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.

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