Title:In the Arms of the Dead
Fandom:Sleepy Hollow
Pairing:Ichabod/The Horseman
Author:ZzoaozZ
Feedback: zzoaozz@wireco.net
Rating:Adult Only(sex, gothic atmosphere)
Disclaimer:The characters unfortunately do not belong to me. They were created by Washington Irving and totally remodeled by Tim Burton No money has changed hands and this is entirely for my own amusement.
With Katerina and young, master Musbath settled in with family in New York, Ichabod felt secure in returning to Sleepy Hollow. The nightmares had grown worse since his return home and had become intertwined with dark fantasies he could not understand. The only thing that he knew for certain was that if he did not find a way to lay his ghost to rest, he would never sleep in peace again. The carriage jounced along a track too pocked and intermittant to be called a road. The constable tried with limited success to nap in the confined and uncomfortable passenger compartment. As sleep reluctantly claimed him, the dream began again.
The western woods surrounded him. He was running. Pain lanced through his side and his breath was a ragged litany of half sobs. The mist swirled around him carressing him with damp, cold hands, the hands of the dead. The thunder of hoofs grew closer and closer behind him until the ground seemed to shudder beneath their assault. Then he was in the clear and the Tree of the Dead loomed before him. He reached the darkened slit that served as the doorway between this realm and the pits of Hell.
The Horseman was upon him, he could feel the fiery breath of his mount on the back of his neck. He scrabbled desperately at the tree. His clawed fingers drew rivulets of blood from the trunk, but it did not open. There was no escape for Ichabod Crane in the arms of death. The whistle of of a blade slicing the winter air mingled with his own scream as the world went dark.
Then, in the manner of dreams, he was elsewhere. Total darkness surrounded him. He stumbled about seeking anything solid, any point of reference in the vast echoing darkness. He knew that he was in danger of losing something, perhaps himself, but strangely there was no fear. Between one heartbeat and the next, he was no longer alone. He could hear the shallow breathing of another in the darkness and he knew that it was Him, the Hessian, the Horseman. He fled deeper into the darkness until, at last, he collapsed to his knees gasping for air. A strong, cold hand brushed the side of his face in an oddly tender gesture. He looked up into the demon's eyes...
Ichabod woke, barely smothering the scream building in his throat. The carriage had jolted to a bone-crushing stop. The driver was shaking him roughly in an obvious hurry to be away. He nodded at the man and swung down stiffly. He had forgotten to pack anything except the book of white magic he carried always in his breast pocket. He had no more than cleared the coach when the horses bound away accompanied by the snap of the long cartman's whip.
Sleepy Hollow spread out before him just as it had the first time he had seen it. It was a small but prosperous village like so many others, only the feeling was different. No kids played in the town commons, running to see who the carriage brought. The few people who were out barely glanced at him before going quietly about their business. He had vanquished the murderess among them and the demonic ghost she had commanded, but these people had looked into the heart of evil that night in their picturesque little clapboard church and found it a reflection of their own greed and desire. Somethings were never meant to be exposed to the light of day and the darkness of a human soul is one of those things. It could not help but leave an indelible mark on man for he is a frail creature bound by beliefs and values to which he clings like a drowning man for stability. It is impossible to look openly at another knowing that they have seen your own true face and you their own darkest desire.
All these thoughts had crystalized in the Constable's mind just the night before as he lay awake desperately pursuing sleep that would not come. It was madness of a sort and it drove him to seek his own truths in this place where all he had known as fact had been stripped away.
Ichabod checked into the single boarding house in town without speaking or being spoken too. The silence made him nervous, what he intended to do made him plain old scared. Only a stubborn need to understand, a burning desire to know, prevented him from turning on his heels and taking the next coach back to New York.
He rested from the difficult journey as well as possible. He did not eat as his stomach was feeling decidedly rebellious. At the blacksmith, he borrowed a horse without explaining why. He saw with a sense of forboding that it was Gunpowder, the heavy-boned mare he had ridden the first time he had seen one of the Horseman's victims, the first time the Horseman had pounded past him intent on another's head.
The sun was already sinking below the horizon when Ichabod headed down the overgrown path into the western woods. As in his dream, the mist swirled about him, touching him with damp little fingers plastering his dark curls against his neck. The woods were quiet almost as if they held their breath waiting for something or someone.
"Stop that right now," Ichabod berated himself aloud, "or you'll frighten yourself into fainting at shadows. " His scornful voice seemed very loud in the darkness.
All too soon the trees began to thin until one tree alone stood before him. Its twisted and tortured trunk loomed over him. Pepper balked refusing to walk under those grasping branches.
"I don't blame you." Ichabod whispered dismounting awkwardly.
Cautiously he circled the massive trunk until he reached the Hessian's grave. The long straight sword still marked the sight. Time and nature had repaired the damage he had done most of a year ago. The ground looked undisturbed. Reaching out hesitantly, Ichabod touched the sword wrapping his fingers around the hilt, the hilt HE had touched, the sword HE had used to lop off the heads of his enemies. It felt warm and alive in his hand. He drew back with a small gasp and looked at the weapon as if it might turn to a snake and strike out at him. It did not move so much as a hair. "I imagined it, that's it. I just imagined it. My hands were colder than the sword is all."
As soon as he could control the fierce pounding of his heart, he turned to the tree trunk itself. The place where the doorway had opened seemed to draw him. He half expected to see a skeletal hand protruding from the bark, but there was nothing but smooth wood. He reached out a trembling hand and stroked the trunk. It seemed to pulse slightly as if some ancient heart beat sluggishly pushing blood and other darker fluids through its ancient veins. He felt sure that if he pressed his ear to the massive trunk he would hear that heartbeat like hooves in the distance. He placed both hands on the spot from which he had seen the Horseman emerge, the place where everything he had ever believed in had been burned away and cast to the wind like so much ash.
How long he stood like that with his hands and forehead pressed to the cursed tree, Ichabod could not have said. He could tell it had been a long while because he was stiff and shivering with the cold when heard the sound behind him.
The sound was unmistakable, the low creaking of leather tack. Gunpowder was tied to a tree on the other side of the clearing. Someone on a horse was standing silently just behind him. Summoning every ounce of courage he possessed, Ichabod Crane turned to face the impassive and motionless form of the Horseman, and fainted.
Consciousness returned slowly. The first thing he became aware of was heat. He was lying on a pallet of furs and cushions. A heavy quilt covered him. He opened his eyes a crack and found himself staring into a fire burning in a massive fireplace. The flames burned steadily and eerily without a sound or a flicker . The logs beneath the flames glowed red but showed no signs of being consumed. The light from the fire illuminated and warmed a small area, yet, he had the impression that this room was endless.
There was a small sound behind him and Ichabod turned with some reluctance. The Hessian sat quietly on the floor watching him. He had removed his leather armour and cloak and was clad in a loose dark shirt. He was waiting motionlessly. His long sword lay across his lap. The dark blade shone in the firelight.
Gracefully the dead man rose and moved to the fireplace . He stooped and reached back into a hidden corner. Soundlessly, he returned and knelt at Ichabod's side. With exagerated care, the Hessian offered him an aged-looking, pewter mug, handle first.
Ichabod took the stein cautiously. It held some sort of broth, perhaps rabbit, savory with onions and other less familiar herbs. The warmth felt good in his hands. Hesitantly he sipped the broth, and when it proved to be quite delicious, drained the cup. The food was comforting as well as fortifying,He did not even jump when the Horseman took the cup from him just as silently and replaced it on the hearth.
The Horseman returned to sit close beside Ichabod's feet facing him with the sword resting between them and the fire. The firelight softened his face and made his grey eyes glow with an inner light like a snow sky in the dead of winter.
The Horseman's voice when it came was as heavy and cold as that same sky. His English was passable if heavily accented with German. "Why did you call me."
Crane curled a little onto one side in order to face the apparition and thought a while before replying with a question of his own. "Why did you answer." To his credit, his voice only wavered a little.
"You returned what was taken from me; you gave me my freedom when you could have commanded me." The Hessian reached up to touch the thick scar that ran around his neck as a silent reminder of his past.
Choosing to be simply honest Ichabod replied, "I couldn't sleep. Your presence haunts my dreams. Since I left here, I have felt compelled to return as if I had left something important unfinished. I don't know who I am or what I'm supposed to be anymore. I feel trapped, afraid. I can't bear to be near people and I don't want to be alone." He trailed off, embarrased at sounding like a petulant child.
A strange half-smile touched the Hessian's lips fleetingly. "Do you fear me?"
"You frighten me, of course, but somehow it is something in me that I'm afraid of, not the idea of you chopping off my head. It's as if I've lost myself. " Ichabod struggled up to a sitting position but could not look at the Horseman. He closed his eyes and pressed his thumbs into the corners. Dark circles stood out even more for his pale complexion. He had not had a single night of uninterupted sleep since that terrible night so long ago.
A cool hand on his chin startled him out of his reverie . The Hessian tilted his face up forcing him to meet those stormy, grey eyes. He made contact and was lost.
When the human could breath again, he realized the phantom had moved closer without him noticing. Their faces were mere inches apart. His chin was held immobile in one powerful hand. The Hessian's breath was slightly warm against his face. Without willing his body to move, Ichabod found himself swaying closer to his companion. Their lips met and the world outside ceased to exist.
The kiss began gently , then the Hessian was over Ichabod pressing him back into his makeshift bed with the weight of his body and the pressure of his mouth. Ichabod met the fierce kiss with a passion that surprised and frightened him. His mouth opened beneath the bruising force. He felt sharpened teeth nip at his lower lip, his tongue. After an eternity the kiss ended and the Horseman pulled him up into a rough embrace against his strong shoulder.
He could not seem to stop trembling. He pressed his thin body against the larger frame of the Hessian for warmth and comfort. He buried his face in the powerful neck breathing in the faint scent of pine and peat. After a short while he felt hands stroking his hair and supporting the small of his back. Eventually the soothing motions and heat relaxed him. For the first time in a year, he felt safe and protected. Too many nights of restless fear took their toll. Ichabod Crane fell into a deep and dreamless sleep in the arms of the object of all his fears and confusion.
The Hessian lowered the sleeping mortal back onto his own bed. The boy was undeniably beautiful. His flesh was as pale as the dead, his hair black as night. His small frame and sharp features made him delicate and pretty as any girl.
The boy took him back to the time he had been alive bringing forth nearly forgotten memories of riding into some town of beaten and demoralized survivors after the battle was won and the fields put to the torch. His employers would be spouting their philosophy and moralistic ideas in a vain attempt to assuage their conscience, to wash their hands clean of innocent blood. He laughed at their self-delusion. He was a mercenary not just a hired soldier and he enjoyed it. That made him different, colder, a monster and not a leader or conquering hero as they fancied themselves. The fine lords and ladies were only too glad to rush him off after the deed was accomplished, as if they were somehow above him for keeping their own blades clean. He wondered sometimes, who the real monsters were.
He often remained behind in the conquered town until another job came or he grew bored. He had coin and food. Sooner or later they began to come to him. Men, women and children coming to beg from the very monster that had left them broken and cowering. A hungry person has no pride. That was the one universal truth he had found in all his travels. They had nothing to offer for trade except their flesh and nothing to lose in offering except a life of need and pain they no longer wanted. Sometimes he took one offer or the other, sometimes he just turned away sickened.
This boy had come to him in much the same shape as his victims of so long ago, but for what reason the Hessian did not know. The pale child, only lately into manhood, had all the moral quandries and questions of those very leaders he despised, but in the depths of his rich brown eyes there was something more, a stark honesty and an innocence tempered with intelligence and curiosity. It had been those eyes that had stilled his blade the first time he had seen the boy, not any binding of the witch's spell. It was the memory of those eyes that had pulled him out of his eternal purgatory and drawn him to the boy's half-formed desires tonight.
He brooded over the sleeping form examining his own thoughts wondering at himself for bringing the mortal here. He was so absorbed that he actually started when the mortal's voice broke his concentration.
"I don't know your name."
The Hessian glared at the boy propped on his pillows his stormy eyes giving away nothing. His name was something he'd had not heard or thought of in years beyond counting. He was forced to reach back into the darkness of memories long hidden to grope for the sounds that had once defined him. When he finally spoke it was in a voice heavy with suspicion. "I was called Christiaan when I lived. Now I am only the Horseman."
"My name is Ichabod Crane."
"Why are you here, Ichabod Crane?" his voice was a dangerous growl. "What do you want? Why should I not send your soul to whatever rest awaits it?" Like a thing alive, the blade leapt to the young man's throat drawing a thin bead of blood and cauterizing it in the same moment.
Ichabod felt the fiery metal of the blade bite into his throat just below his chin. The Hessian's expression did not change by the slightest fraction. He felt the world withdrawing and heard a familiar humming in his ears.
'Not Now!' his mind screamed at him. With an effort he focused on staying aware.
"I won't hurt you. I just wanted to talk to you."
The Horseman's eyes widened. Then to Ichabod's amazement the dark figure laughed.
The sword dropped to disappear in the moment it touched the charcoal grey floor.
"Hurt me, Boy?" his grin revealed the savagely pointed teeth. "And how do you think you could hurt me? I am already dead."
Ichabod swallowed. "I, umm, well...Maybe I can't hurt you, but I wouldn't if I could. Umm, that didn't come out exactly right, did it?"
The Hessian laughed agin, more gently and caught the human's chin as before, tipping his head back. This time the shifting grey eyes were brighter more relaxed ; they even held a glint of humour. "You dare much, Pretty Child. Perhaps, I will give you what you seek and you shall repay me with what I desire."
Ichabod shivered at the open lust in that gaze. "But I don't know what I'm looking for."
The Horseman trailed one finger across the prominant line of the boy's cheekbone. "You were a man of science and fact. You believed in what could be seen and felt, and measured. Yes?" At Ichabod's nod, he continued, brushing stray hair back from the young man's face and tangling his fingers in the dark, silky mass. "You came here looking for a man and found a ghost. You expected a conspiracy and uncovered magic. Am I correct?"
"Yes." Ichabod's voice was a mere whisper. Warm hands seemed to be everywhere, tracing the curve of his ear, stroking the line of his neck and shoulder, brushing his lips. The low purr of the dead man's voice held him captive as the light touches left trails of fire on his flesh.
"You thought you loved the White Witch, but once the danger was past, the feeling began to fade." Ichabod trembled beneath his hands. A tear ran unheeded down the mortal's cheek.
"How do you know all that?", Ichabod's voice was hoarse with emotion.
"You knew what you had lost before you came here, before you called me. What do you seek;what do you want from me, Ichabod Crane?"
The heavy German accent turned his name into a thing of beauty and grace, a thing that could not possibly belong to him. Yet, it held a power over him, it commanded he look into the eyes of the Hessian.
Ichabod found himself pinned beneath that gaze. His body trembled uncontrollably at the touch. Fear and desire raced through him overloading his nerves and filling him with a visceral need that was making coherent thought impossible.
He thought he made some noise then, but he was deafened by his heart pounding in his ears. He opened his mouth to speak again but demanding lips closed over his swallowing any words he might have formed.
The Horseman tasted of wind and rain and felt like steel and stone. Ichabod's hands found their way beneath the loose shirt to the flat stomach and lightly furred chest. The flesh beneath them was warm and smooth. Powerful muscles moved beneath the skin. He could feel the sliding of tendons and ligaments as his lover moved down to his neck nuzzling then biting the hollow at his collarbone.
"You're dead, this can't be real," he whispered, wondering who he was trying to convince.
The Hessian drew back until he was sitting astride the younger man bearing his weight easily on his knees. His face was flushed and his eyes bright with desire. He grasped the front of the human's shirt ripping it open. Then with the same ease and economy of motion, he stripped away the trousers beneath him. Deliberately he placed powerful, dangerous hands, the hands of a killer on Ichabod's narrow waist holding him pressed to the pallet.
"I AM dead, my pretty boy, yet I live. You live, yet you came here seeking death." The battle calloused hands moved slowly upward still pressing into the pale flesh. "Have you found any answers here?" He paused in his upward stroke to tease his captive's nipples until they were hard enough to ache." He shifted forward letting the weight of his body pin Ichabod's erection between them. "Does your body respond so for your witch? Tell me now, what do you want?"
Ichabod moaned thrusting his hips upward rubbing his erection against the impressive hardness beneath the Horseman's leather pants. "I want you, God have mercy on my soul; I want you." he whispered wrapping his arms around the ghost's neck pulling himself hard against the other's body burying his face against one broad shoulder. Tears ran unheeded into the Hessian's mane of ebony hair. "I wanted you from the first moment I saw you, I need you."
Those words were a release Ichabod had not expected. Fear and confusion faded into a fierce exhileration. For the first time since he had originally set foot in Sleepy Hollow, he felt free.
This time it was Ichabod Crane who caught the Horseman's face in both hands and captured his mouth. He tore at the fabric seperating them until the Hessian laughing against his mouth pulled the offending garment over his head. Boots and pants soon followed suit.
Ichabod let his hands and mouth wander all over the muscular body. He had never loved a man before. The hard muscles and coarse hair fascinated him. The knowledge that this man could kill him in an instant without benefit of blade or gun was an unbelievable aphrodesiac. When the Hessian entered him joining their bodies at last, some final, vital wall exploded in pain and pleasure and the world above ceased to be.
The Hessian reclined beside the sleeping boy listening to the white witch calling his name above. He had known she would follow. Time passed differently above; she must have missed him and come looking in Sleepy Hollow. He had no intention of giving up Ichabod when he had worked so hard and expended so much energy drawing him back.
His skull held more power than the black witch had known. She could not have stopped using that power even when her rivals were gone. It would have called her back again and again until it possessed her. He had never been content in life to be a helpless servant, he certainly would not allow it in death. It had been as much his influence as fate that had caused her to lose the skull that night. He had known the stranger would try to wrest it away to save the boy and woman. The moment Ichabod Crane's hand had closed on the skull a link was forged and the witch's juvenile love spell broken.
The pull of the link insured the boy would return sooner or later, and the Horseman had been prepared to terrify him, seduce him with power, or anything else it took to bring the boy within his reach. He had never imagined the mortal might come willingly to him in such an open and vulnerable state. It still seemed impossible even with the proof sleeping soundly beside him. The boy's words still burned in his mind. Few people had ever come willingly to his bed in life or death, and rape did not interest him.
A fierce emotion siezed the horseman, part possessiveness, part a strange protectivenss that was so alien to his nature that it almost did not register. Fury and killing rage swept through him. The handle of his battle axe was in his hand in a heartbeat. If his lover had looked at his face at that moment, he would have fainted.
He carefully disengaged himself from the boy's grasp and stood. He was in full armour in a thought; being dead had its advantages. A wave of heat from behind him marked the coming of his steed. He swung up into the saddle and felt the familiar rush of excitement.
"Christiaan?"
The name froze him in his tracks.
He composed his face into a more neutral expression before reining Daredevil around to face the boy.
He watched Ichabod rise stiffly and shiver before wrapping himself in the first thing that came to hand , the Hessian's long riding cloak. The image stirred emotions at least as strong as the rage that still blazed within him.
"Is something wrong?" The mortal moved cautiously past the restless animal to stand by his knee looking up with concern and curiosity shining in those bottomless eyes.
The Horseman considered lying for a moment, but such had never been his style. He did not think Ichabod would approve if he knew he was contemplating killing the witch, Katerina. He chose instead to evade the question entirely. "You need food and water."
"You're going back into the real world then? Could I come with you?" The last was said in an oddly shy voice he could never have resisted.
"As you wish."
The Hessian tracked Katerina as Ichabod dressed. His movement's were slow and rather stiff which was all to the good. The western woods were part and parcel of him, nothing moved there without his knowledge. Every bird and beast served as eyes; every tree as his ears and the very mist, his hands. She had taken the blacksmith's nag with her and headed toward town. The forest kept watch in silence until the intruder was gone.
Then the human was dressed in the remnants of his clothing and eyeing the stallion apprehensively. The Hessian reached out a gloved hand and was pleased to see the fear on Ichabod's face turn to confidence and trust. He swung the boy up in front of him with ease. The child was too thin. He weighed nothing. With a gesture, he materialized the long cloak around both of them and pulled his lover firmly against his body.
There was a gut-wrenching moment of vertigo and the horse's hooves were thundering down on the forest path.
Ichabod gripped the saddle tightly and shuddered as the demon leapt into the night away from the clearing. The trees of the forest seemed to open before them in their headlong flight. Eventually the boy relaxed back against him and opened his eyes. A savage pride filled the Horseman. The boy was young and sheltered, but he was no coward. The dead man vowed silently that he would kill them all before relinquishing this one.
Ichabod caught his breath as the Stallion gathered himself and hurtled over a fallen oak. A strong arm tightened around his waist reassuringly. He drew a shaky breath as they thumped down on the other side and pounded on without pausing. The icy wind pushed him back against the Hessian's chest, and the long mane of the war horse whipped back into his face. The world was filled with the thunder of hooves and the wing-like flapping of the long cape. The Hession sat his horse with enviable ease holding the reins loosely in one hand. In contrast, Ichabod was gripping the edge of the saddle with white knuckles.
Ichabod had no idea how far they had traveled into the woods when the horse came to a stop rearing unexpectedly. The Horseman chuckled low in his chest and pulled the animal around in a tight circle. When the world stoped moving, Ichabod opened his eyes and caught his breath.
The Horse had stopped at the edge of a steep cliff that fell steeply to the river that wound its way through the valley. From their vantage point, the water looked like a silver ribbon cast aside by some careless giant. Tendrils of mist rose like smoke from the surface. A small stream flowed beside them through a narrow strip of meadowland dropping in a fine spray over the edge of the cliff.
The Hessian dismounted and helped his lover down. A good sized fire roared into existance. Ichabod shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold night air. The weight of the heavy, brocaded silk cloak decended on his thin shoulders. Strong arms reached around him to fasten a heavy cloak pin at his neck. Then he was alone in the darkness with the towering horse.
He moved closer to the fire letting the warmth and light block out the eerie silence of the forest. He fingered the heavy pin. It was family crest of some kind carved in silver, a beautifully wrought peice of jewelry if he was any judge. He turned it toward the fire and noticed a vaguely familiar symbol carved into the back and below it a tiny line carving of a bird, a cardinal. A numbness seemed to wash over the mortal, something hovered at the edge of his mind, something important, but he could not quite grasp it.
A sharp pain drew his attention. He was gripping the pin so tightly that its ornate edges were biting into his palms opening the series of scars there. He let go of the pin and stared at his hands. He remembered, puncture marks in perfectly straight rows, his mother's eyes peering blindly from the iron maiden. Then his feverish mind conjured images of an earlier time. He could see for a moment her smile as she laughed over some silly joke he had made up for her, the flower petals falling around her as she danced for the joy of spring, the candelight soft image of her long, dark hair brushing the hearth as she drew in the ashes with her finger. He circled around to look at what she had drawn.
The stallion screaming brought him back to the present. There was a brief moment of panic as he realized he had nearly walked into the blazing bonfire. The horse was screaming at him, glaring with a baleful red eye.
"I didn't know you cared."
The animal danced away snorting and pawing.
Ichabod turned slowly staring into the shadows searching for something he couln't quite name. He felt disoriented. Everything seemed so familiar, the night, the fire, the Hessian. He realized dimly that he should be afraid, but the emotions were distant, disconnected from himself. Vaguely, he wondered if Katerina had missed him yet. He had not told her where he was going, just left in the early dawn while she slept. He knew that he should tell her, explain somehow. He owed her that much, but how could he explain what he did not understand himself.
He could not remember a time when he had felt any sort of desire for a man. Of course, he also could not recall desiring a woman until he had met Katerina. The feelings for her had come over him so quickly. He frowned as a thought rose unbidden from the shadows of his mind. She was a witch, skilled in potions and spells. They never spoke of it, but he had seen her books and the trappings of her trade. He felt of the volume, still in the breast pocket of his overcoat. What if the emotions he felt were not of his own creation. The thought was terrifying. The horseman was a creature of the spirit world as well and possessed of powers beyond mortal comprehension.
Doubt tightened like tendrils of mist around his heart. He needed to get away a little while, to sort out which thoughts were his own. Gathering the cloak around him, he headed into the woods opposite where the Hessian had entered. Daredevil moved to block his path.
"Tell him that I'll be back. You can do that can't you?" The big stallion tossed his bead back and stared balefully at Ichabod, but moved aside reluctantly. The ghost-horse watched the living boy until he disappeared amongst the trees then moved closer to the fire to await his beloved master's return.
The woods ended far sooner than Ichabod would have thought.
He stopped dead on the edge of the path. He was standing in the narrow gap where he had first seen the Horseman, headless then. A flock of sheep huddled close together against the cold. The full moon lit the thick layer of fog that swirled and eddied close to the ground making it glow eerily. A well worn path meandered down to Sleepy Hollow. A series of torches protected the perimeter as they had since the first headless corpse had turned up.
The last place he wanted to go was town. He turned away and let his feet carry him onward up through the field and out to the ruins of a small cottage. Strange, he thought, that so much bitterness and rage could have begun in such a humble place. If the widow Archer and her twin daughters had not been cast out into the cold, Christiaan might never have been killed. Katerina might have lived and died a humble peasant. There would have been no murders to bring him to this place.
He knelt before the remains of the hearth and idly picked up the stick Katerina had used to draw in the ashes. The figure she had drawn so long ago was still there protected somehow from the elemnts.
Strange, she had looked at the ashes with the same detached preoccupation as his mother. How much of his life had been directed by magic,he wondered, how much control did he truly have over himself. He could see his mother now, she knelt by the hearth mindless of the ashes and dust and drew with that happy, distracted look singing a wordless tune. She did not seem to be aware of him. He walked to her side and looked over her shoulder at the mark. She traced it over and over the turned to look at him.
"Do not forget, my little bird. You are never alone. Trust your heart."
Then the door flew open and his father was there, Bible clutched to his breast and liquor on his breath with the fires of Hell burning in his eyes. Ichabod had reached for her, but there was no stopping his father in a rage.
With a gasp, Ichabod dropped the stick. When the pain and fear of the memory faded, he found himself staring into the ashes. He had unconsciously drawn an image there next to the first. A numbness seemed to wash over him. He sagged to both knees. His chest felt tight. The image he had drawn, the image his mother had told him to remember, was the same one on the back on the Hessian's pin.
With sudden desperation, he pulled the book of magic he always carried from his coat pocket. The moon was bright enough to make out the pictures and diagrams. The first one he came to was Katerina's rune. According to the book, it was a design to inspire love. Somehow, that did not surprise him as it should have. The second symbol was not in the book.
Suddenly very confused and weary, Ichabod Crane sat on the cold ground and drew his knees up to his chin. He let his head drop onto his knees in a near fetal position. He hugged the cloak tightly around him and tried to quiet the thousand clamouring voices in his head.
