XXII I Have Trod the Upward and the Downward Slope

I have trod the upward and the downward slope;

I have endured and done in days before;

I have longed for all, and bid farewell to hope;

And I have lived and loved, and closed the door.

xXx

Not again...

These are the first words that drift into Ichabod Crane's mind as he scrambles to a seated position, blinking dirt from his eyes, shaking dirt from his hair, spitting dirt from his mouth.

It is dark, as he expected, but there is a faint light source providing a soft, bluish light.

Why must it always be a dirty cave?

Senses returning to him, he frantically looks around, his heart pounding. He is still sitting half-buried in his grave as his eyes search the dim chamber. No, no, please... do not tell me I am alone.

A noise to his left draws his attention and his head sharply turns. He sees nothing at first, then, he looks down to see the dirt pushing up. He holds his breath, waiting.

Hoping.

A moment later, a small hand breaks through, then another, followed by a head bursting up from the ground and a loud gasp.

Crane breathes again, a relieved smile spreading across his dirty face when he sees her.

"Abbie," he croaks, his voice strange and hoarse. He reaches a hand over, and she desperately grasps it.

Mindless of the dirt, he leans over and kisses her hand. Then, he hauls himself the rest of the way out of his hole and scrambles to assist his partner.

Crane has been here before. Awakened after having been in a death-like sleep for an indeterminate amount of time.

Abbie has not.

He gently pulls her to her feet and brushes the dirt from her clothes as best he can, ignoring the grime still clinging to his clothing. He stops, resting his hands on her shoulders for a moment.

She's trembling. Slightly, but definitely.

He immediately wraps his arms around her, pulling her into his embrace.

"What year is it?" she asks, her voice a whisper.

"I do not yet know," he answers, looking, once again, around the chamber.

Abbie leans back slightly, looking up at him, her eyes wide. "Wow. This really..."

"...sucks," he supplies, nodding in agreement.

Her face clouds as she studies him in the dim light. Memories of various temptations and deceptions flood into her brain, and she suddenly feels skeptical and uneasy. "So... you're still... you?" The words fall out despite the fact that he just used a term he had learned from her.

His brow furrows. "I'm sorry?"

She releases him and steps back a little. "You're still the same person?"

"I believe so," he answers. "Abbie, what are...?"

"What is your full name?" she asks, narrowing her eyes slightly.

Ah, I see. She is testing me. Probably a wise choice. "Ichabod Crane," he simply answers.

"What is your middle name?"

"I have two. Marcus Ambrose."

"Hmm. What is your favorite food? Favorite 21st Century food, I mean," she asks, still not mollified.

"Buffalo wings," he immediately answers. "But, chocolate ice cream is a very close second."

She steps forward. "What was the last thing you said to me before everything went black?"

He steps towards her, reaches his hand to her cheek, and caresses it. "I said, 'I love you, Treasure,' and then I kissed you," he whispers, tracing her lower lip with his thumb.

Her eyes close at the touch. "The first time you kissed me. Where and when?"

By now, Crane is fairly certain she just wants to hear him speak these memories, and, as always, he indulges her. "June 20, 2016, in the Archives, over a thick tome about demonic sigils and protective spells. And, Chinese food," he murmurs, kissing her lips softly. "10:14 p.m."

"Ichabod," she sighs, returning to his embrace. "I'm sorry... I... I had to check," she apologizes, lifting up on her toes to kiss him.

"I understand," he answers. "This is all very confusing."

They lived for two years after they defeated Moloch. Long enough to allow them a glimmer of a regular life, of happiness, of the illusion that their lives would be normal now, but not long enough to truly enjoy it.

Or raise their son.

"Corbin..." Abbie suddenly exclaims, her voice hitching with emotion.

"Shh, Abbie, I am certain Jenny took excellent care of him," he reassures her, though he is also wondering what became of their child.

She nods, granting him a small smile. "I'm glad you're here. If I'd been alone, I..."

"You would have been just fine, Lieutenant," he assures her. "However, two witnesses are required—"

"Again," she interrupts with a sigh.

"Again, yes," he allows, "so two witnesses shall there be. It would make no sense at all for only one of us to awaken. We are a team, you and I." He leans down and kisses her forehead, not caring that it is dirty.

Abbie wraps her arms tighter around his waist, leaning her head against his chest. "Well, Partner, if I am going to be awakened each time Satan gets a bug up his butt, I'm glad it's with you," she says.

Crane hugs her close, his arms wrapped securely around her. "As am I," he agrees. He takes a deep breath and slowly releases it. "Now, my love, to business."

"Right," she agrees. "Where is that light coming from?"

"It appears to be coming from this direction," he says, moving that way, taking her hand. They follow the light to its source, which turns out to be a curiously glowing blue cube on a small stone table.

"Interesting," Abbie says. "Very Star Trek."

"Hmm," Crane murmurs, walking up to the table. There is an item there, a rectangle that appears to be made of some kind of plastic or plexiglass, transparent and almost paper-thin. Crane lifts and turns it in his hands, inspecting it. He carefully holds it by its edges, not touching the surface.

"Let me see," Abbie quietly says, reaching her hand out. "Technology is my area of expertise, not yours, remember?" she smiles as he places it in her hand.

"You think this is some sort of technology?" he asks.

"Hmm," she murmurs. She pokes the center of the rectangle and it fires to life, lighting up in a starburst pattern, extending out from the place her finger touched.

Crane raises an eyebrow.

"Hello." Words appear on the screen. "Please place your right thumbs on the circles."

Abbie looks at Crane, and places her right thumb on one of the circles. He follows suit, placing his thumb on the other.

"Someone will attend you shortly, Mr. and Mrs. Crane," the readout says. "Please remain in the cavern." Then, "Welcome back."

"Okayyy..." Abbie says, staring at the now-blank screen. "They could have at least given us Angry Birds or something while we wait." She returns the tablet to the table and leans against it, sighing heavily.

"Someone will attend us shortly, my love," Crane says, echoing the words on the screen.

"Yes, but how short is 'shortly'? Five minutes? An hour?" she asks, rubbing her arms, trying to keep warm.

"Are you cold?" he asks, immediately looking around for something in which to enfold her. Finding nothing, he settles for his arms, pulling her against him to keep her warm with his body.

Abbie sighs. "I was going to say 'I missed you' or 'I missed this', but I haven't, because it seems like it was only yesterday we were in that car... accident... which must not have been an accident after all..." she trails off.

"Yes, I had the same thought," Crane says, kissing the top of her head. "It must have been arranged. Predetermined. Isolate the two of us so we could be..."

"Put on ice for safekeeping until the next apocalypse?" Abbie finishes, her voice grim. "Would have been nice if we had been consulted. Could have made arrangements, maybe negotiate a time for it so we didn't miss out on our son's entire life," her voice becoming louder and angrier as she continues. She reaches up and wipes the tears falling from her eyes.

"Shh, darling, I know, I know. It's horribly unfair, and I promise you I will find out who is responsible as soon as I can." He tries to reassure her, but she can hear the waver in his voice and knows he's trying to be strong for her, even though he's just as angry and upset about their child as she. Perhaps more so.

Then, she remembers he's been through this before. Except last time, he didn't know he had a son. And then, the son turned out to be the second Horseman...

"Ichabod?" Abbie asks softly. "What... what if..." She stops, unable to even voice her fear. "What if Corbin is...?"

"I refuse to entertain such a notion. It simply cannot be. There is no possible way our son would be on the side of evil. There is no possible way it... it would happen to me a... a second time," he spits the words out as tears brim in his eyes. He takes a deep breath. "No. The child of the Witnesses would not be a Horseman or a demon or anything evil or... unnatural. Logic would dictate this. Yes."

"You're trying to convince both of us," she answers, squeezing him. "He was a very good baby," she says, remembering. "Very sweet. Mild-tempered."

"No idea from whom he would have inherited that quality," Crane dryly remarks, looking down at her. "Surely, it was neither you nor me."

Abbie snorts a watery laugh. "Hey... we don't know what year it is, either. So, there may be a chance..."

"Captain? Lieutenant?" A voice interrupts them, and Crane gently releases Abbie as they turn towards the voice.

It's a young man, perhaps in his mid-20s. He's dressed simply, in dark grey and black, his curly hair cropped close to his head. He is handsome, tall, and thin with a tawny complexion.

"Perhaps," Crane cautiously answers.

The young man holds an ancient book, offering it to Crane. "I believe this is yours, sir."

"Washington's Bible," Crane whispers, receiving the precious tome. He looks up at their companion. "Who are you?"

The man looks from Crane to Abbie and then back again. "My name is Marcus."

Ichabod blinks.

"Marcus?" Abbie softly asks.

"Marcus August Crane," he clarifies. "I'm your... nine times great grandson."

Abbie sways on her feet. Crane, though stunned, reaches out to steady her.

"My father was Corbin Ichabod Crane. His father was Frank Ambrose Crane," Marcus adds.

"Frank?" Abbie squeaks.

"Yes, for Frank Irving, of course," Marcus clarifies. "I'm sorry. This must be very unsettling for you." He pauses, taking a moment to look at them, drink them in. "You look just like you should. Just like the pictures. I never dreamed it would happen during my watch... I mean, I'm honored, but it also means some really bad things might be happening, which isn't good at all..." He looks at Crane. "Sorry. I ramble when I get excited."

"What year is it?" Crane asks, still holding onto Abbie, his arm protectively wrapped around her shoulder.

"2294," Marcus answers. "If you would come with me, I'll take you to safety. You can have a shower and clean clothes, and my sister is preparing food for you."

"Your sister?" Abbie asks.

"Yes. Her name is Jennifer Grace. She prefers Jen though," Marcus says. "Please. Come. There is so much information we need to provide for you."

"I... I imagine there is," Crane says, but he doesn't move, overwhelmed.

Marcus looks at Abbie. "We have everything you'll want to know about your son, Mrs. Crane. We've kept careful and thorough records of the Crane line since 2022, when you two, um, went under."

"Thank you," she whispers.

"It's a poor substitute for the real thing, but... it's better than nothing, right?" he tries, smiling weakly.

Abbie nods, and steps forward. She extends her hand and Marcus grasps it. "Thank you, Marcus," she says. "Please, lead the way." She reaches back for Crane's hand.

"You should be very proud of him," Marcus tells them over his shoulder. "He was a great man. Truly."

"Thank you, Marcus, that does set our minds at rest," Crane says.

"And, thank you very much for not calling me 'Grandma'," Abbie adds, finding her sense of humor again, wearing it like a shield.

"I didn't think you'd appreciate that too much. Especially because you are only about ten years older than me," Marcus comments.

"Give or take a few hundred years," Abbie adds.

Crane and Abbie follow their descendant up the steps and emerge into the cool night air, looking around. Not surprisingly, they are in the forest.

"Tell me, Abbie," Crane murmurs in her ear as they follow Marcus to his car – ship – vehicle – transport – whatever, "did you find yourself rising every 70, 80 years to pee?"

Abbie chuckles, looking around the forest as they walk. She reaches out and takes her husband's hand, squeezing it with a sigh. "We defeated him once…"

"…And we shall do so yet again, Treasure," he finishes.

-End-