a/n: Alternate route following "Heartless", with a bit of canon tossed in for good measure. I do not own Sleepy Hollow, just the mistakes throughout the following words.
Bleak
Chapter One
The pounding in his head was unbearable. Every fluttered swish of blood through his veins echoed too loudly in his ears, amplifying the dizziness behind his eyes. Taking a breath, he winced as a sharp pain tore through his lungs. His fingers clenched against the sensation, digging into snow and yellowed, decaying leaves. He took another breath, slowly, fighting his body's yearning to pass out.
As he opened his eyes, his vision sluggishly focused on the drops of bright red blood splattering onto the snow beneath him. The blood held his fascination as it succeeded in melting the white fluff. Yet the triumph did not last more than mere seconds. The bright color transformed into an ugly brown as the cold turned each drop into a small, jellied blob. Such a creation, wrought with life-giving force, leaking gracefully and uncaring from his body; dying before his eyes in a show his body was certainly mirroring.
"Crane!" He closed his eyes against the voice, so loud yet so distant. It begged for a response, warned to mind incoming danger. He had desire to do neither. "Crane!" it yelled again. No, he could not; his body simply would not allow it. He dropped his head, his brow resting against the wet, bloodied snow. He needed to rest, to gather the little energy he still controlled. No, he could not fight. Not anymore. It was over. "Crane." His name, barely a whisper this time, sparked an odd sensation in his body. The opacity of his mind steadily cleared. He drew his legs beneath his body, flexed his fingers against the cold, rotting ground and inhaled deeply despite the sickening pain.
Opening his eyes again, he lifted his head, concentrating on the dizzying display of the demon before him. He forced himself to his knees and reached to his right, fingers closing around the hilt of his sword. Pushing himself to his feet, he desperately tried to steady his sight and his stance as the demon stalked towards him. With a final burst of energy, he bellowed and lunged towards the creature, sending the sword's blade through its heart.
"Hey, hold on." Crane braced his arms across the top of the table, his breathing rapid. "It's just me." His fingers nervously tapped the table as his eyes searched the room. The dreamed illusion of a snow-filled forest faded as the piles of papers and shelves of books around him slowly became familiar. "Are you all right?" His eyes dropped to his arm where the warmth of a hand bled through the sleeve of his shirt. "Crane?"
"I am well," he answered quietly. Briefly, he closed his eyes, willing the last fuzzy remnants of his dream to vanish. Attempting a deep, soothing breath, he turned his head to the side. His eyes found those of Lieutenant Abigail Mills. Her dark orbs bore a rather heavy concern and he had to look away, an odd mixture of guilt and embarrassment washing over him. "I…did not mean to alarm you, Lieutenant."
"I wasn't alarmed," she said lightly. Her fingers tightened over his arm, offering a gentle comfort. "Well, not until you almost took of my head when I tried to wake you." His shoulders dropped and he rolled his eyes in her direction. "Sorry," she said, removing her hand from his arm. "Bad choice of words."
"Indeed." Curiously, he watched her fingers nip at the edges of the papers strewn across the table in front of him, gathering the lot into one pile. She leaned across him, pushing the pile to the far end of the table. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"We can't eat on top of the papers, Crane," she explained, removing a Styrofoam bowl of soup from her bag.
"Of course," he mumbled. She laughed and placed the bowl in front of him.
"Don't tell me the man with the eidetic memory forgot that I left to grab some food," she said. He straightened his posture, folded his hands in his lap and watched as she rounded the table, taking residence in a vacant chair. "I was only gone twenty minutes." Wary of his lack of a typical smart retort, she lifted her eyes to his, meeting only a stony silence. "Okay," she said slowly. She removed the remaining items from the bag. "Here's your spoon," she said, reaching across the table. He looked at the proffered plastic utensil, then back to her. His hands remained clasped over his thighs. She pulled back and leaned both arms on the table. "All right, how about we eat, pack up your little project," she continued, wiggling her fingers in the direction of the piles of papers, "and head back to the cabin where you can, I don't know, sleep?" she suggested.
"I slept long enough, buried beneath the floor of that cave," he spat. "No. There is too much to research."
"Crane, you're no good if you're exhausted."
"I will have you know there were many times during the war when my soldiers and I went for days without sleep for fear of being ambushed by the enemy. I'm rather confident I can survive—"
"Guess how much I don't care." He raised an eyebrow, angered by her tone and interruption. "I'm not denying or-or degrading the perils on the battlefield, Crane, but this is an entirely different kind of war. And, in case you haven't noticed, we don't have thousands of soldiers by our sides." She huffed a small sigh. "I need you with me; your head one hundred percent in the game." He dropped his eyes, offering no agreement, no argument. No words.
Abbie chewed her bottom lip as she regarded Crane. Despite his attempts to put up a good front, she could see he was losing the battle against the week's stressors. Little by little, the pressure seeped into his physical appearance, dulling the spark in his vibrant eyes, etching dark circles beneath his bottom lashes, until it presented the nearly broken man that sat before her. With his skin paled and his enthusiasm blunted, his concentration faltered and his temper often left unchecked, leaving Abbie to watch helplessly as he crumbled.
"Why don't we just go now?" she suggested lightly as she pushed off the chair. She placed her bowl and the spoons in the bag and moved to his side of the table. "It's well after quittin' time and it's starting to get cold in here anyway." She set the bag on the table, packed away his bowl and moved across the room to retrieve her empty backpack. Remaining motionless and quiet, he simply watched as she settled to his left, pulling the stack of paper and files folders from the table, slipping them into the bag. "Anything else?"
"No." He reached quickly for a thin, leather-bound journal. "Yes," he amended, handing over the book. She placed it in the backpack and looked at him, eyebrow raised in question. "That is all," he said. His eyes shifted, canvasing the table. "Maybe this one, as well." He grabbed another book and gave it to Abbie.
"That's it?" He nodded curtly. "Are you sure?" He nodded again. "Great." She slung the strap of the backpack over her shoulder and pulled his wool coat from the back of his chair. As she moved to his right side, she hung the coat over her free shoulder and grabbed the bag of soup. "Come on," she urged. He looked at her, hands still folded, posture still regal. He closed his eyes and his features softened.
"Lieutenant," he started quietly, opening his eyes to meet hers.
"We're good, Crane. Don't worry about it." She wound her arm around his, lightly gripping his bicep, and hauled him to his feet. He did not refute her efforts. "There," she smiled. "See how much easier life can be when you don't argue with me?"
"I have not conceded, Miss Mills."
"You got off the chair, didn't you?" He looked down at her.
"If we are to walk arm in arm, let us at least do so properly." He gently uncurled her fingers from his arm and settled her hand in the crook of his elbow.
SH
It was a very dark grey, not too far removed from his typical color palette. Yet the shape of the garment bothered Crane terribly. The sweater was bulkier in the middle than his normal vestments and far shorter than his wool coat. Then there was the matter of the white stripe across the chest. Not more than the width of two fingers, it served no purpose. It was not part of a repeating pattern, not that he deemed such things necessary on clothing, nor did it signify a belonging to any faction. Its solitary existence was simply distracting.
"I do not like it," Crane stated, fingers twitching at his side.
"What? Why? You look good." Abbie closed her folder, settling it across her lap, and took in the lower half of his body. "Couldn't do the jeans, I see."
"One can only traverse so much of a path at a time, Miss Mills." She shook her head and moved the pile of folders from the sofa cushion to the floor next to her feet.
"You bring a new meaning to the phrase 'baby steps', Crane."
"Perhaps if we were able to locate a pair of trousers that, whilst encompassing my legs, allowed my knees to bend in their full manner, I would be more willing to indulge your need to alter my appearance." She eyed him as he sat to her left.
"Somehow I doubt that," she remarked. "Are you warmer now than before you put on the sweater?"
"Yes."
"Then quit complaining."
"It is feasible that my warmth is due to being fireside," he argued, motioning a hand towards the fireplace.
"Crane," she warned. He bit back his annoyance. With the approaching of the season's first snowfall, a bitter cold had settled over the city of Sleepy Hollow. Though the cabin's hearth offered a great deal of warmth, he decided it foolish to spend the coming winter months as he had the previous, chilled seemingly to the bone, when he had clothing to mute the sensation. And the sweater was rather soft. Yet, he declared vehemently, that did not mean he needed to revel in donning the garments.
Nor did it mean he had to 'do the jeans'.
"So," she started, "Hawley called me while you were changing; said he's been trying to call you for a while now."
"Oh? I did not hear the tone of my cellular phone." Abbie reached to her right and picked up his phone.
"Maybe that's because it isn't charged." She handed him the device.
"Yes," he said, studying the slim phone. "I will admit I have not given much thought to that as of late."
"Gotta keep it charged, Crane."
"I will do better. I promise."
"Good."
"Was Hawley kind enough to relay his message through you?"
"He was," she nodded. "He said he's found the mirror you're looking for."
"Splendid," Crane smiled. "That…'makes my day'." He set the phone on the floor. "When might we expect delivery?"
"Not for a few days. He's somewhere – wouldn't tell me exactly where – stuck in a snowstorm. And said storm is heading our way."
"Ah," he smiled. "The tidings of the new season are upon us."
"They are, to the tune of two to three feet of snow."
"We can at least be thankful that though the snow may slow our movements, it, too, stalls those of Henry and the horseman." Crane reached over the edge of the sofa, pulling the next folder from the stack next to Abbie's legs. He settled back into the sofa, opening the folder.
"That's it?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"The mirror?" Abbie prompted.
"Oh, of course. I found an entry in a book entitled 'Winter Monsters' – an absolute atrocity, if I may," he sidetracked, holding up his index finger. "I paid no heed to all but one of the tales. It told of a Japanese demon capable of stealing the souls of its victims. There were stories told by my fellow soldiers, warnings giving to us by our commanders…" His gaze became distant as the memories surfaced. "She had no proper name then, referred to as 'Snow Mistress'. She comes with the winter storms, breathing on her victims and leaving their corpses encased in ice. I believed it all to be rumor, simply men using outlandish stories to warn of the very real danger of freezing to death." Crane turned to Abbie. "In the book, she is called Yuki-onna. The mirror for which Mr. Hawley has searched is made of glass created by Susanoo. It is able to reflect Yuki-onna's icy exhalation."
"Susanoo?"
"An ancient Japanese deity believed to rule all elements of a storm."
"We haven't seen any demons of that sort," Abbie stated. "What are you thinking?"
"We have been one step behind Henry at every turn. With the storm now approaching, we must take advantage of the information at our disposal and prepare ourselves when opportunity presents itself."
"Just in case," she nodded. "When were you going to tell me about all of this?"
"I simply wanted to know if the legend of the demon was true. Hawley's procurement of the mirror seems to prove it as such." He offered a cheeky grin. "And now, you know."
"Hawley," she said quietly. "First, you save his life at the nightclub. Now, you're willingly seeking his help. Does this mean you're finally getting past your issues with him?"
"I could hardly stand idle and let him fall victim to the incordata," he defended. "His death would only have served to strengthen Moloch's return."
"So that's a 'no'; you still don't care for him."
"Maybe I have come to…somewhat appreciate his presence. His knowledge and ability to locate certain items of interest will no doubt prove to remain invaluable to our cause." His eyes settled to the floor, watching the light from the fireplace flicker across the rug. "And I am grateful for his assistance in saving you from a dreadful, watery fate."
"As am I," she agreed. "Hawley also saved your life; saved you from the incordata."
"Indeed."
"You never did tell me why the incordata came after you." He turned to the lieutenant, her face expectant. "Any deep, dark desires you need to share with the class, Crane?" she teased. He straightened his shoulders and regarded her from the corners of his eyes, returning the playful smile she flashed.
"All in good time, Lieutenant." He raised an eyebrow and she laughed. "All in good time." As she settled back into the sofa, he recalled their awkward conversation about Hawley. There is no room for complications in our lives, she had told him. Perhaps she was correct in her contention. Their lives had sufficient difficulties as was, each carrying a number of personal demons in addition to the supernatural ones they fought. Still he wondered if she was truly uninterested or simply so finely focused on the task of averting the apocalypse. "Do you still consider Mr. Hawley a…complication?" he inquired, his curiosity overriding his better judgment.
"Seriously?" she grumbled. "Let it go." Crane opened his mouth to speak and Abbie raised her hand, stopping any further questioning. "End of story." She rested her ankles on the round, wooden table in front of the sofa and resumed reading. He lifted his legs, mirroring her position. Peering over the top of the folder, she laughed as his feet hung over the far end of the small piece of furniture. He shifted his leg to the right, pushing her off the table. Abbie offered a surprised chuckle. "Hey!"
"Is for horses, Miss Mills." She bit back another round of laughter as he leaned forward and pushed the table farther from the sofa. Sitting back, he tried again to rest his feet. Smiling triumphantly, he turned to Abbie.
"Better?" she asked.
"Much," he replied.
"Comfy?"
"Hmm."
"Good." She turned on the cushions, nearly squarely facing Crane, and placed her socked feet on top of his thighs, just above his knees. "You're right." She situated her head on the arm of the sofa and relaxed. "This is much better." His eyes shifted, his head unmoving, several times between her feet and the folder she purposely held high enough to screen her face from his view. Offering a quiet, thoughtful hum, he placed his hands under her calves and in one effortless motion, rolled her off the couch. "What the hell, Crane?" she laughed as she righted herself on the floor. With mock irritation playing across his face, he reached forward and pulled the table back to its original place. His hand drifted towards Abbie, palm up. She narrowed her eyes, hesitant to accept his offer. Crane rolled his eyes, stretched to reach her wrist and pulled her from the floor.
"Better?" he mocked as she repositioned herself on the sofa.
"Yes." She reclaimed her resting position on the table as he returned to his folder. Abbie kept Crane in her peripheral, glancing at him after every few sentences she read. It did not take long for the crease of concentration on his forehead to smooth, for his eyes to shift their focus to the flames in the fireplace. He had not spoken one word, not revealed one emotion about Katrina's absence, yet Abbie knew the void occupied his thoughts. His pensive appearance often included a remote stare, but as of late, his gaze seemed to reach a little farther every time she caught him ruminating. Abbie worried that he would reach a point so lost in thought she would never be able to retrieve him. "We should talk again," she started. Dropping the folder to the floor, she curled her legs beneath her body. "About Katrina." He turned to her, watching as she rested her elbow along the back of the sofa and leaned her temple against her fist.
"What more is there to discuss?" Crane asked. "Have you heard from Katrina?"
"No, I just…" She shook her head. "That's not...that's not what I meant. It's been six days since Katrina left. Six days since you've had a decent night's sleep, six days since you've eaten anything substantial." He sighed. "Don't think I didn't notice that you stirred more soup than you ate. You've been irritable and then I find you less than twenty minutes into a nap and knee deep in a nightmare."
"The nightmare was of inconsequence," he argued quickly, unwilling to indulge a conversation about the recent content of his dreams.
"It doesn't matter what you were dreaming; nightmares come with exhaustion. I know this week has taken its toll on you, but you cannot help me, the people who live in Sleepy Hollow or Katrina if you let this eat at you. How long are you going to keep this bottled up?" she asked softly. "Talk to me."
"What would you have me say? That I am 'pissed'?" Crane looked away as Abbie nodded. "I should think that would be stating the obvious…if it were indeed the truth." He closed his folder and shifted slightly. "The incordata said the emotion in my heart had soured. That it is now doubt."
"She was playing you, Crane, using your feelings against you so she could attack." He gently shook his head, a small rueful smile gracing his lips. "You told me you understood Katrina's actions, her choice to return to the Horseman of Death."
"And I do," he said, meeting her eyes. "She stands to gather much information. We could stop Moloch's rise before he has chance to fulfill his preparatory plans."
"But it's more than that," she stated knowingly. "It's personal."
"I feel this has not affected me as it perhaps should. I am…upset," he said slowly. "Yet my sadness is more fitting of saying good-bye to a friend I will never again see than to that of the possibility of losing my wife…once and for all. This is where the doubt comes in to play," he admitted. Abbie nodded. She had watched his face carefully while relaying Katrina's plans. He had offered no outward reaction, his eyes simply dancing over the fog-covered lake while she spoke. She believed his emotionless demeanor caused by shock, his mind unable to digest the weight of the news he had received. His disposition betrayed no clues to the perplexities with which he had been struggling.
"You're not just processing recent events," she said carefully. "You're processing the entirety of your relationship with your wife."
"Katrina left without valediction, returned to Abraham's side yet again," he said quietly. "On three occasions, she has put herself in grave danger to be in his company. Among those and the lies and secrets she has kept from me, I cannot help but wonder if his side if where she desires to be."
"You said it yourself; there are things about Katrina you tend to overlook. For example, her abilities to infiltrate and spy. You need time to figure out what you've learned about her; to reconcile one version of your wife with the other." Abbie leaned forward and pulled his hand from the file folder. "We have experienced the impossible over the last year and a half," she said, gently closing her fingers around his hand. "You came back from the dead; we released Katrina from Purgatory; you and I escaped Purgatory. How many unimaginable demons have we faced and defeated?" She tightened her grip. "Promise me something. Promise me that you won't let her go without thinking things through. I mean really thinking things through. You and Katrina have a second chance to start a life together. Take it." Crane smiled sadly and rolled his hand in Abbie's, taking a turn to fold his fingers over hers.
Crane looked at their entwined hands. I can sense your desire. It burns strong even though you try so hard to hide it. A valiant effort of denial and suppression it was. Nevertheless, he could not keep at bay the images of Abbie that flooded his mind as the incordata began speaking. He had pieced together every logical reason as to why the creature saw what she saw, how her interpretation was mistaken. Thrown together by an otherworldly force, Crane and Abbie had forged a powerful alliance. They fought side by side, keeping each other safe as they protected the world from Moloch's demons. One Witness alone could not complete the fated task, nor could two together if they were not at the least cordial. Even the copious amounts of time they spent researching between battles could cause one to miscalculate their connection.
Their bond was more than martial, however. They were also friends. They jested; they shared meals. He amused her with stories of his past; she guided him and kept him sane in a world he did not fully understand. She was his anchor and for that, he was forever indebted to her. Their dedication to one another was as strong as that to their mission. Crane cared deeply for Abbie, an affection born of understanding and acceptance of their roles as Witnesses, a friendship that without this role, he would not possess.
Yet each attempt to conceal a truth Crane had no presence of mind to comprehend waned in strength. In talking himself through his seemingly compelling arguments, he always came full circle. I can sense your desire. Tingles crept across his skin when they touched, when he took her hand to pull her to her feet or to draw her from danger's path. When she placed a hand on his arm or slapped at his chest to gain his attention, when she impishly drilled a clenched hand into his arm or touched her fist to his in celebration. Warm waves washed through his body when he thought of her, when they were alone in the archives or working late in the dimly lit cabin; every time he recalled the embrace they shared in Purgatory. He tried, and failed, to classify the feelings as something other than wayward yearning, to reason that he was human, but a man paled with the harshness of war, broken by the loss of his love, subconsciously searching for a way to fulfill the need that ached throughout his body. It was much easier to ignore that part of the demon's declaration, to push those desires incessantly deeper into his being, than to admit such a longing resided in his heart.
"I wish I shared your positivity, Lieutenant. Nevertheless, I fear the incordata's words offer more truth than I have allowed myself to accept."
SH
Henry stood quietly at the side of the old crib, eyes taking in the grey-skinned creature that slept peacefully in its confines. The small body, wrapped in a pale, light green blanket, appeared in its infancy, but Henry knew the form was temporary.
"The second phase is nearly upon us," he sighed merrily. "In a few days' time you will be blessed with another host of souls. You've grown so much already," he smiled. "Soon you will be walking, talking… Oh, how fortunate you are to have Mother by your side. She will no doubt be a good teacher." He offered a low, rumbled chuckle. "Though I guess I can hardly speak from experience." He reached over the worn railing and adjusted the blanket. "Rest well. It won't be long before you fulfill the prophecy and the world experiences Moloch's emergence." He crept from the nursery and moved through the hallway towards the next room, slowing as his ears detected soft whispering.
Stepping closer to the doorway, Henry placed his hands on its frame and watched the red-haired matron inside. Katrina Crane: mother. She brought him into the world, loved and cared for him. She sang to him, soothed his cries and repeatedly pledged adoration of her small miracle. Then she left him for the wolves, abandoned him though he was too young to care for and protect himself. He needed her and despite her proclamation of devotion, she deserted her own flesh and blood, selfishly sheltering herself from the chaos of the world around them. Katrina Crane: enemy.
Katrina stared intently into the mirror above the dresser, chanting a spell as her reflection morphed into a puff of black smoke. Her powers of are asset to us, Abraham had argued, but only if she is permitted to practice at the full potential of her strength. Henry had seemingly honored Abraham's insistence that he place no holds over Frederick's Manor; that he allow Katrina to exercise the magic she deemed necessary. Truthfully, he had harbored no intentions of limiting his mother's abilities. Though he did not share Abraham's belief that Katrina had fully accepted her place in Moloch's war, he knew it no longer mattered. She will return to Abraham's side and you will not restrict nor force her hand, Moloch had ordered. In time and of her own concurrence, she will come to believe her own lies; she will become her own undoing. Henry did not know Moloch's purpose for Katrina, but he would not interfere with his master's designs.
The image of Henry's mortal father and the infuriating lieutenant appeared within the swirling haze within the mirror's glass. He held back a chuckle as he recognized their surroundings, the cabin they believed their safe haven. Moloch will rise, he thought, and Hell will find you regardless of where you hide.
"Sleep, Miss Mills," Katrina whispered. "Sleep." Henry watched as the lieutenant's eyes fluttered closed. The black smoke churned again and dissipated, allowing the mirror to reflect Katrina's image. She picked up a thickly bristled brush and smoothed it through her long, red hair. Taking a small step into the room, Henry quietly cleared his throat to announce his presence.
"Mother?" he called softly. Her eyes drifted to his reflection and she smiled. She returned the brush to the dresser and turned towards him.
"Jeremy," she greeted sweetly.
"I…was going to make some tea before bed. Would you care to join me?" He clasped his hands and smiled. "A warm cup of tea will no doubt help you sleep in this weather's chill."
"That sounds lovely," she agreed. "I'm going to attend to the baby then I shall meet you in the dining room." He nodded and returned to the hallway, moving towards the staircase. Henry knew with war came nothing simple. Though sides were chosen, minds were often changed. One could bounce between opinions, between means to deal with those who stood in opposition. Friends became foes and enemies became most trusted and loyal comrades. As Henry ascended the stairs, he wondered where Katrina would stand when the time came to choose a final alliance. Curious, yet cautious, about her incantations, he resolved to watch his mother closely over the following days, to keep the sight he witnessed secret while he determined her objective. Until Moloch's materialization reached its fruition, Henry's priority was ensuring Katrina's furthered nurturing of his horrid king.