Disclaimer: Sleepy Hollow? The movie? Nope, don't own it. That honor goes to Tim Burton. Wish I owned Ichabod though.

A/N: OK, this is just the first part of a little two-part ficlet I'm writing. It's my favorite scene from the movie told from the characters' points of view. I hope you like it! Tell me if you do!

Part One: Katrina

I felt so terrible as I sat vigil by Ichabod's bedside that night. He was sleeping fitfully, probably having nightmares of the awful encounter with the Horseman. However, the reason I felt so terrible was that I didn't feel terrible for Brom. Father had been so unwilling to tell me what had happened. Brom had been courting me for some time, and it was assumed in the village that we would be betrothed. Assumed even by me, for a while. That is, until one fateful night when the Pickety Witch had given a complete stranger a kiss on account. The memory of that night, of my boldness, made me blush a little in embarrassment, but the memory of what I had seen as I removed the blindfold sent a wave of warmth through me that had nothing to do with propriety.

Those eyes. Beautiful, dark, haunting. The sort of eyes I could lose myself in. Under the stoic exterior, I sensed a very loving spirit, full of pain. What kind of pain it was, I couldn't fathom, but it made me want to hold him close to me like a small child, made me want to promise that he would never feel alone or unloved again. It was a feeling I had never had with Brom, who was so strong; more likely to be the protector. As the Pickety Witch looked upon the recipient of her kiss, the world stopped.

I looked down at those eyes, now closed, as he moaned a little in his sleep. I knew the sleeping draught I had given him would soon wear off, and I was reluctant to leave. I didn't want him waking up alone. As Ichabod settled back into sleep, I returned to my thoughts. I supposed I wasn't completely heartless. The news of Brom's death had shaken me to the core. We had grown up together, after all. He had been a good man, and a good friend. But I was supposed to be in love with him, his death was supposed to make me want to end my own life in my despair. And yet, I felt no such pain. In fact, I found myself almost instantly forgetting Brom as I fretted over Ichabod.

I was once again broken out of my reverie as the good constable began tossing in his sleep. I tried to calm him, but the tossing grew worse, accompanied by low frightened moans. When he started out of sleep, I was waiting, and I folded him into my arms, forgetting propriety all together in my need to comfort this lost soul.

"Shh," I whispered, "you were dreaming."

"Yes…. of things I had forgotten," he replied, "…and would not like to remember."

"Tell me what you dreamt," I prompted softly. My mother had always had me share my dreams with her, and it always helped the fear recede.

"My mother was an innocent, a child of nature; condemned… murdered by my father."

The last was spoken so softly I almost thought I had heard wrong. I pulled away, startled. "Murdered by…?"

"Murdered to save her soul, by a Bible-black tyrant, behind a mask of righteousness. I was seven when I lost my faith."

I was shocked by the bluntness of this statement. I could not imagine my life without the faith that had been instilled in me from infancy. I could not help but to ask my next question. "What do you believe in?"

"Sense and reason. Cause and consequence; I should not have come to this place, where my rational mind has been so controverted by the spirit world."

I wanted desperately to cry out "But what about me?" I had been so certain that what I felt for Ichabod was reciprocated. That day in the woods, he had been so flattering. Had it all been a sham? "Will you take nothing from Sleepy Hollow that was worth the coming here?" I found myself asking.

He looked at me then, and my heart swelled. "No, not nothing. A kiss from a lovely young woman, before she saw my face or knew my name."

It made me so happy to think that he cherished that memory as much as I. "Yes," I murmured, "without sense or reason."

He lowered his gaze, looking slightly abashed. "Forgive me, I… I speak of kisses, and you have lost your brave man, Brom."

The mention of that name sent a bolt of pain through my heart. I found myself confiding my fears in Ichabod. "I have shed my tears for Brom; and yet my heart is not broken. Do you think me wicked?" I asked softly.

"No," he whispered at once. "But perhaps there is a bit of a witch in you, Katrina."

"Why do you say that?" I asked, taken aback by this remark.

"Because you have bewitched me."

I couldn't find words, so I merely drew him into my arms again. And in that instant, the world stopped.