Sleepy Hollow
Together
a/n: Maybe one day, this won't hurt so much. Today is not that day. Long live Ichabbie.
Post 3x18 sorry/not sorry
His gaze roams over the large stone that sits before him. It is a solid and terrifying site, no less ominous now than it was the day the slab was set in place. Its stature should represent all of the good he and his fellow Witness have accomplished. It should represent their noble battle, their success in twice preventing evil from overtaking the world. It should represent the strength of the bond they shared. Yet it means nothing so virtuous. To him, it is a looming monument of failure. Of his failure.
His long legs fold underneath his body as he sits, his attention turning to the soft earth. He presses his palm into its pliancy, his fingers digging deep into the cold dampness. What lies beneath, a space void of that which deserves veneration, is a mockery, a charade. He wonders if the ground would feel differently with her physical presence. Would it be more sound? Tough and resilient as she was? Though he knows better, he wholeheartedly believes it would.
His arm returns to rest over his bent leg, joining the other in holding a small bouquet of flowers. They are brightly colored, yellow and pink. They remind him of the radiance of her smile. They are colors his life has not seen since her passing; will never see again. The offering of such a beautiful presentation seems trivial to him now. What is the point of flowers when she is not able to see and enjoy them? His eyes flick up to the stone. Its grey color mirrors his life now. Cold, muted, dismal.
His eyes tear as he leans forward, placing the bouquet on the grass in front of the stone. The green field that covers the rest of the cemetery does not bleed into her plot. It is brown and patchy, weak and lacking. He understands the sentiment. He has spent every night since her death falling asleep to thoughts of her in his arms, only to wake and find his heart emptier than his limbs. Incomplete, inadequate. Imperfect. Unfinished.
His ears pick up the soft chirping of birds and a sad smile tugs at the corners of his lips. He pretends, for a brief, heavily selfish moment, that their melodies are her voice, calling him; greeting him. The selfishness quickly turns venal. He has no right to think she would speak to him in such a manner. After all, he has failed her. He could not stop her selfless action of self-destruction. He could not bring her back.
His body aches as he recalls her fading into the box. Every word spoken, every smile shared, every fist bump executed…it was not enough. Every minute of every day he has known her, not enough. Eternity would never be enough. He has long known that he loves her, that he's in love with her. No one has ever held his heart the way she did. He has belonged to her from the moment he was born. Why didn't he tell her? He was foolish to assume they had time. Foolish to believe that one day the Witnesses Seven Years of Tribulation would end and he would have a brand new world to share with her. Foolish. If there is one thing he has learned in his few years in the current world, it is that there is no time like the present. Foolish.
His head drops as he hears the heavy yet distant clop of hooves. The sun is nearly departed, only the last of rays visible under the drop of a star-lit sky. He remembers telling her that as a team, they would be victorious together, or defeated together. He never imagined their fate defeat. Nevertheless, he will not break his vow. He will remain with her, even if it means his own demise. He owes it to her. He owes it to the world, to the next in the newly discovered long line of Witnesses. Eternal souls, soon to be joined on the other side, will re-emerge into the world, together. They will grow together. They will complete the task at hand and once again save the world from annihilation. Together.
His posture straightens and his shoulders square as he rises from the ground. The clop of hooves slows and nears as he neatens the lapels of his wool coat, brushes the remnants of dirt from his pants. Flexes his fingers nervously at his sides. He survived two hundred years in a mystical stasis, buried beneath the floor of a forgotten cave. He knows this time will be different. There will be no magical return to this plane of existence. He is certain not one of his incarnations, past or future, has loved or will love his counterpart as much as this avatar has loved his. Every fiber of his being holds that notion to be true. He prays that when his soul meets that of his fellow Witness he will see her in the form of this life. Dark skin, brown eyes, curly hair, brilliant smile, infectious laugh, warm heart. The very embodiment of perfection.
His feet shift and he turns to face the man he once called friend. The irony of coming full circle is not lost on him. Death by the horseman's broadax started his journey in this life. Death by the horseman's broadax will end it. As the blade swings towards him, he releases a breath, whispering the name of the woman he loves. His eyes drift close and he is certain he hears her voice, guiding him. Welcoming him home.