Disclaimer: Witchblade does not belong to me. The characters are full of inspiration, intelligence, and intrigue that I cannot help but borrow them a short while. I heartily enjoy the show and its premise. The events of this story are mine, but the characters are definitely not.
Author's Note: For Mr. Hathaway and b8kworm. I have taken liberties with the legend and lore surrounding the Witchblade, but it was fun to create something half as rich as actuality.
Summary: Destiny brought them together, Fate brought them love, But choice kept them together.
Rating: PG-13
Archive(s): Mine. Anybody else, email me; I like to go visiting.
Pairing(s): Ian/Sara
Spoiler(s): Yes, but they're all over the place and I can't name specific episodes.
***** ***** *****Title: Before Dawn
Author: Adrianna AEternalis
Email: adrianna@darkcorner.com
Chapter 3: Apartment Stay
Ian watched drowsily as Sara moved through the apartment. In the practical duffel bag she held, she gathered the priceless mementos of her life. Framed photos, books, and computer discs were judged necessarily; she barely glanced at her wardrobe. Bag filled, Sara used a second to hold whatever clothing items she would need after their idyll in her apartment was shattered. She only hoped Ian would be ready.
Dropping both bags by the open window leading to her fire escape, she returned to Ian's prone form. She chewed her bottom lip and then plunged in again.
"They won't stop looking for me, will they, Ian? Not until I'm dead."
He shook his head the best he could.
"Then how good are my odds?"
"Not so bad now. Even better when you're fully alert. So, sleep, Sara."
She ignored his last words like he expected. Instead, she examined his knife wound.
"Ian, when we move, will you be alright? This doesn't look very good from here."
"I will be fine. All that matters is you."
She chewed her lip again, not wanting to ask for his help but not being able to act as though she was as optimistic as he was. They fell silent and Ian dozed lightly. Sara envied him; the what-ifs and uncertainty keyed her to exhilarating levels. Her sole sure bet was Ian, but the severity of his injury plagued him.
Suddenly, she felt herself drawn into a vision from the Witchblade. Once again, she was faced with a dying Irons begging her to save him. His swollen tongue reached desperately for her bleeding superficial wound.
Sara blinked the vision - no, memory - rapidly away and soon found the dimly lit apartment too bright. A broad, calloused hand fell over her eyes before she thought to do it herself. Praying she was making the right decision, she waited for her heart to slow down.
"Ian, how much do you know about the Witchblade?" she asked as she removed his hand. "Aside from what Irons told you," she added.
"Enough to know the difference between memory and visions, as well as how to locate the next Wielder."
"What?"
"Do you remember Lazar, Sara?"
"Blond, stringy hair? Stares right through you?"
He chuckled. "That would be Lazar. He knew the last true Wielder, and when she fulfilled her destiny, she released him from her service. Lazar can't die until he completes his last duty to the Witchblade."
"You're going cryptic on me."
Doubt clouded his expression. "Then, I'm telling you too much too soon. Perhaps you ought to ask me what you need."
Sara waited for the flash of annoyance that usually came whenever information was withheld from her. It never came - only her curiosity.
"Wow, so we're going to try being straightforward. What a concept." She let the laughter die away before asking, "What - why - what is in my blood that makes someone like Irons covet it so much?"
She did not expect the startled expression gracing Ian's countenance. His question of, "What do you remember?" was just shy of accusatory but it was the right tone to force an explanation from Sara. He never used a pitch louder than gentle persuasion with her.
"I remember Irons was dying. He begged me for a drop of my blood. I can't remember what it was about my blood - I realized something -" The harder Sara fought to remember, the more the recollection faded into mist.
It was through that mist that Sara saw Ian visibly relax. She had an instant to appreciate the masculine strength of his muscles before he conformed to the surface of the pillow and bed. Only his arms remained tense.
"Ian?"
He roused himself into a seated position and wadded his ruined t-shirt into a makeshift bandage. Using tape from Sara's first aid kit, he secured the shirt over the gauze pad that covered his injury. Roughly pulling his sweater over his head and onto his upper body, he finally turned to Sara.
"Your blood has unspeakable healing abilities. Irons wanted it because Elizabeth Bronte's cells lost their potency once you survived the Periculum and became the true Wielder."
She digested the information calmly; his words had served to part the mist of forgetfulness and she now remembered the immediate events leading up to her reversal of time. Except now, she was conflicted by two things: one, the Ian she knew was dead at that point so how would he know and two, what was it that Ian thought she was referring to?
Her intended interrogation never began. Sara caught the wary tension in Ian and it flowed easily towards her. Somebody - or bodies - was coming down the hall, aiming for her apartment. Their peace amidst the storm was over; it was time to go.
The annoyance she had been waiting for flared then. She yanked Ian's uninjured arm towards her; calm eyes returned her glare.
"This conversation is not over. Not by a long shot."
He surprised her by smiling. That was when Sara realized she had fallen into their long forgotten routine as sparring partners with animosity dropping for her every sentence.
She shook her head mentally as they gathered her duffel bags and raced through the window. Sara secured them in the saddle bags on the motorcycle as Ian started and gunned the engine. She barely had enough time to throw on her jacket when he changed the gears and drove into the night.
Their unwanted visitors only tasted smoke.
© RK 13.Jan.2004
