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  ML's e-mail address has changed to: msnsc21@yahoo.com
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From: msnsc21@aol.com
Date: Tue, 4 Jul 2000 15:42:18 EDT
Subject: xfc: The Will to Fight (1/1)
Source: xfc

Title: The Will to Fight
Author: ML
Email: msnsc21@aol.com
Distribution: Yes, this story may be archived. Just please tell me first, and 
keep all the header info attached.
Spoilers: Requiem, anything prior is fair game
Rating: PG
Classification: V,A
Keywords: MSR implied
Summary: Mulder is lost in space
Feedback:  Oh yes, please!  msnsc21@aol.com
Part 1/1

Disclaimer: None of the characters described herein belong to me.  They are 
the property of Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen, FOX, and the actors who make them 
come alive. No infrigement intended, no profit being made.

Author's note:  This is a companion piece to "You Come and Go Again." You 
don't have to read that one to get this one, but I'd love it if you did!  
It's at Ephemeral and www.geocities.com/timidrose/ (thanks, Lisa)

Acknowledgements & more notes at end...


THe Will to Fight (1/1)

Light and darkness.

Light and darkness.

The periods of light and darkness have no pattern, no formula he can discern.

Sometimes the light brings pain.  Sometimes the darkness brings pain.  The 
only difference is the kind of pain each brings.  Time is defined by pain/no 
pain, not light and dark.

He doesn't know who he is or where he is.  He only knows <now>.  There is no 
<then>.  <Then> is a word which sometimes floats in his consciousness but 
he's not sure why. 

<what is *then*>

He is grateful for oblivion when it comes. <sleep>, his mind supplies.  But 
it is not like sleep. He tries to remember.  Even the word <remember> seems 
unfamiliar.  It used to have meaning.  But he is in <now>.

He fights for awareness even though he isn't sure what <awareness> is.  He 
sometimes has a vague sense of <others> near him, but deep within him he 
knows that there is only one other who has meaning to him, and that <one> is 
not present.

He fights to understand who he is, and who or what <one> is, the one who is 
not there.  He feels this absence to be good, that <one> is better elsewhere, 
as uncertain as he is that there is any reality other than where he now 
exists.

If the <one> was near, maybe he could fight.  He knows he should fight.  But 
against what?  There is nothing to push against with either body or mind.  As 
soon as the fight impulse materializes, either pain or oblivion follows.  But 
<resist or serve> sometimes flutters through his consciousness.  So, 
regardless of punishment, he obeys the impulse to resist whenever he can.

He does not dream when oblivion comes but sometimes he has waking dreams.  He 
has flashes of <otherness>.  The <one> sometimes has a form in his mind he 
can comprehend. Words also form in his mind and because of the image he holds 
there too, these words are among the few which still have meaning.

Loyal.

Forthright.

Touchstone.

*His* touchstone.

He can imagine a face now.  He knows it is the <one>, and that he should know 
her, know who she is.  If he can figure that out, he will know who *he* is.

<A brief sensation of soft lips against his own, tears against his cheek.  A 
small gold object shimmering, dangling.  Arms around his neck, fumbling 
there, then a soft touch against his chest...and the vision is gone>

        x       x       x       x

Next consciousness, beginning and continuing in pain--all through his 
muscles, every inch of skin, his teeth and nails.  Now one tiny corner of his 
brain retains her image.  With fierce determination, he wills himself to see 
and feel only her.  The memory he found before returns to him and he begins 
to color it in, give it more detail.  He can almost hear her, feel the 
emotions, feel her touch.  Almost, the sensations blot out the pain.

Now no matter what is done to him, he can find that tiny corner.  It is 
populated with images of her.  He hoards the pieces he has of her; protects 
them in the recesses of his brain.  <they> get into his head sometimes, he 
thinks.  He isn't sure he can keep them out of his safe haven.  He only goes 
there when the pain becomes unbearable, when it seems it will never stop.  He 
senses--he hopes--that <they> stay out of his head while they test his body.

Awareness of any <others> comes and goes. He senses them, sometimes hears 
their voices in his head, but cannot see or touch anyone.  He wonders if the 
<others> can sense his presence too, hear his thoughts.  His ability now is 
only an echo of something he remembers from <before>, when it seemed he could 
hear everyone in the world, all the time.

There is one voice he wishes he could hear, and not just in his head.  He 
knows now that he had another life, and it revolved around her, as surely as 
the earth revolves <revolved?> around the sun.

        x       x       x       x

He begins to remember more.  The periods of oblivion seem to lessen; there 
are longer periods of no pain when he is conscious.  He is not sure if this 
is cause or effect, and it is still not <consciousness> as he once knew it; 
he still cannot see or feel his surroundings.  So he lives in his head as 
much as possible.

He has a life with her there.  Whether these are all memories of a life 
already lived or some are dreams of a life yet to be he cannot tell.  They 
are no more than brief pictures.  He does not allow himself to dwell on any 
one moment, or allow such moments to enlarge.

<her arms around him, her body trembling in shock and relief.  His own shock 
and relief mirrors hers>

<the feel of her hand ruffling his hair>

<turning away to hide a smile from him>

<her warm hand clasping his cold one--many times, many places>

<her eyes, bluer than the sky, now darkened with tears, now brightened by 
laughter>

<her lips, impossibly soft, touching his cheek, his forehead, his own lips at 
last at last at last...>

<***the sound of her voice saying his name, in so many different tones, so 
many different ways***>

He hears her voice say "Mulder it's me."  His name. Suddenly a storm of 
remembrance hits him from all sides, memories so clear that they feel solid, 
*he* feels solid, for the first time in...no telling how long.

His surroundings begin to take on form and shape. He feels his skin as more 
than a receptacle for pain.  He knows *she* is real, too.  He feels the 
talisman she gave him that last night. The life he had with her is still 
beyond his reach but at last he has found something to fight.  Not against, 
but for.

He will find his way back to her.  He has to.

end.

Thanks for reading!

acknowledgments:  Big thanks to those who sent feedback for the last story.  
Special tip o' the hat to DashaK for her words of advice, and to Shelba, who 
said she wanted to see a Mulder POV (sorry Shelba, don't think I can do Diana 
<g>).

You may have noticed that my pen name has changed slightly.  For reasons 
known best to myself I decided to jettison the one I used for my first story. 
 Seemed like a good idea at the time, but we just weren't compatible!  But 
it's only the pen name I'm disowning, not the story <g>.  If you'd like to 
read it, it's at Ephemeral and www.geocities.com/timidrose/

feedback gratefully accepted and answered at msnsc21@aol.com