Chapter Eleven

It was nearly over, one way or another. The contest was tomorrow, and things would soon come to an end.

Duncan was sitting at his desk in the dojo, pretending to read but no longer sure what book he was holding. His mind could not leave the conflict that would take place tomorrow, nor the one that had been going on for a week already.

He was angry and frustrated to know that a part of him still wanted to make excuses for Methos, to find a way to hold onto the friendship they'd developed. He had expended considerable energy the last few days smothering that impulse as much as possible. It was also infuriating that, even armed with the knowledge of his atrocious crimes, when Duncan looked at Methos, he still saw the friend, not the monster. Another intolerable betrayal of judgment.

And yet he had pledged to fight – and it would come to a fight, none of them doubted that – at the side of this monster tomorrow, and he would honor that as he did all such pledges. He was, after all, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod – it's what he did.

But the fight…ah, the fight itself was shrouded in questions, not the least of which was this: When the chips were down, who would be on whose side? The chasm between himself and Cassandra had steadily widened all week, her antipathy towards Methos seemed to intensify in random, wild bursts, and Methos…well, who ever really knew what those well-veiled eyes concealed? It was reasonable to assume that the World's Greatest Survivor would choose his ultimate course of action when the winds made their final prediction.

The question was, what would Duncan do when that happened? It wasn't much of a question, really. Duncan had pretty well analyzed the likely outcomes of the situation, and in most cases, his appropriate response was pretty clear-cut.

In most cases.

Leaning back in his chair, Duncan put his head back, eyed the sword that hung on the wall, and sighed.

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Methos sat in his armchair by the light of the city much as he had that first night a week ago, holding a beer and with his Ivanhoe nearby. Unlike that night, however, he was reasonably relaxed and had no need to gulp the beer to drown surging memories and emotions.

No need to use the chessboard to organize the situation this time, either. He had it all well in hand, and mind, now. The arrangements had all been made, both the obvious ones and those that were less above the board. The ducks were all lined up in their neat little row, and he was prepared for what lay ahead.

Lifting the bottle to his lips, he mentally snickered at that assessment. No one knew better than he what could happen to the best-laid plans, nor understood better the depths of Kronos' deviousness. He had taken substantial precautions, certainly, but he was experienced enough and enough of a realist to acknowledge that there were always blind spots and unanticipated machinations.

Yet for all that, he was feeling satisfied with his preparations. MacLeod was onboard, however torn, and would serve him in good stead despite being conflicted and feeling betrayed. After the contest, Methos himself would feel more equal to Kronos and able to approach him in battle. In fact, he was already more than halfway there…

Quickly he took another drink and shooed away the uneasiness that was dragged along by that thought. His uneasiness grew when he realized how he had just misstated the situation. The point of the contest, he reminded himself, was to convince Kronos of their equal footing, not himself. Strange that he would confuse that now.

And then there was his ever-disturbing wild card… Thoughts of Cassandra rated another hoist of the bottle. She didn't belong in the scenario, but she was part of a package deal with MacLeod; one for the price of two. He started to ask what he'd done to deserve this, but thought better of it immediately.

No matter. He'd managed with considerable effort to get a handle on his feelings where she was concerned and was confident that she wouldn't agitate him so badly the next time they met. It was all a matter of compartmentalization, and he'd been building strong boxes all week.

He lifted the bottle again, and was mildly surprised to find it empty. He sat contemplating the empty bottle for some time more, hardly noticing the mantra running through his subconscious.

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In the loft, Cassandra was motionless in her nightgown, covered up to her chin, clutching her pillow as she lay on her side. She looked for all the world as though she were at rest.

She was not.

Her internal landscape was as dynamic as her exterior was still. The emotional activity was so high it exhausted her completely, and yet sleep – or even a moment of peace – would come nowhere near her.

Cassandra had almost begun to wish she had never found Kronos, or at least had managed to challenge him before the trail had led here. Her purpose and course of action had been perfectly clear one week earlier; now… Never had she been so baffled by her own feelings, nor so unable to predict her own reactions.

Her anger at Duncan, which she had nurtured and maintained all week, was, she knew, a cover. She didn't want to think about the issues he had raised, so she focused on her resentment, her outrage at the questions she told herself a true friend would not ask, had no right to voice. And it had worked, generally, allowing her to drown out those questions in the racket created by her ire.

Except at night, when the ire died down despite efforts to stoke it, and the questions made themselves heard and were harder to ignore.

Why hadn't she ever searched for Methos? He had been instrumental in defining and shaping her early life as an immortal, and most of her emotional makeup. She felt and resented his influence constantly to this very day. How many hours she'd spent wishing for his death, imagining it, planning it. Why, then had she never taken a single step toward making it a reality?

Suspecting she might be able to answer this question if she stared it in the face with her emotional armor discarded, she cast it aside and thought about Methos himself, as he was now. She found it shocking that he had become so passive, so uninvolved, when she remembered him as assertive and dominant, second only to Kronos. When and how had this cold, ruthless killer made the transition to being a man who lived in shadow and would do nearly anything to avoid fighting?

At this thought, her rage reared up with unexpected ardor. Although it was clear that her presence was upsetting to Methos, he nevertheless managed to maintain his poise and self-control – at least when she wasn't physically attacking him. This made her even more enraged, perhaps because her own emotions were so off-the-scale around him that it seemed impossible that he would not be similarly unbalanced around her.

Suddenly, Cassandra came up on one elbow and pounded the pillow with her other fist, again and again and again, barely aware of the soft grunts that accompanied each blow. Breathing hard, her cheeks reddened, she turned over abruptly and flopped back down.

Surely sleep would come soon.