Title: "Harvester of Sorrow" Author: Shannon Alayna Email: ishtarsb@msn.com Posting: Post this anywhere you want Disclaimer: If I owned the X-Files, Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, or any of the others, I would be swimming in wealth and too busy with their scripts and counting my money to write fanfic. So PLEASE DON'T SUE ME!!!!!!! I don't have enough to cover the lawyer fees, please!!!!!! They belong to Chris Carter and 1013 productions... as if you didn't know. And an extra little apology to Metallica to stealing one of their song titles. The song isn't a part of the story or anything, the title just fit and I'm horrid at coming up with them myself Spoiler Warnings: Definete spoilers for "Never Again" Rating: hmm.. for now, PG-13 for use of the "F-word" once. I don't know where it's going to go though. Content: Eventually an MSR, so 'shippers should probably turn back, but the first part is okay. Classification: S, R, Major angst Summary: Scully lets Mulder have it for how he treated her in "Never Again" and has some important decisions to make. Takes place before "Momento Mori" Author's note: I live and breathe for feedback, so any raves, constructive critism, etc, would be very much appreciated. Please??? Please go easy on the flames, though. I burn easily. It always comes down to trust, doesn't it? Staring out a car window, listening as you idly babble on about trusting no one, the search for self. I'm so tired of it, but you don't notice my detached sigh, don't notice my visual search of the outside world, looking for something beyond the horizon that I know I will never find. I'll never give up, even after I discover what exactly I'm looking for. It isn't the Truth; no that is your quest, and always has been. Perhaps it's trust. You never trusted me. At first, you didn't trust me not to hand you over to the people who are slowly killing me now, and gradually it softened into a concerned fatherly mistrust of my ability to think for myself. Our minds have become one, yet stay on completely different wavelengths. Mine cries for your love, approval, attention, while yours seeks your demons, knowing I will always be there to heel when you command.... and I always do. Somewhere in your monologue, you realize my indifference to your words. You stare at me for awhile, alternating your eyes between me and the road as I pretend not to notice. "Scully?" you inquire, the emotion in your voice adding an almost laughable strangeness to the dispassionate sound of my last name. I ignore you until that very point where silence turns from inquisitive to unbearable. Then I answer. "I'm fine, Mulder." The response slips easily from my lips, failing to evoke the slight guilt I usually feel when I brush you off so obviously. This dreary day, I can't muster the pathos to care, so instead, I turn my attention back to the rolling gray of the landscape. Something has died between us, sure as the frustrated sigh that escapes you. Somewhere, your banter turned from witty to cruel, leaving me in the mocking spotlight of your hostilities. It hurts a lot. When I came back from Philadelphia, you met me with a greeting that was in some way akin to contempt. The derisive tone of your voice threatened to tear me apart, wither me like the rose petal I held so carefully between my fingers. I still keep it with me. That petal is me, that petal is us and what's left of a deep trust that we may never have had. You haven't seen the tattoo. I've made sure of that. Showing it to you would mean explaining it to you, and something tells me you wouldn't understand. Unlike Ed, I have no regrets about the etched circle that scars my lower back. I truly did get the mark I deserved. Circles and circles and circles again. That's all my life is. I wonder what your deserved emblem would be. Somehow, I don't think it would be an "N-Y". The silence is bothering you again. "So, Scully. Might I ask your scientific opinion on this case?" You say the word 'scientific' as if it were a curse. Apparently you forget again why I was assigned to the X-Files in the first place. It can't all be Spielburg. I think you preferred me as the little spy. Less of a burden, but your question still hangs in the air, wry as it is. I quickly run back over all the details of the case in my mind. Crop circles, dead animals, and a young woman with mild radiation burns. We had gotten called back on the case, told again to leave it alone, stop kicking a dead horse, and I can tell you're still fuming about it. It's not worth the fight. At this point in my life, I don't really care if it was E.T., a mild explosion, or a rip in the time-space continuum. I'm just so tired. "Well?" you persist. "You know my opinion, Mulder." "Actually, I don't. You've been strangely quiet through this whole case. Busy planning a return trip to Philly? Bastard. At least I wasn't sleeping with the case suspects. It's probably best I didn't say it. "It doesn't matter," I murmur softly, addressing myself more than you. "What doesn't?" Wonderful, simply beautiful. Now I get to attempt to explain this to you. "What I think, what I do. None of it matters, Mulder. You don't see that. You see me as an intruder in your work, without seeing that it wasn't a choice I made. They put me in the basement and I stayed because I thought it was best, because I believed in what we were fighting for. I'm beginning to wonder if I made the right decision." My outburst leaves you perplexed. Your jaw works soundlessly for a moment before you speak. "What? You want to leave the X-Files?" I play with the notion of flinging myself out the car door and letting the pavement take me. Unfortunately, you would probably stop. For someone so brilliant, it confuses me how dense you sometimes can be. "I didn't say that, Mulder." I speak carefully, trying not to let my anger show. "Then what are you saying? Is this about what happened in Philadelphia?" Apathy is becoming harder and harder to feign. "How does that concern you? What happened with Ed had nothing to do with your case. It didn't intrude on any of your precious files, so why is it any of your business that he tried to kill me.. except for the fact that you had more paperwork to do? Why should you care?" The bitterness forced itself from my lips, refusing to be quenched by my desire to appear indifferent. It has the feared result. You jerk the car to the side of the road, kill the engine, and turn to face me. This situation is going to get significantly worse, I can feel it. You look angry, confused, upset, all at the same time. An artist would have a field day capturing that look. Some detached sadist part of me, rather enjoys your pain but more of me wishes I had just kept my mouth shut in the first place. It's far to late to go back. "Why should I care?? Can you really ask me that? He came damn close to killing you!" You make it too easy. "And?" There is no possible way you could have been prepared for that. I've stood in your shadow too long and now, I play to win. Your mouth drops open which amuses me slightly. I am enjoying this more than I should. "And I care about you, dammit! That's why it's my business. Not because you're my partner, because you're my friend! You are so.. .. casual about nearly getting killed and I'm wondering what the hell has gotten into you?" That must have been scripted. You sound so cliché, I want to slap you. Instead, I laugh in your face, which is far worse. It's something I used to do to my father if I really wanted to piss him off. Somehow this moment seems like an appropriate occasion to resurrect the old habit. "A friend. No, Mulder; friendship requires trust and respect, neither of which you have for me." Your eyes darken and a chill runs through me. You are so much more effective when you are truly angry instead of self-righteously outraged. Maybe I was trying to drive you to that point. "You are the only one I trust, Scully," you hiss through clenched teeth. Not that exhausted crap again. The anger that has been welling like a sore finally breaks the skin. "Only when it's convenient. The minute anything I do is questioned, anything at all, you are one of the first to throw me to the wolves. You are incapable of respecting anything I could possibly believe in, so when I try to get away for awhile, try to have something of a life where I am not scrutinized every second, you make it sound trite, all under the pretense of good intentions. And I'm sick of it!" I can't stop anymore. The words flood from me like water and I'm so angry, not caring about what I do to you. I want it to sting. "So I went on a date in Philadelphia. And you know what? I had a great time. I drank bad wine in a drug bar and followed up with a tattoo. After that, I went back to Ed's place and I fucked him, all within six hours of learning his name and I don't regret a minute of it. What I'm starting to regret is that I stopped him from throwing me into the furnace!" I added that in to hurt you, and God, did it work. You haven't seen me really angry before, don't hear me swear often, so I knew it would shock you, maybe give you an idea of what your barbs do to me, show you a little bit of the real person hidden behind this sickly steel mask. It has the desired effect and more. You start to speak and choke on your words before they're uttered, unable to look into my face. Your hands grip the steering wheel and tighten until I can see your knuckles go white. You drop your head and for one horrifying moment, I think you are going to cry. Instead, you start the car and drive. The rest of the trip is silent. I have to get away. ------------------------------- END PART 1 ------------------------------- Title: "Harvester of Sorrow" Author: Shannon Alayna Email: ishtarsb@msn.com Posting: Post this anywhere you want Disclaimer: If I owned the X-Files, Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, or any of the others, I would be swimming in wealth and too busy with their scripts and counting my money to write fanfic. So PLEASE DON'T SUE ME!!!!!!! I don't have enough to cover the lawyer fees, please!!!!!! They belong to Chris Carter and 1013 productions... as if you didn't know. And an extra little apology to Metallica to stealing one of their song titles. The song isn't a part of the story or anything, the title just fit and I'm horrid at coming up with them myself Spoiler Warnings: Definite spoilers for "Never Again" Rating: hmm.. no real language problem in part 2.. I guess PG? Content: Eventually an MSR, starts to get heavier in this part, so friendshippers should probably turn back. Classification: S, R, Major angst Summary: Scully lets Mulder have it for how he treated her in "Never Again" and has some important decisions to make. Takes place before "Momento Mori" Author's note: I live and breathe for feedback, so any raves, constructive criticism, etc., would be very much appreciated. Please go easy on the flames, though. I burn easily. You usually walk me to the door when you drive me home... not today, however. You grab my small suitcase from the trunk of the car and hand it to me. Only then do you raise your eyes from the filthy pavement on which we stand. Your hazel gaze is lost, pained, afraid as you stare into my face. You have nothing to say to me. After all, what could you possibly say? There's nothing now, no way to go back. What's said is said. Nearly five years of built anger and frustration, fear, worry, all of it spilled onto your shoulders in a period of no longer than fifteen minutes. I can't apologize to you, and trying to emphasize what you have done for me over the past few years would sound pitiful and trite. So, at last, there is nothing. "Mulder," I say gently, trying not to fill my next words with hostility, knowing they'll sting you. "We need time, something. Right now, I'm not sure what I need, but it's more than a desk, more than anything you can do right now. I'm going to temporarily transfer back to Quantico, only for a few weeks, until maybe we can work this out. Your eyes squeeze shut and you pinch the bridge of your nose in a gesture that is almost uncannily Skinner-like. "But you are.... coming back?" "I don't know, Mulder. I just don't know." You open your mouth in protest. I can't handle this, not now. I raise my hand to stop your words. Your gaze returns to the ground and you speak anyway, very softly. "I never knew you were so unhappy." "That's the problem," I whisper and start towards the building. "Goodbye Mulder." You make no attempt to follow. ***************** Once safely inside, tears come to me unexpectedly, silent shuddering sobs, as I realize the play that has just been thrown into motion. I don't really want to leave the X-Files. After five years, I wouldn't know what else to do. Your obsession has become my life, trapping me once again in my circle. You're like an addiction. I can't get away from you, but there is no progression that can be made. I can't change you, I won't change you, but I can't change myself either. I can't believe what you believe and it hurts me more than anything else. How many times have you thrown that in my face? Told me how close minded I am; how after all I've seen, why can't I believe? I just can't. It's not something I can or should have to explain, just as I could never ask you to give up your work, your beliefs. I can try to show you another side with objectivity, tell you my opinion, but give up the X-Files? Stop looking for Samantha? Deep inside I believe she's dead, but I would never try and ask you to give up. But nearly everyday, you do the equivalent of that. You ask me to give up the science and structure that has raised me, mock the God I believe in to accommodate your beliefs. It has to work both ways. I admit that I have been close minded. It is hard for me to see any of the many UFO pictures on the wall as anymore than the fantastic imagination of movie makers. Perhaps that's my fault, and one more reason why I had to get away, had to finally tell you. I used to think we complimented each other in some wonderful, perverse way, but now, there is so much less wonder, and so much more perversity. There are more reasons why I can't get away, more than just a thrill in the excitement of it all. I love you and I can't tell you. It would just become another weapon for you to use against me, something to sling when I disagreed with your latest fancy. Or, far worse, it would develop into a disconsolate pity that would have you "protecting" me more than you do. Already, you are afraid of hurting me, try to leave me behind in any situation that you deem dangerous. I wish it were so simple to say you were sexist, but you're not. There is something else, and for the life of me, I can not fathom what it is. It can't be love.... So I go on, day to day, living with the deadliest secret of all, part of me eternally hopeful that one day you will see me. Not as a skeptic, not as 'Scully', but as a person, a friend, maybe even a woman. Foolish dreams. I was you once. I raced butterflies and believed in fairies. The most evil of evils was the monster in my closet and even he could be defeated as long as my father always checked before putting me to bed. Now the monsters are really. They stroll along with us, prey upon our trust, knowing they can snuff us out as easily as a cigarette in an ashtray. This is reality and in you, I still see a little boy who believes that fighting the demons will save the world from sin. It's not that simple, it never can be again. I miss that part of me that was you. Eventually I find sleep through my tears and jumbled thoughts. I am unprepared for it, dropping into the abyss without even the warning of a yawn. The misery of actuality carries straight through into slumber and dreams overtake me quickly. I am filled with trouble half nightmares that always seem to center around you. Your tired face, your pain piercing into me, causing the tattooed snake to prickle and awaken, devouring me in its viscous cycle. As I die in its clutches, I stare into your tear filled eyes as you reach for the invisible truths buried inside me. You're too late. I am dead........ The alarm's shrill cacophony jerks me from the dream's shackles. I feel cold and listless as if the dream death was no longer merely an apparition of the mind. The motions of going to work are automatic, rehearsed, just another scene in the drama. I get to work early, needing to avoid you, quickly grabbing a few necessities from our basement lair before meeting with Skinner. He is displeased and confused by my request, but doesn't question my decision. I knew there was a reason I liked him. I know he will bully you later about my leave and maybe you'll tell him the truth. Maybe you won't. None of it matters. The desperation in my own thoughts frightens me.... almost like someone who has nothing to live for. ********************* I am greeted back to my old position with much fanfare. People talk easily with me again about trivial matters, men, work politics, current events. I don't scare them as I used to, always hidden by your shadow. Now they clap me on the back about my decision, crack endless "Spooky" jokes to which somehow, I always manage to force out a painful smile. I'm one of them. They respect me, listen to me, ask for my opinion without making a joke of it; everything I've been denied of since I first stepped through your door. I should be happy. It's what I wanted, yet somehow.... not. I'm miserable. I walk through each day like a zombie in a business suit, laughing when I'm supposed to laugh, speaking when I'm supposed to speak, silently watching the actions of my colleagues with something akin to disgust. They are false and uninteresting, the lighting is harsh and bright and makes everything look surreal and ugly. And beneath all the superficiality I spew forth daily, I miss you. It's not that I don't see you. You pass me in the halls often, too often, in fact, to be entirely coincidental. The same thing always happens, it's become routine. I see you just before you see me. You're easier to spot being taller and the only one in the place with a darkness that seems to follow you... except maybe for me. Our eyes lock for a short second, yours pleading with me for something, some initiation of dialogue, some explanation, something. I quickly turn away to the nearest of my new "friends", put on a the best warm smile I can fake, and begin to chat away. By the time I look up, you are always gone. Three weeks of this and one to go. I've tried so hard to enjoy this new life, but I can't. My nights are empty and boring, the dates I have dry and uninteresting and I'm quick to break them off. My reputation as the "Ice Queen" seems to be the only thing that has stuck. There are no messages from you left on the answering machine, babbling on about the latest thing in the Enquirer, no late night visits to study case files. I never thought I'd miss it. For some reason, this time it's different then when they shut down the X-Files. This absence makes me hate myself, knowing that anytime I could see you, I could be the one to call or drop by, but something keeps me from doing it. I thought maybe I could put the X-Files behind me, find a new calling and gradually forget you, but I can't stay away and it's time to tell you. Time to end the cycle of silence. For the first time in three weeks, I descend the stairs to the basement and stand in front of the door. Nobody down here but the F.B.I's most unwanted!......... Who did you tick off to get stuck with this detail? I smile softly and grasp the doorknob, linger a moment and then let go, the smile fading as quickly as it had come. I am a member in this exclusive club no longer, an intruder in the dank little chamber. I raise a hand and knock tentatively with a slight hope that you won't be there. No such luck. You open the door. Lines of exhaustion run over your face, aging you ten years in the last few weeks. Your clothes are rumpled and look like they've been slept in. Your taste in ties has not differed. Intelligent hazel eyes scan me for a moment before you step aside and wordlessly gesture me into the room. Sitting down, you wait for me to speak. Suddenly, it's hard to find the words I had practiced so carefully in my mind before coming. "I just came to tell you that I will be returning in a week" You wait. "I just thought you should know." "You're coming back?" you ask, your voice taking on a tone that I cannot decipher. "Yes... if you want me to..." I stutter, feeling my confidence shaken. What if he liked working alone again. Looked rumpled because he'd had so much work? I hadn't prepared myself for that and now.... You stand and stare into one of the posters on the wall. "I don't think you should, Scully." Any planned dialogue I had is completely gone. I'm on my own, the power of speech having completely abandoned me. I had pushed my luck too far, hadn't spoken with you before about my concerns when they weren't so built up, but now it's too late. You want me gone. ------------------------------------------------------ END PART 2 ------------------------------------------------------- Title: "Harvester of Sorrow" Author: Shannon Alayna Email: ishtarsb@msn.com Posting: Post this anywhere you want Disclaimer: If I owned the X-Files, Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, or any of the others, I would be swimming in wealth and too busy with their scripts and counting my money to write fanfic. So PLEASE DON'T SUE ME!!!!!!! I don't have enough to cover the lawyer fees, please!!!!!! They belong to Chris Carter and 1013 productions... as if you didn't know. And an extra little apology to Metallica to stealing one of their song titles. The song isn't a part of the story or anything, the title just fit and I'm horrid at coming up with them myself Spoiler Warnings: Definite spoilers for "Never Again" Rating: hmm.. for now, PG-13 for use of the "F-word" once. I don't know where it's going to go though. Content: Eventually an MSR, so 'shippers should probably turn back, but the first part is okay. Classification: S, R, Major angst Summary: Scully lets Mulder have it for how he treated her in "Never Again" and has some important decisions to make. Takes place before "Momento Mori" Author's note: I live and breathe for feedback, so any raves, constructive criticism, etc., would be very much appreciated. Please go easy on the flames, though. I burn easily. I am left in a desolate place of nothingness. You refuse to meet my eyes, keeping the peculiar expression on your face. "Wha.. what?" I manage to stutter out, unable to form anything of length, wanting your face to light up and say it was all a joke, but it doesn't. "Mulder, I don't quite know what to say." "You don't have to say anything. Go back." Tears spring to my eyes and I angrily wipe them away. You see them despite my efforts and your face softens a bit. "What is it Scully, what's wrong?" The tears are gone, replaced by a stunned anger. You blind son of a bitch. How can you even think to ask me that? "What's wrong? I thought you wanted me back here. I did my time away, and.. now you don't want me working the X-Files?" Your face grows heavy with sorrow and you sigh, returning to your seat. You put your head in your hands, something you only do when something is deeply troubling you. "I don't want you to go, Scully." I hate being confused or deceived. It makes me feel helpless and stupid. Your words leave me spinning. One minute you want me gone, the next... None of this makes sense and I'm angry, furious with you for putting me through this. Is it revenge for my hurting you? You've never been like this before and I don't quite know how to take it. "Then what in the hell.....?" You cut me off. "Dana, stop. Look, I saw you and you were happy. They treat you so much better than I ever could. The last few weeks have given me a lot of time to think, and you're right. It would be selfish to try and get you to stay. I want... I want for you to be happy." So, yet again you are the martyr. Not this time. "Mulder. I am not transferring." I say each word carefully as if speaking to a small child. In some ways, perhaps I am. "Some things have to change. I need you to trust me, to respect me.... and I need to try harder with you. But for the past few weeks I have been utterly miserable." "No, you were laughing. You barely ever laugh." Your tone is grating down my spine and I feel my control start to slip yet again. "Mulder! For God's sake, you think I couldn't fake happiness? If not for their benefit, then for yours. I wanted it to hurt you some. I'll admit it. Lately, working down here, I have been unhappy, but it is nothing compared to the superficial crap I found up with the "respectable crowd". They are a viscous pack of vipers and I can't stand it. Once upon a time, I might have cared about their useless drivel, but everything has changed now. You've changed that. And at least when you see me laugh, it's genuine." I know what I'm going to do, but I can't stop it. "The last few weeks have been hell for me, Mulder. I miss you and I need you to support me. A lot has happened to me, and I don't have any real friends but you. I need you to be here for me." It grows hard to breathe and the room seems to have gotten a few degrees hotter. You stand up again. You can never stand to keep still for long. You're like a panther, stalking the limits of your prison, waiting for your prey to slip up. You stare down at me for a long time, expressionless, reading me, watching for my weakness. I'm desperately afraid even as I stare right back up at you, refusing to let you see me intimidated. I have just committed the ultimate sin. I told you I needed you, and now the next few moments are so critical. I don't want you to pity me. That's probably what I fear the most. To laugh in my face would be poetic justice, but that isn't the way you work. It's amazing how well I know you, yet don't at all. You still look through me, dissect me. I can feel the worst coming....... Suddenly, you smile, a rare 'Mulder' smile that starts with your eyes and follows to your mouth, dropping the years off of you in an almost supernatural fashion. I'm pulled into your arms and you hold me close, stroking my back unconsciously. "I missed you, Scully. It just wasn't the same without you." you mutter into my hair. "I swear, things will change." I pull away slightly and look up to you. I am no longer the only one fighting off tears. "I not asking you to stop believing, Mulder, just please, please don't judge me because I don't." You nod slightly and lean down, brushing your lips against mine, feather soft. A sigh escapes me, embarrassing me slightly and I press my head back against your chest to hide the flush that I know is seeping over my face. We stay like that for a long time, not saying anything, not needing words. Reluctantly I pull away. "I have to get back." "See you in a week?" Your voice sounds hopeful. "Count on it." ******************* The next week goes by quickly. A genuine smile replaces my forced grin which is noticed by the ones who surround me. I think it kind of scares them, and I take a secret pleasure in that. My answering machine is again filled by your calls, and one strange on by Frohike that I can bet was your doing. You even drop by one night with a case file, a pizza and two bottles of beer. I love a man who brings me alcohol. We talk about the case file, but more we just kind of chat on about nothing. The scene in the office isn't mentioned and you actually ask me some personal questions that I can tell you're sheepish about not knowing. My favorite movie, my favorite singing group, everything you should have known about me within a month of meeting me. Not all is jovial, however. There are serious discussions mingled with the little stuff, religion, work, and we listen to each other, sometimes disagreeing, sometimes not, but you truly listen, head cocked with attentiveness. When you leave, you kiss me softly, and I answer you, our mouths more demanding, but never less than sweet. "Thank you," I say softly as you part. You lift an eyebrow. "For what." I can't sum it up so I shake my head from side to side, a bemused smile on my face, knowing everything will be all right. ************************ It is the day of my return and despite the last few days, I am still apprehensive as I approach the door. I'm not sure about what; maybe that things will be different, now that we are actually partners again. I'm not sure, but I can hear my heart fluttering quickly in my throat as I open the door. "Nothing down here but the FBI's most unwanted?" I tease and stop as I look at the scene before me. One side of the room. The side you deemed 'my area' is cleaned of the pictures that decorated the walls. In that corner there is a wooden desk. A blood red rose in a vase sits gracefully on the corner. You smile and step over to me, handing me a nameplate. I turn it over. 'Dana Scully'. "It's not much, but it's a start," you remark, putting an arm causally around my shoulder. Yet again, words desert me. It's becoming a regular occurrence. You start to worry at my silence. "You like it?" I nod and turn to you, this time the aggressor, pulling you down to meet me. There is no introduction in this kiss, our mouths hungry and demanding for the taste of each other. We pull apart, both gasping for breath. "I love you, Dana," you say to me. I silently pray that I'm not dreaming. Everything is coming together almost too perfectly. "I love you too, but for the record, you said it first." You laugh and kiss me again, reaching over to lock the door. In the next few hours, my new desk is used in ways that I am quite sure the people upstairs never intended it. To some, it might have seemed cheap and frivolous, but it isn't. It symbolizes a new start for us, the beginning of something so beautiful it could scarcely be put into words. After we're done, we dress quickly and unlock the door. You brush my cheek lightly with your hand. "We have to be careful, Mulder," I remind you mildly. "You know they would use this against us." "I know. Shall we elaborate on this topic more later tonight?" There is no mistaking the devious note to your voice. "Definitely," I say with a smile. We go back to our work, papers littering my desk almost instantly. While you aren't looking, I pluck the single rose carefully from the jar. It is lush and red, it's crimson beauty seemingly wet with blood. I take the dried rose petal from my pocket and place it neatly among the petals of the flower. Just another day, another petal on the rose. I am no longer the harvester of sorrow. That circle has broken. --------------------------------------------------- END ---------------------------------------------- So what did you think??? Please write and tell me. I know the end seemed kind of cheesy, but after all the angst at the start, I kind of felt sorry for them. They deserved a happy ending. Please mail me, I love feedback!!!! ------------------------------------------------- "In the dark, see past out eyes Pursuit of truth, no matter where it lies Gazing up to the breeze of the heavens On a quest, meaning, reason Came to be, how it begun." -Metallica, "Through the Never"