'Ichabod .. Ichabod .. '

Her voice echoed, soft and velvety though her lips did not move. The dark haired beauty cradled her young son on her lap, stroking his own dark hair as he clung to her, crying softly. She began to sing to him, hushing into his hair. A beautiful requiem, a haunting melody. The mother lowered her hand from caressing her child's face, opening his hand with her fingers and gingerly tracing her symbol of craft unto his palm, casting her white magic. She continued to sing even as the cloaked figure approached her from behind, breathing hard and furious. Only did she stop when her hair was grabbed and pulled harshly, making her throw her head back with a piercing scream.

'No!'

Ichabod sat bolt upright, jerked from his dreams and staring with alarm at the wall opposite. He panted heavily, recovering as he quickly registered where he was. The room dark with the night with only a candle at his bedside. As his breathing relaxed, he glanced his head around, seeing beside him perched upon a chair, Abberline. Looking rather alarmed and cautious. Not a word was spoken for a brief moment, just the silent exchange of unblunken stares. Finally, a somewhat embarrassed Ichabod lay back into his pillow, feeling suddenly exhausted.

'Hello,' He said weakly, the Inspector then collecting himself.

'How y'feeling?' Abberline asked, gentle but eager. The constable gave an uncertain shuffle in his bed before answering.

'Peculiar.' He answered.

The Inspector nodded, pretending to be satisfied with his answer before awkwardly glancing down at the floor, unsure now of what he could say. Earlier, he had known exactly what he wanted to say, ask. But now the words seemed to have left him.

'They think I am an opium addict.' Ichabod quietly spoke up, drained of strength enough to make his voice more pronounced. 'I'm not.'

'I know.' The Inspector said quickly.

'Are you humouring me?' Ichabod asked, frowning.

Abberline instantly looked alarmed, looking to him. 'No,' He gushed. 'I'm not humourin' you.'

The Inspector took a deep breath, letting a moment pass him. 'Why didn't y'die?'

'Did you want me to die?'

'Answer me.'

Ichabod stared at him, then sitting up slowly with great effort and glaring round the room's floor. 'Where is my coat?'

'Your what?'

'My coat. Where is it?'

The Inspector furrowed his brow at the odd request, but decided to comply to avoid to risk of the constable getting up himself and collapsing due to lack of strength. He stood from the chair, walking up to the wooden-framed door and retrieving Ichabod's black coat from a hung peg. The constable reached out his hand, accepting his coat from the Inspector and reaching his hand into the interior pocket and rummaging, before pulling out a petite, blue shaded book and offering it to Abberline.

'What's that?'

'You wanted to know why I seem so impervious to death?' Ichabod asked sternly, thrusting the book at him. Hesitantly, Abberline took the book from him and frowned down at it, entitled, A Compendium of Spells, Charms and Devices of the Spirit World.

He observed the title, then flick the book open to the first page. Reading two names, Elizabeth Van Tassel and Katrina Van Tassel, scrawled in italics.

'Katrina,' Abberline uttered, question in his voice. 'I'nt that your fiance's name?'

Ichabod gave a brief nod, quietly letting him read. As the man began to flick, the constable stopped him at one page. A page with an intricate symbol, centred with one all-seeing eye.

'She is why I did not die.' Letting his hand fall, he lay back again. 'Her white magic.'

The Inspector looked at Ichabod sceptically, letting the book close in his hands. 'Witchcraft?' He said, half scoffing at the idea.

'White magic.' Ichabod repeated, insisting.

'I reckon your fevered, constable.' Abberline suggested, reaching forward to feeling the constable's forheard, but the man leaned away.

'You tell me how a man can take a run through with a sword and still be here to tell the tale, Inspector. How a man can collapse with a final breath yet still slip from death's cold grasp?' Ichabod said, raising his voice slightly which strained him. 'You tell me!'

'Calm it down.' Abberline ordered, sitting back down. He looked down at the book in his hands as the constable collected himself, still somewhat furious at the man's skepticness towards him. The Inspector raised the book to present it, a frown on his face. 'Why's there a bullet 'ole in it?'

Ichabod hesitated, 'I was shot at.'

'Alright, so far you've been impaled, intoxicated, and now shot at.' The Inspector said, daring suggest a smile. 'Is there anyone that don't want to kill ye', Crane?'

Ichabod frowned at the Inspector, looking of the upmost seriousness, but only briefly. Abberline's smile broadened, and it didn't take the two long to break into mirthful chuckles.