#the front page and all you had worked fro all your life could come crumbling down at a moment you were not ready or expecting

[zorrxchicle]

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[frangipanidownunder]

msr au: mulder is a prince about to ascend the throne, scully is his brilliant tutor

Weird little five para AU set somewhere in Wales in some unspecified medieval time…

1

She noticed the painting on the wall first. An oversized, gold-framed family portrait looming over guests at the top of the stairs that were the focal point the opulent entrance hall. The King stared down, crown gleaming atop his dark hair, beard neatly trimmed, mouth closed, hand resting on his heart, fingers splayed so that the tips brushed the ermine collar of his cloak; the Queen was standing by his side, face inclined to her husband but her eyes were looking past him, wistful, her silvering hair was looped under her crown, hands clasped in front of her. Seated in front of them, a young boy, around twelve maybe, dark hair waving around his face, soft skin, kind eyes of the most brilliant green, nose just on the point of being too large. His long limbs were tucked away neatly, like the painter had placed them there under strict orders for him not to move. Prince Llwynog. The Little Fox. She had expected a red head. Had looked forward to a camaraderie based on shared hair colour. 

The butler asked her to wait. And so she did. For a long time. The domestic staff milled to and fro. She heard horses outside and wondered if her own mare, Missy, were growing restless.

When the seneschal walked down the staircase with a menacing tread, she found herself standing to attention. 

“I am Gwallter, his highness’ steward. Follow me, Sir.”

Dana dipped her head and kept her first thoughts trapped in her mouth. Gwallter was a giant.

2

The room was cavernous. Spectacular but so large and noisy that Dana pulled her cap further over her ears. The feast smelled divine. She saw whole pigs, lamb, beef on silver platters; piles of round baked breads between each guest, turnips and swedes and carrots falling off plates. It had been hours since her last meagre meal. The din was cacophonous as she followed Gwallter past the gentry seated at the high-backed chairs. In the far corner a group of musicians played, instruments Dana had only seen in paintings. The whole scene was so replete with sensory experiences that she hadn’t realised the they had arrived at the head table. Gwallter announced her.

“Your highness, the tutor has arrived.”

The King was watery-eyed, picking at a bone on his plate. The Queen was dabbing at her mouth. Dana assessed that they both looked much older than the painting, and immediately felt foolish at her naivete as a blush spread across her face. To the King’s right was a wily man, grey-haired, sallow skin, smoking an ornate pipe. To the Queen’s left sat the Prince. Llwynog, The Little Fox, who was now…not so little. 

“Who is this young fellow, Gwallter?” The King appeared unfocused, annoyed. The man with the pipe puffed and smirked at her.

“This is Deiniol Scully, the best tutor in the land,” the Queen said to her husband.

“He’s here to teach Llwynog.”

“What use is that?” King Gwilym snapped. “The boy is a dreamer.” He smashed his hands down and bowls and cutlery jumped and rattled. Almost as suddenly, he slouched over and began to eat the vegetables on the plate, gnawing carrots like a rabbit might.

Gwallter turned to her and offered her an almost sympathetic smile. 

“Your highnesses, I am pleased to make your acquaintance. It has been a long journey.” She bowed and her hair fell from her cap. Gwallter loomed over her, squinting at her red curls. The Queen gasped so loudly the diners fell silent and Dana felt their heads turn towards her. The King continued to eat his meal and mumble to himself. Llwynog stood up and walked around the length of the table, leaving the hall so that his echoing footsteps sounded eerily for the longest time.

When they quieted, the smoker laughed. “A girl, Gwilym? You’ve outdone yourself this time, brother.”

3

The door to the Prince’s chambers was so heavy she had to use all her might to open it. Gwallter was standing on the other side and barely moved to let her past. She spotted the Prince in the far corner, lounging on a chaise near a window. Outside, rain had left the gardens bedraggled and the sky frosted silver.

“Prince Llwynog,” she said when he sat up on his chaise, “I’m Dana Scully. I’ve been assigned to work with you.”

He ignored her proffered hand, draping his own down to reach a pile of manuscript papers from the floor. “Oh, isn’t it nice to be suddenly so highly regarded? Under whose penance are you here, Scully?”

She held her ground, tilted her chin. “I am here of my own free will. I am employed to be your tutor. Someone who can give you the intellect desired to enable your succession to the throne, when the time comes.”

He stood then, still holding the papers. “I was under the impression that you were sent to spy on me. At any rate, you have misrepresented yourself to my parents.” He glanced at her attire. A velvet green dress, fastened under her bust and flowing the floor. 

“Deiniol Scully? Really?” Gwallter said from behind her.

“I did not write that in any of my letters,” she said. “I referred to myself as D Scully. If there has been a mistake, it is not on my part.”

The Prince laughed. “An omission that is just as culpable as a misrepresentation. What else might you have omitted to tell us, Scully?”

“If you have any doubt about my credentials,” she started but he cut her off, shoving the papers into her hands. 

“Maybe I can get your opinion on this?” 

She looked through some pages of cursive, elaborate writings from the heart. She read and re-read the prose and looked up at him. “An allegory, a praise poem, maybe? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Gwallter crossed the floor and stood between her and the Prince. She heard his low, urgent whispers and Llwynog retorts. The Prince stepped to the side and smiled at her, taking the papers back.

“My parents will pay you handsomely to teach me things I do not wish to know. Had my brother Samuel been with us still, it would have been his place to sit with you and learn. But he has vanished and along with him, my parents’ pride and strength. My uncle is waiting in the wings for me to fail, so you have a task ahead of you, Scully.” 

“I am equal to that task,” she said. Gwallter went to open the door. Llwynog edged closer to her, so that she could see the different colours in his eyes. “The manuscript. It is beautiful. You write very well.” And with that, she nodded her head. 

He smiled at her. “I will see you bright and early in the morrow, Scully.”

4

She became accustomed to Gwallter accompanying her on her morning walk around the gardens. He told her about the older Prince Samuel and his strange disappearance, how the Queen had taken to her room for weeks and how the King had slowly crumbled from commanding leader to demented soul. The smoker, the King’s brother, Lord Carl, had arrived unannounced and fancied himself the next-in-line. Gwallter had grave fears for Llwynog.

“Fox is a sensitive and passionate young man. He is driven by a different energy to most of us.”

She nodded, smiling up at the huge, bald man. “He is a romantic. I can see that. But he is also strong. He has an openness that others might mistake as a vulnerable side, but it is this transparency that gives him his strength. He will be a good leader for the people. He has empathy.”

“I cannot agree,” Gwallter said. “There are those who would seek to make his life a misery should they find out about his…empathy and most especially his writings. He is under the strange impression that others might wish to read his work. What is the future in reading other people’s imaginings? It is senseless.”

“I have discovered many writings that lift the spirit, touch the heart and challenge the imagination in a way that even scripture and other religious texts cannot. It is a good cure for many ills. There is a sense of camaraderie. That one is not alone in this world. I feel there is no harm in letting him dream.”

Gwallter stopped. “You surprise me, Scully. You are sounding more and more like Fox by the week. Has he begun to mesmerise you with his words?” She laughed. Mesmerising was an apt descriptor. The Little Fox was the most unique, infuriating, stubborn, generous man she had ever met. “Next, you will be telling me that you believe his stories about lights in the skies.”

“I want to believe.”

A flurry of movement over by the stables caught her attention. She moved forward but Gwallter grabbed her arm. She saw the puff of smoke float over the half-door. Heard the Queen’s tinkle of laughter between the horse’s braying. “You will not speak of it,” Gwallter said. “Llwynog must not know. He will put it into one of his tales and that would spell danger greater than the would-be conquerors at our borders. War by weapon is valiant. War by words would be catastrophe.”

5

She let the pages fall together with a pleasant whump. The lesson was over. And she had learned more than her pupil. He was kneeling at the foot of the chaise, smiling up at her with his eyes sparkling and his mouth open in wonder. It was as though he had never heard the tale before. And yet it was his own story, put together from the stirrings of his heart and inspired by his eyes. He knew of his mother’s affair, he knew of his father’s emotional and mental decline. He knew of Gwallter’s noble desire to protect his young charge. Fox knew it all. And he had written every word. From Samuel’s vanishing into the bright white light one wintery night to the scheming brother who had planned it and more, his manuscript was a ride into lunacy.

“You must burn this,” she said.

“Why?” he cried. “It’s the truth.”

She rubbed her knees, trying to find the right words. “Your highness,” she said, but he caught her wrist and brought her hand to his mouth.

“You can call me Llwynog, Fox…if you prefer. I have long since thought of you as Dana.” 

A tremor ran up her spine and she shifted back in the seat, but left her hand at his lips. His generous mouth pressed harder against her knuckles and she licked her own lips. She had grown fond of him, with his grand ideas and wild explanations for the most mundane of life’s occurrences. She struggled to work out why they should have such a strong bond, given their different upbringings and personalities. But she came to the conclusion that he made her feel things in a new and interesting way, he challenged her as much as she challenged him. And he made her smile.

“This could ruin you. This could be the lever that your uncle has been looking to release, to unbalance your father so that he tips into insanity. With him gone, it will be just you and Lord Carl. And he has no conscience. He would stoop as low as he needed to ensure you would not stand between him and the throne. I’m afraid for you, Fox.”

Fox leaned up and kissed her. Her first instinct was to pull away but she liked the feel of his breath in her mouth and his evening shadow bristling against her skin. The way his fingers walked up her thighs and teased her belly. She felt a hot rush between her legs and understood that she must end the kiss but it felt so good and right that she found herself nestling closer to him, allowing him to swallow her in his warm embrace. 

She only heard the door click shut. She rubbed at her mouth and patted down her hair, while the Prince looked outside.

“I saw nobody.” His voice was breathy when he returned, his face panic-stricken. She looked at the table by the window. It was empty. “The manuscript is gone.”

Later that night, when her heart had stopped thumping in her chest, she heard a rattle at her door. In her haste to light a candle, she tripped and before she could right herself, a hand clamped over her mouth. 

She struggled free, crawling towards the still open door, and yelling, “Llwynog, Fox! I need your help.”