Immortality's Gift (The Alternate Version)
Part 20: Contemplation

Within a cottage in a glen in Scotland, a woman prepared to go about her self-made tasks for the day. She was tall and slender, with a natural grace that very few could consciously duplicate. Her long dark brown hair was held back at the nape of her neck with a Celtic styled hairpin that she had gotten from a local jeweler. A simple sturdy burgundy dress that had seen much use and care clothed her body, and showed that she was very much a woman. As she placed a green knitted shawl upon her shoulders, the woman glanced about her home with gray eyes that were haunted with the long years of her Immortal life.

The cabin she stood in was a simple affair; a single room home, with a small table and chair against one wall, a cot for her bed beside another, and a fireplace that she used to cook. Herbs hung on the ceiling beams, and a handmade knotted rug covered a good portion of the floor. On shelves about the house, small bottles filled with crushed and cut herbs could be seen, as well as cooking utensils and a small set of dinnerware. A single window let in light beside the door leading outside, and on the other side of the window an armoire stood. Very few modern appliances were in the home. Those that were there were run by solar pane energy, and were placed in such a way as to be barely noticeable.

Seeing she had everything in order, the woman took up her herb-gathering basket, and stepped outside into the cool morning of that day. Her breath fogged before her like smoke as she walked across the mist covered ground towards the woods that surrounded her home and sanctuary. This was a land that she had lived in before, and loved. Spotting one of the herbs that she knew were ready to be harvested at the edge of the forest, the woman knelt down. As she carefully collected the herb, the woman thought of the first time she had come to this land.

A vision had brought her to Scotland, and desperation to escape and hide had driven her into these woods. It had been during the height of the witch-hunts, and this land had been caught in its fervor. But, unlike the English, the Celts that knew of the old ways and respected magic sought to protect those they could. She had been one of the lucky ones. Given this land forever in exchange for the use of her healing abilities and foresight whenever she was here, she had made this her refuge from the world, blessed and protected by the power of the old gods...gods she had known in her youth, before she became Immortal.

As she rose to her feet and continued on about her task, she thought of the reason she had come to this land: her Solstice Child, Duncan MacLeod. She smiled sadly, fondly. He never learned how much she had influenced his early years, and if she had her way, he never would. It was she whom had given the foundling to they he called mother and father, and she who sent Connor MacLeod to him to teach him the ways of an Immortal.

She had met the younger Highlander only once face-to-face before he had become Immortal, and it was not until almost four hundred years later that she saw him again, an Immortal man of honorable character. She had been keeping close watch on him through his mentor, and was well pleased with his progress in life. It was one of the reasons that when she heard that one of her students was going after him that she came, that and the vision she had had so long ago.

She wished she had been able to get to him sooner, for he had been unprepared to face his opponent, and only through her intervention had he not fallen. Once they had gotten away, she had done her best to prepare him, and he had won in the end. Her relief at his victory had been great, and she had been reluctant to part from him, but she had sensed that she needed to go, and left. Five months later, she found herself returning, but not to see her Highlander.

She had come for vengeance. An Immortal that had brought about her own immortality had come to her attention, and she knew that she could finally face him. Matters were not helped when she had gone to her Highlander to make him aware of her presence in the area and what was going on, and spotted a face she had never wanted to see again. Methos, one of the Four Horsemen, he who was her first lover and her betrayer. Her fury had been instant and absolute, only the presence of the Highlander had kept her from taking Death's head right there and then.

The week that followed was one of complete chaos, tumultuous emotions abounding within her, as the Horsemen were again reunited and she found herself once more their prisoner. The only thing that kept her sane throughout the experience was the thought that her Highlander would no doubt do all in his power to stop this group of evil Immortals from unleashing Hell on mortal-kind.

She had been right, as the Highlander had taken down two of the Horsemen in quick succession. What she had not expected was for Methos to destroy the third at the same exact moment as the Highlander killed the second. She had watched with growing horror as the two Quickenings had twisted and twined about the victorious Immortals, and linked them. Panic and fury had taken her, and she vowed within her heart that this monster would not sully her Highlander with his Quickening.

Grabbing the nearest weapon at hand, she had stood over her nemesis, and prepared to take his head. A voice had stopped her, not the voice of the Highlander, but another entirely. It had been a voice that only a god could have, and she froze in mid-motion. She had then fled as the voice had continued to speak. She still remembered every word spoken to her by that unknown god, and once again found them replaying in her mind.

"NO! He must live. His fate is not yet fulfilled, Daughter of Time."

Once the words had finished, images had assaulted her, causing her to collapse to her hands and knees from the force and power of the vision. She had been unable to fully comprehend what it was she had seen, and to this day, still found them bewildering. What she had gotten out of the vision was that Methos was needed to aid the forces of Light in their battle against Evil. This knowledge had shaken her to the core, and she had had to force herself to face a very hard truth: Methos was not who he had been three thousand years ago when she had first encountered him.

With this knowledge twisting her gut, she had sensed the approach of the two other Immortals in the building, and ran, unwilling to face either one yet. She had taken refuge in the woods that she still called her own soon after, and had been here for the past five years trying to come to terms with all that had happened. She had realized over that time that three thousand years of suppressed grief, humiliation, and rage had made her irrational through the entire Horsemen incident. She had also come to understand that what she understood as truth was not necessarily true. It had taken a great amount of effort on her part, but she had been able to look only at the facts without her emotions getting in the way concerning the Horsemen, and been able to put the events concerning them behind her.

This did not mean that she was completely free emotionally from what had happened to her, but she could now sleep without the nightmares of those events, both past and near present, from overwhelming her. She did not believe she could ever stand being in Methos' presence for long, but knew that she would not attack him on sight any more, and that was what mattered. She had remembered once more that she was a healer, one meant to aid and not cause harm, and attempted to live the life of a healer, not a warrior.

Sighing heavily, the Immortal witch and seer Cassandra looked down at her full basket, then to the ground to see the length of the shadows, and deemed it was time to head home and prepare supper. The journey was short, and she knew the way well, having done this many times before. Yet, despite this, slowed and stopped at the edge of the forest, and gazed uneasily into the clearing about her home.

It was quiet, too quiet. It was a silence that spoke of great danger, and she had learned long ago to listen to nature's warnings above her own. Carefully, she scanned the clearing, spotted something that had not been there before, and frowned. Glancing around quickly, to see if anything else was out of place, she cautiously stepped into the clearing, wishing she had brought her sword with her. Slowly she moved towards the object she had noticed, details becoming clearer as she drew nearer.

It was a long rectangular box-like thing, the color of sand, and was tall enough to be level with her hip, while the length was a good ten feet and the width four feet. It reminded her a bit of an Egyptian coffin, and a she reached the foot of the thing, she knew it had to be a sarcophagus. There was no doubt in her mind about that, but it was not like any she had ever seen before.

Where an Egyptian sarcophagus was exquisitely carved and plaited with gold and precious gems, this one was plain, with barely any adornments on it. Five fist-sized colored crystals were arched at the top around a circular iris; from left to right the colors were purple, green, yellow, red, and blue. There was writing on them, but from where she stood, she could not see what they said.

Turning her attention to the body of the sarcophagus, Cassandra noticed the markings on it near the middle, and felt a chill run down her spine. The writings were not in any human language, but demonic in origin. She had seen them only one other time in her life: when she was Methos' slave. He had written in that language when he didn't want anyone to know what he was writing, and had taught her to read and write in it as well. She had only ever asked him once where he had learned this dialect, and had been stunned by his answer: he didn't know. It was then that she learned that any part of his life before his first Quickening was lost to him...at least he thought it was his first Quickening. He had no knowledge about his life before that moment, not even to how old he truly was!

Shaking such thoughts from her head, the Immortal leaned over the sarcophagus and studied the writings. It took her a few minutes to decipher the words inscribed, as it had been over three millennia since she had last seen this script, but she was able to do it.

The Essence of Illyria
God-King of the Primordium

Cassandra's brow drew down in unease. Something about those words pulled at her, and not in a good way. She walked around the sarcophagus to see if there was anything else, and found nothing, not even a way to open it. Seeing this, the Immortal looked carefully at the crystals at the top around the iris. Each one was inscribed with a different rune, and from left to right they read: Awareness, Threshold, Time, Protection, and Shifting.

Biting her lip as she exhaled through her nostrils forcefully, Cassandra slowly reached out and touched the first crystal on the left. Before she had time to react, or even pull back, the iris suddenly opened and let out a gust of air filled with dust particles fully into her face. Gasping sharply in shock as she staggered back from the sarcophagus, the Immortal immediately began coughing. A shudder coursed over her form as she felt something move through her body. Collapsing to the ground several feet away from the casket, she stared wildly at it, fearful of whatever else might happen.

When nothing else transpired after several minutes, and her heart stopped pounding wildly, she slowly rose to her feet. Carefully circling around the object before her, she looked to see if anything else had changed when the iris opened, and found nothing. In a way, she was not surprised. She had a feeling that whatever this thing did, it had already done its work...and that frightened her more than anything else had in her life. She would have to make sure to stay close to home over the next couple of days, in case anything further happened with the sarcophagus...or herself.

Stopping beside her herb-gathering basket where she had dropped it when the iris opened, she knelt and gathered up what had fallen out, and stood again. Looking about her one last time, she went into her home.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

It was a clear night, and the nearly full moon shone brightly down upon the world. A few beams of that light found its way into Cassandra's home, to rest on the rug and dimly illuminate the vibrant colors. Nearby, the Immortal lay tossing and turning in bed, occasional moans escaping her. From the disarray of the bed, she had been doing this for a while. After a particularly agonized moan, she lay still for a moment, then sat bolt upright with a gasp. A second later, she lurched to the side, and threw up.

It was several minutes before she stopped heaving, and she clung to the side of the bed, staring in horror at the foul mess before her once she could stop and see straight. It was blood. She had vomited her blood onto the floor of her home. It was a thing that should have been impossible, but it had happened.

"Oh, gods," she moaned before crawling out of bed.

She staggered over to the table, where her full water pail was, while clutching her stomach. Once there, she lifted up her small cauldron from beneath the table and filled it with half of the water from the bucket, before throwing some herbs into it. Her steps unsteady, the Immortal walked over to the hearth, and placed the cauldron on a hook over the banked fire. With a hand on the wall before her to steady herself, Cassandra reached down to the woodpile and then tossed a log onto the barely visible flames. The fire almost immediately roared to life, and began heating the water in the pot above.

She returned to the table, and fetched the bucket, before going to her bed. Falling more than lowering herself, the Immortal knelt, and cleaned up the vomited blood from the floor. She kept her teeth tightly clenched and her lips firmly pressed together as she swallowed repeatedly to avoid gagging. Once done, she rose to her feet, using her bed as a support, and walked back to the table. Reaching up, she took down a cup, and went over to the fireplace. Setting the cup down on the woodpile, she knelt and lifted the extremely hot cauldron from its hook.

As she was beginning to lower the pot, Cassandra suddenly lurched forward, a silent scream of agony ripping from her, her pain too great to voice. Water sloshed out of the cauldron and onto her, blisters immediately forming on her bare arms, as well as her legs beneath her nightgown. Convulsively, her hands let go of the cauldron as her back arched. Another silent scream escaped from her as she fell onto her side...directly on the boiling water now pooled around her. Her body spasmed uncontrollably as it was scalded and healed itself repeatedly. As she stiffened in acute agony, she at last screamed aloud her torment, before she convulsed again.


Author's Note: For those that are Highlander: The Series fans, sorry if I went over material you're already aware of. I needed to truly get in depth into this character to explain what happens further along in this story.

Up Next: Faith gets a few surprises, and learns that things aren't always what they seem.