Hope Triumphant II: Sister

Dramatic License

by Parda and Vi Moreau, August 2001

Elena Duran is visiting from another universe, and whatever happens to her here is not canon unless Vi wants it to be.

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7 October 2006
The Silver Star Cruise Ship
Mediterranean Sea
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Methos loved cruises.

Not that he liked boats. He still didn't like boats. But these modern cruise ships didn't feel like boats. They were floating hotels with restaurants and ballrooms and bathrooms, and lots of people interested in enjoying themselves, in all sorts of ways. The sun was warm, the gentle breeze from the Mediterranean was cooling, his margarita was cold, and the five women lounging on the deck chairs in front of him were mostly naked. He stretched out on his own chair and sighed in complete contentment, watching as the women applied suntan lotion to themselves. Two of them took off their bikini tops.

Yes, Methos loved cruises.

He had just gotten himself another margarita and settled back in his chair when the woman made her presence known. Tall, graceful, with long lean muscles in thighs and calves, perfectly defined abs and ass, strong shoulders and arms, but with enough smoothness there to still be feminine, breasts which were definitely feminine (yes, definitely), high cheekbones, skin the color of cafe au lait, long black hair cascading past her shoulders - she was dressed in a pair of sunglasses and a tiny red bikini.

Methos wasn't the only one watching as the woman walked around the edge of the pool. No, not walked. Not sauntered, either. Prowled. She wasn't waiting for the men to come after her. She was hunting on her own. And Methos knew what she was hunting for, because she had a presence in more ways than one: the woman was an Immortal. Methos wasn't worried; they were in public and his sword was by his side, hidden under a towel. Her sword had to be in the large straw bag she carried. She obviously had no place to hide a weapon on her body. As she came closer, he took another long, careful look just to be sure. Nope, no sword there.

She stopped about three meters away from him and looked him up and down, her expression unreadable behind the dark glasses, her body relaxed but ready, every muscle coiled. "Viejo," she greeted him in Spanish: Old Man. Methos supposed he qualified for that epithet. Her voice was carefully neutral, neither friendly nor aggressive.

Methos lifted his margarita in salute. "Elena Duran." He motioned to the empty deck chair by his side and responded in the same language, "Care to join me?"

Elena smiled then, a brilliant flash of white teeth. She stretched out on the chair while Methos watched in appreciation. "So," she said, crossing her long legs at the ankles, "how was Duncan's wedding in New Zealand last weekend?"

"Good," Methos said. "Good. Lovely ceremony, beautiful flowers, great food. Amanda danced the tango at the reception, and Connor and I tossed Duncan in the pool." Elena laughed aloud, but sobered too quickly. Elena and MacLeod had once been a couple, but after that messy business of Richie Ryan's death a decade or so ago, MacLeod had sought refuge on Holy Ground. When he'd returned after a year of solitude, he'd been quiet and withdrawn. Not even Elena's exuberance had been able to break through his depression, and at his request, she'd finally given up and bidden her lover a tearful goodbye.

"I told her I wasn't good for her right now," MacLeod had explained to Methos. "I need some time alone."

Methos had nodded, understanding all too well. A week later, he hadn't really been surprised when MacLeod had walked away again, retreating from all Immortal contact and hiding from the Game. Methos had done that in his time, and he knew he would again, someday. The invitation to MacLeod's wedding had been expected, the inevitable consequence of MacLeod's sabbatical in normality, a requisite change of partners in their tentative dance.

"Sorry you couldn't come to New Zealand," Methos told Elena sincerely.

Elena shrugged. "When my goddaughter was six, I promised her I would dance at her wedding, and she picked the same date. Also ... I doubt Duncan's bride would have appreciated yet another of Duncan's lovers being there. Amanda's enough."

"More than enough," Methos agreed, deciding not to mention Amanda's naked dive into the pool or the rest of the evening. MacLeod's wedding reception had turned out to be one hell of a party for Methos, in several different ways. "She invited herself, I believe."

"She does that," Elena observed then changed the subject with a delightfully suggestive smile. "Are you traveling alone?"

"Yes. And you?" Methos asked hopefully. Methos wished MacLeod well, sincerely, but that didn't mean Methos couldn't also appreciate his newly-expanded options with the now-available women. Except ... Joe Dawson had shared some gossip at MacLeod's bachelor party last week, and the plain gold ring on Elena's left hand confirmed it. "Your husband isn't with you?" Methos asked.

"Oh, of course," she said, her smile disappearing in a resigned sigh, "you know I'm married. Well, my husband's Italian. You know about Italians?" Methos nodded. "You know about Italian men?" she persisted. He nodded again, and "Of course," she said again. "You know about everything."

Methos didn't see any reason to disabuse her of the notion.

"When Lorenzo decides he wants me and only me, I'll go back to him," Elena declared.

Well, variety was the spice of life, but Methos didn't say it. Nor did he suggest to Elena Duran that she might not be easy to live with, day in and day out, no matter how passionate and beautiful she was. "And until then?" he inquired pointedly. He could do without a jealous Italian husband on his trail.

She shrugged. "Until then, we are apart. I do what I want." She smiled seductively and wiggled her toes, making the rest of her move in various subtle and intriguing ways. "Anything I want."

Didn't she always? But they were at sea, far from home, and what Lorenzo didn't know couldn't hurt Methos. He saluted Elena once more with his drink and smiled back, remembering a certain wild time in Miami Beach some years ago. She'd been wearing red that night, too - for a while.

He loved cruises.

Methos looked for Elena at dinner, but she didn't appear. When he went back to his cabin, he found a note from her.

Fell asleep from the jetlag after the flight from Buenos Aires. I'm awake now, though. Interested in helping me explore the ship? Ever since I saw the movie Titanic I've had this fascination with decks. The stern of the ship, deck nine, three a.m.?
E

Methos folded the note then lay down to take a short nap. He wanted to get all the sleep he could before he met Elena.

At four minutes before three in the morning, the stern of the ship was deserted. Perfect. Methos waited near the railing, enjoying the breeze and the magnificent stars overhead. Ten minutes later, he turned at the approach of an Immortal. Elena was climbing the last few stairs from the deck below, a few minutes late, normal for her. She was still carrying her straw bag, of course-Elena never went anywhere without her sword-and she was still in red, but this time there was a bit more of it. Only a bit. The dress dipped low in the front and much lower in the back and skimmed the tops of her thighs. She was in sandals instead of bare feet, and the sunglasses were gone, revealing the black patch she wore over her missing right eye. An Immortal named Bethel had captured Elena and gouged the eye out "for fun" a decade ago, then proceeded to torture her in other various and inventive ways. Elena had barely escaped with her life - and her sanity. Bethel hadn't escaped; Connor MacLeod had hunted Bethel down and killed him, then given the head to Elena as a present, neatly wrapped in a hatbox. A nice touch, that, though when he'd heard the tale, Methos had wondered at Connor's unusual magnanimousness.

Methos's smile widened as Elena neared him, because she was smiling just for him. "Viejo," she greeted him again.

Even as Methos was murmuring, "Buenos dias, nina," she had set down her bag and was in his arms.

"I love shipboard romances, don't you?" she asked.

"Mmm," Methos answered, but more words didn't seem necessary, and the next instant, they weren't possible. She was panting into his mouth. Elena tasted of coffee and chocolate, and she smelled of jasmine, her favorite perfume. Her tongue was doing an intricate little dance on his lower lip, the fingers of her right hand were tracing the edge of his ear, while her left hand (and Elena was left-handed) was firmly massaging his ass.

Damn, perhaps MacLeod should get married more often, if all of his former lovers were going to throw themselves at Methos with this kind of abandon. Methos joined in whole-heartedly, with both his hands on her ass and his tongue tracing the pulse that throbbed at the base of her throat.

"You're poking me," Elena said softly with a sigh.

"Isn't that the general idea?" Methos answered absently, distracted by her still-moving hands and the warmth of her breasts pressed against his chest.

Elena giggled, a delightful sound with delightful movements to match. "I meant your sword."

"Oh." Methos let go of her and backed up just enough to remove his sword from under his jacket and place it on the deck next to her bag. "There."

"Here," she corrected him, grabbing his hands and putting them back where they belonged. Her hands started undoing the buttons on his shirt, and they started kissing again.

Then another Immortal arrived. Methos and Elena both immediately pulled back and let go, and Methos turned to see Cassandra, just reaching the top step. She strode towards them with determination, the skirt of her long black dress swirling about her legs. Methos swore under his breath, wondering how the hell - and why - Cassandra had tracked him down.

Or had she? Elena didn't seem surprised to see Cassandra, just annoyed, with her hands on her hips and her left foot tapping in irritation, the sandaled toe clicking on the teak wood deck. Maybe Elena wasn't traveling alone. He'd never let her answer that question, had he? And when Cassandra had announced she was leaving for Hong Kong the day after Duncan's wedding and meeting Amanda in Athens two weeks later, Methos hadn't inquired about Cassandra's plans in between. Methos's lips tightened in annoyance. Damn the woman, anyway. All he'd wanted was a week of sunshine, good food, a little relaxation, maybe some sex... Was that so much to ask?

"Elena, como me has podido traicionar de esta manera?" Cassandra began when she was about four paces away, ignoring Methos completely as she shook her head in sorrow and confusion.

Methos was confused, too. Elena had betrayed Cassandra? How?

Cassandra stepped forward, her hands out, almost pleading. "We planned this trip so we could be together, just the two of us. Remember, mi amor?"

Methos snapped his mouth shut and took another step away from Elena as he remembered the Watcher Chronicles: the reports of Elena's lovers both male and female, Cassandra's long-standing aversion to men... Oh, good God.

Elena flipped her hair back with a proud toss of her head. "I told you, as I told Lorenzo: I do what I want. Anything I want."

"You promised me it would be different this time!"

Elena laughed aloud, and Cassandra's eyes narrowed in fury. Bad move, Elena, Methos thought. Cassandra didn't like to be betrayed, and a jealous Italian husband was nothing compared to Cassandra in a rage.

"No wonder Lorenzo left you," Cassandra said, sniffing with disgust as she looked Elena up and down.

"I left him!" Elena shot back, quick and angry, her Latina blood already aroused.

"It was only a matter of time," Cassandra said dismissively. "You're a slut, Elena," Cassandra accused, and Methos blinked at the harshness of the word. Not that it wasn't true, but still...

Elena apparently didn't like it, either. Her sword was in her hand. "I choose my own lovers, and I fight my own battles. I'm not a whore and a coward like you!"

Methos clicked his tongue against his teeth and shook his head, because that was another low-and truthful-blow. Then Elena demanded, "How many men have you fucked so they'll do your killing for you?" and at that insult, Cassandra pulled her blade. The two of them stepped towards each other, swords high, tips aimed at the eyes.

"Ladies!" Methos called in warning and alarm, because sword fights were damnably loud, and they were on a ship with hundreds of passengers and crew. They both turned to him, looking surprised, and Methos thought he knew why. "Haven't been called that in a while, have you?" Now the two women just looked annoyed. He rubbed his hands together briskly and put on an engaging grin. "Look, um... this isn't the time or the place for this, and maybe you two could talk. Work this out, enjoy the rest of the cruise together, I mean-"

"He's right, you know," Elena broke in.

"He is," Cassandra agreed. "And he's not worth fighting over."

"No, he's not," Elena chimed in immediately.

Methos didn't think she'd needed to agree quite that fast.

"But he'd be worth killing," Cassandra purred, and both women turned to stare at him with predatory smiles and glittering eyes, their blades bright and deadly in their hands.

Methos swallowed, his mouth suddenly gone dry. Elena was standing between him and his sword.

"But, as he said, this is neither the time nor the place," Cassandra said thoughtfully, and she tucked her sword into some hidden pocket in the folds of her skirt.

"No," Elena agreed again, not fast enough this time, in Methos's opinion, but she, too, put away her sword. "Ready for bed, chica?" she asked Cassandra, picking up her bag and extending the crook of her arm.

"Ready," Cassandra replied, and the two women linked arms and headed for the stairs, giggling all the way.

Well ... damn.

Methos strolled over to the edge of the deck where it overlooked the circular stairwell, and Elena's voice floated up to him. "I still say we should have thrown him overboard."

"He does look very good when he's dripping wet," Cassandra replied, "but I don't think he enjoys drowning." She looked up and waved at him cheerily, and Elena looked up and grinned, her white teeth flashing in the dimness. The two women disappeared into the hallway beneath his feet, still laughing.

"Bitch," Methos swore, but he was grinning even as he said the word.

"Quite the show last night, Cassandra," Methos greeted her just after sunrise, as she lay lounging on a chair by the otherwise deserted swimming pool. A few early-morning exercise enthusiasts were briskly walking the deck overhead, and three maids in black dresses and white aprons hurried by with towels in their arms, but other than that, Cassandra and he were alone.

Cassandra finished adjusting the knot of her belt over her robe of blue and green batik before she looked up at him and smiled, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Unlike Elena, Cassandra didn't seem to be working on an all-body tan. Her robe was long-sleeved and reached past her knees. Only her calves and feet were bare. Nice calves they were, too: shapely, muscular, slightly golden from the sun...

"Yes, Elena and I thought you performed quite well," Cassandra said, still smiling up at him.

No doubt.

"Just taking the chance for some fun, Methos," Cassandra added, sliding her sunglasses down to the tip of her nose and looking at him over the dark lenses, her green eyes merry and amused. "You and I haven't had much of that."

Fun at his expense. But Cassandra had been right; he didn't enjoy drowning, and at least they had spared him that. Methos took her words as an invitation and perched on a deck chair, but not the one right next to her. "So, where is the Argentine fireball?"

Cassandra pushed her glasses back on and glanced at the sun, another fireball just above the horizon off the port side. "Elena is not an early riser, and she prefers her coffee in bed."

Methos knew that, but he'd been wondering exactly how much Cassandra knew of Elena's early morning habits, and how much of last night had been an act. "You two known each other long?"

"I met her before she became an Immortal, not quite four hundred years ago. This cruise is our ten-year anniversary."

"Anniversary of what?" Methos asked, because he also knew Cassandra and Elena hadn't been lovers ten years ago. Elena had been very busy escaping from that madman Bethel and into Duncan MacLeod's loving arms, while Cassandra- -

"Freedom," she replied succinctly.

- -while Cassandra had been very busy chasing after Kronos. Methos nodded, seeing it now. Bethel and the Horsemen had all lost their heads in November of 1996, almost exactly ten years ago.

"Freedom from them, and from our nightmares of them," Cassandra added. "Elena and I helped each other through some of that, so we thought we'd celebrate. And here we are."

"And here I am." Methos shrugged, half in apology, half in amusement. "Didn't mean to crash the party."

Cassandra shrugged in return. "Somehow... I think you belong."

And somehow, he did. Methos decided not to jump ship tomorrow in Minorca, after all. This cruise might still turn out to be fun.

She had taken off her sunglasses and was watching him with unblinking green eyes, but more a kitten-stare of curiosity than a cat-stare of disdain. "You were never an early riser, either. Or has that changed, too?"

"I never went back to bed."

"Bad dreams?" she asked quietly, with the sympathy of one who knows. "The voices?"

"Nah." Not lately, anyway. "Just thinking."

Cassandra slipped her sunglasses into the brightly embroidered canvas bag leaning against her chair, her long auburn hair slipping down over her arms and hands as she moved. "Penny for your thoughts?" she offered, leaning back in her chair again and tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.

"Why is it that people think their own opinions are worth two cents, but they're only willing to pay a penny to hear what others have to say?" Methos asked, as he had often wondered.

"Two cents then," Cassandra agreed, and she reached for her bag again then offered him a pair of shiny silver coins.

Methos leaned forward and held out his hand. Cassandra dropped the money into his palm, with no chance of skin touching skin. "These are ten-cent pieces," he announced, looking at the Maori carving of a head, souvenirs of their recent trip down under.

She shrugged. "Inflation. New Zealand doesn't make one-cent or five-cent pieces any more."

He closed his fingers, the coins cool and light in his fist. "What do you want from me, Cassandra?" he asked simply.

She looked away then, off to the sea and the sky, then back again, eyes wide and hopeful, apparently sincere. "A truce?"

"Not peace?" he countered, and this time her gaze slid down and away to the deck. "Sara says you don't like me," Methos reported, because a few hours before MacLeod's wedding, Connor's ferociously precocious nine-year-old daughter had confronted Methos with those words in the library of MacLeod's farmhouse. Connor had set down his book to listen to the exchange.

"And what did you tell Sara?" Cassandra asked.

"That you don't know me."

"Nobody knows you," Connor had put in, joining the conversation uninvited and then beckoning to his daughter. Sara had gone to Connor immediately and climbed onto his lap, staring solemnly at Methos from the safety of her father's arms. Over her head, Connor's stare had mixed cold suspicion and deadly warning in equal portions, with just a hint of disdain.

Almost eight years before, Duncan MacLeod had told Methos the same thing: "I don't know who or what you are, Methos."

Nobody did. It was safer that way, and safety meant survival, and survival was the most important thing of all. At least, it used to be.

Cassandra was nodding slowly. "You're right," she said, looking him in the eye. "I don't know you. But someday, I think I'd like to."

"But not yet."

She shook her head, her lips pressed together. "Not yet," she agreed with a rueful smile. "I think my little tantrum last week was more than enough proof that I'm not ready."

Methos snorted in agreement, because a few hours before MacLeod's wedding, Cassandra had seemed ready to declare war.

===== 30 September 2006, New Zealand =====

Methos was enjoying a recuperative nap in the comfortable hammock on the front porch of the old farmhouse (Connor threw a mean bachelor party), when the approach of an Immortal went humming down his spine and jerked him awake: Cassandra and Alex were returning from the hairdressers. Methos evaluated the results as he stretched his arms over his head. "I like your hair that way," he called to the women when they came up the stairs, a sincere compliment for them both, and an attempt at reconciliation for Cassandra.

Alex smiled and waved, but Cassandra stopped walking and examined him as if he were a specimen of ruffled tree fungus, then slowly and deliberately removed every single hairpin and dropped them on the steps. She tossed her head once and ran her fingers through her hair, leaving the long curls loose around her shoulders and down her back, completely destroying what must have been an hour's worth of work and a sizeable amount of money at the beauty salon.

Methos only said approvingly, "It looks good that way, too." And so it did, and so did she, staring at him with her long hair wild and untamed, a ferocious lioness with a glorious mane.

With absolutely no expression on her face, Cassandra reached back and started plaiting her hair into a tight braid. Alex made an odd muffled sound, either amusement or shock or distress, but Methos was getting tired of this little game. "I suppose if I tell you I like your hair long, you'd get a pair of scissors," he said. "And if I tell you I like your hair short, you'd shave your head."

Cassandra's fingers moved rapidly, finishing the end of her braid, then she flipped it over her shoulder so that it hung down her back. "I don't live my life to make you happy, Methos," she informed him icily. "Not anymore."

Methos swung himself out of the hammock. "Fine," he replied, just as coldly. "I don't want you to. Not any more, and not ever again." He walked over to her, too close for comfort, but she stood her ground impassively while he looked her over, and she met his gaze straight on when he finally looked into her eyes. Eyes of a cold unblinking green, cat's eyes, mocking, disdainful-hungry.

And alone. Methos said quietly, "I just think it's a damn shame that you live your life making yourself miserable."

She blinked once, flinching from the truth; then she spun on her heel and walked away. But she was polite to him an hour later, sat nearby at the wedding, talked to him at the reception, even smiled at him a few times. The next day after lunch, near the garden behind the farmhouse, he asked her why.

This time, she wouldn't meet his eyes. "When you would go riding with your brothers, I would wait in your tent for your return," she said, staring at the distant snow-topped hills. "I would spend hours on my hair, combing and braiding it different ways, hoping that when you came back to me, you would say, 'I like your hair.'"

Methos stared at those same far-off hills. "I didn't know." Not yesterday, not three thousand years ago.

"I know," she said, but there was no anger in her now. "But I didn't mind, because sometimes you did notice, and you would smile at me. That was all I needed to make me happy." She left him then, and Methos didn't watch her go.

===== 8 October 2006, The Mediterranean Sea =====

"I am trying, Methos," she told him by the poolside, tossing her head a little to move her hair from her eyes, that long, glorious hair so soft to the touch, so silken on the skin, the strands whispering caresses over his chest, shoulders, belly, thighs, while her voice whispered other caresses, and her hands and lips and tongue touched him in other ways. Methos remembered.

"But when I look at you," Cassandra went on, obviously remembering other, less pleasant things, "I see ghosts, even now. I need more time to put those ghosts behind me, so I can see you as you really are."

Methos nodded as he leaned back on the deck chair. Time, at least, was something Immortals had plenty of. Too much sometimes, Methos thought, watching a pink and orange cloud as it touched the edge of the sun. Too damn much.

"I would like peace between us," Cassandra said, hopeful again. "And I'm ready for that now."

"Peace then," Methos agreed, smiling at her with complete and utter charm until she smiled back, a brilliant blaze of happiness, a smile he hadn't seen from her in over three thousand years.

A smile he didn't trust at all, probably no more than she trusted his. He couldn't make her happy that easily anymore. It was an armed and wary peace between them, with always the chance for war. A truce, just as Cassandra had said. Besides, he still owed her for that little joke of hers last night. She wasn't getting off that easy. Neither was Elena.

"Time for a swim," Cassandra announced, and Methos watched as she stood and tossed her robe aside. She was wearing even less than Elena had the day before, the bottom half only of a bikini, dark green to match her eyes, though Methos doubted many men managed to make that connection. There were too many distractions along the way. He'd been wrong about her all-body tan; every single inch of her was golden from the sun. She was leaner than Elena, long-limbed and slender, the muscles flowing with a dancer's grace instead of rippling with solid strength. And where Elena was always seductive, no matter what she was or wasn't wearing, Cassandra somehow gave the impression of being remote and untouchable, even as she stood there almost completely unclothed. It wasn't just because of him, either. She'd been that way at the wedding reception when she'd been dancing with MacLeod.

Cassandra walked sedately toward the pool, no sauntering, no prowling, no self-consciousness or posturing in her stride. She might have been completely alone. But she stopped and looked at him before she dove into the water, and she smiled once again. The entire walk had been a deliberate flaunting of both her body and her new-found confidence, staged and performed just for him. Methos watched her swim for a few strokes, her hair afloat around her, a bewitching siren who knew his true name, who knew him better than he wanted to admit. Some of those ghosts she saw were real.

Methos checked his watch. They'd be serving breakfast soon, but he still had time to take a shower and shave. He strolled off whistling before Cassandra reached the other side of the pool.

"Ahi esta Methos!" Elena exclaimed when she felt the approach of an Immortal during dinner on the last night of the cruise, though who else could it be? There were only three Immortals on the ship, and Cassandra was sitting right across from her. Elena waved one hand high in the air, and Cassandra turned around to see. From the doorway of the busy restaurant, Methos nodded in return, unable to wave because of the utterly gorgeous blonde clinging to his right arm and the equally stunning redhead possessively stroking his left. Fashion models from Milan, Methos had told Elena three days ago, when she had asked.

That threesome was being pretty obvious, Elena thought. Not that Methos wasn't absolutely charming, very funny, and technically the best lover she had ever- - Elena shook her head and stopped those memories cold. That night in Miami Beach had been once, only once, under a specific set of…circumstances. And now Elena was married. By the Catholic Church. And in spite of everything, Elena Duran did not betray the vows she made to her husbands and before God, not even if her husband did run off and have an affair with a mousy little hairdresser only nine months after the wedding and- -

Elena took a deep breath, turned her attention back to her meal, and sawed the last of her filet mignon in half, then popped one of the pieces of dark pink meat into her mouth and chewed. Eventually, she swallowed the meat and sighed. It had been a Quickening, ese maldito juego inmortal. She'd explained it all to Lorenzo before they'd gotten married, of course, but seeing the beheading and the lightning had startled him, maybe scared him, and that, in turn, had humiliated him. There were certain disadvantages to being with the kind of strong, macho man she favored.

But there were also definite advantages. Lorenzo was tall, blond, rich, a fearsome opponent on the polo field, un semental in the bedroom. Elena sighed once more, remembering his warm brown eyes, his loving touch, his laughter... Lorenzo made her laugh, and she deserved to laugh, damn it! Perhaps she shouldn't have stormed off quite so quickly. Perhaps she might answer his email after all. Elena ate the last bite of her meat.

Methos and his companions had seated themselves on the other side of the room, and the two women together offered Methos a strawberry from the platter of appetizers on the table. Methos allowed them to feed him, bite by succulent bite. Elena smiled as she imagined Methos dressed in a toga in Rome being fed by slaves... until she remembered Cassandra. Elena sobered before she glanced at her companion, but Cassandra was smiling, too, amused and tolerant.

"Looks like he's the cruise champion at more than just table tennis," Cassandra observed as she lifted a spoonful of wild rice from her plate.

"Doubles, no less," Elena added, but she was glad to see Methos hadn't spent all of his nights - or afternoons - alone. Those three had been together almost constantly these last four days. It was good for Methos to be content; it kept him out of mischief. It had also kept him busy enough not to get back at her for that little scene she and Cassandra had staged - yet. Elena grinned; for once, she'd been one step ahead of His Deviousness. The look on his face for that one split instant had been worth ... well, whatever plot he was devising in his little head. She hoped. Cassandra probably hoped so, too, though she hadn't said much about Methos during the entire cruise. Elena dangled some bait, hoping to find out more. "You don't hate him anymore," Elena ventured.

Cassandra's smile widened as she speared her last bite of salmon with her fork. "I have better things to do."

That was good to hear. "Do you think you two will ever be friends?"

Cassandra set down her food untasted. "I trust my friends. I'll never trust him."

"Ever?"

Cassandra was completely serious now. "Do you?"

Elena thought about it for a minute. "I don't think he'd deliberately hunt me - but if he felt he had a good reason, I believe he would kill me. And the truth is, I'm not convinced that I could stop him." She shook her head. "No. He is not on the short list of Immortals I trust." She lifted her wine glass in salute to Cassandra and said earnestly, "But you are, mi amiga."

Cassandra's smile came back, a happy one this time, and she lifted her glass in return. "And you are on mine."

They clinked the glasses and drank, but then Elena rolled the wine around in her glass and watched the liquid swirl. When she'd first met Cassandra, Elena had been only twenty-six, not even an Immortal. She hadn't liked the perfectly composed and eternally watchful woman at all. Nearly a century later, they'd met again, on a shipboard crossing from Buenos Aires to Capetown. Elena had been running from the Inquisition, who had already burned her at the stake once, and she'd had no hair, no hope, and no trust left for anyone. But Cassandra had listened, eternally patient that time, and Elena had come to appreciate that. Then ten years ago, after Bethel... Elena put a hand to her missing right eye. She and Cassandra had been through hell, but they'd come a long way, both of them, and they'd traveled some of that road together, bringing that closeness that comes only from shared suffering. Elena had come to trust Cassandra ten years ago, and Elena still did - even now that she knew about the Voice. She drained her glass and poured herself more wine from the bottle.

Cassandra waved a graceful hand at their elegant surroundings. "You were right, Elena. Traveling by sea is different than the first trip we took together, nearly three hundred years ago. Very different."

Elena looked around at the paneled walls, the crystal chandeliers, the black-jacketed waiters carrying platters of food, and she leaned back in her chair with a contented sigh. "The good old days were only good to those who didn't have to live them, eh? Remember the rats? And the worms in the food?"

Cassandra chimed in. "The green beer. The chamber pots tipping over in a storm. Being seasick."

Elena shuddered, remembering that smell: pungent urine mixed with sickly sweet vomit, usually several days old. No wonder everybody got sick. "I like modern times - especially hot and cold running water, especially on a boat."

"So do I," Cassandra agreed fervently.

"And you and I are different, too, mi vida," Elena said, leaning forward now. "We're stronger. We're not running anymore, either one of us."

"No," Cassandra agreed, her gaze now gone dark and inward. "Never again." She reached for a shrimp and peeled it with her nails, then dipped it in cocktail sauce and ate it in three neat bites. "So," she said cheerfully, "are you going back to Argentina, Elena? Or staying here in Italy?"

"Lorenzo knows the cruise schedule. If he's waiting for me at the dock with a dozen roses in his hand, maybe I'll stay. If he's not..." Elena shrugged, but she wasn't really sure what she would do. What if he wasn't waiting for her on the dock? What if- -?

"He'll be there," Cassandra said, and she sounded very sure.

Elena lifted her eyebrows in amusement, even as she hoped it was true. "Is that a prophecy?"

"No," she said with a small smile. "Just experience. Most men aren't hard to predict."

Elena nodded knowingly, because that was definitely true. Most men thought with their cocks, and that was never hard to predict. Cassandra now... she wasn't so obvious. "Are you meeting Amanda in Rome tomorrow?" Elena asked, still slightly surprised by that partnership. Elena hadn't thought the sex kitten Amanda and the sexually repressed Cassandra would get along very well. Maybe opposites did attract.

"No, we're meeting in Athens on Tuesday," Cassandra answered. "I thought I'd do some sightseeing in Rome for a few days, do some shopping, see a movie or two."

"I like the one that came out this summer about Simon Bolivar!" Elena mimicked a saber thrust with her steak knife as best she could sitting down. "Great action, and a true hero! Just like Jose de San Martin, the general I fought under during one of the never-ending Latin American wars of independence against the Spanish. I had to wear men's clothes, of course."

"Of course," Cassandra murmured.

"It's too bad they never made a movie about Dona Encarnacion," Elena continued. "She was a female caudillo and led a montonera, a group of women…, " she paused, looking for the right word, "…guerillas."

Cassandra shook her head. "I've never heard of Dona Encarnacion."

"She was crazy!" Elena smiled fondly, remembering the energetic, dark-haired woman in her late thirties - old by the standards of those days, but what a leader! "Oh, those were happy times, but hard, too. I had to be careful of the soldiers in both armies; I rode with Dona Encarnacion for protection against the Argentine men!" Elena said, laughing. "Hey, we were women's libbers way back in the nineteenth century, and we fought just as hard as the men! The authorities called us bandidos, but we thought of ourselves as patriots, fighting for our people, our land. Then after the Spaniards were defeated, her husband, Juan Manuel de Rosas, took power and became a tyrant. He turned against the Indios. But she never did, and even her husband didn't dare cross her."

"A female Argentine Robin Hood," Cassandra said, smiling back. "You're right; that would make a great movie."

"Maybe. Or maybe they'd ruin it the way they ruined the story of Vercingetorix five years ago, or Joan of Arc the year before that." Elena took a drink of her red wine, pensive now. Battles and fighting involved lots of bloodletting, and they didn't always turn out well. Anyway, she should be the last person to romanticize war. "Como han pasado anos," she murmured. So many years.

And even more years for Cassandra, and the last few hundred had been bad. Elena studied her ancient friend. Dark-red hair down to the middle of her back - worn loose like that it was very sensual. So were those green eyes. And at last she was dressing to show off her figure, in a clinging white dress of soft angora wool. Why the hell work out so hard and then cover your assets with long, loose, flowing clothes? Cassandra had wasted a lot of time. Not anymore, Elena decided. "You should get a boyfriend," Elena told her. "Someone to go to dinner with, go dancing with..." She grinned and lowered her voice suggestively. "Go to bed with."

Cassandra pushed her empty plate aside. "Elena-"

"You haven't, have you? Not once in the last ten years." And, except for one night with Duncan MacLeod, not for three hundred sixty-six years before that. Being raped by Silas, Kronos, and that other bastard didn't count.

"No, I haven't," Cassandra replied evenly. "I have not been...good company these last ten years, Elena. I couldn't inflict myself and my moods on anyone. Except my therapist, and I pay her to put up with me."

"Still?" Elena had never gone to a therapist, and her nightmares had not completely stopped, but they were less intense - and she suspected most Immortals had nightmares, anyway. Time did heal most wounds.

Cassandra shrugged. "Not so often now, maybe two or three times a year. I think I go mostly just to talk. I'd been silent so long."

Elena reached across the table and touched her hand. "You can always talk to me, amiga. Always."

Cassandra squeezed Elena's fingers lightly. "Gracias, che."

Elena squeezed back and smiled as they let go, but she wasn't done yet. "What about that cute Swede?" Elena prodded. "You know, the one who's been smiling at you all week? The one who's looking at you right now?" She waved and smiled at the tall young man with the crewcut near the entrance, and he waved and smiled back.

Cassandra didn't turn around this time. "Elena..."

"Oh, go on, Cassi," Elena encouraged. "Last night on board! Sex is good for you; it's good exercise! Give someone your body, and your heart will follow. And if it doesn't - well, at least your body had fun!"

"Yes, but... it doesn't work that way for me, not anymore." Cassandra swirled her wine glass, watching the liquid flow in circles inside. "I've tried." She drained the last of her wine, but kept staring at the empty glass in her hand. "I miss it," she admitted. "The freedom, the joy." She grinned across the table, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth, her eyebrows raised and her voice lowered. "The power."

"!Claro que si, m'hija!" Elena agreed, letting the last word become a growl. To bring a strong, powerful man, no matter how great a warrior, to the point where he was begging you for release - that was sweet victory indeed ... and even sweeter surrender. "But you will want to again, someday," Elena reassured her.

"Someday," Cassandra agreed but then set her glass down firmly on the table and announced, "And I'm going to start now. Dinner's over, but perhaps Lars would like to join us for dessert."

"And dancing?" Elena suggested.

Cassandra smiled. "Perhaps."

Elena pushed some more. "And then...?"

This time Cassandra laughed. "I remember the first thing I heard your father say to you, Elena, before you were an Immortal. Do you?"

Elena smiled softly, a little abashed. As much love as there had been between them, memories of her father always brought forth a little bit of a sense of unworthiness on her part. "Oh, yes. I heard it a lot. He said: 'Slow down.'"

Cassandra added gently, "He also said you had more heart and guts than anyone he'd ever met, man or woman."

Elena asked in a hushed voice, "He really said that about me?"

"He did. He was very proud of you." Cassandra reached over and touched Elena's hand. "And he would be very proud of you now."

Her father had admired courage above all other qualities. Elena grinned, too pleased to even speak. Don Alvaro had never told her in so many words that he was proud of her. Her eye glistening, she basked in that glory for a luxurious moment.

"And now, if you'll excuse me," Cassandra said, rising from her chair, "I'm going to talk to Lars."

Elena shifted to the right side of her chair so she could see better past the bald head of the man at the next table. Lars straightened up and self-consciously ran his hand through his hair as Cassandra neared him. He had a dazzling smile in that bronzed Viking face, and his eyes were a bright blue. He looked much like Lorenzo, although a bit taller and leaner… now he was laughing at something Cassi had said, good for her! She deserved to laugh, too.

Elena's gaze wandered, and she noticed Methos looking at the couple. El viejo didn't miss much, did he? Then, as if he could read her mind, as usual, Methos caught Elena's glance, smiled, and raised his glass. Elena did the same, drinking a toast to Cassandra's future and bidding a farewell to the past. Then Elena drank again, looking forward to her own future, and to seeing her husband again.

After the cruise ship had docked at the port of Civitavecchia, Methos nodded farewell to Cassandra, gave Elena a hug, and kissed Gabriela and Maria several times. They waved goodbye as they boarded a train back to Milan, and then waved again as the train pulled away. Methos fell asleep on his train ride south; Gabriela and Maria had been even more enthusiastic in their goodbyes of last night. When he reached the city of Rome, Methos shouldered his backpack and started to walk. After a week of aimless sauntering between the decks of a ship, it was good to stretch his legs again.

Methos avoided the ruins of the Colosseum and the Forum, but otherwise wandered with no particular plan. At lunchtime, he stopped in a bar for a crackling roast pork sandwich and a beer. Then he bought a newspaper and sat in the sunshine on a park bench to read. Floods in Bangladesh, killer termites in New Orleans, hem lines going down, cloning of sheep dogs as well as of sheep, a bank failure in London and another in Sao Paulo, peace talks in Israel, a virulent strain of influenza sweeping through Japan-fifteen thousand dead so far. Gasoline was up to six dollars a gallon in the U.S. "We can't even afford summer vacations," consumers complained. The president insisted that conservation was not the answer. "National parks are national resources. Resources are meant to be exploited." California was taxing water, and Ecuadorian flowers were selling very well in Holland. Methos decided to call his broker soon: time to invest in farming supplies.

He folded the paper and started to walk again, browsing among the stalls of a craft fair near the Piazza Navona, and watching the multitude of cats who paraded in solitary sereneness along the streets and alleys of Rome. Just before sunset he ordered ice cream at a gelaterie then sat near the Fontana della Tartarughe to enjoy the smooth dessert. In the fountain in front of him, four bronze statues of youths stood on the heads of stone dolphins. Each youth helped a stone tortoise climb into the overhead pool.

"What now?" Methos murmured when he had finished eating, but he wasn't thinking about more food. The erring and contrite Lorenzo had met Elena at the dock with two dozen red roses in his hand and a ruby necklace in his pocket, so Elena was back with her husband. MacLeod would be busy raising sheep in New Zealand for the next half-century or so, and Joe Dawson and his wife were expecting their second child in about six weeks. They didn't need Methos dragging the Game into their lives. Besides, they'd probably expect him to change diapers if he visited, and Methos was in the mood for some wild-ass, hair-raising escapades, like the kind he and Ramirez had enjoyed with the delectably insatiable Serena nearly sixteen centuries ago. Methos grinned; that woman would have kept even Byron on his toes, in several different ways. But Ramirez had been dead for nearly five hundred years, and Methos hadn't seen Serena since the Sun King had sat on the throne of France. The Watchers' last entry on her had been in 1782. Dead, probably, like so many others through the years - Rebecca, Timon, Aganesthes, Constantine, Haresh, Byron...

And of those who were alive: Amanda was "seeing a man about a camel," Grace was entirely too serious, Kit O'Brady was busy with his casino, and Cassandra (though she did show some surprising potential) was still sleeping with her ghosts. So, who did that leave?

Himself. As always. He'd find someone along the way, or maybe they'd find him. But which way to go? Methos rummaged in the pocket of his trousers and found the two ten-cent pieces Cassandra had given him. He tossed one coin high in the air, caught it, and flipped it onto the back of his hand. The less-than-classic profile of King Charles glinted in the sunshine. North, then, perhaps Munich or Berlin. Methos hadn't been there in years, not since the Beatles. Maybe he could find a good rock band to join.

Methos tossed the other coin into the water, an offering to the gods. Time to move on.

At sunset, Cassandra climbed the worn steps to the Pantheon then passed through the columned portico, between the great bronze doors and to the circular shrine within. Bright geometric patterns of colored marble lay underfoot; blind windows lined the upper part of the wall. The only light entered from the oculus high above, a round eye designed to be open to the sky, so that rain might enter and smoke might rise. Cassandra walked slowly past the alcoves, following the curve of the wall. The temple was a pantheon no longer; the ancient statues of the deities she remembered had been removed, replaced by figures of modern human kings and queens. Save one, a Madonna and Child, standing over Raphael's tomb. As it should be. Always, the Mother prevailed.

Cassandra knelt on the floor before the statue, and the few remaining tourists in the Pantheon shuffled around her in slow silence with questioning stares. For once, she did not care. The mortals might wonder all they wished; they could never understand, and they would never imagine what she saw. She lowered her head to the cool marble, her arms outstretched before her, a more formal obeisance to the Goddess.

When the shadows had deepened and the murmurs of visitors had subsided, she rose to her feet and walked to the center of the room, then looked straight up to the deep blue of the sky. Darkness would come soon.

Cassandra left the temple, her footsteps swift and sure. Amanda was next on the list. It was time to continue this first step of the plan.

This story is continued in Chapter 3:Thick as Thieves, wherein Amanda and Cassandra go sightseeing and do some shopping

For more about Elena and Lorenzo, see the story "The Only Game in Town" by Parda and Vi.