PART 4/4

Mulder could feel his control slipping, the realization of what was likely to happen in the next few hours threatening to overwhelm him. He was no virgin when it came to having sex with other men, having had a few brief relationships since his school days at Oxford. So why did the thought of Imram fucking him cause his balls to shrivel up and try to retreat into his quivering body? How could something that felt so wonderful, so right in his fantasies and dreams and memories feel so dirty and disgusting in this situation? *Because,* he told himself *it won't be sex. It'll be rape. He is going to rape you and rape isn't about sex—it's about power and control.*

He tried to control his breathing which was coming in short, sharp pants, the warnings sign of a panic attack just moments away. He was determined not to show any signs of weakness in front of his captors.

He closed his eyes and visualized the scene he used most when meditating and occasionally while jerking off---a peaceful garden setting, a setting sun tinting the few clouds a pale pink. Birds chirped in the early evening air, returning to tree-top nests with food for their young. Young couples walked along winding paths, hand-in-hand, gazing into each others eyes, speaking endearments in hushed whispers. He was surprised at the apparent ease with which he slipped into his fantasy and how life-like the vision was.

Sitting on a stone bench below a weeping willow was a familiar form dressed in tight blue jeans and a gray short-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned to expose a flat stomach and well-toned chest, a small tattoo above his left nipple. Mulder couldn't remember Walter having a tattoo but the only time he had seen him without a shirt was when he had taken Krycek to Skinner's apartment to hide his former partner from the Smoking Man and Walter answered the door dressed only in jeans and it had been dark and his attention had been on a part of Skinner's anatomy a foot or so lower than his bare chest. Mulder smiled at the memory as he approached the bench. Walter would protect him, would let no harm come to him whilst he was in his embrace. Mulder was amazed at how much younger this Walter looked without his glasses, his eyes clear and unlined. He knelt at his fantasy-lover's feet and was enclosed at once in the warmth of two strong arms, long slender fingers stroking his cheek.

Walter frowned at the sight of his lover's wounds, wanting to reach out and touch Fox's thigh as if he could heal it with the power of his love alone.

"I was wondering when you would come, Fox." His voice caressed Mulder's cheek, a hint of breath floated across his flushed skin. "You shouldn't try to cope on your own. You don't need to be so brave or should I say stubborn."

"I know, Walter. The leg's not that bad. I guess I'm still used to only relying on myself, I don't like to have to depend on others." He rested his head back, relaxing against Walter's groin. There was something about Walter that made it impossible for him to lie. He had told his imaginary lover things he had never told any other person, not even Scully. Maybe it was because this Walter was only a figment of his imagination, a sort of confessional in human form, someone who would listen but never judge.

"I want you to promise you'll let me help if...when.. you need me. I'll be here always, Fox. All you have to do is think of this place and we will be together."

He felt revitalized, as if he could defeat any enemy, face any foe and then he opened his eyes, the strain on his wrists and ankles, the pain in his leg, grounding him back in the reality of his situation.

"I want him stripped and ready when I return." Imram barked out the order, intrigued at the look of cold defiance in the slave's eyes. He had thought this one would be an easy conquest, surely the slave would realize that submission was his only option.

Mulder watched his abuser watching him until he disappeared through the doorway; hungry, dark eyes that roamed his body as his rough hands had done only moments before. Mulder could feel his lover begin to withdraw as a distant part of his mind registered his ankles and wrists being released from the chains and he had to concentrate not to panic at the loss of Walter's touch. Even though Walter had risen and was walking away from him, he could feel his love and protection like a kevlar blanket around him.

**********

Carterian Coal Mines
WESTERN CARTERIA
Same Time

Morten was incredibly tired, the harness of the cart he pulled digging deep into his blackened, torn skin. His leg and back muscles complained at the weight placed on them but the reward of a few lungfulls of fresh air free of the thick black coal dust kept him moving towards the surface. After his whipping, banishment from the castle and long wagon ride to the mines, he had been put to work immediately. Because of his smaller than usual size and adult strength, he was assigned the back-breaking task of crawling down the narrow tunnels deep underground to where slave-gangs were chipping pieces of coal from the semi exposed rock-face. Large, heavy chunks of ore were piled into the little cart, straining its wheels. When filled he had to pull it out of the mines up steep passages that were so narrow he could barely squeeze through them. Time and again, the cart was filled, pulled and emptied and he was sent back into the dust filled hole without opportunity to catch his breath.

It was during his latest trip downwards that he had an experience that did much to raise his spirits. Rounding a tight curve in the tunnel, he clearly heard an almost familiar voice in the pitch blackness. A certain quality in it, a tone or vibration told him he was hearing it with his mind rather than his ears. It was the panicked sound of someone searching without hope of finding what was so desperately sought.

*"Walter."* he heard and then realized who the voice belonged to.

*Fox!!* Morten called out both mentally and orally but didn't receive any reply. He could see a shadow some distance in front of him, just pale enough against the black of the tunnel to make out a distinct shape but not the details. Fox was spread-eagled in a standing position, his hands raised and bound above his head. He was sandwiched between two men, one of whom was kissing and fondling him, clearly against Fox's will. Morten instinctively rushed forward but the image moved away, keeping the same distance between them and he knew he could not reach Fox physically.

He felt the fear roll off Fox like a wave that swept over him. He quickly probed the terrified man's mind looking for something he could use as a distraction. He saw what and who Fox was searching for and created the image in his mind, feeding it to Fox once it was complete.

Morten breathed a sigh of relief when the SlaveMaster released Fox and walked from the room. He saw Fox relax, trying to get his rapid breathing under control. He knew when Fox found Walter by the settling of his body in the restraints and the calmness that radiated from his mind. He didn't probe Fox, not wanting to intrude on such a private moment, but he felt totally at peace with himself, secure in the knowledge that Fox was in good, loving hands. Even if it all was just an illusion created by his link with Fox, it was at least somewhere the older man could retreat to when things got bad. And Morten was certain that things weren't going to improve for Fox in the immediate future. He was also certain that he would never meet Fox in the flesh, for one thought he had detected revealed that Fox would rather die than allow himself to be the body-slave of a monster.

In the next day or so he would get glimpses of Fox, painful, torturous bits of emotional and physical hell, followed by snatches of peacefulness and ecstasy as Fox fled to the sanctuary of the garden and his lover's arms. He cursed himself for failing to complete the drawing ritual successfully. Had he done so, Fox would have been safe and unharmed in Kaneesha's rooms, in Kaneesha's arms and in her bed. He would not have been banished to the mines, instead spending his days with his mistress and helping Fox settle into his new life. He had planned on implanting fantasies of the three of them in his Mistress's mind, even though he had been raised knowing it wrong to use his gift for purely personal, even selfish reasons. He would have done anything to have Fox touch and love him as he did Walter.

***********

The Slave-Pen
GILLIANIA, CARTERIA

Mulder could hear muffled conversation coming from somewhere else in the building, loud enough to distinguish between two different voices, that of his captor and one other, but not loud enough to make out individual words or phrases. It was the second voice that captured and held his attention. It had a strange but familiar quality to it and after a few seconds of concentration he realized that it sounded like it was coming through a radio or speaker of some sort. The reception was very distorted, frequently being drowned out by bursts of static. But that was impossible, he thought. From what he had seen during his captivity and the enforced journey, he had thought that such technology was unavailable, that he had landed somehow in a civilization no more advanced than medieval England. He recalled Matthew's words about rumors of demon-beings in the forest watching the small community, ready to report any poaching back to distant masters. Could the rulers of this place have some sort of surveillance set up, using devices they themselves had declared forbidden? He thought about possible scenarios, the motivations of the Royal Family to contradict their own Laws. He didn't think it would help him at all, but it was a distraction from the fact that his guards had stripped him naked, leaving just the primitive bandage covering the infected arrow wound in his leg.

Imram reluctantly followed the guard through the doorway and out of the room. His mind was occupied with what would happen to the slave once they arrived back at Carterius Castle. He eagerly looked forward to placing the heavy permanent shackles around the slave's slim wrists and ankles, a narrow but strong collar encircling the throat. The climax coming when the slave was branded once and forever with the royal crest, a lifelong sign that the slave was now the property of Lord Gareth.

He entered the small room at the end of the corridor. He had always felt uncomfortable in this room, uneasy with the strange devices that brought his master's voice from so far away. Even though he feared Jaxtar, he would much rather be talking with him face-to-face. He could however see the advantages of the strange black box, it being a faster way of communicating than using homing birds that quite often didn't reach their destination. Lord Jaxtar had assured him that the box presented no danger.

He sat down at the table, keeping what he hoped was a safe distance from the box with it's blinking lights and placed one foot hesitantly on a small pedal on the floor.

"You summoned me, M'Lord. I was just inspecting a new slave," he said nervously.

"Yes Imram. I was just admiring your technique....is so interesting about this particular sla..."

Jaxtar's voice was drowned out by a loud crackling sound that reminded Imram of a dry bonfire being lit for the first time.

"His previous owner claims he was found wandering in the forest near a village called Woodsglen. He attacked one of the elders before he could be restrained. The slave has refused to say where he is from or what he was doing in the forest. I thought he might be a suitable candidate for the festival. He is young and strong and full of fight."

"Well ju... don't wear yoursel... How did the auction go?"

"It was rather disappointing, lower numbers, poorer quality than previous seasons. I only bought 30, the rest were simply not worth the trouble. Is that all, M'Lord? It's getting late and I was just about to load the wagons for an early departure in the morning." In truth he wanted to get back to the slave. He was still hard, even though the contact had been all too brief.

"Yes I'm sure you do.... sure the slave is not harmed but keep him with the others."

Imram turned off the box, thankful he had once again survived the encounter with it, his mind and groin focused on the slave awaiting his attention in the front room. Gesturing for the guard to follow him, he walked briskly back down the corridor and into the room, his hands busy undoing the laces that held his pants. The slave was naked and on his knees, held in the strong grip of two overseers, his head high and defiant, a look of pure hatred in his weary hazel eyes.

Mulder willed himself not to look away as the SlaveMaster entered the room and removed his boots and trousers. The memory of his garden retreat was in the back of his mind, a safe haven he could run to if need be. He was however reluctant to go there too soon, he had seen the weariness in Walter's eyes and knew he should not burden his lover with the weight of his fear and pain.

The guards dragged him to the bed, agony enveloping his leg, keeping him awake and alert to what was going to take place. He was shoved face down on the hand-woven blanket, its course fabric itchy against his skin. His limbs were stretched and secured, pulled taut to the four corners of the bed. A lumpy pillow was forced under his belly, raising his arse. He felt the bed sag under his abuser's weight as Imram settled between his parted legs, those rough, callous hands once more sweeping over him, tracing the outline of his spine, the ridges of his shoulder blades, first the left then the right. A cold, wet tongue followed the hands path, occasionally punctuated with nibbles and bites from razor sharp teeth.

He knew the nightmare had yet to truly begin and already his mind's eye was searching for Walter in the now cloud covered garden. Suddenly the sky darkened, gray thunderheads forming on the distant horizon. Flashes of lightning scored the sky and a wild wind appeared out of nowhere, ruffling his hair and whipping his loose jacket and trousers around him. Driving rain hit him square in the face, stinging his eyes and making it difficult to see.

*"Walter!"* he called, his voice almost drowned out by the howling gale. He thought he heard a distant muffled reply but could not begin to guess the direction it may have come from. He tried to raise one hand to shield his eyes, but it remained uselessly frozen at his side, held against his body by the roaring wind that threatened to sweep him off his feet.

Imram noticed that the slave had gone slack beneath him, his head turned to one side, his eyes glazed and unfocused. He was familiar with the reaction, many an unwilling bed-slave sliding into shock to escape reality. He wanted this one awake and aware, conscious to accept his punishment, to know who was in control, whose hands held his life. He grabbed the pitcher of water and emptied it over the slave's head, the shock of the cold water causing the slave to buck and writhe under him. The friction against his erection driving his blood hot and wild, his balls full and heavy.

"I think he needs something to keep his mind on the job," Imram growled out to no-one in particular. A guard rushed forward, his trousers around his ankles, exposing an enormous stomach and huge, dripping cock. He stood at the head of the bed, his cock at the right height to be forced into the slave's clenched mouth, waiting for his superior's signal.

Mulder felt the driving rain in his face and fought the strength of the wind to move forward towards the rainbow that had formed on the other side of a rambling stream. At the end of the band of soft light was his garden, his sanctuary. Walter sat on their bench, facing away from him, totally dry and undisturbed by the wild storm that raged all around him.

He forded the stream, the icy cold water reaching up to his waist, freezing his penis and causing his sac to seek the warmth of his body. Something long and slimy grabbed one ankle, trying to stop his progress, to pull him under the swirling water. He jerked his foot free and continued, almost running. He felt a pressure on his backside as something thick and moist was forced between the cheeks of his buttocks. He reached out one desperate hand, calling for his lover with every scrap of energy available to him. *"Walter, help me... Please.. I need you."* He had almost given up hope when a firm hand grasped his wrist and yanked him clear of the now flooding stream and into his lover's arms.

Imram ran his hands down the smooth, unmarked flesh of the slave's back, picturing the expanse of brown skin criss-crossed with red and pink welts, a blank canvas waiting to be filled by a master artist, a virgin block of stone waiting to be carved by a skilled stonemason. He reached under the struggling slave to grasp his cock, feeling underneath for the small round balls, taking them and rolling them roughly in his fingers. The slave jerked, kicking and rocking below his mass, trying to break free. One foot came loose of its rope binding, the knee slamming into Imram's side. He thrust his erection between tight, dry flesh, finding the puckered hole and plunging inside in one swift, violent movement, oiled only by his own pre-cum. The slave screamed at the penetration and fought but was unable to shift Imram's massive bulk. Imram nodded to the man standing near the slave's head and as he rammed his hard piston in and out, watched with carnal delight as his second-in-command fucked the slave's mouth, hesitantly at first, but then with more control and rhythm until he was matching Imram's brutal pace, stroke for stroke, thrust for thrust.

Mulder lay encircled in Walter's arms on the soft grass, a gentle breeze cooling their flushed naked bodies. He could feel Walter's shaft inside him, stretching him, filling the space that only Walter could fill. Waves of ecstasy engulfed him as his prostate was stroked over and over, the friction of Walter's cock sending shudders of pleasure through him. Walter's lips on his neck, kissing and sucking and licking and tasting, wanting to devour him. Walter's expert hand on his cock, pumping him slowly, lovingly in time to his gentle thrusts, lifting him up towards the sweet explosion and little death that was ejaculation. He felt his lover's seed, his essence, released into his inner passage, merging and mingling with his own, to become one with him, never to be parted. Walter rolled them on to their sides, still buried deep inside him. Long slender fingers fed him ripe, sweet grapes, and cherries and the biggest, longest most succulent strawberries he had ever known. The juices ran down his stubbled chin to be captured by Walter's tongue and the older man swallowed as if he was tasting manna straight from heaven. A giant, blood-red berry was dangled just above his mouth, teasing his tastebuds with its flavor. It was lowered swiftly, its bulk filling his mouth and sliding down his throat. He gagged and pulled back, his teeth ripping the firm flesh from its stalk, his mouth and lips and chin stained red. His tongue touched something alive and slimy and out of pure reflex he bit down, expelling the bitter tasting substance along with the rotten flesh.

The guard at the slave's head jerked back after letting out an ear-drum bursting scream. His cock, now limp and bloody, hung unnaturally low by two or three narrow strips of skin. The slave's mouth and chin were covered in blood, small pieces of pink flesh trapped between his teeth. He reacted without thinking, swiping the sword off the floor and bringing it down over the slave's exposed neck in one smooth action. Only Imram's hand on the hilt stopped the blade severing the slave's head.

"No. That's just what he wants. He wants you to kill him." Imram ordered, extracting himself from the slave's rear at the same time as he pushed the weapon away from his neck. The guard had fallen back in agony and shock, the sword landing with a thud next to him. He looked down in amazement, his almost severed member cradled in one hand, a growing pool of blood and semen on the floor between his legs and fainted.

"There are punishments worse than death, Malik, and he will feel every last one of them." Imram sunk to his knees, hugging his brother's limp body against his own as the slave vomited blood and flesh and semen and bile onto the floor beside his rocking form.

***********

Lady Kaneesha's Private Rooms
CARTERIUS CASTLE
Same Evening

A hurried knock at her door brought Kaneesha out of the trance-like state she had been in since Morten had been taken away. She looked down at the faded, wrinkled piece of cloth she held in one hand, not knowing how it got there. On it was a charcoal drawing of a face half hidden in shadows, the visible half pale but gorgeous, full lips parted slightly as if frozen in the act of speech.

She recalled the night she had drawn it, still in the shadowy, foggy state between dreams and waking. The image of her dream visitor startlingly clear in her mind, she had stumbled to the smoldering fire in the hearth, grabbed a chunk of coal and looked around for something, anything on which to capture her vision. She had ended up ripping a large piece of linen from her nightgown and returned to bed, barely aware of having left it. Closing her eyes, she had let her hand wander over the cloth of it's own free will, making lines here and there, her thumbs growing dirty with soot from smudging the black dust. It was as if someone or something else was doing the drawing and she was merely the tool, guided by another force. She had not drawn since her mother died many years before. Her mother had spent many hours and days with her in the gardens or quiet areas of the huge castle teaching her to transfer what she saw around her onto wood and linen.

Knowing that it was finished, she had looked down at the product of her dream.

"Fox!" She had exclaimed out loud, not the least bit surprised that she knew his name. The picture was so life-like she almost expected him to reply. She longed to hear him say her name in a voice as soft as silk; at the same instant she knew that one day she would indeed hear him, touch him and own him. The last was as naturally assumed as the first two, for she had a habit of getting what she wanted.

The pounding on her door became louder and more urgent.

"Come," Kaneesha ordered, not looking towards the entrance, unable to pull tear stained eyes away from the drawing.

"M'Lady? The dress-makers are waiting for you. Your ball gown is almost finished." The servant said, standing just inside the room. She was a young, pretty girl, her curly coal black hair contrasting with pale skin and green eyes.

Kaneesha turned towards her and rose slowly to her feet.

"How can I cope with a ball when all my dreams and desires are destroyed," she mumbled, clutching the cloth to her ample bosom.

"M'Lady, is something wrong?" She had not been in Kaneesha's service long enough to recognize her mistress's various moods and more importantly how to deal with them.

Kaneesha didn't reply, just walked straight to her rumpled bed and threw herself down on it. Head buried in her arms, she began crying, the tears flowing thick and fast.

The servant was at a lost as to how to proceed. She had never seen her usually happy, carefree mistress so upset. She moved silently forward, reaching to put one hand on her mistress's shoulder, mimicking the actions of her mother when she herself was sad.

Kaneesha exploded at the touch, knocking her to the floor.

"How dare you lay a hand on me!" she shrieked, her voice high and strained. "Get out of here!"

The servant scrambled for the door, not looking back, just wanting to put as much distance between them as possible. She had heard of the punishment handed to one slave the day before who had upset Kaneesha-- flogging and banishment to the dreaded mines from which very few ever returned.

So intent to escape she failed to notice the large form of the head-seamstress coming down the hallway toward her. They collided but both managed to stay on their feet.

"Watch where you're going girl." The woman looked down at the shaking body in front of her. "I sent you to get Her Ladyship, not go running around the castle."

"I'm sorry, Miss Hannah. But she won't come, just started mumbling somethin' 'bout dreams bein' destroyed then started cryin'" She tried to explain, slipping back into the speech patterns of her childhood. She was visibly shaken, dreading having to face her mistress again.

The gray-haired old woman hugged her briefly, before turning towards the door to Kaneesha's rooms. "It's all right, Becka. I'll deal with her, you head back to the weaving room."

Becka didn't need to be told twice. She smiled gratefully at her savior and walked briskly down the corridor.

The seamstress entered the sleeping chamber, not bothering to knock or wait for permission. She was fed up with Kaneesha's selfish behavior and ever-changing moods. The spoilt brat had rejected five different dresses in the last few weeks, forcing the women in the weavery to work day and night to come up with something that Kaneesha deemed worthy of her. Rolls of rare, expensive fabric and buckets of water to dye the fabric had been used only for them to be told it was not the right color--too dark or too pale. She had finally forbidden entry to Kaneesha, using a slave of the same size and build to finish the latest gown and telling an outraged Kaneesha that she would wear what was offered or go to the ball as she had been born 20 summers ago-- butt naked.

"I told you to leave me be." Kaneesha ordered, not lifting her head from the pillow it was buried in.

"I'm not one of your little serving girls you can bully as you please."

Before she could reply, a claw-like hand grabbed her shoulder and in one swift movement she was turned over and pulled to her feet. She came face to face with a stern, wrinkled visage framed with long, loose snowy white hair. Slate-gray eyes emphasized the force of the old woman's words.

"Take your hands off me, woman," Kaneesha commanded, trying to wriggle free of the hold.

"Your Highness' presence is required in the weavery and you are coming even if I have to put you over my shoulder and carry you there." Hannah's voice dripped with sarcasm, her fingers digging in harder. "Don't think I won't. And don't think you can run off to Daddy, he spent his fair share of time over my knee as a child and he won't stop me doing the same to you."

**********

Somewhere between Gilliania and Carterius Castle
The Following Evening

The sun had set and only one moon was visible in the night sky when Mulder sensed the wagons drawing to a stop. Sounds of commotion, whinnying, frantic horses, people screaming, the distinctive crackle of dry wood burning filled the night air. A couple of guards appeared at the back of the wagon and began gesturing for the slaves to climb out, using the short whips to wake those that had managed to fall asleep. Mulder was pulled along due to the neck chains that connected each slave. Reaching the end of the wagon, he jumped down, wincing as he landed on his injured leg but grateful for the opportunity to stretch his legs and back. The slaves in the holding pen had been awoken before dawn with powerful jets of icy cold water, further increasing Mulder's suspicions about the level of technology available in this world.

After a hurried meal of unrecognizable origin, they were packed into the wagons. Mulder spent the daylight hours sandwiched between two of the ugliest men he had ever laid eyes on, one with chronic halitosis that had almost emptied his half-filled stomach within the first half hour. Around mid-day, a bucket of warm, salty water was passed around the wagon. Once emptied, the same bucket was again passed around. Needless to say, Mulder didn't drink again that day.

Looking around, he was horrified by the sight that surrounded him. The SlaveMaster´s men were rampaging through a tiny village, dragging men, women and children from several huts that huddled around a small, smoldering fire, slaying those that resisted. Flame-lit arrows flew through the cold night air, landing frequently in the wooden, reed-covered dwellings. Many were well alight, the overseers grabbing the fleeing occupants as they tried to escape.

Piercing screams, animal and human and the acrid stench of burning flesh assaulted Mulder's senses. He saw guards dragging young women off to the edge of the thick woods away from the flames and smoke that had quickly filled the air, two and three at a time descending on their defenseless victims.

Suddenly a man appeared at the opening of one of the few dwellings not already engulfed in flames, a loaded bow in his hands, its arrow pointed at a mounted overseer who held a small child in his arms. Without hesitating, he released the arrow. It traveled swiftly and true, hitting it´s intended target directly through his heart. Before the man fell lifeless from his horse, his killer was hit with half a dozen arrows, some of them alight. He collapsed to the ground, rolling in a useless attempt to smother the flames, only succeeding in driving some of the arrows deeper into his body. Mulder knew he was unable to help the stranger, but that didn´t stop him feeling his agony and pain, increasing the hatred and anger he felt towards the bastards who would kill a man for the crime of protecting his family.

The survivors of the massacre were herded into a tight group near the only structure still standing. Women held screaming and sobbing children of various ages. The few young men still alive were separated by the guards, and on Imram´s shouted orders, taken over to the wagons where the slaves were shivering in the chilly air. They were quickly linked with chains and shackles and loaded onto one of the wagons, along with a dozen of the healthiest-looking male slaves that had been purchased at Gilliania. The wagon was then quickly driven off into the night.

"Release him," Imram ordered the guard who held the keys for the slaves collars, pointing at Mulder. Within seconds, Mulder was on his knees in front of Imram. He watched with dawning horror as Imram's men herded the children, women and old folk inside the small wooden hut. A couple of guards held lit torches. They stood beside their leader, awaiting further orders.

Imram grabbed Mulder's collar, pulling him roughly to his feet and thrust one of the torches into his shackled hands. Mulder realized what his captor/rapist had in mind and reacted automatically. He threw the burning piece of wood to the ground, only just missing Imram's leather boots.

"Pick up the torch, slave," Imram commanded, his right hand coming to rest on the hilt of his sword, astonished at the slave's continuous disobedience. No slave had ever openly defied him and lived to tell about it. He wished he had let his brother kill the insolent bastard but he remembered his vow of revenge and was determined to make the slave's life a living hell.

"No." Mulder replied defiantly, dark hazel eyes staying focused on Imram's, no hint of retreat or surrender. He was almost beyond caring what happened to him, a growing realization that perhaps the only way to escape this nightmare would be to die. However hopeless his own situation seemed though, he couldn't just stand back and watch innocent, defenseless people be slaughtered. And he would not, could not participate in the horror, no matter what punishment he faced.

Before Imram's weapon was clear of its scabbard, Mulder surged forward, catching everyone off-guard to wrap shackled hands around his captor's broad throat. Before he could even begin applying pressure, he was grabbed from behind by too many hands to count and wrestled to the ground, the flaming torch searing his sweat covered face, singeing his eyebrows and hair. He kicked and bucked and fought like a wild animal and the guards punished him like one, laying into his already pain filled body with whips and stiff leather boots, more than one kick striking his wounded leg. Somehow he managed to roll away from the burning torch, whilst trying to protect himself from the onslaught being inflicted on him from every direction.

Mulder barely registered the orders being issued from above that caused the attack to cease. He felt himself being lifted upwards and dragged sideways, his right leg scraping painfully along the hard, stony ground, the cloth and leaf bandage reduced to shreds. Anonymous hands lifted his own above his head and secured them to something unidentifiable but solid and rough. A surface that left splinters in his fingers as he grasped wood in reaction to the lashes he felt raining down on his back. They came thick and fast, without pause for what felt like an eternity.

A wave of icy cold water over his head and shoulders brought him back to the surface of reality. He was on his knees in front of one of the wagon wheels, his hands lashed to the rim, sandpaper rough spokes hard against his cheek and chest. What he saw made him want to immediately descend back into unconsciousness, to escape the sights, sounds and smells that he was certain would haunt him til the day he died; a day that he wished would come sooner rather than later. The small hut in front of him had been set alight, it's occupants engulfed in searing heat and smoke, red and blue and yellow flames leaping high into the air forcing soldiers and slaves to retreat. He briefly saw small fingers reaching through gaps in the wood, desperately seeking help that would never arrive. Inhuman screams reached an ear-shattering peak before dying away.

As he slipped once more into unconsciousness, his lasts thoughts however were of Scully and Walter. Where they were, what they were doing, would Dana continue on with the X-Files alone without him or would she finally break free of his obsession, his quest, to have the life he knew she wanted and deserved. A home and a husband and children.....

And Walter... would he blame and punish himself for assigning him to the undercover mission that would ultimately lead to his death? He hoped not, but he knew Walter felt overly protective of his most troublesome agents. He hoped that he might one day get the chance to tell him how he felt, but the way things stood he doubted he'd live to see another sunrise, let alone get back to his own world and the two most important people in his life.

**********

END OF HOFAH 1: Fight The Rising Odds

CONTINUED IN HOFAH 2: A Dream Come True