The Queen of Mists and Memory ::: Chapter Four
      Chapter Four
      Scully had prayed feverishly for sleep, but those pleas had gone 
      unanswered.

      All night, her thoughts pulled her to Mulder, wondering what was happening 
      to him. She sat up by the fire, staring into its dancing heat, the 
      embroidery that Leigh had brought to distract her untouched by her side. 
      Sir Gareth had stayed with her as she forced herself to eat a few bites of 
      meat and cheese he carried with him. She found his gentle presence 
      calming, and she tried to draw him out, sensing in him a pool of 
      compassion different from the other knights in the castle.

      "Sir Gareth, is there news of Lancelot?"

      He stood at the window, watching over her as she sipped her wine. As 
      tempted as she was to dull her senses, she was careful not to drink too 
      much, and his eyes followed her hand as she placed the goblet back down on 
      the table. "His summons has been delivered, my lady Queen." His soft voice 
      massaged her aching heart.

      "Then he will come?" The question tumbled out of her before she could stop 
      it. Of course he would come. Scully never doubted Mulder for a moment…so 
      why did she think Guinevere might doubt Lancelot? It didn't make any 
      sense…but that nagging whisper had returned, cajoling her from the back of 
      her mind.

      Gareth nodded. "Aye, my lady. I heard that he and Sir Bors were on the 
      field when the summons came. I daresay he is well prepared to defend you."

      She had smiled weakly at him, and he had departed without another word. 
      Leigh had cleared the supper away, laying the colored floss out next to 
      the embroidery easel at the far end of the room. Scully had crossed to the 
      chair and sat down, but she didn't pick up the needle. She remembered 
      embroidering with her grandmother when she was a girl, but she had been 
      impatient and sloppy with it, and Nana Scully had given up trying to teach 
      her. Besides, she had no interest in anything but Mulder…and her mind 
      worried at his memory like a greedy dog with a bone.

      And so the night passed, with Scully never moving from the chair by the 
      fire, and Leigh dozing fitfully on a floor cushion by the doorway. The 
      other woman had sat up moments ago, rubbing her eyes, some kind of inner 
      alarm rousing her from her dreams. She looked at Scully and stood. 

      "The sun will rise soon, Gwen. We must get you ready." Scully gave a 
      resigned nod and pushed up from the chair.

      There was no bath today, but Leigh massaged sweet-smelling cream into the 
      skin of Scully's arms, neck, and shoulders, her hands working the muscles 
      tenderly. It helped relax her, and by the time Leigh had finished braiding 
      her hair again, Scully's eyes were slipping shut. She shook herself awake, 
      her mind sharpening again on the events at hand. 

      Leigh brought in an ornate golden gown made of a thick, glittering 
      material. She helped Scully into it, fastening her in with blinding 
      efficiency. The gown had an overlay tunic of scarlet, which Leigh threw 
      over Scully's shoulders and tied with elaborate lacings at each side. 
      Scully smoothed it down over her stomach, her fingers tracing along the 
      golden Pendragon emblem emblazoned on it. She smiled ruefully to herself. 
      It was as if she had been marked as Arthur's goods. 

      Leigh stepped over to her and arranged her headpiece, a small golden crown 
      with a gauzy veil in matching colors. She fastened a pendant around her 
      neck, and Scully uttered a startled gasp as she watched in the looking 
      glass. Leigh frowned. "What is it, Gwen?"

      Scully fingered the links of the golden chain, following them down to the 
      shimmering cross that now nestled in the hollow of her throat. It was much 
      larger than the necklace she remembered, the one her mother had given her 
      so many years ago, and it was studded with red stones that Scully supposed 
      were rubies. But it fit against her skin as if it belonged there, and she 
      felt a cloud of contentment settle around her.

      "I…It is nothing, Leigh." She looked at her lady-in-waiting and smiled. 
      "Thank you."

      "Let us go, then. Sir Gareth awaits you."

      The gentle knight escorted her outside, somewhere behind the fortified 
      walls of Camelot, and Scully found herself standing on a raised platform 
      on one side of a long, narrow field. The dais was covered with some type 
      of tarp, and Gareth led her to her place in the center of the stands. 
      Leigh stood behind her and off to one side, and Scully noticed that she 
      was alone. The other lords and ladies of the court lined both sides of the 
      field, but no other nobles stood with her inside the pavilion. She 
      breathed in a huge gulp of air and set her face to stone. She felt her 
      seclusion clutching at her like a bad-tempered child, and she tried to 
      soothe herself with the notion that at least Arthur would arrive soon.

      Moments later, amid a fanfare of trumpets, the King made his appearance, 
      along with his personal attendant knights…but he did not join her, either. 
      He mounted the steps on the other side of the field, taking his place in a 
      pavilion directly opposite her. His armor shone like a beacon in the 
      pre-dawn gloom, and Scully fastened her eyes on him. He arranged himself 
      amid his knights and turned his gaze on her. His eyes snapped mahogany 
      fire across the expanse of the field, and Scully found herself reassured 
      by the strength of that look.

      He was confident. He trusted that Lancelot would prevail. She had to trust 
      that, too.

      All heads turned at the sound of horse hooves pounding the dirt below 
      them, and Scully swiveled in that direction, her heart in her throat. Her 
      need to see Mulder overwhelmed her, and a small sound of disappointment 
      escaped from her as she realized it was not him. The knight on horseback 
      below her stopped in front of the pavilions and turned his horse first to 
      Arthur and then to her in salute. Beneath the visor of his helmet, Scully 
      could easily recognize the reptilian green eyes of Sir Mordred. He 
      finished his ceremonious presentation and galloped on his horse to the far 
      end of the jousting field.

      The crowd waited. Scully swallowed, casting her gaze to the east, where 
      the first flaming fingers of the new day clutched at the horizon. She 
      watched helplessly as the glowing orb began its ascent into the sky, 
      casting its beams closer and closer to the field where everyone stood, 
      motionless and expectant. A quiet murmur began among the nobles as 
      sunlight played at the edge of the grass, and Sir Mordred spurred his 
      horse into the center of 
      the field.

      He stopped in front of Arthur and raised his visor. "My lord King, the sun 
      has risen, and Sir Lancelot does not come. The Queen has no champion."

      Scully felt a terrible fist of fear grab onto her stomach, grinding its 
      grip into her belly. Arthur huffed out a breath, obviously trying to think 
      of a way to stall the proceedings. He opened his mouth to speak, but he 
      was cut off by a cry from the crowd: "Sir Lancelot! He comes!"

      Scully craned her neck to see down the field. There were two horses, one 
      ridden by a short man whose face was hidden inside his own helmet…and one 
      ridden by Mulder.

      She tamped down her feelings, willing her facemask of ice to descend once 
      more, knowing that she had to remain impassive during this whole event. If 
      the Queen were to get too excited over Lancelot, it would certainly not go 
      unnoticed. But she did allow a small smile to play on her lips as he 
      saluted the King in the same manner as Mordred and then turned his horse 
      to her side.

      Their eyes met. The electricity of his stare coursed through her whole 
      body, and she laced the fingers of her hands together, gripping herself to 
      stay as steady as she could. She tried to telegraph her thoughts to him, 
      the way they had always been able to do, and she saw the recognition of 
      the message register in his eyes. 

      I love you. Be careful.

      I love you, too. I will be.

      But then, just for a moment, Mulder's face changed, his eyes fluttering. 
      Something stole across him, a great shudder that Scully could see even 
      from her position above him, and her eyebrow arched its question to him. 
      He gave a slight shake of his head as he composed himself, and he set his 
      jaw.

      I'm fine. The line she always used on him he now signaled to her. Don't 
      worry.

      As Mulder turned his horse away to start down the field, something on his 
      armor caught her eye. She sucked in a horrified breath as she realized 
      what it was.

      There, on the hip of his suit where his leg met his torso, a large splash 
      of red marred the shiny surface. Scully shook her head slowly, a shocked 
      cry rising within her. 

      Mulder was bleeding. He was hurt, and she strangled the noise in her 
      throat to keep from calling his name. Scully threw a frantic look over at 
      Arthur across the field, and his alarmed countenance confirmed that he had 
      seen the blood, too. She pleaded with him with her eyes.

      Help him, Arthur. Please, stop this.

      She saw the muscle in his jaw jump, but he returned nothing more than a 
      resigned inclination of his head.

      We cannot stop it, Gwen. You know that.

      Her face darkened into anger, and she started forward, intending to tear 
      down the pavilion steps and race to Mulder's side to stop this insanity. 
      But before she could move further, she felt a hand grab her wrist, and she 
      lifted her eyes to Leigh's. The other woman's features were soft with 
      compassion, but she held tight to Scully. "There is nothing you can do, 
      Gwen. He must fight, and he must win, if the two of you are to live." 

      "He needs a doctor," Scully hissed, realizing as her vision swam that she 
      was close to crying. "He could die."

      "He is strong." The authoritative tone of Leigh's voice swayed her a 
      little, and Scully turned back to the field, to where Mulder sat astride 
      his horse. She watched as he took the lance the other knight handed to him 
      and positioned it at his right side, sliding a shield over his left arm. 
      Her words were so soft Leigh had to strain to hear them.

      "I can't help him, can I? There's nothing I can do."

      Leigh squeezed her hand. "You can pray, Gwen." She closed her eyes to do 
      just that, and her lips moved silently as she offered her litany. But 
      Scully couldn't even be comforted in that action. She couldn't take her 
      eyes off Mulder.

      The two knights faced each other from a distance of about thirty feet 
      apart. Both snapped the visors of their helmets shut, their lances held 
      ready, as they awaited the King's signal to begin the joust. The crowd 
      fell completely silent as Arthur raised his arm.

      A flash of metal glanced across the field as Arthur dropped his hand, and 
      both horses reared, then jumped forward as they started toward each other. 
      The knights shot toward the center of the cleared raceway, their lances 
      poised, positioned to thrust the opponent from his horse. The whole 
      morning appeared to stop, as if holding its breath, as they pelted toward 
      the inevitable.

      With a thunderous, ringing crash, the men met in the middle, and Scully 
      grimaced as the lances hit their targets on each knight's shoulder. She 
      heard them both cry out as they were knocked backward, and her eyes 
      widened as Mulder tumbled head over feet off the rear of the horse. He hit 
      the ground, the lance shattered into splinters and his shield flung far 
      from his hand. He rolled immediately away from the horse, which maneuvered 
      around him, heading off the field.

      Mordred's yell reverberated across the arena as he called for his sword. 
      He, too, struggled up from the ground, and Scully was grimly satisfied 
      that Mulder had managed to unhorse him. His squire ran to him with his 
      weapon, and Mordred spun around, seeking his target.

      Mulder remained on his knees, having just been handed his sidearm, and he 
      had no time to stand before Mordred lunged at him, the handle of his sword 
      gripped in both of his fisted hands. He raised it above his head, 
      intending to bring it down full force on Mulder. Mulder threw his own 
      sword up horizontally to block the blow. The impact reverberated across to 
      the stands, and Scully gasped as Mulder shoved Mordred back mightily. The 
      other knight, unbalanced by the force of his own forward motion and 
      Mulder's thrust, staggered backward, losing his footing and ending up flat 
      on his back.

      This afforded Mulder a moment to gain his feet, but Scully noticed as he 
      did that the stain of blood on his hip had grown larger. A rivulet of it 
      began to snake its way down the front of his thigh, and she heard the 
      crowd mumble as they saw the signs of his injury. She could hear her 
      partner's ragged breaths below her, and he tore his helmet off, tossing it 
      aside and taking huge gulps of air. He started toward Mordred, bringing 
      the sword back in an arc, as the other knight scrambled up from the 
ground.

      The blades met with a mighty chime, and they sparred back and forth for a 
      few moments, trading thrusts and defending blows. At one point in the 
      fray, Mulder pivoted, striking a blow to Mordred's shoulder, dragging the 
      sword through the soft, cloth area of the suit where the armor could not 
      reach. The onlookers hissed as the blood from the wound sprayed across 
      Mulder's chest, and Mordred fell back, cursing.

      Scully's heart pounded as Mulder threw a glance up at her. His face 
      gleamed with sweat, and his skin appeared almost translucent. He was 
      losing too much blood, she knew, and the beginnings of shock were taking 
      over his system. He stared up at her, apparently lost in her gaze, his 
      eyes glassy with need. She felt her lip start to tremble as she silently 
      threw every ounce of her own strength at him through the sheer force of 
      her will. He faltered on his feet, lurching to one side, and went down on 
      one knee, his face still turned toward her. He didn't see Mordred approach 
      him from behind, his sword poised, aiming for Mulder's unprotected neck.

      "Nooooooooo!" Scully's scream sliced through the morning air at the same 
      time Mordred's blade fell. She saw the light in Mulder's eyes instantly 
      spark, awakening him once more, and he rolled to the ground, the sword 
      singing its swath in the space above him. He kicked his leg out and caught 
      Mordred on his ankle, successfully knocking the other knight into the 
      dust. Mulder tumbled over on his side, Mordred beneath him, reaching for 
      the sword that he had lost as he fell. He grabbed it in one hand and 
      heaved it in a tremendous circle, bringing it down full force onto 
      Mordred's wrist.

      The other knight shrieked as the blade sliced through the thin metal 
      covering and severed his hand. Blood spurted, soaking the ground a 
      horrible crimson. Mulder paid no attention to Mordred's cries, however. 
      Scully could see that his mind was locked in blind, white-hot rage. He 
      raised the sword over the man's head and held it there, staring down into 
      the face below him. Even though she was a good fifteen feet away, Scully 
      could still hear him speak.

      "You." Mulder spit the word like an accusation. "I should've known it 
      would be you."

      Scully could not see Mordred's face, but his voice was saturated with 
      anguish. "Lancelot, I…I yield to your mercy."

      Mulder's arm shook from where he held the sword aloft. Scully couldn't 
      tell if it was from hatred or from pain. "Then say it," he demanded 
      through his teeth.

      Mordred gulped in a breath and raised his broken voice. "The Queen is 
      innocent." A huge shout of approval rose from the gallery. Scully felt the 
      knot in her stomach lessen, and Leigh grabbed her arm, a smile on her 
lips.

      Several knights ran forward onto the field as Mulder lowered his sword. 
      One, the smaller man that had ridden in with Mulder, reached him first and 
      helped him to his feet. He had removed his helmet, and Scully recognized 
      the distinguishable features of Melvin Frohike. She grinned a little to 
      know that Mulder had found another friend in this bizarre world.

      She noticed Arthur descending the stairs of his pavilion, so she hurried 
      to her own, meeting Sir Gareth on the way down. He gave her a brilliant 
      smile. "I had every confidence in Lancelot, my lady Queen."

      She smiled back at him and stepped onto the dirt expanse. Mulder was 
      surrounded by well-wishers, but his pasty skin and hitching breaths 
      worried her. She made her way over to him as the crowd parted to allow her 
      through. 

      He turned to face her, and she could see how sick he was. "My lady Queen," 
      he murmured almost playfully as he began to bow…and pitched forward as he 
      passed out. The man who resembled Frohike caught him and eased him to the 
      ground, calling his name.

      Scully pushed through the other knights, forgetting all decorum and 
      station as she fell to her knees beside Mulder. "He's in shock," she said 
      to no one in particular. "We have to get him out of here and take care of 
      his injuries."

      "These wounds came before the joust, my Queen," Frohike told her. "They 
      are terrible, worse than any I have ever seen…but he insisted on coming to 
      defend you."

      Arthur's voice boomed over them, and Scully was a bit relieved to see him 
      standing beside Gareth. "Bring him to the surgeons. They are the best we 
      have."

      "No." A new voice cut in, this one softer, lighter, and obviously 
      feminine. Scully glanced over her shoulder at a small figure behind her, a 
      woman dressed in a forest green gown and a rich sable cape, and found her 
      attention caught by the sight. The woman's hair fell in lovely ringlets 
      around her face, a face Scully recognized from the one time she had seen 
      it as she choked within the Alien Bounty Hunter's grasp.

      Samantha. Samantha Mulder. Or at least, that was who they had thought she 
      was.

      This woman stepped forward, speaking directly to Arthur as if she had no 
      regard for his rank. "He is dying. The surgeons will not be able to save 
      him."

      Arthur's face flushed a deep scarlet, one that screamed anger. "You are 
      not welcome here, Nimue. This court has had enough of your tricks."

      "It is the sorcery of your sister Morgan le Fae that has felled this good 
      knight, King Arthur," Nimue intoned, her eyes flashing. "She wanted to 
      help her son Mordred to the throne by any means possible. There is nothing 
      of this earth that can help Lancelot now. But I know the way to save him."

      Scully laid her hand on Mulder's forehead, shocked by the heat radiating 
      from him. His fever could indicate that infection had already set in, and 
      she had no idea what kinds of medical advancements this society had to 
      work with. If only they were back home, she was sure she could treat him 
      effectively…but here, like this, she had no idea what to do for him.

      Scully looked at Arthur. "We have to do something. He is burning up with 
      fever."

      "I do not trust her, Guinevere," Arthur snapped, coming closer to her. 
      "You know what she did to Merlin." He began to say something else, 
      something she could tell was more personal, but he clamped his teeth shut 
      against it, and she couldn't help wondering what the woman had done to 
      incite him so.

      Scully tried to remember the legend but came up short. Her worry for 
      Mulder's condition outweighed any other thoughts. "We have to help him. If 
      she can do something for him, then we have no choice."

      Arthur's eyes fell on Mulder for a moment, and Scully saw them soften. He 
      stood there a minute longer, clenching and unclenching his fists, and 
      finally spoke. "Then take him, Nimue. Do what you need to do to heal him." 
      He turned in a swirl of silver and stalked off.

      Scully pressed her hand to Mulder's cheek, not caring who saw her loving 
      caress. His sweat slid over her fingers, and she willed her tears not to 
      fall. He would survive. He had to, so that they could go home. She didn't 
      even look back at Nimue. "Tell me what to do."



      She runs, her gown a tangle of indigo gossamer about her legs, her 
      high-pitched squeal of delight ringing in her ears. She catches the heavy 
      panting of her playmate behind her, giving chase, shouting to her to stop, 
      to come back…

      Dana!

      Gwen! Gwen, come back here!

      She turns her head, the wind whipping her long hair in a flurry of red 
      around her face. Through the strands, she spots her pursuer, and she 
      smiles, slowing down, the wind rushing into her lungs and making her 
      vibrate with vitality. The other girl trudges up behind her, obviously out 
      of breath, leaning over her legs to gasp through her own grin.

      Dana, I'm going to kill you the next time you do that! You know you're 
      faster than I am.

      Gwen, you run too fast! I cannot keep up with you.

      She laughs gaily and reaches up her hand, snagging a crimson apple from 
      the branch that dangles above her head. The fruit shines in the summer 
      sunlight, and she smells the citrus scent of it as she brings it close to 
      her mouth. 

      Dana, don't you dare eat that! Mom said no snacks…it's almost dinnertime!

      No apples for you, Gwen! You know your mother forbade it!

      She cocks her head rebelliously and starts to answer…but the face before 
      her swims in and out of her vision. She blinks, suddenly confused.

      Missy? Missy, is that you?

      Leigh? What is happening?

      She closes her eyes and stumbles back against the trunk of the apple tree. 
      She feels the scrape of the bark in her back and takes a deep breath, just 
      as she senses a whisper of delicate softness against her cheek. She opens 
      her eyes to see the man standing before her. His voice is deep, resonating 
      in her ears and the fluttering space of her chest.

      Guinevere? Are you alright?

      His face is younger, clean-shaven, and he has not yet begun to lose his 
      hair. He presses the pad of a fingertip to the delicate angle of her 
      cheekbone, tracing a trail down to her jaw. His smile touches his eyes and 
      his lips, and she notices the juice of the apple glistening there on the 
      curve of his lower one. He sees her staring at his mouth and flicks his 
      tongue out to lap up the sweetness. As he does, he leans in, drawing her 
      to him, his kiss searing through her mind.

      Sir? You wanted to see me?

      Mulder? Where's Mulder? This is wrong! Not Skinner…where's Mulder?

      She can taste the sharp snap of apple in her mouth as he deepens the kiss, 
      but she puts her hands on his chest and shoves. He moves back, and she 
      flashes a terrified look at him, her heart in her throat. Blue eyes stare 
      back at 
      her, the color of the sky on a clear October day. Her voice sounds 
      distant, strange, and she can hardly understand the words that come from 
      her.

      Lancelot, I love you. But we cannot do this.

      He grimaces at her words, the pain etched in the lines around his eyes and 
      mouth. She has seen him in pain before, so many times, when he has been 
      wounded, when—

      —when he was shot. On the Boggs case, and when I shot him in the shoulder—

      Her confusion swirls around her, mirroring the white petals of the apple 
      blossoms dancing on the April breeze. She remembers being with him before 
      in a tornado of white like this, sitting with him, his arm reaching toward 
      her—

      —stretched behind me on our bench, as we ate our lunch by the reflecting 
      pool. The cherry trees were blooming, and it was a gusty day, and he 
      laughed when the flowers landed in his lidless iced tea—

      He strains to touch her, his voice seeping into her mind and heart, the 
      same voice she has heard in her dreams for so many, many years…

      Guinevere, I need you.

      Scully, I love you.

      Scully.

      Scully….Scully…Scully…



      She lurched awake, the movement of the wagon beneath her swaying her even 
      further forward. She righted herself, pushing her back up against the 
      rough sideboards, and turned her attention down to her lap. Mulder's head 
      rested there, and he was mumbling in his sleep, his brow glistening with 
      perspiration. Scully used the hem of her gown to blot his forehead and 
      laid the backs of her fingers against his cheek. The heat still poured 
      from him, and she estimated his temperature had soared to at least a 
      hundred and two. She stifled a roar of frustration and glanced to the 
      front of the wagon.

      "How much longer until we get there?"

      The man called Bors turned slightly at the sound of her voice from his 
      seat driving the horse, but it was Nimue beside him who answered. "Not 
      long." She pointed an elegant finger towards the horizon, where Scully 
      could see a thicket of lush forest. "It is just through those trees."

      She fingered the makeshift bandages that crisscrossed Mulder's torso. Bors 
      had helped her remove his armor once several of the knights had lifted him 
      into the wagon, and she had bitten her lip to keep the gasp of horror from 
      escaping when she saw Mulder's injuries. Angry scarlet cuts, some shallow, 
      many more deep, covered the entire anterior side of his body. Scully had 
      no idea what had happened to him, and she didn't ask, instead ordering the 
      man who so looked like Frohike to find her clean bandages. She had 
      carefully stripped off the bloodstained cloths that already covered the 
      wounds and redressed them, noting how many already looked much too red to 
      not be infected. Wrapped in a heavy cloak and another blanket, Mulder now 
      wavered in and out of consciousness as the wagon lumbered slowly toward 
      its destination.

      Scully had no idea where they were going. Nimue had regarded her with 
      sharp, calculating eyes when she asked, and Scully had felt a discomfort 
      she rarely experienced while caught in the other woman's drilling gaze. 
      Finally, 
      Nimue had answered, "The only place that can heal him," and walked away. 
      Scully had to be content with that response if it meant keeping Mulder 
      alive.

      "…Ssscccull…" Mulder whimpered and shifted restlessly against her thigh. 
      She could see his eyes rolling underneath the lids, the delicate skin 
      fired from his fever into a deep shade of pink. She smoothed his hair back 
      and 
      wondered what he dreamed, what visions came to him in this fervent sleep. 

      She had been dreaming, she knew…but those dreams had seemed so real. She 
      could remember Missy chasing after her in an endless childhood game of 
      tag…being summoned to Skinner's office, as on many occasions, to report on 
      a case without Mulder by her side…giggling with her partner on their 
      favorite bench by the reflecting pool, watching as he fished cherry 
      blossoms out of a Styrofoam cup. Those memories penetrated her mind, and 
      they were incredibly sharp and focused.

      But so were the other ones.

      The one where Leigh pursued little Gwen up hills and into valleys, calling 
      her to come back to their castle home. The day that Arthur kissed teenaged 
      Guinevere under her favorite apple tree, the stickiness of the fruit that 
      he had just tasted coating her lips as well. The first time married 
      Guinevere and valiant Lancelot had stolen away from Camelot, meeting as 
      the sun set behind them and vowing through their longing never to act on 
      their feelings for each other. 

      Those memories swam in her mind, too, clear as newly-shined glass, as 
      palpable as Mulder's hair sifting through her fingers as she stroked it 
      from his sweaty brow. 

      But how could they be there? Those were not her memories. They belonged to 
      Queen Guinevere of Camelot, not to Dana Katherine Scully.

      Or did they?

      Was it somehow possible that when she had assumed the body of Guinevere, 
      that she had been given access to the woman's mind as well? That she now 
      knew everything about the Queen, even if she didn't realize it? 

      And if this were true, then where the hell had the real Guinevere gone? 
      Did she inhabit Scully's body in the year two thousand, experiencing the 
      same sort of strangeness that Scully was enduring? And did that woman now 
      have a foothold into Scully's life, the life she had worked so hard to 
      keep private, the one that she had just recently begun to share for the 
      first time in many years?

      It didn't seem fair. Scully blinked as hot tears flooded her eyes. She was 
      not the kind of person to cry easily…but dammit, here she sat, trapped in 
      the body of another woman, holding the man she had finally admitted she 
      loved while his life bled out of him, feeling utterly powerless to do 
      anything to stop it. And even if she could stop this, somehow finding a 
      way to keep Mulder alive, then the question of how to get back to their 
      lives in the twentieth century loomed before them like a threatening storm 
      on the horizon. To top it all off, an idea continued to gnaw at her, one 
      that she didn't have any reason to believe was anything more than a wild 
      fit of unsubstantiated unease, but one that she had started to think might 
      actually be true.

      Someone had caused this to happen. Someone had brought them both here for 
      a reason, and someone seemed hell-bent on making sure they were never able 
      to escape.

      She chuckled morbidly at this thought and tucked a long strand of Mulder's 
      hair behind his ear. "I'm beginning to think too much like you, partner," 
      she whispered. She couldn't imagine in her wildest fantasies how someone 
      like C.G.B. Spender or the other members of the Consortium could have 
      possibly managed to send them back through time…hell, most of them were 
      dead now anyway, incinerated at El Rico while trying to carry out their 
      schemes. Then again, she supposed anything was possible, given the 
      outrageous things she had witnessed since working on the X-Files. 

      But right now, she couldn't think about anything else. Mulder's feverish 
      cheek against her cool wrist reminded her of her priority at this moment, 
      and she looked up as she felt the wagon begin to slow.

      She hadn't noticed that they had ridden into the grove of trees. They 
      stretched their limbs above her head, a shady green canopy of filtering 
      light. The forest seemed unnaturally quiet to her, as if it were waiting 
      and watching for their arrival. Scully shivered involuntarily as the wagon 
      passed through a long shadow and then chided herself for the response.

      Nimue's voice floated back to her. "There. Stop next to the cottage."

      Scully strained to look past Bors. Just ahead, on the left hand side of 
      the path, she could see a small, squat structure built from rectangular 
      stones. It crouched there, shrouded in ivy, which climbed up over the 
      walls and hung in beckoning tendrils from the thatched roof. A small plume 
      of gray smoke glazed the air above the chimney. Scully 
      wondered who might be inside, expecting them.

      The wagon came to a halt next to the house. Gareth dismounted and walked 
      back toward Scully. He had ridden ahead of them the entire time, 
      determined that she should have an escort, and his face seemed clouded as 
      he approached. He glanced at Mulder. "How fares Sir Lancelot, my lady?"

      "He is holding his own. I fear, though, that he will not hold on much 
      longer." She turned her attention to Nimue, who now stood next to the 
      wagon. "What is this place?"

      "A simple cabin in the woods. Lancelot's salvation does not lie in there, 
      but down that path." She gestured ahead of them, and Scully followed with 
      her eyes, picking out a small footpath amongst the greenery that snaked 
      out of sight. 

      "Where does it lead?"

      Nimue's eyes snapped with something that Scully couldn't recognize. "You 
      shall see when you take him, lady."

      Gareth snorted. "The Queen is not taking him anywhere by herself, Lady 
      Nimue."

      The woman's cold gaze settled on him, and Scully was pleased to see he 
      didn't cower beneath it. "She must take him by herself. That is the only 
      way to save him." She looked back at Scully, and something like a smile 
      briefly fluttered across her lips. "In one way, she is his salvation."

      "She is not strong enough to carry him herself, and he cannot mount a 
      horse!"

      "Then wake him, and he can walk with her. She can help him. But they must 
      go alone."

      Gareth began another protest, but Scully held up her hand. "Enough. I will 
      take him." She smiled gently at Gareth. "I am stronger than you think, my 
      friend." Her smile faded when she looked back to Nimue. "What do I need to 
      do? What am I looking for?"

      "At the end of the path, you will find a lake of calm water. Strip off his 
      bandages, and take him into it. It will heal him…if that is what you 
want."

      Scully shook her head. "What do you mean, if that is what I want?"

      "You must figure it out yourself, lady. I have told you everything I 
      know." She abruptly turned away. 

      Scully felt her anger rising, but she held her tongue. She knew this woman 
      would give her no other answers, no matter what she said or did. She 
      squared her shoulders and slid her hands under Mulder's neck, readying 
      herself to help lift him to his feet. "Sir Gareth. Sir Bors. Help Sir 
      Lancelot down after I wake him."



      Passing along the forest path seemed like a dream to Scully.

      Mulder had roused easily enough, something that had encouraged Scully 
      immensely. He had even walked the first part of the distance with only 
      minimal assistance from her, although his eyes remained clouded and his 
      face glistened with the effort. But as they journeyed deeper into the 
      shade of the trees, a strange, shimmering mist had begun to envelop them, 
      and Mulder had started leaning more and more heavily on her shoulder for 
      support. His jagged breaths echoed eerily across the stillness of the 
      woods, and she murmured to him encouragingly, her muscles straining to 
      help keep him on his feet. And through the thickening mist, it became 
      nearly impossible to tell how much further it was to the lake of which 
      Nimue had spoken.

      "Sc—scully," Mulder gasped, and her heart lurched to hear how wet his 
      voice sounded. She glanced down at his abdomen, her sickening fear 
      confirmed to see the bandages stained red again. "I…I need to…to rest a 
      minute."

      She shook her head. If they stopped, she feared they would never get going 
      again. "No, Mulder, it's just a little farther. Come on. We can do it."

      "Slave driver," he muttered, and she couldn't help smiling a bit. He was 
      still Mulder, even in the face of these awful obstacles. She clutched him 
      around his waist a little tighter and pulled him forward.

      A few more steps, and the path widened, spilling them into a clearing of 
      tall, emerald grass. Beyond it, the ground sloped gently downward, ending 
      in a clear, broad lake of shining azure water. The undulating mist hung in 
      great clouds over it, obscuring the view of the other side…but what Scully 
      could see was breathtaking.

      She grinned. "See, Mulder? There's the lake. We made it." She turned to 
      look at him, but his head lolled onto her shoulder, his knees buckling 
      under him, and the whole weight of his body came crashing into hers. She 
      braced him 
      and lowered him gently to the ground, laying him on his back.

      She grimaced as she began to peel off his bandages again. Most of his 
      wounds had stopped bleeding, but the one deep gash running horizontally 
      across his belly ran with blood once more, aggravated by the jostling 
      walk. It screamed in vivid crimson, and from the heat radiating from it, 
      Scully knew it had to be infected. With the other injuries he had 
      sustained, she surmised Mulder was too weak to effectively fight the 
      infection. It was just a matter of time before it killed him.

      Scully worked quickly, baring her partner's wounds and praying fervently. 
      She didn't put much stock into miracle cures or healing waters…but she had 
      no other choice. If this lake could help Mulder somehow, then she was 
      bound and determined to get him into it.

      She moved to stand above his head and tugged off the heavy gown that 
      encased her, fumbling impatiently with the strange ties and loops that 
      held the ensemble together. She stripped down to the gauzy shift that she 
      wore underneath and then pulled that off as well. She was afraid to have 
      anything extra encumber her in the water. Almost as an afterthought, she 
      freed Mulder from his trousers too, not wanting to add more weight to his 
      frame once they were soaked. 

      She took his wrists in her hands, careful to avoid the slitted sores on 
      his palms and forearms. She gulped in a deep breath and pulled, and his 
      body, although heavy, slipped easily along the slick green grass. It only 
      took her a few moments to slide him to the edge of the lake.

      Scully tested the temperature of the water with her foot, surprised at how 
      warm and inviting the lake seemed to be. She backed into it until the 
      water touched her waist, and then she crouched down, bringing her chin in 
      contact with the surface. She reached forward, found Mulder's wrists 
      again, and in one fluid motion, drew him into the lake with her.

      She tugged him further in, carefully stepping along the sandy bottom until 
      the water naturally came to her shoulders. Mulder floated easily behind 
      her, the lake water lapping up and over his torso and chest, his legs 
      completely submerged. When she stopped moving, she turned, bringing her 
      one hand underneath Mulder's neck, the other supporting his back under the 
      water. She stilled herself and waited, not knowing what to expect.

      Mulder's breathing was even and steady, and she pressed her fingers to his 
      neck, checking his pulse. Faint, but not erratic, and she brought her face 
      close to where his ear floated just above the water. She skimmed the long 
      hair away from his sweaty brow, drizzling a little of the water across his 
      skin to cool him. "Come on, Mulder," she whispered. 

      His face remained impassive, and she knew he was far away, in whatever 
      place his subconscious took him when he passed out. She pressed her lips 
      to his shoulder, tasting the familiar tang of his perspiration mingled 
      with the fresh sweetness of the lake. Her eyes closed, and her body began 
      to slowly relax, the warm water gently massaging her aching muscles. 

      What was it Nimue had said? She is his salvation. She had no idea what 
      that meant, and her tired mind seemed to hurt more than her throbbing 
      body. She opened her eyes briefly, only to see the water around them 
      threaded through with Mulder's seeping blood, and she buried her face in 
      the nook between his shoulder and neck. 

      Nothing. Nothing was happening to him. If anything, he was dying, while 
      she stood in a lake and watched him bleed.

      "Mulder, please," she pleaded, her voice hoarse. "Please don't leave me 
      here alone. I'm scared." 

      She felt her mind slipping away. The scientific side of her brain reasoned 
      in those last few moments, telling her it was simply the effect of all the 
      events that had transpired in the last two days, and now the stress of 
      watching her partner's life ebb away had triggered the most rational 
      response: to shut down her entire system. 

      Scully dropped her head heavily against Mulder's shoulder, her hands 
      clutching him close, her consciousnes stumbling down into the dark hole of 
      nothingness.
      previous ::: home ::: next