feedback: msnsc21[at]yahoo.com
Date: September 1, 2003
Title: An Honorable Man
Author: ML
Feedback: welcomed and adored!
Distribution: e-muse only for now
Spoilers: that would be telling
Rating: PG
Classification: Vignette
Keywords: 3rd person POV
Summary: "I come to bury Caesar, not to honor him."
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine. They mostly belong to the actors
who portrayed them, but Chris Carter created them, and Ten Thirteen and
FOX own the rights. I mean no infringement, and I'm not making any profit
from them.
My answer to the Secret E-Muse Challenge. Notes at end.
=====
An Honorable Man
by ML
Odd how one always expected funerals to take place on a gloomy, rainy
day, and how seldom they did. There was a high, pearly light rather typical
of spring in this part of the world. The high, thin clouds laid a veil
over the sun, leaving little contrast between light and shadow. A chilly
breeze blew intermittently, lifting a strand of hair or rippling the hem
of a coat or a skirt amongst the assemblage at the graveside.
He stood behind and a little apart from the rest of the mourners, only
half listening to the familiar drone of the minister's words. He wasn't
dressed for a funeral. He hadn't wanted even his own man to know. He'd
gone to his hotel and then gotten a taxi to the cemetery. He was an envoy,
but a secret one. He'd come for his own reasons.
The services were surprisingly well-attended for a man who'd been estranged
from his loved ones for so long. But then, funerals had a way of bringing
people together. He was here, after all, though he was more interested
in the living than the man they came to honor.
<'I come to bury Caesar, not to honor him.'> Such are the mighty
fallen. He'd been a leader only as long as he'd espoused the cause. When
he'd decided upon a different path, he'd soon discovered that he had no
followers.
<A lesson for us all there>, the man mused from his observation
point. <Stay the course -- or at least give the appearance of doing
so.>
They had never been friends. They'd been united only by a common cause,
and when William Mulder had decided it was his cause no longer, they'd
no reason to stay in contact. He'd observed from a distance, content to
let others keep closer tabs on the man, making sure that regardless of
his change of heart he did nothing to betray the plans already laid. And,
until recently, there'd been no worries on that head.
He was certain it had been very painful for those close to Bill Mulder
to see his decline, once he'd realized how helpless he was. That his voice
was the only one raised in opposition. And in the end, it was his undoing.
He lost his family and ultimately, his life.
Idealism was a luxury few could afford. Bill Mulder had sacrificed a good
deal so his son could carry on his crusade. Fox Mulder had already learned
the high cost of pursuing the truth.
He couldn't understand why, at this late stage, Bill Mulder felt he had
any honor left to defend. Who would believe the ravings of a discredited,
alcoholic crackpot? Except perhaps his son. Nonetheless, he'd not been
convinced that Bill Mulder was a threat. But, as in the past, his calm
voice of reason had been drowned out by others with their own agendas.
He wouldn't make the same mistake Bill Mulder made, however. He'd keep
his own counsel after this.
He kept watch over the other mourners, eyes scanning restlessly. It was
the habit of a lifetime, and one that had kept him alive over the years.
Very little could surprise him. Many of the attendees were strangers to
him, but none seemed particularly dangerous. They were the usual mixture
of the dutiful, the curious, and the truly bereaved.
He doubted there were many of the latter. It was not for him, however,
to question anyone's motives for attending.
His eyes rested on the widow for a time. She stood alone, staring straight
ahead, her back ramrod straight. Beautifully coifed and perfectly made
up, as always. No tear marred her perfectly powdered cheek or shone in
her eye. If she felt any grief over this, she kept it hidden. It had been
true of all of her losses. Private griefs remained private; private feelings
as well.
He wondered if she had blood or ice water coursing through her veins.
To have seen what she'd seen, to know what she knew, and still be able
to stand up and look people in the eye? A lesser woman couldn't have done
it. But despite everything, she'd kept their secrets. He'd had doubts
about her in the beginning. Many of them had. They had felt that she was
not a good choice. As it turned out, she'd done what was expected of her.
Whether she'd done it gladly or under duress didn't matter. But now, perhaps,
she had nothing to lose. She might bear watching, after all.
She was protected for some reason. She had been from the beginning. He
had his suspicions by whom but had never confirmed them, preferring to
watch and draw inferences from his observations.
One person was not there and it surprised him. The missing man was as
much a maverick as the deceased, and he perhaps had more reason to attend
than almost anyone here. But he was also an expedient man. No doubt he
knew everything that was going on, and it didn't suit his purposes to
show himself. Expediency would always win over emotion for him. It always
had. How else could he have arranged for the murder of his former best
friend?
Services over, the mourners began to disperse. Only a few approached Mrs.
Mulder. A brief word, a handclasp, and that was all. She accepted them
regally with a brief nod or a slight smile.
A late arrival caught his attention. The woman approached Mrs. Mulder,
and he realized that she wasn't a mourner after all, at least not for
William Mulder. Perhaps for his son, however. He recognized her immediately.
So this was Dana Scully. He'd never seen her in person, only surveillance
photos and of course the video from the train. They hadn't done justice
to this vibrant young woman standing before him.
He felt an odd surge of protectiveness. He turned his back and stepped
behind a convenient tombstone, but stayed within hearing distance.
What he heard astounded him. It couldn't be true, could it? He'd been
assured that Fox Mulder was dead. There had been no escape from the train
car, Spender had been adamant on that score.
Nonetheless, he'd been wrong before. One day he'd make one mistake too
many.
It didn't change his own agenda, however. He'd been against killing William
Mulder, just as he'd been against killing his son, though there'd been
little else Spender could have done under the circumstances. There had
been too many murders, too much visibility of late. He would not be a
party to any more killings.
Killing Dana Scully wouldn't solve anything. He'd tried to make the others
see, but he doubted they'd listen. But he'd learned a valuable lesson
from Bill Mulder: one could do more from within an organization than outside
it. Whatever the agenda of the consortium, self-preservation was the ultimate
ideology.
He stepped into the open as Agent Scully took leave of Mrs. Mulder.
"Hello, young lady," he said affably.
She looked more than surprised at being addressed, she looked wary. It
was wise of her to be wary. He took care to stay in the open with her.
He had a warning to impart but if she felt too threatened by him, she
might overreact. The last thing he wanted was a scene.
Dana Scully listened carefully, but she was extremely skeptical of his
warning. He felt sure, however, that she would heed it. At the very least,
it would make her suspicious of anyone who tried to help her, and that
would further his agenda much better than her death.
Dead she was of no use to anyone. And if by some chance her partner was
still alive, his vengeance would be certain to damage the Consortium,
possibly even destroy them. He'd seen what happened when she'd been taken
from Mulder before. Mulder would never know just how close he'd been to
exposing them.
He watched Dana Scully walk away with some regret. To be looked upon with
such contempt by her was galling. He wondered what she'd say if he told
her the whole of it. The truth was so much bigger than she, or her partner,
could conceive.
And yet, they might be the world's last best hope. He was hedging his
bets by coming here today. As with all bets, it could go either way. He
would never be the hero of this story, of that he could be certain. But
quite possibly, he could have a hand in the turning of the tide.
The Consortium had underestimated both Fox Mulder and Dana Scully rather
badly. But who could have predicted how the two would complement each
other? On paper, the partnership had looked promising. Everyone had thought
Fox Mulder and his project would be shut down within the year.
But in Dana Scully, they'd given him an ally no one could have deliberately
created. Taking Ms. Scully away had only fueled his passion.
Blevins was an idiot and a poor judge of character to boot. But could
any of them have seen her qualities if she'd stood before them? Had they
all grown so certain of the inherent corruption of humanity that they
couldn't see honor and loyalty when confronted by it?
The only thing to do, then, was to throw his lot behind them. But only
insofar as it served his own purpose. Yes, the example of Bill Mulder
had taught him well.
The only way to control the future was to create it. And he had the raw
materials before him.
end.
Author's notes: I chose a scenario from the list supplied for the "Writing
Backwards" challenge:
Any character or collection of characters at a funeral (in honor of Google
and his elderberry tree).
I chose not to give too many notes at the beginning regarding timeline
and such because I felt it would give too much away before the story even
started. If you're reading this, thanks for sticking it out to find out
whose funeral it was!