Disclaimer: Don't own the comic book, anime or TV series basically all I own is the computer this was typed on and the way the ideas on the page are put together.

Author's Note: My original intention wasn't to rewrite the premise of this story, but then I realized that even as I was originally writing it I had no idea who I was going to cast as a bad guy. I still don't truly know who it is going to be but I at least have a better idea this time around. Hopefully there are no glaring errors, if there are just let me know.

Song choice while writing this chapter – Bleeding Out by Imagine Dragons.

Guardian of the Hallows

Chapter 1

Everyday people are confronted with choices, ranging from the mundane coffee or tea; to the more serious of, to kill Kenneth Irons or wait for nature to catch up and hope it would be with a vengeance now that the Witchblade was once again in the hands of a wielder strong enough to have survived the Pendulum. Look at the photos spread across the desk in front of her, Sorcha tried to objectively see how killing Irons would be a bad idea, but seeing picture after picture of Ian made to stand subservient to Iron's and his petty wants was making her trigger finger itch. Ian Nottingham should have been allowed to grow into the warrior that lived within his soul, and instead Irons had taken and twisted a young boy into a mockery of it, seeking control over the future Witchblade wielder and caring nothing for the collateral damage.

Moving to look out at the early morning light twisting around the lower Manhattan skyline she tried to rebuild her mental resolve to let nature take care of Irons, knowing that any attempt to help nature catch up would in all likelihood result in Ian's death as well given how deep the conditioning to place Iron's life above his own went. So as much as Sorcha wanted to put a bullet in Iron's skull, he would get a reprieve from her, but then if he decided to keep interfering with the hallows she knew he'd be taken care of for her. Crossing Mystical weapons that are basically sentient and that you don't understand is never a good choice, even less so when you are attempting to cheat death, the bookie to end all bookies.

Pushing away from the window and picking up a leather jacket off the bed Sorcha paid no notice to the flash of green light when the sun briefly touched upon her necklace pendant, instead she moved through the room picking up various items before walking out the door and locking it behind her.

From his perch across from the precinct Ian tried to calm the disquiet in his mind. The man he looked to as a Father had installed within him the desire to ensure the safety of the wielder above all other, but lately his orders were beginning to contradict that ideal, leaving him to feel conflicted. Which ideal was he to follow, obedience in all things or the wielder above all? Adding to his disquiet was the memory of a petite redhead naming him "brother" and telling him that his destiny was his and his alone, that it did not depend upon Sara Pezzini, Kenneth Irons, the Witchblade or even her to be fulfilled.

Looking down at the signet ring he wore on his right hand Ian felt a tendril of strength flow into him as he let his vision fade from the present and into the past, specifically the moments before he's walked Sorcha down the aisle on her wedding day. Much to her wedding planner's displeasure she'd sent everyone out of the small office set aside for a bridal room for those brave enough to temp the weather and marry in the untamed beauty of the Garden of Ireland. As soon as the huffing woman had shut the door behind herself Sorcha had taken his hand and called him brother. At first he'd though she meant it as a reference to their shared time in combat, but then she'd slid a signet ring onto his right ring finger and named him brother again.

As soon as the last syllable rolled off her tongue he'd been overwhelmed with the briefest touch of his soul's history, his lifetimes of fighting beside, protecting and loving the wielders of the Witchblade, both true and false. Though the moment had seemed to last a life time, it had ended in a blink of an eye leaving him standing before a knowing Sorcha. They did not speak of the events of that day but over the three years since her wedding she seemed to show up in New York more often and each visit brought forth new layers of confidence in him as Ian learned the truth of the Witchblade's lore and not the twisted truth his Father believed.

The past fading back into the present Ian was loath to believe his eyes as at that moment he spied Sorcha walking through the precinct doors. Though he loved her as the sister he'd never had in this lifetime he knew better than to think he knew the plan behind her actions and now he worried that her motivations had less to do with her professional image as the head of a global security company and everything to do with the Witchblade sitting upon Sara's wrist.

A slower week meant time to catch up on paperwork and dust off the cold cases to see any new leads had appeared. Neither was overly appealing to her with the sense of urgency being projected by the Witchblade, but other than a bracelet version of a lava lamp Sara hadn't gotten anything useful from it for several days.

Sending the Rookie on a coffee run, much to Danny's amusement, she tried to figure out what about one of their more recent cases was nagging at her. Michael White had been in his mid twenties and working as a bodyguard when he'd been stabbed in an attack meant for his socialite charge and had bled out as his charge was rushed to safety by her driver. Initially it had seemed like an easy case, bust the obsessive stalker the bodyguard had been hired to keep away and call it a day, but the stalker had an ironclad alibi in a 48hr nonvoluntary lockdown for psychological evaluation in a state hospital, sedated with enough sedatives to down a draft horse. Each and every suspect was the same, some sort of ironclad alibi and it was getting on her remaining nerve, the Witchblade having claimed the rest. Sara could only hope that when the head of the security firm walked in for her appointment that she'd be able to shed some type of light on how a bodyguard dies protecting a charge who by some miracle is under no threat, all known threats somehow occupied elsewhere and all at the same time.

A printed version of his wife's face filling his gaze, Aidan ran his finger across her face praying once again to make it to New York and find his wife in one piece, before tucking the picture back against his heart. When he'd left to help his sister move their mother from her small cottage outside Dublin and into their Aunt's spare bedroom he'd know that his wife wouldn't wait and that he'd be reduced to chasing her across the Atlantic. And he'd hated it as much then, knowing that she wouldn't take anyone to watch her back despite the unsettling letters showing up at her office.

So here he was trying to calm himself enough to retain his sanity for the length of the transatlantic flight eating up the miles between them and hope that Sorcha had enough sense to call Ian and ask for help. But the knot in his stomach and the deafening screams of his instincts told him she hadn't.