TITLE:    From the Book of the Prophet
AUTHOR:   David Stoddard-Hunt
CATEGORY: S, A, 
KEYWORDS: Post-ep, MSR
ADVISORY: Adult themes, language  
SPOILERS: "This Is Not Happening," and no further. 
SUMMARY:  Who am I now? I am Scully. I will always be Scully.
DISCLAIMER: 1013 created and profited them. I didn't and don't.
CONTACT:  dmstoddardhunt@yahoo.com
NOTES:    My first posted fic. The Biblical quotes are taken from 
          the Book of Isaiah (RSV). If taking them out of context 
          and placing them in service of the Scully character and 
          this story causes offense to anyone, I apologize.For 
          the use of religious themes, however, I do not apologize.
          TPTB used such themes often, molding them to suit, 
          especially with the character of Scully.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It has been a cruel winter; one that has both mirrored and mocked me. 

When I buried Mulder, there was a crust on the week-old snow. The
ice crunched beneath my feet as I walked. It's the only sound I recall
from the service. I do remember marveling that my feet never sank 
beneath the ice. I felt curiously light, as if I was walking just above the 
surface of the Earth, as a body without its weight, or as a soul 
without its body. 

In retrospect, I see that icy rime as a reminder that I will not be
permitted quick access to the good earth where he lies. It will be
half a lifetime yet before I am allowed to join him. 

The morning of the service was cast in grey and pale yellow. 
Somehow, the ice managed to magnify this sickly light into a 
brutal glare. It forced me to squint, to struggle to see that which 
I truly did not want to witness. 

Squinting added distance, telescoping an already surreal event. 
For this, at the time, I was grateful. I'm not anymore. Those were 
my final minutes with Mulder, the last I would ever have to share 
this existence with even a semblance of his corporeal presence. 
Yes, he was dead. I do know that. But, if I'd wanted to, I could have 
reached out to him, touched him one last time. 
 
Is that ghoulish? Well, so be it. At this moment, I would give anything 
to remember more than the feeling of weightlessness, the harsh glare 
of the light, and an unforgiving, ice encrusted world. 

Snow cover waxed and waned over the next month, but never left the
ground entirely. When, in February, the snow outside finally melted
into the earth, it clung stubbornly to me. As spring drew near and
crocuses and the first green shoots arose, new life also flourished in
my womb; yet, the ice on the ground that wan day prevented rebirth
anywhere else within me. 

Tomorrow is Palm Sunday. Encouraged, apparently, by the resilience 
of my wintry soul, snow has fallen in this last week. It was Winter's 
last shot, a stray bullet that managed to find its mark. No one died, 
but the scarring is considerable. Even today, as the temperature rises 
into the sixties, life ventures outside only tentatively, not trusting the
longevity of its renewed good fortune. 
 
On my walk along the Mall, daffodils up and down the pathway are 
still struggling to regain their pre-storm footing, punch-drunk and 
unsure. As I near our bench, I see that the purple and white 
blossoms on the magnolia above it have turned brown at the edges 
and are beginning to coat the bench upon their premature demise. 

Off in the distance, I hear the shout of an itinerant "preacher" of whose
presence I've become aware over the last several days. Yesterday, I
caught a glimpse of him, dressed in tatters, gaunt, hair and beard
long and unkempt. After such an apocalyptic winter, ending only now at
Eastertide, he or his like were almost fated to arrive. At one time, I
would have understood such ranting, even sympathized. Nowadays, I 
no longer hear God speak, as he seems to do. 

I began coming back to this bench on the day of the snowfall. I
cleared the snow away then, even as, today, I clear off the mildewing
blossoms. I am unable, even if I wished, to go to the cemetery where I
buried Mulder.  Pregnancy and lassitude tether me to my home. So, I
tend this bench. It was ours. It is his. I tend to his memory, here. 

It troubles them - Skinner, Doggett - that I have begun coming here
frequently, at all hours of the night or day. Mom admitted that Skinner
called to alert her to this alarming behavioral development. She
understands, though, understands why I need this. Still, they've made
sure that, when I am here, I have a "guardian angel," a Bureau minder, 
watching from a discreet distance at all times. They think I am 
unaware of this. If that notion comforts them, then I don't mind. 

I come to be with Mulder. I come to figure out who I have been with
him, and who I shall be without him. I come to figure out how to make
it possible to be, without him. I come to ask his help. 

How ironic, Mulder, that the time in our partnership when I would most
willingly, yes, even desperately seek your help and counsel is the
time you are no longer a cell call away. I need help to deal with the
loss of my soulmate and, damnit, the person I would normally turn to,
my best friend, is no longer available to me either. It's just unfair.
It's so fucking unfair. 

I have been placed on extended 'compassionate' leave, a euphemism, 
in my case, for psychiatric leave. The fear is that solid, impassive 
Scully has come 'unhinged.' "Oh yes, she's been through quite a 
trauma. We do understand. Anyone in her position," and so forth
and so on. But, you can't have a pathologist coming unhinged, 
now, can you? What havoc might she wreak if she loses it 
during an autopsy? 

Sarcasm aside, I can't say that I don't agree. I insisted that there
be no autopsy for him. We knew, from the autopsy of a fellow abductee,
what the list of Mulder's injuries would be, what the probable cause
of... At this moment, I can't imagine picking up a scalpel again. Not
unusual; probably normal, I'd say. Trouble is, I'm pretty certain that
I will never be able to perform an autopsy without seeing Mulder on
the table before me. 

His death has rocked me from my moorings. I admit tacitly that
which he once said aloud. We complete one another. Sorry. 
Completed. Past tense. But, it's not just that I'm now incomplete. 
No. It's worse than that. 

Mulder and I were becoming conjoined souls; I'm amazed to realize 
this only after he's gone. While he was, I mean, when we were 
together, I protected my individuality fiercely. I fought losing myself in 
him. It would have been so easy to do. That was the reason I never put 
my feelings for him into words. To do so would have been to concede 
that I had lost. Oh, it happened anyway; I've just been in a constant 
state of denial. 

Elements of our individual natures combined seemingly on a molecular,
even a quantum level. Instead of losing our individuality, we gained a
new whole, stronger than the sum of the flawed, damaged people we 
once were. Well, what now? What happens when half of one's 
molecular structure is ripped away? I don't know, but I fear it. 

Mulder would have liked the idea of joining on a quantum level. Talk
about random acts of unpredictability! 

If things work out as has been planned, my compassionate leave 
will blend seamlessly with maternity leave. Combined with accrued 
vacation and weekly sessions with Karen Kosseff, it should be just 
enough time to get good old Scully re-hinged. That's what they believe, 
anyway. I hope so, too, if only for my baby's sake. 

Our baby's sake. 
 
Damn you, Mulder! Damn you for dying. Damn me for not being able 
to save you. We used to wonder what kind of parents we'd make. 
We're off to a rotten start. 

"And I heard the voice of the Lord saying, "Whom shall I send and who
will go for us? Then I said..." 

Here am I, Lord. Send me. The words come automatically to my lips. I
know these words. I used to believe in them. 

"Hear and hear, but do not understand. See and see, but do not
perceive." 

He must be nearer to me than he's been before, that poor man. Either 
that or he's in a spot where his voice carries farther. Bits of his cadence 
reach me but, even when I'm listening, I can't hear everything he shouts. 

"and though but a tenth remain in it, it will be burned again" 

The preacher's broken voice has faded away. More than likely, he's
turned his back on me, to find more receptive ground for his words,
like the Ellipse. I wonder if the new president is in residence?
"Knock, knock!  Crazy, homeless guy here to scream at the 
president!" Welcome to D.C., cowboy. 

His voice has faded, but his words resound. "Though but a tenth
remain."  Decimated. That's how I feel. Mulder, when you died, you
didn't just take half of me. I feel one tenth of the person I was with
you. Is that true? Who was I then? Who is this tenth of a person
now? Can she survive? That is why I come here. I need to know who I
am, where I fit in this brave new world without you. 

I know who I have been: Dana - daughter, sister, student and friend.
Dana still exists, but only as a past tense of myself. 

All the subsets of Dana have faded from view as well. Ahab's
faithful "Starbuck." After I joined the Bureau against his wishes, 
"Starbuck" took on a nostalgic air, no less beloved, but no longer 
as faithful as before. To Missy and to friends throughout my
schooling, "Dana"  melted into a cozy "Danes." That passed 
into memory the instant Missy died.  I've been a "Squirt," thank 
you very much, Bill, although I've noticed you don't call me that 
very often these days, knowing full well what I'm liable to do if you 
do. What kind of "Squirt" can kick your ass?  "DayDay." Now, 
there's one I actually miss, Charlie, even though you've not said 
it since you were four years old and I was six. 

It is true that, while all her subsets have dissolved into memory,
"Dana"  still perseveres, if only by a thread. My mother is the only
one who has carried the "Dana" banner into my adulthood. My 
brothers simply follow her lead. Otherwise, I think they'd be afraid
to call me anything at all. They know me just that well. 
 
When others outside my family circle address me as "Dana," it's 
generally because, if they've known me even somewhat, it's been 
years in the past and we've drifted so far apart as to be relative 
strangers. "Dana, it's as if I don't know you anymore." I've heard 
that more often than I care to admit. Good friends and colleagues 
only address me as Dana when they feel the need to talk some 
sense into me, calm me down, or coddle me. 
 
Hah. I am the epitome of sensibility and, when I do get emotionally 
worked up, then you can be sure there is a damn good reason to 
have done so. And as for coddling? I am a Navy brat; I was never 
coddled. I will not permit it to start now. 

I'm surprised to realize just how many years ago it was that I
consigned "Dana" to the past. For as long as I can remember, I've
wanted to transcend "Dana," "Starbuck," and all the rest. I aspired to
be "Dr.Scully," although, at the time, I had only the vaguest idea
of who that person might be. I don't think I've ever been absolutely
clear about who she is, or whether I have, indeed, become her. 
 
Yes, I am a scientist. Yes, I am a pathologist. Yes, I am even a 
healer, although I could not find a way to heal Mulder one final time, 
nor do I have any idea how to heal myself now. So, Dr. Scully, is 
that you? Am I you? 
 
No. She, too, was a persona, a suit of armor to augment my
insufficient stature, conferring an almost super-human ability to
restore health to the sick, bring the incurable under scientific heel,
and command the admiration, respect, and, yes, fear, of my colleagues.

Then, at the instant I finally donned this archangelic breastplate, I 
decided to enter the Academy and ascend to a new height, adopting 
an even more daunting persona. Special Agent Scully.

It never occurred to me, during all that time, to ask myself why I was
on such a restless quest for identity. With each one, I was certain
that I had discovered my essence. Each discovery would soon dissolve
under a barrage of impatience, dissatisfaction, renewed uncertainty,
restlessness and a resumption of my personal quest. 

Most assuredly, with "Special Agent," I felt that I'd found a niche, a
resting place. No need to be plain, old Dr. Scully anymore. Though, 
to be honest, that didn't happen overnight. For two years, I was both 
or neither: Special Agent Dr. Dana Scully, Quantico wunderkind. 
Then, I was assigned to the X-Files, assigned to Mulder, and, slowly 
if gracelessly, everything changed. 

In the basement of the Hoover Building, much to my initial dismay, I
discovered the person I most wanted to be, the self I'd been searching
for so relentlessly. And though this person was christened with a name
that very first day, it was only by accretion that I permitted her to come 
into being.  I have become this person; I have needed to become this 
person. 

Scully. Even after everything that has happened, even in the face
of whatever is to come, I am Scully. I will always be Scully. 

This isn't just the latest persona I've tried on, like a new addition
to my wardrobe of black suits. Nor is it a persona I've had imposed
upon me.  Actually, it wasn't even a process of becoming or of
discovering, although that is what it felt like. It was a process of
uncovering myself from the dross that had piled up on my soul, a
lifetime's worth of the expectations of others. Thereafter it was a 
process of accepting the self uncovered as my own. Not an easy
task, by any means. 

As open to extreme possibilities as he is, was, it shouldn't surprise
me that Mulder uncovered and accepted 'Scully' long before I was ready
to do the same. It was he who coaxed me, gently, into accepting
myself as I truly am. Being Mulder, he wasn't always patient about the
process, and was hardly, if ever, direct. But, he believed in me,
came to trust me implicitly - an incredibly attractive and alluring
thing to have happen - and was, therefore, doggedly persistent. 
 
To accept 'Scully' as he had, I had to negotiate the peaceful
coexistence of the various facets of my nature, many diametrically 
opposed: determined rationality and a deep rooted faith, 
compassionate healer and armed law enforcement officer, fierce 
loyalty and fiercely-held privacy. As strange as this may sound, 
'Scully' may have been the most extreme possibility Mulder ever 
coaxed me to accept without reservation. 

Life is never static. Nor should one's sense of self be static. I 
know that my sense of self has altered considerably, been altered 
by the past eight years. Any sense of invulnerability or invincibility 
has been stripped away by my abduction and cancer. My sense 
of scientific primacy has been shaken and, finally, expanded to 
accommodate the things I have seen and can neither explain nor 
deny. My sense of trust in the inherent supremacy of good over evil, 
and of the bright line between the two, has been severely tested. After 
shooting Pfaster in cold blood, how could I feel unchanged? Even my 
faith in God has suffered. It's an unimaginably imposing challenge 
to one's trusted, unquestioned beliefs to find the text of Genesis 
etched into the skin of an ancient, extraterrestrial craft. 

During these same eight years, however, my hope and trust in what is
possible in a relationship between two individuals has been so
immeasurably expanded as to be redefined. 

The definition of 'Scully' has expanded as well, pardon the pun, both
literally and figuratively (man, there's just no getting around, ugh, 
pregnancy jokes), in recent months to include mother-to-be and widow. 

"Draw near to me and hear this: from the beginning I have not spoken
in secret, from the time it came to be, I have been there." 

Ah, welcome back, preacher man. Was our new president unimpressed,
inhospitable, perhaps? Or, did you never really leave? Is it simply
that I needed a distraction from my thoughts and tuned back into you? 

"The Lord God has opened my ear, and I was not rebellious, I turned
not backward. I gave my back to the smiters, and my cheeks to those
who pulled out my beard." 

Oh, Mulder. 

"I hid not my face from shame and spitting." 

What did they do to you, so undeserving, those men and not-men? It
haunts my every hour, waking and sleeping. 

I can not wallow in this. I need to move forward, for our baby's sake.
I need to be at my best, mentally and physically, to shield my child
from those who would harm her, who have harmed, have murdered you. 

This all begs the question of the moment, however. Even though you 
did not create 'Scully,' nor even help in creating her, Mulder, you did
assist me in the rough process of uncovering and acclimating to her,
steadying me through some rocky changes, strengthening me to go
forward in life when I thought I had neither strength nor determination 
left. 
 
Yes, I know. Our child will provide me the impetus to stay alive, remain
strong, and move forward. And I will protect her from the Consortium, from
our enemies, as well as I am able. But, Mulder, who will steady me now? 
Who will keep me from giving in to the lesser angels of my nature and 
covering 'Scully' back up whenever she seems to be in threat? Who
will protect me from me? 

"The Lord cut off from Israel head and tail, palm branch and reed in
one day " 

He sounds much closer. Turning from side to side where I sit does not
provide a glimpse of the preacher among the multitudes now on the
Mall. I haven't really made that much of an effort, admittedly. My
turning radius has greatly decreased as my own radius has increased. 

"The elder and honored man is the head and the prophet who 
teaches lies is the tail." 

The prophet who teaches lies. It sounds like he's talking about
Spender, doesn't it, Mulder? Actually, it sounds like you talking
about old Smokey.  Your words, your voice? Oh, Lord. I'd better not
say this next thought aloud, just in case my "babysitters" are sound-
equipped. It would be enough to get me committed. 

"For those who lead this people lead them astray, and those who are
led by them are swallowed up." 

I've prepared myself to deal with the symptoms of grief as they arise.
Even if I can't prevent them from happening, at least I can understand
what's going on inside of me when it does. Maybe it will help me chart
the most direct course out of this dark wilderness in which I'm lost.
But there is one symptom for which I have been utterly unprepared. 

I know that people in my situation report "seeing" their loved ones
everywhere, even though that is physically impossible. That makes
sense to me. Put a stranger with even the slimmest resemblance to 
a departed loved one in a familiar setting or situation and that
resemblance is bound to be magnified. 
 
Surprisingly enough, that hasn't happened to me, Mulder. It's not 
for lack of lanky, trench-coated, handsome civil servants, either. 
D.C. is unaccountably overrun with the breed. It's just that, when 
one of them strays into my field of vision, I know instantly that it's 
not you. There's no connection, no spark. No, seeing things isn't 
my problem. 

I haven't been "seeing" you all over, Mulder. I've been hearing you. 

"Woe to the rebellious children, says the Lord, who carry out a plan,
but not mine; and who make a league, but not of my spirit" 

Hearing you not just in memory, but in the open air. I'll hear my name
as called from a distance: "Scully!" and turn to investigate. Of
course, you aren't there. Sometimes, I'll hear you so close by that
your voice is a whisper, and I need only turn my head to look you in
the eye. The smile on my lips mists away as it dawns that you aren't 
smiling back at me. 
 
It gets worse. I hear your voice coming from the mouths of others, 
some standing right in front of me. This street preacher, Mulder, I 
swear to you! It's not just the words. In fact, in this case, it's certainly 
not the words. Not that you couldn't quote from the Bible or any other 
religious text; you could probably have quoted chapter and verse, 
verbatim.  However, and I think you'll forgive me this judgment, Mulder, 
you wouldn't have quoted the Bible with quite the same brio, the same 
conviction this guy has. 

"Before she was in labor, she gave birth; before her pain came upon
her, she was delivered of a son. Who has heard of such a thing? " 

Still. If you put the nutmeat richness and the walnut shell rasp of your
voice into a grinder and mashed it, Mulder, you would get this poor
soul's voice. 

"Shall I bring to the birth and not cause to bring forth? saith the
Lord.  Shall I, who cause to bring forth, shut the womb? saith your
God." 

"Never give up on a miracle." God, you shocked me with that, Mulder.
Almost as much as I took comfort from it. You'd never been that much
of a believer in miracles until then. And now, too, apparently. Oh,
great, just great.  Now, I'm actively pretending that you're speaking 
to me through the mouth of a stranger. 
 
Crazy, homeless preacher? Meet loony-tune, disarmed, pregnant agent. 

"The children born in the time of your bereavement will yet say in
your ears: this place is too narrow for me, make room for me to dwell
in." 

Now what? Are you talking to me? I mean, is he talking to me? Jesus,
Mary and Joseph, Mulder. Does it sound any less insane to think that
the person speaking to me personally is an itinerant Bible-thumper,
rather than my deceased lover? Christ, maybe I am going crazy. 

"Then, you will say in your heart, "who has borne me these? I was
bereaved and barren, exiled and put away, but who brought up these?
Behold, I was left alone. Whence did these come?" 

No, wait. Damnit! He is speaking to me, at me, this "preacher." He
sounds like he's only a matter of yards away. What in Heaven has
happened to my basic training? How could I have allowed him to come 
so near without knowing? Even if I couldn't give a goddamn about myself, 
it's high time I did so for the safety of my child. 

Think, Dana. Scully. Whoever the fuck you are, think! Concentrate.
He's probably noticed my condition - pregnant, alone, downcast - and
been drawn to it. Don't acknowledge him; don't encourage him. Do not
look up at him.  Don't look! 

"Sing, O Barren One! who did not bear." 

Oh, God, he sounds even more like Mulder up close. 

"Break forth into singing and cry aloud, you who have not been in
labor! For the children of the desolate one will be more than the
children of her that is married, saith the Lord." 

Who in hell are you to say these words to me? No. Calm, Scully, stay
calm, and don't acknowledge him. Don't look at him. 
 
But, it's infuriating! He's using Scripture to mock me, mock my grief, 
my pain. He has no idea of what I've suffered. And yet he deigns to 
preach to me?  
 
This child is the only thing I have left. Everything else has been taken
from me. What gives him the right? How can he presume to know anything 
about this child? 
 
I feel rage washing over me like a summer storm, edging me in flashes of 
lightning, roiling me up to respond. Without thought, I find myself standing, 
rigidly erect, my head snapping up, turning deliberately to face him. I 
can feel the fire flashing in my eyes as I turn to meet his. 

Oh. 

Dear God. 

His eyes are wild, cracked just as his voice has been. For a moment, 
a warmth, an acknowledgment of familiarity, calms his storm wracked
visage. 

As I grope for my cell phone to call Skinner, I know it isn't necessary. 
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my Minder running toward me full tilt, 
shouting into a phone. 

Horrible scars are visible on his cheeks, beneath an unruly, graying
thicket of beard, marring the once-beautiful face. But something
in his eyes, those incredible, prismatic hazel eyes, has survived. 

I reach out timidly, tentatively, to touch his face. My hand is taking
forever to bridge the gap between us. Even though we are now so close,
and his voice is mellowed, restored, I hear it as from far away, and then 
farther. 

"Rejoice, Jerusalem, and be glad for her, all you that love her.
Rejoice with her in joy, all you who mourn over her. For thus says the
Lord: Behold, I will extend prosperity to her like a river, the wealth
of nations like an overflowing stream." 
 
-end-