From: Rose Vanden Eynden <avalon@fuse.net>
Date: Tue, 31 Dec 2002 09:15:31 -0500
Subject: NEW: The Queen of Mist and Memory (11/?) by Avalon: Chapter Ten
Source: xff

The Queen of Mist and Memory

Chapter Ten (rated strong R)

The air surrounding her crackles with the magic
of this night.

Cocooned in his embrace, she feels his body
rock into hers. Her small frame fits perfectly
into the curves and slopes that his stance
creates, and she smiles to think that their
forms have been fashioned to fuse together like
this. He smells earthy, like rawhide and wood
and dust, and she relishes his lips whispering
kisses through her hair as he leans into her...

// Hips before hands... //

He palms the sharp bone of her pelvis where it
juts into her slacks, and her heart races with
the warm gentleness of his touch. She wonders
if he can feel the thin strap of her bikini
panties through the fabric, what it would be
like to have him trace his fingers along it to
the tiny bow that graces the scrap of satin
giftwrapping her sex. She giggles, not at his
jokes but at her own flushed face, thankful
that he cannot see her well under the lights of
the baseball field...

//...we're just gonna make contact...//

They do, and the white ball arcs into the
shimmering indigo sky, blurring with the
constellations in their intricate, heavenly
dance. Her smile widens as he teases her, as
they shuffle their hands across the neck of the
bat, and her body cries for his touch when his
skin skates across her own...

// We're not gonna think...we're just gonna let
it fly, Scully...//

She could be flying; he has taken her that high
with his mouth, his tongue, his teeth. Now he
pushes into her, and she is exhilarated; she
tilts her head back into the unyielding ground
below them, but her body soars with the stars
that sparkle over his shoulder, burning
brighter than she has ever seen them before.
They match the surging feeling within her, the
pulse of her excitement and the hammering of
her heart that strains so hard against her
chest, as if it wishes nothing more than to
push out of her body and merge with his...

// Scully...love you, Scully...love you so much...//

He pants the words into her open mouth, kissing
the upturned corners of her smile. His hair,
damp with sweat, drips the beads of his
exertion onto her heated neck, and she clutches
him tighter to her, amazed by the intensity
that snaps in his hazel eyes...

< Green eyes. Lancelot has blue eyes...this is
not Lancelot...yet this man is so like him,
almost his twin-- >

His hand, the one that directed her hip forward
as they swung the bat together, clutches the
bone there again. He slides velvety fingers
along the outside curve of her thigh until they
are between her and the blanket they have
spread on the spring-soaked grass. With a
smooth, graceful push he lifts her leg,
hitching her knee over his shoulder. She gasps
at the delicious sharpness in her center, the
sensation of him slipping deeper into her. He
smiles and thrusts harder, and she laughs,
giddy with his love, drunk with his seduction,
captured willingly in the perfect spell he has
woven around her. She recognizes her voice as
she croons his name...

// Mulder...don't stop...oh, God, Mulder...//

< Mulder? This is Lancelot...but it cannot be,
can it...? //

Her body cannot halt the inevitable conclusion
now, even if she wants to...and she wants nothing
more than this moment, this instant of powerful
love and its most precious act. Her climax
surprises her in its fury. It whirls through
her like a dervish, sending earth-shaking
tremors through her whole being. They stir her
entire body, rippling out like ocean waves that
crash against the shore. Her skin burns, her
limbs tremble...even the very tips of her fingers
sing with vibrations...

And above her, he smiles again...she is caught
and held in his adoring gaze, the one that she
knows only Mulder can give to her...Only Mulder
can make her feel this safe, this loved, this
precious...

*****

When she awakened, the ecstasy of her dream
still beat its rhythm through her. She
groaned and pushed up from her stomach, her
skin hot and damp with the flush of orgasm.
She fought the confusion that draped itself
over her like her dream lover. For a moment,
as she opened her eyes and strained to make her
brain comprehend, she didn't know where she
was...or who she was.

The chamber around her began to slowly take
shape, and understanding dawned in her mind.
She recognized the wardrobe that stood silent
vigil next to the bed, as well as the hangings
that decorated the stone walls and her dressing
table by the door. She was safe in her bed,
and even though she felt sudden embarrassment
at the telltale wetness her dream images had
created between her legs, she came back to
herself in a rush of sounds and voices. They
pulled her back into her being, giving her
assurance. Everything was as it should be.

She threw back the blankets and tumbled from
the bed, wrenching open the door of the
wardrobe and straightening up in front of the
looking glass that hung inside. She peered
closely at her face, trying to focus her eyes,
but no matter how often she blinked, she
couldn't stop the wavering motion that made the
figure in the glass undulate like a wood
sprite. Her head throbbed with every intake of
breath, and she clutched at her stomach. The
pleasant rush of arousal that lingered from her
dream soured, and it was all she could do to
stumble blindly across the room to the chamber
pot in the corner. She vomited violently and
collapsed on the floor, shaking from the
effort.

She remained there with her cheek pressed
against the cool stones, attempting to relive
the previous night. Mordred. She remembered
taking supper with the new High King and his
mother in the Great Hall, and she tried to
recall what the three of them had discussed.
Her mind, however, was intent on contemplating
something else: the man in her dream, the one
that so resembled Lancelot...

She chided herself, ashamed by her lust. She'd
had dreams of this nature before, of
course...every woman did, she imagined. But this
one had been so real, so vivid...and the
circumstances had been so strange that she
couldn't help dwelling on them.

She had not recognized the place where she and
the man had played the foreign game, the one
her mind called "baseball," even though she had
never heard that particular word before in her
life. As she recalled the details, she
realized it was all alien to her: the dusty
field where they stood together; the odd wooden
stick he placed in her hands; the small, white
sphere that they swung at again and again,
using the stick to hit it. Even her clothes
had looked strange: the leggings that were so
like a man's, the high, ankle-revealing shoes
that she knew would draw disapproving looks
from every woman at court...So many oddities, and
yet the man himself had given her a sense of
comfort and safety that she felt only in the
presence of her own Lancelot...

What on earth had Mordred and Morgan le Fae
given her to bring such wondrous images to her
mind?

She moaned again as another wave of nausea hit
her. She jerked to her knees and retched over
the pot, but nothing came up this time. She
wiped her mouth on a nearby cloth and sat down,
the stones chilling her bare body as she
huddled there. She was sure of it now. They
<had> poisoned her again, just as they had
when...

She shook the thought from her mind. She
wouldn't consider that awful, painful time. It
would drive her insane to think on it too much,
and she needed her wits about her now, more
than ever before. She had to stop Mordred's
plan...she had to save Arthur, and the kingdom,
and...

What had she done the night before? She
searched her memory, but she could recall
nothing more than Mordred's entrance with his
mother into the Great Hall. She didn't even
know how she ended up back in her rooms. Who
had brought her here? Her stomach lurched
again as she thought of Mordred carrying her,
laying her upon the mattress, stripping off her
clothes...She squelched the urge to vomit again
and sat up straighter.

"Leigh!" she called, and before the sound
stopped echoing across the chamber, another
voice answered in her mind.

// Kimberly. Her name is Kimberly. //

She whipped her head up, searching for a face
to go with the voice. Her eyes fell on her own
form in the mirror across from her. This time
they focused, but she blinked anyway,
disbelieving what she saw there.

The same body, yet different: more angular,
firmer, the muscles in the legs and arms better
defined. Hair an identical shade of copper,
yet much shorter than any noble woman would
dare to cut her hair...shorter even than most of
the knights, who wore shoulder-length hair.
But the queerest thing, the one that caught and
held her attention, enraptured...

The eyes. The eyes that stared back at her
were blue. A shade of blue that mirrored the
sky...eyes like Lancelot's...

They were not her eyes.

"What is happening to me?" Guinevere whispered.
Her insides shifted again, and she closed her
eyes against the onslaught. In her mind, the
voice sighed again.

// Us. What is happening to <us.> I'm still
here. I'm not going away. //

She brought her fingers up to her temples and
massaged them, scrunching up her face, trying
to drive the mumble away. "Leigh!" she yelled
again, and she was grateful to hear her
cousin's footfalls in the hallway outside. A
moment later, the other woman crouched next to
her, stroking her shoulders.

"Gwen! You are ill. I feared it last night
when that bastard brought you in."

She nodded silently, swallowing the bile in her
throat and the confusion that spun in her head.
The figure in the mirror shifted, and she saw
her own familiar body take the strange one's
place. She leaned back into Leigh's arms,
taking comfort in her cousin's embrace. What
in God's name ailed her? Perhaps she was
already insane...

Leigh was speaking, and she forced herself to
concentrate on her words. "...give you to drink
last night?"

She thought back, an image forming in her mind
as she answered. "The squire filled my cup
with wine, but I only took a swallow or two."

"It matters not. Morgan le Fae could still
have poisoned you, or worse." Leigh's hands
felt cool and gentle as she smoothed her hair
back. "The whole of Camelot speaks this
morning of your agreement."

Guinevere pushed up and turned to face her
cousin. "What agreement? I cannot remember
what happened in the Great Hall. It is like
something hidden in the early morning mist."

Leigh ducked her head to avoid her eyes, but
Guinevere grabbed her hand and squeezed it
hard, pressing her determination into her palm.
"Please, Leigh, you must tell me," she
implored, and she sucked in a breath, steeling
herself as if readying for a physical blow.

Leigh sighed and raised her eyes to look
directly into Guinevere's. "You signed a
decree declaring Arthur unfit to rule. In his
stead, Mordred shall be crowned High King on
the morrow. The Bishop will preside over his
coronation."

Guinevere nodded stoically. "Then it is as I
recalled. It is as Mordred and I spoke of
before dining together. I feared I had no
choice, as the Bishop already decreed it
himself."

"But the coronation is not the only ceremony
the Bishop will celebrate with Mordred
tomorrow."

At these words, one moment in the Great Hall
came flooding back to Guinevere. Her skin
crawled at the memory of Mordred kissing her
hand, coaxing her to sign the document that
would bind her to him as his promised Queen.
She shuddered as another bolt of nausea shot
through her, and she scrambled forward, heaving
the remainder of her stomach contents into the
bowl before her.

Leigh helped her sit back, murmuring soothing
phrases in her ear. Tears squirted from the
corners of Guinevere's eyes, and her whole body
shook as she cried. "Dear God, Leigh," she
sobbed. "What have I done?"

Leigh wrapped her arms around her and held her.
Her own soft voiced choked with tears as she
spoke. "I know not how to help you, Guinevere.
I fear what will happen on the morrow...and I
fear for you, having been tied now to the
scourge of Camelot, Arthur's true bane. What
will he do to you? How will you survive?"

They sat like that for several minutes,
snuffling and rocking together, trying to give
each other strength and draw on the combined
energy that they shared. Guinevere had gotten
herself back under control when Leigh
stiffened, sitting up straighter next to her.

"Gwen, it is nearly full moon."

Guinevere furrowed her brow at her cousin as
she wiped the remaining wet pathways from her
cheeks. "Is it? Why do you mention it, Leigh?
How could that possibly be of importance now?"

Leigh sat up on her knees and grabbed
Guinevere's hand excitedly. "Your courses,
Gwen. You usually start your courses right
after the quarter moon, and you have not yet
begun this month." She nearly cut off the
circulation in her cousin's hand as she
squeezed her fingers. "No courses. You could
be with child. You could be carrying the High
King's true heir to the throne."

Guinevere's heart sprang up into her throat.
Could it be true? Her courses had not come the
previous month, but she had thought nothing of
that. Since the death of her son, her cycles
had run strangely, and some months her flow
never started. But two cycles in a row? That
had never happened before, except when she had
carried a child, and now...?

She tried to count backwards in her mind. It
would have been in the late winter, around the
time that Arthur had traveled south to Cornwall
to honor his cousins there. She had stayed
behind at Camelot, and of course, the Queen's
champion never left her side when the King was
away. Lancelot had kept rooms at court that
whole week...and they had shared a bed every
night, relishing in the luxury of their love as
they had never before.

She bit her lip, trying to contain her
excitement. A baby...her baby...another child that
Lancelot had fathered, but that Arthur would
recognize as his heir, determined to keep their
secret and all of his hopes for Camelot intact.
She would be a mother, giving a son to her dear
husband and her precious lover both, a son that
would shine more brightly than all the stars in
heaven...

// Never give up on a miracle. //

The voice in her head rumbled with the same
rough texture as Lance's...yet she knew it was
the other man who spoke, the one from her
dream. She closed her eyes, swaying a bit, and
she could see him reaching for her, pressing
his forehead to hers as she embraced him. It
wasn't her, and yet it was...it was all a jumbled
swirl of emotion and memory and touch and
sound...

// Guinevere. Stay alert. There are people
who will not want this child to live. //

Her eyes flew open as the soft, throaty voice
crept through her consciousness. Whoever this
other woman was, Guinevere knew that she was
right. If she did carry Arthur's heir, Mordred
and his mother would stop at nothing to try to
destroy it. The child's lineage would not
matter if she were forced to marry Mordred...he
would still rule, and it would be easy for him
to claim the child as his once they were wed.
Worse still, he would know the truth, and as
ruthless as he was, he might still murder her
offspring. They had to protect this secret no
matter what the cost. It might be enough to
keep Mordred from ascending...if they could prove
it in time.

Guinevere pressed Leigh's fingers. "We must
find a way to confirm this, Leigh. Perhaps it
is only wishful thinking. One way or the
other, we must be certain."

Leigh started to stand. "I will send for a
midwife."

Guinevere jerked her back down beside her.
"Nay! We know not whom we can trust any
longer. What if it were true, and the woman
ran back to tell Mordred or his mother? We
must find someone who can help us, one way or
the other."

"But who could that be? I am not skilled
enough in midwifery, Gwen, to know--"

Guinevere cut off her words. "I know. Send
for the lady Lionors."

Leigh wrinkled her brow. "Sir Gareth's wife?
I have never heard tell that she knows
midwifery..."

"Her father was one of Uther Pendragon's best
surgeons. I have heard Sir Gareth brag many
times of his lady's great knowledge of the
sciences. She is our best hope. Her own
husband has been imprisoned by his brother, and
I know her heart must yearn for him. She will
help us, I am sure of it."

"Very well." Leigh stood, and she eased
Guinevere to her feet as well. "Come, Gwen.
Get you back to bed and rest until she
arrives."

Guinevere settled back under the coverlet of
the bed and then sat up as another thought
rocketed through her mind. This one, too, came
from the other woman, the one that so resembled
her, the one who seemed to have taken up
residence in the recesses of Guinevere's
consciousness.

"One thing more, Leigh. Send a summons to
Joyous Gard."

Leigh looked utterly baffled. "Joyous Gard?
You know very well that Lancelot is not there--"

"Summon his manservant Richard. Tell him to
come to Camelot at once to attend the Queen."

"But why, Gwen? For whatever reason could you
possible have need of Richard?"

Guinevere allowed her muddled head to sink back
into the pillows. "I--I cannot say just yet.
But I believe he can help us, too, at some
point in the future. Just get him here as
quickly as you can."

*****

She stared at the cross beamed ceiling above
her, trying not to wince. Embarrassment
broiled at the back of her mind, but she
squelched it, attempting to focus not on the
fact that she was spread-eagled on an oak
dining table while another woman probed at her
sex, but instead on the outcome of the
examination.

A baby. Another chance. God, she hoped and
prayed that it was true.

An involuntary shudder passed through her as a
pulling sensation raced through the pit of her
abdomen. She shut her eyes against it, digging
her nails into the sides of the table. In her
mind, a picture emerged, and Guinevere wondered
at it, realizing that the image came from the
woman who had taken up residence within her
subconscious, the woman that seemed to resemble
her in so many ways.

//...a bright room of blinding white...her feet up
in the stirrups, the paper sheet hiked in a
bunch around her hips...the cold metal of the
instrument as the doctor inserts it inside of
her, the lubricating gel thick and slimy at her
entrance...she turns her head away, breathing
through the intense pressure and the
nervousness...and she feels the warm softness of
his hand gripping hers...his eyes, those
chameleon ones that change like a kaleidoscope
of earth tones, find hers and lock on...he
whispers encouragement to her, a small smile
just touching his lush mouth...//

//...it's OK, Scully...I'm right here...You're
safe...//

Scully. Was that this woman's name? An odd
moniker for a lady, Guinevere thought, but it
had to be true. The man intoned it with such
reverence and such love that it only made sense
that is was her name. She tried to shake the
woman's fear from her but found it mingling
with her own. This child could be everything
she and Arthur had hoped for...and if she lost it
again, it could be the one thing that would
destroy her.

She sensed the sudden rush of movement within
her, and the pressure between her legs
withdrew. The woman at the foot of the table
straightened up, pivoting to one side to plunge
her hands into a waiting bowl of hot water. As
she scrubbed, Guinevere sat up, rearranging the
skirts of her gown to cover her exposed body.
She watched the woman's profile, the sculptured
pale cheeks that had almost no boundary as they
rose into the blonde hairline over her ear.
She was a pretty woman, Guinevere thought, and
a woman who possessed an air of authority and
intellect that she respected and admired.

< Lionors. Sir Gareth's dear wife. >

// Suzanne Modeski. The woman Byers tried to
save. //

She started at that. The foreign names whirled
through her mind, and Guinevere didn't know if
she should try to remember them, or if she
should just resign herself to the fact that she
was going mad. That was the only logical
explanation, wasn't it? This voice in her
mind...these images of the man who looked like
Lancelot&the faces and scenes of another life,
one so very different from her own...

She couldn't contemplate it now. There were
too many other important things to concentrate
on, and too many lives at stake.

She swung her feet over the side of the table.
She had received Lionors in the Queen's Hall, a
smaller gathering room reserved for Guinevere
to entertain friends. She had not wished to
draw Mordred's suspicions by asking Lionors to
come to her private chambers. He would have
wanted to know why, and she couldn't risk that.
Submitting to the humiliation of being examined
on a dining table was preferable to Mordred's
wrath.

"Well, Lady Lionors? What say you about my
condition?"

Lionors dried her hands swiftly on a nearby
cloth and faced Guinevere. Her serious eyes
gave away nothing. "I would say
congratulations, my Queen."

Leigh squealed in delight from her place behind
Gareth's wife. A giddy rush of excitement shot
through Guinevere as well, but Lionors' sharp
tone cut that off at once. "Be still! I know
it is wondrous news, but surely you must also
realize the danger here."

Guinevere reached forward and grabbed Lionors'
hand. "We are well aware of that, my friend.
But if I carry the King's true heir, then
Mordred cannot ascend. Even he cannot possibly
challenge that claim."

The stony look on Lionors' face did not change.
"I fear, my lady Queen, that Mordred will stop
at nothing to reach the throne. This child
will simply be one more for him to leave in his
murderous wake."

Guinevere considered the words with a wave of
dread building in her heart, one that drowned
any elated feeling she had about a new child.
She knew that Lionors spoke true. As long as
she remained at Camelot, she was in danger...and
now the child along with her. That thought
mobilized her as nothing else possibly could.

"We must get away from Camelot," she declared,
squeezing the hand that she still held.
Lionors simply stared at her. "I must not be
forced to marry Mordred on the morrow, decree
or no. We must find a safe place to go, and we
must somehow release the Round Table Knights.
Once we are safely away, we must locate
Lancelot. With his loyal men at his side,
Arthur can declare this claim against Mordred
and rally the people to fight him. Camelot
will be won again."

"But where is Lancelot?" Lionors asked. "And
with the King ill, how can he retake the
throne?"

Guinevere sighed. "I must trust that Lancelot
is not lost to us, Lionors. He is endeavoring
to bring Excalibur back to Arthur. Once he
does, Arthur will be healed. With the Round
Table Knights fighting with him, he will be
able to defeat Mordred."

"Morgan le Fae said she would heal Arthur,"
Leigh interjected. "That was part of the
bargain for you to sign the decree."

Guinevere leveled a look at her cousin. "Has
it been done yet, Leigh? Have you witnessed
Arthur's miraculous recovery?"

Leigh lowered her head. "Nay, I have not."

"Nor have I. I believe," Guinevere said, "that
it was just another ploy to get me to sign the
decree. That, and drugging me last night at
supper."

Lionors looked at her sharply. "Are you not
well, my Queen? What is this talk of drugs?"

Guinevere told her about the meeting the night
before and her belief that Morgan le Fae had
ensnared her with some sort of draught.
Lionors frowned. "Guinevere, you must be
careful. You carry a child now. Anything that
you ingest could be detrimental to it. It is
yet another reason you must keep this secret."

"We must plan. We must find a way to escape
from Camelot." Guinevere hopped down from the
table and began to pace. "It will be nearly
impossible, though. I cannot leave Arthur
here. He must be with us when Lancelot returns
with the sword. That would mean carrying him
somehow."

"There are liters in the stables, Gwen," Leigh
said. "If we could get him into one, we could
drag it behind as we rode."

She nodded. "But how to get him there? We are
but three women. I know not if we could manage
Arthur by ourselves."

"You must release the Round Table Knights
first," Lionors replied. "They can help you
with the King. But before you can do any of
this, you must find a way to keep Mordred and
Morgan le Fae occupied. They will be watching
you, and Arthur, like a falconer with an eye on
his prized bird."

"What other men remain in the castle who are
loyal to Arthur?" Leigh asked.

Guinevere considered the question. She could
think of no one who would not have been
imprisoned immediately, for all of Arthur's
friends were knights themselves. Her mind lit
on something then, and she turned to Lionors.

"Your brother-in-law may be able to help us, if
we can persuade him."

Lionors spat out a sour laugh. "Do you speak
of Agravaine, my lady? He is only interested
in appeasing his mother. Gareth has said for
many years that his brother knows no loyalty
other than that."

"I have seen his indecision, Lionors, in the
last few days. He knows what Mordred has done
is wrong. I think he will help us, but we must
be determined in our efforts."

Lionors tossed the towel she still held onto
the table next to her, her face grim. "I will
do whatever is necessary to secure my husband's
release. I will not leave him to die, wrongly
imprisoned for crimes he did not commit."

"Very well. Then we are invested." Guinevere
crossed her arms over her chest in an effort to
keep her anxiety from bleeding through into her
shaking hands. "It must be tonight, then, so
that we can get away before the Bishop arrives
on the morrow. I have had Leigh send for one
of Lancelot's men. I say that we shall run to
Lancelot's own castle, Joyous Gard, once we are
free. If Mordred follows and attacks, we
should be safe there, at least for a while."

"Richard should arrive any time now,
Guinevere," Leigh said. "What shall we do once
he is here?"

"Richard?" Lionors asked. "I know him, I
think. Light-haired steward, is he not?"

"That is right." Guinevere puzzled over
Lionors' chuckle. "Why do you laugh, lady? Is
there something about Richard that I should
know?"

Lionors gazed at Guinevere. "Do you not
remember where Lancelot found him? Picking
pockets in the square?" Her eyes glittered
lightly. "I believe, Guinevere, that if you
need a man to release the knights from the
dungeons, you could not have asked for a better
one than Richard. Gareth has told me he knows
every passage in every castle from here to
Cornwall, and he is an expert at picking locks
and traveling unnoticed wherever he goes. I
tell you, the knights shall be free this
evening, have no fear."

Guinevere smiled. The woman inside her, the
one called Scully, had known to call Richard.
Somehow, she had trusted that he would be able
to help them. How had she possibly known of
his skills?

It mattered not. The scheme was beginning to
take shape, and Guinevere had no time to
ruminate over the strange dealings of her mind.
If Richard could release the knights, all was
well...but there was the issue of Mordred and
Morgan le Fae. How could they distract them so
as to escape unnoticed?

"Lionors?" she said. "Would you go to Mordred
and his mother, as a member of the Orkney clan,
and plead for your husband's release? If they
give you their attentions, they will never know
that the knights have escaped. Then, while you
are with them, we could steal Arthur away from
this place. They will be none the wiser until
it is too late."

"And I could meet you after at Joyous Gard, and
see my dear husband again." For the first
time, Lionors appeared vulnerable, and
Guinevere felt her own heart ache for the other
woman. "I shall do this, my Queen. And before
I go, I shall speak to Agravaine. Perhaps he
will have a change of heart, especially if I
plead with him on Gareth's behalf."

Guinevere stepped up to the other woman and
hugged her tightly. "Thank you, sweet lady.
By the end of this night, we shall be gone from
Camelot, and we shall be on our way to
restoring the King to his rightful place."

She thought of Arthur as she spoke, lying in
his bed, oblivious to the dangerous plotting
that swirled around him. She thought of the
baby growing within her, the one that could
save all of Camelot from destruction at the
hands of its warped half-brother. And she
thought of Lancelot, fighting his way through
whatever gauntlets he had encountered, doing
everything he could to aid his King, his
country...and the love that so desperately
awaited his return.

The throaty voice rippled through Guinevere
again, latching into her mind and heart as it
moved.

// Mulder. I'm doing everything I can to help
you, Mulder. //

Guinevere stiffened her resolve. She would
save them all: Arthur, the child, Lancelot,
Gareth...and even though she didn't understand
who they were, the ones called Scully and
Mulder. They were somehow a part of this, too,
and she would not leave them in line for
destruction any more than she would her own
dear loved ones. No matter what, they would
all be free by morning, if it was the last
thing she ever did.

End Chapter Ten

-- 

Chapter Eleven

Mulder was used to strange occurrences.  In his
work on the X-Files, how could he not be?
Encountering alien bounty hunters, vampires,
serial killers, and even flukemen was routine
to him.  He couldn't remember a time when his
life hadn't been filled with oddities.  But the
man that awaited him in the faerie lake
surprised him more than anything had in a long,
long time.

He and Bors had waded into the cooling water,
mindful of the waves that undulated around
them, reaching the floating stranger in mere
seconds.  Mulder had grabbed the man's ankles
and hauled him toward the shore, noting the
coldness of the aged skin beneath his fingers.
Scully's lectures about victims in shock
replayed through his mind, and he moved as fast
as he could.  He barely glanced at the man's
face, more concerned about getting him warmed
up and hopefully restoring him to
consciousness.  Other than his temperature, the
wizard called Merlin appeared to be in good
shape.  His weight seemed normal, and Mulder
could detect no injuries.  He knew they were
lucky as hell.  That fall from the ledge above
the lake could have easily killed them both,
even with one of them in dragon form.

With Bors cradling the wizard's head, Mulder
hoisted the man's legs and settled him further
up the beach, away from the black smoke that
curdled the air around the lake.  After
arranging him on the sand, Bors set about
gathering nearby plant life with which to cover
his body.  Mulder called to him to find some
firewood as well, and Bors nodded, moving off
into the underbrush.

Mulder collapsed next to the old man's body,
fatigue creeping over him almost immediately.
He knew he couldn't give in again to the luxury
of rest.  The realization that they were closer
than ever to locating Excalibur pricked at him,
urging him to continue on.  He now knew the
sword was nearby, hidden in the cave above them
that the dragon-turned-Merlin had guarded.
Once Merlin was revived, they needed to move
quickly to secure it and hightail it back to
Camelot.

Mulder sighed and hunched himself into a seated
ball, trying to generate his own body heat.
Now that he was out of the water and
motionless, his body temperature began to drop,
and he shivered.  He needed the warmth of a
campfire just as much as Merlin did.

He picked up the wrinkled hand nearest to him
and chafed it between his own, hoping to
generate some heat.  He leaned over the old
man's head, peering at the creased face beneath
the overgrown white beard...and he nearly fell
over from shock.

He'd pretty much expected Merlin to look like
someone from his life.  Everyone else in this
bizarre universe seemed to possess striking
similarities to someone he knew, and he
certainly hadn't thought that Merlin would be
an exception.  The surprise of who the wizard
did resemble, however, still rocked his mind
back, looping it through waves of memory to a
man he hadn't seen alive in a very long time.

Scully had described his informant's death to
him.  He, of course, had not witnessed it.
He'd been held prisoner in the back of a van,
his eyes sealed shut from the poison of the
alien fumes, his consciousness weaving in and
out as he tried to piece together what was
happening around him.  He had not seen the
body, but he trusted Scully.  The man he'd
known only as Deep Throat had died that night
of a gunshot wound to the heart, and Scully
herself had held his head in her hands as his
life bled out beneath him on that deserted
bridge in Washington.

Mulder had reeled from the reality of that
experience.  It was the first time he had truly
contemplated the enormity of his work, and the
first time that those he and Scully were trying
to expose made it abundantly clear that they
would stop at nothing to keep them, and the
rest of the American public, in the dark about
alien life.  Since that time, they had
discovered so much more on the X-Files,
conspiracies layered upon conspiracies, but the
memory of Deep Throat and what he had
sacrificed had always haunted Mulder.  The man
had affected him deeply, and Mulder would not
be the same person he now was if it hadn't been
for his informant's influence.  His friendship
had indeed been a blessing and a curse.

And now here lay a man who looked just like
that one, another man who was apparently the
backbone of a civilization, one that wielded
some kind of power in a cadre of plotting
politicians. He was a man who knew the secrets
of all those who circled around him...and one who
understood that magic, in its many forms, was
truly possible in every sense.

It was this man that opened his eyes and gazed
directly at Mulder, causing him to very nearly
jump out of his skin.

Mulder grunted in surprise and dropped his
hand.  Next to him, the older man stirred, and
something resembling a chuckle escaped from his
lips.

"Sorry to startle you, Agent Mulder.  I know
it's probably quite a shock to you to see me
alive."

Mulder blinked.  Agent Mulder?  Had Merlin
actually just called him Agent Mulder?  He
scrambled to his knees and stared into the
wizened face, his own wearing what he knew to
be an expression of sheer disbelief.

Merlin continued before he could even speak.
"Yes, yes, I know who you are.  You know me,
too, don't you?  We've met before, under very
different circumstances.   But surely you
didn't think you'd never see me again."

Mulder slowly shook his head from side to side.
"I--I must be dreaming.  I'm asleep, right?  I
sat down here next to you, and I fell asleep,
didn't I?  I am exhausted, you know.  And this
place is like a nightmare, anyway."

"Are you rationalizing to me, or to yourself?"
Merlin asked.  "You know, some days you sound
more and more like Agent Scully.  She has
influenced you quite a lot over the years,
hasn't she?"

"But...but you're Merlin.  How can you know who I
really am?  I mean, you look like Deep
Throat...you even sound like him.  But...it's not
possible...is it?"

The older man chortled again and pushed himself
up on his elbows, cocking a bushy eyebrow at
him.  "'There are more things in heaven and
earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your
philosophy.'  Shakespeare, you know.  Love
Shakespeare.  Pity he hasn't started writing in
this time yet.  A few years down the road."

Mulder tried to fit the pieces together in his
mind, but he couldn't concentrate.  He was
tired to the very core of his being, he ached
with every breath he took, he needed a drink of
water so badly his throat had numbed
completely...and he missed Scully more than
anything else.  Fuck.  How could he be expected
to understand all of this?

Compassion passed over the features of the
wizard's face, and he gripped Mulder's shoulder
in a reassuring gesture.  "Don't worry, Agent
Mulder.  It may never be entirely clear to you.
It's not completely within my power to
understand it all, either.  I am still a man,
after all.  Some of it is beyond even me.  But
I'll try to help you make sense of it.  And
once we are all out of this particular mess, I
will try to help you and Agent Scully return to
where you belong."

A wave of gratitude washed through Mulder, and
his words shook with thanks and weariness as he
uttered them.  "I--I don't know what to say.  Or
do for you.  What--what should I do?"

Merlin dismissed this with an impatient
gesture.  "There is nothing for you to do, son.
Just sit there and rest a bit.  With Bors away,
I can tell you some things.  Of course, I can't
reveal all this to him.  He has no way of
understanding that he is more than one person.
It would fall on deaf ears, as I am sure you
have come to see."

Mulder laughed.  "Yeah, well, he is a bit
stubborn about that."

"A fine man, though.  In both places.  And in
many more."

Mulder rubbed his tired eyes and tried to
focus.  "Are you saying that I am alive here,
as Lancelot, and in my own time, as Mulder?
That I'm existing at the same time in both
places?"

Merlin pursed his lips.  "Well, I suppose you
could explain it that way.  It's a hard concept
to grasp.  Time is not linear, as most people
believe.  It is a continuum.  Consciousness can
travel through space and land anywhere it
wants, which is basically what happened to you
and Agent Scully.  Your consciousness is here
now, inhabiting these Arthurian bodies.  Your
consciousness has been here before, so it
recognized this all on some level.  It would
not have been possible otherwise for Morgan le
Fae to bring you here."

Understanding rose in Mulder's mind.  "She's
the woman I saw in the woods in Wales.  Morgan
le Fae.  She lured us into that energy vortex.
That's what transported our consciousnesses
here."  Merlin nodded, but Mulder barely
noticed.  His thoughts picked up speed,
tumbling out of him as excited words.  "So in
some other lifetime, I <was> Lancelot?  Scully
<was> Guinevere?  And now we're reliving those
times?"

"Not exactly.  It doesn't have to do with
reincarnation and lifetimes.  Every time period
has its heroes, Agent Mulder.  Your
consciousness simply fit this particular bill,
probably better than even Morgan le Fae
anticipated.  She expected to bring people into
these bodies that would be easy to bend to her
plans.  You have proven to be more than she
expected.  You are exasperating to her.  As is
Agent Scully."

"Then why did you call me Lancelot?  Before,
when I was ready to fight you in the dragon's
body?"

"I had to get your attention, didn't I?  I
wasn't in any position to explain all this
then.  Calling you Mulder would have just
confused you further.  I had enough trouble
wrestling for dominance with that creature's
mind."

Mulder turned over all the words, examining
them to see if he could make them fit into his
understanding.  He had no trouble believing
what Merlin said to him; the explanation
resonated within his intuitive nature.  But
even though he could believe this scenario, it
didn't make it any easier to live through.
Every time Merlin mentioned Scully's name, his
heart hammered ferociously, longing to be near
her again.  His yearning for her was eating him
alive.

"Do you know what is going on with Scully now?
Is she alright?"

For the first time, Merlin hesitated, and alarm
sprung, bright and coiled, in Mulder's chest.
The wizard's words didn't assure him.  "For
now."

Mulder grabbed the old man by the neck of his
robe, securing a handful of beard along with it
as he yanked him to a full sitting position.
"What do you mean, for now?  Is she in danger?
Tell me, goddammit!"

Merlin's face clouded with annoyance.  "I see
you haven't lost any of your impetuousness, and
you still don't control your temper very well.
She is in no danger right now.  But the
circumstances at Camelot are building to a
terrible climax, and you must get there with
the sword as soon as you can."

"Then why are we wasting time sitting here?"
Mulder released the wizard and pushed himself
to his feet.  His body raged in protest, but he
ignored the cries, his mind locked on nothing
but Scully's welfare.  "Can you walk?  We need
to get back up to that cave.  The sword is in
there, isn't it?  That's what you were
guarding."

Merlin nodded and heaved his drenched body to
his feet.  "You must take care, Agent Mulder.
Even though your mind is bright and alive in
that head, Lancelot's body is no different than
any other man's.  You can't keep pushing
yourself to go on.  You will eventually break
down.  Remember that."

"Don't worry about me.  Now where is Bors?"

As if the product of a spell of Merlin's own,
Bors appeared at the edge of the tree line,
carrying an armful of sticks.  He stopped short
when he saw Mulder and Merlin standing there.
"Christ be praised!  Lord Merlin!  You are
alive!"

Merlin's demeanor and voice changed instantly
to one of courtly decorum.  "I do indeed live,
Sir Bors, thanks to you and Sir Lancelot.  But
I am in no need of your nursemaiding.  Come.
We must reach Excalibur and return it at once
to King Arthur."

Bors dropped his armload of wood and followed
as Mulder hurried to the side of the mountain.
Mulder found his handholds and once more began
scaling, his muscles protesting against his
relentless pushing, promising him soreness once
he finally ceased his exertions.  He could hear
Bors'grunts and the faint chime of armor
beneath him as they continued to climb, but he
concentrated on moving as quickly as possible.
He didn't like what Merlin had said about the
circumstances back at Camelot...no, he didn't
like it one bit.

Mulder gave a final groan as he heaved himself
over the familiar ledge where Bors had been
asleep less than half an hour before.  His
heart hammered in his chest, and he leaned
forward, resting his hands on his knees, trying
to catch his breath.  As he did, a blur of
motion caught the corner of his eye, and
instinctively, Mulder whirled away from it.  He
turned just in time to see the folds of
Merlin's waterlogged robe fluttering to a stop
in front of the cave entrance.

"Jesus Christ!" Mulder exclaimed, stunned.
"How--how in the hell did you get up here so
fast?"

Merlin smiled and ran a gnarled hand over his
beard, wringing a bit of water from its ends.
"Apportation has its benefits."

"You...you just <appeared> up here?"  Mulder
shook his head in disbelief.  "This gets better
and better every minute."

The smile on the wizard's face widened.  "Ah,
yes.  You see, Agent Mulder, in this time and
place, magick has not lost itself to science.
The two co-exist in perfect harmony.  Both are
as palpable and as real as the ground we stand
on.  Observe!"  Merlin clapped his hands twice,
and before Mulder's staring eyes, a pile of
silver appeared at his feet.  Merlin chuckled
as Mulder blinked.

"Is that...is that my armor?"

"It is indeed.  I thought you might have use of
it, since I am unsure what awaits us in the
depths of that cave.  Here, then.  I shall help
you to don it."

Once more, Merlin clapped his hands, and
suddenly, Mulder was completely dry and
outfitted in the awkward suit of metal he had
worn before his swim in the lake.  He was still
marveling at it when Bors' head popped up over
the ledge, his large eyes growing wider when he
spotted Mulder.

"Your armor, Lance!  How did you manage to
bring it with you?"

"I didn't.  Merlin just...dressed me."

Somehow, Bors managed to cross himself as he
pulled his body over the stony edge of the
cliff.  He eyed Merlin like a child unsure of a
stranger and sucked in a large breath as he
rested his back against the rock.  "Lord
Merlin, you continue to amaze us all.  But what
can you tell us of the gauntlet that lies
ahead?"

Merlin continued to fuss with his watery
wardrobe, squeezing drops from the hem of his
robe.  "I can tell you nothing, Sir Bors.  I
know not what Lady Elaine has planned.  I do
know that she wishes nothing more than to have
Sir Lancelot for her own.  She will have
devised something in order to keep him here
with her, make no mistake."

Mulder felt his cheeks color at the statement,
but he couldn't afford to be embarrassed now.
He hadn't done anything to encourage Elaine's
affections.  All he could do was concentrate on
getting through whatever traps she had laid so
that he could return to Scully as quickly as
possible.

"Well, let us go, then," Bors said, striding
toward the cave.  Merlin held up a hand,
stilling him.

"A moment please, Sir Bors.  Let me outfit
myself as well."

Mulder watched as Merlin raised his hands above
him like a conductor about to begin a symphony.
A swirl of mist enveloped the old man, one the
color of lilacs budding in the spring.  It
joined with its white cousin that still drifted
all around them, creating a curtain of fog
through which Mulder could discern nothing.

A moment later, Merlin emerged from the shining
cloud.  He now wore a new robe of indigo velvet
shot through with golden threads, and a long
dagger in a leather scabbard was secured at his
hip.  His hair and beard were neat and dry, and
he carried a staff of smooth, gleaming oak.  It
was carved with intricate symbols and runes,
ones that Mulder thought he recognized from
some of his books on occult lore.

He strode impressively past Mulder and beckoned
to him and Bors from the mouth of the cave.
"Come then," he bellowed, his voice as majestic
as his new appearance.  "Let us find
Excalibur."

Mulder and Bors followed him, but the smaller
knight frowned as they stepped into the gloomy
confines of the cave.  "This is all very well,
Lord Merlin, but how can we find anything in
this place?  We cannot see, and the way will
only grow darker as we move further from the
light outside."

"Then we shall have our own light," Merlin
answered.  Mulder jumped in surprise as a ball
of flame erupted in midair right before him.
It condensed into a glowing orb, and he
realized it sat atop Merlin's staff, resembling
a torch.   The wizard raised the staff higher
so that they could see the way before them.

The cave seemed to go straight ahead, dipping
lower into the ground as they walked.  The
passage narrowed as they moved further along,
and Mulder spotted no other openings branching
off from the main corridor.  Apparently, Elaine
didn't want them to have any trouble finding
whatever it was that she had arranged.  She'd
made the access to it easy enough to
negotiate...well, if you didn't count the dragon
that had guarded it.

It didn't take them long to come to the end of
the tunnel.  Before them stood a heavy, dark
door, its surface marred with a symbol that had
been burned into the wood.  Merlin tilted his
staff toward it, and Mulder strained his eyes
to see it better.  It appeared to be a dragon,
a huge scarlet one carrying a beautiful maiden
on its back.  The image of the woman stared
boldly out at them, and Mulder swayed on his
feet, entranced by her gaze.  She looked...she
looked like...

"Lancelot!"  Merlin's sharp voice cut into his
consciousness, effectively snapping Mulder from
his reverie.  He started with a small gasp as
Bors shouldered his way up between him and the
wizard.

"The Pendragon," Bors breathed.  "The sword
must rest inside.  Come, let us go in."  He
reached out his gloved hand and grasped the
doorknob.  As his fingers closed around it, he
suddenly cried out in pain.  Reacting on
instinct, Mulder grabbed his arm and wrenched
it away from the knob.  It had colored
immediately to an angry shade of crimson, and
as Bors' hand peeled away from it, smoke rose
into the air.

"Jesus, Bors!" Mulder cried.  The heat of the
knob had melted the fabric of the glove,
effectively sealing the threads to the skin of
Bors' palm.  His face contorted in anguish,
Bors stumbled back into Merlin, who yanked his
arm toward him.

"You fool!" Merlin shouted.  "This is
Lancelot's quest!  Only he can enter that room
and find Excalibur.  Give me your hand!"  He
snared Bors' injured hand between both of his
and pressed his palms together.  Bors howled
again, but Mulder steadied him by the
shoulders, his eyes never leaving Merlin.

The old wizard rocked back on his heels, his
eyes rolling up into his head to expose only
their whites.  He muttered a string of words
under his breath, something that Mulder
supposed was an incantation, and the same
lavender smoke that Merlin had conjured on the
ledge seeped out of the fissures in the men's
hands.  The mist enveloped all of Bors' hand,
and as he watched, the smaller knight stopped
shaking in pain.  Moments later, Merlin
released him, and Mulder huffed out a laugh as
Bors flexed his repaired hand between them.

The shorter man raised trembling fingers to his
forehead and crossed himself three times in
rapid succession.  "Good Christ," he muttered,
the sweat still standing out on his brow.  "I
know not what to say, Lord Merlin."

Merlin's face had returned to normal, and he
cocked an eyebrow at Bors as he straightened
his robes.  "A thank you would suffice," he
growled.  "Now stand aside, Sir Bors.  Let Sir
Lancelot open the door."

Mulder swallowed hard as his hand hovered above
the doorknob.  Whatever lay in wait for him on
the other side would be his to face alone.
Bors and Merlin would be unable to help him.
Lancelot's quest, Lancelot's
responsibility...everything seemed to ride now on
Mulder's shoulders.  He took a deep breath,
willing the image of Scully's face to his mind,
her blue eyes that gazed at him with a love so
profound it nearly rendered him helpless.  He
would do this for Scully, and for everything
they had worked so hard to achieve together...

With a determined spin of his wrist, Mulder
grabbed the doorknob, turned it, and pushed the
creaking door open.

Golden light spilled over him, and he squinted
against it, trying to make out the room before
him through the hazy glow.  The air was dense
with perfume, a scent that Mulder recognized as
the one that had choked him when he first met
Elaine.  The faerie woman was somewhere nearby,
he realized, and his Spooky Sense clamored
loudly, tensing him to spring.

Mulder took a tentative step into the chamber,
glancing around him.  The space was round, with
no other visible doors but the one behind him.
The floor below his feet shimmered like golden
glass, arcing in a perfect orb as it traced a
pathway around the room's perimeter.  Recessed
in the center of the chamber lay a beautiful
pool of calm water, large enough to remind
Mulder of his days on his high school swim
team.  As inviting as the water looked, Mulder
couldn't suppress a grimace.  He'd had enough
of water for one day, and he sincerely hoped
that whatever challenge this room would present
wouldn't involve that pool in any way.

As his eyes adjusted to the dancing light,
though, he began to realize what his challenge
would entail.  He turned slowly to trace the
outline of the chamber with his gaze, his mouth
dropping open in wonder as his mind registered
the contents of the room.

He was surrounded by swords.  Hundreds of them
encircled the path of the chamber, row upon row
of them, some staggered between the ones in
front on risers that resembled bleachers in an
auditorium.  They were positioned with their
pommels up, the tips of the blades embedded in
the daises that held them just enough for them
to stand up straight.  The blades of each sword
caught the light and reflected it back to him,
and the effect was nearly blinding.

"So you have finally discovered Excalibur's
resting place."

The faerie woman's voice behind him made Mulder
jump.  He whirled to face her, and she glided
toward him, her pale face serene and impassive.
He set his jaw.  "No thanks to your obstacles,
Lady Elaine."

A faint smile played at the corners of her
mouth.  "I was entrusted with Excalibur's
keeping.  I could not make the task too easy
for you.  After all, you, Sir Lancelot, are
Arthur's greatest knight."

"So I've been told."  Mulder waved a hand.  "So
this is it?  The sword is one of these, right?
And I'm supposed to choose the right one?"

"You are as intelligent as you are handsome, my
lord."  Elaine's smile widened, but Mulder
frowned.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Lady Elaine.  I
need to return the sword to Arthur, and I have
no intention of failing in that task.  Tell me
what I need to do."

"You have stated as much already."  Elaine
stepped back, her arms sweeping through the
air, indicating the collection of swords that
surrounded them.  "One of these swords is
Excalibur.  You have one chance to choose the
correct sword.  If you succeed and choose
wisely, you and your companions will be
permitted to leave the faerie realms.  If you
choose poorly, I will allow Sir Bors and Merlin
to return to Camelot.  But you, Sir Lancelot..."
She moved closer to him once more, her perfume
wafting around him like a cloying cloud, "will
remain here with me for all time."

Mulder threw a glance over his shoulder to
gauge the other men's reactions to the
challenge.  He sighed when he realized the door
through which he had just passed had
disappeared.

"Where are they?" he demanded, his tone rising
in anger.  He was becoming more and more
aggravated with all of the hocus pocus in the
land of the fae.  Given the choice, Mulder
would have gladly gone back to the jousting
field.  At least there he felt like he had some
control over the outcome of things.

"The quest for Excalibur is yours alone, Sir
Lancelot.  Sir Bors and Merlin cannot be of any
assistance to you.  If you succeed in the
challenge, that door shall be reopened for
you."

"Fine."  Mulder squared his shoulders and took
a few steps forward, eying the swords closest
to him.  "So I just reach out and take the one
I think is Excalibur?"

"Indeed.  An easy task, is it not, my lord?"

Mulder could hear the mocking tone in Elaine's
voice, but he ignored it.  His mind was now
consumed with the job before him, and he
wouldn't allow anyone or anything to distract
him.  He moved closer to the swords, examining
them with a keen eye.

At first glance, he had assumed all the swords
were different.  But as he looked closely at
them now, he realized they were all the same.
Excalibur was apparently a hand and a half
broadsword topped with a simple brass crossbar
and diamond-shaped pommel, for all of the
swords arranged in the room seemed to be the
same make and model.  Identical swords, all
aligned as if awaiting a huge army of men...and
Mulder didn't have a clue as to which was the
real one.

He began to walk the path that encircled the
chamber, trying to buy himself some time.  He
had no idea how long Elaine would allow him to
stall, but he had to think of something.  There
had to be a way to differentiate between the
real Excalibur and the false ones.  But how
could he, if he couldn't pick them up?  As soon
as he touched one, the game would end--and he
would be trapped in the land of the fae
forever.

And Scully...He didn't even want to consider what
might happen to Scully if he couldn't get out
of this place.

He shook the miserable thoughts away.  He had
to do this.  He had to succeed.  Hell, he'd
already come this far, hadn't he?  Since Mulder
and Scully had landed in this fantastic land,
he had accomplished things other men would
never have dared to think possible.  He had
crawled across a bridge of swords and
survived...he had jousted and defeated a man when
he'd had no more training than a day's worth of
exercise in an open field...he had somehow
overcome a dragon and freed a wizard...

Shit.  Finding the right sword should be a
piece of cake compared to all that.

And he knew he was on the right track.  All the
other obstacles he had overcome in this world
so far had been physical.  This challenge was
obviously mental, meant to test the
constitution and power of his mind.  And Mulder
knew he wasn't an idiot.  He had a degree from
Oxford, and he had solved some of the craziest
crimes any F.B.I. agent had ever come across.
He could do this.

So he walked and looked and recited his pep
talk in his head, biding his time.   He could
feel Elaine's gaze on him as he moved, but he
paid no attention to her.  His mind was locked
on the puzzle, and he wouldn't be distracted
from it.

He had circled the room twice before he allowed
his look to travel once more to the pool in the
center of the chamber.  Why was it there?  It
had to have some significance, didn't it?
Perhaps it was a clue...Mulder stopped walking
and stood at the edge of it, his hands on his
hips, surveying the water at his feet.  The
surface sparkled as if made of tiny diamonds,
each catching the golden light that filled the
space and refracting it into a thousand more
diminutive beams.  He could make out his own
reflection in the water, one that seemed to
pulsate with light and energy from the
brightness of the golden glow.  His mind kept
reaching, struggling forward, moving like a
dying man in the desert straining toward the
mirage at his fingertips...

"Have you made your choice, Sir Lancelot?"
Elaine's voice, slightly edged with impatience,
came from somewhere near his elbow.  He hadn't
even sensed her presence there, and he shifted
away, annoyed.

"No, I have not.  I need some time to think.
This isn't something I am taking lightly."

"You will not find the answer by staring into
the water, my lord."  He glanced at her briefly
and then turned his attention back down to the
water, seeking his reflection there again.
There was something about that, something that
his brain was trying to connect...

He blinked at his image in the pool.  His
reflection shimmered back at him, alone and
bright in the water.

Alone.

His reflection was alone.

His head snapped back up to look at Elaine.
She stood next to him on his right, close
enough that if he extended his hand, he could
touch her...yet in the pool, she cast no
reflection at all.  His was the only one that
danced on its surface.

It was all an illusion.  The swords were not
real, just as Elaine herself was an ethereal
being.  She cast no reflection; the false
swords would not cast any either, while the
true Excalibur--

Mulder broke away from the side of the pool,
his eyes roving quickly across the expanse of
the room.  The real Excalibur would cast a
reflection; the false ones would not.  But how
could he test that theory without picking one
up and bringing it to the edge of the water?

He circled the room quickly, his mind flipping
swiftly through possibilities.  He sensed
Elaine watching him closely again, and he knew
she realized he had come upon a possible
solution to her puzzle.  It didn't surprise him
at all when she chuffed out a breath.

"Your time grows short, Sir Lancelot.  I tire
of this game.  Make your choice."

He didn't stop moving, his eyes flicking from
one sword to the next, trying to make the last
connection in his mind that would solve the
problem.  Sword...pool...reflection...what else could
he use to find a reflection...a mirror...something
shiny...something like silver...silver...

He heard a tiny chime as the faerie maiden
scraped her fingernails along the sleeve of his
armor.  He stilled and looked at her.  Her face
was serious, her blue eyes flashing
dangerously.

"Make your choice now, Sir Lancelot.  If you
choose nothing, then you will be compelled to
stay."

His eyes fell on her hand, which rested on his
arm.  The silver flashed in the blazing light,
setting a fire burning in his mind.  A smile
blossomed on his face.

Mulder shook her hand away.  "Very well, Lady
Elaine.  I shall make my choice."

He turned once again to the swords and began a
slow pace alongside them.  He paused briefly
every few feet, glancing at the swords
themselves and then down at his own torso.  He
continued this strange dance about three
quarters of the way around the room before
Elaine's confused voice called, "Sir Lancelot,
what are you doing?  Make your choice."

Mulder stopped, his features alight.  He
checked his torso once more and then reached
out his hand. His arm snaked past the first two
rows of swords and grasped the handle of a
weapon three rows back.  It came easily into
his fist, slipping silently from its place as
if it were embedded in silk.  He pulled the
sword up to his body, the blade just before his
nose, and admired his reflection in the steel.

"Excalibur," he breathed.  The sword seemed to
recognize its name, and it vibrated in his
hand, humming with energy, something akin to a
slight electric shock.  Mulder felt giddy with
excitement.  With the sword still raised, he
turned toward Elaine.

"I have found it, my lady.  Arthur's sword.
And now I demand that you release us so that it
may be returned to him."

The faerie woman stood as still as a statue for
a moment, her mouth hanging open in shock.
When she finally moved again, she turned her
back on Mulder.

"I know not what trickery you used to discern
this," she muttered, "but I shall not be made a
fool."

Mulder chuckled, still holding the sword aloft.
"Now, now, Elaine.  Don't be a sore loser.
Just tell me how to get out of here so that I
can be on my way."

A laugh squeaked out of the woman then, and it
was one so shrill and so edged with malice that
Mulder took an inadvertent step back.  She
turned back toward him, and he swallowed, his
own face contorting into a look of disbelief.

Elaine no longer resembled a woman...at least,
not any kind of woman Mulder had ever seen.
Her face had elongated, making her appear
ferocious and wolfish, and her eyes glittered a
wild ice blue in their bulging sockets.  When
she raised her hands, he could see the cords of
muscles tightening into sinewy limbs, and her
nails glinted like sharpened spikes in the
light.  Her white hair unfurled around her as
she threw her head back and bellowed an
unearthly cry.

"I shall not lose this challenge, Sir
Lancelot," she rasped.  She moved forward like
an animal stalking her prey, and Mulder
retreated again, leveling the sword between
them.  Excalibur sang as he brought it through
the air, and Mulder was relieved to see the
thing that Elaine had become recoil as the
blade flashed between them.

"Don't do this, Elaine," Mulder said, trying to
negotiate even though he was unsure the
creature could understand reason.  "I won the
challenge.  Just let us go, and no harm will
come to you."

She hissed out a laugh.  "No harm.  What do you
know of harm, Sir Lancelot?  Do you know what
it is like to love and have none returned?  Do
you know what it is to have your heart broken
into a thousand pieces?  That is what you have
done to me.  And I shall have my revenge, make
no mistake."

Mulder shook his head, unsure what to do.  He
had no earthly idea what she was talking about.
He had no clue if, in the Arthurian legends,
Lancelot had indeed betrayed this woman, or if
she was simply a warped psychopath with an
obsession.  Either way, he had to get past her,
and as much as he didn't want to physically
hurt her, he would if it meant getting back to
Scully.

He raised Excalibur above his head as she slid
closer to him.  It whispered its strange tune
as it arced through the air, and power he had
never felt seemed to seep down from the sword
into his arms.  It was intoxicating...and yet he
knew what was right.

"Don't make me do this, Elaine," he warned.
"Stand aside.  Let me out of this room."

He had backed up now to the edge of the pool.
He didn't want to strike the faerie
woman...something at the core of his being told
him that would be a mistake he didn't want to
make.  But he also didn't want to go for a
swim, unsure of what may lay in the water
below.  And he had to find a way out of this
room...a room to which Elaine seemed to hold the
only key.

He could feel the venomous energy flowing out
of Elaine in waves.  "I will not lose you,
Lancelot," she whispered, and her voice bled
with the scrape of her breath.  "And I will not
allow Excalibur to return to Arthur."

Excalibur hummed above his head.  The light
around him seemed to expand into a blinding
golden orb, and suddenly, something like
fireworks exploded somewhere nearby.  The roar
was deafening, and Mulder closed his eyes,
gripping the sword in both hands as if holding
on for life itself.  He stumbled back, and he
felt himself falling, knowing that the pool of
water waited beneath him.  He gripped the sword
and opened his mouth to yell, but a wave of
blackness overtook him, and he knew no more.

End Chapter Eleven

-- 

Chapter Twelve

She was a scientist, born with a logical,
rational mind, drawn to chemistry sets and
puzzles since her toddling years.  Throughout
her school days, she had been the child the
teachers pegged as pragmatic and sensible,
sending her report cards home with A's in
science and math and gushing comments about her
practical nature.  She had grown into a
competent, objective woman, one with a
discerning eye toward the business of picking
apart a problem and discovering a solution.
Working for the F.B.I. with the title of
"Doctor" just as prominent as that of "Special
Agent," she earned her paycheck, and her
partner's respect, by dissecting every case
with her razor-sharp mind, just as she slit
open the corpses sent her way with an expertly
honed scalpel.

It was the idea that her sanity had completely
shattered into a thousand pieces and rendered
her mind a complex and irreparable mosaic of
brain matter that scared her the most.

Dana Scully couldn't find a way out.  She was
somewhere dark, somewhere threaded with a
cobwebby substance that reminded her of her
grandmother's attic. It was a place where the
slightest misstep left her tumbling further
down a dark hole.  She'd tried to move, to claw
her way out, but there was nothing left to hang
onto but the thin rope she currently held in
her sweaty hands.  She didn't dare to move or
breathe for fear that she would fall again...and
she had no idea if she could possibly survive
if she let that happen.

She knew she was battling for her
consciousness.  She realized that every moment,
the woman called Guinevere grew stronger in the
body they both occupied, and that her tenuous
hold grew weaker.  Her memories had been the
first thing to go; she could recall very little
about her life now, and she found that thought
gnawing a huge, raw wound in her soul.  What
little she could remember, she clung to with
all her strength, and it was that one precious
memory that compelled her to keep trying.

Mulder.  His face was still burned in her mind,
an image of him in what she understood to be
their office.  In this vision, he leaned back
in his desk chair, his hazel eyes bright with
mischief, his lips crooked into a devious smile
as he regarded her, tossing sunflower seeds
into his mouth.  She could hear the fine crack
of the shell as he dislodged it with his teeth,
and she smelled the mustiness of the basement
around them combined with the light scent of
his aftershave.  She could feel the give of the
leather chair beneath her as she sat there,
watching his dancing eyes and laughing with
him. With every replay of this scene, her heart
swelled with thankfulness and love for this
man, her partner, the one who had rescued her
from her pain countless times, who gave her
trust and devotion, the two things he gave to
no one else in his world...

Mulder.  She clutched that image to her
desperately, and she refused to let it go.  It
was the one thing that kept her sane in this
place of utter darkness.  His name in her head
spurred her on, keeping her awake and alert to
all the circumstances unfolding around
Guinevere.  She knew Mulder was alive in the
Queen's world somewhere, and that she needed to
get Guinevere to him so that he could take her
home...

And maybe, just maybe...maybe if they went home,
Scully would be reborn.

It was the only hope she had.  She prayed
ardently that this thought wasn't as absurd as
it seemed.  Her scientific mind told her that
it was the worst kind of fantasy...but Mulder...

Mulder told her it was true.  And she trusted
him, more than anything.

And so Scully held on, whispering to Guinevere,
hoping and praying and swinging from the thread
of her sanity.  She knew Mulder would come.
She could only hope that he would save her in
time.

*****

Guinevere shook her head, trying to clear away
the image of the strange man that kept
resurfacing in her mind.  Lancelot's twin, with
his short brown hair and moss-colored eyes,
refused to leave her alone.  She kept seeing
him, reclining in a strange chair behind a
large wooden box, smiling at her as he ate
striped seeds and bounced in his seat.  The
grin was Lancelot's at his most playful, like
the times he had chased her through the fields
behind Joyous Gard, or the occasions when he
had hidden presents for her around her chambers
and then dared her to find them.  That smile
endeared him so to her...and yet she knew the man
in her mind wasn't Lancelot.  He belonged with
the woman who resided in her subconscious as
well, the lady called Scully who struggled
against Guinevere's own strong mind with equal
fortitude.

// Mulder.  His name is Mulder. //

She nodded to herself, acknowledging Scully's
voice in her head.  Mulder.  Scully and Mulder.
She understood.  But apart from their names and
their mirror likenesses to herself and her
lover, she could comprehend little else about
them.

Guinevere glanced into the looking glass before
her, pretending to primp, but instead watching
the knight who stood inside the closed door of
her chamber through lowered lashes.  She had
found him stationed there when she'd returned
from the Queen's Hall, and when she ordered him
out, he held her gaze defiantly and informed
her that he had been sent by Mordred and would
not be moving from that spot.  She recognized
him as Sir Chretien, the French knight who had
stood sentinel outside Arthur's door the day
before.

She'd drawn Leigh further into the room,
pulling her close to the wardrobe on the
pretense of going through her gowns.  She
whispered to her cousin as they rifled through
the garments.

"Go out into the square and wait for Richard to
arrive.  When he is here, take him to your
quarters and tell him our plan.  The Round
Table Knights must be released tonight.  Stay
with him and help him as he sees fit."

Leigh had balked immediately.  "I shall not
leave you alone here, Guinevere!  Richard will
not need me as you do!"

"I will not be alone.  Lionors will return
after she speaks to Agravaine, and after she
has her audience with Mordred and Morgan le
Fae.  She and I will manage the King somehow.
Once Arthur's men are released, Gareth and the
others will come to our aid."

"But what will you do until then?"

"I--I shall bide my time here, in my chambers.
I fear raising Mordred's suspicions further."
She had grasped Leigh's tiny trembling hand and
squeezed.  "Rest assured, Leigh, that all will
turn out right.  You need concern yourself only
with Richard and releasing the knights.  Leave
all else to me."

Guinevere must have worn her most determined
look, because Leigh took her leave then without
another word.  Guinevere had pulled her sewing
basket from the floor of her wardrobe and
settled into a chair by the window to work,
hoping to keep herself distracted while she
waited for Lionors.

The afternoon hour had grown late, but Gareth's
wife did not come.  Guinevere had given up on
her embroidery, her fingers twitching too much
from anxiety to ply the thread correctly, and
she had sat instead at her dressing table.  She
released her hair from its elaborate moorings
and began to comb it out.

The steady motion of the teeth through the
thick waves settled her nerves a bit.  With
each stroke, the copper fire of her hair flared
even brighter, and by the time the knock came
at the chamber door, it gleamed like the
setting sun outside her window.

She jumped at the rapping, looking at Chretien.
His hand dropped to the sword at his hip, and
he turned slowly toward the sound.  He pressed
his ear to the wood of the door and pitched his
voice louder.  "Who knocks?"

The answer, although muffled, was easy to
understand.  "Sir Agravaine.  I bring a message
to the Queen from the new High King."

Chretien slid the bolt on the door aside and
allowed it to swing open.  Beyond the French
knight's shoulder, Guinevere could see
Agravaine.  He was dressed as if for dinner, in
a royal blue tunic and matching cloak, and his
beard and hair were clean and trimmed.  His
eyes flickered to her momentarily, but she saw
nothing in them that indicated any friendliness
at all.

The French knight stepped aside to let him
pass, and Agravaine strode into the room toward
Guinevere.  He stopped, though, when he
realized Chretien had not shut the door.  He
looked back at the other knight over his
shoulder.

"Sir Chretien, this is a private message from
the King to the Queen.  Leave us."

The man's voice was thick with his native
accent when he responded.  "My orders are not
to leave the Queen unattended."

"I will attend her for the next few moments.
Go and get yourself a cup of mead from the
kitchens.  You have had a long day, have you
not?"

Guinevere frowned at Agravaine's inviting
words.  He was not the sort of man to be soft
with those beneath his rank.  The deference in
his manner made her suspicious.

Chretien stood there blinking, obviously unsure
what to do.  "I am rather thirsty, sir."  He
teetered back and forth on the balls of his
feet, his armor moaning softly from the
rocking.  "Shall I bring you anything, my lady
Queen?" he asked finally.

"Nay, but I thank you."  She glanced again at
Agravaine, but his face was impassive.  She
could read nothing there.

"Very well," the French knight said.  "I will
return momentarily."  He bustled through the
door and closed it behind him.

As soon as he was gone, Agravaine turned to
Guinevere, fury blooming in his eyes.  "Why did
you send my sister-in-law to me today?"

"I had hoped that she could help you to see
reason, to see the folly of imprisoning your
own brother and supporting the madness of the
other."

He leaned toward her, his hands splayed on the
edge of her dressing table like starfish washed
up on the beach.  "Will you not stop this,
Guinevere?" he asked, and she could hear the
frustration in his rising pitch.  "There is
nothing you can do to deter Mordred.  He will
ascend.  Arthur's reign is over.  You must
resign yourself and cease your defiance.  On
the morrow, you will be married to the new High
King.  It will all happen, whether you will it
or not!"

Guinevere stood so fast it made her dizzy, but
she didn't sway on her feet.  "It will <not>
happen, not as long as I carry within my body
the true heir to the throne!  Mordred will
never usurp Arthur's true son!"

Sudden silence dropped between them.  Guinevere
caught her breath, realizing what she had just
said.  She hadn't meant to tell Agravaine about
the baby...she didn't truly know what he would
do.  But she realized she needed his allegiance
once and for all, and she had to get it now,
while they were alone.  There would not be
another time to ask for his help.  Everything
rode on what he now decided.

Agravaine stared at her, his dark eyes wide as
he processed her declaration.  "This...this
cannot be," he breathed.  "You are barren."

"My barrenness is indeed what your mother
desired, coupled with the death of my first
son."  Guinevere grabbed one of Agravaine's
hands, pressing it between her own.  "But you
must believe me.  It is true.  I sent for
Lionors to confirm my suspicions.  I am with
child.  And surely, Agravaine, you cannot want
your brother and your mother to kill the true
heir to Camelot."

He wrenched his hand from hers.  "My mother...my
mother has nothing to do with this.  Your first
son was stillborn.  My mother was not even here
at the time."

"But it was your mother who engineered the
plan.  To kill the King's heir to clear her
bastard son's way to the throne.  And to render
the Queen barren at the same time."  Guinevere
touched her abdomen, her eyes welling up with
tears.  "She failed at that, at least, although
I, too, feared she had succeeded."

Agravaine's voice rose again.  "It was Nimue
who gave you that draught!  Arthur banished her
from court for it!  Nimue is to blame, not my
mother!"

"Who taught Nimue the arts, Agravaine?  It was
not Merlin, as many people think.  It is true
that he loved her, and she used that love
against him, to trap him God knows where.  But
Nimue gleaned her knowledge of herbs and
medicines from Morgan.  They have been plotting
together for a long time.  We just never knew
it until now."

Agravaine stumbled back and dropped heavily
into Guinevere's sewing chair by the window.
He bent his head into his hands, running his
fingers roughly through his wavy hair.  "No,
no, no," he mumbled.  "I--I refuse to believe
this.  My mother...my mother loves children.  She
could never...she would never murder..."  His voice
trailed off.

Guinevere stepped closer to him, crouching at
his feet.  Her skirts rustled around his
ankles, and he closed his eyes, but not before
Guinevere saw the wetness on his lashes.  She
laid a gentle hand on his knee.  "I am not
sure, Agravaine, that your mother loves
anything.  I know that she does not treat you
with the kindness that a mother should show her
son."

"She...she is not sentimental.  She...she..."

"You do not have to keep defending her,
Agravaine," Guinevere continued, using her
softest voice.  "It is not right, the way she
treats you.  Why do you continue to support
her, when you know you will never win her
love?"

Agravaine kept his head down, and he did not
answer, but Guinevere felt the tiny splash of a
tear on the skin of her hand.   Her heart
swelled in sympathy for him, this man who had
spent his life trying to earn the affections of
a woman who selfishly refused her own flesh and
blood.

"Arthur has always loved you, Agravaine.  He is
your uncle.  Has he not always treated you
fairly and with grace?  Has he not shown you
the kindness that a decent man would show any
of his kin?"

Agravaine swiped at his cheeks. His voice was
husky when he spoke.  "Aye, he has.  He has
always been good to me.  To all of us."

"Then I beg you, Agravaine."  She implored him
with her eyes when his met hers.  The hardness
in his gaze was melting away, leaving only the
naked, vulnerable look of a lost child.
"Please help me.  I must get away from Camelot
tonight, and I must take Arthur with me."

He stared at her a moment longer and then
opened his mouth to speak.  He never did
because another knock shook the door to the
chamber.

Guinevere knit her brows together and called
loudly, "Who is there?"

"Sir Chretien, my lady Queen.  The lady Queen
Morgan le Fae wishes to speak with you."

Agravaine started in his seat.  "My mother!" he
hissed as he tried to stand.  He bumped into
Guinevere, causing her to fall backwards into
the foot of the bed.  He pulled her to her
feet.  "I should have been gone from here by
now.  She cannot find me!"

"Do you wish to know the truth about your
mother, Agravaine?" Guinevere whispered
urgently.  "Do you wish to hear it with your
own ears?"

He regarded her for a long moment, and the
furious debate raging in his mind was evident
on his face.  He finally nodded.  "I do wish to
hear of these plots you describe, so that I may
know the truth."

"Then come."  She tugged him by the hand over
to her wardrobe, quickly opening the large
doors and nudging him inside.  "In here, you
will mark everything she has to say, and she
will never know.  Now be silent."  She shut the
wardrobe and sank down onto the bed before
calling to Chretien to give Morgan le Fae
entrance to her chamber.

The dark woman swept in, the train of her
burgundy gown trailing behind her.  Jewels
flashed at her ears and throat and sparkled in
her long black hair, making her appear magical
and mysterious.  Guinevere folded her hands in
her lap, setting her face to stone as she
tilted her chin toward the sorceress she so
despised.

Morgan stopped at the foot of the bed, waving
Chretien out the door.  "Leave us, sir knight.
The Queen and I have important matters to
discuss.  But be alert.  The Bishop will be
along at any moment to join us."

"The Bishop?"  Guinevere jerked at the mention
of the highest official of the church.  "The
Bishop comes here, to my private rooms?  Why on
earth would I not receive him in my halls?"

"He wishes us to speak in complete privacy,"
Morgan answered.  She settled her glittering
eyes back on the knight.  "Now go, sirrah.  I
will not ask you again."

Chretien began to repeat his speech about not
leaving the Queen, but something in Morgan's
glare obviously made him think better of it.
He spun on his heel and stalked out through the
door, closing it with an echoing, wooden boom.

Morgan le Fae cocked her head to peer at
Guinevere.  "You do not look well, my lady
Queen.  My son spoke of you being ill.  Too
much to drink last night at supper?"

Guinevere frowned at the other woman's amused
expression.  "No thanks to whatever you put in
my cup, Morgan.  Do not bother to deny it."

"I?"  Morgan touched her throat delicately.
"Why should I want to impede my new daughter-
in-law?  I want us to be friends, Guinevere."

Guinevere gave a short bark of laughter.  "I
can assure you, Morgan, that will never happen.
I stopped trusting you when my son died."

"And what have I to do with that, my lady
Queen?  Surely you do not believe me
responsible for your son's death."

"I do believe that, yes.  I believe you will
stop at nothing to bring Mordred to the throne,
including sacrificing your other sons to make
it happen."

Morgan chortled, a low, mocking sound.  "My
other sons?  My other sons are not half the men
Mordred is.  Gareth is too soft-hearted, and
too enthralled by Lancelot and Arthur, to ever
become anything other than a servant.  And
Agravaine...well, Agravaine will never amount to
anything.  He is a poor excuse for a knight.
It is a wonder he has made it this far alive.
He could never be King."

Guinevere smiled inwardly, picturing Agravaine
inside the wardrobe with his ear pressed up
against the wooden door.  Perhaps hearing his
mother's total disregard for him would be the
last straw, the one that broke his allegiance
to Morgan and swung it instead to Arthur for
good.

But Morgan was still speaking, and Guinevere
focused on her words.  "No, it shall be Mordred
who takes the throne, and there will be no
stopping it now.  The Bishop will be here
momentarily to discuss with you the dissolution
of your marriage to Arthur and the ceremony
binding you to Mordred on the morrow."

"Good," Guinevere said as she rose from the
bed.  "I welcome the chance to speak to the
Bishop about this terrible injustice done to
Arthur, and to all of Camelot.  I have much to
say on the subj--"

The rest of her sentence was cut off by the
sudden sharp cut of Morgan's fingernails
through the sleeve of her gown.  The dark woman
grabbed her, digging into her bicep, and
Guinevere gasped more in surprise than pain.
She twisted in Morgan's grasp, but not before
she noted the expression of total disbelief on
the sorceress' face turn into black fury.

"What have you done, Guinevere?" Morgan
demanded.  "Now I know why you are ill.  It was
nothing that anyone slipped into your wine, or
the wine itself.  You calculating whore, you'll
pay for this--"

"What are you talking about?" Guinevere grated
through clenched teeth, still struggling to
break free.  "Unhand me at once!"

"Nothing will stand in Mordred's way, I tell
you!"  Morgan was shouting now, her face so
close to Guinevere's that she could smell the
perfumed oils in the woman's cosmetics.  "I
will fix this just as I did before!  You mark
me, Guinevere, I will not stand by--"

"My dear Queen Morgan le Fae.  Perhaps you need
to calm down a bit, sweet lady."

The new voice came from the door to the
bedchamber, and the two women both turned
toward it immediately.  The man who stood there
was alone, resplendent from head to toe in
rich, shimmering red garments that Guinevere
recognized as the robes of the advanced clergy.
As he crossed the room, his eyes caught the
light, reflecting a cold, hard look back at
her.  The skin of his face was sagging and
yellowed, betraying his age, but he walked with
an imposing presence. Guinevere had no doubt
about this man's station or identity.

And in the back of the Queen's mind, neither
did Scully.  Guinevere shuddered involuntarily
as Scully's recognition raced through her.

// C.G.B. Spender.  Dear God, the Smoking Man
is here. //

The Bishop's presence in the room had quite an
effect on Morgan.  She released Guinevere's arm
immediately and stepped back in obvious
deferral to the man.  Guinevere couldn't help
but note how demurely Morgan dropped her eyes,
behaving more as a wife or paramour than as a
loyal subject of the church.  The thought
seared into Guinevere's brain, the mere shadow
of the impact of such a thing making her sick
to her stomach.

She could be his mistress, Guinevere reasoned.
It was not unheard of for a clergyman, even one
of such a high rank, to take a lover, keeping
it a secret from the other church officials and
the commoners.  She had never suspected Morgan
le Fae, however, with all her knowledge of
esoteric things, to be interested in a man of
the cloth.

She felt Scully's nudge in the back of her
mind.  // It makes sense, Guinevere.  Who has
more power besides the King than the church?
This way, Morgan le Fae can manipulate both...and
use her charms to convince the Bishop to allow
Mordred's ascension at any cost. //

Guinevere's eyes fluttered shut momentarily,
her mind lost in the enormity of it all.  She
had no chance at all of swaying the Bishop and
the Holy Church to her cause.  Morgan le Fae
had already taken care of that.

The Bishop's voice floated into her
consciousness.  "Are you alright, my lady Queen
Guinevere?  You look ill, I think."

Guinevere opened her eyes again in time to see
the Bishop hovering over her, with Morgan le
Fae peering around him like a taunting child.
The dark woman's words were filled with venom
when she spoke.

"Aye, she is ill, my lord Bishop.  It is an
illness I am well familiar with, having been
plagued with it myself several times."

The Bishop scowled at her.  "What say you, Lady
Morgan?  Be plain.  You know I have no humor
for riddles."

"I say that the Queen is with child.  Somehow,
she has managed to get herself another chance
at the throne."

Guinevere cringed as silence filled up the
room.  Her secret was out.  She had no idea how
Morgan le Fae could divine that she carried
another baby, but it was no use denying it.
The Bishop would surely call for a midwife if
he were even remotely suspicious, and she
didn't wish to subject herself to another exam.
Above all, she had to protect her child.

And if she kept Morgan le Fae and the Bishop
occupied, perhaps it would be enough time for
Richard and Leigh to release the Round Table
Knights from the dungeons.  With them fighting
for Camelot, there was a chance of defeating
Mordred and his men and putting this nightmare
to rest.

The Bishop stared at Guinevere, his small,
animal-like eyes widening.  "But how can this
be?  I was told that you were barren."

"I am sure that was Morgan's plan when she
poisoned me in my childbed.  I know she wished
to murder my son that day, and to kill all
chances for Arthur to have another one with
me."  Guinevere smiled triumphantly.  "It is
true.  She did not succeed in that."

"Well, well, well," the Bishop clucked, "this
certainly changes our plans, does it not?"

Morgan le Fae frowned.  "How is that, then?
How does this change things?"

"The Queen carries the true heir of Camelot
now," the Bishop said, walking over to the
chair by the window and carefully lowering
himself into it.  "With the possibility of
another son of Arthur's, a legitimate one, it
renders Mordred's claim invalid.  Even if
Arthur cannot rule, the best we could do would
be to appoint someone in his place until his
new son is capable."

Morgan hurried to the side of his chair and
huddled by his knees.  "Surely...surely there
must be a way.  My son has waited so long, and
is so deserving.  Please, my lord Bishop, you
must see that Mordred is still the best choice
for Camelot."

The Bishop reached out a gnarled hand and ran
it over Morgan's long tresses as if stroking a
puppy's fur.  "There, there, my sweet Morgan.
You know I would never allow you to be
disappointed."  He cupped her chin in his hand,
smiling a wretched grin down into her upturned
face.  "I know you have ways of taking care of
this latest...impediment."

Guinevere watched with dawning horror as
Morgan's long face broke into a smile.  The
dark woman wrapped her own hand around the
Bishop's, bringing his fingers up to her lips
for a kiss. Guinevere felt her stomach turn
over at the sight, and she closed her eyes.
She was failing.  She had trusted the Bishop to
put things right, and it was now painfully
apparent that he was their most malevolent
enemy.

Guinevere fumbled clumsily to the bed and sank
down onto the pillows there.  "I shall not
drink it," she told them defiantly, but she
couldn't keep the tremor from shaking her
voice.  "I know you will try to poison me
again, but I shall not take the brew.  You will
have to kill me outright."

"What?"  Morgan le Fae rose from her spot and
glided toward the bed, her face a mask of
beautiful malice.  "We cannot kill you,
Guinevere.  Mordred has his heart set on you.
I will not disappoint my son any more than the
Bishop shall disappoint me."  Morgan leaned
over Guinevere as if sharing a wonderful
secret.  "There are other ways to take your
baby.  I have performed them myself on
occasion.  And you will be good as new tomorrow
for your wedding."

A faint chime of metal rang out, and the air
stirred before Guinevere's face as the blade of
a sword arced down over her.  She pulled back,
blinking up in disbelief at Agravaine, who now
stood next to her, his weapon drawn and
pointing at Morgan le Fae.

"I have heard enough," he said through his
teeth.  His face flushed scarlet and sweat
beaded his brow, and Guinevere wasn't sure if
it was caused by the heat of hiding in the
wardrobe or by the rage that seemed to be
boiling out of him.

Morgan le Fae straightened to her full height
and stared at her son, doubt beginning to cloud
her features.  "What is the meaning of this,
Agravaine?" she uttered, but he cut her off by
jabbing the sword closer to her.  She shrank
back, astounded.

"Stay back, Mother.  Keep away from the Queen."
He glanced at Guinevere, huddled on the bed.
"Guinevere, go and lock the door.  I do not
fancy Chretien coming in here, meddling in
something that does not concern him."

Guinevere scrambled up and raced to the door,
shooting the heavy bolt into locking position
with one quick gesture.  She turned around to
face the other three, pressing her back up
against the heavy oak behind her.

The Bishop had risen to his feet.  "I see your
son is just as you described, Morgan," he
commented, starting forward.  "Easily softened
when hard decisions have to be made."

The Bishop froze as Agravaine's sword swept up
next to Morgan's neck and hovered there.  The
woman sucked in her breath, and fear washed
over her face for the first time Guinevere
could ever remember.  "Stay where you are,
Bishop," Agravaine said.  " I will not hesitate
to kill you both.  You certainly deserve to
die."

"Surely you could not think to commit such a
grievous sin as matricide, Sir Agravaine," the
Bishop intoned, letting an ominous quality
creep into his voice.

"Is it any worse than fratricide, my lord?"
Agravaine sneered.  "That is what I almost
committed yesterday in the forest, when I was
ordered to bring the Queen here.  I nearly had
to murder my own brother, just to satisfy this
woman and her bastard son!"  The sword
whispered closer to Morgan's throat, and
Guinevere gasped as the dark woman did the
same.  "I would be justified in killing her.
In killing you both.  Your plots against Arthur
and his true heir would then die with you."

"You can kill us, that is true," the Bishop
said reasonably, as if he were discussing the
weather.  "But Mordred can still ascend.  The
only people who know about the Queen are in
this chamber.  Mordred's men will never let you
escape from Camelot.  You will die here this
night as well, Sir Agravaine.  You, and the
Queen."

Agravaine and the Bishop stared at each other,
neither blinking from the hatred in the other's
gaze.  Finally, Agravaine spoke.  "Guinevere,
you must leave us."

"What?" Guinevere pushed away from the door,
confused.

"Take the stairs on the other side of the wall,
the entrance that the...the servants sometimes
use."  He looked meaningfully at her, and she
realized he knew about the passage that
Lancelot had traveled so many nights to sneak
into her chamber.  "Get out of Camelot.  Go
where they will not find you.  Go now--"

Agravaine was so intent on giving Guinevere
instructions that he didn't notice the Bishop's
sudden movement.  Guinevere stepped back
involuntarily as something shining silver
flashed through the air, sailing toward
Agravaine.  He cried out as a dagger embedded
itself in his chest, mere inches from his
heart.  He staggered back against the wardrobe,
and Morgan scampered away from him, running
toward the Bishop.  With a mighty yell,
Agravaine lunged forward, swinging his sword
before him as he did.  The blade caught Morgan
le Fae at the waist, sinking deep into her, and
she crumpled at the Bishop's feet without
another sound.

The Bishop stood statue-still, staring at the
dead woman.  Agravaine cursed and wrenched the
knife from his chest.  It clattered to the
floor, spraying his blood across the Queen's
ivory bedclothes.  Guinevere's stomach heaved
again at the sight, but she forced the feeling
away.  She had to help Agravaine.  She started
toward him, but he held out his free hand to
ward her off.  It was spotted red, making her
think wildly of a child's party dress.

"Stay back, Guinevere.  You must get out!  Go,
now!"

She shook her head.  "I shall not leave you.
You must stave that wound, Agravaine.  Put your
hand over it and press.  Do it, I say!"  She
realized suddenly that this was Scully talking
through her, but she didn't contemplate it
further.  If the strange woman could help him,
she had to let her speak.

Agravaine pushed himself away from the wardrobe
and shuffled toward the Bishop.  Guinevere
could see that he hadn't heard her words, and
he had no intention of listening, anyway.  His
eyes were shiny with wetness as he stepped
around his mother's still form.

"This is your fault, you bastard," Agravaine
murmured, drawing his sword up to face the
Bishop.  "I would not have killed her.  I loved
her.  I loved her more than anyone in the whole
world."

The Bishop backed away, skirting past Guinevere
and heading toward the wall on the other side
of the room.  Guinevere realized suddenly that
he, too, knew about the secret entrance to the
chamber...and she understood that this was where
he intended to make his escape.

"It is no use trying to get away from me,"
Agravaine told him conversationally.  He
continued to follow the Bishop as he inched
along the wall, but Guinevere could tell that
his strength was draining away, just like his
blood.  "I will kill you now, my lord Bishop.
May God have mercy on your soul."

Agravaine lurched forward then, but in his
weakening state, he was unbalanced and awkward
in his thrust.  His sword missed its mark, and
the Bishop scooted around the wall,
disappearing from their sight.  Agravaine swore
again as he fell to the floor, his weapon
bouncing on its pommel and coming to rest at
Guinevere's feet.

She rushed to him, dropping to her knees.  His
tunic was soaked through, and she pressed her
open palm to the long slash where the dagger
had entered his body.  Agravaine winced and
blew out a weak breath.  He looked up at
Guinevere, anguish and regret washing over his
features.

"Leave me, my lady," he mumbled through raspy
breaths.  "You must escape while you can."

"I will not, Sir Agravaine," Guinevere
answered, although there was no doubt in her
mind that Agravaine would be the one departing
soon.  Her heart squeezed painfully at the
thought.  She had come to care for this man.
She pushed harder on his wound, hoping somehow
that the pressure would pump life back into
him.

He ground his teeth.  "Stop.  It is enough."
He grabbed her wrist with his other hand.  "I
am sorry for my betrayal, my Queen.  I wish I
had protected you better.  You, and the King."

"You did protect me, Agravaine."  Guinevere's
eyes began to blur with tears.  "If it was not
for you, the Bishop would have surely killed my
child, or killed me as well.  You have saved
the kingdom, as any loyal knight of the Round
Table would have done."

A small smile played on the knight's lips.
"I...do not...deserve..."

Guinevere gripped his hand with all her
strength.  "You are Arthur's loyal servant,
Agravaine.  You will go to your reward a true
knight of the Round Table."

His hand on her wrist slipped, and he closed
his eyes.  He did not speak again, but
Guinevere sat with him as he took his last
breath, and she held his hand long after he
passed away, silent tears slipping down her
cheeks.  She did not know how much time had
gone by, but the voice did not surprise her
when it came.

"Is he dead?"

She dropped her head as Mordred's heavy boots
circled her.  She could not look at him, and
she refused to answer.  She simply laid
Agravaine's hand on his breastbone and moved
his sword closer to his side.

"Well, it is good that he has died," Mordred
continued.  His voice sounded pinched and
tired, and Guinevere finally looked up.  The
man was dressed in his old attire, his suit of
black that so matched his dark and stormy
countenance.  "It is good that they are all
dead."

This comment brought concern to Guinevere, and
she frowned.  "All dead?  Of whom do you
speak?"

Mordred waved his good hand around the room.
"My brother.  My mother.  The Bishop."

"The Bishop?  I saw the Bishop only moments
ago, and he was very much alive."

"I saw him too," Mordred answered, drawing
closer to her.  His green eyes were bright with
malice.  "I met him coming down the back
staircase to this room.  He lies now at the
bottom of it.  I have no use for him any
longer."

"I--I do not understand," Guinevere whispered,
suddenly very afraid.

Mordred smiled.  "I know you do not, my sweet
Guinevere.  But you will, very, very soon."  He
grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet.
"Come.  I will take you to my father.  The two
of you will be together again, before Camelot
falls forever."

End Chapter Twelve

-- 

Chapter Thirteen

He had always been a strong swimmer.  One of
his favorite memories of his father took him
back to the beach at Martha's Vineyard, a block
away from the house in which he had grown up.
Fox couldn't have been more than four or five,
and Bill Mulder had carried him on his
shoulders into the waves of the Atlantic Ocean
beneath a blistering August sun.  They had
waded into the surf until the water reached the
elder Mulder's chin, and he had taken Fox's
hands and pulled him into the waves.  He
stretched their arms out between their bodies,
their hands clasped together so they rode the
rocking ocean on their bellies, and he had
called to his son to kick.  When Fox did, his
father shook his hands free and pushed
backward, encouraging the boy forward through
the water, showing him how to thrust his arms
through the waves.  Fox had done well, and he
had never been afraid.  The water had welcomed
and buoyed his small body, and his father's
praise gave him confidence.  Ever since that
summer day, Fox Mulder had felt at home in
water, and as he grew older and swam for his
school in competitions, he earned medals for an
activity he thoroughly enjoyed.

Now, however, the water that surged into his
lungs scared him, choking him with its
relentless rush.  The water he had always loved
squeezed his already-exhausted body in its wet,
chilled embrace, and he realized he was
drowning.

// No, // he thought desperately.  // Not now.
Not when I'm so close.  I need to get back to
Scully. //

He could sense the legendary sword still within
his grip, but its incredible energy that had
sung through him just moments before now seemed
muted and imagined.  Mulder struggled against
the descending spiral of the whirlpool, but his
armor weighed him down, and he knew he was
dropping like a stone.

He strained to open his eyes, but they were
sealed shut.  His chest burned as it filled,
and his mind fought against the expanding
darkness.  His body was shutting down, already
too taxed to overcome this new onslaught.  With
his last ounce of strength, he clutched
Excalibur tighter in his fisted hands and gave
one final, silent plea in his hazing mind:

// Excalibur.  I saved you.  Help me, I beg of
you...//

The pounding gush of liquid in his lungs
stopped.  His eyes snapped open, and his mind
registered the abrupt halt of the water vortex
around him.  His body relaxed, floating gently
in a lazy bob within the aqua depths that
surrounded him.  He could see the amazing dance
of light within the water, the entrancing play
of reflection and refraction all around him.
And he realized quite suddenly that he was
breathing.

He was breathing under water.

Mulder's mind tried hard to reconcile that
fact, but it came up short.  He was not a
scientist like Scully, but he knew enough to
understand that human beings could not, did
not, breathe underwater unless equipped with
oxygen tanks.  He brought the sword up before
his eyes, blinking at it, watching the flash of
its blade as it moved through the water.

Amazing.  There was no other word to describe
it.

Movement beyond Excalibur caught his eye, and
he turned his head to follow it.  In the
ripples before him, he became aware of
streamers of color, ribbons of azure and teal,
aquamarine and sea green, floating past his
cheek.  His head moved in that direction,
tracing the strips to their source.  They
danced around a figure, one that floated close
to him and smiled.

Mulder jumped and edged away, brandishing the
sword.  As soon as he brought it up, he
realized he didn't need it.  He recognized the
face before him.  It was one he remembered from
his life with Scully, and one he had been
enraptured by only a short time ago as he stood
before the door to the chamber that had housed
Excalibur.

Melissa Scully.  His partner's dead sister now
peered at him through the crystal depths of a
pool of water, her rust-colored hair tangling
with the iridescent folds of the gown that
clung to her like a second skin.

Music poured into his mind then, an ethereal
sound like wind chimes beneath angelic singing.
He shook his head to clear it, but it stayed,
and she smiled again at him.

< You know me, do you not? >

Her voice hummed through the melody in his
brain, a voice so familiar, one just as throaty
as her sister's.  He squinted at her through
the glimmering water, but he knew she hadn't
spoken aloud.  She was communicating
telepathically, and he mirrored her smile,
enchanted in spite of himself.

// I think I know you.  But everyone here has a
different name. //

She tilted her head in acknowledgement, and her
hair danced around her face.

< Here, I am your kinswoman, not hers. Do you
know me now? >

Excalibur seemed to spasm in his hand, sending
a tremor up his arm.  He glanced down at the
sword and then back up at the water maiden,
understanding blossoming in his mind.

// You're the Lady of the Lake. //

She nodded.  She swept one long arm through the
water, stirring the current between them.

< I came to save you from Lady Elaine.  You
must take Excalibur once more to Arthur.  He
has one final need of it, and then it must be
returned to me. >/

// I'll tell Arthur that. //  He didn't know
what else to say.

But she shook her head at him, her brow
furrowing.

< It will be you who returns it to me,
Lancelot. >

He sighed, his mind spinning out into something
close to resentment.  Hadn't he already done
enough in this godforsaken world?  Now he had
another obligation to fulfill?  He and Scully
would never get back to the year 2000 if he
kept running errands for everyone.  He had to
put a stop to this...and he'd start right now.

// Look.  I need to get back.  You understand
what I'm talking about, don't you?  I'm not
Lancelot.  I need to take my partner back to
our world.  Someone else can deliver the sword.
Bors, or Gareth-- //

The Lady set her jaw, staring at him defiantly.
He'd seen that look a hundred times on his
partner's face.  She may have been called
something else in this world, something
attached to a sweet, magical beauty and power,
but Mulder knew that expression:  it was a
Scully ready to fight, tooth and nail, for what
she wanted.

< Only Arthur's greatest knight can carry
Excalibur in his stead.  You know that.  No one
but you can return the sword. >

He could feel the panic rising in him as
swiftly as the water that had filled his lungs.

// You're saying Arthur is going to die.  That
Arthur won't need the sword any longer.  Is
that it? //

< There is hope yet for Camelot.  It rests with
you, Lancelot, and with Guinevere. You must
return to her as quickly as you can. >  Her
expression softened, and he saw bright
compassion in her eyes.  < Afterward, you must
bring the sword to a place of calm water and
cast it in.  Do you understand? >

He blew out another exasperated breath, and
bubbles scurried up and away from him.  He
thrust the sword out between them.

// Just take it now. //  He pleaded with his
eyes, his anxiety for Scully burning through
him like a poison.  // Please.  Don't ask me to
do any more. //

The Lady of the Lake reached out to him, her
dainty hand coming to rest on his shoulder.
She pulled him closer, and, too worn out to
fight, he allowed himself to be swept into her
embrace.  His forehead sank forward, gently
grazing hers.  It reminded him so much of
Scully he nearly cried out.

Her voice murmured in his head.  < You have
done so much.  I know you are tired.  But you
will be well rewarded for your loyalty.  I will
keep you, and the Queen, safe. >

// How?  How can you keep us safe? //

She brought her hands up to either side of his
head, her fingers pressing into his temples,
holding him steady in her gaze.  Her smile was
ethereal, and he felt himself fading again...

< Know that you will be safe...I will help you...I
will help you both...>

A movie started up in his mind, and he let it
catch him in its spell.  Images flickered
through his brain, and he watched, suspended in
a liquid dream, his heart swelling as he saw
Scully...she was still alive, but he had to get
to her...he would save her, if it was the last
thing he ever did...

Nothing would stand in his way.

*****

When he opened his eyes again, he was greeted
by the less-than-appealing mug of Melvin
Frohike hovering over him.  Well, his mind
identified the man first as Melvin Frohike and
then corrected itself.

// Nope.  Not back in Washington.  Not anywhere
near the twentieth century.  So this isn't
Frohike. It's Bors. //

The small knight peered at him, his face close
enough to kiss Mulder if he decided to pucker
up and give it a try.  The idea made Mulder
wince, and Bors' forehead furrowed into an even
deeper rut.

"Lancelot!"  The name sounded musical with that
Gaelic brogue, but Mulder found himself wishing
for Frohike's less melodic American drawl.
"You have finally awakened!  I feared the
worst."

Mulder fumbled through the tangle of his
thoughts.  He sat up, his right hand tightening
around Excalibur as he did.  He'd found the
sword...but Elaine...she'd tried to attack him, and
he'd fallen into the pool...and then...oh, then--

He glanced down at himself, surprised to find
that he was as dry as a bone.  There was no
evidence of his plunge in the water.  He was
even more astonished to find that he was no
longer trapped in the room of swords but sat
outdoors instead, on a grassy hillock that
smelled of wildflowers.  The strange mist that
had permeated the entire faerie kingdom had
disappeared.  In the west, the sun lapped over
the horizon as the sky deepened with the
oncoming night.  He looked back at Bors, who
had straightened up as he moved.

"What...what the hell happened, Bors?  Where are
we?"

Bors gave an impatient gesture, and Mulder
could tell that the man was at his wit's end.
"I have no recollection of anything since you
stepped into that chamber in the dragon's cave,
Lance.  You moved, and I saw nothing but a
blinding flash of light.  When I awoke, we were
all here on this hill."  The knight sighed and
crossed himself with a shaking hand.  "I grow
weary of this sorcery, Christ save us all."

A panicked thought shot through Mulder.
"Where's Merlin?"

"There behind you," Bors answered.  "I have
tried to wake him, to no avail."

Mulder scrambled around on his hands and knees
and crawled over to the old wizard.  The man
was curled on his side, and his chest rose and
fell in a gentle rhythm.  Mulder reached out to
touch his shoulder, trying to ensure that he
was really there, and the deep-set eyes flew
open, startling him.  They went directly to the
sword that Mulder still clutched in his hand.

"Excalibur!" Merlin barked.  "So you have
achieved the object of your quest, Sir
Lancelot.  Well met!"

"Er...thanks," Mulder mumbled.  His mind still
reeled from his encounter with the Lady of the
Lake, and the idea that somehow, he had gotten
from someplace in a mystical land to this very
real spot on the top of a hill.  He knew,
however, that every second he wasted mulling
over the strange events was another moment that
Scully was in danger.  And if there was one
thing he remembered from what the watery
enchantress had said, it was that he needed to
get to Scully as soon as possible.

Merlin had gained his feet, and he straightened
his robes as Mulder stood.  The wizard looked
at him expectantly as he smoothed the rough
patches in his bushy beard, and Mulder felt
compelled to speak.

"We need to get to Camelot.  The Lady of the
Lake said that time was running out."

"Ah."  Merlin eyed him thoughtfully, pulling on
his moustache.  "So you encountered the Lady of
the Lake.  It was she who brought us here.  She
is the patroness of Excalibur, and we must not
disappoint her."

"Then let's get going."  Mulder turned in a
circle, trying to see through the descending
darkness to figure out where they were.  He
could barely make out the turrets of a castle
rising through the heavy trees in the east.  He
pointed in that direction.  "There.  There's
Camelot, right?  Come on."

At his side, Bors stopped him with a hand on
his arm.  "But what shall we do once we are
there?  Surely you do not think Mordred will
simply open the gates and let us in."

"Mordred is in the Great Hall awaiting our
return, along with a hundred of his men,"
Merlin announced.  "The King and Queen are with
him.  And the Round Table Knights are about to
escape the confines of the dungeon.  We must
meet them at once.  Through the kitchens, I
believe, is our best route into Camelot."

"Whoa, whoa," Mulder said, starting to feel
overwhelmed again.  "How do you know all this?"

"You are not the only one who had counsel with
the Lady of the Lake."

"You spoke to her, too?  What did she tell
you?"

"Nothing more than I have already said," Merlin
replied quickly.  "Come, we must not tarry.
Sir Bors, I trust you know these woods better
than I.  Lead on to Camelot."

Bors set out down the hill and into the forest,
with Mulder and Merlin close on his heels.
Mulder could sense that the old wizard knew
more than he was saying, but he also realized
that whatever it was that he was keeping from
them, it was meant only for Mulder's ears and
not the stout knight's who led them.  He tried
to think of a way to get the two of them
together privately, but nothing sprung to mind.
He was simply too tired and too worried to
think about much other than Scully.

A few moments later, he heard Merlin call out
behind him.  Turning, he saw the older man
struggling to free the end of his robe from a
bramble of thick, ancient roots.  Bors turned
as well and started toward them, but Merlin
waved him away.

"Scout on ahead, Sir Bors, and leave Sir
Lancelot to aid me.  It is embarrassing enough
to need this sort of help."

Bors nodded and disappeared into the thicket,
and Mulder went to the magician's side,
crouching down to start unraveling.  He felt
the weight of Merlin's hand drop onto his
shoulder, and he raised his eyes.

"This will be Arthur's final battle tonight."
The wizard's eyes were bright even in the
gloaming, and Mulder understood that wetness.
He nodded and cleared his throat.

"I know.  The Lady hinted at that to me."

"It is his time."  Merlin made a small, almost
imperceptible gesture, and the roots by
Mulder's feet moved.  He jumped, catching a
glimpse of one of them releasing Merlin's robe
like a child letting go of a balloon string.
It was an unearthly sight, and it made him
shudder.

"Agent Mulder, I know the Lady of the Lake
spoke to you.  I know she told you that she
would help you and Agent Scully.  But you must
be willing to do what needs to be done in order
to return to your own time."

"And what exactly is that?"  Mulder's usually
sharp mind was beginning to cloud again.  He
needed water, and food, and rest, but since
none of those things were forthcoming, he
schooled himself to focus on Merlin's words
instead.

"I can tell you that it will involve magick.
Forces that Agent Scully, and even you
yourself, might have a hard time understanding.
But we can talk more about that later.  My
concern right now is for your safety, and
Scully's...and for what will come to pass of
Arthur."

The ominous words of the Lady of the Lake
drifted back to him. "Arthur...Arthur will die
tonight?  Is that what you're saying?  This
isn't just his last fight.  You're saying
this...this is his last..."  Mulder paused a moment
to let the thought sink in and found a great
sadness settling over him.  He took a deep
breath.  "What will happen then?"

Merlin shook his head.  "I cannot see that.
Even the Lady would not tell me.  But I know
this: even if Arthur does not survive, the
kingdom must be saved.  All of history relies
on it.  Do you understand that?"

"I think so.  What happens tonight will affect
England throughout the ages."

"Yes.  And that is why it is vital that the
Queen not be harmed in any way.  Not because of
your love for her, as Lancelot, or because of
your love for Scully, Agent Mulder.  It is
because she alone carries the future of the
kingdom."

Mulder stared at him, trying to piece together
what the old man was saying, but his mind, in
its exhaustion, just couldn't make the
connections.  "I'm too tired to figure out what
you're trying to say.  Just tell me, for God's
sake."

"Very well."  Merlin looked at him sternly.
"The Queen is with child, Sir Lancelot.  She
carries the heir to the throne, the only one
who can truly oust Mordred from his claim to
Camelot.  You, as the Queen's champion, must
protect her at all costs, as you would protect
Camelot."  His face softened.  "And you must
protect your son, who will carry Arthur's name
and your legacy into the future."

"<My> son."  Mulder took a step backward as his
head reeled, a thousand images flooding him at
once.   The same pictures that had come to him
when the Lady touched his mind flickered
through...the same visions he had seen when he
had first entered the land of the fae and
fallen asleep.  They were Lancelot's memories,
of the time Guinevere had lost a
child...Lancelot's memories of his first son,
weaved in with Mulder's own remembrances of his
chance at fatherhood with Scully.

Mulder put out a hand, the glove scraping
across the rough tree bark as he grabbed it for
support.  All the emotion, all the joy of
Scully's trust and love for him, and all of the
pain and disappointment that had engulfed them
both when the in vitro hadn't worked...all of
that came crashing into him at once.  He had
never really dealt with it at all; it had
seemed more important at the time to help
Scully, to give her the support and the
nurturing that she had needed to get through
it.  He had neglected his own feelings, and
now, his vision blurred at the thought of
Scully holding a baby... a phantom baby, a ghost
baby...a baby that would never come to be.

Something brushed the back of his neck, and he
realized that Merlin had placed his gnarled
hand there, trying to offer some comfort.  He
shook the other man off violently, suddenly
angry.  "Why are you telling me this?" he asked
through clenched teeth, biting back the tears
that threatened to spill.  "This isn't my baby
at all.  It's Lancelot's, and I am not
Lancelot!"  He ran his hands through his hair,
pulling it roughly with his fingers to try to
get his mind to focus.  "Fuck this!  I am so
sick of this world!  I am so sick of...of all of
this!  Goddamn it, I just want to take Scully
and go home!"

The wizard regarded him with compassion in his
gaze.  "You still do not recognize the
parallels between your lives, do you?  Yours
and Lancelot's.  Scully's and Guinevere's.  The
four of you...your stories are very alike, Agent
Mulder.  Can you not see that?"

Mulder squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block
out the man's voice.  Scully's face appeared,
her blue eyes filled with tears as she told him
it was her last chance.  That baby...their
baby...she had wanted it so badly...

And he had been unable to give it to her.  He
would have done anything in the world to give
that baby to her.  He'd tried to tell her as
she accepted his embrace, as she tilted her
forehead up to meet his as she had done so many
times...he'd tried to once more give her the
strength of his beliefs.

// Never give up on a miracle. //

Mulder slowly raised his chin and looked at
Merlin.  "Are you saying...are you saying that
Scully has a chance?  That Guinevere is
pregnant, when she was supposed to be
barren...and that means Scully might become a
mother, too?"

The old mage inclined his head, and a small,
loving smile touched his face.  "You said it
yourself, Agent Mulder.  Never give up on a
miracle."

Mulder swallowed and tried to breathe.  He had
to focus.  He had to take one step at a time.
This news, if it could be called that, lifted
his heart and encouraged him in a way that
nothing had for a very long time...but first
things first.  He had to rescue Scully and get
her out of this world.  And then...maybe then,
they could begin to hope for what he thought
was beyond their reach...

He straightened up with a shuddering sigh.  His
hand fell to the pommel of Excalibur where he'd
sheathed it in the scabbard at his hip.  Its
strange energy coursed through him again, and
he allowed it to fill him up, giving him
strength he didn't know he had.  With one final
deep breath, he fixed Merlin with a penetrating
stare.

"How does it all end, Merlin?  This is a faerie
tale, isn't it?  Does it have a happy ending?"

Merlin chuckled and tucked his hands into the
opposite sleeves of his robe.  "Happy is a
relative term, don't you think?  Besides, there
are many endings to this tale, Agent Mulder."
He began walking again, following the trail
that Bors had made through the brush.  "Let us
go and see to what conclusion our version shall
come."

*****

They caught up with Bors on the perimeter of
Camelot.  The towers loomed over them,
appearing menacing in the heavy darkness, but
Bors moved purposefully forward as soon as they
approached.

"Come," he whispered, and Mulder watched as the
small knight drew his sword.  Mulder grasped
Excalibur and pulled it free, relishing the
vibration it sent through him.  With Merlin
behind them, they crept forward, keeping close
to the outer wall of the fortress.

"How are we going to get inside?" Mulder asked,
careful to keep his volume low.

Bors took a moment to throw a puzzled glance at
him.  "As Merlin suggested, I suppose. Through
the kitchens, and up the hidden stairwell you
have used countless times.  With God's help,
Mordred will not have posted guards there,
thinking you lost in the faerie lands."

Within moments, they came to an alcove in the
stone wall, and the three of them ducked into
it.  Mulder recognized it at once as the
doorway through which he and Bors had escaped
that first night, when he'd had to leave Scully
in the bedroom to confront Mordred on her own.
Bors hesitated only a moment before he reached
out a hand to try the door.

"Zounds!" he muttered, infuriated.  "Locked!
Mordred has planned well."

"You said yourself, Sir Bors, that he would not
allow us to simply walk in.  Stand aside."
Merlin shoved the smaller man out of the way
and grasped the doorknob himself.  A puff of
purple smoke burst from his hand, and the
mechanism sprang, the door itself creaking open
just enough so that a faint yellow light
spilled onto their feet.  Merlin stepped back
and gestured for Mulder.  "I believe, Sir
Lancelot, that you should enter first.  Anyone
we encounter will think twice about attacking
when he sees it is you."

Mulder drew in a deep breath, brandished
Excalibur before him, and leaned back.  He
brought the heavy boot of his right foot up,
kicking the door open and springing through the
entrance.  Something moved to his left, and he
swung the sword toward it instinctively.  The
blade clanged as it hit metal, and a yell
erupted from the man who held the opposing
sword.  Mulder grunted in response and pushed
forward, his face coming up inches from his
adversary's.  He let out a surprised huff when
he recognized the man.

"Byers!"  He blinked at the man who so
resembled his old friend and then corrected
himself.  "I mean, Sir Gareth!  I wasn't
expecting to meet an ally here."

"Nor I, Sir Lancelot."  Gareth dropped his
sword to his side and surprised Mulder by
embracing him awkwardly.  "My friend.  We
feared the worst for you."  He released Mulder
from the hug, his eyes falling on the sword
that Mulder held.  "I see we had no reason to
doubt at all."

Mulder smiled grimly as he scanned the room.
It was filled with men, most of them dressed in
the silver armor of Arthur's knights.  He tried
to count them, coming up with a number
somewhere around fifty.  Fifty against a
hundred.  He didn't like the odds, but he knew
he wasn't going to get any better.

Gareth nodded at Bors in greeting, and then his
eyes widened as he recognized Merlin, who
lingered in the kitchen doorway.  "My lord
Merlin," he breathed in awe.  "We thought you
lost to us as well."

Merlin snorted.  "Never believe everything you
hear, Sir Gareth.  The rumors of my demise were
grossly exaggerated."

Mulder turned back to Gareth.  "What can you
tell me of Mordred's plans?  I must get
Excalibur back to the King."

"I know not how, Lancelot.  We ourselves, all
of the Round Table Knights, have been
imprisoned until just now in the dungeons.  I
know not where Mordred is, or what he is
scheming.  We were about to retreat to Joyous
Gard to regroup and think."

"No," Mulder answered.  "Merlin knows that
Mordred has the King and Queen with him in the
Great Hall, along with a hundred fighting men.
We have to rescue them.  And we have to do it
now."

"Then it shall be done."  Gareth looked at
Mulder, and he could see pain in the knight's
expression.  "I shall not fail you again,
Lancelot.  It is my fault that the Queen was
taken in the first place."

"That is not true."  The voice that spoke was a
woman's, and the lady-in-waiting that Mulder
recognized from Scully's chamber pushed her way
through the wall of men.  She approached and
laid a soft hand on Gareth's arm.  "My lady
Queen Guinevere told me you were ambushed in
the forest, Sir Gareth.  Nimue laid a trap for
you both.  You could do no more than you did."

"It does pain me though, Lady Leigh, to think
of the Queen accosted, as much as it would hurt
me to see it done to my own wife."

"There is no need to fear that, my lord.  I am
right here, safe and sound."  Another female
voice drifted to them, and Mulder watched as a
beautiful blonde swept forward into Gareth's
arms, nearly knocking the stunned knight
backward.  This woman resembled Suzanne
Modeski, the woman Mulder had chased on a case
long ago, before he even knew Scully.  She was
the fugitive Byers had fallen for, the one who
had spurred him to chuck his safe government
job and become a proponent of the truth.  Now,
it warmed his heart a bit to see that at least
in this lifetime, Byers and Suzanne were able
to be together.

He tore his eyes away as the lady pressed a
kiss to her knight's lips, trying not to stare
at something he himself so longed for.  "Lady
Leigh," he said in a low voice, hoping the
other men would not hear him.  "How was the
Queen when you last saw her?"

The woman's calm face drew down into a worried
mask.  "She feared for your safety, my lord.
And...and she was ill."

Mulder tried to keep himself from grabbing
Leigh and shaking the answer out of her.  "Ill?
How was she ill?  What happened to her?"

"My lord--"  Leigh drew him aside, away from the
others.  "You could not possibly know.  And I
wish it were my lady Guinevere telling you
herself, but this news must not be kept from
you.  She is with child, my lord.  It is that
which makes her ill."

Mulder pressed his lips together and nodded.
"I do know.  Merlin told me.  Who else knows
about the baby?"

"We were trying to keep it a secret, my lord.
We just discovered it this morning.  That is
why Guinevere called for the lady Lionors, Sir
Gareth's wife.  She was afraid of what Mordred
might do to her if he found out."  Leigh's face
became even more pinched.  "I am still afraid,
my lord.  If his mother knows somehow...she knows
everything through her dark arts, and if she
tells Mordred..."

Something inside of Mulder snapped.  All the
longing, all the fatigue, all the propriety and
the need congealed inside of him, bursting out
in an explosion of fireworks throughout his
entire being.  He raised Excalibur above his
head with an ear-splitting bellow, bringing the
sword's blade down into the oak of the
butcher's block next to him.  The sight of the
bloodstained wood beneath the embedded blade
seeped into his head until red fury completely
consumed him.

"God damn him!" he shouted.  He could feel a
sea of eyes on him, seeming to burn through his
armor, but he couldn't hold back his rage any
longer.  Something foreign to him, something
that felt a little like Mulder but much, much
more like someone else, boiled up from the core
of his being.

// It's Lancelot, // his mind informed him.  //
Lancelot is finally pushing you aside. //

"My brother knights!" he cried, and even his
voice sounded different to his ears.  He let
the surging emotion take him, and Mulder
stepped out of the way, allowing Lancelot to
come through, to address his comrades-in-arms
as any good commander would: touching their
hearts and stirring their spirits.

"I do call you brothers now, for we are all
called to defend this night that for which our
brotherhood was forged.  We are called to fight
for Camelot, and for the King who dared to
dream something which none of us knew before.
We are pledged to Arthur's cause, and I do
declare that I shall gladly give my life here
before I allow that bastard Mordred to take
from us what we have upheld all these many
years.  I entreat you now, my brothers, the
loyal, valiant, and brave Knights of the Round
Table, to join me in this fight.  Stand at my
side and defend all that we have built, my
brothers.  And if God seeks to call us home
this night, then I will happily mingle my blood
with yours and Arthur's on the stone floor of
the Great Hall above us.  But let no man ever
say that Sir Lancelot of the Lake did not stand
with his King and friend, Arthur, giving his
last breath to that noble dream of truth and
justice and chivalry."

A cheer rose from the men, and Mulder stumbled
back, his consciousness slamming back into his
body as Lancelot's slid once more to the side.
He felt several hands steady him, and he shook
his head, trying to focus on Bors and Gareth,
who stood by his side.  He turned and wrenched
Excalibur from the wooden block and started
toward the door on the far side of the long
kitchen, but Bors held him back.

"A stirring speech, cousin, but you cannot go
in there like this.  Mordred will recognize you
at once, and set every man on you to take that
sword.  He knows that it is the only thing that
will restore Arthur, and he will never allow
that to happen.  You shall be dead in an
instant, and then where will Camelot be?"

Mulder tried to jerk away, his heart still
racing with the fervor of Lancelot's presence.
"Let me go, Bors.  I have to save her."

Bors' voice dropped to a hum.  "What good are
you to her dead, Lance?  To any of us?  You
cannot lead the knights.  Surely you must see
the folly in it."

Gareth tugged on his arm from the other side.
"Let me carry the sword, Lancelot.  I can get
it to Arthur.  Mordred will not even notice me.
It is you he will be looking for."

Mulder shook his head impatiently.  "No.  The
Lady of the Lake said that I am the only one
who can carry it.  I don't know what could
happen to you, Gareth, if you tried.  I won't
risk it."

"Then we must somehow disguise you, Lancelot,"
Bors said.  "Mordred will not recognize the
sword.  But he will recognize Lancelot's armor,
no matter who wears it.  You must change armor
and go in unnoticed.  You can then find the
King and return the sword to him.  If Merlin is
right, he shall then rise up to defend Camelot
once more."

"Fine.  Where's Merlin?"  Mulder rounded and
searched the room, but there was no sign of the
wizard.  "Goddamn it!  Where the hell did he
go?  He can change my armor easily.  He can
make me look like someone else."

"Someone must look like you, Lancelot," Gareth
said, and Mulder blinked at him, suddenly
realizing what the knight was proposing.

"No, Gareth.  Forget it.  Merlin can...create
someone to keep Mordred busy. You're not going
to sacrifice yourself for this."

"You insult me, Sir Lancelot," Gareth replied,
but there was no malice in his tone.  "You just
told us all that you would gladly lose your
life to defend Arthur and his dream.  Do you
not think I feel the same way?  Am I not a
Knight of the Round Table as well?"  He stepped
closer to Mulder, and his usually tender eyes
bored into his friend's.  "We are nearly the
same size, Lancelot.  We can change armor.
Mordred will never know it is not you when I
lead the knights into the Great Hall.  You will
have your chance to slip unnoticed to the King
so that he may wield Excalibur once more."

Mulder's stomach rolled at the thought of the
danger that would loom before Gareth.  "No.  I
won't allow it.  You're a married man,
Gareth...your wife, your family..."

"His wife and family understand his obligation
as well as he does himself."  The lady called
Lionors pushed to her husband's side and stared
with determined eyes at Mulder.  "If this is
the only way, Sir Lancelot, then so be it.  My
husband will fight for his King."

Mulder sighed, but he nodded his agreement.  He
scanned the room once more, trying to spot
Merlin, but it looked as if the aged wizard had
deserted them for good.  His hands dropped to
the leather belt at his waist and began to undo
it as he spoke to Gareth.

"You win, Gareth. God help us both."

Bors took the belt that Mulder passed to him,
and he crossed himself before Gareth handed his
own over as well.  "God help us all," he
murmured.

End Chapter Thirteen

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