Notes: This is AU. I'm guessing with the earlier years. Ichabod was asleep for 230 years. I'm depicting Jeremy at the age of 18 (+1 since I had to make room for the fact that he was a growing embryo).
Thanks to IceKat055 for the Beta-assist.
- 1802 -
Four women in black cloaks and darkened veils surrounded him. With his Golem gone, he felt more helpless than ever before. His cursed abilities lost to him in a cacophony of ignorance and fear. He could not even summon the fire that appeared to manifest during times he least expected.
Trapped in their circle, they chanted around him in perfect unison, foreign words that no less felt like they were against him.
A part of him knew this day would come. These women had tried to bring him to their fold before, but he felt in his heart they were not to be trusted. They were strangers. Their powers scarier than his own, he wanted nothing to do with them.
Maybe this was the only way. His life, for as long as he could remember, had given him nothing but pain and disappointment. Perhaps in death, he could finally find peace.
Soon he felt the air around him shift. His heart thumped loudly in his chest and the sensation of falling suddenly overcame him.
He ran for what seemed like hours trying to escape the clutches of a creature he knew not the name of. He had seen his share of evil distasteful men, many whom had been skilled masquerading themselves as gentleman, but this creature was altogether something else.
Inhuman.
Tall and dominating, its two long horns protruding from its forehead and grasping claws reached for him with clear malevolence. It tried to speak to him, as if words could alleviate his fear. His gut instinct knew that it was not to be trusted.
That understanding only made his legs move faster.
He had hoped death was absolute. Not this dark lightless domain with countless monsters lurking in every direction.
The forest was endless no matter which direction he ran, and in his rush to get far away he lost his footing, falling to the ground with a sharp thud. His face covered in dirt and grime.
"You will be mine!" The shadowy voice proclaimed.
He snapped around and was lifted off the ground, his legs dangling in the air helplessly against a monstrosity he had no means of truly escaping.
The creature gripped his neck forcefully and he struggled to breathe. He felt his body weakening, and he knew that he finally met hell.
Resolved to this bitter end, he felt his consciousness darkening until a force split them abruptly apart.
"Leave the boy alone."
That voice. Strong and fearless. So unlike anything he ever heard sent an unexpected familiarity inside him. Like something from a dream on those rare nights he felt safe.
Opening his eyes, he saw her. Truly saw her, and she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
Striking red hair and green eyes stared steely against the evil monster intent on harming him.
An angel in hell.
"You cannot stop me witch!"
So not quite an angel. Regardless, in that moment, she was an angel to him.
Before he knew it, the creature advanced, attacking his savior fruitlessly as she dodged his attacks with knowing experience. He watched dumbfounded, wondering how his life brought him here. That it took his deliverance to this unholy place to meet the only other human being he has ever met to defend him.
The woman was quick on her feet, deftly avoiding blows against her, but he saw her strength failing. He knew not what to do to help.
At that moment he wished his Golem were beside him.
Like magic, the roar of his companion echoed through the forest, and just like that, his beloved protector appeared and headed straight toward the enemy.
The woman fell to the ground as his Golem fought relentlessly against their attacker, but it was the look on her face that stopped him from closing the gap between them.
It was a look of shock.
She turned to him, her eyes finally meeting his own. Her fixed stare was so intense he grew uncomfortable. She was not afraid of him, that much he knew, but she saw something in him. He didn't know.
Instead of fleeing, she closed the distance and reached for his hand, her small fingers interlacing between his. The single touch sent warmth through him, sparking awareness inside him he didn't understand.
He felt her pull. "We have to go," she said with sudden urgency. "Your Golem will not last long against Moloch. What is your name?"
How did she know about his Golem?
"My name?"
"Yes, your name."
"Um… Jeremy. My name is Jeremy."
Her eyes glistened with what seemed suspiciously like tears, but the sight was short-lived and she tugged on him to move.
"Wait, my friend…" but he was cut off.
"He will be fine, but if we linger here any longer, neither of us will be."
He nodded, his legs finding the momentum to move. He had not expected the easiness in which he followed her command. The woman stayed in pace with him, never once pulling apart. The connection felt startlingly comfortable.
Before he knew it, they were inside a church. As they reached the front pews, the woman turned, swung her arm, and the doors closed by her command.
He blinked. "You really are a witch."
"Our powers are not as affective in this realm. Casting spells or manipulating the elements is useless here, but there are few that can be wielded."
She explained it without fear or judgment. Like it was some regular occurrence that they would find themselves in hell, and the do's and don'ts was a trifling side effect.
"How long have you been in hell?"
Her head tilted and her forehead creased. There was a pause before she answered. "This place is not hell, thankfully."
That was news to him.
"It's not?"
"We are between life and death. Purgatory."
He was not a educated man, life on the run left very little room to indulge but he had heard the sermons as a child enough times to know she spoke the truth. It made more sense now.
"Wait, my Golem. He's still out there."
"Think of him."
"What?"
"Think of him appearing here."
"I don't…"
"Please, just do it."
With no other recourse, he did as he was told. Closing his eyes, he thought of his protector, the one person who stayed by his side through the harshest years of his young life. And just as the vision of him crossed his mind, his Golem appeared.
"It worked." He spun around to face her, the first signs of happiness and relief showed all over his face. "How did you…"
The tears he first saw unshed out in the woods reappeared in her eyes, and in them he saw even deeper emotions he could hardly describe. Slowly, she moved. Not towards him, but to his Golem. Her small yet confident stature marked a stark difference to his very large and imposing friend. And to his complete and utter amazement, his protector made no harsh movements against her, he simply stood, his body relaxed in the presence of the oncoming stranger.
Even more surprising, she reached out to him. Taking his massive hand into her small ones and held them with such care.
"Thank you," she said to him, her first tear finally falling. "Thank you for protecting him when I could not."
Her words stunned him.
"Who are you?"
She turned to him, her eyes filled with too much emotion.
"My name…" she stumbled momentarily. "My name is Katrina Crane. I am your mother."
Time passed without him realizing, but time felt stagnant in Purgatory. Neither sensed like they were moving forward or backward. How his mother could tell the days apart was lost to him.
His mother.
Even now, that realization surprised him. When spoken aloud, it was even more of a revelation. She was real. He had so many questions; he truly did not know where to start.
Those first few days had been difficult for him to grasp. For so long he had felt alone. A wayward orphan with a curse he could not control. An unwanted child around people who shunned him.
Once he could grasp his emotions, anger was the first to manifest itself. It all went by rather quickly, and he barely remembered his tantrum. But as time stood still for both of them, his outburst was fleeting and his mother remained by his side, holding him in her tight loving embrace. Soothing his cries for what had happened to them and for what could have been.
Even now, those silent cries could be heard.
"Speak to me, Jeremy. What thoughts plague your mind?"
He did not know where to start as his gaze lingered on the windows of the church. Outside, He could see the shadows of lost souls crawling or walking restlessly, their choir of hopelessness painful to hear.
"Moloch doesn't come near here. What's keeping him out?"
"You and I are the only living souls in this realm. I imagine our magic and the threat of your Golem protects us for now but I cannot be certain."
"What was he like? My Father?" The topic changed abruptly.
She smiled that rare smile before him, and the hunger for knowledge of where he came from pushed forward. Their time so far had been filled with rushed answers mixed with dread of capture. His mother often concentrated in silent vigil to strengthen whatever magic they possessed, keeping their enemy at bay.
"A good man. An honorable one. And far too clever for his own person," she described with a fond expression. "I fear to admit I did not quite take to him from the start."
"Really?"
"He was the son of a Nobleman, and he fought on the side of the British. I was a Quaker then, doing what I could to help those caught in the crossfire. On the surface, we had very little in common."
"You were a nurse?"
She nodded. "Yes."
"I never imagined I'd turn out to be the bastard child of a nobleman." His words came out unintentionally sharp. He had long accepted that he was unwanted but the look on his mother's face gave him pause.
"Is that what you believe? That your father did not want you?" She did not look upset, only saddened. "Although I never cared much for the term, for any child, you are no bastard. Ichabod and I were married before you were conceived."
"Then why? Why did you leave me with other people if you couldn't raise me with him."
"Oh Jeremy." Her soft hands cupped his face as she stared at him, her eyes so clearly memorizing him. In that moment, and beyond comprehension, he felt happy. "It was not like that at all."
His voice barely carried out the words. "Where is he, then?"
He sensed he touched upon a difficult subject, but he needed to know.
"He fell in battle before I even knew I was carrying you."
Her answer was one he had not considered, and a barely contained sob escaped him. He felt her hands press against his cheek softly.
"Come. Let me tell you about your father, and the truth that led our paths here."
Numbly, he acquiesced; allowing his mother to guide them to a nearby pew. They sat facing one another, and finally, with after a single deep breath, she told their story.
Purgatory was a strange place. One does not eat or drink here. You cannot step out expecting the sun to touch your face, or even the warmth it gives. It was neither hot or cold, and to rub salt to the wound, it cruelly robs you of sleep.
Those wakeful hours were endless.
It was not until he interrupted his mother mid-sentence one evening – if one could call it an evening – that he confessed.
"I cannot read."
His admission made him feel ashamed. Katrina Crane was so much more than he ever imagined, but the orphanage he came from cared very little for their charges. Beyond his own name, he could barely even write.
Getting to know his mother these past weeks, it sparked an interest in him to learn.
"Can you teach me?"
They had, in fact, all the time in the world to learn.
And the smile on her face when he asked was worth it.
"It would be an honor to do so."
- 1810 -
His mother was a good teacher. He, on the other hand, had never been a very good student.
Sometimes, he felt rather unaccomplished around her. She knew so much. History. Politics. Literature. Witchcraft. Even warfare. After a few years, even his French began to sound genuine. Eight years drifted by as he filled his hours with her teachings, and with the knowledge that his own father was just as intelligent as she, if not more so, made what he lacked even more distressing.
He believed even his Golem learned at a better rate than he was, which was a depressing thought.
He felt decidedly small despite his height advantage over his own mother.
"You are frowning, my son."
"I am concentrating," he defended half-heartedly.
The stifled laugh she returned for his pathetic response made him smile. Difficult as it may be trapped in Purgatory, to be here with his mother was a consolation prize he never expected but was so thankful to have.
On the floor of the house that echoed the home his mother once shared with his father, they played chess. Rocks of different size took the place of the real things. His mother was nothing if not creative.
"I cannot imagine that people actually do this for enjoyment."
"It could be worse. There is always Baccarat. And ladies singing off-key more often than not. Idle chit-chat about the weather, gossip and random made up musings of relatives we do not see."
"Tell me you are joking."
"Mostly," but her coy smile told him otherwise. "But chess is a game of the mind. It teaches strategy and understanding of an opponent. It aids in not only how you move them, but how others move against you." She advanced her pawn one chalked box forward, exposing her Bishop to check his King, who was trapped on all sides. "Checkmate."
It was to his credit he did not flail his arms around in childish behavior. This time at least.
"That is hardly fair, you have more experience than I do."
"Which will ultimately make my defeat one day even more fulfilling."
He sighed, but not from defeat. "Let's play again."
His mother raised her brow.
"Do not look at me like that, Mother. I refuse to sing."
Mother.
It was a term he thought he would never tire saying.
- 1861 -
"Who are they, Mother?"
They watched the grotesque scenery before them. Broken bodies littered the forest grounds en masse.
"Soldiers. Judging by the regalia and colors they wear, a mix of British and American."
"Why are there so many?"
His mother laid a reassuring hand on his arm. "War claims many lives. Many of these men were likely forced to enlist or indentured. Their untimely deaths left their living lives unresolved."
"A sea of lost souls then."
"Yes."
"Moloch must be enjoying this," he said angrily.
"He thrives on conflict, and it is not just in war with pistols and swords."
"It will not get any easier, will it?"
"I fear not."
He had known. He had always known.
- 1945 -
"Another war."
It was not a question. Though time stood still for him and his mother, the world beyond them moved forward. They had seen glimpses of that change, like unbelievable contraptions flying across the sky and carriages that moved without horses.
No one wore powdered wigs anymore and liveries had evolved greatly from what he remembered. His mother took notice of the last with mild yet amused curiosity.
But it was the people...
People…
The people were the hardest ones to bear witness to.
"Why does this feel different than the others? Some don't look like our countrymen."
Countless lost souls appearing and then disappearing before them. Many shouting wordlessly in agony from whatever pain they endured in life.
"Something terrible must have happened in the world to bring about such suffering."
"End of days?"
"No, I sense something else." Unlike him, his mother only grew more attuned to the other world. And while she could not live in it, her connection to it remained. One hundred and forty three years under her apt tutelage had taught him to understand magic, but due to their imprisonment, the limitations of the realm prevented him from truly knowing it.
"So this is not his doing?"
"You know by now that the demon that holds us here sometimes does not have to do anything at all for people to hurt one another."
"What good is fighting when it never ends?"
"People are flawed Jeremy. We can only be who we are and do our best. It is what moves us forward. As difficult as it is to make sense of it all, it is a balance. A very delicate one."
"Will we ever stop him?"
"I truly hope so. Evil, though, can only really be fought, never completely defeated. As humans, we are born capable of terrible deeds. The gift of free will comes with consequences when it is abused. It is often the aftermath that decides our fates."
"That does not seem fair."
They shared a look of understanding.
"No, it is not.
- 2013 -
One day a shift in the air was made more noticeable when his mother, for the first time since they met in this place, unexpectedly paled and collapsed to the floor, eyes closing before she hit the ground.
"Mother!" He raced to her side, his Golem not far behind as he fell to his knees beside her. "Mother!"
He pulled her into his arms, fear unlike anything he'd felt, not since he was a child, overwhelmed him.
After all this time, he could not lose her now.
"Mother, wake up! Wake up!"
His heart felt like it skipped several beats when his mother finally awoke, gasping for breath.
"Mother." He cradled her body against him, holding her tight. Right then and there, he was not a Warlock. Not a man. He was just a child holding onto his mother for dear life.
"Jeremy."
"I'm here, Mother." Tears began to fall. "You're going to be all right. I don't know what happened. One moment you were standing, and the next you just fell."
He could feel his mother's heart pound relentlessly against her chest.
"He's alive."
"What?"
"He is alive."
"I don't know what that means." He looked to her, eyes mixed with confusion and concern. "Who is alive?"
"The Horseman of Death has awakened."
It all suddenly made sense. The spell his mother cast to save his father, Ichabod Crane, a man whose memory she kept alive through stories shared throughout their time in Purgatory, had linked him to the Horseman by blood.
With Death awakened, so would his father.
His mother felt that very awakening because she was the witch that bound not just the two, but also the three of them together.
In an effort to slow down his erratic heartbeat, he took a deep breath and kept his mother close.
A small selfish part of him dreaded this moment.
The moment that the war in Sleepy Hollow… had finally reconvened.