Title: Fragments of Lives Author: Lissa E-mail: alexeevv@cadvision.com Disclaimer: Not mine. They belong to those who call themselves Fox, 1013 and CC. And I hope they will never do to the boys what I have done. Archive: DO NOT ARCHIVE Rating: PG-13 Category: Story/Romance/Angst Warning/Keywords: Slash. Death story. Alternate universe. Pairing: Mulder/Krycek, little bit of Skinner/Krycek Spoilers: Beyond the Sea, Christmas Carol/Emily, Krycek episodes Summary: Imagine a world where everybody is in love with Alex Krycek, then break it into little pieces, then try to put them all back together, and draw the end of the world (also known as alien invasion) on the background. Author's notes: This is my first-born, and most precious little baby. I spent so much time on it that I could not stand it anymore, so I dropped it on the heads of my fantastic, wonderful, sweet beta readers: Elisabeth, Niccie, Lone Gungirl and Debra. They raised this kid, taught him everything, and led him into the big, scary world. And there he met Michelle, without whom there would not be anything at all, Happy Angel caught him while he was falling, he found the safety of Jadzia's arms, and was brought home by Araxdelan. Thank you all for the love, understanding, and faith that you gave me. Feedback: You are asking if I need feedback? Let me think... YES! As if you do not know. Please go right here: alexeevv@cadvision.com Fragments of Lives Those who are painting us They paint us as red set in dull gray Colours are colours But I know something else, which is true If I only knew you I would paint you in a place that I know Where the trees are all green And everything's gold set in blue Gold Set in Blue Aquarium Translated by J Fred. Bailyn The red maple leaves shine so bright The wings of flying birds are scorched. Japanese Haiku Prologue ****** Traps ****** Traps were set everywhere, but none was strong enough to kill immediately without agony. They caught piece by piece. In great curiosity, he was trying to reach out for something to touch, and the trap shut down, and he could get away only by cutting off a part of him, like a polar fox that bites off its paw to get free. However, that part of him remained there in the trap. And he walked the road, where traps were at every step of his foot. Some of them were as bright as the lights of the neon signs, and others, tricky like snakes, were hidden in the thicket of nescience and youth. He could only talk to the stars and look for elves in the grass, but the stars remained silent, only blinking with their silly blue eyes, and the grass was trampled by the wild children of the city streets. Yet he could wait for somebody who perhaps would never come. But with him he could stay in a closed cell and not long for the far savage lands, where tall and proud people with pale skin and gray eyes lived. Sometimes he would go up on the roof, where the sun laughed in his face, and look down on the town, hiding behind the iron rods. There was only one way from that roof, down to the little sanctuary with the small window that could not be opened, and didn't let the light through. There he could lie on the floor with his eyes closed and imagine how the shadows were dancing on the ceiling. He knew that in the future another trap was waiting for him. It was bright and visible, and too big for him to be able to avoid it. His life still went on towards the blueprinted circle and he still did nothing to leave this circle, even to stop and look around. The trap had closed so softly and quietly that he was not aware of it for a long time, not until the moment when he noticed he was heading straight at it. The route that was so desirable but untouchable had become open and free, but dark and full of horror. And again he looked at the faces of strangers, trying to find someone who could take him away from that closed circle where his life, going relentlessly, did not give him neither right to leave, nor hope for it. That was why he returned to the grass, covered with dewdrops, trying to find the elves. Small, rare and white clouds were poising over the town, and were not going to leave. They did not even try to fight the burning sun, which dominated the entire world, proudly playing with the fire, without any sorrow for the burned souls. He just wanted, only once, to see the land with the untouched forests and wild ground, covered with moss. When there was no wind, the forests were shadowy and quiet, and the trees were silent, dreaming about something that only they knew, and not paying attention to that little young life around them. He could only wish to go there, but could not do it, because there were no such lands anymore. There were no undiscovered towns, secret paths, forests where elves lived, because the elves had left a long time ago for another world, taking the scent of the rain and the uncovered paths with them. There was no place to go, although all roads were welcome, but he did not want them. Every step he had made left the trace on the road for the eyes of those who could see everything. They were so powerful that even if they were not there, he felt their presence near. People did not sing songs about heroes and past events, and did not tell tales. They remained in silence. Some of them shouted, but nobody was able to talk to each other. He could no longer sleep near the fire, wrapped in the cloak sewed by elves. He could not enter the water, because the water was dirty. The birds did not sing anymore, and the trees were dead. Creatures that were made from stones had not learned how to speak, or maybe they just did not want to. It was impossible to read the trace on the blind roads that were leading to dead ends. Every day, people walked the same roads, not trying to leave them. If somebody went another way, they were not protected from anything and could not go or stay, but had to come back to the common road. The earth was dying in terrible pain, and everybody cut the hands that held it, not letting the disease spread around the world. It was the right thing to do. They had to think about those who were still alive. Part One Alex ******************** From Letters to Fox ******************** My star is not destined for the warmth Unlike all of us mere mortals For us there's a rich house with a bright light For her there is only bitter vine There is only bitter sorrow Keep burning while we are fleeing from the fire And only a child will say: Oh what a pity, look, a star is falling! My star is not meant to be tired Or to find a rest She does not know what rest is It does not matter She will be dreaming every night of home Saved from the grief But her fate is being a star And bitter smoke, and bitter tea For The Star of Mine Aquarium I must be cruel, only to be kind: Thus bad begins and worse remains behind. Hamlet W. Shakespeare **** Green Room **** Often, at night, when everybody is asleep, I come to the window and lean my forehead on the icy glass, drinking the silence of the white world. Sometimes I open the window just a little bit, thrusting out my nose, but the cruel frost immediately jumps and bites it. Yet I breathe this harsh cold world, where there are no smells, but only frost, ice, snow and winter. Sometimes, on the balcony, I can smell the fresh baked bread in the clean air of the night. But the stars are never seen. Only the lights, like chains, wrap the town, shutting it off from the wilderness. However, not far from the city at an old monastery, the sky is so clear and dark that the stars are brighter than the sun, and there is nothing over the huge abandoned ground except the night in its black dress, richly poured with nuggets and pearls. Only somewhere far on the ground, the stream of the house lights flows and disappears in the twilight. Walking on the frozen ground, and dirty early spring snow, it is very hard to reach it. It seems like, if I stretch out my hands and embrace the sky, I shall fly. But when I arrive at those buildings, I feel only hunger, hunger for food and conversation. I eat the hot supper and listen to the stories about people who left traces in each day of their lives. At night we have to go search for a stupid pony who got scared of something and fled. There is a giant land, dressed in the starry sky, between the city and me. Near, in the house with the yellow walls, children are asleep, having strange dreams. The morning sun is drawing shadows on the snow, and azure is spreading over the world. Horse's hoofs break into the mellow snow. It is warm in the stable. And it smells of hay. I love rain. As a little child, I slept peacefully under the weak sound of raindrops on the roof, knowing that nothing could happen that night, because the rain would not let the dirt and blood pour out on the streets. I grew up, I realized that the most terrible things happen during rain, that rain does not save anybody. It washes the dirt and blood from the streets, and pretends not to see anything. It is blind, and deafened by its own steps. In the early mornings, I run on the wet grass, barefooted, rush into the ice-cold water, and lie on the silk ground, without moving, under the softest and coolest rays of the sun. I live in the green room, green with blue, in which I turned it from that twenty-year old blackness and dirt that had horrified me. On clear days, through the open doors of the balcony, wind and sun slip inside the green room, and rays spread in the air, creating a warm, glowing light. At nights I read books, curling up in the chair. Lifting my head from the pages, I look at the red light of the neighbour's house and the garland of lights in the darkness. It is cold in the city this winter. But I know that when I come home, I shall wrap myself in the warmth of clothes, hot tea and my favourite cake, soft yellow lemon, or dark cherry with chocolate. I will watch TV, just look at the screen, without even seeing it, dreaming... It was the last time I escaped. Once in the evening when I went out, I was met by men in expensive gray suits. That time I lost hope. **** They Say It Is Your Choice **** Was it? I don't know. I doubt that I will ever know. I still believe I could have made it there at that time. Did I make that choice? Was there a choice at all? Sometimes I think not. I did what I had to do. Somehow, I still believe I did what I had to. But... Thinking about the past, about what had been committed already, I do not always see choices that needed to be made. Everything led to it and had been done... But what I had then, I would never, ever have in another life, in another way. **** Hunt, Run, and Languor **** He so painfully longed for the light, so violently struggled to be free, to be kind, to be good. But he was not. From the beginning, he knew that he belonged to the darkness. He was on the side of the bad guys. He fought it. But he was weak, and light sometimes could be so unbearably bright, so painful, when darkness was so black, and soft, and remissive. Darkness covered crime and blood, and he could pretend that nothing had happened, that there were no killer and no victim. No fear for life and no pleading eyes. No aching heart, no thrill from taking life, from being the strongest and toughest, from being God. There was no thirst, no hunger, and that strange weakness in hands, weakness before they began to tremble. He fled, searching for the light, but every time he returned to blackness. Black letters, describing black events, black music of black voices, black eyes without mercy, his eyes in the mirror, black from the excitement, from the fear, from the pain. In the black room was only a thin, fading stream of light on the parquet, light from the door ajar, from another room, another world, where voices were soft and laughing. He lay on the floor in that weak ray of light, looking into the space between the door and the wall, looking at the light, longing for it. Time had passed, and that light became weaker and thinner every moment. Total darkness came to him, closer and closer, wrapping him in deceiving softness, soothing and comforting. And when he had given up the struggle, it stabbed him in the back, and then threw him in a black and cold place with his fears, nightmares, memories, and suffering, alone. **** Criminal with the Code of Honour **** He was a player. Life was a cleverly written play, and he was a great actor, adequate to it. Death was his co-star. He killed, but he had never taken life. He tortured, but he had never been cruel. He stole, but he had never robbed. He lied, but he had never deceived. He betrayed to save. He destroyed to build, and had never taken without giving. He played only with players, protecting innocence. He killed those who were killing. He stole from those who were stealing. He lied, responding to lie. He betrayed traitors. Those who were not pretenders, were not afraid of him. Children trusted him. Kittens curled up on his lap. But he broke the rules of the game. He touched those who were not playing. Once, he made the mistake of falling in love. Once, he killed an innocent woman, just by being there at that moment. He paid a great price for that. He always paid his debts. Once, he hurt a child, and was forgiven by her mother. He died for this. Once, he gave love. And was given happiness. This was the story of his life, which was divided in chapters by the graves of the ones killed by him. The tombstones of his enemies were his diary. Some people's destiny is to give life, and others have to take it. There is no happy ending, but there are happy moments that are carrying us through our time. Perhaps life itself is a happy moment among the endless row of paths. He made a mistake in his youth, thinking that the purpose of every person is to reach happiness. God knows how wrong he was. We are not to seek our own happiness. The goal is to make them happy, the ones we love, the ones we belong to. For them we live, for them we die. Them we want to save and protect. Life is about warmth. And that warmth is happiness. Love is not happiness and passion, not only. Love is warmth. Life is warmth. Death is cold. The ground we shall lie in is cold. But life, with its rain and sun, is warm. Life was given to us, so that one day we would give it back. We die, but we do not leave those who need us. This is what his life was about. The family he belonged to, friends he cared about, the land he protected, and the man he loved. He died, but he kept a promise he had made once. He had never left. The End of Part One Part Two Fox ***************************** From the Notes of Fox Mulder ***************************** When the rain disappears The one that will still us When the shadow moves away from my land I'll awake here. Let me awake here Stretched on the long grass Holding your hand And let our house be free from the sadness Covered with the grass, drowning in leafs And realising, what was a mystery I'll start to wait, when the pain leaves So let the rain fall, let the snow burn And let death sing over my land I want to know, simply want to know Just as we are, will we remain When the pain leaves? When the Pain Leaves Aquarium Translation by Zahar Vasiluk **** Who Gave Birth to Evil? **** I asked myself one of those endless questions that I have been seeking answers to, until suddenly one day I realised what it was for me. Evil is the guilt. The existence of evil in our minds gives us something to blame, and thus lets us forgive ourselves, which is a way to happiness, a little sip of pleasure in life. Our need for an enemy who carries responsibility for all of our sins, is the origin of the creation of evil. Like children, we often do something wrong, and then say: "It is not me; it was not me. It is evil!" We blame it, or we would have to admit that we do terrible things for which we are not able to bear responsibility. If we would admit our fault and our weakness, we would kill ourselves, or we would have to live in pain. But the world by itself represents great pain, from the moment we are born. A woman giving birth cries from pain, not from happiness. We are born in pain, and we live in pain. We talk about it. We think about it. We dream about it. We know everything about it. And throughout our lives, the memory of that first pain is our payment. Some people try to escape it. Others try to make it easier. The first way is the way of evil. And the other way is the one of kindness. We choose it. It chooses us. But one thought keeps me from sinking into absolute insanity, helps me escape the hopelessness of not being able to stop death from taking its victims. We had to create evil for the existence of kindness. And we have to be kind to deserve happiness. We have to pay, by suffering from evil, for being the reason for it. We can be happy because we fight hatred, and desire kindness. We will be given happiness once we learn how to love, forgiving our loved ones, and ourselves. **** When the World Collapsed **** When was that thin line between normalcy and insanity erased? Death was so close to our lives for such a long time, that we did not notice when we crossed from one world to another, and were swirled into the vortex of madness, blood and passion. Nobody was safe anymore. We were mindlessly falling in love with death, forgetting how warm our life was before. Beckoned by the colour of the blood, by the fire of the battle, by the wild dance of bodies and hearts, we stopped appreciating the pale moonlight on the face of a sleeping lover, silent evenings with good food, the fire smoke and the taste of brandy on our lips. We stopped holding each other. We began a wordless fight of hands, glances, muscles and ideas. We won the war, and lost ourselves. But fortunately, we became tired so soon that our homes had not yet been destroyed, and we returned there and wept. That was when we lost the war, and found happiness. **** And It Was Raining That Night **** It was night. There was rain. And there was exhaustion. The door to my apartment was the gate to paradise, which meant shower, tea and sleep. The door to my apartment also had forgotten that it was a door, and that it was not supposed to let inside everyone in this world, especially not Him. He was asleep. In my apartment. On my couch. An alarm was ringing in my head so loudly that I was deaf to everything except one thought, that Alex Krycek was not supposed to sleep peacefully in my home, and if he did, it meant that something terrible had happened, or that he was so tired, or hurt, or... He slept holding a gun in his hand. It was funny, but I wanted to cry. He was very much aware of the danger from me, from anybody who does not hesitate a second to break into my apartment, from just another bug somewhere over our heads, which seemed to settle there for good. He was prepared to fight, to protect himself. But he slept on my couch with his head thrown back, with his throat exposed to a knife or... a kiss. I was standing there and looking at him, I don't know for how long. He was thin, too thin. He had seemed to be okay the last time I had heard from him. Then, he again looked like he had come from the underground. Dry lips, hollow cheeks, black circles around the eyes, pale skin, and he was breathing with difficulty and hoarseness. He was sick, and his hand which was holding the gun seemed very weak, and his... Blood! He was hurt. Although days could have gone by since it had happened, because his clothes were dry and dirty. And his lost arm surely hurt like hell. And he slept. I suddenly wondered how old he could be, because at that moment he seemed just like a little boy who was wearing the costume of a criminal. So real, so innocent, so pure. No mask, no secrets, no lies. Without hurting words and clenched fists, he was asleep in my apartment on my couch, because it was safe there. Because I knew, in spite of any pain from his wound, in spite of the deadly weariness, he would never have fallen asleep on Smoker's couch. So I took the gun from him, moved his body, took off his jacket and boots, covered him with a blanket, and put a pillow under his head. I seriously thought about calling Scully and asking her to put me into a mental institution for a check-up. I took a shower instead. I took a shower, I changed my clothes, I called Scully, I made tea (the one he loved: strong with lemon), I dropped a dozen of different things. The noise I was creating could have awoken all dead in town, but he slept. I thought I'd go insane from the long wait, the curiosity, and hundreds of questions that were swirling in my head. But then he woke up, thankfully. He did not move. He looked at me like a mouse at the cat, and was waiting for the attack, for the first word, for a blow. Perhaps he was just shocked. Though it seemed to me he was so exhausted, deadly tired and sick, and it was so warm under the blanket, so calm in the apartment, so dark that he did not want to move, could not move. He just wanted to freeze in that position, stay in the moment of warmth forever. It was so hard to move for him then, when the domestic warmth of the apartment woke up his aching wounds, tired muscles, and deadly weariness. I guessed the only way he could leave was if I threw him out, but I was not intended to do so. He had come to give me something as always, and I was not going to let him go till he did what he had come for. If the world were a little lighter and life a little easier on us, I would not let him go ever. But it was dark outside, and raining. And I let him go in the morning. **** Search For the... **** The war had begun, finally. Though I was a little late there. The war had begun a long time ago, we just did not know about it. I got the first news from the front when Alex had come to me that night and told about the rebels. The war had begun, and Alex was somewhere in the centre of it. He was very tired when I eventually found him. He was worn out. He had already been possessed by that weariness the night he came to me. It was so hard for him to leave in the morning. It was so terrifying for me to ask him to stay. So I just sat there, watching how my last chance for happiness was leaving. Something had happened to him before. Something had made him so weak that he gave up. The one thing I had never believed he would do. But before the moment he would disappear, he had to make one last step into the fire. He came to me, and gave away all the secrets. Then the war began. Then we built the Asylum. Then I went to search for him. When Alex was found, I, still horrified by my dependency on him but even more by his absence in my life, asked him to stay. **** Green Apples **** He loved green apples. He loved to eat them, to breathe them, to just look at them, to hold them in his hand. He loved the yellow colour, and was afraid of the dark. We slept with the light turned on in another room, and the door ajar. He loved wet roses. He went out in the garden every time it was raining. We made love there on the rose petals. We lived with constantly opened windows. He hated enclosed spaces. He was claustrophobic, and did not come closer to the cellar than one mile. Sometimes he drank. Alone, all day, non-stop. Then I hid all the guns, knives and ropes in the house, and sat behind the closed door while he was weeping silently. He watched only comedies, and turned off the TV every time the screen turned dark. Only the light, and day, and smiling faces, and jokes. Sometimes he went out at night. I was not following him those times. I was lying in the dark, pretending to sleep, while he put on clothes, moving soundless like a cat, and left the house. I lay staring at the windows, praying that he would come back. He always did. But I always prayed. He loved coffee. Black, bitter, boiling, or tea with milk and mint. He did not eat much, and was too thin, and I was begging him every time to put another piece in his mouth. He almost did not sleep. Nightmares were our constant companions throughout the nights. He was afraid to fall asleep. He was guarding me at the times I fell asleep from exhaustion of the previous restless nights. He loved potato chips with cream, onions and milk. He loved strawberry ice cream. He loved the smell of strawberries. He loved to hear music, sitting on the floor with his head in my lap. He only read at nights. We went mountain skiing. Everybody was looking only at him, because his moves were a work of art. We played basketball and I beat him. He was pouting and slept on the couch. In the morning, he made love to me like never before. We went to the sea. He adored water. He lived in the water. I do not remember a moment when he was out of the water. He swam like a shark. He was deadly and beautiful. We loved each other on the beach, and the sand crowded in our mouths and hair. We made love in the water, and almost drowned. Scully was hysterical when he told her about it. He was a cuddler. He slept, burying his face in my neck, and I could not figure out how he managed to breathe. He held me so tight I could not move, he was like a stone on my chest all night, but I did not want him to let go. He drew dreams. Bleak colours, blurred images, strange faces mixed on the canvas, crossing one another, passing from one colour to another. He drew autumn. Leaves, trees, sky, people, birds... I could not find out where he got those colours. Pearl-grey, lightest yellow, soft gold, scarlet red, turquoise, azure, blue black, emerald green, a world like a fairy tale, like a dream, like a reverie, like the memories of innocence, happiness and love surrounded us in our home. He smoked sometimes, though he did not exactly smoke. Most of the time he was just holding a cigarette between his fingers, while it burnt by itself. The fire was important for him, the small, tiny light at the end of the cigarette. In the dark, he was looking at it, while the smoke vanished in the fresh evening air. And he tasted of butterflies. **** War (From Fox's Notes) 2003 **** We are fighting again. Everything is blurred for me. Each time, my mind disappears in the fog, and there are only hands holding weapon, legs running fast, eyes looking sharp, instincts, and fear for Alex. He is reckless, and thrilled by danger. His whole self zeroes on the actions, thoughts, movements... He once said that they regarded him as a failure. No, he was a success. An ultimate weapon. A time bomb. Perfection in any fight. But how worn out he was afterwards. For hours we remained in the darkness, not thinking or feeling anything, and he was sitting, like he loved, on the floor with his head in my lap, falling into exhaustion, into the caress of my hand in his hair. Then Dana came to check on the new injuries, to feed us, and put us to bed like children. He fell asleep, hearing her gentle whisper, and feeling the softness of her hands, fading into the warmth, and the strawberry smell. **** Naked Rain (From Fox's Notes) **** It was the water, streaming down the heated bodies, the taste of it on the lips. Bared skin on the wet, cold silk of the grass, on the warm breathing ground. Hands, shaking, slipping down, low, lower, even lower. The hunger of kisses on the mouths, faces, necks, shoulders. The darkest, hottest night of August, filled with lust and desire, threw everything away in the ravine of passion, and drunkenness. Drowned. Drowned in the tears of passion, in the sweet bitterness of kisses and touches. Heart, opened, big, naked, on the green wet grass, cries together with the rain. Brushes - fingers draw patterns on the slippery, bare skin. Bodies wrapped in the lace of touches, kisses, strokes, embraces... Ground in sweat, tired, breaths heavily, seized with the heat of nakedness, nudity. The opening of this new world, which is born from a glance, a smile, softly shut eyelids, trembling lips, movements of hands, dances of bodies in the bed of the dirt, water, grass under the blanket of rain, fog, evaporations. Abyss. Darkness. End. And only the scarlet naked heart on the green wet grass. The End of Part Two Interlude Fox and Alex ************************************** Meaningful, Meaningless Conversations ************************************** They sat up all night long and talked I tried to play out my part But to tell you the truth, I didn't hear What was said One thing was on my mind: How close you are to my heart And I can tell you in depth What every dream of yours says And I invite you to come And start here with me Bringing on The coming of the apple days Apple Days Aquarium Translation by J. Fred Baylin - Who? I don't know. I don't know who pulled the trigger. I don't know who hired the gunman. But we both know who killed him, or maybe what... - I can not forgive betrayal. - Who were you for me to betray? Only an assignment. I have done my job. You seduced me. You were not supposed to love me. I was not supposed to love you. - You hurt Scully. How can I forgive that, Krycek? - I did... I am sorry. - You give me hope, only to take it away a moment later, don't you? Let me think more of you as a victim of events, than of the one who moved the figures. - You see, you can defend me better than I can. - You betray everybody. - Betrayal is a part of the game. Those are the rules. - You confess to being a traitor? Where are your loyalties? - I don't have any. Never had. - Would you care to explain? - I was just a child. Americans trained me to spy on Russians. Russians trained me to spy on Americans. The Consortium taught me not to give a damn about human life. Dozens of countries were first in line to use my skills. Dozens of people were dying to use my body. All of them tore me apart, for the secrets. You tell me, where are my loyalties? I was a child, like you were back then. Funny. Must be something about that age. I was twelve, but I had already seen more than a great number of people do in all their lifetimes. I went from poverty to wealth and back in one second, several times. I knew more about people than they knew about themselves. The whole world was like an open book to me. I don't remember all the countries I've been in. Dark nights in trains and cars, endless flights, dirt and dust of cheap, old apartments, luxury of palaces... I was at the beginning, at the end and in between. I was always there. I was a child. Nobody noticed me. I turned twelve. I became an adult in one moment, like you. They decided I was old enough to be a player, not only an observer. But I already knew the game better than they did. I was sixteen when I stopped counting my losses. Right before my sixteenth birthday, I fled. It wasn't the first time. I ran like before, feeling free. I was freed from any loyalties since the day of my birth. To whom can I be loyal? My country? Which one? Which one can I consider to be mine? My nation? Which one? People who used me, sold me, bought me, double-crossed me? The whole bloody mankind? Why are you silent, Mulder? Why did I have to be loyal to you? - That's a hell of a life. - It's not a life, Mulder. It's only a struggle, a race with no meaning. I wasn't searching for that truth of yours. That truth, I always knew it. The one, big truth? I don't want to know it at all. ********** - We found him, Alex. - Who? - Him. The man who killed my father. He's dead now. They killed him too. Alex, I know that I can't change everything that happened before. But I... I am sorry. - Fox. - I'm sorry that I blamed you for this. That I was so possessed by rage that I couldn't think clearly. That I dragged you to Russia, and you lost your arm because I somehow screwed up whatever plans you had to escape... - Mulder, would you please shut up? - ... - I want you to listen to me very carefully and understand. Yes, I did not kill your father. I did not kill Melissa Scully. I was not the one who abducted Dana, and not the one who ordered it. Yes, I was trying to get you out of Russia relatively unhurt. But I want you to listen to me very carefully now, Mulder. I was an assassin. I killed people. Not those who were close to you or Scully. God, or the Devil, or whoever, saved me from hurting you by the confession that I did it. But I did kill people. And there is nothing in the world that can change that. I've done so many things in my life for which I'm sorry. No matter where, when or how I was born, raised and educated, it does not belittle what I've done. And I will pay a high price for it, and the highest will be if you leave me now. I know it's cruel to make you choose like this, now that you know everything. But I don't want to wake up one night and see you look at me with anything except love. My past will haunt me enough anyway. Choose, Mulder. Me or your conscience? ********** - Talk to me. - You are doing it again, aren't you? - Doing what? - You know what. That little game of yours: Find the Truth. - I am not asking about your past. - My past is what we have to talk about. I know about your past more than you do. I don't even think about the future, and we don't need to talk about the present. - We can talk about fine art. - And what kind of aliens influenced it. Please, do continue. - What can you do Alex? - I beg your pardon? - What can you do? Play the piano? Draw? Sing? Or maybe you are a poet? - I heard a lot from you about me. I listened to your high opinion about my skills as an assassin, thief, liar and traitor. When did I become attached to the world of art? - What can you do, Alex? - Everything. - You are very bright, aren't you? - I have to be. - I am listening... - The more skills spies have, the better they are. They trained me to do a lot of things to impress the audience. Some families I lived with as a child taught children by the old traditions. Drawing, music, languages, good manners... I was learning fast. It helped me run. You learn from them everything they are able to give you. You learn them. Then when you run, you are several steps ahead, because you know their ways better than they do, and they have taught you everything by themselves. You never know what can help you win, survive, and fight. - Then how come you can not cook? - I can make delicious things. - Um ... Alex ... may I remind you that Scully doesn't let you take one step into her kitchen because you made several attempts to destroy it just by making sandwiches? That's why we have only beer in our fridge, and eat take-out food, or eat in restaurants, except when Scully decides to play angel and cooks for us. - I said I could make some dishes. I did not say I could cook anything except water. The person who taught me to cook has nearly gone mad because finally, I ruined his kitchen. He could not understand how I made dessert better than in French restaurants, but could not prepare a simple dinner for two. I don't quite understand it myself. If you want, I shall do it today for you - if I remember where the kitchen is. ********** - How long have you been running? - Since the time I realized that the choices were made for me. - Why did you come back? - Fox darling, I was caught. - You came back by yourself. Why? - ... The first time I was so small. I was afraid of running too far. Then I was tired. Then I wanted to kill myself. Then I didn't care. I began to like it. Going further and further, developing and discovering new abilities in myself, drowning deeper to see how hard I could fall. You cut your vein, and then you watch the blood pour out of it, taking you with it. Like life slowly, so slowly is leaving you. Time stands still. You look in the mirror, and you see how your eyes are becoming darker and darker. They are black in the end. Then you suddenly realise what you have done, and there is no way back. You are so happy because you don't have to make a decision. You are free. You can do everything. You like it. And the worst thing is, when that door suddenly opens up, and your almost closed eyes see the soft light of the rising sun on the wooden floor and on the yellow walls. And you want to live, to breath again, to make love, to wake up every morning, to feel somebody's lips on yours. To live. Life. You are trying to catch that thin ray of light. Collecting all strength, you are stretching your hand to it praying, pleading it to take you, lift you from here, forgive you for loving darkness more than it. It's too late. Life is gone. Once I lived in a farm where they bred silver foxes. Those animals lived there in the cages for their entire lives. They were born there. Their parents were born there. They have never been in the forest. They have never seen wildlife. I was a child. I wanted to save them. Once, at night, I sneaked out and opened all the cages. A week later most of them had died in the forest for different reasons. Some of them were killed by lone hunters, some of them were caught and pelted. I was punished. I saw the traces of their blood on the white snow. I saw them dead. Have you seen them? Do you know how beautiful they are? Everybody knew I did it. They told me it was such a stupid thing to do. That I had killed those foxes when I freed them. That they didn't know what freedom was. That they would never have survived in the forest. That they were born in those cages. That they loved them. That they were fed and taken care of. That they didn't want to be in the cold and wild forest. But I did not believe it, Fox. I did not believe anybody. I saw their eyes. I saw how they all were running into the darkness, into the safety of the woods. They were not afraid to leave their cages, no. They were happy. They knew they would die. But a few moments of free hunt, of the white snow without a human trace on it, of the fast run were so much more important than life. It was worth dying for. Just a few moments, even if you will be brought back to your cage then. But will you be able to live afterwards? The End of Interlude Part Three Walter *********************************** From The Journal of Walter Skinner *********************************** I see the clouds, or perhaps it is smoke While there was the sun, I thought that I lived I thought that I sang Is it really so important, that, what you wish? After all, none of us will come out of here safe When there is a storm I am breathing easily Don't be afraid of the thunder It always strikes the right note The flowers I give you will last till morning But none of us will come out of here safe No home is solid, if there is steel in the sky I would like to finish the song, but if I can not I am not sorry I built so many walls. So much I wanted to save But none of us will come out of here safe None of Us Aquarium We loved, sir, used to meet How sad, and bad, and mad it was But then, how it was sweet! Confessions Robert Browning **** Of Blessed Memory **** Alex died yesterday. I remember him. We all do. Though sometimes I am ready to give my whole life just to forget him. We all are. After the end, I moved to another place. I could not even face those walls, those windows, and those floors without hammering memories. I changed the furniture. I changed my clothes. I changed my mind, soul and heart. I ripped the old ones off, and buried them in the wet dirt where he is lying now. I was shocked to learn that they had done the same. That was when we learned all secrets, although those were not exactly secrets. It was more like we learned to talk to each other without restraints. That was when we learned to talk about him without pain and bitterness. Who could imagine? The world became lighter after he had gone. The world became lighter and colder, because the winter had come. The cleanest snow I had ever seen covered his dark life and terrible death. The air was so clear that our eyes ached, and we were kissing by his grave, sharing what we had of him. The hottest, darkest and most passionate summer nights changed from the warm red flames, to the white snow for me. For Mulder the comfort came. She was crying, and it was the first time I saw her crying, crying over Him, over his death. Once, I cried too, but over his life. The day I learned about it. I did not cry over my wife's death. I did not cry in Vietnam. I did not cry for a very long time. I was sitting in my office in the centre of the FBI building, looking at the papers and photos, spread out on the table, and suddenly felt something strange. I could not see clearly. I could not breathe. My fingers touched my face, and there was wetness on them. And I had realized that it was tears, tears spilled over a criminal, thief, murderer, and betrayer. I have seen a lot. I have known a lot. I cried because children were not supposed to suffer. That was what I always carried with me through every strange and dark path of my life, through every dead body of an innocent man, through every encounter with death, which looked so beautiful and fragrant. I carried this thought: It's all for the children. It is for them. They are supposed to be happy, because the only thing that I am scared to death of, is the suffering of a child. And I wept, when I suddenly came across the broken heart of a little kid, a heart that was ripped out of his chest and thrown away in the dirt. And I cried, because I was one of those who did it. I am still not sure if Mulder knows about His past. Sometimes his words show me that he does. Sometimes his actions tell me that he does not. But Mulder has seen enough to determine what went wrong somewhere back on the road that had made him, had made him who He was. Mulder was also one of them who hurt him. I don't know if he cried, but I remember what he did to him that year. Whatever happened in the past, Mulder had somehow erased it from his memory. He was the first of us. It was not a big surprise for anybody. He could only be the first, or the last. I had thought the latter but... a lot changed. Once given a taste of belonging, of owning, of being surrounded by the warmth of another human, he did not want to live without all of it. So... He had to be the first. He had to be the first, because he always was in the front row. He was at the beginning and in the end of it. He was always the one in danger. He loved danger. I think that was what he really loved, like Mulder, who hates fire, and who is scared of it, and fascinated by it, Alex was beckoned by danger. We are what we are most afraid of. Mulder is fire. He was danger. He came to us at nights from nowhere, bringing with him the smoke of the firearms, the taste of blood, and the fatal mysteries. And we, blinded and distracted, followed him wherever he wanted. The night created him, and raised him, and then the light killed him. They were fighting over him. Light and darkness. Angels against demons. I saw them struggling over him. I saw them burning in his eyes. I don't know who won. I just pray that he is happy now. I have never prayed in my life before. He was not happy here, and we were not able to make him happy, even in exchange for the happiness He gave to us. This is what I will never understand about him. He brought me death, murder, pain and lies, and I think that he made me happy. He did. He made Mulder smile, dream, and laugh, made Dana joke and burn, made me forget. He had hurt us more than anybody in our lives. More than anybody, because we did not love those who were fighting against us. But we loved Him, and he hurt us. We hated him, and he made us happy. **** Armed and Dangerous (Flashback) **** We were fighting when the passion burnt inside us. The fire was lit at the moment he had taken the first step into my office. That menaced and naughty boy smiled at me, and looked at me, like I was a naked statue of a Greek God. Then he looked at Mulder, and his eyes changed from the sly admiration to puppy awe. My hands were shaking. They left on a case and, walking out the door, Alex glanced at me, and moved in the most seductive manner I had ever seen. I had never even imagined a human could move like that. My eyes drowned in the green sun, and I was burnt. He smiled and disappeared. The next morning, I woke up in cold sweat when the realisation of eventual consequences struck me. Ruined career, broken reputation, shame, and explanations to a room full of men, about an inappropriate relationship with an employee coursed through my head in one second. But within the next second I was drowned in the green sun again. He was smiling. He was happy, like every time he began a new game. He was a little puppy with adoration in his eyes, following Mulder everywhere. It was a joke all over the Hoover building. "Spooky got a fan club." Later, that funny puppy in ridiculous suits became taboo to talk about, and I was wondering who else among us was conquered and hurt by him. What had he done in that short time of his FBI career? Why did so many people put on cold masks of hatred on their faces when he appeared again? Why did so many of us want to catch him and bring him to justice? It was like a silent and invisible tornado had blown over us. The funny puppy became an enigma, a headache, and a pain in the ass, and a constant sting inside our hearts. For me it was the hardest struggle of my life. For Him... I don't know what it was for him. A game. Perhaps a little bit more serious than his game with the others. I was strong. I resisted longer than them. And when I surrendered, he already needed me. It was not a game anymore. That's why it was so painful when he was gone and drowned in crime. Alex left right after I had fallen in love with him. That was why I had come to hate him. That was why I beat the hell out of him the first time I could lay my hands on him when he appeared in my life again. No one had hurt me like that before. No one had the right to hurt me like that. That was why I threw him out in the winter night, for he had to feel the same coldness as I did when he had disappeared. Let his heart freeze to death. But only my heart and my body were frozen when I saw the corpse in front of my building, and not seeing clearly, inside: //Please NOT HIM, just NOT HIM. Let him live so I can kill him myself for what he has done to us, for what he is doing to us, so I can hurt him, like he hurt me, so I can love him, like he loved me.// I also read all of those thoughts on Mulder's face when he ran to my apartment building. That was when I caught the first glimpse of what was happening between them, when jealousy struck me, and helped me to hate Him again. He even took Mulder from me. And then they both disappeared into nowhere. I was dead those days, and it carried me through that time. That, and her beautiful, calm face, which assured me, that everything would be alright. How did she know? She always does. I am wondering why she is so sceptical, if she is the example of what she does not believe in? Dana sees so far beyond everything, without even noticing it. Her intuition, her inner eye is incredible, and she denies its existence and its power. Then Mulder was back, and alive. And I was also alive again, and the thought that Fox would be with me, not mine, but near, and alive and determined like always, helped me get through everything. Then I found Alex's past. And I cried. I thought it had ended for good. He would never return to us, and those events would vanish from our lives, leaving only the light fog of pain, hatred, and love in our memories. But those green eyes were coming to me every night, haunting my dreams, and torturing my heart. I gathered all information I had found about him and destroyed it, praying that neither Mulder or Scully would ever find any of it. I did my best to forget it. I failed. I did my best to live with it and, however odd it may be, Krycek helped me, coming again and again, bringing more troubles and deaths. And from that hatred for him, no, not for him, but for what he did, I got the desired relief and strength in my battle with him. Our fight continued to the very end. He was always so fascinated by the strength and the power, by the challenge to get it. I was his favourite game, the biggest gift he got. Power, strength, overcoming barriers, security, safety. Once he whispered in my ear, falling asleep, that in Armageddon the most secure place for him would be in my arms. He slept, and I was laughing and smiling like an idiot through that entire night just from the thought that that man needed me so much. Yes, idiot. He left me only days later, and all I had of him was an aching heart, and clenched fists. But I never doubted his words. **** Fire In Velvet (Flashback) **** Alex was the only one who called him Fox. And He was the only one who was allowed to do it. Though even if Mulder did try to stop it, I do not think Alex would pay attention. He fell in love with the name itself, independent from Mulder. He savoured the sound of it on His lips, on His tongue. He was kissing and making love to that name in the moment he pronounced it. He made Mulder desire him just by saying that name. They called Alex a whore. What an irony! He was not a slut who slept with everybody, selling his body, skills, and secrets. No, how rude and unfair it was to say such things about him. Sexuality was a part of him. Sex was part of his relationships with people. Alex fathomed into people's minds, bodies, and hearts like a sneak, like a flame, like the water, like the rays of the sun, softly, silently, insensibly, and stayed there forever. Sometimes he played, used, and then threw them away when he was tired of them. Sometimes he hated, hurt, and killed. Sometimes he just did his job. Once he searched for warmth, softness, and forgiveness. Once he was beckoned by the struggle with power, and by the desire to win it over. He did. And all that time Alex loved. Once and forever. It hurt most of all. Because it was not me he loved, because it was the man who I loved too, and because I was not loved enough by either of them. It hurt so much at the beginning. It was happiness later, that one year when they were together. I would never thought that prosperity of mankind could depend on the happiness of two people. One year of pale, warm sun. One year of sweet rains. One year on the silk of the grass. One moment when Death was resting and laughing at those two. One moment when the world was smiling, looking at their games. One moment when the light was only on them, and we kept our breath, afraid that one sound would destroy it all. One second before all hell broke loose. The last breath before death. **** Lessons of Strategy (Flashback) **** We played chess. I never won. Mulder played once too. They were playing for days and he did not win a single game. Later he told me that only Krycek could beat Krycek in chess. He could sit in front of a mirror, and try to teach his reflection to move the figures on the board. He could play with that kid Gibson, and win because he played like a human can not play, has no right to play, using his freaking senses more than his damn brains. Alex just laughed, and said that Fox always won playing cards. **** Yellow (Flashback) **** Mulder bought a house, and painted it yellow. There are tea roses around. Only roses. Dozens of them. It stands on a hill, alone, with huge windows that catch every ray of the sun in the morning, and in the evening. They are chasing the autumn. They are going through the continent to the places where winter has not come yet. They will be back soon. They will be in their yellow house all winter, warm and happy. They will be gone when the spring comes. Alex hates spring. They will go somewhere far away, where it rains, and the green trees surround them. They will be back when the roses are blooming. **** Last Notes 2003 **** The war is raging now, and we live in the Asylum. We are tired, especially Fox and Alex. They have begun this fight, and now they are just worn out. Scully is the strongest. She is furious and determined. She is a fighter, as she always was. But she is tired too. After a long war within the shadows, you become a shadow too. **** Last Notes January, 2004 **** Mulder is bleeding. The symptoms are so clear. We do not doubt that his end is close. He welcomes it. He is silent, but I know that he wants it. Alex died, saving him, in so much pain and for nothing, because Mulder had already been infected. This is what is killing him. It was useless, a useless sacrifice, a loss of the several last minutes together. He lied to Alex last month. They succeeded at that operation in the woods, one of our best, but Fox got the virus. They did not leave early enough. It was only the beginning, so it was very easy to lie, and cover the blood on the sheets. And now it is almost the end, and it is so hard to lie to Dana. Though she knows, she does not say anything. I know she will be strong. She knows that even if we had a cure, Fox would not accept it, accept life without Alex. She will be weeping silently in her room later. **** Last Notes September, 2004 **** She is the strongest among us, because she still knows how to cry. I am just afraid that when I leave, she will break. I know that Scully will not, but I am afraid anyway. We left her alone to fight the demons, our demons, for us. Demons that she had never believed in, and then accepted in one second, and never betrayed her belief. I welcome the end too. I am a coward. But I am tired of seeing Alex, covered with blood in Mulder's arms, Fox himself with a snow-white, lifeless face, slowly walking from us into the darkness, her tormented eyes, and stubbornly gripped, dry lips while she continues her search for a cure. Scully thinks that she failed saving Fox and many others. She does not know they will be telling tales about her when she is gone. I fought fair. I have never hurt a child. I loved, and have been loved, and I know that Dana will not leave till she finds what she is searching for. I am not afraid for them while she is here. I am not afraid to sleep while feeling those small, soft hands on my forehead. So I can close my eyes, and let myself slip silently into the fog of the early August morning, and the tall house with the yellow walls illuminated by the rising sun. End of part three Part Four Dana ****************** From Dana's Diary ****************** I'll take your part When darkness comes And pain is all around Like a bridge over troubled water I will lay me down Bridge Over Troubled Water Paul Simon There are no mistakes in life some people say And it is true. Sometimes you can see it that way: People don't live or die, people just float She is gone with the man in the long black coat Unknown Author **** Hear My Prayers **** After so many years spent on running from faith, I suddenly found myself praying. Praying with such intensity, such passion and sincerity that I did not even possess in childhood. I was praying for Alex, because he was the one who needed it the most. My irrational and powerful fear for him made me remember forgotten words of my youth. The fear that he will go to that cold, dark place, walking down the hall through the eyes of everybody he killed, everybody he hurt, haunted by their silence, by their calm faces. It was not supposed to happen that way, but life again proved its power by making him a sinner. My mother taught me my faith, the one where mercy is the essence of our existence in this world, and thus I am praying now. I am praying for a callous criminal, who is responsible for terror and pain. I am praying for a brave man, who found enough strength to love, to cry, and ask for forgiveness. Whatever Alex had done, he paid a great price for it, paid with something so dear to him, I am afraid to imagine what it could be. And thus I am begging you to hear my prayer. Please, do not make him walk through that hall. Please, do not send him to that cold and dark place. He will die there. He will be gone forever. I fully understand the reason for Alex being so afraid of Death. It was cold and cruel to him. It told him clearly what to expect from it, no rest, no refinement, no forgiveness. Only shadows, ghosts, and frozen tears. I am praying because of the one night, when he came to me. He came after Emily had died. Only one thing I remember, him, on his knees, with his face buried in my waist. I see that night now only like this. As if we were standing like this the whole night. Everything else was a fog, smoke, ethereal light, and praying. He held me like the last drops of water in the desert. He looked at me like at the last rays of the setting sun. He kissed me, and in that kiss was every kiss that I treasured in my life. That was when he made love to me. That was when I forgave him. This is why I am on my knees, praying for the first time in years. For Him, for Mulder, for all of us, for myself... That is why I am praying for the man who gave me the biggest pain, love, and worship. He did not deserve to suffer. Nobody did. **** Sip of Happiness, Flashback **** Mulder bought a puppy for Alex. Any trace of that dog's breed disappeared centuries ago. Colour. It was about colour. The puppy had the most incredible yellow colour I had ever seen. And his eyes were almost green. Only Mulder could find a dog who looked like the monster from your nightmare. Only for Alex. Child. He was playing with that puppy non-stop from the moment Mulder came through the door with him. He called him Reynard. Mulder was furious, or at least pretended to be, but his face was not so intense anymore when Alex smiled so much without the pain usually hidden in his eyes. I had never seen Walter laughing as hard as he did when he met the puppy. When Alex broke into the building, he always brought Reynard with him. The yellow monster was loved by everyone there. He was bringing memories of the sun and children, while we fought in the war with shadows. **** While Fighting the Shadows **** I liked to do it often, compare them, us to something, everything around us. If he only knew, Mulder would laugh and laugh hysterically, and I again would have the opportunity to say: "Shut up, Mulder". He would laugh, if he knew that practical and rational Dana Scully sometimes sees him like grandmother's coffer, in the colour of old memories - black, grey, dark red, purple, with hidden souvenirs of the past: Old photographs, vague pain of love letters... or autumn. Soft gold on the ground. Soft gold in the sky. Cool and sly autumn with its warm rains, its cold, stormy wind, and sweetest fruits. Alex was summer. Hottest summer night, enveloped in passion, desire, lust and death. Death was always with him. They had a strange relationship. She loved him. He hated her. She followed him, like a shadow. He was running from her, I think, from the day he was born. I don't know a lot about him. To be correct, I don't know anything about him at all. Walter had told me not to look, and I did not. I do not even want to think about what had happened in his past, if a man like Skinner was terrified by it. He was not running from Death only that year, when he was with Mulder. I think she was so surprised by his carelessness that she stopped and decided to look what happened. Fox happened. Foxes are smart. Foxes are sly. Fox was good in deceiving Death, and taking Alex from her. Fox was clever and wary, but she was stronger, and in spite of everything, she always wins. She had become tired of the game with Fox. She took Alex at last. She took him in the worst manner, giving life to Fox for the price of Alex's death. I remember looking at them together was like witnessing the creation of life. The passion of darkest nights was swirling through them, giving them moments of rest in the warm sunlight, and conversation of thoughts, eyes, and bodies, before throwing them into the black holes of desire beyond existence again. **** What the Blue Eyes See Year 2007 **** I look in the mirror and see the traces left by them in my hair, in my eyes, on my skin. I will be gone soon too. There will be others, but those who were first... they are gone. I am responsible for the X-Files now, and it is a great honour. I am a hero. We all are. Ironically, in this war we do such things that nothing is farther from heroism than them. I laugh bitterly, and my reflection looks at me surprised. It is an honour, but those who were first are all gone. Like a wave, the name Spooky Fox Mulder washes over the Asylum, the legend, the myth of the FBI. He is one of The First. Walter looks at me every time I lift my head from the reports about the unexplained phenomena, which remains unexplained, still. He is serious, but I know that smile in the corners of his eyes, lips. The Hero. The subject of worship for our children. "Who do you want to be when you grow up?" "I want to be like Walter Skinner". Sometimes I hear his voice and steady steps in the hall. Sometimes I see the big frame and broad shoulders, and can not stop the urge to run to him. He turns to me and... I talk to another AD about the last reports of the alien activities. Skinner smiles at me softly from the wall. He is one of The First. I see a shadow, black, with the grace of a panther. I run through the hall, and turn around the corner... The shadow vanishes in the sunlight. I feel the breath on my hair, his presence behind. I swing my chair and catch only a slight movement in the air. His name is not on every paper I get. His face is not among those on the wall. But everybody falls silent when conversation suddenly comes to him. I remember how I laughed every time Alex appeared in the centre of the FBI building, bringing classified information, sunflower seeds for Mulder, and an innocent grin on his face. I laughed every time Skinner was trying to stop him from breaking into the building. Alex, with his innocent, widely opened eyes, was asking what was wrong about coming through the windows, basements, or the closed doors of the most secure place on the planet with guards at every entrance. Every head turned around when he was passing through the halls towards the exit, legally that time. Once he broke security again, teased Skinner, kissed me on the hair, totally destroying my hair-do, ignited and frustrated Mulder, and sent us all to die just to appear later and save us, he was happy. Skinner got a headache and checked security once again, I got bad hair, and Mulder lost any ability to think straight. Fellow FBI agents were whispering for the rest of the day. They do it now, too. They whisper, still not able to determine whether Alex was the worst criminal of all, or The Knight in Black Leather. But he was one of The First. I am the last of them. I have done everything I could. Now, it is time for the others. Walking through the halls, I feel respect and admiration penetrating my back and I, so tired, just want to close my eyes and feel strong arms around me, breath in my hair, and whisper pulling me into sleep. Fox once said, after Alex's death, "Our lives are burnt." I loved him. It hurt. I never had him, as he never had me. We worshipped each other so idealistically that the human closeness of a relationship, a marriage, had become almost forbidden, because of fear to break that incredible link between minds and hearts we shared. We were not family, could not be. Our partnership spread over our lives in love, admiration and trust. Walter once told me that looking at our romance would be like looking at a picture, breathtakingly beautiful, but stark forever in one moment without moving anywhere. **** Closer to Time (The Last Note of Dana's Diary) **** It is too painful now. It is blinding darkness at night, and blinding light by day. It is the constant hurting inside your heart, and undesired living without even trying to get it over with. I believe that we get what we deserve. I know they have walked on a good way, all the time with kindness and faith, and they have gone where they are needed more, where they have to be. I am fine with it, because they are happy. This is all I wished for them, and it makes me almost happy, too. Something makes me wonder, what did I do some time back, somewhere, to deserve them in my life? They were given to me like a precious gift, like a reward, and a blessing. But now, they have gone where they deserve to be. And all I do is wait. It is painful now, but I know there will be a light for me. I know. I just have to wait a little more. Epilogue *************************** Last Notes (Added to Skinner's Journal by Jeffrey Spender) Year 2008, September *************************** Everything is right. This is our task Our path to the golden blue But when everyone is gone, Lord, leave me Grey stones on the green grass. Grey Stones on the Green Grass Aquarium Translation by J. Fred Bailyn They are all gone now. The First. Only Alex's drawings, the yellow house, and these diaries are left of them ... and the memories. I am thinking: How long will this war last? How many generations will live with it? If they live, of course. I am afraid of this "if". If I only could, I would forget it and throw away all the terrible memories of the past, but it hangs over our heads with its sinister smile. But we are fighting. At least, thanks to The Firsts, we were ready, and were not wiped off the Earth when the first wave of the invasion had come. At least they were ready to fight, and taught us. Now The First are gone. I am leading the Resistance now. When I look in the mirror, I laugh. The leader of the earth army with the face of a lost child. But Alex trusted me. He saved me, so I would be able to stay here and fight when they were gone. He believed in me, and made Mulder believe in me also. I was following Skinner and Dana like a puppy, learning how to be a man. She said she would leave only when she did not worry about us any more. So she did. Now we are fighting for her too. The sun does not shine anymore. There are always clouds and rain. The world became grey by day, and absolutely black at night. But on one of the hills outside of Washington, there is still a tall house with wide opened windows. And its walls are always of a bright yellow, as if they are illuminated by the rising sun. ******** The End ********