TITLE: A Eulogy For Scully (1/1) VA by Medina AUTHOR: Medina, written September 1997 E-MAIL ADDRESS: duffsan@aol.com DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Please forward to ATXC. Archive at Gossamer. Attach my name if archived elsewhere. SPOILERS: Memento Mori RATING: VA CONTENT WARNING: None LENGTH: 11 kb SUMMARY: Scully asks Mulder to write her eulogy. DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "The X-Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. AUTHOR'S THANKS: To MS - who made significant suggestions about rhythm and flow. The comments led the way for substantial improvements. FEEDBACK: please send to duffsan@aol.com ******************************************* A Eulogy For Scully (1/1) VA by Medina She is dying. I look at her across my desk. She lives. She breathes. But she also dies. I cannot imagine the moment when she leaves me for good. There will be a day when she rises out of the chair she now sits in, wheels it aside as she always does and then leaves. For good. For ever. All the things she does now I see as her doing for the last time. The last time she lifts her eyebrow. The last time she tucks strands of hair behind her ear. The last time she answers her cell phone and asks me where I am. The last time she sits next to me in a plane and gives me her bag of peanuts. All endings. No beginnings. We never talk about it. Cancer. She keeps me 'informed'. Like I was no more important than Skinner. I can't ask. I don't ask. If I do, she will only tell me she is fine. I am not trusted with the truth. It hurts to see her in pain. It hurts to see her strong, too, because I know it is a lie. In this one thing I do not believe she can be this stoic, this iron-willed. But every day - she comes to work and presents to me a mask of "fine". Who can I talk to except her? Who would understand? Who would nod and accept me without judgment? I am utterly alone. And she hasn't even died yet. She looks up at me, peering into my soul with her bright azure eyes - eyes that are glistening with tears. She blinks in an attempt to dry up the moisture, to cover up the emotion. She has something to ask me but doesn't. It is the third time today she has abandoned an attempt to talk to me. I should be understanding. I should be caring. Instead, I'm angry. Angry at everything and everyone that is now and ever was because I am destined to lose her. Angry that I can see endings. Angry that she can hold the mask so steady, so willfully when mine falters so easily. Angry that I am failing her. Angry that I am letting her down. "Mulder? Can I ask a favour?" I am her liege. She asks it and it shall be done. I am desperate for some way - any way - to help her; for some entry into her world. She has shut me out of so much. And as for the rest? I have words and events that will haunt me forever. I have cut her with my tongue. Wounded her with my indifference. The rest is my own doing. "A favour? Sure, Scully. Anything." I am shockingly lighthearted. It is my defense against her seriousness, her deliberate wording. I brace myself - for what? Bad news? "I don't have anyone else to ask, Mulder." She is grave and unsmiling. She is not going to ask me to accompany her to an appointment. Or if she can drive the rental car. Or if she can have a desk. I'd gladly give her every desk in Washington, now if I thought that it would make a difference. Funny how priorities change. "What *is* it, Scully?" My voice is sharp edges and stings. It is my defense against her solemn introduction. We have our moves so well-rehearsed. Impatience counters deliberation. Logic blocks intuition. Black takes white. Man against woman. Love against all odds. She is silenced. Her face is a mask hiding the hurt but I can detect it in the glint of her eyes and the way she looks away, tilting her head. Why can't I ever make it easy for her? For all the world I want to comfort her and yet the moment I am given a chance, I ruin it. "I'm sorry, Scully. What's the favour?" I expect her to abandon it. To tell me to just forget it. My heart is pounding. How can we fill all the last days with fights? Is there no neutral territory where we can meet and offer an olive branch? What about a detente? Or simply just a final quiet peace? "I have finished making arrangements for my funeral." I do not want to hear these words. Why does she need to plan her funeral? Why does she need to tell me that she has lost hope when I still cling to it so desperately? Why does she need to remind me that my heart is going to be wrenched from me - not in one fell swoop - but in pieces, bit by bit, breath by breath, until her final moments when I watch her slip away and measure the time we have left together - not in months or days, but in minutes and seconds? I cannot look at her. "Mulder? Mulder." She has become persistent. The strength is always there. I hate her for it. "Please look at me." I do so. Her eyes are clear. Tranquil. As if she has found peace. "Would you ... write my eulogy and pick out a piece of music?" She is growing weak and cannot keep a waver from her voice. "I would like to hear it before I ... It would mean a lot to me." How can I possibly do this? Who has written the one song that will be in music all she is to me? What lyrics? What melody will transcend how I feel about her? What she has meant me? To everyone that will be there? I am at my desk. The lights are off and I wipe away my tears. I cannot do this alone. I take it to the Long Gunmen and they listen to my instructions without expression. They are subdued - utterly silent. I want them boisterous, interested, rubbing their hands together with anticipation. But this is for Scully and Scully is dying. They will miss her, too. I tell them I can find no music and ask them for help. We spend hours pouring over music and lyrics and listening. It is therapeutic for us all; our one last great search for truth. We carry on into night. Oddly, there is laughter. And quiet moments when tears are hidden and voices crack and halt. There is comfort. It comes to me unexpectedly. Scully was right to ask me this. Maybe she knew all along it was what I needed. Frohike is the one who suggests the music and in the end, we know it is fitting. Then I tell them Scully needs words as well. I write it myself but I need, yes, I need a beginning. This is harder. It's late and we are tired. Emotion has gone raw. We talk about who will be at the funeral and what meaning Dana Scully's life has to so many people. When we part, they agree to mix a tape and have it ready by Tuesday. Langly delivers the tape early Tuesday as promised. She isn't in the office and I know I can't hand her the tape in person. I cannot put words to this unspeakable thing I have done. If I look at her, I will lose myself. For once, I want to be the strong one so instead, I leave it on her desk in a brown envelope - marked "For you, Scully." Nessun Dorma - Turandot by Puccini. "Dana Scully is free at last. She has died and we are here to mourn. The moment her pain ended, our began. Ours is now fresh and keen. She fought hard, like a determined steadfast soldier and possessed a strength that carried her onward through troubles. She has left us each a little of that strength to keep our wills fresh for battle; to keep us going when the days are dark and diminished by her absence. Some of us here watched her die. As she died, so did a part of us along with her. In our differing, quietly heroic ways, we all tried to save her. Together we fought with valiant courage, but a greater force guided the ending. All our hopes could not alter the will of the gods. The Fates have spun and measured and cut too soon. We must now say good-bye to a piece of our soul. Let us face it with the same courage and strength that she used to face her own mortality. Let it be her one last gift to us. When she was alive, Dana Scully touched the lives of many. She cared deeply for her students and shared with them her profound respect for details and logic. She risked life and limb for those she worked with. Fear did not deter her. Unfailingly, she went about her work with a quiet tenaciousness that buoyed and carried those around her through unspeakable difficulties. Her humanity showed in the compassion she always had for the troubled and grieving; giving them words to cling to and comforting them with a soft gentleness. She had an unwavering belief in herself, in her science, and in us. Dana Scully was my partner; my friend; my Guiding Star. A single brilliant candle in a world full of darkness. I will miss her more than I can say and for as long as I live." I return from lunch and unexpectedly catch her standing over the tape recorder. There is no sound from it or her. I have no voice to ask her. Her back is to me and she lifts a hand to her face. Her head bows and I can see her shoulders tremble. "Scully." My voice cracks as I circle her with my arms. "Mulder ..." She is steel and can get my name out without faltering. I wait for her to shrug me aside. For her to tell me she's fine. Then she repeats my name - this time the steel is gone and there is only a fragile woman remaining. She stops. The rest comes out in a breathless torrent of wretchedness as she collapses in my arms, weeping. "Mulder ..." FINIS HISTORICAL NOTES: In 1921, Puccini began an outline of his last opera - Turandot. Soon afterwards, he contracted throat cancer. He never finished the opera and died in 1924. Nessun Dorma was among the very last pages of music he would ever write. The opera was finished by one of his students and premiered in 1926 at La Scala. The work is considered Puccini's pinnacle achievement.