The Queen of Mists and Memory ::: Chapter Fifteen
      This chapter is rated NC-17 for violence, character death, and adult 
      situations.
      Reader discretion is advised.



      Chapter Fifteen
      All battles, Mulder decided, ended badly, no matter who won.

      He moved stiffly, nursing the bruises and shallow cuts he'd received in 
      the final acts of the melee. When he'd seen Mordred's soldier throw Scully 
      behind the raised platform like a useless sack of soiled laundry, his 
      tired mind had snapped with the lightening synapses of rage. He'd attacked 
      the man, killing him almost instantly with a furious swipe at his 
      unprotected neck. The soldier had crumpled, but another one was on Mulder 
      immediately, jumping him from behind, and that one had given him quite a 
      lot more trouble. By the time he'd finished him off, the Hall had grown 
      quiet, and he'd raised his head to look around. 

      Very few men were left standing. The ones that were, however, wore the 
      armor and plumage of the Round Table Knights. A grim satisfaction swelled 
      in Mulder, but it didn't last long. He'd given his assailant one last kick 
      and leapt down from the platform, racing to Scully's side.

      She was unresponsive when he prodded her face with his hands, when he 
      smoothed the long, burnished hair from her sweaty brow and examined the 
      wound at her temple. It was shallow but jagged, stretching up into her 
      hairline, and he tore a strip of heavy material from a nearby tablecloth 
      and pressed it there to staunch the bleeding. She was breathing normally, 
      though, and he used the rest of the tablecloth to tuck around her body to 
      keep her warm.

      When he stood, he noticed a silent procession of people beginning to file 
      into the Hall through the huge doors. Mostly women, they weaved their way 
      through the fallen men, pausing to regard the bodies, some dropping to a 
      wailing heap when they came across the soldier they sought. It was a 
      horrible sight, and he tried to sweep his eyes across them quickly, 
      finally spotting the woman that he needed.

      She saw him at almost the same time and rushed across the Hall, stepping 
      around the bodies with an expression of pained anxiety. When she reached 
      him, she grabbed his arm, hanging on as if he were the lone buoy in a 
      choppy, stormy lake.

      "Sir Lancelot," she said, and he tried to remember her name, knowing that 
      in this life, it was not Kimberly Cook. "Where is my lady Guinevere?"

      "Here." He gestured to the floor, and she sunk to her knees beside Scully, 
      her tears falling, embroidering the tablecloth with tiny sparkles. The 
      Queen's waiting woman found her cousin's hand and pulled it to her breast, 
      and Mulder choked his own words out, his throat constricting at the 
      pitiful sight.

      "Will you...look after her for a moment, lady? I need—I need to find the 
      King."

      The woman nodded mutely, stroking Scully's hair as if she were the most 
      precious thing in the whole world. As loathe as he was to leave Scully 
      again, he knew he had to fulfill his obligation as the leader of the 
      King's men. That entailed discerning who was left alive...including Arthur 
      himself.

      He started across the Hall toward one of the knights. The man stood 
      motionless near the dais, his sword still in his hand, his armor and his 
      blade so red he could have been dipped in blood. When Mulder approached, 
      he raised his eyes. Mulder recognized him, but he did not know the man's 
      Arthurian name. In the course of his lifetime as an F.B.I. agent, though, 
      Mulder had called him Pendrell. Sean Pendrell, who had died on the floor 
      of a bar while Scully tried to protect a witness. To Mulder, that time 
      seemed so very long ago, and he couldn't help wondering if he would ever 
      know it again. 

      "Lancelot," the knight whispered. "They are all dead. So many...so many of 
      our comrades. What will we do now?"

      Mulder laid a hand on the younger man's shoulder, surprised to feel the 
      burning in his eyes intensify. "I don't know. But we must see who 
      survived, and we must find the King."

      "Lancelot!" The voice came from behind them, and both men turned. A huge 
      grin broke across Mulder's face as he realized who called to him. The 
      smaller man rushed forward, nearly knocking him over with the force of his 
      embrace.

      "We have prevailed!" Bors exclaimed, thumping Mulder on the back and 
      making his whole body vibrate. "We have taken Camelot back! We have won!"

      Mulder pulled away and stared at the diminutive knight, his expression 
      sliding from happiness to sadness in short order. "I guess we have, Bors. 
      But what a high price we've had to pay."

      Bors nodded soberly and crossed himself. He sheathed his gore-covered 
      sword and took Mulder's arm, turning him in another direction. "I think, 
      Lance...I think you should come. I know...I know if you spoke to her, it 
      would give her some peace."

      "What—" Mulder started to ask, but his voice halted abruptly when his eyes 
      fell on the scene before him. 

      He couldn't see the woman's face at first; a curtain of feathery blond 
      hair hid it. But the knight she held cradled in her lap wore Lancelot's 
      armor, the suit that Mulder had grown accustomed to over the last several 
      days in this strange land. The lady Lionors had removed the helmet, and 
      she brushed long, shaking fingers through her husband's auburn hair as she 
      rocked and silently cried.

      The heaviness in Mulder's chest was almost unbearable. He froze, 
      immobilized by the anguish that washed through him. "Bors, no," he 
      mumbled. "I...I don't think...I can't—"

      Bors' grip on his arm tightened. "You must, Lancelot. It is your duty. Go 
      and speak to her. Tell her what a great sacrifice her beloved has made."

      His legs felt as if they were made of lead, but somehow, he managed to 
      walk the few paces across the floor and bent them to bring him down to her 
      level. Lionors did not look at him, but she spoke, and her voice was 
      smooth and controlled. Mulder marveled at how collected she sounded, 
      knowing very well that her heart had to be ready to burst from sorrow.

      "He fought bravely, did he not, Sir Lancelot?"

      Mulder nodded, forcing his vocal cords into motion. "He did, lady. He was 
      valiant and true to his King. Without him, we could not have succeeded in 
      defeating Mordred." Mulder dropped his head, his eyes moving to the dead 
      knight's face. Gareth looked so much like John Byers that his heart seared 
      with agony again, and the next words tumbled out of his mouth before he 
      could stop them. "He was a good friend, too. I loved him like a brother."

      Lionors blinked at him then, her eyes drowning in a sea of tears, but they 
      shone with the bright light of pride and gratitude. "And he loved you, Sir 
      Lancelot," she whispered. She reached out and took Mulder's hand, 
      clutching it fiercely. "Now go and find the King."

      Mulder squeezed her hand in return and stood, stumbling as he moved away. 
      The knight he recognized as Pendrell caught him, and then Bors was before 
      him, staring up at Mulder with discerning eyes. 

      "Lancelot, you need to rest. Come, sit for a moment."

      Mulder waved him off, yanking his arm from the other knight's grip. "No. 
      We need to find Arthur. Come on."

      He made his way toward the platform, the place where he had last seen the 
      King. Arthur had saved him from Mordred's sword, and the King and his son 
      had squared off for what looked to Mulder like a hell of a fight. He'd 
      been distracted by Scully's captor and then by the other soldier who'd 
      attacked him, so he had not seen what had become of Arthur or Mordred.

      He spotted Mordred immediately when he boosted himself up onto the dais. 
      The dark man lay on his back, his arms and legs splayed as if readying his 
      body for crucifixion. His face was streaked with blood, and a huge puddle 
      of it pooled beneath his head, saturating his hair. The one gaping wound 
      in his throat told the story of the final death blow Arthur had delivered 
      as his traitorous son stared up at him. Mordred's green eyes were now 
      empty and lifeless, and Mulder bent over him, shutting them with a careful 
      sweep of his hand.

      But Arthur...Arthur was nowhere to be seen.

      Mulder's gaze roved over the bodies scattered throughout the Great Hall, 
      trying to spot the white outfit that Arthur had been wearing when he'd 
      pressed Excalibur into the King's hands. He sent Bors and Pendrell out 
      among the fallen soldiers while he searched behind and underneath the 
      platform, but to no avail. Arthur had disappeared.

      He finally sank into Arthur's throne, fatigue and worry settling over him 
      like a heavy shroud. From this spot, he could see Scully, still 
      unconscious but being cared for by the Queen's handmaiden and the servant 
      who resembled Richard Langly. There were other survivors of the battle, 
      too, ones that standing knights had found and were beginning to doctor. He 
      watched as the knight who accompanied Bors wrapped a scrap of cloth around 
      the bleeding head of another warrior. The Hall was filled with moans and 
      the heavy scent of blood; they sharpened in his senses now that he sat and 
      allowed them to wash over him. This was a mess, another fine one, and 
      without Arthur or Scully to guide him, he had no idea what to do.

      Scully. That was another problem.

      She didn't recognize him as Mulder. Rather, she saw him as Lancelot, 
      called him by his doppelganger's name, which triggered a violent surge of 
      rage in him whenever he thought of it. It could only mean one thing, and 
      that realization scared Mulder more than the entire battle he had just 
      survived.

      Scully wasn't Scully anymore. Somehow, her memory had deteriorated to such 
      a point while he was absent that she had completely succumbed to the world 
      around them. And in that process, she had become Guinevere.

      And if that were true, if she was no longer Scully, there was no way for 
      them to return to their world. If she truly believed herself to now be 
      Guinevere, how could he expect her to want to leave?

      He sat forward, his face dropping into his waiting hands. Images flickered 
      through his mind, visions that toppled over each other, blurring the edges 
      of his reality and making his heart race with anxiety.

      The Lady of the Lake, her copper hair shimmering as it billowed in the 
      water around them. She'd promised to help them, to help them both...

      Scully in his arms, her head against his shoulder as they floated in the 
      lake...Scully, his love, his salvation, her devotion the strongest magic 
      and greatest healing power he had ever known...

      Merlin, who talked of heroes and time and consciousness, who spoke of 
      possibilities that Mulder had not dared to dream of in so very long...

      "They can happen, Agent Mulder. You have to believe they can."

      He opened his eyes, not a bit surprised to see the wizard standing before 
      him, one gnarled hand on his hunched shoulder. He took a shaky breath and 
      straightened up, his voice nothing more than a whisper.

      "Tell me where Arthur is, Merlin. Tell me what I must do."



      The cool night air warmed rapidly as he stoked the fire. He'd never 
      imagined he would be assembling a funeral pyre; it wasn't something he had 
      been prepared to do, but he gathered wood as Merlin instructed, working 
      silently alongside Bors and the knight he'd learned was called Percival. 
      The younger man's hair gleamed like a copper penny in the gloaming as they 
      worked, making Mulder ache for Scully.

      She was nearby. Some of the male servants, including Richard, had quickly 
      assembled a pavilion for her, constructing it with wooden rods and soft 
      draperies of rich silks. Once it was ready, Mulder had carried her from 
      the litter she had ridden in and laid her on the pillows inside. He'd 
      allowed himself to brush her parted lips once with the pad of his thumb 
      and then left her to be watched over by the lady Leigh, the Queen's 
      handmaiden.

      Merlin had told him to take them into the forest. Many of the Round Table 
      Knights and the remaining residents of Camelot had stayed at the castle, 
      but Merlin had specified those that Mulder was to bring along. Bors had 
      gently laid Gareth's body in a cart and harnessed it to a pair of horses, 
      but the smaller knight had balked when Merlin instructed him to bring 
      Mordred as well. 

      "I shall not!" Bors bristled with anger, making him appear much taller and 
      more formidable as he faced the aged wizard. "I shall not give that 
      traitor the same honorable rites as a loyal Knight of the Round Table!"

      "He is Arthur's son," Merlin reminded him mildly. "The High King will want 
      to see him once more before he crosses to the Summerland. You owe him that 
      much, Sir Bors."

      Bors had spun on his heel and stalked off then, muttering curses under his 
      breath, but he'd hoisted Mordred's corpse into the cart moments later. 
      Mulder had looked at Merlin then.

      "So Arthur is in the forest? How did he get there?"

      Merlin only gave Mulder a cursory glance and turned to move away. "Look to 
      the Queen, Sir Lancelot. She must be brought in a litter."

      So, with Percival's help, Mulder had fastened the sled-like contraption to 
      the back of his horse and tucked Scully into it, careful to cover her 
      warmly and to cushion her delicate body as best he could. Then, on 
      Merlin's command, he'd pulled his weary form into the saddle, and their 
      small convoy had set out into the dark woods behind Camelot.

      They stopped nearly an hour later on the shores of a smooth, black lake 
      crowned with an eerie velvet mist. Mulder squinted at it, trying to decide 
      if it was the same lake he'd been brought to for healing. He reasoned that 
      they had come from a different direction; it made no sense that it was the 
      same one. He found, however, that he didn't care one iota where in the 
      hell he was. He just wanted the whole ordeal to be finished.

      And so the knights and the servants had started their chores, building the 
      pavilion in a more private area of the shoreline and gathering wood for 
      the cremation ceremony. Mulder didn't understand, though, where Arthur 
      could be. He still remained missing, and Merlin had told him nothing more 
      about the King's whereabouts.

      Once the wood had been assembled, Percival and Bors carried Mordred and 
      Gareth to the stack. The men were laid on two slim, wooden pallets, which 
      were then shoved onto the middle of the pile. Bors took one of the lighted 
      torches and touched it to the bottom of the pyre, igniting the dry 
      kindling. Small flames licked the sides, catching and throwing the fire up 
      the outer rim. 

      Mulder stood apart with Merlin, watching as the flames engulfed the 
      bodies. He expected Merlin to say something, or perhaps even for Bors to 
      lead the rest of the knights in some kind of prayer, but the gathering 
      remained silent. The only sound was the hungry crackle of the fire and the 
      whoosh of the slight wind coaxing it higher.

      He jumped when he felt the small fingers thread through his own. His 
      astonishment must have shown on his face, because Scully smiled up at him, 
      a simple, sad grin that barely touched the corners of her mouth.

      Feeling her warm skin against his made his heart pound harder. He raised 
      her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, not caring if 
      anyone around them witnessed it. He was much too tired, both physically 
      and emotionally, to concern himself with courtly decorum. He bent closer 
      to her, tilting her head gently with his hand so that he could inspect the 
      knot on her temple.

      "You've stopped bleeding," he breathed, not wishing to disturb the 
      solemnity of the ceremony. "I was worried."

      Her face grew grim as she cast her eyes forward to the pyre. "Who is it?" 
      she murmured, and he could feel her trembling. He put an arm around her 
      shoulders and drew her closer to his side, trying to lend her his warmth 
      and strength.

      "Gareth. And Mordred."

      In the flickering light, he saw slow tears slip down her cheeks. "Gareth 
      was a good man. He did his best to protect me. I shall always remember his 
      bravery, and his love for you and Arthur." She took a deep breath. "So 
      Mordred is dead. How...how did he die?"

      "Arthur, I think. I didn't see him fall."

      She nodded and then turned her face up to peer at him. He could see the 
      fine lines around her eyes deepen as she braced herself. "Where is he?"

      He started to shake his head, but he became suddenly aware of another 
      presence, one stationed directly behind them. Looking up, he acknowledged 
      Merlin with a stoic set of his jaw. He reluctantly allowed Scully to step 
      back a hair's breath to make room between them for the old man.

      "Arthur is here," Merlin told them. His arm stretched out toward the lake, 
      and Mulder followed the gesture. He couldn't repress the gasp of surprise 
      that escaped his lips.

      Bobbing at the edge of the water, he saw the outline of a small ship's 
      sails as they stretched against the indigo sky. In its bow stood three 
      figures, women by the look of their silhouettes, draped in gauzy material 
      that billowed in the cool night breeze. In front of the women, he noted a 
      bed furnished in heaps of pillows and coverings, and the shape of the man 
      lying within it spurred him to tug Scully by the hand. In moments, they 
      were at the edge of the water, but he didn't stop there. He waded out, and 
      he could hear Scully sloshing behind him, neither caring about their 
      garments or the cold surge that enveloped them. He understood that they 
      both had to see Arthur once more.

      The King opened his eyes as they grabbed the side of the boat, Mulder 
      pulling Scully in front of him so that she could see Arthur better. He 
      looked so damn much like Skinner it was a bit frightening. Mulder blinked 
      back the wetness that threatened to spill down his cheeks. He was so 
      goddamned tired, and now this...

      "Lancelot." Arthur's large hand grabbed his and squeezed, but Mulder could 
      feel little strength in the King's grip. He swept his gaze quickly over 
      Arthur's body, trying to find a wound, but he could see nothing beneath 
      the heavy blankets. He tried to smile at Arthur, but he knew it bore a 
      closer resemblance to a grimace instead.

      Mulder cleared his throat. "Thanks for saving my life back there."

      Arthur chuckled. "Always so modest, Lance. You have saved so much more for 
      me, so many times over. Camelot is free now, and when I am gone, the Round 
      Table will continue to thrive. Thanks to you, my old friend."

      Mulder felt Scully's small hand come to rest on top of his, her fingers 
      worming their way into the grasp the two men shared. He looked down at her 
      and smiled weakly, but Arthur's grin was brilliant as he turned his 
      attention to her. "Guinevere," he hummed, and Mulder felt his heart wrench 
      violently as he watched Scully's eyes flare in the darkness.

      "Arthur," she said. Her tone seemed to nearly bleed. "Where are you going? 
      What is this vessel?"

      A female voice answered her, one that Mulder recognized. The first figure 
      behind Arthur stirred, and the face of Morgan le Fae flashed in the 
      moonlight. 

      "We take him to Avalon, where he can be healed."

      Scully's sharp intake of breath betrayed her fear and hatred. "You! How 
      can this be? I watched you die! And I will die before I allow you to take 
      him anywhere."

      "Have no fear, my lady Queen," came the second voice, and the features of 
      the fairy maiden Elaine emerged from the shadows. "We mean only to help 
      Arthur now. We have challenged him throughout his life, and he has been a 
      worthy adversary. Now, the power of Avalon shall restore him for all 
time."

      Scully's fingers tightened around Mulder's and Arthur's. "We can heal him 
      here. We have surgeons. There is no need for you to take him. Camelot 
      needs him."

      The angelic voice of the Lady of the Lake rang in Mulder's ears as she 
      leaned into the shimmering light to address them. "Arthur now needs the 
      strong magick only Avalon can provide. There are others who will come 
      after him who will lead your country. You must let him go, and let him 
      rest. He shall return again when Britain has its hour of greatest need."

      Mulder saw Scully's expression sour, and he knew a retort was poised on 
      her lips. He didn't know how to calm her or how to appease her 
      stubbornness, but Arthur seemed to possess some insight that Mulder did 
      not. The King tugged gently on their interlocked hands, bringing Mulder 
      and Scully's attention back to him.

      "Guinevere," he said, and the way he spoke her name was rich and soothing. 
      "My time has ended. But I do not abandon you. You will have Lancelot with 
      you, and the Round Table Knights will secure the kingdom as they always 
      have. And soon, I know—" The corners of Arthur's eyes crinkled with 
      delight as he smiled. "Soon the child that you carry will take his 
      rightful place on the throne."

      Arthur brought his other hand beneath theirs, trapping them between his 
      thick palms. His eyes glittered in the moonlight, and Mulder realized the 
      man was close to tears himself. "The two of you are dearer to me than 
      anyone," Arthur whispered, and the lump in Mulder's throat seemed to 
      expand tenfold. "I want only your happiness. It is all I ever wanted…that, 
      and to build a kingdom from honesty and loyalty and grace."

      "As you have," Scully managed to say. Mulder heard the choking of her 
      throat, too.

      "I have tried," Arthur sighed. His grip slackened once more, and Mulder 
      could tell the King was slipping away. "But now...now it is time for it to 
      pass to another. It could not be Mordred. He was not worthy." Arthur 
      nodded, and the Lady of the Lake stepped forward from her place at his 
      feet. A silver beam flashed across them all, and Mulder could feel the 
      change in the air as the Lady drew Excalibur up before her. He couldn't 
      take his eyes from the shimmering blade as Arthur continued speaking.

      "You, Lancelot, will look after Camelot until its heir is old enough to do 
      so. And I trust you will look after the Queen as well." The Lady of the 
      Lade extended the handle of the sword toward Mulder, who simply stared at 
      it.

      "Take it, Lancelot," Arthur urged. His voice was becoming a creaking 
      tremor. "The Lady says you have need of it for one last task. You must 
      then return it to her. When the time is right, it shall rise again."

      Mulder swallowed. The sword scared and excited him at the same time. It 
      was implausible and downright silly to believe that a piece of metal had 
      some kind of extraordinary power, but he had carried Excalibur. He knew it 
      to be true. He only hoped it had the power to do what he needed it for the 
      most.

      He needed it to take them home. He didn't know how it possibly could, but 
      he hoped like hell that it was the help the Lady of the Lake had promised 
      him.

      Mulder reached out his trembling right hand and grasped Excalibur once 
      more around its leather grip. The sword hummed a vibration straight up his 
      arm, and suddenly, he was no longer tired, no longer shaking, no longer 
      afraid. He raised the sword above him to salute the King, and Arthur 
      smiled.

      "Farewell, my friends, my loves," Arthur said. He released their hands, 
      but Scully left hers entwined in Mulder's as the sails on the ship filled 
      with a sudden strong wind. The boat moved silently through the water 
      toward the horizon, slipping in and out of the wavering mist, and they 
      watched it go until it was nothing more than a pinprick in the night. 
      Scully raised her free hand in a final wave, sighing a single word into 
      the magical air.

      "Godspeed."



      Two hours later, Mulder paced outside the Queen's pavilion, Excalibur 
      sheathed at his hip. The sword's strange energy continued to race through 
      him; having it so near his body was like plugging his central nervous 
      system into an electrical outlet. Every muscle within him seemed poised, 
      ready to spring, and he itched with a fire he could recognize only as 
      lust: lust to move, to get them back to where they needed to be...and to 
      have Scully back again, whole and real and completely herself. But beneath 
      that more valiant lust, he could also feel the gnawing craving only a man 
      could know, the desperate ache for the woman he loved, and the building 
      tension of desire to possess her body once more. Of course, he knew that 
      Scully was inside the tent; her presence and her barely-concealed need for 
      him drew him near like a magnet. She had returned to the pavilion after 
      Arthur's ship had disappeared, after Mulder had held her hand and watched 
      mutely as her tears splashed into the lake water at her waist. But when 
      she had reigned in her sorrow at Arthur's departure, she had turned her 
      face to him, and he had not mistaken the yearning expression she wore. She 
      had left him standing there without a word, the silent invitation to 
      follow her back to her private tent as obvious as the lopsided moon that 
      hung above the water. But as palpable and as intoxicating as her hunger 
      was, Mulder had no idea what or how that could possibly help the two of 
      them return to the twentieth century. So he paced and muttered under his 
      breath as the remainder of the camp slumbered around him.

      He couldn't just go in there and take her, he reasoned. He wanted her, 
      badly, that was true. He had been through hell and back to get to this 
      point, to be so near to her again, but he fought to squelch his animal 
      impulses. He had to think of a way to get them back to their own time, and 
      he had understood as soon as the Lady of the Lake had offered Excalibur to 
      him that the sword was part of the magick that would somehow take them 
      home. But she had given no explanation, and he had no idea where to begin. 
      Besides, his fucking testosterone level was distracting him so badly he 
      couldn't think straight—

      Merlin. Mulder stopped suddenly as the wizard's name surfaced in his hazy 
      mind. Merlin would know what to do. He hadn't seen the old man since the 
      ship carrying Arthur away had been swallowed by the mist, but he had to be 
      around somewhere...

      "I'm still here, Agent Mulder. All you had to do was ask."

      He whirled to face the wizard; his teeth clenched when he spoke. "All 
      right. I have the sword again. What do I need to do to get us home?"

      Merlin smoothed his beard, his face shadowed. "You have everything you 
      need: Agent Scully, Excalibur, and yourself."

      "But I have no idea what I'm supposed to do! Click my heels together three 
      times and say, 'There's no place like home?'" Mulder laughed, a raw, 
      wounded scrape in the back of his throat that made him sound a bit 
      demented.

      "What do you want to be doing right now, Agent Mulder, more than 
anything?"

      A picture flashed across Mulder's mind: Scully, her creamy skin 
      highlighted by the golden glow of a nearby fire, her body open beneath 
      him, his hands tangled in the mane of her auburn hair as he... He shook 
      the thought away angrily, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. 
      Concentrate, he chided himself. He tried to focus on Merlin, but Scully's 
      embrace continued to beckon him, and he felt himself tingling from the 
      anticipation of her touch as he took an inadvertent step toward the 
      entrance to her pavilion.

      Merlin's voice snapped him back. "That's it, Agent Mulder. That's the 
      magick that will take you home. Why don't you trust it?"

      A thought seized him, and he cocked his head at the old magician in 
      wonderment. "You're kidding me, right? I'm—I'm supposed to seduce her? 
      That's what will take us back?"

      "I am assuming it will be a mutual seduction, Agent Mulder." Merlin tucked 
      his hands into the long, ornate sleeves of his robe. "To succeed in 
      getting back to the twentieth century, you must create an enormous amount 
      of energy, concentrating it on that one intention. What other act can 
      create such a strong vibration than the act of love between two people?"

      "You're crazy," Mulder told him, his head buzzing as if he had consumed 
      too many beers with the Gunmen. "She doesn't even know it's me. She thinks 
      I'm Lancelot, and I can't...I won't..." He stopped, unable to continue. 
      The thought of making love to someone other than Scully, even someone who 
      looked and sounded exactly like her, was abhorrent to him.

      "Do you believe that Agent Scully's consciousness is still contained 
      somewhere in Queen Guinevere's body?"

      He wrinkled his brow, trying to think, but the surging of his blood was 
      overwhelming him. "I—I don't know. What if it's not? Where does that leave 
      us? I can't force her to go home with me. And I can't force her to—" He 
      swallowed; he couldn't finish such a heinous thought.

      Merlin stepped closer to him. "You must get through to Agent Scully. I 
      believe she is still present in Guinevere. You must remind her of who the 
      two of you are. You must remind her of what awaits you back in your own 
      time. You must convince her, Agent Mulder. And once you have, thrust the 
      sword into the ground. That will activate the magick of the earth and the 
      elements. The rest...the rest is up to the two of you."

      Mulder nodded numbly, still trying to wrap his mind around the scenario 
      the magician suggested. He watched as Merlin strode decisively away, 
      finally disappearing into a nearby thicket of trees. It was now or 
      never—he knew what he had to do, and he hoped with all his heart that he 
      would be able to accomplish this final task. For Scully, and for 
      himself...for everything they had ever wished for together...

      He moved to the curtained doorway of the pavilion and pushed the hanging 
      silk aside.



      His senses registered her scent first. Cool water and light roses. It 
      seeped into him like liquid wetting a sponge. He drank it in, allowing the 
      fragrance to wash over him like a refreshing ocean breaker. It did nothing 
      to dampen his desire; on the contrary, it stoked it, warming his blood 
      even more, heightening his need so that his eyes darted anxiously around 
      the darkened pavilion, seeing nothing else, seeking only her.

      The sight of her seared his vision. She reclined in a nest of pillows and 
      blankets, her fiery hair fanned beneath her head, loose, long tendrils 
      brushing tempting strands across her shoulders and chest. He found himself 
      envying those ribbons of her hair, wanting nothing more than to curl 
      himself around the swell of her breasts, brushing his own skin lightly 
      across hers, feeling the hardening of her nipples as he caressed them with 
      the lightest of touches. Her beauty hurt his eyes, and they fluttered shut 
      for a moment, the negative of her simple shift-covered form burned into 
      his retinas.

      He could hear her breathing, the simple and light intake and exhalation of 
      oxygen through her parted lips. She did not stir as he approached, and he 
      swept the cloak from his shoulders, casting it aside as he drew nearer to 
      her. The small fire crackled nearby, but he paid no attention to anything 
      that was not within her aura. She consumed him, and he could no longer 
      resist the urge to touch her.

      His fingertips screamed in ecstasy as he slid them lightly along the crest 
      of her cheek, and they howled in agony when he wouldn't allow them more 
      than that simple indulgence. He wouldn't...he couldn't go any further 
      until she spoke to him...until he knew for sure...

      "Scully," he murmured. When she didn't respond, he knelt by the edge of 
      the makeshift bed. Excalibur in its scabbard bumped against the floor. He 
      leaned closer and breathed her name in her ear, his lips aching to kiss 
      the delicate shell.

      "Scully."

      Her eyelids quivered like the wings of a butterfly, finally opening to 
      reveal the startling green he still couldn't reconcile in his mind. He 
      watched as they focused on his face, a smile blossoming on her lush lips.

      "Lancelot."

      She reached for him, but he caught her hands and twisted them, hard, in 
      his. "No, Scully," he said urgently. "I'm Mulder. Not Lancelot. Come back 
      to me, baby. Remember who you are."

      Her skin, warm and soft, rubbed like a friendly cat against his. Her smile 
      grew puzzled. "I do remember who I am. I am Guinevere, Queen of—"

      "No," he interrupted. "You're Dana Scully. You're not a queen. You're an 
      F.B.I agent. I'm your partner." He brought the tip of her index finger to 
      his mouth and stroked it along his bottom lip. "I'm Mulder. Tell me you 
      remember me."

      "Mul...der?" She drew his name out, turning it into a question. Her eyes 
      followed the motion of her finger on his lips, and she sighed. He could 
      feel her melting, liquefying at his touch, but he couldn't have that. Not 
      yet...not until he knew who she really was.

      "Do you remember me, Scully? Do you remember us?"

      She shut her eyes, wrinkling her forehead in concentration. "Mulder...and 
      Scully," she muttered. He'd heard her do that countless times, on cases, 
      in autopsy bays, whenever she was trying to piece together a puzzle that 
      didn't fit in her logical mind. It brought him hope, and he pushed on, 
      attempting to give her something, a tiny sliver of memory that might 
      trigger their lives together to rush back to her.

      "Before we were here, Scully, we were in Wales. Do you remember that? We 
      flew over from D.C. We went for a walk in the woods. I lost the compass, 
      and you insisted we were never going to find our way back to the bed and 
      breakfast. Remember? The sun was setting, and it was starting to get 
      chilly, and—"

      She snatched her hand from him abruptly, pushing up from the bed and 
      crossing the pavilion. "You...you are talking nonsense, Lancelot." Her 
      voice sounded angry, but beneath it, he could detect a trace of fear as 
      well. "I have none of these memories."

      He straightened up and followed her. "Scully remembers, though. Don't you, 
      Scully? I want to talk to Scully. Let her out, Guinevere. Let her talk to 
      me."

      She laughed uneasily, but she wouldn't look at him. "I know not what you 
      mean, Lance. Why do you vex me so? I—"

      He grabbed her wrist and pulled her up tight against his chest. Her breath 
      quickened, and he felt her skin burning from his touch as hotly as his own 
      did. But he couldn't give in...he would not do this, not until Scully was 
      in control again...

      "Do you want Lancelot back, Guinevere?" He barked it at her, and she 
      trembled in his arms, but he felt something sway toward him, some energy 
      that he couldn't quite identify but that seemed to understand. "I want 
      Scully back. I have to take her home. If you let her out, if you let me 
      take her home, Lancelot will return to you. You want him back, don't you?"

      "Where is he?" she whispered. Her eyes were round with desperation, and 
      Mulder could see that he'd found a niche in Guinevere's consciousness. He 
      pressed it, hoping that he wouldn't pitch her right over the edge.

      "I'm not sure," he answered. "But I think, if Scully and I leave, if we go 
      back to where we belong, then he'll come back to you. We'll all be happy 
      again. That's what you want, isn't it? Happily ever after?"

      "I—I want Lancelot," she whimpered. She was shaking, and he hated to see 
      her this way, but he couldn't back down now. Not when they were so close.

      "Then let me talk to Scully. Let her be here with me now. It has to be 
      her, or I can't take us back. Let her out, Guinevere. I need her."

      She blinked at him, clearing her eyes of the tears that threatened. A 
      shaky intake of breath rattled her frame. "I—I do not know if I can."

      "Try." Mulder released her, and she smoothed the front of her nightdress, 
      attempting to calm herself. He took a deep breath; she followed his lead, 
      and a moment later, he was encouraged to see a tiny glimpse of tranquility 
      settle over her features. "Can you feel her?"

      "Yes." She closed her eyes again, and more deep breaths followed. Mulder 
      watched, trying to push a sense of comfort toward her. The rise and fall 
      of her chest was hypnotic, and the burning in him ratcheted up another 
      notch. He didn't know how much longer he could last...but he had to wait 
      for Scully.

      "I dreamed of you."

      When she finally spoke, her voice nearly matched the low throbbing of his 
      blood. He stared at her, entranced by her beauty, as she continued.

      "I dreamed of you, Mulder. I dreamed of the night we played baseball, when 
      you showed me how to swing the bat. I could see the balls flying up into 
      the sky, merging with the stars..." 

      "I remember, Scully." He circled around her slowly, his feet moving as if 
      he were caught in the dream as well, stopping when he stood behind her. As 
      if directed by someone else, he reached down and drew the sword from the 
      scabbard that hung from his belt. It rang in the air as he brought it 
      around in front of them. He drew her back so that their bodies touched, 
      her spine scraping against his belly, the sensation singing through his 
      whole being. He raised Excalibur waist-high, guiding her arms up in front 
      of them, molding her hands one at a time around the long handle of the 
      sword. She smiled languidly and giggled, just as she had that night.

      He snuggled his lean body tight against hers, fitting them into the 
      batting stance so familiar from his younger days. Her hair muffled his 
      voice as he spoke, but he didn't want to move his face. She smelled too 
      good, and his senses were overloading. "Do you remember how to do it, 
      Scully?" he murmured. His left hand came down and tapped the protruding 
      bone that jutted through the thin cloth of her shift. "Hips before hands."

      "Hips before hands," she repeated. Her body shifted against his, grinding 
      her backside against the erection he'd been sporting ever since he first 
      set foot inside the pavilion. But her next sentences made him jump inside 
      his pants. "Of course I remember, Mulder. How could I forget such an 
      obvious ploy to get you so close to me? And how could I ignore what you 
      had pressed up against me all night?"

      He chuckled lightly in her ear despite the tears that sprung up in his 
      eyes. There she was! That was his Scully! Now...now, he could have what he 
      ached for, what both their bodies cried out for, what they needed so 
      desperately to prove themselves to each other and to take them back 
home...

      Together, they swung the sword forward, and as it arced up, Mulder turned 
      the blade to face the ground. The momentum of their swing carried it down, 
      and they plunged it deep into the earth. The strange music of Excalibur 
      filled their ears as the blade sunk into the dirt. From the spot, lavender 
      mist began to uncoil, twining in convoluted circles as it climbed over 
      their bodies. It was cool, like a walk on a misty morning, but Mulder 
      barely registered it on his skin. Every nerve in his body was trained now 
      on Scully.

      She twisted in his arms, her lips meeting his in a furious kiss. He tasted 
      salty tears as he plundered the depths of her mouth, and he couldn't tell 
      which of them was crying harder. But they were joyful tears, and the 
      tracks were soon wiped clean as the garments clothing their bodies swept 
      over their heads. They became a tangle of naked limbs, and Excalibur's 
      peculiar hum underscored their moans and sighs of pleasure.

      "Mulder...Mulder..." His name was like the dulcet chime of a bell as she 
      spoke it, over and over, as he touched her. His hands swept across her 
      entire body, greedy but reverent, needing to find all the sweet spots he 
      remembered. The small of her back that dipped gracefully inward; the tiny 
      notch in her collarbone that fit his finger as if they were forged for 
      each other; the patch of freckles that danced on one shoulder, that he 
      marked as a starting point for kissing a path down to one pert breast; the 
      curve of her hip as she wrapped her legs around his waist...

      He was holding her up, his palms supporting her against his body. He could 
      feel her entrance just above his throbbing cock, the core of her slick 
      with her want, and the knowledge that she was ready and waiting for him 
      nearly took his breath away completely. He balanced her there for one long 
      moment, pulling back from her seeking mouth to look into her eyes.

      "Scully?" He had never asked permission before; he had never felt the 
      need. But he did now, because he had to be completely sure...

      She smiled at him, the blinding grin that was teeth and gums, the one that 
      gave him chills because of its rarity and its unabashed, unrestrained 
      adoration. "I love you, Fox Mulder," she whispered. "Take me home."

      Mulder had heard of earth-shaking sex. He'd even believed that he and 
      Scully had experienced it once or twice in their relationship together. 
      But when he thrust up into her, the ground beneath him seemed to sway, and 
      as their bodies rocked together, whipping them higher and higher toward 
      ecstasy, an unmistakable vibration shimmered through them. He drove into 
      her harder, the energy unstoppable, the shaking around them visible but 
      barely noticed as Mulder and Scully reached for that golden release. And 
      when they cried out together, each of them shattering into thousands of 
      tiny pieces in the other's hands, the world shuddered along with them, and 
      their minds went dark with the delicious haze of complete and utter bliss. 

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