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FOLIE A.D.  by Holmes
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PAIRING: Sk/O, M/Sk
SUMMARY: How and why Skinner became emotionally repressed, and how this affects his present relationship with Mulder. Shows Skinner as an adult and as an 18 year old Marine in Vietnam. 
SPOILERS: Avatar and Folie A Deux
OBLIGATORY DISCLAIMER: I don't own`em, Chris Carter and 1013 Productions do, but Lt. Harry Matthews and Madame Ly belong to me. I'm making no money off this story. No copyright infringement or any offense to anyone is intended. 
CATEGORY: M/M Slash, Paranormal.
RATING: NC-17 for m/m sex, violence, and profanity.
WARNINGS: I had Skinner serving for eight months before he gets wounded instead of the three weeks that he said he served in One Breath. Also, my version of 18-year-old Skinner may be more vulnerable and look far different than you're used to seeing him.
THANK YOU TO: SERGEEVA, for great beta reading and fabulous feedback, FROGDOGGIE, for such thoughtful and thorough beta reading, WOODINAT, for insightful, impromptu comments, and MOST OF ALL, XANTHE, for fabulous beta reading, and encouragement. She prodded and pushed me to develop this novel far beyond what it would have been without her. Also, to Viridian 5 for asking the question that inspired the story: Why did Skinner behave that way in Folie A Deux if he loved Mulder? 

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Office of Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner
FBI Headquarters
Hoover Building
Washington, DC
May 8, 1998, Friday, 5:30 PM Solar Calendar
4-13-98, Lunar Calendar
Year of the Earth Tiger, Containing Earth On Wall, 
Month and Hour of the Snake
 
 
The light in his office was playing tricks on her again. She wouldn't have put it past him to have arranged his office with just this effect in mind. It couldn't be an accident that he could look so damned imposing just reading a report. 
It didn't surprise her in the least that the light did his bidding, just as everyone else did. The light loved his severely handsome features and massive torso. It molded his impressive, bald, leonine head, broad chest and shoulders into a sculpted Homage to Power and Control. The light obligingly glinted off his glasses and hid his eyes from her, giving his face a vaguely inhuman cast. It made his sharp, white shirt glow supernaturally bright. In short, the light connived with Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner to make Kimberly feel less like the shrewd, efficient Administrative Assistant that she was, and more like a newly deceased sinner facing her God on Judgement Day. Make that a newly deceased sinner who knew that she was going to be cast into the fiery pit on Judgement Day... 
Not that A.D. Skinner ever actually did anything that would cause her to fear him. He was a fair man, a decent one, even kind in his own way, but still, Skinner in Fear Me mode was not something she longed to see. Unfortunately, it had been a Psycho!Agent Mulder kind of a week, and Skinner was now in FEAR ME mode. From the dark circles under his eyes, she didn't think he had gotten much sleep for the last three days, and it hadn't improved his disposition. She wondered if she could just sneak out now, and after the disaster struck, he'd have so much on his mind that he'd forget to question her.
He looked up, and over his glasses, and waited. His dark eyes were every bit as forbidding naked. 
Busted. She had no choice but to tell him the news. She took a deep breath, and hoped that he wouldn't kill the messenger. "Sir, that was the Calumet Mercy Hospital of Chicago on line two. Their psych ward released Agent Mulder about three hours or so ago. He told them that he was going directly to your office, which means he should be here at any time."
His eyes narrowed, his lips tightened into a grim line, and he sat staring at her for so long that she nearly whimpered with relief when he finally spoke.
"Oh for Christ's sake! The man tried to kill two people. I've spent all this week trying to get his ass, and the bureau's, out of hot water. Why wasn't I advised of this immediately?" he said, never once taking his eyes off of her. His voice was so cold that she shivered.
She broke down, and hated herself for the whining tone of her voice. "I'm so sorry, sir! Dr. Cervantes had an emergency. One of the other patients was holding a staff member hostage threatening to kill her, and he forgot about it until one of his staff asked him, and he was very apologetic, and he said he felt really sick when he realized he hadn't called immediately... I just got off the telephone, really, sir, and I would NEVER, ever think of not telling you. I always keep you informed, and..."
His face eased up from grimly furious to merely serious, and she relaxed somewhat in response. "Of course, you always do," he said. "It's the reason that I have always relied upon your professionalism above and beyond anyone else's on my administrative staff. I expect nothing less from you. Proceed." 
Mollified, she smiled slightly to acknowledge his praise, and implicit apology, and continued as bidden. "Well, Doctor Cervantes said that Mulder was okay for now, but was really shook up about being placed in restraints. He got the impression that Agent Mulder was considering filing a complaint against him, the hospital, the FBI, and you. Do you want to take the call?" Kim said. Then seeing that her boss had taken off his glasses, and was rubbing the bridge of his nose, as she knew that he would, she added, "Would you like me to tell them that you're in a meeting? You look like you could use a break." 
He closed his eyes and bit his lip as he continued to massage the bridge of his nose. "That won't be necessary, Kim. "Just tell them to reserve a room for me." 
Kimberly raised an eyebrow, and wondered if he was joking... Since Agent Mulder was involved, it was best not to take anything for granted. "Sir?" she asked in a carefully even tone.
The A.D. didn't look up. "And while you're at it, see if we can get a group discount for the X Files Section," he said.
Definitely joking, she decided. She thanked God that his sense of humor had returned. Amazing what a little well-timed sympathy could do. "Sure thing, Kim said dryly. "I'll check about monthly rates and a waterbed for you while I'm at it. Now, I'm going to handle that call. Yell if you need anything." She turned on her heel, and walked out.
Skinner nodded, giving her a small, rueful grin. He kept his aching eyes closed though, exhausted yet dreading the prospect of sleep. He was sick of the nightmares of Vietnam that had jerked him awake a dozen times or more a night ever since this case began. If his dreaming mind tired of Vietnam, it dredged up Mulder in the psych ward, bucking wildly against his restraints, screaming not to be left alone, yelling about the monsters surely coming to get him. To think that he'd left him there like that "for his own good," and the poor bastard had been attacked. Worst of all, the A.D. vaguely realized that he had merged his two favorite nightmares into one terrifying extravaganza last night; and knew that it was important that he remember his dream, but couldn't. 
Skinner just knew that after the terror wore off of his dreams this morning, that he had felt guilty, and when he felt guilty, his subconscious mind always dredged up Scully to function as The Voice of His Conscience and put him in his place. He groaned, and took out the Economy Sized Bottle of Maalox tablets that he kept in his lower right hand desk drawer. He shut it, then thinking about the frustrating conversation that he'd had earlier with Scully, reopened it, and withdrew its partner, the Giant Economy Sized bottle of Excedrin tablets that always kept the Maalox bottle company. 
In as many ways as he could improvise, he'd tried to find out if Agent "X-Cedrin Headache" Scully (In the New! Improved! Concentrated Formula! Delivers the blinding, searing, migraine-like, pain of other tension headache vectors twice her size!) could substantiate Mulder's crazy story about just what had attacked him. Still, as was always the case with the woman that his subconscious used whenever it needed to inflict massive amounts of guilt upon him, he had managed to have two conversations with her: what they had actually said, and what they had actually meant by what they had said.
What he'd actually asked her was: "Agent Scully, I have to say I'm at a bit of a loss here. Do I infer correctly from this that you believe there's some ... merit to Agent Mulder's claims?" 
What he'd actually meant by that was: "You mean that you believed that Mulder's allegations of the existence of giant, insectoid, killer zombies were true all long? For Christsakes, why didn't you tell me everything that you knew? Don't you realize what that means?"
What she had actually replied was: "I believe that Agent Mulder is mentally sound and fit for duty. Aside from that belief, I can only present to you the few hard facts that I've been able to gather. That, as per Agent Mulder's assertions a toxin has been found to have been injected into the spine of the shooting victim, Mark Bacchus. As of yet, we've been unable to identify it. Furthermore, Gregory Pincus has apparently disappeared without a trace along with half a dozen other key witnesses integral to this investigation - among them, Agent Mulder's nurse at the hospital and several VinylRight employees. I can personally vouch for the fact that there was an intruder in Agent Mulder's hospital room..."
What he felt that she actually meant by that was: " Yes, I realize what it means, but even if Agent Mulder were insane, I would never leave him helpless to fend for himself in the psych ward, unlike YOU, sir. How was I to know you would do anything more than manhandle him a little like you did the LAST time he went crazy? Besides, you and I both know that his enemies were behind THAT time too, so I am going to give you just enough information to torture you with guilt and doubt. That is my duty as Your Guilty Conscience."
What he had actually said was, "Men and women described by Mulder as zombies. Describe this intruder." 
What he had actually meant by that was, "Okay, you've done your duty, and tortured me with guilt. Now tell me the truth. Mulder may describe these people as zombies, but surely your observations are of a more rational, scientific, nature. Did you or did you not see a zombie attack Mulder while he was in restraints, totally unable to defend himself? God, please say no."
After a pause, what she had actually replied was, "It was dark." 
What he felt that she actually meant by that was, "No, sir, I will NOT say one way or another. If he really DID see a giant, zombie, killer, cockroach, I would never admit it. My professional reputation as a scientist is at stake. I will not have anyone pointing at me, and yelling "Hey, Spookyette!" as I pass by. No, I have given you sufficient cause to clear him, and that is all that you are getting from me. Besides, as you are well aware, I have determined that you deserve all of your guilt and more. Sir."
What he'd actually said was, "You must have gotten a glimpse. What did you see?
What he actually meant by that was, "Scully, damn it, I'm begging you. Please tell me that goddamned giant bug doesn't exist, and that Mulder let his imagination run away with him! I've got to know that what he claims just isn't possible. It would mean I almost get him killed. That couldn't be true...could it?" 
What she had actually said was, "It was a Folie A Deux, a shared madness, sir," 
What he thought that she actually meant by that was: "No sir, I'm not going to tell you, and I have come up with a unique way to side step all of your inquiries into this matter. 
I have just implied that if I did see what Mulder saw that I am as crazy as he is. What this means, sir, is that, what I observed cannot be trusted, just my observation that my observations cannot be trusted can be trusted. Paradoxically, that just makes my judgement appear to be that much more rational, since it highlights my capacity to be objective, and detached about my own mental deficiencies. 
Understand it now, sir? Well, never mind. You'll never know what I know, and that's all you need to know. Game, set, and match to me, I win big time. You should know better than to argue with Your Conscience, sir."
That had been that. Scully had managed to be "unavailable" for further conversations since then. With his only avenue of objective information closed, the safest thing had been to act as if he had done the right thing. When it came to Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner's word versus Spooky Mulder's, there was no contest, so it was easy enough to . . . get away with it? 
Kimberly buzzed him and broke his train of thought. 
"Yes?" 
"Sir, that was Agent Scully...She wanted to warn you that Mulder is on his way up...and to please, remember that she DID try to stop him."
Skinner shook out three Excedrin tablets into his hand and muttered, "Your dinner is served." He tossed them into his mouth, and washed them down with a gulp of his typically wretched, overheated-and-left-to-cool bureau coffee. Well, vile might be closer. He choked and scowled at the Styrofoam coffee cup, and crushing it, threw it into the wastebasket without a glance. Munching the Maalox tablets only made it worse, leaving him fumbling for his last three, slightly lint-covered butterscotch Lifesavers, anything to get rid of the taste in his mouth. It was marginally successful.
Ah, Scully! The woman had pulled a gun on him more than once, accused him of being a traitor, and lied to him and evaded his questions on a regular basis, so of course he was in love with her...NOT. His subconscious mind nagged at him that sometimes she'd had her own reasons, which could even be construed as valid on occasion, if considered from her point of view, but since he wasn't feeling particularly charitable, he pushed those thoughts away. 
"Christ," Skinner muttered. "I'd like to know what could be more infuriating, confusing, and irritatingly manipulative than a woman?" 
"Fox Mulder is outside demanding to see you, sir," Kim said breathlessly as she banged the A.D.'s door shut behind her.
Skinner scowled. "There is a God, and is She ever Politically Correct."
Kim stared at him, silently willing her lips not to quirk into a grin. "Sir?" She finally said. It seemed the safest response.
"NOTHING!" He barked. Then seeing her jump, his expression softened, and he smiled and spoke to her with a surprising gentleness. "What I meant to say was, nothing. Please, show him in. I doubt if either one has a choice about it anyway."
Kim smiled back, "Okay, but I hope you've got something stronger than Maalox and Excedrin hidden in your desk drawer. This is the worst I've EVER seen him."
Skinner's facial expression became as stony as ever, but he paled visibly. Kim had been nearby when Mulder had decked him, and he'd been forced to restrain the insubordinate agent in a headlock. The worst promised to be the most ulcer-inducing, migraine-producing, stomach-churning, godawful encounter with Agent Maalox Moment that he had ever had.
He didn't have long to dread the encounter. Mulder, looking as though he came directly from a GQ photo spread, slammed the door open, sending Kim scrambling to avoid being knocked through the wall. He strode past her, and placing his hands on Skinner's desk, leaned over until he was nearly nose to nose with the A.D. "We need to talk. Now. SIR," Mulder spat out. 
"I'll cancel your meetings for the rest of the week, sir." Giving her boss a sympathetic and apologetic smile, Kim ran out of the office and shut the door.
Skinner ignored her. He had already begun to track the new, more dangerous, game invading his territory. Mulder was strung to his limit, every muscle in his lean, elegant body tight, and tense, and hair-triggered, as every good trap should be, waiting for his boss to make the first move. 
Of course, no matter who was in the right, that meant that Mulder would have to wait for it, even though they both knew who would speak first. His boss needed time to gather his thoughts in the face of such anger. For a moment, Mulder's expressive, scalene shaped hazel eyes reminded the A.D. of the sharp-edged Nipa palms that had bloodied his hands so long ago in Vietnam. They had housed a predator and a trap too. 
Skinner's expression gave no hint of such concerns; however, it was carefully bland with just a hint of the Arctic. After waiting just long enough for his subordinate to start chewing his pouty lower lip, the A.D. picked up a file and scanned it. "Agent Mulder, I wasn't aware that we had an appointment..."
The elegant trap sprang. With one angry sweep of his arm, Mulder cleared off most of Skinner's desk. "An appointment! Thanks to you, a fucking Cockroach the size of Refrigerator Perry almost ate my ass, and you want me to make an *appointment*! I don't THINK so. With all due respect, SIR, I've just barely escaped, and again, no thanks to YOU, so excuse ME if I really don't give a rat's ass about protocol because your bureaucratic etiquette, policies and chain of command have become synonymous to me with officially sanctioned hypocrisy and lies! SIR!"
Skinner felt his face and head flush red and purple with rage, and his guilt go flying out the window. He sprang out of his chair which, since Mulder had been nearly nose-to-nose with him, had his agent back-pedaling as fast as he could. That reaction was satisfying enough that it made it possible for the A.D. to regain his control. Even so, he made it around his desk and into Mulder's personal space in three bounds. "THAT'S ENOUGH!" he yelled. "I'm not in the mood to take any of your insubordinate crap today, Agent Mulder! Your butt is still in a sling as far as I'm concerned, and protocol is the least of it. You broke the window and kicked in the door of that poor woman's house, and then you damn near kill Pincus in his own office...." Skinner clenched his fists, his anger threatening to overwhelm him
Mulder's huge hazel eyes grew round with fear. Nevertheless, he held his ground. "FUCK YOU!!" He yelled, and his boss stepped back, shocked at how thoroughly his subordinate had abandoned any pretense of civility and respect, uncharacteristic behavior even for Spooky Mulder. "You and I BOTH know what he was, and we BOTH know that I saved your arrogant ass. You don't have to thank me, but you could at least have the balls to admit it. "
Skinner's eyes narrowed, and he laughed contemptuously. "Mulder, you dick, you know OPR isn't going to buy that sack of shit about a giant, zombie cockroach..."
Rage and humiliation kaleidescoped over Mulder's face, and his voice was hoarse with both emotions. "No, they tend to buy more sacks of shit from conventional, kiss ass types like you than they do from dicks like me. They sure as hell wouldn't have given back MY job if I ever said that my personal, Vietnamese spirit-babe left her fluorescent lipstick all over the corpse of some slut that I woke up with...."
As Mulder spoke, Skinner started to hear the laugh of the Old Woman of Quan Ho, and that could only mean bad news. The first time this spirit being had come into his life, he had been near death in Vietnam, and the second time, his wife had had her own brush with death. 
Skinner's mind twisted and feinted like a boxer to avoid facing all the roiling, gut-churning emotions that he had damned up inside for so many years, reducing Mulder's words to a mere droning, meaningless, accompaniment to her laughter. 
Instinctively, he realized that she was here because of Mulder, and desperate to ward off the impending disaster her appearance always presaged, he grabbed his agent's shoulders, and shook him roughly, anything to make them both shut up. It worked, although the A.D. couldn't see that his agent's attitude had improved appreciably. Mulder had merely fallen into a sullen silence. It would have to do. 
Slowly and patiently, Skinner ground out his words in a tone that he usually reserved for known felons chained to his balcony. "Son, what I believe is this. The more distance that you can put between us tonight, the better it will be for your career. Just calm down into some semblance of a professional manner, and leave."
Mulder smirked. Nothing said "I know exactly what you're thinking, boss", better than that smirk. "I really expected more understanding from a man who regularly suffers from anima possession, projection, and abandonment, Wally. Cuckoos of a feather must flock together."
Skinner froze. No one ever called him Wally, ever, and Mulder had lost him entirely: Again. He'd never figure out how that twisted mind worked. Equal parts anger and curiosity warred within Skinner, finally curiosity won. He crossed his arms and scowled. "Okay, FOXY, you have exactly one minute to explain yourself."
This time, Mulder blushed. 
Skinner scowled and gestured impatiently, as much to keep from laughing out loud, as to encourage this thorn in his side to keep talking and thereby prove he was nothing but a little prick. "Sixty seconds," he said curtly.
Mulder starting ranting pompously, "When you told investigators that you had discovered the dead prostitute in your bed, you presented a startled, disoriented affect..."
Skinner shook his head and laughed. "If you mean that I was shocked as shit because one minute I was having a drink with an attractive, intelligent woman, and the next I was waking up with her corpse, yeah, I presented a `startled, disoriented affect'."
Mulder snorted, and continued. "You have to admit that your memory lapse was suspicious-looking, considering that you had been seen leaving the bar with her, that no one else had been seen entering or leaving your hotel room that night, and..." 
Skinner smiled, but the dark look in his eyes dared Mulder to go further with this subject at his own risk. "...the fingerprints taken from her body were EXACT matches for mine. You also knew that I had a sleep disorder, so I couldn't be sure what the hell was going on. I was cleared in spite of that, and yes, thanks to you. What are you trying to say? That from that moment forward, that you should never have been subject to disciplinary action from me? That I owe you? As if I had never done anything for..."
"NO GODDAMN IT!" Mulder shouted impatiently. "I'm just saying what the hell gave you the right to pass judgement on me? You're as crazy as I am! What the fuck difference is there between me seeing a giant zombie cockroach and trying to stop it from killing you; and you seeing a spirit being who tells you who to go shoot, and when?"
Skinner closed his eyes, and flashed back to standing in a hotel bathroom with a smoking gun, looking down upon the body of the man he'd just killed. Panic rising within him, he was desperately hoping that he wouldn't have to explain how he had known where to find the man who'd tried to destroy his career. //Yes, that time you listened. You need to listen to me again// the ancient voice in his mind said. Skinner shook himself, and opened his eyes, glaring at his reckless agent. "The DIFFERENCE is," he said slowly and dangerously, "I don't start go beserk, and start ranting and raving threats to kill anyone based upon what is clearly..."
That stung Mulder, infuriating him and hurting him as much as the forced commitment had. //I love you. I saved your LIFE! How can you treat me this way? I'm gonna make you hurt as much as I do, you ungrateful bastard!//"BLOW ME, SKINNER!" Mulder snapped. "She shows up every time you get loaded, and someone close to you gets murdered. That first time, your whole platoon got wiped out."
Skinner gaped. "Am I to understand that you think that I'm a drug flashback crazed psychopathic killer? That...that I killed..." Skinner's voice broke, and he stopped, his face twisted in anguish, his muscles bunching in knots. 
Mulder's eyes widened, "Sir, I..."
"SHUT UP", Skinner said, "I just want to know one thing from you. Are you fucking accusing me of the fucking ambush? Because if you are..." The A.D. backed his accuser into a corner and placed his hands palms flat against the wall on either side of Mulder's head to let him draw his own conclusions. Assailed by memories of gunfire, and the smells of mold, and rot, and gunpowder and blood and burning flesh, the burly man looked both frightened and frightening.
Mulder scrunched back against the wall as far as he could, belatedly taking the A.D.'s advice to put as much distance between them as possible. Instead of looking hurt and guilty, as Mulder had intended, Skinner looked like he could lose his legendary self-control. 
Mulder gulped, and shook his head vigorously, "I didn't mean to imply that...You know, it's just that in similar circumstances... well, I gave you the benefit of the doubt, and ... Uh, look, maybe I should just take your advice and leave."
"Maybe you ought to finish what you started, boy," Skinner growled, "You're not leaving until I say so. When you open up a wound and pour salt in it, expect that there will always be consequences from me. Proceed. NOW." 
Mulder would have preferred to stop what he'd started, but he knew his boss was going to make him continue just for the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. As miserable as this was going to be, he'd have to go on. He wondered for the ten-thousandth time at least, why he had fallen for such a scary, incomprehensible man, one who could betray him, then make him feel so guilty and small for confronting him over it. Looking younger and smaller by the second, Mulder continued in a shaky voice, "I just meant that you displayed all the classic signs of Anima Possession. That old woman sounded like an anima figure if there ever was one."
Once again Skinner felt the memories of the Vietnamese jungle and the Old Woman closing in around him, threatening his sanity, and once again to stop it, he grabbed Mulder, this time so tightly that Mulder was sure to bruise. "WHICH IS WHAT, GODDAMN IT?!?! WHAT THE FUCK DOES ALL THIS AIRHEAD, PSYCHOBABBLE CRAP HAVE TO DO WITH YOUR LAST CASE? WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO PULL?" Skinner snarled, and brought his face nose-to-nose with Mulder's. 
Their breathing grew harsh and ragged together, and sweat began to trickle down Mulder's high cheekbones. Reflexively, he licked his lush lips, licking his boss's lips at the same time, tonguing the sweet tastes of sunflower seeds and caf‚ latte between them.
Both men inhaled sharply.
For a moment, Skinner saw another thirty something, combat ready, hard-bodied man, with full, sensual lips and a predatory smile standing there. For a moment, he could distinctly smell sandalwood incense, sweet spices, and flowers, and everything was covered in blood. Involuntarily, he jerked his head back, eyes bulging with terror, and froze. 
Mulder was both puzzled and frightened by Skinner's reaction, and he felt his own rage cooling as he saw the distant, terrified expression in his boss's eyes. If he'd been punched out for licking the man's lips, he could have understood it...but terror? Mulder went on profiling overdrive to understand. His boss had been the one to make this confrontation a physical one. Was Skinner afraid of a sexual harassment suit...or was his boss afraid of just how much he had enjoyed the taste of his subordinate on his lips? He thought he'd felt his boss's hard cock pressing against his for just a moment, but that could have been wishful thinking on his part. Confused, and troubled by this new side of his boss, Mulder averted his eyes to answer the question that his boss had asked, hoping desperately to find a graceful way out this emotional minefield as he talked. "It tttypically involves sssubjects who have difficulty assimilating a traumatic experience into their everyday lives. In response, these people conjure up a personality who draws life from a source beyond the mundane, such as various deities and demons, the spirits of the dead, deceased or dying ancestors to aid them, however unconsciously and unwillingly, in this task."
"And your point is?" Skinner's voice was hoarse and raspy with barely restrained, panicky anger.
Still refusing to look up, Mulder bit his lip, and took a deep, shaky breath. "That we both look as delusional as hell, and you should have given me the same benefit of the doubt that I gave you!"
"Benefit of the doubt?" Skinner said sarcastically. "Is that what you were giving me every time you pointed a gun at my skull?"
Mulder sighed. "Okay, you have a point there. Both of us have trouble communicating..."
Skinner laughed, "Oh, I think that pointing a gun to my head communicated what was on your mind quite effectively Mulder."
Mulder shook his head in annoyance. "No, no, no! I mean we can't just stop the posturing, and say something real, and I think that we both want to."
Skinner raised an eyebrow, "I always thought that I enjoyed being a surly, uncommunicative son of a bitch."
Mulder smiled the first genuine smile since he stormed into the office. "I don't think you do. You see, anima figures force the ones that they possess to connect with the outside world, to admit that they need other people when they're too scared to do it on their own. That scares you shitless, to need someone, doesn't it?" he said softly, gently, and his eyes took on a faraway, dreamy look. "That's the real reason you go ballistic like John Wayne on steroids, isn't it? It's the reason you always get physical with me? You want to be close to me, to touch me, and don't know any other way. Maybe it's the real reason I've gotten physical with you in the past, too. I'm not much good with this sort of thing, either, but . . . AGGGH!!!!"
Terror and brute force combined to finally achieve a goal that common sense never could: Mulder shut up. Jaw clenched, Skinner gripped his terrified subordinate's head in his meaty hands, and squeezed it tighter, and tighter, and tighter, until the younger man yelped. Not even Mulder's wide-eyed look of stupefaction assuaged Skinner's cold fury. He began to squeeze again, and Mulder began to babble. "Oh God, I totally misinterpreted...I mean, I thought...Please let me explain..."
Skinner's face was hard and contemptuous, and he spat out each word as if it had left a bad taste in his mouth. "Shut up. You fucking make me sick. Find another man to star in your sick fantasies." He pulled Mulder away from the wall as if he were a rag doll, opened his door, and shoved his astonished agent out of his office so hard that he stumbled and fell flat on his ass onto the equally astonished Kim's desk. Both Kim and Mulder were afraid to move. 
Skinner loomed over them both like Vesuvius over Pompeii, but he scowled for Mulder alone. "GET. OUT. NOW!!!!" he bellowed. 
Mulder gave up all attempts at keeping his dignity, and scrambled for the hallway door.As he opened it, Skinner called to him, in a silkily dangerous voice. "Mulder?"
Mulder whipped around and answered hopefully, "Yyyess, sssir?"
There was something deeper, sadder, and wearier around the edges of his boss's severe expression that frightened Mulder more than the threat of a beating ever did. Still, he didn't expect what he heard. "Don't come back," Skinner said. "Ever."
The younger man looked as though he'd been gut-punched. Panic made his voice rise a couple of registers and crack. "Sir? What do you mean? Sir, Oh God, sir, please, talk to me, please?" Mulder ran across the office just in time for Skinner to slam the door in his face. He pounded on the door until it was embarrassingly obvious that it wasn't going to open any time soon. Kim walked to the file cabinets, and looked for a file that she didn't need; all the better to pretend that she didn't see Mulder as he ran out of the office utterly humiliated and defeated.
 
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Condominium of Walter S. Skinner
Crystal City
Washington, DC
May 8, 1998, 11:00 PM Solar Calendar
4-13-98, Lunar Calendar
Year of the Tiger, 
Month of the Snake, 
Beginning of the Hour of the Tiger 
 
"Every artist dips his brush in his own soul,
and paints his own nature into his pictures."
Henry Ward Beecher
 
There was a bottle of J & B, half full, sitting on his end table, and dozens of drawings and paintings on the kitchen table and coffee table. 
Walter Skinner kept drawing, oblivious to the time, or to the smudges of acrylic paint and charcoal all over his face and once blindingly white shirt. He'd gone from capturing his images in bold contrasts, and confident, quick, strokes that had almost ripped through the paper the first few drawings, to drawings and paintings of such a sinuous, sensuous subtlety that his subordinates would never have guessed the artist. 
"Very nice, Walter," the Old Woman of Quan Ho said, "Tell me about what you've drawn."
He looked up in the direction of the sound of her voice. Hovering over him, he saw the Old Woman, her solemn, faded blue eyes, wild mop of white, cottony hair, and her obvious power reminding him of a witch. He glared at her.
She leered at him.
He bit his lip, and turned away from her. In this state of mind, everything he'd done was a jumble of tones, colors, lines, and forms, without meaning, and she knew it. Irritated that she would ask the question anyway, and frightened about what it could mean, he picked up the drawings to toss them into an already overflowing trash can, suddenly determined that he would NEVER know what he had drawn. Maybe THIS time he could avoid the inevitable pain that followed her like a tidal wave.
"Forget it, Walter," the apparition said as she entered his body. "You aren't tearing them up, throwing them out, or otherwise destroying them." 
He struggled for control of his body, but he couldn't resist her. Soon, he felt his hands go weak, and couldn't have held a Post-It note. All he could do was watch his drawings fall out of his hands back onto the table, into an annoyingly, neat stack. He stared off into space, refusing to acknowledge either his work, or the spectral being floating around him.
"Talk to me, Walter," she said.
Walter shut his eyes, irresistibly reminded of his ex-wife. Dead wife.
//My fault.//
Sharon had said, "Talk to me, Walter" to him often enough that he once signed the card for a conciliatory bouquet of roses to her, "Love, Talk-To-Me-Walter". That had cost him a romantic weekend in Cape Cod before she forgave him. Said she forgave him. 
It was Sharon who had recognized that there was artistic talent buried in the doodles that he had made on virtually anything. During their honeymoon after a uncomfortably silent dinner, one of his "doodles" in particular caught her eye, and she rescued it for posterity before the bus boy could dump the remains of her baked potato on it. It was a beautiful, sensitively, and lovingly, drawn sketch that he had done of her...on the restaurant's paper place mat. As a talented artist from a long line of artists, Sharon knew right then that Walter was an artist of exceptional ability, and depth of feeling, feeling which was not expressed elsewhere. It was Sharon who had insisted that he learn to paint, and had pushed a paintbrush in his face at every opportunity. "You really should develop your talent, Walter. It's important that you learn to express your feelings, sweetheart," she had said. And said. And said. 
Desperate to encourage his talent, even if she had to guilt trip him to do it, she started hanging up all of his doodles...napkins, paper plates, telephone messages, everything. "I am NOT trying to embarrass you," she would tell him as he blushed furiously. "You know How Important Art Is To My Family, And How We Feel We Must Encourage It In All Of Its Forms... If only you would draw or paint something on good quality materials, I would hang that up instead. You could do a painting if you tried. Just let me teach you a few watercolor basics." 
Finally, worn down and out maneuvered by equal parts flattery and guilt, he'd given in with a show of contriteness that he did not feel, and let her teach him. In his guilty, resentful heart of hearts, he had secretly resolved to show her his paintings whenever she asked him about his feelings, instead of having the usual tightlipped, monosyllabic, guessing-game, conversations about them, such as:
"Are you ANGRY, Walter, is that it?"
"No."
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Talk to me, Walter."
"Hmpfh."
"What does hmpfh mean? Walter, don't you love me?"
At this point, he would become dry mouthed, unable to give even the monosyllabic answers that tested her patience.
"Walter, what's wrong? Are you afraid to tell me that you *don't* love me, or afraid to tell me that you *do*? Why? Talk to me Walter..."
//It would only scare the hell out of you if I told you, Sharon. Do you really want to know that by doing either--and I HAVE--it still makes me a worthless, no good, selfish son of a bitch? //
Yes, showing her his paintings was by far the better choice. He had tried to keep his resolution. His first, surprisingly good, painting had been full of his feelings mixed with some spiteful, bullshit symbolism, just for Sharon, to simultaneously throw her off, and keep her happy. He had been shocked when she could see right through the bullshit symbolism to what was real, shocked that what he was feeling could be revealed so starkly without saying a word. 
From then on, he chose his thoughts carefully while he painted, like bait, depending on what he wanted to reel in. Maybe if he'd been honest in his art, the marriage would have lasted, but the last thing he wanted was to be known for what he really was by anyone, even himself. A thing like that could lead to love, and a thing like love could lead to...
//Don't go there.//
Ironically, once she'd left, he'd been driven to painting and honesty in equal measure.
With a chill, he realized that if he DID look at the paintings that he had just done that he WOULD know himself for what he really was. The Old Woman's use of Sharon's catch phrase had been calculated to induce his reverie in order to prepare him for that eventuality. 
"That's right, Walter, you've got to look at this sometime. You might as well open your eyes. Until we come to an understanding, I'm not going anywhere."
His dark eyes flew open at the sound of that ancient, mocking voice. Panicked, he ran to the door, and opened it, prepared to escape, but with a mere thought, The Old Woman slammed it shut. The strength and energy emanating from her took his breath away.
"And neither are you, honey," she said. "Now calm down. They're just pictures. I've helped you through worse."
When they had found him in bed with the dead prostitute, The Old Woman had merely taken over the bodies of other women to speak to him. Then for a time, wraithlike, she had been content to haunt his dreams. Now, she was as irresistibly powerful as she had been in Vietnam, where he first became enmeshed with her, and his life shattered so thoroughly it could never be made whole.
"Yes, I remember Vietnam well, little one. You didn't want to accept my help then either, did you?" She said as she stroked his face. "You'll be glad that you did soon enough, though."
Never once taking his eyes from hers, he allowed his resentment to rage out from every pore for reminding him of the worst moments of emotional and physical pain of his life. He shrugged his shoulders again, and nonchalantly picked up the half-full bottle of J & B that he'd been working on most of the night, ignoring his shot glass. Wearily, he stumbled to his couch, flopped down, and began to drink in earnest straight from the bottle. 
"You can't drink me away either."
To his amazement, the Old Woman snatched his Scotch bottle from his hand, and threw it against the wall. It shattered and splintered, and he watched in dismay as the amber liquid splattered across his once spotless apartment. 
Her ancient face wreathed itself into smiling wrinkles. "That's much better. It makes a lovely, transparent wash over your eggshell white walls."
Walter stared as the rebellious liquid formed wide swathes of abstract Jackson Pollock patterns on his wall. He groped reflexively around the end table for the bottle of J & B, then snarled when he remembered why it wasn't there. He pounded the end table with the flat of his hand, the solid, the-oh-so-reassuringly solid, oak coffee table. It comforted him in a way that he desperately needed, and his pounding changed to a caress. 
"Something solid," he murmured. "REAL. I've got to hang onto something real."
He heard an abrupt bark of laughter, and he jerked to attention, his eyes riveted to the source. 
The Old Woman continued to laugh, shaking her head as she looked at Skinner fondly, not once flinching at being on the receiving end of The Official Assistant Director Skinner Steely-Eyed Glare. "Honey, when did you start to associate having conversations with coffee tables with sanity?" 
The Official Assistant Director Skinner Steely-Eyed Glare crumbled to the Wide Eyed and Blushing Eight Year Old Walter Look of Mortification. Reflexively, he looked around to see if anyone saw him, and blushed even harder when he realized that he was alone if he didn't count the Old Woman. He ducked his head, took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose as he always did when he needed comfort. 
"Oh, but I do count, Walter. I count at least twice." Two gnarled fingers gently tucked under his chin, and raised it until he was staring helplessly into the solemn, faded blue eyes of the Old Woman. He jumped at her touch at first, but otherwise didn't move. Her scent, a scent of all things ancient, fed by all the museums, and all the archives, and all the tombs of the world, surrounded him, paralyzed him with fear.
He jerked away from her warily tracking her with his eyes as she flew to his scotch-splattered wall. 
"I did a good job of decorating, didn't I?" she said as she turned to grin at him. "Your apartment's always been a little too obsessively neat and Spartan, for my taste, Walter," she said playfully smearing the rivulets of scotch running down the walls into swirls. "Always hated the Spartans."
"Don't quit your day jobb," Skinner said tersely. 
The old woman chuckled, and swatted his thigh, causing him to jump. "On the contrary, little, one, I think that I may have a great future as an artist! Don't you see echoes of Jackson Pollock and any number of Rorschatz tests in my masterpiece? It explores a new artistic medium too. Not many artists drool J & B over the walls."
Skinner snorted. "There's probably a good reason for that. Maybe because there's better uses for scotch?" he said, tipping an imaginary glass of JB to his lips.
"Nonsense, little one," she said, as she did a perfect, mischievous imitation of his hands framing a scene when he attempted to find the best composition. "This is an exact portrait of your state of mind, and I found the perfect medium to paint it with."
He felt anger replacing some of his fear, and his chin jutted out defiantly. "I got enough of that `you're crazy' crap from Mulder." 
She just laughed at the dark looks she was starting to receive again. "Madness isn't so bad, Walter. I always loved the Maenads. Approved of their `find your mind by losing it philosophy'. Too bad you two weren't born female. You'd have made great Maenads. You are madness and sexualized violence personified." She laughed as she flew around the room.
Walter slammed his fist down on the coffee table, and growled up at her flying form, "Why the FUCK am I seeing you like this again! What do you want?"
She circled once, then landed on the back of the couch to peer down at him. "Not what I want Walter. What you want. What you need. You're seeing me for the same reason you always see me like this: Because you need my help. Enough of this nonsense! Look at your paintings, young man. NOW!" she said sharply.
He jumped off the couch with an involuntary, startled jerk at her tone. Embarrassed by that brief lapse of control, he slowly walked back over to the kitchen table, his ghostly nemesis floating behind him. He looked down to face his paintings, and instead, he found beautifully rendered, deftly composed, color-coordinated nightmares. 
There was a painting of the Old Woman carrying him away from the white light, as his body was bleeding from a hundred places, a study in contrasts, young against old, light against dark, red, wounded, human flesh against the impersonal, standard issue, olive green Marine uniform. It was like a Rembrandt redone by Carravagio. 
There was one of the Old Woman, evil and debauched and naked and wrinkled, reaching out for him from the smoke-filled temple of Quan Ho, half-corporeal, half-ethereal, a Kabuki vision hallucinated by Hokusai. 
There was one of the 10-year-old Vietnamese boy, a running, screeching, chaotic, snarl of grenades and trip wires from head to toe, who Walter had been forced to shoot to kill in order to save the platoon. To his horror, he realized that his painting was a compositional marvel. He had arranged the child's mutilated body into a Picassoesque abstraction of colors and forms in which nothing appeared out of place, and yet, considering the subject matter, everything about it should have. 
He looked up at the Old Woman, begging her silently to let him stop but she merely shook her head. Scowling bravely one last time, he surrendered to superior forces, and began to rummage through his paintings and sketchpads, just hoping to find something that wouldn't make him vomit when he got a good look at it. 
Finally, there was one painting, peeking out from yet another pile of more variations on the above themes, which filled his need for that moment. With shaking fingers, he pulled it out about half way, just enough to see the head and torso of the subject. It was a carefully and honestly rendered, Ingres-like portrait of himself as an eighteen year old Marine, and he lingered over it, since it was comparatively unthreatening. He hadn't needed glasses then, or much of anything else, his lithe body was tough. Still, he wasn't the burly man he was now. He hadn't attained his full height and bulk until he was twenty-five, so he had been a good two inches shorter, maybe twenty-five pounds lighter. His shoulders weren't nearly so broad either, just held the promise of good things to come. His face had still had its baby fat, which, with his large, dark brown eyes and sensual, soft lips, made him look pretty, rather than handsome. 
Walter smiled to see how lovingly he had rendered the shiny, silky, black hair of his youth. It had been so shiny, so silky, so luxuriant that, more than once in class, he'd been startled to feel the hesitant, shaky fingers of yet another girl running her fingers through it, stroking it.... He'd been surprised to find how much he'd missed that attention after he'd enlisted in the Marines. His hair had become the first casualty of his idealistic and patriotic desire to serve his country...or was it of his desire to run away from home?
Six weeks into his tour, motivated more by nostalgia for home than by politics or vanity, he'd started keeping his hair longer than strictly regulation. It was all too obvious that his C.O. was routinely too stoned off his ass to give a shit, which expanded his grooming options considerably... 
"Mmmmm...very nicely rendered hair, honey," she said as she patted his bald head. "You were a beautiful boy back then, but do you really believe that you were thinking about your hair at that moment? I think you and your C.O. had more...important matters on your mind."
Walter frowned up at her, and tried fruitlessly to bat her hand away, finally giving up when it became obvious that her hand was only going to be solid at her convenience, and that she found the whole thing as funny as hell. He felt compelled to look at the painting, if only to have a good excuse to ignore her, and was struck by the expression on his eighteen-year-old face. It was...distracted to say the least. Finally, he looked back up at her. "It would appear that my thoughts at that moment were somewhat more intense, yes."
"Somewhat!" she snorted, "It was much more than somewhat, and you know it." Seeing his expression starting to darken, she patted him again, and added slyly, "But prove me wrong. Show me the rest of the painting."
He took a deep breath, and pulled the painting out of the stack. He quickly sat down before he fell down, shocked by this painting, the most blunt statement of his memories and feelings that he had ever made. Young Walter was stark naked, and being pulled down to his knees by an equally naked, and by the size of the erection he was sporting, deeply appreciative, handsome man. Young Walter's face was luminous with pleasure as he gazed upon the face of that man; the man he idolized more than any other man on earth, the man he'd modeled himself after since he was old enough to walk, his commanding officer, Lt. Harry Matthews, USMC. 
It was a visceral blow on more levels than he cared to contemplate to see him again in any form. It made the blow that much harder that he had captured Harry to perfection. There was the sun-streaked, spiky, sandy brown hair. There was the bold, rugged face with every angle and plane evoking strength and solidity. There was the defiant set to his strong jaw and chin. Those intense, large, gray, almond-shaped, I've-got-a-secret eyes glinted with humor at him. The full, sensual lips smiled wryly at him, revealing even, pearly white teeth. The smile looked even brighter contrasted against Harry's honey brown skin.
Walter absently started to trace his lover's face with his forefinger, glad that the paint was dry, so that it wouldn't smear. Slowly, his finger traced its way down Harry's torso, and Walter was remembering how the original felt, taut, hard, like living marble, like living art. Even though his body had been as beautiful as any sculpture by Praxiteles, Mies van der Rohe would have been proud to claim him: Form had indeed followed function where Harry had been concerned. His CO's well-toned legs and slim hips had been the result of weeks of marching through miles of jungle swamps, and his strong arms and back, and broad chest the result of carrying backpacks and guns...and the occasional, uncooperative, smart mouthed corporal. Guilt and sadness overwhelmed him as it always did whenever he thought of his lover. If not for him, Harry would have...
An awareness that the worst was yet to come tingled at the edges of his mind. She had evoked Sharon for the purpose of reminding him that he expressed his deepest thoughts, fears, and emotions through his art. Why had she calculated her words to sound JUST like Mulder... only to allow him to find the painting of Harry and his younger self? Walter's chin jutted defiantly as he glared at the spirit being hovering over him. "Okay, so, I'm an asshole. So, I didn't want to admit to him that I'm gay. So, I kicked his ass when he as much as admitted to me that he is. So, I'm a hypocrite. So what? Tomorrow, I'll call him, and tell him that I overreacted, and that he still has a job. Happy?"
The Old Woman's eyes become steely blue, and she arched her eyebrow in an all too familiar way. "No, I am NOT happy, Walter. What are you going to tell Mulder? I think you're still trying to ditch truth."
He turned pale, and buried his head in his hands. 
//Scully, now she's Scully. This just keeps getting worse. //
"You're trying to tell me I'm running off whenever you try to tell me something that goes against what I want to believe, is that it?" He said, his voice muffled by his hands.
She pursed her lips, "Very good. And? You know that's not all. You were very clear about what she was this morning."
He looked up at her, then quickly averted his eyes, unable to withstand the coldness of her gaze. "Ever since, I found out what had happened while he was in restraints, I've had Scully's voice in my head torturing me with guilt. This is about something else I've done to him, isn't it? It's going to be one of him lying there in the shrink ward, with a fuckin' monster hovering over him, isn't it? This is about my other hypocrisy, my betrayal, isn't it? Not even Mulder has a ..."
". . . personal, Vietnamese, spirit-babe with florescent lipstick. Yes, I heard the little idiot," she said sourly. "No, Walter, nothing so easy. You already know that you screwed that up. Guess again."
"Why do I have to guess? Why can't you just tell me?" He snapped. He winced as he realized how cranky and childish his tone was.
"It's not as if I haven't tried, Walter," she said wearily, "I've been trying to tell you everything in your dreams, but you've refused to remember them, which is why we're going through this nonsense with your paintings. It's the only way you will allow yourself to access the information I've given you. If I thought that you would listen if I told you outright, I would GLADLY do so."
"You didn't even give me a chance," Walter said, and turned his back to her.
"Okay, Walter," flinging her arms up in exasperation, "I'll give it a try. Madame Ly's curse has never been lifted. All of the conditions are in place for the curse to be fulfilled yet again, and it will make your worst nightmare come true exactly as it did 27 years ago, all the blood, the destruction, the helplessness of watching everyone around you die . . ."
Walter whipped around, and bellowed, "WHAT DO YOU MEAN? IT CAN'T COME TRUE AGAIN! IT CAN'T! I HAVEN'T ALLOWED MYSELF TO FEEL ANYTHING SINCE. . ."
"You mean you won't ADMIT that you've felt anything since," she said, nodding her head sadly.
"BULLSHIT! I'M NOT LISTENING TO THIS!" Walter yelled, then put his hand over his mouth as he realized he had jjust proven the Old Woman right. 
They stared at each other for a moment in embarrassed silence.
Finally, the Old Woman spoke, "You've GOT to face this before midnight, honey. A lot of lives are depending on this."
"Why can't you stop it?" he said petulantly.
She stroked his face gently. "Walter, you know I can't. That curse was made under the ideal conditions for evil effect. I'm powerful, but that curse arrayed a lot of other guardian spirits on Madame Ly's side, and for the next 24 hours, astrological conditions will make it so hard for me to help you that I won't come to your aid unless you're dying. I'll be outnumbered, and probably useless, unless you act quickly."
Walter was still in shock. "I just don't see how it could happen again," he kept mumbling. "I was so careful."
The Old Woman dropped her hand and sighed. "Look at the paintings. You're a smart boy. You'll figure it out."
His face contorted in shame. "NO! I-I-I can't, because, I, well, I CAN'T!"
"Why? Because you're afraid? Because you feel guilty? Because you're embarrassed? Too bad! Not only can you; you shall look, Walter. You have no choice. You never do where I'm concerned. NOW DON'T MAKE ME ASK YOU AGAIN!" she said utterly exasperated, like a mother with a cranky three-year-old. "LOOK AT THE PAINTINGS, BOY!" The Old Woman drew back her arm, and hurled a discharge of white bright energy. A waterfall of paintings arranged themselves directly in front of Walter on top of the other ones he'd been looking at. 
Walter took a deep breath, and turned back to look at the new arrangement. His eyes widened in recognition, and he blushed more furiously than he ever had in his life. "MULDER! Oh SHIT!" he said as he backed away. "I've got to burn these!" He was embarrassed to see that he'd taken a break from illustrating his nightmares, and gone directly to illustrating his wet dreams. Walter cringed when he thought of Mulder's reaction upon seeing these. Just more evidence of his hypocrisy toward the younger man; just more evidence of an obsession of an order of magnitude from yet another crazy A.D. with a passion for his lanky body. 
"Calm down, Walter," she said sadly. "You aren't anything like Patterson, and these aren't anything like his hideous gargoyle statues. Your artwork is beautiful...but what's going to happen ISN'T."
He couldn't tear his eyes away. There were dozens of sketches in dozens of poses. The Mulder paintings, in a variety of styles from Ingres to Da Vinci to, Jesus H. Christ help him, VARGA, were breathtakingly erotic. Mulder's skin looked so soft, so silky, so inviting over his hard, lean, muscles that Walter just wanted to crush the painting to his chest, sure that he would feel the man himself there. There were so many Mulders. Particularly damning was the Mulder lying on his stomach looking seductively over his shoulder, practically begging his boss to fuck his pretty ass. Worst of all, he couldn't have made it more obvious WHOSE bed the younger man was gracing. Walter looked at the next sheet of paper, and his stomach lurched when he realized that he had painted Mulder sucking cock. There were at least fifty sketches of that lush, full mouth wrapped around a cock. There were as many more of the younger man putting his tongue to innovative uses. If the other painting had damned him, these placed him squarely inside hell's inner circle. 
Walter, trembling and sweating, looked down to see one more painting, one that brought it all home for him, and felt his stomach macrame itself into knots. 
It was a horrifying take off on Eugene Delacroix's "The Death of Sardanapalus" in rich, lush, colors. The original depicted an Assyrian potentate in one of Byron's poems who was determined that the invaders at the palace gates should not enjoy anything he himself prized. The potentate watched as all of his treasures-including his concubines who were in various stages of being murdered-were heaped upon a funeral pyre. Walter's version was much the same, except that the Vietnamese boy was the potentate, Walter was all of the murderous palace guards...and all of the concubines were Mulder.
"I'M NOT KILLING HIM, AND YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!" he screamed, and ran out the door.
"WALTER!!!!" The Old Woman screamed after him, "YOU'VE GOT IT ALL WRONG!!!! RUNNING WON'T STOP THIS!" 
He didn't hear her, and it would have been too late if he had. It was midnight, and the Old Woman found herself facing the cold, glittering eyes of Madame Ly, the Sorceress she had so dreaded seeing.
Madame Ly smiled at her, and said in Vietnamese, "It has begun," and the Old Woman disappeared...
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

May 9, 1998 9:00 PM Solar Calendar
4-14-98 Lunar Calendar
Year of the Earth Tiger, Containing Earth On Wall
Month of the Snake
Hour of the Boar
 
*** "After a while, I began to lose my mind, and when I did, a funny thing 
happened. My body became a hollow temple possessed by spirits."- Attributed 
to John Lennon. ***
 
After his disaster of a day yesterday, Mulder had paced, jogged, bounced 
basketballs, and watched his most provocative videos to forestall the 
inevitable. He had fought valiantly against sleep, but finally, inexorably, 
sleep won the battle, and he was compelled to stretch out, and close his 
eyes. As soon as he did, he was in Vietnam, and it was sweltering, steaming 
hot, which exacerbated the smell of mildew and rotting vegetation that 
assaulted him from every direction.
 
He saw a platoon of Marines trudging through the jungle led by a tall, 
muscular man obviously handsome, even as filthy and weary as he was. The 
rest of the platoon straggled single-mindedly behind as best they could in 
the ankle deep, red, soupy mud.
 
Their sweaty, smelly uniforms stuck to their aching bodies, and the insects 
were buzzing, stinging, and tormenting them, decorating them with assorted 
bites. They made no move to bat them away. Probably no energy to spare for 
that, Mulder thought, unless they were just oblivious...and with a growing 
sense of horror, he realized, oblivious was exactly the right word.
 
Mulder felt a growing terror within him as a small, frail child screeched at 
the top of his lungs, and ran full speed at the men, and it was only then 
that the Marines saw that the child was covered head to toe with grenades.
 
"Oh SHIT! LOOK!" one of them screamed, and look was all he could do.
 
"FIRE, MURPHY, GODDAMN YOU, FIRE!" the C.O. yelled as he tried to fire, but 
his M16 jammed.
 
"HE'S A KID!" Murphy yelled.
 
"FIRE! SOMEONE! ANYONE!" The C.O. yelled. He threw down his malfunctioning 
weapon in disgust, and grabbed Murphy's, but he'd lost valuable seconds. 
That gun jam and the youth of the enemy had thrown all of them off for just 
long enough. They were fast, but they were still fumbling for their guns by 
the time the child's finger was on the grenade pin.
 
They would have all been dead before they had time to aim their 
M16s...except that one slender Marine had blasted out a spray of bullets 
that had pierced just about every vital organ on the boy, and set off one of 
the grenades.
 
As he saw it happening, Mulder felt every bullet, every piercing shard from 
the grenade wherever it hit the boy, and he shrieked as he felt the boy's 
death until he thought the sound echoing through his skull had turned his 
brains to jelly...
 
//MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP!!!//
 
But it didn't stop, and Mulder sobbed as he saw the child's brains spray 
over the jungle like gray-pink rain, and a red-hot, sympathetic anger washed 
over him as he saw a trembling, wild-eyed, teenager holding an M-16, staring 
at what was left of...
 
//his child's?//
 
... the child's body. As soon as he saw the soldier, Mulder instantly 
thought of his father's murderer, though he knew that Krycek was too young 
to have ever served in Vietnam. The vicarious death experience he'd just 
suffered coupled with the soldier boy's looks made Mulder feel the same old 
lust that Krycek always aroused to smash his fist into pretty boy flesh 
until it purpled.
 
"SKINNER!" the C.O. screamed, "TAKE COVER!"
 
The soldier jumped and ran, and Mulder felt sick as he realized that his 
boss had been that wild-eyed teenager, realized that when telling of this 
event that his boss had underplayed how young both he and that boy were, 
realized how far from home they were, realized
 
//this wasn't a dream?//
 
A colder fury possessed Mulder at the parents of these two for letting their 
children play with such dangerous toys...and he felt an anguish hit him that 
he knew, just knew, came from some where
 
//someone//
 
else.
 
 
He had no time to dwell on that, because he saw that Skinner had disobeyed 
orders by making a dive for the grenade that had landed at the foot of his 
C.O., and had slammed down on top of it with a whomp that scared the piss 
out Mulder. Instinctively, the rank and file scattered to either side of the 
path, and into the trees.
 
"WALT!!!! GET UP, *NOW*!" The C.O. screamed, and Mulder screamed with him in 
shared tormented frustration.
 
Young Walt shook his head vigorously, "No, SIR!"
 
The C.O. made a desperate lunge, yanked the young corporal up off of the 
grenade, tossed him over his shoulder, and ran for cover with the rest of 
the platoon. The explosion knocked them both to the ground, but they were 
behind the trees by then, and escaped with a few cuts.
 
Everyone cheered, and Mulder cheered with them, giddy with relief...until he 
saw that Skinner was in shock and freezing cold, despite being physically 
unharmed, and his C.O. had to carry him the last mile to the hooches. Mulder 
ached to see how young and vulnerable the corporal looked cradled in his 
C.O.'s arms. He wanted to be the one to carry him...he wanted to be the one 
looking at him tenderly, knowing that Walter would return that 
look...instead of thinking he was crazy and firing him.
 
Mulder felt ashamed and angry at how quickly he had forgotten what this boy 
had grown up to do to him, and just as quickly, distanced himself by 
profiling him, which was almost as good as jerking off. He was thankful once 
again that his neurosis came in handy professionally...and that he did it so 
well that he could do it in his sleep.
 
//If they weren't lovers then, they probably became lovers soon after. Okay, 
so Skinner was a hero when it came to his platoon buddies, there still was a 
possibility that he could be a latent racist, which would account for...//
 
Before Mulder could complete his profile, he felt himself floating away from 
the Marines and their hooches to the ville not far from where he'd first 
seen them. He smelled diesel oil, trash, shit, the smoke coming from the 
burning vegetation...and burning human flesh, and he panicked. Hearing the 
AK-47's, he tried desperately to wake up, fighting his way up to 
consciousness, but he was yanked back into slumber, and into the body of 
villager after villager. The VC shot him, and shot him, and shot him, and 
shot him, and the bullets seared through him. In his agony, a horrible 
thought forced itself into his mind...and again, he knew, just knew that it 
came from outside himself: If Skinner hadn't collapsed, the Marines would 
have been here to stop this slaughter. As tired as they were, they 
outnumbered this ragtag bunch of rebels, and would have kicked their butts. 
Mulder hoped that with this realization that he'd be allowed to wake up, but 
the VC kept shooting, and shooting, and shooting, and he was falling, and 
choking, and choking, and he couldn't BREATHE, and...
 
Mulder screamed, and screamed, and screamed, but his jaded neighbors no 
longer bothered to bang their protests against the wall. He woke up, eyes 
wide with terror, adrenaline instantly removing all vestiges of slumber from 
his body. Something had just tried to claw its way into his mind to stay. As 
he had regained consciousness, he had felt it scratching, and scratching, 
and scratching; and he had smelled it, and it smelled like rot, and death, 
and he just had to get away! Then again, it was probably just his heart 
trying to claw its way out of his chest, and run away to find a less 
dangerous neighborhood than Mulder Ground Zero. Ah. Just another nightmare, 
so what else was new? Still...it felt too real to him to be a 
nightmare...but he wondered what the fuck else could it be?
 
Someone whispered in his ear. //Let me in, Agent Mulder.//
 
He jumped up from the couch, feeling-he knew irrationally feeling-that it 
had betrayed him yet again by lulling him to sleep. He shouldn't have been 
able to sleep, after all the crap he had been through this week, and 
yesterday especially. He shot the couch an evil, sullen glare, and wondered 
why he bothered having the lumpy exercise in sadomasochistic discomfort and 
bad taste, if he was actually going to be able to sleep on the damned thing 
for any length of time? Thanks to it, he had just had the worst nightmare of 
all the multitudinous nightmares of his life.
 
He paced his apartment, doing his usual post-nightmare, deep breathing 
exercises. The events of yesterday came rushing back to him with 
embarrassing clarity,
 
//I fucking came on to Skinner! Shit!//
 
and his stomach, for the third time, tried to follow the laws of physics in 
reverse: What goes down, must go up. Well, with his stomach, it figured it 
would defy the laws of physics, he thought ruefully. That thought 
short-circuited the nausea, and replaced it with anger: He couldn't do 
anything right.
 
Mulder, overcome with self-loathing, gave his couch a couple of savage 
kicks, grabbed his coat keys, and ran out of his apartment. "Fuck this!" he 
said out loud, "I'm going to get my job back if I have to crawl, beg, and 
kiss or kick every ass in the Hoover Building to get it." 
 
Within minutes, he was in his car, and within an hour's time, he was at his 
boss's Crystal City apartment. He bounded into the building, and into the 
elevator, giving himself a steady pep talk to shore up his nerves as the 
elevator took him to Skinner's floor. "Come on, Mulder! You can do it! He 
doesn't hate you. You just took the poor guy by surprise. He just thought 
that you were behaving unprofessionally because you brought up the subject 
of l-l-lo--sex at work. He'll respond to you more positively in a less 
formal setting. Just because he looks like a harsh and vengeful God, doesn't 
mean that he won't listen to reason...and if does, he'll kill you as quickly 
and as humanely as possible with one swift, vicious bite to the neck, and 
all your troubles will be over for good. Uhmm...maybe there's a good reason 
that I'm not using my counseling credentials."
 
The elevator chimed, and its doors opened, but Mulder didn't wait before 
they opened all the way before he squirmed his way out. He ran down the hall 
to Skinner's apartment...and skidded to a stop just outside when he saw that 
the door was wide open. Skinner would never leave his door wide open, Mulder 
was sure of it. His boss was not a man who believed in the open door policy 
at work, so he sure as hell wouldn't at home. There was something else that 
Skinner would never allow that he felt trying to edge into his 
mind...something totally out of place.
 
It was then that he realized that the air coming from the apartment was 
redolent with the smell of rot, and mildew, and death, and Mulder felt every 
hair on his body prickle as he realized that Spooky Mulder had had an honest 
to god prophetic nightmare. Skinner's past definitely was going to figure 
into the present somehow. He jerked back, leaned against the wall, and 
listened. Silence...except for the sound of himself in the process of 
hyperventilating. Just great. Whoever
 
//Whatever//
 
was in Skinner's apartment would hear him if he didn't calm down. Slowly, he 
regained his composure, and ignoring the Voice of Reason, whose voice 
sounded just like Scully's, he didn't call for backup. "Time to buy another 
couch," he muttered as he drew his gun.
 
Normally, he would have scanned the room relentlessly for the source of the 
strange smell...but once he saw them, the paintings drew him like golden 
apples thrown before Atalanta. His boss never had anything on his apartment 
walls any of the times he'd been here. He thought the man considered 
paintings and photographs as effeminate affectations, and now his floor was 
decorated, okay, littered, with high quality, apparently original works of 
art.
 
Mulder automatically began to profile, once again ignoring the little Scully 
voice in his head that was trying to tell him that profiling his boss was 
how he'd gotten in trouble in the first damned place.
 
Mulder frowned, and bit his lip as he considered the
 
//crime?//
 
scene before him. He couldn't understand how Skinner could treat these 
beautiful pieces with such disrespect-particularly that one that was 
reminiscent of Carravagio-unless... Mulder shook his head at the vision of 
the burly man in a beret and smock dabbing paint on a canvas, and laughed. 
Probably these were Sharon's, or a friend's.
 
His mouth went dry as he saw the Picasso vision...and recognized the boy 
from his nightmares, grenades and injuries all in the same positions, in 
spite of the cubist take on him. Skinner HAD to have done this painting...or 
one of his friends. The Scully voice scolded that Skinner had told him about 
this long ago, his dream merely reminded him of it to show him what had 
driven his boss over the edge. Next to it, however, he saw a beautifully 
erotic painting of two nude men that shot that theory to hell. The 
"subconscious mind giving him a solution in his dreams theory" didn't 
explain why he would know what Skinner's C.O. looked like, or even exactly 
what Skinner himself would look like at age eighteen. Maybe, he thought with 
growing excitement, the paintings were the key to his nightmares, and to 
understanding Skinner. He noticed that there were countless smaller sketches 
of yet more male nudes (What the?), just begging him to take a closer look. 
Setting his gun down, Mulder put on his glasses, and bent down to look at 
them, then jumped back up, blushing furiously when he saw how many of them 
were of him
 
/Given name: Fox William Mulder.//
 
//FBI Name: Spooky.//
 
//Indian name: He Who Stupidly Licks His Boss's Lips).//
 
...giving head. Well, at least he'd definitely ruled out Sharon as his prime 
suspect for perpetrating these paintings.
 
Mulder's eyes got a wild, angry glittering sheen to them as he squatted down 
to stare at the erotic paintings of himself in various attitudes. Hardest to 
stomach of all was the Death of Sardanapalus take off showing scantily clad 
versions of him being killed again, and again by A.D. Skinner. All of the 
sympathy he'd felt for young Skinner vanished.
 
Despite his desire to rip the salacious images of himself into tiny pieces, 
the lanky agent used the rage and embarrassment they engendered to fuel his 
blistering profile of Skinner at a reckless, jittering pace. //Bastard, 
bastard, bastard! How many ways can he betray me in one week? I saved his 
life for the second time, and what did he do? He copped a feel, and 
institutionalized me. He had me placed in full restraints, which damn near 
got me killed, and when I tried to tell him just how I felt about it, he 
copped another feel before throwing my ass out of his office, and firing me! 
While I'm at home crying and puking my guts up, and having the worst 
nightmare of my life, he's making jerk rag fantasy paintings of me sucking 
him off then killing me.
 
How could I have been so stupid as to lo-trust this man! This isn't the 
first time he has betrayed me, this is just the worst. Destroying crime 
scene evidence on the scene in my name, and in my computer was nothing 
compared to this.
 
What kind of monster is he? Is he a serial killer at heart? Is he a gay 
homophobe who must project his self-loathing upon all who make him face once 
again the truth about his sexual preference? Is it possible that he could be 
45 years old, and still not know this most basic fact about himself, that he 
is gay, or at the very least bi-sexual?
 
Will the incidents of this morning trigger a killing rage? Has it already? 
Is this the reason that the door was left open...he feared that such a rage 
had come upon him, and that he had to leave, or he would surely give into 
his darker nature? Or, maybe he has already given into his darker nature. 
Perhaps he left his apartment in order to find the cause of this latest 
outrage upon his wounded psyche, and avenge himself. If I had arrived just 
thirty minutes earlier...//
 
Mulder stopped profiling, closed his eyes, and bit his lip, as the memory of 
yet another bald headed, bespectacled Assistant Director with a penchant for 
art assailed him. He couldn't shake the image, and it made him begin again. 
Was Skinner really so different from Patterson, and his gargoyle statues, 
statues in which he hid the hideously mutilated bodies of his beautiful male 
victims? Skinner's paintings manifested the same desires that his 
predecessor had attained in reality...a desire to possess and mutilate what 
obsessed him. Oh God....
 
Yet, the paintings of him were beautiful, sensual, compelling...he'd never 
looked so good. Even in the worst one, Skinner looked as if he were killing 
him against his will. Shit! How pathetic was he anyway? He was repeating the 
typical abusive patterns of his childhood, and early relationships, in 
which...
 
"I've been waiting for you, Mulder."
 
Mulder yelped and jerked up, startled by the eerie, lisping voice. 
Immediately, the miasma of the jungle surrounded him as he searched to room 
for the voice.
 
"Up here, by the ceiling fan."
 
Mulder snatched up his gun, cursing himself for being distracted. Wildly, he 
looked around the room not wanting to be THAT gullible as to immediately 
look by the ceiling fan...then gave in to his original instinct. To his 
mortification, there was a scrawny Asian boy grinning down at him from near 
the ceiling fan. The boy was covered with grenades and bloody bullet holes. 
Bleached bones and intestines gleamed through his torn flesh like shut-in 
pale skin through ragged clothes. Mulder didn't need Scully to tell him that 
the child's wounds had been fatal.
 
The phantom boy laughed at him. "So, Mulder, I've been dreaming about 
you...and here you are. I bet you thought it was the other way around."
 
"Who are you? What are you..."
 
"Agent Mulder, you know what I am, and surely some concept of the stupidity 
of holding a gun on a ghost has crossed your mind."
 
Mulder lowered his gun, and nodded his head. "So has the concept of the 
stupidity of taking you at face value," he said. "Why would the ghost of a 
Vietnamese child speak to me in fluent English? Answer: Because you aren't 
the ghost of a Vietnamese child. Why don't you just cut the shit, and tell 
me what you really are?"
 
The ghost floated down, and stared coldly into Mulder's eyes, transforming 
his face into that of a rawboned, hard, tough, pre-maturely aged Vietnamese 
woman. Surrounded by a sea of white, her irises were cold, dark, bottomless 
pits in which the stuff of Mulder's nightmares lurked just waiting for the 
opportunity to drag him down. They gave a glint of grief-stricken insanity 
to her anger. "I appeared to you as my poor, murdered baby, not to deceive 
you, but because I thought it might drive home the message of those dreams I 
sent you more forcefully. My name is Madame Ly. In life, I was a Taoist 
sorceress and priestess and translator. You will help me."
 
"You're the ghost of Taoist sorceress?" Despite his fear, Mulder felt 
shivers of excitement course through his body at his discovery. "You sent me 
those nightmares about Skinner? How? Did you use sorcery, or are you a 
different kind of ghost, and this is just part of being a ghost? Did you 
just connect me with Skinner's mind? I'm not that familiar with Asian 
ghosts."
 
The ghost laughed, "I see your professional curiosity is beginning to temper 
your rude tongue. Very well, Agent Mulder, I'll give you the proper 
technical term for your files. I did use sorcery to send you memories from 
the collective unconscious of all those who were involved in the death of my 
boy, but I am indeed a different sort of ghost. I am what is known as a 
hungry ghost."
 
 "Uh, look," Mulder said raising his hands, "I'm a lot tougher than I 
look...I'd be stringy, and you'd get me stuck between your teeth, and..."
 
She snorted in disgust, "I should have known that you would waste my time by 
making utterly absurd cannibal jokes. "
 
Mulder smiled sheepishly, "Sorry. What's a hungry ghost? I do have a 
professional interest in your answer, no matter how many bad jokes I make. 
Are both you and the Old Woman hungry ghosts?"
 
She shook her head curtly, and answered. "No. The Old Woman is an honored 
ancestor, and a Guardian Spirit. She's more than a ghost, but less than a 
goddess. Don't think that she can help you though, because I know how to 
handle her..."
 
"Help me? Why would she?" Mulder said with a shrug, hoping that he didn't 
look as scared as he felt. "Anyway, I thought that *you* were the one who 
needed *my* help. Why don't you tell me more about hungry ghosts, and why 
they do what they do, so that I can help you?"
 
 She stared at him severely, as if making up her mind to believe him or not, 
then nodded. "Very well, Madame Ly said coldly, "we hungry ghosts are the 
souls of those who died prematurely, or by violence. We'll do anything, from 
possessing your body down to appearing before you everywhere you go or 
whispering in your ear night and day, in order to achieve our aims."
 
"So I DID hear you whispering in my ear!" Mulder said excitedly. "I still 
don't understand why you call yourself a hungry ghost..."
 
Madame Ly glared at him and cut him off with an imperious wave of her hand. 
"If you would ever cease your annoying chattering you would learn something! 
We are called hungry ghosts because we can never become honored ancestors 
like the Old Woman, nor can we go to heaven, and thus can never be fed by 
the offerings of our descendants."
 
"Which would mean you wouldn't be as powerful without those offerings, but 
that doesn't seem to be the case for you...Why?" Mulder said, his face 
creasing into a puzzled frown.
 
Madame Ly gave Mulder a warning stare, and waited until he bit his lip to 
insure his silence before she continued. "As a sorceress, I'm far more 
powerful than most hungry ghosts, but like all other hungry ghosts, I'm 
doomed to hell, or to walk the earth, to avenge my death by violent 
means..."
 
 Mulder's eyes widened. "Violent means! SHIT! I'm sorry, I use my fists more 
than I should, and I've killed in self-defense, but I'm no murderer. Now, if 
you want me to help you find justice..."
 
"HOW COULD YOU FEEL WHAT MY BABY FELT, AND NOT USE VIOLENCE TO AVENGE HIM!" 
she roared, and the room coruscated with her outrage and her sorrow. Its 
energy slammed Mulder against the wall, stunning him just long enough for 
her to penetrate his defenses. Within seconds her voice was echoing inside 
his head, and she was rifling through his mind and memories.
 
//Interesting place you have here, Agent Mulder. I see you know Mr. Pincus, 
and all my other friends. I bet all this time you thought that you were just 
having nightmares, too. //
 
He felt as though he were tied up, watching a thief ransack his house. //I 
refuse to think about the ramifications of that statement.//
 
//Ah, tied up? Is that how I make you feel? So many people have done that to 
you lately, haven't they? The chicken wire experience...and of course, your 
boss seems to do that at every opportunity, does he not? Choke holds in the 
hallway, across the desk, against the wall...//
 
Mulder staggered to the couch, and sat down heavily, wondering why he was 
still having nightmares if he was really awake. The outside world had become 
mere Muzak for Mulder's inner drama. He could hear the neighbors making love 
next door, the couple in the apartment above arguing ...but he could barely 
move, couldn't so much as yell for help. He felt as though each of his arms 
and legs had been assigned its own personal elephant to weight it down. 
Despite this impediment, he clapped his hands to his ears, and held his 
head, desperately trying to block out her voice.
 
//You're holding me in. How sweet!// She smirked, a smirk he could feel on 
his own face, and sent the sensation of being groped to his helpless body. 
It was intolerable.
 
"FUCK YOU, BITCH! GET OUT, GET OUT!" Mulder screamed as he shook his head 
with all the strength he could muster. It was feeble at best, and he paid 
dearly for it.
 
The ghost made the image of her fury darkened face swell to fill every 
corner of his mind. //DON'T YOU *EVER* CALL ME THAT! YOU'LL DO AND SAY 
WHATEVER *I* TELL YOU TO, OR ELSE!//
 
At her words, Mulder felt incredible pain shooting through his body, and 
laid down on the couch, crying out incoherent pleas for mercy. This was much 
worse than the Pusher had ever been. That had been a mere tug of war. This 
was agony; this was torture.
 
 He was terrified by the implications of her behavior. If he didn't find a 
way to outwit her, both he and Skinner would be as good as dead before she 
was through with them. Rationalization was a poor weapon, but it was all he 
could think of right then, and he used it. //Look. In addition to all the 
paranoid thoughts you've found while rummaging around in my brain, you must 
have found out that I think that there was probably a very good explanation 
for Skinner's past and current behavior. I sincerely doubt that he's a 
cold-blooded killer due to the fact that...//
 
 //...due to the fact that he's more properly called a mass murderer.// She 
finished for him. //What else would you call someone who is responsible for 
the deaths of everyone in an entire village? A genocidal maniac? Pardon me, 
maybe you could return the favor, and give me the proper technical term used 
by your profession...//
 
Mulder could feel her bitter laughter shaking his body. That bizarre 
reminder of how far out of control he was of his own body panicked him, and 
he struggled to deny her as much as possible. //NO! I don't believe you...//
 
Her hard, clipped, impatient tones reverberated through his mind, forcing 
him to listen. //Oh, but you do believe me. Stop wasting my time. That's why 
you're so scared. You know that dream was no dream...It really happened. You 
knew it for a fact the moment you saw the painting of your boss and his 
lover.//
 
It was true as far as it went, but something didn't feel right about it. She 
wasn't telling him all of it...and she seemed anxious...in a hurry. That was 
reason enough for Mulder to stall. So much for the rationalization strategy, 
it was time for him to bring out the big gun: Sucking up. // You're right. 
It's time I admitted the truth. We've both been hurt so much. Atrocities 
have been committed, and my experience with the X Files makes me the only 
human being who could help you find justice. It's been hard for you, hasn't 
it? This can't be the first time that you've tried to avenge your son...It's 
that other ghost isn't it, the one who's protecting my boss? I bet that 
bitch has kept you from it. C'mon. You know you want to tell. You've been 
holding this in for twenty-seven years. //
 
There was a lessening of tension that went through his body, the more he 
spoke to her, and her next words were calm in tone, even though they still 
were hostile in their implications. //Atrocities have been committed? Even 
as much as he has hurt you, even after what I've shown you, you still can't 
quite assign the blame where it belongs. Unbelievable. It doesn't matter. 
You'll see soon enough. We'll pick up where we left off. Behold the man 
whose place you will take: your boss's commanding officer, Lt. Harry 
Matthews.//
 
Mulder sighed with relief. There could be nothing good about replacing a man 
that she held as responsible for her son's death as she did Skinner, but she 
was talking instead of trying to kill anyone, and that was a promising 
start. As she spoke, Mulder felt the most wonderful, comforting warmth 
spreading through his pain-wracked body, and he felt like he was floating. 
The pictures started again, with all their previous vividness.
 
Solar: August 24, 1971, Tuesday, 5:00 PM
Lunar: 7-5-71 Year of the Pig
Containing Metal of Bracelets
Month of the Dog
Hour of the Horse
 
The stench of the jungle overlaid with the trash overlaid with fish sauce 
and other strange, spicy, tangy unidentifiable smells came through as 
clearly as the pictures. This time the images were far more complex. Mulder 
was simultaneously watching Harry and his thoughts. It was though he became 
Harry, yet he could still see him as a separate person.
 
He saw the long-legged, broad-shouldered Marine slouching against the 
outside wall of a hut. Harry's handsome face was drawn and his large, solemn 
gray eyes were heavy lidded with weariness. He obviously hadn't slept for 
three nights at least. Mulder laughed when he realized that Harry was 
rubbing the bridge of his nose for comfort, just as Skinner always did.
 
//So THAT'S where he got that from!//
 
He sensed the C.O.'s thoughts and feelings, and he watched fascinated as the 
jumble of Harry's worries, which all featured the same troublesome 
subordinate, echoed around him. He was worrying in particular over the 
comments that his other subordinates, who were the man's peers, had made 
behind his back about this pain in the command backside.
 
 "More brains than common sense,"
 
 and
 
"He thinks he's haunted! He's nuts,"
 
and
 
"Before he cracked up, I always thought he'd be running the show by the time 
he was thirty. That's what always happens to the smart ones, though...."
 
and
 
"God, do you hear the poor bastard screaming in his sleep? No wonder he 
doesn't sleep that much."
 
and
 
"We all have nightmares, but goddamn, he's crazy twenty-four fucking hours a 
day!"
 
and
 
"What does he mean that they're coming to possess him? SHIT!"
 
 Mulder frowned and craned his head the better to see the images playing in 
his mind. //Who the hell are they talking about? Who is he worried about? 
Surely it can't be!//
 
 
Instead of an answer, the snide remarks of the subordinates were replaced by 
the harsh, clipped, stuffy tones of Harry's superior officers.
 
"We do not dispute the young man's brilliance," they had told him, "nor that 
he has outperformed his peers in nearly every respect. As point man, he is 
clearly the best. His demonstrated ability to detect mines, booby traps, and 
the enemy without a misstep in 8 months verges upon the preternatural. He 
has demonstrated extraordinary courage and has excelled at every assignment 
that you have given him."
 
"We understand why you want to protect such an asset to your platoon. You 
still cannot allow him to run off half-cocked chasing after ghosts, no 
matter what personal losses and suffering that he has endured. Your own 
record is exemplary, but if you continue to grant his outlandish requests, 
and indulge his every whim, you may find that you will not advance as 
quickly as you are accustomed. You are only twenty-seven, Harry. You have a 
bright future with the Marines, and you need to choose your alliances more 
wisely..."
 
The visions of his superiors were replaced by deep, martyred, resentful 
sighs that the subordinate had repaid his concern by ditching 
him...otherwise, known as going AWOL. Lt. Harry Matthews sat down wearily, 
and held his head in his hands, and started muttering to himself. "Corporal 
Skinner, there must be a good reason why your C.O. isn't wringing your neck 
instead of always trying to save your ungrateful, mouthy ass, but I'll be 
damned if I know what it is. He must be as crazy as you are. Yeah, I'd say 
definitely as crazy as you are. He's starting to talk to himself."
 
Mulder laughed. He just felt like he did when his Grandmother told him about 
the time that his mother skipped school, and got a spanking for it: Gleeful 
at finding that the forbidding saint was just as human as he was. //Oh God, 
that's too good to be true! Shit! Mr. Walter S. By-The-Book-Hardass-Marine 
Skinner, just wait until I see you
again! //
 
Mulder indulged in his spiteful joy for just for a moment, then quickly 
sobered up as he remembered how he came to possess this knowledge. If this 
is her idea of how to make him sympathetic toward her cause, she had 
seriously misjudged him. Then again, maybe she was just trying to distract 
him with what he WANTED to see so that he would miss what he NEEDED to see. 
He vowed to be more vigilant and emotionally detached lest he miss anything 
that he could use against her. The truth was in him now.
 
As soon as Harry strained to listen to the conversation inside, the scene 
changed to the inside of the hut. The hut evidently had been the source of 
the oddest of the aromas that had assailed him, because they nearly 
overpowered Mulder now.
 
There were rows upon rows full of scavenged bottles and cans full of the 
most intriguing spices, mushrooms, flower buds, living flowers, and herbs, 
bones, crystals, and powders of all colors. There were drying plants and 
herbs of all descriptions hanging from the ceiling as well as mummified 
animal remains, amulets, and charms. Some of the amulets and charms were 
explicitly erotic. Adorning the walls and shelves were bright yellow and red 
paintings of various deities, and animals, intricately carved wooden and 
ivory wands, other phallic objects, brightly colored masks, swords, jade and 
onyx statues, and stones, and all sizes of octagonal mirrors inscribed with 
Chinese calligraphy.
 
It was a motley collection, but for all that, there was a certain, artful 
charm about the way it was arranged. Mulder recognized the object of Harry's 
concern talking to the Vietnamese Priestess/Sorceress...the 18-year-old 
Walter Skinner. He was a slender, lightly muscled, handsome boy with longish 
(for the military) coal dark hair. He gawked at the strange wares of the 
hut, warily scrutinizing the contents of the bottles, and respectfully 
touching the exotic objets d'art and curiosities.
 
"Your dreams have brought you to me," a commanding female voice boomed. It 
could not be said to be feminine. "Corporal Walter Sergei Skinner, I've been 
waiting for you."
 
Startled, Walter jumped and turned around to face the woman who was 
addressing him. "How-how did you know about me?"
 
Mulder inhaled sharply and tensed when he recognized the woman in his vision 
as the Vietnamese Sorceress who had been tormenting him for hours. 
Instinctively, he knew. This was it. This was when Skinner had fucked up his 
life...and he was going to see it.
 
She gave no sign of her what was in store to her prey, though, merely turned 
on the showmanship and the charm like any self-respecting religious leader. 
The Sorceress was out to dazzle the young corporal, and this she did easily. 
She was an impressive, striking presence despite her rawboned, leathery face 
and callused hands, which hinted at her country roots and hard life. As she 
scrutinized Walter, her eyes glowed with a keen intelligence and strength 
that was at odds with the crazed expression they had held for Mulder, and 
she carried herself with a ramrod straight dignity and authority. Her 
immaculate, yellow priestess robes with their long, flowing sleeves and 
graceful lines and folds enhanced her gestures with drama and mystery.
 
The Sorceress wrinkled into a kindly smile at Walter's wide-eyed awestruck 
gaze. "Who doesn't know about you?" she said kindly. "You have gone from 
village to village talking to anyone that even looked as though he had a 
charm or feng shui mirror to sell. I think half of Vietnam sold you 
something, and the other half is getting its wares ready. You've been here 
long enough to know that a free spending American soon loses his anonymity."
 
Walter looked down at his feet and blushed, and looked back up with an 
embarrassed grin.
 
The Sorceress laughed out loud, and placed a comforting arm around his 
shoulders. "You've done nothing to be ashamed of, Walter. You have acted 
wisely in consulting a priestess. Until now, you just hadn't been lucky 
enough to consult the right one...and now you have! My name is Madame Ly. 
Please be seated," she said gesturing theatrically to a stool in front of a 
makeshift table.
 
Walter sat down as bidden, and with a dramatic flourish, The Sorceress took 
her place across from him in an intricately woven rattan chair. She lit a 
candle and sprinkled some incense in a bronze dragon-shaped charcoal 
brazier, and instantly, a flash of light and smoke puffed out of its 
nostrils.
 
"WOW! That's seriously cool!" he grinned. "My mom would love one of those."
 
"Young man, I am not a peddler showing you my wares; I am doing this for a 
serious purpose," Madame Ly chided, fixing him with a stern glare. "This 
smoke is the means by which I will invite the gods to help you. You must 
maintain a serious attitude and a deep level of concentration if you would 
tap the power of the Tao."
 
"No disrespect intended ma'am," he said contritely. "I just thought it was 
cool. I've never seen anything like it...or met anyone like you either. Like 
you said, I've visited just about any Taoist priest or priestess I could 
find, and you seem..."
 
"Better educated than most?" she said arching an inquiring eyebrow, and 
smiling.
 
He nodded his head, and smiled broadly, relieved that she seemed to have 
forgotten her irritation. "Yeah...you speak English better than most of the 
guys in my unit...and that's the only language they speak! How did you 
learn?"
 
She smiled at him, and the candlelight transformed her face into an eerie 
ghoulish mask, as strange and beguiling as any of the masks on the walls of 
her hut. "My mother was also a priestess, but my father was a French 
soldier. He deserted us to return to France, but he paid for my education. 
The tuition money went directly to the convent too, so that my mother 
couldn't use it for anything else. No matter," she said waving her hand as 
if to dismiss the unpleasant image. "At school, I displayed a talent for 
languages, and I learned English, French, Chinese, and several Vietnamese 
dialects. At night, my mother tutored me in the ways of the Tao. I became an 
interpreter. I lived quite well...until the war destroyed everything I held 
dear. These are the remnants of my former life that I was able to scavenge," 
she made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the entire hut.
 
Walter let out a low whistle as he admired her beautiful and intricate works 
of art and curiosities once more. "Boy, that must have been some place you 
had! I wish I could have seen it in its prime. Why are you staying in a hut, 
though? Wouldn't you be able to stay in an apartment or something? Being an 
interpreter, you could..."
 
"NO!" she interrupted, and shook her head vigorously, "That would mean 
working for the military, helping a war that cost me everyone and everything 
I love. I refuse to do that. I've scratched out a living as best I can from 
my calling as a priestess. It is useless to fight against the flow. I forgot 
this, and the gods chastened me for my arrogance..." Her voice trailed off, 
and her eyes unfocussed as she went into a trance.
 
Walter watched her nervously, as he twisted the coal black strands of his 
hair around his long, brown fingers. Finally, he shifted uncomfortably, and 
the sound brought The Sorceress back to the present.
 
"I'm sorry," she said sadly. "You didn't come here to hear about my 
troubles. You need my help. How may I be of service?"
 
Despite her conciliatory attitude, her invitation all too obviously agitated 
Walter. He tensed up, biting his lip, tapping his fingers on the makeshift 
table, unable to look at her. She merely waited impassively. That only made 
it worse. He lurched up and paced for a moment, as if trying to come to a 
decision. The pacing only served to irritate him since he kept bumping into 
the herbs, flowers and amulets hanging from the ceiling, and he growled in 
frustration as he continually brushed them aside.
 
Finally, he sat back down heavily on the stool, slumped and shamefaced. "I'm 
really sorry to bother you with this ma'am," he said his dark brown eyes 
pleading with her for understanding, "I know it'll sound so stupid, compared 
to everything you've been through...but I'm desperate for your help. I can't 
sleep. I can't eat. I can't think of anything else, except how do I 
escape... I see him every night. I'll go anywhere, any time to find a way to 
stop him...even if I have to go AWOL. Harry, my C.O., can't keep covering 
for me forever. Ah hell, I'm not making any sense," he said, and buried his 
face in his hands.
 
"So the little boy you killed is taking his vengeance?" she said cocking her 
head, looking inquiringly at him.
 
Walter jerked up, and stared at her. The soft light of the room and his 
expression of open-mouthed surprise made him appear as if he were 10 instead 
of 18. She said nothing, but watched and waited, and once again, she won the 
waiting game. He looked away, and hung his head. "Yes," he whispered.
 
She leaned forward, like a lioness moving in for the kill. Every muscle was 
taut, and her expression was fierce and intense. "Listen to me! I can help 
you, but you must promise me that you will follow my instructions to the 
letter! If you stray from what I tell you so much as by one word, all will 
be ruined! PROMISE!" she hissed.
 
"ANYTHING, ma'am! ANYthing."
 
"First of all, you must pick a lucky date to do your ritual. Above all, you 
must promise me that you will not do this ritual on the 5th, 14th or 23rd of 
our months. These dates, are ALWAYS, ALWAYS unlucky. Do you understand?"
 
"What about today? It's August 25th? Is the 25th lucky? The sooner I can go 
back to normal the better."
 
The Sorceress closed her eyes and chanted...as she did, the smoke from the 
bronze dragon's nose and mouth changed color from gray to yellow and red, 
and eddied around them in sinuous, Art Nouveau swirls. Walter thought he 
could see faces leering at him from the smoke, and shook his head in shock 
and disbelief. He opened his mouth to tell The Sorceress, but she cut him 
off peremptorily. "The gods have spoken. Today will serve the purpose well." 
She opened her eyes, and fixed him with a stare. "Are you sure that you are 
ready to do what must be done?"
 
He stood up, and calmly returned her gaze, "Yes ma'am. When do I 
start?" "Immediately," she said. She rose from her chair, and grabbed an 
amulet hanging from the ceiling. With a grand sweeping gesture, which made 
her yellow robes billow out dramatically. She raised her hands; the amulet 
clenched in her left one, and muttered a chant. Slowly she clapped both 
hands together, and lowered the dangling amulet into the red and yellow 
smoke spewing forth from the bronze dragon, passing it back and forth while 
continuing to chant.
 
"HOLY SHIT!" Walter yelled, and jumped back, as all the red and yellow smoke 
in the room swirled around them like a whirlpool, and into the amulet.
 
"Come back here, boy!" she commanded. "I thought you said that you would do 
anything. Are you going to be scared by a little smoke? How will you be able 
to perform a ritual of absolution if you are scared by such trifles?"
 
He blushed, and shook his head, unable to speak. The Sorceress stared at him 
through narrowed eyes until he looked down, and actually began to squirm. 
Satisfied, she nodded curtly, and placed the amulet around his neck. "You 
must wear this at all times. It will draw the gods to you at the appointed 
time. Next, you must go to the Temple of the Door Between Worlds. You 
haven't much time. The ritual *must* be completed today...or I cannot 
guarantee the results. She handed him a piece of paper and a flask of oil. 
"Follow the instructions here. You will find the locations of both the 
temple and the offerings you must give, and a phonetic version of the prayer 
you must say since there is no way you'll be able to carry everything. I 
will give you a few things though...."
 
 Her voice faded to a drone, and the scene once more switched to Harry as he 
strained to hear the conversation in the hut. As he heard them coming to the 
door, Harry scrambled to hide behind a water barrel until Walter left.
 
Mulder could hear Harry's outraged thoughts...
 
//She played him for a sucker. I bet that bitch took his last dollar, and 
gave him a powder that'll make him puke his guts out besides. //
 
... could feel the fury building in him, until he exploded.
 
He saw the young lieutenant snarl, jump out from behind the water barrel, 
slam the door to the hut open...
 
...only to find absolutely nothing.
 
"WHAT THE FUCK?" Harry yelled. He looked wildly around the hut as he ran his 
hand through his hair, stunned by this turn of events.
 
Mulder felt his stomach flop sympathetically as he heard Harry's panicky 
thoughts. //This can't be. I distinctly saw smoke. I heard voices...and they 
most definitely were *not* in my head. I can't be that tired. I'm not even 
stoned for a change. God...what has the kid gotten himself into? SHIT!// 
That last thought galvanized Harry, and he broke into a run into the jungle 
in the direction he last saw Walter, heedless of claymores and booby traps.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
 
Solar: August 24, 1971, Tuesday, 7:00 PM
Lunar: 7-5-71 Year of the Pig
Containing Metal of Bracelets
Month of the Dog
Hour of the Dog
 
 
The vision faded, and when it came back into focus, the Vietnamese sun was 
much lower in the sky. He was appalled to see, and feel, that Harry was 
about to collapse from exhaustion. The young lieutenant was as muscular and 
physically fit as they came, but the lack of sleep, and the strain of 
tracking Corporal Walter S. Skinner into the jungle for several miles, had 
worn him down. His long legs were aching, and he was covered with a fine 
sheen of sweat that made his uniform stick as if it were trying to fuse with 
his skin.
 
Lt. Matthews kept himself going with visions of corporal punishment dancing 
in his head, and Mulder winced guiltily to see them, sure that almost 
everyone had those same designs on his own butt for similar reasons. Whips, 
paddles and throttling all made their tantalizing appeals to Harry's angry 
imagination, but when the image of his hand smacking Walt's rapidly 
blistering ass popped into his mind, he smiled grimly, and vowed to survive 
long enough to act out that fantasy, even if he was court-martialed for it.
 
He needed all of the inspiration he could get too. Walter set a brutal pace, 
stopping only briefly to pick up three packages, and once to Harry's utter 
amazement, to hurriedly pick a huge bouquet of flowers. He was ready to 
shoot him, ANYTHING to slow him down, when finally Walter stopped at some of 
the oddest buildings that he'd ever seen. Harry ran his hand through his 
spiky sun-streaked hair, and stared as his young corporal, carrying the 
bouquet and the mysterious bundles, disappeared into the center building.
 
Harry's gray eyes grew dark and troubled as he scanned the structures, the 
likes of which he'd never seen before, although he presumed that they were 
temples or shrines. Everything about them looked out of place, and he 
despised them instantly and unreservedly for this. They were grotesquely 
misshapen, moss-covered, gray stone conglomerations of angles and demonic 
carvings of bulging-eyed creatures. The corners of the outer temples pointed 
like accusing fingers at the central one. All of them had the same Chinese 
characters engraved upon them: 744.
 
Harry frowned as he recognized the Chinese characters for those numbers that 
he'd learned so long ago from Tommy Chang, his best friend in elementary 
school. He knew that they were significant in some way beyond mere numbers, 
but couldn't for the life of him remember what that significance was. It had 
been far too long ago.
 
Mulder knew, though. As soon as Harry's thoughts had translated the Chinese 
characters into numbers, Mulder's encyclopedic knowledge of the arcane 
instantly supplied him with their significance, and he couldn't stop a groan 
from escaping his lips.
 
The number 744 was a cognate with a curse: Sure to die.
 
Vainly, Mulder willed Harry to remember, hoping that maybe he'd found a 
wrinkle in time, and could affect the past, but the young lieutenant gave no 
sign that he felt the desperate agent's presence. The c.o.'s thoughts were 
concerned solely for Walter's mental health. No one in his right mind would 
risk his life and career to come to this ugly, repulsive, malaria trap, as 
far as Harry was concerned, himself included "Helluva place you picked to 
meet girls, Wally," he muttered.
 
Determined to save the boy from himself, Harry edged silently into the 
temple to observe him, and hid behind one of the many finely carved steles, 
in particular, a sickeningly realistic one of two tigers ripping apart a 
shrieking warrior. There were many others; all of them equally ghastly and 
skillfully rendered. Harry shivered with disgust, and wondered what the fuck 
kind of temple would allow such ghoulish depictions inside it.
 
He watched and waited for Walter to show *some* sign that he recognized that 
his environment was potentially dangerous, but the boy seemed oblivious to 
 
his surroundings-something no soldier should ever be. This made Harry grow 
even more concerned for him, as he watched his corporal artfully arrange 
floor mats in the center of the room, and candles, incense, and flowers on 
the stone altars around it as nonchalantly as if he were decorating his 
apartment for a dinner date.
 
Despite his misgivings, curiosity and fascination kept Harry transfixed by 
the sight of Walter transforming the ancient, macabre temple into something 
approximating its glory days. When the boy lit the candles and incense, 
flooding the room with the scents of sandalwood, jasmine and other, stranger 
fragrances, the temple looked even more gruesome and sepulchral. The carved 
stele and statuary cast shadows around the room that the flickering 
candlelight and incense smoke animated into an eerie tableau of ferocious 
beasts ripping and clawing flesh, of swords and spears gutting them, of 
bat-winged monsters, and of other more inchoate horrors on the gray stone 
walls. Surely, he'd succumb to a creeping sense of revulsion *now*, Harry 
thought, but the boy remained intensely focused upon his work.
 
Walter raised his hands and chanted something in a language that neither 
Harry nor Mulder recognized, and clapped his hands. The smoke coalesced into 
blue and green watery swirls, and dashed itself against the central wall. 
The walls parted with a reverberating boom to reveal a waterfall cascading 
majestically over obsidian rocks into the crystalline pool below. Lush, 
climbing orchids of all colors and vines of all descriptions surrounded it, 
mingling their perfumes with that of the incense. The silvery sounds and 
beauty of the waterfall were soothing, and relaxing. The smoke turned 
golden, warm, and comforting, despite the macabre carvings and shadow play, 
and surrounded them both, infusing them with the intoxicating fragrances of 
the room.
 
Try as he might, Harry could no longer think clearly, and didn't want to; he 
was in thrall to his senses. All of the temple's optical illusions and 
tricks were nothing compared to what happened next, though.
 
As Walter slowly and gracefully removed his uniform, Harry gave into the 
long repressed hunger to look longingly and lingeringly at the body of his 
subordinate. He smiled with delight at the view. The candlelight and 
ethereal glow emanating from the falls softly illuminated Walter's slender, 
young body as he stepped into the pool and under the waterfall. Naked, eyes 
closed, head and arms thrown back, smiling beatifically as he obviously 
enjoyed the water pounding away his cares, he couldn't have been more 
seductive.
 
At the sight of water cascading off Walter's taut, glistening flesh, down 
his long, long muscular legs, Harry couldn't remember why he was angry, 
couldn't remember why fraternizing with a subordinate was a bad idea, 
couldn't remember anything that could be as important as possessing this 
beautiful young man. A lifetime of restraint, of inhibitions, of 
responsibility and duty first fell away at that moment. As desire jangled 
through his body, Harry vaguely realized that he must be enchanted, that the 
priestess had been the genuine article, but he didn't care. He was beyond 
rational thought.
 
He tracked Walter's every movement like a lion watching a gazelle at a 
watering hole, wondering if Walter could sense his presence at some level. 
For someone who appeared to be totally unaware of himself and his 
surroundings, he put on a great show. As if he'd heard that thought, Walter 
uncorked a bottle of oil that lent its own unique tang to the air, and began 
a low, melodic chant. With both hands, he raised the bottle, and the warm 
golden smoke sparkled and swirled into the bottle, making the liquid inside 
coruscate. With a flash, the bottle disappeared, and Walter's face was 
carefully anointed with the thick, sweet, shimmering fluid. He tilted his 
head back to expose his throat, letting the oil flow in generous rivulets 
down his chest, and back. His slender fingers gently massaged it in, working 
his way down from his temples to his chest. His lips curved into a smile, 
his eyes still closed, savoring the sensation. As Harry watched the boy 
slowly and sensuously caress every part of part of his body, the last 
vestige of his willpower evaporated. He hastily stripped off his clothes, 
and waded into the water.
 
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
 
Walter felt large, callused hands grab his slender hips, and pull him gently 
against a tall, hard, muscular body. Those hands began a lazy, teasing 
exploration of Walter's lithe body, caressing his lightly furred, taut 
chest, carefully just missing his nipples, stroking his belly, gently 
fondling the soft curls of his pubic hair, and no further.
 
The oil, the massage from warm water and strong, sensitive hands, and the 
heady, magical atmosphere of the temple short-circuited any sense of caution 
he possessed. He felt warm waves of pleasure washing over him. He tried to 
turn around to see who belonged to those talented hands, but soon, one 
sinewy arm was encircling his chest, and the other his waist, holding him 
tight, and Walter was trapped. He panicked, and tried to yell out, but his 
mouth was so dry that it sounded more like a squeak.
 
He felt a stubbled face nuzzling him, soft lips brushing him with kisses, 
and a low, lazy laugh tickling at his ear, "Shh, shh, shh, baby, easy, easy, 
you're safe with me."
 
The waves of pleasure returned as he recognized the owner of that dark, 
silky growl of a voice. He smiled and leaned back, eyes closed. "HHHHarry?"
 
"Mmhm," Harry said, as his hands continued their leisurely exploration, 
"Were you expecting another man?"
 
"Nnno, sir, I wasn't expecting a man. I mean, I wasn't expecting you. I 
mean, I wasn't expecting..." the boy stammered, as the older man chuckled, 
and gently began to rock their bodies together. Walter felt something 
prodding his back, and his eyes flew open, and he struggled vainly to turn 
around. "OMIGOD, that can't be a dick you have back there," he said laughing 
shakily, "it feels like a flagpole!"
 
"Mmhmm, *that* it is, and I think I found just the thing to run up that 
flagpole," Harry chuckled as he cupped the boy's ass and gave it a squeeze. 
"Now, let me see if you're saluting the idea, Corporal."
 
His hand started to rove toward Walter's stiffening cock as his other hand 
gently drew the boy back to him, but stopped as Walter; feeling fear, 
excitement, and desire mingling together in an overwhelming, heady brew, 
began to tremble. Harry effortlessly spun him around, and gave him a 
searching look.
 
A thousand things crossed Walter's mind to say in response to that 
penetrating gaze: //...I've admired you all of my life. I can't remember a 
time when I didn't want to be like you. I've been in love with you ever 
since I turned 16. How long have you wanted me, Harry? Is it just the ritual 
making you act this way? Will you hate me for it when its spell has run its 
course? // All Walter could manage to do was make a lame joke. "You could 
kill me with that damned thing."
 
"Sh, sh, relax," Harry laughed as he easily picked up Walter in his arms, "I 
won't let it hurt you, I promise."
 
He had him down on the ground, onto his lap, and into his arms so smoothly 
that Walter had no time to protest. "I've got something here that'll help," 
Harry said as he pulled his discarded shirt over, and fumbled something out 
of the pocket.
 
Walter covered his hard-on with both hands, and shifted until he found a 
reasonably comfortable position on Harry's legs that just avoided the 
"flagpole". "You interrupted my ritual," he said nervously, "The priestess 
said if I didn't follow her instructions to the letter, that she didn't know 
what the hell would happen, and I'm..."
 
"Hold that thought, kid," Harry said. "First, let me help you get 
comfortable. Lift your hips." Harry shifted Walter around and drew him 
close, so that Walter was forced to rest his back against Harry's broad 
chest and long, thick cock.
 
Walter didn't think he'd ever breathe again. He could feel Harry's hard 
length pulsing against him, and it was all he could think about. Erect, it 
was huge, in keeping with the size of the brawny man himself. All worries 
about the ritual paled in comparison. In that moment, Harry's cock had 
become the center of his universe, and knowing that was exactly what Harry 
had intended didn't change a thing.
 
Harry smiled, and nuzzled him. "Whatever ritual you're doing, kid, this is 
only going to make it better. Trust me on this one. You're going to love 
Thai sticks." With the air of a sorcerer bestowing magic wands to his 
apprentice, the older man presented a lighter and what looked like a bundle 
of dried flowers and stems tied with bamboo.
 
"No, no," Walter shook his head, and tried to push away, "I can't while I'm 
doing this, I don't want to screw things up any more than I have..." he 
trailed off, and swallowed convulsively, losing his train of thought as he 
felt Harry push his cock against him.
 
Harry put the Thai stick in his fingers, and tenderly cupped the boy's face, 
turning it towards him. "Stop worrying. You trust me don't you, Walt?"
 
Walter nodded solemnly.
 
Harry hugged him tight. "Hey, kid, enough with the big, sad puppy dog eyes! 
You're with good old Harry, remember? Who taught you how to fight, hmm?"
 
The memories of Harry taking care of him whenever his stressed parents 
decided to lock him out of the house for a few days, made Walter smile in 
spite of his fears.
 
"You did," Walter said. "You taught me."
 
"Who kicked ass for you when you couldn't?"
 
"You did."
 
"Who gave you your first beer?"
 
"You did."
 
"Who bought you your first Playboy, and took you to your first dirty movie?"
 
"You did."
 
"And who always saves your ungrateful little ass in spite of all of your 
best efforts to run off without thinking of anyone else, and get yourself 
killed?" Harry said, smiling slyly.
 
"You d...Why you sneaky son of a bitch," Walter said trying not to laugh as 
he poked Harry in the ribs, "I do NOT run off without thinking of anyone 
else!"
 
Harry shifted Walter's body until his chest was pressed flat against his 
chest, then slapped the younger man's butt. "Wrong answer. Try again?"
 
"OWWWWW! Hey, that hurt!" Walter laughed, "Okay, okay, you old fucker! 
You're going to save my butt. God, I hope I'm not this senile when I'm 
twenty-seven."
 
That earned him two more slaps on his butt, followed by an affectionate 
squeeze. "Now, what was the answer that was just on the tip of your tongue, 
baby?" Harry said sweetly, as he sat him back down in his lap.
 
"You're going to save my ass in spite of all of my best efforts to run off 
without thinking of anyone else, and get myself killed... SIR!" Walter said 
in mock seriousness as he saluted with his middle finger, and stuck out his 
tongue at Harry.
 
Harry burst out laughing, "Oh, fuck! I give up! That's more respect than 
I've gotten from you in a long time, you insubordinate, little shit!"
 
It was a joke, but a joke with enough truth in it to make Walter squirm with 
guilt. He knew all too well that he was the reason that Harry's handsome 
face was gaunt with exhaustion. Not only did the poor guy have to contend 
with the responsibilities of command and the rigors of war; he had to 
baby-sit a crazed corporal who never slept, and went AWOL every chance he 
got. By now, he had no doubt that Harry was fueled strictly by handfuls of 
whatever amphetamines he could lay his hands on, and would collapse at any 
moment. Then an even worse thought struck him, making him miserable.
 
Harry held Walter's chin, and tipped it up. "Hey, what's the matter? We were 
doing so well here for a while."
 
Walter bit his lip, and took a deep, ragged breath. "I've fucked up big 
time, haven't I?" he said softly, "I've given you nothing but shit for the 
last few weeks, and for what? I screwed up the ritual, and now I'll be worse 
off than before, but..." He looked up solemnly at the older man. "But what 
really bothers me is, what if I...what if... oh fuck," he stammered. "What 
if my stupid mistake ends up hurting you too, Harry? I couldn't stand it if 
you got hurt because of me."
 
Harry just grinned and winked at him, "Don't worry, kid. I'll fix your 
ritual," he said as he tenderly stroked Walter's silky black hair, "We have 
everything we need right here. Some ancient cults used marijuana smoke as a 
conduit to allow the gods to descend to earth."
 
"Conduit to allow the gods to descend to earth?" Walter said warily, "Where 
the hell did you get that from?"
 
"Hey, I read it in High Times so it's gotta be true, right?" he said 
tousling Walter's non-regulation length hair. "You ought to be familiar with 
that magazine, you little hippie dipshit."
 
"It isn't *that* much longer than regulation," Walter said, quickly brushing 
his hair back so that it looked shorter.
 
Harry snorted, and tousled it again so that it fell right back where it was, 
"Sure kid," he laughed. "Anything you say."
 
Walter smiled wryly, conceding his inevitable defeat. "So tell me, how do I 
make a conduit with dope smoke?"
 
"Just concentrate on what I say, and follow orders for a change," Harry said 
affectionately. "Close your eyes, kid."
 
Walter obeyed, but after a few seconds of silence, his curiosity was killing 
him. Sure that Harry wasn't taking the ritual seriously, and was playing a 
joke on him, Walter couldn't resist a peek...and found himself staring 
straight into Harry's twinkling gray eyes.
 
"I thought so!" Harry laughed as Walter ducked his head down. "Now close 
them, damn it! I'm doing this for you."
 
This time Walter kept his eyes shut.
 
Harry must have realized that he would, because he started his improvised 
ritual immediately. "Venerable guardian spirit of this realm, please grant 
my request," he intoned, "I humbly beg you to descend to earth on our 
offering of smoke, which will rise up to you both as our conduit to earth 
and our conduit between each other. Stay with Walter Skinner, guide, and 
protect him from harm in the physical and spiritual planes. Amen."
 
"Permission to open my eyes now, sir?" Walter said, his face scrunched up 
with the effort of keeping them closed.
 
"Granted. So this is what it takes to make you follow orders," Harry said 
fondly as he cupped Walter's face. "Too bad I didn't learn about this priest 
shit in officer's school."
 
Walter shot him a dirty look as soon as he opened his eyes, preparing to 
smart off, but Harry tapped him on the lips with his finger.
 
"Shhh! Here comes the part where we make the conduit, so pay attention. 
This'll be better if you open your mouth to inhale, and hold it in as long 
as you can, kid. It'll hit you faster and stronger that way." Harry said, 
putting the Thai stick in his mouth. He lit it, and toked up, holding the 
fragrant smoke in his lungs for us long as possible. He pulled Walter 
closer, and slowly blew the smoke into his face.
 
Walter hesitantly opened his mouth, and felt his lungs burn as he inhaled 
deeply; felt his arms and legs go weak, felt surges of pleasure rush through 
his body. "Mmmmmmotherfuck, s'good" he purred with delight.
 
"See, kid?" Harry grinned, "It PAYS to follow my orders. You love Thai 
sticks, don't you?"
 
Walter nodded enthusiastically and opened his mouth like a baby bird. 
"Munh," he said, begging for more.
 
 
Harry's eyes glittered with lust and mischief the moment that he saw Walter 
beg. Walter shivered in anticipation as the energy between them became even 
more erotically charged. The ritual turned into a long, slow, hedonistic 
tease of cannabis smoke that sent rushes of pleasure throughout Walter's 
body. Caressing hands augmented every delightful sensation. Cruel, sensual 
lips tormented him with their refusal to touch his, making him want to taste 
them that much more. With every hit, Harry leisurely moved in just a little 
closer than the last time to blow the smoke into Walter's eager mouth. Each 
hit was slower, more intense, more potent...and more colorful. The gray 
smoke, passing between them and from the Thai stick, had turned to vivid, 
sparkling blue, indigo, and violet.
 
Harry's large, gray eyes darkened and grew heavy lidded from drugs and lust. 
He grinned wickedly, and licked along Walter's jaw line, stroking his inner 
thigh, making him shiver from the unexpected intensity of the sensation. 
"Last hit, kid," he said hoarsely, and toked up.
 
This was the moment Walter Skinner had been waiting for since he turned 
sixteen, and his lips parted without hesitation for the one he'd wanted so 
long. He gasped as he felt Harry cupping the back of his head with one huge 
hand, and his ass with the other, drawing him close. Gently, yet firmly, 
Harry kissed Walter's soft, yielding lips, claiming his mouth as he filled 
it with rich, spicy smoke, tenderly lowering the boy to the ground onto his 
back. Walter moaned, writhing as the passion and Thai-stick-induced body 
rushes increased to an exquisite pitch as Harry's hard body covered him.
 
"You've never done this before," Harry said softly, kissing and nibbling 
Walter's ear. "Put your hands behind your head, and let me take care of you 
tonight."
 
The sound of that gruff voice made Walter nervous just the way he liked to 
be nervous, and he obeyed instantly.
 
"That's good, kid," Harry whispered. He kissed each of Walter's wrists, and 
held them as he swooped down for another long kiss. Letting his hands roam, 
he feathered the oil that shimmered on the slender, delectable, young body 
into swirls and waves, licking and sucking along the trails that he made 
with his fingers, tasting vanilla, honey, ginger, and Walter. "Mmmmmm, you 
taste good, kid," he said as he bit and sucked each of Walter's rosy tan 
nipples into stiff nubs. He gathered some of the oil onto his fingers, and 
after smoothing it over Walter's lips, he stuck his index finger into the 
boy's mouth.
 
Walter sucked the oil off Harry's finger, swirling his tongue around it, and 
pulled it out with a wet pop. He held Harry's gaze as he sensually licked 
his lips. "Sweet as Tupelo honey," he said, in a dark, raspy voice that 
exuded sex.
 
Harry groaned. "You're giving me ideas, you know that, kid?"
 
"Yeah?" Walter said, trying for innocence but only succeeding in sounding 
pleased with himself.
 
"Oh yeah, you know it all right, don't you, you smug little shit," Harry 
laughed. His hands slid down Walter's body, and grabbed two handfuls of the 
younger man's ass, kneading it, and brushing his fingertips tantalizingly 
around the rim of his tight passage. "I'm not the only one here who's going 
to lose control, boy."
 
"Yeah, yeah, sure, you old fucker," Walter said impishly. He gasped as he 
felt a bolt of pleasure like none he'd ever experienced. "Holy fuckin' shit! 
What did you just do?"
 
"I just introduced you to your prostate," Harry said mischievously, stroking 
the gland with his middle finger. "Feel good?"
 
"Oh, ffffuck yeah! Feels s'good...Oh shit, don't stop!" Walter said 
anxiously as Harry withdrew his finger.
 
"Shh, shh, I won't, babe," Harry murmured, "Just relax. I'm gonna introduce 
you to something else you're gonna love. Can you tell when you're gonna 
come? Got any control over it?"
 
Walter nodded hesitantly, "Joannie and I, well, we never fucked or anything, 
but..."
 
"But she jerked you off a lot, and you did a little practicing on your own?" 
Harry said gently, and kissed him softly on the lips.
 
Walter blushed deeply and nodded.
 
"This is going to be a hell of a lot more intense than a hand job, kid," he 
whispered, brushing his lips against Walter's ear, "but if you don't come 
until I tell you to, you're going to feel so good. Think you can do that for 
me?"
 
He laughed as Walter nodded and grinned with comic enthusiasm. "That's 
m'boy!" Harry kissed him hard as he stuck in a second, then a third finger 
inside of Walter, stretching him gently. He kissed his way down from 
Walter's nipples to his taut belly, smiling broadly as he heard Walter 
inhale sharply when he licked the dripping slit of his cockhead. He 
deepthroated Walter at the same time he thrust in his fingers.
 
Walter cried out happily at the intensely voluptuous sensations flooding his 
body. Harry was thrusting his fingers inside him in time with sucking him. 
The heady thrill of these experiences combined with the body rushes from the 
Thai sticks to make Walter writhe sluttishly. Mindlessly, he put both hands 
on Harry's head, pushing him down on his cock.
 
Harry abruptly jerked up, and pinched Walter's ass, making him yelp. He 
fixed Walter with a mock serious stare. "Hey kid, I thought I gave you an 
order," he said.
 
"Don't stop," Walter moaned, reluctantly moving his hands away. "Please, 
please, please!"
 
Harry grabbed Walter's hand as it moved away, making him rub it across the 
golden oil shimmering on his own belly. "As long as you're going to disobey 
orders, boy," Harry grinned as he guided Walter's hand to his cock; "you 
might as well make yourself useful. Crank it."
 
Walter massaged the rich fluid over Harry's shaft, sliding his fingers up 
and down its length, enjoying the feel of it. "I've never done this to 
anyone else," he said shyly, as Harry uninhibitedly bucked into his hand. 
"Am-am I any good?"
 
Obviously struggling to gain a modicum of self-control, Harry grabbed 
Walter's wrist and squeezed it gently. "You were doing just great," he said 
breathlessly, "but that's enough, babe." He knelt between Walter's long 
legs, and slapped him on the thigh. "Put your legs over my shoulders."
 
Walter gulped and obeyed, feeling vulnerable and exposed. Every cell in his 
body was sensitized from sex and drug induced body rushes, totally focussing 
him upon Harry, and what Harry would do to him.
 
"Shhhhh, baby, shhhhh, I won't hurt, you I promise," Harry murmured, gently 
stroking Walter's legs, "You still trust me, don't you?"
 
Walter nodded. "I've always trusted you," he said softly, hoping that Harry 
would understand his unspoken message.
 
Plainly, he did, because Harry's face lit up with the most joyous smile 
Walter had ever seen. Of all the wondrous sights of the temple, this was the 
most beautiful as far as he was concerned. Walter basked in its warmth, 
totally unaware that his own smile mirrored Harry's in every way.
 
Harry leaned in, and slowly nudged his cockhead into the tight little ring 
of muscle in Walter's ass, and paused. "Let me know if I hurt you," he 
whispered, "and I'll stop."
 
Walter nodded, and cried out as he felt Harry push his cock slowly and 
carefully inside him. The rushes coursing through Walter's body intensified 
as he was penetrated, combining with some odd, indefinable something else 
swirling around his mind to meld into one, overwhelming, unshakable, 
pleasurable force that battered down any inhibitions and defenses that he 
had left.
 
"Don't stop. Fuck me," Walter moaned, wriggling his hips lustily, his body 
alive with flashes of sparkling indigo, violet, and blue.
 
"OH SHIT, YES!" Harry said ecstatically. He kissed Walter roughly on the 
mouth as he rammed his cock into him. The glittering flashes of color struck 
out from Walter's body, and encircled both of their bodies in gleaming, boa 
constrictor coils of brilliant energy. He thrust into Walter hard and deep, 
rocking them together faster, and faster, and faster.
 
Walter writhed and twisted like a tomcat so that Harry scraped his prostate 
with every thrust, sending electric thrills through both of their bodies.
 
Walter's mind and body were fused with Harry's, each man knowing at the 
deepest level what the other thought and felt.
 
Walter became Harry; strong, passionate, protective, loving and humorous, 
sexual excitement snaking throughout his body, overjoyed to at last have his 
cock slamming deep into the hot, silken flesh of the young man he loved more 
than life itself.
 
Harry became Walter; idealistic, reckless, loving, opened-wide and blissed 
out by so many new, impossibly intense sensations flooding his body, and by 
the depth of his love for the man he'd idolized a lifetime, the man who had 
guided him through anything of any importance in his life.
 
Intoxicated by sex and drugs, they ignored the strangeness of their 
connection, refusing to question it, even when both heard Walter shouting a 
word that even he couldn't understand. "GAMW'TO! GAMW'TO! GAMW'TO!" he cried 
over and over to their mutual astonishment.
 
The thought was quickly forgotten as they hurtled toward orgasm. There was 
nothing in their world, but the glide of soft, warm skin and hard muscle 
over their bellies, and the taste of salt and sweetness upon soft lips, and 
the jolts of pleasure coursing through their bodies. Walter's rapturous 
excitement increased Harry's which in turn increased Walter's in an endless 
circuit, until neither of them could last another second.
 
"Come for me, kid," Harry growled, and gave one last, brutal thrust that had 
them roaring and coming together in a supernova burst of convulsive ecstasy.
 
@@@@@@@@@@@@@
 
Shaking, Harry collapsed on Walter for a moment, giving him an affectionate, 
sloppy kiss before rolling them over to drowse in the afterglow. He became 
aware again of the decadent magnificence of the temple; lulled to sleep by 
the water cascading into the pool, the luscious fragrances of the flowers, 
incense, candles, and his beautiful, sensuous lover nestled in his arms.
 
*******!!!!!!THWACK!!!!!!*******
 
Harry jerked awake, and rubbed his stinging ass. "HEY! What the *fuck* was 
that for?" he said, glaring at Walter.
 
"Wake up, little one," Walter said soothingly in a sonorous, contralto, 
feminine voice as he gently patted Harry's behind. "We must leave now to 
save you."
 
Harry turned on his side, and faced his lover. "LITTLE one?" Harry smiled 
wryly, and looked down at his cock and back at Walter, "I take it you 
weren't too impressed with me and my performance, kid. Here I was thinking 
that we had such a good time too."
 
"Mungaki!" Walter laughed and tousled Harry's sun-streaked, close-cropped 
hair. "Walter and I had a VERY GOOD time, and you know it! I haven't had 
such a good time since I played with Heracles and Hylas back in the good old 
days, but we must..."
 
"...Since you did WHAT? No more dope for you, you weird little fucker," 
Harry laughed. He rolled on top of his lover, kissed him hard, and then 
mimicked his newly high-pitched voice with unerring accuracy. "What's up 
with this weird Walter-and-I third person shit, Queen Victoria, hmmm?"
 
Walter rolled them both over until he was on top. "Because of your ritual 
prayers, there are two of us in here, little one," Possessed!Walter said 
kindly as he pointed to his own forehead. "You called for the Guardian 
Spirit to descend to the earth plane to protect Walter, and make a conduit 
between you two, and here I am. I did as you requested, and now you must do 
as I request so that I can help you."
 
"Nice try, kid, but don't fuck with me any more," Harry said, his eyes 
narrowed with disbelief and reproof. "You fucked up when you spouted off 
about Heracles and Hylas. You should have named some Vietnamese, or Chinese 
deities, if you wanted to fool me into thinking you were the... 
EYAAAAAH!!!!"
 
Harry's eyes were huge with astonishment as Walter grabbed him, levitated 
them both five feet above the ground, holding Harry as if he were a child.
 
"Pay attention, little one, because I'm trying to save your life, and you 
MUST cooperate. The disastrous feng shui of this temple to evil weakens my 
powers too much to fight both you and Madame Thuy," Possessed!Walter 
explained patiently. "Now be a good boy, and go with me quietly."
 
"Hhhhow? Why are you doing this? What's this doing to Walter? What's fang 
suey? What's going..." Harry stammered, as he struggled to escape, spinning 
them around and around in the air.
 
"Why must you mortals do everything the hard way? Ah well. This is for your 
own good! You're far too sweet and brave to die so young." Possessed!Walter 
sighed, and unceremoniously dumped Harry into the pool with a resounding 
splash.
 
Harry sat up in the pool, sputtering, and spitting water. He closed his 
eyes, and shook his head, flinging water everywhere, much to 
Possessed!Walter's amusement, which only pissed off Harry even more. "Hey, 
what the fuck ARE you? How can you be a Vietnamese spirit if you were best 
buddies with Heracles and Hylas?" he said wonderingly.
 
Possessed!Walter laughed, and floated down to sit crosslegged in mid-air in 
front of Harry. "You're right; I'm a Greek spirit, which just makes me an 
immigrant, that's all. Like any other immigrant, I was seeking a better 
life. I yearned for a place where the old ways and the Old Ones were still 
venerated, and where heroic men like you and Walter still performed brave 
deeds and loved each other fiercely. It's what you've yearned for too all of 
your life, Little One. It's why you drew me irresistibly to you, and NOW do 
you trust me enough to behave yourself, sweetheart? We really need to be 
going."
 
Harry stared up at his lover, eyes wide, and nodded, "Okay, kid, uh...sir? I 
believe you. I meant no disrespect. What was that you were saying about 
saving me...uh please?"
 
Possessed!Walter laughed a strange, echoing laugh. "Much better, little one. 
By the way, it's ma'am, not sir, or you may call me the Old Woman like 
everyone else in Quang Ho."
 
"Yes, ma'am," Harry said meekly. "I'm sorry that I..."
 
S/he leaned over, and placed two fingers over his mouth. "Hush, little one," 
she said gently reproving him. "We must leave now, and we must hurry in 
order to save you. Quickly, put your arms around my neck..."
 
"You are too late, Old Woman," a cold, sinister voice said. "My bonding 
ritual is complete. I'll take possession of the body of my son's murderer 
now, thank you, so please leave it."
 
Harry turned around to see the golden robed Taoist Priestess/Sorceress 
floating in the air grimly staring at Walter/Old Woman. It reminded him of a 
surreal version of the Battle of the OK Corral. //This temple's not big 
enough for the both of us, sheriff// He thought hysterically. He scrambled 
for a place to hide from the bloodthirsty supernatural beings hovering above 
him so that he could think of a way rescue Walter. As he ran, he ransacked 
his mind for all the information on the occult that he had ever heard.
 
"Arrete, connard! I didn't give you permission to leave!" The Sorceress said 
coldly. She hurled a bolt of red energy at Harry that made him cry out, fall 
back down in the water, and double over in agony.
 
Walter/Old Woman sent a bolt of indigo blue and violet that swirled around 
Harry, swaddling him in pure comfort, making him sigh with relief. "There, 
there, little one. I'll take care of this," s/he crooned. S/he turned toward 
The Priestess/Sorceress and said, "Em Thuy...Madame Ly? This boy is 
innocent. He's done nothing to harm you, and the other boy was just 
defending himself. They're good boys. Let them be."
 
Madame Ly looked at the shivering man in the pool, and spat disgustedly at 
the sight of him. "Il me fait chier! Harry Matthews loves Walter Skinner, my 
son's murderer, and is loved by him in return, and that's reason enough for 
me to hate him!" she said furiously. "I'm going to make Skinner pay for his 
atrocities by having him murder this man, whom he loves as much as I loved 
my son. I'm going to see that his life is not worth living until he does. I 
won't rest until he is publicly disgraced and executed for his crimes."
 
"When you get to be my age in a few millenniums, you will wonder why you 
indulged yourself this way," Walter/Old Woman said, shaking his head sadly. 
"From the way you use your power, it's clear that you have a lot of growing 
up to do, Madame.
 
You gave these boys a ritual so that they would express their love just to 
make it that much more agonizing for the little one to kill his innocent 
beloved! That's an appalling waste of your talents, Madame, one you will 
surely regret. Please go. Leave them in peace."
 
"Putain de merde! You know the rules. He invited me to take him over in the 
ritual, so your protests are useless. GET OUT OF MY PROPERTY!" Madame Ly 
roared. She rushed screeching at Walter/Old Woman.
 
Walter/Old Woman hurled a brilliant flash of violet light that slammed into 
the sorceress, and smashed her to atoms.
 
Madame Ly reassembled after a few painful moments, gaping at Walter/Old 
Woman in shock.
 
"The ritual didn't go quite as you imagined it would," Walter/Old Woman 
cackled gleefully. "The boys made some additions to it that gave me the 
title to this sweet young thing," s/he said as s/he lasciviously stroked 
Walter's nude body. "He's my property, and there's nothing you can do about 
it. Now, get out of my sight before I REALLY get angry."
 
"Pas du tout, connasse! You don't have the title to ALL the property here," 
the Sorceress sneered. She rushed into Harry Matthews, who contorted and 
stiffened as if he'd been electrocuted.
 
"HARRY!" Walter/Old Woman yelled, and rushed over to save him. A blinding 
yellow light from Harry/Sorceress threw hir against the temple wall, and 
pinned hir there.
 
"You know the rules of the ritual," Harry/Sorceress chuckled, "and you know 
the allies that these rules gave me. Under these circumstances, I may not be 
able to kill him outright, but you don't have the power to protect him from 
every cut and bruise either without destroying yourself. Say your good-byes 
and leave."
 
Walter/Old Woman floated down to the temple floor. The Old Woman 
materialized in front of Walter, her ancient face infinitely sad and 
compassionate. "This is goodbye for now, little one. I need to pick my 
battles wisely, if I am to save your life."
 
"You can't do this," Walter pleaded. "You can't let her hurt him! You can't 
leave me to fight her alone! There's got to be a counter ritual..."
 
"It would only make the situation worse than it is, little one," she said 
shaking her head. "Remember what I told you when we were merged? This temple 
was designed only for evil. The curses on its walls, its idols to taboo 
gods, its very location, were all calculated to inflict grave spiritual and 
physical injury upon the worshipper. Only those condemned for capitol crimes 
are sent here...so that their very prayers for mercy will backfire."
 
"You said Harry saved me. You said you could save Harry with another ritual. 
You were going to do one anyway...!" Walter said desperately.
 
"Yes Harry did save you, and in doing so, he condemned himself, so in a way, 
his prayers did backfire," the Old Woman said. "I was going to take you both 
a few yards away from the temple to complete your bonding...but it's too 
late for that now."
 
"You mean...I did this to him? He's going to die, and it's my fault! OH 
FUCK! How could I have been so fucking stupid!" Walter said, his face 
contorted in agony.
 
"We've already gone through this, honey. You can't blame yourself," the Old 
Woman said. "You're young, and she's ruthless and cunning. No more 
self-recriminations! Be strong, little one!" she said, holding his chin, 
"Just when you think that all hope is lost, I'll be there to save you."
 
"NOOOOOO!!!" Walter yelled, and lunged for her as she started to disappear, 
but was left with an armful of air.
 
Walter heard evil laughter reverberating through the temple, and turned to 
see Harry/Sorceress leering crazily at him, his eyes glowing eerily like a 
cat's in the dark. "Don't count on her rescuing you, boy! I can get around 
the Old Woman. Before I'm finished with you, you're going to beg me to kill 
you."
 
The possessed soldier viciously punched and kicked Walter, who didn't bother 
to defend himself. Walter was sure that there was no need since he was 
already dead, and hallucinating that he was in hell. Obviously, blessedly, 
he reasoned as the blows hit him with sickening force that oblivion was just 
around the corner.
 
 
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
 
GLOSSARY:
 
 
"Gamw'to!" (Greek) "Damn!" or "Fuck!"
 
Munga or a "Mungaki" (Greek):
a dude, or someone with an attitude
problem. You can use this word as
an insult, you can call someone a manga if
you think he/she is too full of themselves,
or an egoist. Or you can call your friend a
munga or a mungaki as a term of affection,
or when the word is used sarcastically.
Munga is usually the masculine form of the
noun, and mungissa is the female form of the
noun.
 
French Expressions below:
 
"Arrete, connard!": Stop cunt! (masculine form)
 
"Il me fait chier!" He makes me puke (or shit.)
 
"Putain de merde!" Strong form of whore
 
"Pas du tout, connasse!" Not at all, cunt. (Feminine form)
 
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
 
 
Solar: September 3, 1971, Friday, Noon
Lunar: 7-14-71 Year of the Pig
Containing Metal of Bracelets
Month of the Dog
Hour of the Monkey
 
The lithe young man ran after his CO, heedless, for once of the possibility 
of booby traps and spider holes littering the trail. A long-legged 6'4", 
Harry strode so briskly that Walter was forced to sprint to catch up and 
stay along side him, pissing him off big time.
 
"I was listening to the orders you just got from the Captain. You're 
disobeying every goddamned last one of them," Walter growled. "You aren't 
even going in the right direction. You're not going to have a career if you 
keep this up. You've GOT to fight Madame Ly, Harry. You threw her out for 
almost an hour once. Talk to me! I know that you're in there....."
 
"SHUT UP, BABY KILLER!" Harry/Madame Ly yelled. With the butt end of hir 
M16, s/he punched hir lover in his gut, and watched him go sprawling 
backward.
 
Walter fell on his ass into the mud, and his breathing quickened, as his 
possessed lover stood over him tensed, waiting, coiled to strike again. His 
gut felt as though a truck had rammed into it, but his physical pain was 
nothing compared to his emotional pain.
 
//I'm so fucking stupid. This is all my fault. Why did I have to go to all 
those goddamned priests? I must have had my head up my ass. If only I had 
just toked and drank my guilt away like everyone else in 'Nam, Harry 
wouldn't be going through this. There's got to be a way to get past that 
bitch, and save him. I've just got to save him before...//
 
Walter's eyes became huge with fear as he imagined being beaten to death by 
Harry before he could save him. As Walter looked up at his abuser, he spoke 
in careful, measured tones. "If you're going to let her hit me again, I just 
want you to know that my rib hasn't had time to heal yet, and my stomach 
ulcer could rupture if you aren't careful. Maybe you could have her start 
working my kidneys over again. I've stopped pissing blood, so they can take 
some more abuse."
 
Instinctively, Walter closed his eyes and clutched his agonized belly to 
shield himself from the blow sure to come.
 
After several long moments, he opened his eyes, and when he did, he couldn't 
believe it. This couldn't be Harry, the winner the winner of two Purple 
Hearts, and a Bronze Star. This couldn't be the guy that he'd wanted to be 
all his life who was staring down at him in such terror, his mouth twisting 
and grimacing as if he were barely able to hold back a scream.
 
"Help," Walter's hero finally croaked pathetically.
 
The sight of him so helpless and afraid galvanized Walter from scared to 
terrified. He jumped up and grabbed the big man by his shoulders. "What can 
I do? I'll do anything. Anything."
 
Harry stared at Walter; his expression softening to tenderness mixed with 
heartbreaking sadness. Trembling, he crushed Walter to him, and kissed him 
fiercely over and over, his big hands roaming over his lover's body, 
stroking and squeezing it as if he'd never get enough. Harry's passion sent 
exquisitely painful shocks throughout Walter's body, but it was the first 
happy moment in days for both of them, and neither wanted it to stop.
 
Walter reluctantly broke the kiss, but couldn't bring himself to leave 
Harry's embrace. "We can't do this shit out in the open. Think of your 
career. We've got to hide," he said breathlessly, looking up into Harry's 
tortured eyes, "someone could see us."
 
Harry laughed bitterly. "Corpses don't have careers, kid."
 
Walter shook the big man's shoulders. "Harry, for fuck sake, don't say 
that!"
 
"Why the hell not? We both know it's the truth. Please, kid," he said 
desperately. "If you love me, you'll fuckin' shoot me. Please! I love you, 
and I'd rather die than hurt you, and shit, that's all I've fucking done 
since we left the temple."
 
"I can take it," Walter said stubbornly. "If I know that you're fighting 
her, I don't care if she makes you beat the crap out of me every day of my 
life, if that's what it takes to keep you alive."
 
Harry's face crumpled in agony, as he caressed Walter's face. "Oh no, baby, 
no. You don't understand. That's not an option. She's going to make me do 
shit so bad that I'll make Hitler look like Jesus, and not just to you."
 
Walter shook his head adamantly. "NO! I'm not killing you! That's just what 
that bitch wants, which means that we shouldn't give in!"
 
Harry put his hands on Walter's shoulders, his voice took on a wheedling 
tone, "Look, if it's prison that you're worried about, we can get around 
that. I'll fight her long enough to attack you for no good reason in front 
of a witness. That way, you'll be totally justified in killing me, and that 
vicious cunt will never get her fucking revenge. Now, please, please, say 
you'll do this for me, baby. I don't want to live any more."
 
Walter grabbed Harry's arms, pinned them to his sides, and shook him. "I 
SAID NO! Pull yourself together, godddamn it! I'm not going to kill you, and 
you aren't going to kill anyone, but the fucking VC. We can fight this! You 
did it once! Hell, you're doing it now! I'll chant with you like I did last 
time, and if you and I keep working on it, you'll be able to resist her for 
longer and longer periods of time, until...SHIT!"
 
 
Harry grabbed Walter's face between his hands, and squeezed until the boy 
yelped. "CORPORAL SKINNER, PAY THE FUCK ATTENTION TO ME! I'm trying to save 
lives, including yours! I don't have time to argue with you, you stubborn, 
insubordinate little fucker. That ritual in the temple fucked us over even 
worse than the Old Woman had time to tell you."
 
Walter shut his eyes, his only avenue of escape from left him, but Harry 
wasn't having it. "ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?" He said as he gave his corporal 
a brutal shake. "Remember all that crap about lucky and unlucky dates in 
"their months"? That "their months" shit was a loophole. The Vietnamese use 
the lunar calendar instead of the solar one like we use...which Madame Ly 
conveniently forgot to mention. The date that you chose by the solar 
calendar for your ritual was the unluckiest day of the lunar year. When you 
combine that with the feng shui of the temple, there's no way we'll break 
whatever spells we both cast there. The only way out of the worst of it is 
for you to kill me."
 
Walter put his hands over the big man's and stroked them lovingly. "Harry, I 
can't shoot you. I can't!"
 
"You've got to do this my way, baby," Harry said gently, "You aren't strong 
enough to take me without a weapon, and no one's going to help you out. Your 
reputation for being a weirdo has most people afraid to take your side 
unless the evidence is in your favor beyond a shadow of a doubt. Shooting 
me's your only option. I know I can fight her long enough so it looks like 
you're killing me in self-defense, I promise. C'mon. Please tell me you'll 
do this for me, baby."
 
Walter tried to shake his head, but those big hands held him like lion 
holding its cub. Finally, overcome by helpless rage, he blurted out whatever 
he could to stop Harry's heartrending pleas for death. "FUCK YOU! Why stop 
at asking me to shoot you, you bastard! Why not ask me to stab you in your 
fucking back?" He stopped, and bit his lip. "Christ, what am I saying? I 
already have, and there's nothing I can do to make it right, is there? Not 
really."
 
Harry held his trembling corporal for as long as he dared, and stroked his 
back, his own taut muscles belying the effort and pain of this gesture of 
comfort. "Shh, shh, baby, it's not your fault. I don't blame you for this, 
and I don't care what happens to me. I just don't want to hurt you any more, 
or anyone else. I can't stop myself forever. You've got to kill me."
 
"I CAN'T! I WON'T, I WON'T!" Walter yelled.
 
Harry stiffened and jerked in agony the way he always did when Madame Ly 
reasserted her possession of his body. S/he pushed the terrified young man 
away, and lurched down the road full speed toward the ville.
 
Walter ran after hir. "HARRY!!! HEY YOU! MOTHERFUCKER! COME BACK HERE!" He 
yelled, and sprinted after him, screaming and cursing, hoping to make him 
stop, fearful of what Harry would do if he couldn't stop him.
 
Nothing worked. They were leaving the platoon far behind, but Harry didn't 
stop until they came upon an old man working in the rice paddy. The old man 
looked up at them, waved his arms, and yelled "Zung lie! Zung lie!"
 
Walter screamed, "STOP, HARRY! THERE MUST BE A TRAP! He's trying to warn us 
that..."
 
Harry snarled, and machine-gunned the unarmed farmer where he stood before 
Walter could finish his sentence.
 
Walter stopped, stunned, and stared at his C.O. "You murdered him. You 
fucking MURDERED HIM!! My GOD! OH SHIT! WHAT THE ***FUCK*** WILL WE DO?!"
 
Harry looked puzzled for a moment as if he was just now seeing everything, 
then his face contorted.
 
To his horror, superimposed over Harry's face, Walter briefly saw the face 
of the Vietnamese child that he had been forced to shoot, followed in quick 
succession by Madame Ly's. "SHIT!"
 
"That's a little foretaste of what's to come if you don't kill your lover 
now," Harry/Madame Ly said coldly. "I want you to be executed in disgrace, 
bereft of the only one who truly loves you, just as I was, just as my son 
was. How many deaths is it going to take, before you decide to take your 
punishment like a man, little boy?"
 
Walter's mind gibbered at him non-stop in terror, but he would be damned 
before he showed it. "Harry didn't do anything to you," he said bitterly, 
"If it's revenge you want, then let me be the one to die. I'll gladly kill 
myself any way you'd like, if it means you'll leave Harry's body."
 
"I'm not so kind," s/he said with cold contempt. "I want you to accept 
responsibility for what you've done, but more than that; I want you to be 
disgraced and suffering before you die. My son died in agony, and so should 
you. Face it, boy. There's no hope for either you or your lover. The only 
thing you can do now is to make sure others don't die because of your 
irresponsibility."
 
"I'm not going to kill him! I'll find a way out of this! I'll, I'll have him 
committed!" Walter said desperately.
 
"On what grounds?" Harry/Madame Ly laughed. "You have no credibility. Not 
even your lover thinks you have any. If anything YOU'D get committed, but 
just for the sake of argument, let's say that you DO get him committed. I'll 
make sure he'd behave so crazily that he'd never get out. Harry would be 
trapped in a living death for the rest of his excruciatingly long life, and 
he'd hate you for it, boy. Even I have no desire to be *that* cruel to your 
lover...unless you force me."
 
"You evil dog-fucking whore, I hate you! I hope you rot in hell!" Walter 
spat out.
 
Harry/Madame Ly's gray eyes darkened, hir face reddened with anger. "You 
just lost your last chance to avert disaster," s/he said ominously, and then 
became all solicitous attention as soon as s/he saw a tall athletic, African 
American Marine running towards them.
Murphy loped up, saw the old man's body, and asked, "I heard shots fired. 
What happened here, sir? Are there more of them here? Do I need to get the 
rest of the men?"
 
Harry grinned at Murphy, and clasped Walter affectionately on the shoulder. 
"Calm down, private. Corporal Skinner thought papasan was lobbing a grenade 
at me, and shot the poor fucker."
 
"Holy fucking shit!" Murphy whistled, his almond-shaped, brown eyes 
widening. "The ville is gonna have our asses!"
"Not if we all keep our mouths shut. He'll just be missing, as far they'll 
know. It wouldn't be the first time something like that happened during this 
war." Harry walked over to Murphy, and slung his arm over his shoulder. He 
gave him a dazzling smile, and spoke to him conspiratorially. "You'll keep 
this to yourself, won't you Murphy? We wouldn't want the kid to catch hell 
for this when he thought he was saving his C.O.'s life, now would we?"
 
"Shit no, sir, anyone of us would have made that mistake!" Murphy grinned 
back. "You take good care of us!
 
"Good man," Harry said, and patted Murphy on the back. "Why don't both of 
you give the old man a decent burial before the locals figure out what 
happened, okay? Oh, Murphy, while you're at it, take care of this kid for 
me, willya? He hasn't been the same since....well, you know."
 
"Yes, sir!" Murphy said enthusiastically. "You can count on me, SIR!"
 
Walter stood there numbly, not knowing how to respond. Madame Ly's phony 
kindness could only mean that whatever she forced Harry to do would be 
unspeakably horrible, but there was no way that Private "I'm bucking for 
promotion" Murphy would understand it or help him stop it. He passively 
allowed them both to pat him on the back.
 
Harry/Madame Ly beamed at the private. "Yeah, Murphy, I knew I could. Now 
since, Skinner's....recovering, I'm going to play point man, and scout a 
little ahead. Rest when you're through with the grave, because it may be the 
last break you'll get for awhile." Harry waved, and went off.
 
"Shit, he takes good care of us just like a father, doesn't he? When you 
serve under some of the worthless sons of bitches I have, you learn to 
appreciate men like him. We're lucky to have him, aren't we, Walt?" Murphy 
said admiringly as he looked at Harry going down the muddy, red road.
 
"Yeah. Lucky." Walter said numbly.
 
Misinterpreting the cause of Walter's distress, Murphy insisted on digging 
the grave by himself, and kindly burbled clichés of comfort to Walt as he 
worked.
 
He needn't have bothered. Walt wasn't paying attention. He never took his 
eyes off the back of his retreating C.O. Not father, mother, Walter firmly 
corrected Murphy in his mind...and Walter couldn't help but wonder how much 
longer mamasan would wait before she brought back death to feed her adopted 
cubs.
 
He sat morosely on a rock, as Murphy tamped down the grave, and watched the 
rest of the platoon as they straggled in. They joined Murphy and Walter, 
laughing and talking, glad to have the rest.
 
Parker, a tall, gaunt, skinheaded boy with protuberant blue eyes, looked at 
them slyly. "Hey Murphy, is Weird Wally makin' you dig him up a vampire, or 
a ghost, or sumthin'?"
 
The rest of the platoon laughed raucously, and poked each other in the ribs 
when Walter began to blush.
 
Murphy threw down his shovel as hard as he could, and everyone grew quiet at 
the unusual display of temper from the easygoing man. "Lay off Skinner," 
Murphy said in a kindly tone, but with a narrowed-eyed, frozen-faced look of 
warning. "He just 'bout caught a fucking grenade for Matthews!"
 
"Crazy sumbitch oughtta take one," Parker said sullenly, looking red-faced 
with embarrassment. He looked down at his boots, and toed patterns into the 
red, slushy mud. "Matthews lets 'im get away with enough shit often enough 
to!"
 
"I can see why you'd think Skinner's crazy," Murphy said with exaggerated 
reasonableness. "He's saved your scrawny behind often enough to qualify. 
Took a bullet for you at least once, as recall."
 
Parker swallowed, and nodded, his bulging eyes blinking.
 
The silence grew oppressive, as the men watched Murphy walk to Parker, and 
glower at him eye to eye. Parker flinched at the anger he saw there, and 
lowered his eyes. He guiltily stole a glimpse of Walter, and flinched even 
more.
 
The rest of the platoon shifted uncomfortably as they saw what he saw.
 
On top of his rock, Walter sat, pale and listless, and hunkered over and 
holding his legs, his chin propped up on his knees. The stark contrast to 
his normal, ceaseless energy was frightening. His eyes stared into space, 
horrified by what only he could see.
 
"Didn't mean nuthin' by what I said, Skinner," Parker mumbled, staring at 
the ground, "Jus' a joke. That's all." When he heard no reply, he looked up 
at Walter nervously, and said, "Goddamn! You okay?"
 
Walter was shaking, his eyes wild with fear, as he pointed at the rustling 
jungle greenery. "She's here!" he croaked. "Everyone just stay the fuck away 
from me. It's me she wants!" He grabbed his M16, and aimed.
 
The greenery parted, and out staggered Lieutenant Harry Matthews, clutching 
his bleeding gut with one hand, and his weapon with the other. "She...she... 
said it was too late...Stay away...she'll make me..." he groaned, and fell 
flat on his face.
 
"HARRY! OH FUCK, NO!" Walter yelled in anguish, throwing his M16 to the 
ground, running toward his lover.
 
Before the boy could reach him, Harry floated into the air, his body moving 
eerily and unnaturally, and fired a spray of bullets that slammed into 
Walter's gut, ripping away young flesh, spattering the jungle with his 
blood.
 
Walter screamed and dropped to the ground, clutching his belly, and Harry, 
thrown by an unseen force to the ground with a thump like a piece of 
discarded garbage, howled in helpless agony.
 
Madame Ly flew out of Harry's body, and circled over the Walter's like the 
Goddess of Vultures, screeching in fury. "This isn't over Walter Sergei 
Skinner. You weren't the one who killed him! You didn't stand trial for 
murder! You haven't paid for killing my son! If you survive, you'll kill the 
next person you fall in love with before I let you rest, and if you die, 
I'll make sure your soul goes straight to hell!"
 
The men gaped at her; paralyzed with fear, stunned by the knowledge that 
Weird Walter hadn't been so weird after all.
 
"What the fu..." Parker started to say, but before he could finish his 
sentence, his head exploded as bullets rained upon the stunned platoon in 
all directions.
 
Black clad, sandal wearing VC soldiers jumped out of the trees, crawled from 
spider traps, and poured from both ends of the trail, outnumbering the 
platoon four to one. Most of the marines never even had a chance to aim 
their weapons, and fell where they stood, their blood spilling out, and 
turning the olive uniforms grayish red. It wasn't a battle. It was a 
slaughter. It was over in less than ten minutes, and the VC merged back into 
the jungle, satisfied with a job well done-no survivors.
 
The air was filled with the familiar smells of burning, bleeding flesh, and 
the sounds of the screams and gurgling last breaths of the dying. Above it 
all, Madame Ly shrieked incoherently, obviously maddened by her failure at 
being driven to this extreme, ignoring everything that went on below her, as 
she continued to rave about Walter.
 
Harry took advantage of the opportunity the ghost's madness gave him to do 
the only thing that both he and Walter wanted before they died. With grim 
determination, Harry crawled over shrapnel and guns, and by the bodies 
twisted in unnatural positions that gushed blood like fountains, inch by 
agonizing inch, until he reached his lover. With the last of his strength, 
he gathered Walter into his arms, and held him, and brushed a kiss against 
his cheek. "You don't have to...oh GOD, hurts!... worry about me any 
more...AH SHIT!...I won't hurt you. I'm free, baby. Please...forgive me," he 
said, nuzzling Walter, every word a stabbing pain to utter.
 
Walter started to cry, his body and his heart utterly broken. "My fault, 
Harry. Should have listened to you, not run off. Never would have happened. 
Never wanted to hurt you. Love you...love you."
 
Harry looked tenderly at Walter, the light already leaving his eyes. "So 
young...love you...so much to say...can't...love you, always loved you..." 
His eyes rolled back in his head, blood filled his mouth, and with one last 
wet, pain wracked, gurgling breath, Harry died.
 
"Harry..." Walter sobbed, but he knew it was too late. The most important 
man in his life would never again be there to show him the way, to laugh 
with him, to hold him, to love him. He was alone, and always would be alone, 
or what had happened to Harry would happen to anyone else that he loved. As 
he lay dying, listening to the screams of his friends dying around him all 
because of him, Walter wondered how he could have had so much to regret in 
just 18 short years, and how he could have trusted the priestess when he 
knew so little about her.
 
He felt as though he was one of the village priests who encouraged the 
temple vipers to stay with food and water, in spite of the deadly danger to 
those who came to worship. The snakes were so well suited to their jungle 
environment that they appeared to be strangely beautiful hanging vines of 
blues, and greens, and yellows. Their true nature was obvious to the 
observer only in retrospect, after the fangs had sunk in, and the poison was 
coursing through the body of the worshipper.
 
With that image, he went beyond mere intellectual understanding. The horror 
of what he had done hit him with a clarity and force that destroyed all of 
his illusions, and he could hear them breaking with a sickening crunch like 
the breaking of bones, and Walter lost his will to live. When the tunnel 
with the white light appeared over him, in his despair, he went through 
without a struggle.
 
He saw himself rising above his lifeless body, watching the blood flow out 
of it in a hundred places. He felt so peaceful, so pain free, smiling at the 
thought of spending eternity with Harry. He took one last look at his body 
lying in Harry's huge, muscular arms, marveling how small and frail it 
looked in comparison, and ran down the tunnel calling for Harry.
 
He saw the mists, and as soon as he called for Harry again, they parted, 
revealing what he would have called heaven, except that it was far too 
sensual in its splendor. It was on a warm, sunny, verdant Mediterranean 
island covered with flowers, and vines and pine and cedar forests, and 
beautiful marble and gold Greek temples, set in a sparkling aquamarine and 
sapphire blue ocean. There were men and women there, mostly men, dressed in 
tunics of rich fabrics mock fighting, and laughing, and talking...all of 
them breathtakingly radiant and beautiful.
 
He saw Harry, and stood speechless for a moment, drinking him in. Harry had 
been handsome in life, but here he was godlike. Walter burst out laughing 
for joy, and ran toward him. "Harry, Harry, Harry," he said, waving at him.
 
Harry ran toward him, swooped him up in his arms, and whirled them around. 
He rained kisses on Walter's face, then gave him a hard swat on the ass. "Go 
kid! I'll never stop loving you, but you don't belong here," he said firmly, 
his face hard as stone.
 
Walter jerked up, surprised to feel pain again, hurt at the rejection, and 
looked into Harry's eyes. "Why are you doing this? It's over! We're dead! We 
can do anything we want! Why shouldn't I stay?"
Harry shook his head sadly, "Don't you remember what that bitch said? She'll 
drag you down to Hell, and you'll never get out! You have to leave so that 
you can be safe in the afterlife, baby. The next time you die, I want you to 
come here, and you can't do that unless you go back to your body, and fight 
her."
 
Walter looked away, and bit his lip, struggling with his frustration, and 
anger, and sadness. He turned back, and said, "Why can't we fight her here? 
Why can't you fight with me? I would for you," he said accusingly.
 
"I know you would, baby. Believe me, if I could have done anything for you, 
it would have been done already, without you having to ask me," Harry said 
soothingly, caressing Walter's face. "There's only one place you can turn to 
for help now. Let her help you." He gestured over to a grove, and Walter saw 
the Old Woman riding toward them on the back of a tiger.
 
The Old Woman dismounted, and stretched out her hand to Walter. "Time to go 
back, my little one. You have unfinished business."
 
"NO! I don't want to leave Harry..." Walter said, anguished at the thought.
 
"You must little one," The Old Woman said sternly. "You'll spend eternity in 
the Taoist Hell if you don't, and you'll drag Harry there with you! Remember 
what happened the last time that you disobeyed his orders? You love him 
don't you? You want what's best for him, don't you? What's it to be little 
one? We haven't much time if I'm to help you."
 
Harry saw Walter's face crumple up with misery and guilt, and he started to 
protest on his lover's behalf, but the Old Woman shushed him irritably.
 
"I'll go back," Walter whispered, hanging his head in shame.
 
The Old Woman wrinkled into a kindly smile. "You did the right thing, little 
one. Harry knows you love him, don't you Harry?"
 
"Yeah," Harry said, smiling lovingly at Walter who was looking at him 
bashfully. "I hope he knows I love him too."
 
Walter nodded, then grabbed him for one, last bear hug, and a kiss that 
would have to last Walter for the rest of his life.
 
The Old Woman gently broke them away from each other, and lifted Walter into 
her arms. "I'm sorry, little one, but it's time to go."
 
Walter nodded at her, then waved goodbye to Harry until he could no longer 
see him as the Old Woman carried him back down the tunnel. They shot through 
the white light at a terrifying speed, and he was thrust into a suffocating, 
pain-filled darkness. He panicked, wondering if he'd been wounded so badly 
that he'd gone blind.
 
He felt the Old Woman kiss his forehead. "Don't worry, I'll get you out of 
this, little one," she crooned.
 
He heard and felt her thump against something, and heard voices coming as 
though from a great distance.
 
"Hey Sarge!" a voice said.
 
"Hey what, Frohike?" Sarge said.
 
"We bagged this one up too soon," Frohike said. "He moved."
 
"Aw, Frohike, you're dreaming," Sarge said, "Pull your head out, and get 
back to work."
 
"Okay, I will," Frohike said, "but it won't hurt to unzip the bag, and 
check..."
 
"GODDAMN IT, FROHIKE, YOU UGLYASSED DWARF, I SAID TO...well, I'll be 
damned," Sarge said wonderingly. "He IS alive."
 
 
Crystal City, Virginia
Walter Skinner's Apartment
May 9, 1998 11:00 PM Solar Calendar
4-14-98 Lunar Calendar
Year of the Earth Tiger, Containing Earth On Wall
Month of the Snake
Hour of the Boar
 
The vision faded, and Mulder's mind was once again filled with the face of 
Madame Ly.
 
"Now do you understand why I showed you this?" she leered at him.
 
"Walter..." Mulder choked, and struggled to speak. "Walter fell in love with 
me, didn't he? The poor son of a bitch couldn't go a lifetime without caring 
for another human being. He's too good a man, even after you fucked him 
over! That's why you came back. You could finally get your revenge!"
 
"Yes, but why did I tell you?" she said smugly. "Come on, show off for me, 
Agent Mulder. Show me why you got your reputation for being the FBI's best 
profiler."
 
Mulder licked his lips, and sucked in his lower lip, gathering his strength 
to reply. He took a deep breath, and began, welcoming a chance to delay her 
plans just a little longer, since time was the only thing she valued. "You 
wanted to make sure that I stayed in love with him, that I loved Walter as 
much as he's afraid to show that he loves me," Mulder said bitterly. "That 
way, when you force him to murder me, it'll be almost as painful for him to 
kill me as it would have been for him to kill Harry."
 
"Very good," she said smiling. "Now we must go. He's waiting for us there, 
although he doesn't know it."
 
"Fuck you," Mulder spat out. "I'm going home. I'm going to write a suicide 
note, telling the world how guilty I feel about giving Scully her cancer. 
I'm going to say that I waited until she'd either passed on, or recovered, 
so she wouldn't have to deal with that while she was ill, and then I'm going 
to eat my gun. He'll never know what I feel, and it'll make it easier for 
him to get over me. Do your worst."
 
"Very well, I will," she said softly, her eyes hard and dark, and her lips 
curved in a cold smile, "but do you really want me to possess the body of a 
homeless man, and have him push Scully in front of a car?"
 
"Leave her out of this!" he pleaded desperately. "She's never done anything 
to you!"
 
"Neither have you. Neither did Harry," she laughed. "I don't care. I just 
want justice for my son."
 
"JUSTICE!" Mulder yelled. "How can you talk about justice when..."
 
"Do you want Scully to live," she said, shrugging her shoulders 
indifferently, "or do you want her to die? If you want her to die, then, by 
all means, continue your disrespectful behavior. It doesn't matter which to 
me. You'll have to do what I say eventually."
 
Mulder took in a deep, shaky breath. "You know that I want Scully to live," 
he whispered, "I'll go with you."
 
"Very good choice, Agent Mulder," Madame Ly beamed at him, filling his mind 
with an image of her dramatically swirling her yellow silk robes around 
them.
 
He felt himself ascending higher and higher, the cold wind battering his 
body. When he dared open his eyes, he saw to his surprise, that he was 
flying unsupported by anything other than Madame Ly, over Washington D.C. 
"Where are we going?" He said awestruck, rigid with fear and cold, his lungs 
filled with icy air.
 
"To your death," she replied grimly.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
  
Washington D.C.
May 9, 1998 11:00 PM Solar Calendar
4-14-98 Lunar Calendar
Year of the Earth Tiger, Containing Earth On Wall
Month of the Snake
Hour of the Boar

Skinner, who had never left his apartment with so much as a single wrinkle in 
his crisp, white shirts, ran down the streets of DC looking like a bum, his 
paint-spattered shirt and stubbled face a testament to his desperation and 
fear. 

In his mind, he was far, far away in time and space, an 18-year old boy once 
again clinging to life by a single, slender, frayed thread, his soul going in 
and out of his body, the world falling around his ears. 

Walter once again held Lt. Harry Matthews, his lover, the man he'd loved all 
his life as he died after weeks of slow torture and possession by The 
Sorceress. Once again, his entire platoon died in agony all around him. Worst 
of all, once again, he was slowly dying with the sure knowledge that all of 
the destruction and misery was his fault alone.

Vietnam
Solar: September 3, 1971, Friday, Noon
Lunar: 7-14-71 Year of the Pig
Containing Metal of Bracelets
Month of the Dog
Hour of the Monkey

Dying was a cold, lonely business, so very, very cold, for the young boy so 
far away from home, who wanted nothing more than to be warm again, and to 
make sure no one else died because of his stupidity. No one understood that 
it wasn't over yet, no matter how many times he tried to tell them, not even 
the kindly doctor who never left his side understood how great the danger 
truly was. 

"Don't try to save me, Doc," Walter said with as much authority as he could 
muster, surprised at how small and feeble he sounded even to his own ears. 
"No use--I'm cursed. She--she--tricked me into a ritual--cursed me."

"A friend of mine felt the same way about his wife, too," Frohike said, 
patting Walter's hand, compassion shining from his kind, homely face. "Don't 
you worry about her. You gotta save your strength until I can get you to a 
M*A*S*H unit."

"No, no, no, not my wife, a sorceress," Walter said, as vehemently as he 
could in his weakened state, "I-I-killed her kid--got cursed--have to kill 
someone I love or she kills everyone around me--all my fault--they're all 
dead--all my fault, all my fault." 

"You didn't do anything wrong, Corporal Skinner," Frohike said, clasping his 
hand, "You're a hero. That's what you fucking are! You were wounded in the 
line of duty, and you deserve a medal." 

Walter tried to protest, but shivered convulsively instead, his teeth 
chattering. "Sshhit! It mmmmust be tttwenty bbbelow," he croaked out.

"Shhhh, easy, easy. As soon as you get some more blood in you, you'll be 
fine," Frohike said, cradling Walter in his lap to warm him, even though he 
himself was sweating profusely from the humid, tropical heat. 

"No, Doc, don't," he whispered, his large brown eyes, dark and solemn, as he 
ineffectually tried to push Frohike away. "Don't get close. Harry loved 
me--tried to save me. She killed him for it. My fault. Don't try. She'll kill 
you too--Shit! She's in the looking glass laughing at us! See! See!!" He 
struggled to lift his slender brown arm to point out the horrifying specter 
in the mirror hanging on the palm tree, but couldn't. "Goddamn it!" he cried 
out in frustration. 

"Settle down there, Alice," Corporal Frohike said firmly, as he brushed the 
long strands of coal black hair out of Skinner's eyes. "There will be no one 
coming through the looking glass to hurt me, or you, or anyone else. Just 
trust ol' Doc to take care of you."

"I trust you. Could I have some more medicine?" Walter said pleadingly. "My 
gut hurts."

"Yeah, sure, Alice. It's past time," Frohike said sadly, as he looked at the 
hundreds of raw, bloody wounds on the boy's bare stomach, which had been 
haphazardly and hurriedly stitched up. "I'll fill your prescription now." 

"Thanks, Doc!" Walter said gratefully, and closed his eyes, and shivered some 
more, waiting for just one moment of peace. 

Frohike fumbled around the body of the real doctor at the Battalion Aid 
station, the one who'd patched Walter up, given him some blood, and just 
taken a bullet to his brain, and swiped another syringe from his medical bag. 
With practiced ease, 'Doc' shot the morphine into the boy's arm, bending it 
at the elbow and keeping it elevated. "Now, you know the rules," he said 
sternly to his 'patient'. "Rest so it'll last longer. I've got to ration 
these out so you'll be reasonably comfortable until help gets here."

"Give it to me all at once," Walter gasped out. "It'll be a quick death--no 
more curse."

"You're damned straight there'll be no curse, and you aren't dying any kind 
of death on my watch," Frohike said angrily. "Besides, didn't you tell me a 
few dozen times that this Harry of yours said you couldn't die yet, because 
it wasn't safe, you'd go to hell or something?"

"Didn't understand about all the deaths I caused," Skinner said, relaxing as 
the drugs started to seep their soothing warmth into his pain wracked body 
once more. 

"Probably because he didn't think you caused any, and neither do I," Frohike 
said as he gently rocked Walter. "I don't believe for a second that you ever 
did one dishonorable thing in your life. Now don't you worry about the curse. 
I bought protection in Da Nang."

"Condoms?" Skinner said, a look of utter confusion on his face.

"Spoken like a Marine," Frohike said, laughing a laugh that never quite 
reached his sad eyes. "No, Alice, a statue for good luck guaranteed to 
protect me against all the dangers of war as long as I keep it nearby. At 
least that's what the little old lady who sold it to me last month said. 
Look, I'll show you." Frohike tugged at his backpack, and pulled out the 
figurine, presenting it for Walter's approval. "See?" he said, encouragingly, 
"You've got protection. Now rest."

Walter tried to focus his eyes on it, but collapsed as soon as he saw the 
terrifyingly familiar flash of red and yellow lightning that presaged Madame 
Ly's appearances now. "DOC! WATCH OUT!!" he yelled as he passed out, "SHE'S 
HERE!" 

Five days later, Walter Skinner awoke in Tokyo General, with no memory of how 
he'd gotten there, and to his sorrow and frustration, no one could tell him 
the fate of the doctor who had cared for him so tenderly. 

Years later, when as an FBI agent he did track down 'Doc' Frohike, the little 
man treated him like royalty whenever they met, but clammed up and trembled 
uncontrollably every time he was questioned about how he'd saved them both 
from the terrifying apparition that was Madame Ly. No combination of 
flattery, threats, and bribery that Skinner tried ever persuaded Doc to get 
past his terror either.
 
Washington D.C.
May 9, 1998 10:00 PM Solar Calendar
4-14-98 Lunar Calendar
Year of the Earth Tiger, Containing Earth On Wall
Month of the Snake
Hour of the Boar

The memory of Frohike's terrified refusal to talk about what they'd gone 
through together brought Skinner back to the present, his own fear replaced 
by grim determination and purposefulness.

Tonight, Frohike was either going to tell him the whole damned story of how 
he'd saved them, or he was going to hand over the statue so that Skinner 
could figure it out for himself. 

It was his only hope of saving Mulder, poor bastard, who otherwise was going 
to die horribly for no greater sin than being loved by Walter Skinner; and 
therefore, fall victim to the curse. 

That hope kept him running to the Lone Gunmen's headquarters long past the 
time Skinner should have collapsed in utter exhaustion, and fear and 
determination kept him upright and battle ready. He staggered up to the 
headquarters, mentally ticking off that the first objective in his plan to 
save Mulder had been achieved, and pounded on the door. "OPEN UP!" he 
bellowed repeatedly, "SHE'S BACK, SHE'S BACK!"

The sound of the series of door locks unlocking clattered through the door, 
along with Frohike's panicky voice, swearing at him. "Jesus, Alice, keep your 
fuckin' panties on! I'm unlocking everything as fast as I can!"

The door yanked open, and Skinner nearly fell in, utterly exhausted. "Doc, we 
don't have much time. I need answers, and I need them now," Skinner said, 
bent over and gulping deeply painful, adrenaline charged breaths.

"God, you look like hell," Frohike said with a low whistle, as he took in 
Skinner's slovenly clothes and haggard, exhausted face. He put Skinner's arm 
over his shoulder, and led him to a chair, and eased him into it. "Get in 
here, and sit down before you fall down," he ordered.

Skinner groaned, and sank gratefully into the chair. He took off his glasses, 
put them into his pocket, and covered his eyes, sitting quietly for a few 
moments to catch his breath. 

"Do you want to sleep for a few moments, before you tell me what this is 
about?" Frohike said, putting his hand on the AD's shoulder, making him jump. 
Skinner shook his head. "There's no time for that. She's back," he whispered, 
his naked and vulnerable brown eyes making him look even younger than he did 
when they first met. "It'll be like 'Nam all over again, only this time, 
she's going to kill Mulder."

The color drained from Frohike's face. "Oh shit! I thought that only happened 
whenever you fell in love--You mean you and *Mulder* are lovers? Not that 
there's anything wrong with that," he added hastily. "Love is love, wherever 
you find it. You know what I mean. What I'm trying to say is--"

"Enough! You're sounding like the Hallmark card I never want to receive," 
Skinner growled in frustration. His expression and his tone softened as he 
took in the crestfallen, hurt look on Frohike's face. "You've got to help 
me," he begged, "I need you--Mulder needs you. You're the only one I know 
who's ever faced her down. No one else would even believe me if I told what 
happened-- I'd end up in the psych ward, just like Mulder--" 

Skinner paused and closed his eyes, blushing deep red as he remembered the 
shabby way he'd treated Mulder the past week. Image after guilt-charged image 
of his actions tumbled into his mind: Tossing Mulder into the psych ward, and 
leaving him helpless and restrained in the face of the all-too-real monsters 
he wouldn't believe the man had seen. Firing the poor fucker for coming on to 
him, even though Mulder was his wet dream on any given night of the month, 
and topping it all off by making painting after hypocritical, salacious 
painting of him that very night. Skinner's face crumpled in misery as he 
thought of what Mulder could be going through all because of him, and jumped 
bolt upright as he felt himself being roughly shaken back to the present. 

"Fuck! I'll help, I'll help," Frohike said, continuing to shake him 
frantically. "Just don't pass out on me, Alice! Doc's just a nickname." 

"I'm fine," Skinner said wearily, grabbing Frohike by the wrists to stop him 
from shaking him. "Don't worry about me. Just bring out the statue and tell 
me how you used it to kick Madame Ly's butt. We've got to act fast."

"Don't worry," Frohike said soothingly, "Your friend Merlin Hawk showed up 
here about 4 hours ago, and said he was here to give you lessons on how to 
use the statue. I wish I had known the situation was as bad as it was or I 
would have--."

"Who? I don't know any Merlin Hawk!" Skinner interrupted, grasping Frohike's 
wrists tightly, and staring intensely at him, every muscle taut. "Where is he 
now? Is he still here?" 

Frohike went pale again. "Yeah, he's in the basement, with the statue," he 
croaked out, his mouth going dry. "Jesus, Alice, he knew everything about 
what happened between you and Harry. I just figured he had to be some 
brilliant weirdo that Mulder had found for you during his XFiles 
investigations, and if you both trusted him, then--"

"Goddamn it," Skinner said furiously, shaking Frohike by his shoulders. "How 
could you hand over that statue to a total stranger? You could have been 
killed! He could have been Madame Ly in disguise. For all you know, he still 
could be. When I think what could have happened--" Skinner's voice choked, 
and he took deep, calming breaths before he could go on. 

"Hey, chill," Frohike laughed shakily, "Nothing's happened to me tonight, 
except that downstairs I've got a weirdo redecorating my basement, and 
upstairs, I've got a friend the size of the Himalayas who doesn't know his 
own strength squeezing me like a tube of toothpaste."

"Just don't do anything that stupid again," Skinner said gruffly, releasing 
Frohike. "Now send Byers and Langley the hell away from here to some place 
safe. Maybe if we're lucky, I could draw her fire, and you could grab the 
statue, and still have a chance of saving Mulder." 

"They're already safe," Frohike reassured him. "They're at the 
'Biosurveillance Technology and You Conference' and I don't expect them back 
for another week. Look, Alice, before you get pissed off again, I want you to 
promise to hear me out."

"I'm not pissed off, I just don't want you to take any unnecessary risks. 
There could be any number of reasons he knows so much about us, and few of 
them good. I've lost enough friends and lovers to that curse to last me 12 
life times. I--" Skinner stopped as soon as he saw Frohike's face assume its 
belligerent bulldog expression, knowing that he wouldn't rest until he'd had 
his say. "Okay, Doc, I promise."

"I understand that, but it's time you considered a few necessary ones," 
Frohike said firmly. "You can't sit on the fence and play it safe this time 
like you usually do, because the damn fence is made of electrified barbed 
wire, and it's going to shishkabob and fry your balls for you if you do."

"You have my undivided attention," Skinner said wryly as he grabbed his 
balls. "What do you have in mind?" 

"Any man powerful enough to control that statue consistently would be 
powerful enough to have connections with the spirit world who could tell him 
anything he wanted to know. I say we trust Merlin--and you just hold that 
thought until I'm finished. You promised me you'd hear me out," Frohike said 
sternly as he saw Skinner opening his mouth to protest. 

Skinner clenched his jaw shut, and nodded for his friend to continue, though 
it was plainly a great effort on his part.

"Now as I was saying, if this Merlin character has any idea how we can 
*reliably* make the statue do its magic, we should let him help us," Frohike 
said. "In the first place, Madame Ly doesn't have the sense of humor it would 
take to dream up this guy, and in the second place, I can't always get the 
damned statue to do what I ask. It's as if it has to agree with what I want 
it to do."

"Agree with you?" Skinner said, leaning forward, his expression tense and 
puzzled. "I don't understand."

"I can't explain any better, because I don't understand it all that well 
myself, Alice," Frohike said apologetically. "That's the reason I've never 
talked to you about what happened: I can't guarantee that I could make the 
statue work on command. It made me dread the time when you'd come to me, like 
you have now, and desperately need me to save you, and I'd have to confess 
how I really wasn't the man you thought I was--"

"Nothing you've said has changed my opinion of you," Skinner said adamantly. 
"I still think of you as a brave, loyal man who'd bust a gut to save a life, 
and as the guy who single-handedly saved my ass from Madame Ly when an entire 
platoon of Marines couldn't. If you think we should let Hawk help us, then 
I'm willing to at least hear him out."

Frohike exhaled and grinned broadly, the fear of being exposed as fraud 
dropping a mountain sized weight from his shoulders. "Now you're talkin'! 
I'll take you to him now, because we need to get started right away," he said.

Skinner nodded, and followed his friend down the dark, dingy stairwell to the 
basement, tapping his fingers impatiently as he waited for his friend to 
unlock the door. "What is this thing you have with lock--Holy shit," he 
exclaimed in awe as he saw the newly refurbished basement. 

It was a smoky, black walled, cedar and copal incense perfumed cavern, now. 
The only piece of furniture in the room was an oaken cabinet decorated with 
carvings of dragons and knights doing battle, which also served as an altar. 
On its floor was the outline of a Celtic Knot pentacle, which was painted in 
intertwining red, green, and white fluorescent paint lines. Surrounding the 
pentacle were neatly lettered inscriptions and symbols from four different 
languages. Black light "candles" in the intricately carved gargoyle 
candelabras, which were placed in strategic locations, provided the only 
light, and made the pentacle glow so brightly it looked like a living entity 
surrounded by shadowy demons. 

It was an impressive room, especially considering what the mysterious Merlin 
had to work with, but Skinner's eyes focussed on the ritual circle to the 
exclusion of all else from the moment the door opened, and his entire body 
telegraphed despair. "There must be inscriptions in four different languages 
there," he said desolately to Frohike. "They could mean anything. How the 
hell would we know any different? How do we know we aren't going to make 
things even worse for Mulder if we go through with this?"

"Don't give up yet," Frohike he said gently. "I can't tell you all of them," 
Frohike said, "but the ones I recognize are all benign and positive symbols. 
Those over there are the Chinese symbols for long life and good fortune, and 
that Vietnamese phrase there was taken directly off of my statue. It means 
"Imbue the supplicant with the spirit of the warrior. It's going to be okay."

"I wish I could have your faith," Skinner said, his eyes sad, remembering the 
ritual that sealed his fate so long ago.

"I know, I know," Frohike said, patting him on the back, "but this time it'll 
be different. "This isn't our first rodeo, and we're going to kick butt."

"I hope you're right, Doc," Skinner said. "Where the hell is that guy anyway? 
I thought you said he was down here? This could be a trap after all, and he 
could be playing with us."

"Naw, it isn't; I just had to go to take a leak," a deep, rich, theatrical 
voice said from behind them, making them jump. "I told you so when I passed 
you in the hallway, but I guess you didn't see or hear me."

Skinner and Frohike whirled around to face their guest, and Skinner could 
only stare gape-mouthed for several moments as he stared down at the elfin 
creature who'd just walked in. 

A less likely looking savior or devil would be hard to imagine. Merlin Hawk 
was in his thirties, and muscular in a rangy, stringy way, but even shorter 
than Frohike. He compensated for his lack of stature with dramatic flair. 
Normally, he would have turned heads anywhere with his skin-tight fitting 
black leather pants and his over-the-knee, black leather pirate boots with 
gold and silver moons and stars embroidered on the cuffs, but Merlin's 
clothing was completely overshadowed by his grooming eccentricities. His 
long, thick, shiny, black hair and Fu Manchu moustache had a Kool-Aid purple 
cast, and his huge, dark, longlashed eyes were outlined with kohl, giving 
them an ancient Egyptian look. His beaky nose was pierced with a single, 
tiny, gold hawk stud. This hawk theme was repeated with colorful tattooed 
medallions of Celtic and Egyptian style hawks on his bare arms, chest, and 
hands, intertwined by Celtic knots and borders into one, oddly compelling, 
and harmonious design. The effect was that of an Egyptian catamite kidnapped 
by the Celts, and marked with the care that they reserved for the Book of 
Kells. 

"I see what you meant about Madame Ly's sense of humor," Skinner said dryly.

"Don't hate me because I'm beautiful," Merlin said with a wink, and stuck out 
his hand for Skinner to shake it. "Allow me to introduce myself. The name's 
Merlin Hawk. I know, I'm not what you think a sorcerer should like look, 
right, Walter?"

Skinner shrugged, and shook his hand. "I'm in no position to know the 
Sorcerers' Dress Code," he said. 

"As supervisor of the XFiles," Merlin said, his whole body shaking as Skinner 
pumped his hand, "you're the only one here who would be in the position to 
know." 

"That's Agent Mulder's job," Skinner said gruffly. "I'm just a glorified 
paper pusher, that's all--"

"You don't look like a paper pusher to me," Merlin said, appraising Skinner 
with unabashed, shameless interest, crossing one arm over chest, and propping 
the one that was stroking his Fu Manchu on it. 
"Appearances can be deceiving though. Take Madame Ly. Now *she* looked the 
part she tried to play of the benevolent sorceress, and yet she damned near 
ruined your life. Me, I don't look the part of a benevolent sorcerer," he 
said as he calmly crossed his legs, and hovered in midair, "but considering 
your past experience, you probably take that as a favorable omen."

Frohike let out a low whistle. "He's the real thing! I knew it!" he said 
delightedly. 

Skinner felt his mouth go dry as he stared in disbelief, hardly daring to 
hope that Frohike could be right. He waved his hand, first above, then below 
the man who was floating in front of him, finding no strings of any sort. "I 
can't deny that you have paranormal abilities," Skinner said choosing his 
words carefully, "but so did Madame Ly, and look what happened. How do I know 
if I can trust you? How are you going to help me save Mulder?"

"I don't know how you know when to trust anyone," Merlin said with a shrug, 
uncrossing his legs, and floating back to earth. "I don't begin to understand 
you."

"Fair enough," Skinner said tersely, crossing his arms, and nodding. "I'm 
still waiting to hear how you're going to help me save Mulder. I'd like to 
feel that I'm taking at least a calculated risk, not a hopeless one. 

"Hey, I'm not a calculated risk, Walter, I'm a sure thing," Merlin said 
gesturing indignantly, his tattoos fluorescing even more brilliantly the more 
agitated he got. "I can forge a telepathic link between you and Mulder so 
strong that there's nowhere in heaven, earth, or hell she can hide him from 
you, and I can unleash the full power of the statue for you and make you at 
least as powerful as she is. And speaking of Madame Ly, do you think that 
even in disguise she'd drop her drawers to show you that she had tattooed the 
name of her girlfriend on her butt?" He said, turning around, and dropping 
his pants to reveal the name Nimue emblazoned on his butt in Celtic 
illuminated manuscript lettering.

Frohike burst into guffaws of relieved laughter upon being mooned by the 
sorcerer. "What'd I tell you, Alice?" he said. "This guy's okay."
"I'm convinced, so please don't show many any more of your credentials," 
Skinner said ironically. "What do you want me to do first?"

"Shower and shave, and don't give me any shit about it being a waste of 
valuable time when Mulder's life is in danger," Merlin said firmly, giving 
each man a warning glare. "I didn't make the rules the spirit world has for 
rituals; I just pass 'em along. Trust me, the spirits are very particular 
about hygiene and have a strict dress code, and have some very nasty ways of 
dealing with people who don't follow the rules. Now move! Unlike that nice 
old lady you've been dealing with, I've got no patience for dawdling."

Skinner nodded, his cheeks burning with shame as he recalled his conversation 
with the Old Woman the previous night. Grimacing, he saw himself refusing to 
listen to her, and running away in terror thinking that she had decided that 
there was only one way to stop Madame Ly's bloodthirsty quest for revenge on 
the earth plane, and he couldn't face it. He was dead certain then, that she 
was going to order him to kill Mulder, and then himself, so that he would die 
in disgrace after killing his beloved, and thus fulfill the curse, preventing 
other innocent lives from becoming enmeshed and tortured by it. 

Now, as he sprinted up the stairs two at a time, contemplating Merlin's 
words, he wasn't so sure that he'd done the right thing. Merlin seemed to 
hint that he'd radically misinterpreted what the Old Woman had in mind, and 
Skinner cursed himself for an idiot, as he realized Merlin was right. If 
Mulder was suffering, he was as responsible as Madame Ly was, and he vowed to 
save Mulder if it meant his own life.

With grim determination, he grabbed at the bathroom doorknob, and let out a 
yell of surprise as it opened up to reveal Merlin was inside waiting for him.

"Jesus!" Skinner said taking gulps of air, staring wide eyed at the sorcerer. 
"You could have just followed me up!"

"Sorry, Walter," Merlin said contritely, "I didn't mean to startle you. I 
wanted to get up here fast because you looked so depressed when I told you 
that you had to shower and shave before the ritual you scared me. Anyway, I 
just thought of something that could speed things up and still satisfy the 
demands of the spirit world."

"Good! What do I need to do?" Skinner said eagerly, as he walked in past the 
sorcerer. 

Merlin picked up a large crystal vase filled with luridly purple liquid that 
was sitting on the sink, and showed it to him. "I need to pour this over your 
beard, and every square inch of your body from your neck down. Strip, get 
into the shower, hold out your arms, and spread your legs," Merlin commanded.

Skinner obeyed, and soon found himself covered with a sticky coating that 
made him look like an impossibly well built, anatomically correct, superhero 
in purple tights. He crinkled his nose in disgust as he surveyed his body. "I 
thought you said that the spirits had a strict code of hygiene. If they get a 
whiff of this stuff, they'll blast my sorry ass straight to hell. What is it 
anyway?"

"It's my kinder, gentler, faster acting version of Nair," Merlin said as he 
turned the shower water at just the perfect temperature, and directed the 
warm spray of water onto Skinner's body, "and it worked perfectly if I do say 
so myself. It was ten times faster than shaving would have been."

"What the fuck? Hair remover? Isn't it bad enough that I'm bald?" Skinner 
said incredulously, looking at Merlin in surprise, and down at his body. Sure 
enough, to his dismay, his body hair was washing off with the purple gunk, 
leaving his honeyed skin silky smooth, and his musculature even more clearly 
defined now that it wasn't hidden by thatches of hair.

"Here, this will help," Merlin said handing Skinner a bar of soap, wincing 
with guilt at the reluctance with which the burly man accepted it. "There's 
nothing nefarious about it, Walter. It's just sandalwood soap to take away 
the nasty smell of my potion. The spirits just love sandalwood soap."

Skinner lathered himself into a sandalwood scented froth, and scrubbed his 
body vigorously, taking out some of the aggression he felt about the damned 
near hopeless situation he was in with that act. "I can understand why the 
spirits would love sandalwood soap, but I'm having a helluva time 
understanding why they'd love a man with shaved legs."

"I'm not getting you all pretty for a date with one of them, if that's what 
you mean," Merlin said dryly. "I know how weird this must seem, but it's all 
for a serious purpose. Since you seem to make contact with the spiritual 
realm best through your art, this is preparing you both to *be* art, as well 
as create it, during the ritual."

I don't understand," Skinner said, stepping out of the shower, and reaching 
for a towel, his dark eyes growing serious and troubled. Though he didn't 
realize it, he already looked like a work of art. Water glistened and 
accentuated the high cheekbones of his grave face and the sculpted 
musculature of his body. When he rubbed his body with the white towel, and 
knotted it around his waist, it accentuated the warm golden glow of his skin, 
and the elegant length of his long, powerful legs. 

"It means you're going to be a canvas as well as paint on one. Come on 
downstairs with me, and let's get started," Merlin said as he eyed his 
Skinner with satisfaction, "The spirits are going to be well pleased with 
you."

"Glad to hear it. Let's go," Skinner said, and followed the quirky sorcerer 
who managed to go downstairs even faster than he did, in spite of his long 
legged strides.
 
When they got to the ritual circle, Frohike greeted them with a big smile. 
"Glad to see you're okay, Doc. You had us both going there for a while. Now 
that I know you're okay, I'll be going--" 

"Why?" Skinner said, his eyes full of pain, as he reached out and grabbed his 
friend's arm. "I need you! You're the only one I trust to-" 

"Well, he's the only one *I'd* trust to do *exactly* what I said if something 
were to go wrong," Merlin said giving Skinner a significant look, as he 
plucked the big man's hand from Frohike's arm. "That's the reason I chose him 
to be our backup."

Frohike gently scolded his brawny friend, "Alice, my kung fu is good, but 
it's not in Merlin's class by half. Remember you promised me you'd give him a 
fair trial, so shape up, and follow his orders, or you're going to be 
answering to *me*," he said giving Skinner a playful cuff.

"Yes, Dad," Skinner said feinting away from the blow, a bemused look in his 
eyes. 

"Smartass," Frohike harrumphed, but his severe tone was belied by the 
affectionate look on his face. "Kick butt, Alice," he said, his eyes misting 
over, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Merlin took advantage of Skinner's distraction to yank off his towel, the 
only piece of clothing he wore. 

"Hey," Skinner protested, reaching out to reclaim it.

"Sorry," Merlin said tossing it well out of reach, "You gotta be naked for 
the ritual." He shook his purple tresses out of eyes, and took his place 
inside the pentacle, beckoning with his delicate, tattooed index finger at 
Skinner. "Now come on in, and don't be shy, Walter, it's *show time*," he 
said, his dark eyes shining with excitement. 

"Not much more to show," Skinner said, his lips quirking up ever so slightly 
as he looked down at his naked body, and back up at Merlin.
"Oh, but there will be. By the time this is over, you'll be stripped naked in 
more than one sense of the word," Merlin said quietly, his kohl painted eyes 
growing dreamy and unfocussed. 

"I don't like the sound of that," Skinner said, frowning as he joined Merlin 
inside the intricately wrought pentacle. "What are you talking about?" 

Merlin's demeanor, though gentle, became authoritative and serious. "Remember 
that telepathic link I told you I could have you forge with Mulder? Once I do 
that there's no way in hell you'll ever be able to lie to him again. He'll 
know you for what you are."

"Oh Christ," Skinner said, looking around the room wildly. "If he ever knew 
even half the thoughts I'd had about him, he'd never trust me to rescue him. 
There's got to be another way! Maybe I should be the backup--"

"No!" Merlin said shaking his head vigorously, "there isn't. It has to be 
with you, because there has to be an intense emotional bond between two 
people in order to link them together. It's the only way to guarantee that 
the link would be strong enough for one to be able to find the other no 
matter what the obstacles! Face it, Mulder loves you, not Frohike --"

"That wouldn't be true, once he ever sensed what I've been thinking these 
past years. You don't know how paranoid he is, and how badly I've treated 
him," Skinner said desperately. "He needs someone he can trust after going 
through so much--"

"He DOES have someone he can trust, someone who richly deserves it. He has 
YOU!" Merlin said forcefully, jabbing his finger into Skinner's stomach. 
"Listen to me! You both need this link! He needs your strength and your love, 
and you need Mulder's insight into what Madame Ly's been thinking and feeling 
the past few hours so you can save him. After all, if she's followed her 
previous pattern, she's possessed his body, and he'd know best."

"Maybe so, but I'm still not satisfied," Skinner said stubbornly. "What would 
keep Madame Ly from realizing that she and Mulder had company? Wouldn't that 
put him in even greater danger?"

"Well, nothing would hide you from her forever if you kept in close contact," 
Merlin conceded, "but I could shield you long enough for the initial link. 
After that, you'd acquire the ability to know exactly where he is, and how to 
find him at all times without speaking to him telepathically, which means she 
won't detect you. Besides, I'll cast a spell that will pull you out of harm's 
way if Madame Ly comes within striking distance. Satisfied?"

Skinner grudgingly nodded his head, "Guess I'll have to be."

"Good," Merlin said, relief showing plainly on his face, "Now, sit in the 
center. We've got to work fast."

Skinner hesitated for only a moment, then sat down in the center of the 
circle, and assumed the lotus position. His dark eyes were full of wonder as 
Merlin flicked his hand, and several sheets of rice paper appeared inside the 
two arms of the pentacle in front of him, and in the arm to the left, a 
butcher's palette of glowing watercolors and brushes, and two bowls of water. 
In the head of the pentacle, directly behind him, Merlin stood, shimmering 
like the North Star. 

"You said I was going to be art as well as create it. Does that mean you're 
going to paint tattoos like yours on me?" Skinner said.

"Hmm? Who me? Paint? Nope, I don't paint--well, not exactly," Merlin said 
distractedly as he rubbed his hands in almond oil, and began to stroke 
Skinner's temples. "Anyway, don't worry about that just yet. I need you to 
contribute your artwork to this ritual--but first, I need to make you relaxed 
enough to get you past your internal censor--"

"Look, I'll do whatever you say, but drawing while I was that relaxed is what 
got me in trouble in the first place tonight," Skinner said, his body 
starting to tense again.

"You weren't relaxed, you were drunk, and drawing those pictures wasn't what 
got you into trouble," Merlin said. "You did that by not paying attention to 
what the Old Woman was telling you through those pictures."

Skinner blushed and turned away, as he remembered once again how badly he'd 
misjudged the Old Woman.

"Hey that wasn't a recrimination, Walter," Merlin said patting Skinner on the 
back. "What I'm trying to say is, you could make a powerful connection to the 
spiritual realm through your art work once you get past your fears, which is 
exactly what you're going to do tonight."

"Me?" Skinner said, twisting around and looking up at Merlin with startled 
eyes. "Shouldn't it be you making that connection? I don't have any powers 
like you do!"

"My turn will come, but in order for this ritual to work, we both have to 
contribute. Right now, let's get serious about making you relaxed," Merlin 
said gently nudging Skinner to face forward, and pulling the burly man 
against his chest. He skillfully massaged the almond oil, which had somehow 
appeared on his hands, into the A.D.'s thick neck and broad shoulders, 
frowning as he felt the tension in his captive's body. "You feel like a pack 
of old ladies macramed you for the church bazaar. There's no way you could 
maintain an altered state like this," Merlin scolded, "How long have you been 
this tense?" 

"About 27 years," Skinner said clenching his jaw, wincing as Merlin began to 
systematically press all of the knots out of his shoulders.

Merlin sighed, and continued to release knots of tension, soothing him as 
best he could. "C'mon, Walter, just lie back and relax," Merlin said softly. 
"You can do this. The faster you relax and get into the right frame of mind, 
the faster we can help Mulder. That's it. Just relax--lean against me--that's 
it-- Just concentrate on just what I'm saying and doing. Nothing else 
matters. Just relax into my hands, and listen to the sound of my voice." 

Merlin's gentle, resonant voice and hands warmed and caressed him like waves 
from a tropical ocean lapping at his body, and soon it was all over for the 
exhausted Skinner. In spite of his fears, he felt himself responding to those 
talented hands and soothing voice, and his mind clearing, his control ebbing 
away, feeling and doing only what Merlin willed--and what Merlin willed was 
much more than merely taking the kinks out of Skinner's body and relaxing 
him. He was replacing that bone deep weariness with something overwhelmingly 
powerful. The energy discharged from the wizard's hands was so potent that 
Skinner gasped, arched his back, and went limp as the energy crackled through 
him, thrusting his soul out of his body with explosive force. 

When Skinner got over the shock of being forcibly ejected from his body, he 
looked around, trying to get his bearings, but it was no use. Wherever he 
was, he was in the dark, and the ground kept shifting underneath him just 
when he thought he'd gotten a good foothold. //So this is what it's *really* 
like to die. I should have known that the real afterlife wouldn't be that 
much different from my life--//

<Walter, uh, I mean, sir? Is that you?> 

Mulder's voice was feeble and frightened, but it was enough to make Skinner's 
soul radiate joy--until he remembered where he was, and a horrible thought 
crossed his mind. //Goddamn it, Mulder, if you're dead because you've 
committed suicide, I'm going to kick your ectoplasmic butt for all eternity! 
//

Mulder's soul radiated joy in response, even in face of the threatened ass 
kicking, and suddenly the place was filled with light, and Skinner could see 
him. Mulder looked far too pale, and his eyes had dark circles under them, as 
though he'd been ill for days. In spite of this, he still managed a chuckle. 
<Kick my butt for all eternity, eh? You must think you've died and gone to 
heaven, sir, and since you've ended up with me, we both know that can't be 
true.> 

Skinner gave a tight smile as he sadly regarded the beautiful but battered 
man in front of him. //Good point. You know exactly where we are, of course. 
// 

<Of course. > Mulder straightened up with great difficulty, projecting an air 
of complete confidence at Skinner to underscore that declaration, and eagerly 
shared his theory. <Consider the evidence. Like all visitors to this place, 
we've come to a crossroads in our lives, and are so indecisive, unsure, and 
frightened, we see this state of mind clearly reflected by our surroundings, 
which are in a constant state of transition, even to the shifting ground 
beneath us. When you add that we're feeling each other's emotions, and 
hearing each other's thoughts, there can be no doubt about where we are. 
We're in Limbo, which you may know only of as a dance, but it's also a 
borderline region for souls between life and death, which is really too bad 
because I'd pay to see you dance, seeing as how you're naked-->

Skinner wanted to howl in frustration. Only Mulder could be at death's door, 
and still greet his rescuer with an irritating, rambling, wise-ass, scholarly 
rant, oblivious to the fact that time was running short, and better spent on 
more practical considerations, such as survival. As he listened to Mulder, 
the complex maelstrom of feelings that his quixotic agent inspired bubbled to 
the surface. Along with the anger and frustration at Mulder's reckless 
disregard for his own safety, there emerged the most overwhelming emotion of 
all: the fierce, urgent desire to love and protect him. He reflexively went 
into full A.D. mode to cover it. //Could you just give me the abridged 
version of this, Mulder? I *am* interested in saving your life, even if you 
aren't. //

Mulder smiled beatifically as if he were sinking into a warm, safe, 
comfortable bed after a long, hard day. <Mmmm, that mostly feels nice, 
Walter. Is this what you usually feel when you're reaming me out? Don't look 
at me like that, I'm getting to the point. I have several XFiles cases 
dealing with survivors of Near Death Experiences who have returned from 
Limbo, and they have each given new insights into why a soul ends up in 
Limbo. I can't speak for your soul, sir, but in my case, I'm here because I'm 
trying to hide from Madame Ly while I decide whether to live or die. >
As soon as he heard Mulder's words, a cold, sick fear jittered through 
Skinner, and he reached out to Mulder with his mind to shake him. //I'm not 
in the mood to play word games here, Mulder. Deciding you want to die is the 
same as committing suicide in my book, and if you do anything that stupid, so 
help me, I'll--//

Mulder looked at Skinner with an infuriatingly blank expression, but sent out 
warm waves of comfort mixed with a restless urgency. <It's not a question of 
wanting to die, it's just that it would be better for everyone concerned if I 
did, and Madame Ly thought she'd killed me-- >

Skinner cut him off with waves of affection, anxiety, and fury that were so 
intertwined that not even he knew when one ended, another began. //Your death 
is not an option. This isn't about you--//

Skinner stopped in mid rant as he felt a disconsolateness of heartbreaking 
intensity from Mulder. <Walter, you don't understand! This isn't about me 
feeling sorry for myself. She's desperate to use me as bait to force you to 
face her before midnight, and I don't want to be a part of that. Don't fall 
for her trap! You can beat her if you wait to face after midnight--If I've 
ever needed your trust in me, it's now.>

Skinner reached out to cup Mulder's face, but finding it insubstantial; he 
dropped his hand, and compassionate waves of regret radiated from him as he 
set about preparing his agent for the worst. //Mulder, I *do* trust you, but 
you're right: I don't understand your theory. Madame Ly has made my life 
miserable for 27 long years. Why would waiting one more hour to kill me be a 
problem for her? She doesn't have anything else to do. You'd die if I waited, 
and I'm not going to risk your life over a theory, one which you have no way 
of proving--//

Mulder blasted Skinner with a wave of certainty and anger that knocked him on 
his ass. <You stubborn son of a bitch, give me some credit! I'm so sure that 
I'm right that I'm staking my life on it. What else could you possibly need 
to convince you that I know what the fuck I'm talking about? >

Skinner immediately backed off, and reflexively sent Mulder waves of 
conciliatory feelings, even inadvertently sending Mulder images of a dog 
rolling over and peeing on itself. //It would help to know where you got this 
idea of yours-- //

It did the trick. Mulder lit up as he saw the dog, and chuckled ruefully, 
sending Skinner waves of acceptance that felt like a bear hug. <She may have 
been in my head for hours, but that's a two way street. I've gotten in hers 
too, even though she doesn't know it. Every so often, she gets scared or 
pissed, and she lets her guard down, and I can hear and feel her, just as 
vividly as we're hearing and feeling each other now. I know for a fact--just 
like I know for a fact that I used to be an FBI agent-- that she's terrified 
to face you after midnight. I don't like the idea of dying any better than 
you do, but we both know that I have to stall her until then so that you, 
Scully, and the Gunmen can survive -- >

Waves of fear and a gut wrenching guilt pulsated from Skinner in ever 
widening circles, merged with a fierce protectiveness, and shone nakedly in 
his eyes. //Goddamn it, Mulder, she could have put that idea into your head, 
and *that* could be the trap, because you'll end up doing her work for her. I 
don't want you to die. For God's sake, LISTEN to me--//

Mulder shook his head furiously, rigidly rejecting Skinner's theory, even as 
he unconsciously sent out feelings of vulnerability and concern. <NO! You 
listen to me! Not only is she going to use me to make you die in disgrace, 
she--she's--trying to make me kill a couple of kids she found necking in the 
park-- She's been torturing me all damned day--Not sure I can hold out much 
longer-->

Skinner sent out wave after powerful, desperate wave of strength, comfort, 
and guilty regret to Mulder. //Yes, you can, goddamn it! You're the toughest, 
most stubborn son of a bitch on this goddamn planet. We can fight her 
together. //

Mulder smiled sadly, and allowed himself the luxury of soaking up all the 
strength that he could, strength that would mean the difference between life 
and death. Even so, he couldn't resist a gentle poke at his savior. <With all 
due respect, sir, I don't think growling at her that she's not following regs 
is going to cut it.>>

Skinner laughed in spite of himself, and looked at his agent fondly. //You've 
never done anything with due respect in your life, asshole. Just hang on, and 
that's a goddamned order. I'm saving you, and you've got nothing to say about 
it. All you need to do is tell me anything you've found out that might help 
me to that. Do you hear me, Agent Mulder? //

<Loudly, sir. > Mulder projected a thought that filled Skinner with a 
soothing warmth, like the first welcome, gentle rays of the sun in early 
summer. <That's what it feels like to have you here with me. Thanks for the 
respite from hell, but you'd better leave while you still can-->

Skinner reflected those feelings back to him, and included a playful cuff. 
//I gave you your goddamned orders, one of which was "Your death is not an 
option". You remember orders, don't you, Agent Mulder? Those are words that I 
say that give you a duty to perform, and in response, you perform it without 
giving me any shit. Here are some more. I'm getting help, so don't give in. 
I'm going to find you in the real world. When I do, we're both going to fight 
her, and we're going to win. Understood, Agent? //

Mulder shook his head, but Skinner ignored it, since he could feel Mulder's 
desire to fight, to win with every bit as much intensity as ever sensed from 
his agent about his beloved XFiles. 

Skinner projected a sense of warlike comradeship and excitement to his agent. 
//That's the spirit! We'll kick her butt. //

Mulder returned it, his eyes glowing not only with their familiar intensity, 
but admiration for, and gratitude to, his boss. 

Skinner's consciousness was filled with a bright yellow and red sketch of a 
ghoulish woman riding bareback on a tiger. It was indelibly burned on his 
retinas it seemed, as though he had the painting in front of him. 

With a childlike expression on his face, Skinner looked at Mulder, panicking 
//That's it? What are you showing me? What does it mean? How do I use this? 
// 

Mulder tried to answer, but screamed and crumpled in agony instead. 

//Mulder! Wait! // Fear rushed through Skinner as he watched Mulder's image 
dissipate, and he felt something scrabbling at his elbow. The icy terror of 
its touch, and what it could mean, popped Skinner back into his body 
immediately. 

Skinner's eyes snapped wide open, and panting as though he had run a 
marathon. He looked up at Merlin. "She almost had me."

"I know," Merlin said gravely patting Skinner's back. "My spell barely got 
you out in time, but you're safe here with me in this pentacle. Paint."

Skinner nodded, stretched out his hand, groped for the brush. Finding it, he 
dipped into the water, and then into a well of yellow paint. He toned a sheet 
of paper with it. The paper seemed to know when just the right amount of 
paint had been applied, and dried at that point. Skinner was beyond 
questioning the minor miracles. Instead, he began mindlessly and feverishly 
applying crimson paint to the yellowed sheets in bold, sure, strokes, until 
the paper refused to accept any more paint. Satisfied that his picture was 
finished, he stopped, and admired his work. To his relief, he had captured 
Mulder's vision in his bold, yet elegant, painting of the fierce eyed woman 
riding a tiger, and had added Chinese and Vietnamese characters that he 
couldn't read to save his life. He turned and looked at Merlin, "What does it 
mean?" he asked.

The sorcerer shrugged, and made a circling motion with his hand over the 
unused paints, paper, and water, and made them disappear. "I don't know. You 
were the one who came up with this. Only you know why you chose this image to 
serve as your shield," Merlin said, as flicked his hand, and transmuted 
Skinner's painting into an impressive and beautiful shield of precious metals 
and stones, which kept the full strength and realism of Skinner's expressive 
lines. 

Skinner looked at the shield that had popped into his hand in place of his 
painting, and then at Merlin. "This is an incredible---is this transformation 
of my work what you had in mind when you said that you didn't paint exactly?

"Nope, but it's not bad, is it?" Merlin said affably. "In any case, Walter. 
It's high time that I showed you exactly what I meant." Merlin waved his 
hand, and the doors of the oaken cabinet covered with carved dragons opened, 
revealing a small, finely sculpted statue of otherworldly beauty. With 
another wave of his hand, the statue appeared across from Merlin, on the 
other side of Skinner's broad, smooth chest. 

Skinner couldn't take his eyes off of the statue. He had to prop himself up, 
and take a good look. Despite being only one foot tall, the statue could have 
been a living, breathing, muscular warrior who was grimly swinging his 
wickedly sharp sword at all comers. The creator of this ancient, graceful, 
elegantly wrought, golden beauty had stinted on nothing. Every fanciful 
detail was exquisite. 

The warrior's helmet, wristbands, and the hilt of his ruby encrusted sword 
were in the shapes of matching gold dragons' heads. The shapes of the 
dragons' scales were echoed perfectly in the scales of the chain mail veil 
that protected the warrior's neck, and cascaded from his helmet. The dragons' 
compelling eyes swirled and glinted with green in a way that most gems 
wouldn't unless turned first one way then the other under the light. The eyes 
of the warrior himself were what truly commanded attention. They coruscated 
from emerald to ruby to sapphire to topaz to diamond and back again, and held 
the viewer in his gaze with no chance of escape. 

"Allow me to introduce the ally who will truly make the difference between 
life and death for Mulder," Merlin said with a grand flourish, "Walter Sergei 
Skinner, Assistant Director of the FBI, meet The Dragon King, the Vietnamese 
equivalent of King Arthur. He even got his sword the same way King Arthur 
did--from the Lady of the Lake." 

"So does the fact that you're named after King Arthur's sorcerer give you 
some sort of special magical edge?" Skinner said as he stared fixedly at the 
statue. "Is that how this works?"

"That's part of it, yes," Merlin said, as he gently pushed Skinner on the 
forehead to make him lie down.

"It's so beautiful..." Skinner murmured, unable to tear his eyes away from it.

"Yes, it is," Merlin agreed, and pushed a little harder than necessary on 
Skinner's forehead. "Now, seriously, lie down, and be still while I prep you. 
Your life is going to depend upon my sense of aesthetics, so behave yourself."

Skinner gave Merlin a once over from the top of the sorcerer's long, electric 
purplish black hair, to his gold hawk nose pin, to his outrageous hawk 
tattoos covering that small, rangy form, and with a sick look his face, the 
A.D. groaned and lay down his head. 

Merlin laughed, and patted Skinner on the cheek. "Be brave, Walter. The time 
has come to prepare my canvas-- Behold the paint for my Masterpiece." Merlin 
flicked his hand, and bamboo brush and a clear crystal bowl of fragrant oil 
appeared in it. He closed his eyes and began to chant ecstatically in many 
languages, passing the brush over the bowl several times. With each pass, 
more and more beams of golden light shone from the bowl, and bathed Skinner, 
Merlin, and the statue in soothing warmth. 

Skinner was utterly at peace, calmly watching as Merlin shouted and clapped 
his hands, filling the room with thunder and lightning, and with another, 
dashing the crystal bowl to the ground. The bowl shattered with one brilliant 
starburst of light, and the statue exploded, and in its place stood The 
Dragon King, larger than life, resplendent in his opulent armor, sword raised 
to kill.

The feeling of peace turned to fear as Skinner saw the huge, implacable 
warrior glowering at the little man who had dared bring him back from heaven. 
"DON'T!" Skinner croaked out, struggling to move to Merlin's aid. His eyes 
grew round with panic as he realized he couldn't, and he stared at Merlin 
begging silently for an explanation.

"I figured you'd try something stupid and heroic, so I said a spell to bind 
you until His Majesty and I finished our business. I didn't want you to get 
yourself killed after going to all this trouble," Merlin said smiling at 
Skinner affectionately. "Save your energy for when it counts. You're going to 
need it."

The Dragon King interrupted with a howl of anger, and brandished his sword at 
Merlin, sending golden flashes of lightning throughout the room.


Merlin smiled benignly, and said, "Where are my manners? Sorry to keep you 
waiting, Your Highness." He stretched his arms wide open in invitation. "Do 
it," he said, throwing his head back.

Roaring and snarling, The Dragon King brought the sword down on Merlin, and 
both men exploded on contact, spraying super novas of multi colored, 
sparkling lights, the energy contained within the circle of protection. 

The light fell on the horrified Skinner like shards of glass. It penetrated 
his consciousness, splitting it, entering him roughly, pulling him down, 
down, down, deep down inside himself, hard and fast. There was a flapping, 
whirring, rustling sound--and the sensation of feathers brushing over him, 
and claws scrabbling over his goosefleshed skin, and metallic scales and 
dragonfire clamping around his writhing limbs. With a bellow, he broke loose 
from the spell of binding, and when he stood up, Skinner the Sorcerer Dragon 
King raised his sword over his head and roared for the gods to take him to 
his lover. A bolt of energy struck this newly minted Skinnerbeing, releasing 
a kinetic rush of sound, color, and images of men, hawks, and dragons phasing 
one over the next like a Duchamp painting, thrusting them all through the 
walls and into the heavens, blazing like comets.

Frohike poked his head into the room just in time to see the Skinnerbeing 
zoom out, leaving a trail of sparkling lights and shadows dancing around the 
room. "Look Harry! It worked, it worked!" he said with a delighted smile. 
"You can stop worrying now. Our boy is as good as free from the curse."

"I hope so, Doc," Harry said, floating through the door running a ghostly 
hand through his spiky hair, his luminous gray eyes poignantly melancholy. "I 
hope so, because if he's crazy enough to fight her before midnight he has no 
choice but to defeat her. If he doesn't, he'll be damned to spend eternity 
with Madame Ly as her slave."

TO BE CONTINUED.....