Spoilers: Everything first season
Feedback: Always nice.
Summary: Irons is dying. But will the Witchblade let that happen?
Author's notes: I wrote this ficlet back in August 2001, apparently. Wow, long time. Written then as a spec fic for the last couple of episodes, so it's set after episode 9 or so, first season. I haven't found much positive Irons fic out there, much less I/S fic, so I figured I'd post this. Disclaimer: All characters found within, as well as the Witchblade, story concept etc belongs to other people. Not exactly sure who, but I am certain it is, unfortunately, not me. Suing won't result in enough to pay the legal bills, and you absolute can NOT have my Grant Lee Buffalo/ Grant Lee Phillips CDs. 'winks'
~*
How can hunks of stone and metal be jealous?
They can't. But the soul fueling them can.
~*
Time passes. For the Witchblade this is not quite so, though the one who wields still experiences time as a river - a tree - a one-way road leading somewhere vaguely described as 'other.'
In this way Sara Pezzini's life continued. The Death of Conchobar still stung, but was a pain scarred over rather than an open wound. The Periculum too, was far enough behind that fear no longer caught her in remembrance. Concealing the metal connected deep within her skin - when it happened to be so - was as commonplace as brushing her hair.
This is not to say that she was comfortable. Why's and how's still plagued. Knowledge was slow to come, even slower was she learning to use what she did discover. But the one aspect Sara was beginning to grasp was that what was, was. That things were never what they seemed. That everything which happened was connected, somehow, and had reason and meaning.
She had just put the phone back in its cradle. Across from her the desk was empty: Jake had gone for some coffee and chips. One of their cases was going sour, going nowhere, and the bodies were starting to pile up. They had leads, but lacked the elusive 'break'. And this need was why, right at that moment, she hated the inventor of that damned land-based communications system.
There were many better recipients for her general wrath. The killer himself (or herself), Captain Dante, the Witchblade and whoever crafted it, herself; Alexander Graham Bell was innocent as could be, compared to any of these and more. But then, the Witchblade spun webs and existed independent of time, so why not Bell?
Beyond this thin veil, it was the person who had just hung up on her whom she truly wanted to blame. Kenneth Irons had been playing with her since the Witchblade first found its way onto her wrist. Maybe even before: she wouldn't put it past him. Ever since that first meeting there was something she almost hated about him; almost wanted to kill; almost wanted to beat until answers poured forth in solute with his blood.
But there is something logically inconsistent in blaming the guy about to hand you information that will crack the case. Even if he is insolent and condescending whilst he does it.
The need to solve the crime quickly won out over the wish to solve it on her own, and to not go where she knew she would. A little paper work got done, a few phone calls, some Doritos munched and caffeine downed, and exactly one hour after the buzz sounded in her ear Sara Pezzini was being greeted by Kenneth Irons' secretary.
"Mr. Irons is expecting you. Go right in."
"Of course he is." The words were voiced low enough that the secretary could pretend not to hear them. No matter if she was invited or appeared on his doorstep out of thin air, he always expected her. Was always waiting.
The path to his door was by now as familiar as her own apartment. Maybe they were still worried she'd get lost, because Ian Nottingham peeled off from the shadows and walked her to the door, which he opened. A voice was heard from within, and Nottingham left, head bowed as usual, acknowledging her presence (somewhat belatedly) with a brief pause in his gait and a lift of his eyes.
He was standing, not far from the door, eyes fixed on a television screen embedded in the wall. Just stepping inside, she took a breath to inquire after the promised information, assuming he wouldn't bother to speak first. Which he then, of course, did.
"The information you require is in an envelope on my secretary's desk. You may retrieve it on your way out."
Beyond the words he was still ignoring her. The only reaction, could it be called that, was a more intent searching of the maps before him. It would be like him to have her shown in, only to be shown out again directly. But not before he could place one offer, hint at one bit of cryptic information he alone possessed.
Whatever he had prepared, she didn't want it. Even should she smack him, the information on the case would still be there for her, everything else still closed off in his head. This was a part of the game he played. Why shouldn't she get to move her own playing piece, now and then?
The door was still open, but she wasn't yet through it when he spoke, not yet sparing her a glance. "We're connected, you and I." It came out simple, bare, and in a thoughtfully oblivious tone she had yet to hear from him. She stopped.
"The Witchblade 'weaves a web, connecting everything around me,' right?"
"Yes. But that was not what I was referring to." Beyond reason, in his manner - tone - voice was the implicit demand that she stay and converse further. And yet also that the discussion was finished, and that she was dismissed. He still refrained from so much as looking her way. Turning, he walked to a chair grouping in a way not exactly inviting. All in all, she found herself with a choice, one that showed all the signs of meaning much more than was on the surface.
She stayed.
The moment she was out of the way the door closed behind her. Inexplicitly she felt as though her fate was sealed, and that she couldn't go back and take the other road, even though she knew the door would be unlocked, should she try it.
He was seated in an armchair by this time, back facing her. At least he didn't seem to be doing anything, and so it felt less like she was intruding when she crossed the floor and sat in the chair opposite him.
His eyes tracked her as soon as she entered into his visual field, without apparent interest. When she finally saw his face, she couldn't restrain one eyebrow from heading northward. He looked, in a word, like shit. Haggard would only be the beginning of a list of descriptive words, each worse than the previous. A cane rested on the arm of the chair. He hadn't used it earlier, but on reflection, he should have.
"Well?" It took a bit of effort, but she managed to keep herself from pitying him, or treating him gently.
"Well?" The back of the chair was the main, if not only, reason he was upright. His voice was hollow, like that of a feeble and somewhat bewildered old man. As if once he no longer needed to concentrate on standing and walking, he had giving up struggling.
She still didn't like him. Nothing would convince her otherwise. But though she still wanted to hit him, the aim would no longer be what it had been. Now she pictured herself bringing her palm against his cheek, using act and words to bring life back into his features. Then she could pummel him for information and revenge.
"A minute ago, you said you weren't referring to the-" Not knowing how to describe it, she gestured to the Blade. "The web the Witchblade weaves."
He took a breath, which rattled, and nodded. As if the subject was one he did not, in fact, wish to proceed with further, his first statement was short. "It's not important. You never told me, how did the Periculum go?" His tone changed on the question, a transparently pathetic attempt to change the topic.
The question she ignored. Oddly, he didn't even look as if he cared.
"Yea, well it's important to me."
He relinquished the fight so readily that it was sure he hadn't meant it as more than a front. "Very well." With obvious effort he held out his hand to her.
For a moment she was confused. Then she recalled how many times the touch of a hand had led to sudden visions, bearing information which could never be conveyed so completely, or convincingly, in words. She hesitated, but his hand didn't waver.
She took it.
Having expected in advance the wave of images and sounds, it was only the content that came as a shock.
She was Cathain. Conchobar was nowhere to be found, but Ian was, in the background. She knew him for what he was- her brother, now, her companion and protector. Before her was Irons, dressed as a monk. He, more than any other, was the same, but not.
In the past time swirled. He brought her books and parchments, words of knowledge, blessed her before battle, and watched as she sparred, honing her skills. With perfect understanding, she knew he was her teacher, her watcher, and ultimately, her lover.
The prince was dead. Again, she lived apart, with a very few companions. It was he, she knew, who had eventually calmed her; reconciling her to a fate she now loved as a part of her.
He always waited for her. That was what made him different from everyone else in her life. Each time she returned, he would already be there, ready for her.
Images from different times started mixing in. They were patched together, but soothed, like a charm quilt made from the fabric scraps of generations. He was always so old, because he waited. His life was always spent first in depravity; confused and led awry by the power he knew he had some part in, but no direction.
The images were becoming more insistent, urging her to see the one thing that she needed to know. Afraid, but aware that she must, she opened herself up.
She saw herself with a dagger, with a knife, with a partially extended Witchblade, cutting her arm, her shoulder, her chest. From a neat cross blood flowed freely into a cup, a bowl, ran down her breast until he licked it away. They fell backward onto her bed, him taking her blood while hands caressed. Her back arched and she let out a gasp of pleasure. His mouth found hers and she licked her own blood off his lips, tasting herself on his tongue.
With that the visions ended, and they were back, in the midst of a moment which was too long for the time it contained.
Irons moved first, taking back his hand and regarding her with eyes that betrayed nothing. That didn't care.
She still didn't much like him. But then, she never had. Not at first. It was the cycle of the ages, the Witchblade itself, which opened up, dagger length. At the sound Irons' eyes widened slightly, possibly in fear. Sara looked at the Blade, unsure and fighting what she knew she would do next.
The blade was very sharp, her motions quick. Before she felt pain beads of blood were already welling up. The sting would come in a moment. A decanter and glass were on the table. She took the latter, holding it under the cuts, which now streamed blood. The flow, against reason, did not stop until the glass was half full. The last drops were still falling when the wounds clotted, and she knew she was already healing.
The Blade had retracted, and now the stone was glowing and swirling with an inner fire. This light was reflected in the blood, the one taking the properties of the other: or maybe it was the other way around. The stone was her blood; her blood was the ancient relic.
Still not in full possession of her actions, she got up. Kneeling next to him she brought the glass to his mouth, tilting it gently until it was drained.
She put the glass back on the table, wanting to stay but knowing she could not. He was far-gone this time and this time around, events were moving faster than they should. If she stayed.
They were, as he said, connected. The Witchblade had possession of him in as intimate a way as it did her. It gave him life, so that he could fulfill his role, but nothing exists without coming full circle. The giving of the life force had to be direct: through the body of the wielder. Sara knew, from the Blade, that the flesh of an imposter worked, for a time. Anyone the Witchblade touched had some of its power, which could then be transferred to him.
But it was her blood he needed. Not much- a mouthful, now and again, unless he was too long away from her. The next time she saw him; she knew he would again be as he was when they first met. But with this act between them, they were going to be one step closer to the inevitable.
The door closed behind her with a soft noise. Nottingham was there, waiting for her. His eyes searched hers and she nodded, once, to reassure him. When she was past he moved next to the door, not entering, but in the position of a guard.
The envelope was with the secretary, who obviously did not know anything about what had just transpired.
When Sara entered the night air, a final image sequence flooded her vision. This one made her shiver, in denial but with a touch of anticipation. She was again Cathain. The cut on her breast was already healing. She lay beside the man who would, one day, be known as Irons, listening to his heart beat.
He sat up, leaning over the edge of the bed. When he turned to face her again a dagger was in his hand. He offered it to her, handle first, but she refused, needing him to do it. His blade was also sharp, the two crossed slices were not apparent until they began to bleed. Putting the dagger down he guided her head to the cuts, right over his heart. Her tongue cleaned his skin, his blood filling her mouth.
Her new motorcycle disrupted the night, shattering the stillness and confirming the century as she aimed back to the station.
Feedback: Always nice.
Summary: Irons is dying. But will the Witchblade let that happen?
Author's notes: I wrote this ficlet back in August 2001, apparently. Wow, long time. Written then as a spec fic for the last couple of episodes, so it's set after episode 9 or so, first season. I haven't found much positive Irons fic out there, much less I/S fic, so I figured I'd post this. Disclaimer: All characters found within, as well as the Witchblade, story concept etc belongs to other people. Not exactly sure who, but I am certain it is, unfortunately, not me. Suing won't result in enough to pay the legal bills, and you absolute can NOT have my Grant Lee Buffalo/ Grant Lee Phillips CDs. 'winks'
~*
How can hunks of stone and metal be jealous?
They can't. But the soul fueling them can.
~*
Time passes. For the Witchblade this is not quite so, though the one who wields still experiences time as a river - a tree - a one-way road leading somewhere vaguely described as 'other.'
In this way Sara Pezzini's life continued. The Death of Conchobar still stung, but was a pain scarred over rather than an open wound. The Periculum too, was far enough behind that fear no longer caught her in remembrance. Concealing the metal connected deep within her skin - when it happened to be so - was as commonplace as brushing her hair.
This is not to say that she was comfortable. Why's and how's still plagued. Knowledge was slow to come, even slower was she learning to use what she did discover. But the one aspect Sara was beginning to grasp was that what was, was. That things were never what they seemed. That everything which happened was connected, somehow, and had reason and meaning.
She had just put the phone back in its cradle. Across from her the desk was empty: Jake had gone for some coffee and chips. One of their cases was going sour, going nowhere, and the bodies were starting to pile up. They had leads, but lacked the elusive 'break'. And this need was why, right at that moment, she hated the inventor of that damned land-based communications system.
There were many better recipients for her general wrath. The killer himself (or herself), Captain Dante, the Witchblade and whoever crafted it, herself; Alexander Graham Bell was innocent as could be, compared to any of these and more. But then, the Witchblade spun webs and existed independent of time, so why not Bell?
Beyond this thin veil, it was the person who had just hung up on her whom she truly wanted to blame. Kenneth Irons had been playing with her since the Witchblade first found its way onto her wrist. Maybe even before: she wouldn't put it past him. Ever since that first meeting there was something she almost hated about him; almost wanted to kill; almost wanted to beat until answers poured forth in solute with his blood.
But there is something logically inconsistent in blaming the guy about to hand you information that will crack the case. Even if he is insolent and condescending whilst he does it.
The need to solve the crime quickly won out over the wish to solve it on her own, and to not go where she knew she would. A little paper work got done, a few phone calls, some Doritos munched and caffeine downed, and exactly one hour after the buzz sounded in her ear Sara Pezzini was being greeted by Kenneth Irons' secretary.
"Mr. Irons is expecting you. Go right in."
"Of course he is." The words were voiced low enough that the secretary could pretend not to hear them. No matter if she was invited or appeared on his doorstep out of thin air, he always expected her. Was always waiting.
The path to his door was by now as familiar as her own apartment. Maybe they were still worried she'd get lost, because Ian Nottingham peeled off from the shadows and walked her to the door, which he opened. A voice was heard from within, and Nottingham left, head bowed as usual, acknowledging her presence (somewhat belatedly) with a brief pause in his gait and a lift of his eyes.
He was standing, not far from the door, eyes fixed on a television screen embedded in the wall. Just stepping inside, she took a breath to inquire after the promised information, assuming he wouldn't bother to speak first. Which he then, of course, did.
"The information you require is in an envelope on my secretary's desk. You may retrieve it on your way out."
Beyond the words he was still ignoring her. The only reaction, could it be called that, was a more intent searching of the maps before him. It would be like him to have her shown in, only to be shown out again directly. But not before he could place one offer, hint at one bit of cryptic information he alone possessed.
Whatever he had prepared, she didn't want it. Even should she smack him, the information on the case would still be there for her, everything else still closed off in his head. This was a part of the game he played. Why shouldn't she get to move her own playing piece, now and then?
The door was still open, but she wasn't yet through it when he spoke, not yet sparing her a glance. "We're connected, you and I." It came out simple, bare, and in a thoughtfully oblivious tone she had yet to hear from him. She stopped.
"The Witchblade 'weaves a web, connecting everything around me,' right?"
"Yes. But that was not what I was referring to." Beyond reason, in his manner - tone - voice was the implicit demand that she stay and converse further. And yet also that the discussion was finished, and that she was dismissed. He still refrained from so much as looking her way. Turning, he walked to a chair grouping in a way not exactly inviting. All in all, she found herself with a choice, one that showed all the signs of meaning much more than was on the surface.
She stayed.
The moment she was out of the way the door closed behind her. Inexplicitly she felt as though her fate was sealed, and that she couldn't go back and take the other road, even though she knew the door would be unlocked, should she try it.
He was seated in an armchair by this time, back facing her. At least he didn't seem to be doing anything, and so it felt less like she was intruding when she crossed the floor and sat in the chair opposite him.
His eyes tracked her as soon as she entered into his visual field, without apparent interest. When she finally saw his face, she couldn't restrain one eyebrow from heading northward. He looked, in a word, like shit. Haggard would only be the beginning of a list of descriptive words, each worse than the previous. A cane rested on the arm of the chair. He hadn't used it earlier, but on reflection, he should have.
"Well?" It took a bit of effort, but she managed to keep herself from pitying him, or treating him gently.
"Well?" The back of the chair was the main, if not only, reason he was upright. His voice was hollow, like that of a feeble and somewhat bewildered old man. As if once he no longer needed to concentrate on standing and walking, he had giving up struggling.
She still didn't like him. Nothing would convince her otherwise. But though she still wanted to hit him, the aim would no longer be what it had been. Now she pictured herself bringing her palm against his cheek, using act and words to bring life back into his features. Then she could pummel him for information and revenge.
"A minute ago, you said you weren't referring to the-" Not knowing how to describe it, she gestured to the Blade. "The web the Witchblade weaves."
He took a breath, which rattled, and nodded. As if the subject was one he did not, in fact, wish to proceed with further, his first statement was short. "It's not important. You never told me, how did the Periculum go?" His tone changed on the question, a transparently pathetic attempt to change the topic.
The question she ignored. Oddly, he didn't even look as if he cared.
"Yea, well it's important to me."
He relinquished the fight so readily that it was sure he hadn't meant it as more than a front. "Very well." With obvious effort he held out his hand to her.
For a moment she was confused. Then she recalled how many times the touch of a hand had led to sudden visions, bearing information which could never be conveyed so completely, or convincingly, in words. She hesitated, but his hand didn't waver.
She took it.
Having expected in advance the wave of images and sounds, it was only the content that came as a shock.
She was Cathain. Conchobar was nowhere to be found, but Ian was, in the background. She knew him for what he was- her brother, now, her companion and protector. Before her was Irons, dressed as a monk. He, more than any other, was the same, but not.
In the past time swirled. He brought her books and parchments, words of knowledge, blessed her before battle, and watched as she sparred, honing her skills. With perfect understanding, she knew he was her teacher, her watcher, and ultimately, her lover.
The prince was dead. Again, she lived apart, with a very few companions. It was he, she knew, who had eventually calmed her; reconciling her to a fate she now loved as a part of her.
He always waited for her. That was what made him different from everyone else in her life. Each time she returned, he would already be there, ready for her.
Images from different times started mixing in. They were patched together, but soothed, like a charm quilt made from the fabric scraps of generations. He was always so old, because he waited. His life was always spent first in depravity; confused and led awry by the power he knew he had some part in, but no direction.
The images were becoming more insistent, urging her to see the one thing that she needed to know. Afraid, but aware that she must, she opened herself up.
She saw herself with a dagger, with a knife, with a partially extended Witchblade, cutting her arm, her shoulder, her chest. From a neat cross blood flowed freely into a cup, a bowl, ran down her breast until he licked it away. They fell backward onto her bed, him taking her blood while hands caressed. Her back arched and she let out a gasp of pleasure. His mouth found hers and she licked her own blood off his lips, tasting herself on his tongue.
With that the visions ended, and they were back, in the midst of a moment which was too long for the time it contained.
Irons moved first, taking back his hand and regarding her with eyes that betrayed nothing. That didn't care.
She still didn't much like him. But then, she never had. Not at first. It was the cycle of the ages, the Witchblade itself, which opened up, dagger length. At the sound Irons' eyes widened slightly, possibly in fear. Sara looked at the Blade, unsure and fighting what she knew she would do next.
The blade was very sharp, her motions quick. Before she felt pain beads of blood were already welling up. The sting would come in a moment. A decanter and glass were on the table. She took the latter, holding it under the cuts, which now streamed blood. The flow, against reason, did not stop until the glass was half full. The last drops were still falling when the wounds clotted, and she knew she was already healing.
The Blade had retracted, and now the stone was glowing and swirling with an inner fire. This light was reflected in the blood, the one taking the properties of the other: or maybe it was the other way around. The stone was her blood; her blood was the ancient relic.
Still not in full possession of her actions, she got up. Kneeling next to him she brought the glass to his mouth, tilting it gently until it was drained.
She put the glass back on the table, wanting to stay but knowing she could not. He was far-gone this time and this time around, events were moving faster than they should. If she stayed.
They were, as he said, connected. The Witchblade had possession of him in as intimate a way as it did her. It gave him life, so that he could fulfill his role, but nothing exists without coming full circle. The giving of the life force had to be direct: through the body of the wielder. Sara knew, from the Blade, that the flesh of an imposter worked, for a time. Anyone the Witchblade touched had some of its power, which could then be transferred to him.
But it was her blood he needed. Not much- a mouthful, now and again, unless he was too long away from her. The next time she saw him; she knew he would again be as he was when they first met. But with this act between them, they were going to be one step closer to the inevitable.
The door closed behind her with a soft noise. Nottingham was there, waiting for her. His eyes searched hers and she nodded, once, to reassure him. When she was past he moved next to the door, not entering, but in the position of a guard.
The envelope was with the secretary, who obviously did not know anything about what had just transpired.
When Sara entered the night air, a final image sequence flooded her vision. This one made her shiver, in denial but with a touch of anticipation. She was again Cathain. The cut on her breast was already healing. She lay beside the man who would, one day, be known as Irons, listening to his heart beat.
He sat up, leaning over the edge of the bed. When he turned to face her again a dagger was in his hand. He offered it to her, handle first, but she refused, needing him to do it. His blade was also sharp, the two crossed slices were not apparent until they began to bleed. Putting the dagger down he guided her head to the cuts, right over his heart. Her tongue cleaned his skin, his blood filling her mouth.
Her new motorcycle disrupted the night, shattering the stillness and confirming the century as she aimed back to the station.