Title: Silence Broken

Author: Jazz9star

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Top Cow and Warner Brothers. No infringement of their rights is intended.

Note: An earlier version of this story won the 2002 Fan Fiction Contest Award at the Convergence for Best Novella.

Summary: Transcendence, the final episode in Season One, left several unanswered questions:

How did Ian2 have his predecessor's memories before Dante arrived with Ian1's remains?

What made Dr. Immo suddenly bolt and run?

What was Ian2 staring at so intently, and to whom did he turn and smile after killing McCarty?

Why did the Witchblade at first refuse to work against Ian2, then suddenly extend into the blade and kill him?

And why did Elizabeth Bronte suddenly show up?

These are my answers....

Silence Broken

He was falling.

At first, there was only blackness, as if a door had shut suddenly on a room full of furious sound and motion. Then, like a last echo from that room, came the words:

As for this worthless slave, throw him out into the darkness.

The words coalesced into a spark of pain. And on that pain came the awareness that he was a darker form buoyed by...wings? No, by a long coat billowing out behind him. He pulled his arms close, and the falling stopped, leaving him motionless in the darkness.

I am dead.

He thought that, and wondered that anything still existed to form that thought. And to feel the pain of words echoing from a place where he no longer was.

Begone, Ian. Your darkness awaits.

The words wrapped around him like a shroud. He began to understand that there would be no merciful oblivion, only the darkness. And the words.

Begone, Ian.

With a voiceless cry, he willed the words to stop, willed himself to be anywhere but here in this darkness, to be—

He knelt in the center of a vast, empty room. Light streamed through rows of pillars, but all was shades of gray and black, as though with life had fled all color. He looked down, and saw a dark, irregular stain puddled on the scarred floor.

The place of my last earthly experience.

Too far away to hurt him now, the volley echoed in the encircling darkness, the marks of its damage etched across his shirt. His acceptance of his own finiteness had not prepared him for the shock of the bullets’ impact, or for the effort to drag his last few breaths through the blood filling his lungs. He found his left hand pressed to his chest, though his heart no longer beat there. Letting the hand fall, he repeated to himself,

I am dead.

A shattered tripod and video camera were scattered on the floor, along with the remains of a half-eaten pizza. They were part of his last moments, but he could not fit them into what he remembered. Gabriel Bowman. He had been there, behind the camera. And speaking into the lens.... 

Sara.

I’m saying good-bye to you, Sara.

His own words found him in his misery. When he had spoken them, she had not understood that, in a span of heartbeats, he would fall into this darkness to save her. It had not mattered. His own folly had blinded him until the moment he sat upon the library stairs, his master’s arm slipping from his shoulders, and knew finally what he must do.

If you ever see me again, Sara, run.

It is I who will never again see you.

Around him, the room was fading, grays into black, darkness encircling him once more. A wind rose to whip his coat and his hair, threatening to sweep him away. He drew himself into a knot around her memory, holding to the pain as a last anchor.

Begone, Ian.

No!

He shouted it into the void.

The wind died away. Fearing what he would find, he slowly lifted his head.

He knelt on the lawn surrounding Irons' mansion, the sun gleaming cold in a sky black and filled with stars. As before, all colors were bled, the landscape and the looming walls eerily strange, as though he had fallen into an old photograph. Around him, all was silent.

He rose, his boots leaving no mark upon the grass. When he came to the door, he found he could not touch it, whatever barred him from life barring him as well from that simple contact.

Begone, Ian.

He could not shut out the words. But stronger still was his conviction that this was not right, that he was supposed to be inside those walls. That he had to be there. His urgency and his need grew, until he threw himself against the door.

And was suddenly on the other side. Not understanding what had happened, he traversed the familiar passageways, doors and security codes no longer of concern to him. With a flicker of curiosity, he noted that the Doctor was still here; there was a table prepared for a medical procedure, instruments and bone cutters laid out in readiness. But it was not the Doctor he sought. For most of his life, he had had only one center, one focus, and though his life was ended, he was still drawn inexorably toward it.

Neither shadow nor reflection, he moved through rooms filled with priceless objects, their bright silks now tawdry rags to his eyes, their jewels dull glass. Moved past the many bed chambers, each prepared and waiting for that night's favor; past darker rooms holding arcane secrets; past corridors and stairs that had marked the boundaries of his life, both prison and refuge. Shadows flickered past him, accompanied by dull voices, echoes of the present and of his memories, all jumbled together. He tried to touch them, but they slipped through his gloved fingers. He followed them, and found himself in what had been his rooms.

The familiar objects lay as he had arranged them in a last ceremony. He crossed the sitting room to the windows, to the drawing table that had been his since childhood. The pad of paper was still laid out and waiting; he leaned over it, and the pages began to ripple.

He was seated at the drawing table, a stick of charcoal in his hand, when Irons came in. He did not rise. Here, in the sanctuary of his rooms, he was allowed to be simply Ian unless Irons decreed otherwise. Irons leaned heavily on his cane, the youth given by the Witchblade ebbing mercilessly. Unable to bear the sight, he returned his gaze to the drawing pad. And heard Irons say,

"I have not seen you sitting here for quite some time."

"There has been no point. Not since the Black Dragons." The drugs and the programming had taken away his ability to draw. He could still sketch the layout of a building, or the specifications of a new weapon. But his hand could no longer translate his dreams to paper. He had been trying to draw a picture of Sara Pezzini. But all he could manage were long, curling strokes of charcoal across the page, like the fall of her hair across her shoulders. He sat there, and supposed he hated Irons for stripping him of that ability.

Irons reached down and stroked his unbound hair, tucking a strand back behind his ear. It was both a caress and a reminder, a prelude to the words he sensed behind Irons' unrelenting control. He wondered if Irons would finally utter them, or if Irons would instead strike him. And he wondered that he no longer cared which of these it might be.

Irons' hand fell away, and he heard the sound of the cane upon the rug, followed by a sudden gasp. He sprang from his seat and barely caught Irons. Irons was breathing heavily under the weight of another half-decade of years. He lowered him into a chair and picked up the phone to summon Immo. And left all else unspoken, the words, his hatred, the other emotions lying unformed within him, like the images he could not bring to the page.

The drawing pad fell to the floor. He left it, and drifted once more through Irons' mansion, his death retreating before the shadows of his former life.

When he neared the great room, he became aware of voices.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t proceed without more blood from Miss Pezzini.” It was the Doctor.

“And how do we get that blood, hmm? How did we get it last time?”

He stepped through the doorway.

Irons sat at the table, eating, as Immo hovered anxiously. Unable to move, he stared at his master. Devotion. Fear. Obedience. Loathing. Need. They had forged the chain that bound him to Irons during his life, and they bound him still. He slipped into his accustomed spot just inside the door as Irons continued.

“What are you afraid of? You said he was even better than his predecessor.”

“Physically speaking.” The Doctor was uneasy. “But psychologically, we have no idea what he is. I have grave concerns about his aggression level.”

“What better time to find out?” Irons set down his napkin, and called out, “Ian, please come down.”

Immediately, he stepped forward, head bowed. And waited. But he heard neither a command nor an acknowledgment. Risking a glance, he saw that Irons was gazing instead at the balcony.

“Good afternoon, Gentlemen.”

He looked up.

His own features stared down at him. The dark eyes locked with his, and a shock leapt the distance between them.

Good afternoon, Brother!

He reeled as The Other ripped through his mind. He tried to block him, but it was too late. All that he was--all that he had been--was laid bare. His thoughts and memories were taken, then discarded as he raised his hands in futile defense.

With a frisson of satisfaction, The Other withdrew and began to descend the stairs, all lethal grace, a blade sheathed in silk. Irons watched in rapture, face replete with the lust generated by a new acquisition. He had known of his successor, though they had been kept always apart, but now he could only recall the Doctor’s words: We don’t know what he is.

I do.

The Other came to stand between Irons and the Doctor, every line of the Other's stance a mockery of his own. Once more, their eyes met, but before he could wonder how The Other could see him when Irons and the Doctor could not, Immo asked,

“How are you feeling today, Ian?”

“Restless.”

“Do you remember how you spent your day?”

“No, sir. I think I’ve been asleep for a while.”

Irons stepped forward, studying The Other. “What do you remember?”

“That my primary mission is to protect you. Following that, I protect Sara Pezzini, the wielder of the Witchblade.”

The half-smile that snaked around those words kindled his anger.

You do not even deserve to say her name!

“Do you know what she looks like?” Irons asked.

The Other closed his eyes. The smile widened, and he nodded. “Exactly.”

Exactly, Brother!

“What else do you know?”

“That there’ve been others before me.” Once more, the eyes locked with his. “That my immediate predecessor was defective in his emotional makeup. He was soft. His deficiency cost him his usefulness, and thus his life.” With potent meaning. “I know I still have some of his memories. I know I only exist....” The Other glanced toward Irons. “because you allow it.”

Irons’ next words sent a chill through him.

“Do you feel capable of retrieving Sara Pezzini?”

The answer dripped with malicious anticipation. “Oh, I feel capable of anything.”

In the last seconds of his life, he had managed to turn and find Sara through the gathering shadows. Into her disbelieving eyes, he had sent a warning against what he knew would come. He could do nothing now but hope she would heed it. And hope the Witchblade would not abandon her.

“Do you have the appropriate tools?” Irons demanded.

The Other looked down at his ungloved hands, and glanced briefly at the Doctor before returning to stare at him.

Irons was satisfied. “Bring me Sara Pezzini.”

The Other smiled.

Sara--run.

There was nothing more he could do. There had never been anything he could do. Lost between his previous life and the waiting darkness, he drifted to his accustomed perch on the library steps. The Other left, and Immo began to prepare another treatment. Instruments and vials clinked; he rested his elbows on his knees and paid them no heed. Until he heard Irons snap.

“What is it, Doctor?”

“I was just--I was looking for Ian.” Immo set the syringe down. “I know you’ve activated his replacement, but...it seems strange not to see him at your side, Kenneth.” Immo’s voice was heavy. “I know what he meant to you.”

“Spare me your sentimental babbling.” Irons rolled up his sleeve. “As far as I’m concerned, there is and has been only one Ian Nottingham--the one who is going to bring me Sara Pezzini. Now, I suggest you finish this, and quickly. You’ll have work enough when Captain Dante arrives.”

Disbelieving, he rose from the stair.

He knelt on the ornate rug, Irons’ hand gripping his hair, holding him close so he could not escape the words.

“It is also written, ‘as for this worthless slave, throw him out into the darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth’.” Irons wrenched his head back, and he found himself staring up into cold, merciless anger. “Begone, Ian. Your darkness awaits.”

Irons hurled him contemptuously away, leaving him still kneeling on the rug, weeping.

He stood now on that same spot and stared down at Irons, into the eyes that could not see him--that would not see him!--as the words churned over and over: "There is and has been only one Ian Nottingham." Immo bustled about, but he disregarded him, disregarded all but his master as his anger poured out.

I served you faithfully! I was your eyes and ears, the instrument of your will! I protected you, and I suffered your blows, and always I was there at your side. The perfect scalpel. And when I could serve you no longer, I offered you back this life you gave me, that it might end honorably. But you would not take it. You took instead the one thing alone that has ever been mine--my honor!--and you threw me from you into the darkness. And now you deny me! You have forgotten me!

You have forgotten I was your—

Even in death, he could not finish that truth.

Grief welled on the heels of his anger. With all the force of his will, he hurled them both at Irons. The candles gutted and the draperies rippled, the glasses rolling in all directions from the table. Startled, Irons rose, asking Immo what had happened, but he no longer cared. His anger was spent, only the grief remaining. He turned his back on his master.

Begone, Ian.

The heavy curtains still swung at either side of the glassed-in room housing Elizabeth Bronte. He found himself gazing up at her. Despite the Doctor’s ravages, she remained coldly serene. And then he realized that, though death had reduced all else around him to shades and shadow, he could still see the colors of her hair and her robe.

In the midst of his confusion, Elizabeth Bronte opened her eyes and smiled at him.

“Hello, Son.”

He could only reply, “You’re dead.”

“As are you, Ian.” She swung her legs from the sofa, extending her hand. “Help me out.”

Bemused, he reached through the glass to take her hand, finding it solid. Elizabeth Bronte passed easily through the thick pane, lifting her long skirts. When she stood next to him, she regarded one lace-edged sleeve wryly, and remarked,

“I always hated this outfit. How like Kenneth.”

He stared down at her. “How is it you know me?”

“I’ve always known you, Ian. Have you forgotten how you used to come and bid me goodnight?”

He was very young, too young to fully understand his origin, though Immo had hinted at it through awkwardly crafted fairy tales. And his hours were lonely ones, for by Irons’ orders the servants spoke to him only to attend to his needs, even the Doctor’s visits infrequent. His only moments of contact came when Irons sent for him. Irons would instruct him, and ask him questions, and speak to him of the wonders of the Witchblade and his own special gifts. Those moments quickly became his world, Irons’ praise and approval more precious to him than any new book or toy. But they were not enough. From his books, he knew that all children had a mother; from the Doctor’s tales, he decided that Elizabeth Bronte must be his. Though ever silent, her presence filled the void, and he faithfully bid her goodnight each evening. Until Irons overheard.

Immo tried to defend him. “What harm will it do, Kenneth? He’s just a child.”

“But he’s not just a child, is he, Doctor?” And then Irons told him with brutal clarity what he was, and why he had neither a mother nor a father. And that his destiny would be to serve him. When it was done, Irons threaded a hand through his hair and tilted his head back until he could see nothing but Irons' unsmiling eyes.

“Remember, young Nottingham--it is I who gave you life.”

He said nothing. As he said nothing when he snatched a priceless paperweight from Iron’s desk and hurled it at the glass enclosing Elizabeth Bronte. And as he said nothing when Irons’ anger broke over him, only staring down at the shards of the paperweight glittering on the carpet as she remained, untouched and unmoved, behind her unbroken wall.

Until now.

“You called me son. Why?"

She did not answer. Instead, she laid a hand upon the bullet holes that punctured his shirt. “You sought your own death?”

He lowered his head. “I was sworn to serve him. I could not betray that oath. And I could not betray Sara. We are--were--the same flesh and blood.” His voice was laden with pain. “I loved her. For that, and for all else. It is written, ‘no man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will hold to one and despise the other’. But I could not choose.”

“You did choose, Ian. You chose honor over love.”

The words boiled out. "You say I chose, but what choice did I have? What choice did I ever have?"

"There are always choices. I chose to let Kenneth wear the Witchblade."

"He told me that he took it from you."

"He has told you many things." Dryly. "Some of them are even true."

He knew that too well. "You claim I chose honor over love. But I have always known my origin. I have always known I was not born of a consecrated union, or out of passion. I have always known that I was not born to be loved. How could I choose what I could never have?"

"There are always choices," Elizabeth Bronte repeated. 

She held something in her hand. It was the crystal paperweight he had hurled at her so many years ago. He stared down at it, not understanding how it could be whole again. Before he could ask, she tossed the globe high into the air to glint in the candlelight. He lifted a hand to catch it, but it shattered at his touch into dagger-like shards.

He cried out as the first shard pierced his heart.

He was a few years older, dressed neatly, his dark curls combed back and his hands encased in black cotton gloves. Irons had a lady visitor. She and Irons were dining together, and he had been instructed to play quietly by the fire with Fenris, his favorite of the two wolfhounds, until Irons summoned him. Irons had many visitors, mostly ladies but sometimes men, and sometimes they would stay with Irons in his bedroom, but he was seldom allowed even a glimpse of them. The Contessa was different. As he half-hid behind Fenris, he watched her in fascination, her perfume scenting the unfamiliar thoughts and sensations that emanated from the dining table.

She, too, was intrigued by him. “This is a new acquisition. Is he yours, Kenneth?”

Irons dodged the question. “The boy is spending his holidays with me.” Irons summoned him, and he came obediently.

“The Contessa would like some more wine.”

“Yes, sir.”

Careful not to let the bottle slip from his gloved hands, he filled the glass she held out to him. Delighted, she asked him in accented English, “And who might you be?”

She was very beautiful, all dark hair, and silk, and heavy gold jewelry, and he kept a careful step back from her as he answered, “Ian Nottingham.”

“You go to school, Ian?”

He decided his lessons could be a form of schooling, and nodded.

“And what do you want to be?”

No hesitation. “A warrior. So I can protect Mr. Irons.”

For some reason, she began to laugh, a throaty chuckle at once inviting and overwhelmingly female. Confused, he retreated back to Irons’ end of the table, standing as he thought a warrior should, with his feet set wide apart and his hands clasped behind his back.

This further amused her. “He’s a very obedient child.”

“I insist upon it.”

They continued talking, Irons and the Contessa, but the words did not match the undercurrents flowing between them. As usual, Irons was guarded, but the Contessa exuded a dark, primitive energy that at once awakened and repelled him. Further confused, he tried to escape into one of the disciplines he was being taught, but he could not shut it out.

She noticed his distress. “Something wrong, bambino?”

Irons belatedly realized what was happening. At that moment, a servant came in and whispered to the Contessa. Suddenly grave, she went to one of the side tables to take a phone call. The conversation in Italian was short and terse. When she returned, she announced,

“I’m sorry, Kenneth. There’s been some wretched business with the Red Brigades. I have to return to Milan immediately.”

Irons was all graciousness. “You’ll take my jet.”

“I could not impose--”

“Not at all.”

She kissed Irons in gratitude. Before he could dodge her, she kissed him as well. “Ciao, Ian.”

A bewildering array of images and emotions swept over him. No one had ever kissed him before. A strange feeling flooded into the empty place where he had once kept Elizabeth Bronte. Shaken, he clutched at Irons’ suit jacket, and the strange feeling dissipated, leaving him with an unexpected sense of loss.

Once she was gone from the room, Irons detached him. Earlier in the week, he had displeased Irons and had been soundly caned for it. Now, he waited uneasily.

Irons studied him. “Do you like her, Ian?”

He did not know what to answer. Everything was still a jumble of memories and emotions that were not his. Finally, he sought safety in a scowl. “No.”

It was the correct response. “I’m glad to hear you have not fallen prey to her wiles. A warrior has no need of women--they will only cause him to become soft, and thus, vulnerable. You do not wish to become soft, do you?”

“No sir.” He decided. The empty place would be walled off, along with the feelings she had evoked. Taking advantage of his momentary status in Irons’ favor, he asked, “Sir? May I hold the sword for a while?”

Irons knew the one he meant. Irons took down the katana and gave it into his gloved hands. Even through the black cotton, he could feel the spirits of the warriors who had carried the blade, their character and their strength of purpose. And their honor. It was his fervent dream that one day, the blade would carry the memory of his honored spirit as well.

Irons regarded him with amused indulgence. “You will need to muster your fortitude. As soon as she’s dealt with her difficulties, the Contessa will be back.”

“No, she won’t.” It came to him as quickly and casually as a glint of sunlight on a window. “They’re going to kill her.”

“Who is?”

“The Brigate Rosse.” He stumbled over the Italian words. Having uttered them, he promptly lost interest, absorbed in the sword once more.

Irons stared at him. “Your gifts continue to surprise me.”

All too soon, Irons gestured for the return of the sword. Reluctantly, he surrendered it. Another glint came, of himself offering up the same sword to Irons, asking for mercy....

It was gone, the sword back upon its stand. Absently, Irons stroked his hair, tucking the curls back behind his ears. “It’s a pity I cannot direct your gifts with the same precision that I direct you.”

He kept silent.

“It’s no matter. You’ve done well. If you like, you may sit with me a while before you’re sent to bed.”

It was the ultimate reward. He composed himself at Irons’ feet, and waited expectantly. Sometimes, Irons would listen to music; sometimes, Irons would discourse on anything and everything, the world and the revelations of the Witchblade. Tonight, though, Irons was silent, lost in thought. It had been a long day, most of it eaten up with the excitement of the Contessa’s visit. For all his warrior’s resolve, his head was soon nodding. His last clear memory was of Irons turning the wine glass in the firelight, the wine gleaming with the dark red of blood that ran through to color his dreams. 

The second shard fell.  

He was older still, another few years, dressed in a dark blazer with an emblem on the pocket as he waited for the driver to take him to St. Anselm's. He was going to school. Dr. Immo had persuaded Irons to enroll him in the exclusive academy, arguing that he would learn more surrounded by boys his own age. Now, he rode there each day, alone in the back seat of one of the cars, his gloved hands on his knees and his new book bag on the seat beside him. And his heart in his throat. He had always wanted to be like the boys in his books, to go to a real school, and to have friends. But he was unprepared for the overwhelming noise and presence of the other students. At first, he kept his eyes fixed on his textbooks, afraid to look even at the teachers. But one day he asked a question. And the following day, another. And received not reprimands for his audacity, but praise and encouragement. He began to blossom. He drew a picture in art class. In English class, he wrote a poem. And in Science class, he boldly signed up for a field trip to the planetarium.

The program covered the entire solar system, but it was Mars that fascinated him. He sat in the darkness as the narrator talked of future explorations, and in that moment, he decided: he would become an astronaut and go to Mars. It did not matter that the voyage would take twelve years. He was used to being alone. And it did not matter that he would have to know math and science. He was smart. The teachers had emphasized that in the report they sent to Dr. Immo. The report said he could do anything he wanted to. And he wanted to go to Mars. He had a future.

And he had a friend.

Each day, he waited by the curb for Jeffrey to arrive so they could go into the classroom together. They sat together at lunch, too. Other boys sat with them, Jeffrey's other friends, but it was Jeffrey who had opened the circle and allowed him to enter. It was Jeffrey who talked to him about homework, and video games, and the World Series. He began to let down his guard, even daydreaming about inviting Jeffrey to Irons' mansion, and showing Jeffrey Irons' collection of soldiers. Then, one night he dreamed that Jeffrey's father would die.

The dreams given him by the Witchblade always came true. So he told Jeffrey what would happen, reasoning that Jeffrey would want to prepare himself, and say goodbye. But Jeffrey did not believe him. He could not tell Jeffrey of the Witchblade; Irons had been mercilessly explicit about what he must keep from the other boys at St. Anselm’s. So he said no more, and Jeffrey dismissed his prediction as a misunderstood joke.

A few days later, the Headmaster came and took Jeffrey out of class.

His hearing was acute. It picked up Jeffrey shouting, over and over, that it couldn't be true, that his father was all right. He stared down at his sums, and tried to understand. For the rest of the class, he watched the door, but Jeffrey did not return.

He was despondent. He waited each day as the cars pulled up, hoping one of them would be Jeffrey's, but Jeffrey did not come. Just in case, he smuggled out some of the soldiers in his book bag, thinking they might help Jeffrey forget about his father and be all right again. At night, he tried to conjure dreams to show him where Jeffrey was. Jeffrey was his friend. He missed Jeffrey.

The day Jeffrey came back to St. Anselm's, he ran eagerly to meet him, expecting that everything would be the way it was. But a wall of anger stopped him.

"How did you know?" The wall was in Jeffrey's eyes. "You said Dad was going to die, and he did. How did you know? Did you make it happen?"

Stunned, he could not answer.

Jeffrey's anger was laced with pain. "Why did you have to tell me?"

His own voice seemed very small. "I thought you would want to know." When Jeffrey did not respond, he offered, "I brought in some of my soldiers--"

"Get away from me! I don't want anything to do with you!" Jeffrey's face twisted. "It's true what they say--you're a freak!"

Still, he tried. "Jeffrey, I'm sorry! I thought you'd want to know."

Jeffrey turned and walked away.

He watched the other boys swarm around Jeffrey. None of them looked back at him. No one looked at him. Finally, he made his way to one of the benches that ringed the schoolyard, and sat down, hardly feeling the board beneath him. Other boys hurried past, pushing each other and laughing, but he did not move. He clutched his book bag in his gloved hands and watched the whole world shift, like an image in a mirror suddenly knocked askew. It was the same yard, and the same boys in dark blazers, but it was all changed. For the first time, he understood that he would never be one of them, would never be graced with a family, and friends, and a future of his own making. He was marked by the Witchblade.

He was a freak.

When the last bell rang, he rose and followed the rest of the boys into the building, but part of him remained there upon the bench. The part that had raised a hand, and drawn a picture, and dreamed of going to Mars.

The next report was as dismal as the first had been exemplary. Irons threw it down on the desk in front of Immo, and declared,

"I believe we've wasted enough time on this experiment."

Immo was concerned. "You were doing so well, Ian. What happened?"

He kept his hands clasped behind his back, and his eyes on the carpet. And his words to himself. He did not care if he was beaten. No blows could equal the misery that had engulfed him since Jeffrey's return.

"Answer the Doctor!" Irons snapped.

He obeyed. "Nothing."

Immo kept trying. "I know the Headmaster. Whatever it is, we can straighten it out. Don't you want to continue at St. Anselm's?"

It did not matter what he wanted. He knew now with brutal clarity he would never be an astronaut, or an artist, or a writer. St. Anselm's was not for someone like him.

He was a freak.

The freak gave its answer. "No."

And looked up to its Creator.

Irons was smiling. Immo did not see the smile, but he did. The smile told him that he had been sent to St. Anselm's to learn a lesson, not one from its academic syllabus, but one written for him by Irons. Immo went on speaking of makeup exams, and special tutoring, but the words washed over him unfelt. There was only the ache, and the patterns on the carpet.

And Irons' smile.

The third shard fell.

He was still that boy, but taller now, his shoulders more defined, his face smooth from the first few uses of a razor. A dog lead was in his hand, but he coiled it into his pocket before entering the great room to answer Irons’ summons.

Fenris raised his graying head from his place by the fire, expecting the usual greeting, but he knew better than to even appear to keep Irons waiting. Two other men were with Irons, both dressed in dark colors, each with a heavy silver chain looped at his belt. He knew what they were, knew also that they had been discussing him with Irons, but he hid his excitement and curiosity.

Irons regarded him enigmatically. “I have a task for you, Ian.”

There was a wooden box on the desk between them. At Irons’ indication, he opened it, finding a pistol he had never before seen. He picked it up, examining it expertly. “Sir?”

Irons told him casually, “I’ve noticed Fenris is having more and more difficulty climbing stairs. I’m afraid his hunting days are over. I see no point in postponing the inevitable--I want you to put him down.”

He could not believe he had heard right. “Sir?” Still clutching the gun, he dared to look directly at Irons. “But Fenris has--“

“Outlived his usefulness. And I have no tolerance for things that are of no use to me, you know that.” Irons picked up a sheaf of papers, adding almost as an afterthought, “Clean the pistol when you’re done, and return it to its case.”

Fenris was all that remained of his childhood. “Sir? Please--”

“Obey me, Ian!” Irons’ voice lashed over him.

And in that moment, something that had been battered and tormented beyond any hope of endurance finally shattered. He was himself, and at the same time, he was outside himself, watching himself turn and cross the room, the pistol still in his hand. He took the leash from his pocket and clipped it to Fenris’s collar with hands that did not seem his, and led the dog from the room. Fenris went trustingly, anticipating their usual circuit of the grounds. Anticipating the affection he would show him when Irons could not see. Fenris was still gazing in placid anticipation when he aimed the pistol and shot him as Irons had commanded.

The visitors were gone when he returned the pistol to its case. Irons sat in his chair, contemplating a glass of wine in the firelight.

“I have good news for you, Ian. Tomorrow you will leave to begin the final stage of your training.” With satisfaction, “They were well pleased with you.”

“Yes, sir.” His voice seemed to come from far away.

“The symphony concert is about to begin. You may sit and listen to it with me. It will be some time before you will again have that privilege.”

He sat as he was bidden at Irons’ feet, leaning against the arm of the chair. Though the first piece was one of his favorites, this night the notes were hollow, each unconnected to the next and without meaning. As they listened, Irons stroked his hair, a once-familiar caress that he had not felt since he had begun to grow toward manhood.

Irons’ hand came to rest upon his shoulder. “What are you feeling, Ian?”

He answered truthfully. “Nothing.”

The fourth shard fell.

He was grown now, a man but only just, his body holding the promise of filling out in the years to come. Dark hair pulled tight behind his head, he was clad all in black, the newly-won silver chain gleaming at his belt. Solemn with purpose, he entered the six-pointed star inlaid on the chapel floor, and fell to his knees in its center. Above him, the age of the stones pressed down upon him from the vaulted ceiling; around him, tall pillars of candles illuminated the ancient hangings. He knelt unmoving as the silver censor swung arcs around him, purifying him and the space within the star with clouds of incense. He could feel the others gathered around the periphery, hooded figures in robes dark as the night that was their province. Some he knew; some he would never know. All had come to bear witness, for on this night he would be sworn, with oaths terrible and irrevocable, to the one who would be his master.

A subtle shift of the energies enclosed within the chapel told that the Grand Master had begun the ritual. The Latin words echoed sonorously, the responses chanted by dark male voices. Invoked by the chanting, a darker Power was suddenly present, one older than those who had inscribed the stones with wisdom brought back from the Crusades, older even than the stones themselves. He felt It course around the outline of the star, Its nearness causing his skin to tighten.

It was his turn. The ritual questions began; he answered each confidently. If any assembled found fault with his answers, the ceremony would end with dire consequences, but he made no errors. He had prepared for this moment his entire life. The final question:

"Do you swear this oath of your own free will?"

It had been the genesis of his creation; the shaping of that creation, physically and mentally; the forging of a weapon shaped for one hand alone. Without hesitation he answered,

“Yes.”

The Grand Master descended from the altar, carrying an alabaster bowl. He was anointed with consecrated oil,  the Grand Master drawing a sigil on his forehead, another over his heart, and a third between his shoulder blades. The sigils burned, witness to the power of the ritual. The Grand Master laid a hand upon his bowed head, the words now ancient Aramaic, the incantation one that would bind him, body and will, his honor to his master’s honor. When it was done, the Grand Master stepped back, and another took his place.

He was handed a chalice, ancient and encrusted with gems. He took the knife that was offered and cut his arm. He let the blood drip into the chalice, then handed back both the chalice and the knife. The Grand Master mixed the blood with wine and potent herbs, the mixture black in the candlelight. The chalice was offered to him again, and he drank of it, the taste bitter on his tongue. His master drank as well, then poured the remainder onto the stones as an offering to the Power.

The blood and wine hissed into vapor, rising into the shadows of the ceiling.

The Power was satisfied.

His master handed him a silver ring, heavy and laden with magics. He kissed it, then slipped it onto his index finger. And looked up into Kenneth Irons’ triumphant smile.

Afterwards, he stood behind Irons’ chair as Irons dined with the Grand Master. Light-headed from fasting, and from the ritual herbs, he followed only bits of their conversation, but he knew it concerned him.

“His abilities are preternatural.” It was the Grand Master. “But there is still the independent streak. We were never able to eradicate it.”

Irons was unperturbed. “I am developing a project to address that.”

He kept his eyes fixed upon the carpet. The ring felt both strange and reassuring upon his hand, binding him to Irons, and more important, binding Irons to him, the darkness banished at last. He stood there, waiting in stillness and anticipation, a sword in its sheath. And like a newly-forged sword, he felt only hunger for the first taste of blood.

The last shard fell.

He was in the barracks with the other Black Dragons, propped with his back to a wall, his head buried in his arms as his body shook uncontrollably.

“He’s having another bad reaction to the meds.”

“Better call the docs.”

“No.” Moby’s voice. “They’ll just pump him full of worse shit like last time.”

“Yeah, well, he ain’t exactly right in the head anyway.”

“He’s one of us. We take care of our own.” Moby hunkered down beside him. “Ian?”

He could not answer. He was trapped in Seeing, images shattering and falling around him with no connection. He could not make them stop. The same event played out three, five, eleven different ways, each of them possible and all of them true, and none of them ever to happen. He was lost in them, not knowing which of the futures was his. Or which present.

Moby laid a hand upon his shoulder.

Fire. Flames. Moby and Irons, facing each other across a chessboard on which the other Black Dragons were pawns and he was a fallen knight. The Queen stepped forward and slew the dragon, and the chessboard and the men were consumed by the dragon's dying wrath. Leaving him standing before Irons as his master laid down the photographs, one by one: Moby and the other Black Dragons. “You know what you must do.” And he Saw.

He screamed.

He knelt once more upon the ornate rug, his scream still echoing in his ears, the paperweight still clutched in his hand. His other hand was pressed over his heart; he let that hand fall away, and noted with surprise that there was no blood. Until he remembered that he was dead. He looked up at Elizabeth Bronte.

“Why have you shown me this? You were silent all the years of my childhood. If there were choices, I made them with no word from you. Now, when it can make no difference, you emerge from your icy silence and stand here to judge me.”

“I do not judge you, Ian. You judge yourself.”

His pain would not let him acknowledge those words. He looked away from her, to the man who had been his master. The master he had failed. “I offered him this life he gave me, that it might end in honor. I begged it of him as a last mercy. Instead, he cast me away and bade me find my darkness.”

 “He is not a merciful man.”

The procedure was complete. Irons settled back onto the leather sofa, his eyes closed, his features showing the dark side of the Witchblade’s gift. Elizabeth Bronte regarded Irons thoughtfully.

“You are like him,” she said finally. “Only, where you chose honor over love, he chose the Witchblade.”

Before he could respond, Bruno Dante came into the room, followed by the Doctor wheeling in a laden gurney.

Elizabeth Bronte laid a hand upon his arm. “Ian, I would not.”

He slipped free, coming to stand beside the Doctor as the plastic was pulled back from the body. The head was hidden by bags of ice, but when Immo stripped off the long coat, he saw the damage done by the White Bulls. He remembered his body arcing under the impact of the policemen’s rounds, and his legs failing under him. But he could not recall the coup de grace that had sent him falling into the darkness. Now, he saw that it had been in the back, a last piece of ignominy from one too cowardly to look him in the eyes.

Dante.

The Captain prowled the room, looking everywhere except at the body. Immo collected the heavy silver chain, pulled the ring and the gloves from the stiffening hands, and laid them with the coat on the sofa next to Irons. He looked down, and saw that he no longer wore them. The Doctor wheeled the gurney away.

He did not follow. He watched Irons pick up the ring that, in life, had seldom been absent from his hand. Irons contemplated it, then set it carefully onto the table. And noticed Dante’s eyes upon him.

“It’s not polite to stare, Captain.”

Dante was sweating. “Yeah. No. It’s just you look, uh, you know, tired.”

Irons regarded him sardonically. “You have no idea.”

He moved closer to scrutinize Irons’ drawn features. His master fingered the silver chain, anda  and let it fall again.

Do you grieve for me after all? Or it is your own long-delayed mortality that causes you sorrow?

“Drop the case against Sara Pezzini,” Irons commanded.

Dante protested. “Are you forgetting you and I already had this conversation, Mr. Irons? What I don’t understand is, why?”

Irons reached a hand into the coat and pulled out the torn photograph.

My last haiku. Composed on the occasion of my death.

“I mean, I know I was a little hot the last time I was over here, but she’s a threat to my entire organization.”

“Which exists to serve me.” Carefully, Irons fit the two halves together and regarded them before placing the photo next to the ring.

“Listen, even if I call off my men? I’m betting she self-destructs.”

His master picked up the gloves.

Dante’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me.”

The gloves still held the shape of his hands. He watched Irons finger them, then stare at something beyond Dante.

The Captain listened for a moment, and ordered,

“Keep it simple. Just you and me.” Another pause. “Yeah.” Dante put away the phone.

Irons threw the gloves at the policeman’s feet, in control once more. “As you lie dying, Bruno, remember this--I warned you.”

“I understand, Mr. Irons. I understand.”

As Dante strode past him, the familiar slip came, when time would loose its bonds on his perception and he would See. It was a gift of the Witchblade, and as capricious as all the blade’s gifts; he had thought it lost with his earthly life. But as quick as a muzzle flash, he Saw the captain coughing out his last breath at Sara Pezzini’s feet.

I died by his hand--he will die by yours. I am avenged by one of my own blood.

It is well.

The gloves still lay on the carpet. He knelt beside them, but he could not pick them up. Death had stripped them from him as it had stripped him of his body, as merciless as his master.

He felt Elizabeth Bronte beside him, but he could not look at her, letting his hair fall to curtain his features. “I thought I could evolve, become more than the others who preceded me. More than the one who was to follow. But my words were hollow. I was nothing but what he made me.”

As for this worthless slave, throw him out into the darkness.

She reached down and brushed the hair back from his face. He looked up into the luminous eyes that were so like and so unlike Sara’s.

“Ian. You have always been more than ever he made you.” Before he could answer, she laid her palms against his temples. Once more the shock of connection surged through him.

Images flooded his mind, like a stack of photographs thumbed by an impatient hand. He saw himself clad in armor: of leather, of lacquer, of mail, of silk-covered steel. Saw himself triumphant and slain, besieged and besieger, betrayer and betrayed. On myriad battlefields he stood, under the dragon banner, and the balzaus, and the eagle, under a myriad of suns that swirled into one--the wielder of the Witchblade. He saw himself as her champion and her foe; saw himself die upon her blade, and die in her arms. Saw time spin and flow and knot back upon itself like the bracelet that encircled her wrist, a helix of past-present-future, always spiraling around the woman with Sara’s face.

Elizabeth Bronte released him.

He caught her hands, fighting to make sense of what he had seen. She did not pull away, but her voice was calm with purpose.

“Ian, your part in this is done. They will play this out according to their destinies, but you can no longer affect what is to happen. You must leave, my dear. This is what I’ve come to tell you.”

“A matter of import.” Around him, the room was once more beginning to fade, and he dared not let go of her hands. “Will you also cast me into the darkness?”

Gently, she told him. “Beyond that darkness is a road. You know it well--you’ve walked it a thousand times. Neither Kenneth nor I have the power to keep you from that road. Only yourself.”

A wind was rising. Before, he had feared it. Now, he knew that all he had to do was lean into it, and it would strip away his memories like dead leaves from a branch, scattering them into the autumn of his death. Leaving him free.

Part of him longed for an end to the pain, for a final release from the chain that bound him with links stronger than any steel forged. But beyond that longing, beyond the memories of lives past and ever present, was a single link still holding him to this place. A link unbreakable by any hand of Kenneth Irons or Elizabeth Bronte.

Sara.

I have brought her to you, Brother!

The triumphant laugh seared through his mind.

In the next moment, Sara Pezzini entered the room.

Irons smiled. “Hello, Angel. I thought you’d never get here.”

She did not return it. “You and I are going to have a long heart-to-heart talk.”

Time slowed; he watched her stride toward him, eyes bright with determination. But she did not see him. He knew he was less than a shadow, but still he reached out a gloveless hand, to stop her or merely to touch her, he did not know. And called her name.

Sara.

Can you not sense that I am here?

I would sense you. If you came to me from wherever death had exiled you, I would know you, as a breath of wind, or a shadow in the twilight. I would still know you, Sara. Do you not know me?

She stepped past him.

He bowed his head.

Freak!

The word slithered into his thoughts, mocking the child he had been and the man he had tried to be. He tried to shut it out, but the word turned into laughter. He forgot them all, Sara, Irons, Elizabeth Bronte. There was only the laughter. He whirled--

He stood on the hillside above the back entrance to Irons’ mansion. Facing him was the Other, an image caught in a dark and poisoned mirror. He circled, and the Other matched him step for step.

How is it that you can see me?

Why should I not? We are the same being.

They made you from my cells, but we are nothing alike. You are from the Darkness. The ones who came before me warned of your coming, and told me that I would have to stop you.

In this as in all else, you failed.

You know nothing of me.

I know everything. I have your memories. I would take them from you as you slept. They thought I slept, too. But I would reach out from the coldness and find you. And you never knew. I have seen your feelings for the Lady Sara, and how she rejected you. How HE rejected you. A worthless slave. He cast you from him that one more worthy might take your place.

He does not know what you are.

The Other smiled. He will.

Anger rose within him.

You are sworn to protect him.

You were sworn to protect him. But you were soft. You let the deficiencies in your emotional nature destroy you. You died in dishonor, worthy of no other end than a bullet in the back. I have no such deficiencies.

Fear replaced his anger, fear for Sara, and, to his surprise, fear for Irons. But before he could acknowledge that fear, a man appeared below: Jake McCarty.

The Other smiled. Now I will collect your debt of honor.

McCarty approached the double doors cautiously, gun in hand, then looked up. Fear suffused his features. “I heard you were dead!”

The Other jumped down, all lethal grace. McCarty raised his gun, but the Other grabbed him by the arm and the neck, and flung him against the concrete around the doors.

“A slight exaggeration,” the Other said.

He leaned over the edge of the hillside, and watched the Other walk casually up to McCarty, a smiling predator playing with its prey. McCarty grabbed the Other’s jacket with both hands, and head-butted the Other in the face. Unaffected, the Other continued to smile. McCarty threw a punch to the Other’s face, coupling it with a knee to the groin, with as little effect. McCarty pushed the Other into the wall; the Other bounced off and kicked McCarty in the face. Despite himself, he could not help but feel a twinge of appreciation for what Irons had created. And a certain approval.

McCarty had betrayed Sara.

It was a debt of honor.

The Other picked up McCarty and threw him across the pavement to land on a metal storm grate. Stunned, McCarty made no resistance as the Other pinned his wrists to the grating with one hand, then closed the other around McCarty’s neck. Slowly, the Other began to tighten his grip.

Shall I show you, Brother? Shall I allow you a taste of what you were too weak to procure?

Scenes flooded his mind, scenes from McCarty’s dying thoughts. Scenes of surfing, of riding huge waves that crashed around him as he balanced on the board. And scenes of Sara, her face fading into the blackness of death. The Other reveled in them as McCarty’s life force ebbed away.

He looked down at what had been Jake McCarty.

You do not even deserve these last thoughts of her.

McCarty was dead. The Other picked up the body, and threw it over one shoulder, claiming his prize.

I have collected your debt. There is nothing remaining for you here. He cast you out into the darkness. It is where you belong. You are as he named you--a worthless slave.

He watched the Other carry McCarty’s body to the double doors, and could not escape the truth of those words. Or of Elizabeth Bronte’s. His part in this was done. They would play out their destinies, and he could do nothing to alter them. He was dead.

But Sara—

I will protect the wielder of the Witchblade. And our master. I will not fail them.

The Other gave a last, triumphant smile. And carried McCarty through the doors, leaving him alone in his misery.

Into the weariness, into the pain and the sorrow, came the words:

Begone, Ian.

I will.

So be it.

He stretched his arms out from his sides, and let his head fall back into the wind that rose around him. The mansion, the sky, the stars, all left him, leaving only the darkness. Elizabeth Bronte had spoken to him of a road, but he wanted only oblivion, a final end. He closed his eyes. And released his last hold upon the life that had once been his, letting the wind take him.

Once again, he fell through the darkness. He could not mark time; he had neither sunlight to tell of the passing days, nor heartbeats to count the seconds. It might have been no more than the space between one breath and the next; it might have been an eternity. He waited for all thought to cease, for oblivion to take him, but it did not come. There was only the falling.  He willed it to stop--

He stood in the center of a vast plain, gray and lifeless, the sky above devoid of sun or stars. There was no road. There were only rocks twisted into macabre shapes, as though their souls had been caught in a moment of agony. The wind died away, leaving him alone in the absolute stillness. He walked in wide circles, searching for a road, for anything, but all he found was aloneness. Finally, he cried out to the black sky,

What is this place?

Is this hell?

He[TS1]  felt a presence behind him, and  turned.

The one called Lazar stood watching him, clad in gray and black robes that rippled with ancient symbols.

Why have you brought me here?

You have called yourself here. You have come to face the one to whom you must give a final answer.

Who is that?

The one you betrayed.

Before, there had been only the rocks. Now they were overshadowed by a massive gnarled tree, its dead limbs reaching high above them. Something hung from its limbs, twisting slowly though there was no wind. He drew closer, close enough to see the human form within the fluttering rags. Dread seized him. He drew closer still, until he stood beneath the suspended form. It kept turning until he could see the bowed head curtained by dark hair. An unfelt wind stirred the locks, lifting them back and away. And he found himself staring into his own face.

The eyes opened.

For one terrifying moment, he was both down below and hanging from the tree, staring at himself staring at himself. Then the whole world shattered as if it were no more then a crystal paperweight, and he one of the infinitesimal shards....

Once again he knelt within the six-pointed star, the scent of incense mingling with that of the huge, pillared candles. A Presence stood before him, but he dared not look up. He kept his eyes fixed upon the stone floor as the Voice asked,

“Whom do you serve?”

He looked for the silver ring, but it was missing from his hand. Nonetheless, he answered,

“Kenneth Irons.”

It was the wrong answer. The lines of the star broke, and the dark robes surrounded him. The candles blew out--

Again, he knelt within the star. But it was a far older time, and instead of the black robes, those watching wore the white surcoat with the red cross, as did he. The same Presence appeared before him, and again he dared not raise his head, but waited for the question.

It was put to him in archaic French. “Whom do you serve?”

Her face appeared before him. “Jehanne La Pucelle.”

Again, it was the wrong answer. Again, the star broke and the candles blew out, leaving him immured in the darkness. Darkness that was ripped asunder—

For a third time, he knelt on stone, but there was no star. A stone circle far older than the chapel surrounded him, its energies ancient beyond measure. And he understood that this time, he must answer correctly, for he would not be asked again. A light appeared, though there were no candles. And from that light came the question:

“Whom do you serve?”

He did not know.  The previous two answers had been both the reason for his existence and for his death.  He did not know, he had never known.  Finally, despairingly, he raised his head, And saw within that light the answer. In simple wonderment, he declared,

"I serve you."

The light expanded, consuming all, the stones, the watchers, himself....

Once more he faced Lazar on the vast plain. Before, the sky had been black and starless, but now it was alive with streams of stars, flowing and knotting, each around the other. As he watched, the patterns mutated and changed, and he knew he was seeing Time itself, the streams of possibilities, of past-present-future.

The intersection of primal cause and pervasive entropy.

What he had only intuited was now revealed to him. Fascinated, he stared into the constantly changing streams. Then, he saw a place where the pattern was broken, the stars scattered like jewels fallen from a chain.

It is wrong.

Yes.

Lazar's robes gleamed with colors for which he had no names, reflecting the streams of time as Lazar told him,

You were a gift to him. A precious gift. He was to guide you in the wise use of power, and to relinquish it to you as his years began to weaken him. As before, he could not. And you were to be the son of his heart, to honor and protect him, and to keep him from the darkest depths of that power. As before, you had not.

And Sara?

You were a gift to her as well. A noble heart of a line as ancient as her own. She was to cherish that heart, to understand its loyalties and heed its counsel. And to keep it from breaking. As before, she would not.

But I failed them. As I have always failed them.

In his despair, he heard Lazar ask,

Which will you choose?

He looked down. And saw that he stood upon an intersection. The road beneath his boots radiated in many directions and paths. Some Elizabeth Bronte had shown him; others lay beyond the bounds of what he could See. But a deeper knowledge was within him.

I must return.

Your life there has ended.

Life, perhaps. But not purpose. You must send me back.

Lazar smiled. And raised his staff—

He stood once more in the great room. Sara Pezzini and Irons confronted each other as Immo looked on. Elizabeth Bronte watched from the library stairs, her gown spread elegantly around her.

Irons was speaking “Some women in your bloodline, yourself, Elizabeth Bronte, are born with certain biological anomalies.” Turning from Sara to the chessboard, Irons picked up a knight. “In fact, it is from the preserved stem cells of Elizabeth Bronte, and the work of my well-financed researchers, that I was able to create Ian Nottingham, and then replicate and improve him.” Irons smiled.

She did not return it, only answering with sudden, grim understanding, “Flesh and blood.”

Now, Sara, you know what I could not tell you.

Time slowed again. He searched her face, expecting to find revulsion. But instead, there was the memory of himself standing before her, asking if she would use the Witchblade on her own flesh and blood. And instead of revulsion toward him, there was...sorrow.

For the second time, he was overcome with wonder.

Sara. You do grieve for me.

Elizabeth Bronte interrupted that revelation. “Ian, you should not have come back.”

He looked down at her. “You told me my part in this was ended. That they must play this out according to their destinies. But this was not meant to be--this is wrong, all of it! You have worn the Witchblade, you must see this.”

“You should not have returned the Witchblade to Sara Pezzini.”

“Sara is a true wielder. If she were not, she would not have passed the Periculum.” Grimly. “You created this when you let Irons wear the Witchblade. He is the one who was not meant to be here, the anomaly. His efforts to manipulate the Witchblade cost you your life, and now may cost Sara hers.”

“You are dead, Ian,” she reminded him gently. “Even though you love her, you cannot help her. You cannot set this right.”

Time snapped back. Irons turned his attention to the far end of the room, announcing, “A perfect fighting machine.”

The Other came in with a sheet-wrapped bundle and threw it down before the fire.

And he Saw what would happen.

Sara stared at the Other in horror. "Oh my God, Irons. What have you done?"

The Other pulled a corner of the sheet back to reveal McCarty's face. And looked to Irons for approval.

They would all play this out according to their destinies. But there was one here who was not a part of what was to happen. One to whom he owed another kind of debt, for moments of kindness, and for insisting in the face of Irons' disapproval that he was not an automaton but a child. He drew on those memories as he stood in front of Dr. Immo and focused his will--

Begone! Or he will kill you!

Immo saw him. The doctor started in fear, then ran from the room.

"Oh, my God." Sara was kneeling over McCarty's body.

The Other spun.

You! It was a serpent's hiss

Yes, "Brother."

As quick as a serpent, the Other positioned himself in front of Irons. You will never regain your place!

He stepped forward to face them. When he died, he had been clad in a long-sleeved black shirt, and black pants. Now he wore mail covered by a white surcoat, whether from a past or future existence, or a gift of the Witchblade, he did not know.

You will never serve him. You will destroy him. You are from the Darkness. But it is you who will be destroyed by the wielder of the Witchblade.

At that moment, Gabriel Bowman stepped through the great room door.

Irons smiled. "Gabriel. How appropriate. The angelic herald. The messenger."

He knew what would happen. Yet still he wished he might somehow prevent it. Bowman walked into the middle of the room, looked at Sara, then drew a gun and pointed it at Irons. For one not a warrior, it was a brave move.

It was a futile move.

The Other leaped forward. One hand snatched away the gun; its opposite gripped Bowman's throat.

Sara made an abortive move toward Gabriel. "No."

Irons halted her. "If you make one move, Sara, the last of your friends will die."

Gabriel gasped as the Other tightened his grip.

Irons continued. "And yes, I did order James Pezzini killed. I could never let emotional attachments stand in the way of fulfilling your, well..." Irons gave a quick grin. "my destiny."

Sara looked to Gabriel. Who shook his head at her.

Irons enthroned himself in the ornately carved chair. "So. Shall we deal?"

She tried. "Let him go, and we'll deal."

"Unfortunately, that is not an option. Your blood in exchange for his life."

A lifetime ago, he had told Sara that if she did not provide Irons with the blood his master needed, one of them would die. In his shame and desperation, he had been unable to look at her, but Sara had merely answered that it wasn't going to be her. Now, he saw her concern for Gabriel, though she had felt none for his own life. And heard her say,

"I'll give you anything you want. Please, just let him go."

It hurt. But it did not change his resolve to help her.

Sara looked up at the Other. "Nottingham, Ian, whoever you are--please, just let him go."

The Lady Sara has commanded you to release him.

The Other looked at him once more, a smile playing above the tuft of hair at his chin. "I would be happy to free him." The Other turned Gabriel's head and looked down at his prey. Irons leaned forward in concern, but the concern was too late.

The Other finished. "From his earthly bonds."

Finally realizing what would happen, Irons raised himself up, and commanded sharply, "Ian!"

The Other snapped Gabriel's neck, and tossed the body onto the leather sofa.

Now, Brother, he is as free as you.

"No!" Sara cried.

Irons clapped a hand to his chest, and slumped back into the chair.

He strode across the room to stand over Irons.

How dramatic.

Sara rose to her feet, and looked at the Witchblade. It did not respond.

The Other smiled. "Your little toy doesn't seem to work against me."

Belatedly, she realized her danger. With lithe grace, Sara leaped over the leather sofa and grabbed the katana from its stand. The Other followed, ducking under the wild swing of the sword to knock it from her hand. The Other grabbed her from behind, and slid his left arm up between her breasts to seize her chin.

Is this the woman who will destroy me, Brother?

The Other grinned down at her. "Flesh and blood, Sara!" And ran his tongue up the side of her face.

She rammed her head back into the Other's face. The Other threw her over the couch and onto the floor. And began to advance, slowly, to prolong the pleasure of killing her.

Sara glanced down at the Witchblade. And gritted, "Not this time."

The blade transformed into the gauntlet.

You see, "Brother"? It does not like you. It knows what you are.

The Other curled his lip scornfully as Sara advanced with the gauntlet. With both hands, she struck the Other across the face; he aimed a spinning back kick in retaliation, which she ducked. Emboldened, she tried to strike him again, but this time the Other pushed her to the floor, then spun again to kick her in the ribs. As she bounced onto the couch, the Other let him feel his triumph.

You failed, Brother. So will she.

The Other picked her up by the throat, and struck her twice across the face, more for insult than injury. Sara recovered and countered with a blow low to the abdomen, then a backhand blow to the Other's head.

It is the Witchblade, "Brother." It gives her greater strength than either you or I possess.

The Other tumbled, then spun to his feet. More wary now, the Other circled Sara. She in turn abandoned caution to rush him with the gauntlet. Using her own momentum, the Other threw her to the floor. Then broke away from the fight to parade mockingly before him.

I too have a wielder's strength. You gave that to me. And more than that, I have your skills and your knowledge of combat. She may wield the Witchblade, but she is not a trained warrior. She lacks the will to truly do battle.

Behind the Other, Sara regained her feet. Before she could take advantage of her position, the Other jumped up to grasp the chandelier, and swung from it to kick Sara in the face. As she fell, the Other dropped back to the floor.

He stepped into the space between them.

Look to your master. As you preen, and parade your skills, he is dying. He needs her blood.

The years were piling rapidly onto Irons' deteriorating frame. Irons sank into his chair, becoming more frail and wrinkled with each passing minute. Distracted, the Other glanced back at Irons, as though suddenly unsure of what to do.

At that moment, he summoned all his will and clamped his own hand down upon the Witchblade. For the first time, the blade extended itself. Melding his will to Sara's, his momentum to hers, he drove the Witchblade up through the Other's abdomen into the heart.

An inhuman roar rent the darkness. He saw the Other writhe and change, saw shapes and colors hidden to the living. The Other's pain ripped through his own mind, along with disbelief that he was dying.

Sara jerked the blade free, and the Other fell dead to the floor.

A dark, unformed shape rose from the body. He stood between It and Sara, between It and the rest of the world. Before It could assume limbs and features, he commanded,

Begone, Ian! Your darkness awaits.

With a shriek of rage, the form was swept away by the winds.

He returned to Irons.

Irons was dying. He had always expected that if this moment came, he would feel only hatred, or perhaps nothing at all. Irons had denied him an honorable death, had cast him out to die ignominiously and alone, Sara's disbelieving gaze his only final rite. But it was not hatred he felt now. He looked down at Irons..

Irons saw him.

The wrinkled features twisted. Irons reached out a feeble hand, and managed one word.

"Ian."

All the unspoken words, the feelings half-formed and frozen, returned. He bowed his head.

I am here.

He moved to stand behind the chair as Irons drew himself up to face Sara Pezzini.

Clad now in the armor of the Wielder, she in turn set the tip of the blade against Irons' chest.

The nearness of her gave Irons new strength. "I'm dying, Sara," Irons wheezed. "Help me. I can help you. Sara, please."

Head bowed once more, he echoed Irons' plea.

Sara. Please.

He did not know if she heard. But she pulled the sword back, and turned to survey the carnage. He felt her grief as the sight of Gabriel crumpled on the leather sofa, and at McCarty's shrouded form. He wished he could take that grief from her, as he had wished so many times that she would ask one small thing of him, give him one task that would allow him to please her.

The wish distracted him long enough for Irons to take a dagger from the table and drive it up through the armor into Sara's back.

She cried out in pain, and fell to her knees.

Irons fell as well, crumpling to the floor behind her.

Elizabeth Bronte stood beside him, now wearing a trench coat and a hat instead of her lace-edged gown.

"It is as I told you, Ian. They must play this out according to their destinies. You cannot affect what will happen here."

"I cannot. But you can. You must help Sara."

She raised an eyebrow. "I'm not the master of the universe."

He would not give up. "You showed me choices I made, choices which led to this just as surely as the one you made so many years ago, when you let Irons wear the Witchblade. I have done what I could to set this right. Now it all depends on you."

She did not answer.

"You called me son. If that relationship exists, it was not by your volition. What I have from you was taken without your consent, and given to me without mine. But you called me son. If you would still claim that bond, then help her. Not for her sake, or the world's, but for mine."

She knew what he wanted. As she knew the consequences. "Ian, even if she chooses to use the Witchblade, there is no guarantee things will play out differently. Time can be a capricious thing; sometimes events happen out of sequence." Gently. "The next time, it may be you that dies upon her blade."

He knew that. Elizabeth Bronte had shown him other lives, other possibilities, some past, and some yet to come. In most future lives, he and Sara were adversaries, even enemies. But once--once!--they were lovers.

It was a chance he would take.

"Help her," he pleaded again.

Irons and Sara were side by side, both dying. He knelt beside them. "Help her." Then he looked down at Irons. And heard himself say, "Help him."

Elizabeth Bronte turned away, and began to climb the library stairs. She looked back, her eyes luminous once more.

"You were loved, Ian."

He could barely answer. "I know."

There were others here. Danny Woo came to kneel with Sara; Lazar appeared on the balcony above. Time slowed even further and he heard Elizabeth Bronte call out,

"Behold, Sara. Time runs both ways."

Sara raised her eyes.

"Remember everything you have learned, my dear. Time is elastic, fluid, flexible." Elizabeth Bronte made a circle in the air. "Reversible. Use it."

Lazar spoke then. "This is a power that can be used only once. It comes with a price of great pain. If you choose to take this journey, you will remember very little."

"Choose, Sara. Choose." Danny touched her hair.

Both Lazar and Elizabeth Bronte vanished. Still on his knees, he watched Sara reach behind to pull the dagger from her back, then crawl to lean over Irons. She licked her own blood from the blade, and lowered her face until her lips almost touched Irons'.

Irons tried to meet them. "Yes...please."

Her voice was low. "Never."

Irons kept trying. "I will tell you everything."

She smiled into his dying eyes. And whispered, "I will find out for myself."

Wincing with pain, she stood, and threw the dagger across the room. Knowing what was to happen, he fixed his eyes upon her face, as he had in the final moments of his life, wanting it to be his last memory. Sara called forth the Witchblade, and gave a great shout, raising it high--

The world exploded.

"****"

The world blinked.

He stood before Irons on the patterned carpet that had been the site of so many similar scenes. He had all the swirls memorized; he searched through them now as Irons paced around him.

"Something has happened. Something so momentous--and yet, so mundane--that we cannot see it. It can only be felt on a cellular level, as though reality itself were ripped asunder, than repaired so skillfully that there is no seam. As though someone has activated the Witchblade."

His only defense was silence.

"Did you not notice this, Ian? Was there not a moment, however fleeting, when you thought, 'Something has happened'? But you did not know what?"

He did not answer.

Irons seized him by the hair and pulled him forward onto his knees. "I asked you a question. Shall we try again?" Irons kept hold of his   his hair, exposing his neck as though readying it for a blade. And asked with terrible patience, "What do you remember, Ian?"

The words came to him. "That my primary mission is to protect you. Following that, I protect the wielder of the Witchblade." He lowered his voice in submission. "I know I only exist because you allow it."

Irons wrenched his head up.

Something did change.

Irons stared down at him, but instead of rage, a stricken look crossed Irons' features. After a long moment, Irons loosened his grip, holding him now not in punishment, but in an embrace. He fixed his eyes once more upon the carpet and waited, his life, as always, in Irons' hands.

When Irons spoke at last, it was as though reassuring a child. "It is of no matter. I do not expect you to understand the desires and manipulations of the Witchblade. We will find out eventually who has been playing in our yard." Irons released him. "You may go."

He got to his feet, his hair falling about his face.

"Ian."

Irons' voice stopped him.

"Tie back your hair more tightly in the future."

He nodded. Only to be halted a second time.

"Ian."

Irons gestured to the glass pane that enclosed Elizabeth Bronte. "Close those curtains."

Obediently, he went  to the heavy red drapes and searched through their folds for the cord. From that angle, he could see an indentation in the surface of the glass, as though something round and heavy had struck it. Something the size of a crystal paperweight. He touched a gloved finger to the indentation, and gazed at Elizabeth Bronte sitting regally upon her couch. And said, very quietly so that Irons would not hear,

"Good night, Mother."

He closed the drapes.