Title: "Called To Rise." 1/2 Author: Joylynn Wing Posting Date: March 2000 Rating: PG for Adult Themes Classification: Character death??? MSR, angst, post colonization/mythology, AU? Archive: Gossamer, Ephemeral, Xemplary, Spookys 2000; others, please drop me a line. Spoilers: None Summary: 'We never know how high we are till we are called to rise...' Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to 1013 and Fox. Feedback: Are you kidding? Make my day at aljoyw@a-znet.com Author's note: This story is a little different from my usual. It has been haunting me for a long time and it took that long to write. As for the questionable character death, make it what you will. Take a walk on the dark side with me. Only when you truly appreciate the darkness can you truly appreciate the light. My undying thanks to Wendy, Pita and especially to Tracey, for giving good beta. This is for you, Amy. 'We never know how high we are Till we are called to rise; And then, if we are true to plan, Our statures touch the skies.' Emily Dickinson It is now 1430, and I take a deep breath as I try to focus myself on this most important of days. I look up at the newly blossoming trees; the tiny white flowers of the apple tree dropping delicate sprinkles of fluttering petals with each gentle breath of spring. My nose tickles with the essences of spring roses and other early risers which waft about me, stirring my neatly styled hair into a frenzy of curls. I have to go in soon, but my heart isn't quite ready yet. It has been twenty years since that day, twenty long years, which seem just like yesterday. I glance down at my forearm, the black numbers just as clear as the day they were put there. I rub my fingers consciously across the serial number; many of the survivors have had theirs removed but I haven't. I never will. It is my tangible reminder of my mortality: of the precariousness of our existence on this planet. I will wear *this* proudly until the day I die. It signifies *my* strength, *my* fortitude during one of the darkest days of humanity. The day that *they* came. I had been outside playing, when the ships came over head. At first they only had been caliginous shadows that blotted out the ocean blue of the sky above. But as our oddities grew closer, their origins were obviously not of this world. We watched and waited until the scattered despondent reports came in on our short wave radio of mass eradication, and then my mother and I took refuge down in the root cellar of our small home. We lived there, huddled in the thick darkness, as we prayed to God every second that we were awake. We prayed for ourselves, for those who suffered about us but most importantly, we prayed for those who would deliver us. We lived off of canned goods for what could have been weeks, prayed, and slept. The only things which seemed to drown out the grating whirring sounds of the engines, were the collective screams of those who were not as lucky as we. After the screams had subsided and our supplies had grown low, we finally ventured forth. That was when the real nightmare began. We were taken just afterwards, and that was when the living breathing tormenting dream began. It never seemed to end: only grew worse through the tests, the pain and the humiliation still ebbing freely in my veins even today. I never thought that I would ever awake, but I did; eighteen years ago today. That is why I sit here, my face soaking up the life that stirs about me. It is New Independence Day, and my first day at my new job. I am the newly hired charge nurse at the New Brownsville Home for the Elderly. I stand up and smooth down the navy blue of my cotton skirt, the stiff breeze slides up my stocking clad legs and I shiver slightly. I walk briskly across the courtyard, my excitement over the moment barely contained in my slight body. I open the door and walk in, the smell of antiseptic and air conditioning filling my senses with awe. I have worked hard for this moment, we have worked hard for this moment. It has been many, many years since our liberation day, but the rebuilding of our world and of our lives has been a slow process. To ensure our complete and unfettered domination, they had destroyed all that there was. The Earth was a barren, desolate landscape, not much different from the moon which circles above us at night, devoid of all except the most basic of existences. We existed in small nomadic groups, constantly moving to keep one step ahead of the harvesters. Many still eke a meager existence off the land, barely making ends meet, but I was one of the lucky ones. I was adopted by a former teacher as an orphaned teen and she gave me every advantage which has allowed me to be here. There were no schools left after the occupation, so I worked on her land during the day tending to crops and at night she taught me at home. When she thought my studies complete, she arranged for me to attend one of the only colleges which exist to provide any schooling beyond the basics. I owe her everything, she is the only reason why I am here today. I walk towards the nurse's station and I look at a small bronze plague that I walk by, its words well known to me even though I have never seen it before. Those words, in one form or another exist in nearly every newly built building since liberation. It is our homage to the great ones...to the ones that have made all of this possible. 'In memory of those who had the courage to sacrifice for the many...' I wipe the heated tears that fall freely down my face with the back of my hand, not out of shame since I feel none, but out of the professionalism and dedication which I wish to emulate. As I turn around, a heavy set woman dressed in white walks toward me, extending her hand in greeting. "You must be Mira Gentile." I nod and I offer my hand in congeniality. She smiles and takes my hand, her grip firm and her skin cool. I take a deep breath in relief, my thought now focused on the here and now and not on the past which we all share. She smells of antiseptic soap and of starch. A familiar strangely comforting smell which makes me feel instantly at ease. "I am Victoria Sears. I have heard a great deal about you." Deep brown eyes shine with humor and grace, their extreme intelligence floating freely across the surface. Soft black hair flows almost effortlessly, like a moonlit waterfall, into a pony tail which sits at the back of her head. This leaves her smooth, round face open for all to see. A smile parts her rose tinted lips and perfect white teeth glimmer faintly in the artificial light. She turns to walk behind the neatly kept station, her stiff skirts swishing softly behind her. Her back is straight and tall, her pride seeming to drive each and every step that she takes. She sits down in the gray and white chair with a grace unmatched by any I have seen and gestures with a strong arm for me to sit with her. I do so quickly, rubbing my anxiety dampened palms firmly across the nappy material of the arm rests. I can't explain it, but I feel so at home. I feel as if I had been on a very long and tiring journey and I have finally found where I belong. I lean back with a smile and a wink of my eye and say "I hope that it wasn't all bad." I look about the desk, the slim lines and sparse items quite unusual from my past experience during my clinicals. "On the contrary it was all good," she offers with a genuine smile as she gestures with an open hand to the list before her. "This is a list of our clientele. We have the capacity to care for approximately 35 residents and we are currently full. We have a low turn over rate due to the stability of our clientele's health and due to the environment which we provide here." I glance at the list carefully, attempting to learn as many of the names as possible. This is the moment, which I have dreamed of for all of this time. A chance to give back to those who have given so much of themselves for all of their lives. "As you can see, we do have quite a blend of residents here. However most are quite self sufficient to a degree. We encourage our clients to strive for as much independence as possible. Maintaining dignity, that is the motto by which we base all of our decisions." Names of faceless but significant individuals flash before me, the letters all blending into an endless stream of black on white. They are impressionless, like the white canvas beneath the painting. I need to connect, and bring the colors to life. I need to give breath to the names which will become my closest family in the future. Suddenly a name falls into my line of sight, and it nearly stops my heart dead. My head starts pounding, my lungs burn. I can't believe it. Never in my wildest dreams.... I close my eyes, that name still indelibly burned into my soul. "Oh my God... I can't believe it...." The words fall out of my mouth effortlessly, like raindrops off rose petals. "Oh yes," she says as if it weren't such a momentous memory. "Our most famous resident and quite popular with the staff as well as the residents: more than a pleasure to have here. We have quite a few veterans here. They seem to congregate with one another. Shared experiences and alike." She lets out a soft sigh and slowly stands up stretching her arms above her head. "I need to attend to some matters. If you like you can stroll around and make yourself acquainted with the facility as well as our clients. We like to think that we are more like family here than your typical home; so please keep that in mind." " I will..." I tender, as I try to bring my wandering thoughts back to focus. She walks away and I look once again at the list. That name sits heavy on my thoughts; a true hero to us all. Many have made great sacrifices for us to overcome our enemies, and to rebuild our world but none so much as the individual reduced to a room number and a nondescript name such as this. I take the number to memory and I also stand up, preparing myself for this encounter. Considering what day it is it seems more than apropos. To find the truth, I must come full circle. End 1/2 See 2/2 *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* "Called To Rise." 2/2 by Joylynn Wing aljoyw@a-znet.com I march over to the pastel tinted wall, and after gathering my bearings I follow the other room numbers to my destiny. I walk slowly allowing the soft, caressing sounds of this environment to envelop me. The tapping of my footsteps fall into step with the lub-dub of my heart and finally, I come to the end of my journey. Room number 25. I trace the black engraved numbers with the index finger of my right hand, careful to note the tattoo, which seems to be of the same shade. The surface cuts gentle ridges into my soft skin, the moment marked indelibly within my psyche for all time. A sense of awe overcomes me and I nearly lose my cool once again right then and there. But I shove that down deep where it will sit until a more appropriate time. In spite of my emotionalism, I will remain strong. This is sort of a spiritual pilgrimage for me and I will not sully the moment with such nonsense. I knock on the doorframe, and await a response. None arrives so I step in and walk forward. "Hello?" The room is brightly lit, the glimmering sunshine glittering of the gleaming white tiles like moonlight off a pool of water. I look about, the small, smartly appointed space and its proud contents challenge me to investigate its mysteries which it offers humbly. I walk up to the wall nearest me, my soft soled shoes thudding softly upon the impossibly smooth floor. Carefully framed pictures lined the eggshell colored surface. Pictures of heroes long dead, pictures of ceremonies celebrating proud moments. Medals of every sort are neatly hung next to the heroes, almost a shrine of their accomplishments. I have seen these individuals, immortalized forever in the textbooks which expound their exploits: which in the end, freed a whole world from the brink of annihilation. "So, you are the new girl." I hear as I turn around to meet the one that I have emulated all of these years. My eyes are stunned by what they behold. The textbooks didn't do proper justice. Even age hasn't faded the greatness, which sits there. A slight figure sits in a well-padded wheelchair. Impossibly blue eyes glance at me from under dark auburn lashes, belaying their careful assessment of me. Her once bright red hair; the color that I have been so envious of all of these years now is white with streaks of faded red. "Yes, I am. I am Mira Gentile." I say, as I offer my hand to her. My hand shakes slightly in nervousness and I force myself to calm down. It isn't every day that I get to meet a real hero. She wheels herself over to me, offering her slight hand in gesture. Her hand is graceful, unlined and youthful unlike the fine lines which are indelibly etched into her pale white skin. I take it and her strength is incredible, inconsistent to the frail body to which it belongs. I swear that her hand radiates a heat which I have never felt before. I know that I am experiencing the indomitable force of her spirit, the driving force which helped to liberate mankind. She brings her hand back into her lap, folding the fingers together gracefully as she tilts her head in thought. Her hair is still quite similar in style as it was before, the smooth bob slips and falls into her face, obscuring her swirling blue eyes from my view. She reaches up and tucks the smooth lock behind her small ear. She smiles softly as she mumbles, "beautiful name, very unusual. I am..." "You are Dr. Dana Scully. You are the one." I look at her and sit down, wanting to be able to speak to her eye to eye. I study her carefully, her eyes showing me all that I have ever needed to know. I see strength, extreme intelligence, honesty, and integrity. But I also see the passion and the pain that lies just beneath the surface. "Please, I was one of many. One of the many dedicated, selfless individuals who did what they had to do." She looks over at the wall and gestures with her hands. Even in the whisky smooth dulcet tones of graciousness, I can hear the sorrow which lurks there. This was not how I pictured her to be. Heroes are always smiling and happy in their accomplishments, they are not supposed to look like this. "We read about you, and the others in school. What you did was...was..." I try to convey my deep respect for what she has done but my feeble words fail me. I let my words fall off, not wanting to make myself look like a bigger fool. I glance down at my skirt, fumbling with the neatly pressed hem with my clumsy fingers. "Nothing," I hear her deny softly as she begins to wheel her chair over to the pictures which her eyes never seem to leave. Her hands move the wheels flowingly, the squeaks of the spinning spokes filling the silence which swallows the deep even breaths which we are both taking. "I did nothing, that others didn't do also." Her voice is strong, almost lyric in quality. "You are a hero, you have won so many awards. We all owe our lives, our freedom to you." I raise my hand up to gesture to the numerous commendations neatly arranged on the plain wall. Doesn't she even realize that she is a hero? Doesn't she even realize what she has done for humanity? It is as if it doesn't mean a thing to her. She looks at me, her face emotionless. "You owe me nothing...they are the true heroes. They are the ones that you supposedly owe. They are the ones that sacrificed it all. I sacrificed nothing. I lived, they died..." She reaches up and trails her trembling fingers along the smooth shiny surface of the frame. She may think that she has fooled me. She may think that I can't see the pain that she trying so hard to deny, but I can. As a nurse, I am trained to minister to the body as well as to the spirit. I may not be able to do anything for her on the outside, but I maybe can help on the inside. My clinical mind goes into diagnostic mode, descriptions of what I hear in her voice abound... Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Trauma induced Dementia Depression All of them seem right, but none really seem to fit. I need to understand what she is feeling in order for me to better help her. I slide to the edge of the bed, raising my hands out in front of me as I plead, "but you... " "I lost my use of my legs in the war for independence," she interrupts curtly as she gestures down to them as she shrugs. "They were a small price to pay for the millions which now live free...." She then takes one long last look at the momentos and then turns to face me, her face suddenly looking tired and confused. I can see all the pain that she carries inside of her, it oozes to the surface like beads of sweat. I wish that I can take away all of her pain, but I know logically that I am just losing my objectivity. But who wouldn't? "All of them are...are...." I ask in a trembling voice as tears sting by vision and make my head spin. I can't seem to finish what I was trying to say, I seem to choke on the words like a bad meal. "Dead... Yes, they are." A lone tear falls from her fathomless blue eyes and it steaks down the lines of her face. "They were all wonderful people, giving people. People who were not afraid to stand up for what they believed in." Oh God, if I do not get my mind off all of this tragedy, I am going to lose it. So I stand up and walk over to that wall, letting my eyes see for myself what my heart and soul should know. Such life once existed here. Such heart. True heroes dedicated to sacrificing it all for what they believed in. Can I ever live up to what they represent? I suddenly feel small and insignificant to the whole. As I valiantly blink back my tears, I come across one picture with her in it. One picture where she is standing next to someone that I also remember. Someone also ingrained into my memory with a brand etched in fire. "This is Fox Mulder, isn't it? Oh my God. The pictures in the text book did not do him justice." I take the picture down and look at it. Bright hazel eyes stare back at me, their depths only hinting at the man behind the legend. Then I look at her, the grace of youth bringing out the very best in her. And as I study it carefully, I see it. Yes, 'It'. That special something that one never expects to see in a photo. Love...unconditional love and acceptance. She loved this man and he loved her. I walk over to her and carefully place it in her lap, as I kneel beside her. As she looks it over carefully, a bright smile creeps across her face, dimples and all. Yes, I was right. I have always been perceptive about these things. "Yes, he was handsome," she offers as she drags her fingertip across the glass. "And stubborn, lewd, opinionated, sarcastic and crazy as hell. But he was also the most wonderfully caring, dedicated, selfless, intelligent, perceptive man that I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. " "Ah, the tragic hero. So what was his Achilles' heel?" I look down at him, trying to get a better sense of the man. He would seem to fit the part. Although books are few and far between, I have been blessed by the opportunity to look at a few of the classics. I must say that much of it I do not understand, I guess the lack of a good formal education had seen to that, but I did find that I was quite entertained. "Not what, who. I was. I was Mulder's fatal flaw." I look up, my jaw hanging in mid air somewhere near my sternum. Did I just hear what I thought that I heard? "Throughout our whole time together," she continues as she sighs in realization. "I was the one who they used to get to him. They knew how to pull his strings... and they would hurt me to really hurt him. He didn't care what happened to him. It was all about me. He would have gone to the ends of the earth for me. In fact he did. And in the end, to repay him for all that he did, I was the one who ended up killing him." "What?" I snort as I nearly fall back on my heels. What secrets has this woman been carrying for all of these years? Why now, and why me most importantly, has she chosen to reveal this information? I close my eyes and try to steady the incessant pounding of my heart. Whatever she has to say, I will hear it. I owe her this and so much more. She puts her hands down on the arm-rests of her chair and grips it tightly, the knuckles turning white almost instantly. "It was the day of the final assault upon their last stronghold. We had been successful in administering the Trojan Horse-" "Trojan Horse?" "A virus which we engineered which would effectively kill off the embryonic versions of the aliens. It was very successful but we had been unable to eradicate this last assimilation station. I guess that we had killed off so many of them over the last few months that they weren't taking any chances on this station." "We and the rebels had come up with a two pronged approach to the situation. A well-armed distraction coupled with a small advance team which would infiltrate and infect the system." "We were all there; the Lone Gunmen, Skinner, Mulder and me. The plan executed flawlessly; the moles had been able to get in undetected. However, due to a miscalculation on our part, we ended up getting pinned down, not able to escape. We knew that we had precious little time. When the system malfunctioned, the ship would lift off and self- destruct. We were trapped until the advance team arrived. They gave us cover, so that we could escape." She stops and closes her eyes, trying to get control of what she feels. Every muscle trembles in her body as she fights an inner war more deadly than any fought outside. "They knew that they would die," she says shakily as she finally herself under control. "But they sacrificed so that we might have a chance. We ran like hell, trying to use the chance given to us, but the firefight was too intense. "I was hit; in the back." She turns her head and gestures to her lower back. "I couldn't move, so I had resigned myself to the fact that this was the end. But it wasn't... Mulder had come back to save my ass once again." She closes her eyes once again and this time I am prepared for tears. After what she has been through she deserves this chance to mourn for her losses. But no tears come; bright blue eyes meet the bright light once again with strength renewed. "When I woke up, he was gone. After the fight, he couldn't be accounted for. They found Skinner and the others, but not Mulder. He became one of the statistics. One of the many which were never accounted for." "After I was released from the hospital, I looked for him. I looked for him for years. My whole life became helping to rebuild and looking for Mulder-" "You loved him didn't you?" I ask as I nod towards Mulder's likeness. To spend a lifetime looking for the one you love is profound, to say the least. I only hope that I one day find that kind of love myself. "And you never told him...." I finish as I bring my hand up to rest on her now trembling shoulder. My heart pounds painfully in my chest, my lungs burn with each breath that I take. "We...I..." She shakes her head, her voice low and husky, like honey over ice. "We never really had to say the words. I guess that we just knew how we felt about one another..." Ah, to have such a love. A love that transcends words, and blossoms with adversity: a rare priceless gift indeed. "So I take it that you and he never...." Now I know that I am crossing some lines here, but this love story needs some happiness. I need to know if she has something to keep with her, something to soothe her broken heart. "We weren't like that. That wasn't what we were about." Her eyes reflect the truth, which she speaks. However, one doesn't need to be incredibly perceptive to notice the blatant disappointment dripping from every syllable. She lets out a deep breath as if just telling her story is cathartic. I guess that in a way it is. "Why? You obviously loved one another very much." I smile and feel myself blushing profusely. Now I know that we are both medical professionals but I can't help feel nervous about asking this. This love story moves me on so many different levels that I have this almost obsessive need to know it all. "I guess that there was always something more that had to be done." She looks out into the room as if half expecting something to happen. "The work was above all else, at all times. We knew that. I guess that when you have the world to save, other things seem to have less importance." "But you have regrets..." Of course, I know how totally stupid this sounds but she needs to voice it. To accept and to hopefully get some closure for her and for the ghosts which haunt her room and her heart. "Loneliness is a choice. We both chose the life which we led. It was necessary, so that the whole of humanity might have a chance: a chance to live and to love. We all have to make choices and we all have to live with them. I have lived with them: the good and the bad." "Dr Scully..." "I haven't been a practicing doctor for decades, please just call me Dana." She reaches over and for once in our discussion, she touches me. And I feel it clear down to my toes. She is letting me in. She is letting me know the heart that beats within the breast of this woman. I am truly honored. "Dana, I'm sorry." Tears start to fall down my face in heated torrents. They do very little to wash away the pain or the guilt that I feel. But I guess that they shouldn't. I shed them for her, not for me. "Sorry?" She furrows her brow, her eyes cloud with worry. "You're sorry for what?" For a woman that spends so much time and energy hiding what she feels from others, she is incredibly empathic. "For how it all turned out," I blubber uncontrollably as I stand up, turn away and attempt to wipe my eyes. "You gave so much, yet you couldn't even have the one thing that you wanted. We all owe you so much." What an impression I have just made, walking in here and asking personal questions until I lose it all together. I am such a pathetic mess. "But you are so wrong...so wrong." She rolls to me and touches me on the forearm. "I did get to love. I loved a lifetime in the years, which I knew Mulder. We may have never consummated the relationship but we were still lovers...in the deepest truest sense of the word." She looks up at me and smiles. "Our souls were reunited; our hearts were one. We loved with a love that time and death could never sever." "And as for you or anyone owing me anything," she arches her perfectly curved brow admonishing me as quickly as words could ever do. "If you want to repay us, repay me... there is something that you could do. Live your life fully. Do not waste a single moment." "Take this time that we have given you and use it wisely. Not everyone gets a second chance. This is yours-" Suddenly the fire is gone, and the room literally grows dim without its presence. Her shoulders slump, her eyes narrow and darken. "Now if you would please leave, I need some time." Wiping my eyes on my sleeve, I nod and walk out of the room pretending not to notice the hitch of her shoulders and the soft sounds of sobbing. As I reach her doorway, I pull it shut and lean my forehead against the wall. Funny, legends always seem to make heroes larger than life. Society can make heroes out of almost everyone, just do a good deed and you can live forever. However, now I know the truth. Being a true hero isn't that easy. A true hero is a person who is not afraid to make the tough choices. They make those choices in an instant without even worrying about the repercussions that might hurt them. They only think of others, not of themselves. I met one of them today. Well? Feed a starving artist at aljoyw@a-znet.com