~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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.....