TITLE: And I Rise AUTHOR: Leslie Sholly E-MAIL: PennySyc@aol.com DISTRIBUTION: Spookys, Ephemeral, Xemplary and Gossamer, yes. Anywhere else, with my name and address attached. And please let me know so I can feel flattered! :) SPOILER WARNING: Through US Season Six is fair game. RATING: R (language) CLASSIFICATION: SRA KEYWORDS: MSR, Mulder-Angst, Scully-Angst, Character Death. SUMMARY: The worst is happening. Can Mulder find hope to continue his quest? DISCLAIMER: Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox own these characters. I mean no infringement or disrespect. AUTHOR'S NOTES: O.K. I know I said I would never write a character death story. The idea for this one haunted me, though; I really had no choice in the matter. Perhaps you've said you would never read a character death story. I hope you'll make an exception, realizing two things: I have tried to make this a story of hope, not just a tear-jerker; and the beauty of fanfiction is that after you read this sad story, you can find a happy one in which everyone is alive to cheer yourself up! So please give it a try! Thanks go out to Branwell, for being my first ever beta- reader and for helping sort out the tenses; to Alcott, for a three-hour beta by ICQ; and to Becky, for encouragement and ego-boosting! FEEDBACK: I respond to--and save--every note, no matter how brief. Please write me at PennySyc@aol.com (Leslie). ****************** And I Rise by Leslie Sholly ****************** ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Nothing worth doing is completed in our lifetime; therefore, we must be saved by hope. Nothing true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore, we must be saved by faith. Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore, we are saved by love." - Reinhold Niebuhr ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I was a four-year-old hellion when Samantha was born, or so I'm told. My mother was so overwhelmed with both me and a newborn on her hands that my grandmother kept me at her house as often as she could. It was during those frequent visits that Grandma taught me to kneel down by my bed each night and say my prayers. "Now I lay me down to sleep" was what she taught me to say, that good old standard that has caused many a child to lie awake in bed at night fearing imminent demise. She insisted I say it every night when I was there, and made me promise I would do it at home, too. Which I did, surreptitiously because no one ever mentioned religion in my home or even said the name of God except in vain. Somehow I sensed I would be ridiculed, or, at best, patronized. As I grew older, I stopped kneeling down for fear of discovery by my nosy little sister, but even long after Grandma died that prayer was the last thought in my head each night as I lay in bed waiting for sleep to come. Until I was twelve. After Sam was taken, I never said that prayer--or any prayer--again. My childish faith is long gone now, replaced by cynicism and bitterness. Although I pretend scorn, secretly I envy Scully the faith she possesses. I have seen how faith can uphold people. I saw it in Scully as she stood by Emily's casket. And I see it in her family now, as they stand around the hospital bed where she lies--dying again from the cancer which returned abruptly two days ago. I, excluded from their circle, unable to join in their prayers, stand alone by the door. What, I wonder, will uphold me? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "My days have crackled and gone up in smoke." - Francis Thompson in "The Hound of Heaven" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Looking back now with the heightened perception of certain knowledge, I realize that Scully was paler than usual that day, that she was quieter, that she occasionally rubbed her temples as though she had a headache. But at the time, I thought nothing of it. I was absorbed in my files and we were far enough removed from the specter of cancer that my heart no longer constricted with fear whenever Scully was under the weather. So when we were getting ready to leave for the day and Scully collapsed to the ground as soon as she rose from her chair, I was completely unprepared. And when I knelt at her side--saw the blood pouring from her nose-- I nearly fainted myself. No normal nosebleed, this. Scully was unconscious. She wasn't going to jump up and say "I'm fine" this time. I turned her on her side so she wouldn't choke on the blood, dialed 911 on my cell, then ran to the door and screamed for help even though no one else was likely to be in the basement. The nosebleed stopped before help arrived but Scully didn't regain consciousness until we were in the ambulance, and then only barely. I smiled reassurance and squeezed her hand and prayed she wouldn't notice that both of us were covered in blood. Woozy and in shock, she noticed nothing, and smiled weakly back before going under again. Scully was whisked away for tests as soon as we reached Emergency. Skinner, alerted by the switchboard, met me there. His presence had a steadying effect on me. He volunteered to make the call to Scully's mom and sent me off to the bathroom to wash up as best I could. C.G.B. Spender was the last person I expected or wanted to see in that bathroom. But there he stood in the corner, smoke rising above him, nearly obscuring the No Smoking sign above his head. I stared at him blankly for a moment, then turned to the sink and began washing my hands. In the mirror I watched him drop the cigarette and crush it beneath his foot. He took one step towards me. "Agent Scully's cancer has returned." One part of me wanted to make a sarcastic comment. Well, no kidding, you black-lunged son-of-a-bitch. That must explain the blood all over my shirt and my office floor. But another part of me protested weakly. "We don't know that yet. There are other possibilities." "*I* know it, Agent Mulder." I turned to face him, the urge to throttle him almost overwhelming. "You bastard. If you've done this to her again--if you're here to offer me another deal--" Almost gently, he said, "I'm afraid there will be no deals this time." He lit another Morley and I stared at him. He held all the cards but still I was surprised at myself and at the desperation in my voice when I uttered one word: "Please." He drew on the cigarette and looked into my eyes with an expression I did not remember seeing on his face before. In fact, it was an expression I was surprised that evil countenance could manifest: sympathy. "I'm not withholding a deal from you, Agent Mulder. This is out of my hands." "Then tell me who's holding your leash, Spender! Tell me where to find the bastards and I'll go to them!" I had my gun pulled on him now and although I was threatening him I was also pleading with him. He gestured toward my weapon. "Please put that away, Agent Mulder. It will do you no good. If you shoot me, even if you're ultimately acquitted, you'll spend the next few days in custody instead of with Agent Scully." Reluctantly I lowered my gun as he continued. "There is no name I can give you, Agent Mulder. This is simply a question of an equipment failure." My heart slowed almost to a stop and I felt the blood leave my face. I heard his words as if from a great distance. "The chip has ceased to function, Agent Mulder. The cancer grew too strong. We didn't see this coming, and we have nothing more powerful to offer. In the same way that the chip eradicated the cancer almost instantly, so the cancer began to grow very quickly when the chip ceased operating two days ago. The doctors will find that the cancer has spread throughout Agent Scully's body, that it has infiltrated every system. It's inoperable, and neither radiation nor chemo could work fast enough." My knees could no longer support me and I sank to the floor. "How long?" I whispered. "Three days. A week at the most." Spender extinguished his cigarette and crouched down so he could look into my eyes. "I don't expect forgiveness from you, Agent Mulder, nor do I deserve it. I've protected you from those who would have killed you to eliminate the threat you pose to the success of the Project because I made a promise to your father. It was necessary to rein you in somehow, and it was I who chose Agent Scully as the means. The cancer, too, was my idea. But I want you to know that never at any time did I intend for her to die." I looked at him, disgusted by his attempts to justify himself but too shell-shocked to respond. He continued, "Believe what you will, but I do like and admire her. I'm sorry that this is happening--to her and to you. If I could go back--well, who's to say if I would act differently. I've sacrificed everything to this project, because I've believed in the work I was doing. I've never regretted the sacrifices I've made to the greater good. This particular sacrifice, however, is pointless-- and I do regret it." He stood to leave and lit another Morley. "So, Agent Mulder, I hope that you will resist the temptation to indulge in your usual habit of assuming the guilt for anything that happens to those you hold dear. Don't blame yourself for this tragedy. Blame me." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Beloved, let us love one another, because love is of God; everyone who loves is begotten by God and knows God. Whoever is without love does not know God, for God is love." - I John 4:7-8 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Only a few weeks ago, Scully and I had a conversation about God. I'd wanted to for a long time, and I think she had too, but we always danced around that particular topic. Her religion was a side of her I couldn't square with the rest of what I knew about her. She, I think, feared my ridicule. But somehow that day, it just came up. It was one of those rare days when we were having an innuendo-free, serious conversation that was neither about work nor an argument. We'd been watching a movie at her place when suddenly Scully turned to me and asked, "Do you believe in God?" "No," I answered honestly. "I don't believe . . . but I don't *not* believe." "You're an agnostic." "Yeah, that's what they call it. I don't know, Scully. Even if I did believe in a God, I don't think He'd be like *your* God." "How do you mean?" "He'd be the clock-winder God. The kind that started the universe, then sat back to watch it run." "I believe God is very involved in our lives." "I know you do," I said, loving the serious, intense look on her beautiful face. "Why else would you pray? What would be the point? But you know, I don't think I'd want to believe in your God, Scully." "Why not?" "Because if He can intervene, and sometimes He does, then how can you live with that, when He doesn't? How can you worship a God Who doesn't answer your prayers?" "God answers all prayers, Mulder. Sometimes He answers no, that's all. 'God's thoughts are not our thoughts, His ways are not our ways.' God doesn't play according to our rules, and we won't understand everything about Him and the way He works until after we die. It's in St. Paul's Letter to the Corinthians: 'Now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know fully.'" "Wow, Scully. I didn't think Catholics even read the Bible." She gave me one of those rare smiles. "I think I know why you can't believe in my God, Mulder." "And why is that, O wise one?" "Christianity teaches that God is love. In order to experience God in that way, you need to have some point of reference. Most of us find that point in at least one of our parents. Our parents love us unconditionally, like God does." I shrugged. "Conditional love, I know, Scully. Never unconditional." She took my hand then. "I know. I know, Mulder, and I'm so sorry." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "If we win here we will win everywhere. The world is a fine place and worth the fighting for and I hate very much to leave it." - Ernest Hemingway ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The tests were finished and Scully was finally admitted to a private room, and I was alone with her. I was selfishly glad that Skinner had been unable to reach her mother yet. The nurses had cleaned her up and made her comfortable and they were giving us a few minutes alone before the doctor arrived. Of course, I knew already what he was going to say. But I tried not to think about that as I pressed my lips to Scully's forehead, brushed her hair out of her eyes, held her soft hand. I had to touch her--reassure myself that she was still there--warm and alive for the moment at least. Her concern, of course, was for me. "You need to get a fresh shirt, Mulder. I'll be O.K. for a little while." "Later. When your mom gets here. How do you feel?" "I won't lie and say I'm fine, Mulder." She sighed. "I've been feeling bad for a couple of days. My head's hurting and my chest feels strange when I breathe." She looked up at me and bit her lip uncertainly. "If my mom doesn't get here soon, Mulder, I need you to do something for me." "Anything, Scully. You know that. What do you need?" "I want you to call a priest for me," she said steadily. "I'm sorry, Mulder. The cancer's back, I know it is. And it's worse than before. I want to receive the sacraments before . . ." "O.K.," I assented, my face crumpling. It was a far different response from my "I refuse to accept that" the first time she told me she had cancer, and Scully couldn't have failed to notice my uncharacteristic acceptance of her words. "You know something, don't you?" she asked gently. I nodded reluctantly. The doctor was coming soon anyway. There was no need to sully our trust with subterfuge. "The smoking man--Spender--I saw him in the bathroom earlier." Her eyes flew open in alarm. "Mulder--you didn't promise him anything, did you? Didn't try to make a deal with him?" "No deals." "Good," she said approvingly. Her approbation stung me. "I'd have made any deal, *any* deal, if there was one to be made, Scully. It's the chip. The god-damned, fucking chip. It's malfunctioned, and the bastards can't fix it." Scully drew in a ragged breath as this registered. Her chin quivered and I could see the first tears appearing in her eyes, but her voice remained steady. "How long?" "He said--he said three days, a week at most." Now the tears overflowed and ran down her cheeks, even as she struggled to control them. "I see." "I'm sorry, Scully," I began through my own tears. She held up one hand to silence me, and wiped her eyes with the other one angrily. "Mulder, I blame you for *nothing.* I've made my own choices and I wouldn't change them. Spender and his cronies are the only ones who deserve blame. The *only* ones--and don't you ever forget that." I nodded miserably, unconvinced. "Look, Mulder. Before the doctor comes in, before my mom gets here, I want to talk to you. I want you to promise me something." "Anything, Scully." "Promise me you won't . . . hurt . . . yourself when I'm gone." "Oh, God, Scully. Don't ask me that! I *can't* promise that." "You've got things to do, Mulder. If you quit now, they win, remember?" "I was planning to take Spender out first." "No! No. Not revenge in my name. What good would it do anyway? It won't bring me back." God, she was already talking about herself in the past tense. "Samantha's still out there, Mulder. I know you'll find her one day. Wouldn't it be terrible for her, if she came home one day, and *all* her family was gone?" "Oh, Scully. Please. Don't. That's not fair." "I'm sorry, Mulder. I am. But there's more. You're the only one who knows about colonization--the only one who might possibly prevent it. We're so close." "Not without you, Scully. I can't *do* it without you." "You won't be alone, Mulder. You've got the Gunmen, and Skinner will help you; I know he will." Hating my own selfishness but helpless to suppress it, I whined, "I'm less than half a person without you, Scully." Locking her eyes with mine she said, "Listen to me now, Mulder, and if you ever believed in extreme possibilities, believe in this one: I will never leave you. I will be with you, wherever you are." The doctor knocked at the door. "Miss Scully?" "Just a minute please." Turning back to me, she said, "One more thing. We've never discussed it--but we both know there could be more--more Emilys out there. I know you've been looking for them. You can't leave them to suffer and die. You've got to find them and you have to stop the Consortium from making any more of them. So promise me." I nodded, condemning myself to a living death, and said, "I promise." Then Dana Scully turned to face the entry of the doctor who would deliver her death sentence. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds." - Alfred, Lord Tennyson ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Father McCue arrived within hours to hear Scully's confession and do whatever else priests do at Catholic deathbeds. Obviously it was a private time and since various members of the family were also beginning to show it was a good time for me to take a hike for a while. I should have gone home and showered and changed my bloody shirt while I had the chance. But instead I surprised myself by ending up in the hospital chapel. I told myself I just wanted to be alone but in truth I was seeking some connection to God. Scully believed in miracles, after all. I believe in everything else; why can't I believe in this too? I lit a candle for Scully and tried to say a prayer, then sat down and stared at the crucifix mounted behind the altar. It was one of those large gory ones in full living color. I stared into the agonized face of Christ and tried to imagine what he went through. Hours of suffering for him--days for Scully. Selfishly I imagined the hours, days and years of suffering ahead of me in a world without her. As I sat there, a young priest emerged from the room behind the altar. He was holding an altar cloth and some other Catholic-looking things. Assuming a service was starting soon, I rose to leave. "Please," he said. "Don't let me disturb you. Mass is still nearly an hour away--I'm just getting an early start." He smiled genially at me. Now Father McCue is the perfect stereotype of a parish priest. This guy was something different. I'd guess he was younger than I am. Scully would probably think he's good-looking. He was wearing the black garb but his collar was unfastened and he had sneakers on. We were at Georgetown so I decided he must be a Jesuit. Father McCue's never made an effort to engage me in conversation either. Maybe the Scullys have been talking to him and have made him afraid to try. Here again this guy was different. He came down off the altar, sat down by me, and offered his hand. "Bob Callahan," he said. I shook his hand and responded, "Fox Mulder." "I don't mean to intrude, Mr. Mulder, but if you'd like to talk--or pray--" I shook my head and smiled. "I'm not much for praying, Father. I don't mean to offend, but I'm far from sure I even believe." "Yet you're here." He waited to see if I wanted to talk. What the hell, I thought. "The person I'm here about. *She* believes. And if you would pray for her, I'd be very grateful." "I'd be glad to. What's her name?" "Dana. Dana Scully. She's got cancer, Father. She's going to die in three days. The doctor just brought us the news. There's absolutely nothing they can do." "I'm very, very sorry, Mr. Mulder," he said and I could see he meant it. "I'll pray for Dana--that God will ease her pain--and if you don't mind I'll pray for you, too." "I appreciate the gesture, Father." His sincerity was obvious so I wasn't offended. "Surprisingly, some people find God in the midst of tragedies such as this one," he told me. "I'll pray that you are one of them, and that you may feel the love of God during this terrible time." "Thanks, Father." I stood to leave. "Come back if you need to talk," he told me. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "The world is charged with the grandeur of God." - Gerard Manley Hopkins ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I tend to think of Scully as my only friend, but in my heart I know that's not true. The Gunmen--especially Frohike--would do anything for me. They've haunted the hospital since I called them. One of them has held vigil outside Scully's door round the clock. On the rare occasions when I leave the room, whichever one is on duty shadows me. Today it's Frohike. Scully's sleeping and I've decided it's safe enough to grab a cup of hospital coffee, putrid though the stuff is. Since I haven't left the hospital since Scully and I arrived over 48 hours ago, I'm sorely in need of the caffeine. I sleep in chairs, on the occasional waiting room couch, sometimes even standing up. I haven't showered either, although someone--it escapes my memory who at this point--brought me a fresh shirt to replace the one that was stained with Scully's blood. I'm grateful for Frohike as he more or less leads me to a table and brings me coffee and a doughnut. I can't remember when I last ate. I'm not even sure what time it is, even what day it is. As I automatically eat the doughnut I reflect on the strange friendship I share with the gnomish man across the table. We never talk, not really. We've shared some meals and some beers, we kid each other about our porno habits, we plan our attack on the global conspiracy. But we don't discuss the things that matter most to us. I look over at the guy. He looks almost as sad as I feel. I know that in his own way he loves Scully too. And that he cares enough about me to be here for me through this. Somehow I find myself asking him, "Do you believe in God?" He blinks at me, surprised. Probably he's thinking that when I decide to have a personal conversation, I don't pull any punches. After a few seconds of reflection, he nods. "Yes. Yes, I do." Now it's my turn to be surprised. Belief in a benevolent, all-powerful deity doesn't fit with the conception I hold of my paranoid friend. "Why?" I ask him. "I could say it's because I was raised that way--which I was," he says. "But then I wasn't brought up to hunt conspiracies, so I guess you can't blame everything on upbringing." He gives me a half-smile and goes on. "This is going to sound weird--weirder than usual," he adds, anticipating my quip. "But the world's a beautiful place. The world is a beautiful place," he repeats. "There's a beauty to nature, and an order in it, that I don't think is accidental. I think it was designed, that it was placed there. And there's the beauty in the human intellect, the strength of the human spirit. And when I think about Agent Scully--" "What about her?" "A person like her, Mulder--when she . . . goes . . . all that she is can't just end. I refuse to believe it. She believes she'll go on, that she'll go to a place where there is no more suffering, and I do too." "I want to believe," I say, with no sense of irony. "Then why don't you, Mulder? You find it easy to believe in absolute evil--why not give absolute good a chance?" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "It hath been often said, that it is not death but dying which is terrible." - Henry Fielding ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Scully's about to go on morphine. She'd prefer not to because it will make her sleep, but she can't manage the pain alone anymore. While I hate the thought of her being unconscious for even one second of what is left of her life, I'm grateful for her decision because watching her suffer is torture to me. She's taken the past day to wind up her affairs while she is still able. Her attorney just left. The only material possession she bequeathed to me was her cross. In fact she already made me put it around my neck. She says she can see it there and although the words are unsaid I'm sure she's hoping it will lend me a measure of the faith she seems to have in abundance and that I so sorely need. She left small items--trinkets to remember her by--to her friend Ellen and her brothers and their wives and kids. The rest went to her mom with one notable exception--I am named as guardian of any genetic offspring of hers which may turn up. She told me this before the lawyer arrived and I was absolutely undone by the trust she placed in me. I hope I never find another suffering hybrid created from Scully's stolen ova, but if I do, I will act as I know she would have wanted. A few friends have come by today. Upheld by a faith I envy, Scully serenely made her farewells to them all. I sit outside the door and watch the unhappy parade. Every last one of them--from Frohike to Ellen--leaves in tears. Scully has apparently decided that what cannot be changed must be accepted and she's trying for the most graceful exit she can manage.