Paracelsus, Prologue
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  The year before she and Mulder were born, Mr. Robert Browning wrote of
  the great Paracelsus's love of a woman, saying Paracelsus and his lover
  were two halves of one dissevered world.  When the hour is late, when he
  is alone beside the campfire, he thinks of that single line from the
  epic poem, turning it over in his mind as he watches the stars and waits
  for sleep to come.  Man and woman: two parts of a divided world, two
  halves of one severed soul, allowed to touch only briefly in a lifetime.
  
  Often, in his dreams, they have a family of their own: three or four
  dark-haired, high-spirited boys and a few pretty little girls running
  around.  Or, sometimes, she carries their first child and rests one hand
  on her swollen belly as she walks with him.  They have a home in Boston
  or Georgetown near his parents, so they can visit often.  Mulder isn't
  fifteen anymore, but neither is she.  She's grown from a beautiful girl
  into a stunning woman: intelligent, elegant, and in love with him.  
  
  In this dream, she's in her early twenties and wearing a blue riding
  habit that shows off her slim figure.  She rides sidesaddle as he leads
  the horse through the quiet woods.  It's a warm afternoon, and wild
  rosebushes line the path.  He wears a dress uniform, the buttons and
  boots polished to a high shine.  The insignia indicates he's a decorated 
  officer in the US Army.
  
  His father is proud of him.
  
  "There's something on your mind, Fox," she says, her words slowed and
  soften by her southern accent. "About secession?  Is it really coming?"
   
  "Yes," he answers. "I think it's unavoidable, now.  Next month, Mr.
  Lincoln will be elected. When he is, South Carolina will secede from the
  union, and the rest of the south will follow."  
  
  "And there will be a war."
  
  He nods. "Many officers are talking about resigning their commission and
  returning home to fight for the south," he tells her as he leads the
  mare. "Robert E. Lee will go, and so will many other generals."
  
  "And what will you do?" she asks softly.  
  
  He looks up at her.  The sunlight outlines her head, making her black
  hair shimmer.  Her eyes are rimmed with thick, dark lashes, and they
  shine as she watches him.  
  
  "I don't know," he answers honestly. "The north will need experienced
  officers, but..."
  
  "But you do not want to fight.  Not for the north, but not for the
  south, either."
  
  "No," he admits. "There is no winning a war like this one, on either
  side.  Men to not seem to realize that: it can only end in death and
  ruin."
  
  "You will fight, though."
  
  He nods.  She knows him well.  
  
  It is September 1860, and a civil war is brewing a like dark storm on
  the horizon.  He will fight in the war, and, November 1863, he will die
  in the war - cut down on a battlefield in Tennessee.  She will hold him
  as he bleeds to death.  She will cry.
  
  They've reached a turnoff from the path, and he ties the reins to a tree
  branch.  She slips her boot out of the stirrup, and he helps her slide
  to the ground.  He kisses her.  She takes his hand and follows him 
  through the trees, to an abandoned stone church, the roof open to the
  sky.  They have been here before; it is one of their secrets.  Today, he
  unfolds a blanket over the grass in the church foyer: preparation for a
  picnic for which they'd packed no food.
  
  Their parents trust them.  They've been friends since childhood, and
  there is no question that they will marry someday.  Senator Mulder's
  only son and Representative Kavanaugh's older daughter: his mother 
  will throw the society wedding of the year.  
  
  Neither of them particularly cares for society.  
  
  She takes off her jacket, and he takes off his.  He slides his
  suspenders off his shoulders and loosens his collar.  They kneel on the
  blanket, facing each other.  He strokes her hair, and she caresses his 
  face.  He puts his hand on her waist, pulling her body against his as
  they kiss.
  
  They've never made love.  They kiss and touch, though, discovering
  together what feels nice.  When he is away, first at West Point and now
  at his military post, this is what he remembers.  He's memorized how her
  hair and skin smells, and how her breathing changes when he touches her. 
  Sometimes, when he's alone at night, he thinks about her and touches
  himself.  He's yet to go blind.
  
  "I worry so much about you.  And now, with a war..." she confesses, her
  lips brushing against his. "I know you have to go, but I don't want you
  to.  I'm so afraid you won't come back."
  
  "I will," he promises her. "On way or another, I will.  I'll find you. 
  I'll wait for you."
   
  He unbuttons the front of her cotton blouse, then the corset cover.  Her
  breasts are pushed high by her stays, rounded into two fair globes.  He
  kisses the valley between them, and she shivers.  She likes it when he
  touches her; that is their other secret.
  
  "When, when you're away," she asks in a hesitant whisper. "Are there
  other girls?"
  
  "No.  Never." He raises her breast from the corset and covers the nipple
  with his mouth, sucking.  She gasps at the new sensation.  Her fingers
  tighten in his hair. "There's never been anyone but you," he adds as he
  kisses across her pale shoulders. 
  
  He's telling the truth, and she believes him.
  
  "If the war comes, Daddy won't let us be married next fall," she says.
  "Not if you fight for the north.  Not until the war is over."
  
  "Then I'll fight for the south."
  
  "Fight against your father?" she asks. "For a cause you don't believe
  in?  No."
  
  He raises his head, looking down at her pretty face.  The country is
  choosing sides, and, as a soldier, he must throw in his lot with one or
  the other.  There is no neutral ground, and, either way, he will lose.
  
  "Then marry me now," he says impulsively. "Tonight.  We'll run away. 
  We'll elope."
  
  "We can't do that," she answers, always the voice of reason. "Your
  mother would just die.  And where would we live?"
  
  "I don't care.  We've waited so long.  I can't wait any longer."
  
  She looks at him for a long moment, and then lowers her eyes.  They
  can't disappoint their families by eloping, and her father won't let
  them be married now, while Mulder is stationed out west, fighting the 
  Indians.  Once the war comes, their fathers will become political
  enemies, and Mulder will be lucky to get to see her, let alone marry
  her. 
  
  "Then don't wait," she whispers.  Her hand moves down, sliding over the
  front of his trousers.  This fascinates her: how his body becomes hard
  for hers.  
  
  "We can't.  We shouldn't-" he starts, then moans, trying not to lose
  control. "Oh God..."
  
  "Like this?" she asks, rubbing the hard bulge that grows beneath the
  wool fabric.
  
  He nods wordlessly, unable to speak.
  
  She unbuttons his trousers, then the flannel drawers underneath, and
  eases them down over his erection.  She pauses, inhaling in surprise. 
  The last time she saw him nude, they were children.  He doesn't look
  like the paintings of male cherubs that she's seen.
  
  She runs her fingertips over the shaft. "Show me," she asks and he puts
  his hand over hers, teaching her how to touch a man.  He lets his head
  fall back, gritting his teeth.  The pressure builds inside him.
  
  This is really happening.
  
  "Are you sure?" he asks while he still can.
  
  Silently, she stops and lies back on the blanket, waiting for him.  He
  pushes up her skirt, petticoat, and chemise, and then eases his hands
  over her pantalets, to the opening at the crotch.  The hair there is
  soft, and her hips shift as he touches her.
  
  He's never touched her there before.  He's never touched any woman.
  
  She closes her eyes, trusting him.  
  
  He slips one finger inside her, making sure he understands the basics of
  female anatomy.  She feels warm and slick, like the inside of his cheek. 
  He pushes two fingers inside her and she whimpers.
  
  "I love you," he says hoarsely as he covers her, pressing the head of
  his erection between her legs. "I don't want to hurt you."
  
  He moves forward, and feels his body slide just slightly into hers.  She
  murmurs that it is all right, and he pushes again, shuddering in
  pleasure.  She opens her legs farther, putting her arms around his neck
  and pressing her face against his shoulder.  
  
  He rocks instinctively, each stroke taking him a little deeper inside
  her.  The sensation is so tight, so hot - like nothing else he's ever
  known.  He hears her panting in his ear.  He thrusts again, she stiffens
  and cries out, and he's inside her.  Not all the way, but enough.  The
  feeling is so powerful that he's afraid to move.  He is still,
  trembling, just as she is.
  
  She looks up at him, her eyes full of wonder.  
  
  Slowly, he pulls back and thrusts again, watching the mixture of pain
  and pleasure on her face as her body is filled with his.
  
  "I love you. I'll always love you," he promises her. "Only you."
      
  She nods, drawing him down on top of her.  He moves again, trying to be
  gentle, but the urge to thrust is so strong.  She cries out at the last
  few strokes, pressing her face against his shoulder as his orgasm 
  comes, sending electricity convulsing through his body.
  
  He lies on top of her, spent, with beads of sweat dripping from his
  forehead. "Are you all right?" he asks as he catches his breath.
  
  She kisses his neck tenderly, and runs her fingers through his hair,
  then across his face.  He wants her to be pregnant.  He wants to marry
  her, to have children with her, to spend his life with her.
  
  "That did hurt." He withdraws with a final shudder, and presses up on
  his elbows. "Didn't it?"
  
  Her face is flushed, and her hair is tousled.  She's so beautiful.  So
  alive. "It's supposed to, Fox. It's supposed to be like this."
  
  "I know it is," he agrees, then kisses her.  
  
  This is how it is supposed to be.
  
  In the abandoned church that no one knows about, for a stolen afternoon
  he lies beside her on the blanket beneath the infinite blue sky, holding
  her close as sleep comes.  When he opens his eyes, the dream is over, it
  is night, and she is gone.
  
  She always is.
  
  *~*~*~*
            
  End: Paracelsus, Prologue