Author's Note:  I began this story all the way back in the year 2000, and had even posted it on Fanfiction.net, albeit under another surname.  Despite the wonderful reviews I received, all of which much appreciated, I was forced to remove it from the site for it's own safety due to plagiarism on another's behalf.  However, after much demand, I have decided to revise it a bit and repost it onto Fanfiction.net.  As you did two years ago, I hope you enjoy my story once again.  Since the chapters are prewritten, I will be able to update in shorter periods of time, allowing for me to finish my revisions.  Comments and criticism are welcomed and encouraged, and the more reviews I receive, the more motivated I am!  Thanks again, and please enjoy.

Dedication

I dedicate this story to wondrous people:

Washington Irving, for his vivid imagination and for having such a way with words; for creating this classic tale long ago for us to cherish today.

Tim Burton and the scriptwriters of Burton's rendition of Washington Irving's tale of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.  Without you, I would never have taken suck a liking to the well-known exemplar.  I, and so many others, thank you for turning the story into one of 1999's best blockbusters.

Disclaimer

Tim Burton is the wonderful director and owner of the rendition of Washington Irving's classic tale, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.  I do not own Sleepy Hollow, © 1999 by Tim Burton.  I do, however, own the following story, © 2000.

Until I Wake

Recurrence

Prologue

~ * ~

Hail, fair sun, Spirit of the Day.

Rise of the morn to light my way.

~ *~

~ December 1799 ~

          Pressing a light, soothing kiss to her partner's cheek, the young damsel sat back in her seat, her heart fluttering as the equally young man's eyes drifted open.  She confessed to herself that the joy of seeing this man beside her awaken without so much of a sweaty brow or a shout of fear was a dream her heart had wished for.  He woke peacefully, for once not tortured by horrific and heart-wrenching nightmares.  His dark eyes meeting hers, he smiled, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

          "Ah, just in time for a new century."

          The coach horses halted their pace, stamping their hooves in the dusty snow.  They shook their heads to rid their manes of the feathery cold touches of precipitation, but came to no avail as the flakes blanketed their backs and reigns once more.

          The thin door of the carriage opening widely, a tall, lanky man, dark hair donning his head, stepped onto the street, smiling at the familiar surroundings of New York.  Turning back, he held his hand out to the gate, another clasping his own.  The woman, her own hair light as the sun, returned a grin to her entourage, her boots finding their way to the ground as she let the door fall shut behind her.  A shout came from the driver, followed by a crack of his whip, urging the steeds forward.  As the mobile moved away, a juvenile boy near fourteen years emerged, bags clutched under his arms and around his neck, gazed in wonder at the city.

          "You will soon get your bearings, young Masbath," the man announced, allowing his female accompaniment to link her arm with his.  The Bronx is up, the battery's down, and home is this way.

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