After a hard day of school, the urge to ramble overtook me. Please, be tolerant of my lecture on love...it's something I just had to get off my writing-starved chest (it's all math and science, isn't it, to these schools?).

Also this is a one-shot to appease my readers of "Number 31"...I'm sorry, but things are going slow as molasses with that piece. I hope with all my heart it will speed up again, and even if it doesn't I'll try to get it off the ground anyway.

Oh yes. I do not own Ichabod Crane, Katrina Van Tassel-Crane...:) Or anything else that has to do with Sleepy Hollow except this fiction. Enjoy.

Metal & Magic

Oh, Katrina.

Can Science really learn to love Sorcery?

Can heartless, blank souls be painted upon and made alive and living once again?

How can black and white mix together—only to make a gloomy gray?

Are we doomed, Katrina? So different we are, and, in our differences, we attract!

Is this wrong, Katrina? Can sweet love really grow when planted in such dry, barren soil? Are we, so much like shriveled brown roses, destined to die in love? Never to truly fathom our mind's workings and mystic mechanics?

It is said to every action there is a reaction, and to your actions I react. Only in the way I know how, which hardly seems to satisfy.

But I do try, Katrina. I try and try until my insides become my outsides, and my soul burns up in a passion.

I have tried to punch, rip, set fire to, and stab through that detestable veil that hangs around us—I tried and tried, Katrina! And still, in our somewhat awkward silences, I try again! And I will, God save me, I will keep trying!

Oh, Katrina.

Marriage was not the end, was it? I, naively, thought that we, like rocks being thrown into a tranquil lake, would settle down oh-so peacefully in the mossy floor of marital life. And how wrong the presumption was...to think that all troubles, all tribulations, would end there! Oh, no. That was only the beginning.

I cannot help myself if this sounds so unromantic, my dear! But, despite the ravishing, gentle frills and frauds of romance—they, lies of love, are as lacking in content and true love as an empty wine bottle.

Does a watchmen, when spotting a thief sneak into the court, not tell his colleague, just because he fears that he might frighten or trouble the other? No. He would tell all, or face the consequences.

Love, I know, is not all bright and beautiful, but can be dark and dismal—and yes, perhaps quarrelsome, too! To blind you, Katrina, with fancy flatters and pretty flirtations would only blind you to the, almighty, truth. I do not want to blind you, my dear! But to keep your eyes wide open, looking into mine as I peer into yours.

If I were to prance around, quoting poetry to you on random occasions, and declaring my love to you in the snowy streets—and yet not have an ounce of my soul in it—would you love me more for it? Not you, Katrina. Instant passion, in the brief and blazing hot flame of youth and careless love, always seems to be worn out—and then left cold, hard, and ashen. But love that is built upon, try by try, makes something strong and unmovable.

Oh, Katrina.

I don't doubt love. I try not to.

I do love you, and I do pray that I could show it with more fever than I do now! But I am a slave to logic; it has riddled my brain. I do want to change, Katrina—I do—I do! And it seems impossible sometimes, and what a black, hard state my soul becomes then.

Oh, Katrina!

I'm doomed to my cursed logic and my sober mind...how I wish and pray that I could go insane! In insanity, I would be wildly romantic, and not the stale, dusty husband I am now.

And, Ichabod, consider...would I want to be married to an insane man?

You might, Katrina. Do you like being married to a lifeless man?

I treasure being married to a thinking, careful man, Ichabod. I feel calm when I am around you, and I am not troubled to put on a show of hospitality or romance. You take me as who I am, no matter my mood, my dear! I don't want a passionate, romantic fool to carry me around and flaunt me like some feather in his cap.

It is not commonly realized, but simple love is the best love. To be torn and confused with passion, as the foamy waves crash on the polished rocks of the sea, is never the best path to travel. But to be constant, true, and— love's forbidden word— practical, is something that will set our chart straight in the smooth direction. I know it.

But to be so different, Katrina!

And to be so different has kept us together. We improve each other, fix each other, and help each other. To be exploding with love and romance all the time would be silly, and, eventually, agitating. We would never get anything done, and you know this, Ichabod.

But, oh, Katrina...

Oh, Ichabod, there is a fine line between idiotic and melancholic. I love you and you love me. And we are strong and steadfast together, be happy with this. We love and it is a warm, comfortable love—one that creeps all over us, and guides us. Love is not blind, Ichabod, it sees more than anything, and because it sees more, it is willing to see less.

Now, go back to sleep, Ichabod. Another day patiently awaits us, and we will be able to face it.