Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and the X-Files are copyright Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and the Fox broadcasting network. No copyright infringement intended; the story belongs to ME.:D This idea germinated in an email thread between Alasdair McLean and I, in which he speculated that Mulder dropping his gun was a genetic survival trait of the Mulder family, and I suggested perhaps it was something he learned from his previous lives. We began joking about cavemen dropping rocks, and this is the result, a series of short vignettes detailing the past lives of Fox Mulder. I actually really enjoyed writing this, but I noticed Mulder's past lives tended towards being rather "Western Civilization", mainly because I don't know much about the history of anywhere else you want to see Mulder and Scully in Africa, or the Kyoto courts, or on the Steppes, go write it, I'd love to see it. Except for Finland. Paul has dibs on Finland. Special thanks to the #defer gang for beta-reading while I was still writing the damn stuff. Romance warning. Aaaand just to be clear....No ethnic insult is intended on any front. This one's dedicated to Alasdair, for the idea and encouragement, and also to Paul and Melissa, for making me Historically Accurate and bossing me to death. Being Mulder, life 1: Og. By Ra Enright ra_enright@juno.com A really really long time BC. Location no longer existent. It was raining. Og knew, technically, what rain was; it was water that fell from the sky instead of staying flat on the ground like good water did. He knew that if you stayed out in rain for too long you eventually got all hot and dribbly and sometimes went to sleep forever; his barely-top-of-the-food-chain brain hadn't quite latched onto the concept of death yet, but he knew in a general sort of way that it was unpleasant. So he wondered again why he was standing in the rain holding a sharp rock, until a crackle in the bush a few feet away reminded him. Food was a concept his brain had latched onto quite quickly. He bent over and grunted softly, alerting the hunter a few feet away that dinner was fast approaching. There was a replying grunt and a stomp of feet. Then, with a loud shout of triumph, the third hunter flushed the game out of the bush, chasing it with a slightly larger rock than the one Og himself held. It was a huge creature that somewhere along its admittedly recent evolutionary path had figured out that hey, big bits of bone sticking out of its forehead were useful. So it had two of them, and those two bits branched out in all directions. Og got a very good view of this because he was smack dab in the center of the path the creature was currently taking. He got the message after a few seconds that even if it wanted to, this thing probably couldn't stop in time for him to keep from being skewered, and it probably didn't want to anyway. He turned and ran, crashing through the bush and making enough noise to scare off anything else within a day's walk. Technical measurements of distance and time not having been invented yet, nobody realized they were looking at what was shaping to be the first four-minute mile in the history of mankind, such as it was. He stumbled on a root and slowed, then picked up speed again, turning and twisting to evade the lowered horns of the animal. The rain made the ground slick, and he didn't have the advantage of hooves that his pursuer did. Well, at least he could go out with a bang... He began to look back as he ran, and judge the exact place he'd have to chuck his rock to slow down the animal long enough to get away. A shame; he liked this rock. He held up the stone, with all the confidence of someone trying to make a basket with a paper wad in a trash bin from across the room, and-- The rock, wet and slippery from the dampness, slid right out of his hand. The shock made him slither to a halt, tripping and landing on his back in the mud. He waited for the thing to trample him. After a moment, he heard a crash and a soft, chuckling noise. He opened one eye. A redheaded hunter was kneeling over the beast, sharp rock in hand, and beginning to gut it. The horns were broken off where it had run into a nearby tree. From the looks of it, the thing had tripped on his rock, lost its footing, and run headfirst into solid wood. "Dead food?" He asked, still lying flat. The other hunter turned to him and now he could see it was a female, and it was laughing at him. "Og muddy." She threw a handful of damp dirt at him. "You find a cave, start making warm." "Og Muddy." He repeated. "Og Muddier. Yes." * * * I shall be telling this with a sigh, Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. "The Road Not Taken" Robert Frost. Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and the X-Files are copyright Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and the Fox broadcasting network. No copyright infringement intended; the story belongs to ME. Being Mulder, Life 2: Foxgrower by Ra Enright ra_enright@juno.com A sorta long time ago. Eastern North America. The cubs yapped a warning as the hide door to the longhouse was lifted and light spilled in through the doorway. The man seated at the table looked over at the crude pen he'd made for them and whistled once. They immediately fell silent. "Who is it?" He asked, rising and walking to stand by the cubs, should they break training and begin to raise the dead again. "Pelt Scalp." The second man answered. "Ah. You've come for the one for your daughter, then." The first man walked to a second, larger pen, pulling out a half- grown fox cub and stroking it gently, warbling to it. "He's ready." "You are sure it's safe, Foxgrower?" Pelt Scalp asked, uncertainly taking the animal when it was offered to him. The pup looked up at him, yawned, showing rows of needle-like teeth, and wagged it's tail back and forth. "I trained it myself." Foxgrower looked proud. "If there are troubles, I'll make it into a stew for you." "Mmh." Pelt Scalp grunted, stroking the soft fur. "Some far-travelers came to the village today." "Did they." Foxgrower picked up a bucket and began to feed his pups scraps of jerky and fish. "They've heard of you. They want to make use of your...talents." "They want toys." Foxgrower continued to feed the animals. "These are not toys. They are companions. They will hunt with you, they will play with you, but you must show them respect. The far-travelers don't understand that." "How do you know?" "I know." Foxgrower turned to him. "I saw them come into the village." "But you're the only known trainer of wild animals near here." Pelt Scalp set the fox on the ground, and it twined itself around his legs. "No other man we know has been able to tame the fox, or the bear." Foxgrower smiled. "My finest moment. Too bad it was killed." "Yes, well, I was afraid for the children." "So I was told." "Foxgrower, why do you live alone out here?" Pelt Scalp asked suddenly. "Away from the village, away from the security provided by the warriors? Away from the women?" "The animals need quiet. And you always complained I smelled when I did live in the village." Foxgrower smiled in rememberance. "I have a smell?" He asked in mock-injury, to jog Pelt Scalp's memory. "You did. Do. But that's no reason to live life as though the tribe had cast you out." Foxgrower finished feeding the animals and set the bucket down. "The day before I left, I saw a vision in the night." "Not more of your visions!" Pelt Scalp groaned. "Knowing who dirtied the water or who took more than their share of the food just by looking at them! It became unbelievable." "I saw who did those things." Foxgrower insisted. "All you have to do is watch the animals. They do certain things, move certain ways, and you can tell what they think. I simply do the same thing to men." "So what was this vision you saw?" "I saw this lodge." Foxgrower's eyes clouded. "And the buffalo running past it, chased by hunters on beasts like buffalo, only slimmer, graceful like one Far Trader brought back when he went to the other lands. I saw Morning Sun fall among the buffalo, and my foxes save her." "My child?" Pelt Scalp ran a hand through his hair, red where it wasn't streaked with grey. He had earned the name because of it. "Your child." Foxgrower nodded. "And I knew that I had to come here and build this house, so that when the time came--" There was a loud crack like thunder in the distance, and alow rumble. "A storm?" Foxgrower's eyebrows raised. "At this time of the season?" Pelt Scalp walked to the door and looked out. "There's a dust cloud rising in the distance--and dark forms--" He stopped. "Something's coming." "Father!" A voice from the other side of the longhouse called. "Mother sent me to tell you that if you are not home soon she'll skin you and--" "The vision!" Foxgrower shouted. "Call her in, quickly." "Come in, come in." Pelt Scalp pulled his daughter into the dim building. She shrieked in surprise but didn't resist. "The buffalo are coming." Foxgrower informed her. "They'll pass near to the doorway of the house. Whatever you do, don't leave the house." "But--" "Don't leave the house." Foxgrower frowned. "Do you understand me?" She nodded, her eyes wide. He heard her murmur, "But I've never seen the buffalo run..." There were more loud cracks, and shouts as the rumbling got nearer. Foxgrower looked out quickly, then took a spear from his shelf, dusted it off, and went outside. They could hear him scaling the wall to the roof, and stalking back and forth above them. Morning Sun gathered the fox pup into her arms and hummed softly. Foxgrower saw the forms long before they should have been visible, saw them in his mind's eye--hunters sitting on graceful, slim beasts that galloped after the buffalo and stampeded them. Not yet...he had time.... He watched the stampede in fascination, his grip on the spear absently tightening. If his aim was right--and it always was--he might even be able to take one down. And someone should warn the village... He thought that at the same time the stampede officially arrived. He was afraid for a moment that in their blind terror the animals would simply run right through the longhouse. Not that *that* was a problem, he could build another home, but the cubs were looking promising this year and oh yes, there were also two *people* in there. To his relief, they diverted past it, almost at the very door. His eyes tracked a red blur that suddenly burst into the middle of the stampede, and in a minute he recognized the cub he'd trained for Morning Sun. The rest of them were penned, but without the restraint this one had panicked. He prayed to the spirits that she wasn't frantic enough to follow-- His prayer came too late. A second streak of red, that fine, strange freak coloring that marked her family line. He could see her standing in the middle, ducking and dodging in an attempt to retrieve the fox. And she was surviving! She was light enough and quick enough to avoid trampling, and for a moment he thought she might actually survive-- One of the hunters noticed the house, and another thunderbolt sounded. As he rode past on...whatever it was...he brought a branch he was carrying against her chest sharply, knocking her off her feet and laughing--Laughing!--as he continued on his way. "Good one, Colton!" One of the other men yelled. Without thinking, Foxgrower took aim at the strange man and stepped forward to throw the spear with his usual deadly accuracy. His foot landed on a rough patch of roofing and he slipped..... The spear fell out of his hand, and he teetered on the brink of the roof. Making his decision in a split second, fall or leap, he leapt, straight out, at a straggling buffalo, flying with enough force to break the animal's neck. There was a deafening crack, and the rumbling began to recede. The dust started to clear, and he could see Morning Sun lying in the now-flattened grass, the stricken buffalo almost on top of her, fallen where it had stumbled. He picked himself up, groaned, and raced Pelt Scalp to her, winning by a few inches, and tugged her away from the dying animal. He gathered her into his arms, cradling her gently and looking her over for injuries. Miraculously, she seemed unharmed, only dazed. He held her tight, his breath almost taken away. "We're even now..." She muttered. "Even for what?" Foxgrower asked, looking up as Pelt Scalp arrived. "Hmm?" She rubbed her eyes. "Is she hurt?" Her father asked worriedly. "I don't see any blood...if she'd been trampeled by one of those animals she'd likely be dead." Foxgrower replied. "Let's get her back inside." He carried her across the grass, set her on his bed and sent Pelt Scalp down to the river to get a basketful of water. She was still blinking, bewildered. "What are we even for, little Sun?" He asked quietly, when she was comfortable. "I don't know. Did I say that?" She took a deep breath. "Yes." "I don't know." She repeated, puzzled. "Why would I say that?" He smiled. "You're delerious. Get some rest." They both paused for a second, experiencing a sort of reverse deja-vu, the knowledge that they'd hear that phrase again.There was a scrabble at the door and he looked up, expecting to see Pelt Scalp. Instead, a small, wily face poked in. Foxgrower whistled sharply. The fox hung its head and let out a low whine. Another whistle, and it trotted obediently over to him and sat by his side. "So, this is the cause of the trouble." He picked it up, setting it on her lap and smiling. "I guess he's not as well trained as he should be." "You'll have to teach me the signals." She smiled, petting the creature. "I think I'll name him Coyote." Foxgrower raised an eyebrow. "Naming a fox Coyote?" "No worse than naming a man Fox." He chuckled. "No, I suppose not. Here, you tell him you want him to stay like this." He whistled a single low tone. She imiatated it deftly. By the time Pelt Scalp returned, they were whistling complex melodies together, driving the other penned cubs wild and making Coyote do outrageous tricks. He smiled, set the water on the table without their noticing, and left again, to call some men from the village to haul away the dead buffalo. After all, they would need all the food they could for the wedding feast.... .* * * No word that is not flesh, he said, Can hold my wavering ear; but when That golden physical flesh is clear, I dance in a glory like your glory With force to stir the dead. "A Reason For Writing" Theodore Spencer Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and the X-Files are copyright Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and the Fox broadcasting network. No copyright intended; the story belongs to ME. Being Mulder, Life 3: Fredericksson by Ra Enright ra_enright@juno.com 1013 AD Atlantic Coast of Ireland. Fredricksson stepped off the boat, sloshing through the water to land it on the beach, and felt his boots sink slightly into the gravelly shore of this Odin-forsaken place. His small, one-man skiff had finally given out, leaving him here while his companions, hopefully, sank or swam as the gods decreed. This looked like a rich place though, despite its heathenism, and perhaps he could find a way home, then lead his men back here. He smiled as he recalled his mother's advice: "Always remember, loot and pillage BEFORE you burn." He was a warrior, a strong man just like his name, Fredricksson Murderer, suggested, and his mama was still giving him advice and charms to protect him on his voyages. Well, they hadn't worked this time... The cliffs had run all along the bank until now, sheer and nearly unscaleable, but here they dipped fortuitously, allowing him a steady climb up, next to a shallow waterfall that became a stream as he climbed. He noticed how fertile the land was, how green, especially near the water. Truly, this was a pleasant island, if too cliffy for his taste. The waters ran clear, and gurgled pleasantly. As he walked along the stream, which became a river and then widened into a pool, the gurgling and splashing grew louder. He paused behind a tree, peering out. Women! Young woman, shouting and laughing in a language he didn't understand. A grim little piece of his mind decided that this meant there was a settlement nearby. The rest of him was too busy watching the young, near-nude, full-bodied-- "AIE!" One of them shouted, pointing at him. He ducked back behind the tree, cursing fluently. They'd seen him, and were scrambling for the bank, pulling on robes and vests, skirts and shawls as they went, not bothering to dry off. Many of them took off down a footpath, still shrieking, only half-dressed. He backed himself against the tree and counted slowly, until enough time had passed that there should be nobody to see him slip away. He couldn't resist one last look, so he slowly peered back around, expecting to see an empty pond. Instead, he came face to face with a green-eyed demon. Long red hair hung around her ears, plastered to her head as she peeked around the tree. Her green eyes flashed, and she growled, like any true demon would. He swore an oath of protection, tried to step backwards, and tripped over his spear, dropping it. She was on him in an instant, a dagger appearing in her hand and coming to rest in the hollow of his throat. Her knees gripped his ribcage, and he stopped breathing. She was beautiful. Dayna looked down the the man with a mixture of ferocity and curiousity, wondering who he was. He must be from one of the barbarian bands who were raiding the northern villages. He didn't look like a dirty barbarian though. He had a nice brown beard, even if it WAS a little long, and his hide clothes were relatively clean. Even his spear was pretty, she thought, as she reached down to pick it up, and spent a moment examining the strange glyphs carved into the staff. She could feel his heart beating; she was surprised to discover that it wasn't any faster than a normal heartbeat. He looked up at her with deep hazel eyes that were utterly unafraid of death. His face was serene, waiting for the death blow. She growled again and stood up, stepping away from him, holding the knife in one hand and the spear in the other. Wracking her brain, she found what she was looking for, and uttered "Stand up!" in what she hoped passed for his language. He looked startled, but obeyed, dusting himself off and looking down at her from his considerable height. "I am your prisoner." He said, but his head was held high. She shook her head, uncomprehending, and murmured "Slowest." "I....am....your....prisoner." He said, eununciating carefully. She shook her head again. He licked his lips and tried a different tack. "I belong to you. Property. Yours. You own me." He spoke carefully, using only the simplest words. This time she nodded and prodded his legs with the butt end of the spear, urging him towards the village. "Come here." She demanded. "Come with me." Silently, he followed her down the path she indicated. By the time they were halfway to the village, a small band of well armed men was barreling down on them. They stopped, suddenly, when he rounded the bend, followed by the Red Demon Girl. He chuckled to himself. All these men and a woman taking him captive! One of them tried to grab his arm, but he pulled away, snarling. "I belong to the Demon." They jabbered at her in words he couldn't comprehend, until she turned to him. "They want you as theirs." She said uncertainly. He bit down a grin. The word she had used in place of 'want' was equal to 'desire' in his language. "No, not like that!" He protested, grinning. When her blank look showed she did not understand, he repented. "You are my captress." "I?" She asked. "You are my..." with a twinkle in his eye and a grin, he finished, "Mistress." She turned back to the men for a minute, then jabbed him with the shaft of the spear again. "They say yes. You come with me." He nodded and followed, a willing prisoner. Dayna, of clan Scylla, stood before her father later that night, her face as red as her almost-dry hair, that had been brushed and braided into a long, shining rope, reaching almost to her waist. He crossed his arms sternly. "You should have run away with the other girls. It is not fitting for the daughter of a priest to be cavorting with or attacking strange foreigners." "I wasn't *cavorting*, da!" She protested. "I was capturing a threat. You've studied these men, you know how they work. He went with me without even a fight!" "I still don't like it one bit. Especially the way he looks at you. What would your mother, god rest her soul, think? Your *sister* never does that!" "Nay, she's off rolling in the fields with Pol." Dayna grinned at her sister, who was sitting quietly at some utterly feminine task in the corner. Milissa laughed. "Better than fighting off armed men with just a dagger!" Her father said sternly. Danya opened her mouth to speak, then saw her father's look, and smoldered in silence. Her father walked to a bookshelf, looking for something. As the only priest of the only church for miles around, he had a meager library compared to most of the towns, but enormous for the costal village that was his flock. He had been educated in Dublin, and knew a little about languages aside from their native Gaelic, many of which his daughter had picked up by osmosis. He selected a thin volume on northern dialects and began to read. Dayna, taking this as a silent dismissal, wandered out to the shed, where the foreigner was locked up. She heard him singing, lustily, and tried to make out the words. "Oh I met a red , She captured me , she didn't mean it, Her prisoner is my heart..." "Warrior!" She laughed, looking through the bars. He looked up, startled. "Demon?" He asked. "My name Dayna. I no demon!" she replied. "What yours?" "Do you believe in the existence of Demons?" He asked. She hesitated, a strange feeling sweeping over her. "I Christian! No need for Demons!" She finally said. "What your name?" "Fredricksson, Demon." "Fredricksson Demon?" "No!" He laughed. "Fredricksson Murderer!" "Oh." She fell silent for a minute. "What song? That you sing?" "I wrote!" He laughed again. "For you, demon! your prisoner?" She considered that, then tried, "I am you captress." "Yes." "You must obey me." "Yes." "And if I make you free?" "You will still be my captress." She nodded. "It is as I wish." "I am glad." He smiled at her through the bars, eyes twinkling. She stalked back to her father's house, slightly disturbed at what the conversation had implied. Once there, she found several men in the anteroom, shouting and fighting. Leave it to the men to complicate things, she thought, rolling her eyes. "SILENCE!" She shouted."What is all the fuss?" "Dayna, thank you." her father adjusted his collar. "What IS all the fuss?" "The foreigner!" One of the men growled. "Why haven't we killed him? We can't free him, and he's a warrior, a threat to our families. And what about when his comrades come looking for him?" "If he had *wanted* to be free, he could have broken out of the shed easily!" Dayna snapped quickly. This couldn't be allowed to get out of control. "William! Do something about your daughter!" Another man shouted. Her father turned a stern eye on her. "Where are my sons?" He demanded. "We're here, Da." William the second raised a well-muscled arm, standing next to his brother Pat, who filled in, "Sorry we're late. We found a boat down on the shore. One man. Looks like a shipwreck survivor." "He's just trying to get home, I'm sure that's all he wants!" Dayna continued, ignoring the angry looks the men shot her way. "Are you sure that's *all* he wants?" Someone leered. She brought her hands up in a complicated figure, and half the room stepped back. William rolled his eyes. Even raising a good Christian daughter, some of the old Pagan ways held, and he could recognize that she was frightening them into submission with her supposedly 'witchy' powers. Wave your fingers, and you could control a whole village. "This is ludicrous. I'm going to bring him some dinner." She dared her father and brothers to object. Then, with a flounce, she gathered up a tray and headed for the kitchen. He looked up as the door rattled, and the Demon came in. She was carrying something that smelled wonderful. "Food." She pointed to the tray. There was a small loaf of bread, and some sort of cooked meat. He reached for it slowly, eating with his fingers, bereft of his knife. She watched as he ate, and he tried to ignore her. "Good!" He burped, politely, showing his appreciation of the food. "What now?" "Now you go." She opened the door and pointed. "My....town....dead you." "*Kill* me?" He corrected questioningly. She nodded. "I think so." "Why? I haven't done anything." "Slowest." "I...do...nothing." "Yes." "So. Why?" "Fear." "Good to be feared!" He shook a finger at her. "Makes men loyal." "Better to be alive!" She pointed at the door again. He shook his head. "Dayna!" Someone called. She winced. Iain. Grrrr. Iain, who was the head of the Willis clan, had been chasing her ever since her fourteenth birthday. When she had told her father she didn't want to marry, he had agreed, in the hopes that one day he could send her to Dublin, where perhaps she would join a convent. She tried not to spoil his hopes for her, but she was NOT going to Dublin. Ever. Even if that meant having to put up with Iain. She liked him well enough, but he was too quick for her taste. "Dayna, I know you're here." He laughed crudely. "Come out!" "In here, Iain." She shouted, hoping to scare him off. "With the Barbarian." "Who?" Fredricksson inquired. "A *real* demon." She muttered. "Want me to kill him?" "No!" She laughed. Iain opened the door, curiously. "So this is the Barbarian?" "Iain, this is Fredericksson." She introduced them. "Fredricksson, this Iain." "Hello demon." Fredericksson said with a smile. "He says it's nice to meet you." Dayna improvised. "Well, you're an idiot, aren't you?" Iain tilted his head at the man. "He doesn't look any better than a beast." "Iain!" She hit his arm. He winced. "What?" Fredricksson asked. "He says you are very handsome man." Dayna was beginning to get a headache. "He says that? Tell him thanks." Fredricksson's eyes never left her face. "Come on, Dayna, everyone's left the house. We could go back, you could serve *me* dinner." Iain took her arm. "I know what *you* want, Iain." She pulled away gently. "Then why won't you give it to me?" "I've told you--" "Come on, Dayna." He gripped her arm, tighter this time, and kissed her. Fredericksson moved faster than anything she'd ever seen, bowling Iain over and out the door, shouting. She backed away, grabbing his shirt as he passed. "No!" "Demon!" He shouted. "In the name of the gods I banish you!" "He's crazy!" Iain cried, leaping up. He pulled a hunting dagger from his belt, and lunged. Dayna shrieked in anger. Fredericksson avoided the blade, and rolled out the door, finding a stick to fight with. He swung, albeit inelegantly, but effectively, catching Iain alongside his head. In the back of her mind, she heard the shouts as more men drew near, for the fight. The two fought intensely, Iain for his pride, Fredericksson for his life. Finally, though, the blade got the better of the staff, and Iain knocked it from his hands. He backed against the wall, away from the second knife to be pointed at his throat today. "I go to Valhalla as a warrior!" He shouted. Iain watched his face intently. "Ha!" He finally laughed, the laugh that warriors tend to use only in the presence of each other. "The Barbarian isn't afraid." "Let him *go*, Iain." Dayna ordered. Iain stepped back, and she ran to Fredericksson, examining his bruises and cuts. He brushed off her hands. "Well I'll be damned. Never seen a man like that." Iain looked to the other men for agreement. "You're okay, Barbarian." "Demon." Fredericksson sneered. "He says thank you." Dayna answered for him. His large hands enveloped hers, mute gratitude in his eyes. * * * --Come, high or low; Thyself and office deftly show! --Tell me, thou unknown power- -- He knows thy thought: Hear his speech, but say thou nought. "Mac"--er, "The Scottish Play" William Shakespeare Bad luck to say MacBeth, you know--D'oh!! Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and the X-Files are copyright Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and the Fox broadcasting network. No copyright intended; the story belongs to ME. Being Mulder, Life 4: Cadno by Ra Enright ra_enright@juno.com 1330 AD Outside of Lasceaux, France "For king and country!!" The shout rang out dozens of time, over the valley that had one day decided to become a battlefield. Cadno Muldoon added his voice to the chorus, and charged, sword raised. What was the point, he wondered, even as his body devoted its all to defending him. All these little kings. All these holy wars. Crazy. For what? Another sword crashed against his, and he redirected his mind towards fighting. It seemed like an eternity before the field was mostly clear. Only a few of the enemy remained; from the looks of it, they'd won the day. He found a cluster of men, and joined them, pulling his helmet off with difficulty. "Cadno!" One of them beamed. "We won!" "Did we." Cadno looked out over the field. "I couldn't tell." "Well, none of *them* are around, are they?" "Yeah, I guess." "Don't be so down! We're alive, aren't we?" "Sure. Fine. Whatever." His eyes never left the field. "Any of you know when the supplies come in?" "I dunno." Biers shrugged. "Adair?" "Don't look at me." The taller man yawned. "I'm just glad we got out with our skins intact. Captain Vimes'd kill us if we died." "Yeah." Biers said gloomily. "Father Hike?" Father, or Frere, Hike, as he was often called by the men, frowned and scratched the stubble on his face. "Probably the supplies'll be in soon. Where's the captain?" "He was at the front of the charge." "Did he come *back*?" "You tell *me*." "Great!" Muldoon smiled brightly. "Our leader is missing along with most of our fellows. We won, all right." "He's probably found someplace to sleep it off. We'll regroup at the supply train, and you'll see, he'll be there." "Sure, Frere Hake." Muldoon wiped his sword on the grass and began the laborious process of removing his armor. The other three followed suit. "Aghaaaaa..." He stretched. "That feels good. Biers, you stay here with the armor." "Yessir!" Biers snapped. Muldoon smiled. The boy was barely a knight, certainly young for it, and eager to please. Like he had been, once. "I'm going to go take a look." "You're morbid, Muldoon." "Maybe I'll find a new charm." Muldoon smiled sardonically. "My cross fell off." Before they could answer, he was off, walking back across the battlefield barefoot, stepping around bodies and weapons carefully. Mainly he examined the faces of the men who had been more or less on 'his' side, looking for friends, or the injured and unconscious. He helped one man up, and sent him staggering off towards the supply carts that were arriving. Another one was slapped into consciousness, and given a sip of water from his hip flask. Finally, he began to wander towards the far side of the valley, where his enemies lay. He was bending to remove a jeweled knife from a dead man when he saw it. Lurking in the trees, just a flash of chain mail. Someone watching him. He turned, as if he hadn't seen him, and laid a hand on his sword. There was a shout of triumph and he whirled in time to deflect the raised sword that was poised to smash his head open. He regretted having removed his armor so quickly after the battle, and wandering far afield even more. Biers couldn't even see him now, let alone help him in time. The other man had full chain mail, a sword, and a helmet, but no shield. He ought to be able to hold his own for a little while; he had inches on his oppnonent, and a better sword. He deflected another lunge and decided he was more skilled, as well. He managed to get close enough without the blade to pull the helmet off. Bright red hair, sweaty and matted, fluttered down. The chain mail, attached to the helmet, pulled tight against his opponent's body, outlining a decidedly unmasculine form. He was so startled, he dropped his sword. Hers came up and pointed at his chest. "Say anything and you die!" She shouted, in French. "You're a woman!" He shouted back, surprised into using her language. "I'll kill you!" "You can't kill me, you're a *woman*!" "I'll do whatever I damn well want to!" "But you're a--" "Woman? Yeah, so I've been told." Her lips quirked up in a grin, and she dropped the sword, bowing. "You sound surprised. My name is Dianne of Arc. I'm on a mission from God." "Ah, how many women have been ruined by God..." He murmured. "How many men have died because of disobedience to His word?" She snapped. "Far too many." He replied easily. "You speak French well, for a filthy English bastard." "Thanks. Actually, I'm Welsh." "You're still a filthy bastard." "Are you going to kill me or not?" He asked, trying not to smile. "No, I guess not." She sighed. "Good." He turned and began walking back to camp. "So I guess if you're not going to take ME prisoner, I ought to take YOU prisoner. Okay?" They both looked at each other, and he blinked, thinking he had somehow been in this situation before.... "Fair enough." She gave him a funny smile, interrupting his thought. "I was kind of coming here for that reason anyway." "Oh really? Defecting to the English? That's a hanging crime." "You going to hang me?" "I'm tempted." "Oooh, I'm terrified." "You're spunky, for a wo--" "For a what?" She turned on him, hands on her hips. "For a woo....oo...orker who obviously wasn't raised in the knigthood tradition." He managed. "I thought that's what you'd say." She looked up at him, smiling slightly. "Are you going to continue invading from here?" "Probably not. I want to go home." He said wistfully. "Where is home?" "Llanelli." Muldoon said, pronouncing it Clanechly. "Why are you so eager to be friends, hmmm?" "I want to go to try to settle the war." She said softly. "All the official channels failed. I was hoping if I could convince the English that my sister has the Lord on her side and they will burn in the eternal hellfires, he will stop his insane attacking of our land." "Eternal hellfires?" Muldoon gulped. "What about the Welsh?" She shot him a sidelong smile. "Maybe not them." "Oh. That's relief." He stepped over a body, absently. "Do you really think you can convince anyone?" "I can try. At the least, I'll die a martyr." "Be a shame to see such a pretty woman martyred." He murmured. "No more a shame than it is to see my countrymen killed...." Dianne said, sounding as though she wanted to be bitter but couldn't quite muster it. "They wouldn't be killed if they didn't fight back." Muldoon reasoned. "And be conquered by the filthy--" "Can we not call my kinsmen to the north filthy, please?" He looked at her, stopped and really looked, for the first time. "You don't even believe it, do you?" "Believe what?" "The whole Filthy English Bastard act." "Of course I do." She fiddled with her chainmail delicately. "Why would I be offering myself as a Martyr if I didn't?" "Because your sister told you to?" He asked quietly. She started. "How did you...?" She peered at him. "You're not a warlock, are you?" "Just perceptive." He laughed. "You repeated it a lot. People who repeat things tend to be trying to make themselves believe what they're saying." "You ARE a warlock!" She grinned. "No mortal knows that much about men! That knowledge is reserved strictly for women." Biers and Adair, looking up from their suppers, saw Muldoon and a pretty redheaded woman talking in French, laughing as they walked off the battlefield. "So what do you want, then?" Muldoon asked, wondering if she would take him for a filthy bastard if he stroked her hair. It looked so pretty... "To get away from France! And the fighting! I'm tired of fighting." She looked smaller suddenly, not at all like the wild warrior who had beat him this afternoon. "And my sister with her prophecies...." He chuckled quietly. "I want to get away from the battle too. I have other matters to attend to." "Like what?" "My sister....Samynya....she vanished when I was very young. I was studying to become a scholar--that's how I know your language--and find her, when I was practically kidnapped into being a soldier." He looked a little wistful. "So you really are going back to Eng--to Wales?" "As soon as I can. The next ship headed there, I'll be on it." Muldoon nodded to Biers as he passed. "You could be with me..." "I could really go? Not as a prisoner? Or as a..." She wrinkled her nose. "Diplomat?" "Well, as long as you don't mind being on a boatful of filthy bastard men." He grinned. "I'd have to sneak you on as...." He suddenly looked uncomfortable. "Well, a consort, I guess." "I don't think I'd mind." Her deep green eyes locked with his. "I'd like to see Wales." "You'll love it." He murmured, reaching out boldly to stroke the feathery bangs above her eyes. "I promise." * * * A sense of ocean and old trees Envelops and allurs him; Tradition, touching all he sees, Beguiles and reassures him; And all her doubts of what he says Are dimmed with what she knows of days-- Till even prejudice delays And fades, and she secures him. "Eros Turannos", E.A. Robinson Now, folks, it's up to you. I'd like to write more Being Mulder, but I can't make up my mind. So I'm taking votes. What do y'all want? ____Please, stop here! Ra is damned lucky I read this far. ____Please keep going! This is mildly entertaining bathroom reading. If you checked the second one, please check as many as you like below and reply(no feedback required, but I'll guilt you out if you only send a vote). I would like to see: ____Francois Muldiere at the battle of Waterloo(hmmm, I don't know anything about Waterloo but who cares? ____Fred McCoy in the Civil War(subject to change according to my taste) ____Renard le Muldier exploring with Lewis and Clark(thank Sneax for that one) ____Other(suggestion here): Thankya for your time