A/N: Animegoddess, guilty as charged. I've always loved that scene, and I
couldn't resist. Especially since there is an episode in S2 where he calls
Sara his moon. Hee. Pezzini, the chocolate must be working. I've made some
pretty hard calls, as you're about to see. LaFemmeLurker, it's not really
Sara's fault she's not doing anything. My Harpi..ahem, I mean Muses have
her pretty well pinned. Thelma, yes Danny will make another appearance,
just not this chapter. My thanks to everyone who reviews, feedback fuels
the fiction.
Chapter 19
The binding sigils were holding admirably. Carmelita knew Pezzini was awake, she had not expected the enchanted slumber to hold once she made the first cut into the detective's flesh. It was one of the reasons she'd bound Sara so tightly in the first place. The other was that it kept her from smearing or flaking the sigils holding the Witchblade at bay.
Blood was wonderfully symbolic, and held more power than modern man wished to believe, but it was Hell as a writing medium. Carmelita could not afford any mistakes, and would have preferred something a little less inclined to run or clot. Salt water was the closest thing to blood that occurred in nature, and would work as a substitute for the symbols, as it had in the warehouse. Unfortunately, it evaporated far too quickly to be of any real use in prolonged ceremonies.
Not that this was going to take too much longer. The blood flowing from the Wielder in a steady stream would soon weaken her to the point of death. At that moment, Carmelita would smear the first set of sigils keeping Wielder and Weapon apart. Unconsciously, Sara would reach for strength through the Witchblade, but it would not be able to sustain her life force at that point.
All creatures want so desperately to live when faced with the end. Sara would be no different. The Wielder would try to drain life from the Blade out of sheer survival instinct. When Pezzini had drawn enough to seriously weaken the Gauntlet as well, Carmelita would smear the second set of sigils. This would free the Witchblade to act.
The Gauntlet would take that freedom and abandon Sara to save itself. After all, it wanted to live just as much as the woman. The Witchblade would be as weak as it had ever been at that point. It would be unable to protect itself from the unmaking ceremony. Soon the blood of the Mother would be freed from the Branch, and Ceto would be whole for the first time in ages untold.
Carmelita watched the blood flow over Sara's arm, trying to gauge when to erase the first sigil. She was so wrapped up in watching Pezzini that she did not see the black shadow that flowed in through the window by the fire escape.
Ian slipped into the apartment through his usual window. The blood smell was much stronger here, as was the nearly inaudible song of gathering power. It was a thing more felt in the bones than heard, and right now it was shaking his with an intense vibration.
He moved further into the loft, eyes riveted on the tableau before him. Sara was bound from neck to ankle on her bed, blood flowing in a steady stream from a long cut up the inside of her arm. Carmelita sat next to her, any pretense at humanity now gone. Her hair was a writhing mass of snakes, what should have been tanned flesh was scaled and banded like a viper.
She held a bloody blade in one hand, the other poised over the Witchblade. She was watching Sara closely, patiently waiting for something, but he knew not what. Whatever it was, it couldn't bode well for Lady Sara. Nottingham raised his silenced pistol, centering it on Carmelita's forehead, and fired. To his horrified surprise, the bullet froze in midair about ten feet away from her head.
"Ah, the pretty face with the ssso-clever mind. I am sssorry darling, but I wasss prepared for any attemptsss at interference." Carmelita's voice dripped with false sympathy. "Nothing bound to the Witchblade can reach me, which meansss nothing of you or yoursss can passss through the barrier, Knight."
Nottingham walked forward, a glance at the ground from his new angle showing the circle of protection painted on the floor. He didn't recognize the symbols, but that didn't stop them from working, and working quite well, against him.
There had to be a loophole somewhere in the wards. It was too bad he couldn't read them. It would make it easier to find. Now he was reduced to trial and error, and he didn't have a lot of time to figure it out. Sara was unnaturally pale under the criss-crossing of rope. The blood pouring from her arm was hideously reminiscent of sand from an hourglass.
Ian tried the most obvious things first, trying to force the barrier with his body, pushing something that wasn't a weapon at the circle, and trying to erase the lines. None of them worked, and the nasty jolt he got for coming into contact with the circle threw him across the room both times. The second time, Nottingham hit the wall and dropped to the floor, unmoving.
Carmelita had amused herself by watching his efforts while waiting for Sara to bleed out a little more. Now she turned her attention back to the Wielder. It was time. She reached a scaled hand down and rubbed out the first series of glyphs above the Gauntlet.
For a moment the Witchblade blazed with light as the connection was restored, but the glow quickly began to recede as Sara pulled on the newfound source of life-energy. The Gauntlet did it's best to aid it's Wielder at first, giving it's strength freely. The flow of blood began to slow to a trickle as the Gauntlet sent tendrils of silver out to hold the wound closed. It was the only thing it could do, for the Witchblade was meant to slay and offer defense, not heal.
The Gauntlet's assistance might have been enough to keep Sara alive until help could come, if she hadn't already lost so much blood. The Gorgon watched in glee as the red jewel began to flicker like a candle in a draft. Still she waited, fingers just above the second set of symbols.
Finally the flickering became less frantic, fading to the faintest red pinprick in an otherwise grey stone. In that moment, Carmelita slid her hand downward, smearing the second set of glyphs. For a long moment nothing seemed to happen. She stared at the Gauntlet, wondering if she had waited too long.
A soft click echoed through the silence, and the bracelet fell with a muffled thump to the floor.
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
A glass display case shattered as the stone serpent slammed into it. Ceto had been aiming for Irons, but he dodged at the last second. She was getting closer with each attack, his mortal frame beginning to weary. Her avatar was badly damaged, but she was beginning to think it still had enough cohesion to finish the job.
Her head reared up in preparation for another strike when the song of a triumphant Gorgon reached her ears. The mother of monsters paused to savor the moment, ignoring the mortal who had fallen at her feet. The accursed Witchblade was in the hands of her daughter. Soon she would be whole again.
Kenneth felt a terrible pain in his hand that traveled up to his heart. His bond with the Witchblade strained and then snapped. The sudden emptiness inside Irons roared and echoed as he dropped to his knees. The mace rested heavy in his hand, but he had too much of a survival instinct to let it fall from his fingers.
Ceto looked down at her kneeling opponent. His white-blonde head was bent at the neck, his arms rested at his sides. She could not resist the urge to gloat. After all, this mortal had been driving her to fits of fury for millennia. Victory was as sweet as it had been long in coming. "My daughter hasss dessstroyed the artifact, Priessst. All thossse centuriesss of plotting brought down, and you have yourssself to thank for it. You were too clever for your own good, tampering with my offssspring sssealed your fate."
Irons let her words roll through him, temporarily blotting out the awful emptiness inside him. In their wake came understanding, followed by a wave of pure rage. How dare this relic, relegated to the history books and mythological references, interfere with his plans and attempt to take his life? This was his time, his world. Creatures like her had had their chance and fallen to the wayside. He was the only god in his universe, the only law and power. There was no room for moth-eaten anachronisms here. It was time that he showed the serpent that her place was beneath his heel.
His jaw clenched and Irons came to his feet, putting the motion of his whole body into one last swing of the mace. It slammed up into the jaw of the gloating avatar, shattering it and driving up through the skull. Stone rained down around him as Ceto abandoned the useless form. The serpent could not hold together without her magic.
Kenneth permitted himself a small smirk as he twirled the mace that had served him so well, "And that is why the Gods are dead. They simply can not pass up an opportunity to pontificate."
The moment of smugness passed, unable to fill the void left by the absence of the Witchblade in his soul. He stood there letting the bittersweet mixture of emotions brought on by the Pyrric victory wash over him. He had won the battle, but the cost had been higher than he wanted to pay. For a time he was lost in the pain of emptiness. It felt like he had lost Elizabeth all over again, only worse.
He brought his hand up to look at, realizing suddenly that it no longer hurt. The back of his hand was pure and unblemished. There was no sign that the Witchblade had ever graced his flesh or held his soul. The unmarked skin was almost as shocking as the emptiness inside his mind.
For the first time in ages uncounted he was alone in his head. There was no second voice whispering in his ear, no eyes overlaid with his own, no will truly, save his. The sensation was frightening and liberating at the same time. He was free now to pursue any agenda he wished without thinking first of the Witchblade.
The thought seemed strange, almost unnatural. With a start, the master manipulator realized he had spent centuries under a hand far subtler even than his. The Witchblade had moved him as it willed and needed, and made him think it was his own idea the entire time. Awed and inspired by the skill of the ancient weapon, Kenneth vowed to increase his scope, vision, and technique.
He walked away from the Witchblade Room, deciding a shower, some wine, and a few calls were in order. There were plans and pawns to set into motion. He would also need to speak to Immo. It was going to be important that a clone of himself was readied against future need. Now that he was not obsessed with the longevity that only the Witchblade granted, other solutions could and would be actively pursued.
Chapter 19
The binding sigils were holding admirably. Carmelita knew Pezzini was awake, she had not expected the enchanted slumber to hold once she made the first cut into the detective's flesh. It was one of the reasons she'd bound Sara so tightly in the first place. The other was that it kept her from smearing or flaking the sigils holding the Witchblade at bay.
Blood was wonderfully symbolic, and held more power than modern man wished to believe, but it was Hell as a writing medium. Carmelita could not afford any mistakes, and would have preferred something a little less inclined to run or clot. Salt water was the closest thing to blood that occurred in nature, and would work as a substitute for the symbols, as it had in the warehouse. Unfortunately, it evaporated far too quickly to be of any real use in prolonged ceremonies.
Not that this was going to take too much longer. The blood flowing from the Wielder in a steady stream would soon weaken her to the point of death. At that moment, Carmelita would smear the first set of sigils keeping Wielder and Weapon apart. Unconsciously, Sara would reach for strength through the Witchblade, but it would not be able to sustain her life force at that point.
All creatures want so desperately to live when faced with the end. Sara would be no different. The Wielder would try to drain life from the Blade out of sheer survival instinct. When Pezzini had drawn enough to seriously weaken the Gauntlet as well, Carmelita would smear the second set of sigils. This would free the Witchblade to act.
The Gauntlet would take that freedom and abandon Sara to save itself. After all, it wanted to live just as much as the woman. The Witchblade would be as weak as it had ever been at that point. It would be unable to protect itself from the unmaking ceremony. Soon the blood of the Mother would be freed from the Branch, and Ceto would be whole for the first time in ages untold.
Carmelita watched the blood flow over Sara's arm, trying to gauge when to erase the first sigil. She was so wrapped up in watching Pezzini that she did not see the black shadow that flowed in through the window by the fire escape.
Ian slipped into the apartment through his usual window. The blood smell was much stronger here, as was the nearly inaudible song of gathering power. It was a thing more felt in the bones than heard, and right now it was shaking his with an intense vibration.
He moved further into the loft, eyes riveted on the tableau before him. Sara was bound from neck to ankle on her bed, blood flowing in a steady stream from a long cut up the inside of her arm. Carmelita sat next to her, any pretense at humanity now gone. Her hair was a writhing mass of snakes, what should have been tanned flesh was scaled and banded like a viper.
She held a bloody blade in one hand, the other poised over the Witchblade. She was watching Sara closely, patiently waiting for something, but he knew not what. Whatever it was, it couldn't bode well for Lady Sara. Nottingham raised his silenced pistol, centering it on Carmelita's forehead, and fired. To his horrified surprise, the bullet froze in midair about ten feet away from her head.
"Ah, the pretty face with the ssso-clever mind. I am sssorry darling, but I wasss prepared for any attemptsss at interference." Carmelita's voice dripped with false sympathy. "Nothing bound to the Witchblade can reach me, which meansss nothing of you or yoursss can passss through the barrier, Knight."
Nottingham walked forward, a glance at the ground from his new angle showing the circle of protection painted on the floor. He didn't recognize the symbols, but that didn't stop them from working, and working quite well, against him.
There had to be a loophole somewhere in the wards. It was too bad he couldn't read them. It would make it easier to find. Now he was reduced to trial and error, and he didn't have a lot of time to figure it out. Sara was unnaturally pale under the criss-crossing of rope. The blood pouring from her arm was hideously reminiscent of sand from an hourglass.
Ian tried the most obvious things first, trying to force the barrier with his body, pushing something that wasn't a weapon at the circle, and trying to erase the lines. None of them worked, and the nasty jolt he got for coming into contact with the circle threw him across the room both times. The second time, Nottingham hit the wall and dropped to the floor, unmoving.
Carmelita had amused herself by watching his efforts while waiting for Sara to bleed out a little more. Now she turned her attention back to the Wielder. It was time. She reached a scaled hand down and rubbed out the first series of glyphs above the Gauntlet.
For a moment the Witchblade blazed with light as the connection was restored, but the glow quickly began to recede as Sara pulled on the newfound source of life-energy. The Gauntlet did it's best to aid it's Wielder at first, giving it's strength freely. The flow of blood began to slow to a trickle as the Gauntlet sent tendrils of silver out to hold the wound closed. It was the only thing it could do, for the Witchblade was meant to slay and offer defense, not heal.
The Gauntlet's assistance might have been enough to keep Sara alive until help could come, if she hadn't already lost so much blood. The Gorgon watched in glee as the red jewel began to flicker like a candle in a draft. Still she waited, fingers just above the second set of symbols.
Finally the flickering became less frantic, fading to the faintest red pinprick in an otherwise grey stone. In that moment, Carmelita slid her hand downward, smearing the second set of glyphs. For a long moment nothing seemed to happen. She stared at the Gauntlet, wondering if she had waited too long.
A soft click echoed through the silence, and the bracelet fell with a muffled thump to the floor.
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
A glass display case shattered as the stone serpent slammed into it. Ceto had been aiming for Irons, but he dodged at the last second. She was getting closer with each attack, his mortal frame beginning to weary. Her avatar was badly damaged, but she was beginning to think it still had enough cohesion to finish the job.
Her head reared up in preparation for another strike when the song of a triumphant Gorgon reached her ears. The mother of monsters paused to savor the moment, ignoring the mortal who had fallen at her feet. The accursed Witchblade was in the hands of her daughter. Soon she would be whole again.
Kenneth felt a terrible pain in his hand that traveled up to his heart. His bond with the Witchblade strained and then snapped. The sudden emptiness inside Irons roared and echoed as he dropped to his knees. The mace rested heavy in his hand, but he had too much of a survival instinct to let it fall from his fingers.
Ceto looked down at her kneeling opponent. His white-blonde head was bent at the neck, his arms rested at his sides. She could not resist the urge to gloat. After all, this mortal had been driving her to fits of fury for millennia. Victory was as sweet as it had been long in coming. "My daughter hasss dessstroyed the artifact, Priessst. All thossse centuriesss of plotting brought down, and you have yourssself to thank for it. You were too clever for your own good, tampering with my offssspring sssealed your fate."
Irons let her words roll through him, temporarily blotting out the awful emptiness inside him. In their wake came understanding, followed by a wave of pure rage. How dare this relic, relegated to the history books and mythological references, interfere with his plans and attempt to take his life? This was his time, his world. Creatures like her had had their chance and fallen to the wayside. He was the only god in his universe, the only law and power. There was no room for moth-eaten anachronisms here. It was time that he showed the serpent that her place was beneath his heel.
His jaw clenched and Irons came to his feet, putting the motion of his whole body into one last swing of the mace. It slammed up into the jaw of the gloating avatar, shattering it and driving up through the skull. Stone rained down around him as Ceto abandoned the useless form. The serpent could not hold together without her magic.
Kenneth permitted himself a small smirk as he twirled the mace that had served him so well, "And that is why the Gods are dead. They simply can not pass up an opportunity to pontificate."
The moment of smugness passed, unable to fill the void left by the absence of the Witchblade in his soul. He stood there letting the bittersweet mixture of emotions brought on by the Pyrric victory wash over him. He had won the battle, but the cost had been higher than he wanted to pay. For a time he was lost in the pain of emptiness. It felt like he had lost Elizabeth all over again, only worse.
He brought his hand up to look at, realizing suddenly that it no longer hurt. The back of his hand was pure and unblemished. There was no sign that the Witchblade had ever graced his flesh or held his soul. The unmarked skin was almost as shocking as the emptiness inside his mind.
For the first time in ages uncounted he was alone in his head. There was no second voice whispering in his ear, no eyes overlaid with his own, no will truly, save his. The sensation was frightening and liberating at the same time. He was free now to pursue any agenda he wished without thinking first of the Witchblade.
The thought seemed strange, almost unnatural. With a start, the master manipulator realized he had spent centuries under a hand far subtler even than his. The Witchblade had moved him as it willed and needed, and made him think it was his own idea the entire time. Awed and inspired by the skill of the ancient weapon, Kenneth vowed to increase his scope, vision, and technique.
He walked away from the Witchblade Room, deciding a shower, some wine, and a few calls were in order. There were plans and pawns to set into motion. He would also need to speak to Immo. It was going to be important that a clone of himself was readied against future need. Now that he was not obsessed with the longevity that only the Witchblade granted, other solutions could and would be actively pursued.