Title: In The Arms Of The Dead

Fandom: Sleepy Hollow

Pairing:Ichabod/The Horseman

Author: ZzoaozZ

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.

IN THE ARMS OF THE DEAD

By ZzoaozZ

With Katerina and young, master Masbeth 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 intermittent 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 caressing 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 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 cart man'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. Some things 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 crystallized 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 foreboding 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. Gunpowder 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 site. 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 exaggerated 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, embarrassed 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 uninterrupted 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 quandaries 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 again, 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 prominent 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 exhilaration. 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 separating 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 aphrodisiac. 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 seized the horseman, part possessiveness, part a strange protectiveness 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 Hessian 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 stopped moving, Ichabod opened his eyes and caught his breath.

The Horse had stopped at the edge of a steep cliff that fell sharply 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 existence. Ichabod shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold night air. The weight of the heavy, brocaded silk cloak descended 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 piece 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 candlelight 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 couldn'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 elements.

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 clamoring voices in his head.

****************

The Horseman returned to the bonfire flushed from the hunt carrying a yearling deer and a pair of fat hares. He was met at the edge of the clearing by Daredevil. Swift as thought, he reached into the demon-beast's mind then pushed his awareness outward into the night and forest. It took no more than a moment to find the boy. Anger flooded his mind spilling over to his mount sending the animal into a frenzy. With a curse, he mounted and wrenched the horse's head in the right direction. He thundered through the night taking a perverse pleasure in seeing the creatures of the forest run before him as if he were the very Devil. Mixed with the anger was a soul deep fear that confused him. That confusion only fed the fury until he seemed to burn white-hot from within.

The storm rose behind him as if in response to the emotions raging within the Hessian.

He pulled Daredevil to an abrupt stop. Surprised, the horse reared and twisted nearly losing its balance. The Horseman snarled, hissing through sharpened teeth. The rising wind carried the sound of hoof beats. Someone else was travelling through the night toward his prize. It was she, Katerina, the white witch. She had found him.

His eyes narrowed as he ran through his options. To kill the witch outright was to lose the boy forever. He was certain of that. To sweep down and bear him away before she arrived would only make him feel trapped and confined, and that was what had driven him into his arms in the first place.

Always the strategist, the Mercenary pushed his rage into the back of his mind where it would simmer until he could act on it, and weighed his options. Finally deciding on a course of action, the Ghost faded silently into the trees.

On the path, Katerina shivered with a sudden chill. Ichabod had disappeared from her awareness completely then reappeared as suddenly, but somehow her protections and bindings on him were gone. A long peal of thunder from overhead startled her mare. The horse half reared nearly unseating her. Clinching her teeth and setting her jaw, she kicked the horse into a run and headed toward the ruins of the cottage. For a moment she thought she heard hoof beats behind her, but it was only another clash of thunder. A brilliant flash of lightning lit the trail before her.

In the ruins, Ichabod looked up in time to see a brilliant flash of lightning overwhelm the sky casting everything in stark white light and blinding him. He knew he should move and go seek out shelter before it broke. He could make it to the village but the thought left him filled with a nameless revulsion. He could head back to the tree assuming he could find it again. He had not been paying much attention to his direction as he traversed the woods lost in thought. He berated himself for acting like a child for the second time since his return to Sleepy Hollow. He was not even sure that his phantom lover would be near the tree of the dead. Even if he was there or out searching the forest for him, he would at best be angry with him for leaving like a coward when his back was turned. He really did not want to contemplate the worse case.

He laughed bitterly into the rising wind allowing the gale to dry his tears. He sure had a way with relationships. Now he owed both Christiaan and Katerina explanations. Either was a formidable opponent, and both deserved more than he could give. Irritation replaced self pity momentarily. Neither of them had a right to control him to demand so much of him. He was a grown man. What did it matter what either of them thought. The laughter took on a slightly hysterical edge. What kind of an adult would go wandering off into the woods in the middle of a storm when someone who cared about him was doing his best to please him even if that someone happened to be a homicidal manifestation of a murdered soldier. The mad laughter turned to quiet sobs. How could he explain anything to anyone when he was so messed up himself.

Nearby, hidden by a thick copse of cedar, the Hessian felt his anger melt away with a suddenness that left him shaken. An unfamiliar ache took its place. He wanted to go to the boy, comfort him, take away that pain, and keep him forever safe, but that detached and calculating portion of himself aborted his movement. The events that would decide all their fates were already in motion, it was too late to change plans now. He had to trust in himself and the boy.

"He came to me." The Hessian whispered defiantly into the thunder's roar. "He needs me." Ichabod's words ran through his mind like a mantra. He would be patient for the first time in his life or death. For the first time, he knew that he had something worth fighting and dying to keep.

*********************

The approach of a rider intruded on Ichabod's chaotic thoughts. He looked up with hope and fear warring in his expression. However, the figure which materialized out of the storm was not a dark rider on a nightmare steed. It was instead a slight girl with a sweet heart shaped face and a wild mane of golden hair escaping from a fur-lined hood. She was mounted on a plump white mare and riding to beat the Devil. It was, in fact, the last person on Earth Ichabod had expected or wanted to see. It was none other than Katerina Van Tassell.

His heart clenched and his throat seemed to constrict. At her hurt and confused look, he found himself torn between sweeping her into his arms and begging forgiveness and shaking her until she told him the truth. She pulled her mount up to a halt just in front of him and fixed him with a questioning gaze. He could not seem to find the words of common courtesy with which to greet her. He just returned her stare measure for measure. The awkward silence spun out until both grew uncomfortable.

Katerina was the first to shatter the stillness scolding him in an eerily mundane tone of voice for leaving without telling her, for coming back to the Hollow alone, and for worrying her sick. She dismounted and caught his arm urging him up off the wet ground. Numbly he obeyed. Recent events took on an unreal feeling. It was as if he was moving through a thick mist isolated from the world around him moving to a will other than his own. Not until he felt the warm, coarse hide of the mare under his hand was he able to shake the feeling and return to his senses. Roughly, he pushed Katerina away from him. As if on cue, the heavens chose that moment to open drenching them both instantly.

Katerina's wounded look changed to one of concern. "We need to get you back to the village, some food and warm clothes will make you feel better. You'll catch your death in this weather." She felt his cheek and forehead. "You must have taken a fever already to have wandered out here." Her eyes seemed to light from within at the idea.

He knew too well what Katerina was trying to do. She never really changed at all. She was almost childlike in that way. She would brush aside anything that did not fit into her perfect little world just the way she thought it should. She seemed to feel that if you did not acknowledge an unpleasantness it could not exist. She would bundle him off back to New York and use whatever means necessary including her magic to convince him and herself that nothing was ever wrong that this had all been a fever dream or a side effect of his insomnia. Then she would see that everything went back to normal, at least on the surface. She would lie to herself until she believed it and expect him to do the same.

He could not let that happen this time. He had bowed to the will of others all his life, no more. It was time he chose his own path. He would not live a lie. The truth had to be revealed now, no matter how painful or ugly. He recalled his words to young Musbath so long ago. It was true, sometimes Evil was at its most treacherous when it wore the mask of virtue. His mind made up, he caught her tiny wrists firmly as they withdrew from his face.

"No, I do not have a fever, and I am not returning to the Village. We are going to settle some things right here and now."

Katerina stepped back as if she had been slapped. Her face went from concern, to surprise, then hardened into a determined look he was very familiar with. She put her hands on her hips and was about to reply harshly when her eyes lit on the heavily embroidered cloak now soaked black with rain. They travelled down to the ripped shirt visible under his vest and the dark bruise just below his collarbone. A look of horrified understanding crossed her features and she actually backed up a pace.

Ichabod saw recognition and revulsion fill her eyes and desperately changed the subject catching her off guard before she could begin either accusing him or demanding an explanation. He made his voice as harsh as he could and allowed anger to sharpen his words into a weapon.

"This symbol you drew the day we were here, the day you burned the will, it is a love charm not a simple design, is it not? Did you bespell me then? Have you kept me under your spell all this time, made me your slave with your white magic and your lies? If you ever cared for me even a little, tell me the truth, Katerina. For the love of your very soul, confess now."

"Bespell you?" Katerina's voice rose a level of shrillness that would have been most fascinating under other circumstances. "Is that what he told you, that murdering demon?" Anger blazed in her eyes. She seemed to loom in the bright slashes of lightning in spite of her slight stature. At that moment, he would have been hard put to guess which of his lovers would win in a bare fisted fight.

"No, this told me." His voice was cold as he pulled the thin book from his pocket. The bullet damaged cover could not be mistaken. Her own gift served as mute accuser to her deception. "It's all in here, page twelve diagram C, but you knew that didn't you." He cast the book of magic to the ground at her feet.

She stared at the book, but made no move to rescue it from the rain and mud. Then she seemed to crumple before him. Anger and indignation fled leaving her defeated and trembling. "I...It was...I didn't mean to hurt you. I just wanted...a chance to show you..how I felt." Her blue eyes brimmed with tears.

Ichabod believed her. This was the Katerina he had thought he knew, the one he still cared for in so many ways. He could hardly blame her for trying to hold onto something she really wanted. She was a Van Tassell after all, and blood will always tell. He could not let her know that yet, though, he needed to know one more thing. He felt a pang of conscious as he used her guilt and remorse to trick her. Forcing bitter anger into his voice, he pointed to the symbols drawn in ashes and demanded she tell him what the other rune meant.

Confused, Katerina looked at the second image in the ashes. The rain was blowing hard, blurring the edges of the runes. They were both still clear enough to be read though. She traced the second sign with a tiny finger that was steady and sure in spite of the emotional outburst and the icy torrent. "I didn't draw this one. It's a personal symbol. The person that drew it meant it as a protection and a guide. I didn't do this. I don't know who did, I swear it." She rose slowly from the ground shivering. Ichabod, lost in thought, did not see her heart broken look melt into a mask of jealousy and rage.

Ichabod was not surprised by the revelation. He seemed to hear his mother's admonition to remember echo in the howling of the wind. He had to find out where the Horseman had gotten the pin, who had carved both he cardinal and the figure into the back.

Katerina's low rhythmic voice drew him back to the present. She was speaking in a dangerous sing-song tones her words spilling over each other and running together. Her azure eyes flashed with wounded pride and betrayal. It took him a moment to make sense of the incoherent sounds.

"It's that monster, he's the one who has bespelled you. I did what I did out of love. He plans to take you straight to Hell with him. He plans to isolate you from the ones who care about you. He wants you for himself, for his own sick pleasure. I'll take care of that. I know how to stop him forever. It's so obvious. Why didn't you think of it before with all your big city education and science. There are people in town that respect my family and me enough to help me. There are those with a debt to pay to that demon. We'll dig up his damned bones and bury them in holy ground. Let's see him rise then. Let's see who you run to when your demon is burning in Hell where he should be."

Ichabod felt an icy hand close around his heart. He had no doubt at all that she would do just that or die trying. What if she was right? The Horseman had not been able to cross the Holy ground around the church in town. Fear paralyzed him for precious moments. Too late, he reached out to seize her. He managed to catch her elbow, but she wrenched away and swung up onto her white mare. Without another word, she raced back in the direction of the village leaving him alone in the cold rain.

Ichabod fell back to his knees in the icy mud fighting panic and tears that threatened to suffocate him in their battle for control of his throat and lungs. He had truly and unequivocally ruined everything now. He had to warn the Hessian quickly and find some way to stop Katerina. He would not blame the Horseman for parting his head from his shoulders after his stupidity had created such peril. He did not want to see Katerina killed nor did he desire to lose his dark lover to a scorned woman's jealousy,or the fires of Hell, not when he had only just found him. Tears spilled from his eyes and ran down the sculpted planes of his cheeks to mingle with the icy rain. His stomach was a fiery knot. He had to control himself. He had to do something now.

The sound of hoof beats behind him froze him in place. She could not be allowed to see how much her threats affected him. He had to convince her somehow that she was wrong. Even if it meant leaving him forever and returning to the lie and the endless, sleepless nights. Better he suffer than be the cause of eternal torment for the one being he had ever loved. That thought shook him to the core. He did love the Hessian. The revelation gave him the strength to gather himself and school his expression. He took a deep breath and prepared himself to face her. Before he turned his ears caught the creak of wet leather then the distinctive chiming of spurs.

"Christiaan," he whispered then rose to his feet and threw himself into the waiting arms of his lover.

***************


The Hessian held the slender boy tightly. Ichabod was relating the events of the past few moments in an desperate voice. He knew the matter was urgent but he could not take his eyes off the small book lying forsaken in the mud, the sign of his victory. He grinned fiercely against the boy's wet hair trying to hide his euphoria as he listened to Ichabod's broken synopsis of what had transpired between him and the girl.

He knew well that he should be taking action, planning a course of defense, but a strange tightness in his chest made the danger distant and unimportant. Everything that mattered was here and now, in this very moment. This was the culmination of his life and death, the salvation he had not thought to find, his only glimpse of Heaven. It would not matter if he faced judgement in the next heartbeat as long as he could hold on to this one as long as possible.

The boy's violent shivering was what finally propelled the Horseman into action. Effortlessly, he swept the human into his arms and carried him to Daredevil over his protests. The horse stood uncharacteristically still and even bowed one long leg to make lifting the boy into the saddle easier.

Once Ichabod was settled, he mounted behind and spurred Daredevil back toward the Tree of the Dead. The trip through the forest was over in moments, and the Stallion was flinging himself fluidly into the grasping mouth of the portal.

Inside the comparative warmth of his abode, the Horseman helped his mortal lover from the saddle and held him until he was steady on his feet. Daredevil moved forward to sniff at the boy tossing his head defiantly when he saw his master's measuring look. The Hessian shook his head. The animal had come to care for the lad. In life, the damned horse had never been willing to tolerate another person's presence within kicking or biting distance of his master. Daredevil's easy acceptance of the situation was somehow disquieting.

The horseman reached to unfasten the sodden cloak, but was stopped by an icy hand. "The pin," Ichabod's voice was rough from the weather and the tears, "where did you get that?" The Hessian slid the pin from the cloak, letting the heavy weight fall to the floor to vanish soundlessly, and held it toward the fire.

"It was my father's and his before him. This is our family crest. My father was a wealthy land owner, a lord you might say, in the Hesse-Kassel region of Germany, my homeland."

"What does the symbol on the back mean?"

The Hessian turned the pin over frowning. "That is a strange tale. It was winter and my battalion was sent to subdue a town near Jamestown. The battle was fierce and bloody." A savage grin lit the Horseman's face. "I was locked in battle with a pair of guardsmen on foot. They were the first real soldiers we had met. Most of the men we fought were poorly armed peasants and even women and children."

"I moved around for a killing blow to one of the men, but before I could land it, a bright red bird shot up from the brush between Daredevil's hooves. He started and I pulled around in time to catch the second guardsman before he buried a knife in my back. His companion grabbed me from behind ripping the cloak and pin from around my neck."

"I searched the field when the battle was over and the town put to the torch, but it was too thick with bodies and debris. I thought both lost for good. Then we were ordered to move out."

"It was winter and bitter cold so we sheltered in a small village two days to the West. The people there were loyalist and welcomed our British commanders with open arms. The Hessian troops they merely tolerated as a necessary evil. Most avoided us, not speaking or meeting our eyes. We had to tend to our own food and wounds. That is why it surprised me so much to hear a girl call me by name. I was on my way to the livery to see to Daredevil when she stepped out of the shadows in front me. She was a tiny thing with long brown hair and huge eyes that seemed to command her whole face. She was dressed very plainly in homespun material and she wore neither coat nor shoes."

"I was an outsider even among the other mercenaries who feared me as much as my targets. I was even then called the Horseman. No one on this shore could have known my name. I asked her how she knew me, but she just smiled and held a bundle up to me. It was my cloak, cleaned and mended with this pin lying safe on top. When I asked how she came to have it, she just smiled again in her strange way and shook her head."

"When she did speak, her words made no sense to me. She said to remember that cardinals are free and death is never the end. My first instinct was to seize her, demand she explain, but something stopped me. There was an innocence about her, a childlike happiness. To touch her would have been wrong in a way I did not have words to explain. I could not speak harshly to her or frighten her into telling. I reached for my purse to find her a coin and when I looked up she was gone as silently as if she had never been there. I followed her naked tracks through the snow until they just disappeared. I found these carvings that night."

He shook off the dream in time to catch the mortal as he fainted.

Once again the Horseman carried the unconscious boy to his bed pausing to carefully strip away the wet, muddy clothes before covering him with the quilt. He felt a brush of velvet against his neck and looked up into Daredevil's red eyes. An idea came to him then, the seed of plan. He brushed wet hair back from the boy's face, tenderly.

Mounting the Warhorse, he prepared to face the world above and the raging storm once more.

***

Ichabod slept and dreamed of cardinals a pampered pet flying from his hand into the hazy, New York sky, a toy that twirled and spun, a frightened bird beneath the hooves of a great warhorse, a simplistic etching in silver. His mother's voice haunted him whispering her warning to trust his heart and never forget. Again and again, he seemed to see red blood flowing across the floor of the rectory, red as a cardinal's feather.

His own scream shook him from sleep. He bolted up into a pair of comforting arms. The Horseman held him close rocking him gently until the last shreds of the nightmare dissipated. Ichabod rested his head on the leather clad shoulder of the Hessian. "She knew you would find me, somehow. She told me to remember, to trust my heart."

"Remember what, mein hübscher Junge?"

"The symbol on your pin, my mother told me to remember it. She said to trust my heart. That was her that brought it to you that day. It must have been. She sent that cardinal to divert you, she made sure cloak and pin made it back to you. She wanted me to see it and know that it was right."

"Right?"

"Being here with you, loving you." The arms holding him tightened painfully, but Ichabod did not notice. Too many things were coming clear at last. "She knew about you, she knew I would be afraid to trust my heart. How could she not have known what my father would do."

"Your father?" The Hessian's voice was a little unsteady.

"My father killed her." Haltingly at first, Ichabod recounted the entire story of his mother's torture and death. He had to stop occasionally to swallow the lump in his throat and choke back tears, but he continued. He explained the unconditional love he had for his mother, her innocence, her joy, the pain at finding her dead at his father's hand bound in an iron maiden for witchcraft.

As he spoke, it became clear how much of who he was had been determined by the driving need to separate himself from both magic and religion. He had run frightened from the control of two forces that seemed so intent on destroying each other. It became easy to see that his fascination with science was his way of dealing with the anger he felt and the betrayal from the father he had looked up to for so long.

Gradually the words began to come easier and the pain began to recede. The Hessian listened quietly without judgement holding the mortal boy. When the words finally ceased he was still crying, but the tears were a release they had never been before. Emotionally exhausted, Ichabod slumped in his lover's grasp and let the years of suppressed tears flow unchecked knowing he was safe and protected and best of all, not alone.

Ichabod jerked upright, eyes widening in panic. "We're not safe here. We have to do something, we have to stop Katerina before she unearths your remains." He tried to rise but iron arms pushed him back into the bed. "Shh now," the Horseman's voice was passionate. "I have a plan. I have no intention of losing you, pretty one, when I have only just found you. This is what we must do." The Hessian detailed his plans as pulled the quilt up over the pale skinned boy.

Ichabod listened carefully with growing respect. The plan was simple enough to work, the only flaw he could see was that it relied on him. He firmed his jaw. He would not fail in this. "It will work." he whispered, "I will not let her destroy you out of jealousy."

The Horseman caught his face and tilted it up to the firelight. His grey eyes were dark and intense. "Did you mean what you said before? Do you love me?"

Ichabod met those eyes and held them. "I love you, Christiaan."

For a moment the Hessian just held him as if he could stare straight into his soul, then he pulled the boy hard against his chest in a crushing embrace. Ichabod felt sharp teeth graze his neck and bared his throat to his inhuman lover. Hot lips found and ravished his own opening his mouth, tasting him.

The Horseman's voice was a fierce hiss against his mouth. ""Mein Ichabod, ich werde Dich nie alleine lassen!"

"What does that mean?" Ichabod's breathless question ended in a gasp as those possessive lips moved down his bare chest to the hollow of his navel.If the other replied, Ichabod did not hear it as a fiery wetness closed around his sex and thought fled completely.

The Hessian brought him to a shuddering climax before stripping out of his own clothes and stretching out full length over his lover. Ichabod felt the hard muscled body press down on him from above. One powerful arm snaked around his waist supporting him. A throaty, unbearably intimate voice whispered into his ear, "Ich liebe Dich, mein Kleiner. I love you, my little one."

Ichabod moaned as much from the words as from what the Horseman's long fingers and mobile mouth were doing to his body. He wrapped himself around the larger body tangling his hands in the wild mane of hair as dark as his own. He did not bother to muffle the scream of pain and desire as the Hessian entered him filling him, making them one flesh locked in a rhythm beyond life and death, beyond time. His fingernails drew long scratches across his lover's back. Calloused hands caught both of his stretching his arms above his head and lacing their fingers together bringing their bodies even closer.

The Hessian had never seen anything more beautiful or desirable in his life or death. Ichabod lay beneath him pale as moonlight and slick with sweat, his head thrown back and mouth open in pleasure, their hands locked together. He would have wept if he had tears to cry. He had been wrong, this angel did not belong to him. No, it was he who was possessed. This child, this warm, living, thing commanded him as surely as if he held the skull in his slender hands. Ichabod shuddered beneath him pushing both of them over the edge.

They collapsed together exhausted. The Hessian held Ichabod carefully listening to his breathing become slower and more regular. He was about to slip out of bed when a sleep-heavy voice stopped him. "This won't go away when I wake up will it? This isn't just a dream?"

""Es ist wirklich. Meine Seele gehört dir, mein Liebling...This is real, pretty one, and I will be here when you awake." He smoothed the damp hair back from Ichabod's face. "Sleep for tomorrow shall not be easy for you."

Ichabod watched in a drowsy haze as Christiaan disentangled himself and rose. A long box that looked suspiciously like a coffin lay before the fire. A skull lay atop it. Half of its teeth had already been filed to points. The Hessian went to work on the remainder. Catching the boy's curious gaze, he held the skull up for inspection. "The Reverend Steenwyke." Ichabod let his gaze drift to the other items strewn out on the floor, a dirt encrusted shovel, a pile of human bones without a skull, and what could only be the skull of a horse. He thought to himself that this crazy plan might just work if he did not botch it up. He slipped away into a deep and dreamless sleep.

1)Mein hübscher Junge = my pretty boy 2)"Mein Ichabod,ich werde Dich nie alleine lassen!" = My Ichabod, I will never leave you alone. 3)"Es ist wirklich. Meine Seele gehört dir, mein Liebling = This is real. My soul belongs to you, my darling.

**********

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