Title: "First Blood" (1/1)
Author: Patrisha Lacuesta
E-Mail: gabol@rocketmail.com
Rating: G
Category: SA
Spoilers: none
Keywords: Pre-XF.
Summary: A young Starbuck confronts death, the white whale that no one,
   not even Ahab, can ever escape.

DISCLAIMER: Dana Scully and her father William Scully aren't mine.
   They belong to Chris Carter, Twentieth-Century Fox Television and
   Ten-Thirteen Productions. (Darn.) No copyright infringement
   intended. Hey, I'm just a fourteen-year-old kid, don't anybody sic
   their lawyers on me! I'm just doing this for fun, no profits are
   made from this (except, possibly, feedback :).

Hello, everyone! I know, I know, it's been a LOOOOONG time. It's just
that... well, I woke up on the morning of July 30, 1997 and guess
what? No more Internet access! Turned out my dearest brother hadn't
paid the rather hefty bill for two months already. Hey, don't look
at me, I'm not the only one suffering from Internet withdrawal symp-
toms.

Actually, I'm sending this story (just can't keep away, you know me!
:) through the e-mail of a friend of mine. That's the e-mail address
above. Please, please, please send feedback! I really want to know
if I should keep trudging on and trying or if I should just lay off
the keyboard for now 'til I pull myself together...

I want to say thanks to my dad, who I think has taught me some of the
stuff here (I hope -- I never can tell with myself) that is really
precious. And to my mom. I hope we can somehow get back together
before it's too late. To my brothers and my friends, and also my
cyber-pals: Nicolette, Nora, Vickie, Amy, Ashley, and Beth Hommel,
and to everyone else whom I've forgotten to mention here -- I'm
sorry! To Adam Lee and everyone else at Gossamer who's in charge of
archiving -- I know how much work you put into the archives to make
them what they are! (By the way, LOVED what you did to the homepages
last Halloween.) And of course -- who else? :) -- to God and
Everyone Upstairs. Or to Allah. Or to Yahweh. Or whatever you might
call Him -- He's all the same to us, isn't He? :)

I'm inviting everybody to read GreenFish and Vickie Moseley's great
stories, also here at Gossamer. My favorites are the Lovecalls series
by GreenFish and "The Temp" by Vickie Moseley. Also enthusiastically
recommended are the Open Book series, written by Vickie Moseley in
tandem with Summer. "Open Book" and "Burning Book" are personal
favorites...

*** This little story is dedicated to all of us who have lost a
father, mother, sibling, friend, or just about anyone we love. ***

     x     x     x

I LOVED MY LIFE
by Patrisha Lacuesta


The house was still and quiet. Eleven-year-old Dana Scully halted on
the doorstep to unlock the front door with the key that hung from a
ribbon around her neck. Then she pushed the door open, locked it
behind her, and yelled, "Mom?"

"I'm up here, sweetie" floated her mother's calm reply down to her 
from the master bedroom on the second floor.

Dana went up the stairs to her room to put her backpack and books
down, then she went to her mother, who was cross-stitching near the 
bay window of her room. The golden afternoon sunlight fell warm and 
soothing on her, sparkled on the needle in her fingers as she 
stitched and hummed and consulted her pattern, spread out on a side 
table.

She looked up with a welcoming smile as Dana shuffled into the room.

"Hi, Dana. You're back early today."

Dana forced a smile and kissed her mother on the cheek.  "Not much 
homework today, so I didn't stay long at the library." She sat down
on the edge of the bed.

"Did you hand in your book report?"

"Yeah. Mrs. Windsor ragged on me a little because it was a day late.
But don't worry, Mom, it won't happen again."

Mrs. Scully smiled. "I hope not."

Dana fell silent, watching her mother stitch, her slender, graceful 
hands skilfully working, slowly but steadily putting together thread
and cloth and needle and skill. In the three weeks Mrs. Scully had 
been working on her project, she had already formed most of the 
picture of a huge, grand battleship. Not a modern one, one of gray 
metal and deadly shining steel, but one in the ancient styles of over
five centuries ago. Dana picked up the pattern her mother was 
following. The battleship was tall and graceful, with a slender
jutting bow. The three mainmasts were supported by innumerable ropes 
of rigging. Cannons, a dozen on one side, glinted with light. Huge 
white sails billowed in an invisible wind as the ship coasted on a 
brilliant blue-green sea.

Dana mused with a faint smile that a battleship would never sail 
with its artillery exposed.  Seawater would destroy the then-
delicate, primitive workings. Such, though, was artistic license.

"Is that the one you're making for Dad?" she asked.

Mrs. Scully smiled. "Mm-hmm."

"It's pretty. You're almost done, huh?"

"Just a few more sails and rigging and she's ready to sail." Mrs. 
Scully smiled proudly. "I'll have it framed properly. Come to think
of it, I'm going downtown for that tomorrow morning -- if you'll
come with me, you can help me pick out a good frame."

Dana grinned. "Sign me up, Mom. Good thing it's a Friday today." 
She sighed rapturously. "No school tomorrow!"

Mrs. Scully looked up with a grin and caught her daughter's gaze.
Dana grinned back. But the moment her mother turned back to her 
stitching Dana's grin faltered, and she sighed wistfully, 
unconsciously.

"When's Ahab coming home?"

"Day after tomorrow." Dana wasn't the only one sighing.

"I hope he gets home safe." Soft.

Reassuring, with a smile: "He'll be fine, sweetie."

Another silence ensued, and Dana looked down uncertainly at the
floor, thinking about her father, all alone out there at sea. Ahab
had been gone for over three months now. Dana missed him.

"Mom," she said suddenly.

Instantly her mother looked up. "Hmm?"

Dana hesitated, nervously fiddling with the sheets on her mother's 
bed, twisting them in her fingers.

"Suzie Hill's dad died a few days ago," she said abruptly, unable to
meet her mother's concerned gaze. "The wake's tomorrow afternoon, and
they're going to have a funeral Mass, too. Suzie's my friend...."

"Then you should go," Mrs. Scully finished immediately, gently.

Relieved, Dana looked up. "You don't mind?"

"Maybe I can come, too." Mrs. Scully watched her keenly. "What time 
tomorrow?"

"Three o'clock at the memorial park."

Mrs. Scully nodded. "Okay, then. Three o'clock."

"Okay. Thanks. This is really hard for Suzie." Dana slid off the bed
and began to walk slowly, thoughtfully, out of the room. She paused 
in the doorway, looking back at her mother.

"Thanks, Mom. For understanding, and... stuff." She seemed a bit 
embarrassed.

Mrs. Scully waved her off with a smile. "That's what mothers are for,
right?"

Dana grinned. "Guess so."

     x     x     x

The funeral Mass was short but poignant, and the daughters, sons,
and wife of Arthur Alan Hill could be heard softly weeping all the
way across the church. After the service Arthur Hill's casket was 
placed inside a waiting hearse, and the dozens of people thronging
the church soon left to follow it in a long trail of cars. Dana and
her mother watched respectfully as Hill's family bade their last
farewell to the man who had been father, husband, and friend to them.

Dana watched silently, often blinking away tears as the afternoon 
progressed. Disturbing thoughts and ideas whirled in her mind. At one
point she turned away from the eulogy that the wife of Arthur Hill 
was bravely delivering from her podium, seeing her mother standing 
there instead, the bright yellow hair of Suzie Hill's mother 
replaced by the dark hair of her own.

And the man lying, still and peaceful, in the casket....

Ahab, Dana thought suddenly, feafully, where are you?

Are you okay? Are you safe?

Or are you at the bottom of the ocean, deep in the mysterious, 
enchanting waters you've loved so much all your life, conquered at 
last by the one white whale no one can escape?

She was utterly grateful when she got home and impatiently ripped 
open the letter that said Hello, Starbuck, just wrote ahead to sound 
you about my arrival. 

"Prepare the docks, Starbuck. The captain's coming into port."

     x     x     x

"Dad!"

First Mate William Scully laughed as his youngest daughter bounded 
down the stairs and flung herself at him, arms wide open for a hug. 
The two kindred spirits embraced warmly. Three months was a long 
time.

"How's my Starbuck?" Bill Scully grinned. "Everything okay?"

Dana smiled. Her father coming home after long months at sea was a 
real treat, and one she didn't get everyday. She was determined not
to ruin this one. She was on her very best behavior.

"Everything's fine, Ahab. But I really, really missed you."

"Missed you too, sweetie. And I loved your letters." He leaned down
to whisper in her ear. "Still hell-bent on getting that math award, 
huh?"

Dana winked. "Don't worry, Dad, it's in the bag." Her father laughed.

	x	x	x

Bill Scully was reading in the den when Dana softly knocked on the 
doorway of the open door. "Dad?"

Her father looked up questioningly.

"Can I talk to you?"

 "Anytime, Starbuck." He laid the book aside.

Dana quickly crossed the room to sit in one of the chairs at the 
large, battered, oval wooden table in the den. It was clean and 
uncluttered, as opposed to the expansive desk at the other end of the
room, where three small jars bristled with pens and pencils, folders
brimmed over one side, mail was in a small heap on one corner, and
several framed photographs of friends and family littered what 
space remained.

The wood of the table -- the family study table, as the Scullys liked
to call it -- was still warm from a sun that had set only about an 
hour ago. Dana absent-mindedly felt the warm spot, liked the solid 
warmth it afforded her palm.

"What's wrong, Dana?"

Her father's voice was low and serious, and rather belatedly Dana 
realized he was wondering what kind of problem she had meant.

"Don't worry, Dad, it's not with school." She smiled.

He smiled back, even broader. "I didn't say anything."

Dana's smile faded. She opened her mouth to start, then shut it, 
and paused again. Her father watched her with a serious look on 
his face.

"My friend's dad died a few days ago," Dana finally said, softly. 
"Mom and I went to his funeral yesterday afternoon. It was awful." 
Her large moss-green eyes grew distant, as if looking back to the 
previous afternoon, in the airy, sorrow-filled church.

"People everywhere were crying. All throughout the Mass you could
hear Suzie and her sisters and their mom sobbing. It was pretty awk-
ward." Dana paused. "I went up to see Suzie's dad. Just once. I
was pretty scared..."

"Scared?" asked her father gently.

Tears began to fill Dana's eyes. "I was afraid I'd see you, Dad," she
whispered. "I was scared that when I took a look into that casket,
I'd see your face. I'd see you lying there, cold and dead, and I
wouldn't have a dad anymore. I wouldn't see you smile anymore. You'd
never hug me again, or tuck me in at night, or read 'Moby Dick' to
me, or lecture me about my grades." The trembling smile was soon
buried in her father's shoulder, as Dana sobbed uncontrollably into
his shirt.

"When my friend's mom went up to read her eulogy I couldn't watch.
I was so afraid, so scared that when I turned to look I would see
*Mom* there instead, reading a eulogy about *you*."

Her father shhhed her, stroked her long red hair soothingly, spoke
to her in tones soft and gentle. Dana's arms tightened around him
unconsciously, and he held her close until her sobs finally shuddered
to a halt.

"I got to thinking about you," she murmured against his shirt. "Some-
times you're gone for so long, Daddy." It was her old, childish name
for him, something she had given up for the sake of growing up.
Now she found herself using it again, lapsing into old habits. "And 
sometimes, when your letters haven't come for weeks, Mom gets this 
look on her face. And I'm scared, Dad."

She drew a long, shivery breath. "I've heard about those times when
a family with someone at sea -- just like you, Daddy -- just hear
a knock on the door. When they open it it's a Navy man. With a
telegram in his hand. And he tells them they've just lost a brother
or a father or a husband.

"Daddy, I never want to know that. I don't want to wake up one
morning to find Mom crying in the living room with a Navy sailor
telling her it's going to be okay. I don't want to wake up one 
morning and realize that you're gone."

Bill Scully looked at the child crying quietly in his lap. *His* 
child. *His* daughter. His own flesh and blood, she was worrying
herself needlessly over what he felt was the most natural thing
in the world.

Bill Scully loved life. He believed in living it to the fullest.
But he also had a deep respect for death. It was nothing to fear,
nothing to live your life terrified of and forever seek to escape.
Something to expect, yes. The sun, having risen, must always set. 
Whatever is born must someday die. It was only a question of when,
and, possibly, how.

His daughter, having her first taste of death, was begining to learn
how to fear it, how to live her life in its shadow. And this was
wrong, he realized sorrowfully. She had to see this before it was
too late.

"Dana," he said quietly, "Dana, listen to me. It's going to be okay.
Shhh."

She fought down her sobs obediently, scrubbing her wet cheeks on his
sleeve. Her eyes burned. Her father offered her a box of tissues; 
she took one with a faltering smile and blew her nose.

"Starbuck, listen to me," he repeated seriously.

She blinked her burning eyes and looked up expectantly.

Bill paused, feeling a moment's sudden fear and uncertainty. Just how
was he supposed to approach the subject of death? How could he
explain it to a child of eleven?

Straight and simple, he decided a moment later. Dana was intelligent.
He respected her for this. And he wasn't going to betray this
respect by lying to her.

"Dana, I know you love me," he began kindly. "I love you, too. But
no matter what happens -- no matter how much we love each other --
there will always come a time when we have to say goodbye to each 
other, knowing that we'll never meet again in this world. No, listen
to me," he insisted quietly, as Dana's eyes began to fill up again.
"It is as natural to die as it is to be born. We all have to face
death sooner or later.

"I don't want you to be afraid of death," he continued earnestly.
"That is the last thing I want you to be afraid of. Death can be
a really good thing. Sometimes it means peace after a long life of
unrest and fear. It means you get to rest and be happy, happy
like you've never been able to be when you were alive.

"Now I'm not saying you should look forward to death," he hastened
to add, with a slight smile. "Life is good and you should live it
to the fullest. Don't let anything, anything at all, stop you from
living the life you want to live -- especially not death or your
fear of it."

Dana watched him seriously, her eyes green and soft.

Bill looked her right in the eye, seriously. 

"And I want you to know, when the time comes for me to die, that I 
loved my life. No one must grieve for me, thinking that I didn't. I 
experienced life in all its darkness, in all its sorrow; I lived it 
in all its light and all its joy. I had and raised four brilliant 
children whom I loved with all my heart. I loved and married a very 
special woman who also loved me. I sailed on the sea that I revered.
I fought for and believed in a country I honored."

Dana smiled. And reached for her father. And they held each other 
close, wordlessly, but with a thousand beautiful things flashing
from one to the other in the space of a few moments.

"When I die, too, Daddy," said Dana solemnly against her father's 
chest, "I want everyone to know that I loved my life, just like 
you've loved yours."

"I don't think anyone will have trouble believing that, Starbuck,"
with a smile.

"Love you, Ahab."

"Love you, Starbuck."


<end :)>

Just a nice little thing. Hope everyone looked and liked. If not...
well, keep your fingers crossed for me, maybe I'll be a *truly*
great writer someday.

I've tried to keep this sweet, sensitive, respectful, and thoughtful, 
and not preachy or overly dramatic (yuck). I really hope I've 
succeeded. I've lost a father too, and I hope this story touched you 
and reached you the way it touched and reached me too. :)

Feedback, chocolate-chip cookie recipes, and wedding proposals joyfully
accepted at gabol@rocketmail.com.