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.

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Title: Before Dawn

Author: Adrianna AEternalis
Email: adrianna@darkcorner.com


Chapter 9: Farewell

They had reached and had scaled the fence when they saw the headlights of their pursuers. They clearly could hear the distinctive engines of a fleet of vehicles - motorcycles like their own, cars, and a variety of others.

It took too agonizingly long for the Ducati and the Buell to start; Sara used that time to whisper a fond farewell to her motorcycle. However, in the interest of the priceless-ness of lives, it would have to go.

This time, the wilderness betrayed them, giving away their every sound as they tried to outdistance the vengeful. Sara waited and waited, hoping that reality would not evolve into her earlier vision. When the first bullet whizzed past her, she conceded defeat.

She preempted Ian's rebellion of her plan by reminding him of his choice. Using the Witchblade for protection, Sara forced the Buell to lean at an absurd angle and sent the motorcycle into a chaotic spin straight into the cavalry pursuing them. Ian was there, on the Ducati, instantaneously; after overcorrecting a few times, she was protected from the fired bullets by Ian's body.

Sara helped him out of the overcoat, which drifted ominously and the hidden bomb exploded right on target. All the while, Ian accelerated and the distance increased. Uneasy still, she helped herself to Ian's store of arsenal and picked off her targets.

Thankful for the unspoken connection of their minds, Sara managed to hit every body she chose, compensating naturally for the twisting zigzag motion of the Ducati.

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Ian did not relax when their pursuers finally abandoned the chase; Sara's blood still worked its effects on his body. She was too close. Masking his discomfort, he wished for the adrenaline to return. Under its influence, he was capable of small chunks of forgetfulness.

He did his best, however, to cradle Sara in the warmth he wished she wanted from him. Knowing daylight would bring an end to the companionship, he opted for another moonlit drive to the beachside bungalow. Barely hearing her murmured approval, he headed to his doom.

She was asleep, completely exhausted from the physical battles of tonight and the past week, the emotional parting with the Buell, and coming into full command of the Witchblade. There was more for her to do, but they all discounted his participation. Resignation was always a bitter reward.

He carried her gently to bed, removing as much outerwear as he could. As much as he wished, he could not leave Sara - not if he still had a reason to protect her. He slid to the floor at the foot of her bed - to sleep - in the position of lifetime surrender.

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Already, there were far-reaching consequences to their actions that night. The fourth estate devoured the story, plastered it on the front page with an appropriate color photo, and called it the biggest news story since former President Clinton's impeachment.

As reporters raced to interview the implicated and the accused, devoted law enforcement officers came upon scenes of utter carnage. Those who were unable to flee under the cover of darkness committed suicide, hoping to redeem something from a vaguely honorable death. Those who remained alive were caught by steel handcuffs and thrown into awaiting cells; there they met fellow White Bulls members for the first time. It was impossible to try and trace each member; there was enough to do with reshuffling governmental positions.

Other reporters stalked Vorschlag, hoping to receive a statement from the recently appointed owner. Morning rush hour waned, but he never made an appearance.

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They had argued as they generally did before the necessary truce had sprung between them after the alleyway incident. In a way, Sara expected nothing else; last night, as they slept, she had relieved Ian from another set of chains binding him.

In that special hour of dreams, she gave him the choice of which one to cut. When he chose the black chains, Sara tried to convince Ian otherwise; she was more than uncomfortable with his ready answer.

He taunted her then, expertly using guilt. He reminded her that, even though they dreamed, he was still under the intoxicating influence of Sara's blood. He accepted that she did need him to escape the second story window, but he had been capable of helping her - as long as she promised him rest after it was said and done. He drove the point home by stating she chose him; how, he had no other choice but to choose the chain that bound him to her.

So, she drew his sword, used all her strength to slice through both. She was pinned against a wall faster than she could realize the silver chain had slipped from wrapping about the Witchblade first to a double circlet solely on her wrist.

He kissed her gently and, in her mind, she acted on his invitation to enter the dark caverns of his mind. She saw a slideshow of memories featuring herself as lead actress, but the memories started months before the Witchblade deigned to grace her life.

She saw sporadic moments where Ian had noticed Sara's presence at various neighborhood crime scenes. Then, he had the normality of being like any other man, watching any other woman do her job. She felt his admiration and respect for an unknown beautiful woman with the strength to choose an atrocious career. Then, his dismay when he faced her across the glass and red velvet case of the Witchblade in the museum.

He showed her his inconclusive debate on whether the Witchblade picked Sara due to his interest in her or he was interested in Sara because of her inherit ability to wield the Witchblade.

He had no answer for the extraordinary connectedness of it - until he discovered his reaction to the taste of her blood. She knew of the near betrayal he felt as she pulled him away from death and the torrent rushing though him as they dreamed. This time, he lacked the luxury of locking himself away; he was due to make an appearance before cameras and comment on the corruption of the White Bulls, its extent, and his thoughts on Irons's treachery.

He told her of the arrangements he had made for her - bank accounts, apartments across the world, traveling accommodations - all to ease the rest of her duty to scourge the world of corruption. He promised they were still hers to be had; she felt his bitter loneliness aimed at life. From now on, his role was deemed unwarranted.

When Sara woke, there was nothing but cold filling the absence caused by his withdrawal.


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© RK 25.Jan.2004