Subject: NEW "They...(1/1) From: Raika Vitlov Date: Tue, 15 Jul 1997 15:15:31 +0800 Disclaimer: The characters Fox Mulder and Dana Scully belong to the folks at 10:13 productions and News Corporation, and not me. I am using them without permission and for non-profit reasons. This is my first fanfic. Spoilers: Just general stuff, Scully's illness, nothing much else, I have only seen up to Zero Sum. Quoted pieces used in the following fic are in this order: "Secret Corners" by The Church "Disarm" by The Smashing Pumpkins "In the arms of sleep" by The Smashing Pumpkins Exert from "Elegy written in a country churchyard" by Thomas Gray Exert from "In Memorium" by Alfred Lord Tennyson A sort of M and S reflection, not so much UST as URT. One bad word in the whole thing, for those that might get offended. Any comments to me at rv@chem.uwa.edu.au On with the story... THEY WHO ARE ENCHANTING AND FASCINATING THINGS. By Raika Vitlov .....Fade In.... "Lying alone, isn't that you? Drifting away is the only thing Left to do Such a sad place, such a lost world But nothing is sadder than the tears Of a make-believe girl Who is this child? who is this man? Only two people Who are doing all they can Frost on the ground, The cruel winds of fate Blow us forever And I know there's just no escape Run to the secret corners of your room I'll still be waiting I'll still be waiting " XXXX Please consider a picture, an image if you will, of a man, a lonely man at the edge of despair, precariously positioned or should that be strategically positioned at the cliff face of oblivion. There really was no hope left within him. No more that could be squeezed out or summoned up or even imagined as ever being resurrected. There were just too many lies for one man to conquer so much to fight for but too much for just the one. This was a fight for all of mankind, the very soul of humanity, yes, though it is so very willing to trade its purity and its propensity for good on the fancies of a Big Mac and side order of fries, washed down with liberal doses of Coke no less. It still deserved to be saved. The battle was as much about them as it was about the government within the government. These were the suction cups on the ends of tentacles of pure evil. Hidden men dictating and directing the tastes of generations. The food they ate, the shallow and empty music they listened to, and the join the dot films they flocked to see, made and marketed for their grossly sanitised "entertainment". It was by the will of these "honourable" men that brains were kept dull so that the herd remained unquestioning and conforming. A state of perfect apathy was being engineered, the masses perfectly primed to be modelled and fashioned into anything that suited these men, whose talons had pervaded every sector of society. This was an enemy of enormous power and scale, whose advance was unhindered with the exception of a precious few that realised its devastating future legacy. Tonight, this small army would lose one of its best soldiers. XXX He was huddled in the corner of the bathroom, holding himself and rocking back and forth sobbing loudly. The sound of guttural cries echoed loudly against the backdrop of cold green tiles, reflecting the utter despair and sorrow he felt at this moment. He was uncontrollably and deliriously sad. It had been a long time in preparation, this scene he was playing out now. He was the sole player in a dramatic production that would not see an encore performance let alone an audience, unless he counted his reflection in the mirror and whatever deity may actually exist above that allowed this suffering and pointless existence to go on. It had been a hard road all the way, yet towards the end there, was he not running with all his might to the finishing line? He had crossed the tape and sunk to the ground with exhaustion, had taken the cup in both hands and drunk from it, but it was not a victory by any means nor was it a race. This was his own measure of when it would be enough, when it was to end, and it had come now. He could not quite believe this final insanity that he had descended into, as if he was an observer monitoring this stranger kneeling on this floor right now. One who felt all the pain, while the other looked on dispassionately, perhaps the man in the mirror was the sensible and quiet one. He looked up and caught his reflection upon that smooth polished surface that did not lie or distort, and what he saw made him gasp. In his pale and haggard face he saw it, the defeat, the yawning truth that the decision was made and was not going to be reneged, and then he began to cry once more. God! How many times had he cried in this life? How many times had he broken down this last year alone? So many tears spilled and for what? Maybe it was for his wretched family? But no "wretched" was too polite and grossly inaccurate a term, "fucked" was more like it. He could be brutal and honest at this point. Among the many sorry people whose sorry cases he had investigated over the years, were the members of his family not worthy candidates to join that exclusive club? Victims all of them and in that group he included himself. He shuddered with the thought that his sworn enemy's blood pulsed within his veins and that his mother had danced with the devil two times. His "father", the one that brought him up, he was no better. Well maybe he had redeemed himself in those last few minutes of his life. It was cold comfort for the years of psychological abuse he endured from him all those long years after Samantha had disappeared. With one cold look the man could send the boy into hours of remorse, fear and above all else guilt. That feeling hovered over him at all times and with the help of his father, it entered his psyche with incredible ease to settle and roost there for days. He was probably the only boy in school who actually enjoyed being in school and as the holidays approached he would feel the anxiety building at the thought of spending time at home, any time. This was met with the utmost dread. Home was not a happy place to be in. Living with the aftermath of Samantha's disappearance, the constant veil of grief that hung over the family, a grief that was never spoken of. The child with the stunted and repressed emotions, living with his parents who for their part, did not lift a finger to help the child left behind. This was well-cultivated territory by now. How many peoples lives had been endangered as well as sacrificed in his search for the truth regarding what happened that fateful night, along with his own emotional state brought on by the agony and anguish of not knowing that fate. And then to learn that this was but one cog in an enormous wheel, just one small part of a sinister agenda on a global scale. Sometimes he wept so hard and for so long that he was beside himself many times. It would always follow the same routine. First would come feelings of quiet depression. These feelings would then graduate to self-loathing and massive guilt. Finally, it would culminate in overwhelming grief that was so mentally painful that it would manifest itself as physical pain that he could feel in the depths of his chest, like a solid lump that throbbed and ached, making him clench his fists to it to stop the pain. And now Scully was dying of cancer. It was the greatest tragedy of all. He could not get it out of his head ever! This would consume him silently until she was dead. He had been terrified ever since Allentown of ever seriously broaching the subject with her, really confronting the miserable truth of it, mercifully she was even less inclined to discuss it. This feeling made him hate himself the most, above all other reasons, the fact that he was a coward, and that he had failed her in the one thing he actually had in his power to do, be her friend. This miserable life of his was one long study in how not to behave as a human being. He had cried his most bitter of tears for her. Today this was all going to end. "I used to be a little boy So old in my shoes And what I choose is my choice What's a boy supposed to do? The killer in me is the killer in you I send this smile over to you " Everything was slowing down now. Weakness was pervading his every limb. It felt good, this slipping into numbness. It was but a brief respite before the onslaught of fresh images flooded in to replace the momentary vacuum, and with it the inevitable choking sobs. Nothing in this life came easily for him and so this was to be no different. These last moments would be spent thinking of her. "I'm so sorry ...For all of it...I was weak...I was stupid...I was afraid", he whispered softly. The shocking sound of his shaky voice and what it was uttering ripped through him like shards of glass through flesh, like his dream last night, the one he had been experiencing over and over for the past few weeks. It was always exactly the same each night. He recounted it for the last time, in this state of half wakefulness... The rain poured down heavily, as he made his way to her fresh grave, no headstone as yet. With determination he went down on his knees in the mud, the rain soaked dirt, and with little more than a stick and his bare hands, he clawed away the earth to get to her. There was no casket, and he did not have to dig down far, before he felt her cold lifeless body beneath his fingers. In the dark he groped for his torch. Upon finding it and switching it on, he placed it to one side of her body, illuminating her face and shoulders. He inhaled sharply taking in the sight of her in such godforsaken circumstances. His control left him as he lifted a shaky hand to caress her cheek. It rested there for a moment, the coldness of her face seeping into his fingers. He stroked her frosted cheek just once. It was enough to tell him it was over. Her spirit was long gone from this body before him. This was an empty shell, and it made sense to him to indulge in this last caress no more. Gently and reverently he placed the earth back over her, covering her up inch by inch until she was buried once more. A wisp of her red hair lay uncovered by the soil burning his eyes with its symbol of death. Hair was death. Dead matter on a living person let alone one that has ceased to live. She is dead. "Nothing ever lasts forever", he mused. She was more to me than I could have ever have hoped for." He whispered softly. "She is dead" he voiced mournfully. "Sleep will not come to this tired body now Peace will not come to this lonely heart There are some things I'll live without I steal a kiss from her sleeping moves Cause I'll always miss her wherever she goes And I'll always need her more than she could ever need me And I'll do anything to keep her here tonight And I'll say anything to make her feel alright And I'll be anything to keep her here tonight Cause I want her to stay, with me She comes to me like an angel out of time As I play the part of a saint on my knees There are some things I'll live without " He was shaken out of that dream, but harsh reality was momentarily abated. He opened his eyes and for a brief second he thought he was sitting at his desk in the basement, his neck stiff and sore from falling asleep at his computer. Just another day at the office, "where was Scully", he wondered. He looked around him to find the poster filled walls transforming back to green tile in front of his eyes. The computer now gone too as his hands in front of him came back into view. He stared at them and smiled wistfully. This time she would not be here to bend her head down to his with her arms open, so that he might lean into her embrace and seek the solace and comfort he wanted so badly. He bowed his head instead and zoned out completely. He collapsed to the floor as his eyelids closed for the last time, just before his forehead kissed the tiled floor beneath and his body crumpled into a heap, a sorry looking mass to be kicked and spat upon no more. This was to serve as notice now to anyone that would be concerned, that this body lying here now was free of guilt, of obligation, was answerable to no one. It did not care any more, it did not hate any more and it did not love any more. It had relieved itself of all duties. For its occupant there was nothing but blackness to welcome him into an unknown and uncertain slumber.... "Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown; Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, He gain'd from Heaven, 'twas all he'd wish'd, a friend." XXXX A vision of Scully melted into view. She looked very sad and tired. She was sitting on a bench, with her head in her hands. She stayed like that for a long time, only occasionally moving her fingers slightly across the ridges of her brow as if concentrating on an ache emanating from the deep recesses beneath the thin skin and bone there. After a while she sat up slightly and started to speak, but no words came out, and her mouth did not move. It was as if she was thinking out loud, but in fact she was pretending he was there with her, even though he was not. She was speaking to him...."Is this seat taken? ..." He wanted to reach out his hand to comfort and reassure her, but it was impossible, he could not break through from beyond the veil. He looked on helplessly, his hazel eyes brimming over at the sight of her pained and anguished face, staring intently at the bold black print in front of her. He could just make out the words on the page that held her so captive. "Dark horse, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasped no more- Behold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door. He is not here, but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain On the bald streets breaks the blank day." She closed the book very carefully and slipped it into her coat pocket. Tears fell silently down her pale cheeks as she got up to walk away, but not before he caught sight of her sorrowful face one last time. He thought his heart would burst out of his chest, the way she looked, so small, so beautiful, with those shining eyes. It broke his heart seeing that face. "I will atone... Oh Dana I will atone..." he whispered to himself, as her figure disappeared into the yawning darkness. XXXX Scully almost fell out of her chair as her body jerked itself out of a fitful sleep. It seemed that she had been there for days, even though it was only a matter of hours, she had been here in this room. She maintained the passing hours vigilantly, as her thoughts revolved around her uncertain future, wrapped around thoughts of her beloved Mulder, for that was what he was to her, no denial there. She smiled, momentarily coming out of her hazy sadness as she recalled Frohike's description of him, "A redwood among mere sprouts", he had said. Even then, in that period of turmoil, fear and grief, when it was feared that Mulder had met his end, that statement had brought a smile to her face, while tugging her heartstrings at the same time. Its simplicity rang true. Frohike was quite adept at putting things rather poetically at times, even though he had a reputation for being quite unrefined in his manner and speech, he certainly was no Byers who was the embodiment of neatness and politeness. Such respect resonated from that statement, it told her a lot about the esteem Mulder was held in by his friends. All three were deeply shocked by the recent turn of events. He was D'Artagnan to their three musketeers, they all loved him and he loved them. They had come in earlier to sit by his bed for a while. Neither spoke, but all three had exchanged grim countenances that bounced from one face to the other, and then to her. They didn't stay long, but promised to keep in regular contact with her. She appreciated the privacy they afforded her. She got up from her chair to have a stretch and bring some circulation back into her aching legs and shoulders. Sitting in a hunched position and not moving for so long while she mused had made her stiff and sore. She let out a huge sigh to muffle the rippling at the back of her throat that signalled the beginning of another crying session. She clamped down on it and walked over to the window. It was dark outside. A mild rain had fallen earlier making the streets below appear shiny and slick. Her vision absently switched to short focus upon the water droplets on the window, making the streetlights look fuzzy, like luminous Ferrero Rocher chocolates. She looked back down to the street below. She was struck by how normal everything appeared on the outside, while her world was crumbling. She turned to look at his unconscious form across the room. The silent and unmoving figure prompted visions in her head, scenes playing out in front of her eyes it seemed almost, of him smiling at her, grimacing at her, angry at her and just generally talking with her, sprinkling the conversation with his own brand of dry yet playful wit. There wasn't much to joke about recently. She had underestimated the level of depression he suffered. She had been totally consumed with her own health problems, which were overwhelming. It was getting harder and harder to pretend she was coping. Every morning when she looked at herself in the mirror, she could see a little more of her energy ebbing away. It was hard to stay positive when the truth was staring her in the face, glaringly so. "Dana Scully you are a walking dead woman." The facade had to remain however, and that meant a darker shade of foundation was called for, a thin veneer to cover the paleness of her face caused by her advancing illness. "Illness", she thought to herself, "Hmmm that made it sound like a cold, nothing like the reality of that other c word, cancer." She swallowed hard. Clinical detachment was essential, it wasn't practical though as she was now the patient, she had to admit weakness to herself and rightly so. This was a bum wrap if ever there was one. She was being cut down in her prime. Had she been wasteful with the years she had lived to this point? She was amazed that she could wax philosophically on the state of her "situation". This was but a ruse she used with herself to prevent the rising feelings of despair and sadness, plain sadness that threatened to erupt at just about any moment. Her life had been pathetically manipulated, and as much as she tried to deny it, her impending death-God! She cowered at that word and the close connection she had with it, had been artificially induced. It was the result of unnatural acts by despicable men. Her thoughts drifted back to Mulder, he was never far away from her thoughts. He had steadfastly refused to accept defeat. He had helped to instil renewed courage within her as she affirmed her resolve in front of Penny Northern, not to give in to that fate. After she left the dead woman's room, feeling so tired and cast down, ready to walk back down the long corridor back to her room, but who was just outside waiting for her? He was. Dressed all in black, the Black Knight. He seemed different somehow, something glittered in his eyes, some new knowledge, and then he told her of reading some of her journal entry. She saw his shoulders slump when she told him she hadn't wanted him to see that. She winced inwardly at that, but what she had tried to say was that those passages were written in the perception of one defeated. This morning that had changed to a feeling of hope instead, and she told him so. It didn't happen often but when it did, God he did it well! He pulled her to him in a gentle embrace, his arms completely enveloping her. She submitted to his circle of warmth. She felt so protected by this simple action. She still fought back the tears though, as she leaned her head against his chest. The image of his earnest face played in her mind as she thought back to his encouraging words. He somehow knew what she needed to hear. So much respect in those few words, "You will find the way, to save yourself." He knew the last thing she wanted to feel like was a helpless victim. And then she was broken out of her reverie as she felt his hand rustle through her hair and rest momentarily just above the nape of her neck and she felt his gentle kiss on the top of her head. She turned slightly and before she could look up he took her face in both of his hands and bent his lips to her forehead, his mouth lingering there an eternity it seemed. She thought she could hear violins in the background it was so sweet. He drew back his face and stared deeply into her eyes, oh yes, this was indeed love. A skewed post modern love that had no definition, no comparisons on which to draw sense from. She bent her head down and broke from his contact already locking away that scene in the deep recesses of her mind, to be savoured and cherished in the hard times ahead. And this was one of them, now. She walked over to his bed with unsteady legs and took his cold limp hand in both of her own. How did she not see what was happening in front of her all those months. Both of them were worse than the desert rain in their absences in confronting the serious issues. It was just that when it came it gushed. Such outpourings left both so vulnerable after, that neither tended to want it repeated on a regular basis, it was safer to pretend to not feel or be affected by all the misery around them. One sensed it from the other, it was an understanding, or was it? She didn't want to but her eyes were drawn like magnets, to the bandaged wrist. She ran her trembling fingers gently over the covered wound. She glanced across at the other wrist similarly bandaged. She shook her head as new tears began to fall, following the same tracks earlier tears had made. "He even used the correct method of cutting along the vein, rather than across it", she mused. Images flashed before her as she remembered watching them clean the blood away to reveal the self-inflicted wounds. She closed her eyes and was thankful he had not used a gun. There would have been no hope then. She couldn't imagine how she would have taken it knowing that his brains were splattered over a bathroom wall. She shuddered violently and almost lost her balance as her legs wobbled and her head spun. She pulled the chair up to the bed and sat down. She clasped his hand once more and bent her head down to his and closed her eyes. All that was left now to do was wait. She hoped to be looking into those hazel eyes soon. It was only a matter of time before he would wake up, and then they would deal with what had happened together. The End Hope you weren't too bored with it. If you feel inclined drop me a line about it at the following e-mail address rv@chem.uwa.edu.au Thanks for your attention.