The Queen of Mist and Memory
by Avalon

Chapter Five (Rated NC-17!  Please read
responsibly!)

Her skin tastes of water and moonlight.

Beneath his seeking mouth, he feels her pulse
thrum in her throat.  Her head lolls to one
side, and he peels her damp hair from her neck,
lapping at her like a thirsty dog.  His hands
slide along her silky shoulders, dipping into
the crevice between her breasts, and his heart
races faster as she gasps when he rubs a thumb
across one nipple.  His arms feel heavy and
slow, and he realizes they are under water, his
feet waving briefly above the sand beneath them
as he grapples her closer to him.  His mind
scrambles for purchase, too, trying to piece
the details

// Lake. We're in a lake.  Scully brought me to
a lake... //

together.  He opens his eyes, but there is no
water, only the slip of dark satin under his
forearms.  She is lying beneath him, her back
arching into him as he looms over her.  Her
breasts heave toward him as if beckoning, and
he snares one in his mouth, rolling his tongue
around the erect peak.  She weaves her fingers
into his hair, and his mind goes gray with the
pleasure of it, how she tugs

// This hair that's much too long. Hair that's
not really mine... //

it as she rocks her hips, pulling him deeper
into her.  He grits his teeth in a sensuous
grimace, knowing that he can't last much
longer.  His hand drifts down between her legs,
finding the sensitive nub that hides in her
glorious folds, grazing it with two fingers. 
She stiffens, and he smiles against her
straining chest, thrusting harder in rhythm
with his hand.  He throws his head up, his eyes
wide and staring, needing to see her release...

And movement catches in his peripheral vision.

He cocks his head a bit to one side, and his
blurring gaze falls on a figure standing in the
shadows next to the bed.  His startled gasp
sticks in his throat, but his body is in
overdrive, pounding into her now, building her
climax under his fingers as he races toward his
own.  The candles in the room flicker, their
tendrils lighting the broad, masculine features
for a moment, and as he shudders his orgasm
into her, his mind ignites in recognition.

// Skinner... Jesus Christ, that's Skinner! 
What the hell -- //

The walls of her entrance pulse around his
cock, and he looks down at her again, noticing
the endless waves of russet hair.  Her eyes are
open now, locked onto his, and she moans his
name

// Scully...Scully, is it you? //

< Lancelot... >

and her green eyes shine with sweetness and
love and

// No, Scully!  Not Lancelot!  I'm Mulder.  I'm
Mulder! //

the man in the shadows moves away from them
silently, but not before the bright pang of
shame and guilt twists in his stomach, jarring
him

// Awake. You're asleep, Mulder, wake up. //

*****

The water slapping his chin roused him, and he
shook himself fully awake.  Something heavy and
soft pushed at his body, and he realized Scully
slumped against him, her head on his shoulder. 
He glanced around them, surveying their
whereabouts, trying to get his bearings.  He
had a hazy memory of the two of them stumbling
along toward the edge of a lake, but he had no
recollection of actually getting into the water
with her.  Yet here they were, floating
together in a locked embrace, with Scully in a
sound sleep, her legs and arms wrapped around
him in an almost protective way.

The moon beamed silvery light down on them,
giving the water a mysterious, mirrored
appearance.  He moved in a slow circle to peer
around them, his arms still tight around
Scully's pliant body, watching the tendrils of
mist undulate like floating cobwebs over the
water.  It was nearly impossible for him to
figure how much time they had spent in the
lake.  He brought his fingers up close to his
eyes and squinted at them, noting that they
weren't any more wrinkled than they normally
were when he took a fifteen-minute shower in
the morning before work.  And then he noticed
something else.

No cuts.  Not one on the palms of his hands
where the sword bridge had sliced him to
ribbons.  His skin looked as smooth as a
newborn's.

He flexed his fingers into a fist and brought
his hand in between his body and Scully's,
feeling along his ribcage.  The deep gashes
were gone.

Mulder chuffed out a disbelieving breath.  He
believed in a lot of things, things most people
scoffed at outright...but he had also believed
earlier today that he could possibly die.  He
knew he had lost too much blood, and he knew
when he wavered in and out of consciousness
that his body was in shock.  He had been aware
enough to notice the terrified look on Scully's
face, the one that she hadn't bothered to hide. 
Oh yes, he had come very close to checking out
permanently.

And now, here he was, wrapped in the arms of
his partner in the middle of a peaceful,
moonlit lake, without a nick on him.

Miracle?  Healing waters?  Magic?  He shook his
head a little, his mind spinning.  This place
they had stumbled upon certainly was full of
surprises.

He cradled Scully's head in the crook of one
arm and wiped a stray strand of the
terrifically long hair from where it stuck
against one cheek.  He had watched her sleep
more times than he could count, but it seemed
so odd now, to hold this woman that so
resembled his partner, and yet was different
too, in the subtlest ways.  She murmured in her
sleep and tightened her arms around his neck,
and he smiled.

She may look different, he knew, but she was
still his Scully.  And he had her back, safe
and sound.

He hated to wake her, but he knew he needed to
do it.  They were together again, and they
needed to find a way out of this world.  They
had somehow managed to dodge a threat to their
safety, and now his intuition kicked in, urging
him to get them out, as fast as possible.

She moved against him, and he felt the sweet
sensation of her nipples scraping his chest. 
He sighed in pleasure, and his mind turned back
to the dream he had been having, the one where
they were making love on the bed of satin
sheets.  It had been an amazing dream, so
intense, so

// real //

Mulder frowned.  Real.  It <had> seemed real. 
The clutch of her body around his, the taste of
her skin, the hushed rustle of their movement
on the sheets...it had been more palpable, more
tangible, than any dream he ever remembered
having.  It had been like a

// like a memory //

Could that be true?  His sharp mind focused,
considering the question.  Was this body he now
inhabited, the body of Lancelot of the Lake,
remembering that experience?  Could it be
possible that Mulder now had access to those
memories, that more and more of them would
start to seep into his consciousness the longer
he remained in this world?

He flipped the idea over, like a man turning a
coin in his hand.  He still felt like himself.  
Aside from the fact that he looked a bit
different, and that he could obviously ride a
horse and joust like a pro, he still felt like
Fox Mulder, F.B.I. agent, profiler, and
paranoid extraordinaire.  And his mind still
seemed to be functioning as it always did,
pondering the possibilities in a realm of
uncertainties. 

Yep.  Still the same old Mulder.

He looked at Scully again, and unable to
resist, he leaned over her and pressed a soft
kiss to her yielding lips.  She stirred beneath
him, and her lashes fluttered against his cheek
as she opened her eyes.  He smiled at her.

"Hello, Sleeping Beauty."

Her eyes, those new emerald ones that seemed so
alien and yet so familiar to him, met his.  She
searched his face for a moment, her mouth
forming a word, and it struck him cold when she
said it:

"Lancelot."

He pulled her face back from his, clutching her
between his large hands.   He shook her,
suddenly terrified.  "Scully!"  His voice was
sharp.  "Scully, it's me.  It's Mulder.  Not
Lancelot.  Mulder!"

She blinked at him, and he saw recognition dawn
on her upturned face.  "Mulder," she repeated,
and he nodded vigorously.  Her hands dropped
from his neck to his chest, and she ran her
fingers over his torso, examining him with a
shocked expression.  "Mulder, what's happened? 
You...you're...better," she finished lamely.

"Do you remember, Scully?"  His voice sounded
strained, and he tried to quell the paralyzing
fear that had risen in him like a tidal wave. 
"For a minute there, I thought you had
forgotten who I was."

"No, I just..."  She blinked again, as if she
were trying to find the right words.  "I was
dreaming, I think, or..."

"Or remembering?"  He finished her sentence,
and she stared at him, obviously stunned.

"Yes.  It's so strange, Mulder...but I think I am
remembering parts of Guinevere's life."

He nodded.  "I think it happened to me, too,
while I was asleep.  I was dreaming, but it
seemed so real. I dreamt we were making love..."

"And someone was watching." 

It was his turn to be surprised.  "We dreamed
the same thing.  Or remembered the same moment
in time."

"I think so.  Arthur was watching us."

"Arthur?"  His mind clicked the pieces into
place.  He had seen the King the day before, on
the jousting field, but he had not recognized
him.  "Skinner is Arthur, right?"

She nodded, her forehead wrinkled in
concentration.  "But I think something is
wrong, Mulder.  At the end of the dream,
something happened.  I saw something else,
something I don't think you saw, because the
dream changed."  She pulled away from him,
sloshing through the water, heading for the
shore.  "We have to go back to Camelot.  I need
to find out what happened to Arthur."

"Scully, wait!"  He called after her, but she
moved quickly, and he plunged across her wake
in pursuit.  By the time he caught up with her,
she had gained the grassy beach and was
struggling into her shift. 

He grabbed the bloodstained trousers heaped
with his other clothes on the ground and yanked
them on.  "Scully, I think we should try to
figure out how to get back, but not to Camelot. 
We've got to get out of here and back to our
time, the sooner the better."

She threw the scarlet tunic over her head and
started up the slope.  "I realize that, Mulder. 
But something has happened while we were away,
something serious, and we've got to put it
right before we leave."

He left the rest of his wardrobe behind and
yanked her to a stop with a jerk on her hand. 
"Scully.  Be reasonable.  We almost got
ourselves killed.  We need to concentrate on
finding a way out of here before it happens
again."

Her eyes flashed.  "Mulder, we have a
responsibility to these people.  We can't just
leave their lives in shambles.  And I have a
responsibility to Arthur..."

"Because you're the Queen."  His voice was
barely audible.  He gazed at her, this tiny
woman he loved, and he felt that fist clutch
his heart again, sickened by the thought that
crossed his mind.  "You are not Guinevere,
Scully.  You are not the Queen, no matter how
many people bow and curtsy to you.  You are
Dana Scully, and you have a responsibility to
<our> world, not this one."

Her bottom lip quivered, and Mulder swallowed
hard.  He had obviously struck a nerve in her. 
She waved helplessly at him.  "I don't
understand what has happened to us.  All I know
is that I am having these memories, these
feelings, that I can't explain.  But I can't
deny them, either."

"I understand.  I'm apparently having them too. 
But that doesn't mean..."

She cut him off.  "You didn't let me finish. 
I'm remembering these...events...from someone
else's life.  But I...I'm also forgetting
details from my own."

"What do you mean?"

"I can't remember my telephone number.   I
can't remember your birthday."

He smiled, trying to calm her.  "Scully, you
never remember my birthday."

"I'm not joking!  I seriously can't remember
it.  I know it's in the fall sometime, but..."

He grasped one of her flailing hands and pulled
her closer.  He could feel her heart pounding
in her chest, and he realized just how upset
she really was.  "Relax a minute, OK?  I think
I can explain that.  We've been through a very
strange and stressful ordeal.  I think your
mind is overloaded, and that can explain some
temporary memory loss.  It's just the tension,
Scully..."

She looked up at him, her gaze hard and
searching.  "I can't remember my mother's name,
Mulder.  I can see her face, but I can't
remember her name."

He took a deep breath.  She was obviously
rattled beyond words, and that alone was enough
to shake him to his very soul.  Scully was
usually cool and rational; having her ranting
about her memory was as disconcerting to him as
if she had admitted to seeing an
extraterrestrial. 

He stroked along the angles of her cheeks with
his thumbs, hoping this would help to soothe
her.  "It's Maggie," he said quietly.  "Maggie
Scully.  Your mother."

She leaned her cheek into his hand and sighed. 
They stood there for a moment, and she let him
hold her, and he tried his best to allow his
strength to seep into her.  "It's going to be
OK, Scully," he murmured, his chin resting on
her head.  "We're going to figure this out."

She nodded mutely, and they started back up the
path hand in hand.  "I just want to talk to
Nimue when we get back to the cottage," she
finally said.  "I need her to tell me if what I
saw was true."

"You think she'll know?"

"Yes.  I think she has some sort of power that
is lost on the rest of us."  She stopped for a
moment and squeezed his hand.  "And you should
probably know, Mulder, before we get there: she
looks like your sister."

He acknowledged this news with a bob of his
head, his thoughts tangling together as they
tumbled in his mind.  Langly, Frohike, Skinner,
Diana...now Samantha?

And the hits just keep on coming.  If he
weren't so worried, he would have laughed.

*****

The moon disappeared as they walked.  By the
time the cottage came into view at the edge of
the woods, the sky had begun to lighten to the
soft gray of pre-dawn.  Mulder stopped to wait
for Scully.  She had fallen behind on the hike
back several times, her small legs no match for
his longer ones, creeping exhaustion evident in
her grim features.  He was glad to spot the
cabin; he wanted nothing more than to deposit
his partner in a soft, warm bed so she could
rest.

She caught up to him and slipped her hand into
his.  "We made it."

"Yep.  Just in time for you to lie down for a
bit." 

She shook her head.  "Mulder, there's too much
for us to do.  We can't waste time.  I can
sleep later."

He started to argue, but he broke off when he
heard the creak of a door opening behind him. 
They both turned toward it, watching as Bors
stepped across the threshold, a wooden bucket
swinging from his hand.  He shone like a beacon
in his armor, and Mulder couldn't help
wondering if he slept in that get-up.

He took a step forward, tugging on Scully's
hand, but she slipped out of his grip.  He gave
her a silent, questioning look, to which she
shook her head firmly, flicking her eyes to
Bors.  Message received: she didn't want the
small man to get any ideas in his head about
Lancelot and Guinevere, no matter what he may
already know about their relationship.  As much
as Mulder didn't like the idea, he understood
her reticence.  They needed to be careful
around other people.

Bors noticed them, and from the surprise that
registered on his face, Mulder couldn't believe
he didn't drop his bucket.  "Christ save us!"
he bellowed, rushing over.  He made the sign of
the cross with his right hand and then reached
it out to touch Mulder's chest, tapping him
tentatively to ensure he was real.  "Lancelot,
you've been healed.  It's a miracle of God!"

"Either that, or I'm made of stuff too tough to
kill."  Mulder grinned, genuinely pleased to
see his friend.  Even though he had reconciled
in his mind that this man was not his old pal
Melvin Frohike, he had grown to like and trust
Bors in his hours there as he did the
diminutive Gunman. 

Bors slapped him amiably on the back.  "Come
inside.  The Lady Nimue wants to go into the
next village to purchase supplies."

Scully ducked between the two men and entered
the house.  "Supplies for what?" she asked.

Mulder and Bors followed her inside, where
Mulder nearly collided with the woman the
knight had just mentioned.  Nimue stepped back,
and Mulder caught his breath, staring at the
features that were so much like those of the
woman he had thought to be his sister. 

Nimue assessed him coolly. "Sir Lancelot.  I
see you have healed."  She tilted her gaze over
to Scully.  "And we are in need of supplies for
these two knights.  They are about to set out
upon a quest."

"What quest?  What are you talking about?"
Mulder glanced at Bors, who shrugged and looked
at Nimue.

"King Arthur is in grave danger.  He has lost
Excalibur, and you must find it for him."

Mulder snorted a humorless laugh.  "He lost his
sword?  How the hell do you lose a sword?"

"Someone stole it."  This announcement came
from Scully.  Mulder blinked, surprised.  All
the color had drained from Scully's face, and
she appeared to be about ready to faint. 
Mulder put out a hand to steady her, but she
shook it off.

"I saw it," she murmured to him.  "I saw it in
my dream.  Someone hooded in black came into
the throne room at Camelot and took it."  She
directed her next statement to Nimue, who
waited expectantly.  "Then it is true.  Arthur
is sick, isn't he?"

"Without Excalibur, Arthur has no power.  The
magick of the sword sustains him.  Morgan le
Fae knows this, and she stole it.  With Arthur
weakened, Mordred will have no one to oppose
him.  He will easily take Camelot by force."

"No!"  Scully's exclamation stunned Mulder even
more.  What the hell was she getting so worked
up about?  They had more important things to
worry about.  They had to get back to their own
time, to their own work...to the life they had
begun together. 

Scully stepped up to Nimue.  "What can we do to
stop it?"

"I told you.  Sir Lancelot must retrieve the
sword for him.  Sir Bors can accompany him, but
it is Lancelot who must carry Excalibur for the
King."

"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute," Mulder
interjected, wedging himself between the two
women.  He looked at Scully with stern eyes. 
"I'm not going anywhere.  We have other matters
that need our attention."

Scully's return stare mirrored his in its
intensity.  "Why must Sir Lancelot go?" she
asked Nimue.  "Why is he the only one who can
find the sword?"

"Morgan le Fae has hidden it deep within the
faerie realms.  Only a person of faerie blood
can pass into that world.  And only Arthur's
greatest knight is strong enough to wield the
sword in the King's stead."

Mulder puffed out an exasperated breath. 
"You're talking about magic, right?  I've got
about as much magic in me as that stool over
there."

"You are the nephew of the Lady of the Lake
herself.  You can journey into the faerie
kingdom and find Excalibur."  Nimue's voice
took on an ominous tone.  "If you want to aid
your King and save Camelot from destruction."

Mulder started to retort, but Scully's soft
hand on his arm stilled him.  "Mulder," she
whispered, wary of Nimue's sharp ears.  "You
have to do this."

He drew her aside from the others, not caring
how it looked to them.  "Scully, I want to get
you out of here.  I mean it.  I don't like the
influence this place and these people seem to
have over you."

"I'm fine, Mulder.  But I do feel a
responsibility to help them if we can.  If
Lancelot can help Arthur now, then I think you
have to go."

He folded his arms over his chest, defiance
building up in him like water behind a dam. 
"Doesn't Arthur eventually lose his kingdom? 
What if this is how it happens, Scully?  Aren't
we interfering in that case, instead of
helping?  What if we are altering the course of
these lives simply by being here?  Shouldn't we
be concentrating on getting the real Lancelot
and Guinevere back where they belong?"

"What if it's too late by then?" she countered. 
"What if Arthur dies?  We can't let that
happen.  Not if we can save him."

He wanted to point out that it wouldn't be her
saving Arthur.  Nimue had said nothing about
Guinevere accompanying him, which bothered him
even more.  He damn sure didn't want to leave
Scully alone in this place again.  But she had
used the collective "we," the one that couples
used to imply their togetherness, their
commitment to each other.  Scully was appealing
to his sense of duty, his sense of honor...and
Mulder certainly had that, whether his
consciousness resided in Lancelot's body, or in
his own.

He sighed.  "I appreciate what you're saying,
Scully.  I admire your devotion to helping
these people.  But right now, I'm more worried
about you.  And that's always going to be my
first priority."

She smiled for the first time in what seemed
like eons to him.  "I know.  But I'm really
fine.  And once we've helped Arthur, then we'll
go back.  I promise.  I want to go home just as
much as you do."

They stood there together, gazing at each
other, until Nimue's voice stirred them.  "I
see that Queen Guinevere has convinced you, Sir
Lancelot."  She bustled past them.  "We must
begin our preparations immediately."

"What do we need to do?" Scully asked.

"Sir Gareth can accompany me to the nearby
village.  There, we will purchase rations." 
She looked pointedly at Lancelot.  "Remember to
eat nothing in the faerie realms that is
offered to you.  Their food is dangerous, even
if you are of fae lineage."

"And what should we do while you're gone?"
Mulder inquired.

"Rest," she replied.  "You'll need all the
strength you can get."

*****

Sir Gareth and Lady Nimue set out for the
village as soon as the knight returned from his
wood-gathering excursion.  Nimue left Mulder
with some parting words.

"We will return before sundown.  That is when
you must be ready.  The veil separating this
world and that of the fae is thinnest at the
in-between times of the day.  Twilight is the
best time to find the portal to their kingdom."

"How do I find it?" he asked, but she was
already walking away.

"You won't," she tossed back over her shoulder. 
"It will find you."

*****

Bors was fast asleep when Mulder re-entered the
cottage.  The knight sat propped up in a corner
on a stool, his head tilted back like the
bobble-head baseball player Mulder's father had
bought him when he was a kid.  Mulder tiptoed
past him and cracked open the door to the only
bedroom, where he had sent Scully before Nimue
and Gareth embarked on their journey.

He spied her humped form buried beneath a mound
of heavy blankets.  In the semidarkness of the
room, he couldn't make out her features, but he
figured she was asleep.  Squelching the urge to
crawl into the bed next to her, he began to
draw the door shut.

"Mulder."

Her voice was soft and plaintive.  He slipped
into the room and closed the door behind him,
aware of the other man just outside.  He sank
down onto the bed next to Scully, who rolled
onto her back beside him. 

"You're supposed to be asleep," he scolded in a
whisper. 

"I can't sleep.  Not without you."

He smiled.  "You were the one who wanted to
keep up appearances, my lady Queen."

She returned his smile, but it was faint, and
her brow creased in what Mulder recognized as
her worried face.  She grabbed his hand and
held it between her breasts with both of hers. 
The look she gave him would have buckled his
knees had he been standing.

"I was so scared for you, Mulder.  I was sure
you wouldn't make it."  She brought his
knuckles up to her cheek and brushed them
against her skin.  The sensation made him sigh. 
"I'm still scared.  I don't like sending you
away like this, but I feel like we have no
choice." 

"I was thinking outside, Scully."  He hesitated
to mention it, not wanting to further burden
her, but they had to make plans, especially if
they were to be separated again.  "You need to
find out what happened to Merlin."

"Merlin?  The magician?"

Mulder nodded.  "I don't know these stories as
well as you, but Arthur had a wizard in his
employ.  What happened to him?"

Scully shifted on the pillow, her hair moving
in the half-light of the room like a dark wave
on water.  "Well, according to most of the
legends, he fell in love with Nimue.  She
wanted only his magical secrets, not his
attentions, so she trapped him in a tree or a
cave.  Something like that.  Legend says he is
imprisoned there still."

"So Nimue knows where he is, and how to restore
him."

"Supposedly.  But why are you so interested in
Merlin?"

"I think he can help us, Scully.  He's a
magician, right?  Maybe he knows some way to
get us out of here.  To get us home."

She smiled a little, the slight tipping of her
lips that she gave to him when she was feeling
indulgent.  "Mulder, these are stories.  Merlin
was probably just some wise old man that
everyone feared.  He wasn't really a magician."

"That portal in the woods was real, Scully.  It
was created somehow.  What if someone conjured
it?  Someone with the same sort of knowledge as
Merlin?  Who else in the legend had magical
powers?"

"Well, the Lady of the Lake.  Morgan le Fae. 
Nimue, although she was only thought to be an
apprentice."  She sighed.  "But there are a lot
of tales in the Arthurian legends that have
magical components.  Just because these people
were thought to be wizards and sorceresses
doesn't mean they actually were."

"But it would be a place to start.  I think if
we could find Merlin, he may be able to help
us, with or without magic.  Maybe he knows the
whereabouts of that portal, and we'll be able
to get out of here."

"So that's my assignment?  To find Merlin?" 
Her tone was teasing, and he smiled to hear it
in her voice.  It gave him an assurance that
she really was fine, and that together, they
could make sense of the madness that had
ensnared them.

He bent down and kissed her lightly on the
forehead.  "Right now, your assignment is to
get some rest."  He started to rise from the
bed, but she tightened her grip on his hand,
staying him.

"Come hold me, Mulder."  She shifted her body
toward him, the covers falling away, revealing
her shimmering skin.  One naked calf emerged
from between the blankets, stroking along the
outside of his thigh, sending a tremor of
desire through him like an arrow.

He tried to keep his voice firm and steady. 
"Not fair, Scully.  If I get into that bed with
you, I'm going to want to do a lot more than
hold you."

She lifted her head, surprising him by pressing
her lips against his in a furious kiss.  By the
time they broke apart, his head was swimming,
and his body buzzed with electricity.  Scully
wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him
down to her, nipping along the underside of his
chin as he succumbed to her embrace.  "Then do
it," she mumbled against his skin.  "Do
whatever you want.  But I need you to come to
bed with me.  I need to know we're still us."

How could he argue with that?  He stretched out
next to her, pushing aside the remaining
barriers between them, enveloping his senses in
the rich, heady scent of her and the ecstasy of
her yielding body.  And for the first time
since they had arrived in this strange, mutated
world, Mulder felt what he considered to be
good, and right, and true.

End Chapter Five

-- 

Chapter Six

Twilight had always been one of her favorite
times of the day, yet Scully now found herself
hating it instead. 

Nimue and Gareth had returned from the nearby
village about mid afternoon.  Scully barely had
enough time to rise from the bed and scramble
into her clothes, not wishing these strange
people to find her and Mulder wrapped naked in
each other's arms.  They had parted
reluctantly, with Mulder kissing her sweetly on
the forehead before shambling into the kitchen
and waking Bors from his corner stool.  She
watched his back longingly, knowing it would be
the last kiss she received from him for awhile.

 From the tiny cottage window, Scully observed
the two travelers' approach, the gentle knight
leading a well-groomed horse upon which Nimue
perched sidesaddle.  The bags the horse carried
were full to bursting, stuffed with fresh food
and supplies.  The sight of a loaf of bread
peeking from beneath the flap of one bag
awakened Scully's stomach, and she realized it
had been over a day since she last ate.   She
set about rounding up the few rations she could
find in the cabin's kitchen, determined to make
a decent meal for them all.

Gareth brought her meat, cheese, and vegetables
from the saddlebags, and she threw herself into
the dinner preparations with a vengeance.  It
had been too long since she felt useful, and
the cooking helped her to focus her mind as she
worked.

She peeked out the window at the men in the
house yard, her vision roving from one familiar
face to another.  Back at home, in their time,
Scully would have rolled her eyes to see the
Gunmen and Mulder together, hatching who-knew-
what scheme to further their quest for the
elusive truths they sought.  Now, it made her
heart ache to see Mulder with the two who so
resembled Frohike and Byers.  She hadn't
realized how homesick she could possibly be for
their strange life, and for their friends,
until those things were gone.

And now, it looked as if they might never
return to that life.  As strange as it was, as
difficult and traumatic and painful as their
journey together had been, Scully was struck
suddenly with an understanding of Mulder's
feelings.  He had pushed to get back home, to
find a way for them to return to the year
2000...and she had instead insisted that they
stay here. 

What the hell had she been thinking?  What was
wrong with her?  Why in God's name was she so
concerned with this time and this place, these
people even, when the man she loved more than
anyone could be put in grave danger once again? 
Why wasn't she doing everything within her
power to get them home, safe and sound?

"We don't belong here," she mumbled to herself. 
"We need to get back home."

"You <are> home, Queen Guinevere," a silken
voice said from behind her.  She whirled around
to find Nimue hovering in the doorway.  The
other woman smiled mysteriously, and Scully
shivered involuntarily.

"And we'll be going back to Camelot on the
morrow.  You have nothing to fear."

"I have much to fear," she snapped, her words
sounding like cracking ice.  She didn't like
Nimue, didn't trust her...but certainly couldn't
put her finger on why.  She turned her back on
her and began to scrub furiously at the
potatoes she needed to add to her stew.

The other woman wafted up behind her, as
seemingly ethereal as a spirit.  "You will soon
be back at the King's side," she hummed in
Scully's ear.  "And you must do everything that
is necessary to preserve this kingdom.  It is
your duty, considering the circumstances that
brought Camelot to the brink of destruction."

The insinuation in Nimue's tone was evident.  A
wave of indignation rose suddenly in Scully,
one fast and consuming and furious in its
intensity.  Its power stunned her as she felt
herself spin on her heel, bringing her face to
face with the other woman.  The words that
flowed from her tongue shocked her as well.  It
was an otherworldly feeling, as if watching
herself from somewhere outside her body...a
sensation she assumed was close to possession.

"How dare you presume to dictate behavior to
me, Lady Nimue!"  Her face felt as heated as
the words themselves.  "I am still the Queen,
and I shall not be treated as if I were a
common maidservant!"

Nimue narrowed her eyes, the disdain apparent
on her face.  "And do not forget, my Lady
Queen, who it was that saved your precious Sir
Lancelot.  Were it not for me, all hope for
Camelot would be lost."

"Merlin could have saved him.  Merlin could
save Arthur as well."  The words were out
before Scully even had time to consider their
meaning.  "Where is Merlin, Nimue?  Are you
somehow holding him prisoner?"

Nimue chuckled, but there was no mirth in the
sound.  "Merlin was a useless old man.  His
power had passed.  You don't need to concern
yourself with him any longer."

"Perhaps," Scully countered.  "Or perhaps you
eliminated him so that no one could stand in
the way of your own quest for power."

Nimue shrugged.  "My affairs matter not in the
great scheme of things, but you, Lady Queen,
have much at stake in Camelot.  Your husband,
your people, your crown...all hang in the
balance.  It is up to you to do what is right."

"What are you suggesting?" The ominous quality
of Nimue's words struck fear in her heart.  
She apparently knew more than she was telling
about the future of the kingdom, and Scully
felt the sudden need to know now, before Mulder
left her side, what was in store for them all.

But she didn't receive her answer.  The
metallic chink of armor jingled nearby, and
Scully turned her head to see Mulder standing
in the doorway to the kitchen.  His eyes
flashed a questioning look at her, but he
remembered his courtly decorum. 

"My ladies," he mumbled, inclining his head in
a show of deference.  "Lady Nimue, Sir Gareth
requests your counsel in the yard."

Nimue gave Scully one last, hard scowl and left
the room with a swish of her skirts.  Mulder
watched her go and then moved to his partner. 
"What's going on, Scully?  The two of you
looked like you were ready to start throwing
punches any minute."

Scully picked up a nearby paring knife and set
to work cutting up potatoes, her slices swift
and sure.  "I don't know, Mulder," she sighed. 
"This is all so strange.  There are moments
when I can't even seem to control what I say. 
It's like Guinevere rises up inside me and...and
takes over my body."

She could hear the smile in Mulder's voice. 
"Interesting.  Sounds like an X-File."

"Maybe I was wrong.  Maybe we do need to get
out of here as soon as we can."  She couldn't
bring herself to say the one thing that nagged
at her mind more than anything else.  The idea
was completely absurd, and she was positive
even Mulder wouldn't believe in the
possibility.

"We will, Scully.  I'll find the sword and
deliver it to Camelot.  You find Merlin, and
when we meet back up, we can concentrate on
getting out of here."

She nodded, never taking her eyes from the
dinner preparations.  But even after Mulder
squeezed her shoulder reassuringly and exited
once more, she couldn't shake the fear that
Guinevere was overshadowing her
consciousness...and that little by little, Dana
Scully was losing ground in this body she now
inhabited.

*****

She watched silently in the delicate gloaming
while Mulder sheathed his sword at his hip and
slung a pack of supplies onto his back.  Bors
stood ready next to him, armed and appointed
for their journey.  Gareth handed Mulder a
long, narrow skin filled with water, which he
positioned over his right shoulder.  Nimue
stood in the shadow of a nearby tree and spoke
when the knights turned to her.

"Keep walking toward the sunset.  You will
notice the mist first.  Do not fear it.  It is
the doorway to the faerie realm.  And remember:
consume nothing in their lands."

"Any idea how to find the sword once we're
there?" Mulder asked hopefully.  Nimue shook
her head, her face masked by the oncoming
night.

"Morgan le Fae is a cunning adversary.  Perhaps
you can enlist the aid of the faerie folk to
help you in your quest.  I know nothing else to
tell you."

Mulder nodded.  He looked at Gareth, and Scully
noted the seriousness of his gaze.  "Sir
Gareth, I trust you will take good care of the
Queen."

"I shall, Lancelot.  You have no need to fear
for her safety."

Mulder turned to Scully.  She wished more than
anything to rush into his arms, to feel one
last time the tenderness and the strength of
his embrace, but she knew it was not possible. 
She allowed a sad smile to touch her lips as he
gave her one more chivalric bow.

"I take your leave, my lady Queen.  Tell my
lord King Arthur that I shall return Excalibur
to him presently."

She had to force her words around the lump in
her throat.  "Godspeed, good knight."  She
hoped he could read in her eyes the depth of
her love for him.  And at the very last moment,
she knew he could.  Mulder raised his chin and
winked at her.  The smile on her face
stretched, filling her whole being with warmth.

Bors lifted his hand in a wave as the two
armored men set out from behind the cottage. 
Scully watched them go, the sun blazing its
last hurrah of the day as it sank into the
green dome of the forest.  Her heart seemed to
pump with the same fire as Mulder's form
disappeared into the thick of the woods.

*****

The pain is worse than any she has ever
endured. 

It grips her in its twisting hands, wringing a
cry from her lungs as the agony coils in her
belly.  Her eyes are screwed shut against it,
but sparks fly in brilliant colors behind her
lids, exploding in rhythm with the contractions
as they seize her.  The arcing lights remind
her of her childhood, when she saw Merlin the
Magician send shooting stars from his
outstretched fingers, entertaining her and
Leigh and the others...

// Missy.  She and Missy at the base on the
Fourth of July, watching the fireworks blaze
across the dark summer sky...//

...at a birthday party at court.  She had been
amazed, and the old enchanter had laughed with
the children...

// The children...her children...Emily...the baby...//

Her baby struggles to be born, its time come
too early.  She forces her eyes to open, and
her straining gaze falls on Leigh at the foot
of the bed.  Her cousin's face shines with
sweat, pale in the yellowed candlelight that
spills in pools around the chamber.  She bends
forward over her knees, catching her attention.

< Push, Gwen!  You must push! >

She shakes her head back and forth on the
pillow, a fresh scream bubbling up from her as
another knife slices through her abdomen. 
Leigh throws her head around to peer over her
shoulder.  A shadow moves beyond the bed, but
she sees nothing except the wave of a skirt
over the cold stone floor.

< What did you give to her? >  Leigh's shout
reverberates above her wail.

The voice that answers is familiar, feminine,
and feral.  < She wanted something for the
discomfort.  It will help her expel the child.
 >

The bed rocks as she bears down, the sensation
of the child's emergence making her body react
automatically.  She gasps one last time as
Leigh stills, her nightshift covered in blood
and fluids.  The child lies there, a white,
glistening mass nestled in the cradle of
Leigh's stained hands.  They both wait, holding
their breath as one...but no cry comes. 

Her waiting woman lifts her tear-streaked face. 
No words issue from Leigh's mouth, but she
already knows what the verdict is.  She clamps
her eyes shut once more so she doesn't have to
see.  She can't bear to witness the death of
her child...

// Mommy...please, let me go. //

She stands straight and still in the chapel
with the coffin before her, a spray of white
carnations adorning the small casket.  Her
partner's presence at her side is comforting,
but nothing can fill the ache in her heart.

// What men would create a life whose only hope
is to die? //

He cannot answer her question.  He cannot ease
the sickness that seeps into her soul,
engulfing her in grief beyond all measure.  Her
child, her daughter...she needs to release her,

// Please, Mommy. //

she needs to forgive those who caused her death
and move on, but the sorrow clings fiercely in
her memory...

// I'm so sorry, Scully. //

She allows his arms to enfold her, and the
rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her cheek
soothes some of the anguish.  It was her last
chance...

< The babe, Gwen...your son is dead. >

The tears begin afresh.  It seems her eyes will
never be dry again. 

// It was my last chance. //

She cries as she rocks, as Leigh takes the boy
from her, to wrap him in clean linens and
present him to the King.  She knows now it was
their only hope, and Arthur will mourn
Camelot's loss while she and Lancelot suffer
the child's death in silent agony.  Her eyes
swell with the onslaught, but not before she
sees Nimue slip from the room, a vial of dark
liquid tucked into her hand...

//...my last chance...//

His arms around her are solid and sure, and she
sobs into his shoulder, his breath stirring her
hair as he whispers in her ear...

// Never give up on a miracle. //

*****

She battled her way up from the depths of the
dream, straining against its confines like a
patient in a straight jacket.   She pried her
eyes open to peer up at the brushstrokes of
steel gray and eggshell blue that vied for
dominance in the sky.  A streaking cloud blew
across the sun holding court directly above
her, and she realized it was midday.

She sat up quickly, feeling the scrape of
splintering wood beneath her palms.  She lay in
the wagon, the one Gareth had hitched at dawn
to the horse for their journey back to Camelot. 
But Gareth was nowhere to be seen, and Scully
was suddenly afraid.

"Sir Gareth?" she called, scrambling to her
knees.  Her head hammered dully as she quickly
scanned the clearing where the wagon was
parked.  She was reminded of recovering from
hangovers in college, ones where she shuffled
through a day of endless, droning lectures
while wearing Ray Ban sunglasses to cut out the
glaring florescent lights.  Then, she'd go back
to the frat house with her boyfriend, to do it
all over again...

Her college boyfriend.  What the hell was his
name?  Derek, or Dirk, or was it Drew..?

Shit.  She had spent almost two years of her
life sleeping next to the guy, and now, she
couldn't even recall his name.  First her
mother, now her old sweetheart.  The thought
that her memory was deteriorating rapidly
filled her with fresh dread, and she gripped
the side of the wagon harder, searching
desperately for the bright shine of Gareth's
armor.

She didn't remember falling asleep.  They had
set out early, before the sun rose. Gareth
drove the horse with Nimue beside him, and
Scully had huddled in the back of the wagon,
her teeth chattering against the cool morning
air.  And now that she was awake, she couldn't
quite remember the dreams she'd been having,
although the emotion of them lingered, the wash
of sadness and emptiness that she'd experienced
so many times in her life, especially when a
loved one had left...

She couldn't think about that now.  That
feeling compelled her to consider Mulder,
braving some strange new world that she
couldn't even wrap her scientific mind around,
and the idea of him becoming lost to her was
more than she could bear.

She shifted again in the wagon, searching for
the other horse, the one that Gareth had ridden
when they had brought Mulder to the cottage. 
The knight had tethered it to the back of the
wagon to lead it along with them; now, the
horse was gone.

Where in the hell was Gareth?  And for that
matter, where was Nimue? 

Nimue.  Just the skittering of the woman's name
across her consciousness made Scully swallow
hard.  There was something about the woman,
something from her dream, that burrowed itself
deep into her gut and clenched with ferocious
talons of hate.  Guinevere hated Nimue, Scully
realized now, and that emotion was bleeding
over into Scully's own opinion of her.  But
Guinevere had good reason to hate her, she
somehow knew...and that reason had been clear in
the dream.  If only she could remember...

A small movement in the corner of her eye
caught her attention.  She turned to see the
glint of metal through the rustling leaves of a
nearby bush.  A low sigh issued from the shrub,
and she pushed herself up, worry evident in the
creasing of her brow.  Was Gareth hurt somehow? 
What had happened to him?

She jumped down from the wagon and approached
the bush warily, her eyes darting back and
forth.  Her intuition, the inner voice that
spoke to her on stakeouts and suspect pursuits,
seemed poised on high alert, and she felt her
muscles tense, readying her body to spring if
trouble presented itself. 

She found nothing in the brush but Gareth, flat
on his back and sleeping atop a blanket. 
Spread next to him were the remains of lunch,
cold meat and fruit and a flask of warm wine,
plus two sets of utensils.  The other diner,
however, remained missing.

Scully leaned over and touched the man on the
shoulder, not wishing to startle him.  "Sir
Gareth," she murmured in a low voice.  "Wake
up."

It took a bit more prodding to rouse the
knight.  When he finally sat up, Scully could
see the clouded confusion in his eyes.  He
brushed at his auburn beard, trying to compose
himself.

"My lady Queen," he started, then faltered. 
"I...I must have dozed off after our midday meal. 
Please forgive my negligence.  I...I do
not...remember..."

"Did you eat with the lady Nimue?" Scully
asked.  "Where is she?"

Gareth glanced down at the scraps of leftovers
and then at their surroundings.  "She...she
wished to stop.  You, my lady, were asleep in
the cart, and she said that we should not wake
you.  I...I am at a loss.  I know not where she
may now be."

Scully picked up the stone goblet nearest to
Gareth.  It was empty, but she ran her fingers
inside it, a trace of wine wetting the tips. 
She raised them to her nose, inhaling, her mind
working frantically, grabbing onto a detail
from her dream...

// Nimue slipping from the bedchamber, a vial
of dark liquid hidden in her hand-- //

Had Nimue tainted the drink, adding something
guaranteed to knock the knight out?  What in
the world was the woman up to?  And why would
she want to incapacitate Gareth?

She frowned.  Something was very, very wrong. 
Red flags were waving everywhere in her
subconscious, but she was still muddled from
her own deep sleep, and from the disturbing
feeling of her dream...

// Poison.  Nimue poisoned Guinevere, so that
her baby would be stillborn. //

Scully dropped the cup onto the ground.  It
chinked against the earth as it hit, jarring
Scully's mind into action. 

She knew now.  She understood.  Nimue was not
on their side.  She was trying to hinder them,
just as she had been trying to undermine Arthur
and his dreams for Camelot all along.

Gareth blinked as the goblet fell, the noise
seeming to stir him, too.  He moved his hand to
his waist as he shambled to his feet.  Scully
watched as he grabbed uselessly at the scabbard
that hung there.  It was empty.

He raised wondering eyes to her.  "My...my sword. 
It is gone."

The words came out of Scully in a rush.  "Nimue
took it.  She took the horse, too.  I realize
it now.  She is not trying to help us, Gareth. 
She is one of Arthur's enemies.  We must leave
this place at once.  We have to get back to
Camelot to warn Arthur..."

Her sentence was cut off by a new sound, one
that vibrated the soil under their feet.  They
both turned in the same direction, and Gareth's
face grew grim.

"Riders.  Quite a few.  Coming this way."  He
trained his eyes on Scully.  "And if what you
say is true, my lady, then they are coming for
us.  But weapon or no, I will defend you until
my last breath, as I promised Sir Lancelot." 
He swept up his helmet in one grand gesture and
started forward, but Scully caught his arm.

"Gareth, no.  You'll only get hurt, and Arthur
needs you well and whole.  Please.  Just let
them come."

He shook her off gently, as a father does with
a pesky child.  "My lady Queen, it is my sworn
duty to my King to behave as a just and valiant
knight of the Round Table at all times.  I can
no more stand aside and see you accosted as I
could my own wife.  I will keep you safe if it
is the last thing I do.  Now, stay here, and
keep yourself hidden.  We still have the
advantage of surprise, for they know not where
we are."

Scully started to argue, but Gareth strode
away, heading toward the wagon.  She puffed out
an exasperated breath and ducked behind a
nearby maple tree, cocking her ear in the
direction of the pounding horses' hooves.  She
saw Gareth pull himself up into the wagon and
hunker down below the sideboards, effectively
hiding himself from view.   She didn't know
exactly what he had planned, but from the
thundering sound that grew louder with each
second, she could tell that they were
desperately outnumbered.

With a tremendous commotion, the riders swarmed
into the meadow, coming from the direction of
Camelot.  She watched from between the thick
leaves around her as Sir Agravaine, the man who
resembled Mulder's detractor Jeffrey Spender,
reigned in his mount.  He wore no helmet,
unlike the other anonymous riders behind him,
and Scully was astonished to see one who bore
the Pendragon standard on a pole.  There was no
doubt in her mind that these men were not loyal
to Arthur; why were they carrying his colors? 
Another trick, perhaps, to gain their trust?

She didn't have time to consider it.  Agravaine
glanced around the clearing and then nickered
to his horse, urging the animal closer to the
abandoned wagon.  As soon as they moved next to
it, Gareth sprung into the air, swinging his
heavy helmet in a wide arc and connecting with
Agravaine's unprotected face.  He cried out as
the metal smashed into him, effectively
unseating him from his horse.  In one smooth
motion, Gareth grabbed the horse's reigns and
leapt into the saddle, pulling Agravaine's
sword from its place in the sheath attached at
the rider's side.

Another rider was on him instantly, his drawn
sword pointed directly at Gareth.  The gentle
knight let out a bloodcurdling whoop worthy of
the worst butcher in the world and met the
other warrior squarely.  Their swords rang as
they traded blows.  Scully could see the
intense scowl that Gareth wore, and although he
fought like a tiger defending its cubs, the
other knights crowded around him, surrounding
him in a menacing circle.  Her hands curled
into angry fists as they dragged him from the
horse, where she could no longer see him
struggling. 

She heard Agravaine's voice then, clogged with
blood.  Grim satisfaction filled her as she
realized Gareth's blow must have broken his
nose. 

"Well met, brother."  The sea of knights parted
as Agravaine approached, his flushed face
nearly the same color as the blood that spilled
across his chin.  Gareth had been stripped of
his weapon and forced to his knees.  One man
held the edge of a sword under his throat,
exposing the flesh there by yanking his head
back by the hair.  Scully kept still, trying to
listen.

Agravaine smiled humorlessly.  "You always were
better at Hide and Seek than the rest of us,
Gareth.  So now tell me: where did you hide the
Queen?"

The bitter look on Gareth's face did not fade. 
"I shall not betray the Queen, Agravaine.  Not
as you have betrayed the King, and all of
Camelot."

Agravaine leaned down to speak, his voice
taking on a persuasive note.  "Our half-brother
Mordred is the rightful King, Gareth.  Arthur
has no other heir.  It is his right to take the
kingdom.  And for what better position could we
ourselves ask but to be in Mordred's good
graces?  He will deny his brothers nothing once
he ascends."

Gareth spoke through clenched teeth.  "Arthur
is still King.  Mordred has no right to the
throne while the King lives.  And the loyal
Knights of the Round Table will defend Arthur's
true kingship until their dying days."

"Alas, my brother," Agravaine replied, shaking
his head.  "You have chosen the wrong side. 
And you must have chosen < this > as your dying
day."  Gareth stiffened as the sword whispered
closer to his skin.  "Do not force my hand,
brother.  Where is the Queen?"

Gareth's eyes snapped defiant fire as he stared
silently at Agravaine.  A long moment passed;
finally, Agravaine straightened up.  His
countenance saddened for the briefest instant
and then hardened once more.  "So be it, my
brother.  I will miss you."  He turned his back
on Gareth and started toward his horse.  "Kill
him."

"No!"  Scully's call rang out across the meadow
as she fought her way through the tangle of
brush hiding her.  All of the knights froze,
and she could see the utter dismay that crossed
Gareth's face as she appeared.  She ignored it
and rushed to his side, knocking the knight who
held him prisoner back with a fierce blow to
his arm.  Another man started toward her and
then stopped, as if unsure how to approach her. 
She wheeled around and faced Agravaine.

"How dare you, Sir Agravaine, accost this good
knight, a servant of the High King himself?" 
Her words appeared to stir fear in the rest of
Agravaine's faction, but the man himself did
not waver.

"The High King is currently in no condition to
dispatch his office, my lady Queen," he
retorted, stepping up to her.  He grabbed her
arm and twisted, and Sully winced as the pain
shot into her shoulder.  From his knees, Gareth
grunted, but he was held back by two more
knights. 

"Unhand me, sir knight, or I shall waste no
time in bringing you up on charges before the
King."

Agravaine chuckled disdainfully.  "That will
gain you nothing, madam, considering that the
King is no longer loyal to you."

Scully swallowed hard, trying to expel the
taste of fear that thickened in her mouth. 
"What do you mean?  Explain yourself."

Agravaine spoke slowly, allowing his words to
sink in.  "Your husband Arthur lies
unconscious, the victim of an unknown malady. 
Nothing can revive him.  In his stead, his son,
Sir Mordred, now rules as High King.  And
Mordred..." Agravaine paused, his weasely eyes
assessing Scully like a pirate scrutinizing a
gold coin, "Mordred is the one who sent us to
find you.   You and he have much to discuss,
Guinevere.  About Arthur and Lancelot.  And
about the fate of Camelot."

He pulled Scully forward until they were next
to his horse.  He placed her hand on the saddle
pommel and smiled.  "Let us go, Lady Guinevere. 
The new King awaits your arrival."

End Chapter Six

-- 

Chapter Seven

It seemed that getting lost was becoming a habit for
Mulder.

He and Bors had found the mist Nimue spoke of easily
enough.  It was rather hard not to.  They had walked toward
the setting sun, going in the same direction that Mulder
remembered from his journey with Scully to the healing
lake.  He estimated they hadn't gone farther than a quarter
of a mile when the first wisps of fog began to skate by
them.  Gradually, the earth tones of the surrounding trees
and brush grew fainter, erased eventually and completely
by the frosted mist that engulfed them.  As they plunged
deeper into it, a surreal hush fell across the world, the only
sound the crunch of their boots on the ground and the faint
ring of their armor as they moved.

Mulder didn't like it.  It reminded him too much of the
feeling he'd had back at Joyous Gard, when he'd met
Morgan le Fae at the drawbridge made of swords.  His
Spooky Sense set every nerve in his body on edge, and he
kept his hand on the pommel of the sword he wore at his
waist, ready to draw it if necessary.  They'd been walking
for more than two hours, and he couldn't tell if they were
actually moving in a specific direction or just traveling
blindly in a circle. More than anything, the quiet disturbed
him, and after barely speaking to his companion for such a
stretch of time, he couldn't take it any longer.

"Bors.  Tell me more about Lancelot."

The smaller knight glanced over at him, his brow furrowed. 
"I know not what you mean, Lance.  Tell you more
about...yourself?"

"I'm not Lancelot, remember?  I'm just a...guest, I
suppose."

Bors shook his head.  "We should have had the lady Nimue
prepare one of her infamous potions for you, cousin. 
Perhaps it could have fixed this strange temperament that
seems to have overtaken you."

"So Nimue is a doctor?  A pharmacist?"

Bors crossed himself quickly.  "She's a sorceress.  You, of
all people, should know that."

"Why me, of all people?  What do you mean?"

Bors eyed him critically.  "A night ago, we feared for your
life, Lancelot.  I was certain you had no blood left in you,
and yet Nimue brought us to that strange lake, and you
were healed.  Is that not enough to convince you?  Have
you also forgotten her part in Merlin's disappearance, and
in the tragedy of the Queen?"

Mulder's ears perked up at the mention of Guinevere. 
"What about the Queen?  What happened between her and
Nimue?"

Bors stopped walking, staring at Mulder as if he had gone
completely mad.  "I do believe you have hit your head at
some point, Lance, to jar all these strange notions into your
brain.  You cannot remember?"

Mulder sighed, trying not to let his impatience bleed
through into his speech.  He genuinely liked Bors, and he
understood the knight's disbelief concerning Mulder and
Scully's appearances in this world.  However, he was
beginning to become a bit exasperated by Bors' staunch
determination that his cousin was still intact, still the
Lancelot that he had always known.

"Come on, Bors.  Humor me, OK?  What happened
between the Queen and Nimue?"

Bors began walking again, and Mulder followed, matching
the smaller man's shorter strides.  "They are rumors, of
course, ones that ran rampant through Camelot at the time. 
Arthur could never act on them because they couldn't be
proven.  But after Nimue enchanted Merlin, the two acts
coupled together were enough for Arthur to banish her
from court."

Mulder waited.  The event, whatever it was, apparently
pained Bors to mention, and he sensed that if he pushed,
Bors would drop the subject all together. 

The knight continued, keeping his eyes straight ahead, off
Mulder's face.  "It is said by Guinevere's women that
Nimue is responsible for the death of the King's son."

Mulder frowned.  "The King's son?  I thought Mordred
was his son."

"That he is.  Mordred is Arthur's bastard, engendered upon
Morgan le Fae.  She enchanted him on the night of his
coronation, and he knew not that he took his own half-sister
into his bed.  Mordred is the product of that union.  Morgan
has always hated her brother, because of the sins of his
father Uther against her father Gorlois, and because he has
gained the power after which she so desperately lusts. 
Since she will never rule, she will do anything to see that
her son does.  Including orchestrating the killing of
Arthur's true heir."

It was Mulder's turn to stop walking.  "Wait a minute. 
You're saying that Arthur had another son, but he was
killed?  By Morgan le Fae?  What has that got to do with
Nimue?"

"It was never proven, I told you.  But in her childbed, the
Queen asked for something to take the edge off the pains of
the birth.  Nimue was summoned for her knowledge of
healing herbs and remedies, and she brewed a potion for
the Queen.  Her waiting women and the midwives say that
the draught brought even more suffering to Guinevere, and
when the child was finally born, he was already dead. 
Since that time, the Queen has been unable to conceive. 
Arthur has no other son but the bastard Mordred, to whom
he does not wish to give the throne.  He knows Mordred's
heart is as black as his mother's, and he is afraid of what
will become of Camelot if Mordred rules."

Mulder's head spun, but in its turmoil, he latched onto
something.  "So you're saying that Nimue is working for
Morgan le Fae.  You're saying that she is not loyal to
Arthur."  He grabbed Bors by the strap of one of the
saddlebags and yanked him up to him, his panic rising. 
"Why in the hell did you let us walk out of there, leaving
the Queen with her?"

Bors covered Mulder's hands with his, trying to shake him
off.  "Lancelot, Gareth is with her.  She is in no danger. 
Mordred cannot touch her, not without bringing the entire
Round Table down upon him.  He is not that powerful."

"But Arthur is sick!  Nimue said that without Excalibur,
Arthur is powerless, and Mordred could easily take
Camelot by force.  I would have never let Scully go with
her if I'd have known all this!  It's a trap!"  Mulder
released Bors and paced away, running his hand through
the tangle of his hair.  "Jesus Christ!  What in the hell was I
thinking?  This is insane!"

"Lancelot, Gareth will protect the Queen.  You couldn't
have asked for a better knight to stay at her side.  You
know that.  You knighted him yourself."  Bors approached
him but stayed a few steps away, alarmed by the stormy
expression on his friend's face.  "And Nimue also said that
the only way to restore Arthur's good health is to find the
sword.  It is the only way that he can keep Mordred at bay. 
We must remember our task, Lance, and leave the Queen
and Gareth to theirs."

"But what if Nimue was lying?  What if this is just a wild
goose chase, to get us away from Camelot, and to leave the
Queen unprotected?"

Bors regarded him grimly.  In his look, Mulder read the
intense devotion and loyalty that this man gave to his
country and its people.

"Then we must either discover Excalibur or the ruse as
quickly as possible, so that when we return, we do not find
Camelot in ruins."

*****

They stopped to rest a good hour later.  The lacy fog
thickened around them like a huge, friendly feline as
Mulder un-shouldered the water bag Gareth had given to
him before their departure.  He fumbled with the strange
stopper mechanism for a moment and then lifted the skin to
his lips.

No water came out.

Mulder blinked and shook the thin bag, listening for the
telltale slosh of liquid.  When none came, he turned the
skin upside down and squeezed it, wringing the end up like
a tube of toothpaste.

Not a drop spilled onto the ground.

He shook his head in disbelief and threw the bag to Bors. 
"Explain that, my friend."

Bors caught the waterskin and puzzled over it, turning it
this way and that as Mulder shifted uncomfortably from
foot to foot.  His body was starting to ache from the weight
of his armor, and his throat clamored for refreshment.  He
pushed his physical needs to the back of his mind and
focused on Bors.

Bors finally tossed the bag to the ground in frustration. 
"That skin was full when Gareth handed it to you.  I
watched him fill it myself."

"Could it have leaked?"

"It is unlikely."  Bors took a deep breath and scrubbed at
the growth of stubble on his chin.  "The faerie realms are
strange.  Perhaps it is another enchantment."

"Or maybe it's just Nimue, screwing us again."  Mulder
swallowed, trying to lubricate his parched throat.

"'Screwing us?'"  Bors looked perplexed, and Mulder
waved him off, not wanting to get into a discussion about
slang.

"Never mind.  We're not going to survive anywhere for
very long without water.  We've got to try to find some."

"It will do us no good, Lance.  We cannot drink the water
in this land.  Remember what Nimue said?"

"Nimue is the whole reason we're in this mess!" Mulder
snapped.  "How in the hell can we trust anything that she's
told us?"

"Just the same, you know as well as I that the foods of the
fae are enchanted.  Who knows what will happen to us if
we consume it?"

"Well, I know what will happen to us if we don't get any
water.  We'll die, plain and simple."  Mulder turned in a
circle, trying to see through the soup all around them. 
"Goddamn it!  How are we supposed to find anything in
this place?  There doesn't even appear to be anything
here!"

He felt the vibration of Bors' hand clamping onto his
shoulder through his suit of armor.  The other man's eyes
were compassionate and unworried.  "Let us rest awhile,
Lance.  You need it.  Perhaps some solution will come to
light."

Mulder sighed and nodded, all his energy suddenly gone. 
He sank down to the ground, where he found the root of a
tree pushing up through the earth.  He scooted back until he
bumped into the trunk, propping himself against it.  He let
his eyes droop closed, his tired mind grasping desperately
onto thoughts of Scully as he drifted off to sleep.

*****

Her cries are worse than any he could ever imagine.  They
cut deep into him, searing his soul, and he longs to rush to
her, to somehow absorb her anguish and bear it himself. 
He cannot do this any more than her husband, the
King...and it is not his place, anyway, no matter what
words they have exchanged in the past, no matter what
deeds have brought them to this moment...

< Lancelot, I love you.  Arthur knows. >

He shakes his head, chasing the memory away.  She
screams again from behind the heavy oak door, and his
stomach clutches as he turns away, trying to duck beneath
the waves of agony.  He crosses the anteroom, intending to
choke down a cup of mead to dull his senses...but Arthur
sits at the table, blocking his path.  He slows, the look of
abject dread and terror present on the King's face halting
him.

Arthur's eyes meet his.  < I cannot bear to hear her suffer
so, Lance. >

His hand drifts down to rest on the King's shoulder.  This is
his best friend, a man loyal and honest and brave, and he
knows it is his duty to support him.  Yet the words stick in
his throat as his love for the Queen washes through him,
overpowering any other sympathetic feeling he might have.

< I know, Arthur. >  It is all he can think to say. 

< If something happens to her... > Arthur trails off, and
when he looks up at him again, his dark eyes are misted
with emotion.  < I wanted nothing but her happiness.  She
longed so for this child. >

His own eyes fill against his will.  He vows not to release
the tears, but they fall anyway as Arthur clutches his
forearm.  They are two knights, men of action left
despondent, helpless to rescue the one woman they both
love.

He swallows hard as Guinevere shouts one last time...

// You were right.  This child was not meant to be. //

The smells of antiseptic and disinfectant cloy at him, the
shine of metal in the fluorescent light too bright in his eyes. 
Her hair is like a flame against the white sterility
surrounding them, and he longs to embrace her, to hold her
up and strengthen her with the love that consumes him. 
But she wants to be alone to grieve for her child, to say her
goodbyes as the girl lies dying in the next room...

//...but the answer is yes. //

The expression on her face when he says the words makes
his heart skip in happiness.  She wraps her arms around his
neck, and her jaw trembles on his shoulder.  He squeezes
his eyes shut, thankful for her embrace, the knowledge that
he has given her such joy bubbling a wide, grateful smile
onto his face.  Together, as always...they'll do this
together...

// I guess it was too much to hope for. //

..and she is in his arms again, tucked up tight against his
body, leaning into him as if she cannot hold the weight of
herself upright any longer.  Her tears splash tiny droplets
against the skin of his neck, and he rocks her gently, just as
they would have rocked their baby...the baby that is not
meant to be...

// It was my last chance...//

She will not look at him when he comes to her afterwards,
hiding her face behind the veil of her long, fiery hair.  He
takes her hand and kneels at her feet, desperately trying to
convey his love and his sorrow in the stroke of his fingers
over hers.  Her usually steady voice cracks with grief when
she finally speaks.

< What have we done, Lancelot?  Our son is lost to us.  Our
hope...is lost to us all. >

He cannot stand to hear the desperate longing in her voice,
the plaintive note that cuts him deeper than any wound he
has ever had.  He presses his forehead to hers and once
more gives her the strength of his beliefs...

// Never give up on a miracle. //

*****

The coughing fit woke him.  Clutching starts in the deepest
part of his chest thrummed miserably through him, and he
rolled onto his side, automatically seeking fresher air to fill
his stifled lungs.  He wrenched his eyes open, expecting to
see nothing but the impenetrable bleakness that surrounded
him when he dozed off.  Instead, he bumped his nose
against the cold, unyielding marble of an alabaster floor.

Mulder groaned, sick to his stomach.  His thoughts shot
immediately to the enchantment at the bridge, the gut-
wrenching nausea that had been his downfall there, and
willed his insides to calm.  What the hell had happened to
him now?

Perfume thickened the air around him, a scent like roses
mixed with oranges and cinnamon.  It might have been
attractive in small doses, but it clogged his senses,
rendering him dizzy and disoriented.  He swallowed, and
the odor burned in his throat, setting the fire there blazing
anew.  He needed water, and he needed it badly.  He
wondered if perhaps this was delirium, if maybe he was so
dehydrated that his mind had shifted into some weird
fantasy.

He tried to spit the taste of the perfume out of his mouth,
but he didn't have enough saliva to expel it.  He braced his
palms on the cool floor and heaved a great breath, hoping
to clear his head.  As he did, a shadow moved across him,
and he jumped, flipping himself onto his back again.

He couldn't quite make out the features of the woman who
stood over him.  Her figure was backlit, casting her mostly
into darkness.  Her hair, though, hung in bright, almost-
white layers that nearly reached her waist.  Her gown
glowed white, too, and for a moment, Mulder wondered if
he'd died and somehow reached the angelic world of the
other side.

The words he spoke were nothing more than a hoarse
croak.  "Where...where am I?"

The woman's voice hummed in his ears, a rasp that he
recognized but couldn't quite place.  "You are in the land
of the fae, Sir Lancelot.  Do you not recognize your own
people?"

He decided it would be better to ignore that question. 
"Where is Bors?"

The figure gestured vaguely behind her.  "He is being
attended by one of my sisters.  I have been sent to attend
you."

"Sent by whom?"

"Queen Maab, the ruler of our lands.  Do you not know
her?  She is the sister of the Lady of the Lake.  Are you not
her kin, too?"

Mulder sat up, still trying to bring the roiling sensations in
his body under control.  He coughed again, a violent spurt
that caused his eyes to water, and the woman bent down to
him.  Her face was beautiful, with ivory skin stretched over
fine cheekbones.  It was a face he remembered, and he
recoiled in shock.

Marita Covarrubias.  This woman looked just like her.

Her lips curled into a smile.  "I am called Elaine.  Won't
you let me assist you, my lord?"

He slid away from her, trying to keep his distance.  Another
stabbing cough gripped him, and the fire burned down his
throat and into his chest.  The one named Elaine watched
him with concern and touched her hand to his cheek.  It felt
like cool satin against his rough skin, and Mulder found
himself sinking into that comforting sensation, his head
beginning to loll into her.

"You need refreshment, my good knight."  Her words wove
around him like a luxurious cloak, and he felt himself slip
further into her waiting hands.  He tried to focus, tried to
concentrate, to remember something important, something
Bors had warned him about, but his mind was sliding
slowly away, like a stone on ice...

"Come. Drink."

He opened fluttering eyes to see her kneeling beside him, a
beautiful goblet of gold in her hand.  She held it out to him,
and he could see the liquid that glistened inside it, clear and
inviting.  He tried to swallow and speak, but nothing
happened.  His eyes leaked a single tear, and as he felt it
trail down his cheek, he marveled that he still had enough
water in his body to produce it.

Water.  It was something about water...something Bors had
said...

The beautiful maiden extended the cup, bringing it up to his
mouth.  The goblet touched his lips, sending a shiver of
anticipation through him.  He needed to drink, needed the
water so badly to quench the agonizing fire in his throat...

"Drink, Sir Lancelot.  Drink, and stay with me."

Mulder swallowed, and time seemed to spin out in an
endless spiral as the marvelous water cascaded through
him, washing him away on waves of satisfied need.

*****

He is aware of nothing but the silky sensation that slips
across his skin.  He doesn't think to question it...his mind
is wrapped in gauzy pleasure, and nothing in his being
wishes to leave it behind.  The dreams that surface, if they
are dreams, drift past him in patches and pieces, like a
wispy quilt of etheric substance.

He sees the woman again, the one with the undulating,
snowy hair.  She floats toward him as if carried by the wind...

// Marita Covarrubias.  In her apartment in New York,
wearing a white satin robe when she answers the door-- //

The voice that he hears as she touches his wrist vibrates
through him, stirring the very essence of him.  It is Scully's
throaty murmur, Scully's loving caress...

< Guinevere.  Is it you? >

She smiles as she bends over him, moving her fingers to his
brow, brushing the hair from his forehead as she peers at
him with concerned, affectionate eyes...

// Green eyes.  Scully's eyes are blue.  This isn't Scully...>

Her auburn hair falls around him, and she lays her head on
his shoulder.  He can smell her, the scent of spicy roses
overwhelming him, pulling his attention out of the
comfortable, warm place where it resides...

// Not Scully.  Not Guinevere.  Someone else--what's she
doing? //

Her voice again, like the echo of a dream from long, long
ago...

< It is I, Lancelot.  Love me.  Show me that you love me. >

His flying mind grasps and pulls at that, hanging onto it
like a mountain climber grabbing the last remaining rope. 

// Not Lancelot.  I'm Mulder.  This is wrong, something's
wrong--//

His consciousness fights for purchase, struggling to
surface, to burst through the illusion, for he knows now that
it is an illusion...

*****

His throat cracked with his cry, the soreness sharpening to
debilitating proportions.  But he shouted past the pain,
because he was certain it would break the spell:

"Nooooooo!"

His eyes flew open in the same instant.  He shot a panicked
look around the room, finding himself seated on a large,
cushioned chair in the middle of a great hall.  Before him
stood a long, ornately carved mahogany table, spread with
a magnificent array of foods.  The aroma of them assaulted
him, and his stomach lurched, sick once more.

The woman called Elaine hovered next to the table,
watching him.  Her countenance did not appear to be
pleased, and Mulder frowned back at her.

"What the hell are you doing to me?"

"You insult us, Sir Lancelot."  Her pale face shone like a
moonstone.  "You do not trust your own kin."

He gripped the arms of the chair hard, trying to ensure that
he was now fully awake.  "You're trying to poison me." 
The flush of embarrassment rose to his cheeks.  "And
you're trying to seduce me, too."

She glided closer to him, and he twitched back in his seat
nervously.  This was foreign to him; he realized that
Lancelot had no more knowledge of how to deal with
magical things than he did.  The joust with Mordred was
old hat; this challenge to his senses was something wholly
different, and he felt completely out of his league.

Elaine lingered over him.  "You have come seeking
something that is not yours to have.  And in coming here,
you betray your own people."

"Excalibur was stolen from the King by Morgan le Fae," he
retorted.  "It is not hers to take, either.  The King needs the
sword to restore his health, and to keep the land safe."

She laughed, a low growl that reminded Mulder of a
hungry cat.  "You are more loyal to your King than to your
lineage."

A thought struck Mulder, and he went with it, following its
leap as he would any other that came to him instinctively. 
"The Lady of the Lake gave the sword to Arthur.  She put
her trust in him, and in his ability to unite all the people of
this land.  I am loyal to her, and to the man to whom she
gave such worldly power."

Elaine regarded him for a long moment, something flashing
in her azure eyes.  Finally, she turned and reached toward
the table, taking up a golden cup. 

"You speak wisely, Sir Lancelot.  Come.  Share at our
table."

He pushed her hand away as she extended the goblet to
him.  "I'll pass this time, thanks."

"You are in need of refreshment.  You cannot continue on
your quest without sustenance."

"I'll take my chances."  He glanced around the cavernous
hall.  "Is it here, then?  Excalibur?  Do you know where it
is?"

Elaine set the cup back down on the table, her eyes turning
cold once more.  "Morgan le Fae is our sister.  She
entrusted the keeping of the sword to us.  We shall not
betray her."

"But the sword belongs to Arthur.  I need to take it back to
him."

The faerie woman's eyes glittered brightly.  "Perhaps we
can strike a bargain, my good knight."

Mulder assessed her face coolly, trying to calculate what
she could possibly be plotting.  "I'm listening."

"The sword is hidden here.  I cannot tell you where it is,
but I can promise you safe passage out of the faerie realms
if you succeed in finding it."

"And if I don't succeed?"

She smiled at him, one that should have been
breathtakingly beautiful, but instead appeared carnivorous. 
"Then you shall stay here with me.  I can help you to forget
the Queen."

Mulder's stomach jerked, but he didn't flinch.  "So that's
the bargain?  If I find the sword, Bors and I will be allowed
to leave without any problems?"

She nodded, still wearing the eerie, serpentine smile.

"Will you let Bors go if I can't find the sword?  If I promise
to stay here with you?"

Elaine's grin widened, and her voice rubbed over him like
sandpaper.  "He will go no matter what the outcome, either
with you and Excalibur, or unaccompanied.  That way, he
can carry news of you to the Queen."

Mulder sat there for a moment, flipping through his options
like a restless patient with a magazine in a doctor's waiting
room.  There didn't seem to be any other way out of this
predicament, and he wanted to ensure that one way or
another, Bors got back safely to Camelot.  Someone had to
look after Scully.  He had to be certain that she would be
safe, no matter what happened to him.

Finally, he took a deep breath and spoke, mustering as
much confidence as he could.

"Very well, Lady Elaine.  You have your bargain."


End Chapter Seven


-- 

Chapter Eight

The ride to Camelot took no more than an hour,
but the time couldn't go by fast enough for
Scully.  She sat sideways in front of
Agravaine, her hip scraping uncomfortably
against the pommel of his saddle, trying to
keep her balance as the horse galloped.  His
arms encircled her as he gripped the reins to
steer the animal, but she shrank from his
touch, infuriated by his nearness.  He was so
close that his breath heated the back of her
neck below the upsweep of her hair.  She could
smell the pungent odor of his sweat and the
blood he hadn't bothered to wipe from his chin. 
Coupled with the relentless swaying of the ride
itself, it was enough to make her sick to her
stomach.  She'd never had a very high opinion
of Jeffrey Spender in her own life; most of the
time, when she'd seen him in the halls at work,
the word "Weasel" was the first to cross her
mind.  Agravaine was uncannily similar in this
world, and the notion of sitting very nearly in
his lap made Scully squirm in discomfort.

She could see his doppelganger, though, in the
lens of her memory: a small, wiry man, a man
who usually wore a dark suit and a scowl.  He
was still present there, in short scenes, and
she found herself grateful for that.  Some of
her other reminiscences were becoming more and
more clouded.  She searched through the files
in her brain, rifling as she often did in
Mulder's basement cabinets, connecting the dots
of Spender's life: his father, the mysterious
Smoking Man; and his mother, the bird-like lady
in the wheelchair, the one that Scully had been
drawn to...

Wait.  There...again.  Another black hole in her
past.  That woman in the wheelchair...she'd
talked to her, went with her somewhere very
important, even held her hand.  And now, Scully
couldn't recall her name, let alone anything
about the relationship they'd shared.  Jeffrey
Spender's mother was just like her own: lost in
a rift in time.

Scully tightened her grip on the horse's mane
as well as on herself.  This exasperating
memory loss filled her with dread and terror. 
She started recounting her family, every name
she could think of, the syllabic beat of the
words in her mind matching the thrum of the
horse's hooves:  Melissa Scully, William
Scully, Bill Scully, Charlie Scully...Mulder,
Mulder, Mulder...

She shifted, suddenly horrified.  Mulder.  Her
partner.  Her lover.  The man she had worked
with for seven years, and the one she had
finally committed to as only a man and a woman
in love could possibly commit...

She couldn't remember his first name.

It wasn't a name he used very often; she was
sure of that.  She never thought of him that
way; he was always Mulder to her.  But she found
her eyes filling with hot tears in spite of
that fact.  Seven years, and she'd forgotten
his first name, just as she'd forgotten his
birthday.  What else had she forgotten about
him?  What other important details of their
lives together had been lost because of this
strange interlude?

Scully was not a woman who allowed her
sentiments to overpower her logical mind.  She
was no shrinking violet, and she'd learned
early in life to school her emotions, to keep
them in check, and sometimes, on the occasions
where she had been hurt deep in her soul, to
bury them where no one would ever see them. 
But as the shining towers of Camelot came into
view before the cantering knot of horses,
Scully felt the tears slide down her cool
cheeks.  She tucked her chin into her chest,
determined not to allow any of the men who
accompanied her to see them.

She was unsuccessful, though.  In moments, the
knights were dismounting inside the castle
walls, and Agravaine gripped her roughly around
the waist, pulling her down to the ground with
him.  When her feet touched the dirt, she
turned her head quickly to avoid his gaze.  He
caught her chin with his gloved hand and peered
closely at her.

Their eyes locked.  His expression softened,
and Scully's hopes rose.  Although Agravaine
had made it clear where his loyalties resided,
he appeared to have a sympathetic side, and
Scully wondered how much of it she could play
to her advantage.  She needed to see Arthur to
assess the extent of his injuries, and she
needed to ensure her own safety, as well as
that of Mulder.  Perhaps Agravaine could be the
means to that end.

His voice still sounded blood-clotted, but she
could also hear the gentle tone beneath his
words.  "Why do you cry, my lady Queen?  You
have nothing to fear."

She didn't bother to wipe the tears away,
hoping their presence would play on his
feelings.  "I do fear your brother, Sir
Agravaine.  I fear what he has done to this
kingdom, and to the King himself."

"Mordred will not harm you, lady.  And the
King...the King is still alive."

"I need to see him, Agravaine.  Will you take
me to him?"

Agravaine blew out a short breath that
resembled a cough.  "Mordred instructed me to
bring you directly to the Great Hall, where he
awaits your arrival.  There is nothing you can
do for Arthur."

"Please, Agravaine.  Let me see him."  She went
with her instinct and reached out, touching his
cheek gently.  "You are the King's nephew.  You
must understand my concern for him, and my need
to see him at once."

He stilled her hand, grabbing her fingers and
pulling his cheek away.  She winced, afraid
that she had played the moment incorrectly. 
But when he looked back at her, she could tell
that her gesture had affected him, even though
his words had grown cold.  "I see that you are
trying to take advantage of my soft heart,
Guinevere.  I tell you truly, it won't work."

"I see things, too, Agravaine."  The speech
rose in her without warning, much like the
railing she had given to Nimue back at the
cottage.  <Guinevere's here>, Scully thought
ruefully, but she let the other woman speak,
hoping to gain some insight into how to
proceed. 

"I see that you are not loyal to your brother
Mordred out of love for him.  I see that you do
these things not for your own gain, but for
someone else.  As always, you vie for the
affections of your mother, Morgan le Fae, and
as usual, she does not appreciate you."

The words hung there between them, and Scully
wondered in the silence how Agravaine would
react.  His expression froze, and she could see
the hurt and the truth of the statements flare
in his eyes.  She rushed on, trying to
capitalize on his momentary lapse.

"You love your mother.  Your loyalty is
honorable, Agravaine, even if you have betrayed
the King.  You must understand my own loyalties
to Arthur.  I need to see him, I beg you."

After an agonizing moment, he took a deep
breath as best he could through his clogged
airways.  He wrapped his fingers around her
wrist.  "Very well, madam.  I shall take you
quickly to the King's chambers.  Sir Merhaut,"
he called to a nearby knight who had yet to
remove his helmet, "do not yet announce us in
the Great Hall.  I shall return momentarily
with the Queen."

She didn't protest as he pulled her along after
him, and they disappeared quickly into one of
the winding corridors of the castle.  As they
walked, turning this way and that like mice in
a maze, she wondered how any of the residents
could learn to get around the grounds so
easily.  She was lost in a matter of moments,
and she admonished herself, knowing that she
would have to learn the quickest routes out if
she were ever to escape from Mordred.

They emerged in a hallway next to a grand oak
and iron door.  The Pendragon emblem has been
burned into its wood, and two guards stood on
either side, as still and as straight as the
Beefeaters she had seen when visiting
Buckingham Palace.  Their eyes never moved as
Agravaine addressed them.

"The Lady Queen Guinevere wishes to see the
King.  Sir Mordred sends me with her."

One spoke in a thick, cumbersome accent that
resembled French:  "The new King Mordred gave
us strict orders.  No admittance."

Agravaine stepped up to the man, his glare icy. 
"I come from Mordred with the Queen.  Do not
test my patience, Chretien.  You do not want to
end up on my bad side, nor on the new King's."

Scully held her breath as the two men stood
nose to nose.  Finally, the one named Chretien
backed up a step and turned to the door,
rattling the keys on a huge, brass ring from
their place on his belt.  He unlocked the door
and stood aside, never looking at her as she
swept past him on Agravaine's heels.  The door
shut behind them with a bellow, and Scully
squinted, trying to help her vision adjust to
the darkness of the room.

The chamber was lit with torches, and a small
fire blazed on the hearth at the far side of
the room.  The fires warmed the air, which was
chilly despite the brilliant sun outside the
tiny, lone window.  The room was simpler than
she'd imagined it to be, consisting only of a
carved, round table near the door ringed with
four small chairs and the massive bed that
dominated the space. 

She walked toward it, steeling herself for what
she might see there.  Heavy scarlet draperies
hung from the frame around the bed, obscuring
her view of its occupant, and she felt herself
detach as she often did before she walked into
an autopsy bay.  She was peripherally aware of
Agravaine stopping some distance away,
apparently to give her a moment of privacy. 
She reached up and slowly drew the curtain to
one side.

Arthur appeared to be sleeping.  He lay on his
back, his head propped at an angle upon two
large pillows, and he looked peaceful.  Someone
had stripped him of his garments and tucked him
under the ornate crimson bedspread.  She
noticed the silvery scars that ran along his
collarbone in almost parallel lines, and
another notched hole near his sternum...

<...from when he was shot with an arrow during
the Saxon wars...>

Scully blinked, surprised.  This information
had surfaced, apparently from an unknown
source.  She smiled inwardly, realizing that
wasn't exactly true.  It had come from
Guinevere's consciousness.  She understood that
Arthur's wife could catalogue his injuries,
just as she could with Mulder's. 

She moved closer to the bed and reached out,
taking Arthur's large hand in her own.  She
felt with her fingertips for the pulse in his
wrist, which she found to be steady, if not a
bit faint.  Leaving her fingers twined in his,
she touched the back of her other hand to his
forehead.  No fever, at least that she could
detect.  Perhaps he would respond to her voice.

She leaned down, bringing her mouth close to
his ear, not wanting Agravaine to hear her. As
she did, his scent, a mixture of masculine musk
and the sweet aroma of wine filled her nose. 
It overwhelmed her, and without warning, she
burst into tears.

<...Arthur...Arthur, my dear husband...what have I
done to you? >
 
Guinevere's lament in her head consumed her,
and she collapsed onto the bed next to him,
clinging to his large body as she sobbed.   She
could hear his heart beat as her ear came to
rest on his chest, and its rhythm seemed to
pulse memories into her head as her own heart
pushed her blood through her body...

< Arthur.  You're going to be killed one of
these days in your infernal wars.  Then where
will Camelot be? >

< Arthur, you are the King.  You should not
engage in single combat.  It is foolhardy.  You
worry me so. >

// Sir...it's a radical procedure. //

His voice, the same one in both lifetimes,
hushed from fatigue and pain and the attempt to
do the right thing..

// I'm in your hands. //

 From behind, Agravaine pulled at her, gently at
first and then more insistently.  "My lady
Queen, please.  We must go.  I must take you
now to Mordred.  I beseech you, do not carry on
so..."

Her cries hitched in her throat as another male
voice came from the foot of the bed:  "Alas,
poor Guinevere.  But do you grieve so for your
husband, or for yourself?"

Her own consciousness seemed to slam back into
place from its teetering position on the
precipice of her mind.  The essence of Scully
shot through her, and she straightened up,
swiping wildly at the tears that soaked her
cheeks.  When she turned toward Mordred, her
composure had returned. 

He stood at the foot of his father's bed, his
eyes venomous in his dark countenance.  He
still wore all black, save for the cloak of
brilliant red that hung around his shoulders. 
Scully recognized it at once.  It was the same
one Arthur had worn on her first morning in
Camelot, when he had spoken to her in her
bedchamber.  It was the Pendragon standard, and
now, Mordred wore the mantle as if it belonged
to him.  Seeing him dressed in the royal
vestments angered her anew, and the pique bled
into her words when she spoke.

"Sir Mordred.  I demand an explanation
concerning the King, and the intolerable
treatment of myself and Sir Gareth, your
brother."

Mordred gave a short, sinister chuckle.  "You
demand, lady?  You are hardly in a position to
make demands."  He leveled his gaze at
Agravaine, who hovered behind her.  "Brother,
were my orders not clear to you?  Why was the
Queen brought to this room?"

Agravaine cleared his throat.  "I beg your
pardon, my lord.  The Queen asked to see her
husband, and I saw no harm--"

Mordred strode forward quickly, positioning
himself directly in front of Agravaine. 
Mordred stood a good head taller, and Scully
could see the smaller man wither slightly in
his brother's shadow.   "I did not ask for your
counsel on this matter, Sir Agravaine.  If you
cannot follow a simple order, perhaps you are
not fit to serve at the King's side." 

Agravaine dropped his eyes from Mordred's face,
but his breathing rattled, shallow and fast. 
He was angry, but he held his tongue.  Mordred
watched him a moment longer and then stood
aside.  "Leave us, brother.  Have the doctors
attend to your wounds."  Mordred's gaze crept
back over to Scully, and her skin began to
crawl with it.  "The Queen and I have much to
discuss."

Agravaine threw a bitter look at Scully.  "As
you wish."  He gave a short bow and exited the
room, pulling the door shut behind him.

Scully shifted on the mattress as Mordred
assessed her, trying to figure out what to say. 
It was obvious to her that Mordred meant to
keep the Queen with him at Camelot, more than
likely as a prisoner or a bargaining chip in
his political maneuvers, and she had no earthly
idea what his plans might be.  She steeled
herself to hear them, squeezing Arthur's warm,
square hand for reassurance.  She hoped that
once he made his mind clear to her, she'd be
able to discern a way to save Arthur, and to
get herself out of Camelot and back to Mulder. 
She silently willed Guinevere to listen, and to
help her respond in the best ways, so that she
could do what was needed for everyone involved.

But Mordred remained silent, simply staring at
her, and she grew more and more impatient and
nervous.  She raised her eyes to look at him,
and her gaze fell on his left arm.  She had
forgotten that Mulder had summarily amputated
his hand in the joust. The stump on the end of
his limb appeared to be healing well.  The
bandages that covered it were pristine white,
and Scully wondered once more at the medical
advancements that this primitive society must
have had.

Mordred's eyes followed hers to his missing
hand, and he smiled softly.  "Ah.  Are you
concerned for me, dear Guinevere?  Well, I
assure you: Lancelot did not manage to maim me
so badly that I would expire.  My mother saw to
that."

Scully's interest piqued at the mention of the
woman called Morgan le Fae.  "Where is your
mother?"

"That is none of your concern, lady.  My mother
comes and goes as she pleases, as she always
has."

"I am concerned because she is a thief.  She
has stolen Excalibur from the King, and I am
told it is that theft that renders him to his
current condition."

"What?"  Amusement crossed Mordred's face. 
"Can I believe my ears?  The High Queen of
Britain is professing belief in magic?"

Scully dropped her chin willfully.  "I have
seen things, Sir Mordred, that defy any other
explanation.  There are other forces at work in
this place.  I believe, in the case of the
King, that this is true as well.  And I think
your mother is the sorrowful cause of it."

Mordred stepped closer to her, obviously trying
to intimidate her as he had with Agravaine.
"And that is why you have sent your precious
Sir Lancelot into the faerie lands, to try to
retrieve the sword?"  He laughed.  "I tell you
truly, lady, he will never return to Camelot. 
You have sent him to his death.  Or worse."

At the mention of Mulder, Scully's chest
clutched, and she gripped Arthur's hand harder. 
"What do you mean?"

"Tis true that Lancelot is of faerie blood. 
That alone may keep him alive.  But he will be
ensnared by the wiles of the fae, just as any
mortal man is."  He leaned down to her, so near
that his cheek brushed against her hair, and
Scully jerked violently away, repulsed.  "He
will forget all about you, Guinevere.  Whatever
will you do?"

She replied between her teeth, "Lancelot will
return.  With Excalibur.  And he will save the
King's life.  Then where will you be, Sir
Mordred?  The King will be swift and sure in
punishing your treachery."

Mordred laughed again, softly this time,
stirring her hair with his breath.  "I tell
you, lady, even if Lancelot somehow returns, by
then it will be too late to save the King.  I
shall remain on the throne, and you, my sweet
Queen, are going to help me to do just that."

"I shall never help you to the throne, Mordred. 
Surely you must know that."

"I know that you would sacrifice yourself for
the love of the men in your life.  For Arthur,
and for Lancelot.  That is true, is it not,
Gwen?"  He smiled, and her mind reeled to hear
the endearment that he used to address her.  "I
propose a bargain to you.  A bargain that will
save the lives of both Lancelot and Arthur."

Her throat constricted so tightly it allowed no
words to come through.  She simply nodded for
him to continue while she remained silent.

"I know that you seek Merlin, Guinevere.  I
can't pretend to know why, but I believe my
mother when she tells me thus."

Scully's mind lurched.  How in the hell could
Mordred know the plans that she and Mulder had
made back at the cottage?  Nimue had already
left with Gareth, so she couldn't have
overheard their conversation.  Had Morgan le
Fae herself been lurking somewhere nearby,
listening to them?  Mordred opened his mouth to
speak again, and she yanked her thoughts back
to his words.

"Merlin is already in the land of the fae. 
That is where he has been kept hidden.  If you
do as I ask, he will be released, and he can
help Lancelot to survive."

Her hopes rose, wanting to believe that Mulder
could be safe.  But the hand in hers reminded
her of Guinevere's duty to the man who lay
beside her.  "What about Arthur? You said he
would live as well."

"I shall have my mother heal Arthur.  She has
the power to do it, even if Excalibur is absent
from him.  He will be weakened, but he shall
still live."

Scully drew a deep breath, trying to keep her
voice steady.  "And what must I do to allow
these things to happen as you have said?"

Mordred straightened up and paced to the foot
of the bed, his tone becoming regal.  "I shall
have the Bishop draw up a document that you
will sign, declaring the King incapacitated and
unable to fulfill the duties of his office.  It
will further declare I, Mordred, as his formal
successor.  I shall have the ritual of
coronation with full authority and blessing of
both the Queen and the Church.  Then, after my
father is healed, he will be unable to contest
my advancement."

Scully glanced down at Arthur's face.  She
ached to be able to ask for his advice, to see
if he found this bargain worthwhile.  Would
Arthur want to live, seeing his bastard son
ruling his kingdom, possibly undoing every good
and decent thing he had accomplished? 
 
She saw, however, that she had very little
choice.  She had to help Mulder, by any means
possible.  She'd had no idea of the gravity of
his situation.  Now, it grasped at her with
sharp, stinging reality, and if she could save
him, she would. 

She asked one last time, to be sure.  "If I do
sign this decree, you will release Merlin to
Lancelot, and you will save your father's
life?"

"I will, my lady.  You have my oath."

"And how can I trust you, Mordred?  After all
you have done?"

His demeanor softened then, melting away like a
child's temper tantrum.  He strode over to her
and dropped to one knee at her feet, bowing his
head.  "I swear to you on my mother's life, my
lady Queen: all will be done as I have said." 
He raised his eyes, searching her face.  "Will
you sign it?"

She couldn't say the words.  She nodded
instead, turning her face away, allowing her
gaze to settle on Arthur once more.  She heard
the rustle of the Pendragon cloak as Mordred
rose and moved to the bedchamber door.

"Then I shall have it drawn as we have agreed. 
I will send for you later, my lady Queen.  My
mother and the Bishop shall be our guests at
dinner tonight.  I will have Sir Agravaine
accompany you to your rooms shortly.  I take
your leave, my lady."

He was gone in a rush of fabric and the boom of
wood against stone.  As soon as the door
closed, all the energy cascaded out of Scully
in a stream.  She curled her body next to
Arthur's, soaking in the warmth and solid
goodness of him.  It reminded her of the times
when, as a child, she had sneaked into Bill's
bed in the depths of the night, seeking his
comfort after a nightmare jarred her awake. 
She flung one arm over Arthur's still body,
hanging onto him for dear life, thinking of
Mulder and feeling as frightened as she had on
those nights as a little girl.

*****

Her chamber was empty when Sir Agravaine
brought her to it.  They had walked in silence
through the cold, damp halls of the castle, and
Scully had paid close attention this time,
marking her way with her analytical brain,
memorizing torch sconces and wall hangings so
that she could find her way back to Arthur's
room when and if she needed to go.  Agravaine
appeared surly and withdrawn, and she made no
attempt to speak to him.  He left her
wordlessly just inside the repaired door to her
bedchamber, and she noted the guards that stood
quietly outside, dressed in the same official
garb as the ones on vigil at Arthur's
threshold.

She hadn't been in the room more than a minute
when Leigh appeared in the doorway, bearing a
tray of food from the kitchens.  The other
woman set the platter down hurriedly on the
dressing table and ran to Scully, throwing her
arms around her shoulders in a fierce hug.

"Oh, Gwen!  I have been so very afraid for
you."

Scully patted the woman on the back, grateful
for her friendship and surprised at how happy
she was to see her again.  "Everything is
alright, Leigh," she murmured.  "But I am happy
to be back here."

Leigh broke their embrace but kept hold of
Scully's hand.  "Come," she urged, pulling
Scully over to the bed.  "Let us get you
cleaned and fed, and then we can speak about
all that has happened."

The bathing and dressing ritual began.  This
time, however, it seemed less foreign and more
palpable to Scully, and she allowed Leigh to
help her wash her long tresses, relaxing more
and more as the warm, luxurious water swept
over her body.  After stepping from the
standing tub, she watched in the wardrobe
mirror as Leigh helped her into a long gown of
silver brocade, trimmed at the sleeves and low
neckline with silky, snowy fur.  Leigh fitted
her ears with sparkling silver jewels and began
to fasten a choker of pearls around her neck.

"Leigh, where is my cross?" 

Leigh frowned and gestured toward the table
where Scully's soiled garments lay.  "Do you
wish to wear it instead, Gwen?  It does not
match your gown as the pearls do."

"The pearls are lovely," Scully said kindly,
not wanting to offend her, "but I prefer the
cross.  It gives me strength."

A small smile touched Leigh's lips.  "Then I
shall fetch it.  God knows we need His strength
now to endure all that has come about."

They took their familiar positions at the
dressing table, and Leigh began to work on
Scully's hair.  This time, she threaded small
silver and white beads into the tiny twists and
braids, and Scully watched, fascinated, as her
hair began to sparkle with the ornaments.  It
was a breathtaking sight, and she could hardly
believe it was her own face in the mirror,
staring back at her.

Leigh worked in silence for a few moments, but
her curiosity would not allow her to stay quiet
for long.  "Gwen, you must tell me everything
that has happened since you left Camelot after
the joust.  Is Sir Lancelot well again?  Where
is he now, when Arthur so needs an ally?  I
pray you, cousin, do not be stingy with your
story."

So Scully related to the other woman everything
that had transpired.  Leigh's eyes widened at
the recounting of Mulder's miraculous cure from
the lake waters, and she listened with rapt
attention at the news of Lancelot's quest to
retrieve Excalibur from the faerie realms. 
When Scully finished, Leigh shook her head.

"Will he succeed, Gwen?  Camelot has been
turned upside down since Mordred came to the
Great Hall two nights ago.  I fear that all is
lost if Arthur is unable to take the kingdom
back from him."

Scully regarded Leigh in the mirror, her face
somber.  "I fear for Lancelot's safety, Leigh. 
I did not realize the scope of his danger when
he set out into the world of the fae.  I wish
nothing more than to keep him safe, and to
restore Arthur to health."  She dropped her
eyes, anticipating a negative reaction from the
waiting woman.  "I have agreed to a bargain
with Mordred that I hope will help us all."

Leigh stopped braiding and stared at Scully's
reflection.  "What did you promise, Gwen?" she
whispered.  Her voice trembled.

Scully set hers to steel, but she didn't look
up.  "I told him I would sign a decree giving
him full authority as High King.  In return, he
promised to release Merlin, and to heal Arthur. 
It is the only way I can see to help both
Lancelot and the King."

"How can you be certain he will honor it?" 
Leigh began working again, and Scully winced as
she jerked the strands of hair too tightly in
her fury.  "He is a liar, Guinevere.  You know
that.  Why can you not wait to see if Lancelot
will return with the sword?  You said yourself
that Excalibur would restore Arthur's health."
 
"I cannot be sure that Lancelot will return
without help," Scully answered, her voice
rising.  "Merlin can help him.  He can save him
from whatever traps Morgan le Fae may have set
for him in the faerie realms.  This way,
Mordred will have Arthur healed, and Lancelot
can still return, through Merlin's aid.  When
he does, then perhaps Arthur will be able to
lead the knights against Mordred, with
Lancelot, Merlin, and Excalibur at his side."

"But if you sign a decree--"

"It will mean nothing!"  Scully shot to her
feet, startling Leigh, whose hands fell away
from her hair.  Scully could feel the Queen's
energy rising swiftly within her, and there was
little she could do but step back and let her
through.  "Arthur will fight for this kingdom
if he is able.  But I must save Lancelot as
well. I have no other choice, Leigh.  I am left
to make this decision on my own.  Where are the
Round Table knights?  Tell me that."

Leigh shuddered.  "They have all been
imprisoned.  Mordred saw to that when his
faction overran the castle.  They fought
valiantly, but without Arthur to rally them and
Lancelot to aid them, they were no match for
the younger men."

"You see?  I cannot stand against Mordred
without support.  Lancelot is our best hope,
but he may be lost forever in the land of the
fae."  Her eyes blurred for a moment at that
thought, but she blinked, forcing the tears
away.  "I will save him if I can, no matter
what the cost.  As I will save Arthur.  If we
lose Camelot in the end, then so be it. 
Perhaps it is God's will."

Leigh inclined her head in deference, but her
expression remained troubled.  "Sit you down,
Gwen, so I can finish your hair.  I have been
told you sup tonight with the new High King,
his mother, and the Bishop.  You want to look
your best."

Scully grabbed Leigh's hand, aware through
Guinevere's consciousness of how dear the woman
was to the Queen.  "What would you have me do,
Leigh?" she asked softly.  "Shall I lose Arthur
and Lancelot as well as Camelot?  I would
rather that they live and all the dreams die in
their place.  Can you fault me for loving them
and wanting them alive?"

"Nay," Leigh whimpered.  "But I still fear it. 
Neither Mordred nor his mother can be trusted.  
You must rely on the Bishop, I think.  Perhaps
he will turn to Arthur's cause.  The High King
does still live.  If you could sway the Bishop
against Mordred, and even persuade him to
release the Round Table knights, perhaps there
will be a greater chance that Camelot can
survive."

"I shall do my best, Leigh."  Scully smiled
even though her heart raced nervously in her
chest.  She dreaded the dinner hour and what
awaited her in the Great Hall.

Continued in Chapter Eight B

-- 

Continued from Chapter Eight A

The huge meeting room loomed empty and
impressive when she arrived that evening, with
Sir Agravaine following close behind her.  She
noted that he smelled clean and fresh,
obviously the product of a bath in his own
rooms.  His armor had been replaced with a
pine-colored tunic that looked expensive
beneath his heavy chestnut cape.  His mood,
however, had not changed, and he did not speak
to Scully as he led her to the Great Hall. 
Once again, she was happy not to be distracted
as she memorized their route.

He finally spoke haltingly as he escorted her
to the dais.  "You are to sit in your normal
place, my lady Queen, at the High King's
request."

Guinevere began to retort, but Scully managed
to squelch it.  She didn't want to cause any
more bad feelings with Agravaine, especially
since it seemed that he might be malleable to
the Queen's cause.  She simply nodded and sat
down in the lushly embroidered high-backed
throne, fidgeting with her skirts as she waited
for the others.

The table before her had been set with an
assortment of royal trappings.  The maroon
velvet cloth beneath the plates accented their
polished, shining edges, and the candles burned
brightly in their platinum holders.  The rich
aromas of roasting meat, onions, and other
delicious spices filled the air, and Scully's
stomach contracted, begging for attention.  She
was sure, though, that the first morsel of food
she allowed past her lips would never stay
down.  She was much too anxious to eat.

A young man approached from her right and bowed
slightly to her, reaching for the gem-encrusted
goblet in front of her.  He filled it with
claret wine, and she mumbled her thanks to him. 
He glanced at her, a startled look on his face,
and then moved away.  Behind her, Agravaine
chuckled.

"You scared him with your gratitude, my lady. 
That lowly squire will have much to dream about
tonight, now that the Queen has deigned to
speak to him."

This time, Scully couldn't squelch Guinevere's
reply.  "I should like to thank all of Arthur's
loyal subjects, Sir Agravaine.  It is a shame
there are none left in this room, save myself."

He was next to her in an instant, leaning over
her chair.  The intensity in his eyes amazed
her.

"I risked much for you this morning, Guinevere,
by taking you to Arthur.  My brother has made
no secret of his displeasure with me.  Yet the
words you spoke to me earlier cut into my
heart.  I am torn, I tell you, but I wish only
to please my mother.  What more can I say?"

"You are not a child any longer, Agravaine,"
she answered as gently as she could.  There was
a part of Scully, a very real, deeply hidden
part, which understood all too well Agravaine's
need for his mother's approval.  She had always
sought the same from her father.  It seemed for
most of her life, she had longed to hear of his
pride in her actions.  But ultimately, she had
realized that her actions were her own, and she
had to live for herself, not for Ahab.  It had
driven them apart, forcing a wedge into the
relationship she had once seen as close.  But
she had done it to save herself from a life of
existing solely in William Scully Senior's
shadow.  She saw that same struggle clearly in
the man before her.

"You must follow your heart.  You cannot live
according to your mother's whims.  You must
stand up for what you believe, and you cannot
worry over what her reaction might be.  If you
support your brother, so be it.  But if you
support Arthur, you must not hesitate."  She
heard the note of pleading in her voice,
knowing that it matched the expression on her
face.  "What Mordred is doing is not right,
Agravaine.  You know it.  That is why your
heart troubles you.  Do not allow this to go
further."

The agonizing indecision shone brightly in his
eyes, and for a moment, she sensed him swaying
toward her side.  He opened his mouth to speak. 
Just then, the moaning of the great door across
from them filled the hall.  Mordred sauntered
in, dressed to the hilt in royal finery, with a
woman clinging to his good arm.  Scully shook
her head slightly as they approached the
platform where she sat.

The woman so strongly resembled Diana Fowley
that Scully was certain she hallucinated.  And
she hadn't even consumed any wine.

Next to her, Agravaine straightened and stepped
back, giving a low bow as the couple neared. 
Scully couldn't tear her gaze away from the
figure Mordred escorted, who floated along the
carpeted walkway as if her feet didn't touch
the floor.  Draped in a blood-red gown of
velvet and lace, her hair loose and hanging to
her hips like ribbons of ebony silk, Scully
took in the sight of the woman she knew to be
Morgan le Fae in this lifetime.  She gritted
her teeth, unsure if it was she herself or
Guinevere who hated her more.

They stopped just before the dais, and Mordred
bowed to Scully, apparently still mindful of
her rank.  Morgan, however, held her head high
on her long, elegant neck, watching her with
glittering dark eyes.  Scully listened to the
internal instruction of Guinevere, refusing to
acknowledge Arthur's half-sister.

Mordred sensed the tension between the two
women and cleared his throat as he regained his
full height.  "Good evening, Queen Guinevere. 
I present to you my mother, your sister-in-law,
Morgan le Fae, Queen of Orkney."

Scully finally spoke, her voice iced with cold
venom.  "I wish I could welcome you to this
court, Morgan le Fae, but in light of recent
events, I cannot."

The dark woman spoke with the same husky rasp
Scully remembered.  "It matters not, Queen
Guinevere, if I have your welcome.  My son
welcomes me to Camelot, and as it is now his
kingdom, I should suggest you bow to him."

The flare of Guinevere's anger raced through
Scully, and she gripped the carved wooden
armrests of the throne so hard her knuckles
whitened.  "It is not yet his kingdom, Morgan,
and I'd thank you to remember that.  You have
no authority here yourself, only that which
Camelot gives to you as a member of the royal
family.  You dare not take that tone with me,
or you shall see just how much authority the
High Queen of Britain still wields."

Morgan le Fae laughed.  "And who will enforce
that power, Guinevere?  All of the Round Table
knights have been imprisoned for their
disloyalty to the new crown.  Arthur lies on
his deathbed, and Lancelot..."  Her smile
widened.  "Lancelot may be forever lost in the
faerie kingdom.  There is no one left to
support you."

Mordred held up his right hand.  "Enough of
this bickering.  I do not wish to spend this
evening overseeing a catfight.  Mother, please
sit down.  We have much to discuss with the
Queen."  He looked pointedly at Scully.  "And I
know she is anxious to continue our earlier
conversation."

With Mordred's help, Morgan stepped up onto the
dais and then paused, her gaze falling on
Agravaine.  He shuffled forward to pull out a
chair for her, but she stopped him with a wave
of her hand.  "Agravaine," she barked.  "What
are you doing here?"

The knight flushed and dropped his chin to
avoid his mother's drilling eyes.  "I was asked
to accompany the Queen to the Great Hall,
Mother." 

"Then you have done your duty.  Be gone now." 
Morgan turned away from Agravaine and seated
herself next to Scully with a flourish.  She
adjusted the folds in her dress and drew her
flowing sleeves back to reach for her wine
goblet.  Agravaine didn't move, seemingly
stunned.

Morgan fluttered her eyelashes at the wine
squire as he filled her cup and followed his
retreat with an open stare.  When she saw that
Agravaine had not left the platform, her mouth
turned down into a frown.  "I commanded you to
leave, Agravaine.  This is none of your
affair."

Agravaine threw a glance over at Mordred, who
was seating himself with great care in Arthur's
usual place.  Mordred relaxed back against the
cushion of the throne and returned his
brother's look.  "Good night, brother," he said
coldly.  "You are dismissed."

The smaller knight's crimson face deepened in
anger.  He spun on his heel and stormed down
from the dais, striding through the Great Hall
faster than Scully had ever seen him move.  The
huge door thundered his exit within moments.

Wearing a playful smile, Morgan watched her
other son leave.  She cocked her head toward
Scully and raised her wine glass.  "Shall we
toast?  To a better time for Camelot."

Mordred tipped his goblet toward his mother and
drank, but Scully did not reach for hers. 
Morgan licked her lips daintily and set her cup
down.  "You do not drink with us, Guinevere? 
How insulting."

"I have no stomach for it."

"Are you ill, my lady Queen?" Mordred asked, a
smile matching his mother's gliding over his
features.  "Perhaps whatever ails my father is
catching."

"Where is the Bishop?" Scully demanded,
determined not to allow her cool exterior to
crack.  "I was told he would join us."

Morgan le Fae swished her hair over her
shoulder.  "His duties with the Church keep him
from Camelot this night.  He shall be here soon
enough, to celebrate my son's coronation.  In
two days' time, is it not, sweet Mordred?"

Before he could answer, Scully rose from her
chair.  She stared coldly down at Morgan, who
seemed amused by her sudden move.  "Then I
shall take your leave.  I wish to speak
personally with the Bishop before any
succession takes place.  I will entreat him
myself on Arthur's behalf and hope that he will
take Camelot's side in this folly."

"The Bishop has endorsed Mordred," Morgan
answered loftily.

"I wish to hear it directly from him.  Until I
do, I will sign nothing declaring Arthur
unfit."

"Why, the Bishop has already signed it!" 
Morgan le Fae gestured to Mordred.  He stood
and extracted a rolled parchment from an inside
pocket of the royal Pendragon cloak.  He
unfurled it and held it open for Scully to see.

Mordred moved his finger to the bottom of the
decree.  "You mark it, my lady Queen?  The
Bishop has drawn this as we discussed and
endorsed it with his own hand."  Scully felt
all her bravado drain out of her as she read
the words on the paper and touched a tentative
finger to the raised seal of the Holy Church. 
Next to it, two lines remained blank: one for
Mordred's signature, and one for that belonging
to Guinevere Pendragon, High Queen of Britain.

"How...how can I be sure the Bishop signed this
himself?" Scully whispered.

"What?" exclaimed Morgan.  "You throw doubt
upon the representative of the Holy Church, the
Bishop of Britain?"

"Nay, nay," Scully heard herself respond.  She
sank back down into the chair, touching the
necklace that encircled her throat, seeking
some sort of solace.  The rubies of the cross
pressed into her fingers, and she felt her
consciousness teetering back and forth again,
one minute Guinevere, the next minute
Scully...and both more confused and frightened
than ever.

"Come, Guinevere," Mordred said into her ear. 
"It is just as we agreed in your chamber.  Once
you sign this decree, my mother will heal
Arthur, and she will order Merlin released.  He
will help Lancelot in the faerie realms.  You
want them both to survive, do you not?"

Scully grabbed the goblet of wine on the table
with an unsteady hand, gulping down several
swallows to try to clear her head.  A vortex
not unlike the one she and Mulder had
discovered in the woods spun in her
mind...Mulder...she had to save Mulder, no matter
what the cost to herself...

"You must do what is best for the kingdom,"
Morgan crooned on her other side.  "Arthur
cannot rule in this condition.  You must
designate someone in his place.  Mordred is his
rightful heir.  He is fit to rule."

Scully blinked.  Shadows and fog seemed to
dance in her vision.  She turned to regard
Morgan.  "But you stole Excalibur from him. 
You caused this."

"You must save the kingdom, Guinevere.  You
must do everything you can to preserve
Camelot."  Morgan wrapped cold fingers around
Scully's hand, and she shivered as the other
woman's voice filled her head.  "You shall
remain Queen, Guinevere.  You shall help the
people to embrace Mordred's succession by
becoming his Queen as well."

"What?"  Scully's mind snapped back into place,
and she jerked her hand away from Morgan as if
burned.  "I cannot...cannot marry." She shot a
terrified look at Mordred, who simply stared
back at her with a snapping emerald gaze. 
"Arthur will live, and I shall remain his
wife."

"The Bishop will dissolve the marriage," Morgan
told her.  "He sees this as the best way to
rally the commoners to support Mordred's
succession."

"But the decree," Scully started.  Her head
felt as heavy as an anvil, and she worked to
keep her mind focused.  "The decree is.is
enough.  If I sign it, it will be enough for
the people."

Mordred took her other hand and brought it to
his lips, kissing her knuckles.  Repugnant as
it was to her, she lacked the strength to draw
her hand away.  "This will seal it in their
minds," he hummed to her.  "They shall see the
Queen married to the new High King, and they
shall be happy in the succession.  And when you
bear me a son, the kingdom will rejoice even
more."

Scully's head lolled into Mordred's shoulder,
and her eyes fluttered as she strained to keep
them open.  "No," she whispered.  "I--I am
barren.  You cannot want a barren Queen.  I
cannot...I cannot marry..."

"Mother will fix that, will you not?" 
Mordred's voice seemed to float over her head,
and she watched Morgan's hazy face stretch into
a smile once more.  "Agree to this, Guinevere. 
Save Camelot.  Save Arthur, and Lancelot. 
Agree."

"Lancelot," she sighed, and Morgan brushed her
cheek with her long, cool fingers.

"That's right, Guinevere," the dark woman
murmured soothingly.  "Lancelot will be saved. 
You shall save him.  All you have to do is sign
the decree, and in two days' time, you shall be
married to the new High King of Britain." 
Morgan le Fae's face appeared close to
Scully's, her ebony eyes bewitching and
hypnotic.  "You shall remain Guinevere of
Britain...and this time, your son will live."

Her son...she would have a baby...The joyous news
rippled through her as she remembered
Lancelot's face when she told him her courses
were late...when Mulder held her close and
promised to father her baby...when...when...

She felt Mordred pull her forward and settle
her arm onto the table, helping her to hold the
writing instrument in her hand.  Through her
blurring eyes, she could see the decree, and
the space awaiting the signature of the High
Queen of Britain.

"Sign it, my sweet Gwen," Mordred breathed into
her ear.  "Sign it and save them all."

With his hand over hers, she scraped the ink
onto the parchment.  Her head whirled in a
blinding tornado of images:  Lancelot brushing
her hair back from her temple, nuzzling her
neck after they made love and conceived the
heir of Camelot; Arthur resplendent with the
news of her pregnancy; Arthur and Lancelot,
beaming together as she appeared before them
both in the Great Hall, huge with child;
Lancelot, and Arthur...and...and...

And in the back of her mind, from the bottom of
what seemed like a deep, sooty well, another
man, this one standing with his arms open to
receive her, looking so much like her Lancelot,
wearing the same smile on his handsome face...but
his brown hair was razed against his head, and
his suit--not armor, but something strange with
pockets and a red and blue scarf knotted at his
throat...

Guinevere, the High Queen of Britain, collapsed
back into the throne, her eyes slipping shut
entirely.  From the end of that deep, ebony
tunnel, she could sense another consciousness,
another woman with copper hair and a backbone
of steel--a woman who resembled her in every
way, who had fought a valiant battle to remain
in control of this body, but who now seemed to
have lost... 

The strange, handsome man spoke in her
thoughts:  // Scully...Where are you, Scully? 
Talk to me, Scully...Scully...Scully...Scully... //

Above her, she could still hear the voices of
Mordred and Morgan le Fae, along with laughter
and whispers.  It was Morgan's voice that
followed her down into her dreams, the last
words she heard before she gave in to the pull
of her delirium:

"Release Merlin.  Let us see if Lancelot is
truly the greatest knight of the kingdom...and if
he can withstand Merlin in his present form."

End Chapter Eight

-- 

The Queen of Mist and Memory

Chapter Nine

// Well, this is another fine mess you've
gotten us into. //

If he hadn't been so damn tired, thirsty, and
nauseated, Mulder may have cracked a smile to
think of the old Laurel and Hardy movie line.
It was one of Frohike's favorites, and he could
recall many nights spent at the Lone Gunmen's
lair, consuming pizza and beer while watching
black and white comedies with his three
friends. Laurel and Hardy, the Marx Brothers,
the Three Stooges...they loved them all, but
Frohike had been the one to share Mulder's
quirky passion for one-liners and slapstick
humor. And now, as he stood before another
glistening lake in the strange land of the
faerie people, Mulder knew that Frohike would
appreciate the irony of this whole situation...if
only he were here.

Well, he <was> here, Mulder reasoned, in a
strange sort of way. His Arthurian twin was
present, and that counted for something, didn't
it?

Mulder shook his head and tried to focus. It
was becoming increasingly difficult to corral
his thoughts, and he chalked it up to the
stress and the physical condition of his body.
There was a task at hand that he had to
complete, however, and, being Mulder, he was
determined to see it through to its bitter
end--mess or no mess.

Things did look a bit messy right now. He
squinted into the haze that pillowed above the
shimmering water, trying to verify the reality
of what he saw. In the faerie realm, he'd
already learned that all was not as it appeared
to be, and he needed to stay sharp if he was
going to survive.

Across the expanse of water, he discerned a
rocky ledge that hung approximately thirty feet
above the shoreline. The ledge was nothing
more than a dimple in the fagade of a mountain
that stretched high above him, its top obscured
by the thick fog that laced everything in this
mysterious land. And on the ledge lay Bors,
Lancelot's cousin and boon companion, seemingly
asleep.

But that was all he could make out through the
heavy mist. Bors appeared to be elevated, but
Mulder had no idea how or why. He only knew
that he needed to get across the water so that
he could rescue him, for he had no doubt in his
mind that Bors needed to be rescued. Mulder
didn't want to think about exactly from <what>
he might be saving the small knight.

He blew out a resigned sigh. He was beginning
to feel a little like Indiana Jones. Although
he loved those movies and always admired the
character's heroism, he doubted that he himself
could begin to live up to such challenges.
Besides, it wasn't much fun without Scully
present to impress. And the one woman who
would witness his daring rescue mission was not
someone he wanted hanging around.

He turned slightly to the faerie maiden who
stood behind him, the one named Elaine who so
resembled Marita Covarrubias. "What have you
done to Bors?" he asked, not really expecting a
straight answer.

She stared at him blankly. "He rests after
your long journey. We have merely provided him
with a comfortable bed."

Mulder snorted. "Yeah. We'll see about that."
He eyed the water, searching the placid surface
for signs of danger beneath it. "What's in the
lake?"

"Do you not recognize it? It is the same one
in which you yourself were healed."

"This lake?" Mulder shook his head. "No, it
can't be. We've traveled much farther than I
walked with Sc--" He stopped and amended
himself. "With the Queen."

Elaine cocked her head to one side, her hair
shimmering like the undulating mist that
surrounded them. "I assure you, Sir Lancelot,
it is the same."

He stood with his hands on his hips, assessing
her and the water. He had no reason to believe
her; after all, she had tried to seduce him,
scrambling his brain enough to make him think
she was Guinevere. Of course, the ruse hadn't
worked. He was still Mulder, on the inside at
least, and he couldn't sleep with Guinevere any
more than he could Elaine. Lancelot would have
jumped at the opportunity to be with the Queen,
he knew, but he was not Lancelot. Mulder loved
only Scully, and the purity of that love had
saved him. Elaine apparently had no idea that
someone else's consciousness currently resided
in Lancelot's body. It was clear, however,
that Elaine wanted Lancelot for herself, and he
had to do everything he could to foil her plans
and return to Camelot with Excalibur.

First things first. He had to get across the
water to Bors. He would never purposefully
leave him behind...and he also had the very
strong sense that once he freed his friend, the
next part of the sword gauntlet would fall into
motion.

"All right," he said aloud. The sound of his
voice encouraged him. He unbuckled the belt
that encircled his waist and lowered the
scabbard that held Lancelot's sword to the
ground. "I guess I'm swimming across." He
cocked his head and looked over his shoulder at
Elaine, attempting charm. "You would stop me
if I were about to get eaten by some horrible
beast, wouldn't you?"

The faerie woman did not answer. Mulder ducked
behind a nearby tree and began to strip out of
his armor.

As he undressed, he considered what could lie
ahead. If he could get across the lake, a trap
most likely awaited him concerning Bors. He'd
have to wait and see what that might entail
once he got there. Would he need a weapon?
Should he try to swim with the sword, or even
attempt to take his armor along? He shook his
head, muttering his musings under his breath.
He couldn't possibly swim with all that weight,
and the armor could not be immersed in water.
It would rust. He might be able to manage the
sword, but if he ran into trouble in the water
and needed to swim fast, he'd have to lose the
sword anyway. It didn't seem reasonable to try
to take anything with him but his own shaky
courage.

He arranged the pieces of metal in a neat pile
next to the tree trunk, once again wearing
nothing but the loose linen trousers the
knights donned underneath their armor. He
stepped back out of the brush to the water's
edge, regarding the lake critically,
considering his options. On one hand, perhaps
entering the water slowly and quietly would be
his best bet. He'd be less likely to disturb
any unwanted nasties that might be lurking
beneath the surface. On the other hand, diving
in and swimming as quickly as possible to the
opposite shore might be the smarter choice. He
was a strong swimmer, and he was confident he
could cross the lake in a matter of minutes.
If something rose from its depths and pursued
him, he'd just have to pray that he could
outpace it.

Finally coming to his decision, Mulder moved
down the bank a bit, searching for a deeper
point. Finding one nearby, he climbed on top
of a convenient rock and gave one last glance
to Elaine.

"Well, here goes nothing." He had no earthly
idea why he was even bothering to speak to her,
but he smiled anyway as he said it. She only
watched him through eyes like iced sapphires.

He pushed off from the rock in a graceful arc,
his body flexing naturally into a precise dive
as he moved through the air. The water around
him was smooth and warm as he punctured the
surface, and he opened his eyes immediately,
seeking any kind of activity around him. The
lake bottom appeared sandy, but the water
itself was pristine. He could see everything
surrounding him easily enough, and he spotted
no aquatic life at all except for a few waving
plants. For now, at least, he was alone.

Mulder surfaced and shook his head, his long
knight's hair flying back from his forehead in
a spray. He immediately shot forward in an
easy, fast freestyle stroke, heading straight
for the other side of the lake. The only sound
he heard was the slap of his hands and the
splash of the water as he swam. Although loud
enough to attract attention, there didn't seem
to be anything or anyone around to concern
itself with him.

Moments later, he stood on the opposite shore,
flinging the water from his body as he walked
up the narrow strip of beach. The ledge hung
directly above him, and he scanned the rocky
terrain, searching for a way to get to it.
Through the misty veil, he spied a set of
handholds that looked reachable. He clambered
up on top of the first level of rocks and dug
his fingers into one of the sockets, hoisting
his body up the side of the mountain.

It didn't take more than ten minutes for him to
swing his legs over the edge of the stony
shelf. He sat there catching his breath,
careful not to allow his feet to touch the
surface of the ledge. He could see Bors
now...and he was more certain than ever that the
whole scenario was one big booby trap. His
Spooky Sense was screaming bloody murder in his
head.

Across from him lay Lancelot's cousin, resting
on his back with his hands laced together on
his stomach. Beneath him, holding him up, was
what Elaine had called his "bed," but what in
reality resembled a rectangular stone box. It
reminded Mulder of a sarcophagus, but he pushed
that thought away as soon as it ran through his
mind. He didn't want to think about death,
especially while in the middle of a situation
that could very likely cause his own.

The stone box stood within the mouth of a dark
cave. The opening arched about fifteen feet
above Bors, and Mulder could see nothing but an
inky curtain when he tried to peer into it.
But the threat to Bors was easy to detect even
in those shadows, and Mulder shuddered when the
danger became apparent.

Suspended from the stone archway directly above
the sleeping knight hung three enormous
broadswords. As Mulder blinked and titled his
head to get a better look at them, their blades
danced with light, slicing understanding into
his brain.

If those swords fell, Bors would die a grisly
death.

Mulder sat motionless on the rocky rim of the
ledge, his legs dangling over the side like a
boy at the edge of a pool. His mind worked
frantically. There didn't appear to be any
other signs of danger around, but that fact
didn't ease his fears in the least. He still
had to somehow get Bors out from under those
swords, and there were an awful lot of unknown
variables in the situation that didn't allow
him to feel any less apprehensive.

He weighed the risks. Could he even wake Bors
up without startling him? When he had roused
him in the cottage from his corner stool, Bors
had awakened easily. However, Mulder had no
idea what had befallen the small man since they
had drifted off to sleep in the mist together.
What had Elaine or the other faeries done to
him?

There was a chance that he would be unable to
wake Bors at all. If that were the case, he
had to figure a way to get the knight's body
off the stone bed without triggering the swords
to fall. And from what his Spooky Sense was
telling him, that feat would be near
impossible.

He hopped down from the ridge where he sat and
gingerly approached the mouth of the cave,
focusing his attention on the swords above
Bors' body. The handles appeared to be
embedded in the stone archway nearly to the
crossbar, but Mulder could see nothing that
resembled a release mechanism. Then again, he
was dealing in a world where people vanished
into nothing, where water was like opium and
the mist resembled an ever-present feline. He
supposed everything was possible.

He squinted into the darkness beyond the
dangling swords, trying to make out any shapes
that lurked in the tunnel. His imagination did
a fine job of conjuring images, but his eyes
couldn't pick anything out of the blackness
there. So much for being prepared for the
onslaught he figured he'd unleash as soon as
Bors was freed.

But he had to free him first. Mulder
considered the swords again, calculating where
they would land if they fell. The first weapon
hung directly above Bors' head, the second
approximately at chest-level, and the third at
his belt. He supposed no swords had been
placed near the knight's legs simply because
the first three would inflict enough necessary
damage to slay the man as soon as they dropped
from the archway.

And that fact, Mulder realized, might be the
best chance of saving the knight's life.

Mulder played one idea out in his mind. If he
could climb up on the stone box between Bors'
feet, he would be able to reach the closest
sword. Perhaps he could dislodge it from its
place and then use it to cut through the blades
of the two other weapons.

He blew out an exasperated breath. That was no
good. There was too great a chance that even
if he could slice through the other blades with
one sword, the falling metal would hit Bors and
injure him. There was also a very good chance
that as soon as Mulder touched one of the
weapons, they would all fall, rigged to destroy
if they were disturbed in any way.

He deliberated for several more minutes,
calculating and rejecting ideas. No other
feasible options presented themselves to him.
Frustrated, Mulder kicked at the dirt below his
bare feet, watching as the dust drifted skyward
and mingled with the sheer curtain of mist.

There was simply no safe choice. With a
resigned set of his jaw, Mulder stepped
carefully next to Bors' head and leaned near
his ear. He murmured the knight's name several
times, but the small man didn't stir. Mulder
was afraid that shaking him would result in a
shower of metal, so after a few unanswered
calls, he straightened up and walked slowly to
the foot of the box.

Mulder stood with his hands on his hips, the
lake water from his swim dripping from the ends
of his curling hair, assessing one last time.
He didn't think rolling Bors to one side or the
other would be the best idea; he had a feeling
that the slightly rotund man wouldn't flip very
uniformly, and the grotesque image of a
skewered Bors kept invading his imagination.
The best solution had to be bringing the
sleeping man down to the area of the box where
no swords hung...so Mulder dug in his own heels,
preparing to grab Bors by the ankles to yank
him to safety.

He took a deep breath. Just do it, he thought
grimly to himself. There was no other option.
He shook away the terrible last visions of Bors
somehow catching on the stone, hindering his
movement...the picture of the swords raining down
on the knight as soon as Mulder touched his
feet, impaling him like a marshmallow on a
roasting stick...

Mulder pushed all the thoughts away. His hands
pistoned out from his body, grabbed Bors by the
ankles, and pulled with all his might.

In the next moments, everything blurred
together in Mulder's mind. He registered the
sensation of slight resistance as Bors' body
trembled and then began to slip toward him.
Above his head, he heard a distinct, metallic
clang, as if a chain had engaged somewhere and
was beginning to rotate on a pulley. He felt
the vibration of Bors' armor scraping along the
stone as he slid, but the knight came toward
him easily, and Mulder recognized his own voice
calling the small man's name as he heaved the
body off the stone box. The weight surprised
him with its suddenness as the body freed
itself of the bed, and Mulder stumbled back,
dragging Bors with him, wincing as the knight's
head landed on the ground with a resounding
thud. A groan issued from the liberated man,
echoing off the mountain fagade.

Mulder lost his footing and sat down hard on
the rocky dirt floor of the ledge. Bors'
booted feet landed in his lap, narrowly missing
the equipment Mulder reserved for Scully. He
shuddered, but he barely felt the sting of the
shoes against his thighs. He was too busy
staring, mouth agape, at the sarcophagus where
Bors had laid just a moment before.

All three swords now stuck up from the rock bed
like pins in a tailor's cushion. The blades
had sunk a good foot into the solid stone
surface, and Mulder couldn't help thinking how
easily they would have punctured the suit of
armor that Bors wore, carving through it like a
hot knife through soft butter. It was a
miracle the knight was still alive, and still
all in one piece. Mulder couldn't quite
believe their luck.

He tore his gaze away from the trap to see Bors
sitting up, rubbing at his thinning hair and
squinting through dazed eyes. Mulder smiled as
his friend caught sight of him.

"Good Christ," Bors rasped as he massaged the
back of his head. "Lancelot, what in God's
name are you doing?"

"Saving your ass, little man," Mulder laughed,
exuberant. He hadn't thought that Bors could
possibly escape this mess intact, let alone
that he would also remain unscathed. Perhaps
things were looking up in the faerie
lands...maybe getting Excalibur back wouldn't be
as hard as he originally thought...

A shriek reverberated above their heads, a
high-pitched screech so terrible and so sudden
that Mulder automatically clapped his hands
over his ears. The earth beneath him trembled
with the sound, and even the ever-present fog
seemed to scurry away from the echoing wail,
parting like a curtain. Following the wisps,
Mulder's eyes fell on the blackness within the
cave behind them, and his throat constricted in
apprehension.

"Bors," he whispered hoarsely, "what the hell
was that?"

Bors appeared to be frozen in place, his face
contorted in a visage of discomfort and shock.
"I--I know not, Lance," he answered. "But
whatever it may be, it does not sound
pleasant."

Mulder nodded slowly, pushing himself away from
the mouth of the cave like a crab in the sand.
Bors did the same, scrambling backwards until
they sat side by side next to the stone box,
facing the darkness. Beneath them, the ledge
rumbled with vibrations, waves that became more
and more pronounced, as if something were
coming closer and closer.

Next to him, Mulder could hear Bors breathing
hard. "It comes this way, Lance." The smaller
man sat up and reached for his scabbard, but
the belt that held his sword no longer cinched
his waist. "Zounds! We have no weapons! We
cannot defend ourselves."

Mulder rushed to his feet, lunging toward the
sarcophagus. He grabbed the handle of the
nearest sword. "Please," he muttered to any
deity listening, "give me a fair shot here, at
least." He jerked ferociously on the sword,
and it came hurtling out of the stone. Mulder
nearly fell backwards again from the surprise
of its easy extraction.

"Bors!" he called, but his voice was drowned
out by another ear-splitting scream. This
time, the air around him stirred. A pungent
wind whistled past, lifting his damp hair from
his sweaty brow. Mulder turned toward the
source of the breeze, backing away once more
from the mouth of the cave with the sword
raised in front of him. A shadow fell over
him, and he swallowed hard, trying to hang onto
a scream of his own.

 From the blackness of the cave rose a reptilian
scarlet head, mounted on a long, scaly neck
roughly the circumference of a tractor-trailer
tire. The slender, pointed snout was nearly as
long as Mulder's whole body, and the glittering
red eyes that sat in enormous sockets on
opposite sides of the muzzle settled directly
on him. The beast opened its jaws, revealing
row upon row of ivory fangs as sharp as spikes,
and issued another unearthly cry. Mulder
gripped the sword tighter in his hands,
steeling himself against the awful sound and
the wave of hot breath that shot past him.

A dragon. Sir Lancelot and The Dragon. His
imagination conjured the title of this new
legend clearly, completed in gold foil on the
book jacket in his mind. He was going to have
to fight a goddamn dragon, and he couldn't help
wondering how this part of tale would end.
He'd certainly been correct in assuming that
freeing Bors would trigger another adventure in
the gauntlet to recover Excalibur.

Mulder had grown accustomed to being right
about a lot of things in his life. Just this
one time, he wished he'd been wrong.

He turned his head once more toward Bors. The
smaller knight had jumped on top of the
sarcophagus, where he was struggling to free
another of the fallen swords. He strained
mightily with the middle one, but it refused to
budge. Giving up, he reached over and tugged
on the third to no avail. Bors rounded with an
oath.

"I cannot free the other two, Lance. Christ
save us!"

"No," Mulder said, gritting his teeth. "I'll
save us. Get behind me, dammit, before that
thing turns you into a Post Toasty."

Bors leapt down, and they both edged back
toward the rim of the ledge. The dragon
advanced, its head climbing higher into the
misty sky as its body filled the mouth of the
cave. Its eyes followed Mulder's bobbing
sword, and it seemed to focus only on his
movements. It appeared to be aware that Bors
held no threat to it at all. And he was sure
he was imagining it, but the damn thing wore
what looked to Mulder like a sinister smile as
it moved toward them.

Mulder calculated as fast as he could in his
mind. They were quickly running out of room on
the ledge, and there was no place for them to
go but down once they reached the edge. They
could jump, but he wasn't entirely sure the
lake below them was deep enough to sustain such
a maneuver. There was a very good chance that
if they hurled themselves into the water, they
could break their necks and drown.

The dragon raised its head and bellowed again,
rocking Mulder and Bors both with the fury of
its cry and the heat of its breath. The air
around them crackled feverishly, and Mulder
couldn't help but wonder how long it would be
before the creature started spitting flames at
them. The image made his stomach turn sickly
again; his fear of fire reared up from his
subconscious, rendering him the cowering
schoolboy of his past.

He shook himself, trying to focus. He'd have
to kill the dragon. There was no other way out
of this corner. He realized that to find
Excalibur, he and Bors would need to get into
the cave. The dragon was obviously meant to
guard the sword, and even if they could somehow
get past it to the cavern beyond its tail,
they'd have to face it again once they
returned. It obviously had to be destroyed&but
how?

Mulder scanned the beast's body quickly,
looking for vulnerabilities. Shining scarlet
scales covered the dragon's entire mass,
effectively armoring the creature as well as
they would one of the Round Table knights. The
only places not shingled with the rigid
coverlet were its underbelly and its neck.

The neck. It had to be the neck. Although
thick, Mulder rationalized that he could cut
through it, especially if given the chance to
strike twice in quick succession. Now, he had
to figure out how to get that chance.

There was no time to consider it. Just at that
moment, the dragon dropped its head down to his
level, one gleaming, blood-colored eye even
with his face. In its depths, Mulder could see
his reflection: the shimmering image of a tall,
lanky man with wet, tangled dark hair, holding
a broadsword aloft in shaky hands.

And behind that man, he could see another, one
dressed in a long, flowing robe, whose old,
wizened face was nearly hidden by an
encroaching wild beard and hair.

Mulder whirled around. Alone at his back, Bors
looked at him, his face overshadowed with fear.
"Good Christ, Lancelot!" he shouted. "Do not
turn your back on it!"

Mulder searched the line of rocks that marked
the end of the ledge, confused. He knew what
he'd seen, yet Bors was the only person with
him now.

Or was he?

Bors' yell cut through the haze of his
thoughts. "Lancelot! The dragon! Look to it,
man!"

The air crackled again, and Mulder ducked
reflexively. The top of his head burned with
sensation, as if he stood below an open oven
cranked up to the broil setting. Before his
eyes, a ball of fire exploded, shooting embers
and crazy tendrils of smoke into every
direction.

Fuck, he thought grimly. He'd almost been
incinerated. He spun around again, lunging
forward with all his might, the sword pointed
up and away from him as he aimed for the
beast's coiling neck.

// Lancelot! Hold! //

The voice stormed through his head like an
unexpected tornado. It caused his whole body
to tremble, and he nearly dropped the sword.
His thrust missed its mark, and the dragon
reared back, screaming a protest, cognizant
that the man before it had tried to stab it.
Yet in its calculating eye, Mulder recognized
once again the outline of the figure he had
seen moments before. And he knew that it was
this man's words that he heard in his mind.

// Merlin? //

His mind pushed the name at the dragon before
he really understood what he was doing. Mulder
had no reason to think that the apparition was
anything more than his own fatigue-induced
hallucination...yet his brain conjured the name
anyway, and he trusted his instinct as he
always did, following it forward, hoping that
this was somehow a ticket out of this
predicament.

His intuition didn't disappoint. The voice
came again, stronger this time, in a cadence
and a tone that Mulder recognized...as did
Lancelot.

// It is I, Lancelot. You do understand, old
friend. //

Mulder swung the sword before him, still
holding it between him and the dragon, which
regarded him solemnly. The beast crouched in
the middle of the ledge, watching him, still
except for the swishing of its massive tail.
It was waiting, Mulder knew...hunched, ready to
spring when given the opening, like a cat
stalking a mouse in tall field grass.

But there was something else about the dragon,
too...a consciousness that Mulder could sense.
It was there, the source of the voice...could it
be possible that Merlin <was>...?

Another shout shook the air, but it did not
come from the creature. This one was the
battle cry of a fighting man, and Mulder turned
just in time to see Bors hurtling himself from
atop the stone box where he had laid in his
enchantment. He landed on the back of the
dragon's neck, and he latched on with both
gloved hands to the crimson scales just behind
its jaws. The beast threw its head back
immediately, and Bors hung on, riding the
bucking neck like a rodeo cowboy.

"Lancelot!" he screamed. "Strike now! While
it is distracted!"

Mulder stood frozen, horrified. "Bors, goddamn
it! Let go of it! I can't kill it! It's
Merlin!"

At the sound of the legendary name, the dragon
opened its great jaws and bellowed, shooting a
spray of fire and heat into a mushroom cloud
above their heads. Bors, surprised by either
Mulder's announcement or the fury of the
creature, released his hold on its neck. He
tumbled down next to the edge of the ledge,
where he scurried back against the rock. The
dragon followed his fall and lunged after him,
apparently infuriated that he had attempted to
subdue it.

Bors ducked behind a loose boulder as the
dragon spewed more fire. Mulder could not see
him through the haze of smoke that had mated
with the mist in the air, but he could hear the
smaller knight's voice. "If it is truly
Merlin, Lancelot, why does it attack us?"

"I don't know." Mulder weaved around the
dragon's tail and inched closer to Bors until
he could finally see him, sitting with his back
against the shielding stone. "I think Merlin's
consciousness is trapped inside of it. I'm
afraid if we kill it, we'll kill Merlin, too."

"What do you propose?"

"Fuck if I know." Mulder turned his attention
back to the dragon, which seemed to have calmed
a bit now that it was rid of Bors. He
concentrated all his energy in his mind and
pushed another thought toward it.

// Merlin, what can we do? How can we help
you? //

The dragon stared at Mulder, its eyes
glittering almost knowingly, but no answer rang
into his head.

Mulder backed away from it until his hip
knocked against the rocky end of the ledge.
His wet trousers caught on a sharp stone, and
he winced, pulling away, the linen of the pants
sticking to his damp skin. What the hell were
they supposed to do now...?

He looked down at himself with dawning
understanding. He touched his trousers where
he'd bumped into the rock, his mind clicking in
lightning reflexes. The solution was
obvious...but he wasn't entirely sure he would
survive.

Undaunted, he turned the sword in his hand so
that the blade pointed down to the ground.
With one decisive thrust, Mulder plunged it
into the pebbled earth beneath his feet.
Unarmed, he climbed up onto the rim of the
ledge that overlooked the lake below them. He
pivoted around to face the dragon.

Below him, Bors swore again. "God in His
mercy! Lancelot, what are you doing? Get down
and take up your sword!"

"This is the only way, Bors." Mulder clapped
his hands and whistled, the sound piercing the
still air. "Hey! Dragon! Here, dragon dragon
dragon!" His tone became whimsical, and in
spite of the danger, he couldn't help smiling.
"C'mon, motherfucker. You wanna play? Bring
it on!"

The dragon swung its head around and peered at
him. He waved his arms like a man trying to
fly. Bors shuddered and screwed up his face.
"For God's sake, Lancelot! Are you mad? You
are unarmed!"

Mulder ignored him and continued his wild dance
across the rim of the ledge. "Come on, red
eyes. Let's go for a swim. Whaddya say?"

Understanding ignited in Bors, and he started
toward Mulder. "No, Lance! The water is not
deep enough! You cannot survive a fall from
here--"

But it was too late. The dragon, goaded into
following him, surged forward, knocking its
enormous body into the narrow line of rocks
upon which Mulder stood. He felt the stones
crumbling beneath his feet, and he wind milled
his arms, trying to keep his balance. The
dragon belched another cloud of flame as it
came toward him, and, unable to see, Mulder
reached out. His arms encircled the creature's
closing snout, and he hung on as the beast
stumbled out through the barrier of stone. He
felt the rush of wind around them as they fell,
tumbling toward the water below.

He had the sense to let go of the creature and
curl into a ball as they fell, mindful of the
questionable depth of the lake. Hitting the
water still knocked the wind out of him, and
his lungs strained as he plunged below the
placid surface. The sounds around him
distorted, but he could hear the dragon roaring
its rage somewhere nearby. He opened his eyes,
seeking the surface, and he shot up toward it
when he recognized the slanting light. His
chest ached and his stomach rolled, but he
fought for his life, finally breaking through
the water and heaving a huge breath as he did.

He could see nothing around him. The whole
lake seemed to have been enveloped in curling
black smoke, the kind that usually spewed from
a five-alarm fire. The lake water, usually
warm and pleasant, churned with bubbles, and
Mulder felt his skin heat up. The water was
boiling, and he scrambled forward, pushing his
throbbing body through it to reach the shore.
He pulled himself out of the water and threw
himself down on the beach, coughing and
sputtering into the sand below his head.

Mulder rolled onto his back and pushed up onto
his elbows, squinting at the lake. It
resembled an enormous witch's cauldron, roiling
with massive waves and exploding bubbles. He
could see nothing of the dragon, and it had
ceased its furious bawling. He scanned the
choppy water for any signs of life, but he
spotted nothing.

Shit. What if he'd been wrong? What if he'd
ended up killing the dragon after all, and
Merlin, the only hope he and Scully had of
returning to their lives, had died along with
it?

"Lancelot!" Bors' voice rang out above him,
and he looked up. The smaller knight was
scaling his way back down the mountain, moving
fast. He arrived on the beach a few moments
later, and he sank to one knee next to Mulder.
He crossed himself, and Mulder grinned a
little, the gesture becoming more and more
familiar to him the longer he stayed in this
strange world. "God be praised. You are
alive!"

"I told you: I'm too tough to kill." Mulder
coughed and sat up, still searching the lake,
but his hope was beginning to fade. "I think I
messed up here, Bors. I thought that the lake
water would heal Merlin, like it healed me.
But I'm afraid the dragon may have died
instead, and Merlin--"

"And Merlin along with it." Bors finished the
thought for him. He looked at Mulder with
compassionate eyes. "If it is the case, Lance,
then it is God's will. You have done all you
could. We still must find Excalibur. We must
return to Camelot as soon as we can."

"Yeah, I know." Mulder took another deep
breath. "But I think Merlin could have helped
us. We need all the allies we can get."

"True enough, cousin." Bors sat back on his
heels, and a huge smile spread across his face.
"But zounds, man! You are something to behold!
You never cease to amaze me, even after all
this time."

"So I am something like the real Lancelot,
then?" Mulder couldn't help joking with the
smaller knight. Something stirred in Bors'
expression, and he could see the great
affection the other man had for his famous
cousin.

"You are...you are indeed our greatest knight."
Bors began to say something else, but his eyes
widened suddenly, and he grabbed Mulder's
shoulder. "Christ in his glory! Look you to
the lake, Lance!"

Mulder whipped his head around, his heart
starting to race even before his eyes focused
on the water. He was just in time to see a
beam of bright light shine down upon the lake
from somewhere within the dark haze that hung
above it. As the men watched, the beam
encircled something on the lake's surface,
looking just like a spotlight on a theatre
stage. The figure in the water bobbed on the
calming waves, and Mulder realized it was a
man, one with a beard and a long robe, floating
peacefully on his back.

The grip on his shoulder tightened as Bors once
again crossed himself. His voice was nothing
more than an awed whisper when he spoke.

"My God, Lancelot. It is Merlin."


End Chapter Nine

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