Riding past Ichabod and Katrina, the Hessian went up to Lady Van Tassel; he unsheathed his sword and with gruesome efficiency lopped her head off. The Horseman then leapt off of Daredevil and grabbed the dead woman, his gloved hand swallowing up her tiny wrist. At his command- a mysterious glance- the Tree of the Dead opened like a wrinkled mouth, awaiting the morsel that once was Lady Van Tassel.
The Hessian threw her carelessly in and the tree closed, swallowing her whole. Ichabod clutched Katrina closer, wondering with a shudder what the soldier could possibly want with the woman's corpse and especially why he hadn't yet departed this world for the next.
The Hessian mounted his horse once more, turned it around; Daredevil trotted almost gaily towards the trio, the horrific creature atop of him snarling, revealing his chilling grimace. Ichabod pushed Katrina and Young Masbeth behind him, hoping to give them some time to escape, should the Horseman decide to also take their lives.
Pausing, his dark insane eyes glowing in the dying light, the Hessian reined his horse in, pulling up along side of Ichabod; he reached down with one black-leather gloved hand and touched the young man's soft, tangled hair, almost with as much care as he had caught his own skull with. Ichabod looked up at the demented ghost- who smiled his pointed, hideous grin- and fainted.
The Hessian hopped off of his horse and gathered the young man up, clutching him close like a mother might hug her child, nearly smothering him. He ignored Katrina and Young Masbeth, both of whom attacked the soldier venomously, screaming and kicking and clawing with all of their might. The Hessian simply got back on his horse, Ichabod nestled snugly against his chest, and turned back towards the Tree of the Dead. The tree expectantly opened once more for the final corpse (and his living guest). Daredevil leapt, and then horse, rider, and Ichabod Crane were gone.
Sobbing, Katrina fell to the ground. Young Masbeth knelt beside her, and they sat by the gnarled old tree, crying wretchedly.
Ichabod's eyelids fluttered; he had a horrible headache, and every muscle was sore. He honestly didn't want to get up, but something deep in his brain begged him to. When he finally dared to look at his new surroundings, all he saw was blackness; the room he was in lacked even the faintest hint of light. He could tell that he was in a large bed with a thick comforter tucked carefully around him. The last thing Ichabod could remember was Lady Van Tassel losing her head- the rest was hidden by the thick veil of residual shock and fear. Had Katrina and Young Masbeth fetched help? Was Ichabod in his own bed, under a doctor's care? That was unlikely: everything in this place... felt wrong. The air was cold and clear, and very gossamer; when the young constable breathed in, he had to take as deep a breath as possible, for fear of suffocation. There was a complete lack of scent: no must, no mold, no flowers or decay.
Ichabod was frozen, even with the warm goose-down blanket.
A sound invaded the restful, yet ominous, silence; the sound of heavy boots hitting the floor, and the jangle of spurs. Underneath those sounds, however, was a whispering of cloth and the very unpleasant sound of breathing. Terrified, Ichabod slammed his eyelids shut, feigning sleep, throwing an arm over his head in the hopes of faking careless tossing and turning. The sound- or, rather, the person making them- stopped next to the bed. A strange warmth neared Ichabod's prone form, and heated breath, unnaturally warm, stirred the fine hairs on his cheek. The closeness of whomever was leaning over him made his breath quicken, which he struggled to control. A hand- gloved in thick leather- reached up and touched his forearm, then slid up to tangle fingers with those of his own soft bare hand. It was then that Ichabod dared to open his eyes, turning his head slightly to look at the face of this person.
"Oh-!" Ichabod gasped, his voice catching in his throat. The Hessian soldier! The dead man appeared to not have heard the constable's exclamation, for his eyes remained closed. The Hessian turned his head as if swaying in time to a music only he heard; he moved closer, his nose brushing Ichabod's cheek. Enthralled, the young man didn't even try to move away when the Hessian's lips brushed his own. For the first time since waking, Ichabod felt a warmth rushing back to his own flesh, a heat transmitted from the soldier's body to his own. A strange passion welled up from a previously-unknown spring; Ichabod reached up with his free hand and wrapped it languidly around the Hessian's neck, pulling the dead man closer.
The startled soldier fell against Ichabod, nearly crushing him under the weight of his armor.
Pushing away, the Hessian stood up, his glittering malevolent eyes narrowed. But Ichabod's passion wouldn't abate, and he sat up, pushing the covers away from him. He was dressed in a white cotton nightshirt; he quickly unlaced the front with deft fingers, letting it slide off of one shoulder. His silken black hair brushed his exposed shoulder, curling sweetly around his neck. The Hessian's upper lip curled, his head lowering; he gazed at Ichabod curiously, wonderingly, and with a rather large amount of appetite. He grabbed Ichabod by the neck, pushing him back into the bed, but the constable displayed none of the fear one might expect. Straddling the young man's waist, the Hessian sat up, removing his armor with unnatural zeal. When his scarred chest was laid bare, he started on the light clothing that covered his goal; he ripped the cotton to shreds, accidentally scratching Ichabod in the process. Quite suddenly the rabid soldier paused, noticing he had caused the man to bl! eed. The soldier's demeanor changed with a disturbing abruptness; he tenderly wiped the blood away and with the gentleness of a mother kissed the tiny wound on the constable's shoulder. Ichabod lovingly caressed the Hessian's cheek, studying the soft expression on the dead man's face.
The Hessian bent down, pressing his mouth to Ichabod's again; this time, the constable responded in like, parting his lips so that the soldier might have access; their tongues met briefly in the shelter their mouths provided. However, like the swinging of a pendulum, the Hessian's manner changed once more, becoming violent and forceful again. He pushed Ichabod's shoulders deep into the bed, making the young man gasp in pain; pressing his own burning chest to Ichabod's frozen one, the Hessian writhed, his tongue sliding over the constable's skin. He bit the flesh above Ichabod's belly button then, traveling up again, bit under his chin and at his lips, bruising them, turning them a deep muddy purple. Trapped underneath the stronger man, Ichabod could only throw his head back, struggling not to cry out. Lifting up a little, the soldier eased into Ichabod; finally the young constable cried out, in lust as much as agony. The Hessian quickly smothered Ichabod with a kiss, swallowi! ng his cries and making them his own. They rocked together, intertwined as intimately as two humans can; Ichabod managed to get his hands free and clawed at the Hessian's back, adding to the prolific scars there. Finally the soldier released Ichabod's mouth so that he might draw breath. When the Hessian threw his own head back, grimacing spasmodically, the constable noticed the thick wound that circled around the soldier's neck, the result of his own grisly beheading. Then his mind blanked of all conscious thoughts as both he and the Hessian orgasmed almost painfully.
Exhausted, Ichabod could only lay prone under the heavy weight of the dead soldier. After a few moments in which they struggled to catch their breaths, they both turned to look at each other; smiling with melancholy love, Ichabod endearingly kissed the frozen lips of his dead lover and caressed the soldier's icy flesh one last time.
The Hessian nuzzled Ichabod's warm, willowy neck and returned the kiss before slowly rising to his feet; he dragged his heavy dark armor on, then began to make his way towards the door. Not daring to look, Ichabod buried his face in his pillow, fervently trying to ignore the biting Arctic wind that screamed in as the door swung open.
With a loud bang, the door banged shut, and the Hessian was gone.
Ichabod slowly opened his eyes and looked at the expectant faces of Katrina, Young Masbeth, and several other people, one of whom was obviously a very concerned doctor. The physician jumped back in his seat and everyone present took a nervous step back.
"Well!" The doctor proclaimed with a jittery laugh. "Look who just came back from the dead!"
Glancing at the door, Ichabod smiled bittersweetly, with the dark knowledge that can only come from those who have crossed over to the other side and come back again.