Umbra Reverie (29/43)
by 6hoursgirl

Rating: PG-13
Feedback:  calobee@gmail.com
Spoilers: Through IWTB, with a hint of Season 10 thrown in for good
measure.

Summary: Mulder and Scully find their son, setting off a series of events
that forces them to confront some painful and terrifying truths.

Disclaimer: I love 'em, but I don't own 'em.

Author's Note: I used to publish X-Files fanfic on my personal website
c. 1999, but this is my first attempt at something longer than a short
story, and published to a wider audience (read: I'm a newb). I tried to
stick as close to the original series' canon as possible. I'll be publishing
individual chapters over the course of the next few days. I hope you
enjoy, and thank you for reading.


Chapter 29: Rings and Crop Circles

#

9:34 A.M.

Mulder doesn't know where he's going, and it occurs to him that
wandering into the woods by himself without so much as a compass or
a piece of string to mark his trail is a dumb idea.

*Wouldn't be the first, Spooky.*

He's walked a great deal, and his bum knee is making its presence
known. The ground is squelchy here, there must be a lake or a swamp
nearby, but he can't see water. Just thick trees, brush, and the
occasional boulder.

It's not the first time Scully has locked him out, but it's the first time
she's taken it this far. They've come close, but he's never doubted her
partnership.

*Until now.*

The distance between them the last few months had been too easy to
brush off as the ebb and flow of their relationship. The late work hours,
the lack of conversation, the faraway look in her eyes when they were
together; he told himself she'd come out of it with time. They'd
weathered much worse.

*Or have we?* he wonders, still stinging from her words. *She's
obviously been thinking about this for a while. Thinking, but not
talking.*

He's good at reading people, getting into their heads, understanding
how they tick; he'd built a career around his talent for profiling, and
would probably still be at it if he hadn't thrown himself wholeheartedly
into the X-files.

But he'd failed to read the one person he thought he knew completely.

*You didn't see it because you didn't want to see it, Fox.*

Their conversation from the car comes back, a slap to the face.

*...maybe we both need some time...*

This stops him, filling him with a renewed sense of despair, his knee
throbbing in angry sympathy. He sags against the nearest tree, fists
clenched.

He pictures a small black box with two rings, simple gold bands,
bought on a whim during a trip to D.C. He'd been consulting on a case,
had wandered downtown, visiting old haunts, trying and failing to
remember a time when he'd felt at home in the city. The jewelry store
on the corner caught his eye, and for no particular reason, he'd walked
in.

It was a running joke between them that Scully's Catholic upbringing
made their living arrangements amoral, much to her mother's chagrin.
They never had a traditional relationship; marriage seemed an
unnecessary formality in the face of everything else.

But he'd bought the rings anyway, in a momentary flight of romantic
nostalgia, unsure even at the time if he would ever open the box again.
He'd tucked it away for safekeeping, thinking maybe one day he'd
work up the nerve to give one to her.

*Too late now.*

He shouldn't have walked off. How many of his own demons has he
faced, always with her by his side? Now she's struggling, and he runs
away with his goddamn tail between his legs.

*But I can't face losing her.*

It's a coward's excuse, but it's the simple truth. She's going to walk
away, and he will lose the foundation on which his life is built.

What had he told her once? *You were my constant. My
touchstone.*

*And now she can't even look me in the eye.*

He sits on the hard earth, ignoring his aching body's protests, staring
blankly, seeing nothing, letting his thoughts spiral into the black. He
stays long enough for his ass to fall asleep, for the morning's damp chill
to dissipate. The sun burns off the fog, shining down through the trees,
warming him.

*It's so bright.*

The cover here should be thick, lots of old forest, the terrain too rough
even for loggers. It should be dark under the canopy of all these trees,
with all the old growth.

He looks up, squinting at the sunlight, at a blue sky so piercing it makes
his eyes water 

*Is that...what is that?*

The tops of the trees are black.

He stands, blinks, shielding his eyes with his palm. It must be a trick of
the light.

*No, those trees are scorched. Where have you seen that before?*

His first inclination is to run back to the camp, to bring Scully here so
she can see it for herself, get her scientific opinion. He thinks better,
clearer, when she pushes him, his own personal devil's advocate, but he
wants to be certain. He doesn't think he could take it if she threw this
back in his face.

He sets off in a northward direction, looking for a break in the trees, a
clearing, hoping to get a better view. Occasionally he stops along the
way to rest his leg, all the while staring upward, shielding his eyes
against the light, following the same strange black slash in the foliage.

His theory is confirmed a mile later, in a large opening with stones and
malnourished, gnarled trees. He walks a few paces from the tree line,
turning around, but it's as he suspected. There are none of the usual
signs of a forest fire; no felled trees, no burned underbrush, no ash. Just
the strange black line, starting about twenty-five feet up, as though
something massive left a dirty black footprint on the forest's canopy.

*As though something hovered there. Something large enough to
span more than a mile, with enough heat to char a forest without
burning it to the ground...*

He stares at the trees until his vision swims, heart racing, mouth dry.
Sprained leg be damned, he needs to get back to the camp to warn
Scully and Isaac.

They're not alone. They're not safe here.

A desperate thought occurs to him as he makes his way back through
the desolate wilderness.

*We're not safe anywhere.*