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Date Posted: 22:32:55 09/25/03 Thu
Author: Beck
Subject: Iterum - Chapter Two
In reply to: Beck 's message, "Iterum (Rated R)" on 14:27:38 09/25/03 Thu

Sara shook her head slowly, "No, that can't be."

"You've been spared, Sara, you've no idea how incredible that is." Ian voice became animated, excitement and wonder enfolded in his words, "No wielder before you has survived the loss of the blade. You've been given a chance at a new life, Sara. Embrace it."

"No, I won't believe it, Nottingham. I would be dead if I were abandoned. Either take me to it or bring it to me, either way. I have to see for myself."

"Sara, no, please do not pursue this course. It will only lead to disaster."

Sara folded her arms and gave him "the look" as she stood up.

Ian sighed softly and circled around behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders, "Please, Sara." His breath ruffled her chestnut brown hair as he spoke, "I can give you everything you need for a new life, a new identity…we can travel the world together, do whatever you please, but please do not ask me for the Witchblade."

Sara pulled away from him violently, leaving him standing with outstretched arms, a bereft expression on his face. "Whatever Nottingham. Excuse me, Mr. Nottingham-Irons, I'll get back to you. I'm going to go find Gabe."

"No, Sara…wait…"

It was too late, she was already out the door.


Downtown had not changed that much, there were a few new buildings she didn't recognize and a few that seemed to be missing, but overall it was still her beloved New York. After she'd stormed out of Vorschlag she'd dug through her pockets and found enough cash for cab fare and hailed a Checker Yellow.

Now, as she arrived at Talismaniac, she wondered if she'd made a grievous error. If Nottingham was right, nine years had passed. Plenty of time for Gabriel to move on. She bit her lower lip and knocked on the green door that she knew as Gabriel's place of business. No answer. She knocked again and even pressed her ear to the door, hoping to hear the music her friend had always kept blaring. Silence. Tears welled up in her eyes and threatened to spill over her lashes. She banged on the door again, her fist hitting it hard out of frustration. When no answer came, she leaned her head against the door and let the tears fall from her eyes, splashing onto the concrete beneath her feet.

The sound of a car arriving at the curb brought her head up. A silver jag. Nottingham, had to be. Her suspicion was confirmed a moment later as he stepped out from behind the wheel, his long black coat flapping in the wind. "Sara?"

"Go ahead and say it, Nottingham. You tried to tell me."

He didn't reply, but quietly walked to the other side of the car, opened the passenger door and waited.

Sara exhaled and moved to get into the car. As she passed Ian, she asked, "Is he alive even?"

"He is."

Gratefully she sank into the warmed leather seats. "Where is he?"

"Currently he is in Egypt."

Sara raised an eyebrow, "What about everyone else I know…knew?"

Ian didn't reply immediately, but at last said, "There is something I wish to show you." He got back into the driver's seat and started the vehicle. They rode in silence until they reached a cemetery, the cemetery where Sara's father was buried. Ian parked the car and went around to open Sara's door, only to find she'd already clambered out. He offered her his arm and she shot him a look.

"So what was it you wanted to show me?" she asked softly, her voice reverent due to their locale.

He offered his arm again and she grudgingly took it, walking with him to where her father's tombstone was. Beside her father's grave, there was a second tombstone, one she'd never seen before. Her hand flew to her mouth as she read the inscription: Sara Magdelena Pezzini, November 18, 1970 - 2002. A carving of a police badge sat below the dates. Red roses lay on the ground before it, some fresh, many others withered and faded.

Ian rested his hand on top of the marker, looking down. "I thought it best you see this for yourself."

"You did this." It was a statement, not a question.

Ian nodded. "I thought you were gone."

Sara thought she detected a slight hitch in his voice. Her own voice held barely restrained emotion as she asked, "Who left the roses?"

Ian didn't reply, only stared harder at the ground. Finally he said, "We should go, the weather will be getting worse soon as night falls."

"Wait. You didn't answer my question." Sara tugged at his arm, forcing him to face her. In a barely audible voice she asked, "What about everyone else?"

"Now is not the time, Sara." There was sadness etched into his features as he detached her hand from his upper arm and then folded it through the crook of his elbow to lead her back to the car.

"Nottingham! You have to tell me! Danny….at least tell me where Danny is!"

"I believe we passed him on the way in." Ian's voice was low and full of regret.

"Danny's…dead?" Sara choked back a sob. The news was like being hit in the chest or a bite to the stomach. All the air seemed to have left her lungs, replaced with molten lava. She would have crumpled to the ground if it hadn't been for Nottingham's arm. He led her to the gravestone of her former partner and waited patiently while she grieved. He led her back to the car when it became apparent that she was freezing, her teeth chattering as she cried. She felt herself being placed in the car and buckled in, but didn't really register it. Danny was dead. Gone. The tears came, hot salty heavy tears, and spilled down her face, splashing over her hands and into her lap.


The daunting presence of the Faust Street mansion, its gray stone exterior standing above the vast out-of-season green lawn as if the blades of grass were its minions, came into view through the tinted glass windows of the jag. Once he had parked the car and the engine had ceased its cat-like purr, no doubt how the model had attained its name, Ian handed Sara out of the passenger seat. He gently supported her and she was grateful for his assistance, for she felt so numb and cold inside now. Cold on the outside too, she noted, for the sky had darkened considerably, thin white clouds that reminded her of a plowed field blanketing the gray sky.

They passed through the front of the house without speaking, the occasional silent sob wracking Sara's shoulders. As they came into the great room, Sara looked up from her grief to see that no fire blazed in the hearth. The furniture had not changed, it was still decorated in what she snidely referred to as capitalistic elitist goth, but there was a change in the very atmosphere of the room. That is when she noticed that the paintings were gone. She stopped mid-stride and wiped the remaining tears from her face with the back of her hand. "Where are they?"

"Where are what, Sara?"

"Where are the paintings? Joan…she used to be right up there." Sara pointed. "And the others…" her eyes scanned the walls and the stairwell, "and the one of Ir- … the one of your father," she amended.

"I removed them."

"Why?"

"Even I have feelings, Sara, " he offered by way of explanation, not looking at her.

She knew she probably shouldn't pry, but asked anyway, "Where are they?"

"In storage." He took her arm again, intent on leading her from the room.

"Wait. What about the Witchblade? It's here, isn't it?"

"Sara." His face and his voice were full of sorrow. "Please, let it be. Rest now, sleep here tonight and we will talk about it in the morning. I'll see you to one of the guest rooms and personally retrieve some of your items for you."

She frowned at him, but nodded. She was damnably tired anyway. All the crying had worn her out. At the thought of Danny the tears started anew. She wiped at them, frustrated with herself. "I'm sorry…it's just that…." She sniffled, trying to be stoic. "You've had time to cope with all these changes…"

Ian nodded, "I know. You need time to mourn, time to catch up."

She looked at him, amazed he understood so well. He wasn't spouting cryptic crap either. He had definitely changed. He seemed more mellow, gentler, less dangerous. Her brow creased. Either that or he'd gotten better at hiding it. She thought for a moment that perhaps she should be afraid for her safety, but then let the thought go, exhaustion outweighing other feelings. She let him guide her to a lavishly appointed bedroom, redolent of roses, where she flopped face down on the bed. She found herself crying again as soon as he'd left the room, the sheer weight of nine years bearing down on her. She was out like a light before he ever came back with her stuff.

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