Coming down from the Mountaintop By Pequod

Well, I don't know what will happen now.
We've got some difficult days ahead.
But it doesn't matter with me now.
Because I've been to the mountaintop.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

In the motel room, sitting on the bed and Scully's hand is on my thigh. She's trying to make a connection, and failing.

The irony doesn't escape me. Scully the Catholic, Scully the believer, Scully who has seen God's hand at work here on earth.

I know she doesn't understand. I can see it in the way she regards me. Her blue eyes ask the question she doesn't voice. How can I be satisfied with that? After twenty-seven years and hundreds of false leads and hopes raised and dashed, to suddenly accept that it is over?

Her gaze pierces into the depths of my soul, trying to read my true feelings, to uncover what she thinks I have hidden deep within. No matter how hard she searches, she won't find anything. There's nothing to find.

When I was regressed, when I discovered the X Files, my anguish at the loss of my sister, the never-knowing that I kept within erupted, as if my fears and emotions had been lying dormant, like old wood. A forest strewn with dead wood does not a fire make. There must first be a spark, and air or wind - something to turn a flicker of fire into a raging inferno. The memories I uncovered during hypnosis re-kindled my interest, and the X Files fanned the flames.

Over the years my search for my sister became the definition of me. If you live and breathe something, if the desire for something inspires your every waking thought, and disturbs the longest, darkest nights, then don't you become the very thing that you desire? At some point don't you run the risk of being consumed by the very fire that fuels your existence?

I surrendered more than ten years of my life to looking for Samantha, devoting every ounce of my energy to uncovering the truth behind her disappearance. It has nearly been the death of me, quite literally, but the pull has been too strong to resist.

There are many ties that bind. People. Places. Memories. The threads are fine and delicate. If you don't look too closely you can pretend they are not there. But they are there. And every once in a while, when the wind blows in the right direction there is a gentle tug on the line and you realize you can never escape.

My ties have been stronger than most, and at times they seemed inescapable. For a long time I was desperate to find her alive, would have given anything to see her again. Others used my naked desire to lead me by the nose, and I was too easily led. When someone offers you that which you have longed for, do you not take it? Do you not fall over yourself in your eagerness to see what you want to see and believe what you want to believe?

Recently, though, I felt the winds of change. When I was searching for the last two girls in the John Lee Roche case, I hoped that it would be her body in one of the lonely graves. I felt incredibly selfish for wanting that, but I only wanted an end to it all.

'Missing' does not sever all bonds. 'Dead' does not sever all bonds. Our ties are to the living and the dead. But 'dead' has more closure than 'missing'. 'Missing' is pure uncertainty, doubt, longing to know the truth, despairing that you will ever be free. 'Dead' is final. Whether you believe in an afterlife or whether you believe it is over as soon as the last breath has been drawn, the certain knowledge is that you will not see them again in this life. If Samantha had been dead from the beginning - a murder victim or accident victim - I would have been distraught at the prospect of never seeing her again.

Now I can only be glad.

In the motel room, lying on the bed and Scully's hand is in mine. She's trying to believe me, trying to understand.

At the nurse's house Scully asked me if I was all right and I told her the truth. I'm fine.

I looked up at the starlight, at the past and the present coexisting peaceably. "I'm free," I told her. And I am.

As I stood in the field behind the house and watched the children play I felt everything fall into place. It was as though I was being allowed a glimpse of reality, of what really was, so that I could be free. All the pain and the guilt and the heartache vanished and peace crept in.

I remembered part of a speech by Martin Luther King; a part that has always stuck in my mind because of the hope it embodies. "He's allowed me to go the mountain. And I've looked over, and I've seen the Promised Land."

As I held Samantha in my arms I felt incredible joy and privilege. I witnessed a spirituality I never realized existed. I felt a deep abiding love for my sister, a love that transcended time and space and history. A love that is truly eternal.

If I were more like Scully, I would say that I felt the hand of God tonight. But I am not like Scully, and I don't know whether I saw the true spirit of Samantha, or a creation of my own subconscious, borne out of my acceptance of her death.

Whatever I saw, I feel certain of this, that Samantha is dead, that she has been for some time, and that wherever she is, she is happy, and safe and at peace.

I don't know what the future will bring, but as I look at Scully and try to explain I feel that at least there is a future.

In the motel room, beneath the sheets, I give myself wholly to her for the first time. We have done this before, on many occasions, but I have never surrendered completely to loving her. I could never run the risk of her distracting me from my cause. My quest was my raison d'etre, not Scully.

She never complained. How could she when she holds so much of herself back? Now, as I cry her name in release, I am open. I let her see all the way in. She looks, now, into the very heart of me, and I think she is starting to understand.

"Scully," I say as she shudders around me.

"I know," she whispers.

It is enough.

I caught a glimpse of what lies over the mountaintop and what I saw set me free.

End

Dedication:

To life and love and friendship

Notes:

Well, I never thought I would write a post ep, but then I have never been so inspired by an episode before. The feelings have been churning away in me since last week and I had to let them out.

Much gratitude to Sue Pyper without whom I would not have even seen these episodes, and for very enjoyable and thought-provoking discussions on this subject.

My eternal gratitude to Dasha, Sue, ebXphile and Jean Robinson for reading this through and giving me their honest and much valued opinions. Chocolate Hobnobs all around, darlings.

Apologies to Shalimar for ripping off the title of her excellent story "Five Years and One Night" for my summary (go read the story if you haven't already *g*).

And to Moby, CC and FS for the inspiration.

All comments would be welcome at pe.quod@virgin.net