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,