#and she's a devout believer who has searched her whole life for something righteous to devote herself to and she does see him as a prophet

[carefulfears]

we've talked a bit before about how obsessive scully is, that she's a zealot. and i was thinking about this when i posted about signs & wonders. it's how i think about her with mulder — specifically the idea that mulder is a (her) prophet, the way her faith shifts to him. she follows him, protects him, believes (in) him. the way that, in the show, he's objectively right so she's right to take his side. it's reinforced even as they're "punished" for it. is this what you mean or maybe something else i haven't really considered?? what scenes/episodes do you think this plays out most? (as always, love anything you have to say especially about scully <3)

yeah that's basically what i've been thinking about...but like, when you posted about signs & wonders, this was the ending dialogue that you shared:

Mulder: If this was some sort of test looks like I failed. Scully: I'd say if it was, you passed with flying colors. You're alive, aren't you?

and i think it gets bypassed a lot of the time how reductive "believer/skeptic" is, in that these are roles that they play but often not really who they are. mulder isn't actually a believer, per se. he's trying to be, and it's extremely fragile and difficult ("you think believing is easy?"). scully is a natural devotee. she's catholic, born and bred, and feels most defined in faith. not just a belief: a completeness, a trust, a reliance. "based on spiritual apprehension rather than proof." (dictionary definition)

it's been addressed throughout the series, that despite her job as the skeptic, the one demanding evidence, she does not feel the need to prove what she believes in. she tells him that she believes in miracles, even if they can't be witnessed. when he asks what she would do to prove the existence of god, she says that she doesn't think about it. she doesn't think it can be proven. believing isn't difficult for her, isn't fragile, isn't frantic.

but "zealot" means "uncompromising," someone who fanatically pursues their beliefs and convictions. and it isn't belief in god, or dedication to the mission, that scully is violently committed to. signs & wonders is a religion-based episode, where they don't catch the killer. he safely moves to a new city to continue his work. but scully sits in “blessing, tennessee” and calls it a win, simply because she can say anything to him at all.

(collateral damage by audries: "he tells her he loves her, and she thinks someday she’ll tell him that the rest of the world is collateral damage. she’ll tell him that her prayers are selfish and that she is not the saint he thought, the savior he expected. she thinks she’d destroy the world for him, rather than save it, if it came to that...they’d wanted her to love the whole damn world, but she won’t. she wants it all narrowed down to one man in a dim basement and the way he falls asleep with his head in her lap, his restless hands and warm insistence and the way his coat gets darker and darker as he leaves her behind.")

it isn't steady, rational, commitment to her god or her family or her country ("i left behind a career in medicine to become an FBI agent four years ago because I believed in this country"), that she gives her last rights to on her deathbed. that she froze for in the artic, that she inked into her skin. it isn't to save the world that she gives up her child. her job. her home. her identity. and runs.

people tend to think of mulder as obsessive and myopic and that's true, it's hard to always be seeking. to always be following is terrifying.

[theholycovenantrpg]

In the beginning was ABADDON, a DEMON loyal to the cause of the DEMONS. She is said to be IMMORTAL and uses SHE/HER pronouns. In this New Testament she serves as the KEEPER of the BLACK CELLS. Blessed be her name.

THE INDELIBLE MARK.

Her prowling grounds lie deep within the charred belly of Infernum’s Black Palace, in the company of traitors, usurpers, and demons with the blackest of hearts -- along with anyone whose whims are fickle enough to tip the controlled disorder of the realm into calamitous anarchy. Such prisoners find themselves dragged from the marble palace floors to rugged stone steps that spiral into a cyclical, winding void; along which they are tugged along beside rows of cells and arrays of reaching hands before finally hurtling to a stop at Abaddon’s feet. She is both their keeper and their guard; the captor and the caretaker, the whip and the commanding hand. The Black Cells are hers to govern and hers to employ; a slice of Hell as it is remembered within Hell as it has been remade, granting dominion that remains hers and hers alone. Beneath the watchful eye of the Conclave, Abaddon dedicates the cells to the service of its goals, with idle duties such as harboring prisoners and overseeing their sentences, and diabolical ones such as torture and interrogation. A mirror image of the home Abaddon had once found before the world was made anew, the Black Cells are her sanctuary, and she holds it so very closely.

THE HISTORY.

Her earliest memory was of a hand dipped into the vast, milky expanse of Heaven’s sky. A trail of the gaze along an elegant wrist, and the bones would shiver beneath the ageless skin; the tremor a whispered declaration of their belonging to the angel whose eyes they clung to. It always played out the same way, and it was always at the crucial moment when she leaned in to usher the words into her ear that Abaddon would remember. Those were her bones, that was her hand, and such had once been her life. It was all too easy for her to then lose herself in the ritual of remembrance; to sink into the scene plastered along the inside of her lids and relive it as though it was splayed out before her eyes. Her hand, tangled up in the shimmering mists of Heaven’s winds, stuck out in front of her while she lay, pressed against the pale stretch of sky as though it was close enough to touch. She would gently run it back and forth, like the caress of a palm over the eager ocean waves, caught in what felt like an eternity of wonderment before she was abruptly, inevitably, called away, gaze drawn towards the gathering of her fellow angels around God’s throne. She would rise, and then she would fly over and join the reverent cluster, eyes closed and neck arched around the gentle reverberations of her chants. Her beginning, after all, was that of an angel not unlike any other; the mark of an unexceptional existence that she had been all too content to keep -- and all too mournful to lose.

Upon first glance, one wouldn’t think to distinguish Abaddon from any other angel kneeling at God’s feet. She went through the same worshipful motions, bore the same selfless burden, and carried the same serene gleam in her eyes. Yet in reality, she didn’t belong nearly as readily as her monotonous image would portray. Among the angels, there was the devout and the disillusioned; those who had grown to scorn their ancient ways and He who had designed them, and those who were so entrenched in their devotion and obedience that they were buried far beyond any grasp on free will or independent thought. Abaddon, however, simply lingered along the divide. She was full to the brim with love and loyalty towards her Creator, yet not enough for it to drown out her identity and sense of choice. In the end, such was precisely what had driven God’s hand to pluck her off the boundary line -- only it did not cast her on either side. Instead, it hurled her into Hell as though she was just another one of Heaven’s soiled drippings to be licked up and swallowed. All because of a caring, criminal act of protection. All because of a vigorous, righteous strike at an angel cruel enough to torment another. How self-indulgent God was in his omnipotence, in his skewed, selective justice. Yet even so, Abaddon still trailed her hand along His as she fell.

Once anchored into a pale stretch of serenity, it was now flailing in search of purchase as Heaven’s glorious visage soared beyond her sight, its starkness melting into a cloying, all-encompassing blackness before slowly blooming into a scarlet backdrop as ashen as the scent of her tarnished wings. Abaddon landed in Hell, and all she did was look up and see God’s great eye peering through the half-dead sun that hung above. In the end, she still harbored nothing but love for Him, understanding as she was of the delicate balance she had upset with her actions, and fully trusting God’s judgement that she had been worthy of punishment. It settled within her like an ever-present organ, that love; rooted and thrumming with life as she carried it through her treks across Hell’s planes and her halts before Lucifer’s throne. It was an essential piece, a steady fixture; yet it was also an imposter, an abomination, nothing short of an anomaly in a realm with its very foundations steeped in the decay of devotion and the denunciation of divinity. Hell seemed to come alive in its wake, and no sooner had it gnashed its teeth and bared its claws that Abaddon began to wither away, succumbing to its predation with gradual, agonizing inevitability.

Blight gripped her across many centuries; what had begun as a plain numbness in the fingertips of one hand soon growing into an infestation of pestilence, the planes of her flesh ripe grounds for Hell’s punishment to plant itself, wrath morphing into rot as it ate its way towards the repellant core of light harbored within her heart. Yet for all its ravenous efforts, it never came close enough to sink its teeth in. The last dredges of Abaddon’s divinity persevered, and so did she, easing into her existence as a demon with the same serene strength that had propelled her eternity as an angel. She was made the Keeper of the Abyss, and granted the duty of guarding mortal souls as their torment languished along the limitless string of time. Even though she prospered as if she had always had a home in Hell, Abaddon was ruled by the tear that was slowly splitting its way up her arm and stabbing its fissured edges into the side of her neck; not entirely an angel, and not entirely a demon, but rather something in-between. She was half-rotten by the time Lucifer was vanquished and Hell was made anew, and so she never got to know which part of her would prevail. When she rose to Earth, she found herself right where she had been and somewhere entirely different, all at once; still tangled up along the split between both her halves, yet free to lean into one or the other if she so wished. With her rot hidden away beneath glamours and enchantments, with her dominion over the dead revived and restored, Abaddon was whole before the eyes. All that was left was for her to reach out her hand, and make the illusion a reality.

THE CONNECTIONS.

JUDAS, AZAZEL & DAMIEN WARD: Dynasty. She had sought a sanctuary in Hell, and she had found it. In the howling abyss she had watched over, in the chaotic company of her fellow demons -- yet Abaddon never felt as though she truly belonged until she had come upon the chosen few that had found their way into her torn heart. Now, even though she still clung to her foregone lifetime with as much love and longing as ever, she did not believe that her place within it was any more crucial than her place among these hellacious demons that she so fiercely adored. Their band had grown into vast renown in Hell, one that they had carried with ease into the New World; yet while Judas, Azazel, and Damien thrived on it and wielded their influence among the demons with the utmost wit and relish, Abaddon simply lingered on the outskirts and offered them brimming support on their endeavors. They brought a rare brand of hope and happiness into her existence that she had once believed was long lost, and she would cherish and protect it no matter the cost.

RAPHAEL: Shadow. It had burned him from within, to be among God’s favored, with stars and eternities in his grasp, and to find himself struck down in spite of it by a nameless, groveling angel. Abaddon could see it, the scorn that had instantly flitted through the murky timber of his eyes while he lay within the shrinking shadow of her descent, thrown back by the violent thrashing of her wings as she swooped in to come to his victim’s aide. She had known who he was, just as keenly as she had known his place and power within the circle of God’s arms -- and none of it had mattered to her. She could see nothing beyond the snare-trap of torment to which he had lured their fellow angel with relish; and she had chosen to stand against it. It was clear that Raphael still simmered in the ashes of that age-old offense, as he had been prowling around her relentlessly since the onset of the New World had brought her within his reach. He mistook her for prey, and in his mindless pursuit, neglected to guard his own exposed side. After all, she saw right through him, and she would not hesitate to strike him down a second time if pushed far enough.

ARAEL: Intrigue. It had been a rather curious thing, to find herself lashed with the blizzard-like current of an icy gaze, only to glimpse angelic wings beyond the dastardly draft. Though Abaddon was not intrigued by the notion of a cruel angel; after all, her lost brethren epitomized ruthlessness in her eyes. Rather it was the unexpected sight of an angel deep within the blackened belly of the infernal realm, with rage in her eyes and a heap of prey at her heel, which stirred Abaddon’s curiosity. It was quick to turn into sympathy, however, when she had cut into tongues to bring forth the blood-soaked answers that the angel demanded, and it had cast Abaddon against the edge of her great blade once Arael had sensed it. Although she hadn’t flinched nor faltered, Abaddon had regarded her differently since then; greeting her each time with sharp knowing and gentle understanding. Arael’s vigorous visits had dissipated over time, yet the memory of her still skirted through Abaddon’s thoughts. She had already played a part in the angel’s tale, and she longed to hear it in full.

DMITRI: Spark. One day, the Horsemen had acquired the use of the Black Cells for one of their operations, and as the caped specters drew close in eerie arrival, Abaddon’s gaze had clung to no visage other than Dmitri’s. His reputation preceded him, flowing behind him in waves of reverence and adoration leashed to the tender heart of his palms, yet it wasn’t until Abaddon felt their tangible ebb and flow for herself that she had begun to put stock in them. In that mindless, fleeting moment when her eyes had lingered on theirs amidst the flickering torches of the dungeon, something about Dmitri had called to her; a strange tug on her fissured core that she couldn’t help but be lulled by. Perhaps it was the air of tranquility that surrounded them both, so serene and fine-edged that it was almost lethal, or perhaps it was the gentle lilt of his words as he coaxed her into a quiet conversation -- or perhaps it all came down to nothing more than a brush of their influence. It did not matter, as Abaddon was convinced that she was not ensnared by him and instead, merely intrigued. Sometimes, however, she found herself wondering if she might end up being proven wrong, after all.

Abaddon is portrayed by Nazanin Boniadi and was written by JEN. She is currently TAKEN by MAI.