by A.
The heavy backpack slid off her shoulders and thudded softly onto the grass at her feet. She sat down next to it and studied the trees in the distance wondering if their spirits thought well of her. She gazed at the curtain of greenery whose folds had the shadows and secrets of the forest nestled quietly within, whose secrets she had once known and hoped to know again. But she felt as a stranger, or more accurately, as a prodigal child who did not know if the home she came back to was the same or would even remember her. For a long while she sat listening to the quiet world around her, but refused to continue into the forest until she knew that she was welcome. A young buck that had been grazing at the edge of the grove perked up his head, suddenly aware that a human sat not far from him. The deer regarded her for a moment, disappeared in a flash into the safe darkness of the wood.
She began fidgeting with the laces on her hiking boots, speculating that perhaps she had been wrong to come here. In that moment of doubt, the wind abruptly picked up and rushed past her toward the forest. Its force increased and it rippled across the emerald leaves causing them to shimmer like an elegant but natural fabric. She stood up, reassured; this was the sign she waited for. A small flock of birds rose from the trees, twittering at the gust that had awakened them. The current blew downward and at once, the long meadow grass billowed into waves, tossing dried leaves back and forth like ships upon a jubilant sea. However, when it reached her, the gale slowed into a gentle breeze and stirred her hair gently, and she heard the voices of the woodland spirits whispering her name.
"...Cassandra..."
She closed her eyes and smiled. The Donan Wood welcomed her return.
=-=-=
That night, she sat beside a small campfire, absorbing its warmth and feeling comfort in the environment that surrounded her. The cabin she had lived in centuries ago had long since wasted away, but the peaceful feeling of home had not. Even as a sense of belonging filled her, a faint trace of apprehension started building inside of her, clouding her contentment. She knew nothing in the wood threatened her, but she feared what she had to face inside herself. After the events of the previous weeks, namely the eradication of the Four Horsemen, she knew in her heart that if she did not confront her demons now, she would be slave to them forever. Visions had always come strongest to her here, in this forest, and she knew that they would come to her soon. One of the trees above her rustled and she glanced up. A cream colored owl regarded her curiously and hooted softly, telling her not to worry. She smiled, reassured. No matter how strong or real a vision seemed it always gave way to reality in the end. Nestling inside her sleeping bag, she could feel herself drifting away as she looked long into the fire.
=-=-=
The muted rhythm of horses' hooves on the sandy earth woke her and she scrambled to her feet. Her heart pounded in her chest, she had fallen asleep next to the fire while preparing her master's meal. Taking a large spoon, she dipped it inside the small pot that's contents simmered over the fire. As she raised the utensil back to her lips, she blew gently on the spoon to cool its contents. Tentatively, she tasted the stew of rabbit, herbs, and roots. She grimaced at what she tasted and she knew nothing could mask the strong burnt flavor. Though the camp had an ample storage of food supplies, she did not have enough time to prepare a new meal.
The whole camp prepared as the Horsemen returned. Some slaves dished up hot meals into bowls for their masters while others set about cleaning their areas and dousing their cooking fires. All four of the Horsemen had slaves and could have as many as they wished, or so it seemed. Methos only kept Cassandra. The slaves of the other Horsemen could assist and rely on one another. When mishaps occurred, they covered for each other; when one was punished, they knew someone would be there to tend their wounds. Unlike the other slaves, Cassandra was alone. She despaired under the weight of her isolation though she would prefer it to the company of her keeper. Methos would hold her solely responsible for having no meal to give to him after his ride. She could do nothing and she had no hope left to comfort her. Away from the fire, she watched her master dismount his horse and enter his tent. Quickly, she fetched a bowl of water and a cloth so he could refresh himself and entered after him. Cassandra approached Methos to wipe the dirt from his arms, hands, and face, but he waved her away as one might shoo a fly.
"My dinner," was all he said.
Swallowing, Cassandra whispered, "I can't."
He froze and locked his eyes on her. She looked away.
"Can't?"
She quivered, afraid, "I wanted to make something new, I burnt it."
To her surprise, he laughed. "Burnt it! You should ask the others when you try and make something new," he said.
Relief washed over her. A scold, nothing more. She almost smiled. "Yes, yes, I should have! I was quite stupid; I did not know the proper time to cook it. I shall be more careful. It will not happen again."
Again, he laughed, but suddenly he grabbed her left arm and locked it into a vice grip. His voice iced over, "Did you do it on purpose?"
"No!" Cassandra cried, quaking against the pain spreading through her arm and the sickening sensation of dread that weighted her stomach.
"What happened? I will know if you lie. And if you lie, I will break your arms. First this one," he tightened his iron hold, "then the other."
Her knees buckled from her fear but he forced her to remain standing.
"I fell asleep!" She wailed, "A moment, I closed my eyes for only a moment but it was too long!"
Methos released her and she fell hard onto the ground. She wanted desperately to massage the pain out of her throbbing arm but she did not dare to move. Keeping her eyes fixed downward, she did not see his incensed pacing, but she could hear it and feel the fury that charged the atmosphere.
Finally, Methos reached down and yanked Cassandra by her hair, sending a shock of pain through her head and neck. He shoved her forcefully out the entrance of his tent, then grabbed her by her still tender arm, and dragged her to the cooking fire.
"Cook it again," he commanded her.
Dazed, she obeyed him and went about cleaning the pot, adding more wood to the fire, and gathering the necessary ingredients. She filled the pot with water and as it began to boil, she added the meat and vegetables. The whole while, Methos simply sat and scrutinized her under his cruel gaze.
After a couple of hours, the stew finished cooking and she dished it into a bowl and gave it to him with a loaf of bread. Apprehensively, she watched him take his first bite and dared to allow herself a moment of ease when he grinned up at her.
"This is very good," said he. He took one more bite then flung the contents of the bowl onto the earth. "Now make it again."
Frightened, she honored his demand. Into the night, she could hear the others of the camp retiring and the terrified cries of those who were forced to bed down with Kronos, Caspian, or Silas. A second time, she served Methos the stew, and again he took but a few bites before hurling it away.
"Again!" he yelled.
Weary, she repeated the process and when she went to give him his meal for the third time, she found him staring at something in the fire. Following his gaze, Cassandra saw the end of his sword resting in the hottest part of the fire; the tip glowed a brilliant orange. He did not even taste the stew when she handed it to him, but immediately poured it disdainfully onto the ground.
"You're growing tired," he commented as he lifted the sword from the flames, keeping his eyes on the fiery tip. "But if you close your eyes, even if for only a moment, this," he said, indicating the glowing metal, "will keep you awake. You don't sleep unless I say so. Now, make my meal again."
The rest of the night continued thus and more than once the tip of the sword seared her flesh. Though they healed quickly, the pain from the burns echoed and lingered even when the wounds vanished. Methos did not discriminate where his weapon scorched her, but Cassandra found those inflicted on her hands to be the worst for she needed her hands to continue her labor. She dared not cry out or complain though because that would only bring on more agony.
As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, Cassandra found herself mindlessly exhausted but still slaving to meet Methos' demands. Finally, as the rest of the camp began rousing, Methos turned to her as she stirred the pot; "You are done cooking, return to my tent."
Nodding and bowing to him, she made her way back to the tent. Inside, she sank down upon a rug, relieved that her toil was over. She could hear Methos outside, ordering another slave to clean Cassandra's cooking area. Hugging her legs, she rested her head on her knees. She started to lull away, keeping her mind empty. Earlier, she had tried to make sense of why Methos compelled her to prepare the stew over and over again, but now she did not think to question it. The reasons did not matter. It had been his wish, and that was enough. Without warning, she felt a sharp pain blossom in her side as a sharp kick struck her ribs. She cried out and, bewildered, opened her eyes to see Methos glaring down upon her.
"Did I say you could sleep?" he hissed.
Realizing her mistake, she scrambled to her feet and spoke nearly inaudibly, "No, master, you did not. I will not sleep until you allow it."
"Good," he said with hostility, "I am not through with you yet."
Pushing her back down upon the rug, he began loosening his trousers and she knew what was to come. She opened her legs to him, not because she was willing, but because she had no choice.
After he finished, he leaned over her and breathed into her ear, "Now, you may sleep." And she was grateful to him for it.
=-=-=
Cassandra awoke and saw the twilight turning the sky gray and the stars beginning to fade away. She noticed that she was shivering; she touched her face and felt it damp with tears. The vision had been horrible, and the disgust inside of her made her nauseous. She hated Methos for what he had done, and she hated herself for submitting to him. The vision was no mere nightmare though; she had experienced it for a reason. As she ate a few granola bars for her breakfast, she tried to understand the purpose of all she had relived that night but found that objectivity escaped her. The flashback had reinforced her anger and filled her with loathing. She could not see past it; she had never been able to see past it.
Wishing to clear her thoughts, she laced up her boots and went for a walk. Silence saturated the forest and she relaxed; the woodland calmed her. To the edge of the trees she hiked and looked out upon the grassy meadows beyond. The sun peeked through clefts in the craggy blue mountains, gracing the drab twilight with threads of gold. A breeze picked up and moved sinuously through the long grass; she watched as it swirled around a small pond then rippled across its surface. The wavelets caught the early sunlight and they glittered excitedly. Cassandra approached the pond and when she reached its edge, the rippling abruptly halted and the surface became smooth as glass. She removed her clothes and set them next to a rock near the edge of the small pool. She slid herself into the water and shut her eyes.
=-=-=
Cold surrounded Cassandra and the wintry chill in her heart told her that death was not far away. She opened her eyes and found herself in a starkly white hall with harsh fluorescent lights glaring down from the ceiling. Cassandra quickly discovered that she had no corporeal form and she found herself floating into a room, though not of her own volition. Natural light filled the room and gave it a softer, more comfortable atmosphere than the stark illumination of the hall. The walls were white here, as well, but someone had gone to the effort of hanging drawings and photographs to give the room a little color. Cassandra saw the back of a man, and in the bed, a sleeping woman with an oxygen mask over her face. Machines beeped and lit up as they monitored the woman's heart rate and blood pressure. A tube connected her arm to an intravenous drip. The man reached out a hand to the woman's face and brushed his fingers gently over her cheek. The woman's eyes fluttered open and Cassandra heard the man speak.
"Hey," he greeted softly, "You're awake."
The woman gave him a weak smile and then reached to her face to pull the oxygen mask off. The man carefully moved her hand away and replaced the mask.
"You need that." Cassandra could hear the pain in his voice. The woman was dying.
Shaking her head, the woman pulled it off again, "I don't want it." There was a slight slur in her voice caused by the morphine that the I.V. steadily administered to her. She could communicate, but she was confused.
"Are we going to miss the plane to Oslo?" She asked.
"We'll catch the next one," he assured her, "Not to worry."
"I want to see the fjords," she insisted.
"I want to see them with you."
"Where are we now?"
"Geneva, remember?"
As if just realizing her current state, "Oh yes, the hospital." Her voice sounded sad and a little frightened.
"That's right." He covered her small hands with his own larger ones.
"There are no fjords here."
The man gave a light laugh, "No, love, I'm afraid not."
She smiled at her joke.
"I can tell you about them, if you like," he offered.
"No, I want to see them for myself."
The man's shoulders trembled slightly and his words sounded choked, "I don't know if that's going to happen, my dearest one." He brushed a few strands of hair out of her face.
"I know, but I like to think that it might," she paused and regarded him tenderly, "You don't have to be strong for me, you know. You just have to be there."
At these words, his reserve broke and he wrapped his arms around her, crying against her chest. For her part, the woman raised one of her hands weakly and stroked his head.
"I'm very tired," she murmured, her breath sounded raspy. Now it was his turn to comfort and Cassandra could hear him whispering into his lover's ear. Though Cassandra was not privy to what he said she could see the frail woman's mouth occasionally twitching as if to smile, but without the strength to do so. Finally, she said to him, "Thank you." She sucked in a few more difficult breaths and then breathed no more. The heart monitor ceased its beeping and began to release a flat, whining sound.
A cry of grief rose from the man and he hugged his beloved tighter and whispered fiercely, "No, not yet! Just one more day, just an hour... a minute, just one more, please. Please."
Sympathy filled Cassandra and she wished it were in her power to grant the man's desperate prayer. However, her compassion dissipated when the man raised his head and turned so that she could at last see his face.
Methos.
Anger started to build up in her but she forced it back. Now was not the time for hate. She regarded the frail form of the woman for a moment. The innocent dead were entitled to nothing but respect.
"Alexa, please..." Methos trailed off and released her from his embrace. He ran a hand through her hair and smoothed it out against the pillow and she only appeared asleep rather than taken away forever by death. Methos' shoulders shook and though he blinked against the tears, he wept nonetheless.
The heartbroken man reached out to the bedside table and picked up a framed photograph. Cassandra looked on with him. In it, Methos and Alexa stood on a balcony over Mediterranean Sea. Suntanned and fit, Alexa barely resembled the pale, thin woman who now lay dead in the hospital room. In the picture, Methos' arms hung loosely around her and his forehead pressed lightly against hers; they were laughing together. The photographer had captured a moment of pure joy between the lovers. Methos removed the snapshot from its frame and traced a finger over the image of Alexa's live body and face. A droplet of water splashed onto the glossy photo, which he wiped away quickly though it left a faint mark upon the cerulean sea. Methos laughed quietly and Cassandra regarded him with surprise.
"I will always think of you this way," he said to Alexa, "As someone full of life." Methos gently placed the photograph in the dead woman's hands. His voice choked, "I will love you, for the rest of my life, even if I cannot be with you."
The old Immortal's body slumped down into his chair and he placed a weary hand over his face, crying to himself. "I came so close to saving you and I failed," he whispered.
In spite of herself, Cassandra felt moved, and she again wished away the pain that she saw.
=-=-=
Cassandra shuddered from a chill brought on by the liquid around her and she opened her eyes. She eased herself from the pool and sat on the rock near the edge. The cool wind slid over her bare skin, drying the water. Confused, she tried to make sense of the vision presented to her. From the setting, a modern hospital, she knew the events had occurred recently, certainly no more than a few years ago. The meaning of the vision forced her to think about that which she had not wished to consider. She had borne witness to the boundless depths of Methos' hate but she had never had to ask herself if there could be duality. Now she wondered if there could be an equally boundless capacity for love and compassion. She shook her head angrily. Methos had shamed her, beaten her, raped her, and finally broken her so that her existence meant nothing beyond serving him. It had taken her centuries to rebuild what he had shattered and even as milleniums came and went, she remained haunted by her early life.
Then she thought of Alexa. How could the death of one frail mortal woman nearly destroy the destroyer? Cassandra's anger burned strong but she knew the answer. Methos had loved Alexa with all his heart. Resentment could not change the truth.
Cassandra stared into the dark waters of the pond. She did not know Methos, not anymore. Instead, knew something of him, something she saw also in herself. The ability to change, the capacity to love, the desire to live:
Humanity.
She put her clothes back on and slowly made her way back to her small camp considering the truth that she could not deny. She recalled the destruction of the Horsemen in Bordeaux. She thought of herself, standing above Methos ready to sever his head from his neck. Cassandra remembered the rage acutely, her hatred of Methos and her fury at Duncan MacLeod for insisting that Methos live. Tears filled her eyes and slid down her face, but neither sadness nor loathing found a home within her. She had not decapitated her former tormentor, she had not struck him when he was defenseless, she had not become what she hated. She remembered the rage, but she did not feel it. Before arriving at the Donan Wood, she had been looking for something to do with her hate. More than once in the weeks following Bordeaux, she considered hunting down Methos and butchering him for who he had been and what he had done. From what the visions had shown her, she knew that the creature she had known as Methos, was not the same man who had cherished and mourned a short-lived mortal woman named Alexa. To have slaughtered him in the submarine base would have been to murder a stranger. MacLeod had known it and, this day, she knew it too. Cassandra could never forget what happened, but she could move on. Looking to the sky, she proclaimed what her heart already understood.
"I am free!"
The End
I wrote this story in early 2000 and it was actually the first Highlander story I ever wrote. Thanks to my beta readers Bria and MacGarp for their help with it.
And thank you for reading it. Please feel free to review it.