Title: Paracelsus
Author: prufrock's love
Rating: R
Summary: Georgia Lowcountry: August, 1865
 
*~*~*~*

My Dear Wife,

In each city, instead of searching randomly, I try to think where I 
would be if I were a thirteen-year-old boy.  'At home doing what 
my father told me' is where I would be, so then I try to think where 
I would be if I were Samuel.  

Knowing our son travels in his stomach, I have taken to staking out 
the bakeries as they put out the apple turnovers, certain the smell 
will lure him in.  Often, I buy one to take with me in case he is 
hungry when I find him.  Sherman destroyed most of the railroads 
in Georgia and the Carolinas, but I go to the train depot next, 
regardless – it seems like the proper place to wait and look 
expectant.  I stand outside the toy store until mothers begin to give 
me worried glances.  I watch the children leaving the schoolyard in 
case he has had a change of heart and willingly opened a book.  
Then, I check the hospitals, then the orphanage, then cemeteries.   

I wonder if I should even write that to you: that I have looked for 
Samuel among the dead.  That I have begun to feel like Don 
Quixote tilting at his windmill.  I still want some truth I can tuck 
away inside my heart, some answer when I look up at the Heavens 
and ask, "Why?"  I want not to feel empty and alone.  And afraid.  
I want so badly to believe there are still happy endings in this 
world - I am not sure if that makes me an optimist or a fool.   

I suppose I just want peace, Melly, and I will come home when I 
find it.  Until then, I will keep searching.  
 
Mulder           

*~*~*~*

It was hot.  No, not just hot – some sort of Hell-on-Earth, ninth 
circle, torturous kind of wet-hot Dante forgot to mention.  Mulder 
could understand how Dante might have overlooked it, but it 
would have made an excellent plot point: sending the damned past 
the inferno and into the Deep South in August. 

And the Devil should make those sinners wear wool uniforms and 
have their canteen run dry about fifteen minutes ago.

This was the kind of weather that made a man want to sit on a 
porch, sip something cool, and be fanned by one of those doe-eyed 
Georgia peaches.  Or, if he had to work, he'd need something to 
yell at – maybe a few human beings stripped of their rights and 
sold into lifelong bondage.  That must have been why the 
Southerners had been so set on keeping their slaves: the heat.  The 
Union could have avoided a long, merciless war if they would have 
just sent a few more fans and some lemonade over the Mason-
Dixon line.

It was a little late for that, Mulder thought tiredly, giving his horse 
a nudge with his heels so he ambled aimlessly a little faster.  The 
War was over, he was a long way from home, and no one was 
likely to offer him a shady porch, a cold drink, or to fan him and 
bat her eyes this afternoon.  He unfastened another button on his 
jacket, not getting much relief.  A veritable river of sweat 
converged between his shoulder blades and flowed down to the 
small of his back, soaking through his blue uniform and making 
him itch miserably.

"Oh, leave her alone," he snapped, rounding a turn in the road and 
finding a group of scraggly Yankee soldiers harassing a lone 
woman.  A good portion of the Union army seemed to think they'd 
fought a war so they could rape, pillage, and swindle as they 
pleased afterwards.  It wasn't enough to put down the rebellious 
South; they had to pick the bones clean afterward.  

It seemed there were too many villains and not nearly enough 
heroes these days.

"We're just paying our respects," one man called, not looking at 
Mulder approaching behind him. "This little lady isn't very 
appreciative."

"Find a woman in town who is appreciative and pay your respects 
to her," Mulder said authoritatively.  They probably wouldn't 
actually harm her, but there was no sense in upsetting her just for 
the fun of it.  "Now," he barked.

The soldiers turned, not happy at being ordered around, but jumped 
when they saw his officer's uniform and insignia.  "Yes, sir," the 
ringleader finally mumbled.  The scraggly soldier nodded to the 
others, and they quickly remounted their horses and, after polite 
'good days' to the woman, disappeared into a grove of cypress 
trees.   

"Are you all right?" Mulder asked, swinging down from the saddle 
and eyeing her swollen stomach warily.  She was too far along to 
be walking anywhere in this heat, and no gentlewoman with good 
sense would go anywhere without a male escort.  In the city, no 
lady would be seen in public so obviously with child, but there 
were very few people left to care out here.

"I am fine," she answered quickly, tucking a few stray strands of 
red hair back underneath her broad hat.  When she glanced up, 
squinting at him in the sun, he had a quick glimpse of fine features 
on a small, heart-shaped face with lips drawn into a determined 
line.

"Can I help you with those?" he asked, gesturing to the parcels she 
bent to pick up, missing them by several inches as she tried to 
reach over her belly.  "Let me rephrase that: I –will- help you with 
those."

"I am fine," she repeated for his edification, as though he might not 
have heard her the first time.

"I am not saying you are not," he responded, surprised at her lack 
of gratitude. "But it is in an etiquette book my tutor made me read 
years ago: when a women drops her packages on the road and is 
unable to reach them, a gentleman must help her."

"It must have been some book to cover even this," she said, 
beginning to sound annoyed as she made another try at reaching 
the sacks she had dropped, again not even coming close.

He stooped down, gathering up what appeared to be twenty-pound 
bags of coffee beans and either sugar or salt she must have been 
hoarding. "Well, it was a situation something like this," he said 
awkwardly, standing up and managing to politely overlook her 
breasts and belly. "I think it had to do with a hanky, though."

"That would be a little more likely."  She reached for the sacks, but 
he moved back slightly, thinking she did not need anything else to 
carry besides that baby. "Thank you for your help, sir," she said 
pointedly, offering her arms again.

"I can carry them for you – or put them on my horse, rather.  
Where are you going?"

"Town," she answered, watching warily as he secured the bags 
over his saddle.  

"Where would town be?" He'd gotten turned around and all the 
burnt plantations in the Lowcountry had begun to look alike.

"Three miles north."

"And you had planned to walk three miles while carrying these?"

She folded her arms, looking annoyed that he would dare question 
her.  The part of him accustom to obedient women toyed with just 
leaving her and her parcels sitting beside the road, but the part that 
loved a challenge quickly dismissed that idea.  

"I would send a servant, but my husband's went with the Yankee 
soldiers.  I would drive, but his horses and buggies went with the 
servants.  I would ask my husband to go, but he has not come back 
from The War yet.  I would wait, but time is not going to wait on 
me much longer," she explained.        

"And you could fly, but you do not have wings," Mulder supplied, 
trying to consider all the possibilities and enjoying finding an 
intelligent, if headstrong, woman to talk to.  Hell, he would have 
enjoyed finding an intelligent squirrel to talk to at that point.

"I had not thought of that, sir," she nodded back. "Yes, I should 
definitely fly, except for my sadly lacking wings. Really, I do 
appreciate the help – those men just have me a little rattled."

"You are not a Southerner," he observed, hearing traces of a 
foreign accent, leading his horse by the reins and walking slowly to 
accommodate her lumbering pace.

"No, my husband is Georgian.  I was born in Ireland.  Oh, I am 
sorry – my name is Dana." She offered her delicate hand, and he 
glanced at his own, noting it lacked a glove and was none too clean 
as he shook hers.  
  
"Mr. Mulder.  Just Mulder, most of the time.  I am pleased to meet 
you, Ma'am.  And I am sorry those soldiers were harassing you.  
They are supposed to keep order, not stir up trouble."

She nodded, and he started walking again, thinking their 
salutations were finished.  Instead of following, Dana stopped, 
putting a hand on her belly, a curious expression crossing her face. 
"I need just a second, please."

Her second stretched to a minute, and then to a tense eon as he 
waited, watching her and trying to figure out a delicate way to say 
it.  Delicacy and diplomacy came as naturally as setting himself 
afire, so he said bluntly, "Ma'am, you need to go home and rest.  It 
is too hot for you to be going anywhere in your condition."

"I need things for the baby," she insisted, finally drawing a deep 
breath and standing up straighter. "The servants took everything 
they could carry from the house." 

"Let me take you home, and then I'll go to town and trade for 
whatever you want," he offered. "I am going anyway, and I can 
ride there and back by nightfall."

"Or you could just take my coffee and sugar and disappear," she 
countered, putting her hands on the small of her back as though it 
ached.

He considered a moment, then slipped his wedding ring off his 
finger, offering it to her. "I do not want your coffee or sugar, but 
you can be sure I will come back for that."
 
She looked up at him, scanning his face for something, then 
dropped her eyes, holding out her palm.   

*~*~*~*

Mulder wasn't sure of the propriety of entering a deserted 
mansion.  Obviously, no butler was going to greet him, but it 
seemed rude to just barge in.  He finally pushed the front door 
open, knocking loudly and calling for her in the empty foyer.  
When Dana didn't answer, he ventured further, passing through 
what had once been a plantation house in all its glory, but was now 
just a battered shell.  Discolored squares of wallpaper marked 
where paintings had hung, and the expensive mahogany floor and 
furniture looked naked – stripped of every object of value.  

The Negro servants hadn't known what to take as they fled: 
candelabras and silver spoons couldn't be traded for food if there 
was no food to trade them for.  With all the able-bodied men 
having been at war four years running and the ports closed to cargo 
ships until last month, much of the South was quietly starving.  
Vast fields of rice, cotton, and tobacco were going to seed, 
occasionally interrupted by the grave of a quarter-million young 
men who had died trying to defend their way of life. 

"Here," she finally called from the back of the house, her voice 
sounding small and lost in the vast darkness.

"I am sorry if I worried you," Mulder apologized, setting the 
packages on the kitchen table, fumbling in the flickering 
candlelight. "You neglected to mention the nearest boat dock is 
three miles away – the nearest place to trade for anything at a 
reasonable price is Savannah.  I thought I could be back 
yesterday."

"I was not worried," she said quietly from the shadows.    

"You should be worried: living here, alone – I would not be happy 
if you were my wife," he scolded, untying the bundles. "There is 
no one around for miles."

"Then why should I worry?"    

That was a good point, but just on principle he wasn't letting her 
have the last word.  Picking up the candle, he stepped closer to her 
voice, finding her slouched in a wooden chair, her arms cradling 
her belly. "If something would-"

He saw her jaws widen as her teeth clenched, eyes closing and 
head tilting slightly back in pain.  

"Is it time?" 

She nodded, keeping her eyes closed and waiting for the 
contraction to pass.   
     
"Is there a doctor or a midwife?" he asked urgently, already 
knowing the answer. "A neighbor?  I will get them.  Is there 
anyone?"

"No," she managed, exhaling slowly. "I will be fine."

He was already getting tired of hearing her say that phrase.  "All 
right.  Is there anything I can do?"

"No.  I am grateful for all you've already-" She stopped again, 
panting softly as beads of sweat appeared on her forehead.    

"I – uh, um…" Mulder stumbled, starting to panic. "I will just wait 
then, and, uh, make sure you are okay.  Outside.  I will wait 
outside." He was a seasoned hallway pacer, skilled at imagining all 
the horrors happening on the other side of the door until the doctor 
finally appeared.

"You do that," she answered between shallow breaths. "That 
would be very helpful."

He had a suspicion he was being made fun of, but he wasn't sure 
and Dana seemed focused on other things besides casual 
conversation.  He assured himself she probably had a dozen 
children somewhere and could manage this easily by herself – 
regardless of whether or not she looked to be barely out of her 
teens and scared out of her wits.   

"Okay, I will just, uh…" He started backing out of the kitchen, 
afraid to look away, when she moaned, her body convulsing. "Oh, 
Jesus Christ!" he cursed, immediately returning to her so he could 
hover helplessly.  "You need to be in bed," he decided, glad to be 
of some use.  Helping her stand, Mulder asked urgently, "Which 
way is your bedroom?"

"Aren't you going to carry me?  Chivalry must be dead." 

"I was afraid I would hurt…" he started to explain before he 
realized she was making a joke. "Oh, you are funny – very funny."   

He helped her stumble to an adjacent room that had probably 
belonged to the cook, laying her down and then standing nervously 
at the end of the bed. "I will be just outside.  Just call if you need 
me," he whispered, trying not to disturb her, and this time made it 
all the way to the door before another contraction came and she 
cried out.    

"There must be something I can do," he insisted, looming over her 
again, dripping candle wax on the old quilt.  "Anything?"

When she didn't respond, he reached for her hand anxiously, 
kneeling beside the rusty iron bed.  

"I am all right," she assured him as the pain passed, closing her 
eyes so she could rest a few seconds.  

"Do you want me to leave?"  

Dana shook her head 'no,' murmuring something unintelligible, 
then asking, "Do you have any children, Mr. Mulder?"

"I think, in this situation, just 'Mulder' would be fine. Yes, Melly 
and I have a son named Samuel.  Sam."

"Tell me about Sam," she requested, "just Mulder." 

"He's thirteen.  He's smart.  And brave. And foolish.  What do you 
want me to tell you, Ma'am?"

"Tell me about anything outside this room.  Tell me about your 
family.  How long since you've seen them?"

"I saw Sam last fall with General Sherman.  I looked up and 
discovered that scamp had run off and joined the Army."

"And your wife?" she asked, obviously trying to keep him talking.

"The last time I saw her?  More days and nights than I want to 
count," he said quietly, still holding her moist hand. "I was home 
on leave – home is in Washington, near the capital," he added, 
searching for something to say. "A red brick house on the corner.  
It's the one with all the broken windows: my son likes to play 
baseball in the yard and he keeps hitting the ball through the front 
windows.  He can break them faster than I can replace them."

She scooted further up in bed, half-sitting, and bracing herself 
against the headboard, resting her head back against the pillow, 
and taking long, slow breaths.

"You are still all right? Nothing is wrong?" Mulder asked, keeping 
his eyes carefully focused on her face rather than anything that 
might be happening below her waist. "Or do you know?" 

"My mother was a midwife… and my cat had kittens, once," she 
murmured, smiling slightly.    

He watched as the shadows washed over her face, marveling at 
how she could find any comfort in his presence.  Both their 
medical expertise combined barely constituted half a nurse, and it 
was not his body this child was trying to come out of.  The only 
birth he had actually witnessed involved a colt, and that had made 
him queasy.  "What can I do to help?"

"Just keep talking. I can listen to your voice and concentrate on it 
rather than the pain. You have a nice voice."

Embarrassed at her compliment, he blinked, then recovered by 
choosing a new topic: "Melly – Melissa and I had been friends as 
long as I can remember.  We grew up together and married as soon 
as her father allowed it.  Sam came not long after: he was Melly's 
sixteenth birthday gift, actually.  She said it was so I would finally 
remember her birthday: it was my son's as well.  I told her she 
didn't really have to go to such lengths – we had a calendar, after 
all.  We didn't need a child to mark every anniversary and 
holiday."    

"No more?" she panted, another contraction beginning to build.

"No, no more children for a long time.  I was away at school, and 
then Melly had been ill.  And The War, of course.  There was a 
baby coming, though, the last time I saw her."  

"Your wife is going to have a baby?" 

He nodded 'yes' without thinking, putting his arm around her 
shoulders to help lift, since she seemed to want to sit up further.  
"And I plan to be pacing my usual route in the hallway while the 
doctor delivers my daughter," he promised her, wondering what 
possessed him to say that.   

*~*~*~*  

"Can you hear me, ma'am?" Mulder asked tensely, watching her 
face for any response. "Ma'am, it is Mulder.  Squeeze my hand if 
you can hear me."

Her fingers finally pressed against his, and he squeezed back, 
gently massaging her palm with his thumb.

"Thank God.  There you are," he said softly, finally exhaling as 
Dana opened her eyes, blinking in confusion. "You had me a little 
worried.  There is no need for these theatrics, you know," he 
teased, still studying her.

Actually, saying he had been 'a little worried,' was like calling The 
War 'a minor inconvenience.'  These Southern ladies were fond of 
swooning, but they usually did it at more convenient times and 
managed to attract a male audience as they gracefully, dramatically 
fell to the floor.  Giving birth and then simply passing out cold in 
the aftermath was not a polite way to hold a fellow's attention.   

"Baby?" she asked, looking from side to side in the tiny, shadowy 
room.  The candle had died hours ago, leaving Mulder to deliver, 
bathe, and swaddle the newborn by moonlight, which might have 
been a partial blessing in disguise.   

"Be still – you were bleeding, and I do not want it to start again," 
Mulder hushed her. "You have a little girl.  Are you all right?"

She nodded, still looking pale and woozy and a little uncertain of 
what had happened.  Frankly, he was a little uncertain of what had 
happened except there had been pushing and screaming – some 
from him - and, underneath lots of blood and slime and tears, 
suddenly a new human being.  It was as though God had 
overlooked the war-ravaged nation, the endless fields of weeds and 
dead soldiers, and Mulder's complete ineptness, and slipped a bit 
of humanity between the cracks of civilization.   

"That has to be the most amazing, miraculous, horrible thing I 
have ever seen.  Giving birth, I mean – not your daughter.  She is 
beautiful."

"Is she?" Dana murmured, tiredly turning her head to see.  Mulder 
shifted the tiny bundle of towels in the crook of his arm so she 
could see the child's face, now considerably cleaner and less red 
than it had been earlier.  

Her hand left his, wanting the baby, so he laid the little girl beside 
her, placing her arm around the child. "She is perfect, Ma'am."   

"She is, isn't she?" Dana pushed away the towel, stroking the 
infant's tiny hand, marveling at the miniature fingernails. "Hello, 
little girl," she told the baby, who pursed her lips in response.

"So many miracles in one small form - it is amazing what flesh, 
love, and God can create." Mulder murmured in awe, watching 
Dana's face in first purple flickers of dawn. "Welcome to the 
world, little one – such as it is."
 
*~*~*~*

He knew he wasn't one of those men who could set women's 
hearts fluttering with his flowery words and elaborate 
complements, but he wasn't a gangly, tongue-tied adolescent 
anymore, either.  Mulder could usually manage to string a sentence 
together well enough to get his point across, and he was aware of 
the differences between the male and the female of the species, so 
he was surprised at his sudden bashfulness around her.  

Once the crisis had passed, he felt the immediate need to be 
anyplace else, like a groom who has just spent his first night with 
the bride and was afraid to face her the next morning.  What had 
seemed perfectly acceptable in the darkness now made his face feel 
hot and necessitated him sitting in a chair across the room, staring 
intently at a spot on the wall above the headboard.  He was afraid 
to leave her alone so soon, so he adopted a distant, overly-
solicitous air, walking on eggshells and pretending he had no idea 
how that baby had come into the world.                      

Since Mulder was the self-appointed chief cook and bottle washer, 
he and Dana were subsisting on whatever combination of flour, 
lard, water, soda, and salt he could create.  He'd made biscuits that 
were very nice, if he peeled the burnt part off the bottom.  She ate 
without complaint, listened as he rambled on - eager to fill up the 
silence - nodded occasionally, and sometimes fell asleep in the 
middle of the story, which he didn't take personally.  She had said 
he had a nice voice, which was the first compliment he'd received 
from a woman in a long time.  Granted, it had been a married 
woman in labor, but still…  Giving a man a license to talk about 
himself was like milking a bull: do it once and make a friend for 
life. 

"I always thought Sam had to be possessed to get in so much 
trouble.  I can't remember being half as rotten at his age.  My 
father said he put a curse on me so I would have a son who was 
just as much of a scamp as I was, and I think it worked seven-
fold."

"How did he get into the Union Army at thirteen?" Dana asked, 
finishing the not-black part of her late breakfast, then brushing the 
crumbs off the bed sheets.  He had moved her and the baby to a 
more comfortable room, and then left just long enough to clean up 
the mess downstairs and fix something to eat.  Mulder had 
followed her directions for making biscuits just as he had for 
delivering the baby, but the baby had turned out much better.

"By the end of The War, they took drummers and buglers at 
fourteen, and Sam was tall.  And he was a good shot.  He slipped 
away from the house and lied about his age.  And his name, 
probably, since I could not find a Samuel William Mulder..." he 
hesitated, then couldn't quite bring himself to say it. "I didn't 
know whether to burst with pride or put him over my knee when I 
saw him with General Sherman.  I told him to go home, but of 
course he promised he would and then did not."

"He sounds almost as stubborn as his father."

"People always say that," Mulder quipped, tilting his wooden chair 
back. "But I have no idea why…"

"You miss your Sam and Melly," she said, making a statement 
rather than asking a question. "It is good to see a man who adores 
his family."

"They are my life," he said easily, knowing that was the truth. "My 
rascal Sam and my beautiful Melissa.  It is a very empty world 
without them – and there is no one to tell me what to do and later, 
to tell me how I am doing it wrong."

"Then go home, Mr. Mulder.  If I'm not mistaken, that's an 
officer's insignia on your uniform, and your wife needs you.  
Emily and I are fine and you must have better things to do than 
play nursemaid to me."    

He had been keeping his face arranged in a friendly, polite 
expression, but turned to look out the window, suddenly very far 
away.  "My wife is not going to have a baby.  I don't know why I 
said that," Mulder apologized.  He sat the chair down on all four 
legs with a sharp thump, standing quickly. "I am sorry I lied to 
you.  I'll come back and check on you in a little bit."   

"Mr. Mulder…" she began, but he shook his head, and she let him 
go.

His boots tromped quickly down the grand staircase, across the 
foyer, and out to the broad porch.  Sitting heavily on the front 
steps, Mulder looked out at the vast swamps, so dense they were 
still dark in the mid-morning, so hostile they could swallow a 
teenage boy as thoughtlessly and completely as a frog swallows a 
fly.  He slouched forward, resting his elbows on his knees and 
letting his head hang wearily, for the first time beginning to admit 
defeat.  It was not just the Southerners whose was of life had come 
to an end.

*~*~*~*
 
"Is everything all right?" he asked, appearing at the kitchen door 
still buttoning his shirt and pulling his suspenders up over his 
shoulders so he was presentable.  He and the hoot owl had been up 
before dawn having a tense discussion over who could sleep where 
in the barn's loft.  Mulder, conceding defeat, had gone to backyard 
pump to rinse off before daylight, and been mid-scrub when he 
noticed the smell of bacon frying.   

"Should you be up so soon?  I don't think you should be up so 
soon, ma'am," he decided, drawing on his two-day-old knowledge 
of obstetrics. "Go back to bed: I will do that.  You need to rest."    

"I have rested.  Now I am fixing breakfast," Dana answered 
casually, poking at the contents of the frying pan with a fork and 
eliciting a mouthwatering sizzle. "I cannot keep letting you wait on 
me hand and foot.  It is not right." 

He wrinkled his forehead for a few seconds, not really awake yet, 
before Mulder understood what she was getting at. "Oh, of course - 
yes, but circumstances – uh...  I understand how bad it looks for 
me to be here, but you just had a baby, for pity's sake.  I do not 
even sleep in the house.  How could anyone think…"  He 
swallowed awkwardly. "I will take you to stay with your parents – 
wherever they are," he said decisively, "Or to one of the homes for 
widows and orphans.  Leave your husband a message and he can 
come for you when he returns.  You cannot live here alone: your 
husband will understand.  I would understand, if you were my 
wife.  You cannot endanger yourself or your daughter."
   
She stared at him for a few seconds – long enough to be 
discomforting – and then, shaking her head in wonder, began to 
laugh softly as she flipped another slice of bacon.  

"What?" Mulder asked defensively, caught off guard.  

"I am not a soldier you can order around as you please, and, as you 
have already pointed out, I am not your wife, either.  Not all Dixie 
belles whimper and hide under the bed every time a shutter rattles 
or a Yankee passes through, Mr. Mulder."

"I did not say they did," he said, floundering through this novel 
situation.  She might look like an angel, but she had the 
temperament of a mule.  The dichotomy was challenging, but it 
had its charms – but not until he'd had coffee. "I'm only trying to 
help."      
 
"I'm only trying to politely say I cannot stomach any more of your 
biscuits.  I had no intention of debating propriety or women's 
suffrage before breakfast.  Sit down and eat."

"Oh," he exhaled.  Jesus – all this mental wrestling before seven in 
the morning, and he wasn't even sure he'd won.    

"Do you want coffee?" she asked, picking up a cup from the shelf 
above the stove and setting it in front of him.

He blinked at her, then chuckled, nodding 'yes.' 
 
*~*~*~*

End: Section I