Ichabod Crowley - series 1 Life and Legacy

Chapter 1

Ichabod Crowley stepped from the shower, his skin scalded and red, a sensation he barely registered even when he had stood under the broiling stream of the showerhead. The moist chill of the tiled floor, the damp heat of the mirror as he wiped away the steam that had fogged along its glassy surface, all of it, a far away experience, a dull itch to his numb, dead flesh. As he looked to his reflection, his fingers lightly caressed the stitches that ran along his neck, the only part of him that was still sensitive, the only part that felt true pain, before tracing downward, along the silver chain to the red phylactery which rested in the cusp of his collarbone. He clutched the glass vial hard, for a moment he considered breaking it, but let go, and with a sigh, looked to his reflection.

His skin was impossibly pale, though that was nothing new, even before his resurrection he had been a book worm, more comfortable in the library than cavorting in the mud with the other boys. His sister and his mother would often tease him over his reclusive nature, telling him that perhaps he may find a wife in one of his storybooks. He'd never developed much muscle, in fact his bones were practically visible on his chest and along his rail thin arms. This was something he'd seen every day, but still, the dark bruise, a massive handprint across his chest, caused him to flinch, the pain and memory attached to it forever stinging like a fresh wound. Squeezing his eyes shut against the images forced upon him by the mere sight of it, he toweled his hair, parting it down the middle with his bare hands, only taking true care to pull his bangs down over his forehead to hide the tiny red horns which had sprouted there all those years ago.

Pulling on a blue turtleneck and a pair of black trousers, he wandered out into the halls, his footsteps echoing off of the marble floor while he passed a cadre of statues, griffons and dire wolves. Crowley Manor, as his father so amusingly called it, was hardly a mansion, not grand, nor regal, it was just a large house, three bedroom, two bath, a third floor that was essentially an overlarge attic, a basement of course, and a circular tower someone had added onto the east end, which encompassed his only favored place left in this structure, the library. It must look rather Gothic, he often mused, sitting alone atop its hill, looking down on the quiet little town slumbering below. Since his birth, this place had been his home, but he held no sympathy for it any longer, and recent years come to view it as more of a prison, the only place in this sad dismal world where he was wanted, where he belonged. Even so, he couldn't help smiling as the scent of French Toast slowly filled the halls.

Drawn by the smell, he made his way towards the kitchen and found Margaret busily shuffling about, her loose hair almost a wave of crimson fire, following in her trail as she wafted across the room and back again, grabbing onions for the omelet she was making, vanilla and cinnamon for the French Toast, red pepper for the sausage, frying in the third skillet. Ichabod watched her work, admiring her focus and practiced skill as he enjoyed the collection of scents wafting towards him from the stove. She noticed him at last, sliding the food onto a pair of plates and greeted him with a smile.

"Good morning Ichabod," she beamed and he nodded in return, "Will you be joining us?" she wondered, glancing towards his stitches, though covered by the high rough of his sweater, "I could perhaps make you a coffee or a flavored milk?"

"No," he responded evenly, "It's fine," then looked around, the table was already set with an empty glass and silverware, "And where is father this morning."

"Ahem," Margaret blushed heavily, "Um, still asleep when last I left him."

"Right," Ichabod turned away nervously, "Well tell him I will be in the study if he wishes to find me."