The Abomination

by incidental

Summary:

It's the summer of 1692 in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Dana Scully, a spinster with a gift for herbal medicine, engages in a forbidden love with a Jewish man from a neighboring town, and runs afoul of the religious elite at the height of the Salem Witch Hysteria. They will have to test the limits of everything they think they know if they are both going to avoid the hanging tree. Historical fiction, and yes, there will be a golem.

Chapter 1: Bay Dem Shtetl

It was summer in the year 1692, and Dana Scully had never endured such heat. 

They came to the Massachusetts Bay Colony the previous autumn, when the area was awash with fiery leaves and crisp, bright blue skies, which made a very pleasant backdrop for the backbreaking work of building a life in a new land. A brutal winter followed, however, during which they lost her father and sister to a throat distemper, which became putrid despite their best efforts. Dana, her mother, and both brothers had lived through it, though, due in great part to Dana’s unusual skill in herbal medicine and intuition about the way the disease spread.

For this reason and others, Dana had quickly developed quite a reputation in the little village of Beverly, about eight hours by foot from the burgeoning metropolis of Boston. She had never wed, in spite of her mother’s increasingly desperate attempts over the years, and was exceptionally intelligent and forthright–her opinions were as loud as her vivid red hair. 

Her father had educated her well in Ireland, prior to the influx of English colonists that finally pushed them across the sea to become colonists themselves, and she was not shy about publicly thrashing any man in a battle of wits–much to the chagrin of her family, particularly her brother William, who was not eager to bear the burden of a widow and a spinster now that their father was gone. They had dissolved all their wealth in Ireland to pay passage to the New World, and the winter had been exceptionally cruel.

But now it was summer and the wheat was high, and while there was still pressure from her family to find a husband, it seemed less urgent in the bright beating sun, watching the fruit grow. Her younger brother Charles was apprenticing for the town blacksmith, and William worked in the shipyard. Between them they were comfortable, and Dana herself was developing quite a burgeoning apothecary out of their home in the village.

All in all, while it was much too hot for Dana’s liking, life in the New World appeared to be falling into a comfortable rhythm for the Scully clan.

That is, until he came knocking on her door.

+++

“Come in,” she called from the kitchen, where she was bundling calendula to dry. When the stranger came through the door, she was taken aback at first–by his height, by his somewhat swarthy complexion, and by the fact that he was a stranger, and a Jew. While strangers were common in a port town like Beverly, Jews were not, and she wondered where he had come from.

“Hello,” he said shyly, and for some reason the sound of his voice immediately put her at ease in his presence. “My name is Mulder, Fox Mulder. I’ve heard there is a woman apothecary here in Beverly who is unusually gifted with corrupted wounds. Would you be her?” Dana couldn’t help but smile.

“I suppose I must be, since I am the only woman apothecary in Beverly,” she said, gesturing towards the small, scrubbed pine table in her kitchen. “Please, Mr. Mulder, have a seat. Where is the wound?”

“My foot,” he said, gratefully dropping himself into a chair. She drew closer to him, and that was when she realized he was sweating rather profusely. Her eyebrows drew together in concern.

“Where have you come from?” she asked, as he began unlacing one of his leather shoes.

“Essex,” he said, gingerly removing the shoe and revealing a stocking soaked through with blood and purulence. Dana gasped.

“Essex? That’s miles from here! Have you been walking since before daybreak on that foot?” she asked as she swatted his hands away and pushed his shoulder gently, forcing him to relax back into the chair as she peeled away the stocking from his leg. He gave her a funny look–something like humor–and nodded.

“More or less,” he confirmed. 

“Have you no doctor or apothecary in Essex?” she asked, fully uncloaking the wound on his foot. It was indeed corrupted, it exuded a thick, purulent drainage tinged with blood, and the edges of the wound were black. She reached up and felt his forehead; he was not just warm from travel, he was properly feverish. She crouched back down to press her thumb into the calf of the affected leg, to test for water collection on the limb.

“None that will see me,” he said, and she paused, looking up at him with confusion.

“None who will see you? Why wouldn’t they see you? Are they so busy in the metropolis of tiny Essex that they cannot tend to a wounded foot?” She placed a hand on her hip as she asked, and the cumulative effect of her stern expression and her arm askance made Mulder feel as though he were under interrogation by a magistrate.

“Well…” he began, then lowered his voice so as not to carry, “because I am a Jew.” He almost flinched as the words came out of his mouth, as though he were waiting to be hoisted up by his breeches and defenestrated through the kitchen window. Instead, however, the woman shook her head and rolled her eyes with obvious frustration.

“Filthy louses,” she muttered in response. “Did their God not call the Israelites to Him first? Was Christ not a Jew? Who are they to decide medicine should be withheld from those they deem unworthy of it?” She continued to curse the medical establishment of Essex prodigiously as she bustled around the kitchen, drawing water from a large cistern outside the back door and filling a pot over the merry little fire in the corner. As the water warmed, she poured in a measure of what smelled like vinegar, and added dried plant matter–some of which Mulder recognized, some he did not.

Once a fine steam rose off the top and the room was thick with humidity, she finally stopped fuming and withdrew the pot from the flame, bringing it to where he sat and placing it on the floor before him.

“This is going to hurt,” she said plainly, “but it helps to draw the corruption out. You should have come to see me a week ago, and you should not be walking on this foot right now. You’ll have to stay with us for at least a few days.”

“No, I couldn’t impose…” he immediately began to demure, but she crossed her arms and frowned.

“Do you want to get better, or should I just lop it off now and let you hop back to Essex?” she asked, raising her eyebrows in a manner that suggested he shouldn’t answer that question, but acquiesce, which is exactly what he decided to do. Nodding, he lowered his foot into the pot, and hissed as it burned the wound terribly. She tapped his arm with a wooden spoon, which he took and held between his teeth, fighting against the scream rising in his throat.

“I’m sorry, I know it pains,” she said, and this time her tone was much more gentle, as she rested her hand on his forearm and gave him a gentle squeeze. Her touch was soothing, and he instantly felt some of the pain dissipate, as though drawn out with the infection.

“Distract me,” he pleaded. “What’s your name?” He looked up into her pale blue eyes, which seemed to be reading his face like a book, scanning his features carefully.

“Dana Scully,” she finally answered. “And your name is Fox?” He grimaced again, but not from the pain of his foot.

“Unfortunately, yes,” he lamented with a small smile, and she couldn’t help but grin in response. “It’s Yiddish, more like fuchs , but I’d rather you called me Mulder, if it’s all the same.” A flick of a smile touched her features, and she nodded.

“Okay, Mulder,” she said. “Then you can call me Scully. Dana is the girl my family has tried to foist onto any and every eligible bachelor with four or more teeth on either side of the Atlantic, and frankly, I’m tired of being her.” She said this like a joke, but the frustration behind it was real. Mulder eyed her curiously.

“I don’t mean to be forward, but I have to ask, why is a woman as beautiful and as gifted as yourself still wanting for a husband?” he asked. She placed her hands on her hips and looked down her nose at him.

“Who says I’m wanting for a husband to begin with?” she snapped back. “Is it possible that a woman can exist in this world without wanting or needing the shelter of a man? That she might want, rather, her own achievements, her own ambitions, and her own interests?” He held his hands up immediately in surrender.

“Yes, okay, I’m sorry!” he said, laughing in spite of himself. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to offend.” She cooled off a little, making a soft harrumph sound as she pulled his foot out of the hot bath and examined the wound again. She placed it back into the water, and removed herself to the pantry, returning with her apron filled with various plant matter. He watched her curiously as she mashed them with her mortar and pestle, adding a splash of decanted red wine and a healthy drizzle of honey.

When the water had grown lukewarm, the poultice had been worked into a homogenous mush, which was evidently how she wanted it, because she brought it over to the table and began applying it gingerly to his wound.

“How did you hurt your foot to begin with?” she asked, her earlier anger finally gone.

“Putting out a fire,” he said with a grimace, trying to focus on his breathing as she applied the paste to his foot and wrapped it firmly with strips of clean linen. “Someone threw a burning torch into our home a few weeks ago while we were sleeping. I woke, and when I saw it, stomped down on it instinctively without thinking. It burned the sole of my foot.”

“A torch?” she repeated in shock. “Into your home? Why? Oh–because…” He nodded.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Because.” She looked at him, cradling his wounded foot in her lap, her expression sad.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and he felt that she truly was, as though she had done it herself. “I truly am.”

“You’ve done nothing,” he said, attempting to wave her off, but she was firm.

“But my countrymen have,” she said. “And I am truly sorry for how you’ve been treated. I just want you to know that they… they don’t speak for me.” She was so earnest that Mulder couldn’t help but smile.

“Thank you,” he half-whispered, then added, “It’s better here than it was in the old country. Our entire shtetl was burned to the ground, my father was killed, and my sister…” He stopped, as though his throat was stuck, as though he were choking on the words. Scully watched him intently, patiently, until he could finish. “... she was taken. We don’t know what happened to her.”

“I’m so sorry,” Scully said, swallowing hard against the emotion rising in her chest. “I lost my father and sister this past winter, too. It’s… never easy.” Mulder just nodded, their eyes locked on each other, the magnetic draw between them so intense that they seemed to forget the world around them. They just sat that way and stared at one another for an indeterminable amount of time, until a woman’s voice interrupted the silence and snapped both of them back to the present.

“Dana, I need you to go kill one of the hens, we’re having compa–” An older woman, who looked so like Dana that she could only be her mother, stopped speaking abruptly as she entered the room and registered the presence of a strange man. “Oh! I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize you had a patron.” 

“Mom, this is Fox Mulder, by way of Essex,” Scully introduced. “He’s injured, and in need of ongoing care. He will have to stay with us for several nights.” Mulder looked up at the woman warily, waiting for her response. Whatever he was expecting didn’t happen, because she just smiled kindly at him, nodding her head.

“Of course,” she said cheerfully. “Mr. Mulder, I’m Margaret Scully, and you will be more than welcome in our home for as long as you need.” 

Chapter 2: Undzer Nigundl

Notes:

I am so excited to have you guys on this ride with me! It's my first AU, and I wasn't sure how many people would be interested in a historical one, but I should've known you guys would be all over anything MSR like white on rice lol.

Two historical notes before we begin:

1. While Catholic immigrants were very uncommon in the Massachusetts Bay Colony, they did exist. Most Irish immigrants in New England during this time period (late 17th century) were from Ulster, and Protestant, and indentured servants; Catholic immigrants typically chose Maryland, Rhode Island, or the Philadelphia area for settlement, but I am much more familiar with the history of the Massachusetts area, for reasons relating to my own family history (see "Blood For Your Part"). Obviously the Scullys are not Protestant, and indentured servitude would put a wrench in the story I'm trying to tell, so for the sake of the plot we're going to allow that they are one of the rare free Irish Catholic immigrants to the Boston area during this time period.

2. Likewise, Jewish immigrants to Massachusetts during this time period were also uncommon, but not totally unheard of. The very first Jewish explorer recorded in the New World was Joachim Gans, an Ashkenazi Jew born in Prague who came to scout land for what would become the Roanoke Colony. The first Jewish community in Massachusetts, however, wasn't recorded until 1777, near Worcester, but they would leave the area after the Revolutionary War. The first *permanent* Jewish community in Massachusetts did not come about until the 1830s. So you'll have to suspend a little disbelief with me that the Mulders would end up, even temporarily, in the area.

That night they dined together with Fox Mulder and another guest, the foreman of the shipyard where William Scully worked. They slaughtered and pan-fried a chicken for the occasion, and Mulder had to control himself when he saw how much meat was placed on his wood trencher–kashrus or not, he didn’t care. He hadn’t eaten this much meat in… well, not since the better days of his childhood.

(Back then there had been brisket, and chicken, and big, soft loaves of challah every shabbos, and warm, fluffy matzoh balls in rich broth. It had been a while since they’d had access to that kind of food. In this country, though, things were getting better.)

He spoke little during the meal, mostly listened, and learned a great deal about the people around him. He learned that Maggie’s husband was a ship captain before his death; that they were Irish Catholic immigrants in an overwhelmingly austere, Protestant community, which he felt a certain kinship with; and that William was an absolute boor with the basic respect of a feral pig. There were many times where he almost spoke out at the way William addressed his sister, but bit his tongue–he was a guest here, but more importantly, could not physically run on his foot if it came to that. So he focused primarily on his meal, and his thoughts, and otherwise kept his mouth shut.

But there were moments, when William would say something rude, or piggishly stupid, when Mulder’s eyes would flick to the left and find hers–and those pale blue eyes, so captivating, so alive in the candlelight, made him feel almost lightheaded when they made eye contact. She would raise her eyebrows slightly, or give a little smirk, and Mulder would have to look away lest he burst into outright laughter and draw attention to himself. But it was a dance they did all night long, and every time he caught her gaze again, his heart seemed to stumble in his chest for a moment.

“The bed room is upstairs,” Scully said after the table had cleared and the other men had gone outside to smoke their pipes and socialize outside the women’s realm.

“Are you sure?” he asked with his brows furrowed as he watched her scrub the trenchers in a basin of warm water and lye soap. “I don’t mind sleeping elsewhere, perhaps you have a shed out back?” Scully gave him a bewildered look and laughed.

“No, Mulder, I will not have thee sleeping with the animals,” Scully said with a scoff, as though the notion were ridiculous. “You’re our guest, and my patient. And while our home may be modest, I can assure you it is at least one rung above the pig-shed.” Mulder chuckled as she dried her hands on her apron and helped him up to a standing position, encouraging him to drape an arm over her small but surprisingly sturdy frame and use her like a crutch.

“Your home has been as a palace to me thus far,” he said, and he saw her cheeks pink.

“Thank you,” she said demurely, guiding him towards the stairs, which were a struggle to navigate at the best of times. But they made it, slowly but surely, step by step, and in spite of his being nearly a foot taller than her he was impressed by how strong and capable she was, navigating them both safely up the stairs without so much as a trip or a stumble. This was no shrinking violet of a woman; she could handle herself, and him as well.

Upstairs was a loft filled with a number of low, simple wooden frames, lashed with ropes to support hay-filled mattresses covered in a variety of linen sheets and quilts. The window on the far wall was open, welcoming in a cool, salt-tanged breeze off the bay. Scully helped him hop to the far corner and lower himself down into a bed there, pushed up against the wall.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable here,” she said, as she pulled a quilt up over his long frame as though he were a child being tucked into bed for the night. He laid his hed down and immediately felt drowsy–the illness and the abundant meal had taken over him.

“I daresay I’ll be asleep before you blow out the candle,” he replied, and she nodded.

“Good, you need your rest,” she said. “There’s a chamber pot on the far side if you have need. Otherwise, I bid you good night.” 

“Good night,” he responded, and no sooner had he closed his eyes than he was dead to the world.

+++

When he rose to consciousness again, he was wet all over. It felt as though someone had dumped water on him; then he registered how hot his body felt, and realized his tunic was soaked through with sweat. Beside him, barely illuminated by the stump of a dying candle on a chamberstick, was Scully. Seeing her down to her chemise felt almost indecent somehow, but he could not dwell much on the thought, for his whole body was burning.

“Here,” she whispered, bringing a cool rag to his forehead. “Your body is purging the corruption, fevers are part of it. Sit up a bit if you can, I have a tincture for you, feverfew.” He lifted his upper half slightly on his elbows and opened his mouth, allowing her to guide a spoon past his lips and deposit the sharp, bitter herbaceous liquid under his tongue. He stayed that way while he held it there, until she indicated he could swallow.

“Thanks,” he gasped, the vodka from the herbal suspension burning his throat on the way down.

“Try to go back to sleep,” she whispered, soaking the cold cloth and reapplying it to his forehead, smoothing the damp hair away from his face with her hand. “I’ll be here.”

He wanted to say something, but he was too tired and ill, so he just closed his eyes instead.

+++

When Mulder awoke again it was close to dawn–the sky was no longer black, but the hazy dark purple of twilight, and a lone bird was singing, perhaps just starting to stir his compatriots to action. Around the room everyone else was still sound asleep, and one of the men in the far bed, either William or Charles, was snoring at an exceptional volume. Mulder was surprised the sound alone hadn’t woken him hours ago.

He turned over and was shocked to find Scully on the mattress next to him, deep in sleep herself. The bowl of water still sat beside the bed on the floor with the abandoned rag floating inside, and a bottle of corked tincture and a single spoon sat beside it. She appeared to have curled up next to him to monitor his condition sometime in the night, and to have inadvertently succumbed to sleep herself there. 

His cheeks burned, and not from fever–this close to her he could almost count her freckles, even under the hazy veil of pre-dawn. Her eyelashes, like fine golden threads, lay still against her high cheekbones, and her soft, ample lips were separated slightly as she breathed through her mouth. The chemise had slipped down off one shoulder, revealing the milky, freckle-dusted skin beneath, and his breath caught in his chest. He had never been so close to a woman he was not directly related to before, and certainly never seen one in this state.

As though she could hear the thoughts racketing around his brain, her eyes began to open–slowly at first, shaking off the bondages of sleep, then rising up to meet his and peruse the details of his face in the dark. He smiled, unable to help himself (for every time she looked at him he felt the need to smile, a sentiment he was wholly unfamiliar with) and she smiled back.

“Good morn,” she whispered, sitting up and pulling the collar of her chemise up and over her shoulder, looking down briefly to ensure she was fully covered. “How are you feeling?”

“A bit better now,” he said, and it was true–the feverfew must have done its work in the night, for he was no longer sweating out the ill humors. She nodded approvingly and rose up from the bed, gesturing for him to stay still.

“Go back to sleep if you can,” she said, gathering last night’s supplies from the floor. “I’m going to start the day. I’ll come for you later when breakfast is ready, then we’ll see how your foot is doing.” 

Of course, he could not sleep now, not with the memory of her lips and her freckles and those soft blue eyes fresh in his mind. He lay back in the bed and closed his eyes, but only to conjure up the memory of her more clearly in her absence. Eventually, though, he grew restless of his memories, particularly when he knew the real thing was just down the stairs. So he stumbled out of bed, made use of the chamberpot, and then hopped very, very carefully down the rickety spiral staircase into the front room which took up half of the ground floor, shared with the combination kitchen-apothecary and divided by a large, double-sided hearth in the center.

On the other side of the low early-morning fire, he could see her on her knees on the floor, with a string of beads held in her hand. She looked down at the ground, muttering to herself as she counted them off slowly. He watched her curiously; he knew nothing about Catholics, really, having never spent any time with one up close before. He knew they carried those beads, but not what they did with them. So he stood there, his weight leaned onto his good foot, watching her pray.

“... now and in the hour of our deaths, amen,” she finished, then looking up briefly, clapped her hand to her mouth to stifle a scream that had begun to cry out.

“Jesus weepin’ on the cross,” she proclaimed in a hiss, jumping up to her feet. “Don’t sneak up on people like that!”

“I’m sorry,” he said, also trying to stifle the sound he was making, which was a laugh. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’ve just never seen someone use those beads before, and I was curious. I apologize.” She held up the rosary in her hand, looking at it as though for the first time.

“These?” she asked, and he nodded. “This is a rosary.”

“A rosary,” he repeated, hopping towards her so he could see it more clearly in the light. “What’s it for?”

“Praying,” she said, holding it out for him to take, which he did, turning it over in his fingers and looking closely at the pewter crucifix at the end.

“So you pray to the little man?” he asked, and she laughed.

“Well, yes,” she said. “Through his mother. You ask her to pray for you.” Mulder nodded as he took in the information.

“That makes sense,” he decided. “The woman usually is the arbiter of decisions for the household, really, when it comes down to it. Bypassing the little man in favor of his mother probably yields better results.” Scully laughed again, a real laugh this time, loud and bawdy. It filled the room and seeped into his chest, warming him much more than the fire.

“Shhhh,” he chided playfully, “you’ll wake the whole house.” She smirked, gesturing towards the table, and he hopped there behind her.

“They should be up by now anyway, the sun nearly is,” she observed, pulling a chair out for him. He smiled bemusedly at her as he took his seat, allowing himself to be pushed in like a lady. She flitted away and came back with a hearty piece of johnnycake and a strip of salted meat. He took to them quickly, and had nearly devoured both when she came back only moments later with a cup of strong, fragrant tea.

“We don’t have any coffee to offer you, I apologize,” she said a little self-consciously as she took a seat next to him, starting in on her own meal. “There’s just no money for it.”

“I’ve never had coffee before,” he admitted. “I’ve smelled it though, in Boston, walking past a coffeehouse. They had bags of beans on every wall, and chocolate, too. I couldn’t even afford the buckle on one of their shoes, much less a bag of coffee beans. One day, though, I’ll have a cup.”

He didn’t realize it, focused as he was on his own meal, but she was smiling softly as he spoke, her eyes intent on his profile, taking in every hair, every ridge, every line. His skin was a deep tanned olive, his nose strong, eyes dark. He looked so unlike most of the people she encountered every day, but she found him dangerously handsome.

She had no idea, yet, just how dangerous it would actually become.

Notes:

One more historical note:

It is much harder to write the one-bed trope when communal sleep was commonplace!!

During the colonial period, most families slept together in one room, sometimes even in one large bed. And if you had guests, they usually slept in the bed with you, typically in same-gender arrangements (men in one bed, women in another, or men on one end of a bed and women at the other end). It was also common for a higher-ranking woman's female servants to sleep in her bed with her, both for warmth and to protect the girls from any untoward advances by the men in the house. So an arrangement of cots in a loft would be a pretty typical sleeping arrangement for the poor in this time period. Also, fun fact: Hay-filled mattresses are where the phrase "hitting the hay" originates from.

Comments are a warm hug, let me know what you think!

Chapter 3: Nem Aroys a Ber Fun Vald

A few days had turned into a week, and more, and suddenly Mulder had been with the Scullys for a fortnight. In that time he had learned many things about the enigmatic redhead and her family.

One–their women were excellent cooks. While their diet was hardly better than his at home, her mother made the most sumptuous stews, rich broths, and hearty breads out of what seemed like thin air. He had never eaten so well before, and it seemed to bring her mother pure joy to watch him practically lick the trencher clean.

Two–Scully’s brothers could not be more different from one another. Charles was slight of build and shy, listening many times as much as he spoke (which Mulder’s mother had oft said was the habit of a wise man). He regarded Mulder with polite curiosity, and not much more. They hadn’t had any true conversations, but they spoke cordially at the dinner table, and Charles never gave him any difficulty.

William, on the other hand, could not have the same said for him. Mulder’s impression of him the first night had been right on the money: he was rude, obstinate, and sometimes outright cruel. Every third remark seemed laced with some disdain for Dana and her lack of marriage prospects, and nobody else in the house would hold him to account for it, since it was only because of his position that anybody had a meal and a roof at all. And while Mulder understood their station, perhaps better than even they could, it left him with a bad taste in his mouth nonetheless.

But thirdly, and most important of all, he had learned that he was wildly, completely, and indisputably in love with Dana Scully.

On the third day of his stay, it was clear that word had traveled fast around Beverly about the Scullys’ unusual houseguest, for random people kept dropping by “just to be neighborly” and gaze intently at him–some with curiosity, others with fear, and some with abject disgust. It took Scully much longer to realize what was happening than it took Mulder, but finally, she’d had enough.

“Get out of my house! Thou hast no business here!” she shouted, picking up a corncob broom and gesturing threateningly at an old woman who nearly fell out the door in her haste to leave. “What if he came into your home and queried about your pink, boiled appearance, your sharp little nose, your ratty eyes! How would you feel?” she yelled after the woman, who ran down the road and away from Scully’s threats as quickly as her rotten, gout-crippled old legs would carry her.

Mulder was near tears with mirth, holding his stomach as though he were afraid it might burst outward from the force of his laughter. She gave him a somewhat flustered smile as she shook her head.

“Some people are just so rude ,” she said, and then they both fell into fresh peals of laughter again, unable to contain themselves. 

+++

A few days after that, Mulder was doing well enough to put some weight on his healing foot–which was growing new, fresh pink skin over the top and no longer oozing–so they decided to take a little walk down to the brook near her house.

“You need some fresh air,” she had stated matter-of-factly, adding some extra gauze padding to the wrappings around his foot before easing his shoe over it.

“Is that your medical opinion, or are you simply trying to get me into the reeds?” he asked flirtatiously, giving her a wink, and she blushed brightly.

“Fox Mulder, you forget yourself,” she admonished sternly, swatting at his leg, but it was clear from the way the corners of her mouth had quirked up that she was not upset one bit. He just beamed at her, and while she tried to hide the smile that spread across her face, she could not. His was contagious; he smiled easily, at anything, as though he had not a care in the world–and though it was not her custom, she felt the foreign expression paste itself across her face too. It was almost unnerving.

He walked with a crutch, kindly fashioned by Charles the evening prior, and they made their way slowly out the back door, through the small back field which housed the pig shed, a dairy cow, a lively chestnut pony, a prolific herb garden from which Scully cultivated her medicines, and a small amount of personal farmage, into the thicket of trees at the far end of the lot that divided their little acre from the wilds behind it.

“Will you make it?” Scully asked, girding her loins to pass through a particularly thick patch of brush. Mulder huffed and puffed, standing on one foot and using his crutch to force his way through the bramble. She paused, watching him battle through it, and was impressed by his determination. Eventually he made it through without her help, and puffed his chest out proudly when he emerged victorious through the other side.

“Did I display sufficient Puritan work ethic?” he asked jokingly, and she smirked.

“Like an ox,” she responded, and they laughed as they carefully descended the treed slope towards the lush growth at the base of the hill, the sound of running water growing more evident with each step–or in his case, hop.

It was a small brook, hardly even a creek, but the banks were completely enclosed by the verdant foliage, so much so that walking into it felt like being in a different world altogether–cooler, shaded, and quiet, the world around them muffled by the plants and the sound of the water. Sun dappled between the leaves overhead, but it barely made a dent in the twilight-dark of the hidden place.

“ Gottenyu, ” Mulder breathed out as he surveyed the hidden world he’d just been made privy to.

“What?” Scully asked, and he chuckled.

“Nothing,” he said. “This is just… really beautiful.” She sat down on a fallen log and gestured for him to join her, which he did, sighing with relief as he set his crutch to the side. 

“How’s your foot?” she asked, suddenly becoming serious and businesslike.

“Fine,” he said. “The crutch holds very well, I’ll have to thank your brother again.”

“He’s always been good at making things,” she observed as she loosened the laces of her leather shoes and cast them off, freeing her stocking feet. “Ever since we were children, he could go gather up a few sticks and take his whittling knife and by the end of the day, I had little clothespin dolls to go with my made-up stories.” 

“That’s sweet,” Mulder said, watching her expression as she thought back to the memory and smiled softly. Scully nodded, then something broodier took over her features.

“Yes, he certainly got the lion’s share of common decency as compared to William,” she said bitterly, stripping off her stockings. With her skirts still wrapped up and tied around her bottom half, her bare, milky skin was visible almost all the way up to her knees, and Mulder’s breath caught in his chest at the sight. She, fortunately, didn’t seem to notice that it took him several seconds to recover before he could respond to her statement.

“He’s not particularly pleasant, is he?” Mulder asked, and Scully let out a barking laugh.

“You’ve noticed,” she agreed, and he nodded.

“Indeed,” he said. “You seem to be his preferred target, though I’m not sure why.” Dana sighed, running her hand back through her hair and looking away from him as she responded.

“Well, as I’ve told you, my father and sister died last winter,” she began. “My sister Missy was due to be wed, actually, engaged to a wealthy shipyard owner from Cornwall. Though my father was not happy about his being English, he couldn’t overlook the amount of wealth her marriage to the Englishman would secure, for her and for us. He had promised William a lush position within their family business, wealth beyond comprehension for our family, and offered to make introductions for William to a cousin who is of marrying age.

“But then Missy became ill, so ill, so fast. Everyone became sick to some degree, but she and my father were so much more ill than the rest of us. My father had already suffered damage to his chest during a skirmish with English occupying forces back home, so I knew as soon as he became ill that he would not make it. But Missy was young, and strong, and I just… I truly believed she would be okay.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mulder said, barely over a whisper. Scully closed her eyes as though against pain, nodding slightly.

“Thank you,” she whispered back, then recovered her voice, continuing. “After she died, of course, everything fell apart. In an attempt to salvage the deal, my darling brother offered me up on a platter…”

“What?” Mulder exclaimed, and Scully nodded, her lips pursed.

“You know as well as I do that a woman’s only job in our society is to marry well,” she said with a tone of great disdain. “And this was better than either of our parents could have imagined. But the man was an absolute beast. He doesn’t even believe women should learn how to read.”

“What?!” Mulder shouted again, even more indignant than the last time. Scully smirked, clearly pleased by his response.

“Yes!” she said. “It’s an outrage, and to think my own brother would all but sell me to this man so he could secure a fortune for himself… but I couldn’t do it, and he couldn’t force me to, he’s not my father. I refused. And that’s a large part of why my brother seems to hate me so.”

“I can’t believe it,” Mulder said, shaking his head with disappointment. “I would have done anything to protect my sister from such a… well… podlyets. How could he offer you like a prize goat?” Scully suddenly snorted with laughter.

“Did you just call me a prize goat?” she asked with bemusement. Mulder’s face went red.

“No! Absolutely not!” he said, waving his hands in the air. “It was a figure of speech!”

“Why, I’ve never been so insulted in my life,” she said, but with an air of humor as she tried to fight the smile that attempted to creep across her face.

“Hey, you could do a lot worse in my shtetl than to be called a prize goat,” Mulder said, pointing his finger at her, and she laughed a great, loud, bawdy laugh, reaching out and grabbing his pointed index finger and pulling him down towards the ground by it.

“Don’t point that finger at me, Fox Mulder,” she admonished, giggling the whole time. “Hasn’t anyone told you that’s rude?”

“No, but I know this is,” he said, and reached out to tickle her side. She yelped and squirmed to get away from him, but he reached his other arm around her and pulled her close to him, both of them cackling wildly like hyenas. But he pulled her too hard and they both went ass-over-teakettle off of the log they’d been sitting on, Mulder hitting the ground first, then Scully landing on top of him.

“Oof,” he said from beneath her, groaning in the midst of his continued laughter. He could feel her bosom pressed against him, shaking with laughter on top of him, and his arm was still tight around her, holding her close. She groaned as well, still laughing as she took her free hand and pushed her hair away from her face, lifting her head slightly to look at him properly.

He felt the blood rush to his face again, as he began to more fully appreciate the compromising position they were in. She took in a sharp breath, and he felt her body stiffen against him, hips pressed into his, her legs falling between his. And something on him was stiffening too, and he saw her eyes widen at the recognition of it. He froze, not even daring to breathe, waiting for her response–for her to scream, or curse him for his lechery, or tell him never to darken her doorstep again.

Instead, she pushed herself forward until their lips met, and kissed him.

Notes:

In case you are unfamiliar with what the expression "to gird your loins" actually means, it's a way of wearing a long dress or skirt where the skirts are brought up between the legs, wrapped around the hips, and tied in front so as to create a sort of make-shift shorts situation. It allowed women to move much more easily when they needed to, without exposing all the goods.

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Chapter 4: Reyzele

Notes:

I'm back! I got a new job, which I love, and I left Twitter and Bluesky, which has been immensely better for my mental health in this particular political climate. I finally feel like writing again, so let's get back to business.

It wasn’t her first kiss–she had kissed boys at dances as a girl, during long nights of sweaty whirling in barns to fiddle music and drinking ale under the full moon, long after her parents had fallen asleep. But she had never kissed a proper man before, and never like this. Those sloppy teenage kisses never meant anything, but this, this was a kiss, and she felt it all the way down in her toes, and up to her scalp, and in other places better not mentioned. This was a kiss of Biblical proportions.

And, it was clear from her basic understanding of human anatomy, that he agreed.

He held her close, and she accidentally knocked his little hat to the side as she worked her hand through his hair–thick and virile and much softer than she expected. So much about him was softer than expected, in the most delightful way. She had never met a man like him, in every possible understanding of that sentiment, and while she had been trying very hard to ignore the obvious and growing situation within her every time she laid eyes on him, she could not ignore it anymore–she was definitely, completely, and indisputably falling in love with Fox Mulder, and it was not going to end well.

How long they stayed like that, she wasn’t sure, but at some point they finally broke for air and she pulled herself upright, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, her lips pressed together somewhat sheepishly.

“I’m sorry,” Mulder said as he scrambled to pull himself upright as well, placing the cap back on the crown of his head, but the apology did not reach his lips, which he licked subconsciously.

“You shouldn’t be,” Scully responded swiftly. “I am not.” He grinned, looking bashfully down at the water flowing through the brook, his cheeks a rosy peach, his tousled hair speaking of their indiscretion all on its own.

“I like thee quite a lot,” he said, and Scully scoffed lightly, her lips parted in a smirk.

“Oh, you like me, is that so? I couldn’t have guessed,” she ribbed, and he snorted.

“Thou hast the tongue of a serpent,” he said, and she threw her head back with laughter.

“So I’ve heard,” she said. They were silent for a moment, and Mulder turned to look at her fully again.

“I think I love thee,” he admitted freely, and she inhaled a sharp breath, her hand rising to her chest. “And if it means sleeping in the pigshed, so be it, but I must be true.” She eyed him silently, appraisingly, for a moment that felt to him like it stretched to infinity. Eventually, just when he felt he might pass out from anticipation, she nodded her head slightly.

“I feel the same way,” she responded, just above a whisper, and his cheeks split into a broad grin. He leaned in towards her, and she met him, and they kissed again. When they broke apart, he gave her a somewhat solemn look, which made her furrow her brows in confusion.

“I have nothing to offer you,” he said with an air of sorrow. “I can pay no dowry, I can provide no wealth or comfort or position, and I cannot gain the approval of your brother. All I can offer is my heart, if you’ll take it, and a promise to care for thee as my wife, and equal, all the days of my life.”

“You have much more to offer than you know,” she responded, her face smoothing into a smile. “And I care not for the approval of my family. I love my mother, but I cannot live for her, or my brothers. I have but one life in this world, and I intend to live it on my terms. It is why we came to this land.”

Mulder took her hand in his, and carefully lowered himself down onto one knee, his balance precarious thanks to his injured foot. She held his hand tightly, in part due to emotion and in part to prevent him from falling, and they stared deeply into each other’s eyes.

“Dana Scully, will you be my wife?” he asked, and she smiled–that wide, unfettered grin that was still so foreign to her, except when she was with him–and nodded.

“I will.”

+++

“No,” William said flatly.

It was evening, at the dinner table, and Mulder had asked Scully’s family’s blessing for her hand in marriage. He wasn’t surprised by the response; he would have been far more surprised if he had gotten a yes.

Scully scoffed, unhappy with the entire charade of pretending to ask to begin with, but Mulder had felt strongly that they should try to do it the accepted way. Not because he had entertained any notion of being welcomed into the family–he knew the reality of the situation–but so that they could say they tried.

“William,” Maggie said plaintively, “You haven’t even given it a moment’s consideration.” 

“Prithee, mother, what exactly is there to consider?” he asked rhetorically. “His vast estate? His family name? His pagan faith?”

“William!” Maggie admonished. “You sound no better than the English.” He scoffed.

“I believe in his right to live freely,” William said angrily, “but with his own people, in his own place. Not here, with our family. They cannot even have a proper Christian wedding anyway. Would you have your first grandchildren be bastards?”

“That’s enough!” Scully finally shouted, having reached the end of her tether. “William, you are not my father and not the arbiter of my affairs. I will marry who I please, and I’ve made my decision.” William laughed with clear derision.

“Your decision?” he scoffed. “You’re a woman, what decision do you have to make?”

“She’s her own person, and she has the right to make her own choice about who she marries,” Mulder voiced, but William just looked at him with disdain and didn’t respond. Maggie’s eyes flitted anxiously between her son and daughter, uncertainty and fear written across her face.

“You’ll do as you’re told, and that’s final,” William said, pointing his finger at Scully like an exclamation mark. “And you, Mr. Mulder, should leave at once. You’re off of death’s doorstep, clearly, so you’re no longer welcome here. Go back to your people.”

And with that, he hoisted himself up out of his chair and stomped off towards the front door of the cottage, pulling his pipe from one coat pocket and a sachet of tobacco from the other, muttering angrily to himself.

“I’ll go get my things,” Mulder said quietly, rising to his feet and hopping with his crutch towards the spiral staircase.

“Mother!” Scully cried out pleadingly, but Maggie just shook her head sadly.

“There’s nothing I can do,” she said, holding her hands out as if to demonstrate, and there was real melancholy in her voice. Scully turned on her heel, skirts whirling behind her, and stormed off towards the stairs, stomping up after Mulder.

“Get your things, quickly,” she said as she entered the sleeping loft, where Mulder was pulling on his traveling cloak. She bustled over to a chest of drawers, from which she pulled out a small collection of items–her other chemise, which she balled up and shoved into the bottom of her haversack, a comb, a spool of thread with a needle tucked into it, an extra pair of stockings, a kerchief, a small knife, and finally, a handful of coins swept from the very back of the drawer.

“What are you doing?” he asked dumbly. She squinted at him slightly, then gave him a light smirk.

“Going with you, obviously,” she responded, closing the sack and throwing her travel cloak on. “We haven’t much time, it takes him less than ten minutes to smoke a pipe, so let’s be swift.”

Mulder didn’t need telling twice. He came with nothing, and so hobbled down the stairs as fast as his one good leg could carry him. Scully followed close behind, her bag over her shoulder, wrapped in a well-worn woolen cloak. When she descended the staircase, her mother looked up, gasped softly, then slowly smiled.

“I just want you to be happy,” was all Maggie said in a soft, conspiratorial voice, and Scully began to cry. She hugged her mother tightly, only for a moment before Maggie let her go and wiped the tears from her face matter-of-factly.

“Take Spark,” her mother instructed. “Go the back way, past the brook, around the field. Stay off the roads, William will be furious. You’ll be in Essex by morning; write when you can. I love you.” Then she turned to Mulder, squeezing his arm with her small hand. “Take care of my daughter, Fox Mulder.”

“I will,” he said earnestly, bending down to kiss Maggie on the cheek. She gave them both a tremulous smile, trying not to break into tears herself, as she ushered them quietly out the back door. They took the tin lantern with them, casting an array of little lights around them as they walked, as though they were wrapped in a thousand fireflies. 

She watched in the silvery moonlight as they haltered the pony, Spark, and Scully helped hoist Mulder by his good leg onto his back. They were quite a sight–the small woman walking astride the chestnut pony, the tall, gangly man balanced on its back, disappearing into the dark together.

God, help them, Maggie begged silently as they passed from her vision into the night.

Notes:

As always, a few historical notes:

1. In early colonial America, primogeniture was the law of the land, meaning that in the absence of a will stating otherwise everything passed to the firstborn son, including the responsibility to marry off any unwed sisters. The widow was entitled to a "dower", meaning she was entitled to 1/3 of her husband's land in the event of his death. Widows in the English colonies had a great deal of legal and financial autonomy after the deaths of their husbands, but without a will explicitly stating that she was entitled to the entirety of his estate, 2/3 of the land and all of the financial inheritance went to the eldest son. Primogeniture was abolished by the end of the 18th century.

2. Courtship in Colonial America actually lasted a lot longer than most modern people think; it wasn't uncommon to court a partner for six months to as long as two years! In that time, the entire family on both sides was involved in the courtship, to ensure a good match socially, financially, and personally (people *did* marry for love back in the day, it just wasn't the primary motive). It did depend on the community you lived in, though--for example, immigrants from western Germany had a cultural belief that unwed men and women of a certain age could choose their partners without their parents' approval, whereas in Quaker communities the entire community had to consent to the marriage, not just the parents and children!

3. In the late 17th century, lanterns did not typically have glass panels like we think of lanterns today. They were tin cylinders that had many holes poked in the sides and tops to let light through, with a candle in the middle. More expensive lanterns would have panels made of thin sheets of boiled, pliable cattle horn. Glass manufacturing would not become cheap enough for glass to feature in handheld lanterns until more than 100 years later.

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