Hope Remembered III: CONFIDANTE
Chapter 7
16 December 1996
"!Carajo!" Elena exclaimed, taking the blow on her right thigh. She gripped her weapon more tightly and circled warily, her opponent moving with her. Elena focused all her concentration on Cassandra. They were both sweaty, both determined to win.
"Got you that time," Cassandra said, grinning, an exultant smile on her face.
"Yes," Elena admitted, not too grudgingly. Of course, if they'd been fighting with real blades, instead of bamboo bokken, her thigh muscle would be laid open now, and she'd be limping, or maybe on the ground. Cassandra had gotten inside her guard. That time. But Elena had gotten in at least four or five hits to each one of Cassandra's. "Your point," Elena conceded, "this time." A few passes, then Elena feinted to the left.
Cassandra had to move her sword across the front of her own body to block Elena's blow—sometimes it was a joy to be a left-handed fencer! Then Elena pressed against her opponent's right shoulder, pushing Cassandra, out of balance now, back across the slick wooden floor. But when Elena thrust at what should have been Cassandra's exposed back, the other woman had already twirled, using her own momentum to swing her bokken around barely in time, but solidly deflecting what would have been a killing blow.
"!Muy bien!" Elena congratulated her. "You're getting faster." She stepped back and pulled her bokken straight up and down by her side to the end position. The two women had spent the last five days at the cabin. On the way back to the estancia this afternoon, Cassandra had suggested they spar before dinner, but with bokken, not real swords. They had been at it for almost an hour, and Elena knew they were both ready to stop. She bowed formally, and Cassandra did the same.
As they were toweling off, she told Cassandra, "I never liked that spinning stuff myself, because it exposes your back to your opponent, makes you take your eyes off him. But if you're fast enough, it works really well, and gives you extra hitting power." She studied the older Immortal for a moment and said, "But I have a feeling you know a tiny little bit about fencing; don't you?" she said, smiling to make sure Cassandra knew she was joking. It was obvious to her that Cassandra was an experienced swordswoman, although woefully out of practice.
"A little bit, yes," Cassandra said, as she blew a strand of hair off her forehead. "The old moves come back easily enough, but I have a hard time learning the new ones." She shook her head as she put the weapon away on the rack. "And there are a lot of new ones to learn."
"Yes," Elena agreed. "We have to keep up with the times. I've always found that hard to do. The old ways are not always the best ways, not even in fencing. That's why I practice every day. You should, too." Cassandra didn't respond to that, and Elena knew why. She put away her bokken, then made her decision.
"Cassandra, come with me for a minute?" The two women crossed the long ballroom-dojo, and Elena took down a rapier from the wall where the weapons were hung. "Cassandra," she said, standing in front of the other woman, offering her the blade flat on her palms, "this is for you."
Cassandra made no move to take it. "Elena—"
"I want you to have it," Elena broke in. "You need a sword to protect yourself, and I think I can spare one." With a jerk of her head, she motioned to the ten or so weapons displayed on the wall— among them a Roman legionnaire's short sword, a Moorish scimitar, a cutlass, and a massive double-handed long-sword over five feet long, as well as a spear and a double-bladed ax. They represented some of Don Alvaro's kills. And some of hers.
Cassandra hesitated, then smiled and nodded. She bowed slightly, then took the weapon from Elena's hands. "Thank you." She pulled it out of the scabbard and examined it, holding it up to the light. "It's been well-cared for."
"A dull blade is useless," Elena said. "This is one of the early Spanish rapiers, sixteenth century, I think. It's double-edged so you can use it for cutting in addition to just thrusting. Its original owner made the mistake of underestimating my father."
Cassandra took a few practice lunges, getting the feel of it, testing the balance. "It's lighter than the broadswords I've been using lately," she commented, then resheathed it. "Thank you, Elena, for this gift," she said, actually reaching out to touch her on the arm. "I needed one. It's a good blade, and a good choice for me."
"I thought so," Elena said, pleased and a little flattered. "And as the captain of the musketeers said to d'Artagnan in the movie, it will 'keep your enemies a foot or two further distant.'"
Cassandra grinned. "Yes, it will. And now I have something for you." She headed for the door, taking the sword with her, and called over shoulder, "I'll be right back."
Elena was left to wait, and to wonder. Cassandra had not left the estancia to do any shopping, and during their time at the cabin, Cassandra had spent most of her time painting pictures she meant to give to someone else. Elena had played the piano, listened to music, meditated. But they had also spent a lot of time together—exercising, working on the basics of aikido, watching old movies, watching sunrises and sunsets and the animals of the pampa, and not- drinking.
The not-drinking had taken a lot of energy. Drying out and sweating out the D.T.'s were—Elena knew from long experience—the worst part of drinking. She and Cassandra had slept in late at times and stayed up late at other times, encouraging each other, trying not to let the by-now-occasional nightmare get to them, not too much, as they slept side by side in the double bed. They had, Elena hoped, learned to trust each other again.
Cassandra soon came back with a neatly wrapped rectangle, about the size of a large book.
Elena quickly tore the paper open and stared at the framed charcoal drawing of El Negro running in all his glory, wild and free.
"I saw him running almost every time I drove out to the cabin," Cassandra said. "I thought you would like to see him every day, too."
"Yes, I would," Elena said, touched. The only art in her bedroom was a sketch that Pablo Picasso had given her, and a watercolor of the estancia at sunrise that Maria had painted the year she had died. Elena would put this drawing next to those. "I'll put this on my bedroom wall, Cassandra, where I can see it every morning. It will ... inspire me. Gracias, chica."
"No hay de que."
The two women smiled at each other. Then abruptly, impulsively, Elena put her arms around the older Immortal. For a moment she felt Cassandra stiffen, then slowly relax. Elena held Cassandra in a soft embrace and squeezed one more time, slightly, then looked at the other woman. "Let's go get cleaned up," Elena suggested, then led the way to the sauna.
"So, you did a lot of painting at the cabin. Are you finished?" Elena asked after dinner, as she set the small tray on one of the tables on the patio outside the dining room. Several bottles of soft drinks: materva, maltina, Coca-cola and sparkling water— absolutely nothing alcoholic—stood on the tray, as well as a few pastelitos Carmela had baked for dessert, still trying to fatten Elena up. Elena smiled and selected a bottle of materva, then sat down across from Cassandra.
Cassandra had been watching the fading clouds of the sunset. She turned to Elena and answered, "Yes, I'll wrap the paintings tomorrow, before I leave for the airport."
"Looking forward to spending Christmas with your friends?" Elena asked, still a little surprised—though pleased—that Cassandra had such good friends as that.
"Yes," Cassandra said, reaching for a pastelito. "These last three weeks have been good for us, Elena, but somehow I feel as though I've been here a lot longer."
"We went through a lot," Elena pointed out, then leaned back in her chair, enjoying the lingering warmth of the day. The light was fading fast. Soon the waxing moon would rise, silvering the tops of the cornstalks, and the stars would come out.
Elena drank slowly, letting the dark, slightly bitter foamy brew slide down her throat. She had plans for Christmas, too, although not as pleasant. First, she wanted to spend a few days in Argentina, alone, without another Immortal, just to prove she could. The house was already decorated, filled at all hours with bright-eyed, expectant children and adults who couldn't seem to stop smiling. It was downright contagious, and cheering.
But she had to fly back to get Claude Bethel buried once and for all, and she wanted to get it over with. She'd miss the holiday celebration here, when everyone would come to the Nochebuena feast on the twenty-fourth and the Misa del gallo, the Midnight Mass, in the chapel afterward. But it couldn't be helped. She wasn't going to celebrate this holiday or allow herself to relax until she had resolved her problem with the Immortals, the dead Bethel and the two live MacLeods. And where she'd been afraid before, now she found she was ready, she was finally strong enough, and she wanted to go. No, she needed to go.
Cassandra picked up the embroidery she'd been working on for the last two weeks.
"I thought you hated embroidery," Elena said, remembering that long, boring ocean crossing aboard the Constanze.
"I did," Cassandra said, making small, even stitches. "I hated a lot of things."
All right, Elena thought, let's go there. "Like Methos. And you still hate him, don't you? But you didn't take his head when he was on his knees, helpless in front of you." She'd wondered about this, and decided to ask now. "Why not?"
Cassandra jerked a knot tight in the thread and said nothing.
By now Elena was used to Cassandra's silences. She leaned back and considered her own question. The answer wasn't because of cowardice. Elena put herself in Cassandra's place—hell, she had been in that same place—and realized that the ancient Immortal had finally, after three millennia, gone almost single-handedly to destroy her worst nightmares. All four of them. Maybe hunting the Horsemen had been the act of an insane woman, or a desperate one, or even a suicidal one. But it had not been the act of a coward.
Or maybe Cassandra just didn't want Methos' five-thousand-year-old Quickening. Elena could still clearly remember Robert Trent's Quickening, how it had overpowered her, overwhelmed her, almost like the Voice from the inside, a Dark Quickening. Maybe Cassandra was afraid that might happen to her. Or maybe Cassandra had just decided to be merciful. "Did you forgive him?" Elena asked, a little surprised.
"I wanted him dead," Cassandra replied, then snipped off the thread with her teeth. "And if someone took his head tomorrow, I wouldn't mind at all."
"I would feel the same way, in your place," Elena said, finishing the last of her drink and putting the bottle down on the table. She leaned forward again. "So why didn't you kill him?" she persisted. "Did you stop because Duncan told you not to?"
"Duncan's wishes had nothing to do with it," Cassandra snapped. "He had interfered between me and Methos before, and I wasn't about to let Duncan tell me what to do." She set her sewing on the table. "But he did slow me down," she acknowledged, "and I needed to take the time to think." She tried to thread the needle, then gave up and shoved the sewing away from her. "I hadn't been thinking much at all that last week—that last month—and I hadn't been sleeping very well, either."
"Las pesadillas. Those nightmares. Been there." The two women shared grim smiles of understanding. "But at least ... you're not dreaming as much any more, are you?" Elena asked. "I know I'm having fewer dreams myself."
"No," Cassandra said. "Not any more. The talking has helped." This time the smiles they shared were ones of success. "But back then, and with what they did to me those last two days..." Cassandra shrugged and admitted, "I was—truly—too angry to think straight. When Duncan stopped me and I did start to think, I realized that both Roland and Kronos were finally dead. I could have a new life. And I decided I was not going to start my new life by killing someone who was helpless in front of me. I was not going to be the same kind of murdering butchers they were." She picked up her sewing again, threaded the needle and started to embroider the petal of a flower. "I didn't do it for Duncan, and I didn't do it for Methos. I did it for me."
Elena nodded, accepting it. "I'm glad for you. And for him, too." Elena noticed they didn't have to spell out who "him" was.
Cassandra leaned back in her chair and considered Elena. "You like him, too, don't you?" she asked, then added in an undertone, "He's good at being charming, I'll give him that."
"Yes, I do like him, although I don't trust him completely," Elena replied.
Cassandra shook her head again, and snorted in pitying scorn. "Trust."
"Duncan trusts him."
Cassandra snorted again, an elegant sniff of disdain.
"And he is charming," Elena said, remembering the man she called viejo. "Plus, I was always taught to respect my elders," she added, grinning a little. Then she got serious again. "But beyond that: Methos saved Duncan. More than once. And for that one good deed, alone..." She stood and paced, interlacing her fingers, then releasing them again, framing her words, trying to explain to Cassandra how she felt about these two men.
Finally, she stood in front of Cassandra and said, "When Duncan and I first met, it eventually became all about saving Methos' life, the life of the oldest Immortal, because he is the oldest of us, and also because Duncan cared about him. And still does. And I love Duncan, Cassandra. Being with him ... he makes me feel special. He makes me want to be better than I am, somehow. He does the same for Methos. Simple and selfish, I know, on both our parts."
Cassandra gave Elena an ironic look, but she didn't say anything.
"What?" Elena asked. Cassandra shook her head, still silent, so Elena continued, wanting to have her say about Methos. "As for Methos—he might not have betrayed Kronos and killed Silas by his own hand if Duncan hadn't shown up. He might not have been able to. Duncan not only helped to save you, he helped to save Methos, too."
"To save Methos from what?" Cassandra asked, showing only simple curiosity now, no irony or sarcasm or disdain. "Himself?"
"Yes," Elena said firmly. "From Death. From what he used to be. Can you imagine how hard it must have been for him to go against men who had been his brothers for a thousand years? Or was it two thousand?"
"One thousand," Cassandra said, brittle and sharp. "And that was quite enough."
"One thousand, then," Elena agreed quickly, not wanting to get into that again. "But Methos did it; he went against his brothers. If he hadn't, Duncan would be dead, you would be dead, and the Horsemen would ride again. Think about that horror story. No," she said, shaking her head and sitting down across from Cassandra again, leaning forward earnestly. "Methos isn't Death anymore, Cassandra, and you obviously believe that, or you would have taken his head when you had the chance. You wouldn't have stopped if it had been Kronos on his knees, would you?"
Cassandra made a few more stitches, a steady even rhythm to the needle. This time Elena waited. Finally, Cassandra set the sewing down on her lap and looked at Elena. "Methos gave me a chance to live when he killed Silas, and I decided to give him a chance to live. I've wondered sometimes if I made the right decision, but ... knowing that both you and Duncan respect him..." She said slowly, "That helps. Some."
"Methos has changed," Elena reassured her. "Look—Kronos didn't change, Silas was too stupid to change, Caspian was too insane. And Roland ... well. But Methos changed. There is a difference between him and the others, and you saw it with your own eyes."
"I pray you're right, Elena," Cassandra replied, leaning forward seriously, "and so should you."
Elena chuckled dryly. "I pray every day, for a lot of things," she admitted. Sometimes Elena thought she burdened God too much with her prayers.
"I know you didn't like listening to what I had to say about him," Cassandra said, "and I know that at times you didn't believe me."
"No, you're wrong," Elena corrected. "I believe what he did then, three millennia ago. I just don't believe that Methos today would enjoy ... torturing someone. Like Be—" She paused, annoyed with herself. Even after nearly a month of talking about him, she still couldn't say that name aloud. Bethel. Bethel. Oh, fuck it. "Like he did," Elena said, "like he enjoyed it."
"I'm not so sure Methos did it purely for torture," Cassandra mused. "It was taming. I think, on some levels, he did enjoy it—enjoyed the power and control—but inflicting pain to break in a new slave is simply ... how it's done. Most slave-owners did that. After enough pain, you break. You'll do anything your master tells you to."
Elena knew that. She nodded.
"Once I stopped defying him," Cassandra continued, "once I started trying to please him, he didn't hurt me anymore. The other Horsemen would have—the way Bethel and Roland kept hurting us—but Methos is too efficient to be a true sadist." She shrugged. "It wasn't anything personal for him, Elena. It was just another village to raid, just another person to kill, just another slave to break—like getting up and going to work in the morning."
"He is a cold bastard, no question," Elena said. A man who had lived for so long by killing others could not be the charming innocent he pretended to be. Cassandra had confirmed it, and Elena would have to be more careful of him, that's all.
"I know," Cassandra agreed. "And I'm the one who gave him a chance to live." Her eyes were no longer empty, as they had been when she first arrived. They were determined and unstoppable. "One chance," she emphasized. "If he ever becomes Death again, I will find a way to stop him. One way or another, he will lose his head."
Elena closed her fist. "If Methos ever becomes Death again, you call me," she said in an icy, deadly tone. "I'll help you hunt him down, no mercy. And so would Duncan."
"He'd better," Cassandra muttered.
"As for Methos losing his head..." Elena shrugged. "One way or another, chica, we will all lose our heads. All but one."
Cassandra said nothing, but knotted the thread again and bit it off.
Carmela brought a bowl of fruit, and Elena chided her, asking her to go to bed. The two Immortals kept talking, about this and that, about men and horses, about sex and gardening, about all kinds of things. They talked all night long.
As the sky was beginning to lighten in the east, Elena went into the kitchen to get a tray of fresh cafe con leche. When she came back to the patio, Carmela and Juanito were there. "What's going on?" Elena asked, putting the tray down on the table.
Carmela turned to her mistress. "We were just wishing Senorita Cassandra a good trip, Mariaelena. And telling her that we enjoyed having her."
"And thanking her," Juanito added, significantly.
So, even Juanito had unbent enough to accept Cassandra. Elena smiled at them and nodded.
Cassandra said, "You have truly made me feel welcome." Then she added, "And I now understand why your tribe was the only one in South America the Spanish conquistadores were never able to conquer."
Juanito laughed—startling Elena, who didn't hear that very often— and Carmela's eyes gleamed. "I see you have your coffee then," the housekeeper said. "I'll bring you something to eat as well."
"No, don't do that, abuela. I'll get it, if we get hungry later," Elena said. "And I hope you haven't been up all night."
"Oh, no! We mere mortals need our sleep. Especially us old ones."
As soon as Carmela left, Raul and the brown dog appeared. This time, even the smaller dog let Cassandra pet his head.
Elena grinned and said, "I knew you'd win him over, too. You've won everyone over. All my people—even the animals—think you're wonderful."
A ghost of a sad smile flitted across Cassandra's face. "They don't know me. Not really."
"I know you. Somewhat."
"And do you think I'm wonderful?" Cassandra asked acerbically.
"No," Elena said, shaking her head and grinning. "I think you're messed up. But I like you anyway."
"I feel the same way about you," Cassandra answered, still with a hint of sharpness.
"Something else we have in common," Elena said, amused. "Hey," she continued, suddenly remembering, "I meant to ask you. Your fencing style reminds me of Don Alvaro, a little. Did you ever spar with him?"
"No, but Ramirez was Alvaro's teacher, and Ramirez and I were sparring partners for about a century, all told. Everyone learns from each other."
Elena nodded—of course Cassandra and Ramirez had been fencing partners at one time, therefore...
"Connor recognized some of my moves, too," Cassandra added as she reached for her cup.
Elena sat up in her chair abruptly, wondering what else Cassandra hadn't told her. Elena herself had never sparred with Connor. She hadn't quite dared, and all things considered, that was probably a good thing. Sometimes she felt like she and Connor were oil and water and would never—could never—be friends. "You've sparred with Connor?" Elena asked.
"Oh, yes. Before I went after Kronos, he was helping me. And..."
"What?" Elena asked, leaning forward, knowing this was a good story.
Cass hesitated, then grinned. "I was his teacher for a time, you know."
"You were!" His teacher and his lover, both! !Que barbaridad!
"Mmm. A few years after Heather died, he came to my cottage in Donan Wood. Ramirez had been dead for fifty years, and Connor hadn't had much chance to practice since then. And I knew some tricks he hadn't seen."
"I just bet you did," Elena said. "And not only with a sword, eh?"
Cassandra merely smiled at that. "Do you want to hear about Connor's training, or not?"
Elena smirked. "I'd rather hear about ... no, yes, I would. Please go on," she said, respectfully this time.
"The first day of training, I told him to do this." Cassandra stood, pretended she had a sword in her hand, and showed Elena a basic overhand stroke.
Elena said, "The Japanese call that 'bringing down the mountain.' It's not as easy at it looks."
"No, it isn't," Cassandra agreed. "But Connor was insulted. I believe his words were: 'I don't need a woman to teach me such an easy stroke.'"
"Oh, of course! Typical male!" Elena exclaimed, amused and outraged both.
"I asked him if he wanted to learn more advanced techniques, and he said, 'I'm ready for them, and I'm ready for you.'"
Elena grinned. She was looking forward to this. "But he wasn't."
Cassandra grinned back. "No. I knocked him on his backside three times in a row." She sat back down and picked up her coffee. "But, of course, that was four hundred years ago. He's gotten much better. He knocked me down all the time when we were sparring this last year." She shrugged. "I think he rather enjoyed the chance to even the score."
Elena shook her head. This reinforced her view of Connor MacLeod—smug, condescending, arrogant. "He didn't take it easy on you, eh?" Nor would he take it easy on Elena herself, would he? Still, she had to talk to the man. She sighed.
Cassandra snorted, and this time it was not at all elegant or refined.
Elena said it out loud for her. "He's such an arrogant bastard."
Cassandra set down her cup and chimed in. "An arrogant, stubborn bastard."
"Right." Elena sat up straighter. "An arrogant, stubborn, fucking bastard."
"Absolutely," Cassandra said, then stood to make a toast with her coffee. "To Connor MacLeod of the clan MacLeod, the arrogant, stubborn, fucking bastard!"
"To Connor!" Elena replied, standing to join Cassandra. They clinked cups and drank, laughing.
"But, you know," Cassandra started as she sat down again, "he's not really that bad."
"No," Elena admitted. "No, he's not." Connor had been chased out of his own home by Bethel and his gunmen. Connor had held her while she screamed in the night. Connor had protected her, soothed her. And he had never shown, by word or deed, that he thought less of her because of what happened to her in New York. "He saved my life." More than once. "And I cried on his shoulder."
"So have I. And he saved my life, too, in a way. If it hadn't been for him..." Cassandra added more sugar to her coffee, then stirred slowly. "Duncan saved my head, but Connor ... Connor saved my soul." She stood and lifted her cup in another toast, a heartfelt one this time. "To Connor!"
"To Connor." Elena stood and drank with her. When she saw Connor again, she'd tell him that she was sorry. And grateful.
Cassandra lifted her cup again. "And to Duncan!"
"To Duncan!" Elena agreed enthusiastically. "He's a stubborn, arrogant, fucking bastard, too, but he's magnificent."
"Magnificent!" Cassandra chimed in.
"Fucking magnificent!" Elena proclaimed, and took a large swallow of the hot cafe con leche. It burned its way down into her stomach; much better—and safer—than the alcohol, she thought.
Cassandra echoed, "Fucking magnificent!" and did the same.
Elena sat and slammed her cup down on the table decisively. "And a magnificent fucker, too."
Cassandra laughed and choked on her coffee as she took her seat, then added, "And Connor is, too."
Elena had often wondered about that. "He is?" she asked, leaning forward, hoping Cassandra would say more.
But Cassandra murmured only, "Mmm-hmm." Then she looked up and grinned. "Es un come-candela."
"A fire-eater? In bed? Really?" Elena was surprised. "I knew he had a temper, but I always thought he would be cold in bed."
Cassandra stared at her. "Connor? Cold?" She shook her head decisively. "I know he's changed since I knew him, but he can't have changed that much. He's passionate, warm, caring ... so gentle..." Her words trailed off, and her eyes went distant.
Elena watched, knowing that Cassandra was remembering something good for a change, remembering a man who had made her heart sing. Elena had never thought Connor could do that for a woman—for any woman. She wondered what else she could learn about Connor from a woman's— a lover's—point of view. Elena almost wished they were drinking something stronger than coffee so that Cassandra would keep talking freely.
But Cassandra was obviously already regretting having said that much. "But don't tell Connor I said that."
"No?" Elena asked, raising her eyebrows. This wasn't fair—to give her such ammunition, then forbid her to use it.
"I mean, not that he isn't like that," Cassandra tried to explain, "but I don't want him to know that I told you."
"Oh. No, of course not." Elena would never tell Connor that she knew this about him. However, she would know. The thought filled her with a small inner joy.
"And don't tell Duncan," Cassandra added.
"No," Elena agreed. That wouldn't work either. Too bad. Maybe she could talk to Amanda; Elena felt sure that Amanda had known Connor rather intimately at some point.
But Cassandra dashed that plan to the ground, too, and stomped on it, by leaning forward and saying earnestly, "Don't tell anyone."
She couldn't betray Cassandra's confidence. Damn! "All right," Elena agreed again. "It's our secret." She considered it for a moment, then said, in a wheedling tone, "So tell me more. About Connor. In bed. I won't tell anyone."
"I know you won't tell," Cassandra said, "but I don't think I should, either. I know I wouldn't want men talking about me."
Elena knew Cassandra was doing the right thing, but her nod was more one of frustration than of agreement.
"Do unto others," Cassandra quoted, with only a trace of bitterness. She leaned back in her chair and reached for her coffee again. "You know, Elena," she said decisively, "we're magnificent, too."
"We are, aren't we?" Elena said. "Those bastards tried their damnedest to destroy us, but they couldn't do it. In the end, they're dead and we're alive. We're not going to let them win. Any of them." She leaned across the table and held up her cup yet again. "A toast, Cassandra. To us, this time."
"To us!" Cassandra said, and they toasted each other, then leaned back in their chairs again and watched the sky turn to blue while the ripening corn fields turned from a dull gray to a light green. "It's beautiful here," Cassandra said, then turned to Elena. "I wanted to thank you, Elena, for listening to me, and for making me welcome in your home. I really needed..."
Cassandra was silent for a moment, unable to finish her thanks. Elena finished it for her. "You needed someone to talk to." Elena said. "You needed a confidante. So did I. And I didn't even know it." And yes, it is beautiful here, she thought. It may be the damn crossroads of the universe for all the Immortals in the southern hemisphere, but it's home.*
"Yes," Cassandra agreed, "we have been confidantes." Then she added softly, "And I'd like ... for us to be friends."
Elena studied the other woman. "You said you didn't want friends."
"I couldn't, before. Roland killed everyone I cared about, and I wouldn't put people in such danger. So I kept everyone away." Cassandra poured herself a new cup of coffee, then said as she stirred in the sugar, not looking at Elena, "But I'd like to try to be a friend to you, for there to be trust between us." Cassandra glanced up briefly, then went back to staring at her coffee. "If you want that from me."
Elena thought about it. Friendship between Immortals was even more rare than the temporary truce she and Cassandra had had. The two had connected, two people in the same sinking boat reaching out for each other. And they'd helped each other—no question about it. But what about afterward? How much did she trust Cassandra?
That was easy to answer: enough to let Cassandra stay in her house, eat at her table, sleep in her bed, share her worst fears. If Cassandra had wanted to hurt Elena, she'd had plenty of opportunity to do so. Hell, if Elena still trusted Methos, who had turned out to be a brutal, murdering savage, surely she could trust Cassandra! She wanted to believe in her; she'd wanted to from the very beginning. And from trust to friendship—how far a leap was that? For an Immortal.
Cassandra didn't wait long enough for her to answer. "I shouldn't have asked, Elena. Never mind." She set down her spoon and went to the edge of the patio, her back to Elena, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.
Elena sighed. This wasn't easy, any of it. In a way, fighting a duel where only your head was on the line was easier than this. She stood and walked to Cassandra, wondering. Trust was a two-way street. Did Cassandra trust her? "You don't trust easily yourself," Elena pointed out. "Or make friends easily."
"What you and I have done together hasn't been easy," Cassandra retorted sharply. "Has it?" At Elena's murmured no, Cassandra took a deep breath and continued, "I'm trying to remember how to be a friend. And I'm trying to remember how to trust, both in myself, and in others. But you're right; it's not easy."
Elena winced inwardly. She put her hand on Cassandra's arm and squeezed lightly. "Yes, and I betrayed your trust, too. I'm sorry I came after you that night, Cassandra."
"You were drunk and frightened, 'manita," Cassandra said, turning to her, touching her arm in return. "But lying to someone, abandoning someone who believes in you ... That is betrayal. You would not do that."
"No, I wouldn't." Elena smiled a little. "Not deliberately like that." She wouldn't do that even if she were exhausted, drunk out of her mind, and feeling persecuted. "And for what it's worth, I would like to call you amiga, too."
"It is worth a great deal to me, amiga," Cassandra said.
"To me also," Elena answered, embracing Cassandra, this time getting no resistance, letting the other woman's warmth soak into her. "God knows we can both use a friend, eh?" she said, pulling back to look at Cassandra, but not letting go.
"Yes. We can." Cassandra smiled then, a complete and happy smile.
Elena had never seen Cassandra smile like this, or open up in this way. At this moment, Cassandra reminded her a little of the animal they had both so admired, the wild stallion, animated, spirited and free. Maybe she wouldn't have to worry so much about Cassandra. Maybe Cassandra would be all right, after all.
"So, amiga," Elena said, stepping back, then standing on tiptoe and stretching her arms, feeling her joints pop and her muscles protest, "let's go riding."
"Riding?" Cassandra repeated in some surprise, then she grinned. "Yes, let's."
The dogs followed them to the stables, dancing around their feet and getting in the way while they saddled two mares. Twenty minutes later, they were ready to go. Cassandra was already mounted on Petunia, a bay mare, and Elena swung herself into her saddle.
Adelita pranced beneath her with excitement and eagerness. After weeks of refusing to ride, Elena felt the same way she always did on the back of a horse, wild and free. And she knew Adelita loved to run; she wondered if the mare remembered their favorite trick. Elena bent down over the horse's neck and urged her, "Anda, arriba, Adelita. !Arriba!"
The mare didn't disappoint her, and Elena leaned forward in her saddle, staying erect as Adelita reared up on her hind legs and pawed at the air, whinnying loudly. Her heart racing, Elena threw her head back and howled like a coyote as the horse came down to four legs again, feeling at that moment like her favorite romantic hero—the caballero known as Zorro.
"!Vamonos!" Cassandra called, as she urged her horse to a gallop and let loose with a wild abandoned cry of her own, her hair streaming out behind her as she rode.
Elena laughed in surprise at Cassandra's sudden show of enthusiasm, as Adelita raced out of the stable yards and into the wide open pampa, eager to run. She soon caught up to Cassandra, and the two heroines rode off into the magnificent sunrise, wild and free.
Elena's story is continued in TRUST I
Cassandra's story is continued in Hope Remembered IV: KINDRED
NOTE: This story exists in a bubble intersecting two fictional universes: Vi's Elena universe, and Parda's Cassandra universe. There are some discrepancies between the two universes (like timelines and Connor being married to Alex and living in the Highlands in Parda's universe, while he's unmarried and living in New York in Vi's universe), but we ignored them because it was too good of an idea to pass up. If this didn't happen, it should have.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
Many thanks to: Alpha Reader Extraordinaire:
- Robin L. Tennenbaum, who was determined to see that we drew consistent, true-to-life characters who packed an emotional punch. She wasn't satisfied with anything less and made sure we weren't satisfied, either. Thanks for hanging in there for us, Robin, even when we got snippety! You're an amazing woman, and a good friend.
Beta Readers Wonderful:
- Bridget Mintz Testa, another good friend, who asked the hard questions and who (through amazing conciliatory powers) was able to help bring the personalities of two very different writers together to create a coherent complete story.
- Julia Walter, for her steadfast and enthusiastic encouragement in this and other stories.
- Annie Wortham, who found yet more comma inconsistencies and unclear pronoun references, and helped us figure out those eternal grammar problems and those infernal grammar rules.
- Lisa Krakowa, who helped us with the horses.
Translations
no hay de que - you're welcome
pastelitos - pastries
!que barbaridad! - what a horror story, or what a story!
muy bien - very good
'manita - little sister
anda, arriba - come on, get up
!vamonos! - let's go!
QUOTES
"Affliction is a treasure" is a quote from John Donne.
Dona Perfecta is the title character of a Spanish novel by Benito Perez Galdos.
PROSTITUTION
In the American West in the 1800s, the cheapest prostitutes worked in "hog farms" (each woman lived and worked in a small room rather like a pen) where they serviced between 50 and 80 men a day. - (From the book "Soiled Doves: Prostitution in the Early West" by Anne Seagraves. )
During World War I, the German military High Command debated forbidding soldiers to visit prostitutes because of disease, but decided this would decrease morale and be impractical. Instead, prostitutes were given regular health inspections and allowed to follow the troops in caravans. Brothels with red lights on the outside were for enlisted and NCOs; brothels with blue lights were for officers. (In a curious coincidence, current U.S. military enlisted personnel put red stickers on their cars, officers get blue stickers.)
In WWI, a sergeant from the medical corps would stand outside the brothels and inspect paybooks and health certificates, note the name and unit of each customer, supervise a brief medical inspection, dispense prophylactic medicine and ointment (before and after each visit), and collect a fee on the madam's behalf.
The prostitutes averaged 10 customers each between 4 p.m. and 9 p.m. At the peak of the off-duty rush hour, 10 minutes per man was all that was allowed before the duty sergeant bellowed out "Next!" -(From the book "Sex in History" by Reay Tannahill.)
THE NINE MUSES
Clio - history
Erato - erotic lyric poetry
Calliope - eloquence and epic poetry
Euterpe - music and lyric poetry
Melpomene - tragedy
Polyhymnia - sacred poetry
Urania - astronomy
Terpsichore - dance
Thalia - comedy