Title: The Geometry of Loss (Chapter 4)
Author: Kudra (kudra_x@yahoo.com)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer:  These characters aren't mine.  They belong 
to Chris Carter, 1013 & Fox, but they sure are fun to 
play with.
Category: Post-The Truth, MSR
Summary: Mulder and Scully struggle with the reality of 
their new existence months after the events of "William" 
and "The Truth"
Archive: Thanks to the generosity of Elizabeth 
Rowandale, Chapters 1-4 can also be found at 
http://rowan_d.tripod.com/kudra/geometry.html.
As for other archives, feel free, but please let me know 
where.


"The Geometry of Loss"
by Kudra

Chapter 4


Epimenides' Paradox.  

The Liar's Paradox.  Epimenides, the man of Crete, who 
asserted that "all Cretans are liars."  Transcribed in 
Greek texts, quoted in the Christian Bible, debated for 
centuries by scholars and logicians... a puzzle posed by 
a mythical poet-philosopher who may or may not have ever 
lived.  Some say he was a teacher, a healer, a guide.  
Some have called him a prophet, a shaman, a visionary.

And others have called him a liar.

The most romantic of the many tales surrounding him 
relates that Epimenides rested for years in a cave, deep 
in the bowels of the earth.  Awakening from his long 
sleep, he found the world had changed dramatically 
around him, and he with it.  Epimenides arose to the 
gift of prophecy, but declared himself a fraud.

But was that the ultimate honesty?  Could anyone ever 
truly believe a man who deals in dreams and visions, who 
speaks to spirits, angels, demons, a host of the 
intangible?

Can I believe the ethereal images that pass before my 
eyes?

And when it comes to belief, can we ever really know 
what is truth?  Is truth a fabrication or is the 
fabrication indeed truth?  Or is blind faith the best we 
can hope for?  Is this what was really meant by "trust 
no one"... or should our aim instead be to trust 
everyone?  

Yet despite all my shattered illusions, all the 
betrayals and broken dreams, I find that somehow... I 
still want to believe.

************

In her decade of life with Mulder, Dana Scully has seen 
more than her share of extraordinary occurrences.  Some 
have shaken her faith, while others have restored her 
belief in the order of the universe.  Although she 
harbors few regrets, she sometimes finds herself wistful 
for the easy sense of trust she used to possess, her old 
faith in the better nature of people.  Years of 
deception and betrayal have taught her a philosophy of 
guilty until proven innocent.  

Tonight, as she appraises the stranger lurking in her 
doorway, instead of mourning her lost innocence, she 
prefers to consider it less about cynicism and more 
about survival.

"Ernest *Hosteen*?"  Scully stares incredulously at the 
dark-haired man in front of her.  "How do you know my 
name?"

Hosteen remains silent and motionless, scanning the 
room, his eyes resting finally on Mulder, who points a 
gun in his direction.  

"I think you'd better tell her," says Mulder firmly.

"Fox William Mulder," says Hosteen. "The FBI man.  He 
has returned from the land of the dead... more than 
once... even though he will not speak of it."

"Spare us the history lesson.  Tell us who you are and 
why you're here," demands Mulder. 

"I've told you, Mr. Mulder," replies Hosteen, stepping 
into the room.  "My name is Ernest Hosteen.  My father 
is Albert Hosteen, a man who has helped both you and 
your partner in the past."

"You speak of him as living," says Scully, "but Albert 
Hosteen passed away in 1999.  I would think that his 
*son* would be aware of that fact."

"I never spoke of him as living," answers Hosteen. "My 
father has passed to the land of our ancestors... but 
still, he asked me to come here."

"I don't believe you," Scully says, freezing him with an 
icy glare.  "Lift your arms over your head.  Turn 
around."  She slams the door closed, and the thud echoes 
along the cheap motel walls.

Hosteen glances at Mulder, who nods his head, his gun 
still raised.

Hosteen raises his hands and turns around slowly.  
Scully steps behind him, brushing his long black hair 
away from the nape of his neck.  She examines the area 
closely, her fingers searching his skin, her breath 
tight in her throat.

She relaxes slightly, audibly exhales, and meets 
Mulder's gaze.  "He appears to be clean.  No sign of the 
nodule."

Mulder nods.  "Well, at least we know he's not one of 
them."  He puts his hand on Hosteen's shoulder and 
pulls, gesturing for him to turn back around.  "Now tell 
us why you're here."

"I was asked to come here," repeats Hosteen, lowering 
his arms.  "There is a missing boy... your son.  You 
have the means to find him, but you must be shown.  You 
need a guide."

"How have you connected us to this?"  Scully asks, 
frowning.

Hosteen closes his eyes, and speaks low and laboriously.  
"My father... appeared to me.  He told me about the two 
of you, specifically Mr. Mulder's dilemma.  Said you 
needed my help."  

He opens his eyes and stares at Mulder.  "You're seeing 
things, aren't you, Mr. Mulder?  Seeing things you don't 
understand.  Hearing voices, messages you can't 
comprehend.  They're jumbled, frenetic, aren't they?  
Their motion causes you pain."

Scully watches as Mulder trembles slightly and begins to 
lower his gun.  "Mulder!  What the hell are you doing?"

"You've only told her part of it," Hosteen whispers, 
knowingly.  "She doesn't know you're suffering."

Scully feels a sudden chill.  "Mulder, what is he 
talking about?"  She steps over to Mulder and touches 
his arm, looking into his eyes.  "Are you seeing... 
hearing things again?"

She's not sure she wants to hear his answer.

"Scully," Mulder whispers, "I don't think I ever 
stopped."

************

Mulder passes beers around from a small cooler and 
offers Hosteen a battered chair covered with cracked 
leather.  Scully leans against the wall, listening 
warily, as their visitor begins to speak.  

"I fought it, too, Mulder," Hosteen explains. "I'd had 
the visions since I was young, just like my father... 
but it was a burden I didn't want.  When I went off to 
college -- Berkeley grad school by way of UNM -- I 
wanted to get as far away from tribal life as I could.  
Wasn't gonna be some crazy Indian on the reservation, 
talking to ghosts and spirits.  Wasn't gonna sit around 
and watch my life be planned and regulated by whites.  I 
turned my back on tribal ways.  Went for an MBA, did 
corporate America, walked around in a fog for years and 
years, never realizing what was missing... but knowing 
there was a hole in my life that grew bigger everyday."  
He pauses, glancing at a shadowy corner of the room.  

"Then the visions started again, more intense than when 
I'd had them as a kid... scaring the hell out of me.  So 
I set out to bury them any way I could.  Sex, drugs, 
rock 'n' roll, whatever was out there.  Typical running 
from reality.  Then one night I was knocked flat on my 
back by my dead grandfather... and something else I 
couldn't quite explain... still don't know what the hell 
it was.  They stepped out of the shadows and told me 
things that shook my world and changed my life.  I came 
out of that trance ready to walk the path."

"The path?" Scully asks. "What path?"

He meets Mulder's eyes with a dark look. "The path of 
the shaman."

Scully tries to catch Mulder's gaze, but he's 
transfixed, looking somewhere beyond the small, dark man 
in front of them.

Hosteen continues.  "What I'm talking about is a 
connection with higher consciousness---something that we 
are all capable of, but few of us can access easily.  A 
shaman is merely someone who can harness that latent 
ability."

He narrows his eyes. "I was given a vision, a mission.  
They told me a great change was coming.  Those who came 
before are returning.  Those who gave us the spark of 
life, consciousness, our old wisdom, long ago.  They 
asked only that we take care of this planet until their 
return... but we abandoned those ways long ago, and set 
ourselves on a path of destruction that threatens to 
destroy our world.  In order to preserve the planet, the 
old ones will be forced to destroy us.  But my 
grandfather told me that those who live by the old ways 
will be spared.  He charged me with rediscovering this 
path, opening my mind to the messages, and finding a way 
to bridge the old and new to prepare for the future."

He takes a sip of his beer. "After that, I found others 
who shared my vision.  No one who came was turned 
away... a gathering, if you will, of indigenous peoples-
--Hopi, Navajo---with what we call the other three 
races..."

Scully cuts him off with a low cough.  "I hope you can 
understand that we might harbor a degree of skepticism, 
Mr. Hosteen," she says.  "Our dealings with your father 
*were* limited, but we never heard him speak of you... 
or your... project."

Hosteen laughs. "Well, we weren't on the best of terms 
back then.  In life, my father never understood what I 
was trying to do.  He thought it was wrong for me to 
bring those who were not Navajo into my circle.  We 
don't speak of our ways, our legends, with strangers.  
And there I was bringing whites, blacks, Asians, 
everybody into the mix... and talking about the end of 
the world.  Dad thought he'd sent me to college and I'd 
lost my mind."  He paused thoughtfully for a moment.  "I 
guess I did."

"I can relate," says Mulder, with a laugh.  Scully rolls 
her eyes.

Hosteen smiles.  "We come together to move both backward 
and forward at once.  To relearn, rekindle and redefine 
the old ways.  I've come to believe that it's the only 
way to save ourselves, and make way for their return." 

"Do you mean aliens, Mr. Hosteen?" Scully asks, her 
eyebrow raised.

"No," he replies, "*alien* would imply that they are not 
of this world.  They are Those Who Came Before.  Some 
believe they brought us here... to the Fifth World."

"You're referring to the many legends of Southwestern 
tribes, a tradition that maintained that the world had 
been destroyed and reborn many times, with another 
imminent destruction to come," Mulder says.  "There are 
many accounts of extraterrestrial visitors associated 
with these stories."

"But most stories have a basis in truth, don't they, Mr. 
Mulder?" says Hosteen. "For instance, you have learned 
quite recently of another ominous date, haven't you?"

"Yes," answers Mulder, "but there's no way of knowing 
whether that information is true or not... or what it 
really means for our future."

"Do you find it a coincidence that the date of December 
22, 2012 matches the end of the Aztec calendar?" Hosteen 
asks.

Scully has tried to be patient, but so much time has 
been wasted already. "I'm sure the two of you could swap 
apocalyptic theories all night long," she says angrily, 
"but none of this is relevant to the problem at hand."  

She locks eyes with Hosteen, and folds her arms across 
her chest. "You said you were sent to help us find our 
son.  I want to know how you propose to do that."

Hosteen breathes deeply, closing his eyes again.  "Your 
faith lies in investigation, analysis."  He opens his 
eyes, focusing on Scully.  "This will be of no use here.  
Those who have taken your son do not wish to be found... 
and have the resources to hide as long as needed.  To 
find your son, you must turn to alternative methods."

"Dammit!  If you know where he is..." Scully suddenly 
raises her voice.  Mulder places his hand on her 
shoulder, silencing her with a look.  Setting her jaw 
stubbornly, she listens.

"I do not know where your son is being held, Ms. 
Scully," Hosteen says softly.  "I wish I did.  I can 
only sense what surrounds him... darkness, power, 
danger."

"How are we supposed to find him, then?" Mulder asks.

"As his father, you have a bond, a connection to him, 
that I do not have.  You've caught glimpses of him over 
the past months, haven't you?" Hosteen asks.

Mulder nods slowly, as Scully stares at him in 
disbelief.

*Mulder, why haven't you told me?*

"You must draw on that connection to focus your sight, 
to find him.  I can help you learn this.  You have the 
gift, Mr. Mulder," says Hosteen solemnly.  "My father 
saw it.  That's why he helped you years ago, why he 
brought you back.  It's why he worked so hard to make 
sure that you would not be destroyed by those men.  He 
knew that when you were ready, your gifts would emerge."

Scully flashes to a memory she'd almost forgotten.  
Mulder missing, dying, voices in his head.  Whispered 
prayers, kneeling with Albert Hosteen in her living 
room.  She learned later that he had died days before. 

*There are more worlds than the one you can hold in your 
hand.* 

"Are you talking about the visions I'm experiencing?" 
Mulder asks, feeling suddenly wary.

"It's always been in you.  It's why you were so good at 
your job. How you could profile all those people, feel 
what they felt, and still come back to yourself," 
Hosteen explains.

"Well, I don't know about that," Mulder admits.

"Don't doubt what you know, you feel, to be true.  This 
appears in all cultures.  The language used for it just 
depends on your background.  Some call it the second 
sight, some call it ESP, some of my people call it 
shamanism.  That is, if you believe in that kind of 
thing."  Hosteen grins as Mulder raises an eyebrow.

"Oh boy," Scully mutters under her breath, and she can 
feel her unease growing, that familiar disbelief rising 
and crystallizing once again.  

*********

Scully has listened as long as she possibly can, with a 
growing sense of anxiety.  She's always been unnerved by 
the way Mulder can be so easily seduced by the right 
words, the right subject matter.  Bringing him back to 
earth has always been her role, but she feels this is a 
path they've walked far too many times.

"Mulder, can I talk to you for a minute?" Scully asks, a 
command in her inflection.  She heads to the door and 
Mulder follows.

The night is calm, dark and starry, but clouds are 
gathering in the far corners of the sky.  Scully hears 
the low rumble of thunder in the distance.

"I don't know about this, Mulder," Scully whispers. "He 
sounds like a drug-addled, breakaway religious fanatic.  
I don't think he can help us find William... and the 
last thing we need is to get mixed up with another 
charismatic leader of a crazed UFO cult."

"I don't think that's what this guy is about," Mulder 
counters.

"How do you know, Mulder... because he's brought up 
visions and shamanism and contact with aliens?  Has he 
pushed the right buttons, said your magic words?"

"You've got to admit, Scully, he's put his finger on 
exactly what I've been experiencing over the last year."

"Mulder, you're not a shaman!" Scully's voice raises 
suddenly, startling her, and she abruptly returns to 
whispering. "Mulder, my opinion is that your 'visions', 
or whatever they are, have far more to do with repressed 
post-traumatic stress disorder than any mystic sources."

She reaches up and gently strokes his cheek. "You were 
abducted, Mulder---tortured, maimed, left for dead.  You 
spent three months buried, barely alive.  You lost 
nearly a year of your life." She bites her lower lip, 
her eyes wet.  "And we've never dealt with that.  You've 
never dealt with how that changed your life, how that 
affected you.  How it affected us."

"You mean in the same way you worked through *your* 
abduction, Scully?" he answers, remaining perfectly 
still while she flinches. "We've never dealt with 
anything on a deep level before," he says, coolly, "why 
should we start now?"

He brushes past her, back into the hotel room, while she 
remains outside, lifting her gaze to the stars, feeling 
the weight of things left undone and unsaid.

**********

Scully draws a deep breath, rubbing her arms against the 
approaching chill.  She exhales slowly, reaches into her 
jacket pocket for her cell phone, and taps in a number.  
She closes her eyes as she puts the phone to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Monica," says Scully, her voice low.

"Dana!" Monica Reyes's voice is earnest, eager, 
concerned.  Scully immediately considers hanging up the 
phone, wondering if this is indeed a good idea.

"No," she replies coolly, "you must have me confused 
with someone else.  My name is Deborah Newland.  I'm an 
old friend of Melvin Frohike.  Perhaps you remember 
him?"

The silence is deafening for a moment, until Monica 
finally speaks.  "Ohh... Deborah..." Scully hears 
understanding seep into Monica's voice and she begins to 
relax, but only slightly.

"We saw the report on your---the boy," Monica says, 
carefully.  "You must be... concerned."

"Yes, but I think we're on top of the situation.  One of 
my reasons for calling, Agent Reyes, is to confirm that 
you and Agent Doggett are still in your former 
positions."

"Not exactly," admits Monica.  "Our former department 
was dissolved, for lack of a better word.  We considered 
leaving the Bureau initially, but ultimately decided 
there were those who might benefit from our resources."  
She exhales dramatically. "We accepted a demotion, so 
Agent Doggett and I have been reassigned to domestic 
terrorism.  It's the hot thing right now," she chuckles. 
"Sound familiar?"

Scully suppresses a bittersweet laugh. "I should have 
expected as much.  Monica, I'd like you to do a 
background check for me.  Is that possible?"

"I *live* for background checks these days," she 
replies.  Scully can sense the wry humor behind Monica's 
glibness and for a moment, she deeply misses this woman 
she knew for only a short time.

Scully steals a quick glance through the window, where 
Mulder and Hosteen sit, still talking.  "The name is 
Ernest Hosteen," she whispers.  "That's all I have to go 
on.  Can you run that through and I'll call you in the 
next few days for results?"

"I can handle that," Monica says, "and Deborah... take 
care."

********

Mulder sits in a plastic chair on the tiny patio outside 
their motel room.  Ernest Hosteen has left, leaving him 
with an uneasy sense of intrigue.  Scully's gone to bed, 
but he's too agitated to follow.  A day too full of 
highs and lows, too much emotional baggage to carry 
forward... some of which he's directly responsible for.  
He hopes she'll be able to sleep it off. 

He knows he gets caught up in their old believer-skeptic 
game at times, and wonders if he relies on it because 
he's not sure how to define what they've become.  He 
forgets how much pain and frustration it can cause 
Scully.  There's nowhere to run from each other now when 
things get tense, no separate apartments, no office at 
Quantico.  Most days, there are only four motel walls, 
or perhaps a car, and all their shared joys and sorrows.

Earlier, he went in to check on her.  Already asleep, 
her face had relaxed with a softness he rarely sees 
anymore.  The warmth, the silk of her skin made him 
tremble as he bent down to brush her cheek, whispering, 
"I'm sorry, Scully."

When in doubt, Scully can always count on the comfort of 
sleep.  He's always found that one of her most endearing 
qualities, one he most envies.  Although he and insomnia 
have negotiated an uneasy truce over the past year, 
Mulder still turns his back on slumber in uncertain 
times. 

"You *can* trust him, you know." 

Behind him, Mulder hears a familiar gravelly voice 
drifting on the slight breeze, and he smiles in spite of 
his black mood.

"Yeah, *we* trust him... and you know we're the most 
paranoid entities in the afterlife," says a more nasal 
voice, its inherent cockiness evident even in the 
shadows.

Mulder stands up, spinning around, "Well, if it isn't 
the Three Fates?  Life, Destiny and... Doc."

"Always a pleasure to haunt you, Mulder," smirks Langly, 
long blond hair contrasting with the blackness.

"Where have you guys been?" Mulder asks.  "I keep 
getting creepy visits from Krycek.  If I'm going to 
hallucinate, I'd much rather it be dead people I like."

"Well, we would have been here sooner if Frohike didn't 
spend all his time trailing Marilyn Monroe and Jayne 
Mansfield," says Langly.

"Purely journalistic interest..." protests Frohike, 
"lots of secrets there."

"Mysteries of the ages," laughs Mulder.

Frohike turns and glares at Mulder with customary 
vinegar and bluster. "You know this fairy godmother gig 
isn't what it's all cracked up to be. You could at least 
take us seriously... especially when we appear to you 
all ominously."

"C'mon, Frohike, the only omen you guys ever represented 
was the certain end of a bad party."

"Seriously, Mulder," says Byers, stepping into the 
light, "we've been sent to tell you that, despite your 
fears to the contrary, Ernie Hosteen is here to help 
you."

"For real," adds Langly.

"You're conspicuously lacking in friends and allies, my 
man," agrees Frohike.  "Those funds and fake I.D.'s I 
set you up with will only get you so far."

"Losing my kung fu was a major blow," Langly says, "but 
you seem to be learning a few tricks.  Still it won't 
hurt to have someone on your side."

"Scully thinks he's a wacko," Mulder says.

"Scully thinks everyone's a wacko," Frohike replies.  
"It's part of her charm."

"What about William?" Mulder asks.  "Do you have any 
information about him?"

"Our consciousness is limited, Mulder.  I'm afraid we 
don't have any answers for you."  Byers shakes his head 
sadly.

"We're on a need-to-know basis," says Langly.

"And what we know is," Frohike says, "Ernie can help you 
figure out how to channel these visions you're having.  
They can lead you to William."

"Scully thinks I'm going crazy."  Mulder closes his 
eyes. "*I* think I'm going crazy."

"Not much of a trip, man," laughs Langly.  He effects a 
casual salute.  "Listen, we gotta blow this joint.  
Later, Mulder."

"Sorry to do this to you, buddy, but it's an unfortunate 
side effect.  It's gonna feel like a bad trip for a 
little while, but hold on, it'll be over soon."  Frohike 
waves goodbye, as the Gunmen begin to dissipate.

"See you soon," Byers says brightly, as if they were 
just leaving Mulder's old apartment and heading for the 
Radio Shack down the street.

Mulder takes a deep breath and steels himself for the 
inevitable head rush. Too uncontrollable, too violent to 
enjoy, the abrupt sensation sends him to his knees, 
buckling under its force.  He notes briefly that it is 
getting worse, before that thought, too, is ripped away, 
his mind no longer his own, simply a vessel for 
swirling, incomprehensible images. 

Awash in a sea of reds, greens, blues, spinning too fast 
for his conscious mind to process, one image flashes to 
the forefront.  Weathered, withered hands brushing soft, 
pink skin. Plump cheeks, reddish curls.  The image 
shifts slightly upward, like a camera panning the scene.  

A split second glimpse of a chubby face. 

"William..." Mulder murmurs as his head hits the ground.

*******
In this house of make believe
Divided in two, like Adam and Eve
You put out and I receive
Down by the railway siding
In our secret world, we were colliding
In all the places we were hiding love
What was it we were thinking of?

--Peter Gabriel, "Secret World"

*******end Chapter 4*********


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