"Hope Remembered III: Confidante" Highlander Fanfiction (September 1999) by Parda and Vi
Mature themes: rape, violence, and profanity. Not our universe, not our characters, except for Elena Duran and the people at her estancia.
Hope Remembered III: CONFIDANTE
By Vi Moreau and Parda
The music of the mountains
And the colors of the rainbow
"Are you done with her yet, Brother?" Kronos asked, coming closer to watch, as she lay naked, bound, and helpless on the floor.
Methos stopped, crouching beside her, his hand lying lightly on her throat, his fingertips alongside her neck, his thumb just under her chin. "You want a turn?"
"It's been a long time," Kronos answered, smiling, as he always smiled, in vicious joy and anticipation. He crouched down on the other side of her, and his hand reached out to stroke the side of her face gently.
"A long time," Roland agreed from the shadows, then he came closer, too. He stood at her feet and smiled as he looked her up and down. His eyes were greedy and cold. "Where have you been, Cassandra? You didn't tell us you were leaving."
"You shouldn't have left," Kronos said, his hand not gentle anymore.
"You belong to me," Methos said softly, close to her ear. "I tamed you, and I own you." This time Methos was the one to smile. "But I'll share you with my brothers." He lifted his head and called to Kronos and Roland: "Who wants to have her first?"
Isle of Lesbos, November 1996
Cassandra woke and did not move. The cottage was dark, and she was alone. The windows were closed, for the night air was chill, but she could still hear the waves on the shore, and the wind. Winter was coming, even here, on the Isle of Lesbos. The warm blue waters of the Mediterranean would fade to gray, and the nights would grow longer. The darkness would come.
The darkness was here. Inside her, all through her—it was her. She was nothing; she was dead—dead ashes from an all-consuming firestorm of hate. Earlier, she had thought that her hate would make her strong; her hate would see her through to the end. It had, but now the end was here and the hate was gone, and she was left with nothing. Nothing.
Nothing except the dreams, and the voices. She could still hear Methos. She would always hear Methos. He had told her never to forget, and she never would.
I will kill you as many times as it takes to tame you.
Cassandra did not bother to turn on the light, but reached over the side of the bed and groped on the floor for the bottle. It was still there, and it still had some vodka in it.
Not enough.
She threw the empty bottle against the wall. It crashed there and landed on the floor with the others. Cassandra stood slowly and made her way to the kitchen area. She needed a drink.
There was no more vodka, but there was whisky, and there was almost enough. The bottle was nearly a quarter-full. She took a comforting swallow, welcoming the heat, then slumped to the floor and leaned her back against the cupboards, the bottle held solidly between her knees. It wouldn't do to spill it, not at all. That would be a waste, and it was the last bottle she had.
We're not finished yet, Cassandra.
She would never forget Roland, either. She drank some more and waited, waited for sleep. She needed to sleep, to sleep and not dream. The dreams should have stopped. She shouldn't have to do this anymore. Roland was dead. Kronos was dead. The Horsemen were vanquished. The need for vengeance was gone. The hate was gone. The anger was gone. Everything had been burned away. She couldn't feel anything anymore, so it should all be over, shouldn't it?
Make love to me before I kill you.
It wasn't.
Cassandra took another drink, idly wondering what the date was. It had been at least a week since she had walked away from the Horsemen in Bordeaux. Or had it been two? She didn't know. She couldn't remember, and she didn't care. She had come here to Lesbos, back to the temple she had called home over three thousand years ago, hoping to find peace and comfort, maybe even forgiveness.
But the temple lay in ruins, and she had found no peace, no comfort. There could be no forgiveness, not this time. There was nothing. The darkness faded to the gray light of dawn before Cassandra fell asleep, there on the kitchen floor. She dreamed that time, too.
She woke suddenly, then curled her fist around the bottle and brought it to her lips without even opening her eyes. The bottle was empty, and she was alone. She tried to stand, but managed only a crouch. Then she started to shake, and she vomited onto the floor.
Cassandra stayed where she was, on her hands and her knees, her head down, her eyes closed. She knew this position well. Methos had taught it to her. Kronos and Roland had liked it, too. Most men did.
You stay alive, as long as you please me.
She stood slowly, hanging onto the cabinets for support, then made her way out the door and to the beach. She lay face-down in the sand, letting the cold waves wash over her, waiting for them to carry her out to sea and drown her, so it would all be over, at least for a while, and she could be nothing.
I am Methos. You live to serve me. Never forget that.
She could not bear this anymore.
Chapter 1
Argentina, 23 November 1996
Elena Duran froze at the soft knock on the dojo door, breaking the rhythm of her tai chi chuan form.
No one had knocked on any of the doors leading into the dojo for the last four days, ever since she had shut the doors and locked them. She hadn't spoken to anyone in all that time. She hadn't wanted to. Elena had locked out everyone and everything, concentrating only on her swordwork, on getting strong again through hard, mindless physical activity, on being independent again, on being free once more.
She tried to lock out the nightmares, too, but that she couldn't do. The pesadillas came every night, every day, every time she fell asleep for more than an hour. And Claude Bethel came with them. Every time. He owned her dreams, and he would be in her memories forever.
The knock sounded again, louder and more insistent. Elena abandoned her tai chi, then unlocked the door.
Her eighty-year-old housekeeper Carmela was standing there, telephone in hand. "Mariaelena?" Carmela said softly, looking her over, but caring rather than curious. The old Indian woman was trying to hide her reaction, making no judgment, saying nothing, even though she obviously wanted to.
Elena knew what she looked like, what she smelled like. She'd seen her own thin, long-legged reflection in the mirrors that lined one of the long walls of the former ballroom-turned-dojo, seen herself out of her left eye. It was the only eye she had. Claude Bethel had tortured her, starved her, and cut out her right eye.
She had seen the grimy, dark fuzz on her head, the sweaty, pasty film on her skin, the dark circles under her eyes, her general too-bony, haggard appearance. Add to that lack of sleep and not enough food—it was the perfect scarecrow look. Elena didn't care anymore.
"A call for you." Carmela held out the telephone to Elena.
Not even Carmela would have dared to bother her with a phone call. Not unless it was an Immortal—Duncan! Elena reached eagerly for the phone, but with only one eye working, she misjudged the distance—as she had been doing for weeks—and bumped Carmela's hand instead. "!Me cago en la mierda!" she hissed savagely, trying to get her fingers around the instrument.
Carmela paled a little. "It is a woman," she said quickly.
Elena's hand dropped, and she swallowed painfully, tasting the bitter disappointment in the back of her throat. Of course, it was not Duncan. She had driven him away with her pride and with her stubborn refusal to confide in him, and Duncan was not going to call her. Period. Elena shrugged and turned away. "Go, vieja. I don't want to talk to anyone."
Carmela's lips tightened briefly, then she said, "She says she is an 'old' acquaintance of yours."
Elena knew that by "old" Carmela meant "Immortal." Carmela was one of the few residents of the estancia whom Elena had entrusted with her secret.
Elena sighed. Otro condenao Immortal. No wonder Carmela insisted on giving her the phone. A call from an Immortal could very well be the prelude to a visit from an Immortal, and Carmela certainly wanted to avoid that! Immortals were Elena's responsibility; and after all, why not talk to this "old acquaintance"? Why the hell not? It was just a phone call. Elena took the phone carefully from Carmela. "Gracias," Elena said, with an attempt at a smile.
Carmela smiled back—a real smile—and left.
Elena looked at the phone in her hand for a moment, then lifted it and said, "Oigo."
"Elena Duran?" The voice was smooth yet incisive, velvet over steel. Definitely a woman, and definitely an Immortal.
Elena did not bother to disguise the raspy sound of her own voice. She was still having crying jags, and hadn't spoken much since Duncan had left her. "Si."
"Mariaelena Concepcion Duran y Agramonte?"
An Immortal who knew all her names, all her old names. Elena hadn't used the name Concepcion since 1830. "Si," Elena repeated impatiently. She didn't want to play this game. "?Y vos?"
"Maria Dolores Caterina Ramirez del Castillo."
That was another name Elena hadn't heard for a long time. A very long time.
La Fiesta de Santa Maria Magdalena, 1735
Buenos Aires, aboard the ship Constanze
"Maria Dolores Caterina Ramirez del Castillo," the other Immortal woman introduced herself, as she stood four paces away on the deck of the ship. Her maid waited quietly behind her, while two sailors lugged a trunk up the gangplank. More trunks waited on the busy wharf, where urchins and sailors and whores kept up a ceaseless babble in a variety of tongues.
Dona Maria Dolores stood silent and still amidst the noise and commotion, waiting. Her hands were ostentatiously folded in front of her, lying immobile on her beautifully tailored dark-green traveling cloak. A chill wind stirred her black mantilla, revealing thick red hair. Her large hazel eyes were watchful, and just as chilly.
When Mariaelena did not respond, the woman added, "We have met before. Your father, Don Alvaro, introduced us in Toledo some time ago."
"Si," Mariaelena said, irritated. "I remember." It had been nearly a century ago, and Don Alvaro had introduced this woman as a friend. But Mariaelena knew that friendship between Immortals was rare, and even back then, this woman had undoubtedly evaluated Mariaelena as a potential enemy. Which she was also obviously doing now.
Mariaelena was tempted to throw the other Immortal into the sea at the first opportunity. When Don Alvaro had first adopted Mariaelena, he had hired an old woman named Juana from the Spanish province of Galicia to be Elena's aya—her teacher, maid, and companion, all in one. Juana's favorite phrase had been, "Coitela." Caution.
Mariaelena needed to be cautious, and not only of other Immortals. Two years ago she had been condemned and burned as a witch, and the Inquisition had somehow heard she was still alive, and was hunting her now. She had been hiding with the Indians in the Cordillera de Cotanguil, the mountains just east of the Andes, but the Sagrada Hermandad had a long arm. She wanted to leave South America immediately, get as far away from those zealots as she could. This ship was bound for Capetown, in Africa, but Mariaelena's ultimate destination was Britain. There were no Inquisitors there.
"I wish only to travel," Maria Dolores said. "There is no need for us to quarrel."
By "quarrel" Mariaelena knew the other woman meant fight to the death, duel with swords until one of them cut off the other one's head. There was no room to fight on such a small ship anyway, not without getting caught. Mariaelena smiled grimly. The sailors were watching the two slim, young-looking noblewomen, and the sailors were listening, too. Maria Dolores was being cautious as well.
"Very well," Mariaelena said. "A truce, for the voyage." She walked toward the other woman, her dark-red skirts swaying with the gentle movement of the docked ship, and smiled into Maria Dolores' face. "Just stay out of my way."
She couldn't, of course. The ship was too small. Fortunately, there were no other passengers, so the women didn't have to share the same quarters; but their cabins were right next to each other. Their maids quickly became friends, giggling and chattering together, while Maria Dolores and Mariaelena remained wary acquaintances. But then, the servant girls could afford to trust each other. They weren't Immortals.
Still, it was good to have someone to talk to, and there was nothing else to do. Except embroider, and Mariaelena had always hated to do that. It required too much sitting. Maria Dolores did not embroider, either. The two women walked the decks together, and read and talked in the cabins. Or rather, Mariaelena talked, and Maria Dolores listened. She listened as Mariaelena spoke of the death of her father Don Alvaro, of being tortured by the Inquisition, of the horror of being burned alive. It helped Mariaelena immensely, to be able to share her grief and her pain with someone who understood, someone who wouldn't judge her or think of her as an evil, unnatural creature. Mariaelena had had no idea how badly she had needed just such a person to listen to her.
But even though Maria Dolores listened sympathetically, her eyes remained distant and remote. She had very old eyes, eyes which had obviously seen a lot, and should have been full of life. Or full of death. But they were strangely cold. No, not cold—empty, Mariaelena finally decided one day. If the eyes were truly the mirrors of the soul, as the poets claimed, then Maria Dolores had lost her soul somewhere along the way. Or maybe she had just misplaced it for a while.
They talked throughout the long, cold winter crossing, and by the time they parted in Capetown, they had become ... friends, of a sort. But they never saw each other again.
23 November 1996
"Yes," Elena said, letting no hint of that friendliness show in her voice. "I remember. We were sailing north across the sea, to Las Palmas."
The woman did not pause at all, but answered easily, "We were sailing to Capetown, in Africa."
"Of course," Elena agreed. "Capetown." But the Immortal could have looked that up in an old shipping record. "And you stayed in the forward cabin, on the port side."
Now the woman sounded slightly amused. "There was no forward cabin, and you and I were both on the starboard side." She continued, "You wore a red dress under your traveling cloak. The dress had black buttons in the shape of roses. You stood on the deck and let the wind blow your hair, and all the sailors would watch you."
"Si," Elena said, swallowing around the sudden thickness in her throat, remembering that dress and the look in the sailors' eyes, remembering the feel of the wind and the softness of her hair. It had taken her hair almost two years to grow back after her very public immolation. Her hand went involuntarily to the stubble on her head, then dropped abruptly. She did not look at her reflection in the mirrors now. "What do you want, Maria Dolores?" Her voice was still unfriendly.
The amusement changed to wariness, with a hint of a plea underneath. "I would like to talk to you, Mariaelena."
"Talk?" Elena did not try to hide her skepticism.
"Yes. Or rather ... I would like you to listen." When Elena did not respond, she added, "I listened to you once, and now I need someone to listen to me."
Elena said nothing.
Another short pause, then Maria Dolores said softly, "I shouldn't have called. Please excuse me for intruding."
"!Un momento!" Elena didn't need a broken bird right now, a soul in distress, not when she was in such need of help herself. But she couldn't let the woman go like that, not sounding so beaten, so hopeless. !Dios mio!—she knew what that felt like. And Maria Dolores was right; Elena owed her. It was Elena's turn to listen now, to let the older Immortal unburden herself, to help purge her pain and fear and sorrow.
It was a point of honor, made stronger by the fact that Maria Dolores was not belaboring it, was in fact just giving up, about to hang up the phone. That told Elena a lot about just how crushed the other woman must be. Elena had lost her pride and her honor in Bethel's basement in New York. Here was a chance to regain it. "Look," Elena said, "it's been ... a difficult time." Any Immortal should understand that. "I'll hear you out. But ... where are you?"
There was a definite tone of relief, even eagerness, in Maria Dolores' voice. "I can come to Argentina, Mariaelena. I can meet you in two days."
She hadn't answered the question, Elena noted, even though Maria Dolores obviously knew where Elena lived. (Never give anything away, Don Alvaro had taught her. But what if it was dragged out of you, with branding irons and sharp blades?) Elena took a deep breath. Where Maria Dolores was didn't really matter. "The Recoleta Cemetery, in Buenos Aires," Elena said. "We can meet there. To talk."
Maria Dolores said, "I'll meet you in the cemetery, on Monday afternoon at four."
"At four," Elena agreed, relieved to be finished with this conversation, anxious to get back to what she had been doing, alone. Meeting an Immortal, now of all times ... well, when was a good time to meet an Immortal?
"Mariaelena?" the woman asked.
"What?"
"Thank you. This means a great deal to me, that you are willing to listen."
Elena paused, suddenly unsure of what she had agreed to, but responding to the obvious need in the other woman's voice, and to her own need to pay that debt. All she had to do was listen. She could do that. "You're welcome. Buen viaje."
"Gracias," Maria Dolores said, then broke the connection.
Elena put the phone on a bench and sat down next to it, frowning, rubbing her hands together, palms open, calluses against calluses, trying to ease the aches there. As always, her sword lay close at hand.
Maria Dolores had been a patient woman, but certainly not a talker. Elena had suspected at the time that it was more because Maria Dolores didn't want to talk—or maybe couldn't talk—rather than because she didn't have anything to say. Apparently, Maria Dolores wanted to talk now. Something had changed.
A lot of things had changed. Elena deliberately looked at herself in the mirror again. She certainly had. She was a different person now than she had been on the Constanze, and not just in looks. She had nothing in common with the cool, elegant, and beautiful Maria Dolor—
Elena realized, with a start, that this was the first time in four days she had actually thought about anyone other than herself. She smiled ruefully, and her ugly duckling reflection smiled back, the first time Elena had brought herself to smile in ... four days.
Maybe this Immortal's visit was going to help her, too—provided it didn't get her separated from her head. Maybe this visit was just what she needed to get her out of this morass of self-pity, to get her thinking about someone else for a change.
No, she reflected, that's not what she needed. What she needed was a shower. And a bath. A long, hot, scented bath. Some coffee, some music. And some food. And maybe even some company, voices other than her own ragged croak and the voices in her head.
But what she really needed was some sleep, and she couldn't manage that, !Madre de Dios, no! Which meant she wasn't ready yet to unlock the doors, to let other people in. But now she had a little hope; she was closer. Soon. Two days, anyway.
She hoped.
Buenos Aires, 25 November 1996
Elena strode arrogantly past the Doric columns into the central lane of the Recoleta Cemetery, then stopped and looked around. Another Immortal was nearby—there, at the end of the lane, standing in the shade of a cypress tree. Elena walked quickly toward the woman, who was turning to her, and stopped only a pace away—deliberately and aggressively getting inside the other Immortal's personal space. Elena looked her up and down.
The other woman was looking her up and down, too, but very circumspectly. She wasn't obvious about it, not like the "beautiful," well-heeled couple who had openly gawked at Elena when she'd gotten out of her Jeep, not like the knot of tourists whose stare Elena was fiercely ignoring now. Elena was getting better at ignoring those—the sidelong looks, the open-mouthed gapes, the comments, the whispers—better than she had been in that restaurant in Seacouver with Duncan. She had had a lot of practice since then.
But Elena hadn't missed the way the Immortal had looked at her. Elena had seen the rounding of her eyes, the slight parting of her lips. The surprise had been hidden instantly, but it had been there.
Elena ground her teeth, waiting to see what the woman would say, how she would react ... but first, to establish that this was, indeed, who she claimed to be. The height was about right, but this woman had auburn hair, not red. "Maria Dolores?" Elena demanded.
The other Immortal did not move back, but answered quietly, "Si."
Elena demanded again, "Maria Dolores Caterina Ramirez del Castillo?"
"Si, Mariaelena."
"It's Elena now," Elena reminded her. "And you changed your hair." She wondered if Maria Dolores would dare say anything about her own hair. Or, rather, her own lack of hair. Or her missing eye. Or her too-large clothes. Elena swallowed her anger. Her pride was unaccountably hurt, even though Maria Dolores had said nothing, but if this woman felt sorry for her...
The woman gave a small shrug. "I've had many different hair colors. Sometimes, we want to change." She met Elena's hostile glare calmly. "Sometimes, we're forced to."
The voice sounded the same, Elena was relatively sure. Then she noticed Maria Dolores's eyes. They were green, not the hazel she remembered. They were still very old, but not quite so empty as they used to be. A broken bird still, perhaps, but no longer a lost soul. Elena was sure they were the same eyes, the same woman.
Elena suddenly wondered if Maria Dolores saw emptiness or brokenness in her eyes. Her eye! she reminded herself savagely. Bethel had clawed out her other eye. Forced to change, indeed.
What else had changed? The hair, the eyes ...? Was she even the same woman who had been on the phone? Was this really Maria Dolores? Now Elena was not so sure, and she had to know. "It's been a long time since we first met in Madrid. Tell me what you remember."
There was no amusement in the other Immortal's voice at the test this time. She answered evenly. "We didn't meet in Madrid, but in Toledo, in 1636. Your teacher, Don Alvaro, introduced us. You were getting your first sword, a broadsword. Don Alvaro said the swordcutler had never made a blade for a left-handed man before, let alone for a woman, and it took quite some time to achieve a balance that suited Don Alvaro. He wanted only the best for you, his pupil." She added more gently, "His daughter."
Elena blinked at the memory. That blade, too, she had lost to Bethel. He had broken it, just as he had broken her. But her memories of her father's exacting requirements about that sword, her memories of his love for her, were still within her. Bethel had taken those away from her, too, for a while. But Bethel had ultimately failed because he hadn't killed her. She'd gotten away from him, and as long as she was alive...
Very well, Elena was convinced this was Maria Dolores. She backed away one step, giving the other Immortal some room. Still, just because Maria Dolores had been friendly before didn't mean she was a friend now. Coitela, caution, always. Elena would be cautious, and that meant there was something else she needed to ask. "I need to know if someone is still hunting you."
Maria Dolores repeated smoothly, "Hunting me?" She shrugged again, that small elegant shrug that was already getting on Elena's nerves. "What do you mean?" Her eyes were wide and innocent, her face calm.
Elena wasn't buying it. "Someone was hunting you when we were on that ship."
"We're Immortals. We're always being hunted." She gave Elena a quick but thorough glance. "Or we are hunting. That's the nature of the Game, isn't it?"
Elena shook her head, suspicious again. "You're lying. Or hiding something. You say you want me to listen, and then the first thing you do is lie to me. If you can't be honest about this, then I can't trust you, and we're finished, right now."
Maria Dolores merely looked at Elena for a moment, with absolutely no change of expression on her face. Her eyes were empty again. Then she blinked, and the wounded bird was back. "You're right," she admitted, her voice soft. "I am lying. I'm sorry. I've been ... hiding for a very long time, and lying gets to be a habit."
"A bad habit."
"Yes." An expression of pain flickered on her face, then was wiped away. The green eyes were calm and watchful once again.
"So?" Elena demanded impatiently. "There was a man hunting you. You thought I was too preoccupied with the Inquisition to notice, but I saw how you froze sometimes, like a rabbit hiding, at shadows and at some men's voices, even on a ship in the middle of the ocean. I know from Don Alvaro that you're an old one, and if the same Immortal is still hunting you, I don't need him or anyone else coming here looking for you, not now."
Maria Dolores gave a quick nod. "You are right again." Another nod, a slower one this time, followed by a deep breath. "There was a man, hunting me. He's dead now." She said quietly, "He's part of what I wanted to talk to you about."
"Oh?" Elena said, non-commitally. Good, Maria Dolores had admitted it. Maybe they could get along, after all.
"He..." She shook her head, and started over. "I hid from him for over three thousand years."
!Sangre de Dios! Elena thought. Three millennia! Elena had known this woman was old, but not that ancient. She couldn't even imagine living that long, much less being chased for that long.
Maria Dolores continued, "Every few centuries he would find me, and then..." She gave another shrug, but it didn't annoy Elena this time. Maria Dolores stopped and walked away, then stood staring at the ground, her hand resting on a low headstone. Her long, elegant fingers closed around the marble in a hard grip. "I guess I'm not ready to talk yet, after all."
Elena believed her now. She came closer and reached out to touch the other Immortal gently on the arm, but didn't quite dare. So she dropped her hand and said softly, almost in awe, "Three ... thousand years?" She cast around for something else to say and finally came up with, "What was his name?"
Maria Dolores obviously didn't want to say that, either, but she did. "His name ... was Roland."
"Roland?" Elena repeated in surprise. Duncan had taken Roland's head in June, while Elena had been in Japan. When she had come back to Seacouver later that summer, Duncan had told her the story. In 1606, when Duncan was still a boy living in the Highlands of Scotland, Roland had come hunting for him. An Immortal named Cassandra had hidden Duncan—saved him, actually. The local people had feared Cassandra and called her the witch of Donan Woods. They had had good reason to think her a witch. She had a power in her voice, the power to control and to hypnotize. Roland had also had the power of the Voice, and he had used it in his fight against Duncan. Only Cassandra's help and warning had helped Duncan defeat Roland.
Elena looked at Maria Dolores again, and suddenly realized who this woman really was. She took a step back. A cold feeling of dread replaced the heat of anger, of arrogance, of wounded pride, and Elena tried to keep the emotion from her face.
"You're Cassandra," Elena whispered, her mouth dry, wondering about the Voice, what it could do, what Cassandra could do. "You're the witch of Donan Woods." And one of Duncan's lovers, she added to herself. One of his recent lovers. Cassandra and Duncan had just spent more than a week together, chasing after the Four Horsemen; Duncan had told Elena a little of that tale, too. So why was Cassandra really here? Because she wanted Duncan and needed to get Elena out of the way? That would be ironic, considering Duncan had left her just days before.
Maria Dolores—no, Cassandra, it was Cassandra!—turned to her swiftly, but there was no surprise on her face or in her voice now, only wariness. "You know MacLeod?"
Which MacLeod? thought Elena in sudden confusion, her mind swirling with thoughts, with possibilities. Connor or Duncan? Why hadn't Cassandra said Duncan? She had slept with him, after all. Or did Cassandra know Connor? And had she slept with Connor, too? Just how long had Cassandra lived in the Highlands, anyway? Her father's words came back to her again. "Never give anything away." Always good advice. If Cassandra wasn't going to specify which MacLeod she meant, Elena wouldn't, either. She simply answered, "Yes."
"Then maybe you already know my story, and I don't have to tell you." Cassandra's eyes were very cold, the wounded bird hidden now. "What do you know, Elena?" she demanded. "What did he tell you?"
Elena always responded to being attacked by hitting back harder. And this was definitely an attack. She stepped closer to Cassandra, again, closing the distance between them. Cassandra had nowhere to go; her back was against the headstone. The two women were almost exactly the same height, and Elena stood very close, staring into her eyes. She used her most intimidating voice, the icy, deadly one, and tried not to think about what kind of Voice Cassandra might have. She prepared herself to cut off Cassandra's wind, and that Voice. A spearhand in the throat should do it. "He told me about the Voice," she hissed, her chest almost touching Cassandra's. "What else do I need to know?"
Cassandra blinked again, and changed again. The coldness and the anger were gone; replaced once more by the wounded bird. Her eyes showed only confusion and remembered pain, and she seemed to shrink into herself. "I'm sorry," she said again. Her words were low and hesitant. "I didn't come here to fight."
Elena couldn't keep up with the way Cassandra kept changing herself. First calm and arrogant, then humbly admitting she had lied, then almost too frightened to speak Roland's name, then suddenly watchful and angry, even deadly, and now humble again. She wondered if Cassandra were doing it deliberately, to confuse her. It was working, but Cassandra seemed to be just as confused. Who was this woman? Did she even know herself?
Elena took a deep breath, damping the fear, and stepped back again. Maybe Cassandra really did just want to talk. Duncan had told Elena how desperate Cassandra had been to escape Roland, and Elena didn't think Cassandra had been lying now when she said Roland had been chasing her for three millennia. But she had to be sure. "Is that why—?"
Someone came up behind her, and Elena turned to face a family—a man and a woman and their two young children playing amongst the monuments. The man was looking in a guidebook of some sort, but the woman gaped at Elena. He started to say, in broken Spanish, "Por favor, ?donde esta ...?" then he raised his head. The words died in his throat.
"The grave of Evita Peron?" Elena answered in English, recognizing the man's accent. She raised her arm and pointed. "Down this lane. Black marble," she said curtly. Then, she motioned with her head for Cassandra to follow her, turned, and walked to a more deserted section of the cemetery, behind a large pink marble mausoleum. Another dead hero, she thought as she gazed at the grandeur of his resting place. All around her were other monuments and headstones and crosses. She and Cassandra were still on Holy Ground, and it was safe. Probably. And now, here, with fewer interruptions, Elena could truly read the old Immortal's expression, discern her real purpose. She hoped.
As Cassandra came up behind her, Elena turned and asked her, quickly, to catch her off guard, "Is that why you're here? Because of him?"
"Because of...?" Cassandra stopped and considered Elena for a moment. "Because of Duncan?" Now there was actually some surprise showing on Cassandra's face. "Why would I be here because of him?"
"How about jealousy? You slept with him. Maybe you want him." Why wouldn't Cassandra want him? And why the hell would Duncan want me now, anyway? Elena thought, bitterly. She was useless, broken, ugly. She couldn't even stand to have him touch her. Duncan had probably been glad to have an excuse to go. He could have any woman he wanted, including the beautiful Cassandra, with her long, silky auburn hair, her cool green eyes—both her eyes. Both of them.
The amused tone Elena had heard on the phone was back in Cassandra's voice now. "Sleeping with Duncan MacLeod is hardly unusual, is it? And hardly worth fighting over. And no, I don't want him."
Elena wondered for a moment if Cassandra was laughing at her. But then Cassandra's amusement disappeared again.
"I'm here ... I want to talk to you, Mariaelena." She looked at Elena carefully, and this time, Elena didn't mind being looked at. "I think we both need someone to listen."
Elena's first impulse was to be angry and mistrustful, to reject Cassandra. But Elena trusted her own instincts, and her instincts said, believe this woman. She wanted to believe Cassandra. She really did. But... Elena held her hands out in front of her, palms up. "How do I know? How do I know you're not using the Voice now, to convince me?"
A quirk of the lips, almost a smile, flitted across Cassandra's face. "Are you convinced?"
Elena couldn't help smiling herself. "No," she answered, now more convinced than ever. And Duncan had said he trusted Cassandra. Well, as Richie Ryan would say, Shit or get off the pot. Elena said, "Will you give me your word, your solemn oath, that you will not use this Voice against me? That I won't be bringing you into my house so you can hurt my people?"
Cassandra nodded. "I give you my word. I will not use the Voice. On you, or on any of your people." She glanced quickly at Elena's thin cloak, where her sword was hidden, then added, "Unless I fear for my life."
It was Elena's turn to nod. They were Immortals—that was always the one condition. She'd have to go home now, think about this. Then she realized there was one more thing she needed to know, one more thing that would probably convince her. "Show me, Cassandra. If you want me to trust you with my life and the lives of those I love, I need to know what the Voice is all about. I need to understand it for myself." So I'll know if you use it against me, she thought. Not that it would matter, at that point.
"You want me to use the Voice on you?" Cassandra asked in disbelief. "Now?"
"Yes. We're on Holy Ground." She wondered if that would really protect her; but it didn't matter. She had to know, one way or another.
Cassandra shook her head. "No." Before Elena could protest, she added, "I swore another vow, a very long time ago, never to use the Voice except in times of great need, or great danger." She placed both her hands on top of Elena's, and said formally, "I swear to you, Mariaelena Concepcion Duran y Agramonte, that I will not use the Voice on you, unless you try to kill me."
Elena studied her intently, trying to judge if Cassandra was influencing her with some glamour, like a vampire, whether her mind was being affected by the Voice. But all she could see on Cassandra's face was sincerity, and all she could feel was forthrightness and a measure of pain that Elena was sure ran deep. Finally, Elena nodded.
Cassandra removed her hands and said, "You can ask MacLeod about the Voice, if you wish."
Elena was curious enough to ask, and by now, amused. "Which one?" she asked with a small smile. "Duncan or Connor?"
"Both," Cassandra said, and she smiled, too.
Elena realized it was the first smile she had seen from Cassandra this day. And one of the few smiles she'd ever seen on Cassandra's face. Then she thought about what Cassandra had said. Both MacLeods? This could be a very interesting conversation.
But Elena couldn't ask Duncan or Connor anything, could she? She couldn't keep the harshness out of her tone. "No, Duncan and I are ... He's gone. And Connor ... well. I'll have to do without both of them." And whose fault was that? she asked herself. Duncan and Connor had helped her, had given her back her sanity and a lot of her self-worth, had saved her life. She had repaid them by driving them away, thank you very much. If she had deliberately set out to alienate both the MacLeods, she could not have done a better job. "I guess I'll just have to take your word for it."
"What else can we give each other?" Cassandra asked, her own voice harsh, even bitter. She lifted her chin and studied Elena, then asked, "May I have your word, that you won't try to kill me?"
Elena wasn't ready to commit to that yet. She looked away for a moment, considering, letting the peace of this quiet part of the cemetery fill her, calm her. There was so much about Cassandra that appealed to her, that drew her. They had something in common besides being Immortals and being women. The story of this bastard, Roland... Duncan hadn't told her the whole story; he didn't know it. But Cassandra knew. Elena realized that not only was she honor-bound to listen, but she wanted to listen to this hurt, confused woman, as Cassandra had once listened to her.
Two broken birds, she thought, singing to each other, and listening to each other's songs. But even so—the Voice. Elena feared very few Immortals, and she didn't fear Cassandra, but she did fear the Voice. So much for peace. Elena shook her head, then asked, "Where are you staying?"
"At the Hotel Central Cordoba," Cassandra answered.
Elena knew the hotel, near another cemetery, la Chacarita. Elena knew Buenos Aires well, every street, every park. She knew every site of Holy Ground in the city. "I'll call you in the morning to let you know my decision. But," she added, significantly, "don't come to my ranch without my invitation, Cassandra. I will consider it a challenge and shoot you from afar, then I will come close and take your head."
Cassandra merely nodded, her eyes calm and watchful once again.
Elena nodded in return, and they walked together to the central lane. Then Elena went out the gate to her parked Jeep, the whole time conscious of the Immortal behind her, and very conscious of that Voice. She walked more quickly, wondering if she'd made a terrible mistake—another mistake. She wondered if she would hear her name called, or some mental command which would leave her helpless. But when she reached her car and looked back, Cassandra was standing in the shade of the same cypress tree again, a still, silent figure, as animated as the crypts themselves.
Elena found herself wanting to leave Cassandra with something other than a threat, because she did want to believe Cassandra. So she raised her hand in farewell and got into her Jeep. As she drove away, she saw Cassandra nod almost imperceptibly, another spare, elegant gesture from a silent, broken woman.
Continued in Chapter 2, wherein Cassandra remembers a young and impatient Elena
Translations
!Madre de Dios! - Mother of God!
!Sangre de Dios! - God's blood!
?por favor, donde esta? - please, where is?