I want Ichabod to spend at least 2 seasons pining for Abbie. I want long looks and keeping a stiff upper lip and almost-hand touches and hugs that linger on his side. I want her to be fully supportive of his history with Katrina even when he’s not sure himself any more if that is what he wants. I…
Exactly this, Ugh. Can we have this please? PLEASE. I need angst to consume me. Their pasts are so dark that it would be remiss not use that to our
Things I want the Sleepy Hollow writers to address before season 2:
- Luke. Give us his backstory and details about his relationship with Abbie. And tell us what happened to him after his encounter with dead/not dead Andy.
- Andy. Why’d he sell his soul to…
6. Who is paying Ichabod’s bills at the cabin? Abbie? Imma need Crane’s weak ass to pick up a paper route or something…
Geraldine Katz is not quite sure what she’s looking at.
Pulling her terrycloth robe tighter against the cold fingers of New York Winter, she readjusts her curlers with quiet dignity.
She eyes the presumably homeless man not too kindly, “Now, who did you say you were?”
The Sleepy Hollow Sentinel clutched with desperation in one hand waves about, while his other hand remains tucked tightly behind his back, “My name, madam, is Ichabod Crane. And I feel it is my duty to warn you against this morning’s dispatch.”
A drawn-on eyebrow shoots nearly to her hairline. “Why is that?”
His curt nod contradicts the obvious passion simmering beneath an urgent face. “Because,” he looks at the printed address label slapped haphazardly on the newsprint, “Ms. Katz, I am your Paper Boy.”
“Ah,” she backs up slightly.
“This communiqué is littered with unsubstantiated fabrications about a Ms. Beyoncé, and to have a story about,” he whips open the folded paper, pushing the front page toward her in urgency, “Buttons the Cat on the front page, while reports of oversea conflict is buried several pages within – it’s inexcusable!”
“Ah,” her pink slippers aren’t allowing her to move quickly enough.
The sigh that escapes him is long suffering. “Can you, on good conscience, accept this newspaper?”
She nods slowly, warily grabbing the paper from his still thrust out hands. “Yeah,” he merely stands there. “Do you…want a tip or something?”
The sigh that escapes him threatens to be his longest, most aggravated yet, when it is interrupted by the call of a young woman, who has now opened her driver’s side window.
“You gonna do this at every house, Crane? We have to be at the station in half hour.”
The strange man takes a deep breath, gives a short bow, “Good day, Ms. Katz.”
When he and the woman have pulled out of her driveway she looks down at the abused paper. “Get weirder every time.”
abbie drew the line.
I will strike down wooden houses; I will burn aluminum
clapboard skin; I will strike down garages
where crimson Toyotas sleep side by side; I will explode
palaces of gold, silver, and alabaster: the summer
greathouse and its folly together. Where shopping malls
spread plywood and plaster out, and roadhouses
serve steak and potatoskins beside Alaska King Crab;
where triangular flags proclaim tribes of identical campers;
where airplans nose to tail exhale kerosene,
weeds and ashes will drowse in continual twilight.
It was as black as the soul of a back-bencher Tory (this euphemism supplied by everyone’s favorite professor-turned-patriot-turned-professional sassmaster, Ichabod Crane) and Emma’s nerves were on high alert as she checked that the safety of her gun was off. Across the way, she could just make out the silhouette of Abbie doing the same. Even with silver bullets, this mission was going to be a beast (literally). A few dozen yards away, Ichabod and Killian stood back to back with their swords out, tense and waiting, eying the clouds that had not quite slid away over the full moon. These weren’t any wolves that Ruby knew, or even a pack somehow running wild. This was the real and unholy thing. Controlled by the Hessians, utterly ruthless, men made into slavering, hunting monsters.
Emma strained to catch Killian’s eye, but couldn’t, and didn’t want to risk giving away their position by a movement. Almost showtime. An eerie howl drifted through the heavy mist, the trees stark and skeletal against the silver edge of moonlight. She could see them moving around, sniffing, hunting the trail. Closer. A little closer. Almost in range. She squinted one eye shut, waiting. Oh come on. Come to mama.
One of the demon-wolves paused, snuffling. Then it threw back its angular, misshapen head and howled.
And the woods exploded.
Emma dropped to one knee, firing as fast as she could chamber the next round, as Abbie did the same, both sheriffs keeping grim, professional composure as the creatures bull-rushed them from all sides, barking and yelping and screeching. Then there was a distinctly more masculine roar from above as Ichabod and Killian came bulldozing out, unable to stand idly by at seeing their women in danger, swords slashing bright sears of steel through the dark air, the wolves’ howls turning to piteous whimpers as the professor and the pirate hacked them down. At some point Emma’s gun jammed, and she swore, threw it down, and grabbed another from the holster on her thigh, covering Abbie as she reloaded. Shit, there were a lot of them. More than they’d expected. And if they didn’t stop the pack, there was going to be more hell to pay than anyone could possibly imagine.
It was getting ugly. Sweat ran in Emma’s eyes, her breath stabbing her in the chest, as she tried to keep her footing on the slick forest floor. But she was nowhere near done with the job. Squeezed the trigger, catching another one dead to rights as it leapt for her —
— then going down brutally hard, seeing stars, as her gun flew out of her hands and something wild was on top of her, huge and feral, clawing at her, and she twisted aside desperately as its jaws snapped where her neck had just been. Kicked it, tried to get up enough leverage, dimly aware she was fighting a werewolf, a Hessian werewolf with her bare hands and there was only one way for this to end, but damned if she wasn’t going to go down fi —
And then, suddenly, it was gone. A sword flashed where it had just been, a hook sank between its mad rolling eyes, and Killian, with a strength borne of pure raw adrenaline, threw it aside. “Emma?” he roared. “EMMA!”
"I’m — I’m here," Emma gasped, rolling to her feet. The clearing was littered with sprawled, screeching shapes, some already writhing and dissolving, thickening the smoke all around them as the demons faded away to whence they had come. Across the way, Ichabod and Abbie were holding each other as well, Abbie’s head a full foot below Ichabod’s and her face pressed into his chest. But that was all Emma saw before she stumbled upright and into Killian’s arms, clinging onto his cold black leather, smelling the sharp tang of his sweat. "I’m fine," she wheezed. "Really."
"Bloody hellfire, lass! You scared me to death!"
"Sorry." Emma shuddered; with the immediate rush of danger out of the way, she was realizing just how close a call that had been. "Did we get them?"
"Think so." Killian glanced around, keeping his arm tightly around her, as Ichabod and Abbie moved closer, similarly attached at the hip. "Well, that will put some hair on your chest."
"You don’t need it," Emma pointed out.
"Indeed," Ichabod remarked, one eyebrow critically raised (how was it that both centuries-old, scruffy, sassy, long-jacketed English-accented studmuffins instinctively knew how to do that?) "I should be less concerned with the hirsute nature of our anatomy, especially that of Mr. Jones, and more with the completion of our mission. I very much doubt this is the extent of what the Hessians have planned for us.” He shot a suspicious look at the eerie woods. “Let’s get moving.”
(Ichabod! Hook! Abbie! Emma! Gahhhhh.)
So my wild (and far fetched, but hey, can’t stop my brain sorry) Sleepy Hollow Theory of the Day is based purely on the title of the next episode, “The Golem.”
The idea of The Golem - a creature of Jewish folklore made by magical means from clay for the purpose of defense - is fairly well known. And there will probably be a really freaky clay man in the episode.
HOWEVER, I remember back in my college Russian Folklore class, reading an old tale of a “Clay Boy” who was a bit like a hybrid of the Golem and the Gingerbread Man. Made by a lonely couple, the clay boy ends up eating them out of house and home, destroying the village, before being destroyed himself. Essentially, the Golem (and Clay Boy) is a figure of hubris - like Frankenstein’s monster, a literal symbol that creation is meant for God and not humankind.
WHAT IF the child of Katrina and Ichabod’s was conceived or born as a result of witchcraft? Katrina trying to play God? Humans creating a child by magical means? Perhaps in an effort for the coven to bring about a Witness or a Warrior or whatever, and the coven feels they had claim over the child? Or what if the kid was actually evil as a result? WHAT IF Katrina and Ichabod were never meant to bring a child into the world in the first place?!
Ok. I’ll go sit in my
padded cell corner now.
This episode we saw lots of blood ties – both in the figurative, familial sense, and in the literal, demontree with an arterial system sense. So, I guess what the writers are telling us is that the ties that bind us are sometimes actual, scarecrow creature tentacles, ensnaring us – whether we want them to or not.
I continue my series of Sleepy Hollow Reviews/Metas! This week, family bonding (literal and figurative)!
All this talk/speculation on Ichabod’s descendants and Abbie’s possible relations…I can’t help but wonder:
Are we basing this on the Biblical implications of blood and family ties and their power to dictate destiny…or has Once Upon a Time ruined us on functional family trees?
I know Ichabbie are endgame.
In the mean time, I am just eating up this angst, because hello beautiful fanfic. All about the slow burn, lovelies.
Warm up today was some Sleepy Hollow sketches. Really enjoying the series :D!