Ichabod Crowley - series 1 Life and Legacy

Chapter 18

Pazrael glared at the shield, he could tell that it was weakening, but, even after all he had thrown at it, the field stood as proudly as ever, almost mocking him, but he was not one well taunted. As many had learned, as all would learn, there was nothing in any world which would stand between him and his one true love, his Della.

When they had come for him and offered the sword or the pit, he had merely grasped her and fallen down, for he had sworn never to leave her. When the hoards of Hell had come to their doors, he had fought until his body had given out, for he had sworn to always protect her. When she had reached the end of her life, and would have died without his intervention, he remade her, eternal and perfect, far beyond her mortal flesh. Certainly she had screamed and protested, 'the pain, the pain' she had howled, but she had sworn never to leave him, and he would not allow her to break such an oath.

"One more," he stepped away in a weary daze, clutching his fists, "One more strike and the barrier will fall."

Vaguely he remembered the protestation of love from that nameless subordinate, and spat at it again while the clouds gathered overhead. 'Love' was not a word, it was not fawning from a distance, and it was not a whisper before dying. It was a chain that could not be broken, it was forever. He had seen this before, his woman's dalliances and wandering eye, he would deal with this one as he had with the rest, staining the dirt with his blood.

Within the Cavern

Ichabod stepped up to the weapons he'd pulled from the cabinet and examined them, waiting for some brilliant plan to spring fully formed from his head, yet felt nothing but the cracks in his skull emitting a steady throbbing ache. His mind and gaze wandered in equal measure, and both focused on his old revolver. There on the table were a brace of weapons, an old Winchester hunting rifle, a Russian Mauser he'd been restoring over the last few years, in his spare time, and a McHenry double barrel. They all had some sentimental value, the hours he'd spent training himself with the rifle, the aesthetic beauty that had drawn him to the Mauser, the telling history that he could practically feel radiating from the McHenry, but, he could not look away from that revolver.

There were knives there as well, iron and silver, polished and sharpened, some even cast by him personally in a forge, but nothing else on that table compared, to an old Smith and Wesson revolver he'd broken and built back with his own two hands. Only the grip was original anymore, and soon enough, that would need to be replaced as well, he could already see the stress cracks beginning to form in its frame, an after effect of the weight and mixture of the powder he used in his bullets. This was the tool of Ichabod Crowley, his first real attempt at making a weapon. It represented a life and title he had wanted to leave behind, yet, in his musings, he found himself somewhat regretful that he had never given it a name.

He loaded it first and prepared two speed loaders, the last of its ammunition and went to the others. The shotgun had the most remaining ammo, ironically, due to its small capacity, he'd be seeing the least use out of it and the rifle had a similar problem, though, with an eight shot capacity, the loading mechanism was intricate and cumbersome. The Mauser was more efficient, eight shots per-clip but all twenty eight bullets could be organized into magazine easily enough.

"Della?" he called out, finishing his sorting, six shots for the shotgun, a full clip for the Winchester, two spares and two extra bullets for the Mauser.