters of an hour for
Leigh to finish Scully's hair. She worked in
silence the entire time, and Scully realized
with a start that she hadn't asked Leigh
anything at all about herself. Perhaps it
would be silly to do so, considering that Leigh
thought she was Guinevere...but Scully felt
compelled to speak, to break the awful silence
that was filling her up again and making her
hurt.

"Leigh." The other woman stopped twisting the
final strand of hair around the back of
Scully's head and looked at her expectantly in
the mirror. When she turned, Scully noticed
the slightest red mark still present on her
cheek from Mordred's slap. The sight made
Scully cringe inwardly. "Leigh, I am sorry
for...for causing you this grief."

Leigh fastened the plait of hair to Scully's
head with a clip, her eyes dropping back down.
"It is nothing, Gwen."

Gwen. It was the same endearment that Arthur
had used, and Scully realized then that these
women, Guinevere and her lady-in-waiting,
Leigh, were more than just Queen and servant.
They were friends, probably the closest friends
anyone could ever hope to see. Leigh slept
nearby, brought her everything she could
possibly need&and kept her secrets. They were
probably closer than siblings, and Scully felt
a bolt of nostalgia and longing for Melissa,
her own dead sister, shoot through her.

"I--I know you are afraid, Leigh. I am afraid,
too. But I am certain everything will turn out
right in the end."

Leigh pushed herself away from Scully's side,
wrapping the extra ribbons up and shoving them
into a nearby basket. She turned her face
away. "I am afraid, Guinevere. I am afraid
for myself, and for you. But mostly, I am
afraid for Camelot, and for all that Arthur has
tried to build." She looked back at her then,
and Scully saw her dark eyes snapping with
emotion. "I have loved you my whole life,
Gwen, as your cousin and as your best friend.
But you have always been selfish, and now that
selfishness threatens to destroy the entire
kingdom!"

Scully's throat closed. "Leigh--" she managed,
but the other woman waved a hand at her.

"Nay. No excuses. Nothing can excuse what you
have done." Leigh set her jaw and stood over
her, and Scully felt like a child being
disciplined in school. "You are married to the
High King himself, who can give you anything a
woman could possibly want. And yet that is not
enough for you. You must have his love, as
well as the love of his best knight. And yet
you show no remorse at all for what happened
here last night with Lancelot!"

Scully blinked back the tears that sprung to
her eyes when Leigh mentioned Mulder. It was
illogical, she knew, but denying her love felt
like a betrayal. "You do not understand," she
whispered.

"Nay, I do not!" Leigh ran her hand over her
brow in frustration and took a deep breath, her
gaze cutting into Scully's soul. "If you love
Lancelot, then so be it. Let him take you
away. Let him take you back to his homeland
across the sea. Arthur can sway the Bishop to
allow him to let you go. And then perhaps
Arthur can find someone else to love him,
someone who can give him a son to rival that
bastard Mordred."

The bitterness in Leigh's voice stung like a
slap. A tear that Scully couldn't quite
understand slipped from her eye and coursed
down her cheek. Why did this upset her so?
She wasn't Guinevere. Was it because they were
so much alike, she and Guinevere, both barren,
neither able to give children to the men in
their lives?

Or was it because of the niggling voice in the
back of Scully's mind, the one that kept
whispering that maybe she really <was>
Guinevere after all?

Leigh let out a strangled cry and fell to her
knees next to the stool. She wrapped her arms
around Scully, hugging her tightly to her.
"Gwen, forgive my venomous words. I know I
have hurt you. I do not wish to quarrel with
you." She left her hands on Scully's shoulders
and looked deeply in her eyes. "I will do
whatever I can to help you, cousin. You know
that. I will even lie for you today, because
it will save you, and it will save this
kingdom. But, I pray you, consider what I have
said. When this is done, let Lancelot take you
away. Better to be scandalized and living in
peace than to have Camelot in ruins."

Scully nodded silently as Leigh stood and moved
away, her head spinning again. She longed for
Mulder. This whole situation was so
outlandish, and she yearned for his intuition,
his strength, and his uncanny ability to snap
the ill-fitting pieces of a puzzle firmly into
place where they belonged.

Her face in the mirror stared back at her, and
in the strange green eyes, she saw something
she hated.

She saw fear.

*****

The fanfare of a trumpet announced the Queen's
arrival in the Great Hall. In the corridor
outside, Scully held her breath and watched as
Mordred pushed open the huge oak and iron doors
before them. He turned his head and smirked at
her, gesturing for her to walk ahead of him.
"After you, my Queen," he murmured, and Scully
wished she could slap that look off his face.
Instead, she scowled at him and moved forward,
the lavish gown Leigh had dressed her in
trailing behind her.

The room was the size of an auditorium, and the
center aisle carpeted with red fabric. It
reminded Scully of several judicial courtrooms
where she and Mulder had appeared to give
testimonies, only much larger and more
appointed than any she had ever seen. At the
end of the aisle, on a raised dais, she spotted
two thrones. She knew that one would have
regularly seated the Queen...but today, Guinevere
would be standing before the platform, before
her husband, the King, and before the entire
assembled court, defending herself against
charges of treason.

She started down the aisle, keeping her eyes
fastened on the platform ahead of her. As she
passed, the knights and ladies positioned on
either side bowed and curtsied, still mindful
of her rank. The silence in the hall as she
walked settled around her like an unwelcome cat
tangling about her feet. But she held her head
high, drifting by them with what she hoped was
the proper amount of grace and stately decorum.
It reminded her so much of the honorary Navy
events she had attended with her parents as a
child. She may have not been a Queen, but
Scully was determined to make Ahab proud of
her, anyway.

She was halfway down the path when Arthur
strode through a door next to the dais and
mounted it. He no longer wore his armor, but
his regal vestments, blazing in crimson and
gold, made him look even more impressive than
he had earlier in the day. Around his head, he
wore a simple shining band, his crown of
kingship, and the sword at his belt flashed in
the light as he turned to face her.

Excalibur. Scully's eyes fixed on it, the
pommel glinting like a beacon. What was it
Mordred had said?

< ...or will he kill you and Lancelot himself
with his precious Excalibur? >

She swallowed and kept going, mindful of
Mordred and his brother, Agravaine, behind her,
their steely gaze never leaving her back.
Behind Arthur on the dais, the space filled up
with attendant knights, one bearing the
Pendragon standard on a pole, the glittering
dragon coming to rest right behind the King's
chair.

Scully stopped at the foot of the platform,
directly in front of Arthur, and raised her
eyes to the King. His own were on her face,
and she felt a wave of calm sweep over her, as
gentle and as reassuring as Mulder's loving
hands.

<It will be alright. > His eyes spoke volumes
that no one else could hear, and she nodded at
him to let him know she understood.

Mordred stood at her right elbow, with
Agravaine at her left. They both bowed stiffly
to the King, who finally moved his gaze from
his wife to his son. His voice was rich and
smooth when he spoke.

"Sir Mordred, you have asked for my audience
this day, in front of the entire royal court of
Camelot. What concern do you bring before your
King?"

Mordred took a step forward. "One of vital
importance, my lord King, but one that pains me
to the depth of my being to announce."

Arthur's face remained impassive. "Speak, Sir
Mordred, and do not try the patience of the
Pendragon."

"So be it." Mordred faced the crowd, pitching
his voice so that the entire assembly could
hear. "King Arthur, I bring before you your
very own wife, Queen Guinevere, who stands this
day accused of high treason."

A horrified murmur rushed through the crowd,
which Arthur pointedly ignored. "Who makes
this accusation, Sir Mordred?"

"I do, my lord King. I, and my brother,
Agravaine."

Arthur didn't even glance at the other knight.
His countenance was trained exclusively on
Mordred, and Scully couldn't help but wonder
how the man didn't actually wither under the
intensity of his father's stare. "On what
grounds do you base this accusation?"

Mordred smiled, obviously enjoying himself. "I
accuse the Queen of adultery, my King. In your
own household, just last night, while you were
away."

Another surge of noise ran through the crowd.
Scully kept her eyes pinned on Arthur, trying
to gauge his reaction. It was remarkable how
controlled he seemed to be.

"And whom do you accuse with the Queen, Sir
Mordred?"

Mordred paused dramatically, allowing a brief
moment of quiet before he delivered the name
the whole of Camelot was waiting to hear. "Sir
Lancelot of the Lake, my King."

The Great Hall erupted then, voices and shouts
swirling around Scully and sucking her into a
dizzying vortex. She drew a deep breath,
mindful of her state, trying her best to stay
calm and still.

Arthur's voice roared above the chaos.
"Silence!" The crowd quieted immediately, but
Scully could still hear whispers around her.
Arthur's jaw now jumped slightly as he looked
back to his son. "What proof have you of this,
Sir Mordred?"

"I have my own eyewitness account, as well as
that of my brother, Sir Agravaine."

The King nodded slowly. "I see. You witnessed
this act yourselves?"

A gasping titter ran through the court, and
Scully watched as Mordred's face began to
flush. "Nay, sir, but--"

"And what say you, Sir Agravaine?" Arthur shot
a look at the knight on Scully's left, who
suddenly seemed paralyzed by the King's
question. He finally found his tongue and
answered, his tone high and reedy.

"I...I witnessed the same thing as my brother, my
lord King. Sir Lancelot going to the Queen's
private chambers unattended, and staying into
the night."

"I have been told, Sir Knights, that you found
it necessary to break down the door to the
Queen's bedchamber. Tell me, did you overtake
Sir Lancelot in that room?"

Agravaine glanced at Mordred, who gritted his
teeth together. "Nay, sir, we did not."

Arthur tilted his head to one side, his eyes
seeming to glitter. "Then you have no real
proof of these actions."

The green of Mordred's eyes flashed with anger.
"My lord King, we have told you--"

Arthur cut him off with a wave of his hand.
"Enough." He turned to Scully, who still stood
before him, her hands clasped demurely at her
waist in an effort to stay motionless.
Arthur's face softened visibly as he spoke to
her, and out of the corner of her eye, Scully
saw Mordred swear under his breath. "My lady
Queen Guinevere. Sir Mordred has made a formal
accusation of treason by means of adultery
against you. How do you answer it?"

She took a deep breath, and her throaty voice
rang clearly throughout the hall. "I protest
my innocence, my lord King." The crowd
grumbled again, impressed by her answer.

Something snapped in his gaze, something like
respect, and Arthur pressed on. "Do you deny
that Sir Lancelot came to your chambers last
night?"

"I do deny it, my lord Arthur. It is not
true."

"And have you anyone who can attest to this?"

"My lady-in-waiting can. She was with me all
evening."

Arthur nodded his head again, seemingly
satisfied. He looked back to Mordred. "The
Queen has denied this accusation, Sir Mordred.
What say you to that?"

"I say that she is lying, my King, just as she
did last night when she was caught."

Arthur's face colored with anger. "I will tell
you once to watch your tongue, Sir Mordred.
You have made your accusation. I will not
tolerate your insolence." He paused a moment
and then continued on. "Since this accusation
has been denied, you have the right to
challenge it. But be mindful, Sir Mordred,"
Arthur added, his tone warning, "that if you do
challenge it, you challenge the Queen's
champion in her behalf. And that is none other
than Sir Lancelot himself."

A sneer snaked across Mordred's face. He stood
straight and tall as he answered. "I do
challenge it, my lord King, as I do challenge
Sir Lancelot. I welcome the opportunity to
prove the disloyalty of this false knight."

The assembly exploded into cacophony again,
while father and son simply stared at each
other defiantly. Finally, Arthur raised his
hand into the air, and the noise dropped to a
dull roar. "So be it," the King boomed above
the din. "I do declare, then, that on the
morrow, when the first sun hits the field, the
two shall meet: Sir Mordred, the accuser, and
Sir Lancelot, who stands accused, where they
shall prove their mettle under the eyes of God.
For no knight who is false can win in combat
against one who is true."

Arthur glanced then at the attendant knight on
his left. "Sir Kay, send a summons to Sir
Lancelot at his castle Joyous Gard." His eyes
fell on Scully then, and he took a shuddering
breath, the first time she had seen him look
unsure through the proceedings. "And have Sir
Gareth escort my lady Queen back to her
chambers, where she shall remain until the
champions take the field." He looked at her a
moment longer, and then he pivoted on his heel
and left the platform, moving quickly and
decisively out the door.

Scully watched him go, her breath petering out
of her in one long gasp. She felt Gareth move
up beside her, and as she allowed herself to be
led away, her mind reached out for Mulder,
sending him all the love and strength that her
exhausted brain could muster.

He would win. He had to, if they both wanted
to stay alive.
-- 

The Queen of Mist and Memory

Chapter Three

In Mulder's mind, this was turning out to be a
really bad day.

It hadn't begun that way, he remembered. He
and Scully had enjoyed their hike through the
Welsh countryside, using the time to get to
know one another on an entirely different level
than the professional one they had shared for
seven years. They had traded childhood stories
of vacations and camping trips, and Mulder had
delighted in hearing the Scully clan tales,
which usually ended in all four of the Scully
children facing the wrath of Ahab, with Maggie
there to soften his fatherly bellowing. His
partner reminisced with a glint of mischief in
her sky-blue eyes, and Mulder had found himself
daring to believe that someday, the two of them
might have these kinds of tales to tell to
their own family members. Of course, they had
only been involved for a couple of months, but
something about the final drawing of the two of
them together had cut deep into his soul,
releasing in him a longing and a dream of
commitment he hadn't dared to have for a long,
long time. And Scully seemed especially
affectionate, the spur-of-the-moment trip to
England apparently just the balm she needed to
open herself up completely to him. He was
seeing a side of her that he had merely
glimpsed in the past, and he found himself
falling head over heels in love with her, all
over again.

But it certainly was his fault that they became
lost. It had been his idea to hike off-trail
to begin with, his idea to keep going as the
afternoon sun started to sink behind the
rolling Welsh hills, his idea to pursue the
fleeting image of a woman he was sure he had
seen. And when they had stumbled into the
clearing where the strange whirlwind of energy
spun, it had been his idea to stick his hand
into it, just to see what would happen.

Somehow, something huge had occurred. He
couldn't quite wrap his mind around it, but he
knew that spinning tornado had transported them
back in time, just as the twister had
supplanted Dorothy in "The Wizard of Oz." But
in that story, it had all been a dream. And
from the feel of the horse underneath him, the
motion chafing the insides of his thighs
against the uncomfortable suit of armor he wore
as he rode pell-mell into the night, he
realized that whatever had happened to Scully
and him was anything but a dream.

He still had a hard time believing it, despite
the fact that he had awakened in a strange bed
in a huge, drafty room, next to a woman who
resembled Scully, but was somehow foreign, too.
Thank God she at least seemed to recognize him,
and she understood, too, that whatever had
occurred had happened to the both of them. She
had also been able to deduce that the people
around them, the ones they had already
encountered, seemed to think they were
Guinevere and Lancelot, the famous lovers from
the legendary tales of Camelot. They were not
stories with which he was very familiar, but
Scully seemed to know the tales pretty well.
He hoped like hell that she would perhaps find
some clue in them that might help them get out
of this place.

Mulder listened to the heavy pounding of the
horses' hooves as they rode, sneaking a
sidelong glance at the men who accompanied him.
The two sat astride one horse, the one in the
front wearing armor much like his own. The
second hung onto the knight with his arms
wrapped about the other's waist, his blond
ponytail waving behind them in the cool night
breeze. He couldn't quite fathom what he was
seeing.

Richard Langly clutching Melvin Frohike, who
was outfitted like an extra from the movie
version of "Camelot."

And Mulder was sure it was Frohike. When he
had followed Langly down the servants'
staircase from the room where they had left
Scully, the stout little man was waiting for
them just outside the kitchens. He had turned
his head sharply as Mulder and Langly came
crashing through the door and out into the
night, and his familiar voice, strangely thick
with a Gaelic cadence, had reverberated in
Mulder's ears. "For the love of God, Lancelot!
Mordred's whole faction is here!" He had
shoved Mulder roughly forward, catching him
off-balance and sending him spinning into the
rear flank of a huge warhorse. The animal
snorted its displeasure and stamped a hoof.

Mulder watched in astonishment as Frohike swung
himself up into the saddle of another horse
three times his size and bent to give Langly a
hand up behind him. With the other man settled
behind him, Frohike had squinted at Mulder
through the gloomy night, his brow furrowed.
"What is wrong with you, man? Get up and ride
before we are all caught and slaughtered where
we stand!"

Mulder blinked at him and finally found his
voice. "Frohike? What the hell is going on?"

The horse carrying the two men nudged nearer to
Mulder, and Frohike leaned over, bringing his
face closer. His chin was scruffy with a few
days' worth of beard growth, and his glasses
were missing, but it was the same face that
Mulder had known as one of his best friends for
over ten years. "I know not this fro-hickey of
which you talk, Lance, but we need to make
haste. I do not wish to end my life defending
your need to sow wild oats."

Mulder started to smile and then realized that
the other man was serious. He cocked his head
to the side. "I don't know how to ride a
horse, Hickey. I've never been on one in my
life."

Frohike glanced over his shoulder at Langly,
who looked completely confounded. "Did he hit
his head?" he asked their blond friend. Langly
shook his slowly, eyeing Mulder warily.

The sound of shouts came from somewhere within
the castle, and Frohike's brow darkened. "I
know not why you jest with me so, Lance, but
this is neither the time nor the place. Pull
yourself up, take the reins, and let us be on
our way." He kicked his spurs into the flank
of his horse. The animal shot off like a
bullet, plunging down the dirt lane and heading
toward a thick wood.

Mulder stood there a moment, still not
completely believing his eyes. But the noise
inside the kitchen doors urged him to move,
even though he wasn't quite sure what he was
supposed to be doing. He threw an uneasy
glance at the horse and caught the animal's
eye. "OK, buddy, be gentle with me. It's my
first time." The horse shook its mane at him
and blew out a breath.

Mulder grabbed the reins and the pommel of the
saddle, hoisting himself up. The weight of his
armor made it difficult, but he finally managed
to situate himself in the seat behind the
horse's neck. He tugged on the reins, willing
the horse to move in the direction that Frohike
and Langly had just taken...and miraculously, the
animal did. It trotted down the path, picking
up speed as it spotted the other horse ahead of
it. Mulder let it go, hoping like hell the
horse knew what it was doing. He certainly
wasn't going to try to stop it if it seemed
like it was going the right way...and only
Frohike and Langly knew which way that was.

He still held the sword that Langly had brought
him, which was quite awkward, considering he
needed to hold onto the reins. He noticed a
long piece of leather bumping against the metal
bend of his left knee and realized it was a
scabbard. Somehow, he speared the tip of the
sword into it and shoved it down, securing it
beside him. He figured it was a good thing
that the sword was attached to the saddle,
because he might need it later on.

His horse caught up to Frohike's and soon, they
were riding side by side along a well-worn road
traveling through the forest. The moon above
them hung quartered but bright, nicely
illuminating the path. Mulder was surprised to
find how naturally his body seemed to take to
riding, how he seemed to intuit what the horse
was doing and how it moved, and how his body
adjusted accordingly. It was almost as if he
had been on horseback all his life, although he
knew in his mind that this wasn't true.

As they whisked through the night, Mulder's
mind returned to Scully. She had looked so
tiny standing in the candle glow of that castle
room, swallowed up inside that enormous blue
robe, the startling length of her hair making
her appear almost childlike to him. But the
expression on her face and the light that shone
from the depths of those unfamiliar green eyes
convinced him that she was still his Scully,
the anchor of his life, the one person on whom
he could always depend, no matter what
circumstances came.

And, just like always, she had used her reason
and her logic to win him over, and to make him
leave her there, alone and vulnerable. He
swore to himself, angry at his decision to run.

"Frohike!" He called to the other man riding
next to him, but his friend didn't turn to look
at him. "Hey, Frohike!" The words rang more
insistently, and the little man glanced over at
him, a slightly annoyed expression on his face.

"Lancelot, I would thank you to stop calling me
by that name. This distemper that you seem to
suffer this night is not amusing in the least."

"But your name is Frohike," Mulder insisted.
"I've known you for over ten years."

Frohike shook his head. "Let us save this
conversation for when we arrive at Joyous Gard.
We are nearly there, cousin, and I fear you
need the rest." He slapped the reins, and his
horse pulled out further in front of Mulder's,
successfully ending their conversation.

Moments later, the road they followed turned
sharply, and Frohike guided his mount away from
the bend, driving it forward through a meadow
of long grass. Mulder was close on his heels,
and as he rode into the clearing, he spotted
the cumbersome walls of a small castle across
the open field, complete with a drawbridge that
stretched across a narrow but deep moat
surrounding the structure. The horses sped up,
sensing their home, along with water, hay, and
rest, within their grasp. As they approached,
Mulder heard shouts, and the gate inside the
drawbridge opened. Several mean spilled out of
the castle, bearing flaming torches in their
hands.

Doing what seemed to come naturally, Mulder
pulled up tight on the reins, bringing the
horse to a halt on the thick wooden platform of
the bridge. A boy of about fifteen laid his
hand on the animal's harness, and Mulder swung
his leg over the saddle, jumping to the ground
with a clang of metal. Frohike and Langly
dismounted, too, and Langly led the other horse
inside the gate, the boy following him with
Mulder's. Mulder watched as they took the
horses across the inside paddock to a nearby
stable.

He felt a slap on his arm and turned to see
Frohike regarding him with a somber
countenance. "Let us go in. We can speak
there."

Mulder nodded. Soon he found himself within a
great room ablaze with light, coming from
torches mounted in iron brackets along the
walls. Tapestries fluttered slightly in the
drafty space, beautiful hangings done in muted
shades, and a fire roared on the hearth at one
end of the room. Frohike stopped next to a
long wooden table and grabbed a large stone
pitcher waiting in the center. He poured a
dark liquid into a thick goblet and handed it
to Mulder. "I think you could use a drink,
Lance."

Mulder smiled wryly at him. "I think I could,
too." He took a sip, recognizing the bitter
taste of stout from his university days at
Oxford. He schooled himself not to drink too
much too fast and set it down on the table.
"Frohike, we need to talk."

The smaller man drained his own goblet in one
swig and grabbed the pitcher to pour more.
"Aye, that we do, Lance. Your words puzzle me
almost as much as your actions this night."

"I need to know what is happening to Scully. I
can't believe I let her talk me into leaving
her there. Will she be alright?"

Frohike tilted his head, searching Mulder's
face with his wide eyes. "Do you speak of the
Queen? Why do you address her as such?"

Mulder ran his hands through his overgrown
hair, his mind finally starting to fit the
pieces of the puzzle together. "You--you really
don't know me, do you?" His voice was low and
cautious.

Frohike's reply matched his own, coming slowly
from his mouth. "I know you to be Sir Lancelot
of the Lake, my cousin, in whose castle Joyous
Gard we now stand. I know you to be the
greatest knight of King Arthur's Round Table,
the champion of his Queen, Guinevere, and the
envy of all his kingdom." He stopped and then
went on. "Do you not know yourself, Lancelot?"

Mulder let out a long breath. "I know who I
am, and I am not who you think I am. I know to
you, I look like Lancelot, but believe me--" He
laughed, the absurdity of it all finally
hitting him. "I am <not> Lancelot. And Scully
is <not> Guinevere. And you..." His voice
trailed off as his mind clicked. "You are not
Frohike." He took a step forward toward the
other man, reaching out to touch him on the
shoulder. "Who--who are you, then?"

The other man grabbed Mulder's hand and
squeezed it briefly before easing his friend
down onto a nearby bench. "Sit a moment and
rest, Lance," he said gently. "I fear
something terrible has happened to you this
night." He brought his cup to his lips again,
took a gulp, and set it back down. "I fear
something terrible has happened to us all."

Mulder's mind sharpened, the adrenaline that
still pumped in his system forcing it into
obsessive mode, as it was wont to do. "I need
to know that she's alright," he said earnestly,
his intonation rising. "I need to know that
they won't hurt her!"

"Easy, man, easy," the other knight answered.
"You were not found with her. If I know that
bastard Mordred, she will be formally accused
on the morrow, as I am certain he has already
sent for the King. But without taking you as
well, Arthur will not raise a hand against
her." He looked at Mulder sternly. "Arthur
loves her, and you. He will protect her."

"And then what will happen?"

The man who so resembled Frohike sighed. "Most
likely, you will be challenged to a War Joust
by Mordred. A joust to prove your innocence,
and the innocence of the Queen." He turned his
eyes to Mulder, and they shone with concern.
"You are the best knight in all the realm,
Lance, and I know that better than anyone. But
I fear you cannot win this time...because you
have sacrificed your better nature for the love
of the Queen."

"What--what do you mean?"

"A knight is honest and true. Qualities you
have always had. But now, you have thrown
honesty and truth away in pursuit of another
man's wife. Your best friend's wife!" Mulder
watched as he turned away and crossed to the
fireplace, punching his fist into the mantle
with a mighty clang. "She is not yours,
Lancelot. And the mayhem the two of you have
created this night could bring all of Camelot
to its knees."

Mulder slumped forward, cradling his spinning
head in his hands. The exhaustion that settled
over him like a cloak was heavy and unexpected,
but his heart still ached for Scully. "If I
have to fight for her, I will," he mumbled,
dragging his palms across his face. "I just
need to know that she is safe, for now."

"She is." The other man crossed to him then,
helping him to his feet. "You need to rest.
This will certainly get worse before it gets
better, and you cannot defend anyone if you
cannot even stand up."

Mulder stopped him with a hand on his arm.
"You haven't told me your name."

The smaller knight squinted up at him before he
sighed. "I am Bors, Lancelot. Your cousin
Bors, that you have known since childhood.
Now, I pray you, let me take you to your
bedchamber. Perhaps this will all make more
sense on the morrow."

*****

Mulder turned over in a tangle of bedclothes
and opened his eyes, immediately noticing the
slant of the sun as it poured in the nearby
window. The angle told him it was late,
probably almost noon, and he groaned a little.
He was going to be late, his sleep-muddied mind
told him...

"Scully," he mumbled. He threw his arm over
behind him to the other side, feeling around
for his partner's small frame. The linens were
cool to his touch, and he realized that Scully
was not in the bed. She must've gotten up
early...but why didn't she wake him..?

He sat up groggily and swiped at his eyes,
trying to focus on the room around him. It
looked strange, similar to another room he had
recently seen...his mind groped for the answer
but couldn't quite reach it. "Scully!" he
called again, louder this time, and he heard a
door open somewhere off to his left. In a
moment, a head appeared from around a corner,
but it wasn't the cute little redhead he
expected to see.

Stringy, shoulder-length blond hair. Tiny eyes
that narrowed him into focus without the help
of glasses. Richard Langly. Not the person
Mulder wanted to wake up with in the morning.

But seeing the man who resembled Langly,
dressed in a drab green tunic and fitted
trousers, triggered all the memories of
yesterday. They came rushing back into his
brain and he moaned, collapsing onto his back
again. Shit. He was still stuck in this
strange world--and stuck without Scully.

"We did not want to wake you," Richard said
hesitantly. He crossed to a large trunk that
stood against one wall in the room and opened
it. He began to spread out clothes on the foot
of the bed. "Sir Bors thought it better to
allow you your rest."

"Yeah, and I've wasted half the day." Mulder
swung his legs over the side of the bed,
agitated, and then realized as he sat up again
that he was buck-naked. He uttered a tiny cry
of indignation and threw a corner of the
blanket over his crotch. "Jesus, Langly!
Where is my underwear?"

The other man turned bright red and averted his
eyes. "Your...underwear, sir?"

Mulder reached down to the end of the bed and
snatched up what resembled a pair of pants.
"Yeah, you know, underwear. The clothes you
wear underneath your pants." Richard
judiciously turned his back to Mulder, so he
stood up and stepped into the trousers,
fumbling with the strange lacings at the front.
They were worse than button-fly jeans.

He picked through the articles that Richard had
laid out and finally found something he
recognized, a light, loose linen shirt in a
shade of pearl gray. He yanked it over his
head and fussed with the string ties at the
throat momentarily before letting them hang
open. He pushed past Richard and headed around
the corner for the door.

The other man gasped. "My lord, you are not
going out like that, are you?"

Mulder was already halfway down the small,
stone staircase. "I'm not interested in
fashion. I've got to get back to Scully." He
emerged in the great room that he remembered
from the night before, where he and Frohike
(Bors, he corrected himself in his mind) had
talked. He looked back at Richard, who was
close behind him. "Where's Bors?"

"I'm here, Lance." Bors was seated in a high-
backed chair by the fireplace. He set down the
sword he was polishing and stood. He wore an
outfit similar to Richard's, but his was made
of a deep red fabric, obviously heavier and
more expensive. He had shaved, and Mulder was
a little surprised by how fit and young he
looked. Knighthood must have kept these men in
good condition.

Bors gave him an appraising look. "I see that
a good night's sleep has not benefited you."
He clapped Mulder on the shoulder and
maneuvered him over to the table. "Come, let
us get you something to eat. You cannot keep
your feet on an empty stomach."

Mulder's stomach growled at the mention of
food, but he shook the thought away. He
motioned for Bors to sit down across from him,
and he did. Richard drifted away, reappearing
a few moments later with a bowl filled with a
steaming, thick gruel that reminded Mulder of
the Cream of Wheat breakfasts his mother used
to serve him on cold Vineyard mornings. He
felt an abrupt pang of longing as Richard set
it before him.

"Eat, Lance," Bors urged.

"No. I want to talk about Scully."

Bors picked up a strange utensil that resembled
a spoon and shoved it at him. "We can talk as
you eat." Mulder took it reluctantly and
tasted the mixture. It was surprisingly sweet,
and his hollow stomach clamored for more. He
spooned up a few more bites, and Bors nodded
approvingly.

"That is better. Now, Lancelot. Last night,
you seemed to not remember me. What say you
this morning?"

Mulder swallowed. "I do remember you. It's
just that, where I come from, I call you
Frohike." He gestured to Richard. "I call him
Langly. I do recognize you both...but I don't
know exactly what has happened."

The two other men exchanged looks. "So you
still claim that you are not Lancelot of the
Lake, even though you look exactly like him?"

"I don't know how to explain it. You say that
I look like your Lancelot, and I say that you
both look like two friends of mine. But I am
telling you, I do not belong in this place, or
this time."

Bors rubbed at his jaw thoughtfully. "Then in
what time do you belong?"

"The year two thousand. I live in the United
States of America. I'm a Federal Agent, and
the woman you see as Guinevere, the one I call
Scully, is my partner." He watched as Bors'
forehead wrinkled in consternation, and he
sighed. "Look, I know you don't understand
what any of that means. Hell, the United
States hasn't even been discovered yet. But I
am telling you this because...well, because I
have to figure out what happened to Scully and
me, and I need help if we are going to get back
to where we belong."

Bors shook his head. "I daresay you have more
pressing issues at the moment, my friend. The
Queen will be accused this day of treason, and
if you ever hope to somehow...turn these events
around, you will have to save her from death."

"What!" Mulder stood up so quickly he nearly
knocked over his breakfast. "You told me she
was safe!"

"She is, for now. But you will have to
champion her. Remember the War Joust of which
I spoke? If I am right, the King will have set
the time for it as sunrise tomorrow. And you
will have to be ready."

Mulder set his jaw. "So what will I have to
do?"

"You will meet Sir Mordred on the jousting
field. You will fight until one of you begs
for mercy." Bors met his gaze with a quirk of
his eyebrow. "Or until one of you dies."

Mulder sank back down into his chair.
Jousting. He had seen it on TV and in the
movies, but he had no earthly idea what the
sport entailed. He looked back at Bors. "And
Lancelot...he's supposed to be pretty good at
this stuff, right?"

"You...you are our best knight," Bors replied.
Mulder could tell the other man still did not
believe what he had said. Hell, Mulder had a
hard enough time believing it..but he knew that
it was the only explanation that really made
sense. And he knew that he would somehow have
to figure out what caused this to happen to
Scully and him, and how they could reverse it.
But first, he obviously had to get to Scully,
and there seemed to be an awful lot of
obstacles standing in his way.

"I need you to show me, then. I need you to
teach me today, so that I can defend her
tomorrow."

*****

The summons came while the men were on the
practice field behind the castle. Mulder was
recovering from his position astride his horse,
his left shoulder throbbing inside his armor
from where Bors' lance had just hit him with
the force of a 35-mile-an-hour auto impact. He
spotted the rider as he came around the side of
the castle, the vibrant red of the Pendragon
standard billowing from a pole as he galloped
toward him. Bors rode up next to him and
opened the visor of his helmet, nodding in the
direction of the rider.

"The King's messenger. Bringing your summons
to the joust tomorrow, I daresay."

Mulder flipped open the visor of his own
helmet, shoving his gloved hand awkwardly
inside to swipe at the sweat running into his
eyes. They had been practicing all afternoon,
and he was proud to note that Bors had not been
able to unhorse him at all, which was
apparently the object of the joust. Once he
had gotten used to the weight of the long,
unwieldy lance in his hand, he had successfully
knocked the other knight to the ground a total
of three times. The rhythm of it had come
naturally to him, much like the horseback
riding itself. He supposed that perhaps the
body he now inhabited, that of Sir Lancelot,
had stored many memories of such fights on a
cellular, molecular level, and physically, his
muscles and nervous system could draw on that
knowledge to help him learn faster. It was a
fascinating idea to contemplate, one he would
have loved to debate with Scully&if only she
were here.

The messenger pulled his horse up next to
Mulder's, gave a stiff bow without dismounting,
and pulled a rolled parchment from inside his
tunic. "A message from my lord King Arthur,
for Sir Lancelot of the Lake." He held the
message out to Mulder, who took it without much
more than a glance.

"Tell the King I'll be there," Mulder said. He
handed the scroll over to Bors, who looked at
him questioningly. The rider gave him another
staccato bow and tugged on the reins, turning
his horse around and setting off at a dash.

"Do you not even wish to read it, Lance?" Bors
asked.

"You read it. Tell me if it's what you
thought." Mulder watched as the other man
broke the wax seal on the outside and unrolled
the stiff paper. His eyes moved steadily
across the words, and he allowed the parchment
to roll back on itself when he was finished.

"Yes, it is just as I said. You are to meet
Mordred at sunrise on the morrow. If you
defeat him, it will prove the innocence of the
Queen. If he defeats you, then both of you,
Lancelot and Guinevere, will be put to death
for high treason." Bors' voice had remained
steady throughout, but it wavered on the word
"death." Mulder reached over and grasped the
smaller man's shoulder, the material of his
gloves slipping slightly on the metal shell.
He smiled at Bors as best he could.

"Well, then I have to win." He pulled his
helmet off and tossed it down to the ground
before jumping from his horse's saddle. "I
think I have the jousting part down. Let's
work on the sword fighting."

End Chapter Three A (Read On For Chapter Three B)

-- 
Chapter Three B

Mulder couldn't remember a time when he had
been sorer. His muscles screamed in protest
from the slightest movement, and it was all he
could do to ease himself down into the standing
tub of scalding water that Langly's look-alike
had prepared for him. The heat soaked through
him, though, and he found himself relaxing a
bit, the mighty roar of pain dulling to an ache
as the water subtly caressed him.

The sword lessons had gone well, and Mulder had
found it easier than he expected to wield the
cumbersome broadsword that he had to use. He
had managed to disarm Bors several times, and,
as he ate some cold chicken and bread after his
bath, he realized he was fairly confident that
he could beat this Sir Mordred and rescue
Scully. Then the two of them would be able to
concentrate on the problem of returning to the
twenty-first century.

He fell into bed, exhausted but satisfied, his
thoughts on nothing but Scully and the task
that awaited him in the morning.

*****

He came awake with a start, his heart galloping
in his chest like a stallion on the loose. He
could hear the soft, whimpering breath of a
horse nearby, and the smell of early morning
dew lingered heavy in the misty air. It
chilled his bare arms and chest, and he
shivered, coughing a bit at the tuft of dust
his movement kicked up from the ground beneath
his cheek.

He realized he was not in bed, and he scrambled
up to a sitting position, casting his glance
wildly around, trying to focus. Bewildered, he
found himself in the wide expanse inside the
gates of Joyous Gard, positioned just opposite
the raised portcullis and the drawbridge that
stretched across the castle moat. The
courtyard, which had been as busy as an open
market when he and Bors had returned from their
jousting practice early in the evening, lay in
deathly silence now, void of any noise or
person except himself. It crouched in darkness
as if it, too, were waiting, a lone torch next
to the gate the only illumination.

Mulder swallowed, the taste of fear thick in
his mouth. His rapid breathing had not slowed,
and he felt edgy, as if he were waiting for a
perpetrator at the scene of a crime. Scully
had often kidded him about it, calling it his
Spooky Sense, just like the Spider Sense term
from the old comics he had loved as a boy.
Well, his Spooky Sense was tingling like mad
right now, and after so many years, he had
learned not to discount it.

Something was wrong. The air around him was
thick with it, this sense of wrongness, this
sense of something that was almost
otherworldly. It seemed to condense on his
skin, to press on him with almost human
fingers, teasing him, urging him to get up, but
cautioning him to stay at the same time. It
was disconcerting and unnerving, and his
stomach rolled in protest. He closed his eyes
momentarily, trying to gain his composure.
Getting sick all over himself couldn't possibly
help him now.

When he opened his eyes again, he noticed
movement at the end of the drawbridge ahead of
him, way down on the opposite bank of the moat.
He rose cautiously to his feet, his hand
hovering by his side where his Sig normally
would be, the gun that had not even been
invented yet in this time and place. He crept
forward until he crouched next to the wall of
the fortress, and he craned his head to see
around the side.

The horses he had heard were tied at the far
end of the drawbridge, their heads dropping
forward as if they were dozing. They were both
saddled and outfitted, and he recognized them
as the two animals he and Bors had ridden
earlier. At their feet, he noticed a flash of
silver, and he realized that Bors sat propped
at the bottom of the last railing of the
bridge, his chin to his chest, fast asleep. He
wore his armor, and Mulder noted a small pile
of a similar look next to his friend. He
must've brought Mulder's as well.

Mulder glanced down at himself. Nothing but a
pair of thin, loose-fitting trousers covered
his body. Even his feet were bare. And of
course, his sword would be in the scabbard
fastened to the saddle of his horse. He was
nearly naked, freezing in the pre-dawn of this
godforsaken castle, and he didn't even have a
weapon.

If yesterday had been a bad day, he had the
piercing thought that this one looked even
worse.

He took a deep breath, trying to reason to
himself. What in the hell was Bors doing out
here, anyway? It was chilly and damp; why
would he choose to sleep out here, and to bring
the horses, especially the one that Lancelot
needed to ride in his joust for the life of the
Queen? Mulder frowned and, stealing another
furtive look around, called Bors' name.

"He cannot hear you, my good knight. He is
asleep."

A female voice, one that seemed to consist of a
lethal concoction of honey and broken glass.
Mulder's frown deepened as his brain rung with
recognition, and he stepped out from the
shadows next to the castle portcullis. Across
the bridge from him, a figure glided out from
behind the horses, a womanly shape draped in a
black, hooded cloak. A hand reached up to push
the cowl back, and a set of familiar dark eyes
greeted him from across the distance.

"Diana?"

Her laugh rang in his ears, echoing as if they
stood together on the edge of a cliff. It was
loud enough to be disturbing, but Mulder
noticed that neither Bors nor the horses
stirred. It was as if they were frozen in
place.

The woman seemed to shimmer in his vision, and
he tried to blink the appearance away as she
answered him. "I am not called that here in
this world, my good knight. Here, I am called
many, many names, but most call me Morgan le
Fae."

Mulder pointed at Bors. "What did you do to
him?" The woman laughed again, and Mulder felt
his insides turn over as if he were seasick.
He didn't wait for her reply. "What did you do
to me?"

"Just a little game, my good knight, nothing
more than that. It is just like a dream, is it
not? But you cannot waste much time. The sun
will rise very soon, and you have an
appointment to keep."

Mulder swayed on his feet, trying to keep the
bile in his throat from rising, bracing himself
with an arm on the stone wall beside him. "Am
I dreaming? Can I wake myself up?"

The woman called Morgan le Fae smiled, the same
one of grim pleasure that Mulder remembered
vividly from his days with Diana. "It is like
a dream, but it is real as well. You will find
out how real it is in a matter of moments, when
you try to cross this bridge. And cross it you
must, for it is the only way to get to your
armor and horse, so that you can ride to
Camelot to save your Queen. But make haste,
great knight, for daybreak draws near&and if
you are late for the joust, the Queen will
die." The heavy fog in the air swirled around
the woman, obscuring her from his view for a
split second&and then, she was gone.

Mulder stood still as a statue, his eyes
darting back and forth, his mind humming and
his stomach quivering. She had
disappeared&hadn't she? One minute there, and
the next gone&yeah, that would pretty much
qualify as vanishing in anyone's book.

He was dreaming, he told himself. This woman
had just told him that&but she had also said
that this was reality, too. He slid his jaw to
one side and bit down hard on the fleshy meat
of his mouth. The sharp pain seemed to focus
his drifting mind a little. Yeah, he felt
it&so this had to be real. In some way.

So what was this? An enchantment? Although
largely unfamiliar with the Arthurian world, he
at least knew that the King supposedly had a
wizard as an advisor, an old mage called
Merlin. It stood to reason, then, if this
world were that one, that there were more
magic-makers than just the one of whom he knew.

He chuckled to himself, wishing that Scully
were here to see this. It was quickly becoming
obvious to him that he was caught in some kind
of spell, somehow poised between the world of
reality and the realm of fantasy. He could
just see the two of them, himself and Scully,
standing in this very spot when faced with the
same scenario, arguing about the validity and
the scientific plausibility of such a thing.

He felt a pang of longing for her, but he
roused himself from his straying thoughts. He
was wasting time. The woman called Morgan le
Fae had said that he needed to hurry, that the
sun would soon rise, and he needed to cross the
bridge to get himself to Camelot in time for
the joust. But obviously, his Spooky Sense
buzzed to him, this bridge was some kind of
obstacle, one that had been put in his way in
an effort to stop him from arriving at Camelot
at all.

He took a few steps forward until level with
the start of the bridge. The beams of it had
been wrought from long oak trunks, cut evenly
to fit together in tight formation. It
stretched more than twenty feet across from end
to end, with chains from the lifting mechanism
anchored at the opposite side, forming a
diagonal line of iron. The sides of the bridge
were completely open, with nothing to keep a
man from falling off the edge into the moat but
his own good sense. Mulder had never really
looked too closely at it before. It was just a
bridge.

But now, as he gazed at it, trying to reason
out what kind of problem the crossing of such a
nondescript bridge could possibly be, his eyes
caught a glint of metal in the dim light.
Narrowing them to see better, he crouched down,
reaching his hand out instinctively. He grazed
his fingers across the glimmer and drew them
back sharply as a stinging pain shot through
his hand. Stunned, he saw his fingers welling
up with blood from a pair of long, thin cuts.
He thrust them in his mouth and peered closely
at the bridge.

He could see them now. Laid in between every
beam, as well as fitted down the center,
several of them end to end, of each stocky log.
There had to be hundreds of them, gleaming
sinister silver in the misty air.

Swords. The bridge seemed to be fashioned out
of swords.

Mulder sucked the blood off his fingers and
tried to shake the discomfort away. He
couldn't be much use to Scully in a fight if he
were cut to ribbons before he even got to try.
And that must've been the idea, right? To
prevent Sir Lancelot from even getting a chance
to save the Queen. He blew out a frustrated
breath and stood up, pacing back and forth with
his hands on his hips. There had to be another
way across this moat.

Wait a minute. What was he thinking? The moat
was deep, true, but he could swim, and he
didn't remember seeing anything dangerous in
the waters when he and Bors had crossed it
yesterday. He went to the bank and dropped to
his knees, craning his head forward to have
another look down into the water.

There was nothing there but swirling fog. He
strained his eyes to see through it, but to no
avail. It almost appeared as if there was no
water&that the moat had somehow transformed
into a bottomless pit filled with nothing but
silent air and ghostly mist.

Mulder swore. He hefted a large stone into his
hand and dropped it over the side of the bank,
watching as the wispy, white tendrils engulfed
it as it fell. He listened closely for the
telltale splash as it hit water at the bottom.
He waited a full two minutes before resigning
himself to the fact that the stone hadn't hit
bottom&and if it had, the bottom was so far
away that jumping into the shrouded cavern
would be suicide.

So it had to be the bridge. He was going to
have to cross it. There was no other way to
get to Scully.

He pushed himself up again and stalked over to
it, a look of grim determination on his face.
Bastards. They didn't really think he was
going to give up, did they? He had crawled
through caverns of ice and alien monsters once
before to save her. He could do this, too, if
that was what it took to keep her alive.

His mind seemed to slow down then, a calm
settling over him, his racing heart easing down
to a steadier pace. He eyed the drawbridge,
calculating carefully, trying to figure the
best way to start.

It would be difficult. There was no reason to
deny that. More than likely, he would end up
injured. There was really no way around it.
But there had to be a way to reduce the risk,
and he gave himself a slight nod of
encouragement when he deduced what to do.

He glanced up at the drawbridge chain above his
head. If he could just get a quarter of the
way across the bridge on foot, he would be able
to reach up and grab the chain. He could pull
himself the remainder of the distance by
shimmying across those iron links.

With a deep, resigned breath, Mulder lifted his
foot, poising it before him as he decided where
to place it. Even with all the swords lining
the wood, there were still some spaces in
between the separate pieces where his foot, if
turned horizontally, would fit. He would have
to angle it, step into the tiny spot, transfer
the weight of his body, and pull up his other
leg to move forward, all the while maintaining
his balance. He would also have to stand on
one leg as he maneuvered around to place the
other foot down at the next safe interval.

He took his first step, keeping his respiration
even and relaxed. He managed to nudge his foot
into a tiny space afforded by the blades. He
took another breath and shifted his weight to
that foot, pushing off with the one behind him,
using his arms to balance his body as his back
foot found purchase on another miniscule scrap
of wood. He exhaled and paused for a moment,
his legs in an X underneath him, imagining
himself looking like some kind of reject from a
tournament game of Twister. He smiled ruefully
at the idea and began the task of another step.

He gained a whopping three more of these
bizarre machinations before stopping to rest.
So far so good. He wiped a bead of sweat from
his brow and lifted his hand above his head,
careful to keep his weight evenly distributed.
The chain was still a good foot or so out of
his reach, but he estimated that by taking
another five precarious steps, he would be able
to lunge up and grab it. Then, he would be
home free.

Mulder raised his leg again, ready to move on,
his arms in a T next to his body. He shifted
his weight forward to bring his foot down in
the next niche he spotted&and a violent wave of
nausea pounded into his body with the force of
one of Bors' jousting lances.

His eyes slammed shut involuntarily, all of the
muscles in his body tightening against the
onslaught. His arms pin wheeled at his sides,
struggling to regain the delicate equilibrium,
but he knew before he felt the falling
sensation that it was hopeless. There was
nothing to hold onto, no way to break the fall
except with his hands, which went instantly out
in front of him. The skin of his palms
shredded as he plunged into the blades beneath
him.

A cry escaped his throat as the swords tore
through the flesh of his forearms and knees.
He gasped at the blinding flash of fury in his
body as his legs crashed behind him, the
searing sensation in his belly joining a newer,
fresher bolt higher in his torso. It was over
in a mere second, but the cacophony of protest
from his limbs began to overload his senses,
his mind graying at the impact.

No, he couldn't pass out. He wouldn't. He
didn't have the time for such a luxury. He
forced his eyes open again, locking them onto
the sight of Bors and the horses waiting at the
end of this gauntlet. He had to reach them.
He somehow knew that once he did, they would
awaken&and maybe, so would he.

Could he stand? Or should he try to crawl?
His mind hissed at him, reminding him again of
wasted time, and of the blades that stood in
his way. If he crawled to the end of the
bridge, he would be eviscerated by the time he
reached it&and possibly bled dry as well. But
if he could just scramble forward a few more
feet, he could regain his legs and reach the
chain.

With a mighty roar, Mulder pushed his torn body
forward. He felt something rip through his
abdomen again, as well as a warm trickle of
liquid that traced down his thigh and across
his knee. He paid no attention to the crimson
streamers that ran along his bare wrists in
grisly bracelets, his eyes trained on his pile
of armor awaiting him. He cursed between each
ragged breath, hitching himself along the
bridge, grunting Scully's name as he slid in
his own blood. She was all that mattered, and
he wasn't going to leave her to die.

The shadows surrounding him began to lighten as
he moved, urging him forward. At long last he
stopped, panting, and turned his eyes above
him. He was sure he could reach the chain now,
and ignoring the pressure and the tangy scent
of blood all around him, he pushed himself to
his feet and reached his ruined hands above his
head.

Slick with blood, they slipped on the cool
metal, but he gritted his teeth and gripped the
iron links harder, the sensation singing a
ghastly song in his palms. He pulled himself
up from the surface beneath his feet and swung
his legs up with all his might, linking his
ankles together as they gained the top of the
chain. He rested a moment, hanging upside down
like a monkey at the zoo, his tired eyes taking
in the gruesome sight of the trail he left
below him.

Mulder started forward, shimmying along the
chain as best he could. A silent observer
would have admired his determination, if not
his grace, for there was none left in him now.
All that mattered was getting to the end of the
bridge, and if he did it in a pretty way or in
a nasty one, Mulder would get there.

And somehow, he did. Whether by sheer force of
will, or sheer luck concerning his physical
prowess, he made it to the end. He took a
moment to think, and then swung himself forward
and backward from the chain, the nerve
receptors in his hands screaming their
indignation. On the third swing, he let go,
sailing through the air and landing with an
unceremonious thud in the dust at the end of
the drawbridge.

A flurry of movement and sound surrounded him
as soon as he hit the ground. His head buzzed
loudly, but beneath it, he could hear the
lilting cadence of Bors' voice.

"Good Christ save us! Lancelot, what happened
to you?"

Mulder struggled to open his eyes, fighting the
onslaught of dizziness that washed over him.
He focused unsteadily on Bors, whose face
appeared over his. "Get me&get me into my
armor. I've got to get to Camelot."

"There is not a place on you that does not
bleed, man! You cannot fight like this!"

He heaved himself into a sitting position and
grabbed the front of Bors' tunic. "I don't
have a choice. Morgan le Fae said that if I am
late for the joust, they will kill Scully."

The color drained from the other man's face.
"Morgan le Fae? She did this to you?"

"I don't know. Maybe. It doesn't matter now."
Mulder hauled himself up to his feet, wincing
at the pain that seared through them. Bors
stood, too, looking at himself in amazement.

"How did I get out here?" he wondered aloud.
He looked at Mulder and knitted his brow.
"This was an enchantment. And if you say you
saw Morgan le Fae, then she is the one behind
it. But that blood" he pointed at Mulder"is
not a dream. We must stave it, Lance, or you
are as good as dead."

Mulder backed himself up against his horse,
using the animal's large body to hold him up.
He looked straight into Bors' eyes, the blue of
his new gaze bright and burning. "And Scully
is as good as dead if I don't get there. Help
me, Bors." His tone was plaintive. "Help me,
please."

Bors took a deep breath and grabbed at the
saddlebag next to Mulder's shoulder. He ripped
it open and extracted several cloths, usually
used on the horse so the saddle would not chafe
its back. He tore them into strips and stepped
up to Mulder. "This is going to hurt, my
friend," he told him gently, and he pushed one
into the gaping cut across Mulder's abdomen.

The shooting agony seemed endless, but Mulder
brought his own hand up to hold the cloth in
place. Bors wrapped his other wounds quickly,
using tight, efficient strokes, and he was soon
working Mulder's armor into place over his
injured body. When his dressing was complete,
Mulder opened his exhausted eyes and smiled
weakly at Bors.

"Now help me get up on that horse. I have a
Queen to save."

End Chapter Three B

-- 

Queen of Mist and Memory

Chapter Four

Scully had prayed feverishly for sleep, but
those pleas had gone unanswered.

All night, her thoughts pulled her to Mulder,
wondering what was happening to him. She sat
up by the fire, staring into its dancing heat,
the embroidery that Leigh had brought to
distract her untouched by her side. Sir Gareth
had stayed with her as she forced herself to
eat a few bites of meat and cheese he carried
with him. She found his gentle presence
calming, and she tried to draw him out, sensing
in him a pool of compassion different from the
other knights in the castle.

"Sir Gareth, is there news of Lancelot?"

He stood at the window, watching over her as
she sipped her wine. As tempted as she was to
dull her senses, she was careful not to drink
too much, and his eyes followed her hand as she
placed the goblet back down on the table. "His
summons has been delivered, my lady Queen."
His soft voice massaged her aching heart.

"Then he will come?" The question tumbled out
of her before she could stop it. Of course he
would come. Scully never doubted Mulder for a
moment...so why did she think Guinevere might
doubt Lancelot? It didn't make any sense...but
that nagging whisper had returned, cajoling her
from the back of her mind.

Gareth nodded. "Aye, my lady. I heard that he
and Sir Bors were on the field when the summons
came. I daresay he is well prepared to defend
you."

She had smiled weakly at him, and he had
departed without another word. Leigh had
cleared the supper away, laying the colored
floss out next to the embroidery easel at the
far end of the room. Scully had crossed to the
chair and sat down, but she didn't pick up the
needle. She remembered embroidering with her
grandmother when she was a girl, but she had
been impatient and sloppy with it, and Nana
Scully had given up trying to teach her.
Besides, she had no interest in anything but
Mulder...and her mind worried at his memory like
a greedy dog with a bone.

And so the night passed, with Scully never
moving from the chair by the fire, and Leigh
dozing fitfully on a floor cushion by the
doorway. The other woman had sat up moments
ago, rubbing her eyes, some kind of inner alarm
rousing her from her dreams. She looked at
Scully and stood.

"The sun will rise soon, Gwen. We must get you
ready." Scully gave a resigned nod and pushed
up from the chair.

There was no bath today, but Leigh massaged
sweet-smelling cream into the skin of Scully's
arms, neck, and shoulders, her hands working
the muscles tenderly. It helped relax her, and
by the time Leigh had finished braiding her
hair again, Scully's eyes were slipping shut.
She shook herself awake, her mind sharpening
again on the events at hand.

Leigh brought in an ornate golden gown made of
a thick, glittering material. She helped
Scully into it, fastening her in with blinding
efficiency. The gown had an overlay tunic of
scarlet, which Leigh threw over Scully's
shoulders and tied with elaborate lacings at
each side. Scully smoothed it down over her
stomach, her fingers tracing along the golden
Pendragon emblem emblazoned on it. She smiled
ruefully to herself. It was as if she had been
marked as Arthur's goods.

Leigh stepped over to her and arranged her
headpiece, a small golden crown with a gauzy
veil in matching colors. She fastened a
pendant around her neck, and Scully uttered a
startled gasp as she watched in the looking
glass. Leigh frowned. "What is it, Gwen?"

Scully fingered the links of the golden chain,
following them down to the shimmering cross
that now nestled in the hollow of her throat.
It was much larger than the necklace she
remembered, the one her mother had given her so
many years ago, and it was studded with red
stones that Scully supposed were rubies. But
it fit against her skin as if it belonged
there, and she felt a cloud of contentment
settle around her.

"I...It is nothing, Leigh." She looked at her
lady-in-waiting and smiled. "Thank you."

"Let us go, then. Sir Gareth awaits you."

The gentle knight escorted her outside,
somewhere behind the fortified walls of
Camelot, and Scully found herself standing on a
raised platform on one side of a long, narrow
field. The dais was covered with some type of
tarp, and Gareth led her to her place in the
center of the stands. Leigh stood behind her
and off to one side, and Scully noticed that
she was alone. The other lords and ladies of
the court lined both sides of the field, but no
other nobles stood with her inside the
pavilion. She breathed in a huge gulp of air
and set her face to stone. She felt her
seclusion clutching at her like a bad-tempered
child, and she tried to soothe herself with the
notion that at least Arthur would arrive soon.

Moments later, amid a fanfare of trumpets, the
King made his appearance, along with his
personal attendant knights...but he did not join
her, either. He mounted the steps on the other
side of the field, taking his place in a
pavilion directly opposite her. His armor
shone like a beacon in the pre-dawn gloom, and
Scully fastened her eyes on him. He arranged
himself amid his knights and turned his gaze on
her. His eyes snapped mahogany fire across the
expanse of the field, and Scully found herself
reassured by the strength of that look.

He was confident. He trusted that Lancelot
would prevail. She had to trust that, too.

All heads turned at the sound of horse hooves
pounding the dirt below them, and Scully
swiveled in that direction, her heart in her
throat. Her need to see Mulder overwhelmed
her, and a small sound of disappointment
escaped from her as she realized it was not
him. The knight on horseback below her stopped
in front of the pavilions and turned his horse
first to Arthur and then to her in salute.
Beneath the visor of his helmet, Scully could
easily recognize the reptilian green eyes of
Sir Mordred. He finished his ceremonious
presentation and galloped on his horse to the
far end of the jousting field.

The crowd waited. Scully swallowed, casting
her gaze to the east, where the first flaming
fingers of the new day clutched at the horizon.
She watched helplessly as the glowing orb began
its ascent into the sky, casting its beams
closer and closer to the field where everyone
stood, motionless and expectant. A quiet
murmur began among the nobles as sunlight
played at the edge of the grass, and Sir
Mordred spurred his horse into the center of
the field.

He stopped in front of Arthur and raised his
visor. "My lord King, the sun has risen, and
Sir Lancelot does not come. The Queen has no
champion."

Scully felt a terrible fist of fear grab onto
her stomach, grinding its grip into her belly.
Arthur huffed out a breath, obviously trying to
think of a way to stall the proceedings. He
opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut off
by a cry from the crowd: "Sir Lancelot! He
comes!"

Scully craned her neck to see down the field.
There were two horses, one ridden by a short
man whose face was hidden inside his own
helmet...and one ridden by Mulder.

She tamped down her feelings, willing her
facemask of ice to descend once more, knowing
that she had to remain impassive during this
whole event. If the Queen were to get too
excited over Lancelot, it would certainly not
go unnoticed. But she did allow a small smile
to play on her lips as he saluted the King in
the same manner as Mordred and then turned his
horse to her side.

Their eyes met. The electricity of his stare
coursed through her whole body, and she laced
the fingers of her hands together, gripping
herself to stay as steady as she could. She
tried to telegraph her thoughts to him, the way
they had always been able to do, and she saw
the recognition of the message register in his
eyes.

< I love you. Be careful. >

< I love you, too. I will be. >

But then, just for a moment, Mulder's face
changed, his eyes fluttering. Something stole
across him, a great shudder that Scully could
see even from her position above him, and her
eyebrow arched its question to him. He gave a
slight shake of his head as he composed
himself, and he set his jaw.

< I'm fine. > The line she always used on him
he now signaled to her. < Don't worry. >

As Mulder turned his horse away to start down
the field, something on his armor caught her
eye. She sucked in a horrified breath as she
realized what it was.

There, on the hip of his suit where his leg met
his torso, a large splash of red marred the
shiny surface. Scully shook her head slowly, a
shocked cry rising within her.

Mulder was bleeding. He was hurt, and she
strangled the noise in her throat to keep from
calling his name. Scully threw a frantic look
over at Arthur across the field, and his
alarmed countenance confirmed that he had seen
the blood, too. She pleaded with him with her
eyes.

< Help him, Arthur. Please, stop this. >

She saw the muscle in his jaw jump, but he
returned nothing more than a resigned
inclination of his head.

< We cannot stop it, Gwen. You know that. >

Her face darkened into anger, and she started
forward, intending to tear down the pavilion
steps and race to Mulder's side to stop this
insanity. But before she could move further,
she felt a hand grab her wrist, and she lifted
her eyes to Leigh's. The other woman's
features were soft with compassion, but she
held tight to Scully. "There is nothing you
can do, Gwen. He must fight, and he must win,
if the two of you are to live."

"He needs a doctor," Scully hissed, realizing
as her vision swam that she was close to
crying. "He could die."

"He is strong." The authoritative tone of
Leigh's voice swayed her a little, and Scully
turned back to the field, to where Mulder sat
astride his horse. She watched as he took the
lance the other knight handed to him and
positioned it at his right side, sliding a
shield over his left arm. Her words were so
soft Leigh had to strain to hear them.

"I can't help him, can I? There's nothing I
can do."

Leigh squeezed her hand. "You can pray, Gwen."
She closed her eyes to do just that, and her
lips moved silently as she offered her litany.
But Scully couldn't even be comforted in that
action. She couldn't take her eyes off Mulder.

The two knights faced each other from a
distance of about thirty feet apart. Both
snapped the visors of their helmets shut, their
lances held ready, as they awaited the King's
signal to begin the joust. The crowd fell
completely silent as Arthur raised his arm.

A flash of metal glanced across the field as
Arthur dropped his hand, and both horses
reared, then jumped forward as they started
toward each other. The knights shot toward the
center of the cleared raceway, their lances
poised, positioned to thrust the opponent from
his horse. The whole morning appeared to stop,
as if holding its breath, as they pelted toward
the inevitable.

With a thunderous, ringing crash, the men met
in the middle, and Scully grimaced as the
lances hit their targets on each knight's
shoulder. She heard them both cry out as they
were knocked backward, and her eyes widened as
Mulder tumbled head over feet off the rear of
the horse. He hit the ground, the lance
shattered into splinters and his shield flung
far from his hand. He rolled immediately away
from the horse, which maneuvered around him,
heading off the field.

Mordred's yell reverberated across the arena as
he called for his sword. He, too, struggled up
from the ground, and Scully was grimly
satisfied that Mulder had managed to unhorse
him. His squire ran to him with his weapon,
and Mordred spun around, seeking his target.

Mulder remained on his knees, having just been
handed his sidearm, and he had no time to stand
before Mordred lunged at him, the handle of his
sword gripped in both of his fisted hands. He
raised it above his head, intending to bring it
down full force on Mulder. Mulder threw his
own sword up horizontally to block the blow.
The impact reverberated across to the stands,
and Scully gasped as Mulder shoved Mordred back
mightily. The other knight, unbalanced by the
force of his own forward motion and Mulder's
thrust, staggered backward, losing his footing
and ending up flat on his back.

This afforded Mulder a moment to gain his feet,
but Scully noticed as he did that the stain of
blood on his hip had grown larger. A rivulet
of it began to snake its way down the front of
his thigh, and she heard the crowd mumble as
they saw the signs of his injury. She could
hear her partner's ragged breaths below her,
and he tore his helmet off, tossing it aside
and taking huge gulps of air. He started
toward Mordred, bringing the sword back in an
arc, as the other knight scrambled up from the
ground.

The blades met with a mighty chime, and they
sparred back and forth for a few moments,
trading thrusts and defending blows. At one
point in the fray, Mulder pivoted, striking a
blow to Mordred's shoulder, dragging the sword
through the soft, cloth area of the suit where
the armor could not reach. The onlookers
hissed as the blood from the wound sprayed
across Mulder's chest, and Mordred fell back,
cursing.

Scully's heart pounded as Mulder threw a glance
up at her. His face gleamed with sweat, and
his skin appeared almost translucent. He was
losing too much blood, she knew, and the
beginnings of shock were taking over his
system. He stared up at her, apparently lost
in her gaze, his eyes glassy with need. She
felt her lip start to tremble as she silently
threw every ounce of her own strength at him
through the sheer force of her will. He
faltered on his feet, lurching to one side, and
went down on one knee, his face still turned
toward her. He didn't see Mordred approach him
from behind, his sword poised, aiming for
Mulder's unprotected neck.

"Nooooooooo!" Scully's scream sliced through
the morning air at the same time Mordred's
blade fell. She saw the light in Mulder's eyes
instantly spark, awakening him once more, and
he rolled to the ground, the sword singing its
swath in the space above him. He kicked his
leg out and caught Mordred on his ankle,
successfully knocking the other knight into the
dust. Mulder tumbled over on his side, Mordred
beneath him, reaching for the sword that he had
lost as he fell. He grabbed it in one hand and
heaved it in a tremendous circle, bringing it
down full force onto Mordred's wrist.

The other knight shrieked as the blade sliced
through the thin metal covering and severed his
hand. Blood spurted, soaking the ground a
horrible crimson. Mulder paid no attention to
Mordred's cries, however. Scully could see that
his mind was locked in blind, white-hot rage.
He raised the sword over the man's head and
held it there, staring down into the face below
him. Even though she was a good fifteen feet
away, Scully could still hear him speak.

"You." Mulder spit the word like an
accusation. "I should've known it would be
you."

Scully could not see Mordred's face, but his
voice was saturated with anguish. "Lancelot,
I...I yield to your mercy."

Mulder's arm shook from where he held the sword
aloft. Scully couldn't tell if it was from
hatred or from pain. "Then say it," he
demanded through his teeth.

Mordred gulped in a breath and raised his
broken voice. "The Queen is innocent." A huge
shout of approval rose from the gallery.
Scully felt the knot in her stomach lessen, and
Leigh grabbed her arm, a smile on her lips.

Several knights ran forward onto the field as
Mulder lowered his sword. One, the smaller man
that had ridden in with Mulder, reached him
first and helped him to his feet. He had
removed his helmet, and Scully recognized the
distinguishable features of Melvin Frohike.
She grinned a little to know that Mulder had
found another friend in this bizarre world.

She noticed Arthur descending the stairs of his
pavilion, so she hurried to her own, meeting
Sir Gareth on the way down. He gave her a
brilliant smile. "I had every confidence in
Lancelot, my lady Queen."

She smiled back at him and stepped onto the
dirt expanse. Mulder was surrounded by well-
wishers, but his pasty skin and hitching
breaths worried her. She made her way over to
him as the crowd parted to allow her through.

He turned to face her, and she could see how
sick he was. "My lady Queen," he murmured
almost playfully as he began to bow...and pitched
forward as he passed out. The man who
resembled Frohike caught him and eased him to
the ground, calling his name.

Scully pushed through the other knights,
forgetting all decorum and station as she fell
to her knees beside Mulder. "He's in shock,"
she said to no one in particular. "We have to
get him out of here and take care of his
injuries."

"These wounds came before the joust, my Queen,"
Frohike told her. "They are terrible, worse
than any I have ever seen...but he insisted on
coming to defend you."

Arthur's voice boomed over them, and Scully was
a bit relieved to see him standing beside
Gareth. "Bring him to the surgeons. They are
the best we have."

"No." A new voice cut in, this one softer,
lighter, and obviously feminine. Scully
glanced over her shoulder at a small figure
behind her, a woman dressed in a forest green
gown and a rich sable cape, and found her
attention caught by the sight. The woman's
hair fell in lovely ringlets around her face, a
face Scully recognized from the one time she
had seen it as she choked within the Alien
Bounty Hunter's grasp.

Samantha. Samantha Mulder. Or at least, that
was who they had thought she was.

This woman stepped forward, speaking directly
to Arthur as if she had no regard for his rank.
"He is dying. The surgeons will not be able to
save him."

Arthur's face flushed a deep scarlet, one that
screamed anger. "You are not welcome here,
Nimue. This court has had enough of your
tricks."

"It is the sorcery of your sister Morgan le Fae
that has felled this good knight, King Arthur,"
Nimue intoned, her eyes flashing. "She wanted
to help her son Mordred to the throne by any
means possible. There is nothing of this earth
that can help Lancelot now. But I know the way
to save him."

Scully laid her hand on Mulder's forehead,
shocked by the heat radiating from him. His
fever could indicate that infection had already
set in, and she had no idea what kinds of
medical advancements this society had to work
with. If only they were back home, she was
sure she could treat him effectively&but here,
like this, she had no idea what to do for him.

Scully looked at Arthur. "We have to do
something. He is burning up with fever."

"I do not trust her, Guinevere," Arthur
snapped, coming closer to her. "You know what
she did to Merlin." He began to say something
else, something she could tell was more
personal, but he clamped his teeth shut against
it, and she couldn't help wondering what
the woman had done to incite him so.

Scully tried to remember the legend but came up
short. Her worry for Mulder's condition
outweighed any other thoughts. "We have to
help him. If she can do something for him,
then we have no choice."

Arthur's eyes fell on Mulder for a moment, and
Scully saw them soften. He stood there a
minute longer, clenching and unclenching his
fists, and finally spoke. "Then take him,
Nimue. Do what you need to do to heal him."
He turned in a swirl of silver and stalked off.

Scully pressed her hand to Mulder's cheek, not
caring who saw her loving caress. His sweat
slid over her fingers, and she willed her tears
not to fall. He would survive. He had to, so
that they could go home. She didn't even look
back at Nimue. "Tell me what to do."

*****

She runs, her gown a tangle of indigo gossamer
about her legs, her high-pitched squeal of
delight ringing in her ears. She catches the
heavy panting of her playmate behind her,
giving chase, shouting to her to stop, to come
back...

// Dana! //

< Gwen! Gwen, come back here! >

She turns her head, the wind whipping her long
hair in a flurry of red around her face.
Through the strands, she spots her pursuer, and
she smiles, slowing down, the wind rushing into
her lungs and making her vibrate with vitality.
The other girl trudges up behind her, obviously
out of breath, leaning over her legs to gasp
through her own grin.

// Dana, I'm going to kill you the next time
you do that! You know you're faster than
I am. //

< Gwen, you run too fast! I cannot keep up
with you. >

She laughs gaily and reaches up her hand,
snagging a crimson apple from the branch that
dangles above her head. The fruit shines in
the summer sunlight, and she smells the citrus
scent of it as she brings it close to her
mouth.

// Dana, don't you dare eat that! Mom said no
snacks...it's almost dinnertime! //

< No apples for you, Gwen! You know your
mother forbade it! >

She cocks her head rebelliously and starts to
answer...but the face before her swims in and out
of her vision. She blinks, suddenly confused.

// Missy? Missy, is that you? //

< Leigh? What is happening? >

She closes her eyes and stumbles back against
the trunk of the apple tree. She feels the
scrape of the bark in her back and takes a deep
breath, just as she senses a whisper of
delicate softness against her cheek. She opens
her eyes to see the man standing before her.
His voice is deep, resonating in her ears and
the fluttering space of her chest.

< Guinevere? Are you alright? >

His face is younger, clean-shaven, and he has
not yet begun to lose his hair. He presses
the pad of a fingertip to the delicate angle of
her cheekbone, tracing a trail down to her jaw.
His smile touches his eyes and his lips, and
she notices the juice of the apple glistening
there on the curve of his lower one. He sees
her staring at his mouth and flicks his tongue
out to lap up the sweetness. As he does, he
leans in, drawing her to him, his kiss searing
through her mind.

// Sir? You wanted to see me? //

// Mulder? Where's Mulder? This is wrong!
Not Skinner...where's Mulder? //

She can taste the sharp snap of apple in her
mouth as he deepens the kiss, but she puts her
hands on his chest and shoves. He moves back,
and she flashes a terrified look at him, her
heart in her throat. Blue eyes stare back at
her, the color of the sky on a clear October
day. Her voice sounds distant, strange, and
she can hardly understand the words that come
from her.

< Lancelot, I love you. But we cannot do this.
 >

He grimaces at her words, the pain etched in
the lines around his eyes and mouth. She has
seen him in pain before, so many times, when he
has been wounded, when...

// --when he was shot. On the Boggs case, and
when I shot him in the shoulder-- //

Her confusion swirls around her, mirroring the
white petals of the apple blossoms dancing on
the April breeze. She remembers being with him
before in a tornado of white like this, sitting
with him, his arm reaching toward her...

// --stretched behind me on our bench, as we
ate our lunch by the reflecting pool. The
cherry trees were blooming, and it was a gusty
day, and he laughed when the flowers landed in
his lidless iced tea-- //

He strains to touch her, his voice seeping into
her mind and heart, the same voice she has
heard in her dreams for so many, many years...

< Guinevere, I need you. >

// Scully, I love you. //

// Scully. //

// Scully...Scully...Scully...//

End Part 5A
Continued in Part 5B

-- 

She lurched awake, the movement of the wagon
beneath her swaying her even further forward.
She righted herself, pushing her back up
against the rough sideboards, and turned her
attention down to her lap. Mulder's head
rested there, and he was mumbling in his sleep,
his brow glistening with perspiration. Scully
used the hem of her gown to blot his forehead
and laid the backs of her fingers against his
cheek. The heat still poured from him, and she
estimated his temperature had soared to at
least a hundred and two. She stifled a roar of
frustration and glanced to the front of the
wagon.

"How much longer until we get there?"

The man called Bors turned slightly at the
sound of her voice from his seat driving the
horse, but it was Nimue beside him who
answered. "Not long." She pointed an elegant
finger towards the horizon, where Scully could
see a thicket of lush forest. "It is just
through those trees."

She fingered the makeshift bandages that
crisscrossed Mulder's torso. Bors had helped
her remove his armor once several of the
knights had lifted him into the wagon, and she
had bitten her lip to keep the gasp of horror
from escaping when she saw Mulder's injuries.
Angry scarlet cuts, some shallow, many more
deep, covered the entire anterior side of his
body. Scully had no idea what had happened to
him, and she didn't ask, instead ordering the
man who so looked like Frohike to find her
clean bandages. She had carefully stripped off
the bloodstained cloths that already covered
the wounds and redressed them, noting how many
already looked much too red to not be infected.
Wrapped in a heavy cloak and another blanket,
Mulder now wavered in and out of consciousness
as the wagon lumbered slowly toward its
destination.

Scully had no idea where they were going.
Nimue had regarded her with sharp, calculating
eyes when she asked, and Scully had felt a
discomfort she rarely experienced while caught
in the other woman's drilling gaze. Finally,
Nimue had answered, "The only place that can
heal him," and walked away. Scully had to be
content with that response if it meant keeping
Mulder alive.

"&Ssscccull&" Mulder whimpered and shifted
restlessly against her thigh. She could see
his eyes rolling underneath the lids, the
delicate skin fired from his fever into a deep
shade of pink. She smoothed his hair back and
wondered what he dreamed, what visions came to
him in this fervent sleep.

She had been dreaming, she knew&but those
dreams had seemed so real. She could remember
Missy chasing after her in an endless childhood
game of tag&being summoned to Skinner's office,
as on many occasions, to report on a case
without Mulder by her side&giggling with her
partner on their favorite bench by the
reflecting pool, watching as he fished cherry
blossoms out of a Styrofoam cup. Those
memories penetrated her mind, and they were
incredibly sharp and focused.

But so were the other ones.

The one where Leigh pursued little Gwen up
hills and into valleys, calling her to come
back to their castle home. The day that
Arthur kissed teenaged Guinevere under her
favorite apple tree, the stickiness of the
fruit that he had just tasted coating her lips
as well. The first time married Guinevere and
valiant Lancelot had stolen away from Camelot,
meeting as the sun set behind them and vowing
through their longing never to act on their
feelings for each other.

Those memories swam in her mind, too, clear as
newly-shined glass, as palpable as Mulder's
hair sifting through her fingers as she stroked
it from his sweaty brow.

But how could they be there? Those were not
her memories. They belonged to Queen Guinevere
of Camelot, not to Dana Katherine Scully.

Or did they?

Was it somehow possible that when she had
assumed the body of Guinevere, that she had
been given access to the woman's mind as well?
That she now knew everything about the Queen,
even if she didn't realize it?

And if this were true, then where the hell had
the real Guinevere gone? Did she inhabit
Scully's body in the year two thousand,
experiencing the same sort of strangeness that
Scully was enduring? And did that woman now
have a foothold into Scully's life, the life
she had worked so hard to keep private, the one
that she had just recently begun to share for
the first time in many years?

It didn't seem fair. Scully blinked as hot
tears flooded her eyes. She was not the kind
of person to cry easily&but dammit, here she
sat, trapped in the body of another woman,
holding the man she had finally admitted she
loved while his life bled out of him, feeling
utterly powerless to do anything to stop it.
And even if she could stop this, somehow
finding a way to keep Mulder alive, then the
question of how to get back to their lives in
the twentieth century loomed before them like a
threatening storm on the horizon. To top it
all off, an idea continued to gnaw at her, one
that she didn't have any reason to believe was
anything more than a wild fit of
unsubstantiated unease, but one that she had
started to think might actually be true.

Someone had caused this to happen. Someone had
brought them both here for a reason, and
someone seemed hell-bent on making sure they
were never able to escape.

She chuckled morbidly at this thought and
tucked a long strand of Mulder's hair behind
his ear. "I'm beginning to think too much like
you, partner," she whispered. She couldn't
imagine in her wildest fantasies how someone
like C.G.B. Spender or the other members of the
Consortium could have possibly managed to send
them back through time&hell, most of them were
dead now anyway, incinerated at El Rico while
trying to carry out their schemes. Then again,
she supposed anything was possible, given the
outrageous things she had witnessed since
working on the X-Files.

But right now, she couldn't think about
anything else. Mulder's feverish cheek against
her cool wrist reminded her of her priority at
this moment, and she looked up as she felt the
wagon begin to slow.

She hadn't noticed that they had ridden into
the grove of trees. They stretched their limbs
above her head, a shady green canopy of
filtering light. The forest seemed unnaturally
quiet to her, as if it were waiting and
watching for their arrival. Scully shivered
involuntarily as the wagon passed through a
long shadow and then chided herself for the
response.

Nimue's voice floated back to her. "There.
Stop next to the cottage."

Scully strained to look past Bors. Just ahead,
on the left hand side of the path, she could
see a small, squat structure built from
rectangular stones. It crouched there,
shrouded in ivy, which climbed up over the
walls and hung in beckoning tendrils from the
thatched roof. A small plume of gray smoke
glazed the air above the chimney. Scully
wondered who might be inside, expecting them.

The wagon came to a halt next to the house.
Gareth dismounted and walked back toward
Scully. He had ridden ahead of them the entire
time, determined that she should have an
escort, and his face seemed clouded as he
approached. He glanced at Mulder. "How fares
Sir Lancelot, my lady?"

"He is holding his own. I fear, though, that
he will not hold on much longer." She turned
her attention to Nimue, who now stood next to
the wagon. "What is this place?"

"A simple cabin in the woods. Lancelot's
salvation does not lie in there, but down that
path." She gestured ahead of them, and Scully
followed with her eyes, picking out a small
footpath amongst the greenery that snaked out
of sight.

"Where does it lead?"

Nimue's eyes snapped with something that Scully
couldn't recognize. "You shall see when you
take him, lady."

Gareth snorted. "The Queen is not taking him
anywhere by herself, Lady Nimue."

The woman's cold gaze settled on him, and
Scully was pleased to see he didn't cower
beneath it. "She must take him by herself.
That is the only way to save him." She looked
back at Scully, and something like a smile
briefly fluttered across her lips. "In one
way, <she> is his salvation."

"She is not strong enough to carry him herself,
and he cannot mount a horse!"

"Then wake him, and he can walk with her. She
can help him. But they must go alone."

Gareth began another protest, but Scully held
up her hand. "Enough. I will take him." She
smiled gently at Gareth. "I am stronger than
you think, my friend." Her smile faded when
she looked back to Nimue. "What do I need to
do? What am I looking for?"

"At the end of the path, you will find a lake
of calm water. Strip off his bandages, and
take him into it. It will heal him&if that is
what you want."

Scully shook her head. "What do you mean, if
that is what I want?"

"You must figure it out yourself, lady. I have
told you everything I know." She abruptly
turned away.

Scully felt her anger rising, but she held her
tongue. She knew this woman would give her no
other answers, no matter what she said or did.
She squared her shoulders and slid her hands
under Mulder's neck, readying herself to help
lift him to his feet. "Sir Gareth. Sir Bors.
Help Sir Lancelot down after I wake him."

*****

Passing along the forest path seemed like a
dream to Scully.

Mulder had roused easily enough, something that
had encouraged Scully immensely. He had even
walked the first part of the distance with only
minimal assistance from her, although his eyes
remained clouded and his face glistened with
the effort. But as they journeyed deeper into
the shade of the trees, a strange, shimmering
mist had begun to envelop them, and Mulder had
started leaning more and more heavily on her
shoulder for support. His jagged breaths
echoed eerily across the stillness of the
woods, and she murmured to him encouragingly,
her muscles straining to help keep him on his
feet. And through the thickening mist, it
became nearly impossible to tell how much
further it was to the lake of which Nimue had
spoken.

"Scscully," Mulder gasped, and her heart
lurched to hear how wet his voice sounded. She
glanced down at his abdomen, her sickening fear
confirmed to see the bandages stained red
again. "I&I need to&to rest a minute."

She shook her head. If they stopped, she
feared they would never get going again. "No,
Mulder, it's just a little farther. Come on.
We can do it."

"Slave driver," he muttered, and she couldn't
help smiling a bit. He was still Mulder, even
in the face of these awful obstacles. She
clutched him around his waist a little tighter
and pulled him forward.

A few more steps, and the path widened,
spilling them into a clearing of tall, emerald
grass. Beyond it, the ground sloped gently
downward, ending in a clear, broad lake of
shining azure water. The undulating mist hung
in great clouds over it, obscuring the view of
the other side&but what Scully could see was
breathtaking.

She grinned. "See, Mulder? There's the lake.
We made it." She turned to look at him, but
his head lolled onto her shoulder, his knees
buckling under him, and the whole weight of his
body came crashing into hers. She braced him
and lowered him gently to the ground, laying
him on his back.

She grimaced as she began to peel off his
bandages again. Most of his wounds had stopped
bleeding, but the one deep gash running
horizontally across his belly ran with blood
once more, aggravated by the jostling walk. It
screamed in vivid crimson, and from the heat
radiating from it, Scully knew it had to be
infected. With the other injuries he had
sustained, she surmised Mulder was too weak to
effectively fight the infection. It was just a
matter of time before it killed him.

Scully worked quickly, baring her partner's
wounds and praying fervently. She didn't put
much stock into miracle cures or healing
waters&but she had no other choice. If this
lake could help Mulder somehow, then she was
bound and determined to get him into it.

She moved to stand above his head and tugged
off the heavy gown that encased her, fumbling
impatiently with the strange ties and loops
that held the ensemble together. She stripped
down to the gauzy shift that she wore
underneath and then pulled that off as well.
She was afraid to have anything extra encumber
her in the water. Almost as an afterthought,
she freed Mulder from his trousers too, not
wanting to add more weight to his frame once
they were soaked.

She took his wrists in her hands, careful to
avoid the slitted sores on his palms and
forearms. She gulped in a deep breath and
pulled, and his body, although heavy, slipped
easily along the slick green grass. It only
took her a few moments to slide him to the edge
of the lake.

Scully tested the temperature of the water with
her foot, surprised at how warm and inviting
the lake seemed to be. She backed into it
until the water touched her waist, and then she
crouched down, bringing her chin in contact
with the surface. She reached forward, found
Mulder's wrists again, and in one fluid motion,
drew him into the lake with her.

She tugged him further in, carefully stepping
along the sandy bottom until the water
naturally came to her shoulders. Mulder
floated easily behind her, the lake water
lapping up and over his torso and chest, his
legs completely submerged. When she stopped
moving, she turned, bringing her one hand
underneath Mulder's neck, the other supporting
his back under the water. She stilled herself
and waited, not knowing what to expect.

Mulder's breathing was even and steady, and she
pressed her fingers to his neck, checking his
pulse. Faint, but not erratic, and she brought
her face close to where his ear floated just
above the water. She skimmed the long hair
away from his sweaty brow, drizzling a little
of the water across his skin to cool him.
"Come on, Mulder," she whispered.

His face remained impassive, and she knew he
was far away, in whatever place his
subconscious took him when he passed out. She
pressed her lips to his shoulder, tasting the
familiar tang of his perspiration mingled with
the fresh sweetness of the lake. Her eyes
closed, and her body began to slowly relax, the
warm water gently massaging her aching muscles.

What was it Nimue had said? // She is his
salvation. // She had no idea what that meant,
and her tired mind seemed to hurt more than her
throbbing body. She opened her eyes briefly,
only to see the water around them threaded
through with Mulder's seeping blood, and she
buried her face in the nook between his
shoulder and neck.

Nothing. Nothing was happening to him. If
anything, he was dying, while she stood in a
lake and watched him bleed.

"Mulder, please," she pleaded, her voice
hoarse. "Please don't leave me here alone.
I'm scared."

She felt her mind slipping away. The
scientific side of her brain reasoned in those
last few moments, telling her it was simply the
effect of all the events that had transpired in
the last two days, and now the stress of
watching her partner's life ebb away had
triggered the most rational response: to shut
down her entire system.

Scully dropped her head heavily against
Mulder's shoulder, her hands clutching him
close, her consciousness tumbling down into the
dark hole of nothingness.

End Chapter Four