Disclaimer: Ichabod is not mine. But, strangely, everyone else is.

Once Upon A Time

Chapter Four

Ichabod Crane swallowed his fears and rapped lightly upon the door. A moment later, a soft voice came from within, saying, "Enter."

He swallowed again, and slowly turned the doorknob. He pushed the door open with the greatest hesitation, and stepped lightly into the old woman's room. Now, strange as it may seem, he had never laid eyes on ancient Bertha before, not once in his life. While his mother had still been living, she had forbidden him to accompany her on her semi-frequent visits to the decrepit spinster. And since his mother had died, he had not gone to Bertha once, relying instead on his father's servants when he felt ill. But he would like to think that if he could survive two hours or more with a gaggle of half a dozen silly teenage girls, he could surely face one old woman.

He would have liked to think that.

But as he closed the door behind him and turned to face Bertha, his courage deserted him. He felt quite faint, and grasped the doorknob to keep himself upright, shutting his eyes tight against the world. A few deep breaths later, he felt comfortable enough to open his eyes and survey his surroundings.

The room was clearly a bedroom, but it was so crowded with refuse that he could only make out a bed. And in that bed was a frail old woman, just a stick figure drowning in a sea of plump pillows and heavy blankets. There was nothing frightening about her at all, he decided. In fact, the poor old dear even appeared to be blind.

At least, that was him impression until she said, out of thin air, "Ichabod Crane."

He nearly jumped out of his skin in shock. But he managed to calm himself enough to say, "Yes, it is I. How did you know that?"

Bertha smiled. "I cannot see, but you have love in your heart," she said. "Just like your mother."

He grimaced at the mention of her. But then another thought occupied his mind. "So you are blind?"

"Perhaps," she said, "but I can see so clearly with my inner eye that my physical blindness hardly matters."

"Well, I am glad to hear that you have such a positive outlook on your disability." He regretted the words the moment he said them, and nearly slapped his forehead for his idiocy.

But she did not seem to notice. "Why have you come, boy?" she asked.

"Well, I began to feel ill yesterday, and the feeling has not yet left me," he explained. "I thought that if something was the matter with me, you would be the one to know."

She was silent for a moment, then patted her bed with her frail hand. "Sit," she said, and he was too in awe of this woman's powers to disobey her. "What did you do yesterday?" she asked.

"I attended a birthday celebration for my dear friend Rose," Ichabod told her. "She turned seventeen yesterday."

"Congratulations to her, then," Bertha said. "What time did you first start feeling ill, do you recall?"

"It was after her party, around four in the afternoon, I believe."

"And what were you doing at four in the afternoon?"

"I was outside with Rose."

"What were you doing with Rose?"

"I was talking with her."

"Is that all you were doing?"

Of a sudden, he searched her face for something, for any hint of a smile or a smug warmth in her useless, clouded over eyes. But when he found none, he replied, "No. A breeze started up and Rose began to dance as the leaves fell upon her."

"Is that when your stomach began to hurt?" she asked.

He opened his mouth to respond, but closed it quickly. "How did you know my stomach began to hurt?" he asked instead.

"My boy, there are things I know about you that you have yet to discover," she said. "For instance, I happen to know that you will fall in love with a beautiful and kind young woman, and then you will make love to her under the full moon, and then she will bear your child. I do not yet know the gender of the thing, but the child will seek you out when you are grown and have forgotten about Rose."

He stood at this, outraged. "I shall never forget the woman I love!" There was a dead silence in the room then, with Ichabod white as a sheet and Bertha smiling to herself.

"Young man," the old woman said, as though he had not just professed his love for his best friend, "the pain in your stomach is called love sickness. You are ill because, quite simply, you are in love. Yet you feel acutely ill when you are around the girl whom you love. In this case, that girl would be the Rose of whom you speak. I suggest that you simply let the illness run its course, because it will go away on its own, but it won't budge if you try to force it out. The cure," she went on, still smiling, "if you so desire it, is to tell your Rose how you feel. And trust me, Ichabod Crane, she will not reject you. Now be gone with you, and do not be late when Rose comes to call."


Ichabod supposed a part of him had always known it, ever since the day she announced that she was truly a woman. He'd known even then that things were going to be different, that things would change, but he hadn't expected the revelation to come in the midst of an old woman who was a mildly-gifted mind reader.

Ichabod sighed and turned over onto his back, away from the wall.

He had been lounging on the sofa since he had returned from Bertha's, silently thinking. He had thought about Rose, he had thought about himself, he had even thought about his father, for some unfathomable reason. But the one thing he had not thought about was denying the fact that he loved Rose. Rose was the only reason he dragged himself out of bed each morning, for what else did he have to look forward to? Rose was the reason he could not sleep at night, for she always occupied his drowsy thoughts. Rose was the reason he would smile at nothing, for the memory of her laughter and her smile would set him to grinning.

There was no use denying it.

Except, perhaps, when the lady herself came to call.

There was a light rapping at the open double doors of the library, and he sat up of a sudden to see her standing there wearing a beautiful plum gown that enveloped her delicate body in folds of dark velvet. Her raven hair was down, and mussed, as though she had not yet had it combed today. There was an odd, unreadable expression on her face, but he tried to ignore it as he greeted her. "Good afternoon, Rose," he said, voice breaking on her name.

She gave a small smile, emotion unreadable. "Good afternoon, Ichabod. Is your stomach better?"

"Much," he replied, though he was not so certain of his own words at that moment.

"Were you able to be diagnosed?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, then sighed. "But perhaps you'd best sit down to hear it." He strode to her, taking her porcelain hands in his, and lead her to the sofa he had previously occupied. He sat them down on it and began to run his thumbs in small circles over her upturned palms. Barely noticing the concerned look on her face, he began to speak. "Rose, this morning I went Bertha, that kind old healer woman down the road-"

She cut him off suddenly, saying, "I have heard it said that Bertha is a witch."

"Now, Rose," he said, giving a nervous chuckle, "you mustn't believe everything you hear. Anyway, I paid her a visit and told her of my stomach ache and she said..." His voice deserted him for a moment, but he quickly coughed and it returned to him again. "She said that the pain was caused by...love sickness."

She was silent for a long time, staring blankly at him. Then she asked, "Ichabod, do you mean to tell me that you...?"

"Love you?" he finished, pulling her closer to him. "Yes, I do, I love you very much."


Weak ending, I know. Sorry. The blood is the life, Sikerra.