The Queen of Mists and Memory ::: Chapter Three
      Chapter Three
      In Mulder's mind, this was turning out to be a really bad day.

      It hadn't begun that way, he remembered. He and Scully had enjoyed their 
      hike through the Welsh countryside, using the time to get to know one 
      another on an entirely different level than the professional one they had 
      shared for seven years. They had traded childhood stories of vacations and 
      camping trips, and Mulder had delighted in hearing the Scully clan tales, 
      which usually ended in all four of the Scully children facing the wrath of 
      Ahab, with Maggie there to soften his fatherly bellowing. His partner 
      reminisced with a glint of mischief in her sky-blue eyes, and Mulder had 
      found himself daring to believe that someday, the two of them might have 
      these kinds of tales to tell to their own family members. Of course, they 
      had only been involved for a couple of months, but something about the 
      final drawing of the two of them together had cut deep into his soul, 
      releasing in him a longing and a dream of commitment he hadn't dared to 
      have for a long, long time. And Scully seemed especially affectionate, the 
      spur-of-the-moment trip to England apparently just the balm she needed to 
      open herself up completely to him. He was seeing a side of her that he had 
      merely glimpsed in the past, and he found himself falling head over heels 
      in love with her, all over again.

      But it certainly was his fault that they became lost. It had been his idea 
      to hike off-trail to begin with, his idea to keep going as the afternoon 
      sun started to sink behind the rolling Welsh hills, his idea to pursue the 
      fleeting image of a woman he was sure he had seen. And when they had 
      stumbled into the clearing where the strange whirlwind of energy spun, it 
      had been his idea to stick his hand into it, just to see what would 
happen.

      Somehow, something huge had occurred. He couldn't quite wrap his mind 
      around it, but he knew that spinning tornado had transported them back in 
      time, just as the twister had supplanted Dorothy in "The Wizard of Oz." 
      But in that story, it had all been a dream. And from the feel of the horse 
      underneath him, the motion chafing the insides of his thighs against the 
      uncomfortable suit of armor he wore as he rode pell-mell into the night, 
      he realized that whatever had happened to Scully and him was anything but 
      a dream.

      He still had a hard time believing it, despite the fact that he had 
      awakened in a strange bed in a huge, drafty room, next to a woman who 
      resembled Scully, but was somehow foreign, too. Thank God she at least 
      seemed to recognize him, and she understood, too, that whatever had 
      occurred had happened to the both of them. She had also been able to 
      deduce that the people around them, the ones they had already encountered, 
      seemed to think they were Guinevere and Lancelot, the famous lovers from 
      the legendary tales of Camelot. They were not stories with which he was 
      very familiar, but Scully seemed to know the tales pretty well. He hoped 
      like hell that she would perhaps find some clue in them that might help 
      them get out of this place.

      Mulder listened to the heavy pounding of the horses' hooves as they rode, 
      sneaking a sidelong glance at the men who accompanied him. The two sat 
      astride one horse, the one in the front wearing armor much like his own. 
      The second hung onto the knight with his arms wrapped about the other's 
      waist, his blond ponytail waving behind them in the cool night breeze. He 
      couldn't quite fathom what he was seeing.

      Richard Langly clutching Melvin Frohike, who was outfitted like an extra 
      from the movie version of "Camelot." 

      And Mulder was sure it was Frohike. When he had followed Langly down the 
      servants' staircase from the room where they had left Scully, the stout 
      little man was waiting for them just outside the kitchens. He had turned 
      his head sharply as Mulder and Langly came crashing through the door and 
      out into the night, and his familiar voice, strangely thick with a Gaelic 
      cadence, had reverberated in Mulder's ears. "For the love of God, 
      Lancelot! Mordred's whole faction is here!" He had shoved Mulder roughly 
      forward, catching him off-balance and sending him spinning into the rear 
      flank of a huge warhorse. The animal snorted its displeasure and stamped a 
      hoof. 

      Mulder watched in astonishment as Frohike swung himself up into the saddle 
      of another horse three times his size and bent to give Langly a hand up 
      behind him. With the other man settled behind him, Frohike had squinted at 
      Mulder through the gloomy night, his brow furrowed. "What is wrong with 
      you, man? Get up and ride before we are all caught and slaughtered where 
      we stand!"

      Mulder blinked at him and finally found his voice. "Frohike? What the hell 
      is going on?"

      The horse carrying the two men nudged nearer to Mulder, and Frohike leaned 
      over, bringing his face closer. His chin was scruffy with a few days' 
      worth of beard growth, and his glasses were missing, but it was the same 
      face that Mulder had known as one of his best friends for over ten years. 
      "I know not this fro-hickey of which you talk, Lance, but we need to make 
      haste. I do not wish to end my life defending your need to sow wild oats."

      Mulder started to smile and then realized that the other man was serious. 
      He cocked his head to the side. "I don't know how to ride a horse, Hickey. 
      I've never been on one in my life."

      Frohike glanced over his shoulder at Langly, who looked completely 
      confounded. "Did he hit his head?" he asked their blond friend. Langly 
      shook his slowly, eyeing Mulder warily. 

      The sound of shouts came from somewhere within the castle, and Frohike's 
      brow darkened. "I know not why you jest with me so, Lance, but this is 
      neither the time nor the place. Pull yourself up, take the reins, and let 
      us be on our way." He kicked his spurs into the flank of his horse. The 
      animal shot off like a bullet, plunging down the dirt lane and heading 
      toward a thick wood.

      Mulder stood there a moment, still not completely believing his eyes. But 
      the noise inside the kitchen doors urged him to move, even though he 
      wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to be doing. He threw an uneasy 
      glance at the horse and caught the animal's eye. "OK, buddy, be gentle 
      with me. It's my first time." The horse shook its mane at him and blew out 
      a breath.

      Mulder grabbed the reins and the pommel of the saddle, hoisting himself 
      up. The weight of his armor made it difficult, but he finally managed to 
      situate himself in the seat behind the horse's neck. He tugged on the 
      reins, willing the horse to move in the direction that Frohike and Langly 
      had just taken…and miraculously, the animal did. It trotted down the path, 
      picking up speed as it spotted the other horse ahead of it. Mulder let it 
      go, hoping like hell the horse knew what it was doing. He certainly wasn't 
      going to try to stop it if it seemed like it was going the right way…and 
      only Frohike and Langly knew which way that was.

      He still held the sword that Langly had brought him, which was quite 
      awkward, considering he needed to hold onto the reins. He noticed a long 
      piece of leather bumping against the metal bend of his left knee and 
      realized it was a scabbard. Somehow, he speared the tip of the sword into 
      it and shoved it down, securing it beside him. He figured it was a good 
      thing that the sword was attached to the saddle, because he might need it 
      later on.

      His horse caught up to Frohike's and soon, they were riding side by side 
      along a well-worn road traveling through the forest. The moon above them 
      hung quartered but bright, nicely illuminating the path. Mulder was 
      surprised to find how naturally his body seemed to take to riding, how he 
      seemed to intuit what the horse was doing and how it moved, and how his 
      body adjusted accordingly. It was almost as if he had been on horseback 
      all his life, although he knew in his mind that this wasn't true.

      As they whisked through the night, Mulder's mind returned to Scully. She 
      had looked so tiny standing in the candle glow of that castle room, 
      swallowed up inside that enormous blue robe, the startling length of her 
      hair making her appear almost childlike to him. But the expression on her 
      face and the light that shone from the depths of those unfamiliar green 
      eyes convinced him that she was still his Scully, the anchor of his life, 
      the one person on whom he could always depend, no matter what 
      circumstances came. 

      And, just like always, she had used her reason and her logic to win him 
      over, and to make him leave her there, alone and vulnerable. He swore to 
      himself, angry at his decision to run.

      "Frohike!" He called to the other man riding next to him, but his friend 
      didn't turn to look at him. "Hey, Frohike!" The words rang more 
      insistently, and the little man glanced over at him, a slightly annoyed 
      expression on his face.

      "Lancelot, I would thank you to stop calling me by that name. This 
      distemper that you seem to suffer this night is not amusing in the least."

      "But your name is Frohike," Mulder insisted. "I've known you for over ten 
      years."

      Frohike shook his head. "Let us save this conversation for when we arrive 
      at Joyous Gard. We are nearly there, cousin, and I fear you need the 
      rest." He slapped the reins, and his horse pulled out further in front of 
      Mulder's, successfully ending their conversation. 

      Moments later, the road they followed turned sharply, and Frohike guided 
      his mount away from the bend, driving it forward through a meadow of long 
      grass. Mulder was close on his heels, and as he rode into the clearing, he 
      spotted the cumbersome walls of a small castle across the open field, 
      complete with a drawbridge that stretched across a narrow but deep moat 
      surrounding the structure. The horses sped up, sensing their home, along 
      with water, hay, and rest, within their grasp. As they approached, Mulder 
      heard shouts, and the gate inside the drawbridge opened. Several mean 
      spilled out of the castle, bearing flaming torches in their hands.

      Doing what seemed to come naturally, Mulder pulled up tight on the reins, 
      bringing the horse to a halt on the thick wooden platform of the bridge. A 
      boy of about fifteen laid his hand on the animal's harness, and Mulder 
      swung his leg over the saddle, jumping to the ground with a clang of 
      metal. Frohike and Langly dismounted, too, and Langly led the other horse 
      inside the gate, the boy following him with Mulder's. Mulder watched as 
      they took the horses across the inside paddock to a nearby stable. 

      He felt a slap on his arm and turned to see Frohike regarding him with a 
      somber countenance. "Let us go in. We can speak there."

      Mulder nodded. Soon he found himself within a great room ablaze with 
      light, coming from torches mounted in iron brackets along the walls. 
      Tapestries fluttered slightly in the drafty space, beautiful hangings done 
      in muted shades, and a fire roared on the hearth at one end of the room. 
      Frohike stopped next to a long wooden table and grabbed a large stone 
      pitcher waiting in the center. He poured a dark liquid into a thick goblet 
      and handed it to Mulder. "I think you could use a drink, Lance."

      Mulder smiled wryly at him. "I think I could, too." He took a sip, 
      recognizing the bitter taste of stout from his university days at Oxford. 
      He schooled himself not to drink too much too fast and set it down on the 
      table. "Frohike, we need to talk."

      The smaller man drained his own goblet in one swig and grabbed the pitcher 
      to pour more. "Aye, that we do, Lance. Your words puzzle me almost as much 
      as your actions this night."

      "I need to know what is happening to Scully. I can't believe I let her 
      talk me into leaving her there. Will she be alright?"

      Frohike tilted his head, searching Mulder's face with his wide eyes. "Do 
      you speak of the Queen? Why do you address her as such?"

      Mulder ran his hands through his overgrown hair, his mind finally starting 
      to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. "You…you really don't know me, 
      do you?" His voice was low and cautious.

      Frohike's reply matched his own, coming slowly from his mouth. "I know you 
      to be Sir Lancelot of the Lake, my cousin, in whose castle Joyous Gard we 
      now stand. I know you to be the greatest knight of King Arthur's Round 
      Table, the champion of his Queen, Guinevere, and the envy of all his 
      kingdom." He stopped and then went on. "Do you not know yourself, 
      Lancelot?"

      Mulder let out a long breath. "I know who I am, and I am not who you think 
      I am. I know to you, I look like Lancelot, but believe me—" He laughed, 
      the absurdity of it all finally hitting him. "I am not Lancelot. And 
      Scully is not Guinevere. And you…" His voice trailed off as his mind 
      clicked. "You are not Frohike." He took a step forward toward the other 
      man, reaching out to touch him on the shoulder. "Who—who are you, then?"

      The other man grabbed Mulder's hand and squeezed it briefly before easing 
      his friend down onto a nearby bench. "Sit a moment and rest, Lance," he 
      said gently. "I fear something terrible has happened to you this night." 
      He brought his cup to his lips again, took a gulp, and set it back down. 
      "I fear something terrible has happened to us all."

      Mulder's mind sharpened, the adrenaline that still pumped in his system 
      forcing it into obsessive mode, as it was wont to do. "I need to know that 
      she's alright," he said earnestly, his intonation rising. "I need to know 
      that they won't hurt her!"

      "Easy, man, easy," the other knight answered. "You were not found with 
      her. If I know that bastard Mordred, she will be formally accused on the 
      morrow, as I am certain he has already sent for the King. But without 
      taking you as well, Arthur will not raise a hand against her." He looked 
      at Mulder sternly. "Arthur loves her, and you. He will protect her."

      "And then what will happen?"

      The man who so resembled Frohike sighed. "Most likely, you will be 
      challenged to a War Joust by Mordred. A joust to prove your innocence, and 
      the innocence of the Queen." He turned his eyes to Mulder, and they shone 
      with concern. "You are the best knight in all the realm, Lance, and I know 
      that better than anyone. But I fear you cannot win this time…because you 
      have sacrificed your better nature for the love of the Queen."

      "What—what do you mean?"

      "A knight is honest and true. Qualities you have always had. But now, you 
      have thrown honesty and truth away in pursuit of another man's wife. Your 
      best friend's wife!" Mulder watched as he turned away and crossed to the 
      fireplace, punching his fist into the mantle with a mighty clang. "She is 
      not yours, Lancelot. And the mayhem the two of you have created this night 
      could bring all of Camelot to its knees."

      Mulder slumped forward, cradling his spinning head in his hands. The 
      exhaustion that settled over him like a cloak was heavy and unexpected, 
      but his heart still ached for Scully. "If I have to fight for her, I 
      will," he mumbled, dragging his palms across his face. "I just need to 
      know that she is safe, for now."

      "She is." The other man crossed to him then, helping him to his feet. "You 
      need to rest. This will certainly get worse before it gets better, and you 
      cannot defend anyone if you cannot even stand up."

      Mulder stopped him with a hand on his arm. "You haven't told me your 
name."

      The smaller knight squinted up at him before he sighed. "I am Bors, 
      Lancelot. Your cousin Bors, that you have known since childhood. Now, I 
      pray you, let me take you to your bedchamber. Perhaps this will all make 
      more sense on the morrow."



      Mulder turned over in a tangle of bedclothes and opened his eyes, 
      immediately noticing the slant of the sun as it poured in the nearby 
      window. The angle told him it was late, probably almost noon, and he 
      groaned a little. He was going to be late, his sleep-muddied mind told 
him…

      "Scully," he mumbled. He threw his arm over behind him to the other side, 
      feeling around for his partner's small frame. The linens were cool to his 
      touch, and he realized that Scully was not in the bed. She must've gotten 
      up early…but why didn't she wake him…?

      He sat up groggily and swiped at his eyes, trying to focus on the room 
      around him. It looked strange, similar to another room he had recently 
      seen…his mind groped for the answer but couldn't quite reach it. "Scully!" 
      he called again, louder this time, and he heard a door open somewhere off 
      to his left. In a moment, a head appeared from around a corner, but it 
      wasn't the cute little redhead he expected to see.

      Stringy, shoulder-length blond hair. Tiny eyes that narrowed him into 
      focus without the help of glasses. Richard Langly. Not the person Mulder 
      wanted to wake up with in the morning.

      But seeing the man who resembled Langly, dressed in a drab green tunic and 
      fitted trousers, triggered all the memories of yesterday. They came 
      rushing back into his brain and he moaned, collapsing onto his back again. 
      Shit. He was still stuck in this strange world…and stuck without Scully.

      "We did not want to wake you," Richard said hesitantly. He crossed to a 
      large trunk that stood against one wall in the room and opened it. He 
      began to spread out clothes on the foot of the bed. "Sir Bors thought it 
      better to allow you your rest."

      "Yeah, and I've wasted half the day." Mulder swung his legs over the side 
      of the bed, agitated, and then realized as he sat up again that he was 
      buck-naked. He uttered a tiny cry of indignation and threw a corner of the 
      blanket over his crotch. "Jesus, Langly! Where is my underwear?"

      The other man turned bright red and averted his eyes. "Your—underwear, 
      sir?"

      Mulder reached down to the end of the bed and snatched up what resembled a 
      pair of pants. "Yeah, you know, underwear. The clothes you wear underneath 
      your pants." Richard judiciously turned his back to Mulder, so he stood up 
      and stepped into the trousers, fumbling with the strange lacings at the 
      front. They were worse than button-fly jeans.

      He picked through the articles that Richard had laid out and finally found 
      something he recognized, a light, loose linen shirt in a shade of pearl 
      gray. He yanked it over his head and fussed with the string ties at the 
      throat momentarily before letting them hang open. He pushed past Richard 
      and headed around the corner for the door.

      The other man gasped. "My lord, you are not going out like that, are you?"

      Mulder was already halfway down the small, stone staircase. "I'm not 
      interested in fashion. I've got to get back to Scully." He emerged in the 
      great room that he remembered from the night before, where he and Frohike 
      (Bors, he corrected himself in his mind) had talked. He looked back at 
      Richard, who was close behind him. "Where's Bors?"

      "I'm here, Lance." Bors was seated in a high-backed chair by the 
      fireplace. He set down the sword he was polishing and stood. He wore an 
      outfit similar to Richard's, but his was made of a deep red fabric, 
      obviously heavier and more expensive. He had shaved, and Mulder was a 
      little surprised by how fit and young he looked. Knighthood must have kept 
      these men in good condition. 

      Bors gave him an appraising look. "I see that a good night's sleep has not 
      benefited you." He clapped Mulder on the shoulder and maneuvered him over 
      to the table. "Come, let us get you something to eat. You cannot keep your 
      feet on an empty stomach."

      Mulder's stomach growled at the mention of food, but he shook the thought 
      away. He motioned for Bors to sit down across from him, and he did. 
      Richard drifted away, reappearing a few moments later with a bowl filled 
      with a steaming, thick gruel that reminded Mulder of the Cream of Wheat 
      breakfasts his mother used to serve him on cold Vineyard mornings. He felt 
      an abrupt pang of longing as Richard set it before him.

      "Eat, Lance," Bors urged.

      "No. I want to talk about Scully."

      Bors picked up a strange utensil that resembled a spoon and shoved it at 
      him. "We can talk as you eat." Mulder took it reluctantly and tasted the 
      mixture. It was surprisingly sweet, and his hollow stomach clamored for 
      more. He spooned up a few more bites, and Bors nodded approvingly.

      "That is better. Now, Lancelot. Last night, you seemed to not remember me. 
      What say you this morning?"

      Mulder swallowed. "I do remember you. It's just that, where I come from, I 
      call you Frohike." He gestured to Richard. "I call him Langly. I do 
      recognize you both…but I don't know exactly what has happened."

      The two other men exchanged looks. "So you still claim that you are not 
      Lancelot of the Lake, even though you look exactly like him?" 

      "I don't know how to explain it. You say that I look like your Lancelot, 
      and I say that you both look like two friends of mine. But I am telling 
      you, I do not belong in this place, or this time."

      Bors rubbed at his jaw thoughtfully. "Then in what time do you belong?"

      "The year two thousand. I live in the United States of America. I'm a 
      Federal Agent, and the woman you see as Guinevere, the one I call Scully, 
      is my partner." He watched as Bors' forehead wrinkled in consternation, 
      and he sighed. "Look, I know you don't understand what any of that means. 
      Hell, the United States hasn't even been discovered yet. But I am telling 
      you this because…well, because I have to figure out what happened to 
      Scully and me, and I need help if we are going to get back to where we 
      belong."

      Bors shook his head. "I daresay you have more pressing issues at the 
      moment, my friend. The Queen will be accused this day of treason, and if 
      you ever hope to somehow…turn these events around, you will have to save 
      her from death."

      "What!" Mulder stood up so quickly he nearly knocked over his breakfast. 
      "You told me she was safe!"

      "She is, for now. But you will have to champion her. Remember the War 
      Joust of which I spoke? If I am right, the King will have set the time for 
      it as sunrise tomorrow. And you will have to be ready."

      Mulder set his jaw. "So what will I have to do?"

      "You will meet Sir Mordred on the jousting field. You will fight until one 
      of you begs for mercy." Bors met his gaze with a quirk of his eyebrow. "Or 
      until one of you dies."

      Mulder sank back down into his chair. Jousting. He had seen it on TV and 
      in the movies, but he had no earthly idea what the sport entailed. He 
      looked back at Bors. "And Lancelot…he's supposed to be pretty good at this 
      stuff, right?"

      "You…you are our best knight," Bors replied. Mulder could tell the other 
      man still did not believe what he had said. Hell, Mulder had a hard enough 
      time believing it…but he knew that it was the only explanation that really 
      made sense. And he knew that he would somehow have to figure out what 
      caused this to happen to Scully and him, and how they could reverse it. 
      But first, he obviously had to get to Scully, and there seemed to be an 
      awful lot of obstacles standing in his way.

      "I need you to show me, then. I need you to teach me today, so that I can 
      defend her tomorrow."



      The summons came while the men were on the practice field behind the 
      castle. Mulder was recovering from his position astride his horse, his 
      left shoulder throbbing inside his armor from where Bors' lance had just 
      hit him with the force of a 35-mile-an-hour auto impact. He spotted the 
      rider as he came around the side of the castle, the vibrant red of the 
      Pendragon standard billowing from a pole as he galloped toward him. Bors 
      rode up next to him and opened the visor of his helmet, nodding in the 
      direction of the rider.

      "The King's messenger. Bringing your summons to the joust tomorrow, I 
      daresay."

      Mulder flipped open the visor of his own helmet, shoving his gloved hand 
      awkwardly inside to swipe at the sweat running into his eyes. They had 
      been practicing all afternoon, and he was proud to note that Bors had not 
      been able to unhorse him at all, which was apparently the object of the 
      joust. Once he had gotten used to the weight of the long, unwieldy lance 
      in his hand, he had successfully knocked the other knight to the ground a 
      total of three times. The rhythm of it had come naturally to him, much 
      like the horseback riding itself. He supposed that perhaps the body he now 
      inhabited, that of Sir Lancelot, had stored many memories of such fights 
      on a cellular, molecular level, and physically, his muscles and nervous 
      system could draw on that knowledge to help him learn faster. It was a 
      fascinating idea to contemplate, one he would have loved to debate with 
      Scully…if only she were here.

      The messenger pulled his horse up next to Mulder's, gave a stiff bow 
      without dismounting, and pulled a rolled parchment from inside his tunic. 
      "A message from my lord King Arthur, for Sir Lancelot of the Lake." He 
      held the message out to Mulder, who took it without much more than a 
      glance. 

      "Tell the King I'll be there," Mulder said. He handed the scroll over to 
      Bors, who looked at him questioningly. The rider gave him another staccato 
      bow and tugged on the reins, turning his horse around and setting off at a 
      dash. 

      "Do you not even wish to read it, Lance?" Bors asked. 

      "You read it. Tell me if it's what you thought." Mulder watched as the 
      other man broke the wax seal on the outside and unrolled the stiff paper. 
      His eyes moved steadily across the words, and he allowed the parchment to 
      roll back on itself when he was finished.

      "Yes, it is just as I said. You are to meet Mordred at sunrise on the 
      morrow. If you defeat him, it will prove the innocence of the Queen. If he 
      defeats you, then both of you, Lancelot and Guinevere, will be put to 
      death for high treason." Bors' voice had remained steady throughout, but 
      it wavered on the word "death." Mulder reached over and grasped the 
      smaller man's shoulder, the material of his gloves slipping slightly on 
      the metal shell. He smiled at Bors as best he could.

      "Well, then I have to win." He pulled his helmet off and tossed it down to 
      the ground before jumping from his horse's saddle. "I think I have the 
      jousting part down. Let's work on the sword fighting."



      Mulder couldn't remember a time when he had been sorer. His muscles 
      screamed in protest from the slightest movement, and it was all he could 
      do to ease himself down into the standing tub of scalding water that 
      Langly's look-alike had prepared for him. The heat soaked through him, 
      though, and he found himself relaxing a bit, the mighty roar of pain 
      dulling to an ache  as the water subtly caressed him.

      The sword lessons had gone well, and Mulder had found it easier than he 
      expected to wield the cumbersome broadsword that he had to use. He had 
      managed to disarm Bors several times, and, as he ate some cold chicken and 
      bread after his bath, he realized he was fairly confident that he could 
      beat this Sir Mordred and rescue Scully. Then the two of them would be 
      able to concentrate on the problem of returning to the twenty-first 
      century.

      He fell into bed, exhausted but satisfied, his thoughts on nothing but 
      Scully and the task that awaited him in the morning.



      He came awake with a start, his heart galloping in his chest like a 
      stallion on the loose. He could hear the soft, whimpering breath of a 
      horse nearby, and the smell of early morning dew lingered heavy in the 
      misty air. It chilled his bare arms and chest, and he shivered, coughing a 
      bit at the tuft of dust his movement kicked up from the ground beneath his 
      cheek. 

      He realized he was not in bed, and he scrambled up to a sitting position, 
      casting his glance wildly around, trying to focus. Bewildered, he found 
      himself in the wide expanse inside the gates of Joyous Gard, positioned 
      just opposite the raised portcullis and the drawbridge that stretched 
      across the castle moat. The courtyard, which had been as busy as an open 
      market when he and Bors had returned from their jousting practice early in 
      the evening, lay in deathly silence now, void of any noise or person 
      except himself. It crouched in darkness as if it, too, were waiting, a 
      lone torch next to the gate the only illumination.

      Mulder swallowed, the taste of fear thick in his mouth. His rapid 
      breathing had not slowed, and he felt edgy, as if he were waiting for a 
      perpetrator at the scene of a crime. Scully had often kidded him about it, 
      calling it his Spooky Sense, just like the Spider Sense term from the old 
      comics he had loved as a boy. Well, his Spooky Sense was tingling like mad 
      right now, and after so many years, he had learned not to discount it.

      Something was wrong. The air around him was thick with it, this sense of 
      wrongness, this sense of something that was almost otherworldly. It seemed 
      to condense on his skin, to press on him with almost human fingers, 
      teasing him, urging him to get up, but cautioning him to stay at the same 
      time. It was disconcerting and unnerving, and his stomach rolled in 
      protest. He closed his eyes momentarily, trying to gain his composure. 
      Getting sick all over himself couldn't possibly help him now.

      When he opened his eyes again, he noticed movement at the end of the 
      drawbridge ahead of him, way down on the opposite bank of the moat. He 
      rose cautiously to his feet, his hand hovering by his side where his Sig 
      normally would be, the gun that had not even been invented yet in this 
      time and place. He crept forward until he crouched next to the wall of the 
      fortress, and he craned his head to see around the side.

      The horses he had heard were tied at the far end of the drawbridge, their 
      heads dropping forward as if they were dozing. They were both saddled and 
      outfitted, and he recognized them as the two animals he and Bors had 
      ridden earlier. At their feet, he noticed a flash of silver, and he 
      realized that Bors sat propped at the bottom of the last railing of the 
      bridge, his chin to his chest, fast asleep. He wore his armor, and Mulder 
      noted a small pile of a similar look next to his friend. He must've 
      brought Mulder's as well.

      Mulder glanced down at himself. Nothing but a pair of thin, loose-fitting 
      trousers covered his body. Even his feet were bare. And of course, his 
      sword would be in the scabbard fastened to the saddle of his horse. He was 
      nearly naked, freezing in the pre-dawn of this godforsaken castle, and he 
      didn't even have a weapon.

      If yesterday had been a bad day, he had the piercing thought that this one 
      looked even worse.

      He took a deep breath, trying to reason to himself. What in the hell was 
      Bors doing out here, anyway? It was chilly and damp; why would he choose 
      to sleep out here, and to bring the horses, especially the one that 
      Lancelot needed to ride in his joust for the life of the Queen? Mulder 
      frowned and, stealing another furtive look around, called Bors' name.

      "He cannot hear you, my good knight. He is asleep." 

      A female voice, one that seemed to consist of a lethal concoction of honey 
      and broken glass. Mulder's frown deepened as his brain rung with 
      recognition, and he stepped out from the shadows next to the castle 
      portcullis. Across the bridge from him, a figure glided out from behind 
      the horses, a womanly shape draped in a black, hooded cloak. A hand 
      reached up to push the cowl back, and a set of familiar dark eyes greeted 
      him from across the distance.

      "Diana?"

      Her laugh rang in his ears, echoing as if they stood together on the edge 
      of a cliff. It was loud enough to be disturbing, but Mulder noticed that 
      neither Bors nor the horses stirred. It was as if they were frozen in 
      place.

      The woman seemed to shimmer in his vision, and he tried to blink the 
      appearance away as she answered him. "I am not called that here in this 
      world, my good knight. Here, I am called many, many names, but most call 
      me Morgan le Fae."

      Mulder pointed at Bors. "What did you do to him?" The woman laughed again, 
      and Mulder felt his insides turn over as if he were seasick. He didn't 
      wait for her reply. "What did you do to me?"

      "Just a little game, my good knight, nothing more than that. It is just 
      like a dream, is it not? But you cannot waste much time. The sun will rise 
      very soon, and you have an appointment to keep."

      Mulder swayed on his feet, trying to keep the bile in his throat from 
      rising, bracing himself with an arm on the stone wall beside him. "Am I 
      dreaming? Can I wake myself up?"

      The woman called Morgan le Fae smiled, the same one of grim pleasure that 
      Mulder remembered vividly from his days with Diana. "It is like a dream, 
      but it is real as well. You will find out how real it is in a matter of 
      moments, when you try to cross this bridge. And cross it you must, for it 
      is the only way to get to your armor and horse, so that you can ride to 
      Camelot to save your Queen. But make haste, great knight, for daybreak 
      draws near…and if you are late for the joust, the Queen will die." The 
      heavy fog in the air swirled around the woman, obscuring her from his view 
      for a split second…and then, she was gone.

      Mulder stood still as a statue, his eyes darting back and forth, his mind 
      humming and his stomach quivering. She had 
      disappeared…hadn't she? One minute there, and the next gone…yeah, that 
      would pretty much qualify as vanishing in anyone's book. 

      He was dreaming, he told himself. This woman had just told him that…but 
      she had also said that this was reality, too. He slid his jaw to one side 
      and bit down hard on the fleshy meat of his mouth. The sharp pain seemed 
      to focus his drifting mind a little. Yeah, he felt it…so this had to be 
      real. In some way.

      So what was this? An enchantment? Although largely unfamiliar with the 
      Arthurian world, he at least knew that the King supposedly had a wizard as 
      an advisor, an old mage called Merlin. It stood to reason, then, if this 
      world were that one, that there were more magic-makers than just the one 
      of whom he knew. 

      He chuckled to himself, wishing that Scully were here to see this. It was 
      quickly becoming obvious to him that he was caught in some kind of spell, 
      somehow poised between the world of reality and the realm of fantasy. He 
      could just see the two of them, himself and Scully, standing in this very 
      spot when faced with the same scenario, arguing about the validity and the 
      scientific plausibility of such a thing.

      He felt a pang of longing for her, but he roused himself from his straying 
      thoughts. He was wasting time. The woman called Morgan le Fae had said 
      that he needed to hurry, that the sun would soon rise, and he needed to 
      cross the bridge to get himself to Camelot in time for the joust. But 
      obviously, his Spooky Sense buzzed to him, this bridge was some kind of  
      obstacle, one that had been put in his way in an effort to stop him from 
      arriving at Camelot at all.

      He took a few steps forward until level with the start of the bridge. The 
      beams of it had been wrought from long oak trunks, cut evenly to fit 
      together in tight formation. It stretched more than twenty feet across 
      from end to end, with chains from the lifting mechanism anchored at the 
      opposite side, forming a diagonal line of iron. The sides of the bridge 
      were completely open, with nothing to keep a man from falling off the edge 
      into the moat but his own good sense. Mulder had never really looked too 
      closely at it before. It was just a bridge.

      But now, as he gazed at it, trying to reason out what kind of problem the 
      crossing of such a nondescript bridge could possibly be, his eyes caught a 
      glint of metal in the dim light. Narrowing them to see better, he crouched 
      down, reaching his hand out instinctively. He grazed his fingers across 
      the glimmer and drew them back sharply as a stinging pain shot through his 
      hand. Stunned, he saw his fingers welling up with blood from a pair of 
      long, thin cuts. He thrust them in his mouth and peered closely at the 
      bridge.

      He could see them now. Laid in between every beam, as well as fitted down 
      the center, several of them end to end, of each stocky log. There had to 
      be hundreds of them, gleaming sinister silver in the misty air.

      Swords. The bridge seemed to be fashioned out of swords.

      Mulder sucked the blood off his fingers and tried to shake the discomfort 
      away. He couldn't be much use to Scully in a fight if he were cut to 
      ribbons before he even got to try. And that must've been the idea, right? 
      To prevent Sir Lancelot from even getting a chance to save the Queen. He 
      blew out a frustrated breath and stood up, pacing back and forth with his 
      hands on his hips. There had to be another way across this moat.

      Wait a minute. What was he thinking? The moat was deep, true, but he could 
      swim, and he didn't remember seeing anything dangerous in the waters when 
      he and Bors had crossed it yesterday. He went to the bank and dropped to 
      his knees, craning his head forward to have another look down into the 
      water.

      There was nothing there but swirling fog. He strained his eyes to see 
      through it, but to no avail. It almost appeared as if there was no 
      water…that the moat had somehow transformed into a bottomless pit filled 
      with nothing but silent air and ghostly mist. 

      Mulder swore. He hefted a large stone into his hand and dropped it over 
      the side of the bank, watching as the wispy, white tendrils engulfed it as 
      it fell. He listened closely for the telltale splash as it hit water at 
      the bottom. He waited a full two minutes before resigning himself to the 
      fact that the stone hadn't hit bottom…and if it had, the bottom was so far 
      away that jumping into the shrouded cavern would be suicide.

      So it had to be the bridge. He was going to have to cross it. There was no 
      other way to get to Scully.

      He pushed himself up again and stalked over to it, a look of grim 
      determination on his face. Bastards. They didn't really think he was going 
      to give up, did they? He had crawled through caverns of ice and alien 
      monsters once before to save her. He could do this, too, if that was what 
      it took to keep her alive.

      His mind seemed to slow down then, a calm settling over him, his racing 
      heart easing down to a steadier pace. He eyed the drawbridge, calculating 
      carefully, trying to figure the best way to start. 

      It would be difficult. There was no reason to deny that. More than likely, 
      he would end up injured. There was really no way around it. But there had 
      to be a way to reduce the risk, and he gave himself a slight nod of 
      encouragement when he deduced what to do.

      He glanced up at the drawbridge chain above his head. If he could just get 
      a quarter of the way across the bridge on foot, he would be able to reach 
      up and grab the chain. He could pull himself the remainder of the distance 
      by shimmying across those iron links.

      With a deep, resigned breath, Mulder lifted his foot, poising it before 
      him as he decided where to place it. Even with all the swords lining the 
      wood, there were still some spaces in between the separate pieces where 
      his foot, if turned horizontally, would fit. He would have to angle it, 
      step into the tiny spot, transfer the weight of his body, and pull up his 
      other leg to move forward, all the while maintaining his balance. He would 
      also have to stand on one leg as he maneuvered around to place the other 
      foot down at the next safe interval.

      He took his first step, keeping his respiration even and relaxed. He 
      managed to nudge his foot into a tiny space afforded by the blades. He 
      took another breath and shifted his weight to that foot, pushing off with 
      the one behind him, using his arms to balance his body as his back foot 
      found purchase on another miniscule scrap of wood. He exhaled and paused 
      for a moment, his legs in an X underneath him, imagining himself looking 
      like some kind of reject from a tournament game of Twister. He smiled 
      ruefully at the idea and began the task of another step.

      He gained a whopping three more of these bizarre machinations before 
      stopping to rest. So far so good. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow 
      and lifted his hand above his head, careful to keep his weight evenly 
      distributed. The chain was still a good foot or so out of his reach, but 
      he estimated that by taking another five precarious steps, he would be 
      able to lunge up and grab it. Then, he would be home free.

      Mulder raised his leg again, ready to move on, his arms in a T next to his 
      body. He shifted his weight forward to bring his foot down in the next 
      niche he spotted…and a violent wave of nausea pounded into his body with 
      the force of one of Bors' jousting lances.

      His eyes slammed shut involuntarily, all of the muscles in his body 
      tightening against the onslaught. His arms pin wheeled at his sides, 
      struggling to regain the delicate equilibrium, but he knew before he felt 
      the falling sensation that it was hopeless. There was nothing to hold 
      onto, no way to break the fall except with his hands, which went instantly 
      out in front of him. The skin of his palms shredded as he plunged into the 
      blades beneath him.

      A cry escaped his throat as the swords tore through the flesh of his 
      forearms and knees. He gasped at the blinding flash of fury in his body as 
      his legs crashed behind him, the searing sensation in his belly joining a 
      newer, fresher bolt higher in his torso. It was over in a mere second, but 
      the cacophony of protest from his limbs began to overload his senses, his 
      mind graying at the impact.

      No, he couldn't pass out. He wouldn't. He didn't have the time for such a 
      luxury. He forced his eyes open again, locking them onto the sight of Bors 
      and the horses waiting at the end of this gauntlet. He had to reach them. 
      He somehow knew that once he did, they would awaken…and maybe, so would 
he.

      Could he stand? Or should he try to crawl? His mind hissed at him, 
      reminding him again of wasted time, and of the blades that stood in his 
      way. If he crawled to the end of the bridge, he would be eviscerated by 
      the time he reached it…and possibly bled dry as well. But if he could just 
      scramble forward a few more feet, he could regain his legs and reach the 
      chain.

      With a mighty roar, Mulder pushed his torn body forward. He felt something 
      rip through his abdomen again, as well as a warm trickle of liquid that 
      traced down his thigh and across his knee. He paid no attention to the 
      crimson streamers that ran along his bare wrists in grisly bracelets, his 
      eyes trained on his pile of armor awaiting him. He cursed between each 
      ragged breath, hitching himself along the bridge, grunting Scully's name 
      as he slid in his own blood. She was all that mattered, and he wasn't 
      going to leave her to die.

      The shadows surrounding him began to lighten as he moved, urging him 
      forward. At long last he stopped, panting, and turned his eyes above him. 
      He was sure he could reach the chain now, and ignoring the pressure and 
      the tangy scent of blood all around him, he pushed himself to his feet and 
      reached his ruined hands above his head.

      Slick with blood, they slipped on the cool metal, but he gritted his teeth 
      and gripped the iron links harder, the sensation singing a ghastly song in 
      his palms. He pulled himself up from the surface beneath his feet and 
      swung his legs up with all his might, linking his ankles together as they 
      gained the top of the chain. He rested a moment, hanging upside down like 
      a monkey at the zoo, his tired eyes taking in the gruesome sight of the 
      trail he left below him.

      Mulder started forward, shimmying along the chain as best he could. A 
      silent observer would have admired his determination, if not his grace, 
      for there was none left in him now. All that mattered was getting to the 
      end of the bridge, and if he did it in a pretty way or in a nasty one, 
      Mulder would get there.

      And somehow, he did. Whether by sheer force of will, or sheer luck 
      concerning his physical prowess, he made it to the end. He took a moment 
      to think, and then swung himself forward and backward from the chain, the 
      nerve receptors in his hands screaming their indignation. On the third 
      swing, he let go, sailing through the air and landing with an 
      unceremonious thud in the dust at the end of the drawbridge.

      A flurry of movement and sound surrounded him as soon as he hit the 
      ground. His head buzzed loudly, but beneath it, he could hear the lilting 
      cadence of Bors' voice.

      "Good Christ save us! Lancelot, what happened to you?"

      Mulder struggled to open his eyes, fighting the onslaught of dizziness 
      that washed over him. He focused unsteadily on Bors, whose face appeared 
      over his. "Get me…get me into my armor. I've got to get to Camelot."

      "There is not a place on you that does not bleed, man! You cannot fight 
      like this!"

      He heaved himself into a sitting position and grabbed the front of Bors' 
      tunic. "I don't have a choice. Morgan le Fae said that if I am late for 
      the joust, they will kill Scully."

      The color drained from the other man's face. "Morgan le Fae? She did this 
      to you?"

      "I don't know. Maybe. It doesn't matter now." Mulder hauled himself up to 
      his feet, wincing at the pain that seared through them. Bors stood, too, 
      looking at himself in amazement.

      "How did I get out here?" he wondered aloud. He looked at Mulder and 
      knitted his brow. "This was an enchantment. And if you say you saw Morgan 
      le Fae, then she is the one behind it. But that blood—" he pointed at 
      Mulder—"is not a dream. We must stave it, Lance, or you are as good as 
      dead."

      Mulder backed himself up against his horse, using the animal's large body 
      to hold him up. He looked straight into Bors' eyes, the blue of his new 
      gaze bright and burning. "And Scully is as good as dead if I don't get 
      there. Help me, Bors." His tone was plaintive. "Help me, please."

      Bors took a deep breath and grabbed at the saddlebag next to Mulder's 
      shoulder. He ripped it open and extracted several cloths, usually used on 
      the horse so the saddle would not chafe its back. He tore them into strips 
      and stepped up to Mulder. "This is going to hurt, my friend," he told him 
      gently, and he pushed one into the gaping cut across Mulder's abdomen.

      The shooting agony seemed endless, but Mulder brought his own hand up to 
      hold the cloth in place. Bors wrapped his other wounds quickly, using 
      tight, efficient strokes, and he was soon working Mulder's armor into 
      place over his injured body. When his dressing was complete, Mulder opened 
      his exhausted eyes and smiled weakly at Bors.

      "Now help me get up on that horse. I have a Queen to save."
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