The Queen of Mists and Memory ::: Chapter Seven Chapter Seven It seemed that getting lost was becoming a habit for Mulder. He and Bors had found the mist Nimue spoke of easily enough. It was rather hard not to. They had walked toward the setting sun, going in the same direction that Mulder remembered from his journey with Scully to the healing lake. He estimated they hadn't gone farther than a quarter of a mile when the first wisps of fog began to skate by them. Gradually, the earth tones of the surrounding trees and brush grew fainter, erased eventually and completely by the frosted mist that engulfed them. As they plunged deeper into it, a surreal hush fell across the world, the only sound the crunch of their boots on the ground and the faint ring of their armor as they moved. Mulder didn't like it. It reminded him too much of the feeling he'd had back at Joyous Gard, when he'd met Morgan le Fae at the drawbridge made of swords. His Spooky Sense set every nerve in his body on edge, and he kept his hand on the pommel of the sword he wore at his waist, ready to draw it if necessary. They'd been walking for more than two hours, and he couldn't tell if they were actually moving in a specific direction or just traveling blindly in a circle. More than anything, the quiet disturbed him, and after barely speaking to his companion for such a stretch of time, he couldn't take it any longer. "Bors. Tell me more about Lancelot." The smaller knight glanced over at him, his brow furrowed. "I know not what you mean, Lance. Tell you more about...yourself?" "I'm not Lancelot, remember? I'm just a...guest, I suppose." Bors shook his head. "We should have had the lady Nimue prepare one of her infamous potions for you, cousin. Perhaps it could have fixed this strange temperament that seems to have overtaken you." "So Nimue is a doctor? A pharmacist?" Bors crossed himself quickly. "She's a sorceress. You, of all people, should know that." "Why me, of all people? What do you mean?" Bors eyed him critically. "A night ago, we feared for your life, Lancelot. I was certain you had no blood left in you, and yet Nimue brought us to that strange lake, and you were healed. Is that not enough to convince you? Have you also forgotten her part in Merlin's disappearance, and in the tragedy of the Queen?" Mulder's ears perked up at the mention of Guinevere. "What about the Queen? What happened between her and Nimue?" Bors stopped walking, staring at Mulder as if he had gone completely mad. "I do believe you have hit your head at some point, Lance, to jar all these strange notions into your brain. You cannot remember?" Mulder sighed, trying not to let his impatience bleed through into his speech. He genuinely liked Bors, and he understood the knight's disbelief concerning Mulder and Scully's appearances in this world. However, he was beginning to become a bit exasperated by Bors' staunch determination that his cousin was still intact, still the Lancelot that he had always known. "Come on, Bors. Humor me, OK? What happened between the Queen and Nimue?" Bors began walking again, and Mulder followed, matching the smaller man's shorter strides. "They are rumors, of course, ones that ran rampant through Camelot at the time. Arthur could never act on them because they couldn't be proven. But after Nimue enchanted Merlin, the two acts coupled together were enough for Arthur to banish her from court." Mulder waited. The event, whatever it was, apparently pained Bors to mention, and he sensed that if he pushed, Bors would drop the subject all together. The knight continued, keeping his eyes straight ahead, off Mulder's face. "It is said by Guinevere's women that Nimue is responsible for the death of the King's son." Mulder frowned. "The King's son? I thought Mordred was his son." "That he is. Mordred is Arthur's bastard, engendered upon Morgan le Fae. She enchanted him on the night of his coronation, and he knew not that he took his own half-sister into his bed. Mordred is the product of that union. Morgan has always hated her brother, because of the sins of his father Uther against her father Gorlois, and because he has gained the power after which she so desperately lusts. Since she will never rule, she will do anything to see that her son does. Including orchestrating the killing of Arthur's true heir." It was Mulder's turn to stop walking. "Wait a minute. You're saying that Arthur had another son, but he was killed? By Morgan le Fae? What has that got to do with Nimue?" "It was never proven, I told you. But in her childbed, the Queen asked for something to take the edge off the pains of the birth. Nimue was summoned for her knowledge of healing herbs and remedies, and she brewed a potion for the Queen. Her waiting women and the midwives say that the draught brought even more suffering to Guinevere, and when the child was finally born, he was already dead. Since that time, the Queen has been unable to conceive. Arthur has no other son but the bastard Mordred, to whom he does not wish to give the throne. He knows Mordred's heart is as black as his mother's, and he is afraid of what will become of Camelot if Mordred rules." Mulder's head spun, but in its turmoil, he latched onto something. "So you're saying that Nimue is working for Morgan le Fae. You're saying that she is not loyal to Arthur." He grabbed Bors by the strap of one of the saddlebags and yanked him up to him, his panic rising. "Why in the hell did you let us walk out of there, leaving the Queen with her?" Bors covered Mulder's hands with his, trying to shake him off. "Lancelot, Gareth is with her. She is in no danger. Mordred cannot touch her, not without bringing the entire Round Table down upon him. He is not that powerful." "But Arthur is sick! Nimue said that without Excalibur, Arthur is powerless, and Mordred could easily take Camelot by force. I would have never let Scully go with her if I'd have known all this! It's a trap!" Mulder released Bors and paced away, running his hand through the tangle of his hair. "Jesus Christ! What in the hell was I thinking? This is insane!" "Lancelot, Gareth will protect the Queen. You couldn't have asked for a better knight to stay at her side. You know that. You knighted him yourself." Bors approached him but stayed a few steps away, alarmed by the stormy expression on his friend's face. "And Nimue also said that the only way to restore Arthur's good health is to find the sword. It is the only way that he can keep Mordred at bay. We must remember our task, Lance, and leave the Queen and Gareth to theirs." "But what if Nimue was lying? What if this is just a wild goose chase, to get us away from Camelot, and to leave the Queen unprotected?" Bors regarded him grimly. In his look, Mulder read the intense devotion and loyalty that this man gave to his country and its people. "Then we must either discover Excalibur or the ruse as quickly as possible, so that when we return, we do not find Camelot in ruins." They stopped to rest a good hour later. The lacy fog thickened around them like a huge, friendly feline as Mulder un-shouldered the water bag Gareth had given to him before their departure. He fumbled with the strange stopper mechanism for a moment and then lifted the skin to his lips. No water came out. Mulder blinked and shook the thin bag, listening for the telltale slosh of liquid. When none came, he turned the skin upside down and squeezed it, wringing the end up like a tube of toothpaste. Not a drop spilled onto the ground. He shook his head in disbelief and threw the bag to Bors. "Explain that, my friend." Bors caught the waterskin and puzzled over it, turning it this way and that as Mulder shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. His body was starting to ache from the weight of his armor, and his throat clamored for refreshment. He pushed his physical needs to the back of his mind and focused on Bors. Bors finally tossed the bag to the ground in frustration. "That skin was full when Gareth handed it to you. I watched him fill it myself." "Could it have leaked?" "It is unlikely." Bors took a deep breath and scrubbed at the growth of stubble on his chin. "The faerie realms are strange. Perhaps it is another enchantment." "Or maybe it's just Nimue, screwing us again." Mulder swallowed, trying to lubricate his parched throat. "'Screwing us?'" Bors looked perplexed, and Mulder waved him off, not wanting to get into a discussion about slang. "Never mind. We're not going to survive anywhere for very long without water. We've got to try to find some." "It will do us no good, Lance. We cannot drink the water in this land. Remember what Nimue said?" "Nimue is the whole reason we're in this mess!" Mulder snapped. "How in the hell can we trust anything that she's told us?" "Just the same, you know as well as I that the foods of the fae are enchanted. Who knows what will happen to us if we consume it?" "Well, I know what will happen to us if we don't get any water. We'll die, plain and simple." Mulder turned in a circle, trying to see through the soup all around them. "Goddamn it! How are we supposed to find anything in this place? There doesn't even appear to be anything here!" He felt the vibration of Bors' hand clamping onto his shoulder through his suit of armor. The other man's eyes were compassionate and unworried. "Let us rest awhile, Lance. You need it. Perhaps some solution will come to light." Mulder sighed and nodded, all his energy suddenly gone. He sank down to the ground, where he found the root of a tree pushing up through the earth. He scooted back until he bumped into the trunk, propping himself against it. He let his eyes droop closed, his tired mind grasping desperately onto thoughts of Scully as he drifted off to sleep. Her cries are worse than any he could ever imagine. They cut deep into him, searing his soul, and he longs to rush to her, to somehow absorb her anguish and bear it himself. He cannot do this any more than her husband, the King...and it is not his place, anyway, no matter what words they have exchanged in the past, no matter what deeds have brought them to this moment... Lancelot, I love you. Arthur knows. He shakes his head, chasing the memory away. She screams again from behind the heavy oak door, and his stomach clutches as he turns away, trying to duck beneath the waves of agony. He crosses the anteroom, intending to choke down a cup of mead to dull his senses...but Arthur sits at the table, blocking his path. He slows, the look of abject dread and terror present on the King's face halting him. Arthur's eyes meet his. I cannot bear to hear her suffer so, Lance. His hand drifts down to rest on the King's shoulder. This is his best friend, a man loyal and honest and brave, and he knows it is his duty to support him. Yet the words stick in his throat as his love for the Queen washes through him, overpowering any other sympathetic feeling he might have. I know, Arthur. It is all he can think to say. If something happens to her... Arthur trails off, and when he looks up at him again, his dark eyes are misted with emotion. I wanted nothing but her happiness. She longed so for this child. His own eyes fill against his will. He vows not to release the tears, but they fall anyway as Arthur clutches his forearm. They are two knights, men of action left despondent, helpless to rescue the one woman they both love. He swallows hard as Guinevere shouts one last time... You were right. This child was not meant to be. The smells of antiseptic and disinfectant cloy at him, the shine of metal in the fluorescent light too bright in his eyes. Her hair is like a flame against the white sterility surrounding them, and he longs to embrace her, to hold her up and strengthen her with the love that consumes him. But she wants to be alone to grieve for her child, to say her goodbyes as the girl lies dying in the next room... ...but the answer is yes. The expression on her face when he says the words makes his heart skip in happiness. She wraps her arms around his neck, and her jaw trembles on his shoulder. He squeezes his eyes shut, thankful for her embrace, the knowledge that he has given her such joy bubbling a wide, gratefulsmile onto his face. Together, as always...they'll do this together... I guess it was too much to hope for. ..and she is in his arms again, tucked up tight against his body, leaning into him as if she cannot hold the weight of herself upright any longer. Her tears splash tiny droplets against the skin of his neck, and he rocks her gently, just as they would have rocked their baby...the baby that is not meant to be... It was my last chance... She will not look at him when he comes to her afterwards, hiding her face behind the veil of her long, fiery hair. He takes her hand and kneels at her feet, desperately trying to convey his love and his sorrow in the stroke of his fingers over hers. Her usually steady voice cracks with grief when she finally speaks. What have we done, Lancelot? Our son is lost to us. Our hope...is lost to us all. He cannot stand to hear the desperate longing in her voice, the plaintive note that cuts him deeper than any wound he has ever had. He presses his forehead to hers and once more gives her the strength of his beliefs... Never give up on a miracle. The coughing fit woke him. Clutching starts in the deepest part of his chest thrummed miserably through him, and he rolled onto his side, automatically seeking fresher air to fill his stifled lungs. He wrenched his eyes open, expecting to see nothing but the impenetrable bleakness that surrounded him when he dozed off. Instead, he bumped his nose against the cold, unyielding marble of an alabaster floor. Mulder groaned, sick to his stomach. His thoughts shot immediately to the enchantment at the bridge, the gut-wrenching nausea that had been his downfall there, and willed his insides to calm. What the hell had happened to him now? Perfume thickened the air around him, a scent like roses mixed with oranges and cinnamon. It might have been attractive in small doses, but it clogged his senses, rendering him dizzy and disoriented. He swallowed, and the odor burned in his throat, setting the fire there blazing anew. He needed water, and he needed it badly. He wondered if perhaps this was delirium, if maybe he was so dehydrated that his mind had shifted into some weird fantasy. He tried to spit the taste of the perfume out of his mouth, but he didn't have enough saliva to expel it. He braced his palms on the cool floor and heaved a great breath, hoping to clear his head. As he did, a shadow moved across him, and he jumped, flipping himself onto his back again. He couldn't quite make out the features of the woman who stood over him. Her figure was backlit, casting her mostly into darkness. Her hair, though, hung in bright, almost-white layers that nearly reached her waist. Her gown glowed white, too, and for a moment, Mulder wondered if he'd died and somehow reached the angelic world of the other side. The words he spoke were nothing more than a hoarse croak. "Where...where am I?" The woman's voice hummed in his ears, a rasp that he recognized but couldn't quite place. "You are in the land of the fae, Sir Lancelot. Do you not recognize your own people?" He decided it would be better to ignore that question. "Where is Bors?" The figure gestured vaguely behind her. "He is being attended by one of my sisters. I have been sent to attend you." "Sent by whom?" "Queen Maab, the ruler of our lands. Do you not know her? She is the sister of the Lady of the Lake. Are you not her kin, too?" Mulder sat up, still trying to bring the roiling sensations in his body under control. He coughed again, a violent spurt that caused his eyes to water, and the woman bent down to him. Her face was beautiful, with ivory skin stretched over fine cheekbones. It was a face he remembered, and he recoiled in shock. Marita Covarrubias. This woman looked just like her. Her lips curled into a smile. "I am called Elaine. Won't you let me assist you, my lord?" He slid away from her, trying to keep his distance. Another stabbing cough gripped him, and the fire burned down his throat and into his chest. The one named Elaine watched him with concern and touched her hand to his cheek. It felt like cool satin against his rough skin, and Mulder found himself sinking into that comforting sensation, his head beginning to loll into her. "You need refreshment, my good knight." Her words wove around him like a luxurious cloak, and he felt himself slip further into her waiting hands. He tried to focus, tried to concentrate, to remember something important, something Bors had warned him about, but his mind was sliding slowly away, like a stone on ice... "Come. Drink." He opened fluttering eyes to see her kneeling beside him, a beautiful goblet of gold in her hand. She held it out to him, and he could see the liquid that glistened inside it, clear and inviting. He tried to swallow and speak, but nothing happened. His eyes leaked a single tear, and as he felt it trail down his cheek, he marveled that he still had enough water in his body to produce it. Water. It was something about water...something Bors had said... The beautiful maiden extended the cup, bringing it up to his mouth. The goblet touched his lips, sending a shiver of anticipation through him. He needed to drink, needed the water so badly to quench the agonizing fire in his throat... "Drink, Sir Lancelot. Drink, and stay with me." Mulder swallowed, and time seemed to spin out in an endless spiral as the marvelous water cascaded through him, washing him away on waves of satisfied need. He is aware of nothing but the silky sensation that slips across his skin. He doesn't think to question it...his mind is wrapped in gauzy pleasure, and nothing in his being wishes to leave it behind. The dreams that surface, if they are dreams, drift past him in patches and pieces, like a wispy quilt of etheric substance. He sees the woman again, the one with the undulating, snowy hair. She floats toward him as if carried by the wind... Marita Covarrubias. In her apartment in New York, wearing a white satin robe when she answers the door— The voice that he hears as she touches his wrist vibrates through him, stirring the very essence of him. It is Scully's throaty murmur, Scully's loving caress... Guinevere. Is it you? She smiles as she bends over him, moving her fingers to his brow, brushing the hair from his forehead as she peers at him with concerned, affectionate eyes... Green eyes. Scully's eyes are blue. This isn't Scully... Her auburn hair falls around him, and she lays her head on his shoulder. He can smell her, the scent of spicy roses overwhelming him, pulling his attention out of the comfortable, warm place where it resides... Not Scully. Not Guinevere. Someone else—what's she doing? Her voice again, like the echo of a dream from long, long ago... It is I, Lancelot. Love me. Show me that you love me. His flying mind grasps and pulls at that, hanging onto it like a mountain climber grabbing the last remaining rope. Not Lancelot. I'm Mulder. This is wrong, something's wrong— His consciousness fights for purchase, struggling to surface, to burst through the illusion, for he knows now that it is an illusion... His throat cracked with his cry, the soreness sharpening to debilitating proportions. But he shouted past the pain, because he was certain it would break the spell: "Nooooooo!" His eyes flew open in the same instant. He shot a panicked look around the room, finding himself seated on a large, cushioned chair in the middle of a great hall. Before him stood a long, ornately carved mahogany table, spread with a magnificent array of foods. The aroma of them assaulted him, and his stomach lurched, sick once more. The woman called Elaine hovered next to the table, watching him. Her countenance did not appear to be pleased, and Mulder frowned back at her. "What the hell are you doing to me?" "You insult us, Sir Lancelot." Her pale face shone like a moonstone. "You do not trust your own kin." He gripped the arms of the chair hard, trying to ensure that he was now fully awake. "You're trying to poison me." The flush of embarrassment rose to his cheeks. "And you're trying to seduce me, too." She glided closer to him, and he twitched back in his seat nervously. This was foreign to him; he realized that Lancelot had no more knowledge of how to deal with magical things than he did. The joust with Mordred was old hat; this challenge to his senses was something wholly different, and he felt completely out of his league. Elaine lingered over him. "You have come seeking something that is not yours to have. And in coming here, you betray your own people." "Excalibur was stolen from the King by Morgan le Fae," he retorted. "It is not hers to take, either. The King needs the sword to restore his health, and to keep the land safe." She laughed, a low growl that reminded Mulder of a hungry cat. "You are more loyal to your King than to your lineage." A thought struck Mulder, and he went with it, following its leap as he would any other that came to him instinctively. "The Lady of the Lake gave the sword to Arthur. She put her trust in him, and in his ability to unite all the people of this land. I am loyal to her, and to the man to whom she gave such worldly power." Elaine regarded him for a long moment, something flashing in her azure eyes. Finally, she turned and reached toward the table, taking up a golden cup. "You speak wisely, Sir Lancelot. Come. Share at our table." He pushed her hand away as she extended the goblet to him. "I'll pass this time, thanks." "You are in need of refreshment. You cannot continue on your quest without sustenance." "I'll take my chances." He glanced around the cavernous hall. "Is it here, then? Excalibur? Do you know where it is?" Elaine set the cup back down on the table, her eyes turning cold once more. "Morgan le Fae is our sister. She entrusted the keeping of the sword to us. We shall not betray her." "But the sword belongs to Arthur. I need to take it back to him." The faerie woman's eyes glittered brightly. "Perhaps we can strike a bargain, my good knight." Mulder assessed her face coolly, trying to calculate what she could possibly be plotting. "I'm listening." "The sword is hidden here. I cannot tell you where it is, but I can promise you safe passage out of the faerie realms if you succeed in finding it." "And if I don't succeed?" She smiled at him, one that should have been breathtakingly beautiful, but instead appeared carnivorous. "Then you shall stay here with me. I can help you to forget the Queen." Mulder's stomach jerked, but he didn't flinch. "So that's the bargain? If I find the sword, Bors and I will be allowed to leave without any problems?" She nodded, still wearing the eerie, serpentine smile. "Will you let Bors go if I can't find the sword? If I promise to stay here with you?" Elaine's grin widened, and her voice rubbed over him like sandpaper. "He will go no matter what the outcome, either with you and Excalibur, or unaccompanied. That way, he can carry news of you to the Queen." Mulder sat there for a moment, flipping through his options like a restless patient with a magazine in a doctor's waiting room. There didn't seem to be any other way out of this predicament, and he wanted to ensure that one way or another, Bors got back safely to Camelot. Someone had to look after Scully. He had to be certain that she would be safe, no matter what happened to him. Finally, he took a deep breath and spoke, mustering as much confidence as he could. "Very well, Lady Elaine. You have your bargain." previous ::: home ::: next