Disclaimer: I do not own The Ledgend of Sleepy Hollow, or any of its characters.

Authoress's Note: Just one of my many theories of what happened to Ichabod. It's been in my head for a while, and wouldn't go away, so...here it is. I hope you enjoy!

Scare Crow

He was different. He knew he was different, from the people of Terrytown, and even the from the people of his Yankee home. But he didn't think he'd be this different; so different that it would turn an entire town against him. He should have known, from the moment that that child had screamed and run from him upon running into his scare crow resembled body, that it wasn't going to be easy.

Could a person be so different, though, that death was wished upon them, simply because of uniqueness? Because a person was so intelligent, or enthusiastic, or superstitious? Apparently so.

The old Ichabod wouldn't have cared that he was disliked. Nay, the old Ichabod didn't mind that people scowled at his lanky frame, his Yankee-accented voice, his wide variety of knowledge. The old Ichabod rather liked being different. But now, as he walked down a crooked, lonely dirt path, stumbling over his own feet, he resented himself greatly for standing out from the crowd, and cursed uniqueness with a sour twist of his lips. "What is the point of be contrastive?" He wondered aloud, his voice just a murmur in the wind, "What does it get you? Where does it get you? Nothing, and nowhere."

He continued stumbling along carelessly as crows cawed in branches above his head; branches that reached out at him like boney, skellital hands. But Ichabod didn't care about his surroundings, or person, for that matter, anymore; his heart was shattered, trampled upon...gone...ripped right out of his chest. How could he care about anything with a missing heart? He couldn't. He couldn't because she'd taken it. Nay, stolen it.

"Stole it." He breathed. "That wretched, callous..." He took in a deep breath, heaving it out in a sigh, "Beautiful, virtuous, inspirational woman...that is not mine...She is his, and she hates me."

True. He figured by now that Brom had made his moves, done his wooing, and had long ago gotten the girl's heart; something he'd almost done. "Almost." He growled bitterly. "Almost. It has never been enough."

He had never liked that word. Almost. Aaaaaaalmost. Almoooooooooost. He'd always strived, even as a young boy playing games, he'd strived, and it had gotten him far in life. Almost may as well have been a swear word in Mister Ichabod Crane's dictionary.

"One little mistake. One almost. Just one!" He shouted, jamming a finger at the inky sky. "Just one! Just ONE!" He was saying it over and over, screaming it, tears cascading down his hollow cheeks while his tricorn fell to the ground in his infuriated stomping. "I've only done this one! I've followed you, stood up for you, and looked where it got me!"

He was breathing heavily when his boney rump punched the muddy soil, and then his back, then his noggin. He didn't care that the mud was seeping in through his borrowed...no, given wedding suit from Mr. Vantassle, chilling his pale skin and scalp. He didn't care about anything. He. Simply. Just. Didn't. Care. Ichabod curled up into a tight ball, crushing his knees to his weak chest.

He just laid there, then, casting blurred eyes to the moon...a blood-red moon. A humorless snort passed his thin lips. The Horseman(he shuddered) wouldn't be able to reach him here. That looming, headless, malicious, ghostly beast couldn't touch him, and he didn't worry of anything else wishing to do him harm. In fact, he wanted something to do him harm. He didn't care what it was, or what it did, but he wanted it to mortally wound him. What could he do to provoke such a thing, though? He didn't want to go back to Terrytown...it was too far away, so the Horseman was out of the question. He glanced around him, gazing into the black woods. If he wandered into them, he'd get lost, and there was no guarantee that some beast would come after him.

"Come now." He murmured to himself, sitting up in the middle of his mud puddle, "A man of smarts should be able to figure out a way to get himself killed."

Dangerous animals were out of the question, obviously. To his knowledge, there weren't any cliffs to jump off of, either. Ichabod narroed his eyes, resting his stubbled chin on his boney, muddy knees. "A man of knowledge." He told himself. "A man of knowledge should be able..." He rocked slowly in his wet puddle of mud. He wanted to come up with the quickest thing possible, something to just harshly end it with hardly any, or no, pain at all. "If I stabbed myself...no, that would be too painful. Besides, what would I use, a stick? Goodness."

The long, stick-like fingers tapped the thin shoulders while the gears whirred in the ex-school-teacher's mind, playing idly at the sweaty black cloth, then straying to the white cravat wrapped loosely around his throat. It was then that those dull blue eyes brightened. He knew what he had to do.

His cravat stretched to a yard long, and then some. It was a perfect length of white and mud colored cloth, which hung forbodingly from a stout tree branch, blowing mockingly in the wind. Ichabod tugged on it as he climbed up on the log(which he'd rolled beneath it only moments prior) to steady himself. He took a moment of gaining his breath, trying to maintain balance long enough to do his deed. The log was slick with mud, perfect for "accidentally" falling off of.

Ichabod tied the knot in his sorry and forever stained cravat, and without thinking, slipped it around his neck. He raised his chin high, his sorrowed eyes taking in the canvas of colors in the sky, the early morning sun sending pink and purple rays of light through the red, yellow, and brown autumn leaves, sending the strange, swarming fog into an array of colors as well.

Ichabod found himself becoming distracted by the beautiful moving painting before him. "Just like you." He cuckled humorlessly. "Can't even focus on the simple task of killing yourself without becoming distracted." But he couldn't help himself. Despite the fact that he was usually up early enough to see the moving paintings every morning, he couldn't help but feel, even with the painful ache in his heart, inspired.

The sun shined on his face, warming his skin and drying the mud on his clothing. He looked up at the ever growing blue of the sky, cocking his head to the side. "Is this a sign?" He asked clearly, breaking the warm peacfulness of the forrest. "Is this an answer to my question earlier?" A light wind blew down the path, ruffling Ichabod's clothing and hair, caressing his face. A slight smile pulled at the man's lips, and he blinked at the sky."Could you ever forgive such a stupid man?" He murmured. He enjoyed the feeling of peace that seemed to consume him, first tilting his chin up higher, and then down as he bowed his head. "Alright."

He began to reach for the cravat still knotted around his neck, laughing and wondering at how on earth he could have been so stupid, so foolish. However, as he raised his long, sitck-like arms, the leather soles on the bottoms of his shoes slid, sending his feet slipping from the slick surface of the wet log. Ichabod's body plummeted downward, causing his arms and legs to flail, trying in vain to get back on top of the log, to loosen the strain of the out-stretched cravat. His eyes bugged out, looking as though they would pop right from the sockets in his head. His tongue hung out like an over-worded mule's, and he gurggled, choking on his own air. His vision blurred as tears were squeezed from their ducts, making the beautiful, moving painting clors mix, turning to a grimace of angered red and black spots. The strength in his arms began to weaken as he was slowly suffocated, the clawing at his neck, causing blood to dribble from his now purple skin slowing to a pause.

The bloodied fingers finally froze, those large paws falling limply to the sides of the lanky torso. The gasping and gurggling came to an abrupt stop, and the legs, which were the last to stop in their vain struggle, stilled, the feet propped on the side of the slick log.

--

The sun shined brilliantly, its golden rays sending flickers of warmth down the damp, dirt path. A small child, a girl, giggled with glee while she skipped, her brown dress twisting and turning to match the rhythm of her feet, while her wheat-colored hair billowed gracefully behind her. Her parents, a robust man with a trimmed brown beared and a curvy woman with the same wheat hair as the child, walked arm-in-arm a short distance from her.

The adults sope idly in soft tones, pointing out a birt here, a rabbit there, sometimes even pausing to chuckle and watch as their world stopped her excited skipping to pick a flower every other moment, before falling into idle chat once again.

"I'll fix the wheel on the buggy, shall I?" The man murmured, "We won't have to walk next time."

"Aye, you should. But...I've rather enjoyed this walk. We should do this more, even with a repaired buggy."

The father was going to agree, to reply that yes, they could take more walks together, enabling them to better enjoy the scenery and their daughter's joy, when he realized...it was too quiet. Something was amis in this peaceful forrest. The birds hadn't stopped chirping, no; they still sang loudly, calling back and forth to their neighbors. Rabbits, and other such creatures, relentlessly scurried across the dried, fallen leaves on the forrest floor, so the continual sounds of crunching weren't odd, either.

But upon resting his hazel eyes on the now still form of their daughter, he came to the conclusion that all was quiet because she wasn't skipping, or laughing. "Mary," He called out, his smooth voice laced in a saturation of concern and curiosity, "Are you all right?"

Mary's head tilted in the slightest form of movement, and slowly, she raised a little hand, pointing a tiny finger. "Papa, why is there a scare crow in that tree?"

Fin

Authoress's note: Well, there you have it! I hope you enjoyed it, despite the sad twist. Please review, even if you didn't care for it too much, I'll appreciate it if you do. Constructive criticism is welcome, but please, don't flame; it's rude. Thank you all!