"Truth as it may be shall be known. Truth as it once was shall never be forgotten."
–Seara Pacter
Near Atalanta, Costa Rica
The warm, midnight breeze whispers through the open window, and she feels its tingling heat against her skin. She rolls on her side to watch her husband sleeping peacefully, and she delicately twirls strands of his hair between her fingers. Scars on his face tell the story of years of pain and strife and war. As he sleeps, however, his rugged features soften, and she sees how he might have looked as a boy. She lightly kisses his forehead before swinging her legs over the side of the bed to place her feet on the straw mat. Wearing nothing but her cotton slip, she stands at the thatched window and gazes out at the sleeping, tropical forest below. The wind blows her short, cropped chestnut curls into her eyes, and she absently brushes them back. She crosses to the opposite corner of the small room, strikes a match to light the oil lamp, and opens a drawer to retrieve the journal she keeps. Before she lifts the pencil to write, she catches a glimpse of her reflection in her husband's shaving mirror on the wall. She runs her fingers through her short, dark hair in an attempt to tame the wild curls. Her eyes are, in her opinion, the greatest aspect of her appearance. She has her mother's eyes. She smiles and begins to write.
Today is the anniversary of the day it happened. It's so impossible to imagine that I once lived in a world where humans lived alone, going about the business of their own lives; a world before the shadow, before Them, before the great wars that seem endless. I can scarcely remember what Before was like. William and I spoke about it just the other day, how there used to be sports and games and vacations…Now we simply live to fight. The last battle ended in Mexico three weeks ago, and I led the strategy with my husband—well, I call him my husband, even though marriage doesn't exist. We're life partners, and I love him more than I can say; it's more than a ring and empty vows. He's the leader of the resistance, he says we're both the leaders, but he is the one who drew everyone together in the dark, early years. The resistance numbers five hundred strong men and women, and while we are still vastly outnumbered, we often find new survivors who wish to join us. William trains the new soldiers, and he always leads the battles. I often worry about losing him; we've lost so much. Before he leaves, he promises me that he'll be careful, and I have to smile.
I love nights like this, when everyone I love is safe in the camp and the enemy is far away. Something feels so normal about it, and I can almost pretend…We have gathered scientists here, who build new weapons and work everyday to solve Their mysteries, to understand where the key to Their destruction lies. I can honestly say we're getting close.
I find it incredibly strange that I am somehow part of Their prophecy. When I dream, I see visions, so I suppose that makes me special in Their eyes—different. Last night a dreamed of a little red-haired girl, and I told my husband she is a daughter we will have one day… They predicted that we would have special senses and that we would love each other. But They never predicted that we would fight back. Maybe when I am gone and my children are grown, this planet will be ours again. Maybe one day, many years from now, the human race will have no memory that They were ever here. Maybe there's hope. I want to believe.
Abigail Margaret Mulder
December 23rd, 2030
She closes the journal and places it in the drawer, and her mind drifts as she brushes her fingers against the tiny gold cross at her neck. A bittersweet smile plays across her lips when she glances at the old, tattered stuffed cat sitting on the shelf; a link to her old life.
"Abigail?" her husband whispers groggily.
"I was just writing. I'm coming back to bed now, Gibson."
He wraps his arms around her and kisses the back of her neck as she climbs into the bed beside him. She will lose reality in love and warmth and dreams until the morning dawns.
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Author's notes: It was hard to kill Mulder and Scully, and I hope no one hates me for it. I was not planning on it originally; but I felt that that was where the story was going. I think their part in the fight was finished, and it was time to pass on their strengths, wisdoms, and faiths to a new generation. Also, I find it fitting that they would sacrifice themselves, together, as martyrs.
First of all, I want to thank my beta, who will forever be the Merry to my Pippin. And thank you so much to everyone for reading this story. I loved reading all of the feedback—thank you for all your comments, questions, and suggestions—they really made me want to finish this thing, knowing that people were responding to it. Merci beaucoup!