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Date Posted: 19:56:33 09/21/03 Sun
Author: Slally
Subject: "Breathing Space" - Chapter 75 (**** NC-17 ****)
In reply to: Slally 's message, ""Breathing Space"" on 19:42:46 09/21/03 Sun

Marshaling his considerable will, Ian narrowed his focus to the present moment and the woman in his arms. He knew that he was the product of his past – knew that his master’s manipulations had damaged him in so many ways – but he would not allow an unknown future to further destroy this night with his love. He nuzzled her neck; lips warm and tongue hot against her tender skin. Sara’s breath caught in her throat and deepened with need. “How do you want me?” he whispered in her ear, teeth achingly sharp as he lightly scored her earlobe. He no longer had the strength to master her, to control their lovemaking. She buried her fingers in his silky curls, damp now from their coupling. “I want to look in your eyes while we make love,” she whispered back. Ian shivered, feeling another little tug inside him at her words. He lifted his head to look at her. “I love you so much, Sara,” he said softly, “Too much maybe.” She met the adoration in his eyes with her own and touched his bearded cheek with trembling fingers. “I love you too, baby,” she told him.

Ian slipped his leg between hers to gently spread her thighs. Eyes locked on hers, he drew the tips of two fingers very slowly from the center of her breastbone down her chest to her stomach and on into the moist heat of her curls. Her breathing quickened again. Rubbing her still swollen nub, he positioned himself between her legs, taking his weight on his knees. He bent his other arm to bring his mouth to hers, licking, nipping, and then sucking her bottom lip. Sara moaned softly. He pressed harder, forcing her lips to part in a searing, open-mouthed kiss. As he thrust his arched tongue deep inside her mouth, he entered her, straining forward to fill her completely. Breathless, panting, they broke the kiss. Still stroking her with one hand, Ian pushed up on his other arm so that he could watch her face. Below, they were locked together, moving in a slow, steady rhythm of shallow thrusts that felt incredibly good. Sara gave a deep purr of pure pleasure.

Ian moved his right hand, palm up on her chest. “Give me your right hand,” he said. She released a soft sigh. “Are you sure, Ian?” she asked. Not trusting his voice, he nodded. He couldn’t help it. He saw it again inside his head. Stretched above him, green eyes gleaming with a history that was more than human, Witchblade Sara casually took him and used him. He shook off the image, dragging his concentration back to the true Sara. As she stretched her right hand toward his, the Witchblade flashed and the walls of the room turned blood red. Sara briefly linked her fingers through his before Ian shut his eyes and pressed Excalibur against the Witchblade. This time, the transition was not the gradual shift that they had come to expect. Instead, between one second and the next, reality altered. Both lovers gasped as the Witchblade flung them into a vision.

Ian lay in the same bed in which they continued to make love. He was badly hurt, very pale, weak from loss of blood. The sheets of the bed and the bandages wrapped around his body were liberally stained with it. It was clear that he was in great pain and struggling not to show it. Vicki sat on the bed beside him, palm outstretched. Sara’s engagement ring sparkled in her open hand. She was filthy and exhausted. Slow, sluggish tears rolled down her cheeks and dropped off her chin. “I’m so sorry, Ian,” Vicki said, her voice filled with pain, “I hate this. I don’t understand it either.” He stared at the ring with glazed eyes, as if hypnotized, a snake watching a mongoose. Then, suddenly, his face crumpled and he turned his head away, toward the window. Vicki reached out to sympathetically stroke his shoulder but hesitated, stopping just short of touching his bare skin. Ian stiffened, as if he had been touched after all, and stifled an agonized sob.

Ian pushed into Sara and the vision changed.

Sara sat in an uncomfortable-looking chair in an anonymous motel room. The kind where innocuous pictures were permanently affixed to the walls. Her body was bent forward, curved around the pillow that she was clutching to her. She was sobbing as if her heart had broken. Leaning forward, she pushed her face into the depths of the pillow to muffle the sounds that she was making. When she finally lifted her head, her face was splotchy and her eyes were swollen almost shut. Suddenly, she went still, eyes fixed on her bracelet, its large red stone pulsing steadily, like a heartbeat. With a low growl, she yanked the Witchblade from her wrist and hurled it viciously across the room. “You bitch,” she hissed, “What good are you to me? Where were you when we needed you? Why couldn’t you help us?”

Ian pulled back within Sara and the vision changed.

Ian stood hunched in a cemetery. It was raining; a thin mist, enough to dampen but not to drench. He was very thin, cheekbones painfully prominent with deep hollows beneath them, clothes hanging from him as if they had been made for a larger man. His face was so haggard that he looked like he had aged ten years. Dark shadows haunted the skin under dull, brown eyes. He bent stiffly to scoop up a handful of wet, muddy earth. With a soft grunt, Ian threw the dirt he held at the ornate tombstone. The perspective shifted and they could see the marker as if through his eyes. It read “Kenneth Irons” and was followed by a date of birth that was obscured by a gob of dripping mud. The date of death was “2003.” Beneath that spare prose was a poem by Shelley they both instinctively knew was Ian’s contribution to this monument to his master:

I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . .Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandius, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.*

Ian pushed into Sara and the vision changed.

Two people were locked in an embrace outside the door to Sara’s loft. The man’s broad back was facing them. When the woman lifted her head from his shoulder, they saw that it was Sara. She was smiling. The man turned to her and his profile became visible. It was Conchobar. For a man who had spent the last several months in a coma, he looked remarkably well. They seemed comfortable with each other, intimate even. Their conversation was not audible but it appeared easy, relaxed. They leaned close together, laughing. She dug about in her bag for keys and found them. He took them from her and gallantly unlocked the door to the loft. With a theatrical flourish, he opened the door and stood back, sweeping out his hand to offer her entrance. The couple went through the open door. But, no more than a moment later, Sara was back in the hallway alone. Eyes wide and desperate, she gazed into the empty corridor at a point ahead and a bit above her. “Ian,” she cried to thin air, “It isn’t…”

The other visions had unfolded in a misty kaleidoscope, one bleeding into the next as Ian and Sara rocked together in their bed. But this last vision was abruptly cut off as though someone somewhere had flicked a switch. Still wrapped in the throes of the Witchblade, Sara could feel Ian’s distress. He was trying to break free and the joined objects of power refused to release them. Embedded deep within her, Ian tried to pull out. It was to no avail; he was not able to break the contact between them. The vision changed.

Gabriel sat by his computer at Talismaniac, but he wasn’t looking at the screen. Instead, he was turned away from it, his full attention focused on the man who straddled the turned-round chair facing him. As he had in the earlier vision at the cemetery, Ian looked like he’d been dragged through hell. It was obvious that he wasn’t taking care of himself and that he was ill. “Tell me more about him,” Ian said hoarsely. Gabriel’s clever face had held a look of concern as he covertly studied Ian. Now, his expression changed to that avid look that Sara knew so well. It was the look he got when he expounded on a subject that fascinated him. “He lived during the reign of Claudius Caesar and was born in Gitta in Sameria,” Gabriel said, “He was reputed to be a very great sorcerer. Few textual passages remain describing the properties of the ring, but they all credit him with its creation.” Ian glanced down at his hand – his left hand, not his right. Gabriel stretched out his own hand and said, “Let me look at it again.” Ian hesitated briefly, then extended his left hand toward Gabriel. Giving him a cocky grin, Gabe pointed out, “Might be easier if you just take it off.” Ian’s fingers clenched into a fist. “I never take it off,” he growled, “I’ve worn it since Sara first put it on me. I’ll die wearing it and it will be buried on my finger.”

Ian pushed into Sara and the vision changed.

Sara and Vicki tensely faced off against each other in the corridor outside the morgue. They were both quite obviously angry. Flashing green eyes narrowed furiously when Vicki caught Sara’s shoulder in her hand, to keep her from turning away. “Get your hand off me, Vick,” Sara hissed. Vicki dropped her hand but still blocked Sara’s exit. “This isn’t right, Sara,” Vicki said forcefully, “What you’re doing is wrong in so many ways.” Sara turned away from her friend and mumbled, “It’s really none of your business, is it.” Now, Vicki’s eyes flashed. “None of my business, huh,” she barked, “Damn it, you’re my best friend. Ian and Mobius are like brothers. I’m fond of Ian myself. I’m making it my business and if you don’t like it, you can just go fuck yourself.” Sara swung back to point a stiff finger in Vicki’s face. “Let it go, Vicki,” she said, her voice low and hard, “Or you put that friendship in serious jeopardy. It’s not your concern. I’m through talking about this now.” Sara turned and left. She was halfway up the stairs when Vicki called after her, “You love Ian, Sara. You know you do.” Sara stopped on the stairs, her back stiffening. She did not answer Vicki or turn around to face her accuser. A moment later, Sara was gone.

In a curious trick of disassociation, although Ian and Sara were being bombarded with some distinctly disturbing visions, their bodies continued to engage in the delightfully sensual stimulation of each other. As had happened before when they mated through the objects of power, they each felt the sensations that the other was experiencing as well as their own arousal. Whatever they were seeing in their mind’s eye, physically they were giving each other glorious pleasure. And, as they were pulled inexorably toward climax, the visions came faster, keeping pace with the intense coupling of the bodies in which they were housed. In rapid succession, the continuing visions appeared with the fleeting after burn of a flashing strobe light…

FLASH: In what looked like the drawing room of a Renaissance Italian palazzo, Ian faced Lucrezia. They were both dressed appropriately for the environment, as was the tall woman that stood shoulder to shoulder with Ian facing the Pretender. She turned her head to whisper in Ian’s ear. It was X. Through the archway at Lucrezia’s back, a phalanx of soldiers appeared – her soldiers. “Affrettarsi!” Lucrezia cried. The soldiers sped forward. Ian and X drew their swords and prepared to fight.

Ian and Sara, locked in their amorous embrace, felt the shock of revelation slam through them both. The Ian in the Renaissance palazzo was NOT a past-life Ian. It was this Ian – Sara’s Ian – the man in this bed.

FLASH: Sara stood in Witchblade Land facing Witchblade Sara. The goddess was in full warrior mode, wearing her shining breastplate. Their faces were alike – not only in their terrible beauty, but also in the desolation that ravaged them. The same eyes, dark and deep with pain, shed tears that traced weaving paths down their cheeks. “I’m sorry,” the Witchblade said, Its voice raw with grief, “I can’t change this. To save him, you must lose him.”

FLASH: A dark street by a canal – Venice maybe, long ago. Ian crouched, his back against the side of a crumbling building. A small woman looked down at him. Her bright eyes burned with intensity. Vivid, dark red hair fell in wild disarray around her shoulders. She was not beautiful but her face was mobile, captivating. She bristled with intelligence. They were dressed in the manner of Renaissance Italy. The woman raised fisted hands, shaking them above Ian’s head. “You drive me crazy, Nottingham,” she hissed, her voice a quirky whisper, “Damn your fucking Sara Pezzini all to hell. I hate her. I can’t help it. Just as I can’t help loving you, you great oaf.” Ian stood slowly, towering above her. He was obviously uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, Kat,” he softly replied, “I really am.” She turned away from him sharply. “I know,” she growled, “It’s my misfortune.” She sighed deeply and added, “I’ll do some spying and meet you by the quay at midnight. Don’t be late.” Then, between one second and the next, the small woman morphed into a long, gray cat that slunk off into the deep shadows.

FLASH: On the sofa at the loft, Sara huddled within Danny’s embrace. He was talking in a low voice, the words unintelligible. It was plain that he was trying to soothe her, provide her with solace. Her head was down on his chest, her shoulders heaving with the sobs shaking her slender body. Danny stroked her hair tenderly, his voice having taken on the low, almost crooning, tone one uses with a crying baby. Dragging air into her lungs with a deep, ragged breath, Sara finally raised her head and eased herself from his arms. “What am I going to do, Danny?” she moaned. Danny gently wiped tears off of her cheeks with the tip of his finger. “You don’t have to go through this alone, Sara,” he replied, “Tell him. He’s a good guy. He’ll be there for you.” Sara sighed deeply and slowly shook her head. “I can’t,” she whispered, “I wish that I could but I can’t.”

And suddenly they were at the end of it. They had reached the limits of their endurance. Ian cried out and came, pushing into Sara so hard and so far that her body was lifted and nudged higher on the bed. Almost simultaneously, Sara’s keening wail sounded when both his orgasm and her own ripped through her. Her muscles gripped him tightly and his steaming seed filled her. The intensity of the experience – pleasure to the point of pain, visions hinting at impending separation and torment – sent their senses into overload and they both blacked out. For several minutes, they were absolutely still, looking like a grim tableau of lovers claimed by death at the height of their passion. Sara was first to stir. She came awake gasping and struggling against Ian, who was limp, dead weight on top of her. It took a visible effort for her to catch hold of herself and control the wild panic that had accompanied her back to the light.

Ian’s face was nestled between Sara’s chin and shoulder. His breathing was so faint that, for a moment, she was terrified. When she calmed down, however, she could feel the barest stirring of warm air escaping from his parted lips. She grasped his inert body tightly and rolled them both to the side. Their bodies separated and she gently eased Ian onto his back. He was still out cold. “Maybe it’s just as well,” she thought, “Gives me some time to think.” Her eyes widened as her mind ranged back over the string of visions that the Witchblade had shown them. A soft sound, somewhere between a cry and a sob, escaped her. She covered her mouth with both hands and stared out into the darkness of the bedroom. “This is what he’s seen for weeks,” she thought desperately, “That I was going to leave him. That we’d be separated. And I kept telling him he was crazy. How can this be?”

Sara’s mind was a welter of disturbing images – Conchobar, Ian time walking, Lucrezia, X, a shapeshifter, Irons dead, separation, loss, misery. She pressed a cold hand against her aching head. “I won’t lose him,” she thought fiercely, “I love him with all my heart. I won’t give him up without a fight.” She looked down at his beautiful face, relaxed now, as if asleep. With shaking fingers, she brushed a gold-streaked, midnight curl back from his forehead. “I can’t accept that I would leave you,” she thought. As if he’d heard her, Ian drew a deep breath in sharply and thick-lashed, golden eyes opened wide. Looking into his eyes, Sara wasn’t sure what he was seeing but she didn’t think it was the room that they were in. He expelled the air just as sharply and sat straight up in the bed. Still breathing deeply, he swung his long legs over the side of the bed and bent forward at the waist, cradling his head in his hands.

Sara said, “Baby?” She stretched out a hand to carefully touch his bare shoulder. Ian flinched away. “Don’t,” he whispered. She pulled back her fingers as if she’d been burned. She studied his broad back. “Ian, please,” she said softly, “I love you. I do. You’ve got to believe that.” Ian shook his head as if he was trying to clear it. “Maybe it’s been the Witchblade all along,” he croaked, his voice low and raspy. Her brows knit. She was obviously missing something here. “What do you mean?” she asked. He shivered before he explained, “Maybe the Witchblade made you love me so that we would connect as we have for the Convergence. Maybe once the Convergence is over, once it no longer matters, you won’t…” He stopped, unable to continue. Her mouth dropped open, appalled that he could even consider such a thing. Then, she laughed. Ian flinched again, shutting his eyes. “That’s ridiculous,” she scoffed, “You can’t possibly believe that!”

Ian turned his head slightly, not looking at her but not looking away either. “The visions have never been false, have they?” he asked softly. Sara felt tension crawl up her shoulders into her neck. “No,” she replied, just as softly, “They haven’t.” He shrugged. She could feel despair coming off him in waves. “Then you’re going to leave me,” he said. Sara had never heard so much pain in a human voice. “You’re going to leave me to go to him,” he added. He didn’t have to say the name. They both knew who he meant. Sara slipped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his bare back. He turned his head away again. His whole body was rigid. “I don’t love Conchobar,” she stated firmly, “I love you, Ian. I want you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” He didn’t move or respond. She tightened her arms around him and shook him. “Damn it, Ian,” she said, frustrated, “Talk to me!”

Ian tried, unsuccessfully, to pull away. Sara just gripped him harder. “What do you want me to say?” he asked, “Do you want me to say that I don’t want to lose you? I don’t want to lose you. It means nothing. Fate will win. I don’t know what to do, Sara. I don’t know how to stop this. And, it will kill me because I can’t live without you.” As Ian had spoken, Sara had felt the level of panic intensifying within him. She tightened her grip once again, afraid that he was getting ready to bolt. “Stop!” she cried, “Settle down and listen to me. Please, Ian. Please.” He took a deep breath and fought to bring his emotions under control. His instincts were all screaming at him to find a place where he could be alone to give in to his pain. Although his body was still rigid in her arms, she felt him stifle that primal impetus to crawl away and hide. He turned his head back toward her and responded softly, “I’m listening.”

Sara took a deep breath and tried to organize her thoughts. “I won’t just give in. I’m going to fight this. No, we’re going to fight this,” she said. A tiny flicker of hope appeared in the wounded golden eyes. “How?” Ian asked. Her mouth thinned into a grim, stubborn line. “Let’s assume that, for whatever reason, I leave you after the Convergence is over,” she said. He sighed and dropped his eyes; the thick lashes hiding his feelings. “If I do that, Ian,” she continued, “It won’t be of my free will. It will be because I’ve been forced to do it for some reason. I swear that to you. You must believe it.” His eyes flicked back up to lock with hers. “Okay,” he agreed, “Let’s say I let myself believe that. The effect is still the same. You’re gone and I’m alone.” She nodded. “That’s why we have to make a pact right now – you and I. We promise each other that we’ll do whatever is necessary to come back together again,” she said, “I don’t know what that will be or how long it will take but I know that we must do it. We belong to each other.”

“What if our connection is broken?” Ian asked, “Will you still want me then?” Sara looked directly into his eyes. “What I feel for you goes way beyond the connection that’s between us, Ian,” she replied. He stared back at her grimly. He wasn’t ready to let this one go. “Don’t underestimate the impact of that connection on our relationship, Sara,” he said, “The depth of it, its importance in everything that’s between us – from knowing when you want your morning coffee to merging our energy to save the world.” She tilted her head, studying the perfect planes of the face that she loved so well. “And what about you?” she asked, “Would you want me if our connection was broken?” For the first time in hours, Ian laughed. “Nothing in heaven or hell or anywhere in between could make me stop wanting you, Sara,” he said without the slightest hesitation. Sara laughed with him. “Yeah,” she said, “Well, right back at you, baby. I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Sara angled her body around Ian to sit on his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. Ian automatically put his arms around her, pulling her closer. Face to face, she studied the depths of his luminous golden eyes. “Do we have a deal?” she asked. Ian gave her a slow smile that curved his molded lips and finally reached his eyes, filling them with warmth like glowing embers. He leaned forward to slant his lips across hers in a hot, loving kiss with just a hint of tongue. When Ian pulled back and opened his eyes again, he met her gaze and answered, “Yes. We have a deal. I give you my word that I’ll do whatever it takes to bring us back together.” She frowned a little, pushing her fingers into his silky curls. “You might have to do it on your own, baby,” she said, “I honestly don’t understand why I seem to be acting that way. Always keep one thing in mind – no matter how it seems on the surface. I love you. No matter what I say or do. I love you and I want to be with you. Okay?” He leaned forward to nuzzle his face into her hair. “Yes,” he whispered.

Sara touched his chin to lift his face. They looked deep into each other’s eyes. “We’ll get through it, Ian,” she said, “Nothing can keep us apart now for long. We won’t allow it.” Ian smiled and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “I believe you,” he said, “But it’s going to be terrible, isn’t it?” She sighed, touching a finger to his lips. He kissed it. “Yeah,” she agreed, “Looks that way.” He nodded, then dropped his head. “When I start to think about no longer feeling your hands on my body, your lips on mine,” he breathed, voice tight with pain, “When I think about your thoughts no longer brushing mine, of not feeling your warmth close to me at night, I do not know how I will survive it.” Sara shut her eyes. She understood completely what he was telling her. Although she wasn’t as open in showing it as he was, she felt the same way. Ian had become part of her, as essential to her as the heart that sent the blood coursing through her veins. She craved his touch, as she required air to breathe. Losing him, even briefly, was agonizing. Losing him forever was unthinkable.

“Look at me, Ian,” Sara said. He lifted his head and met her eyes. “We can’t let ourselves get swallowed up in the pain of being separated. Let ourselves become immobilized by it,” she continued, “We’ve got to put all our energy into finding our way back to each other. Do you understand?” A tidal swell of love for her almost swamped him. Ian had to swallow hard before he could speak. “Yes,” he replied, “I understand. I’ll try to find enough strength within me to get by, even if it can’t match your own.” Sara snorted but it came suspiciously close to a sob. She blinked and a single tear ran down her cheek. Ian drew in a sharp breath and pulled her into the warm circle of his arms. He whispered her name, stroking her hair. Head snug in the hollow beneath his chin, lips against his neck, and arms tight around the hard, warm solidity of him, she whispered, “I’m just whistling in the dark, baby. It’s false courage. I’m terrified of everything that’s ahead of us. Every time I start to think about it, my blood runs cold.”

“Shh, my darling,” Ian whispered against her hair, “If you weren’t so afraid, how could you be so brave? That’s why you’re a champion of the light; that’s why you’re the Wielder.” Sara clung to him, flicking out her tongue to lick his smooth, salty skin as if to reassure herself that he was real and that he was still hers. He shivered at the unexpected caress. She inhaled the scent of him deeply, immersing herself in it. Now that she had shown her weakness, he had found his strength. As always, when she needed him, he was there. He was, forever and in all ways, her Protector. She felt his warm breath against her hair. “Come lie down with me,” he said, “Let me hold you close. We’re together now and you need to get some sleep.” She nodded, giving him a quick, tight hug. He was right. They needed to sleep. She was exhausted and he must be too.

Ian stretched back down on the bed pulling Sara into his arms. She nestled against him, head on his shoulder, leg and arm draped possessively across his muscled length. He tucked the covers carefully around her and she smiled softly, secretly. His protective instincts were still aroused; her wild warrior in the trappings of a mother hen. “I’m alright,” she whispered, already half asleep, lulled by his warmth. “I know,” he whispered back, pressing a gentle kiss against her hair, “But let me fuss. There’s little enough that I can do to ease your burden.” Before the words were out of his mouth, she was asleep. He lingered longer, trying to savor each moment that they had left together. Eventually, though, he lost the battle and also drifted off into a troubled slumber. The light of dawn on the day of the Convergence found them sleeping, locked in each other’s arms as if nothing in heaven or hell or anywhere in between could sever them one from the other.

*From “Ozymandius” by Percy Bysshe Shelley

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