Title: "Somnium"
Rating: PG-13
Legal: I don't own Witchblade or claim to. Witchblade and all related characters are the property of Top Cow Productions Inc., Warner Bros. & TNT. I do not intend to infringe on any applicable copyrights. Please let me know if you think that I am, and I will attempt to remedy it.
Summary: When filling in the grave in "Emergence," what did Ian Nottingham really do?

Thanks to my beta-reader Wormie (www.wormieness.com). All mistakes are mine because she tried really hard to keep me from making them.

Visit my main Witchblade fanfic page at http://www.kusine.com/Witchblade/witchblade_fan_fiction.htm

*****

Nottingham heard her feet crunch in the dead leaves behind him. Having again gotten bored in the warm car, Christina had come to bother him. While he had dug this hole, this grave, she had wandered out occasionally to quiz him on Mr. Irons' business and personal life. Frustrated by his consistently monosyllabic answers, she had retreated to the car again and again, the result he had been aiming for. Now, though, it seemed his respite from the pretender's presence was over.

She stood next to him and stared into the hole that he was only now beginning to refill. It wasn't quite as deep as a real grave, the only concession he had been able to make. Only four feet deep, with the pine box in it, the top would only be three feet from the surface – maybe not much of a help to the true Wielder of the Witchblade, but he felt compelled to frustrate this plan in whatever little way he could.

Nottingham pushed the shovel deep into the pile of disturbed dirt next to him and hefted it. Christina took a loud breath, and Ian felt his hands tense on the handle as he waited for her next irritating question.

"Do you and Irons really believe all that crap you were spewing?"

Nottingham's grip tightened even more, but he clenched his jaw shut.

"Do you really believe the thing is that powerful?" she persisted.

Nottingham felt the edges of his vision gray and his heart rate begin to increase. If the bitch didn't even believe in the power of the Witchblade, why was she helping to torture an innocent man? Nottingham closed his eyes, and a flash of his life with her as the Wielder splashed against his closed lids.

On his knees before her, the point of the Blade pressing into the soft spot of the solar plexus.

"I don't need you," she hissed. "I don't even want you. You are worthless."

With a shove, the Blade pierced the skin, and the strange heat of it seared as it passed through him. He felt it snag on a vertebrae, then continue on, cold air touching places never meant to feel it.

Nottingham spun around, slamming the back of the shovel into Christina's head. Instantly limp, she tumbled into the hole, landing with a thump on the box containing Danny Woo.

Tossing aside the shovel, he dropped to his knees and pushed at the pile of dirt, determinedly ignoring the intrusion of it into his sleeves, gloves, and boots. Within a minute, the hole was again filled, just another freshly-filled grave in a cemetery.

*****

Nottingham took up his customary spot by the fire. He had brushed the dirt off himself and washed his hands, but there was still soil in his boots that he had not had time to empty. For several minutes, Mr. Irons took no notice of him, but there was nothing unusual in that. His master often treated him as some sort of furniture, to be noticed only when required, and ignored when not.

"Where is Christina?" Mr. Irons finally asked.

"She did not return with me."

Nottingham kept his voice flat, inflectionless. Long ago he had learned that to express any sort of emotion was to give Mr. Irons a hook by which to better control him. Nottingham had made that mistake too often lately with the emergence of the new Wielder, Sara Pezzini, but he would not do so now.

"I am surprised." Mr. Irons stood from his throne-like chair and walked toward Nottingham. "She had expressed a certain desire to return."

Nottingham forced his eyes to remain down and his face expressionless. He had been in the room for that particular disgusting display. He was now doubly glad that creature was suffocating under several feet of dirt.

"Hmmm " His master walked around Nottingham slowly, then stopped in front of him. As usual, Mr. Irons stood too close to him in an attempt to dominate. "You have arranged for the denouement?"

"Yes."

There was a long pause before Mr. Irons suddenly turned his back and walked back to his chair and sat.

"Begone, Ian. I wish to be alone."

With a careful lack of haste, Nottingham turned on his heel and left the room. He made his way to his bedroom, a small, plain space, enlivened only by the medieval tapestry on the wall next to the narrow bed.

He closed the door behind him and pulled out a straight-backed wooden chair from the desk. Carefully unlacing his boots, he managed to keep most of the dirt from the floor. He peeled off his socks and left them in the dirty boots to deal with later. Stripping off the rest of his filthy clothes, he dropped them in the basket in the corner. The housekeeper would come tomorrow to take them, never thinking to ask how they had come to be covered in soil.

Nottingham opened the closet door, carefully not looking at the mirror on the back. In addition to his capricious emotions, he knew his greatest weakness was his vanity. He could have removed the mirror and thus, the temptation, but he took a certain painful pleasure in forcing himself to resist.

He took his comb from its spot on the shelf, and still avoiding looking in the mirror, dragged the teeth through his curls. Nottingham shivered and closed his eyes as the soft hair fanned out across his bare shoulders, and, by the time he was done, he knew that he had lost part of his battle against vanity this evening. Indulging in that luxurious sensation was just as bad as staring in the mirror. Putting the comb back where it belonged, he needlessly brushed his fingers through his untangled curls once more, then pulled clothing from hangers and closed the closet door.

Once he had pulled on the loose cotton trousers and the thin long-sleeved t-shirt, he laid down on his bed. Arranging his limbs comfortably, he closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. As his mind cleared, the image of the Wielder – the true Wielder – came to him.

She was sleeping restlessly, one arm flung above her head, the other, the one bearing the Witchblade, protectively resting across her breasts. As he watched, the stone in the talisman flashed and swirled, then steadied into a bright glow. Nottingham had the distinct impression that it was aware of his presence, even if the Wielder was not.

With a rushing suddenness, Nottingham found himself in a different place - hot, dark, smoky. His vision was limited, and he raised a hand to his face, finding warm metal. It was then that he realized the rest of his body was encased as well, and felt like it had been for some time. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back and his own familiar musky smell filled the steamy armor.

He lifted the visor and found the Wielder in front of him, her eyes wide. Her brow crinkled and lips curled into a slight questioning smile. Hesitantly, she reached a hand toward his face, and her mouth moved to form a word. Before she could, though, Nottingham found himself back in his bedroom, staring at the ceiling, his heart pounding.

She had found him. The Witchblade had led her to him. She would think it a dream, but Nottingham knew better. He had been right to believe in the Witchblade and it had believed it him.

*****

Nottingham relaxed his grip on the handle of the shovel and felt a smile tug at one corner of his mouth.

"It's that powerful because we believe it is," he said and dumped the shovelful of dirt into the hole.

"Belief." Christina snorted ungracefully. "Who needs belief?"

She would, Nottingham knew. Very soon, she would be nothing but a footnote in the history of the Blade. He allowed himself to smile as he shoveled in another load of dirt.

Very soon now.

*****

Fin.

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