Two: This Is Your Lullaby
All in green went my love riding on a great horse of gold into the silver dawn. four lean hounds crouched low and smiling my heart fell dead before. -e.e. cummings
When he was a boy, Mulder had decided that he was going to be a poet. He had devoured everything literary that he could, poetry and stories, from classics to horror fiction. He had also started writing poetry when he was fourteen or so. At sixteen he had taken a look at his passable verse, nothing special, and he had soon given it up as a bad job. But while he was still on that kick, he had dug into sixteenth and seventeenth-century Romantic English poetry. Wordsworth, Shelley, Tennyson, stuff like that. He had read the whole of Tennyson's epic "The Princess" on his lunch breaks, safely hidden in his history
teacher's classroom so that any kids who were, well, upset by his literary tendencies wouldn't be able to prey on him.
One poem that had interested him greatly was a Romantic look at a
strange, exotic land. The story Mulder had read, fascinated, was that this poet, Coleridge, had gone off on an opium trip and had written this fantastic poem, and then had come down from his high and couldn't write the rest of the poem! It had seemed to the sixteen-year-old Mulder a great shame, for he had loved to imagine the place that Coleridge was talking about. His eidetic memory threw it back up to him now:
"And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But O! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover!"
Now, standing in a great field watching clouds sail across the unpolluted sky, Mulder shakes his head. Coleridge, helpless beneath the sway of opium, must have stepped straight into Faerie. There is so much green that he is overwhelmed for a moment. No highways stretching black into the distance . . . his memory will have a field day with this. No telephone
poles. The sky is clear and even the air is warm. Turning, Fox sees a barrier of fog behind him. That, then, is the border which he has just exited. Two thoughts come to him then. The first is that he has just called himself Fox. but it seems right that he should be Fox here, just as he is Mulder back on Earth. The second thought goes like this: If they don't show me a way out -- I can never leave. But he is not
sure he even wants to leave.
Tirorvan tugs on his arm. "Fox! Are you all right?"
Fox has a huge grin on his face. "Tirorvan? What was that huge moving thing that we passed on our way through the border?"
"I don't know," says the Sidhe, and cracks a small smile, "but it seemed best at the time that we didn't stop to find out."
They grin at each other. Fox feels like he is seven years old again. He falls on the ground and laughs as he never did when he was on Earth. It is that beautiful. The other Sidhe look on in fascination as he rolls around in the grass, yelling.
"Perhaps it is some sort of human ritual."
"A giving-thanks? Perhaps some kind of magic."
"Tirorvan! Is the human performing a magic? Is he betraying us?"
"I believe," says Tirorvan, "that he is only being joyful."
"Oh! How strange. Joy."
Mulder grins at all and sundry. This is the happiest that he has ever been. He wishes Scully were here to say, "Get up, Mulder. We're wasting time." and give him her dazzling smile.
And as suddenly as that, his happiness is gone.
They walk across a verdant meadow (that is the only way that Fox can think of it -- "verdant") and Tirorvan walks beside Fox as they follow the other Sidhe. Fox' sneakers scuff through grass and bluebells and liles-of-the-valley. Small creatures jump away from him.
"This is Earth as it could have been," says Tirorvan.
Fox rolls his eyes. "Yah. Sure. Another ecology lecture. Look, I don't need a bleeding-heart elf pleading the cause of the debilitated rain forests, okay?"
"What is an elf?" Tirorvan asks, puzzled. Fox starts to try to explain, some mix of Tolkein and Andrew Lang, and gives up entirely. Tirorvan accepts it with good humor. "So the humans think that the Sidhe are some sort of magical being that either grants them wishes or steals their children. How amusing."
They continue this sort of banter, and then Tirorvan hurries to catch up with another Sidhe to have a conference. Fox is left alone again, and of course his thoughts zip right back to Scully.
Why didn't you move, Mulder? Huh? You could have had her out of there. You could have split that demon five ways to Sunday. What was wrong with you, Mulder? She's been there enough times for you, hasn't she?
He remembers, for some reason, Pusher. He remembers pulling futilely at the trigger when it was put to his head, hoping that the bullet would go into his brain so that he wouldn't have to point that deadly muzzle at Scully. He remembers the tears in her eyes and damns himself again and again, Mulder-style, for not breaking the control of his own fear.
Why didn't you move, Mulder? taunts that demon thought.
She's the only thing you have that's worthwhile in that charming basement life of yours. She is your balance. And when she needed you to be there, you weren't. You weren't there. How does that sound to you? You great big FBI agent, you. Can't even pull a gun, can't even move a step toward saving the one thing that makes your sorry life valuable.
"Shut up," he says aloud, savagely. "Shut up." He wants to cry, he wants to sit down and wail for all his life is worth. She is probably already dead. And thus he spends the rest of the afternoon, trailing behind the Sidhe, alternating in thoughts of guilt and fear of death. But not his own
death -- for if Scully is already dead, there will be nothing to lean himself on anymore.
And he will fall.
They camp for the night in a meadow much like all the other meadows they have tramped through for the day. Fox is very glad to sit down; he hasn't walked so much in ages. The Sidhe pay little or no attention to him, conversing among themselves in another language. Then one nods and steps out into the darkness, pacing back and forth. Tirorvan comes and
sits next to Fox.
"Tomorrow I will explain to you what must be done. For now, you need to sleep and not have any dreams."
Fox grins wryly. "I don't think I can help it, Tirorvan. They come whether we humans want them to or not."
Tirorvan smiles back and passes his small-fingered hand over Fox's eyes. "Tonight you will not dream."
And he is not particularly surprised to find that he doesn't.
She sits in a carved wooden chair by his side, and cannot look away from him. He has given her new clothes, for which she is absurdly grateful. They are lightweight, and she shivers a bit in the growing Faerie dusk. Her master Mìorunach notices her shiverings and smiles.
"Mortals. They cannot stop being susceptible."
He hauls her up to his lap and she curls up into him, feeling unutterably lucky.
"Do you love me?" she whispers plaintively. "You love me, don't you."
He smiles down at her indulgently. Blood slicks his teeth. She wants to lick it off. "Of course I love you, pet. Do I not give you everything you want?"
She sighs up at him. "Yes. Yes, you do." He draws her up to him, and kisses her, not for the first time. It is a painful assault, and she loves it. Some of the blood on his teeth is hers, and she has bruises on her body from his touch. But she cannot get enough. He is her master, and she would do anything for him. Anything.
He finishes kissing her and says, "Now, sweetling, there are some things I want you to do for me tomorrow night. You were brought here to fulfill your destiny. But first I have some tasks for you. Will you do them?"
She grins fiercely up at him, a Doberman's smile of love. "Of course I will."
He begins to whisper, his gaze firmly fixed on her. By the time he finishes, she is smiling.
The Sidhe allow Fox to sleep until late morning. When he demands to know why, the Sidhe who had woken him only smiles at him kindly and answers in heavily accented English, "What would you have done, then? Sat around or been in our way, I suppose. You couldn't have helped us, and you need the rest. So what are you howling about?"
The Seelie Sidhe spend the afternoon preparing for Samhain. Tirorvan takes it upon himself to explain some things to Fox.
"We Seelie, you see, don't consider the humans a scourge. We're kind of your biological conservationists -- we want to coexist with all living things. We sometimes live very peacefully in your world. Ireland was one place where we could live in harmony with the people. But eventually, the Unseelie would come over and upset the humans and we would have to move."
"But why Earth?" interrupts Fox. "Why not some other world?"
"I honestly don't know," replies the Sidhe. "We have always been
coming there. And I don't know what our ancestors were thinking when they chose Earth. Perhaps our scholars would know differently, but I am really only a soldier."
"Wait a minute! I thought you Sidhe lived forever."
"No, but in peacetime we live a very long time. It must seem like forever to you humans. I will eventually grow old and die, but you will never see it. Unless I am killed tonight, in battle." The chill in his normally cheerful voice brings a small shiver up and down Fox's back. I could die today.
"So why are the Seelie hunting you specifically?" he asks in an effort to hold back the chills. Tirorvan smiles, a trifle sadly. "Ah, Fox, it has been so long since I told this story to someone who will help us. We are the last of a clan whose leader resisted the Unseelie attempt to take over some land
that we had held. It was a better way to get to the humans, you see, and Mìorunach was fair rabid trying to get it. He was only a lord, then, but he became King as a result of the fighting. Blaise held Mirrowdowns for so long, fighting day and night even when they sent wights past the guards to kill his wife and son. They killed my lady, you see, but not the son. I took him away before they could have him. And six days after he had been spirited away, the whole Court went hunting a
giant, and when they caught it they dragged it in chains to Blaise's door and let it go. How they laughed that day --Mìorunach took his cousins and the Court hawking through the castle, and they let the hawks feast on my lord's eyes while he was in chains." Tirorvan's voice breaks in grief, and Fox is caught up by the story.
"What happened then?"
"That was the day that Mirrowdowns fell, and gentle was the sound of its passing. We gathered the ones that were left and we fled into the lands of the humans for safety. So much iron, you see, often will dissuade Mìorunach from sending the Unseelie to those lands. It has been fifty years since the fall of Mirrowdowns and we have been in the human lands ever since. Mìorunach has been occupied in taking over the court of the Unseelie and he has actually left us alone for quite some
time."
"Well, why in Heaven's name is he hunting you down now?" asks Fox. He is perplexed. Fifty years is an awfully long time to hold a grudge. But if these Sidhe live as long as Tirorvan says, he can begin to imagine fifty years as a short time. Only begin, though; his imagination soon fails him. He eyes Tirorvan again.
"It's the young lord, you see. He's grown up now. We had thought to disguise our taking of him until he had become older, but Mìorunach seems to have gotten word of his being among us. He sent bogans for us -- that is why I needed to be loud, to warn my friends and my lord of the coming peril. Now, by Unseelie law, we are traitors to the Crown and we will be destroyed at any cost. And so we must prevail. Do you see?" he asks, searching Fox' face. "If we lose, we only lose our
lives. But Mirrowdowns is very close to the human world. The Unseelie Court could start sending bogans through to clear the way. Not just one, but several thousand, all iron-resistant. They can be taught not to fear iron, though it takes a long time. That is probably why Mìorunach hasn't started in on you humans already." Fox imagines thousands of those silver beings, all converging on FBI headquarters, and has to suppress a smirk. This is really quite serious. Tirorvan continues, "We must prevail with the Wild Hunt or Mìorunach may conceivably start taking the Earth, piece by piece. And he doesn't coexist. It's him or you. And you will be the losers."
Fox gestures. "Why can't he just be content with this? It's the most beautiful place I've ever seen. I'm sure he could be happy here."
"No, he is not like that. He hates humans, you see, and he wants to have their lands just so they won't. The Unseelie don't think like you, Fox. They are like greedy human children, and they don't want to share. Luckily, most of the Seelie understand our plight and are willing to fight. Around Samhain, almost everyone is looking for a fight. We -- and you --
are lucky that they realize how important saving Earth as a refuge is. Usually they won't band together for a matter of hours, let alone days. But Blaise has a little power, enough to bring us together for Samhain. We will fight the army, and you will fight Mìorunach with your knowledge of iron."
Fox ponders upon that for a few moments, and then nods. "Two
questions, then. Who is the new young lord? Have I seen him?"
"Yes," says Tirorvan. "He knocked you over when you were paralyzed by the bogan. His name is Blaise, like his father." Fox remembers the Sidhe, how Fox had thought he looked like Tirorvan.
"And the other question?"
"What do I have to do?"
Tirorvan's face breaks into a grin. "Ah, now there is a good question." They begin to speak, quietly, two dangerous creatures in their own right, plotting the downfall of something much more powerful than they are.
So passes the afternoon.
It is evening, and the moon climbs the sky though it is still light. She watches it from atop the stone slab. Her red hair is flung out behind her, and her face is turned up to the light in the sky. She wears a face of ecstasy that even her lovers will never see. She is not cold anymore, and not hungry, though she has had nothing to eat in two days. This will be
the night, then, that she can prove her love to the being that has commanded her existence. She is to give herself to the hunter. And kill anyone who gets in the way.
Something she is fully prepared to do. She is a deadly weapon in her own right.
It is evening, and the moon climbs the sky though it is still light. He watches it from atop a hill. His dark hair stands up in spikes and his face is still, looking down the hill to where a hundred watch-fires burn. He is cold, and hungry, though he has eaten some bread and wrapped himself in a spare Sidhe cloak. This will be the night, then, that he will prove
himself or die. Prove himself or die. That has a mighty harsh ring to it, doesn't it? He has decided, though. He let Scully be taken, and he will get her back, or die trying. It is as simple as that.
He will do one thing or the other. He is a deadly weapon in his own right.
"It will be iron, of course," Tirorvan had said. "It may sound like every fairy tale you ever heard has come to life, but that really is the best way to kill any Sidhe. We have brought a knife with us that is pure iron, and you are the only one who can carry it comfortably. Thus, it must be you who gives the killing stroke. Do you understand? No matter what happens
around you, Fox. No matter what you see and who you may think will help you. Dana will only be free from the glamour when the sorcerer Mìorunach is dead. And once he is dead, the Unseelie will disperse and begin the process of deciding who will succeed to the throne of the Court."
"What is a glamour?" Fox had asked, interested in spite of
himself.
"A spell that can hold humans bound."
"Like the spell that the bogan cast on us?"
"No, that was not a spell. The bogan only reflected your fears back to you and caught you with them. A glamour is much more serious -- it keeps a human prisoner of the Sidhe as long as the spell lasts. And usually, they last a lifetime. So, you see, Dana will not be happy to see you, and will not do what you say. You must understand this. She will only obey Mìorunach, for he is the one who holds the glamour.
By killing him, the glamour ceases, and she will fight for you again. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Fox had muttered. Now, looking down from the hill, he
wondered. Can it be that strong? Could it be strong enough that she would not answer the desperate sound of his voice? That idea pleases him not at all, and he scowls.
Earlier that evening they had given him the knife. It had been kept in a thick wooden box with those clumsy runes carved in it. Though the hornless, goatfooted, redhaired Sidhe who had fetched the box had made no sound of complaint, Fox had seen the welts that had been raised on her hands, just by being in such proximity. At great cost, Tirorvan had said. For such a small, sharp thing. It was in his belt, now. They had
made a scabbard for it of leather, but he had been the one to lift it out of the box. It was honed to a keen, sharp edge, and looked a lot like those replica daggers that Fox had seen in D.C. weapons stores. But he had known by the blistered hands of the patient Sidhe that if Tirorvan wasn't lying the dagger was pure iron and was causing him great pain. A heavy and not particularly effective weapon -- except in this case. Even these
city-bred Sidhe hadn't liked to come near it.
Fox absently rubs his hand up and down the scabbard, warming his palm with the friction. He must kill at close range. The Sidhe have told him again and again that they will protect him, but he cannot believe them. He must fight on his own, and he must kill something that has existed for thousands of years before he was born, if you could believe Tirorvan. He has never killed a man close up, though he is a crack marksman and has shot enough men in his time. He's used a practice dagger, back in his
college days with the Society for Creative Anachronism, but the guy you 'killed' always got up and shook your hand afterwards. This killing stuff must be easy, though, he muses, six or seven thousand teenage New Yorkers can't be wrong. He is not really amused by his own thoughts.
More and more Sidhe had gathered to Blaise's banner that afternoon, as if all the Sidhe in Faerie knew what was going on and had to come see. Most of them passed Fox without a second look, though many others gawked and pointed. Blaise had quickly and efficiently sorted them out -- Fox admired his generalcy, even though by Sidhe standards Blaise was just a boy. And the Sidhe had gone, and stood in line, and been good soldiers, just as if they were not about to die over a piece of land and
honor. Blaise had come smiling up to Fox, saying in a gentle voice, throwing a long arm around him, "Look who we have to protect you." And, leading Fox out where the troops could see him, "Look what we have to protect!" Standing on the hill, Fox knows that he is the weapon. He wonders if they have a couple more humans with iron knives, standing by. Spares. He decides that they probably do. Blaise strikes him as that kind
of general. The Sidhe take advantage of him simply because he is
desperate. He strains his eyes in the darkness, wondering where Scully is. What she is doing, what she is thinking.
Will she recognize me from the desperate sound of my
voice?
Now, he is not so sure.
And night falls.
It really does fall -- here in Faerie, night comes like an anvil, pounding into the earth like a dagger to the ribs. In one moment, a perfectly light sky sheds its luminescence like a velvet dress. Fox cannot recall seeing the sun set, yet it obviously has. He stands still, frightened now that the
time has come. Before, all he could think of was Scully. War has become concrete and he fears for his own life. Ours is not to question why, he thinks, and then stops thinking as best he can. This is certainly no time for thinking. If one goes about thinking too much about what one will be doing, one invariably ends up talking oneself out of things. Fox has
discovered that sometimes, you could just think too much.
Tirorvan tugs at his arm, an irritating habit, but the Sidhe's size excludes most everything else but biting Fox' knees. Fox looks down and Tirorvan points to the moon.
"The Lady is climbing, and the Wild Hunt stirs. Soon Herne will run with her, wherever he is sent. Mìorunach will try and tell him to go into the human lands, but if Blaise can get there first, then he will command Herne to go into the wildlands beyond Faerie. You must silence Mìorunach before he can give the command, do you understand? Herne will not be patient long and he will not listen to you, so don't try anything. If we cannot get there in time, he will take Dana Scully, for she
will be a willing sacrifice, and his Hunt will feast on humans. Your life will possibly be forfeit if we cannot protect you. Try to find Mìorunach's throat, that would be best, then he cannot speak. While he is being silenced, Blaise will step in and invoke the High Magic to command Herne. You must not let Mìorunach speak the command! It is imperative."
"I understand," says Fox. "I won't let it happen, if it is within my power at all. The King of the Unseelie Court will be silenced for his crimes." His words sound oddly formal and echo in his ears. It is a death sentence that must be carried out.
Down the hill a little, Fox can see Blaise, his light hair whipping in the night breeze, motioning the Seelie troops into place. Soon, they are ready and Blaise leads them towards the crest of the hill and then down the other side. As they pass Fox, most of them give him odd salutes, smiling in approval at the tousled-haired human with the sober face. Fox nods his
head to some of them. At Blaise's signal, he and his Sidhe companion slide into place and the well-oiled machine of war is on its way. The Sidhe are marching, and the moon rises.
As they get closer, shouts go up, presumably from the sentries. Ten of the Sidhe break off sharply, and Tirorvan, Blaise, and Fox follow them, silently, leaving Blaise's second to lead the main body of the army. They circle quietly around the camp and then two of the vanguard soldiers motion them to stillness. They glide into the shadows -- there is no noise, and they are back. It has been successful, then -- the guards are dead.
The soldiers lead the way into the Unseelie camp. The camp has
disintegrated into shouts and chaos, now. Apparently, most of the Unseelie hadn't known that the army was coming, though
Mìorunach must have realized it. They are scrambling into armor, and running in the general direction of the Seelie army. Most of them pass the small party right by, and those who do not are dispatched efficiently by the Sidhe. Fox can now see the difference between Seelie and Unseelie Sidhe. The Seelie are short and rather ugly, and have many animal attributes, such as horns and fur or fangs or owl's eyes or somesuch. The
Unseelie are exactly how elves have been pictured in contemporary
fantasy -- long, thin, and beautiful, though cold. Fox shivers, thinking that all the fantasy writers in the world have been picturing and idealizing creatures that would love to have them dead and dismembered -- a sobering thought, but again, he must stop thinking and simply follow Tirorvan. Which he does, with minimal success at being quiet. He seems to be stumblefooted.
They come upon the clearing suddenly. It lies in the middle of the camp -- cleared land surrounds a large stone almost like a dais, upon which sits -- Scully. In some sort of diaphanous thing, looking around in a frowning sort of petulance. She cannot understand why everyone isn't looking at her. Isn't she supposed to give herself to Herne in a moment of glory?
Why was everyone running around bleating like half-dead goats? Quite upset, she frowns sulkily.
Fox is appalled, shocked, and so happy to see her alive that he almost bursts. "Scully!" he shouts, and then ventures, "Dana!" And he sees what else has arrived on the dais and wishes fervently that he had kept quiet. But even Tirorvan's sigh of disappointment cannot keep him down for long. She is alive! Alive! Even if she does not look up at the sound at her
name, but continues staring at the stone, a frown on her mobile face. The tall Unseelie Sidhe comes up behind her, and _then_ she looks up, with a sycophantic expression.
"Where is Herne, Master?" she asks, whining a little. Mulder can do nothing but stare.
"He is coming, pretty pet." This being must be Mìorunach. He is easily six and a half feet tall, with long plaited white hair and an unlined face. His face is streaked with blood and it is caked under his white
fingernails. His eyes are so light they are almost clear, and seem to glow with a bluish radiance. He strokes Dana's hair like a pet cat. Fox hears a growl resounding around in his head, only dimly aware that it has escaped. Mìorunach raises his head and sees the party, his eyes fixing on
Blaise. Fox suddenly feels his legs kicked out from under him. He falls, heavily, and Tirorvan is suddenly beside him on the ground. Angry, he starts to protest, but Tirorvan cuts him off.
"Now! Go and imitate your namesake. You can stop this."
Fox nods as well as he can and starts wriggling commando-style towards the back of the dais. He hears most of the following conversation as periphery. He has stopped thinking.
On the stone, time has seemed to stop. She is angry that Herne has not come and there are these usurpers here ready to challenge her master. She tugs at her master's leg, and he absently backhands her halfway across the stone. "Quiet, pet. Your master is having a conversation and doesn't want
to be bothered." There is no particular malice in his tone. She lies flat on the stone, unbreathing, her chest turned to iron.
It probably saves her life.
Mìorunach smiles down upon the company. "Greetings, boy
pretender. What do you here, among your sworn enemies?"
The words are oddly formal, as is Blaise's reply. The Sidhe are a traditional people, if nothing else.
"I have to come to avenge my father and take back my lands,
Mìorunach." The deliberate omission of title does not change the Unseelie's face a whit, though his eyes grow colder.
"You come ill prepared. You see, I have an army."
"Listen," says Blaise. The sounds of fighting can be heard clearly in the silence, and eddies of fighting Sidhe swirl past the stone. The bloodlust of Samhain is upon them, and they scream as they fight, scream as they bleed and die. Mìorunach smiles in appreciation.
"That does not change things," he says. "It is Samhain, and the Hunt will be upon us. Where is your little human chattel? Creeping up behind me, no doubt." He whirls in exaggerated fright and then laughs. "Humans mean nothing, and he is just an extra sacrifice, Seelie. When I command Herne, nothing will stop us from taking your scrawny boy-head and putting it up on my gates where it belongs."
"Then we will have to stop you from commanding him, won't we?" says Blaise and vaults lightly onto the wedge of stone. His company follows.
Mìorunach laughs cruelly. "It is too late. He comes. You have no sacrifice, and he comes!"
In the distance, the fighting stops, and all Sidhe look up into the sky where a hunting horn blares, shaking Faerie. A figure is riding through the sky, trailed by a pack of animals that look like hounds, but aren't. The figure rides a horse, and as it comes nearer, the viewers can see it clearly. It is Herne's man-face, neither kind nor cruel, is surmounted by huge horns. She looks up, still spreadeagled in a corner, sees the face of
justice towering over her, and wonders for a brief flash whether she can get away. Then love overwhelms her again, and she smiles up at the face of destiny. Fox, crawling up over the back of the rock with the knife clenched between his teeth, does not see the face at all. His cloak has half-torn from him, and his fingers are scraped almost raw. His blistered chest is agony. His face is screwed up tightly in concentration, and he
moves patiently, for one slight wrong movement might raise
Mìorunach's interest level.
The air stills, except for the baying of animals who are not hounds, milling in the air behind the Hunter. Said Hunter stretches his hand out towards Mìorunach and Blaise. Long claws glimmer in the moonlight.
"Is there one of you who has brought me a sacrifice? I will not be commanded by simple force of will. There must be one freely given to sway my Hunt. It is the High Magic."
Mìorunach opens his mouth to speak, and everything happens
very quickly after that. Fox, having reached his optimum position, stands up. Suddenly the knife is snatched from between his teeth, almost slicing his mouth open. He stands, almost stock still, watching Mìorunach wheel in slow motion, and watching the woman who now holds the knife. He had forgotten her. Forgotten! Because he had wanted to believe that she would not hurt him. And now he will pay for that.
Her voice is a wail. "You will not kill my master! I will have my destiny!" A fey light glints from the iron knife as she brings it down towards Fox's chest. Suddenly, Tirorvan is in front of him and takes the knife in his shoulder, which is about the height of Fox's breastbone. Tirorvan moans, animallike, and clutches at the knife in his shoulder, raising welts on his hand. A smell of sizzled flesh comes from his shoulder.
Mìorunach smiles slightly. "Good, my little pet. You're a regular watchdog, aren't you, dear? And you handle iron so well. What a foolish mortal he was to think that he could hurt me with you around." He makes a peremptory gesture, and a bogan vaults out of the night and onto the stone. Mìorunach instructs him to guard Fox and Tirorvan, and paying no more mind to either the human or the Sidhe, he turns back towards Herne.
Tirorvan looks at Fox, an anguished grimace stretching his features. "Please, Fox. Take out the blade. It must be used on Mìorunach before the bargain is struck. Please, Fox."
Fox is struck to stone with the weight of his failure. He had not paid enough attention to Scully. He had been almost sure that she would at least been confused by his presence, but she had not even recognized him.
Tirorvan's eyes narrow to slits in pain. "Fox! You make my sacrifice vain! Get. This. Iron. Out. Of. Me. And. Where. It. Belongs." He draws every word out, holding Fox' eyes like a fishhook. Fox nods, and pulls the knife easily from Tirorvan's flesh. As he begins to stand, Tirorvan says "Fox" again. Fox looks down at him.
"You are a credit to your namesake. Fly true."
"Fly true," echoes Fox. It is a farewell of sorts. When he stands again, Mìorunach is speaking with Herne, and his voice comes through clearly.
". . . We will speak in the human tongue, for my pet to understand exactly what is to happen to her. You will have her, will you not, and then the Hunt will take her for sacrifice? Then you will go into the human's world and Hunt it clean? All the humans will be destroyed? Yes? That is the bargain? That is the High Magic?" His voice is eager. Fox realizes that it
will be very hard to get to Mìorunach now; he recognizes the stance that Mìorunach has adopted. The Sidhe is ready to whirl around at any minute; he is watching movement from the corner of his eye. For one small moment of desperation Fox wonders how he ever thought that he could kill this creature. Herne replies to the King in a deep, sonorous voice.
"Yes, that is acceptable for a Samhain Hunt. Is your pet willing?"
Mìorunach turns halfway to Dana Scully. "Are you willing,
pretty thing?"
In answer she drops her gown to the stone. She is wearing several ankle-rings and nothing else. Fox is paralyzed, he cannot think rationally, though a thousand Sidhe die beside him. This cannot be -- it is unthinkable, these actions that Scully is performing. In his mind, he jumps and slashes at this creature who makes his best friend defile herself this way. His body does not move, though his anger pounds his blood to ash. He does not move, and the moment ticks swiftly by.
Suddenly his eidetic memory saves him. His mind flashes back to
Oxford and something he hasn't thought about for years, something he has tried very very hard to forget. The time when he had been interested in the SCA and he and one of his flatmates had fought for Phoebe's honor, for fun of course. She had given him her token, a flat purple ribbon around his wrist, and had kissed him deeply while the whole field looked on,
grinning. Then he had gone out and been beaten soundly. That was the last time he ever fought tournament-style in the SCA, but he had done some target archery and Mark, the juggler, had taught him how to swallow fire and to throw a knife.
He remembers it now, as clearly as ever, and though his conscious mind is paralyzed by Scully's white skin, his body remembers as well as if he were in the SCA house and flicking homemade daggers at a bull's-eye for hours at a time. You hold it like so, he remembers, and weighs the haft in his hand. It is not really well-balanced, but he knows he can do it,
for Mark's daggers had been off-balance on purpose. This is how you learn, Mulder. It's in your wrist. Up, and back and forward. Don't take your eyes off the target.
Time slows down. Herne reaches for Dana, and she holds out a slim white wrist. He can still only see her back, but then his focus shifts to Mìorunach and stays there. Up, and he focuses tightly on the slim white throat behind the braid of white hair. Back, and he hears Herne saying something in a deep voice, and Blaise yelling, "Wait, Herne. Wait." And forward, and his whole soul seems to go with the throw.
The slim silver blade streaks like a shooting star towards its target. The bogan's lightning-quick reflexes would have saved the King's life, but it reacts towards the wrong place, for it is sure that Fox would aim for Mìorunach's back. Three or four things happen when the dagger hits.
Mìorunach slumps to the ground, black blood welling from his throat. A sizzling sound becomes very loud. Scully lets out a yell of panic and tries to tear her grip from Herne's. And Fox sees a very unsteady Tirorvan make a run past the collapsed King of the Unseelie Sidhe to fall on his knees in front of the hunter.
Blaise makes a noise of denial, stepping forward to try and stop what has already started. Tirorvan is already speaking. Blood streams from his shoulder, and his voice is unsteady and hoarse.
"This humble Sidhe willingly submits to sacrifice and asks only that the Hunter goes where his lord, Blaise, commands him to go. This humble sacrifice surrenders to Herne the Hunter without any reservations and gives Herne his soul to aid the cause of his sworn liege, Blaise. Will the Hunter accept this sacrifice in lieu of the false one given by the King of the Unseelie Sidhe? Will the Hunter accept the bonds of the High
Magic?"
Herne stretches out his hand. "The Hunter accepts. This is the High Magic." And the animals who are not hounds bay and howl in the night. Tirorvan has but a glance toward his lord and perhaps a sob of relief before they are on him.
And the night echoes.
Afterwards, Blaise seems older and more tired. Nothing is left of Tirorvan but a belt buckle, and the animals who are not hounds are milling and wailing with bloodlust. Herne looks to Blaise. "The Hunter has accepted the sacrifice. He will go where he is commanded. Does the young Sidhe lord wish there to be a scourge of the human lands?"
"No," says Blaise as wearily as if he had done all the fighting himself. "No. I command you out into the Wildlands, where you would have gone anyway had not the Unseelie Lord insisted you come here. There are things there that will keep your interest, Lord of the Hunt." He stands tall and proud, graceful like a cat on a railing. Grief mars his face.
"As the lord commands." Herne wheels his horse and the Wild Hunt
trails into the sky. The fighting has stopped, at least between Seelie and Unseelie. Everywhere, tall spare figures are forming into ranks under their commanding lords and the fight for the succession begins. The mobile Sidhe gather under the rock to hear Blaise speak, with traditional eloquence, about the great battle that had just been fought, and Tirorvan's great sacrifice.
Yada, yada, thinks Fox. His strength has mostly been used up, and he really only wants one thing. He stumbles over to where Dana Scully, with her diaphanous gown pulled back around her, is sobbing fit to break his heart.
"Mulder," she says, looking up at him. Her eyes tear at him. "I had no control. I lost c-c-c-" and she cannot continue. He understands, though. He wraps his torn cloak around her and holds her towards him, away from the chill of the rock and the Faerie night. Holds her, and does not say anything for a long time, for whatever he could say would be no consolation. He cannot help her, but longs to comfort her. Suddenly he
remembers something else, a bit of a song he had heard a while ago that had stuck with him, and he begins to sing to her, softly, rocking her as if she were his daughter and afraid of crocodiles under the bed.
" Sunday morning
Yellow sky
The sun is floating diamond high
Hours passing
A baby cries
In the arms of someone you imagine
Close your eyes
This is your lullaby
Close your eyes
This is your lullaby"
His voice is nothing stunning, but the song lulls her somewhat. She stops crying after awhile and looks up at him, sniffling. She looks a little angry now. "Mulder," she says again, and it clicks back into place -- he is Mulder now. "Mulder, I didn't even know my own name! I was ready to kill you to get the approval of that -- that --" and she gestures at Mìorunach's body, still slumped on the cold rock. Her face twists into a semblance of disdain.
"Doesn't matter. Don't worry," he says, "I would have done the same to you. It's called a glamour, Scully. It doesn't leave you a choice." Then he gives her a patented Mulder Leer and says, "Bezidez, I like fiolent weemun."
"Did you see -- anything?" she asks, coloring to the roots of her copper hair.
"No," he lies gallantly, "There was a bogan in front of me and he was blocking my view, dammit!"
"How rude," she says drily. And begins to laugh. It is a clear, pure sound that rings out across Faerie, and Mulder cannot help it. He begins to laugh as well.
Blaise asks to speak to Mulder alone, and he assents. The new general and Lord of Mirrowdowns thanks Mulder for his help.
"If you need a place in Faerie, just call, for there is always a home for you in the Mirrowdowns."
Mulder looks at him, this being who is no larger than him, but who will live much longer. "Can I bring Scully with me?"
Blaise has a glint in his eye. "Of course -- if she behaves herself." Then he looks at Mulder. "I will send you back tonight. We will send you by spell, and none of us will go with you. But rest assured that we will watch, and if you need help, we will come."
Mulder thanks him and goes back to Scully. She makes a place for him. And they fall asleep there, on the rock, after Mulder borrows another cloak from Blaise. And when they wake up, they are on benches in the park underneath the school in Wolcott, Connecticut. It is morning, and mist is rising from the grass of the baseball field. There are no signs of any outlandish creatures running around. No Sidhe or anything similar -- not
even children or dog-walkers. The park is as silent as the grave. Scully sits up, alarmed, and jabs Mulder in the ribs.
"Mulder! Wake up!"
She is frightened that he will not wake, even though she has felt the comforting lull of his breathing. But he knuckles his eyes and stares at her. "What's up, Scully?"
"Mulder! Did we get knocked out or something? Why are we
here?"
He grins at her. "We got abducted into Faerie, Scully."
He can see that she wants to deny it, and she does. "We did no such thing, Mulder. Fairies don't exist."
He picks up an edge of the cloak that she is wrapped in and tugs it a little. She is forced to look down then, to actually see what she is wearing. A soiled blue cloak, and underneath it -- something she would be arrested for wearing in public.
"What will we tell the Bureau, Mulder? What will we tell Ken
Farnsworth?"
He shrugs elaborately, still grinning. It has been heaven to hold Scully for one night, though he is just getting the circulation back into his arms. "We'll tell them that the case has been solved. We're the FBI, Scully, we don't have to tell them anything. They'll believe better that way. Conspiracy, and all of that stuff."
"Mulder. . . ."
"Hm?"
"I've lost the car keys. And my badge. We're going to have to
walk."
"Scully," and he offers her his arm, "I'd consider it a pleasure to walk into town with you." And as they walk down Blansfield Lane, he in a tattered shirt and muddy jeans and she in a cloak, they begin to laugh again. The sound carries to the occupants of the adjacent houses.
"What could those two ragamuffins possibly have to laugh about?" mutter the neighbors, wondering if they should call the police.
But in the end, they don't. The laughter is too pure -- it peals clearly, like it belongs in another world. And in it, the listeners hear their dreams.
--laura smit--
July 12, 1996
--Poetry Disclaimer-- The title and beginning quote (as well as the song at the end) is from a song by the band October Project, called "Sunday Morning Yellow Sky," lyrics by Julie Flanders and Emil Adler, used without permission. The poem by e.e. cummings is entitled "All in green went my love riding," and can be found in his poetry collection, "Tulips and Chimneys," also used without permission. The poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge is called "Kubla Khan," and can be found in any reasonably good collection of English poetry. Aside: Mìorunach
means "malice" in Gaelic (:)) and should be spelt with the Gaelic "i" although I don't know if it came through in the transcription.
--Location Disclaimer--Any persons from Wolcott will recognize some street names and perhaps even the restaurant, but I have taken a few liberties with the town which I hope they will forgive me for.
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