Ian sat in his former master's elegant chair in front of the roaring fire. He had, rather unconsciously, dressed in one of Mr. Irons' suits. Ian had even remembered the many lessons he had been given on the proper way to put on a tie. His eyes were closed in meditation.

He thought back to mere days ago.

Sara defended herself by severing Irons' hand from the rest of his body. The very hand that bore the mark of the Witchblade. The very hand that had been holding the Lance only seconds before.

The sudden rush of emotion from such thoughts was too much. Ian's eyes flew open as he leapt out of the chair with such force that it fell backwards to the floor. His eyes glanced over to his left, as if he expected someone or something to be in the room with him.

With sword in hand, tip drawn across the floor, Ian slowly walked over to the portrait of Mr. Irons standing before him. He gazed at it for a brief moment before he raised a hand as if to caress the painting's hair. His hand went flush over Mr. Irons' face as he thought back to moments in his childhood past.

"Listen, young Nottingham. Do you not find her striking?"

"When will I learn to fight?"

"Soon enough. Soon enough."

Ian slowly turned away from the likeness of his late father and master, looking up to the ceiling as he did so, taking in the knowledge that it all belonged to him now. His mind wandered to more recent, yet harsher, moments.

Irons raised his hand as if to backhand Ian, reminding him, "I have trained you to do my bidding." Ian turned his head in preparation for the blow he thought was to come.

He even thought to events in his dreams of what he was certain happened before Sara pierced the fabric of time with the Witchblade, of the first time he truly spoke back to Mr. Irons.

"I am nothing but what you made me!"

Ian quickly turned back to the picture, raising the sword eye-level as if to attack an unknown presence, as his mind went back to the night of his father's death.

The Witchblade pierced right through Irons' neck in a heartbeat. Sara gasped in shock at the realization of what she had done.

Ian slowly walked back to the portrait, sword still at eye-level, sadly thinking of another time when his master was displeased with him.

With sheer disgust, Irons angrily hit Ian across the face with an open palm.

Ian could have sworn the image of Mr. Irons gave him an evil smirk, as if it knew the range of emotions he was going through. The familiar pain of his upbringing. The newly acquired freedom from his master. The unknown fear of what was now expected of him. The remarkable, yet unfamiliar feelings he felt for Sara.

Fueled by all his anger, hate, rage, passion, and newfound freedom, Ian savagely plunged the sword into the face of the painting. Not completely satisfied with the result, and still fueled by his emotions, he did it again, repeatedly. Ian brutally dragged the sword down the middle of the canvas until he hit the bottom of the frame. He immediately released the sword at the awareness of what he did.

His head fell back as he analyzed how things now were. He was lord of the manor. He answered to no one. He could decide for himself, instead of being told, who should live or die. He could choose, if he wished, to act on his new feelings for the wielder of the Witchblade.

His last thought caused one word to quietly escape his lips.

"Sara…"

He had to make an attempt to start over with her. To reconcile their differences. To make her understand how uncommonly alike they were. To make her realize he still felt the need to protect her. To let her know that he was grateful for what she did.

He stood and proceeded to his room to change back into his black-on-black ensemble. He may be the new lord of the manor, but he still did not feel comfortable leaving the mansion wearing anything but what he was familiar with.

END