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.
The Hessian shook Ichabod awake far too soon. He rose, painfully aware of every
aching part of his body. His hair was a tangled mess and his stomach complained
stridently. When he spoke, his voice was irritable. "Don't you ever
sleep?"
The Hessian laughed. It was a good deep sound that brought a
smile to the boy's lips in spite of himself. "There are better things to do
with the night." Ichabod felt his cheeks warm. One long finger traced the
contour of his jaw before cupping his chin. Warm lips brushed his gently,
teasingly. He could not help groaning as they pulled away eliciting a pleased
smile from his lover.
He looked around. The coffin still rested by the
fire and a heap of moldering clothes lay neatly atop it. There was no trace of
the other remains from the night before. A thought struck him. "How did you
get, Steenwyke's skull? Wasn't it buried in the churchyard in holy
ground?"
The Hessian laughed again, but this was a bitter sound more like
a growl. It sent a shiver down the Constable's spine. "He was in a pauper's
grave. The Reverend must not have found time to bless it before his death. The
townspeople knew well what he was up to with the witch. They thought him good
enough to save their wretched souls but not to lie in hallowed ground the same
self-righteous reason that they buried me out here in a shallow grave without so
much as a final prayer. They look for demons and monsters behind every tree,
then hide away the evidence of their own corruption; as if by admitting it, the
taint might infect them. Dumme, unwissende Dummköpfe!"
Ichabod looked
startled at the Horseman's insight. His theory was an echo of the one that had
brought him here in the first place. "I think you're right. I thought it was
just Katerina, but it is everyone here. The whole village is affected. Everyone
wears their masks and dances their pattern. Everyone knows who is beneath the
mask but no one would ever show their true face or look on the face of another.
That would break the spell."
He touched the clothing curiously, a coarse
cotton dress and torn lace veil. "Who was she?"
"The Old Crone, she
lived in a cave near here. She always knew when I was abroad, but she never
interfered. I think the black witch killed her. The magic was strong in her,
it preserved her corpse a lot longer than normal. It was still fresh." Ichabod
stepped back from the material hastily, swallowing noisily.
The Hessian
closed the distance between them, chuckling a little and pulled the boy into his
arms tangling one hand in his soft, thick hair.Ichabod gasped as sharp teeth
nipped gently at his ear. The gasp turned to a low moan as questing lips spread
their warmth down his jaw and neck. Again his lover withdrew. Exasperated,
Ichabod caught a double handful of midnight hair and pulled himself hard against
the taller man claiming the lips he desired.
Lack of oxygen finally
ended the kiss. Ichabod drew back a little fighting to fill his lungs. The
Horseman laughed softly. "Easy, Little One, unless you mean to join me the hard
way." The tone was amused, but when Ichabod looked, his lover wore a strangely
melancholy smile.
The smile faded so abruptly that Ichabod took an
involuntary step back. The Horseman's eyes darkened to a murky gray. The hand
at the back of his neck forced him to look up into those raging eyes. Ichabod
felt his stomach lurch. The Hessian pushed him away holding him at arms' length
never breaking eye contact. When he spoke, his voice was cold, the voice of the
Mercenary.
"Look at me. Are you sure this is what you want? This is
your last chance to walk away while I can let you. Out there is life, sunlight,
people, if you remain with me you forsake all those."
Ichabod
straightened and stepped forward so violently that the Hessian actually
retreated this time. An unfamiliar voice emerged from his mouth, one that was
strong and harsh with indignation.
"There is nothing out there I want,
no life, no happiness; and what makes you think I could let YOU go?" The anger
faded swiftly, replaced by a far more dangerous voice, one of quiet
determination. "I would rather die with you right here, right now, than go back
to the masquerade and the lies. You can't show me what love can be then just
send me away. That would be beyond cruel, and though you are hard, and vicious,
and remorseless, I don't think you are cruel."
Impulsively, Ichabod
pulled the dead man to him. There was no resistance. The Hessian bowed his
head, burying his face in the tender warmth of the mortal's neck resting for the
first time in his memory on a strength outside his own. Ichabod whispered
fiercely into his ear, "You are mine, always." They stood together for an
endless perfect moment.
Ichabod would willingly have stayed there
forever, but time was growing short and nature called. A pail of water sat
warming by the fire and next to it something that smelled wonderful, roasted
rabbit, he guessed and a couple of late apples. Gently pushing his lover away
he moved to the pail. Gratefully, Ichabod scrubbed away the traces of the
previous night before falling on the food. "You don't eat either, do
you?"
"Not food," came the even reply, nearly causing Ichabod to choke on
his breakfast.
When he had finished, Ichabod looked around the endless
room. It did not seem nearly as frightening as it had at first. It felt just a
little like home. Feeling inexplicably sad, he dressed quickly in the clothes
the Hessian had procured. He was just buttoning a long coat not unlike his own
over the strange garb when powerful arms reached around him to finish the job.
He pressed against the warmth behind him and arched his back revelling in the
solid body against his own. A weight descended over his head.
He
looked down at the silver cloak pin rising and falling with his own breath at
the end of a thick leather cord. "I...I can't take this." His voice trembled.
"It is all you have left of your family."
"It is the symbol of your past
as much as mine and you are my family now." Long, graceful hands, dropped the
amulet gently down the neck of the mortal's loose, cotton shirt letting it come
to rest on the bare skin beneath. Those same irresistible hands turned him
around and pulled him into a gentle embrace. The Hessian kissed him again, a
slow lingering caress that was half promise, half farewell.
"They are
coming. They have entered the Western Wood."
Fear settled in the human's
stomach like a knot of lead. He paled visibly. The Horseman tightened the
embrace briefly and whispered into his ear, "You will do fine, I believe in
you."
There was a now familiar blast of heat and Daredevil was stepping
out from nowhere to briefly muzzle Ichabod's hair before moving to his master's
side. The Hessian donned his long cloak and checked his sword and axe. Ichabod
ran over the plan one last time, checking to see that everything was in place
and he had not forgotten any of his part. All was ready except his stomach
which was beginning to regret breaking its fast after all.
There was one
last thing to attend to, the part he had dreaded. He pulled the Hessian's
leather bag from Daredevil's saddle and turned to the Horseman. Christiaan
turned his back to the boy and grasped his own neck. There was a nauseating
cracking, ripping sound.
Once more, Ichabod found himself looking at the
Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. He turned to Ichabod holding his skull
carefully. Swallowing, Ichabod took the fleshless skull and nearly dropped it
in surprise. It was still warm. Quickly, he shoved it into the bag and pushed
the sack into Daredevil's bulging saddlebags.
The Horseman mounted the
Stallion and turned to face the boy for one long moment. Even without the head,
Ichabod could feel the weight of restless grey eyes on him. He smiled back with
a courage he did not really feel. Then the Tree was opening and Daredevil leapt
up and out.
Ichabod counted ten and followed landing heavily on The other
side just before the portal closed. He scrambled to his feet in time to see
Daredevil slip away disappearing into the woods. The Horseman stood alone in
front of his open grave sword in one hand, axe in the other. Facing him was
what appeared to be most of the able bodied young men in the village. Even the
youthful, new priest was there brandishing his crucifix at the apparition as if
it were a weapon.
Ichabod circled the crowd quietly. He had made it to
a point opposite the Horseman when a familiar voice shouted. Katerina pointed
at him. Two large men detached themselves from the mob and grabbed him roughly,
dragging him forward just as the crowd surged toward his lover, makeshift
weapons at ready. He tried to see into the writhing mass at the graveside, but
the bodies were pressed too closely together. Katerina was saying something to
him.
It took him a few moments to separate her voice from the clanging of
steel on steel and the cries of pain. "...Father Allen is sure the demon will
let you go once he's cast out. It'll be alright. It wasn't your fault." Her
voice was reassuring, certain. He felt his chin drop in disbelief. The young
priest was in front of him then.
"What you are experiencing is called
possession. We will exorcise the demon, then purify you with the Holy
Sacrament. You will be free, I promise you." He sounded so earnest, so sure
that Ichabod burst out laughing. They thought he was possessed, they really,
truly believed he was under some sort of evil spell when he was free of magic
for the first time in his life.
The priest crossed himself and
whispered a silent prayer before heading back to the melee. Katerina actually
gave him a pitying look and patted his hand then turned away as well to watch
the battle. He struggled fruitlessly against the two muscle bound young men
before giving up. Exhausted, he relaxed in their grasp and watched the
proceedings in sickened horror.
The crowd eventually fell back enough for
him to see. Bodies lay strewn at the Horseman's feet. A dozen swords and
knives stuck from his body, but still he stood. The young priest was facing him
now, crucifix raised, chanting something in Latin and flicking what Ichabod
assumed was holy water at the apparition. The Horseman recoiled raising an arm
as if to protect the eyes that were not there. Curls of mist like smoke began
to rise wherever the water touched. The ghostly soldier seemed to grow less
corporeal with every step backwards.
Ichabod slumped to the ground in a
dead faint.
His captors tried to shake him awake without success.
Seeing that he was not going anywhere, they turned back to the spectacle. Step
by step, the priest drove the Hessian back. His voice growing more confident
with each stride. Finally, He was teetering on the edge of his own grave, the
wet soil slipping under his boots. The morning sun broke free of the shadows of
the trees and hills surrounding the valley. The clearing was flooded with
light.
For one dazzling instant, The Headless Horseman stood poised on
the edge of the grave, axe upraised, shining like flame in the full light of the
sun, then he was fading like mist burnt away by the dawn. The mob held its
collective breath in wonder.
A strangled cry shattered the silence of
the moment. A small, dark form hurled itself at the vanishing ghost and passed
right through it.
For a long moment, the crowd stood frozen in shock.
Katerina was the first to recover. She ran to the edge of the grave falling to
her knees, unmindful of the mud and gore. Two bodies lay below, one a battered
skeleton with a skull full of sharpened teeth and curled obscenely in its arms,
a putrefying corpse wearing familiar clothes. She stared at the bodies for a
moment then whispered softly, "What have I done?", before dissolving into
heartbroken sobs.
She raised a tear streaked face when she felt the
young priest's comforting hand on her shoulder. She moved away numbly as he
turned to give orders to the people standing around. "Get them out of there.
We'll bury them both in the churchyard. Perhaps God will take mercy on their
souls."
Ichabod felt himself pass through something that felt like icy
mist and cobwebs then he was falling endlessly, alone in an echoing
nothingness. He was without form, without substance. He was reduced to a tiny
spark of being in an icy, black void. In the moment it seemed the spark would
flicker out, heat washed over him, pleasant at first then increasing, until all
the universe was flame. Just when the Human felt his mind giving way another
presence brushed across his awareness and he had arms and legs again. A warm,
solid body was beneath him and he was flying upward instead of falling.
Then sunlight, too bright to bear, struck him full in the face, and
Daredevil's hooves were ringing on the broken stones of the Archer cottage.
Ichabod slid down from the tall animal clinging to it for support. He wanted to
pass out or be sick or just to collapse on the ground until he felt real again,
but he had work to do. Christiaan needed him.
He loosened the shovel and
saddlebags from the stallion. The ghost horse was already starting to grow
hazy. Tiny wisps of mist rose from his hide to drift away and melt in the
daylight. Ichabod found the loose stones in front of the hearth and pried them
up with the shovel. The Hessian had precisely excavated his new grave. The pit
was much deeper than the old one, though narrower.
Working as fast as
possible, the mortal removed each bone from the saddlebags and laid them neatly
in their new resting place with the long, dragon crested sword laying over all.
He lovingly placed the real Skull at the head of the pile and the bleached
horse skull at the foot. As if in response to seeing his own skull, Daredevil
snorted and stomped an impatient reminder.
"Almost there," he muttered.
Hastily replacing the rocks, Ichabod scattered dead leaves over the disturbed
soil smoothing his tracks out of the muddy patches of earth then remounted,
aware that he could already see dimly through the big animal.
With his
rider in place the stallion gathered himself and leapt straight for the
abandoned fireplace. There was a moment of disorientation and a flare of light
and heat and they were within the cool darkness of the place between life and
death. This was same place, and yet not the same as the endless room beneath
the Tree of the Dead. Instead of the massive fireplace that had been there,
this one was the mirror image of the hearth outside. A bright fire blazed
steadily and silently within the grate.
Standing beside the fire with
arms outstretched was Christiaan. Ichabod flung himself down from the horse and
into those waiting arms. Neither spoke, but then words were not necessary.
1)Dumme, unwissende Dummköpfe! Stupid, Ignorant
Fools.
Fin
**********************************
This is
the end of this tale, but it is only the beginning. Deep in the heart of the
Hollow evil stirs and a black hard cries out for vengeance.
But, as I
said, that is another tale.