Title: Blood of My Blood
Author: Claire
Disclaimer: Characters are the property of Fox, and no profit is being

made from this fic.
Rating: R, I guess--implied torture of major character by vampires or vampire-like cult.
Spoilers: Requiem.

Summary: After four years of hell, Scully returns to Mulder and their son Sean.

I don't know how long I've been here. I can remember bits and pieces of my life before this, but I've been dreaming and hoping and praying so long, I can't distinguish between dreams and memories, and so much is missing. It frightens me to think about what has been done to me, so I try not to think.

I can remember places better than people. I remember an apartment, a dorm room, a dark cluttered room that may have been my office.

I remember the hospital, and I can remember my son. More clearly than anything else, I remember him. Sean Michael Scully, my son. I remember giving birth to him, holding him in my arms for the first time, transfixed.

Although I've always liked children, I've never been the maternal type, always happy to hand them back to their parents when I'm tired of them. Holding him, the rush of maternal love overwhelmed me, destroying my world and recreating it as his.

I only had him for one day, I think. I don't remember anything of him beyond holding him in my arms that first time. I believe I was taken shortly afterward. This one memory is so precious to me that I am sure that I would remember if I had ever seen my son again.

As for how long I've been here, I couldn't begin to guess. Months? Years? We are kept in daylight and given food whenever they remember. I haven't seen the sunlight in all the time I have been here. I remember the warmth spilling onto my skin, and crave it like a drug.

I have been sold twice, to the best of my recollection, from the first auction to a cellar filled with twenty or thirty other slaves like me. Our hands and feet were bound with wire, and we were only taken out when they wanted us for bleeding or amusement. We were unclothed and always cold, always hungry, always in pain. New slaves were brought in to replace the dead that were taken away. It never took long for new slaves to be broken in, to become one like the rest of us, slaves obeying our masters.

I'm still not sure why I was sold at the second auction--we aren't permitted to speak to the masters unless questioned, and we are beaten if we slaves speak among ourselves. There are fewer slaves in this place, though, and we are fed more regularly and have a small cell in which we are allowed to remain unshackled. The masters are different, but they treat us in the same way. The pain continues.

I have been tortured in more ways than I care to consider. I have lost innocence I didn't know I possessed. I have begged, pleaded, screamed for mercy. My voice serves only to irritate my captors, so I have learned to keep silent. I pray to myself.

The bleeding is our primary purpose, I think. The torture is just for their amusement. But I am a good slave. I do not ask questions. I bare my wrists to them and avert my eyes from their faces. I am a good slave.

I have been searching for a long time. I was returned almost four years ago. Four long years in which I have looked for her. She was the firstperson I wanted to see when I was returned. I'm still waiting to see her.The Gunmen had determined that she was taken from St. Catherine's shortly after the baby was born. My first suspicion, naturally, was abduction by government or alien conspirators. It was Frohike who suggested otherwise, and at first I refused to believe him. But even I couldn't deny the patterns.

Groups of people, ten to twenty at a time, had been abducted from hospitals, nursing homes, elementary schools across the country. People who were kept in groups and unable to offer much resistance. It was Frohike, also, who found the informants, found Jakob, who detailed the captors and their practices for us.

Vampires. I'm sure she'd find it laughable, under different circumstances.

The surge in this vampire cult activity coincided with the beggining or colonization. There are many reasons for changes in human behavior during times of stress and fear. Frohike predicts a new dark age, the Second Coming ushered by the undead. I'm not so sure myself. I no longer know what to believe. Vampires? It's not really that implausible, I guess, given the world that I find myself in.

However, there are some of us left alive, fighting the future as best wecan. And while we are still alive, there is still hope.

Look at me. I've been living on hope for nearly four years. I've been to hundreds of auction--bloodstock sales--in this time, hoping and searching for a glimpse of her. I have seen thousands of people, beaten and drained human beings, cowed and cuffed and offered for sale. There is nothing I can do for them, try as I might. Their lives are short. The constant bleeding coupled with the torture and the poor nutrition offered to them means that many of these slaves, chosen for their weakness, do not last long in the houses of the masters. I try not to think about it too much.

But I am convinved she is alive. I can feel her in my heart. I cling to Jakob's assurance that his people consider red hair almost sacred. I cling to this knowledge when my hope deserts me. She is alive. She has to be.

They're taking me outside. Oh, God, this must mean another sale. I've never been outside for any other reason. As much as I hate my masters here, I fear more what the future will hold for me.

It's dark, but the night sky is still tinted with blood. It must be shortly after sunset, I think. I can hear them talking about value and market prices, bloodstock value. My red hair. I have heard this before.

I would know her anywhere. I recognize her immediately, standing, head bowed, cuffed like the others. Her clothes are much too big, jeans and a dark shirt that hangs on her tiny frame. Bare feet: she must be cold, but she stands as if numb. Her hair is longer now, halfway down her back, stringy and tangled, glowing like flame itself in the candlelight. Her bright hair mocks her pale skin and the shadows like death in the hollows of her face. Unable to watch her anymore, I turn away to find a dealer.

The dealers unlock my cuffs and present me to my new master. I expose my wrists to him, waiting for him to cuff or bind them for travel. He reaches to take my hand by the fingers instead, making me start and flinch away, the touch of his skin against mine a shock. He reaches for my hand again, avoiding the scars and open wounds that stretch from the palm of my hand all the way to the inside of my elbow.

"Come on," he says simply. He voice is gentle. It sounds familiar and almost comforting. I am afraid. I cannot trust this man, but I cannot stop the smallest stealing of hope over my heart. Goddammit, after all this time, hope should be dead, overwhelmed by pain and disappointment. I am frightened of hope more than of any physical punishment: the dull ache of regret, the realization of what is and what cannot be, are more painful than any wound. Remember, I tell myself. He is not like you. He is still one of them.

We walk outside, the night now ink, a sliver of moon disturbing the sky. I hold up my too-big jeans with one hand. At the car, he hands me a jacket and rummages in the trunk, coming up with a length of cord. I stare at it nonplussed. Does he want me to bind my own wrists? Hang myself? It's not an option I find entirely without merit.

"It's a belt," he says. Okay. To hit myself with? It doesn't look as though it would do much damage, and after all, damage is what the masters are all about.

I clench my teeth to keep myself from screaming as he walks over to stand beside me and takes the cord from my hand. He reaches for my jeans (*Oh, God, please not again*) and surprises me by threading the cord through the loops of my jeans, tying it at my waist. Oh, that kind of belt. I hadn't thought of that. I almost look at his face before I remember and keep my eyes cast down. He helps me put on the jacket, and gestures for me to sit in the car. I do as I am told.

"I'm not one of them." He tells me. Unsure of the correct response, I remain silent. He asks me if I remember anything of my life before. Bits and pieces, I think to myself. Flashes. I shake my head no. He asks me if I know my name.

"Dana..." I clear my throat. "Dana Scully." It has been a long time since I have spoken except to scream, and my voice sounds cracked, the words unfamiliar in my mouth. I remember my name. I have been repeating it to myself in the dark since my capture. Dana Scully. Dana Scully. I can remember that, at least. There's no hope associated with a name.

He starts the car, and we drive into the night.

She won't look at me. The submissive posturing taught her by those animals...her eyes always on the ground, her wrists held out as if for me to bleed her. The scars on her arms and throat horrify me: a legacy of the years in which she has but cut open, laid bare so that the masters may feed.

Looking at the scars, I am so angry I feel sick to my stomach. Jakob has told me of their other practices, of the matching scars which must adorn her inner thighs, her ankles, her soul and her heart.

In *my* heart, I damn them.

It looks familiar. I follow him to the door, and as we enter, I know. He asks me if I recognize this place, I nod in response. It's my Apartment. I haven't forgotten it.

He prepares food for himself, cuts an apple into quarters for me and hands me some bread. He cautions me to eat slowly, something akin to worry in his voice, and tells me he will provide more food tomorrow, when my stomach has had some chance to adjust to eating again. I'm not complaining, this is more food than I have seen in days, maybe weeks.

He shows me to my bedroom, when I have eaten my fill. Cardboard is taped across the windows, so that my eyes can get used to sunlight gradually, he explains. Another surprise. Why would he worry about my eyes? Why would he allow me to expose myself to sunlight? But the thought of sunlight on my skin is too much for me. I don't ask any questions, in case I make him angry and he changes his mind.

He leaves me in the bedroom without a word. Unsure of what to do, sit on the bed and look around, waiting for his return. Everything looks exactly as I remember it. I wait as long as I can for him to return for the bleeding or to hurt me, but eventually tiredness overcomes me and I sleep.

When I wake, sunlight reaches fingers through the cardboard across the window. Candles burn on the sideboard, and a little boy stands in the doorway, watching me.

Noticing that I am awake, he grins at me. He's a cute kid, dark hair and blue eyes, his smile so infectious I almost smile back before I remember. I avert my eyes for a moment, thinking. He is too small to be a master. I didn't see any scars to designate him a slave. He is something else. I dare to look at his face again, and he is still smiling. He giggles a little, a goofy laugh, and this time I cannot help myself. I smile back.

He was waiting for this. He steps toward me, and I jump to me feet: habit of fear.

"You're Dana, aren't you?" he asks me.

"I...yes, I am." Thats me, smooth talker to the last. I am out of practice. The masters never required speech from me.

He speaks formally, extending his small hand to me to shake. "I'm Sean. It's a pleasure to meet you."

I shake his small hand. Sean. My son's name. I feel the now-familiar ache of regret.

"We won't hurt you," he adds, quietly.

I look at him, confused.

"Me and Mulder," he explains, "We won't hurt you. No one can hurt you here. We'll protect you."

Wait. Mulder? It hits me, a revelation almost painful in its intensity. The familiar voice, the gentle touch of his hand on mine. Mulder. My partner. My friend. How could I have forgotten his voice, his touch?

You forgot because you had to forget, a part of me realizes. You forgotbecause that was the only way to keep your hand on the shreds of sanity. You forgot so you could continue to live. There are some pains that the heart cannot bear, so forgetting allows us to go on.

I look at the boy, and understand. He is my son, Mulder's son. I see the shadow of his father in the boy's face. I should have recognized the nose, I think to myself.

"Come outside," says my son. "He's waiting outside for us."

I take my son's hand, and we walk out of the darkened room, out of the apartment and into the light.

The End

Followed by Blood of My Blood II: The Ties That Bind

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