Title: In the Arms of the Dead
Fandom: Sleepy Hollow
Pairing: Ichabod/The Horseman
Author: ZzoaozZ
Feedback: zzoaozz@wireco.net
Rating: Adult Only (sex, gothic atmosphere)
Disclaimer: The characters unfortunately do not belong to me. They were created by Washington 
 Irving and totally remodeled by Tim Burton No money has changed hands and this is entirely for my 
 own amusement.


With Katrina and young, master Masbath settled in with family in New
York, Ichabod felt secure in returning to Sleepy Hollow. The nightmares had grown worse since his
return home and had become intertwined with dark fantasies he could not understand. The
only thing that he knew for certain was that if he did not find a way to lay his ghost to rest, he
would never sleep in peace again.

The carriage jounced along a track too pocked and intermittent to be
called a road. The constable tried with limited success to nap in the confined and uncomfortable
passenger compartment. As sleep reluctantly claimed him, the dream began again.

The western woods surrounded him. He was running. Pain lanced through his
side and his breath was a ragged litany of half sobs. The mist swirled around him
caressing him with damp, cold hands, the hands of the dead. The thunder of hoofs grew closer and
closer behind him until the ground seemed to shudder beneath their assault. Then he was in the
clear and the Tree of the Dead loomed before him. He reached the darkened slit that served as the
doorway between this realm and the pits of Hell. 

The Horseman was upon him, he could feel the fiery breath of his mount
on the back of his neck.

He scrabbled desperately at the tree. His clawed fingers drew rivulets
of blood from the trunk, but it did not open. There was no escape for Ichabod Crane in the arms
of death. The whistle of a blade slicing the winter air mingled with his own scream as the
world went dark.

Then, in the manner of dreams, he was elsewhere. Total darkness
surrounded him. He stumbled about seeking anything solid, any point of reference in the vast
echoing darkness. He knew that he was in danger of losing something, perhaps himself, but strangely
there was no fear. Between one heartbeat and the next, he was no longer alone. He could hear the
shallow breathing of another in the darkness and he knew that it was Him, the Hessian, the
Horseman. He fled deeper into the darkness until, at last, he collapsed to his knees gasping for
air. A strong, cold hand brushed the side of his face in an oddly tender gesture. He looked up
into the demon's eyes...

Ichabod woke, barely smothering the scream building in his throat. The carriage had jolted to a bone-crushing stop. The driver was shaking him roughly in an obvious
hurry to be away. He nodded at the man and swung down stiffly. He had forgotten to pack
anything except the book of white magic he carried always in his breast pocket. He had no more than
cleared the coach when the horses bound away accompanied by the snap of the long cartman's
whip. 

Sleepy Hollow spread out before him just as it had the first time he had
seen it. It was a small but prosperous village like so many others, only the feeling was
different. No kids played in the town commons, running to see who the carriage brought. The few people
who were out barely glanced at him before going quietly about their business. He had
vanquished the murderess among them and the demonic ghost she had commanded, but these people
had looked into the heart of evil that night in their picturesque little clapboard church
and found it a reflection of their own greed and desire. Some things were never meant to be exposed
to the light of day and the darkness of a human soul is one of those things. It could not help
but leave an indelible mark on man for he is a frail creature bound by beliefs and values to which
he clings like a drowning man for stability. It is impossible to look openly at another knowing
that they have seen your own true face and you their own darkest desire.

All these thoughts had crystallized in the Constable's mind just the night before as he lay awake
desperately pursuing sleep that would not come. It was madness of a sort and it drove him to
seek his own truths in this place where all he had known as fact had been stripped away.

Ichabod checked into the single boarding house in town without speaking
or being spoken to. The silence made him nervous, what he intended to do made him plain old
scared. Only a stubborn need to understand, a burning desire to know, prevented him
from turning on his heels and taking the next coach back to New York. 

He rested from the difficult journey as well as possible. He did not
eat as his stomach was feeling decidedly rebellious. At the blacksmith, he borrowed a horse without
explaining why. He saw with a sense of foreboding that it was Gunpowder, the heavy-boned mare
he had ridden the first time he had seen one of the Horseman's victims, the first time the
Horseman had pounded past him intent on another's head. 

The sun was already sinking below the horizon when Ichabod headed down the overgrown path into the western woods. As in his dream, the mist swirled about him,
touching him with damp little fingers plastering his dark curls against his neck. The woods
were quiet almost as if they held their breath waiting for something or someone.

"Stop that right now," Ichabod berated himself aloud, "or you'll
frighten yourself into fainting at shadows. " His scornful voice seemed very loud in the darkness. 

All too soon the trees began to thin until one tree alone stood before
him. Its twisted and tortured trunk loomed over him. Pepper balked refusing to walk under
those grasping branches. 

"I don't blame you." Ichabod whispered dismounting awkwardly. 

Cautiously he circled the massive trunk until he reached the Hessian's
grave. The long straight sword still marked the sight. Time and nature had repaired the damage
he had done most of a year ago. The ground looked undisturbed. Reaching out hesitantly,
Ichabod touched the sword wrapping his fingers around the hilt, the hilt HE had touched, the
sword HE had used to lop off the heads of his enemies. It felt warm and alive in his hand. He drew
back with a small gasp and looked at the weapon as if it might turn to a snake and strike out at
him. It did not move so much as a hair. "I imagined it, that's it. I just imagined it. My hands
were colder than the sword is all." 

As soon as he could control the fierce pounding of his heart, he turned
to the tree trunk itself. The place where the doorway had opened seemed to draw him. He half
expected to see a skeletal hand protruding from the bark, but there was nothing but smooth wood.He
reached out a trembling hand and stroked the trunk. It seemed to pulse slightly as if
some ancient heart beat sluggishly pushing blood and other darker fluids through its ancient
veins. He felt sure that if he pressed his ear to the massive trunk he would hear that heartbeat like
hooves in the distance. He placed both hands on the spot from which he had seen the Horseman
emerge, the place where everything he had ever believed in had been burned away and cast
to the wind like so much ash.

How long he stood like that with his hands and forehead pressed to the
cursed tree, Ichabod could not have said. He could tell it had been a long while because he
was stiff and shivering with the cold when heard the sound behind him. 

The sound was unmistakable, the low creaking of leather tack. Gunpowder
was tied to a tree on the other side of the clearing. Someone on a horse was standing
silently just behind him. Summoning every ounce of courage he possessed, Ichabod Crane turned to
face the impassive and motionless form of the Horseman, and fainted.

Consciousness returned slowly. The first thing he became aware of was
heat. He was lying on a pallet of furs and cushions. A heavy quilt covered him. He opened his
eyes a crack and found himself staring into a fire burning in a massive fireplace. The flames
burned steadily and eerily without a sound or a flicker . The logs beneath the flames glowed red
but showed no signs of being consumed. The light from the fire illuminated and warmed a small
area, yet, he had the impression that this room was endless.

There was a small sound behind him and Ichabod turned with some reluctance. The Hessian sat quietly on the floor watching him. He had removed his leather armour
and cloak and was clad in a loose dark shirt. He was waiting motionlessly. His long sword lay
across his lap. The dark blade shone in the firelight.

Gracefully the dead man rose and moved to the fireplace . He stooped
and reached back into a hidden corner. Soundlessly, he returned and knelt at Ichabod's side.
With exagerated care, the Hessian offered him an aged-looking, pewter mug, handle first. 

Ichabod took the stein cautiously. It held some sort of broth, perhaps
rabbit, savory with onions and other less familiar herbs. The warmth felt good in his hands.
Hesitantly he sipped the broth,and when it proved to be quite delicious, drained the cup. The food was
comforting as well as fortifying,He did not even jump when the Horseman took the cup from him
just as silently and replaced it on the hearth.

The Horseman returned to sit close beside Ichabod's feet facing him
with the sword resting between them and the fire. The firelight softened his face and made his
grey eyes glow with an inner light like a snow sky in the dead of winter. 

The Horseman's voice when it came was as heavy and cold as that same
sky. His English was passable if heavily accented with German. "Why did you call me." 

Crane curled a little onto one side in order to face the apparition and
thought a while before replying with a question of his own. "Why did you answer." To his
credit, his voice only wavered a little.

"You returned what was taken from me; you gave me my freedom when you
could have commanded me." The Hessian reached up to touch the thick scar that ran
around his neck as a silent reminder of his past.

Choosing to be simply honest Ichabod replied, "I couldn't sleep. Your
presence haunts my dreams. Since I left here, I have felt compelled to return as if I had
left something important unfinished. I don't know who I am or what I'm supposed to be anymore. I
feel trapped, afraid. I can't bear to be near people and I don't want to be alone." He trailed
off, embarrased at sounding like a petulant child. 

A strange half-smile touched the Hessian's lips fleetingly. "Do you
fear me?"

"You frighten me, of course, but somehow it is something in me that I'm
afraid of, not the idea of you chopping off my head. It's as if I've lost myself. " Ichabod
struggled up to a sitting position but could not look at the Horseman. He closed his eyes and pressed his
thumbs into the corners. Dark circles stood out even more for his pale complexion. He had not
had a single night of uninterupted sleep since that terrible night so long ago.

A cool hand on his chin startled him out of his reverie . The Hessian
tilted his face up forcing him to meet those stormy, grey eyes. He made contact and was lost. 

When the human could breath again, he realized the phantom had moved
closer without him noticing. Their faces were mere inches apart. His chin was held
immobile in one powerful hand. The Hessian's breath was slightly warm against his face. Without
willing his body to move, Ichabod found himself swaying closer to his companion. Their lips met
and the world outside ceased to exist.

The kiss began gently , then the Hessian was over Ichabod pressing him
back into his makeshift bed with the weight of his body and the pressure of his mouth. Ichabod
met the fierce kiss with a passion that surprised and frightened him. His mouth opened beneath the
bruising force. He felt sharpened teeth nip at his lower lip, his tongue. After an eternity the
kiss ended and the Horseman pulled him up into a rough embrace against his strong
shoulder. 

He could not seem to stop trembling. He pressed his thin body against
the larger frame of the Hessian for warmth and comfort. He buried his face in the powerful neck
breathing in the faint scent of pine and peat. After a short while he felt hands stroking his
hair and supporting the small of his back. Eventually the soothing motions and heat relaxed
him. For the first time in a year, he felt safe and protected. Too many nights of restless fear took
their toll. Ichabod Crane fell into a deep and dreamless sleep in the arms of the object of all
his fears and confusion.

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