Hope Triumphant I - Healer (part 2)
PROPHECY
Saturday Afternoon and Evening, 6 April 1997
Brighton Beach
Cassandra walked back to her tiny room at the bed-and-breakfast and changed into her exercise clothes, then went running, wanting to burn off some of the tension from her meeting with Methos. She ran slowly through the streets at first, warming up, thinking things through.
She'd gotten what she wanted, an answer she could live with. The finger-breaking had been a bit much, true—she hadn't planned on doing that—but all in all, the encounter had gone quite well. He wasn't that frightening, and she hadn't lost her temper. She'd proven to herself she could handle him. She couldn't control him with the Voice, but she could still influence him, and there were always other ways to manipulate men. She'd seen him looking at her, and she knew he remembered what it was to have a love-slave servicing his every whim. So did she. She could use that against him, too.
But she had no reason ever to see Methos again. Duncan had said Methos had changed, and she'd taken the opportunity to observe Methos in a variety of situations today so that she could judge for herself, even though she'd really wanted to leave him standing there on the pier as soon as they were finished talking. But that would have been weak and cowardly, and she was not going to give in to her fears anymore. Never again.
She didn't trust him—she would never trust him—but he wasn't the monster she remembered. There was no point in taking revenge now. She'd had her chance and decided against it.
Cassandra lengthened her stride when she reached the walkway that stretched alongside the stony beach, frightening a flock of seagulls into taking wing. However, if Duncan were wrong and Methos hadn't changed, or if Methos became a Horseman again ... Well, she knew she couldn't take his head—even if by some miracle she did manage to get him helpless on his knees, taking a five-thousand-year Quickening would drive her insane—but there were others willing to take on that chore. Both MacLeods had promised to help, and Cassandra had lined up a few others. Methos couldn't win against them all.
It was time to move on. Time to stop feeling stupid, time to stop feeling sorry for herself, time to get on with her life.
Goddess blast that filthy, fucking murderer! That arrogant, overbearing, selfish, conceited, self-absorbed, stupid man! Stupid, stupid, stupid man!
"I didn't think it would be that bad."
How could he have been so blind?
Cassandra veered off the walkway and ran stumbling on the pebbled beach, then stopped and picked up a gray rock, its edges smooth against her palms. She knelt down and started pounding the rock on another, leaving dust smears and tiny crumbles of rock behind. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid man! Stupid, stupid, stupid ...
When a small pile of dust had accumulated and a chunk of the rock had been fractured loose, Cassandra stopped and closed her eyes. All right, so Methos had been stupidly blind about her feelings for him. No surprise there. All men were stupidly blind. And maybe all women were stupidly blind in other ways. She certainly had been.
Of course, if men and women ever actually talked to one another, then maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Yeah, right. Cassandra snorted in disgust and dropped the rock, then started running up and down the walkway, over and over again. After about an hour of that, she went back to the bed-and-breakfast, showered, took a nap, then dressed in her green skirt and white tunic and went wandering through the cobble-stoned lanes of Brighton, window shopping for all manner of pretty things. She bought a simple wooden candlestick, a branch of a black-stippled birch tree, hollowed out at the core. At six o'clock, she went to meet Richie Ryan for dinner at a pub downtown.
He was waiting for her, his beer mug half empty, his leather jacket—and his sword, no doubt—on the bench beside him. "How was Monte Carlo?" Cassandra asked Richie after the waitress brought them their menus, for Richie had told her of his travel plans when they had talked on New Year's Day.
Flickers of emotion chased across Richie's face: embarrassment, amusement, irritation, and joy. "Not what I'd expected, but I met a girl named Marina. I've been helping her fix up her family's chateau. They're going to make it into a hotel, and her grandfather's going to be the chef."
"So, you never went to the Greek Isles?"
"Not yet. I've been hammering and plastering and painting, except for a week back in March. I came to Paris to set up some suppliers for her, saw Mac then, too." Richie stretched and leaned his back against the high-walled wooden booth. "Maybe Marina and I will go to Greece next year, after we get the place going." He grinned as he reached for the menu. "Or maybe not. A chateau in the south of France isn't a bad place to live."
"No," Cassandra agreed with a smile and turned her attention to the menu.
"Man, it's a relief not to have to translate," Richie said, looking over the choices. "When I first got to France, I ordered 'fruits de mer' thinking I'd get a fruit salad. Tessa helped me with my French, went over all those idioms and irregular verbs over and over again." He stared at the list of food and said quietly, "I miss her."
"I'd wish I'd met her," Cassandra said, wondering about the woman both Duncan and Richie had so obviously loved. "She must have been very special."
"She was great," Richie said simply, then turned to the waitress who had come back to take their order. "Shepherd's pie, please," he told her. "With a side of chips."
Over dinner, Cassandra and Richie talked about his childhood, his time with Duncan and Tessa, and his life since then. After dessert, they both ordered coffee, and she took out the tarot cards he had given to her as a Christmas gift and handed them to Richie to shuffle.
"How do you like them?" he asked, his fingers flashing.
"They're interesting. The colors are brighter than I've seen before, and some of the symbols are different, but I do like them." She took the deck from him, cut it into three piles, let him reassemble the stack. "Any question in particular?" she asked, holding the cards in the palm of her hand.
Richie puffed air out between his lips, then shook his head and shrugged. "Guess the meaning of life, the universe, and everything is a bit much to ask for, isn't it? How about ... what's going to happen this next year for me?"
Cassandra nodded and laid out five cards, a simple row, enough for now.
"Oh, I know this spread," Richie said. "Shelley used it a lot. She said it was easier to remember than the ones with a lot of cards."
"That's why I picked it, too," Cassandra admitted, and she returned Richie's knowing grin. "Have to start with the basics."
"Nice to know even you old ones don't know everything."
"Let's see what I've learned." Cassandra glanced first at the colors, letting them set the mood. White and blue mostly, but with crimson accents on all four of the outer cards—three gold stars on a crimson lining, a red collar around the neck of a dog, a sword handle wrapped in red winding, and a red ribbon twining over the fruit and flowers that wreathed a woman dancing in the sky. Red for courage, for life, for blood.
The first card was the question card, the Three of Pentacles, a white-bearded man chiseling white stone into the shape of feathers, feathers that could never fly. The Moon came next, the background card, telling of wildness and unknown dangers, hidden influences, a drawing of a dog and a wolf baying at the moon. "Inter canem et lupum," Cassandra murmured, remembering another idiom from a time long ago.
"Huh?" Richie asked, looking up from the spread.
"A Roman phrase," Cassandra explained, as she had once explained to Duncan. "It translates as 'between dog and wolf,' but it means the time of twilight, when you can't tell the difference between the two until it's too late."
Richie nodded and picked up the center card, looking at the picture of a young woman standing by the sea shore with a cup in her hand, the sky behind her washed in pastels from the setting sun. A bird perched on the rim of the cup, its wings outstretched, its head bent. "And the middle one is the Seeker, so this is me," Richie announced, a swagger in his voice. "The Page of Cups."
Cassandra quoted the official meaning for that card. "'A helpful youth of artistic temperament, studious and intense. Trustworthy and trusting.'"
Richie hmm-hummed in pleasure and set the card down. "Yes, indeed! Studious and intense."
"Yes, indeed," Cassandra agreed. "Or at least intense and trustworthy." And trusting.
"Mac really did tell you about me, didn't he?" Richie asked ruefully. "I never did like that math class he signed me up for, back when I moved in with him and Tessa."
"But you do well in the classes you choose, even if you don't study," Cassandra guessed, and Richie looked pleased and embarrassed.
"I guess that's the intense part," he said, and they moved on to the fourth card.
"Environment," Cassandra said, "influences on finding the answer: the Ace of Swords."
"I like the sound of that," Richie said as he pointed to the handguard of metal wings at the base of the red-handled sword, the upright blade wreathed in twining white roses against a cloudy sky. "Snoopy and the Red Baron, aces all." He looked in the booklet that came with the cards and read, "'A champion, a hero, a leader, the birth of a valiant child.' Sounds like Mac, doesn't it?"
"Maybe he's one of the 'influences on you finding the answer'?" Cassandra said, and Richie nodded. "Or maybe you're going to be the hero?" Cassandra suggested, and Richie laughed in surprise and shook his head no.
"Nah, that hero stuff isn't for me," Richie said and moved on to the last card of the five. "And for ze final card, ze outcome is ... The World!" Richie announced triumphantly. "Looks pretty good to me—a beautiful blonde babe dancing in the sky, lots of flowers and fruit, on top of the world."
This time Cassandra reached for the booklet. "'Completion, the end of a way of life, the admiration of friends ... triumph in the end.'"
"Told you!" Richie said, leaning back in the booth, linking his hands behind his head. "And not a Death card to be seen."
"Not the Death card," she agreed. Only a raised sword, the end of a way of a life, and birds who would never learn to fly. A youth being hammered into shape by hidden forces, separated from the World by a naked blade.
"So?" Richie asked. "What do you think it means?"
Cassandra took another look at the cards, reminding herself that the future was never clear, and she had often been wrong before. What else did she see? "The studious youth needs to work hard, just like the craftsman shown in the Three of Pentacles. The sword and the teacher will always influence him; danger is always part of his life. Yet, the World is within his grasp."
Richie laughed. "That's just what they always told me in school. Study hard, work hard, be careful, pay attention to my teachers, and get ahead in life."
Cassandra swept the cards into a pile and rewrapped them. "Sorry. I did tell you I'm a beginner at this."
"Maybe we can do it again later."
Cassandra smiled and tucked the deck into her purse. "That would be good." She paid for dinner, over Richie's objections. "I invited you," she reminded him, then decided to follow up on her comment to Methos earlier today, at least about the dancing. "Want to go to a club?" she suggested to Richie.
"A club?" Richie repeated in surprise.
"For dancing."
"Uh, you mean like ballroom dancing or something?"
"What has Duncan told you about me?" Cassandra murmured and smiled reassuringly, even enticingly, at the young man. "No, I heard there's a reggae band at the club above 'The Pig in Paradise' tonight. Interested?"
"Yeah!" Richie said, reaching for his coat. "As long as I don't have to dance the flamenco."
TAKE BACK THE NIGHT
Saturday Night
Brighton Beach
The music and the band were rocking, the drinks weren't too expensive, and the crowd was in a rowdy good mood. Cassandra and Richie danced for hours, sometimes with each other, sometimes with groups, sometimes with new partners. It was good to dance again, to know that she hadn't lost everything she'd ever loved.
"Want to dance?" asked a tall man with shoulder-length blond hair, speaking directly into her ear above the music, touching her on the arm.
"I'm thirsty," she explained, twisting away. She was thirsty, for the last set had been a fast one, and the club was hot with the press of many bodies, but she also didn't want him to touch her. His brown eyes were warm and engaging, his manner friendly, but Cassandra didn't want any man to touch her, not that way. She went to the bar, and he followed.
"I'll buy you a drink," he offered cheerfully and beckoned to the bartender.
"No, thank you," Cassandra said, angling her body away. She didn't want to owe anything to any man. "Half a pint, please," Cassandra said to the bartender, then carried her beer to where Richie was standing, conscious of the blond man's gaze on her as she walked away. He kept staring, so Cassandra stood closer to Richie than she normally would, even laid her hand on his arm.
"Want to dance?" Richie asked, and she smiled and said yes, abandoning her beer on a nearby table and letting Richie lead her onto the dance floor. When she glanced at the bar, the blond man had turned his back. Cassandra relaxed and gave her full attention to her charming young partner and the music.
A little after midnight, Cassandra told Richie goodbye. "Got to leave?" he asked, interrupting his conversation about motorcycles. His companion, a purple-haired man in black leather, leaned against the bar and reached for his beer.
"It's been a long day," she explained, then drew Richie a little away from the listening man. "Richie," she began, wishing there was something she could say, something she could do. But she said only, "Go to the Greek Isles with Marina, Richie. Go soon. Not everyone has forever."
"Yeah," he said slowly, looking away. "I know."
But he didn't, not really. He probably never would. Cassandra leaned forward and kissed his cheek, surprising them both, and Richie took her hand in his. "Say hello to Duncan for me," she said with a bright smile, then squeezed his hand and let go.
Cassandra put on her coat and her gloves, then went down the stairs, out into the chill spring air, heading toward the bed-and-breakfast. Two blocks later, rapid footsteps sounded behind her, and she turned to see the blond man from the club.
"I hoped that was you!" he exclaimed, hurrying to reach her. "I just left the club, and when I saw you in the distance, I thought you looked familiar." He smiled again, friendly and helpful. "Looks like we're going the same direction," he said. "Can I walk you home?"
"No, thank you," she said, keeping her words polite, yet already walking.
He joined her, his hands tucked deep into his coat pockets. "Then I'll just stay with you until our paths diverge, and I shall take the one less traveled." He tossed his head to get his hair out of his eyes. "Do you like Robert Frost's poetry?"
"I'm not familiar with modern poets."
His eyes lit up. "Do you prefer the old ones? Byron? Keats?"
Cassandra hid a smile. They still seemed modern to her. "Euripides," she said. "And Ovid and Sappho."
"Did you study Greek and Latin in school?"
"A long time ago," she answered, truthfully enough, and turned the corner.
He went with her. "Looks like our roads haven't diverged yet," he said cheerily. "I'm Roger, by the way."
"Sandra," Cassandra told him, and they walked on for another few minutes, chatting of poetry and of school. After he had turned two more corners with her, Cassandra stopped. "Where do you live?" she asked, keeping her tone pleasant.
He looked around in confusion and then laughed. "I seem to have forgotten to take my own path; I was so enjoying the conversation with you. Is it much farther to your place?"
"Not far," Cassandra answered, but she didn't want him to know where she was staying. "Let's say goodnight now, Roger."
"Do we have to?" he said, tossing his head back again as a lock of hair covered his eyes. He stepped closer to her, smiling, an interesting and attentive man. "I can walk with you the rest of the way. It's no problem."
It was a problem for her. "Where do you live?" she repeated.
"Not far," he answered easily and pointed to his right. "Three blocks that way."
He was lying. She had seen it in the slight flicker of his eyes, the brief faltering of his smile, and she had heard it in his voice. His comfortable smile had returned now, warm and charming, but the lie remained.
Methos had been charming, too. He still was.
"Tell me," she said to Roger, her voice now soft and seductive, "do you do this often? Offer to walk women home?"
"Sometimes. It's not always easy to meet a nice girl, you know?" Roger said, almost plaintively. "A woman I can talk to, a woman who understands what I like. What I want." He stepped closer and added, "What I need." His hand came up to touch her hair, and Cassandra moved to the right, sidestepping his grasp. His eyes narrowed in irritation, though he kept the smile on his face as he moved around her. He leaned his left hand against the brick wall behind her, so that his arm blocked her in.
Cassandra kept most of her attention on Roger as she glanced about her, evaluating the site—concrete sidewalk, a narrow alley three paces to her right, yellow light from the streetlight across the road. The street was deserted, the doors of the stores locked, the windows shuttered. His right hand reached for her hair again; his fingers brushed against her breast as they glided through the strands. "You could give me what I need," he suggested, his voice gone husky with desire.
Cassandra stood completely still within the close confines of his arm, his body, and the wall. She could use the Voice and tell him to leave her alone. She'd done it before, many times.
But other women didn't have that option. Other women might be hurt by this man, might have already been hurt. She needed to know. "And what do you need, Roger?" she asked him, soft and slow, using his name and the form of the Voice he would respond to, adding a compelling rhythm under the words. "Tell me. Tell me everything."
The smile disappeared and the patina of charm cracked to reveal angry lust. "I need a woman who does what I tell her to. She did what I told her, after a while, after I convinced her."
Cassandra looked up at him, her eyes wide in pretended fascination. "How did you convince her, Roger?"
"A couple of smacks, a little of what was good for her—all women are whores. They go their knees soon enough, begging."
"How many?" Cassandra asked.
"Twelve," he said proudly. "The third bitch told the coppers, and I did a year in jail, but I learned my lesson. Haven't been caught since." He added with grim satisfaction, "She learned her lesson, too." He touched Cassandra's cheek, and she placed her hand over his, gently.
"The alley?" she suggested, letting her gloved fingers linger against his palm before she stepped away.
"You're already a whore," he said in disgust and excitement. "Like it dirty? Up against a wall?"
Cassandra gave him a smile that promised wicked delights then led the way into the shadows, behind a gray rubbish bin. He followed her, of course, a panting dog tethered by his lust. His hands went for her shoulders, then slid closer to her neck. "Kneel," she ordered, using the Voice of command, and his eyes went blank as his hands fell to his sides and his legs buckled underneath him. Cassandra moved to stand behind him, straddling his calves. Then she reached down, cradled his head in her hands, and snapped his neck.
Death was not instantaneous, of course. It never is. The brain remains full of blood, the lungs full of air, for a moment or two at least, until the broken flesh quivers and shudders and goes still.
Cassandra stepped over the dead body and went on her way. She took a shower to wash the lingering scent of cigarette smoke from her hair, then slept soundly all night long. Late the next morning, she sipped coffee on the sunny porch surrounded by flowers and read the morning post. "Convicted Rapist's Neck Snapped" read a small headline on the bottom of the fourth page.
"No more," she murmured. No more expecting the "system" to take care of men such as that one, no more waiting for other people to help her. No more champions, no more need. "Never again." Cassandra finished her coffee and went to pack her things for the train ride back to Scotland. She had a music class to teach tomorrow, and the girls needed to begin practicing their songs for the spring concert.
Monday morning, 7 April 1997
The MacLeod Farm
The Highlands of Scotland
"How was your trip to Brighton this weekend, Cass?" Alex asked, then grabbed her coffee cup and moved it just in time to escape four-month-old Sara's flailing clutches. Her more-experienced friend, Alex noted, had already set her cup in the middle of the kitchen table, far away from Colin's reach. "They're getting really long arms," Alex commented, bouncing Sara gently on her knee.
"And they'll get longer," Cass responded, doing the same with the baby in her lap. "And then they start to crawl. And then walk. And then run."
"And then drive," Alex added, laughing. "But not for a while. They haven't even started solids yet. We're going to do that next week, I think. It'll sure be nice for them to have another source of food other than me."
"Is the breastfeeding working well for you?" Cass asked. "I can tell Sara and Colin are happy with it."
"Oh, yes," Alex said and kissed the top of her daughter's head. "After those first two weeks, I haven't had any problems. It's just ... it's all I seem to do. At least we have Mrs. MacNabb to do the cooking and cleaning, and of course Connor and John help, too. And Nancy, the girl from the village, is living here now. She moved in last month, and she helps when she's not off at school." Alex sighed. "I don't know how women can do it alone."
"We're not supposed to," Cass answered briskly. "It takes a whole village to raise a child, and to keep a mother from going crazy."
"Or it takes a whole clan," Alex said. "And the MacLeods certainly have one of those." She reached for her coffee and took a welcome sip, holding her elbow up and off to one side to avoid Sara's quick grasp. Alex set the cup down—in the middle of the table—and asked her original question again. She was getting used to being continually interrupted. "How was Brighton?"
"Oh, fine," Cass said, nodding. "It was fine. Methos and I talked. Richie and I had dinner, then we went dancing."
"Dancing? That sounds like fun."
"Yes," Cass agreed, smiling. "It was. Richie's a nice young man."
Alex wanted to know more about the not-so-nice and not-so-young man Cass had talked to. "So, you and Methos ...?" Alex prodded.
Cassandra took a sip of her own coffee, then finally answered, "He said I wasn't 'just a slave' to him, that he actually had ... some feelings for me. I only wanted to kill him once or twice," Cass said lightly, trying to make a joke of it. "Afterward, I went running for a long time and pounded some rocks into sand."
"Good," Alex said approvingly. "Sounds like you're finding ways to express your anger, instead of holding it in all the time."
"Yes," Cass agreed, smiling again, a real smile this time. "I am."
JUDGEMENT DAY
Monday, 7 April 1997
Paris, France
MacLeod wasn't home when Methos called, so he had to leave a message on the answering machine. Actually, Methos had deliberately called in the morning, during MacLeod's usual running-time, so everything was going according to plan. "Hey, MacLeod," Methos started and then stood there, holding the telephone, trying to think of something witty to say. Nothing, nada, zilch. Oh, what the hell. "In the mood for Chinese take-out tonight? I'll bring the food—and the beer."
Methos was home when MacLeod called back two hours later, but Methos didn't pick up the phone. MacLeod's voice hadn't changed at all. "Chinese sounds good, but I'll get it," MacLeod said. "See you at the barge at seven." A smile crept into his words. "Don't forget the beer." A pause came, a rustle of clothing, while Methos stood in the center of the room, waiting, listening to the beating of his heart. "It'll be good to see you again," MacLeod finally said, then hung up the phone.
Methos dithered about for the rest of the day, trying to settle down to read, trying to work on his thesis, trying to watch TV. It was worse than going out on a first date, but at least he didn't have to worry about what to wear. He left his flat too early, then wandered back and forth on the quay until seven-thirteen. He didn't have to knock, of course. The buzz between immortals rang loud and clear. MacLeod was waiting for him on deck, dressed in jeans and a white wool sweater against the chill evening air.
They went into the barge and ate dinner, neither talking beyond inanities about chopsticks and soy sauce and the history of the mandolin and the lute. But Methos knew it was coming, and sure enough, after the last of the moo-shu pork had been eaten, it came.
"She said you broke her hands," MacLeod said, standing with his hands at his sides. No accusation, no anger, just honest uncertainty and confusion.
Methos knew why. MacLeod was asking for the truth, because now—five months after those heart-pounding, mind-numbing days of the Horsemen, after plenty of time to think and reflect—MacLeod wasn't sure who or what to believe anymore. Was Cassandra unstable enough to imagine things? Had Methos put on an act, making himself worse than he appeared, just to push MacLeod away and keep him safe? Had Methos lied? Had she? Who could MacLeod trust?
She said you broke her hands.
Methos turned to look out the porthole at the dark water below, but the window was a mirror now, giving back only a reflection of himself. The curve of the glass stretched his face thin at the edges, emphasized his shadowed eyes and lips pressed tight in pain. Methos wanted to change the past, but he couldn't change a thing. He could only change himself. His hands clenched tightly, with a crack and grind of bone, clenched and unclenched in time to the beating of his heart.
Sometimes Cassandra talked too much.
Either by cunning or by instinct, MacLeod had offered the choice Methos had dreaded most of all. Lie—and convince MacLeod that Cassandra wasn't really quite sane (and she wasn't), and that it hadn't been that bad (and parts of it hadn't), and that Methos had done everything he could to save MacLeod (and Methos had)—and then go back to the easy companionship of a year ago.
Tell the truth, and risk losing it all—or maybe gain much more.
Methos wanted more. "Yes," Methos admitted, as he had said "Yes" to MacLeod once before. "Whatever she tells you I did," Methos said quickly, turning round to face MacLeod, to face what he had done, "whatever she tells you, the answer is 'yes.' If not to her, then to someone else."
MacLeod's eyes were also shadowed, dark with knowledge and pain, and his lips had tightened, too. But he nodded slowly, saying "Yes" once more, accepting it all and dismissing it all, accepting Methos for what he was, even knowing what he had been.
Methos carefully eased out the air he'd been holding tight inside, knowing with joy and relief that he wouldn't have to hide anymore, that the easy companionship might deepen into sharing and trust. Sometimes, honesty really was the best policy. But not often.
MacLeod tossed Methos a beer. "Good to see you again, Methos," MacLeod said, smiling. "I've missed having you around."
Methos opened the beer and lay back on the couch. "It's good to be back." Oh, and it was.
OBSESSION
Wednesday afternoon, 9 April 1997
Fort William, Scotland
"How did the meeting with Methos go, Cassandra?" Jennifer asked at their regular Wednesday appointment, a little after lunch. Jennifer deliberately scheduled these sessions for early afternoon, because she couldn't easily face another patient or her family after listening to Cassandra's tales. After Cassandra left, Jennifer would go for a brisk walk, or if (as was usual) the session had been extremely disturbing, Jennifer would go home and scrub the bathtub and the toilets in a cleaning frenzy which she recognized as both symbolic and real. Then she would have a long bubble bath, a nap, and then a cup of tea, so she was able to be civil to her husband and daughters when they got home. Or at least, she tried.
It looked like Jennifer's bathtub was going to get cleaned again today. Cassandra was all in gray and black, no earrings or even makeup, a bad sign. At least her hair was neatly brushed and clean. Jennifer sighed silently and forced herself to repeat the question, because Cassandra obviously hadn't been listening the first time. "How did the meeting go?"
Cassandra looked up from the spider-plant in surprise. "Oh, fine," she said, nodding, shredding the dead leaves of the much-abused plant with her nails. "Fine. We talked. I broke my fingers; he broke his. He told me he'd cared about me a little; I told him I'd cared about him a lot. I cried; he apologized. We had lunch and talked about beer. Then I went running and beat a rock into sand. It was fine."
Jennifer made a mental note to add pathological denial to Cassandra's list of defense mechanisms, right after lying, excusing, justifying, and ignoring. Cassandra was going to need some prodding to get to the bottom of this.
During the next hour, they talked about fear and hate and rage, about adoration and obedience and love. "At first, I thought I'd handled it, and handled him," Cassandra said. "But these last few days, I've started wondering if he didn't handle me. He's witty, he's charming, he's fun ... and he's a liar, and a murderer, and he hurt me so badly that I truly wanted to die," Cassandra said in bewilderment, reaching for another tissue to wipe away her tears. "While I was eating lunch with him, I was actually starting to like him, to forget, and then I looked at his hands, and I remembered. I said to myself, 'This man murdered your father.'
"Do you know," Cassandra began, switching topics and switching to a false cheerful chattiness, as if she were talking of the weather or of a cookie recipe, "that's the last thing I remember of my mortal life? Kronos stabbed me, and as I was falling, I saw Methos stab my father. We were both lying on the ground, dying, and my father's blood was soaking into the sand, making it dark, like after a rain, but darker. Some of his blood had spurted onto my cheek." The cheerfulness had leached away, gone into a darkness darker than blood. "I was cold all over, except where his blood was warm. It was dripping into my mouth. I can still remember the taste of my father's blood, even though I can't remember his face anymore. He was speaking, but I couldn't hear the words. I couldn't hear anything." Cassandra stared off into nothing, lost in her memory again. "I've always wondered what my father wanted to tell me."
Jennifer waited for Cassandra to wipe away the new tears, then waited a few moments more before she asked, "What else did you remember about Methos in the restaurant, Cassandra?"
Cassandra started shredding the tissue. "Oh, just that he raped and tortured and enslaved me. That he killed everyone I loved, and thousands of others, besides." The tissue was a small pile of white fluff on the arm of the chair before Cassandra spoke again. "Being with him was like ... going down a slide, and going faster and faster and enjoying it, and then—Wham!—smashing into a steel pole right at the bottom, breaking your bones and crushing your heart."
Jennifer winced at the image, knowing that for Cassandra, the words had sometimes literally been true. But the emotions were common enough. Many abusers could be very charming, when they wanted to be, and a lot of women fell for that charm again and again and again, certain—or hoping—that this time, the man really had changed. Usually, the man hadn't, and the woman ended up broken or crushed again.
Maybe Methos was one of the few who had changed; after all, it had been over three thousand years (Three thousand years! Jennifer thought again in disbelief and amazement, as she had thought many times these last few months), but Cassandra's reluctance to trust was healthier—and safer—than the blind faith some women showed, the blind faith Jennifer herself had shown, nearly thirty years ago. "Last week, we talked about the emotions that might be stirred up when you saw him," Jennifer reminded her. "This was a big step for you, Cassandra. It took a lot of courage to confront him."
Cassandra huddled into the chair, her arms wrapped around her knees, ignoring—or just not responding to—that affirmation. "I don't think I should see him again," Cassandra said, shaking her head. "I don't hate him, not anymore; he's not worth my time. But I don't ever want to like him."
"Why not?"
"Because, if I start to like him, it means I've forgiven him. And if I forgive him, it means I've forgotten what he did to my family. It means I've betrayed them and abandoned them all over again."
Here we go, thought Jennifer, survivor's guilt time. Immortals had to have a lot of that. "Cassandra, it's not your fault that you gave in to Methos back then, that you pushed what he had done out of your mind. It's a survival mechanism. In that kind of situation, everyone does it."
Cassandra shot to her feet and started pacing, kicking at the bottom of the chair. "He came after my tribe because of me. They all died because of me. And yes, I know they'd all be long dead now no matter what, and yes, I know the Horsemen would have killed my people eventually anyway, but—"
"Is that really what you don't want to forgive him for?" Jennifer broke in. "Your family?" Cassandra stood there, her mouth open, thinking, and Jennifer asked, "What are you really angry about, Cassandra? Methos handing you over to Kronos?"
"No," Cassandra denied, but it was a rational response this time. "I know why he did that. That decision saved my life. And I've had to make that kind of choice myself, sometimes." She sank down to sit on the arm of the chair and stared at the floor. "And they weren't immortal." She lifted her head, her eyes bright with tears. "Have you read Sophie's Choice?"
"Yes," Jennifer said, remembering the book she'd read over ten years ago, about a woman in a World War II concentration camp. "Choose," a Nazi guard had ordered. "Choose one child to live, or they both die." And Sophie had sacrificed her daughter so that her son might live. Sophie had been able to do nothing, only stand by and listen to her daughter's terrified screams of "Mother!" as the Nazi had dragged the girl away.
Jennifer had cried when she had read that part, then gone into her children's bedroom to look on her own two young daughters, Dorcas and Miriam, asleep at home in a peaceful land. Jennifer couldn't imagine making that choice. Cassandra didn't have to imagine. She knew.
"A hard world makes for hard choices," Cassandra said briefly. "I haven't cared for a child in over a thousand years." She stood up again, arms crossed across her body, as usual, a defiant, angry stance. "The Horsemen weren't that special, or that unusual. They still aren't. Slaughtering, burning, raping, stealing—it happens all the time. What Methos did to my tribe wasn't personal; it was just part of his job description. But what he did to me later ..." She shook her head slowly, as if it hurt to move, and the anger disappeared, revealing bewilderment and pain. "He didn't have to make me think he cared. He didn't have to lie to me that way. He didn't—"
"He didn't have to make you love him," Jennifer supplied gently.
"No," Cassandra agreed, crying now, tears running silently down her cheeks. "But he did. So, I can never forgive him, because if I forgive him, I'm afraid I might start to love him again." She bit down on her lower lip, cutting deep, then licked her blood away before she whispered, "And I'm even more afraid that I still love him, even now."
Continued in "The Messenger"