Title: Lessons and Failures
Author: metatrons_gurl
Summary: Ichabod's PoV of some of the last scenes in the movie.
Pairings: Umm...Tidbits of Ichabod/Katrina but nothing really explicit.
Feedback: Please? Metatrons_gurl@yahoo.com Again, flames will be used to make me laugh.
Archival: DeppFanFiction, Fanfiction.net, Anyone else "Want, ASK, take, have".
Disclaimer: I am not Tim Burton. I am not Washington Irving. I do not even own the song I was listening to when I wrote this. "Darkness" belongs to Disturbed and the CD belongs to a friend of mine.
A/N: My beta is getting hate letters from me....THREE FRICKIN' WEEKS!!!!!! Sorry about the delay in getting this out. *Glares at beta who scurries away*
Lessons and Failures
I can not move. I stare at the skewered man. I vaguely hear a woman scream, Katrina. Baltus seems to be unable to move, then, suddenly he is pulled, as if by an unseen force, backwards and through the window.
I do not know how I arrived on the balcony, nor do I know how Katrina is there. I can do nothing for Baltus, I can only watch in morbid fascination as he is dragged across the churchyard.
A rope, I realize suddenly, the horseman used a rope to anchor his makeshift pike to him. I vaguely acknowledge that I now have no case. Baltus, now lying, neck wedged in the fence, was the only conceivable suspect. The Horseman has turned, riding towards the fallen man, sword drawn. He draws nearer, mere feet from Baltus.
Katrina was right.
The sword is raised higher, and in one swift movement, separates the head from Baltus' body. I feel about to faint, yet the world does not go black and I hear a soft 'thud' from behind me.
Katrina.
I turn, slowly, to look at her. After proving to myself that she is breathing, my eyes move to her face. However, upon seeing the bauble at her throat I stop. The crone, in the Western Woods, wore that necklace. I briefly saw it during my encounter with her. The witch is dead now, decapitated, though not by the Horseman, but by a being of flesh and blood, as I have said all along. Almost afraid of what else I might find, my eyes flick to Katrina's hand. The dust on her finger is the color of the mark under the bed in my room. The one Young Masbeth (his name is Jonathan as I have discovered, but I will not call him such until he permits me) says is the 'Evil Eye'. There is a pastel next to her hand, obviously the origin of the dust.
Unnerved, I raise my eyes to survey the church. Doctor Lancaster lies face- down where he has fallen, most definitely dead. The heavy wooden cross Steenwyck used to bash the Doctor's skull is resting near him. Steenwyck's body, in a growing pool of blood, lies, also face-down, next to the Reverend's wig. His long, dark blonde hair revealing him as the other participant in the recently deceased Lady Van Tassel's midnight tryst. I force my eyes to continue farther down the aisle. There, midway down, in all its horrid glory, is the 'Evil Eye'.
Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù
"It was an evil spirit possessed you," my words sound hollow, even to my own ears. "I pray God it is satisfied now and that you find peace. The Evil Eye has done its work," I know she cannot hear me, yet I am compelled to speak. "My life is over, spared for a lifetime of horrors in my sleep, waking each day to grief-"I break off. Suddenly unable to form syllables around the lump in my throat. The only two women I have ever trusted are gone. One murdered by a tyrant to purge her soul, the other lies before me sleeping. When she wakes I will be gone. I cannot stay here any longer. This place has created painful memories and has resurrected anguishing ones.
Unable to bear it any longer, I leave the room for the safety of my own lodgings.
Once in my rooms, I light a fire. I tell myself that it is to drive away the chill of the fall, knowing that nothing can dispel this cold pain in my heart.
My eyes rest upon my Ledger. I came to this place full to bursting with ideas and methods and uncertain pride. I * knew * I would not fail. I would bring the 'assassin', as I had termed him, to justice.
A self-degrading sneer curls my lip. How utterly foolish I had been. I could no more have proved myself here than I could have in New York. Yet, at least in New York, my heart and soul would not have been among the casualties.
With a sense of grim determination I pick up the black-leather covered book and walk to the hearth. When I reach it I open the book. The first image my eyes fall to is that of one of the ways to coax a confession out of a suspect back at home, next to it, in bold black is a single word. 'Torture!' Yes, perhaps, but it is nothing compared to this sharp ache in my chest.
I turn more pages, resting at last on two facing pages filled with drawings. Eyes, a blindfolded face, a heart, a word, 'Katrina'. Jaw set, I toss the ledger into the flames, watching as the fine leather finally catches and burns, pages already aflame.
I reach into my right chest pocket. Finding what I wished to, I pull out a small blue book. 'The Compendium of Spells, Charms, and Devices of the Spirit World'. I remember Katrina's words, "Keep it close to your heart. It is sure protection against harm," and am tempted to throw it in to the flames as well, but something stops me. I have a link to my mother, her gift of the spinning disc, yet I have none to Katrina. I think I shall keep this, merely as a reminder. The book finds its way back into my pocket as the coach pulls up.
I have said my goodbyes and packed my bags, it is time to leave. I walk down the stairs and out onto the porch where Young Masbeth waits for me with my luggage.
"You think it was Katrina don't you?" he asks, but it sounds like an accusation.
My eyes fly to meet his. "That can never be uttered," I warn.
"A strange sort of witch," his eyes are filling with angry tears. "With a kind and loving heart! How can you think so?"
"I have good reason," I falter.
"Then you are bewitched by reason," he concludes, and it is all I can do to force the grief from my voice.
"I am beaten down by it!" I tell him. "It's a hard lesson for a hard world, and you had better learn it, Young Masbeth, villainy wears many masks. None so dangerous as the mask of virtue," I know I sound bitter, I am. It was a lesson I learned from my father. I do not miss him, no matter how much I hear from those at the village I left about how great and powerful he was. I maintain that he was a tyrant.
I look at Masbeth's face, and I see such sadness. The poor boy has been through so much and has come out the stronger for it. I place a comforting hand on his shoulder and permit myself a brief, sad smile. Then I walk to the coach where Van Ripper has been loading my luggage.
Before I climb in, I turn to look at the boy I have come to trust and care for, even if I did use him as a human shield. Before I can stop myself I look to the window to the room that I know holds Katrina. My heart breaks all over again and I force myself into the coach.
Another failure noted. Another page turned. I decide that my statement to the Burgomaster when I arrive is that the murderer was killed by a group of people defending one of his would-be victim's. It is much simpler than the truth. I pull my mother's disc from my pocket and spin it, allowing it to soothe my mind for a while. A short while and I will be back in New York, Sleepy Hollow in the past and forgotten.
Author: metatrons_gurl
Summary: Ichabod's PoV of some of the last scenes in the movie.
Pairings: Umm...Tidbits of Ichabod/Katrina but nothing really explicit.
Feedback: Please? Metatrons_gurl@yahoo.com Again, flames will be used to make me laugh.
Archival: DeppFanFiction, Fanfiction.net, Anyone else "Want, ASK, take, have".
Disclaimer: I am not Tim Burton. I am not Washington Irving. I do not even own the song I was listening to when I wrote this. "Darkness" belongs to Disturbed and the CD belongs to a friend of mine.
A/N: My beta is getting hate letters from me....THREE FRICKIN' WEEKS!!!!!! Sorry about the delay in getting this out. *Glares at beta who scurries away*
Lessons and Failures
I can not move. I stare at the skewered man. I vaguely hear a woman scream, Katrina. Baltus seems to be unable to move, then, suddenly he is pulled, as if by an unseen force, backwards and through the window.
I do not know how I arrived on the balcony, nor do I know how Katrina is there. I can do nothing for Baltus, I can only watch in morbid fascination as he is dragged across the churchyard.
A rope, I realize suddenly, the horseman used a rope to anchor his makeshift pike to him. I vaguely acknowledge that I now have no case. Baltus, now lying, neck wedged in the fence, was the only conceivable suspect. The Horseman has turned, riding towards the fallen man, sword drawn. He draws nearer, mere feet from Baltus.
Katrina was right.
The sword is raised higher, and in one swift movement, separates the head from Baltus' body. I feel about to faint, yet the world does not go black and I hear a soft 'thud' from behind me.
Katrina.
I turn, slowly, to look at her. After proving to myself that she is breathing, my eyes move to her face. However, upon seeing the bauble at her throat I stop. The crone, in the Western Woods, wore that necklace. I briefly saw it during my encounter with her. The witch is dead now, decapitated, though not by the Horseman, but by a being of flesh and blood, as I have said all along. Almost afraid of what else I might find, my eyes flick to Katrina's hand. The dust on her finger is the color of the mark under the bed in my room. The one Young Masbeth (his name is Jonathan as I have discovered, but I will not call him such until he permits me) says is the 'Evil Eye'. There is a pastel next to her hand, obviously the origin of the dust.
Unnerved, I raise my eyes to survey the church. Doctor Lancaster lies face- down where he has fallen, most definitely dead. The heavy wooden cross Steenwyck used to bash the Doctor's skull is resting near him. Steenwyck's body, in a growing pool of blood, lies, also face-down, next to the Reverend's wig. His long, dark blonde hair revealing him as the other participant in the recently deceased Lady Van Tassel's midnight tryst. I force my eyes to continue farther down the aisle. There, midway down, in all its horrid glory, is the 'Evil Eye'.
Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù ~ Ù
"It was an evil spirit possessed you," my words sound hollow, even to my own ears. "I pray God it is satisfied now and that you find peace. The Evil Eye has done its work," I know she cannot hear me, yet I am compelled to speak. "My life is over, spared for a lifetime of horrors in my sleep, waking each day to grief-"I break off. Suddenly unable to form syllables around the lump in my throat. The only two women I have ever trusted are gone. One murdered by a tyrant to purge her soul, the other lies before me sleeping. When she wakes I will be gone. I cannot stay here any longer. This place has created painful memories and has resurrected anguishing ones.
Unable to bear it any longer, I leave the room for the safety of my own lodgings.
Once in my rooms, I light a fire. I tell myself that it is to drive away the chill of the fall, knowing that nothing can dispel this cold pain in my heart.
My eyes rest upon my Ledger. I came to this place full to bursting with ideas and methods and uncertain pride. I * knew * I would not fail. I would bring the 'assassin', as I had termed him, to justice.
A self-degrading sneer curls my lip. How utterly foolish I had been. I could no more have proved myself here than I could have in New York. Yet, at least in New York, my heart and soul would not have been among the casualties.
With a sense of grim determination I pick up the black-leather covered book and walk to the hearth. When I reach it I open the book. The first image my eyes fall to is that of one of the ways to coax a confession out of a suspect back at home, next to it, in bold black is a single word. 'Torture!' Yes, perhaps, but it is nothing compared to this sharp ache in my chest.
I turn more pages, resting at last on two facing pages filled with drawings. Eyes, a blindfolded face, a heart, a word, 'Katrina'. Jaw set, I toss the ledger into the flames, watching as the fine leather finally catches and burns, pages already aflame.
I reach into my right chest pocket. Finding what I wished to, I pull out a small blue book. 'The Compendium of Spells, Charms, and Devices of the Spirit World'. I remember Katrina's words, "Keep it close to your heart. It is sure protection against harm," and am tempted to throw it in to the flames as well, but something stops me. I have a link to my mother, her gift of the spinning disc, yet I have none to Katrina. I think I shall keep this, merely as a reminder. The book finds its way back into my pocket as the coach pulls up.
I have said my goodbyes and packed my bags, it is time to leave. I walk down the stairs and out onto the porch where Young Masbeth waits for me with my luggage.
"You think it was Katrina don't you?" he asks, but it sounds like an accusation.
My eyes fly to meet his. "That can never be uttered," I warn.
"A strange sort of witch," his eyes are filling with angry tears. "With a kind and loving heart! How can you think so?"
"I have good reason," I falter.
"Then you are bewitched by reason," he concludes, and it is all I can do to force the grief from my voice.
"I am beaten down by it!" I tell him. "It's a hard lesson for a hard world, and you had better learn it, Young Masbeth, villainy wears many masks. None so dangerous as the mask of virtue," I know I sound bitter, I am. It was a lesson I learned from my father. I do not miss him, no matter how much I hear from those at the village I left about how great and powerful he was. I maintain that he was a tyrant.
I look at Masbeth's face, and I see such sadness. The poor boy has been through so much and has come out the stronger for it. I place a comforting hand on his shoulder and permit myself a brief, sad smile. Then I walk to the coach where Van Ripper has been loading my luggage.
Before I climb in, I turn to look at the boy I have come to trust and care for, even if I did use him as a human shield. Before I can stop myself I look to the window to the room that I know holds Katrina. My heart breaks all over again and I force myself into the coach.
Another failure noted. Another page turned. I decide that my statement to the Burgomaster when I arrive is that the murderer was killed by a group of people defending one of his would-be victim's. It is much simpler than the truth. I pull my mother's disc from my pocket and spin it, allowing it to soothe my mind for a while. A short while and I will be back in New York, Sleepy Hollow in the past and forgotten.