Title: Glory Has Departed
Author: Bob J. Montonelli
Fandom: Sleepy Hollow
Paring: Ichabod Crane/"Headless" Horseman
Rating: R Status: New, may be continued.
Archive: It's okay with me
Feedback: I thrive upon it.
Series/Sequel: Umm..probably not.
Disclaimers: Originally they belonged to Washington Irving...their current incarnations are copyright to the Master of Macrabe, Tim Burton, and their respective actors. (Johnny Depp and Christopher Walken)
Summary: What Horseman wants, Horseman gets. 'nuff said.
Warnings: I dunno...would this be necrophilia or something? Maybe. No real warnings. Except for the fact that I DO NOT KNOW GERMAN! Gwendolen did a wonderful job of beta'ing this for me, many thankees to her. :-) Yay, Gwen. Blame me for the English screw-ups. Translation to some degree is down at the bottom. Also...the formatting got serious f*cked on this. So watch out. :-)

Glory Has Departed

Bob J. Montonelli

"Ichabod?"

"Yes, madame?"

"Ichabod, it has been almost a year since we have seen Sleepy Hollow....I should like to visit my father's grave, since it is nearing the anniversary of his death."

The young man rolled over and looked at her, frowning in thought. "Hmm...yes, yes I think it would be good to do so...to honor him."

Katrina smiled at him, and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek. "Thank you."

He smiled back. "It is no trouble...and young Masbeth may visit his father and home as well." He glanced at the window, where light had not yet arisen over the gloomy brick buildings of New York. "It is still at least an hour till dawn, Katrina, we may as well go back to sleep."

"Of course, dear..."

Lying deep in his hellish hollow, something heard the conversing lovers from afar and stirred. He grew tired of the sorceress-crone he'd dragged here with him...she was cruel, yes, but weak of body and far too strong of mind for him. He'd do better with another...that boy...he recalled, the one who had returned his head to him, the one who whispered with the girl in the dark far away. He would be a fine one to take, small, weak, but still strong enough to withstand a lover's advances. The thing smiled, baring teeth that were filed into sharp fangs. A pale, lovely boy was he, who spurred his desire deeply. Oh, yes, their visit would truly be an advantage to him, and a chance to be rid once and for all of that vicious wench of his. She had served his purpose well enough, but could not compare to the sturdy-soft flesh of a healthy young man. The thing--the Horseman's--smile grew wider still, and he flexed long, graceful fingers as he paced his small lair in the pits that lay between Earth and Hell. He could just imagine the feel of the boy beneath his hands and mouth, the yielding human flesh, each cry of pain and pleasure.

He growled deep in his chest, a noise of longing, anticipation and carnal desire. Oh, yes he would make a fine lover...

Two days they rode, in a cramped carriage, being jolted and jounced to no end. Ichabod was reminded faintly of his first journey to this bleak and foreboding place. Finally, they reached the town of Sleepy Hollow...

By the time they managed to get settled into their rooms, night had fallen. Katrina suggested they'd best sleep now, and get up early. Young Masbeth had already gone to his small room, perfectly willing to leave them alone, and perfectly understanding (for all his youth) of why. Ichabod said that he would join her soon, he had something he needed to do. She shrugged mildly in her way and slipped off to their room. They had taken to her old house as shelter, refusing the offers from the rest of the townspeople, not wanting to impose.  

Ichabod, once outside, realised quite suddenly that he had no idea just what it was that he had to do. He had simply felt the tug of something, pulling him out here, and all at once he found himself walking towards the edge of the Western Woods.

He stared off into the gathering mists, and they simply swirled and whispered around him, curious, but offering no help. He realised as well that the sound--or rather, the silence--was...well...deafening. Not a bird squawked, not a leaf rustled. He shivered, and was just about to turn to leave when he heard a sharp, high-pitched whinny.

Followed by pounding hoofbeats.

Fear seized his gut and throat like a vice. The hoofbeats came closer, and then, like the ghost that he was, the Horseman--with head, it seemed--came thundering out of the trees on his horse, to land just alongside Ichabod.

He looked up at the rider, and a man clad in black battle-leathers, pale-skinned, hair wild and dark, teeth filed into the sharpest of fangs, and eyes as blue as winter lightning stared down at him. Ichabod fainted.

The Horseman sighed softly, as the pale boy thudded to the ground in a dead faint. He dismounted, knelt and lifted him into his arms, surprised at how light he felt and how very peaceful he looked, his graceful cheekbones curving down to lips that pouted like a sleeping child's. A lock of his hair, dark as pine's bark, fell across his face. The Horseman first hefted the boy over Daredevil's back, then mounted behind, so he could hold onto the unconscious young man. Gripping the reins with one hand and Ichabod with the other--not unlike his position in battles past--he spurred his horse and they were off.

Ichabod awoke to a sensation that was half of being jostled and half of flying. He saw the black triangle of a horse's neck and head bobbing up and down in front of him, and felt fear congeal in his belly. A hard, bar-like weight was clenched across his waist. He leaned his head back to look up, saw the pale skin and the wild hair of the Horseman. Again, he fainted.

They continued their ride through the bleak, silent woods until they came to the Tree of the Dead, where the Horseman halted his mount, and seemed to think for a moment. He looked down at the boy, who was still unconscious after fainting a second time. He knew very well that one such as he would never, ever survive the journey into the tree. Unless...

The crone had been tainted to some degree with witchcraft, she had almost made it through intact...

He growled again, though it was more a low groan this time. He closed his eyes in thought.

Then, he had it. Scrabbling at the clasps on his jacket, he wrenched it open, then pulled open his shirt just enough to allow him to slit a short gash in his chest with his dagger. He then steadied his horse while he did the same to Ichabod, pulling open his shirt and slitting his chest--but lightly, for he knew the boy was indeed still of the living, and could not afford much blood loss. He then pressed the younger close, feeling the oddly burning tingle of their blood as it mixed, his own blackish mire flowing into and tainting the boy's innocent veins. But at the same time he took away blood of Ichabod's, and felt oddly renewed by it.

He let the boy drop down again, then kicked Daredevil hard, the signal to get up and going, and all at once they were racing towards the tree, and it's roots curved back ward and they were falling, and Daredevil was gone and it was swirling, black-starred, fiery blackness until with a final THUD, they landed hard in the dank, candle-lit cavern that served as the Horseman's eternal home.

For a minute the Horseman lay there, panting softly, as he always did. The trip was harsh even for a dead man. He lay quiet until he heard a soft whimper nearby, and rose up to investigate.

The boy. The boy lay sprawled on his back, staring at the blood on his chest and hand. The Horseman grunted softly, removed his heavy gloves and reached towards him. The boy tried to scramble backwards, but not before his hand brushed the bleeding wound, and suddenly it bled no more, cauterised by his touch. The boy stared at him in shock, and blinked as the Horseman wiped the blood off on the ground dismissively. Then he looked back towards the boy, and again his dead breath caught in his throat. He was Goddamned beautiful. Hair that he had thought black as pitch instead held many deep hues of reddish-brown within it, sparked by the candle light. His eyes were of a soft brown--dark, but not disturbingly so. His skin was slightly tanned, although paler because of his obvious fear...and it looked so soft...the Horseman reached out to the trembling boy, and stroked his cheek gently. The boy didn't move, but seemed to shiver slightly at the unexpected contact. The Horseman smiled, and the boy nearly fainted for the third--or was it the fourth?--time.

"Du bist hübsch..." He whispered, garnering a confused look from the boy. "Einfach wunderschön." (1) He reached out, touched the boy's cheek again.

There was a flicker of half understanding in those dark eyes, and all at once the Hessian wished he spoke the boy's language to any degree. Even if it was only to explain to him what he thought. He slid his hand behind his head, feeling soft hairs tickle his long fingers. Suddenly he cocked his head at the boy, "Wie heißt du, Junge? Ich werde Kristiaan gerufen." He gestured towards himself with his free hand, "Kristiaan." (2)

"Er..." The boy stammered, "I...I'm Ichabod..." he said, so soft as that he almost couldn't hear him.

"Ichabod..." The Horseman said, smiling. He slid his other hand deftly around the unsuspecting young one's waist, and pulled him closer, gently pressing his lips to Ichabod's. He was as careful as he could be with his teeth, knowing how they had shredded the flesh of the sorceress crone. But the boy struggled, and pulled against him slightly, causing his grip to slide and his fangs to come in contact with--and subsequently open a cut in--the boy's mouth. He pulled back fiercely, gripping Ichabod hard, shaking him.

"Nein, tu das nicht. Du wirst Dich sonst nur verletzen!" (3) He barked. The boy stared at him fearfully, blood dribbling from his lips. He raised his hand, trembling slightly, and stroked Ichabod's cheek with all the gentleness he could muster. "Nein, nein..." He whispered, pulling him into an embrace and burying his face in his hair. He rubbed his hands absently over the boy's back, over taut muscles, longing to feel his youthful, living, healthy body against his own cold, half-dead, demonised one. This boy raised in him deep desires he had thought long dead and buried, long gone, desires and feelings he had thought never to feel again. Not since his death, not since the death of his last lover, the poor soldier, slaughtered by those American Soldaten.

As the Horseman held him close, Ichabod felt himself relax instinctively. He knew somehow that he--Kristiaan--meant no harm towards him. He lay there, against the Horseman's powerful shoulder, half-asleep with the comfort of those graceful hands rubbing his back. He loved that. He fed on the comfort and sense of peace and warmth this gave him--for as close as this was to hell, it almost felt like home. He then froze for a second as he felt the other man's lips on his neck, kissing him slowly, down his jawline, under his throat, up again to come to rest on his lips, and this time Ichabod did not struggle. He leaned into it, wanting comfort and contact nearly as much as the Horseman did. He reached up with his hands, brushing cool--but not quite cold--skin, running his hands over the Horseman's chest, trying to find the clasps to his heavy coat. He found them at last, and one by one unclipped them, as well as the clasp to his cloak, which fell from his shoulders easily. He did not look nearly so frightening without it, and Ichabod broke away from the kiss and continued boldly, allowing the other man to shrug out of the coat, and pull off his shirt. Ichabod laid a tentative touch on the pale skin, surprised at how relatively warm it felt. He had expected it to be stone-cold, but instead it felt...not alive, neccesarily, but decidedly not-dead. A light covering of pale hair dappled the Horseman's chest, and Ichabod found it to be remarkably soft to his touch. But now the Horseman pushed him back gently, working away at Ichabod's own buttons, coat--off with that, vest--off with that, too. And he paused to allow Ichabod to work his way from his shirt. Now they both sat there, naked from the waist up, and Kristiaan sat back to look at the young one. Ichabod felt markedly self-conscious under his gaze. He had never found himself to be especially attractive--few people had, Katrina being one of the exceptions.

The Horseman's breath caught at the sight of him. He was beautiful. Young, healthy, strong, and beautiful. He tried to speak, but could not find words to describe this boy. He merely smiled and shook his head. Ichabod, true to form, blushed fiercely and lowered his eyes. He might not understand what the Horseman said, but even a blind man could figure out a look like that. He felt the Horseman put a hand under his chin, and lift his head up to look into his eyes. Eyes that were shining blue, as blue as winter lightning and twice as fierce. Eyes that now held some measure of caring and compassion. He felt long fingers tickle his exposed skin, and felt a deep twinge of desire arc through his belly and loins. He leaned towards the Horseman, getting another kiss and wanting more. But he lost his balance, slipping then, and the Horseman ended up on his back with Ichabod on top of him. Each could feel the other's desire quite clearly.

"Kristiaan..." Ichabod whispered.

"Schhhhh. Unterhalt noch jetzt und vertrauen mir. Vertrauen du mir bitte." (4) The.., Horseman sat up, turning Ichabod around as he did so, so that the younger man lay with his back against his chest. He stroked his hands down the boy's torso, tickling and laying on wherever he found a sensitive spot. He slowly made his way down to Ichabod's belt, pausing as he noticed the highly conspicuous bulge there. He smiled, too, as he undid the belt and laid his hand on the hard organ, causing a low moan of pleasure from the younger man.

"Guter Junge."(5) He murmured, nuzzling his shoulder. He pushed the younger man's trousers lower down on his hips, freeing his erection. He wrapped his hand around it, applying gentle but insistent pressure, stroking him gently, coaxing him into this. 'Denk dran, dass er dies noch nie getan hat. Sei behutsam um ihn nicht zu verletzen.'(6) He thought.

Ichabod himself was fascinated and near-euphoric over the sensations that gripped him. The Horseman's cool skin against his back, the steady pressure around his aching cock, the press of the other's own desire, hard against the small of his back. He gasped and shivered as Kristiaan's touch sent another sharp, twinging, electric thrill throbbing up his body. He forced his eyes to open, to see what it was that made him feel so God-be-damned good. The Horseman's pale, long-fingered hand was wrapped around his cock, fingering it ever so gently, feather-light touches that kept Ichabod constantly electrified.

"Kristiaan..." He moaned, his voice cracking as Kristiaan ran his thumbnail alone the underside of his member. He felt Kristiaan rumble softly against his shoulder in reply, more a purr than actual words. He felt, suddenly, a deep, low growling noise against his back, and the Horseman, as if sensing his longing, applied even more pressure to his cock...Ichabod groaned. Loudly. He felt faint, floating, strapped down, and then suddenly released, falling like a leaf from a tree in the winter wind. He gasped softly, opened his eyes. He found himself leaning against Kristiaan's chest, cock limp, chest and belly splattered with whitish fluid. The Horseman's hand lay across his belly, similarly doused. The low rumble continued against his shoulder. The Horseman was murmuring softly to him, rapidly and in German.

"Mein süsser, hübscher Junge... mein Geliebter...mein Junge, Ichabod, seien du noch, mein Geliebter, wir schläft jetzt."(7) Ichabod mumbled incoherently in reply, slumping against his newfound lover, fast asleep even before the Horseman had retrieved a blanket from his bed--the only piece of furniture in the cavern--and lain it over them both.

The two, Horseman and Constable, Kristiaan and Ichabod, slept peacefully, unaware and uncaring of the world around them--for the moment, anyway.

THE END

TRANSLATIONS: These are approximate, taken mostly from what they were originally supposed to be. If they don't come out like that, you have permission to hit me with a hard object. :-)
(1): You are pretty...absolutely beatiful...
(2): What's your name? I am called Kristiaan.
(3): No, don't do that...you'll hurt yourself.
(4): Shhhh...be still now and trust me. Please trust me.
(5): Good boy.
(6): Remember that he has never done this before. You mustn't hurt him.
(7): My sweet, pretty boy...my lover...my boy, Ichabod, be still, my lover...we sleep now.