The Queen of Mists and Memory ::: Chapter Sixteen Chapter Sixteen Banging. And yelling. Lots and lots of yelling. Scully cracked one eye open, peering through the slit into the semi-darkness that surrounded her. The air vibrated with the sound of heavy footfalls and slamming doors. The calling voices reminded her of her childhood, when her father had stood at the bottom of the stairwell and bellowed for them like he did at his command post, shouting their names in order: "Melissa! William! Dana! Charles! Hit the deck!" Her father. His face swam across her mind, meandering its way into the images that flickered there. Those seemed strange to her, remnants of dreams that were already fading quickly, people and places somehow familiar and yet foreign... Another shout resounded in the hallway, jarring her again. Behind her, Mulder grumbled in his sleep and tugged her closer. He slid one naked calf over hers and buried his nose deeper in her hair. She smiled sleepily and raked her nails down his arm, seeking his hand to interlace their fingers. Her search ceased abruptly when her fingers skimmed across cool metal. Metal? In their bed? Scully's eyes flew open, instant alertness jerking her head up off the pillow. Mulder was holding something in his hand, something metal—what could it be? She pushed herself up on one elbow and pawed the sheets back, squinting through the darkness. Her jostling disturbed her partner, who muttered something incoherent and flopped over onto his back. As he did, his arm moved, his hand still clutched in a tight fist, and Scully felt something solid, slim, and cold slide across the tops of her thighs. She sucked in her breath when she realized what it was. The dim light of the room reflected on the metal of the blade that rested in her lap. She couldn't see the end of it; it disappeared into the shadows just beyond the edge of the bed. There was no mistaking what it was, however: Mulder held a sword in his hand, and judging from the grip he had on the handle, he was hanging onto it as if his life depended on it. Scully shook her head a bit, trying to clear the muddle in her mind. What the hell was going on? To say that waking up next to an armed Mulder confounded her was putting it mildly. She had known Mulder to sleep with his service weapon tucked into its holster on his bedside table, but he'd never brought his gun into bed with him. He'd always shown a great respect for weapons, as most law enforcement personnel did; she knew he'd never be so careless as to fall asleep with his gun in his hands. And a sword? How in the hell had he even gotten a sword? And what was it doing with them in bed? It made absolutely no sense for Mulder to even have it, let alone hold it strangled in a death grip while he slept. She tried to think back. They were in England, in Wales to be exact, in their room at the quaint bed and breakfast where Mulder had booked their accommodations. They'd arrived and checked in, and then Mulder had insisted on seeing a bit of the countryside. They'd hiked out into the Welsh wilds and promptly gotten lost; she remembered that much. But her brain seemed devoid of any other details beyond a certain point, after they reached a clearing in the forest and decided to come back to their lodging as the sun began to sink in the west... What was wrong with her? She couldn't remember anything else. She didn't recall returning to the bed and breakfast. She didn't know if they had eaten dinner, or if they'd just climbed the stairs to their room and quickly dozed off. But even if she couldn't remember any details of the previous night, she could certainly recall that Mulder had not possessed a sword the day before. Where in God's name had it come from? Scully leaned over his chest, laying a hand on his shoulder. The tips of her fingers nudged the scar that marred the line of muscle there, the reminder of the bullet she'd put in him during their second year of work together. She stopped suddenly, staring at it, puzzling. It was there, and then it wasn't. She frowned at the memory that teased from the edge of her mind. What was that all about? The scar had disappeared? And now it was back again? The notion was ludicrous...but it somehow made sense. She shook the thought away. "Mulder," she said, squeezing his shoulder to rouse him. His eyelids fluttered, and he smacked his lips as he came awake. She was about to call his name again to hurry him along when a loud knocking resounded on their door. Exasperated, she made a face and pushed herself out of bed, grabbing Mulder's Georgetown sweatshirt from where it rested on a nearby chair. She yanked it over her naked form, relieved that he was so much taller than she. The sweatshirt nearly trailed all the way down to her knees. She unlatched the heavy room door and opened it a crack. A small woman stood there, regarding Scully through thick, large eyeglasses. Behind the lenses, her irises were muddy brown, but they twinkled, and the creases on the woman's face deepened as she smiled. Her teeth were crooked and unattractive; Scully suppressed a grimace. "I'm sorry to wake you, dearie, but if you and the mister are wanting breakfast, you need to come down now. It's nearly eleven. Time to start the next meal preparations." Scully started to hear the time. "Eleven o'clock? Really?" She glanced over her shoulder at Mulder, who had finally awakened completely and was sitting up in bed. The covers pooled in his lap, and his hair stuck up like porcupine quills. As she watched, he raised the sword in front of him, gazing incredulously at it. The blade caught the light that spilled into the room from the hallway—and it caught the attention of the woman outside, too. "My!" she exclaimed in her heavy British brogue. "What a beauty that is! I see you went shopping yesterday and found a nice souvenir, eh?" Mulder glanced at the two of them in the doorway, but he didn't respond. His attention went immediately back to the sword, his expression growing more stunned by the minute. Scully cleared her throat, trying to hurry the landlady away. "We'll be right down, Mrs...Mrs..." She trailed off, searching her mind for the older woman's name, but she couldn't even recall meeting her the day before. Something was definitely not right. "Chambers. Eleanor Chambers. You're too young, Mrs. Mulder, to have a memory full o holes like mine! Dontcha remember meeting me yesterday when you checked in?" Scully thought about correcting the woman and then decided against it. It would take too long to explain. She tried a smile instead. "I'm sorry. We were so tired from our flight, I wasn't paying attention. I do apologize." The woman returned her grin and waved her hand. "Never mind, dearie. But you come down straight away. You both look like you could use a good meal today, especially since you missed supper last night." Mrs. Chambers hobbled off toward the staircase, wiggling her fingers at Scully over her shoulder. Scully shut the door, leaning her back against it as she looked at her partner. "OK, Mulder," she said, and she couldn't keep the note of irritation out of her voice. "What the hell is going on?" He turned his face, once more obscured in the shadows of the room, to regard her. "Mrs. Mulder?" he asked innocently. His voice was still rough with sleep, but there was a hint of amusement in it, too. She searched the room until her eyes fell on the windows at the far end. She strode over to them and yanked up the shades, welcoming the weak, gray light that spilled into the room. It was raining steadily outside, and the weather certainly didn't do anything to elevate her mood. "You know damn well I'm not talking about that," she huffed. "Where in the world did you get that thing?" "This is a broadsword, Scully. Don't you recognize one when you see it?" "As a matter of fact, I do, Mulder. I've been to museums, too. I just don't remember going to one yesterday, which leaves me wondering how it came to be in your possession, and what in God's name it's doing in our bed!" Mulder's eyes darted back to the sword, running up the blade. "I think…I think something magical happened." She frowned. "Mulder," she warned. "This is not an X-File. We're on vacation, remember?" He smiled slightly and turned the weapon in his hand. He laid it gently on the bed next to him and motioned her over. "C'mere, Scully. I want to ask you something." She went to him. He wrapped his long arms around her, drawing her up against his chest. She breathed in his warm, musky odor, the short, sparse hairs under her nose tickling her as she did. Nothing felt like Mulder; it was good to be with him. She wanted to wiggle so close to him that they wouldn't be able to tell where one of them stopped and the other began...but Mulder was speaking, so she tuned her ears to hear him. "Scully, look at me." She raised her chin to meet his gaze, and she blinked quite unexpectedly. His eyes...there was something different about his eyes... They're not blue anymore. She blinked again. What was she thinking? Mulder's eyes were never blue. Ever since she'd met him, they'd been the most incredible eyes she'd ever seen, shaded in deep greens and dusky browns and everything in between. She'd always adored the way his eyes changed colors...but they'd certainly never changed to blue. Or had they? He was staring down at her, his features still, his expression intense. And he must've been able to read her mind, because his words surprised her. "They're not blue anymore, are they, Scully? Yours aren't green, either. Yours have changed back to blue. I guess mine are green again." She swallowed and tried to joke. "No. In this light, they're brown, Mulder. They've never been blue. You know that." "You remember, don't you, Scully?" His arm tightened around her shoulder reassuringly, but she still felt unbalanced. "We've been different people. Now, we're back again. Back where we belong." "You're not making any sense, Mulder." She started to pull away from him, but he wouldn't let her. He held her there, forcing her to listen. "What do you remember about yesterday? I remember being somewhere else, somewhere similar to our world and yet completely different. I want you to remember it, too." She stared at him as images began to form in her mind, visions with color and texture like faded oil paintings, rich and heavy yet ethereal. Ornate gowns and horses, flashing armor and sunlit fields, blood and water and love... And a baby. There was a baby. Tears sprung to her eyes. She hid her face against Mulder's chest as her throat constricted, the loss of their last chance at parenthood burning through her with renewed fire. "You remember, don't you?" His voice was soothing, like a soft cloth skimming over bruised skin. "You remember something. Tell me." "They—they're just dreams, Mulder. We were asleep, and we were dreaming—" "Dreaming the same things? Dreaming of knights and battles? Romance and love? Dreaming of a child? Our child?" She choked back a sob. He rocked her against him, whispering to her, smoothing her hair with his palm. "You were pregnant there, Scully. Maybe it means something. Maybe there really is hope here, too." Anger flared in her. She wanted to believe that somehow a miracle was possible. Mulder had said it to her once before, and she'd cried then, too, desperate to think it might actually happen. But her scientific mind wouldn't let her believe, not without a fight. And as much as she didn't want to fight with Mulder, he was being irrational. "They're not real, Mulder! Just because we dream of something doesn't make it happen. It doesn't even mean that it's possible." "Then how do you explain this, Scully?" He drew her chin up with his finger, and she saw that he was touching the blade of the sword. "Where did it come from? I know you don't believe that I bought it yesterday. How did it get here?" She shook her head, unable to speak. There was something about the sword, something she couldn't put her finger on...but it emanated a surreal energy, a vibration that she couldn't account for but was as real as Mulder's skin beneath her fingertips. He was right. She could feel the magic. She didn't know how else to explain it. Maybe she really was losing her mind. Mulder brushed a kiss on top of her head and then released her. He swung his legs over the side of the mattress and headed toward the dresser, where fresh towels were stacked for use in the community bathroom. He grabbed one and wrapped it around his waist. Then he launched another through the air; it landed on the bed next to Scully. She looked at him, the question apparent on her face. He smiled gently. "Let's get cleaned up. We've got something we need to do today." "What?" He shrugged, the smile still peeking at her like a shy ghost. "I'm not exactly sure. But I'll know when we get there." Two showers in one day. Mulder reasoned that he should be the cleanest guy on the planet...but he didn't feel clean at all. He stood in the beating rain with Scully, surveying the meadow before him, trying to remember. The greenery around them glowed with the sheen of water and the lushness of springtime, but the beauty of it all did nothing to cheer him. He felt exhausted; his body ached with a deep throbbing that he hadn't experienced since he'd played an all-weekend basketball tournament two years before. That soreness hadn't surprised him; after all, he was getting older, and pushing his body that way had become less and less frequent as he approached his fortieth birthday. But this pain now, the gnawing in his muscles that hadn't stopped since he rose from the bed, didn't make any sense. If he and Scully had only hiked a few miles yesterday, he shouldn't feel this bad. And yet, it was proof in a way—proof that he wasn't completely insane. He glanced at Scully. She thought he'd lost his mind, all right. But she stood at his side in the clearing, examining the foliage around them, her face mostly hidden beneath the rain poncho hood that she'd pulled up over her fiery hair, and she didn't complain. He knew she didn't quite believe him...but she couldn't explain the sword, either. He tightened his grip on it, feeling the leather slide against his wet palm. It was a heavy weapon, a good twenty pounds if it was anything, and its length made it awkward to carry. But ever since he'd awakened and found it in his hand, one thought had plagued his mind, one that wouldn't be silent until he'd done what it demanded. Return the sword. Never mind that he had no idea where he was supposed to go to return it. Whenever he tried to figure that out, the command reverberated even louder, and he decided to just trust his instincts. He was good at that; always had been. He hoped they wouldn't lead him, and Scully, on some wild goose chase. So he'd listened, and he'd led them back out into the Welsh countryside. They'd been walking for a good two hours, and he couldn't even tell in which direction they were hiking. The overcast sky hid any clues from them, simply pelting them with relentless rain as they trudged deeper into the forest. But Mulder kept going, because the message kept playing in his head, like a record needle stuck in a groove. They'd stopped a moment before to catch their breath, and Mulder brought the sword up closer to his face, examining the blade. It didn't appear to be especially old, and it was obviously a functional weapon, not a decorative piece. And there was a familiarity about it that he couldn't place, except in those memories that Scully insisted were dreams. He couldn't explain those either, but they didn't feel like dreams to him. He remembered. Maybe his mind was geared differently than hers; he'd always had that spectacular memory anyway. But he was positive that what now resided in his mind were real events, ones that he and Scully had experienced...and even though he couldn't explain how they had happened, they were part of his truth now, and he wouldn't deny them. He smiled a little as he turned the sword in his hand. The faint light danced across the blade, and he thought of Bors, polishing his weapon as he sat before the fire in the castle Joyous Gard. He hadn't had a chance to say goodbye to the small knight. And even though Bors had his own twin, the man Mulder knew in this lifetime as Melvin Frohike, he would still miss Lancelot's cousin. Lancelot. Was he back in Camelot now, back in the arms of the woman he loved? Mulder hoped so. He understood what it was like to be separated from the person he prized above all else in the world; he was sure Lancelot would feel the same way. After all, they were very similar men, were they not? He didn't know the ending of the legend. He'd never read the Arthurian stories, but he wished for nothing but their happiness. Happily ever after, he'd said to Guinevere. Mulder's smile widened. Merlin had been right; it was possible, after all. He turned to Scully, his smile still bright. "Scully, whatever happened to Lancelot and Guinevere?" She regarded him with a tilt of her head, her features expressionless. "Lancelot and Guinevere, Mulder? Are you feeling romantic?" When he didn't answer, she sighed, resigned to playing along with him. "Well, according to Malory, Guinevere cloistered herself after Arthur's death. When Lancelot came to her in the convent, she sent him away, and he decided to become a priest himself. Guinevere died soon after, and Lancelot bore her body to the place where Arthur was buried so that she could be laid to rest beside her husband. After that, Lancelot refused to eat, and he passed away, too. They buried him at his castle, Joyous Gard." "But Arthur didn't really die, did he? The three queens took him to Avalon to be healed, right?" She smiled in surprise. "I thought you didn't know these stories, Mulder." "I don't. I know what I saw. I know what I remember." She started to reply, but he held up his hand. "Listen," he said urgently, and he spun around toward the sound that came from the opposite direction. It was strange, unearthly, a music like chimes and wind and water and voices... Scully's hand slipped into his. "What is it?" she whispered. He tugged her forward with him, moving silently through the rain and the brush toward the sound. He whacked a few brambles out of their path, and they emerged quite suddenly on the shore of a misty lake. Its surface dimpled with raindrops, but they couldn't see any source for the undulating song that moved through the air. Scully stopped, her hand squeezing Mulder's. "I recognize this place," she said softly. Her eyes were locked on the water, her brow furrowed in concentration. "I brought you here. You were hurt, and I took you in the lake..." She trailed off, and then she looked at Mulder, confusion apparent in her gaze. "But how is that possible? I don't understand—" He stroked her cheek with the side of their interlaced hands. "I don't understand it either, Scully," he replied. "But I'm glad you remember. We're not crazy, you know." The sword twitched in his hand, sending a tremor up his arm all the way to his shoulder. Mulder glanced down at it. "This is the place," he said, drawing the sword up higher. "This is where Excalibur is meant to be." Scully reached out a trembling hand and ran her fingers over the blade of the sword. "Excalibur," she breathed. "It can't be...can it, Mulder? I—I don't remember everything, but...how can it be true?" "I guess it's just magic, Scully. Magic and miracles." He leaned down and kissed her softly, his heart fluttering with the love that swelled in his chest for her. "They really do happen." He turned and walked to the very edge of the water. He regarded the sword for one long, awed moment, and then he pulled his right arm back. With all his might, he heaved the weapon in a huge arc, releasing it as it moved through the air. The sword left his hand and tumbled blade over pommel out over the lake, flashing its mystical glow as it moved. And then he saw it. In the center of the lake, a hand emerged, long, elegant fingers reaching up toward the sky. The arm attached to the hand was sheathed in glittering white samite, which caught the emerging light of the sun as it fought its way out from behind the massive gray clouds overhead. As Mulder watched, a rainbow materialized, stretching across the lake in a graceful arch. Excalibur pierced the colors as it flew through the air, coming to rest within the hand that awaited it in the water. "Oh my God." Scully was beside him again, her voice hushed with amazement. Mulder put his arm around her waist, feeling giddy with excitement, as they watched the hand in the water pull the sword down into the lake. Excalibur descended, disappearing quickly, and the strange music permeating the air dissipated as fast as the rain had ended. The woods grew quiet; Mulder could hear nothing more but their heavy breathing and the hammering of his heart. He looked down at Scully, a silly grin plastered to his face. The smile melted immediately when he saw that she was crying. He pulled her close against him in a fierce hug. "Oh Scully, baby, don't cry," he murmured. "Everything's all right now. Everything's fine." "I know, I know," she hiccupped. She cocked her head to one side to peer up at him, and he realized she was smiling, too. "They're happy tears, Mulder. Do you know why?" He shook his head. Her grin widened, and the adoring gaze she gave him was enough to take his breath away. "It's because I love you, Mulder. You make magic happen. And I have to believe." She pushed up on her tiptoes and kissed him. Magic and love, Mulder thought as he tasted the salty tears and clean rainwater on her lips. Magic and love...they were the same thing, the same power, the same energy that drove the earth, whether it was the Middle Ages or the twentieth century. And it was that magic, that love, that would keep Mulder and Scully together, he knew, until the end of all time. previous ::: home ::: epilogue