*Rated "pW" for Previous Wielder. Deals with past lives. Based largely on conjecture, historical fact, and previous same-author fanfiction.
As the train pulled away from the station, Major Stretzer declared; "what luck, what luck today--not only to find you, good Frau, but--." He unwrapped a tightly rolled small, unframed canvas. And though having lived this moment, its secret long-known to her, a chill nonetheless when down her spine.
Depicted on the ancient canvas was the Witchblade, armed into the full gauntlet, the eyes of its wearer glinting with the light of the talisman stone.
"Look!" Major Stretzer announced, his satisfaction complete. "I have seen this very weapon in der Fuehrer's own collection! It must be--what, do you think? Thousands of years old."
This man could not hope to reconcile the ancient armor in the painting with the jeweled bauble on her wrist, yet Elizabeth's hand moved to hide the Witchblade, though it was already covered by her coat sleeve and glove.
At that moment, another hand caught her own, and when she looked up she saw a tall man, with dark eyebrows closely knit as though he could feel the present physical pain and the remembered despair she fought so hard against. Though not part of the memory, she had seen this man before.
In sibilant, softly spoken English he motioned to the painting Stretzer had bought, "do you not think it a good likeness? My master prizes it almost above all others."
She followed this man's gaze high above to the walls--no longer those of the train--about them, where other paintings hung, showing widely varied illustrations of Blade and Wielder.
She was just about to ask him where was her--if there was her, Elizabeth Bronte's--depiction when her abdomen contracted with such force that her view of the tall man began to ripple about the edges and shimmy into near evaporation, leaving her in that paneled, unwelcoming room alone.
"Anchor yourself, my lady," he begged, his own gloved hand outstretched as though to accept hers, before the sight of him curled and whisped like the hair escaping from his queue, becoming nothing more than that of the smoke from the large--though not warm--fire.
Alone, the scarf was once again in her hand.
Sorry for the long drought between my posting sections. ;)
DISCLAIMERS: Elizabeth Bronte and the Witchblade (and additional characters that will make appearances in other chapters to come) are property of Top Cow and Warner Bros. I mean no disrespect, and am not making any money or profit out of their use here.
Any inaccuracies please chalk up to deliberate anachronism.
What happened to Elizabeth Bronte before Possession? Check out Occupation, posted here at fanfiction.net.
Neftzer 2003(c)
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