TITLE: From the Book of the Prophet
AUTHOR: David Stoddard-Hunt
CATEGORY: S, A, MSR
RATING: PG  
SPOILERS: TINH and no further.
SUMMARY: Who am I now? I am Scully. I will always be Scully.
ARCHIVE: Much obliged, just let me know.
DISCLAIMER: These characters are owned by people who make money off of them:
1013, Fox et al. These characters belong to those who do not make money off
of them, myself included, but who try to give them emotionally rich lives.
(No infringement on the former by the latter is intended.)
FEEDBACK: stoddardhunt@earthlink.net
AUTHORS NOTES: at the end.
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It has been a cruel winter; one that has both mirrored and mocked me. 

When I buried Mulder, there was an icy crust on the week-old snow. The
ice crunched beneath my feet as I walked. It's the only sound from the
memorial service that I recall. I do remember marveling that my feet
never sank beneath the ice into the snow. I felt curiously light, as
if I was walking just above the surface of the snow, 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 yet be
half a lifetime before I am allowed to join him. 

The morning of the service was cast in grey and pale yellow. Yet, 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 the already surreal nature of
the event. For this, at the time, I was grateful. I'm not, anymore.
Those were the final minutes I had to share this existence with even a
semblance of Mulder's 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? 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. Apparently encouraged by the resilience of my
wintry soul, snow has fallen in this last week. It was a last gasp, 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" whose
presence I've become aware of 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 they seem 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 told me that Skinner
called to alert her to this alarming development in my behavior. She
understands, though, understands why I need this. Still, they've made
sure that I have a "guardian angel," courtesy of the Bureau, watching
from a discreet distance at all times when I am here. 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 soul mate 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 extended 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. Can't have a pathologist coming unhinged, 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 on 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. 

Mulder's death has rocked me from my moorings. I admit tacitly that
which he once said aloud. We complete one another. Sorry. Completed.
Past tense. 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 waswhile we were together, I protected
my individuality fiercely. I fought losing myself in him. That would
have been so easy to do. It was the reason I never put my feelings for
him into words.  To do so would have been to concede that I had lost
myself in him. 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, this leave will blend
seamlessly with maternity leave. Combined with back-vacation time 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, 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. 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 for him, I can't hear everything he's
shouting. 

"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 that 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, Mulder. 

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. To Ahab, I was
his faithful "Starbuck." After I decided to join 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 successfully carried the "Dana" banner into my adulthood.
My brothers just follow her lead. Otherwise, I think they'd be afraid
to call me anything.  They know me just that well. When others outside
of my family circle address me as "Dana," it's generally because, if
they've known me at all, it's been years in the past and we've drifted
so far apart as to be 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. 

To me, it is amazing to realize just how many years ago it was that I
consigned "Dana" to a past tense. For as long as I can remember, I've
wanted to transcend "Dana," "Starbuck," and all the rest. I aspired to
be "Dr. Dana Katherine Scully," although I had only the vaguest idea
of who that person might be. I don't think I've ever become 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.
Yet, at almost the instant I 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. That 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. Well, 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. 

I am 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 over a
lifetime. Then it was, of necessity, a process of accepting the self
uncovered as my own. 

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 Mulder who coaxed me, gently, into accepting
myself as I truly am. Being Mulder, he wasn't always patient about the
process, and he 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 come to terms with the 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 just as fierce
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 truly static. Therefore, an individual's sense of self
should not be static. I know that my sense of self has altered
considerably, been altered considerably 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 and in the roots of my belief has
suffered unimaginably. It's amazing what finding the text of Genesis
inscribed in the skin of an ancient, extraterrestrial craft will do to
challenge an unquestioned belief system. 

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, pardon the pun, both literally
and figuratively (man, there's just no getting around, ugh, pregnancy
jokes).  Has expanded 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 me, 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, those who have harmed, have murdered
you. 

This all begs the question of the moment, however. Even though you did
not create "Scully," nor help me 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 life left. I
know. Our child will provide me with the impetus to stay alive, remain
strong, and move forward. 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 greatly
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 was 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 a 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. 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 only as the realization dawns
that you are not 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 would not have
quoted the Bible with 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? " 

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 actually
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 from me. What the hell
happened to my basic training? How could I have allowed him to come so
close to me without my awareness? 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 he's using
Scripture to mock me, mock my grief and pain. He has no idea of what
I've suffered.  That's just it, though. He has no idea, 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 you the right? How
could you presume to know anything about this child? I feel rage
washing over me like a summer storm, edging me in flashes of lightning
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 is
unnecessary. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my Bureau minder
running toward me full tilt, shouting into a phone. 

Horrible scars are visible on his cheeks, beneath the unruly, graying
thicket of his 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 soft, 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" 


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Author's notes: The first half of this story appeared on Ephemeral on
April 1st, though no joke was intended. The present post is the first
public appearance of the story in its entirety. 

Thanks to Susan Frankovich, Char Chaffin (if I'd acted fully on your
comments, I'm certain this would have been much improved. Someday,
I'll revise it, Char), and Tess, my fellow Philadelphian and sister in
the avoidance of mummery, for all of their comments and their own
wonderful writings. 

The Biblical quotes have all been taken, unaltered, from the book of
Isaiah, cites provided upon request.  If stripping them from their
context and placing them, brutally, in the service of this story has
offended anyone, I apologize. As for the quasi-religious subtext, I do
not apologize. TPTB have put it there on numerous occasions, and have
made it part and parcel of Scully's character. 

The key to unleashing this story from within was a phrase from an
eerily prescient story written five years ago by Annie Whittington,
entitled "Faade of Hope." "in your eyes, I am not Dana. I am Scully. I
will always be Scully, no matter what happens. That thought soothes
me." I am indebted to her for this elegant, terse summation of
character. Her e-mail account is no longer the one listed in her
writings, so I have been unable to contact her. Thus, I have to admit
that my use, slightly altered, is without permission, but with
gratitude. I am uncomfortable in doing this so, Annie, if you're out
there, e-mail me. Let's talk. All the rest of you? Go, seek out "Faade
of Hope" and read it.