Witchblade Fanfiction
"Tender Crucifixions"
Authored by Kate Swift
"For even as love crowns you, so shall he crucify
you. Even as he is for your growth, so is he for your
pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and
caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the
sun, so shall he descend to your roots and shake them
in their clinging to the earth."
Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet
-----------------------------
"Tender Crucifixions"
-----------------------------
Vorshlag Industries
Christmas Eve - 10:01pm
The moon reared, bone-white and enormous, low in the western horizon - the edifices of the skyline cutting jagged against its surface. Within the tower of his kingdom, the King brooded. Surrounded by the wealth of his empire, his carved jawline was lit by the blue glow of a computer monitor here - a television screen there. His was the house that Jack built, and though obtained by means that by most standards ranked as unsavoury, Kenneth Irons did not mourn those whose lives stained his hands blood-red. The crest of his knuckle rested below his nasal septum, his nefarious oculars lost in the distant acquisition of some stagnant object. Ian Nottingham remained poised behind his master's shoulder, the harrowing raven in rival to Poe. The master's hand raised, svelte and possessed of wiry strength; fingers arced in dismissal of his young servant. As the hydraulic doors slid closed behind the lad, the King rose from the regality of his throne and stalked across the polished tiles to the wide window which provided him view of all that he ruled. The slight indentation at the hinge of his jawline - the roar of blood in his temples. His scarred hand sought the cool pane of glass, fingerpads tracing irrevocable patterns across its mirrored surface. His eyelids clamped closed, the curl of his lip rising to bear predatory smile. "Sara."
NYPD Headquarters
Same Night - 10:31pm
"Aw, c'mon, Pez.whadda' you say to an evening of plum-pudding and re-runs of 'Farscape' on the Sci-Fi channel? Disney's even showing their version of Jack and the Beanstalk - classic rhetoric for partnership. Hey, I'll even splurge for Hagen Daz.my treat." Jake's honest face turned a rugged smile to his partner, hoping to coerce her into an evening at his side - no matter how humble an offer it was. Sara Pezzini arched an immaculate brow to her eager partner and tugged a scarf from the coat rack to drape it around her neck, lifting her chestnut mane over the collar of her leather jacket. "As inviting as that sounds, Jake - and believe me, no one can barter with junk food better than you - I've got other plans." Jake crossed his arms across his chest, "you know as well as I do that you're just going to go home to your apartment and spend the rest of the evening alone." He drew the last word out with a showman's flourish and tossed her a half- smile, "and no one should be alone on Christmas Eve, Pez." Sara tucked her motorcycle helmet beneath her arm and clicked the desklight off, the light bulb flickering for a moment before dimming. "For your information, Mister Bearer-of-Bad-Tidings, I have a perfectly good bathtub and bottle of Mr. Bubble that I will no doubt be fervently indulging in. That's enough Christmas cheer for anyone."
Sara Pezzini's Apartment
11:21pm
True to her word, Sara Pezzini was indulging in plenty of Yuletide spirit. Her hair tossed up in a wayward bun, she had indulged in a good soak and was now curled up on her couch with a copy of Gabriel's Witchblade research. On TV, Jimmy Stewart was proclaiming peace on earth and goodwill towards men - after enlightenment from Clarence, of course. A mug of strong black coffee clutched within willowy fingers, Sara turned page after page of copied documents and photographs, each one more twisting than the last. The gauntlet at her wrist remained silent, its vermilion eye devoid of the swirling mass of clouds that usually preceded trouble. She ran a tired hand over her face and massaged the corners of her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. Jake had called once, offering her a last-ditch plug for BBQ chicken - an "unconventional Christmas Eve dinner", he assured her, "but nonetheless reeking of the Christ child's approval". She had politely turned him down, having had to sprint to the phone after gargling a ritualistic dose of mouthwash. She could feel the recoil of mint against the receiver as the cadence of her voice subdued him into a somewhat resigned submission. He wished her a happy holiday and retreated to watching re-runs of 'The A-Team'. Sara chuckled and set the phone to its cradle, taking the pencil from between her teeth and stabbing it through her thick mane, pinioning the tresses into a corona at the base of her neck.
A picture of her father dwindled on the mantle, and she took the sleeve of her sweatshirt and wiped it across the glass - clearing it of dust. She wished she could do the same to the mystery surrounding his death, to clear it of the occlusion of truth that hounded the pit of her stomach. The phone's chirp disturbed her reverie, and she slung her arm across the back of the couch to claim the receiver and cup it to her ear, a wry tone sneaking into her voice. "For Christ's sakes, McCarty - literally. It's Christmas Eve, don't you have a family or something?" The stoic tone that answered her query seemed to drain both couch and floor from beneath her: "I doubt very highly that your partner's intrigues expunge upon matters so close to heart, Sara. His grappling for command has, in the past, proven the incapability he holds to connect with other human beings, at least in passing interaction." And that smooth cadence changed directions like the cresting of a river, "how are you, Sara.how is the Witchblade?" Her grip tightened perceptibly upon the receiver, and she slanted those capturing green oculars. "Mr. Irons.Merry Christmas to you, too." She could not attempt to conceal the burr of distrust her voice bore - and with good reason, "I thought the rats only came out after the Christmas feast was served." Irons's lips curled into a sly crescent with her words, "come now, Sara..'tis the season, after all. I thought you might grant me a reprieve from the skeletons which hang in my closet." Sara's tongue skirted the line of her lips, that lower tier then snared between twin rows of ivories. "Grant you reprieve, Irons? Now what would motivate me to do a thing like that?" Irons laid his trump card with a flourish that was both eerily comforting and terrifying in the same instant: "You scratch my back, I scratch yours. I have before me the official police report of your father's untimely death. I also have at my disposal an unpublished report which.if you'll pardon my use of the Anglo-Saxon vernacular, 'blows any previous findings completely out of the fucking water'." An itch crawled itself along Sara's spine and rested securely between the curl of her shoulderblades. "And you'd.share this information with me? How do I know I can trust you?" Irons's voice was as smooth as silk, and twice as tempting. "Because we are similar creatures, you and I.we are in pursuit of the same entity, Sara Pezzini." Sara scowled, "and what is that?" The word tumbled from Irons's lips - lips that had no doubt as an infant suckled upon silver spoon instead of mother's breast: "redemption." Sara rubbed a hand across her brow, head canted to one side in silent deliberation. Within her chest, her heart beat a tarantella rhythm that she was helpless to abate. At her wrist, the Witchblade's ocular began to swirl with sanguine. She couldn't help feeling that this was all a clever set-up - a ploy to win her trust and assure her place within his power. A shiver of something intangible ran along the contour of her spine. "I can be there in twenty minutes." There. It was final. Trap or no, Irons was not a man to take the subject of her father lightly - if he spoke of a report regarding the subject, he most assuredly held it in his possession. And as for the transfer of power from Bladeweilder to shadowy figure, Sara would see to it that she kept her wits about her - even when within the throes of Irons's conniving seduction. Across the line that separated them, Sara could almost feel the quirk of his lips - upward into a smirk of triumph. "I'll be waiting." The line went dead. The receiver seized by vice-like grip, she felt as if she had lost a child - a hollow bulb settling low within her gut. Those jasper orbs found the wall-clock: its hands both overlapped upon the twelfth hour marker. A murmur upon her lips, fleeting and unbidden: "Merry Christmas, Sara Pezzini."
"Tender Crucifixions"
Authored by Kate Swift
"For even as love crowns you, so shall he crucify
you. Even as he is for your growth, so is he for your
pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and
caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the
sun, so shall he descend to your roots and shake them
in their clinging to the earth."
Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet
-----------------------------
"Tender Crucifixions"
-----------------------------
Vorshlag Industries
Christmas Eve - 10:01pm
The moon reared, bone-white and enormous, low in the western horizon - the edifices of the skyline cutting jagged against its surface. Within the tower of his kingdom, the King brooded. Surrounded by the wealth of his empire, his carved jawline was lit by the blue glow of a computer monitor here - a television screen there. His was the house that Jack built, and though obtained by means that by most standards ranked as unsavoury, Kenneth Irons did not mourn those whose lives stained his hands blood-red. The crest of his knuckle rested below his nasal septum, his nefarious oculars lost in the distant acquisition of some stagnant object. Ian Nottingham remained poised behind his master's shoulder, the harrowing raven in rival to Poe. The master's hand raised, svelte and possessed of wiry strength; fingers arced in dismissal of his young servant. As the hydraulic doors slid closed behind the lad, the King rose from the regality of his throne and stalked across the polished tiles to the wide window which provided him view of all that he ruled. The slight indentation at the hinge of his jawline - the roar of blood in his temples. His scarred hand sought the cool pane of glass, fingerpads tracing irrevocable patterns across its mirrored surface. His eyelids clamped closed, the curl of his lip rising to bear predatory smile. "Sara."
NYPD Headquarters
Same Night - 10:31pm
"Aw, c'mon, Pez.whadda' you say to an evening of plum-pudding and re-runs of 'Farscape' on the Sci-Fi channel? Disney's even showing their version of Jack and the Beanstalk - classic rhetoric for partnership. Hey, I'll even splurge for Hagen Daz.my treat." Jake's honest face turned a rugged smile to his partner, hoping to coerce her into an evening at his side - no matter how humble an offer it was. Sara Pezzini arched an immaculate brow to her eager partner and tugged a scarf from the coat rack to drape it around her neck, lifting her chestnut mane over the collar of her leather jacket. "As inviting as that sounds, Jake - and believe me, no one can barter with junk food better than you - I've got other plans." Jake crossed his arms across his chest, "you know as well as I do that you're just going to go home to your apartment and spend the rest of the evening alone." He drew the last word out with a showman's flourish and tossed her a half- smile, "and no one should be alone on Christmas Eve, Pez." Sara tucked her motorcycle helmet beneath her arm and clicked the desklight off, the light bulb flickering for a moment before dimming. "For your information, Mister Bearer-of-Bad-Tidings, I have a perfectly good bathtub and bottle of Mr. Bubble that I will no doubt be fervently indulging in. That's enough Christmas cheer for anyone."
Sara Pezzini's Apartment
11:21pm
True to her word, Sara Pezzini was indulging in plenty of Yuletide spirit. Her hair tossed up in a wayward bun, she had indulged in a good soak and was now curled up on her couch with a copy of Gabriel's Witchblade research. On TV, Jimmy Stewart was proclaiming peace on earth and goodwill towards men - after enlightenment from Clarence, of course. A mug of strong black coffee clutched within willowy fingers, Sara turned page after page of copied documents and photographs, each one more twisting than the last. The gauntlet at her wrist remained silent, its vermilion eye devoid of the swirling mass of clouds that usually preceded trouble. She ran a tired hand over her face and massaged the corners of her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. Jake had called once, offering her a last-ditch plug for BBQ chicken - an "unconventional Christmas Eve dinner", he assured her, "but nonetheless reeking of the Christ child's approval". She had politely turned him down, having had to sprint to the phone after gargling a ritualistic dose of mouthwash. She could feel the recoil of mint against the receiver as the cadence of her voice subdued him into a somewhat resigned submission. He wished her a happy holiday and retreated to watching re-runs of 'The A-Team'. Sara chuckled and set the phone to its cradle, taking the pencil from between her teeth and stabbing it through her thick mane, pinioning the tresses into a corona at the base of her neck.
A picture of her father dwindled on the mantle, and she took the sleeve of her sweatshirt and wiped it across the glass - clearing it of dust. She wished she could do the same to the mystery surrounding his death, to clear it of the occlusion of truth that hounded the pit of her stomach. The phone's chirp disturbed her reverie, and she slung her arm across the back of the couch to claim the receiver and cup it to her ear, a wry tone sneaking into her voice. "For Christ's sakes, McCarty - literally. It's Christmas Eve, don't you have a family or something?" The stoic tone that answered her query seemed to drain both couch and floor from beneath her: "I doubt very highly that your partner's intrigues expunge upon matters so close to heart, Sara. His grappling for command has, in the past, proven the incapability he holds to connect with other human beings, at least in passing interaction." And that smooth cadence changed directions like the cresting of a river, "how are you, Sara.how is the Witchblade?" Her grip tightened perceptibly upon the receiver, and she slanted those capturing green oculars. "Mr. Irons.Merry Christmas to you, too." She could not attempt to conceal the burr of distrust her voice bore - and with good reason, "I thought the rats only came out after the Christmas feast was served." Irons's lips curled into a sly crescent with her words, "come now, Sara..'tis the season, after all. I thought you might grant me a reprieve from the skeletons which hang in my closet." Sara's tongue skirted the line of her lips, that lower tier then snared between twin rows of ivories. "Grant you reprieve, Irons? Now what would motivate me to do a thing like that?" Irons laid his trump card with a flourish that was both eerily comforting and terrifying in the same instant: "You scratch my back, I scratch yours. I have before me the official police report of your father's untimely death. I also have at my disposal an unpublished report which.if you'll pardon my use of the Anglo-Saxon vernacular, 'blows any previous findings completely out of the fucking water'." An itch crawled itself along Sara's spine and rested securely between the curl of her shoulderblades. "And you'd.share this information with me? How do I know I can trust you?" Irons's voice was as smooth as silk, and twice as tempting. "Because we are similar creatures, you and I.we are in pursuit of the same entity, Sara Pezzini." Sara scowled, "and what is that?" The word tumbled from Irons's lips - lips that had no doubt as an infant suckled upon silver spoon instead of mother's breast: "redemption." Sara rubbed a hand across her brow, head canted to one side in silent deliberation. Within her chest, her heart beat a tarantella rhythm that she was helpless to abate. At her wrist, the Witchblade's ocular began to swirl with sanguine. She couldn't help feeling that this was all a clever set-up - a ploy to win her trust and assure her place within his power. A shiver of something intangible ran along the contour of her spine. "I can be there in twenty minutes." There. It was final. Trap or no, Irons was not a man to take the subject of her father lightly - if he spoke of a report regarding the subject, he most assuredly held it in his possession. And as for the transfer of power from Bladeweilder to shadowy figure, Sara would see to it that she kept her wits about her - even when within the throes of Irons's conniving seduction. Across the line that separated them, Sara could almost feel the quirk of his lips - upward into a smirk of triumph. "I'll be waiting." The line went dead. The receiver seized by vice-like grip, she felt as if she had lost a child - a hollow bulb settling low within her gut. Those jasper orbs found the wall-clock: its hands both overlapped upon the twelfth hour marker. A murmur upon her lips, fleeting and unbidden: "Merry Christmas, Sara Pezzini."