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 8: Blood Gift
She began conversationally. "You know, I originally thought Dante was behind all those nitwits chasing me. I'm glad I didn't waste my energy on him since it was your order. No deal; I want you twelve dead."
The first man glared at her. "How did you know?"
Sara grinned. "Aside from you telling me just now? Let's just say that you should check on your security systems."
As the Witchblade morphed from the bracelet to the protracted blade form, Ian had a perverse sense of light-headedness as he saw the Wielder and the Wielded wound so closely together. He withdrew a gun from his overcoat and prepared himself to watch and wait; this was Sara's battle. He would handle any vestigial opponents.
Like a b-rated movie, the twelve members of the White Bulls council stood and kicked back their chairs. The table no longer concealed swords handled with keen familiarity. Insurance - they knew Sara would not talk; they simply did not anticipate Ian to even the score.
Sara was not surprised; guns and gunpowder were relatively new weapons of death and the Witchblade easily proved how easily it fought against them. Somehow, Sara knew Irons would insist the White Bulls' council members to sword fight. This fight had the ring of an old-fashioned, outlawed duel. She liked that.
The atmosphere changed readily from charged tension to the deliberate clash of metal on metal. Concentrating on her greatest threat, she deflected, parried, and lunged. Sometimes, she hit flesh; others, she gained ground. Through it all, one by one fell to the ground with fatal wounds.
When the door had been opened, Sara did not know but her few glances in its direction showed her an impressive Ian in action. He knelt on one knee, braced against the jerking motion of his gun and took his time in aiming through it. He had a pile of bodies there, motionless; the stark differences between their styles amused her.
She returned her attention to the remaining council members, but her mind kept whispering, "This is too easy. This is just too damn easy."
She saw the hand groping for the now obvious gun one second too late. Ian surged forward, kicking the door shut while reaching to protect his lady at the same instant. His full weight slammed her to the ground and kept her there. Not yet fully recovered from the knife wound, Sara stared - shocked - into slowly glazing hazel eyes.
Metal clattered to the ground as the last of the White Bulls council members died in agony. Grunts followed as the guards beyond the door furiously tried to enter the room. Instantly, Sara knew that a silent alarm had been triggered and, once activated, this room was meant for shelter - no way in, now way out. They were safe for the time being.
Meanwhile, Ian crushed Sara to the floor, face ashen. In his eyes, the triumph that she saw entwined with the pain infuriated her. She shoved, cursed, and rolled his weight off her.
His hand with his blue encrusted silver ring grabbed her elbow in a viper's grip. The Witchblade withdrew quietly, returning to its dormant form - ever unwilling to be used against its Weilder's Knight.
"Sara."
She gave a token curse to the Witchblade before she answered his call.
"I never thought of you as stupid, Ian. Why'd you have to go and -" She refused to make his deed reality by speaking of it.
He chucked, painfully. Blood mingled generously with spit, yet he smiled an endearingly toothy grin.
"Sara, please understand. I never expected to live after the Witchblade first called me. All this, since then, has been highly unexpected."
She snorted before she realized the clarifying evidence to his words. "That's why your shoulder hasn't healed."
Ian nodded carefully. She could see how he fought against unconsciousness.
"You need to go, Sara. Gabriel and the others are safe, but you need to go. You're not finished yet." He paused for breath, tightening his grip on her arm. "You have set motions in progress, but you need to see things through now. Sara, I've left you everything so you can fulfill the rest of your destiny."
"What?" Sara growled.
She watched him gather his strength to impart the rest of his knowledge, but he was running out of time. Suddenly, Sara felt empty. Even all the other deaths in her life had not left such a soul-wrenching reaction. She had grown accustomed to his constant presence in her mind; its loss was startlingly instructive.
Like they had played at the beachside bungalow, her mind dove after Ian's retreating mind, anchoring him in life. He fought her hard, instinctively, before surrendering. As he gave, her physical body forced a different sort of give.
His mouth opened beneath hers and she gave him a breath of life. Involuntarily, he swallowed her blood, which oozed from her tongue when she had bit it during Ian's tackle.
She felt his surprise, his self-loathing, his need as he felt his body burn. She countered his push away from her by tightening her hold on him; she needed this as much as he refused. Gradually, his arms changed from stiffness to a desperate reciprocation.
It was there, sprawled on a conference room floor that Sara knew exactly why Ian had not thought to survive the alleyway attack. A man can survive only so many days of having his heart thoughtlessly battered. And through it all, he never blamed the one who battered; he blamed himself.
Before Sara could investigate that random thought, a loud bang shattered the quiet. She helped Ian to his feet, giving him a few precious seconds to gain his balance.
Now: window or door?
The latter was not an option; she ran to throw the window open and saw the sheer drop onto the rolling landscape that awaited them. Ian, however, took one glance, gathered her body to his, and flew through the opening. He landed and tucked into a somersault to cushion the landing; his body easily absorbing the impact with Sara's blood to buoy him. As soon as he let her go, they ran into the tree cover while loud curses of dismay and revenge followed their escape.
© RK 25.Jan.2004
