By Avalon
avalon@fuse.net

Date: Mon, 27 Nov 2000 15:08:01 -0500
RATING:  G (Did I actually write this?)
SPOILERS: Up through season 8, but nothing
  in particular
CATEGORY: S, A, MSR
KEYWORDS: Character death, post-colonization
  (again, did I write this?), but check
  out the rating!  It's G...that should
  give you a hint that this isn't your
  normal death thing here.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine...Chris'...but if he is still
  writing this far in the future, then
  he can have this tale.
FEEDBACK: Always welcome and answered, thanks.
ARCHIVES: Spooky's, Gossamer, Ephemeral, anywhere,
  really, but if you are not one of those,
  please drop me a note so I can come visit.
SUMMARY: "Sit here by my side
   For the night is very long
   There's something I must tell
   Before I pass along."
AUTHOR'S
NOTES:  At the end, please.
 
 

Light the Candle, John
 

"Oh light the candle, John
The daylight has almost gone
The birds have sung their last
The bells call all to Mass
Sit here by my side
For the night is very long
There's something I must tell
Before I pass along."
 
 --Loreena McKennitt, "Skellig"
 

The door to my cell protests as it swings open, and the familiar
footsteps shuffle in.  The night is falling fast around us, and I can
barely make out the figure as it approaches my bedside.  I know he
cannot see me in these shadows either, so he does not know that I
am smiling.

"Light the candle, John."  My voice echoes off the stone walls.  I
cringe a little, not used to the sound of it anymore.  It is hollow,
feeble to my ears.  I don't remember when I got so old, yet I know
that I am.  We both are.  "I can barely see you.  I don't know if it's
the darkness, or just my terrible eyesight."

A flame jumps in the dim stillness of the room, and his face
flickers into form before me.  He brings the candle closer and sets
it on the nightstand next to the bed, pulling up the lone straight
chair as he limps toward me.  Underneath the deep, jagged lines,
his face has not changed all that much since the time when I first
met him, so many long years ago.  I try to count back and realize
that I can't remember what year it is anymore.

"John."  He has settled into the chair now, and he leans forward to
hear me better.  He has lost most of the hearing in his left ear, and
he tilts his head to the right to be sure that I am audible.  His eyes
are dark in this light, but I can still remember how blue they used
to be.  Icy blue, like the sea I recall seeing the time I left
Antarctica.  That was long ago, too.  I didn't know him then.  That
was before he and I worked together.  "John," I repeat, a little more
insistently.

"What is it, Dana?"  His voice is rough with disuse, too, and I
wonder how often he talks with anyone beside me.  The invaders
don't use language.  They communicate telepathically, that
annoying, crawling feeling that takes over your brain whenever
they want information.  There are not too many of us left now that
remember the spoken language.  It is strange, too, to hear my first
name again.  Sometimes, when the days without human
conversation stretch into weeks, I find myself struggling to recall
it.  It repeats now in my mind, like a record needle stuck in the
groove of an album, and my thoughts leap to my sister Melissa.
When we were girls, we would dance around our bedroom, a band
called the Eagles singing "Hotel California" as we swayed and
giggled.  Missy would slap the record player on the side whenever
the cheap needle would stick and cause the album to skip, and we
would laugh harder.

Strange the things you remember, and the things that slip away,
covered in the cobwebs of time and distance.

"What year is it, John?"  I seem to recall something, one of those
things from our lost culture that nags at me for recognition.  "Is it
my birthday?"

He is silent for a moment, his face an eerie shadow.  I can see his
mind reaching backward as my own had, but finally, he shakes his
head in frustration.  "I don't know the year."  His inflection is flat
and laced with fatigue.  I wonder suddenly what it must be like for
him, living out among the invaders, pretending to keep an easy
peace with them while anger and hatred simmer underneath.  I feel
grateful, somehow, that I have been put here instead, in this ancient
convent of sisters, where I can at least find some comfort in the
dying faith of my childhood.

"But it is February.  Isn't it, John?"  I don't know why I am so
interested in this.  This is not why I asked for him tonight.  I
realize, though, that I am not just delaying the conversation we
need to have.  Apprehension creeps into my body, the feeling I
used to get before I would slip into the confessional at church to
lay my soul open before the priest.

Even though I am not afraid to die, I suppose it is just like me to
try to postpone it.

He sighs, and the end of it becomes a cough.  When it passes, he
murmurs, "Yes, I think it is February, Dana."

"Two birthdays in February, John."  I clutch the thin coverlet and
pull it closer to my chin, chill filling my body.  My room has
always been drafty, but it has never bothered me until the last few
days.  My body knows, just as my mind and soul, that my time is
near.  "Mine, and Christina's."

He shifts in his chair a little, his discomfort apparent.  He doesn't
like to talk about my daughter, but he knows it is inevitable, like
the rising of the sun each morning.  He knows he is my only link to
her, the only one they will allow.  "How is she, John?"

He raises his shoulders in a shrug and turns his face into the
shadows so that I cannot see his eyes.  "I suppose she is as good as
anyone can be, Dana.  Anyone in her position."

I nod, and I smile.  He sees this, and I watch as his brow knits in
confusion.  I don't usually smile about Christina.  He is used to
dealing instead with my tears.  I reach out my hand and grab his
wrist, the touch of another human being's skin searing my own and
sending a powerful sensation of connection through me.  I pull him
forward so that our faces are close, and I can see, even in this light,
that his eyes have not lost the spark that I remember.  "I know she
is fighting, John," I whisper, even though I am confident that they
have not monitored our conversations for many years.  "I know
that she is mounting a resistance, and I know that the rebellion will
succeed."

His mouth drops open, and I can see from his expression that this
information is not something that is surprising to him.  The fact
that I already know it is what is shocking him.  "Dana," he mutters,
his eyes boring into mine.  "Dana, we have to be careful-"

I drop his hand and tug once more at the blanket, shivering now in
spite of myself.  "I am dying, John," I say abruptly.  "I have things
to tell you before I go."

He takes his fingers and rubs them over his eyes, finally pressing
them to his cracked lips.  He is silent for a moment, and when he
speaks, there is emotion underneath.  "You don't know that, Dana.
You're a tough old broad."

"I'm still a doctor, John.  I can tell when my body is falling apart.  I
know the signs."  I pause, considering him briefly, and then go on.
"Do you know why I asked to be imprisoned here?"

He shakes his head and folds his hands in his lap, and I am
reminded of how Charlie used to sit in the pew at Mass when we
were children.  He always looked like the picture perfect choirboy,
saying his prayers and listening with rapt attention as the priest
broke the bread and blessed the wine.  It is amusing to see John
Doggett look this way now, after all the hell we both have been
through.  I find myself wondering where his faith lies, and if he
finds any comfort in it in the face of annihilation.

"When they were finally finished with me, I asked them to put me
in this convent because the only thing I had left was my faith."  My
voice is steady, and I am glad.  I had thought that it might quiver or
break, but it doesn't.  This is the way I want John to remember me:
a tough old broad.  "Here, they allowed me that.  Nothing else, but
at least I had my God.  They allowed me to see you occasionally,
and you brought me hope.  You brought me hope, John.  And you
brought me Mulder."

He looks away again, and he fiddles with the candlestick,
pretending that it needs adjusting in the draft.  I pick up one of his
hands again, and it forces him to look back at me.  I smile softly at
him, and I see his lips move slightly into that half-amused look that
is his alone.  "I had nothing else, John.  They had broken me.  They
took my child...the child that Mulder and I had created together,
our miracle...and they took baby after baby, using my body as an
incubator for their creations."  His eyes are wet now, and I squeeze
his hand, giving him some of my strength.  "And when they were
finally finished with me, you would come here to me, and you
would whisper about Mulder, and about how he was out there
fighting, building a rebellion, about how soon I would be liberated
and we would all save the world..."  My voice trails off, and I bite
my lip as I smile again.  "They were beautiful stories, John.  And
they gave me so much hope."

He swallows and tries to grin at me, but John doesn't smile often,
and I don't know if he can remember how.

"But I know now that they were just stories, John.  I know you
were lying.  I know now that Mulder is dead.  That he has been
dead all these years."

He opens his mouth to protest, but something in my face must tell
him that this is futile.  He leans forward and drops his head, and his
voice is muffled and full of sorrow.  "I'm sorry, Dana," he begins,
choking slightly on the words.  "I'm so sorry-"

I chuckle and pull his head up with both hands, one on either side
of his face.  "Don't be sorry, John.  I want to thank you for it."

His shiny eyes search mine, and he shakes his head slightly.  "I
don't understand.  You're not angry with me?"

"No," I say simply, patting his cheek.  "Don't you realize what you
did for me, John?  I wanted to die, and they wouldn't let me.  They
forced me to live in this mad existence that they created for us,
something that would have driven me insane if it weren't for the
hope that I had.  All I could think of, through all the lonely days
and the terrifying nights, was that Mulder was out there fighting as
he always had.  That someday, he would come for me."  I sigh in
happiness.  "And now he has."

"But you just said..." He stops and starts again.  "You just said that
you realize that Mulder is dead.  He isn't...he isn't coming for you,
Dana."

"He is, John," I breathe.  "He's standing right behind you."

John straightens in his chair as if called to attention, and he whips
his head around to look behind him.  I know he cannot see Mulder
as I do, but it doesn't make him any less real.

I bring my eyes up to my partner's face.  Mulder is smiling,
regarding John with a playful expression and shaking his head
slightly.  He looks exactly as I remember him, dressed in simple
jeans and a white t-shirt, his feet bare as if he just came walking
off the beach.  The lines around his eyes that were just beginning
to deepen when he was taken from me remind me of my own age,
and I wish suddenly that I were thirty-five again, instead of well
past seventy.

He reads my thoughts as he has been doing the past few nights.
"You look beautiful, Scully," Mulder tells me.  "You will always
be beautiful to me."

I let out a laugh, and John looks at me quizzically.  I know he
believes that I am hallucinating, and the realization that I am truly
dying seems to sink into him.  He grabs my fingers and clutches
them, his eyes a little wild.  "Dana!"

"I'm alright, John.  I'm not crazy.  I know you can't see him, but I
can."  I settle my head back contentedly on the small pillow.  "He
has been waiting for me all week.  But he knows I wanted to talk to
you first.  When I am ready, then he will help me cross over."

John is silent for a moment, and I know he is processing all of this.
His analytical mind is reaching, trying to wrap itself around what I
am telling him.  There was a time in my life when it would have
been me trying to draw a logical conclusion from this illogical
situation, but I have seen too many things now to categorically
dismiss anything.  And I know my eyes are not playing tricks on
me.

Mulder taps his wrist, even though he is not wearing a watch.
"Scully," he says softly.  "We need to go."

I nod and turn my attention back to John.  "John," I murmur, and
he shakes himself out of his reverie.  "John, I have to go."

"No!"  He is afraid, and my heart swells in sympathy for him.  He
has no one left in this world.  I touch his cheek one last time.

"John, tell Christina to keep fighting.  Tell her that her father and I
are proud of her.  Will you do that?"

He shudders a little.  "Dana, please-"

"Tell her, John."  My hand drops down by my side, and I can see
Mulder coming closer to the bed, stretching out his arm to me.
"And you need to keep believing, John.  We will see you again.
Keep believing."

Mulder is next to me now, and I feel his hand on my own.  A
tremor runs up my arm, and suddenly, my whole body feels like it
is vibrating.  There is a hum in my ears, a steady drone that swells
into a chorus of angelic voices.  I can pick out some of them:
Mulder's smooth baritone, Emily's sweet lilt, Melissa's raunchy
laugh...they blend together in a beautiful symphony that causes me
to shiver in anticipation.  The white of Mulder's t-shirt sharpens
and engulfs us, emanating around the two of us in a blinding flash
as I feel myself being pulled forward and up.

And then I am standing by his side, his fingers entwined in my
own, the top of my head brushing against the cotton of his
shirtsleeve.  A stray strand of my hair sweeps across my eyes, and
I can see that it is red again, replacing the silver that has been there
for longer than I can say.  I can see my old body in the bed below
me, and I watch as John lays his head down on my chest, burying
his face in the blanket.

I feel Mulder squeeze my hand, and I look up at him.  He has never
been more handsome, and my chest feels like it will burst from the
straining joy in my heart.  I reach up to stroke his cheek with my
free hand, and he smiles at me, the most radiant smile I have ever
seen.

"Welcome home, Scully."  He pulls me to him, and I am laughing
against his chest, my arms tight around his waist.  "Welcome
home."
 

***End***
 

AUTHOR'S
NOTES:  My deepest thanks to Loreena McKennitt, a musician
  whose work always inspires me.  If you have never
  had the pleasure of hearing her, look for her stuff.
  You won't be disappointed.
  I got to thinking about the scene in my favorite
  movie, Excalibur, where Arthur comes to see Guinevere
  at the convent, and I imagined that Scully might some
  day end up at a place like that without Mulder in her
  life.  And Loreena's music inspired the rest...what
  would you say to someone on your deathbed?  And what
  would your passing truly be like?  It is my belief
  that we all have people waiting for us on the Other
  Side...I'd like to think that Mulder would be waiting
  for Scully there, too.

  Feedback is always appreciated.  avalon@fuse.net
  Thanks for reading...hope to see you again soon!

--

  "Have the Father say a few 'Hail Mulders' for me."
   --Fox Mulder, The XFiles
       "Redux II"