THE GAME

It seems to never end


Seaday, Summer 6, Year 556 PE
Sunearth School


When Methos told Cassandra the news about Connor, she had closed her eyes. When she'd opened them again, he'd seen an emptiness of pain. So Methos had left her alone.

Later that day, Cassandra approached him as he was leaving behind the chatter of students and the clatter of dishes in the school's dining hall. He had not seen her there during the evening meal.

"Thank you," she told him, her words as warm as the fleeting (and surprising) touch of her fingers upon the back of his hand. "For coming in person all this way to tell me about Connor. I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

Methos was always thoughtful. He'd been thinking a lot lately, and not just about Cassandra. She wasn't the only reason he'd come all the way back to Earth, though she didn't need to know that. So he simply bowed his head in silent acknowledgement of her gratitude.

"It helps, I think," she said, sounding as detached as a clinical observer, a coping technique that Methos recognized well. "The personal connection. Last summer I went to Argentina to tell Elena about Duncan."

Elena, Methos knew, was not detached about anything ever, certainly not the death of her long-time lover. "Did she cry first?" Methos asked. "Or swear?"

Cassandra nearly smiled. "Both at the same time. After I finally convinced her it was true. Then she drank, and went riding, and drank, and swore and wept again. Then she slept."

Methos nodded. It all sounded depressingly familiar. A gaggle of girls exited the dining hall, and as they went by, he and Cassandra flattened themselves against the wall

"Elena's married right now," Cassandra went on. "Another mortal. They're raising two young boys. That helps. To stay busy."

"Yes." He needed a project, or maybe a dog. He wasn't ready for a lover or a family. He and Duncan had raised three children over the years. They were all gone now, having lived long and mostly happy lives. Methos was glad he didn't have to tell any of them that their father Duncan was dead.

Cassandra had been keeping busy with the schools and the psychic breeding program and remaking the calendar and a multitude of other plans to change the worlds. But even she might take a sabbatical now and then. "Did you and Connor ever raise children together?" Methos asked.

She watched a solitary girl of about six years push open the heavy door and leave the building before saying, "No." Then she nodded politely and pushed open that same door.

Methos decided to give Cassandra a nine-day before he tried to talk to her again. He busied himself by reading the Chronicles, going for long hikes and riding horses, and watching the stars. In all these long years, the constellations had barely changed. He liked that.

When he was at the school, he watched the girls. They seemed very serious. He talked to the teachers. They were even more serious, but many of them were also very interesting … and interested. There were men at the school, but not enough. Not an unpleasant visit, all in all.

On the next Turnday, when businesses were closed and houses of worship were open, he finally climbed the stairs to Cassandra's room at the top of the south-eastern tower. She kept it sparse: a large bed with curtains drawn all around, the round table in the center where they had sat on floor cushions and shared coffee, a desk with a single shelf built above. Her strung loom created a spiderwork of shadows on the floor, and her harp whispered and hummed to itself in the corner, caressed by the wind. The thick stone walls were pierced by four windows, one in each compass direction. They were open to the air today.

She was staring to the east at the trees, and she spoke without once looking his way. "I keep thinking: Not him. Not Duncan. Not Connor." Her voice caught a little on the names. "And then I think, why not him? They didn't have any magic protection. They weren't that special."

Methos cleared his throat before saying, "They were special to us."

"Yes. Yes, they were." She finally turned to look at him. "Are you sure that…?"

"Two Immortals go in a building. There's a Quickening. One Immortal comes out." Methos shrugged. "The duel was registered with the Tribunal and agreed to by both principals. The Watcher report was filed in Spring. Didn't you get it?"

"I haven't been reading them lately," she said, turning away again. "Not since Connor killed Lis Na Trag two seasons ago."

"It was Trag's teacher, Phan Huy," Methos told her, but she didn't seem to care. So he didn't tell her that almost a year ago he'd offered Duncan's katana to Connor, not just for the duel with Duncan's killer but to keep. Connor had thanked him (which surprised Methos) but refused (which didn't). In duels to the death, a man wanted his own sword.

Though that obviously hadn't been enough for Connor's fight with Phan Huy.

"And so it goes," Cassandra said, and the triteness of the words could not hide their bitterness. "On and on and on."

Methos watched as Cassandra hugged her arms tightly around herself. She was also rocking to and fro in distress, just a little, but the tip of her waist-length braid betrayed her by its movement. The color of her black hair ribbon matched her clothes. Over black shirt and slacks she wore a knee-length gray and white robe, trimmed in more black ribbon and slit on either side past the hip.

Not all of the Sisterhood dressed like nuns, but Cassandra often opted for simplicity and comfort instead of fashion. Methos wondered what colors she wore when she wasn't in mourning. He was still in black, too. He hadn't planned that. He just hadn't bothered to pick out new clothes.

"I should be used to it by now," Cassandra said. "I knew it was just a matter of time. Duncan and Connor kept fighting, kept looking for battles. The odds had to catch up with them."

"Yeah," Methos muttered. He'd thought much the same.

"Not us," she said, with a laugh as brittle and cold as ice. "We old ones know better."

Knowing better made it worse. Being "an old one" didn't help, either. Methos went to the southern window. The entry courtyard lay below him, and the local people came and went from the health clinic and lingered to gossip at the fountain. The Sisterhood provided health care and water free of charge. In the distance, a flat-topped mountain rose, its missing peaks surrounded by clouds. Two extinct volcanoes stood on either side of a dormant one, an ancient geological formation. A home of extinct gods.

"How many battles have you fought in the last thousand years, Methos?" Cassandra asked from behind him.

She sounded casual, but that was never a casual question among their kind. He answered anyway. "Seven." He thought about it. "No, eight."

"The MacLeods would fight that many in decade. In a year."

"Not lately. We're getting harder to find."

"That we are," she agreed. "Do you know how many Immortals are left?"

"Ninety-one."

"Ninety-one," Cassandra said softly, and he heard her draw a long, slow breath. "It was the Prize, you know," she said, now sounding brisk and matter-of-fact. "That was why Connor fought. He wanted to make sure the wrong Immortal didn't get the Prize."

When Methos heard her move toward him, he turned to keep her in sight.

She stopped, close to the round table in the center of the room. "Do you worry about that, Methos?" she asked. "About who will win the Prize?"

"Why should I?" he asked, leaning against the wall. The cold from the stone seeped into his shoulder. "If I don't win it, then I won't be here to see what's it like."

She almost smiled before observing sardonically, "Always the pragmatist."

He tossed her own words back at her: "We old ones know better."

She nodded, acknowledging his point. But then she asked: "Do you believe in the Prize, Methos?"

Methos dodged in the simplest way possible. "What?" he asked, as if he hadn't heard.

"Do you believe in the Prize?" she repeated. Her eyes were golden green. "Do you believe that the last Immortal will have power enough to rule the universe?"

A shrug was his answer, but it was not enough to satisfy Cassandra.

"When was the first time you heard about it?" she asked next.

"I don't remember," he said, straightening up and looking out the window again.

"Before the Horsemen?" she persisted. "Or after?"

He didn't answer that, either, and she came to his window, standing at his side, looking out at the same view. "Just before the Trojan War started," Cassandra began, studiedly casual again, "I saw Roland take his first head."

Methos had never liked Roland, not from the moment Kronos had brought the curly-headed youngster into the Horseman camp nearly four thousand years ago. Roland had been arrogant, pompous, insecure … and boring. Not to mention sadistic and twisted. As Cassandra knew full well. Good thing Duncan had killed him.

"Roland was as surprised as I was by the quickening," Cassandra was saying. "None of us knew that could happen, or that we could die by beheading, not even the Lady of the Temple, and she was nine hundred years old." Cassandra touched her necklace, a triple crescent of silver, her reminder of her priestess days. "When the lightning started, I ran."

In his early days, Methos had sought the lightning. Later, he ran from it. It didn't matter. The lightning stalked them all.

"Soon after," she said, "I realized that the Horsemen must have known about beheadings and quickenings."

"Yes," he admitted. "But you never saw one at our camp."

"All four of you practiced on mortals." Her mouth twisted in distaste. "Frequently."

True enough.

"Yet you never told Roland," Cassandra observed.

"Tell him how to kill us?" Methos asked with exaggerated incredulity. "No, of course not."

Cassandra was looking out the window again. "And you certainly never told me."

Of course not. But Methos didn't say it; Cassandra wouldn't appreciate the humor just now. So he settled for: "Knowledge is power."

"Very true," she murmured and then she turned to look him in the eye. "And I know that the Horsemen invented the Prize, Methos."

She was guessing, at best. She certainly couldn't prove it. So he could deny it, protest his innocence, tell her she was mistaken or crazy, spin some other tale of days gone by. But what was the point of that anymore? What was the point of any of it? "Yes," he admitted, as he had once admitted other sins to Duncan. Oh yes. The word "yes" had been hot and bitter then, scalding with rage and desperation. Now the word tasted like lead, dull and heavy and cold on his tongue. "We did."

Cassandra showed no triumph, no surprise, just a weariness that equaled his own."Why?" she asked plaintively. "Why would you start the Game?"

"We started a game," he corrected sharply. "Other people turned it into The Game. And I couldn't stop it." He drew a ragged breath, scraped raw between bitter laughter and even more bitter tears. "I have tried."

He didn't want to look at her anymore, or to have her look at him with those knowing eyes. Methos turned and left the chamber. He walked down the long curving stairway that clung to the stone wall, three flights down to the ground, then went outside into the heat of the day.

The fierce sunshine left him blind.


Cassandra hadn't expected Methos to admit so quickly or so easily to starting the Game. But she knew well enough that after centuries of telling lies, telling the truth held a dark and reckless allure.

Perhaps he was ready to tell more. She left her chamber and went in search of him. She could tell that Methos had been seeking open air, not cover, so she didn't bother to check the inner courtyard or inside the buildings. She went to the entry courtyard, a large square edged by the Sexuality and Healing Hall to the west, the Hall of Learning to the north, and the Temples of Birth and Rebirth in the east. The space was busy with people gossiping at the fountain, enjoying the day of worship and rest. Cassandra searched the crowd but didn't see Methos. Her inquiries led her to the walkway between the temples, and she passed through that leafy tunnel to reach the sunny garden beyond.

The garden of remembrance was bright with flowers, soft with the patter of a small fountain and the chimes of the soul-catchers hanging from the trees. Two young women in the green robes of novices scattered the ashes of the dead around the roots of a plum tree, and the cold scent lay dusty above the redolence of living green.

Methos was just outside the garden, sitting cross-legged on the ground under the flame trees and making aimless patterns in the scattered leaves. Cassandra sat beside him, but not near.

"You're not angry?" he asked, his head down.

"I was," she admitted. "I even threw things. But it began long ago, and I know you don't play the Game now."

"I never have." He scooped up a handful of dirt and cradled it in his palm. "How long have you known?"

"I put the pieces together just this last year. Connor mentioned that Ramirez's teacher, Tjanefer, had first heard of the Game when he was challenged to a duel. Ramirez had told me other stories, including one in which Tjanefer had been challenged by a large man who carried an axe … and called another immortal 'Brother'."

Cassandra watched Methos carefully, but all he did was to slowly tilt his hand. The dirt began to fall, piling up into a tiny hill. "That fight happened about a century after Troy fell," she continued. "It was interrupted, so Tjanefer survived. He told other immortals—including all his students—of the Game and the Prize. Ramirez told all his students, and Connor told his, and Duncan told his. And all of them believed."

"Viral messages are tricky little buggers," Methos observed. His palm was empty, and he demolished the hill of dirt with a vicious sweep of his hand. "They mutate. They can kill."

"Living things are not ours to control, even if we create them," she pointed out. "Ask Dr. Frankenstein. Or any parent."

"Then I should ask you," he retorted, sharp and wounding, using attack as a mode of defense. "How many people did Roland kill?"

"Probably not so many as Kronos," she snapped back. But such pettiness was not helpful. "They killed too many," she said softly. "And sometimes, what we start becomes something we never wanted. And even though you and I are not directly responsible, still we feel guilty."

"Not I," Methos told her, standing and brushing off the dirt. "I gave up guilt fifteen hundred years ago."

She stood and faced him. "We old ones know better," she repeated. "Because the final piece to the puzzle, Methos, was the guilt in your eyes when you told me that Duncan was dead."

At those three final words, Methos's mask splintered, revealing furrows of pain and the guilt that still haunted his eyes. He walked away again.

She called after him, "Don't you remember how it was to live without the Game?"

He didn't pause or turn. "No."

She caught up to him, and when Methos didn't stop walking, she took hold of his sleeve and stopped them both. He glared at her hand and then at her, but Cassandra didn't let go. She knew Methos wasn't going to take her head, and she wasn't letting him get away now. This was too important to abandon.

"Duncan died for nothing," she reminded Methos. Connor had died for nothing. Ramirez had died for nothing. She loathed this viciously wasteful "game" that had been created by vicious and wasteful men. So many people had died, and all for nothing.

But then, Death had always been the reason, just by itself. "Nothing," Cassandra said again, in a whisper this time.

"I know." Methos had his mask back in place, but his voice was raw.

"We can not let this go on," she insisted. "There aren't many of us left. We have to tell people."

"They won't believe you, Cassandra."

"I'll use the Voice to convince them." Ending the Game was definitely a matter of life and death.

"It won't be enough," Methos said flatly.

"Then you tell them, too," she urged. "If both of us—"

"No!" he said, grabbing her by the upper arms, his fingers digging into her flesh.

He had held her this way ages ago, when she had been his slave. She didn't resist, anymore than she had then, but she wasn't afraid of him now. She just let him have his say.

"You're - not - listening," Methos told her, shaking her back and forth, frustration slicing each word sharp and clean. "And they won't listen either."

"We have to try," she repeated. She stayed soft and pliable under his grip, but she was determined to end the Game, and she needed Methos's help to do it. So she told him what he already knew but didn't want to hear: "Duncan would have wanted us to."

Methos let go of her then, dropped his hands and turned away.

This time, she let him go.


Continued in "a prayer to non-believers"


Details about how the Game started are in my story Just a Game (co-written with Nightsky), which is also on fanfiction . net.

The character Elena was created by Vi Moreau and appears in the stories Hope Remembered III-Confidante, Hope Triumphant II-Sister, Invisible Darkness, The Only Game in Town, and Elena's Journey, plus many more stories by Vi.