"Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms,
Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,
If deed of honour did thee ever please
Guard them, and him within protect from harms"
                                                         by J.Milton

"Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms"

The air in a tropical rain forest is like the air nowhere else.
It's incredibly hot and damned wet.  It's hot at home in Texas,
but this heat is something else.  Moisture hangs from trees,
it coats your skin and you baste in your own salty sweat.  My
socks and boots are soaked from crossing a stream and my
pack feels like a bag of wet sand.

Ten days ago, the entrance to a VC tunnel complex was found
in the side of a gully.  With atypical indecision, it took over a week
for the Brass to decide someone -- that would be us -- should go
dig Charlie out.

Lucky me. I wonder who I pissed off to pull this duty?  I was
hoping for furlough, but instead of getting laid and getting
wasted, I'm out here with my squad, cutting vines and trying
not to jump at shadows.

The brass is hoping for prisoners, or intelligence on POW's
and MIA's.  Sure, we'd all like to have some answers, but
I'll admit it. If you ask any man here, he'll tell you, *our*
main goal is to get this mission over with.  The main thing
we care about right now, is getting back to Base with our
skins intact.  So we're out here, trying our best to be nothing
but camouflage ghosts, and hoping to hell those burrows
are empty when we get there.

My pack seems determined to crawl down my ass. I shift
it up a bit, to tighten the straps, then unsheathe my knife
and start to hack at the brush.  These damn vines are like
iron. My shoulders are tight with tension; my arms burning.
It's amazing how hard it is to pull ten inches of razor sharp
steel through this shit.  I doubt that chainsaws could get
through this stuff.   curse the fact that I left my machete
at Base, and wonder 'How the hell did that scouting party
get through here?

I crane my neck and look around.  The growth is thick,
with leaves as long as a man's arm.  The vines crisscross
this whole stretch of the path.  A network of runners connects
them and cover the surrounding trees.  It looks uncomfortably
like a huge spider web.

Hell.  Anything could be behind this green curtain.  I've got
a prickling sensation on the back of my neck and in spite
of the heat, goose flesh prickles my arms.  Are we on the
wrong path?
 
Beside me, I can almost feel the ripples move through the
heavy air, when Lynn Judd softly curses.  "We got Kudzu
back home, bad as this shit."  I swear, if he says, "back home"
one more time, I'm gonna make sure his sorry carcass gets
sent "back home" with a toe tag.  Before I can tell my Georgian
pal to shut the fuck up, I hear Sarge Morgan move up to where
we are slashing at the brush.
 
Sarge's gravely voice commands Judd to shut up, and his
muttering halts.  He nods, wipes a smear of green sap from
his sweaty face, then silently moves a cut vine to the side.

A long slender shape zips past my head.  I nearly drop
my knife to get to my gun.  It's a dragonfly. I draw a ragged
breath of relief and stand, softly panting, in open mouthed
wonder.  The damned thing is as long as my hand. It's purple
and green, with iridescent wings, and it flits around us, all
nervous energy, before it buzzes off.

A twig snaps behind us.  Suddenly I know that damned
bug's going to be the last thing I ever see.  Before anyone
can even yell out an alert, I hear a shocked gasp.  Judd's
throat makes a wet, gurgling sound. His eyes are wide and
unseeing.  His body hangs on the thick vines, his knife shining
in the mud at his feet.  Then, the clearing erupts in blood and
fire, and reality fades into the black of a body bag...
 
 

"Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,
 If deed of honour did thee ever please"
 
The basement office is dim, cool.  The light over Mulder's
"I Want To Believe" poster barely illuminates the photos and
newspaper clippings beside it.  They hang there, silent witnesses
to the missing agent's search for his sister, and chronicle his
quest for myths and legends, mysteries and wonders of the
natural -- and unnatural -- worlds.
 
I find Doggett hunkered at his desk; shaky, pale and
staring at his computer screen.   I wonder if he is finding
any truth there. The flickering screen casts his face in blue
light and indigo shadows, and when his eyes meet mine, Doggett's
colorless eyes shine like a cat's in the dark.

His words falter as he shares the fear that he's going crazy.
He whispers of the burning, crushing pain as that shotgun
blast tore through his body, and the quiet agony of the gift
of life he received from the soul eater.  Pain has carved its
story on John Doggett's face.  My time in Vietnam rushes
back, and the old fear and memories pound my bone marrow
in a familiar rhythm.
 
A shudder wracks him, then he blurts out that he saw
Mulder, his face calm, his eyes steady, appearing solid
and real.  He seems puzzled that Mulder met his gaze
with empathy, and gentle acceptance.  Doggett has
studied the files and Mulder, but files and reports can
not reveal the full measure of a man.  A chill shoots
down my spine.  He speaks of subtle things; traits the
flesh and blood man owned, that Doggett could not,
should not, know.  Traits very unlike the "public"
persona that Mulder wore like armor.

It is apparent John is battling the impulse to report his
experience, and his devotion to duty doesn't surprise me.
His buckshot-shredded shirt lies nearby on a work table.
It's the only garment remaining of the clothes he wore
last night.

He doesn't notice when I take the tattered, blood-stiffened
shirt, seal it inside a bag and slip it inside my jacket.  Later
I'll hide it, tuck it away in my home safe, along with other
"lost evidence.  He has yet to learn some things are better
kept guarded, hidden away from the light, unless, until
they are ever needed.

I tell him no one ever needs to hear this story.  Not the FBI.
Not his partner.  From my vantage point near the door, I see
a fine tremor in his hands, which stops when he clenches his
fists.  I wish that I could promise him that time does heal all
wounds, that the pain, visions and memories will get better.
The best I can do is assure him that I'll hold his secret close.

He nods carefully as he considers my words.  He seems
somewhat calmer as I quietly take my leave.  Myth and mystery
have touched my agent, my friend.  I hope at least for a while
John can believe he will heal, unscarred in body and soul.  I
glance back through the door at the poster, the black words
stark against the blue sky.  I want to believe.
 

 
"Guard them, and him within protect from harms."
 
The wind is coming hard from the west, tossing thin
branches  against the cloudy sky.  New leaves have
started sprouting; they gleam yellow, green, and gold
against the black bark.  It looks like a storm must
have blown through here recently, for the ground is
littered with small broken limbs, and new leaves
torn from their branches.

The air has the thick feel and earthy smell of spring.
It's warmer here, than it was in Washington, but a chill
courses down my spine and the hairs on my arms
prickle.  The early morning air feels charged. Heavy.
I think another storm is brewing.

Yesterday, Mulder was discharged from the hospital.
Last night,  when Doggett and I went to check on him, I
wasn't really surprised to find him gone.  I could understand
that Mulder needed to decompress.  He has never handled
cabin fever well, but I was worried when he didn't answer
his door and we found it unlocked.
 
I imagined that if he'd gone for a run, he would not be able
to go too far, so we went inside to wait.  I was going to give
him half an hour.  If he wasn't back by then, I'd check his
regular route.  If I had to, I would track him down and drag
his ass back here.  I just got the man back.  I'd be damned if
I was going to lose him again, and certainly not to exhaustion
or a garden variety traffic accident.
 
I prowled to the window to watch for him, until a sharp intake of
breath drew my attention back.  The look on John's face dropped
my heart to my gut.

On the table, just inside the apartment door, lay receipts for a
bus ticket to Raleigh, North Carolina and a rental car.  I searched
the bedroom and Doggett checked Mulder's hiding place under
the sink. Mulder's spare gun was gone.  Damn--the Mulder family
gravesite.  The world narrowed down to one thought.  He could be
in that graveyard already.

We drove through the night, racing fear and a man's desperation,
to get here in time.  Above us, the gray dawn sky is beginning to
turn dark rose and lavender.  The wind from the west is
hitting warmer air over the ocean, and clouds are piling up on
the horizon.  Down below us at the gravesite, the weak gray light
blurs the lines between light and shadow.  I can see Mulder there,
as dark and unmoving as a standing stone.  I pull my coat closer
against a sudden chill.

Above me, in the trees along the grave yard, I hear a flutter of
wings as dark shapes leap for the sky.  For a moment, the crows'
harsh cries distract me from my study of Mulder. My eyes follow
as the ebony birds flee, then I pull my attention back.

The scars on Mulder's cheeks are a livid purple from the cool air,
his stubbled face pale over the black shirt and dark leather coat
hanging on his thin frame.  His eyes are closed, but even from
here, I can see tear tracks shining on his ashen face.

Mulder has always had a flexible mind and a wiry strength,
but the man standing downslope from me looks battered,
fragile.  His face is as still as the Mulder family marker that
his hand rests on, his name etched in the cold stone with those
of the dead and the lost.

Over the years, he has borne the weight of hard truths,
the pain of secrets revealed.  This past year, though,
the hardest for him has been the terrible violation of
time lost, the months of his life, stolen.  I wonder if it will be
possible to convince him that he is bowed, not broken.

John quietly follows my lead as I move toward Mulder.  I
want to get to him before he remembers the pistol hanging
limply at his side.  His eyes flash a bit when we reach him.
He doesn't react to my touch, but his head comes up when
Doggett moves to touch him.  For a moment, they match
stares, until John drops his hand gently on Mulder's shoulder.
Mulder's eyes close again, like he's just too damn tired
for a confrontation, even one with John.

I detect a faint tremor, and wonder how he is staying upright.
He's trying to ignore us but his eyes open when I take his gun
from him.  At least that got a response, so I decide to try again.
I remind him that long ago I told him that he was strong,
strong enough, to look past hard experiences.  He sighs at the
memory of that dark time.

When I mention "going home," Mulder's breath catches in his
throat.  His lips twist in a grimace, he shakes his head and
whispers, "Where might that be, Sir?"

"I wouldn't let you quit on me then, Agent.  It's not an option
now, either."  I grip his shoulder a bit tighter, and he slowly
nods.  I can feel him lean slightly toward me. In agreement, or
just because he needs someone near, I'm not sure.

I gently pull at Mulder's shoulder and nod to Doggett that we
are ready to go.  I just want to leave this place to the crows
and the dead. Mulder hesitates for a moment, then nods that
he will come with us.

It has been over twenty years since my life was spared in
a way, that to this day, I don't understand.  Sometimes,
hearing an explosion still triggers night terrors.  Doggett
confided that shotgun blasts make him nauseous and he gets
wracked by the shakes.  And sometimes, when he sleeps
he awakes gasping from crimson painted dreams.

I don't know what Mulder sees in the middle of the night
when it's still and the darkness embraces him.  Does he
struggle against its black grasp?  Does he awaken fighting
for air?

For now, we are all still breathing.  Some of the time, it's
all we have.  Some of the time, it's enough.

A stray beam of sunlight breaks through the overhanging clouds.
I try to take that as a good sign.  Together, we start walking,
for today, at least, we are all still walking.  Dead men, walking,
away from the graves.

Fin ~~~

If you are still with me, thank you for reading.
I'd love to hear what you think, good, bad, or ugly.

Poetry excerpt from: "When the Assault Was Intended to the City"
by J. Milton. I found the poem, here: www.bartleby.com/verse

Thank yous to Mitch Pilleggi, for 9 years of AD Walter Skinner.
Good luck in all future endeavors.

Thanks, to  Cyndi, for saying "Huh?" Thanks to Jay, Peggy, and
Sallie, for kind and capable beta assistance. To Cuke, who was
nice enough to make my fic a home, at
www.geocities.com/secret_jedi/
and who always says, "That's nice. Do better."
Thanks to Logan for beta, hand holding, name calling,
and gentle death threats. Any and all mistakes are mine. :)

This story uses the elements and ideas that I first
used in a shorter vignette, called "Dead Men Walking."
I don't own any of the characters, but would cheerfully
give Mulder a home.