Title: A Gothic Faerie Tale: Part I (Plum and Blood)

Author: Coi

E-mail: yohohumneocoi.net

Pairing: The Hessian/Ichabod Crane

Rating: R for violent sexual situations that take place between two consenting adults (i.e. no rape)

Category: Drama/Romance/Angst

Warnings: This fic contains slash! If you do not know what slash is or are offended by such material, then do not read!

Summary: Time has passed since the happenings of Sleepy Hollow and Ichabod Crane, but neither the Hessian nor Katrina has finished their business with the twitchy constable.

Author's Note: This is not a happy story. It is a grotesque and depressing tale that expresses some of my darker moments. The purpose of this story was originally entertainment, but it has since become a way to prove that one can change, improve, and overcome any obstacle even if the pathway to resolution is hard and not to your liking, which is often the case. It is only when one finds resolution that one can attain true happiness.

Furthermore, this is not your dime a dozen Sleepy Hollow slash fic. Yes, the Hessian does get with Ichabod Crane, but it's more complex than that. Bear with me and all will be made clear in the end (Part III).

Life was boring and meaningless. Something was never quite right. No matter what color he dyed his hair, no matter how many hoops and studs graced his ears, something was missing. Drugs and whores did little to fill the emptiness, and he stumbled through existence, always looking for something not there.

Money was neither an issue nor an answer. Some relative he never had the chance, wanted or not, to meet provided him with a monthly income that paid off his bills and habits, which were ever changing for he was constantly on the search for that person, drug, experience that would make him whole.

And, that was how Robert Crane lived from the winter he turned fifteen to his present, ripe-old-age of twenty-one. The narcotics and prostitutes transfigured a once healthy, bright looking boy into a thin husk of a man whose complexion had iced over. His jet black eyes were dull, lifeless, and only hinted at his level of sobriety and nothing more. No emotion, no spark of thought ever glistened through his lethargic gaze. Robert was a wreck. He knew it. He could care less. The days crept by him, and he took no notice. Dates were irrelevant and the only inkling registering with him that it was day was by the light that refused to go out with a switch.

As much as he strove to remain erratic in his daily existence, his sad life had developed a rather morbid, steadfast routine. He awoke nude each day in the same seedy bed with the same unchanged linens. He then would run one slender, nearly bony but not quite, hand through his hair, which was always stiff from grease and gel that he never fully washed out. His dead eyes would sweep over the room in hopes that his missing piece would be there, awaiting his return to the conscious world. After the realization that his apartment was still depressingly devoid of any sentient life but his own, Robert would rise and stumble to the bathroom. His shower consisted of standing under the water, hot or cold for it did not matter, until he felt that most of the filth and grime had been washed away. A shaky hand would then turn the knob, stopping the flow of water, which always elicited a soft gasp at the sudden loss of contact. With a shake of his head, Robert then walked to the kitchen. With unconcerned selection and movements, he would eat just enough to keep him on his feet. The food always tasted the same- bland and dry. Sadly, he truly did not care.

Once his hunger had been slaked, Robert usually spent the rest of his energy, after dressing and shellacking his hair with more gel, wandering the streets and brothels. Restless and exhausted, he would return to his seedy bed alone before the break of dawn. Sometimes, just to spice up the depressing cycle in which he existed, he would retrieve the razor, the only article in his possession that was completely clean, off his dresser and, as he lay naked on his bed, retrace the spider web scars rising off his icy skin. He did not feel the pain. Even if he did, he would not have cared. The sight of those red threads dripping and flowing over his white skin fascinated him. That and the spilling of blood brought a small notion of release like nothing else, not even fucking the whores under the red light. Once sated by this blood driven lust, he would close his eyes and fall into a dreamless, nearly relaxed and restful sleep. Only on nights that followed this soft self-mutilation did Robert sleep without seeing that black, twisted tree that haunted his unconscious mind. Knowing this, he bled quite often.

It was during one of these enthralling cut sessions that the knock sounded. The pounding at the door did not register at first. Persistence, however, eventually seeped through the red cloud of apathetic desire. His mind shouted a simple, curt, "Fuck off!" Something like a smile flashed over Robert's near purple lips when the obtrusive noise ceased. His thick lashes met and his dark world turned pitch black.

The sudden click and turn of key snapped Robert out of his dreary reverie. His usually unemotional eyes widened, and he fought to keep them from searching frantically for the intruder. He secretly prayed that the shadow penetrating his sanctuary was either his missing half or an assassin. Either would grant him the eternal release from the wretched existence in which he currently lived. However, the spark of life that still dwelled somewhere deep within him would not allow him to simply lay back and die.

"Who the hell are you?" Five words. It was the most he had spoken in weeks and his voice sounded weak and untried as a result. The immediate response was the sound of soft-shoes upon his stained carpet.

"The pocket book behind your apparent sufferings," was the final reply. The tone was light, sad, feminine, and completely unknown.

He jerked his head to the sound of her voice. Standing before him was a fair woman not a day over twenty with golden curls. She was clothed in layer upon layer of black. So many layers and skirts that her habit and lacy gloves appeared to have been ripped out of Gothic storybook. She stood proud with her washed out eyes focused on him. Her unblinking stare was a tad unnerving as was her awesome grip on her rich velvet satchel that was, once again, black. Robert might have thought her attractive if she would simply ditch the sable clothing. The dark coloring made her look whey-faced and sickly. The thought almost made him laugh for was that not a case of the pot calling the kettle black?

"What do you want?" Some amount of strength had returned to his voice, giving him more force in his question. Propping himself up on his elbows, he resigned to glaring until he received a proper answer.

"I have a proposition for you, Mr. Crane." She paused for a moment but his silence drove her to continue. "I know how unhappy you truly are, and the fault lies with me. If you would acquiesce to living with me for a mere month, I will provide the means for the return of your happiness. However, if at the end of the month and you are still miserable, I will fly you back to this," she paused once more to motion to the mess about her. "Place of residence or any other you might desire. I will also continue to support your destructive behaviors. All I ask is one month."

She watched as he stared back with his dull eyes. Her heart cried out at the sight of the bleeding cuts and multiple thread thick scars that traced every curve and angle of his body. She barely held back her concern from flashing in her eyes at the deep shadows below his hollowed, sharp cheeks and the unnatural, corpse-like hue of his all too feminine lips. His chartreuse spiked and crusty hair and stud and hoop riddled ears demanded the full use of her self-control to keep a nasty snarl of disgust at bay. "My dear constable, I curse myself for bringing you to such a low state."

"Fuck off, you crazy bitch!" Robert hissed at the woman. "Who do you think you are breaking into my apartment and demanding me to go flouncing off with you to some undisclosed location? How do I even know that you are who you say you are? For all I know, you could be some whore I got pregnant wanting child support or some other messed up shit."

"I'm glad to see that your drugs and tonics have not addled your brain." The woman answered with a weak smile. She stepped forward to issue a few papers from her satchel before retreating a few paces to return to him his space.

Her lack of reaction to his rude, monotone exclamations angered him more than her initial intrusion. What was the point of living if you could not piss someone off? However, Robert did scan each paper- a deed for property in New York, a copy of the lease for his efficiency apartment, and several bank statements showing a monthly withdrawal equal to the amount on his checks. All of the documents seemed authentic and shared the common name Katrina Van Tassel Crane on the signature line, which matched the signature on the endorsement space on every single check he had ever received.

He sighed to himself. Should he go? Of course. It would be something new, even if fatal, and who knows. He might find himself in New York if that was indeed where she wanted to take him. Besides, she was family after all. He nearly sniggered at the concept. Yet, even family needed to be tested. He would not let her think that he had been truly willing to go before she had ever presented her evidence. With a nod, he looked up from the papers. "How do I know that these aren't fake? Forgeries? Copies are so easy to come by these days."

Katrina frowned at his show of obstinacy but proceeded to procure a pen from her handbag. Walking towards him once more, she grasped one of the bank statements and signed her name on the back. The signatures matched.

Robert had meant to ask when they were to leave but instead growled out a new inquiry. "Why do you want to help me? Why do you even bother with caring? All you've been to me since I was fifteen was a check that kept me clothed, sheltered, fed, regularly fucked, and drugged for six years. Why appear now?"

Katrina looked as if she wanted to cry. Good. Her reaction pleased him. "I was forced to wait until you were of proper age."

"What the hell does that mean?" Robert was sitting up now. For once in his life, he wanted to hear a few answers to his questions besides "how much" and "for how long."

"I will answer that when the time is right." The woman replied with newfound strength.

"Fuck you!" Robert screamed.

"No!" Katrina yelled back before he could continue. "If you wish to find your answers, you must come with me now. A private jet is waiting and will leave in an hour. With. Or without you. I suggest you make your decision quickly, Mr. Crane, and do not waste time with luggage. A replacement wardrobe is waiting for you in New York. Take only what you need."

"She knew I would accept." Robert thought solemnly. He sighed again, disgusted with his own predictability. Rising from the now bloody bed, he smirked with mild amusement as Katrina turned away. "So properly shy…At least the company will be a pleasant change…for a while." Robert mused while absentmindedly pulling on a pair of faded jeans and a wrinkled black shirt that had been discarded only a few hours ago on the floor. Before thinking, he grabbed the razor and proceeded with the usual cleansing process of water and alcohol. Once cleaned, he slid the blade into his wallet, which he put in his back pocket. His feet slid into a pair of black flip-flops on their own accord before he turned to her. He refused to speak so merely motioned with a hand that he was ready to leave.

Katrina looked him over for a moment. The black shirt made the man appear as white as snow, and the fabric that clung to the still wet blood on his body almost made her groan. "God, please sustain me through this trial!" Her mind beseeched as she turned on heel and moved toward the still open door. A single tear threatened to mar her pretty face when she heard Robert's shuffled footsteps. Long gone was the proud spring of the constable she still loved. Her only hope was that in the end she had the strength and will power to set things right. "Both of us are weary of this world, Ichabod. Help me set us to rest."

So much like his life, the flight from his dump in California to Katrina's home in New York was boring. Katrina never moved to speak and why this bothered he could not say. Robert generally reveled in silence. He found the voices of most people to be empty, meaningless, and maybe even a tad unpleasant. Katrina, however, did not fall into this category. The sound and tone of her voice intrigued him. He even felt the smallest bit of satisfaction in talking with her, something he noted in the apartment. Robert analyzed every aspect of that encounter and totaled his number of spoken words to be around one hundred forty. A trifle number for most, but when it takes one months or maybe a year to accumulate such a collection, one cannot help but be awed. While he had regular contact with his usual whores, pimps, and street pharmacists, they knew exactly what he wanted, for how long, and at what price. Communication was rarely needed.

Furthermore, Katrina's very presence seemed to affect him. The fact that she was quite attractive did not influence him a bit. His sluts were pretty too. No, the unsettling feelings were found somewhere in the noble, familiar tilt of her head, sad eyes, and poise. He was quite sure that he had seen, if not her, those very features and inner pride elsewhere but he could not remember in whom, where, or when. Frustrated with her nostalgic looks and lack of verbal participation during the flight, Robert searched out solace and meaning in the night sky.

In the distance, illuminated by the silvery light of the ripe moon, deep blue and purple clouds floated against their starry backdrop. Thin streams of lightning danced between the balls of dark mist, illuminating the shapes and patterns formed by the unseen air currents. With a sudden flash, one mighty bolt raced from the ground to join its brothers in the sky. Its light spread like branches to reach as many clouds as possible during the few breaths of the shock's existence. Like the branches of a tree. Robert snapped his eyes shut as the memory of that twisted tree from his dreams ripped through his mind at the same rate as the bolt. Why, oh why, did he have to remember that blasted tree now?

"I will bleed tonight…the last thing I want is to be haunted by some decaying flora while away under Katrina's 'care.' One problem at a time…" Robert thought icily while his eyelids slowly fluttered open. Turning to the woman once more, his eyes locked with hers. A look of determination and an eerie understanding shone in her eyes causing a knot to form in Robert's stomach. "Yes, one problem at a time…" Robert agreed with himself as Katrina turned away. How she could affect him so with a simple glance Robert could not discern, but the reality of the situation left something resembling fear and unease in the back of his mind. "Well, first words and now emotion…I'm thoroughly impressed, but a shadow of fear is a far cry from happiness. Thank you. Please try again." He smirked for just a second before closing his eyes once more to fall asleep only to be met by dreams filled with a nasty tree and a repetitive, challenging, animalistic whine.

Robert's eyelids did not part again until the plane landed at a small airfield in God knows where. He vaguely remembered being herded into a vehicle of some kind before returning to his haunting dreams. This fitful sleep did not last long and his open eyes were greeted by a soft, orange glow emanated by the lighted windows of a rather large house. The house, like it mistress for it was Katrina's, appeared to have popped out of a grotesque novel with its dark wood, graceful arches, high ceilings with exposed beams, and hand blown glass framed in black panels. Kerosene lamps in place of the more modern electric lighting graced the hallways and rooms. Old World furniture crafted with brocades, velvets, and hard woods filled the warmly lit chambers. It was a very clean, tidy, dark home and was the perfect material personification of Katrina. She and the house were made for each other. Robert, on the other hand, felt lost and out of place from his chartreuse hair down to his cheap flip-flops.

Katrina showed him to his room and lectured him in great detail which drawer and closet held which type of apparel. Robert paid her little mind as his eyes scanned his new sanctuary. The room was very much like the rest of the house- old, rich, and dark. The color scheme was a lovely mixture of buffed gold and royal purple. However, unlike the remainder of the home, Robert felt nearly at peace in this room. The soft colors exuded a calming air and the rich bedding nearly made him groan. Blood went beautifully with the deep aureate and plum colored linens. Even his hair matched the room. The bright green gave the chamber a sense of lascivious life, forgivable sin, trial, and reward. Robert briefly wondered what would rise for him after his walk through this wasteland of unfamiliarity and the thirty days lent to Katrina. What indeed?

"Mr. Crane?" Came his hostess's soft voice, reclaiming his attention almost immediately. "As I was saying, you may call on Masbath if you have any needs."

"The house keeper?" Robert asked as an automatic response while his eyes returned to their dance about the room.

"No…my ward. The housekeepers have retired for the day and will not return until the morn. So do not worry yourself too much with making the bed or refraining from your usual habits. Cleaning is their job and they do it well." She paused as if to draw a response, but once again Robert refused to acknowledge her. "If you have no further questions or pressing needs, I will leave you for the evening." When he did not answer, she bowed her head and left.

For once, Robert had not meant to be rude in the least. His mind was too busy scrutinizing the name "Masbath." Like Katrina and the house, the name seemed rather familiar. Sprawling out on top the soft sheets, Robert allowed his eyes to close in an attempt to sort out the meaning behind the familiarity of all these strangers and even stranger locations. However, all was a distraction from the clean smell of the sheets to the heat given off by the kerosene lamps and the drumming of the new rain against his window to the creak given off by the sudden turn of the door handle. Wait. The door handle turned?

His eyes opened and targeted on the newest of intruders. Standing before him was a young boy no older than fourteen. His dark hair was short and clean. His clothes were tailored and neatly pressed. He appeared to be in good health and well fed, but there was something in his eyes that spoke of unfathomable secrets. A certain skittishness and look of morbid anticipation beamed from those brilliant eyes that attracted Robert's attention almost instantly. And, as with so many things of late, Robert was sure he had seen the youth and his troubled, bright eyes before but where? When? Those were the two questions that he most desperately wanted answer, yet no one seemed inclined to inform him.

"Who might you be in this storybook world?" Robert breathed while his body slid into an upright position upon the bed. His eyes stared at the youth with an obvious display of disinterest.

"Masbath, sir." The boy answered.

"Of course, he is. Who else could he be?" Robert yawned, fatigued by the number of coincidences that continued to intrude upon his life.

"The lady said that you will be needing a bath, and I am here to notify you that it has been drawn."

The kid was cute, and the subtle shifting of his weight from foot to foot was adorable. Unfortunately for the boy, Robert was in no mood to entertain young Masbath or Katrina's commands. "Fuck off."

Masbath looked stricken. Robert could care less and proved so by reverting back to his previous pose on the bed. His disinterest in the situation quickly changed when the boy approached, grasped him by the shoulders, and pulled him upright once more, nearly yanking him off the bed entirely in the process. While used to being man handled, the look of extreme hurt and pity in the boy's face startled Robert.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Robert growled, forcing his usually expressionless countenance into a fierce snarl to shield himself from the pure emotion manifested by Masbath.

Robert did not miss the extra breath taken by the boy as his grip slackened and his hands fell to his sides. "Lady's orders, sir. If you wish to leave this house, you will be clean and wearing pressed clothes. The lady does not wish to be embarrassed."

Robert stared at the boy in mild amusement. Before this moment, no one had ever demanded that he be clean and pressed. The drug dealers and pimps cared for the cleanliness of his money and nothing more. The dictate was new and after such a long, miserable flight, a bath actually sounded quite nice. "I should bring my razor…Pale pink water is much more interesting."

With a resigned nod, Robert stood with wallet still in his back pocket and followed the youth. Masbath led him to a small bathroom with a large porcelain tub filled with steaming water against the opposite wall. The boy disappeared and Robert felt something similar to being glad. Like his mistress and home, the youth reminded him of something, something forgotten. The forced remembrance of nothing was disturbing and he did not like it. In fact, he did not care for the whole situation. The entire scenario was causing him to feel something new on almost an hourly basis. Emotion was foreign and hurt. He desperately wanted it to cease, but every time he saw or, Heaven forbid, spoke with that stupid boy or Katrina, something pulled at his heart.

He glanced at the water and pulled off his shirt. "If a few hours of their presence and company have caused this much change, I'll be arranging fucking flowers and watching under budgeted soap operas while eating chocolate by the time this is all over…"

Once free of his filthy garments, he slipped into the water with a slight moan. The water was warm, pleasingly warm, and soothing. Too soothing. It felt unnatural to feel this comfortable. Turning slightly, he reached for his wallet and the sharp blade within. He was determined to bring his former routine back from the past to help mask this new situation if only a little. He would feel pain.

The first cut would have left a thin line of red from hip to hip just below his navel but the water spread the impure liquid, blushing a pale pink. While it was decidedly a fascinating shade, it would be more spectacular with more blood. The razor danced up his body with only enough pressure to leave a teasing, white scratch and not the red agony he desired, needed, and yearned for. The blade, however, was merciful and left a semi-circle of flowing crimson just under his left nipple. The pain was glorious. That was life after all- pain. A groan escaped his lips as the now warm steel grazed down his left side, sending delightfully agonizing tremors through his body and more red to the pinkish water.

"Sir!"

Robert jerked, gouging the soft flesh just above his hip a little deeper than he meant to. "You little…" Robert turned to glare at Masbath but saw not the boy but the Tree. The same Tree that flittered into his mind just as he dipped into sleep. Never before had he seen the monstrosity with open eyes. "What is this place?" He breathed, forgetting Masbath existed.

"Sir?"

Robert blinked and focused on the boy whose arms were laden with a sealed jar of some sort and a metal pitcher. "What do you want?"

The boy did not answer. Instead, he moved to kneel beside the tub with a determined face. Using the pitcher, he spilled more warm water over Robert's head. Robert tensed only for a moment when those young fingers ran through his hair covered with a sweet smelling salve. The boy was actually washing his hair. What a novel act.

Without warning, more hot water was poured on his head. He enjoyed the warm trails left by the water and soap down his body until the suds reached his still bleeding side. His breath hitched at the newfound pain, causing Masbath to stop.

"Finish…"

Masbath obeyed, continuing with the scrub to a lather and rinse process until every ounce of gel and grease was floating in the rose colored water. Ignoring his now throbbing side, Robert marveled at the length of his green hair. It practically blocked his view. When had it grown so long? How bad were his roots? Such mindless questions were soon interrupted by the young Masbath.

"I am leaving now, sir. I have placed your bed clothes beneath the towels on the chair," the boy informed, motioning to the previously unnoticed chair in the corner. By the time Robert had moved the hair out of his eyes to look, Masbath was no longer there.

"Bath…bed clothes…what's next? Is there a bride waiting in some closet for me?" Robert sneered as stepped out of the tub. Once dry, he picked up the bed clothes to examine them. He had decided that if the clothing was any kind of dressing gown or matching pajama set, he would watch them burn stark naked in the fireplace centered in the living room. That would certainly give Katrina a start. Sadly, the garment in question was neither a dressing gown nor a matching pajama set. It was nothing more than a black pair of soft cotton drawstring pants. He could live, or sleep as the case was, with them. Pulling them on, he left the washroom and began his search for the way back to his room. En route, he almost collided with Katrina who was still dressed in her seemingly characteristic black and carrying a glass of some dark liquid.

"Forgive me, Mr. Crane! I did not see you coming." She exclaimed with a showy gasp of excitement. She quickly swept her eyes over his exposed flesh to check if the side wound was still angry and bleeding. Masbath had related the tale of the wound, and it had left her quite shaken. To her relief, the wound was clean and dry. Clearing her throat, her eyes focused on his and awaited some form of verbal rejoinder. He gave none. His continual refusal to respond was beginning to wear at her patience, but she was determined to stay strong if only for her own sake. "Your chamber is this way." Katrina said simply, walking down the hallway Robert has just come from. Turning on heel, Robert found himself once again following her. In addition to being continually led becoming a tedious habit, some voice from some unknown recess in his mind shouted warning. Following could lead to his downfall. How such a mundane act as following could lead to a downfall he was uncertain, but in this somehow mystical place he now existed, Robert found himself trusting the most obscure source, namely himself.

Once Katrina had led him to the door to his room, Robert opened the door and was about to slip inside when she placed a slender hand on his shoulder. Looking back at her, she offered the glass with its dark contents. "Masbath told me that you seemed delusional. It might be a side effect of the long flight. I suggest drinking this. It will help you sleep."

Robert moved to face her completely now. That new-sprung little voice screamed to slam the door, stain those beautiful sheets with blood, and receive several hours of much needed dreamless sleep. However, if it was a drug she was giving him, it could not be that damaging. God only knows that he has the experience necessary to make such a statement. Giving that new voice a harsh shove back to the recess from hence it came, Robert accepted the glass and then shut the door in her face. Once sealed within, he tilted his wrist and swallowed every drop with in the glass. The taste was bold and a tad tart but to his liking. He was not surprised when a sudden wave of fatigue washed over him. Dropping the glass and enjoying the sound of it shattering, Robert climbed into bed and hoped that as he closed his eyes, he would hear nothing and see only darkness in his sleep. No trees. No cries of the wild. Just black, engulfing, comforting darkness.

Katrina smiled at the sound of the glass breaking. Although she could not be certain, the shatter of the glass was a good sign that Robert had downed the draught. With the aid of that little potion, Robert's view in his dreams should broaden. If her visions were correct, in addition to seeing the Tree of the Dead and hearing Daredevil's challenge, images of ice blue gray eyes and unruly black hair should appear as well. As Robert continued to stay in Sleepy Hollow, flashes of eyes and hair should give away to the Hessian in his entirety. Once complete, the Horseman would guide Robert through the dream world and revive lost memories. The young man would then be able to attain his happiness if he so choose, and she and Masbath could finally rest. However, even with the help of the spell and the close proximity to the grave, completion and remembrance could take weeks. Precious weeks she was not sure she had. She was sure that if Robert grew bored or tired of the new additions to his dreams, he would leave. Just like he did when he was fifteen.

The Tree loomed in front of him. Its roots twisted and contorted, beckoning him closer. With a mind of its own, his right foot took a single step toward the gaping mouth of the Tree. The sudden snort from behind stopped his left foot from following the right's example. The warning snort quickly turned into that harsh whine which sent a violent shudder through Robert's frame. He wanted to run, to hide from both that monstrous Tree and the howling creature that he never saw. His feet, however, had lost their previous desire to move and held steadfast to the ground on which he stood. With no course of action before him, Robert slumped to the ground, covering his face with his hands. "It's a mere dream, the same dream I've had since I was fifteen. Wake up! I must wake up. It's not real. Wake up, Stupid!"

"Ichabod…"

A voice. A new occurrence in what had once been an unchanging dream. The voice was deep and somewhat raspy as if it was unused to being used. There was a rich, underlying accent that nearly soothed the tremors of fear that threatened to overtake Robert's body. It sounded Germanic, but he could not be sure. Even though he did not know who this Ichabod was, Robert desperately hoped that the man behind the voice would end this horrid nightmare and set him free.

"Ichabod." This time, the man spoke with more force. His tone demanded action.

Letting his hands slide to his side, Robert stood. "I am not Ichabod!" He shouted to the air. Why, oh why, if he was going to be stuck in this dream could the man not get his name right?

"Ichabod…" The voice snarled.

His sudden anger in the man's insistence to call him by a name not his own over came Robert's fear, and he turned to face the voice. The figure behind the voice was little more than a black blur before him. All he could make out for certain was a pair of powerful, unblinking blue gray eyes. His dark gaze ripped away the courage brought on by Robert's anger, causing him to collapse to his knees. He wanted to faint, to escape the dream if only for a while.

"Awake, Ichabod…" The figure commanded with a softer tone.

"No!"

No? That was not the knee-jerk reaction Robert had expected to voice. No? Even if the blur was ordering him about under an incorrect name, awaking was the only way he could escape this frighteningly real dream world. No? He was never using drugs again.

"Awake." The power had returned to the voice's tone, summoning those horrid shudders to arise once more within Robert.

"Fuck off and get out of my head!"

"You must wake." The voice was moving toward him in a distinctive four beat trot. "Only by doing so will the turmoil wrought by your end be solved."

"My end? You are out of your fucking mind. Everyone is out of their fucking minds! Katrina! Masbath! The only person in his mind is me…and I want out! Out of this dream! This place! Let me go…you and that fucking Tree!" Robert finished, nearly screaming as a single slender hand flung back behind him to motion at the Tree.

In response, a long, wicked piece of steel emerged from the black nothingness of the voice. Robert swallowed as the burning metal caressed the hollow of his throat. With a flick of what might have been an elbow, the sword danced into the air, leaving a bloodless nick right above Robert's collarbone. With another twitch of the form, the sword sailed toward him. Robert was quite proud of reaction. He did not shrink from it, scream, or look away. He merely fainted, which was always an acceptable response to a situation as dire as this.

Falling into unconsciousness in his dream returned him to the reality of the waking world. Robert's eyes flew open as his arms snapped into a defensive position above his head, but no sword sliced into his flesh. No tree attempted to grab him with its harsh roots. No animal challenged him from behind. Only soft gold and purple embraced his prickled skin. Rising slightly on his elbows, he glared at the sunlight seeping into his room via an uncovered window. His frown deepened upon hearing the bright and cheery song of some bird just outside.

"And fuck you too…" Robert mumbled while rising from the impossibly comfortable bed. Scanning the room, his eyes stopped at a chair positioned near an armoire. Resting upon the piece was a neat folded outfit with matching high boots standing at attention next to the chair. He stumbled toward the clothing, gingerly picking up the shirt. It was a gentleman's shirt. White. Pressed. The pants were fine black slacks with professionally placed creases. The apparel presented the picturesque image of a very fine English horseman. There was no way in hell he would wear it.

Spinning around, Robert ripped opened the drawers and found nothing but the same black slacks. He turned on heel and skidded to the closet, thrusting open the doors. Within were the same white, neat, gentlemanly shirts. Fuck. He apparently had no choice but to wear the dismally politically correct clothing. With an unrepressed growl, he shimmied out of his night pants and pulled on the day's attire. Sitting upon the chair, he neatly slid his legs and pants into the boots to complete the look. If he was going to be forced to look like a member of polite society, he would not do a half-assed job. Standing, he faced the mirror situated above the dresser. After his insultingly green hair was tucked behind his ears, he nearly looked the part of a gentleman. Katrina would be pleased. Robert was, of course, quite disgusted.

Whispering a few more obscenities, Robert left his room. As expected, Katrina stood wearing her usual black holding her black bag in the living room by the fireplace. However, stood was the wrong verb. She looked stiff, posed, as if waiting for a photographer to take a snap shot. Waiting. Waiting for him?

"Ah, Mr. Crane! Did you sleep well?"

Robert glared at her for a moment before giving her the bird. Katrina, the sick bitch, smiled.

"That is a pleasant change. At least you responded." She answered his unspoken thoughts with a rather cheery tone accompanied by tart look. "Do you like your new clothes? They make you look very distinguished…Just like my husband. God rest his soul." Katrina had added the last bit by mistake. Her eyes quickly left Robert's and swept to the floor while claiming a seat next to the fire. She could not look at him. He looked too much like Ichabod. "Silly, of course he does."

"What the…I was right. You are a sick bitch! You dragged me all the way to New York from California to make me your boy toy? Your personal whore!" In response, Katrina laughed her little dainty chuckle.

Frustrated with the lack of answers and being laughed at, something inside Robert snapped. Rushing forward, his hands wrapped around her slight neck with an unknown strength. Katrina's giddy laugh quickly turned into a pleasing gasp. Her white hands clawed at him, ripping open the collar of his shirt. He paid her scratching no mind. Her small fingers did not possess the power to break his pale skin and left only irritated red lines.

With a sudden yank, Robert was flung backwards and smashed against a loveseat. Standing before a coughing Katrina was none other than Masbath. The boy ran to him, and Robert awaited the wailing of fists. None came. Instead, gentle hands lifted him to his feet. "Why, sir? What has made you so angry?"

"Robert…" Katrina was just about to tell him to go and use his energies elsewhere when she noticed a black nick on his throat that had not resulted from her nails's onslaught. "Come here if you please."

Ignoring Masbath's gentle shove, Robert stood steadfast. Katrina's tone was too calm, too smooth for someone who was just about throttled to death.

Sighing away her frustration, Katrina continued while issuing a compact mirror from her satchel. "Did you do that to yourself? That black mark?"

Black mark? Robert had not noticed a black mark. Furthermore, his cutting never left a black mark. Taking the mirror, Robert checked his exposed chest. A criss-cross pattern of angry red lines danced over his pale skin. Those, of course, were the work of Katrina. However, just a little higher, right above the collarbone, was a slender, dark nick. Realizing the source of the mark, Robert's knees gave out as he threw the mirror away from him. "No!" His hands went to his face in a futile effort to invoke the belief that if one cannot see it, it does not exist.

Controlling her initial urge to run to Robert, Katrina moved toward him with the slow precision and grace of a lady. "Robert, who hurt you?"

"It was a dream! Only a dream!" He cried out his answer, barely holding back sobs.

"Yes, a dream but who cut you, Robert? Tell me." How she managed to keep her voice calm, Katrina could never be sure. The sight of Robert in such distress hurt more than she would ever admit.

"It was a blur! It was only a blur!" Robert's whole frame was shuddering, and it took a stern look from Katrina to keep Masbath were he stood.

"Robert…Robert, I think you need some air. You need to calm down." Katrina's voice was soft, motherly, as was the hand with which she gently caressed Robert's clean hair.

"Yes…yes," the boy agreed weakly while his legs reclaimed their strength. Standing, he stared into Katrina's eyes with eyes that were red from tears that would not come. "It's you…Masbath…This house. You have brought me to this hell. Now you will let me out." Robert snarled, spitting in her face. His face was alive with energy, flushed with anger. His eyes were vibrant with emotion and passion, a burning swirl of liquid chocolate and amber- simply beautiful.

Katrina did not flinch, too taken back with the beauty radiating from the boy in front of her. "You owe me a month, Robert, and I will have it. However, if you wish for space, follow Masbath. He will lead you to the stables and provide you with a horse." Katrina ordered as she claimed a seat next to the fire, refusing to look at him further.

"A horse?"

"Yes…Sleepy Hollow is a tourist attraction. No cars are allowed during the day."

"Sleepy Hollow…The Hollow…" Robert mumbled, lost in a trance, his eyes once more fading to dull orbs.

"Come, sir," Masbath said softly while claiming Robert's right hand and leading him to the stables.

Robert allowed himself to be led as his mind devoured the newest fact given by Katrina. He was in Sleepy Hollow. That name, of course, was familiar. There was a book by that name, a Disney cartoon, and some Johnny Depp film by the same title made a few years ago. Even though he could care less for the actual content of the film, Robert had almost gone to a midnight showing simply because the actor's eyes on the poster intrigued him. Sadly, his rendezvous with Roxanne had interfered with the show time. However, familiarity ran deeper, past the book and films. Ichabod! The character and the name he heard in his dream. Damn it! What a time to give up drugs…

Masbath's polite, "ahem," brought him out of his thoughts and back to reality. Before him stood a large, roan horse donned with black tack. "Name's Killian," the boy informed with a sad droop of his head.

"Ah, yes…" was Robert's cracked replied as he eyed the menacing beast viciously devour oats from a bucket. He moved toward the horse without thinking. Was he even really moving? Yes, he was, but he was not sure how. He felt like a puppet with a fuzzy glow clouding his mind, and he was resigned to merely observe his body perform whatever the puppet master wished.

Robert watched as his hands slid over the horse's head in a gentle caress. He heard his voice speak some soft words. He did not recognize them, but the horse seemed to and shook its head in a "yes" fashion. His foot slipped easily into the stirrup, and he somehow pulled himself onto the saddle without difficulty. Fingers lightly grasped the reins, and he was about to ride off when the strings were snapped by a slight voice.

"Sir?" The sudden trance-like state broken, Robert slumped forward, clutching Killian's mane. "Have you ridden before? That was perfect." There was a hint of admiration in the youth's voice, but Robert paid it no mind.

"No…is there a bar in town?" Robert asked through clenched teeth as he slowly sat up in the saddle. He had never liked horses. They were big, stupid creatures and could easily kill him. Although he claimed that death did not frighten him, the idea of being crushed by one or more of Killian's massive hooves was unnerving. Despite his fear of the equine species and the fact that riding drunk was an act of lunacy, Robert desperately needed at least one shot of vodka- straight, strong, and burning. Perhaps that would settle his head and aid him in surviving Katrina's trial. One can only hope.

"No, sir. And drinking would not be wise. However, the mistress is correct. You need to calm your nerves. Give Killian a little nudge with your heels and he'll lead you to a lovely path through the woods. Follow that path. I think the crisp air will do you some good. Stay with the path and take the left fork. Taking the right will lead you down the tourist trail, which is quite boring. And, a word to the wise, do not stay out after sunset…you might become involved in a collision with a car." Masbath finished in response to Robert's puzzled glance.

As foretold by Masbath, with a slight nudge, Killian trudged forward. Since the horse seemed to be little more than a trail pony, Robert slowly relaxed and his steely grip softened into something less likely to cause cramps. He thanked his lucky stars that the horse knew exactly were it was going. Robert did not have to guide the creature at all. The beast walked down a well-trodden path and they soon delved into the forest. The trees were bright and green. Birds were singing. Squirrels were chittering and scampering about. All that was missing was an orchestra playing Edvard Grieg's Morning Mood. Robert wanted to shoot himself.

It was with his mind pondering various methods of suicide that Robert came upon the fork. Masbath had said to go left, but upon peering down the path, Robert immediately rejected that idea. The left was nothing more than the same scenic garbage he had been riding through for the past fifteen or so minutes. The right seemed much more hospitable toward his mood- dark, grey, and quiet. With a reassuring nod, he fought Killian's pull to the left and continued down the right path. Masbath had been correct in his description though. The right path was definitely a tourist's path. Bright yellow markers and wooden railings outlined the trail, sickening Robert. Why would one destroy the mood and aura of the dark forest with bright yellow and railings? If a defined pathway was absolutely necessary, wrought iron would have been a better choice, but they did not ask him, so his opinion was obviously useless.

Silence. Blissful, soothing, smothering, unending silence. It was all Robert had wanted a moment ago. Now that he had it, he found it to be a tad unnerving. It was too unnatural, even for him. Killian did not appreciate the path either. The beast was constantly snorting and shaking its head in an unhappy manner. Furthermore, the horse's increased twitching was causing Robert to bounce all the more in the saddle and his rear was quite numb. This whole "get some fresh air" thing was becoming far from enjoyable.

Snap!

Something had cracked behind him and startled Killian, sending the horse into a mad gallop. Despite Robert's knuckle white grip on the reins, the furious increase in motion was nearly flinging him out of the saddle. Furthermore, Killian had somehow caught the bit in his teeth and was not responding to Robert's commands. He yanked on the mane, but it was to no avail. The horse was determined to either run itself to death or collide with an unseen group of trees around the next bend. Robert was hoping for the former. It seemed more survivable.

"Move with him…"

What the hell was that?

"Move with him. Ride, Ichabod…"

That voice! It was the same one from his dream, but this was not a dream. How could a figure conjured in the subconscious speak to him during his waking hours? It did not make sense, but Robert's body was in no mood for his mind's far-stretched inquiries. Obeying that mental command, he rose out of the saddle with his knees bending with the horse's motion. The feeling was exhilarating. Robert felt like he was flying, soaring on the crests of air wrought by Killian's race, which was most pleasant except for the vicious bite of his loose hair against his face. His legs screamed and the leather reins and his fingernails dug into his palms, but he did not mind. No longer feeling like he was about to be thrown, Robert actually enjoyed the ride. With the horse's clanging hooves breaking the silence, he almost felt content. The woods seemed to welcome him, straightening and widening for easier passage. The worries of life, drug induced fatigue, and the general heavy weariness of living fell back with the blurred trees. Although something was still missing, Robert almost felt happy. That quickly changed when he just about flew over Killian's head when the horse slid into a stop. After a quick sigh of relief, Robert's tongue lashed a thousand curses upon the beast and the stallion that sired it while pulling himself back into the saddle. His muttered swearing quickly ceased when his eyes locked onto the twisted, black thing in front of him. If possible, he face paled by shades.

Stumbling out of the saddle, Robert inched his way to the Tree. At first, he tried to tell himself that it was not real. He attempted to convince his eyes that he had indeed been thrown and that he was hallucinating. Robert quit lying when he ran his hand over the Tree's hard bark. It did not feel like he expected. The bark had a certain burnt, fleshy feel to it and pulsed. Robert could feel the bile rise as he imagined a black, cancerous heart pumping diseased blood through the sinister monstrosity. Swallowing back the bitter acid, a dark scowl claimed his frightened face.

"Why! Why can't you leave me alone? First my dreams! Then the mirage in the bathroom…Now this! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!" Robert shouted, his fist pounding, his fingers clawing against the Tree. His hands were turning purple from the abuse. The tips of his fingers were a sickly mixture of plum and crimson, leaving sticky red trails in their wake. Hot tears stained his face, giving it a red hue. His whole body shook with the powerful combination of rage and tears. He was quickly becoming the picturesque image of an over painted puppet for a stage rendition of one of E. A. Poe's short stories, full of angst, dripping blood, and defying the black death before him.

Robert collapsed to the ground, cradling his wounded hands. Uncontrollable sobs and tears wracked his body. The sky was darkening with small flashes of lightening and sudden chill swept over him, turning his body purple. He looked dead, and that was how he wished to be, for he hoped that in death he would be free. Free of the Tree and the harsh, animalistic challenge to turn around. Free of that newfound voice that did not reserve itself to the dream world. His eyes swept over the area about him. This Tree, that had provided so much torment over the years, would, should gladly provide the means to an end.

Robert's eyes locked on a sword. The blade stood proudly erect out of the ground, crowned with a cruel dragon. Perhaps, just perhaps, it would be sharp enough. If not, hopefully he would contract tetanus and still die.

Rising on unsteady legs, Robert climbed up to the sword. He ran his thumb down the edge and hissed as a bright stream of red coated the rusty blade. With his breath ragged and labored, he pressed his left wrist against the bloodthirsty metal. Lost in thought and an attempt to build up the courage necessary to finish it, Robert did not notice the twisting of the gnarled roots below or the darkening sky. He neither heard a sickening slurping sound nor saw the dark figure that shot out from the depths of the Tree. He did hear a horse's high-pitched, harsh challenge. Looking up quickly, Robert nearly fainted. A blur no longer, the finger in black with the piercing gray blue eyes mounted on a horse of sable rode toward him with his blade unsheathed. Not just a blade. The same with which he cut his thumb just a moment ago except the one wielded by the spectre was newer, cleaner, and probably sharper.

The rider rode close enough that he could lean forward and grab Robert, but he merely held the blade against the young man's neck. In response, Robert leaned into the blade. He did not put enough pressure to break the skin, just enough to make his intentions clear. The figure in black growled, flashing his sharpened teeth. God, he had pointy teeth! Rushing toward him faster than Robert could counter, the mounted warrior grasped the fabric just over the boy's shoulder. Using his knees to turn his mount away from the Tree, the spectre then threw Robert toward Killian. The figure then called out some harsh words in a language Robert could not understand while sheathing his sword.

The intent of those words, however, was made perfectly clear when the black beast reared and broke into a run at him. Robert had barely mounted Killian when the spectre was nearly upon him. Kicking his heels and rising in the saddle as he had before, Robert rode for hell or high heaven away from his pursuer and that Damned Tree. He was not fast enough. Robert could feel the hot breath of the horse behind him and could hear the rustle of a heavy cloak. Furthermore, he could not see were the hell he was going. The storm had grown significantly in the last few seconds and darkness blurred the trees and the path into one. Only the occasional crash of lightning lighted his way.

Cocking his head slightly to the side, Robert stared back at the spectre. The ghost was riding beside him, keeping his beast's pace steady so that he stayed parallel with Killian's hind legs. The oddity of the situation, besides the fact that a Ghost spit out of a Tree and a dream was chasing him, was the way the man was looking at him. It was neither a glare nor a snarl. Nor was it the look of a hunter just about to catch his prey. It was not the expression held by the man's brow or mouth for they were stony and passive. No, the emotion and feeling were locked away under those gray blue orbs. There was a look of familiarity, understanding, and something else. Something in those eyes that Robert could not quite name.

Crack!

A bright bolt struck a tree just to the right, setting it aflame. Killian, the stupid beast, reared and sent Robert flying. Although he could not be sure, Robert could have sworn that a rather sturdy frame with strong arms caught him. However, before he could verify whether that was fact or fiction, he was swallowed by a warm, mind-numbing darkness that was thankfully free of trees, horses, and horsemen.

Katrina was only mildly surprised when the Hessian kicked opened the door and placed Robert down in the hallway before returning from whence he came. With the considerable thunderstorm roaring outside, she had expected the Horseman to show. However, why he brought Robert back to her she could not even guess. If the key to breaking the curse rested within Robert, why return him? Did the Hessian honestly think that the young man would embrace his destiny on his own? If the boy would go as far as to cut himself to keep dreams at bay, it would be either sheer lunacy or stupidity to assume that he would accept such other worldly things in the waking reality. The Horseman was a fool to put so much faith in the drug abused youth.

With a sigh, Katrina called Masbath and, with his help, carried Robert to his bed. She then had the boy bring a comfortable chair and a hot kettle of tea. Katrina was determined to watch over the young man, for she was quite sure he would have a few questions when he finally awoke. However, she could not be farther from the truth.

Robert woke to the sight of bright green grass over his eyes. He quickly realized that it was only his hair and brushed it aside. Looking about, he was greeted by gold and purple, his room, instead of the woody path he expected. More than slightly puzzled, he sat up and nearly snarled at Katrina.

"He brought me here." It was not a question, but she answered anyway.

"Yes, he did." Even though Robert had already made his decision by the time his vision was cleared, Katrina's response settled the matter. Robert felt relaxed, rested, and fairly chipper. Not a single flicker of the dream disturbed his sleep and he could only conclude that the man from last night was the cause. If that was the case, he almost dared to hope that his missing piece was found. Problem solved. Now he only needed to know why.

Saying not another word, Robert slid out of bed and pulled on his boots, which had been left nearby. Pulling out a bottle of gel from a nightstand, he walked over to the mirror and slowly reacquainted his hair to a life of grease and gel.

"What are you doing?" Katrina inquired with a sharper tone than she meant to use while rising as well.

"Gelling back my hair. I can't stand it down…gets in the way." Robert answered simply and turned to the door as if he meant to leave.

"Where are you going?" Katrina's voice was nearly frantic. If he ran now, all would be lost.

"To find him." The young man answered without facing her.

"Why?" Robert's answer had to have been too good to be true. He could not possibly remember what happened in the past, which made his desire to seek out the Hessian rather uncharacteristic. Katrina had to know what was going through his head to make him face the spectre when past occurrences reasoned that Robert would either flee or kill himself.

"Because last night was the first time I've slept soundly for six years without cutting. The only reason has to be him…whoever he is. I will root him out and find out the meaning behind it all." Robert answered in a tone that was firm, crisp, and asked for no comments. The tone's resemblance to that of another was uncanny and Katrina nearly cried. How much more of this was she expected to endure?

"Oh yes," the youth continued. "I will be needing a new horse. Perhaps one with some amount of intelligence and does not startle so easily?"

"Of course…Have Masbath take you to the stables and help you choose a new mount," was Katrina's choked reply. As expected, Robert said nothing. His only response was the staccato clicking of his heels, which brought a slight smile to Katrina's sad face. "He's found his spring again."

Masbath's new choice mount was a large chestnut gelding named Abraham, Brom for short, and Robert was more than pleased with the boy's decision. Brom was a vast improvement over Killian. The gelding was spirited and seemed rash enough to face anything. Mayhap even a Tree of the Dead? Not wasting time with a peaceful trot through the woods, Robert held Brom at a steady cantor until they came to the fork. Unlike Killian, Brom somehow sensed his rider's desire and turned to the right without persuasion. Robert had been willing at this point to let Brom slow his pace, but the horse was insistent. Nothing less than a cantor would satisfy him. Robert smirked and clicked his heels, sailing down the path at a furious gallop. Robert was also very thankful when Brom did not skid into a stop. Instead, the gelding slowed to a standstill a few feet from the Tree. Robert dismounted quickly and led Brom to the side, tying his reins to a sturdy looking sapling. After taking an encouraging breath, Robert turned on heel and moved toward the Tree. Standing in front of the black behemoth, he was at a loss for what to do next.

"Well, an announcement might be a good start," Robert sighed thoughtfully while clearing his throat. "Whoever you are…I'm here!" Nothing happened. "Yeah, real smooth, Robert…Of course I'm here," he concluded with a disgusted snort.

Struck by a sudden urge, Robert rushed forward and kicked the Tree.

"Fuck!" He hissed and collapsed with his head resting against the trunk. Despite its fleshy feel, the Tree was no easily bruised damsel. "Fine! Be a prick…but know this…I'm not leaving until you talk to me!" Robert huffed like a child who was not getting his way. To further complete the picture, he crossed his arms and began to pout. However, one can only sustain a constant sulk when there are people to sulk in front of, and, although Brom was a definite upgrade over Killian, he was not sulking material. With no one to put on a show for, Robert, despite his uncomfortable pillow, fell into a light doze.

He felt someone holding his chin. The grip was strong, the skin coarse and corroded. A second hand, a match for the first, roughly caressed his cheek. The hands smelled of horse, leather, and death. Death? Robert opened his eyes. He was greeted by the cold stare of pale gray blue and gasped when the gloved grip released his face. Him. Strange enough, Robert found himself mourning the loss of contact created when the man stood.

"By what name do others call you?" The voice was deep, Germanic, and harsh from disuse. Just like the dream.

"My name is Robert J. Crane." Robert replied, his own voice suddenly weak.

"I did not ask for your name. I asked for the name that others address you by," was the rider's growled response.

"Robert."

Remaining silent, the man turned and walked to a large black horse standing near the entrance to the Tree's clearing. He then mounted and rode into the forest at a trot. In a breath's moment, Robert scrambled to his feet and broke into a run toward Brom. With fast hand movements, he freed to reins of the sapling and mounted with less than perfect form. Pulling on the reins sharply, he then sped toward the man.

"Who are you?" Robert asked in a somewhat breathless tone as soon as Brom was trotting parallel with the rider in black.

"A Hessian mercenary," was the man's nonchalant reply.

Robert had to bite back a growl of frustration. The man was obviously leading him on a goose chase and would not even bother to talk while doing so! Now Robert understood exactly how Katrina felt when he himself was less than forthcoming. "Fine…I can play that game too," Robert thought with a sly grin. "By what name do others call you?"

The Hessian turned his head toward Robert to flash a haughty, sharp smirk of his own. "Horseman."

"Horseman?" Robert whispered, his vision tunneling. He saw a flash of steel, a swirl of black, and a tassel of blonde curls. Katrina. There was a skull. Pointed teeth. Someone shouts, "Horseman!" And all was done.

"Yes," The Horseman hissed as he gently slapped his mount's neck. The stallion apparently did not appreciate their slow walk, but Robert could not bring himself to care. He wanted to talk to the Horseman, not chase him. Or did he? The idea of hunting down the Hessian possessed a certain amount of appeal. Hell! It was almost a turn on, and Robert found himself shifting in the saddle in search of a more comfortable position.

Actually, now that he thought about it, the man himself seemed to be a rare sort of aphrodisiac. From the smell of leather and blood to the unruly black hair, the piercing eyes, and even the filed teeth, Robert could not help but think him handsome. Yes, his preferred whores in California were far more attractive, but this Hessian possessed a certain air of control and sturdiness that caught Robert's attention quite successfully.

"It's you, your horse, and that Tree that haunt my dreams, right?" Robert asked as a means of distraction. He was quite sure that he already knew the answer, but if he was busy thinking about his horrible nightmare, the feeling of horror should override other thoughts and leave Robert his dignity.

The Hessian replied with only a low growl, which sent a delightful shiver down Robert's spine.

"Why?" No, it was not the most intelligent question, but it required more response than a grunt. Despite the fact that those throaty snarls were quite pleasant, Robert wanted more.

"For that information, you must question the White Witch. She is their maker and the one who elicited my recent involvement."

"White Witch…Katrina?" This news left Robert a little more than baffled. Why was that woman scheming anyway?

"Yes…"

"Okay, Katrina is one whacked out bitch. I'll admit that any day, but why do you assist her? What do you have to gain?" Robert's tone was shaky and barely more than a breath. He was riding so close to the Hessian that the contact between their legs was a little more than grazing. His eyes never left the Horseman's profile, and he was too distracted to even hope that Brom kept to the path. As cliché as it sounded, his heart was aflutter. Whoever this man was, the Hessian made him feel at rest, together, whole. Robert had found his piece.

When the Horseman pulled his steed to a halt, Robert, of course followed suit. Turning in his saddle slightly, the Hessian returned the youth's hungry gaze.

"There is no doubting it, and God be damned before I let you go." Robert's mind raced as the man moved to speak; his eyes devouring every muscle twitch and flicker of emotion displayed on the Hessian's face.

"You." The Hessian's voice was steady, his gaze unwavering, which put to rest any doubt or concern left in Robert's mind. Ghost or not, the Horseman was his missing piece, and that was all that mattered. To prove this, he leaned toward the Hessian and pressed his lips against the sable rider's in a rather clumsy kiss. However, to his delight, the Horseman responded and pulled Robert onto his own saddle, hooking the youth's slender legs around his leather-clad hips.

"Yes…" Robert breathed when their kiss finally broke. The Hessian replied by holding the young man against him with one solid arm and sent his black charger into an insane dash through the woods. Robert could see nothing except the black leather armor of his dark rider, and the smell was intoxicating. So high was he on the sensation of just being held that Robert did not realize that they had stopped riding until the Hessian dismounted carrying him. He was pulled out his daze by the way the warrior rider held him. His lust-befuddled mind could not come up with an exact description, but he was quite sure that the manner was very much akin to holding something valuable, something worth saving, perhaps even worth defying God.

Robert smiled in a sickly sweet fashion as the Horseman carefully lowered him onto the soft grass beneath them. So gentle. His eyes flickered shut when an ungloved hand grazed his cheek. Robert could not help but groan when the Hessian's naked hands unbuttoned his shirt for the man's fingertips were constantly briefly brushing against his skin like a whisper causing the youth's body to shake with lovely little shivers. Robert's back arched as those remarkably tender hands undid and removed his pants, leaving the pale boy feeling quite nude despite the open shirt he still wore. For some reason, a flood of self-consciousness and embarrassment washed over him. What would his Hessian think of all the scars? Not wishing to know, his knee-jerk reaction was to curl into a ball, pulling away from the Horseman.

"Robert." The Hessian breathed, running his fingers over Robert's side, pausing at the deep gash just above the youth's hip. "Don't be ashamed of such trifle flaws. They only add to your beauty in my eyes…for only the living can scar. Besides, before the day is through, I will desecrate your body with more marks of my own."

Robert's blush only increased at this statement, but he allowed the Hessian to grasp his wrists and pull him into a sitting possession. With those wrists still in his position, the Horseman brought the abused the youth's bruised fingertips to his lips as if he meant to caress the damage away, eliciting a slight whimper from the young man. The Hessian then softly bestowed a kiss on each bruised palm before attempting to kiss the blush away from Robert 's left cheek. The sheer kindness and emotion displayed in the simple acts nearly made Robert cry and caused his cheeks to only redden further. In all his years, no whore ever cared that much.

"So alive." The Hessian murmured before kissing him. The kiss, if it could be called that for it felt like much more, was sultry and bruising. Robert was quite sure the Horseman meant to devour his soul after cleverly luring it from the depths of his being with his demanding, yet somehow gentle, tongue. As God was his witness, he would have gladly given it to the Horseman at the price of one such kiss.

However, before the dark rider completed the seduction of the boy's soul, Robert broke the kiss. Pulling the youth onto his lap, the Hessian ran his hand down Robert's sides in a manner that was as teasing as the razor leaving only pale white lines eliciting a chorus of lovely gasps. Those gasps quickly turned into a deep groan on the verge of being a beautiful sob when the Horseman tenderly bit into the boy's shoulder. Feeling such exquisite pain, Robert was sure that he was lost in a dream. He was positive that he had just been freed of the nightmare and that this unearthly vision was a reward for the years of torment. The Hessian, however, quickly ripped any such idea into mental shreds when those delightful fingers repeated their whispered touches on the youth's cock.

"Christ…" The boy moaned, his head rolling back with a moan.

"Far from him." The rider replied with a nasty smirk, his tongue licking away a slender trail of blood from his own lips while his hand closed around Robert's arousal. His pale blue eyes watched, no, devoured the sight of his young captive. The youth arched his back into a most impossible arc. He only stayed upright thanks to the support provided by the Hessian's arm about his lower back and the youth's own crushing grip on the Hessian's shoulders, which added an enchanting undertone of pain to the boy's lusty outcries for that awesome hold surely aggravated those injured fingers. He observed with extreme pleasure as Robert's face clenched onto the most ravishing visages of agony and sensual fulfillment with his lovely eyes closed in a charming display of long, black lashes. The boy's bitable, full lips were caught in a constant, quivering oval that created the most endearing sounds for the Hessian's audible enjoyment alone. Yet, despite the pleasure the sable rider attained from watching the boy reach fulfillment, nothing could compare to the exact moment of the youth's release, for his eyes opened. They were a whirlpool of lusty chocolate and sweaty gold pounded together and shining to perfection. The boy's face was filled with awe, gratitude, and carried the same mien of a sacrificial lamb baying softly before the knife. The Horseman vaguely wondered that if he slit the youth's throat right then just to see the beauty of rich, red blood flowing down that slender white neck, if Robert would still look as grateful. He could not help but conclude that the answer to his own morbid fantasy was probably yes. Pushing his twisted thoughts aside, the Hessian ran two slender fingers over Robert's slick belly, coating them in the creamy liquid.

"Relax." He ordered while pressing the two digits against the youth's tight heat. Being the soul of patience, the Hessian waited until Robert motioned for him to proceed. However, patience can only last so long and the dark rider made fast, although thorough, work of preparing the youth.

"Undo my laces." The Hessian hissed, bring Robert out of his lust-lined cloud. Rising up on unsteady knees, the youth attempted to comply with his rider's command, but his smashed fingertips would not cooperate. He growled in frustration, but the Horseman gave no assistance. Giving the Hessian an aggravated snort, Robert knelt down, attacking the strings with his teeth. When the task was complete and the laces loosened, he carefully pulled back the black leather, exposing his Hessian's strained arousal. Flashing a vengeful grin, the youth bent down once more to take the weeping cock into his mouth. Sadly, his revenge was short lived for those powerful, pale hands did not dally in gently grasping that stiff chartreuse hair and pulling Robert up.

"I appreciate your eagerness, but I have other plans for you, mein Schatz." The Hessian growled in lusty tones as he positioned Robert over him.

"Wait," Robert breathed, putting his hands on the Horseman's shoulders. "Tell me your name. I want to scream something other than Hessian or Horseman."

"Christian," the Hessian snarled in reply. Whether or not the nasty tone was due to their rather lusty situation or the man's hatred for religion, Robert could only guess. Yet, before he could actually form an assumption, all silly questions blurred white in the youth's mind as Christian pushed into him. Without warning or waiting, the Horseman impaled him completely. Salty tears burned Robert's eyes and threatened to spill down his cheeks, and a scream was hiding just beyond his lips.

"Scream for me, Robert. Scream my name." Christian ordered, his teeth sinking viscously into the boy's chest while his hips snapped into a furious rhythm.

Robert wished to comply but seemed to have forgotten how to scream. Agonizingly blissful tremors shook his frame as the beautiful pain darkened his vision. Blinding white stars dared to pierce the black void of pain clouding his vision whenever Christian hit that lovely nerve deep inside him, and he felt his cock harden in response. Throaty moans fell heavy and smooth from his lips like the blood flowing freely down his chest from the multiple, angry nips. His breath hitched as a wretched sigh was ripped from him as the Hessian moved up his neck with those sharp teeth grazing his skin ever so lightly. Robert could not help but close his eyes as Christian licked away his tears, relishing the smell of blood on the Horseman's breath. Could this be real?

"I said scream, Robert." Christian purred; his teeth claiming the right side of Robert's jaw with just enough pressure to leave a mark, which was contrasted starkly by the use of a bruising grip on the youth's hips. The lithe form securely in the Hessian's grasp, the intensity of his intimate abuse on the boy's body only increased. Robert jerked his head in response causing his jaw to rip away from those teeth with a bloody release.

"Fucking God! Christian!" Robert screamed, crimson oozing down his throat and chest, and white staining the Horseman's black uniform. His strength spent, the boy's damaged hands loosened their hold of the Hessian's shoulders. With no support keeping him upright, the youth fell softly backwards to the ground. Taking advantage of Robert's position, Christian leaned forward, ripping into a snowy shoulder once more, breathing a blood drenched groan as release overcame him.

Disengaging from the boy, the Hessian slowly stood, his stance somewhat unsteady. Redoing his laces, he looked down at Robert. The pale form below still reclined on the grass was beautifully out of breath and relaxed despite the subversion wrought on his body. Deep purple marred those white hips, and blood stained him pink. If a body can be compared to a temple, Robert was truly desecrated and thankful for it. Christian smirked. He had kept his word for those trifle flaws that the boy had been so wrongly ashamed of faded into a lovingly painted background of plum and blood.

"Ichabod," Christian uttered softly. No reply came, and the Hessian's smug smirk turned into an even smugger smile. The youth was truly worn out, which pleased the Horseman immensely. Taking a knee, the dark rider reached for his gloves but paused. If things did not go according to plan, the moment presented before him was perhaps the last he would be able to touch the boy. It was quite possible that Robert would follow past plots and run, leaving the Hessian in a state of limbo with an unreachable resolution.

Shaking such thoughts from his mind, Christian turned to the tired form. For his sake of mind, he allowed himself to take the opportunity to whisper goodbye to each wound with a light caress of his skilled fingers. Once the Hessian had satisfied that sudden flicker of sentimentality, his hands proceeded in the betrayal of his eyes and buttoned the shirt closed, one button at a time. Finding it nigh impossible to restrain himself, Christian took a few precious minutes to run a hand down on of Robert's pale legs, admiring the delicate curve of muscle and sinew. In fact, he was rather surprised to find any muscle on the boy. Judging from the tales of the White Witch and the youth's own sickly, drugged air, the Horseman had surmised that the boy would be bony and frail. To say the least, he was quite glad that he had been wrong. Robert's blood was still strong, and Christian nearly found himself praying that it would be strong enough for the trials to come.

Spying the amount of the ever-growing shadows that now surrounded them, the Hessian looked to the sky and was slightly puzzled with what he saw. The sun had nearly completed its day's ride and night would soon be upon them. Had he truly been sitting next to the unconscious youth for that long? With no more time for questions and pondering, the Horseman quickly finished redressing Robert. Once more, Christian reached for his gloves and paused. Growling at the overpowering strength of his attachment to the pale form, the Hessian tucked the gloves into his belt, lifted the boy, and returned to Dare Devil. Carefully mounting, he rode toward the Van Tassel home. Although the distance was short, Christian took an uncharacteristically leisurely pace while quickly pushing aside his disgust at his own affection for the youth and simply enjoyed the feel of Robert in his arms.

When he finally came upon the gate to the Van Tassel manor, night was in full swing and darkness hid the black horse and its riders easily. Nevertheless, Christian pulled his mount to a jerky halt at the gate. Awaiting his ward stood the White Witch. Without a second thought, the Horseman's nearly pleasant demeanor froze into a cold glare.

"Hessian, you are a fool." The Witch hissed before returning to her ancient home. He, of course, made no reply nor moved to stop her. Instead, he looked down at his temporary passenger, running a gloved hand down that pale cheek. Robert stirred slightly, causing the Horseman's countenance to thaw a little.

"Ichabod," Christian breathed, nearly startled when the youth's eyes opened.

"Christian," Robert mouthed, looking up at the Hessian without any sign of bewilderment. If it had been in his nature, Christian might have given off a sigh of relief that the boy had not heard him. As much as he longed to call Robert by his true name, the youth was most likely not ready for the entire truth just yet.

"Christian," the deathly pale lips repeated with a more firm tone and were rewarded with the Horseman's complete and undivided attention. The Hessian watched as a look of determination fell over the boy and a slender hand clutched his left shoulder and the right side of his neck. The dark rider nearly gasped as the youth moved to bite him. Thoroughly shocked, Christian did not hear Robert say good bye or that he would return to the Tree tomorrow, and he watched unable to move as the pale form disappeared into the black house. It was not soon when he was able to shake the feeling of surprise and let the icy calm reclaim his features and mind.

"Mine at last. After centuries of waiting, she has finally returned you to me. Yet, will you return when you know the truth? Will the White Witch lead you once more into the grave, or will you settle old scores and end this sad dance we are all a part of?" The Hessian breathed a sigh of doubt at that thought as he pulled on his gloves before riding away from the Van Tassel home at a viscous gallop. "Perhaps the Witch was correct…I am a fool."

To Be Continued