Conchobar - His Story
Sara goes to Ireland to visit Conchobar's family and discovers her past. Many thanks to Penny for taking the time to beta this.
DISCLAIMER: Standard disclaimers apply
SPOILERS: Up thru Maelstrom.
**************
Prologue
**************
"Sara"
"Our tragedy is as old as the night
Our fable done told a thousand-odd times
For fate is an unmerciful queen
Made a quest out of you
And a soldier of me
I curse the stars that take you away
Take you away from my side
Condemned to burn
My chariot wheels
Chasing the love of my life
Whoa-oh, oh É
Whoa, Sara, it's the pageant we play
For ever and eternally fated
Oh, Sara, I done followed you too far
I can't let you slip away
And our destiny is bound like a knot"
--------
He saw her. He had waited so long but when it happened it still took his breath away.
She was walking toward the stage. He hastened to complete the chord he had almost dropped. The band would think he was losing it.
She was just as beautiful as he remembered, even if this form was different. He had seen her in many shapes and guises but he would always recognize her.
He ended the set and hopped down to speak to her. She had signaled that she wanted to talk to him. He had so much to say that he feared scaring her away. His first remark came off sounding flippant . . .
"I know you."
"Sara Pezzini, now you know me"
At least he had her name now. If she bolted he could find her again, this time.
A young woman interrupted. Without thinking he spoke the truth. "It's rude to interrupt a man speaking to his wife."
Sara took it to be flirting. That was fine.
Was he Conchobar? There lay a tale - long and tragic. Actually it was his stage name, his given name this time was John Patrick. But the stage name was the bait that he was using this lifetime to find her. It made him sick to remember when he was Conchobar. Drunk with power he thought then he could have everything, everybody he wanted. But his ruthless pursuit of power and iron hand only served to drive her away and seal his reputation - his karma - as a tyrant.
All the lifetimes since had been spent trying to atone for that one. Though he couldn't remember it, he suspected he spent a few lifetimes as a toad to pay for Conchobar's behavior.
So someone was making sacrifices to Cathain - he wasn't surprised at that. Some would welcome the power that would come with Cathain and the Witch's Glove. By calling Cathain back to life someone could seize the legendary power to help the cause of the caller. Perhaps to settle things in Ireland to their advantage - "Past glories restored."
John, aka Conchobar, went back to the stage to sing the beginning of the ballad that told Cathain's story. He trusted in fate to make the next step possible.
The next day she awakened him to question him about the latest sacrifice. It was so easy to be with her that everything he said sounded snide. More than once he kicked himself for the directness of his words.
"It isn't really flirting if you intend on following through. In that case I'm not flirting either."
When John left the station he knew she followed - and lost her out of habit. A habit he acquired in his early teen years hanging with his rebel brother.
The next evening Sara came to the club to propose a trap to capture the killer, but the last verse of the ballad was already written. When Sara bolted he could only surmise that she had solved the puzzle, that she knew where to find the criminal.
Later when she returned to report success he was ready with a casual proposal. "Why not come by my apartment tomorrow night before I come to the club? I can sing something quieter then, something acoustical.Ó
And then he waited to see if she would respond - remember, or feel something of their past.
She came the next evening about an hour before he had to leave. Enough time to tease her yet short enough that she wouldn't feel pressured. They made plans for lunch the next day. He began to dare to hope.
Lunch got personal. There he was telling the sordid tale of his break from the church. She laughed easily with him. She didn't remember him yet but they were comfortable together.
The invitation to her apartment was made with a knowing smile. He would be close to his beloved again. Time stood still and made him relive the centuries of waiting all in a day.
When they finally embraced he was home again. The Witchblade was their third wheel. John was accustomed to the strangeness that it brought to their love making. He ignored it in the joy of being reunited with her. He still couldn't speak of their history but it seemed possible now.
When she slept he tried to stay awake - to experience every moment, every breath, every movement. How many lifetimes would it be before he found her again? Stay with the now - experience what you have, he told himself. Their romance had been repeated, rekindled so many times. But few were the lives where they were given much time. Maybe this time they would have years together - grow old together, even have a family together. So many times they had reunited and than been torn apart.
This time he had reasoned that if he were a performer she might find him. He used the Conchobar persona to attract her - although it could drive her away as easily.
Now he had found her. She was a cop and he a troubadour - perhaps fate would let them live.
Lord! he would go back to the church if that could happen! Perhaps soon he could tell her about their past lives - awaken the part of her that would remember him. And then make amends for what those memories would tell her!
His awakening had come to him when he was sixteen. He had been truthful when he said he hadn't killed anyone lately. But before he knew who he was and who he was looking for John had done some rash things, following in the footsteps of his older brother. It was exciting for a fifteen-year-old. Violence could yet be returned to him for the violence of his youth.
"Consortin' with cops, me maw would be so pleased."
In the morning they were awakened by the phone. Sara was called to work and left him there.
Another night of intimacy. He knew every inch of her - knew what would please her. She accepted pleasure with happy abandon. The next morning John was anxious - it wasn't good to be too happy - something could take it away. When she left for work he made a vain attempt to lure her back with silliness.
"I'm warning you. You're helpless. You're completely under me thrall!"
When the thugs took him he knew it was all over. This was the end of the time they had together.
He didn't want Sara to come after him. Why should they kill her too? The Witchblade had a task for her that was certain. He hadn't awakened the past in her memory - she could find happiness with someone else. She could go on to find another love in this lifetime.
"Oh, I'm a musician. If you want quiet, kidnap a mime."
She came anyway. She tried to bargain with them. Then that wicked Fiona shot him! He didn't blame her for her bitterness but this was really petty. Perhaps she would spend some time as a toad!
Sara returned with a ransom to meet the bogus demands of the kidnappers. Then her kinsman showed himself. All hell broke loose - as anyone could have predicted. Here it was turned against his beloved!
The Witchblade was their enemy now on the wrist of Fiona. Every shot that Sara took was turned away. More than anything John wanted Sara to be safe. The gauntlet had to be neutralized. By God he would die if he could save Sara from Fiona!
Spiteful Fiona turned and pressed the blade to his chest. Whatever power there was in the gauntlet grounded to him. Fiona slid the blade into his heart but he would not allow it back out - not until Sara shot her. When the blade retreated, it took with it his last breath. To die by the Witchblade, would this be his final death? Would he never see her again?
He wanted to say something to Sara. After so many lifetimes there was only one thing to say. "I love you." But the breath was gone from him. Her face faded from his sight.
Sara collapsed by John. Everything she ever loved was taken from her. Her mother, father, Maria, Danny, now Conchobar. There was a great abyss where her heart should be and there weren't enough tears to fill it.
Ian restored the Witchblade to Sara's wrist, then knelt by her, tasted her blood, tasted his own blood, and swore an oath of fealty.
Irons smiled while two million - cash - burned.
......................................
Sara goes to Ireland to visit Conchobar's family and discovers her past. Many thanks to Penny for taking the time to beta this.
DISCLAIMER: Standard disclaimers apply
SPOILERS: Up thru Maelstrom.
**************
Prologue
**************
"Sara"
"Our tragedy is as old as the night
Our fable done told a thousand-odd times
For fate is an unmerciful queen
Made a quest out of you
And a soldier of me
I curse the stars that take you away
Take you away from my side
Condemned to burn
My chariot wheels
Chasing the love of my life
Whoa-oh, oh É
Whoa, Sara, it's the pageant we play
For ever and eternally fated
Oh, Sara, I done followed you too far
I can't let you slip away
And our destiny is bound like a knot"
--------
He saw her. He had waited so long but when it happened it still took his breath away.
She was walking toward the stage. He hastened to complete the chord he had almost dropped. The band would think he was losing it.
She was just as beautiful as he remembered, even if this form was different. He had seen her in many shapes and guises but he would always recognize her.
He ended the set and hopped down to speak to her. She had signaled that she wanted to talk to him. He had so much to say that he feared scaring her away. His first remark came off sounding flippant . . .
"I know you."
"Sara Pezzini, now you know me"
At least he had her name now. If she bolted he could find her again, this time.
A young woman interrupted. Without thinking he spoke the truth. "It's rude to interrupt a man speaking to his wife."
Sara took it to be flirting. That was fine.
Was he Conchobar? There lay a tale - long and tragic. Actually it was his stage name, his given name this time was John Patrick. But the stage name was the bait that he was using this lifetime to find her. It made him sick to remember when he was Conchobar. Drunk with power he thought then he could have everything, everybody he wanted. But his ruthless pursuit of power and iron hand only served to drive her away and seal his reputation - his karma - as a tyrant.
All the lifetimes since had been spent trying to atone for that one. Though he couldn't remember it, he suspected he spent a few lifetimes as a toad to pay for Conchobar's behavior.
So someone was making sacrifices to Cathain - he wasn't surprised at that. Some would welcome the power that would come with Cathain and the Witch's Glove. By calling Cathain back to life someone could seize the legendary power to help the cause of the caller. Perhaps to settle things in Ireland to their advantage - "Past glories restored."
John, aka Conchobar, went back to the stage to sing the beginning of the ballad that told Cathain's story. He trusted in fate to make the next step possible.
The next day she awakened him to question him about the latest sacrifice. It was so easy to be with her that everything he said sounded snide. More than once he kicked himself for the directness of his words.
"It isn't really flirting if you intend on following through. In that case I'm not flirting either."
When John left the station he knew she followed - and lost her out of habit. A habit he acquired in his early teen years hanging with his rebel brother.
The next evening Sara came to the club to propose a trap to capture the killer, but the last verse of the ballad was already written. When Sara bolted he could only surmise that she had solved the puzzle, that she knew where to find the criminal.
Later when she returned to report success he was ready with a casual proposal. "Why not come by my apartment tomorrow night before I come to the club? I can sing something quieter then, something acoustical.Ó
And then he waited to see if she would respond - remember, or feel something of their past.
She came the next evening about an hour before he had to leave. Enough time to tease her yet short enough that she wouldn't feel pressured. They made plans for lunch the next day. He began to dare to hope.
Lunch got personal. There he was telling the sordid tale of his break from the church. She laughed easily with him. She didn't remember him yet but they were comfortable together.
The invitation to her apartment was made with a knowing smile. He would be close to his beloved again. Time stood still and made him relive the centuries of waiting all in a day.
When they finally embraced he was home again. The Witchblade was their third wheel. John was accustomed to the strangeness that it brought to their love making. He ignored it in the joy of being reunited with her. He still couldn't speak of their history but it seemed possible now.
When she slept he tried to stay awake - to experience every moment, every breath, every movement. How many lifetimes would it be before he found her again? Stay with the now - experience what you have, he told himself. Their romance had been repeated, rekindled so many times. But few were the lives where they were given much time. Maybe this time they would have years together - grow old together, even have a family together. So many times they had reunited and than been torn apart.
This time he had reasoned that if he were a performer she might find him. He used the Conchobar persona to attract her - although it could drive her away as easily.
Now he had found her. She was a cop and he a troubadour - perhaps fate would let them live.
Lord! he would go back to the church if that could happen! Perhaps soon he could tell her about their past lives - awaken the part of her that would remember him. And then make amends for what those memories would tell her!
His awakening had come to him when he was sixteen. He had been truthful when he said he hadn't killed anyone lately. But before he knew who he was and who he was looking for John had done some rash things, following in the footsteps of his older brother. It was exciting for a fifteen-year-old. Violence could yet be returned to him for the violence of his youth.
"Consortin' with cops, me maw would be so pleased."
In the morning they were awakened by the phone. Sara was called to work and left him there.
Another night of intimacy. He knew every inch of her - knew what would please her. She accepted pleasure with happy abandon. The next morning John was anxious - it wasn't good to be too happy - something could take it away. When she left for work he made a vain attempt to lure her back with silliness.
"I'm warning you. You're helpless. You're completely under me thrall!"
When the thugs took him he knew it was all over. This was the end of the time they had together.
He didn't want Sara to come after him. Why should they kill her too? The Witchblade had a task for her that was certain. He hadn't awakened the past in her memory - she could find happiness with someone else. She could go on to find another love in this lifetime.
"Oh, I'm a musician. If you want quiet, kidnap a mime."
She came anyway. She tried to bargain with them. Then that wicked Fiona shot him! He didn't blame her for her bitterness but this was really petty. Perhaps she would spend some time as a toad!
Sara returned with a ransom to meet the bogus demands of the kidnappers. Then her kinsman showed himself. All hell broke loose - as anyone could have predicted. Here it was turned against his beloved!
The Witchblade was their enemy now on the wrist of Fiona. Every shot that Sara took was turned away. More than anything John wanted Sara to be safe. The gauntlet had to be neutralized. By God he would die if he could save Sara from Fiona!
Spiteful Fiona turned and pressed the blade to his chest. Whatever power there was in the gauntlet grounded to him. Fiona slid the blade into his heart but he would not allow it back out - not until Sara shot her. When the blade retreated, it took with it his last breath. To die by the Witchblade, would this be his final death? Would he never see her again?
He wanted to say something to Sara. After so many lifetimes there was only one thing to say. "I love you." But the breath was gone from him. Her face faded from his sight.
Sara collapsed by John. Everything she ever loved was taken from her. Her mother, father, Maria, Danny, now Conchobar. There was a great abyss where her heart should be and there weren't enough tears to fill it.
Ian restored the Witchblade to Sara's wrist, then knelt by her, tasted her blood, tasted his own blood, and swore an oath of fealty.
Irons smiled while two million - cash - burned.
......................................