To Break a Spell
By Anna Otto
Email: annaotto1@aol.com

Category: VA

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: Tithonus

Summary: All fairy tales must have happy endings. Told from Alfred Fellig's 
point of view.

Feedback: A thousand times yes.

Archive: Sure, just let me know where it goes.

Disclaimer: They are not mine. Long live Vince Gilligan. Also CC, 1013 
Productions, and FOX.


	When my nurse looked into the face of Death and bargained with 
him for my life, her fierceness and honesty impressed him. He told her 
that he would take her life for mine, and she agreed, because she was 
young and passionate. Because each life that was saved meant one step 
closer to victory over the yellow fever - over the enemy that each medical 
professional took so close to the heart. Because she didn't realize that 
her own life would have carried so much more meaning than her death.

	I saw her still face the next morning when my fever subsided, 
and it seemed as if she were sleeping. But she was wrapped in a yellow 
sheet, and a young doctor stood next to her, hiccuping sobs wrecking 
his thin body... that's when I knew what I had done, what crime against 
life I have committed. I buried my face into the pillow, moaning with 
anguish, closing my eyes against the picture that I knew would haunt me 
forever. Someone's compassionate voice asked me if I needed help, and I 
found myself looking into the face of the very doctor who had just lost 
his love. He was smiling at me, his grief put on hold for the patient.

	I've been a coward all my life. I didn't tell him the truth.

	Death watched from the shadows, his eyes full of knowledge. He 
didn't betray my confidence.

	* * *

	When I was a little boy, I read a story about a handsome prince 
put under a spell by a wicked witch. He lived in his beautiful castle, 
surrounded by riches unseen, but his face was a nightmarish visage. And 
though only love of a woman could grant him release from his torture, 
there was surely no woman who would ever look at such a monster without 
repulsion. 

	Of course, his heart was kind and tender, and a young, innocent 
girl fell in love with the prince, and the spell was broken.

	The lifespan of love is short, and I forgot its pleasures a long 
time ago, but maybe - just maybe it could heal me. I would even settle 
for compassion instead of love... But my heart had never been kind and 
tender, even if after a century and a half, it presents a miracle of 
medical science. For longer than I care to remember, I've looked like 
an old man fit to leave this mortal coil behind.

	When I evaluate my chances against the prince's, I start to 
believe that he had an unfair advantage.

	* * *

	Each day, medical science invents new ways to prolong life 
and to cheat Death. The precarious balance between the two worlds is so 
often decided in favor of life, but the means used to bargain are no 
longer natural. If a man under the care of the best doctors doesn't die 
from a heart attack, does another one fall down instead, stricken by a 
ball of lightning? If a braindead patient is allowed to live on through 
the wonder of electricity and complex technology, does someone else 
perish in an ocean storm?

	I've asked myself these questions so many times - and I am 
growing tired of having no answers. Death does not talk to me, he 
avoids me, and yet I follow him like an obsessed stalker. 

	Death has the precision of an accountant and fairness of a 
judge, and he answers to masters more strict than the IRS. He has a quota 
to fill each day, and he injects into his job equal doses of cruelty 
and kindness. Sometimes, his visit is a curse, and other times, it's 
a cure. 

	If I had a chance to look into his eyes, I would invite him 
over for dinner and a cup of tea. I would bring him flowers and beg 
him to love me for just one night, praying that he won't turn away 
from my affections. Perhaps it would please him and he would forget 
my transgressions, and his parting kiss would linger on my cheek until 
it grew cold. We would part as lovers and meet again on the other 
side - passing each other by with a knowing glance, sharing a special 
secret.

	After all, he understands me as no one ever will.

	* * * 

	Dana Scully's colors were so rich and true, and I admired 
them as an artist admires beauty - with appreciation and 
objectivity. I rarely took pictures of life, having no taste for 
it - but I longed to capture the auburn of her hair and blue of 
her eyes before they faded away to gray, as I knew they surely 
would. 

	It was a pity that I only used black and white film.

	I could tell by a certain fire in her voice as she spoke 
of life, by the intensity of her convictions, that she was no 
stranger to Death. Had she seen him and forgotten him? Had she not 
recognized the grim shadow when he appeared before her eyes? Was 
she as unlucky as I had been to miss that chance?

	Or had her faith been stronger than mine - strong enough 
to impress Death, to draw him back when no wonder of modern medicine 
could? 

	When my lack of compassion horrified her, I knew that I never 
would ask her these questions - I could only envy her passion and 
naivete. It was a rare woman who knew what monster I was and still 
felt pity for me, and the only one who ever forced me to remember 
the first time I forecasted Death's appearance, the first time I 
tried to stop him...

	I've grown much older since then. My cynicism has grown too. 

	Yet, when her colors faded to gray, I wanted to weep, as 
I hadn't wept for decades. 

	* * *

	Death comes in many forms. Sometimes, he brings yellow sheets 
and the sickening smell of fever, turning entire cities into 
graveyards. Sometimes, he listens to the weakening heartbeat of the 
coma patient with a bleak satisfaction. And sometimes, he throws a 
flash of blinding light and a fast bullet, shattering cameras and 
bones.

	I couldn't see him. Here, in my room, was Death, my 
long-awaited guest of honor, and I searched the dark corners and 
spots lit by the bright sun, and I couldn't see him. I looked at 
the small gray woman beside me, and I saw his reflection in the 
dying light of her eyes. 

	And suddenly, my longing to die was outweighed by my 
desire for her to live. When I begged her not to look into the 
face of Death, I thought only of her love for life. When I took 
her hand in mine, willing a stronger pulse, I thought only of the 
many people who would grieve for her departure. When I felt the life 
force ebb away from me, I was only praying that it would be enough 
to bring her back.

	I'd like to think that I gave her life. But I will always 
be grateful to her for giving me Death.

	For a few precious seconds, for long enough to break a spell,
I disregarded my own pain, and became visible to the one I've 
chased after. 

	He watched me, smiling, and I smiled in answer. 

	And then, my eyes closed in peace.


The End.

annaotto1@aol.com

http://www.geocities.com/~annaotto/