FF: Rendering Judgment of Chthonic Gods
Title: Rendering Judgment of Chthonic Gods
Author: Ellie (windblownellie@yahoo.com)
Rating: PG
Timeline: One Breath
Summary: Scully drifted, the boat seeming to find its own way down the river.
****
She stood at the edge of the nurse's station, watching the mechanical rise and fall of Dana Scully's chest. Beside the bed sat the patient's mother, tears barely contained, daughter's hand in her own. Farther down the hall, she watched as the figure of Fox Mulder stormed away from the scene, head low, a silhouette in the bright corridor.
A soft click was followed by silence as the respirator ceased functioning. The nurse looked on, rubber soles squeaking on the tile as she shifted, stepping towards the family as the rest of the hospital staff seemed to recede. Scully's chest shuddered, slowing, struggling.
The nurse turned away, vanishing down the hallway to find her own daughter.
*
Scully drifted, the boat seeming to find its own way down the river. Still waters run deep, she knew, and as the boat moved through the fog, she could see a foreign country passing by her. Dark trees gave way to a misty, windless plain, where the pale grass was broken by tall shocks of white flowers, almost invisible against the brume.
Another boat joined her on the river, appearing suddenly to over take her, sped along by a cloaked figure punting. As it drew even with her, he and his passenger turned to stare at her, but she could not see their faces. The black cloak rippled with a slight nod, and they were past her, disappearing around a bend.
She sat still, occasionally staring at the shoreline and glimpsing movement, a swirl of mist, a suddenly moving plant. Below, she could see nothing in the dark water, smooth as glass even when she trailed her fingers through it. Putting her wet fingers to her lips, she could taste nothing.
The boat silently drifted onwards.
*
Dressed as a nurse, she was tiny before her daughter's gaze. The daughter's sad, dark eyes seemed to bore into her.
"You know I can't, Mother. I was allowed, once, and it didn't work."
"That doesn't mean you couldn't again, my dear. No one's asking to come after her."
"Atropos has cut the line. You saw it happen. Whatever you may see that she has to do in the future, the decision was made that she shall not continue. It cannot be undone, not by my will nor my husband's."
"You could give her a choice. She's coming here unguided, and has dipped her hand in the river and tasted it. That must change matters."
"That--that does change matters, somewhat. She was a good woman in life, and I am not unsympathetic to her or what you see of her future. And she still has a choice where to drink. Let her make that choice, and perhaps she'll make the decision for us. Because the consequences of sending her back are complicated, as you well know. Especially given the river."
"Bringing someone home can change the world," said the mother with a knowing smile.
It was returned the the daughter, who tucked a sprig of wheat into her hair. Harvest was coming.
*
She was no longer in the boat, but was simply surrounded by light. Inside it, she could see shapes moving, hear faint whispers. Something tugged at the edge of her consciousness.
Two ewers stood before her, and she was suddenly thirsty. Habits died hard, and she leaned down to sniff their contents before pouring one into the silver cup. The left pitcher smelled of nothing but the cool metal itself, as if it contained nothing. The right, on deepest inhalation, held faint traces of the sea and Mulder's cologne, wet earth and the faint coppery tinge of blood, almost imperceptible. She took another deep breath, peering into the ewers. Both were clear as emptiness.
Another deep breath and she poured from the pitcher on her right, the liquid tasting like nothing at all despite its subtle scent.
*
The nurse watched the dark-haired man beside her bed. He sat alone in the small hours of the night, watchful when the rest of the world was dark and still. She understood, and did not disturb him.
Too many times had she witnessed the same vigil. At least now he had some place to rest his bones; she knew his headlong desperate hunt too well, recognized it in his eyes. He would have gone and brought her back himself, given half a chance.
Tonight, he sat silently, the woman's small hand hidden in his. He'd tucked the blanket up over her tiny feet, and propped his own big feet on the bed next to them. Another night, another man, she might have admonished. There was something different about this man, though, and she walked past without making a sound.
*
"She made her choice," she said to her husband.
"So she did. But you understand what you ask. What it will mean and everything that will be undone." His face was stern.
There was only an instant's hesitation before she answered, "Yes."
"It is a decision I cannot make alone, one I do not have the right to make alone. I cannot undo the decisions of those in authority on a whim. They have good reason for their choices, and it is not my place to second guess them."
"But you can."
He nodded, chin falling to his chest, deep in thought. It would change everything, but perhaps not for the worse.
"Let her father have a moment first. He misses her."
His wife smiled, and the flowers in the room seemed to perk up.
*
Everything was still, so still that her father's voice rang louder and clearer in her ears than she ever remembered. He'd had a booming voice, but it had to carry over a ship's deck or the rowdiness of a vibrant family. Now, in silence, she could hear him, almost smell him, crisp starch in his uniform and tang of the sea.
But she could not respond, couldn't open her eyes or see him. She knew he was gone, beyond her. She loved him, but she was not ready to see him again. She willed her eyes to stay closed, simply allowed herself to spend a few more moments in his presence.
He'd always known how to do the right thing, even when it was difficult. If he said the right thing was not to join him now, it was not, and it was her duty to go on.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the nothingness around her.
*
The crouched old figures' faces were hidden beneath their robes, so dark a blue they were nearly black. Stark shadows fell on their features, but he could see the glint of their eyes.
"We do not make mistakes. You know this." The voice was clear and strong.
He bowed his head, "I know, my ladies. Never in these many years have you done so. But I have heard pleas from those I hold most dear that this decision must be reversed. While I hold the power to do so, I do not wish it done against your wills."
Whispers passed between them, a language all their own that hissed in his ears. He did not presume to comprehend them, only to safeguard their judgments.
"We have seen what those who appeal to you see," said the tallest crone, holding a staff. "We know she had chosen wisely though she moves unguided through the realm. But we are also aware that in returning her, the choices made here have ramifications."
"I know," he said, bowing his head. "Yet I believe those ramifications are part of what must be done."
Blind eyes lingered long on his face. "Yes, she is essential to some of what must come to pass. But her role will be much different if she is there than if she remains."
"I'm allowing her return."
Their hands extended towards him, the three wrapped around a single bright length of cord. Solemnly, he took it from them, and tucked it into his robes.
*
The brilliance faded, and for a moment, Scully was in one of the meadows she'd passed in the boat, now shining with sun. White flowers gleamed on their stalks, almost iridescent in the light. As they sparkled and faded, so did the pastoral surroundings, and she was suddenly awake.
The air felt cold in her lungs, stale and musty. Still, she inhaled deeply, aware of an unfamiliar voice at her ear. She couldn't make out the words, but knew the familiar buzz of the hospital paging for a doctor, stat.
Tension fell away, and she relaxed in to the bed, solid scratchy sheets under her bare arms, coarse gown against her abdomen. A warm hand enclosed her own, squeezing gently, and she let her eyes flutter open.
****
End
****
Author's Notes: I'm trying something a little different for me, perhaps a bit different all together. Let me know if it works for you. If not, blame Jean Cocteau. Thoughts on how this worked (or not) appreciated.
Author: Ellie (windblownellie@yahoo.com)
Rating: PG
Timeline: One Breath
Summary: Scully drifted, the boat seeming to find its own way down the river.
****
She stood at the edge of the nurse's station, watching the mechanical rise and fall of Dana Scully's chest. Beside the bed sat the patient's mother, tears barely contained, daughter's hand in her own. Farther down the hall, she watched as the figure of Fox Mulder stormed away from the scene, head low, a silhouette in the bright corridor.
A soft click was followed by silence as the respirator ceased functioning. The nurse looked on, rubber soles squeaking on the tile as she shifted, stepping towards the family as the rest of the hospital staff seemed to recede. Scully's chest shuddered, slowing, struggling.
The nurse turned away, vanishing down the hallway to find her own daughter.
*
Scully drifted, the boat seeming to find its own way down the river. Still waters run deep, she knew, and as the boat moved through the fog, she could see a foreign country passing by her. Dark trees gave way to a misty, windless plain, where the pale grass was broken by tall shocks of white flowers, almost invisible against the brume.
Another boat joined her on the river, appearing suddenly to over take her, sped along by a cloaked figure punting. As it drew even with her, he and his passenger turned to stare at her, but she could not see their faces. The black cloak rippled with a slight nod, and they were past her, disappearing around a bend.
She sat still, occasionally staring at the shoreline and glimpsing movement, a swirl of mist, a suddenly moving plant. Below, she could see nothing in the dark water, smooth as glass even when she trailed her fingers through it. Putting her wet fingers to her lips, she could taste nothing.
The boat silently drifted onwards.
*
Dressed as a nurse, she was tiny before her daughter's gaze. The daughter's sad, dark eyes seemed to bore into her.
"You know I can't, Mother. I was allowed, once, and it didn't work."
"That doesn't mean you couldn't again, my dear. No one's asking to come after her."
"Atropos has cut the line. You saw it happen. Whatever you may see that she has to do in the future, the decision was made that she shall not continue. It cannot be undone, not by my will nor my husband's."
"You could give her a choice. She's coming here unguided, and has dipped her hand in the river and tasted it. That must change matters."
"That--that does change matters, somewhat. She was a good woman in life, and I am not unsympathetic to her or what you see of her future. And she still has a choice where to drink. Let her make that choice, and perhaps she'll make the decision for us. Because the consequences of sending her back are complicated, as you well know. Especially given the river."
"Bringing someone home can change the world," said the mother with a knowing smile.
It was returned the the daughter, who tucked a sprig of wheat into her hair. Harvest was coming.
*
She was no longer in the boat, but was simply surrounded by light. Inside it, she could see shapes moving, hear faint whispers. Something tugged at the edge of her consciousness.
Two ewers stood before her, and she was suddenly thirsty. Habits died hard, and she leaned down to sniff their contents before pouring one into the silver cup. The left pitcher smelled of nothing but the cool metal itself, as if it contained nothing. The right, on deepest inhalation, held faint traces of the sea and Mulder's cologne, wet earth and the faint coppery tinge of blood, almost imperceptible. She took another deep breath, peering into the ewers. Both were clear as emptiness.
Another deep breath and she poured from the pitcher on her right, the liquid tasting like nothing at all despite its subtle scent.
*
The nurse watched the dark-haired man beside her bed. He sat alone in the small hours of the night, watchful when the rest of the world was dark and still. She understood, and did not disturb him.
Too many times had she witnessed the same vigil. At least now he had some place to rest his bones; she knew his headlong desperate hunt too well, recognized it in his eyes. He would have gone and brought her back himself, given half a chance.
Tonight, he sat silently, the woman's small hand hidden in his. He'd tucked the blanket up over her tiny feet, and propped his own big feet on the bed next to them. Another night, another man, she might have admonished. There was something different about this man, though, and she walked past without making a sound.
*
"She made her choice," she said to her husband.
"So she did. But you understand what you ask. What it will mean and everything that will be undone." His face was stern.
There was only an instant's hesitation before she answered, "Yes."
"It is a decision I cannot make alone, one I do not have the right to make alone. I cannot undo the decisions of those in authority on a whim. They have good reason for their choices, and it is not my place to second guess them."
"But you can."
He nodded, chin falling to his chest, deep in thought. It would change everything, but perhaps not for the worse.
"Let her father have a moment first. He misses her."
His wife smiled, and the flowers in the room seemed to perk up.
*
Everything was still, so still that her father's voice rang louder and clearer in her ears than she ever remembered. He'd had a booming voice, but it had to carry over a ship's deck or the rowdiness of a vibrant family. Now, in silence, she could hear him, almost smell him, crisp starch in his uniform and tang of the sea.
But she could not respond, couldn't open her eyes or see him. She knew he was gone, beyond her. She loved him, but she was not ready to see him again. She willed her eyes to stay closed, simply allowed herself to spend a few more moments in his presence.
He'd always known how to do the right thing, even when it was difficult. If he said the right thing was not to join him now, it was not, and it was her duty to go on.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the nothingness around her.
*
The crouched old figures' faces were hidden beneath their robes, so dark a blue they were nearly black. Stark shadows fell on their features, but he could see the glint of their eyes.
"We do not make mistakes. You know this." The voice was clear and strong.
He bowed his head, "I know, my ladies. Never in these many years have you done so. But I have heard pleas from those I hold most dear that this decision must be reversed. While I hold the power to do so, I do not wish it done against your wills."
Whispers passed between them, a language all their own that hissed in his ears. He did not presume to comprehend them, only to safeguard their judgments.
"We have seen what those who appeal to you see," said the tallest crone, holding a staff. "We know she had chosen wisely though she moves unguided through the realm. But we are also aware that in returning her, the choices made here have ramifications."
"I know," he said, bowing his head. "Yet I believe those ramifications are part of what must be done."
Blind eyes lingered long on his face. "Yes, she is essential to some of what must come to pass. But her role will be much different if she is there than if she remains."
"I'm allowing her return."
Their hands extended towards him, the three wrapped around a single bright length of cord. Solemnly, he took it from them, and tucked it into his robes.
*
The brilliance faded, and for a moment, Scully was in one of the meadows she'd passed in the boat, now shining with sun. White flowers gleamed on their stalks, almost iridescent in the light. As they sparkled and faded, so did the pastoral surroundings, and she was suddenly awake.
The air felt cold in her lungs, stale and musty. Still, she inhaled deeply, aware of an unfamiliar voice at her ear. She couldn't make out the words, but knew the familiar buzz of the hospital paging for a doctor, stat.
Tension fell away, and she relaxed in to the bed, solid scratchy sheets under her bare arms, coarse gown against her abdomen. A warm hand enclosed her own, squeezing gently, and she let her eyes flutter open.
****
End
****
Author's Notes: I'm trying something a little different for me, perhaps a bit different all together. Let me know if it works for you. If not, blame Jean Cocteau. Thoughts on how this worked (or not) appreciated.