Title: Ghosts, Memories, and a Pickety Witch
Summary: Companion piece to Lessons and Failures. Katrina's PoV
Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.
A/N: I really wasn't expecting to get any reviews on Lessons and Failures. So to morph, Candyland, and Mythical Assassin, THANK YOU SO MUCH!
Feedback: Please? Metatrons_gurl@yahoo.com If you feel like flaming me, go ahead.
Ghosts, Memories, and a Pickety Witch
He is gone. He does not know that I heard his whispered goodbye; he probably did not realize he had spoken it. I have not the heart to go to him. He would turn me away if I should, so any effort would be pointless. It would seem that he can be as moody as Father.
Was.
He can be as moody as Father * was*. The room suddenly feels colder. Father is gone, as is the woman who would have me call her 'mother'. I realize now that something always struck me as 'wrong' about her. I was but a child and, as such, held my tongue, but now that I can speak my mind about her, she is not here.
Nor is anyone else it would seem. Sarah, the servant girl, who I once called friend, has disappeared. Lady Van Tassel is dead, killed by the Horseman. Ichabod, who did not know that he had stolen my heart in the moment I laid eyes on him, has left of his own volition. The raised voices from the front yard shortly before his carriage left reassure me of that fact. And Father- Father is also dead. I am alone. Utterly and inescapably alone.
A lone tear, the harbinger of many to come, makes its way down my cheek. Ah, but perhaps- perhaps I am not alone. I can still remember.
Father's gentle hand wipes away my tear. "Katrina, love," he says pleading. "Do not weep, child. She would not want you to. And I cannot bear to see my precious daughter in such a state. Come here, Love." He tenderly waves me towards the rocking chair Mother favored. As he seats himself in it, I climb onto his lap. He puts his arm around me, cradling me to his chest, and I feel- I feel secure.
The warmth fades from around me as the memory leaves. Suddenly there is a young boy in front of me. He has not lost his baby-like appearance; he has dark brown hair, and even darker eyes. Eyes like that dark, bittersweet chocolate that Mother favored, and that Father gave as a rare treat when he had ventured into the larger city. Eyes that shine like ebony. Familiar eyes. The eyes of a stranger, grasped by chance, in a game of Pickety Witch. Ichabod's eyes. New tears make salt-tracks down my cheeks.
"Why are you crying?" the child asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.
"Because I am alone," I tell him, and he comes to kneel in front of me.
"No," he says, his voice growing deeper. "You are not alone."
Ichabod is kneeling in front of me, his hand on one of mine. "You have me," he says simply, a soft smile on his lips and a gentle look to his eyes that I cannot place. He brings his other hand up to my face, wiping at the tears there with a butterfly's touch. "You have me," he repeats.
I stretch a hand out to touch his hair and falter. It is no longer Ichabod there, but Brom. My childhood friend looks at me with a look of mixed defeat and regret.
"You love him," it is a statement, not a question, yet I nod the affirmative. "He loves you," Brom concludes.
I am about to respond when Brom fades replaced by a beautifully plain woman. A simple wreath of flowers, looking as if a child made it, accents her long brown hair. Her eyes are that dark shade that shines from Ichabod's eyes. Ichabod's mother. She smiles, as if reading my thoughts, and I see whom Ichabod takes after. She is, as he said, a gentle soul. Her smile is warm and her eyes hold a silent plea. 'Take care of him,' she seems to say. 'He has suffered. I would not have him suffer longer.' I consider asking how I am to take care of him when he has left, but she gently kisses my forehead, an all-too-real reminder of my own mother, and I cannot. 'He will be back,' her eyes tell me.
I almost ask, "When?" but she fades, and is quickly replaced by Ichabod.
"Soon," he says, that soft smile again gracing his face. "Soon." I now recognize the emotion in his eyes. That same emotion was in Sean Killian's eyes when he looked at Elizabeth. Love.
The sound of footsteps tears me from my thoughts and I turn. Perhaps Jonathan has decided to stay here.
"Dear stepdaughter," a familiar voice says and ice trails down my spine. "You look as if you have seen a ghost."
And as the black oblivion swallows me, the thought flies through my mind that yes, I have. I have seen several ghosts, but this- this is a ghoul.
Summary: Companion piece to Lessons and Failures. Katrina's PoV
Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.
A/N: I really wasn't expecting to get any reviews on Lessons and Failures. So to morph, Candyland, and Mythical Assassin, THANK YOU SO MUCH!
Feedback: Please? Metatrons_gurl@yahoo.com If you feel like flaming me, go ahead.
Ghosts, Memories, and a Pickety Witch
He is gone. He does not know that I heard his whispered goodbye; he probably did not realize he had spoken it. I have not the heart to go to him. He would turn me away if I should, so any effort would be pointless. It would seem that he can be as moody as Father.
Was.
He can be as moody as Father * was*. The room suddenly feels colder. Father is gone, as is the woman who would have me call her 'mother'. I realize now that something always struck me as 'wrong' about her. I was but a child and, as such, held my tongue, but now that I can speak my mind about her, she is not here.
Nor is anyone else it would seem. Sarah, the servant girl, who I once called friend, has disappeared. Lady Van Tassel is dead, killed by the Horseman. Ichabod, who did not know that he had stolen my heart in the moment I laid eyes on him, has left of his own volition. The raised voices from the front yard shortly before his carriage left reassure me of that fact. And Father- Father is also dead. I am alone. Utterly and inescapably alone.
A lone tear, the harbinger of many to come, makes its way down my cheek. Ah, but perhaps- perhaps I am not alone. I can still remember.
Father's gentle hand wipes away my tear. "Katrina, love," he says pleading. "Do not weep, child. She would not want you to. And I cannot bear to see my precious daughter in such a state. Come here, Love." He tenderly waves me towards the rocking chair Mother favored. As he seats himself in it, I climb onto his lap. He puts his arm around me, cradling me to his chest, and I feel- I feel secure.
The warmth fades from around me as the memory leaves. Suddenly there is a young boy in front of me. He has not lost his baby-like appearance; he has dark brown hair, and even darker eyes. Eyes like that dark, bittersweet chocolate that Mother favored, and that Father gave as a rare treat when he had ventured into the larger city. Eyes that shine like ebony. Familiar eyes. The eyes of a stranger, grasped by chance, in a game of Pickety Witch. Ichabod's eyes. New tears make salt-tracks down my cheeks.
"Why are you crying?" the child asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.
"Because I am alone," I tell him, and he comes to kneel in front of me.
"No," he says, his voice growing deeper. "You are not alone."
Ichabod is kneeling in front of me, his hand on one of mine. "You have me," he says simply, a soft smile on his lips and a gentle look to his eyes that I cannot place. He brings his other hand up to my face, wiping at the tears there with a butterfly's touch. "You have me," he repeats.
I stretch a hand out to touch his hair and falter. It is no longer Ichabod there, but Brom. My childhood friend looks at me with a look of mixed defeat and regret.
"You love him," it is a statement, not a question, yet I nod the affirmative. "He loves you," Brom concludes.
I am about to respond when Brom fades replaced by a beautifully plain woman. A simple wreath of flowers, looking as if a child made it, accents her long brown hair. Her eyes are that dark shade that shines from Ichabod's eyes. Ichabod's mother. She smiles, as if reading my thoughts, and I see whom Ichabod takes after. She is, as he said, a gentle soul. Her smile is warm and her eyes hold a silent plea. 'Take care of him,' she seems to say. 'He has suffered. I would not have him suffer longer.' I consider asking how I am to take care of him when he has left, but she gently kisses my forehead, an all-too-real reminder of my own mother, and I cannot. 'He will be back,' her eyes tell me.
I almost ask, "When?" but she fades, and is quickly replaced by Ichabod.
"Soon," he says, that soft smile again gracing his face. "Soon." I now recognize the emotion in his eyes. That same emotion was in Sean Killian's eyes when he looked at Elizabeth. Love.
The sound of footsteps tears me from my thoughts and I turn. Perhaps Jonathan has decided to stay here.
"Dear stepdaughter," a familiar voice says and ice trails down my spine. "You look as if you have seen a ghost."
And as the black oblivion swallows me, the thought flies through my mind that yes, I have. I have seen several ghosts, but this- this is a ghoul.