Disclaimer: The characters in this story belong to Chris Carter,
1013 Productions, and Fox.  The characters are used without
permission, but with no intention of infringement.

Please do not forward, archive or quote this story anywhere
without permission.

Summary:  This is a Field Where I Died post-episode story.   You
won't understand it at all without having seen that episode.

Thanks to Becky for suggesting the end.

Category:   MSR, Story

Rating:  NC17





The Letter
by Shalimar

alcus@compuserve.com
copyright 1997


part 1/3




Scully jumped down from the Explorer and slammed the door behind
her.  She glanced over her shoulder at the main street of the
small Tennessee town. 

No one was paying any attention to her.  

And why should they be?   

She eyed the large white Victorian building that housed the
Hamilton County Historical Society.  It seemed innocent enough.  

But then so had this case.

Slowly she climbed the steps to the wide porch.  A small sign was
posted beside the front door.

Open 11:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. Tuesday - Thursday

Scully glanced at her watch.  Good.  She had an hour before
closing time.   

She pushed open the door.

A smell of mustiness tickled her nose as she stepped across the
threshold.  She stopped just inside the door and looked around
the dim, deserted hallway.  Antique furniture and oriental
carpets lined the entry.  A graceful stairway climbed high into
the shadowy nether regions above.  Light filtered down from
old-fashioned gas jets.  

Civil War era portraits peered gloomily down at her from the
walls.  

"Get a life, Dana Elizabeth Mary Margaret Katherine Scully,"
their gazes told her sternly.    

She gave a shudder.  This was ridiculous.  She turned to go out
again.

Suddenly a doorway creaked and Scully jumped.

An elderly woman entered the hall.  Scully took a deep breath and
pasted a polite smile on her face.  The old woman reminded her of
a small wizened lizard.  She was only about as tall as Scully's
shoulder, and her face was so wrinkled she had to be close to
ninety.  Her hair was very white and pulled up tightly in a small
bun on top of her head.  Only her eyes were alive, dark and
curious in her ancient face.  The woman was dressed in Civil War
period costume.  

Naturally.

"May I help you?"

"I'm. . . ."  Scully cleared her throat.  "I'm . . . researching
the skirmish that occurred in Apison in November 1863.  November
26th.  I wondered if you had any information here--about it. 
Artifacts . . . first person accounts . . .  photographs. . . ."

"Of course.  If you'll just sign our register first."

She gestured to the open book on the table by the front door.

For a split second Scully had the urge to make up a name. 
Sighing, she wrote her own.

"Ancestors?"

"Pardon me?"

"Most people come here looking up their ancestors."  

The woman peered long and hard at Scully's signature.  

"'Scully'?  That your married name?  What's your maiden name?"

"Um.  No.  I'm not married.  Dana Scully is my maiden name."

The woman peered long and hard at Scully.

"Hmmmph.  Well--I don't recall the name Scully playing any part
in the history of Apison--maybe on your mother's side?"

"Well, it's not actually *my* ancestors I'm . . . researching.  A
friend's . . . ancestor . . . actually."

"A boy?"  The woman's tone was sharp.

"A man.  Yes."

"A man."  The old woman gave a snort.  "Alrighty then.   Come
on," she said shortly.  "I'll show you what we've got."

Scully felt her face flush and wished she hadn't come.  Past
lives were sort of like ancestors, weren't they?  Oh, Mulder. 
What have you gotten me into this time?  This is your search--not
mine.  And where the hell are you anyway?  Probably still out
standing in that field.  Crying.

Damn it.

She had a sudden vision of his face as he leaned over Melissa's
dead body.  As if the woman--who he'd barely known--had been
infinitely precious to him.  Mulder.  Mulder.  Mulder. . . .  And
now he was convinced that *she* Scully was his wisewoman or
father or something.  His sage throughout time.  

Fat chance.

Well, all right, so it was her search, too.  That was why she was
here wasn't it?  And maybe she was his sage.  She *was* the
rational one.  The sensible one.   But if she was here to prove
anything she was going to prove that she was more to him than
that.  

Not to mention there was no way she was going to sit back and let
a very pathetic woman with multiple disassociative identities
come out of nowhere to snatch away a huge chunk of Mulder's
happiness.  

And her own.

Which was indeed why this was her search, too.    

She glared at a portrait of an old man with particularly amazing
sideburns and mustaches.  I do so have a life, Jedidiah.   

Jedidiah merely stared at her balefully. 

She looked around.  The woman was halfway up the stairs.

Scully hurried up the long staircase.  It was very quiet in the
house and with every creaky step on the stairs the woman's
breathing became more and more labored.   At last they reached
the top and the woman rested hard against the newel post,
breathing heavily.  She gestured down the hall toward a door at
the end.

"The Apison memorabilia is in there."

Scully noted that the woman's color seemed normal and she
probably *wasn't* going to have a heart attack at that moment.  

"Thank you, I can just go take a look by myself.  You don't need
to help me.  I'm sorry to have made you climb all those stairs. .
. .  Maybe you'd better sit for a moment."

"I'm fine.  You just go look up your boyfriend's ancestor."  

"He's not my boyfriend!"

The old woman merely nodded and made a shooing gesture with her
hand.  "In there.  Maybe you'll find what you're looking for."

Scully escaped down the corridor and opened the door.  Reddish
light filtered through  high dusty stained-glass windows, mostly
covered by long dusty red velvet drapes.  Peering through the
gloom she could see antique furniture lining one wall. 
Glass-front cases lined another.  The walls were hung with a
multitude of various objects of war.  It would take a day to go
through everything in this room. The smell of old long-forgotten
things hung in the air.  

Scully examined the wall by the door for a light switch.  

She spotted one.  There.  The Twentieth Century.  Thank God.  She
flicked it on.  

Nothing.

"Damn it," said the woman from right behind her back.

Scully jumped.

"G'damn fuse must be out," the woman muttered. 

"That's okay," Scully reassured her.  "I'm fine."

The woman was already turning and making her way to the stairs. 
Still muttering- -thankfully unintelligible--comments beneath her
breath.  She started slowly descending.

Scully turned toward the display in the room.  Dozens of framed
photographs hung on one wall.  Scully moved closer and peered at
them through the dusty glass.

A photo of the homestead looking new and prosperous: "The Apison
Homestead in its Prime."  "Apison -- Prior to the Great War of
Northern Aggression."  Another picture of the town taken after
the devastation of the war. Shots of the area taken circa 1850. 
She moved slowly along the wall, taking in each picture.   

A framed map of the farm, marking clearly the other two bunkers
that had taken ten FBI agents all day to finally find.

"Damn it," she whispered.

She moved quickly through the rest of the room. Furniture from
the farm.  Muskets with vicious-looking bayonets ranging from
Revolutionary to Civil War era.  Glass bottles with metal screw
caps containing some evil looking substance that looked like
dried blood; she squinted at the spidery handwriting on the
placard "Sauce used to make the frequently rancid meat
palatable."  

She felt a sick feeling in her stomach and touched a finger to
the bottle top.  The soft metal gave beneath her finger.  

If the lead poisoning from the caps didn't kill them first.

A tattered Confederate flag, rust-stained with real blood this
time.  Uniforms, hats, a jacket, another rifle with an attached
bayonet.  Some small items in a glass case.  She leaned closer. 
A framed picture of the battalion.  

"The 15th Tennessee Volunteers.  Company K."  

She peered closer to try to pick out . . . Sullivan.  There. 
Second from the end.  Standing staring straight at the camera. 
His expression thoughtful.  His eyes, clear, compelling.  

He was tall, lanky and yet . . .  why . . . he was just a boy.  
Seventeen, maybe eighteen, she guessed, when the photo had been
taken.  Her eyes dropped to his shoulder.  He wore no insignia,
perhaps a Private?  His shoulder was close against another's,
equally as tall as himself.  This man was dressed in a more
recognizable Confederate uniform jacket and pants.

She counted the stripes on his arm.

A Sargent.

Scully felt all the hair on her scalp prickle.  She closed her
eyes for a brief moment, then looked at his face.  He was barely
more than a boy himself.  But his expression was stronger, and he
stood straighter; there was something about him that made her
feel he was protective of the other boy beside him.  She didn't
have to see the hair under the cap to know it was as red as her
own.

A shiver ran down her back.

Her eyes dropped to the names beneath the photograph.  There it
was:  S. Biddle.  And the name beside it, S. Ballentine.

Scully found she was holding her breath.  She let it out with a
whoosh.

"S. Ballentine," she whispered.  "S."  The words fell oddly on
the dusty stillness of the room.

Her eyes fell on a small carved box in the same display.  Knowing
better, but unable to stop herself, she opened the glass lid of
the case and picked up the box.  It felt warm in her hand, the
wood smooth, a carved scene of men and horses covering the
outside.  She ran her fingers over it reverently, the carving had
been done lovingly and painstakingly a long, long time ago. 
Gingerly she opened the lid.  It's old hinges creaked.

Empty.

She let out her breath with disappointment.  A smell of mustiness
and . . . tobacco . . . reached her nose.  She closed her eyes
and took another breath, letting the smell fill her nostrils. 
For just a second it evoked . . . something.  What?  Slowly  her
fingers moved of their own accord to a carved dog at the side of
the box.  They found the nose and pressed. . . .

Suddenly a drawer sprang open at the other end.  Scully started
and nearly dropped the box.

She stared into the drawer.  Folded small and pressed down into
the bottom of the drawer were thin sheets of yellowed paper.  She
knew she shouldn't touch these either, the paper was old, it
should be handled with gloves, by an expert.  

Well, maybe an expert standing here beside her holding a gun on
her might have a chance of stopping her.  But then again, maybe
not.

As gently as possible she pulled the sheets from the drawer.  She
set the box back down on its velvet spot and carefully unfolded
the papers.

It was a letter, the closely written handwriting was brown and
had come through from the back sides of the paper, making the
scrawl on the front difficult to read.  Made more difficult from
something suddenly pricking her eyes.   Scully blinked it away
and moved slowly to the soft light coming in through the dusty
window and began to read.


******************

15th Tenn. Vols. 
Comp. K. 
November 20, 1863 
Apison, Tennessee

My Dearest Sullie,

As I write this, you lay sleeping on the cot next to mine. I hope
I can find the strength--or the foolishness--to commit my
thoughts to paper before it is time for us to awaken for the
Company move before dawn.   The smell of the night is around me. 
The chill.  The earth.  The camp.  The smell of wounds.  Of
unburied limbs and rotted food.  Fetid flesh.  Blood.   Madness. 
Is it?  I wonder tonight at my Sanity.  At times like this I
think I cannot stand the war another moment. 

But always there is you.  I could not have gone through these
last two years if not for you.  If I tell you anything I must
tell you that.  What we have faced together will bind us always.
It seems foolish that I am your Superior.  A Sargent's rank--
bought and paid for by my father--has no meaning to me at all. 
Doubly, as I am only six months your senior and barely twenty.  

I must say tonight I feel a hundred years older.  We have been
friends a long time.  Sometimes it feels like forever. Our
families say we could not be closer if we were brothers.  We have
always known one another, you and I. Have we not, dear Sullie?  I
cherish the memories of our Boyhood together.  More than you'll
ever know.  Boyhood--cut short--for we are barely children now. 
Sometimes I shut my eyes and pretend there is no war.  We'd be
boys still.  Going down to the creek to swim and catch catfish
and crawdads.  Caring nothing for anything but ourselves and our
bellys.  Knowing nothing of women.   And you would never have
met--

But I am wandering, lately it seems I am unable to collect my
thoughts.  I am nearly out of the paper my dear Mama sent. 
Shouldn't I spend the last pieces of paper on her?  No.  I shall
try to concentrate.  

I take my pen in hand to write to you tonight, Beloved Friend,
because in my heart I fear that we are not meant to live long
enough to be together to complete our quest.  To see Peace
restored to our fair state.  I must tell you, and I will say it
bluntly, I have had a precognition of tomorrow.  A dream, if you
will.  It almost makes me smile to think of what you will say
when you read this.  For I am not the one given to flights of
Fancy or belief in the other Sciences.  That is your talent, dear
Sullie.  But the dream itself, will not make you smile, for in it
I saw my own end.  And I believe it.  I feel strongly that I will
not see the dawn.  We can only wait and see what comes to pass.
But I saw myself lying still, lifeless, and the long grass waved
above me in the smoky dawn, and you wept at my side.

But that is not all I need tell you.  I must go back to the
events of earlier this evening.  Earlier tonight, as we sat by
the fire and we talked, I admit I was barely paying you heed, as,
preoccupied by my own thoughts, I tried to think of a way to tell
you of my dream.  Idly I asked you what it felt like to love Her
so.  You know of Whom I speak.  You answered, "When I think of
her, I forget the War."   But you did not look at me. 

Your words were spoken softly and I believed the depth of your
love for her.  But then . . . you lifted your eyes to mine and I
saw the truth.  The longing I saw in your eyes,  and the sadness
and the Love that shone there was not for her but for me.  You
quickly hid your gaze from mine and I believe you felt
embarrassed of what you might have revealed.

I could only sit stunned as you looked away and continued to talk
of your love for Her, then made your excuses and retired.  The
past few hours since you fell asleep I have thought of nothing
but that look.  I could not sleep til I put this to page.  We
must awaken in just three hours to move before first light.  If
my precognition is Unfounded then this letter will be safe.  I
will put it in my wooden box.  The one my father gave me, that
his father carved.  Only you and they know of the secret bottom
and they are now dead.  So only you will see these lines.

If I live I truly do not know what I will do.  But if I am to
die, I would have you know that your feelings are not unreturned. 
The flame that burns in your eyes burns as brightly and deeply in
my own heart.  There.  I have said it.  The urge to reveal to you
my love for you aloud is at once frightening and profound. 
Confusion tears at me.  Would it be so wrong to press my lips to
yours one time before we are struck from this Godforsaken Hell? I
ask myself, why did we not know on those Idyllic days when we
were so carefree?  Is it because the loving came with the war?

Perhaps, but I also believe I have loved you from childhood.  As
you've loved me.  But it was an innocent love between friends and
cousins.   Does that make it sane in a world gone mad?  What harm
surely?  A kiss between friends.  We were raised as brothers.  A
kiss between brothers.  But no.  It *is* wrong.  For I wish to
kiss you not as my brother.   It is against everything sane to
love you so, but this existence is not sanity,
thus--maybe--loving you  is not wrong.

And what about Her?  Can it be you love us both?  Can you not see
beyond curls and a pretty set of ankles?  But, I know you, you
are in love with Love.  It is your Nature to look for Romance,
fondly imagining it to be something it is not.  All your talk of
love for her is nothing to what burns like a fire between the two
of us.

You lie there so still on your bedroll.  Your soft breath fogging
the chill air.  Not four feet from my hand as I crouch chilled
beside this infernal sputtering lamp.  If I reach out--so--I can
touch you.  I can brush that curl from your forehead.  Is that
wrong?  Were I to place my mouth against yours for an
instant--would you wake-- in horror?  I cannot bear it if you
were to remember me thus.

It is not as if I do not have the strong urges to make love to a
woman.  I do.  That does not stop me from wanting to press my
arms around you and hold you close, warming my chilled body
against yours under your worn blanket.  If the urges that make my
body desire a woman were all that ruled me I would not be the man
that I am.  My feelings confuse me more with each passing moment. 
But at last, as I sit looking at your face in sleep, your
eyelashes against your cheeks. I have come to a realization. The
bond of true love is more than that of a brother, or father or
mother or child.  It is them all, and it is more, it is the love
for a mind.  This feeling is for your Soul.  True Love has no
thought of body, or gender.  

If I am strong, tonight I will lie in the dark of the tent beside
you, and shut my eyes without touching you.  

Beloved friend, I must end this because I am running out of
paper, ink and oil.  My careful Horde is exhausted.  And I'm
frozen with the cold.  And now, do I crawl in beside you for the
two hours we have left together and forget everything but each
other? 

In the dark, there is no male--no female.  There is only you.

Damn the dawn.

Godspeed,

Samuel





end part one continued in part two