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

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

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

      Spender. Jeffrey Spender. 

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

      "What is the meaning of this intrusion?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      "How could you be so reckless, Gwen?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      She saw fear.



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

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

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

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

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

      …or will he kill you and Lancelot himself with his precious Excalibur?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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