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Disclaimer: All characters owned by the great Marc Silvestri, no matter which incarnation, (through Top Cow, Warner Television, TNT, et cetera).
Appreciation: Thanks so very much to the best beta-reader in the world, Ms. Jessica!
"Transcendence - Nottingham"
By Kyryn
The world tilted, images spinning - his master aging, dying; Sara's sword through Ian himself - but not him, someone like him. The imposter breaking a young man's neck and throwing him away, the same imposter killing the treasonous McCarty, then - his own death, the bullets ripping into him - overwhelming pain, but not as bad as the instant before, Sara's words: 'Didn't
your mother ever teach you not to sneak up on people?"
Faster now - his master banishing him - more pain. Fighting to protect Sara; Sara calling him a 'freak'; the guardian angel in the window - Woo, her partner; his master striking him - and feeling a strange, new anger; pledging himself to Sara as he put the
Witchblade back on her - lying to his master; a man - Conchobar? - dying as Sara screamed; Sara in passion - with someone else; talking to Sara in her own apartment The disdain in her eyes easily discerned.
Gallo shooting Woo in this very theatre, Sara crying over the body.
Himself meeting her beautiful eyes, answering. "Karma."
He stumbled as the vision streamed past, felt the sudden expansion of his armor over him - knew Sara was looking at him.
He leaned on the wall of the nearest building, his sight blocked by the visor. Everything was as it should be - or was it? He watched as Sara suddenly blinked, like one first waking from a deep sleep. Woo said something, and Gallo's entourage of cars
pulled up. He turned and started for the back door of the Rialto, when something made him pause. Turning back, he saw Sara reach across the front seat of the car and turn the ignition.
He blinked. It wasn't - it wasn't right. It wasn't the way it was supposed to happen - she wanted Gallo. His master had gone to a great lengths to set up this meeting. A test of the Witchblade.
But as he watched,Woo and Sara drive away, he felt something else. Relief. It. . . it was as it should be.
His armor receded and he stood, black trench coat whipping about his legs in a sudden strange gust of wind.
Nearby, a man was sweeping the sidewalk, his garish blond hair wafting about his lined face. His voice was soft, but clear as he spoke. "Are you all right, Ian?"
Nottingham turned, unusually startled. "How did you know - "
The man's eyes met his, blue. A spark of - something, a strange recognition caught Ian in the chest and for a few seconds, he couldn't breathe.
The man smiled. "Your vision - what did it show you?"
Ian swallowed, afraid. Only Irons had ever known of his visions. Only his master had ever asked him for details.
The man stood, leaning on his broom. "You saw your death - several times, I would warrant. You saw the future, Ian - because you lived it."
Ian blinked, a chill seeping into him despite his thick clothing. "How can that be? How can I - ?"
"Time runs two ways, my friend."
The Witchblade. Sara. But -
The man's eyes met his again, and he relived the vision. But slower this time. Much slower.
And with much more pain.
But the pain wasn't physical, not what he was familiar with. It hurt in his head. In his . . . heart.
"You have died a thousand times, Ian, and been born a thousand and one." The man stepped closer to him, not quite touching, but almost. "You will not remember all that happened, but you will remember some of it. You will remember more than Sara. Guide her."
He extended one hand, gently touching Ian's right hand. The ring.
"This time, Ian, beware your master. You have the vision, you know what to look for."
Ian swallowed.
The man turned away, but as he did, Ian found his voice. "I have been born a thousand and one - who was the other?"
The man looked back at him, his face serious. "He is not you, Ian. Your master would - as he has always done - try to break the cycle. In this time, he has found a means he has never known before. A means not known before. But there is only one true protector, just as there is only one true wielder. In that instant, you died again. Sara has taken her one opportunity to move time backwards - and you have once more been born. But in this birth, you will keep more shades of this last incarnation, more impressions of it. You must both learn and use as much from it as you can. I can tell you no more."
Ian opened his mouth to speak, but there was no one there.
He stood, feeling once more the chill. The memory of the strange, unfamiliar pain pulsed within him, confusing.
But with it was another, new sensation. A strange. . peace.
He turned, pulling his coat more tightly around him, and started down the alley. His master would be displeased. There would have to be another way to test Sara -
But something niggled in the back of his mind. Some awareness that slowly seeped into his consciousness. Sara was already tested and had already passed. Sara was already one with the Witchblade.
And he. . . he was already hers.
Irons laughed again, the sound sending a chill through him.
"Truly, Ian, you delight me." The fingers inside him eased back a bit, then forward, then back. A gentle unpleasant rhythm. "I will make you suffer, and pay for your betrayal. But I need you - have you not discovered that? You disappoint me. I should think that a mind of your caliber would already have deduced your true importance to me."
He bit once more into Ian's neck. Hard. Drawing more blood.
Then, as like before, he sucked on the wound, pulling more blood into his mouth.
And Ian knew.
It had been swirling in his subconscious for several days and weeks, while he followed Sara, learning what she learned. Dominique Boucher. The weird triplets. It had slowly risen to his consciousness.
And with the growing awareness, his own role had become more clearly defined.
"Elizabeth Bronte," he hissed. The pattern of Irons' sucking matched the rhythm of the fingers moving inside him.
Both in tempo to the beating of Ian's own heart.
Irons pulled away just long enough to ask, "What of her?"
"She was my mother."
As he said it, the reality, the full knowledge of what it meant, struck him.
Irons slowly moved away from the new wound, his tongue licking it as a cat would. Around the strange bath, he murmured, "She was the egg from which you were created." The hand inside him slowed a little more, and despite himself, Ian felt a flicker of hope. "Dr. D'Angelo's experiments didn't work with his own genetic patters, but with a more defined structure, you were the result."
Something skirted across Ian's consciousness, and with effort, he caught it, just before it faded away. "How many brothers do I have?" he asked.
The fingers pulled out, making him gasp.
"Now?" Irons asked. The arm at Ian's throat slipped down to again encircle his waist, pulling Ian's body back into Irons'.
Irons' erection pressed obscenely against the bare flesh of Ian's buttocks. "Thanks to Sara, not one of your subject group is alive but you. Granted, I have always been more fond of you than any of the others - except perhaps Moby. He had such true potential. Such true complexity of mind, such awareness of the world. I could never have contained him the way I did you - and we see where that ended."
Ian felt it then, a strange, unusual sensation, an emotional response he didn't quite understand. There was a pain, of sorts, a sense of failing, of finding that something he had taken for granted was not truly his. He knew it was based in jealousy; it was sort of the way he had felt when he saw Sara with Conchobar. He had known from the start how that would end, though, and the sensation had been fleeting.
But there was something else in it this time, something even deeper. A strong blow to his sense of self. His confidence. He had thought he held a special place with his master, thought there had never been a doubt as to his success. Now - now he knew better. Now he understood that his role was not assured, not safe. Even though Mobius was dead - along with the rest of the Black Dragons, he didn't doubt but that there were other subject groups as well. Other potential Mobys to take his place.
Irons nuzzled against his neck. "Yes, he had true potential, that one. But alas, the insanity was just below the surface from the
start. You, sweet Ian, are the only one who seems to have escaped the mental aberrations. Of course, you are also the one who carries more of my genes."
Of course, Ian thought bitterly. All things good in him had to come directly from his master.
Irons chuckled, low and deadly. "Yes, all things. . . " He ground against Ian, his erection rubbing between Ian's cheeks,
". . .good."
Ian closed his eyes, knowing what was imminent.
"I want you to remember this night, Ian. You must learn from it, understand what it represents. The significance of the bond that ties you to me." Irons nipped at Ian's earlobe. "You answer to me at all times, in all places. You will do what I say when I say it. No matter who is present, no matter where we are." He bit hard, and at the same time, he reached down and took Ian's flaccid penis in his hand. "You are loyal to me. A man may have only one master."
He squeezed and Ian automatically shifted, trying to mitigate the pain. In the process, he backed farther into his master - farther against the column of flesh.
"Penance, Ian," Irons snarled. "Penance requires pain. Sacrifice." He released his hold on Ian, then, unexpectedly, shoved him hard in the upper back. At the same instant, one of his feet came down on the cloth around Ian's ankles - holding it down.
There was no way to save himself. Ian landed on his hands and knees, jarred by the impact.Before he could catch his breath, Irons was behind him. Against him.
Cold fingers locked around his hips, nails again digging in. His master's weight settled along his butt, his back, his thighs.
The big cock teased against his opening, pulsing with a rhythm that matched Ian's heartbeat.Before he thought, Ian whispered, "Please, don't - "
The hands pulled on his hips, drawing him backwards.
The thick head started in, pushing against him. It stopped for an instant when the small opening refused to expand - then Irons applied force.
The pain was unlike any Ian had ever felt. It burned and tore and felt as thought he were being ripped in half. Fire and ice at the same time.
And the voice that didn't stop.
"So much to teach you," Irons murmured distractedly. "So much you should already know."
A hard thrust, and Ian jerked, trying to pull away.
Irons grip was unrelenting. As was his erection. It drove deeper, ripping away Ian's skin, muscles, resistance. Self.
Distantly, he heard a strange noise, like a scream, and he realized it was from his own body.
Separate, distance, overcome. Separate, distance, overcome.
He focused his mind away from his body, as he had been trained, focused on anything but the pain and what was happening to him.
For a short while, it worked.
Until his master realized what he was doing.
"No," Irons bit down once more, his teeth chewing on the skin just over Ian's shoulder blade.
Ian squirmed, this new agony a strange contrast to the one lower in his body.
But one that seemed somehow equally as perverse.
Irons' hips moved, bucking against Ian's, bruising on impact. It was hardly noticeable, though, against the excruciating violations deep within him..
Against his sense of who he was. Who he thought Irons was.
"I am disappointed," Irons murmured, drawing his head up and away. "I thought you understood, Ian. That you accepted your place."
Ian heard, and at some level, he even understood where this was going. Knew how much these words, too, would hurt.
"I'm from her," he said, hating it. Hating himself. "You want - need my blood. Now."
Irons stopped - again, the momentary respite. Ian allowed himself to breathe. Everything hurt, there was no withdrawal or forgiveness.
But for a moment, it stopped.
"Yes," Irons eventually whispered. "You are her. But, Ian, you alone are not enough."
No, he thought - and he truly did know. He had never wielded the Blade, so he himself was not. . immortal? He wasn't sure. He knew the history, perhaps better than anyone else. Perhaps even better than his master.
For he knew, he understood, that he and Sara were bonded.
His master still believed that Sara was containable. Controllable.
"A lioness" - yes.
But unlike Irons, Ian knew her insecurities, her fears. He knew her.
"It hardly matters," Irons mouthed against Ian's ear. "For now, for this minute, you are mine. Your blood. It is almost as sacred as the Wielder's. Almost." He drew back, then slammed forward again.
Ian cried out, unable to stop himself, unable to resist.
"Almost," Irons repeated. "You can sustain me for short periods, but I will age during that time." He drew back once more, slower this time.
Ian was shaking, from the pain, from this new reality.
Irons put on hand on Ian's back, petting him in slow, soothing strokes. "I need you. I've spent a fortune creating you, training
you, developing you." He thrust forward, but as with the last withdrawal, it was slower. "You are my emergency supply." He leaned over Ian's back, once more close to his ears. "You are as you have always been, Ian. I need every bit of you."
His teeth, his lips, returned to Ian's throat, the first wound he had made. It had almost stopped bleeding, so Irons bit again, wide and deep. Then, he gnawed until the abraded flesh produced what he wanted. His hips started to move in tempo with his sucking, and Ian found himself riding wave after wave of agony.
It seemed an eternity. Fire and ice consumed him, inside and out. He couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but feel.
Blood. His blood, Sara's blood. Now his master's.
As was he.
Yes," Irons hissed, moving faster, " mine." One of his hands closed again on Ian's genitals, and he squeezed.
Ian instantly pushed back, trying to escape, but in the doing, he impaled himself even more firmly.
This time, as he cried out, Irons came. Salty semen scalded, an insult to the tortured tissue.
After a while, the hands on him loosened, and Irons pushed himself roughly away, and out. Ian found that he was still on his hands and knees, trembling from the rape.
Blood oozed down his chest, his thighs, his back.
His blood.
"My blood," Irons corrected him. He was standing, staring down at Ian.
Ian said nothing.
He watched his master's feet as Irons moved across the room toward the fireplace. "Now that Sara has passed the Periculum, I will need her even more than ever." He leaned down, retrieving Ian's shirt from the floor. "She has rejected you - for the moment." Disinterestedly, he used the wrinkled garment to clean himself, letting it absorb Ian's blood. "But perhaps she can be persuaded to join us." He turned to face Ian, still rubbing the shirt over his groin. "Regardless of your involvement, she will be mine, Ian. As you are now. Fully and completely."
For an instant, Ian felt anger - an intense, passionate hatred for the man before him.
The man who had no right to Sara, no right to the Witchblade.
And as quickly as it blossomed, he squelched it into nothingness.
But Irons had felt it.
He laughed, a cold sound. "Hate me if you will, Ian. But without me, you have no one." He wadded the stained shirt into a ball and threw it so that it hit Ian in the face. Before it fell to the floor, Irons crossed the space between them and grabbed Ian by the hair. Viciously, he jerked at the younger man's head, pulling it up. "I need your blood, Ian. But I don't need you. You have been, until late, a good and faithful servant. My favourite. But there are others who are still loyal to me. Still completely faithful."
His gaze was as cold as his tone.
As cold as the cryogenic chamber that housed Elizabeth Bronte's body.
"Yes," Irons smiled. "Perhaps you would like to keep her company? For all eternity?"
The offer, once more.
But now - something else. Something darker. 'Others who are still loyal to me'.
Irons' smile widened, and his pale eyes glittered. He loosened his hold on Ian's hair, letting his fingers card through it. "I did
mention that you had brothers, yes? Dead now, unfortunately." Gently, he used two fingers to caress Ian's cheek. "But you didn't ask me about clones, did you."
Ian stared unabashedly into his master's gaze, so stunned that he lost his subservience.
"Yes, pet, other beautiful boys, just like you. Well, perhaps not exactly like you - as I said, you have been my favourite." The
fingers moved to his lips, then into his beard. "I have quite a bit of variety from which to choose - shorter hair, longer hair, no hair at all, clean shaven, mustache only, goatee only - but all with your beautiful eyes, perfect body." He leaned close, his nose brushing Ian's, his lips almost touching. "Perfect ass. Just as yours was."
One thought prevailed through the mire of confusion and shock. "How many?" Ian rasped.
Irons chuckled, let his lips touch Ian's, then answered, "As many as I want, Ian. As many as I need to take Fair Sara."
Ian stopped breathing, felt his blood stop moving.
Again, the hated chuckle. "And the true humor is that she need never know that it is not you, my first one. The original. I suspect she might be quite confused by the strange change in your behavior, especially after your touching declaration of love."
In the long term, Ian knew that it was good that he was so stunned, incapable of thought. When the reaction came, it was slow, a simmering rage he could control. Could bury before Irons saw it.
"So, sweet Ian," Irons kissed him again, "what is your wish? Eternit with Elizabeth? Or the present with me? And perhaps, if you behave yourself, the chance to redeem yourself with Sara?"
There was no choice, of course. Irons knew it as surely as Ian did.
But it wasn't the question that was truly at issue. It was how Ian would prove himself.
As if this last event hadn't been enough.
But Ian knew it hadn't been. Knew that nothing he did would ever be enough.
And now. . now he had competitors. Competitors that were - him.
Slowly, ignoring the way his muscles cramped, the way his body rebelled against the movement, he pulled himself forward, toward his master.
"What do you want of me?" he asked softly.
Irons smiled, then nodded once. "Good, Ian. You do understand." He opened his arms wide. "Let us return to your training." He looked down to his crotch, and Ian's gaze followed.
Irons was already erect again. Ready.
"Your blood truly is special," Irons reached out, his fingers curling around Ian's head. "Its rejuvenating powers are most impressive, don't you agree?"
Ian didn't answer - one wasn't expected. Instead, he closed his eyes as Irons pushed his head down, the command clear.
But as he once more let Irons possess his mouth, he let his subconscious swirl and conspire. And when he lay on his back on the hard floor, parting his legs in invitation, he let the thoughts drift slowly, quietly, into his consciousness.
And as Irons built to climax once more, Ian masked his plan behind the knifing pain.
He had eliminated his brother Black Dragons. He could eliminate his clones.
He would need Irons until then - to find them.
But after that. . .
Ian would be free. And Sara would be alive.
The survival of Lady Sara was fundamental. He would die to protect her - from Irons, from these shades of himself.
Anything else was merely inconvenient, a distraction.
As this was now.
An annoyance.
END????