Hope Forgotten VI: Sentinel
Chapter 2
Roland stood at the far edge of the cemetery, just beyond sensing range, but his voice, his trained Voice, had carried clearly to her ears. She did not see his sword, but then, he knew he wouldn't need it against her. He approached her now, smiling. He always smiled when he saw her.
Cassandra stood with her back against the tree, her hand on the roughness of the bark, and waited.
He stopped a few paces away from her, and laid his hand on the edge of the tombstone of Brigit Mahan. He had cut his gray hair very short, and it made him look somehow older. He wore a dark shirt and pants, and a loose black leather coat hung to his knees. His clothing could not disguise his stockiness; he was almost bordering on plumpness. His dark gray eyes were alight with malicious glee as his gaze moved over her slowly and thoroughly. The small secretive smile on his face because an evil grimace of anticipation.
"It's been a long time, Cassandra."
Not long enough, she thought, but she remained silent. She knew better than to speak.
"Aberdeen, wasn't it? About three hundred and sixty years ago?" he asked casually. "You do remember that, don't you, Cassandra?" He laughed softly as he saw her swallow hard. "I can see that you do."
She did remember. All too clearly. Even more now than when she had been with Connor. The sight -and the scent- of Roland sickened her, and the sound of his voice made her feel as though maggots were crawling on the back of her neck, but she did not look away from him. She knew better than to do that, too. She remained where she was, her back and her hand against the tree, drawing strength from its presence, feeling the life within it.
Roland stopped smiling at her and looked down. A spider was crawling across the back of his hand, and Roland lifted it gently, held it delicately between thumb and forefinger. With his other hand he pulled off one of the spider's legs, very carefully and very slowly. He examined the spider curiously, and pulled off another leg, then another. When the spider had only one leg left, he replaced it on the tombstone and left it there, a helpless mutilated blob.
He smiled at her again. "And now I have the Highland foundling. You didn't protect him very well, did you, Cassandra?"
Cassandra carefully kept her face impassive, though she wondered despairingly where and how he had captured Duncan. Did Duncan even have his sword? Roland must at least give him that chance. He probably would; he was vain enough to want to win in a fight, not simply take Duncan's head. As long as he could use the Voice to tip the odds in his favor during the fight.
Roland stepped closer to her, moving in front of the tombstone. "But that's hardly a surprise. You didn't protect me, either."
Her eyes flickered just a little at that, but he saw it and took another step toward her. His smile broadened. "I brought you a present, Cassandra. A little late for Mother's Day, I'm afraid." He reached into his black leather coat and removed a large envelope, then offered it to her.
Cassandra made no move to take it. Now both of her hands were against the tree.
"No? My feelings are most dreadfully hurt, Mother." The last word came out twisted and tortured. "Shall I open it for you?" He took her silence for assent and removed three photographs. He held up the first for her inspection. "It's a lovely one of you, isn't it?"
Cassandra glanced at it quickly, then went back to staring at Roland. She had seen pictures like these before. It was of her, completely naked, coming from a shower and toweling dry her hair. She thought she recognized the room; it looked like the hotel she had stayed at in Madrid. Of course, all hotel rooms started to look alike after a time.
Roland turned the photo so he could examine it. "I've seen better of you, I think," he said judiciously. "Still, the hotel staff did the best they could." He smiled at Cassandra once again. "I've already shown it to several buyers; they are very interested. I did tell them they would have to wait." His smile disappeared as his eyes raked over her again. "Maybe for some time." He shook his head slightly. "We didn't quite finish in Aberdeen. I was surprised you left. You knew what would happen."
Cassandra had known, but she had had no choice.
"What was your servant girl's name? Beitris, wasn't it? It took her three days to die."
Cassandra hadn't wanted to know that. If she had stayed to keep Beitris alive, then Roland would have eventually gotten the truth about Duncan and Connor from her. Cassandra knew she would have told him. She knew how long it took him to break her. And she knew if Roland had found out about Duncan in Aberdeen, he would have tracked him down and killed him. Then there would simply be more girls, more children, more death, and no hope of ever stopping Roland. She had decided to sacrifice that one girl to save Duncan and to save all the others. I'm sorry, Beitris, Cassandra thought, but I had no choice.
"No matter. I have you now." His smile was back. "But there are some more pictures. Do you like this one?" He held up the second.
Cassandra looked at it and blinked, keeping her features empty, though she felt cold inside. The picture showed her and Connor, standing by her car at his farm in the Highlands. She had hoped his people had not followed her there. She had been there for less than a day.
"Another lover, Cassandra? And another MacLeod." He made a small clicking sound in disparagement. "Do they take turns? Or do you fuck both of them at the same time?" He grinned at her. "I've seen you do that."
Cassandra swallowed again, trying to banish the memories. Roland liked to watch nearly as much as he liked to do it himself. He had rented her to his "friends" for an evening or a day or a month, or offered her as "entertainment" during his parties. He didn't mind watching other men with her, as long as she wasn't the one to choose them. He couldn't stand her choosing her own lovers. He killed her lovers. He killed her love.
Now Roland examined the picture of Connor. "And another Immortal." The gleam of Connor's sword was clearly visible. "I didn't think you liked Immortal lovers, Cassandra. That was what you told me in Aberdeen."
She had lied to him in Aberdeen. She had told Roland that her lover was a mortal, a sailor who had just left her in a rage when she had told him she didn't want to see him anymore. After Roland had broken all of her fingers and both of her arms and she had told him the same story, he had believed her. Then he had beaten her to death, just for fun. When she had revived, he had raped her again. But it hadn't been a violent rape that time.
Roland had taken his time about it, touching her gently, caressing her even, in a horrible parody of the way Connor had teased her the day before. And she had responded to it eventually, grateful, in a way- that he wasn't hurting her, wanting it to be over, knowing that if she resisted he would beat her again, knowing that if she gave in he would finish with her sooner. Cassandra shook her head slightly and tried to forget. At least during a violent rape she could cling to some shreds of her self-respect. But Roland was still talking, and she knew better than not to listen.
"And now you have two Immortal lovers. And at the same time." He looked up from the picture of Connor. "Or have you even told them you're fucking both of them? Is it a secret? Do they know what a slut you are, Cassandra?"
She stared at him in silence.
He made that small clicking noise again and said, "Well, I can tell them. Or better yet, they can see for themselves. I've got Duncan. It won't be too hard to get the other one, too." He nodded, pleased with himself. "It will be just like old times. They can take turns. And then maybe I'll tell them to strangle you, too. But when they're done with you, who should kill the other one first? Should Connor kill Duncan? Or Duncan kill Connor? Hmmm?"
Cassandra closed her eyes briefly, trying to wipe the images from her mind. It was only for a moment, but Roland had seen that she was not looking at him. He hit her in the face, hard across the cheek, catching her ear with the blow.
Cassandra blinked back the tears of pain and waited for the ringing in her head to go away, for the Healing to soothe the ache and the burning.
But Roland was waiting too, and as soon as he saw the red marks on her face had faded he hit her again. Harder.
Cassandra swayed with the force of it and crumpled back against the tree, tasting her blood in her mouth. He had learned how to time his blows with great precision. She knew they would come slowly at first, giving her time to heal between each one. Then he would start to hit her more quickly, more violently, gradually decreasing the time between blows as the intensity increased. He was still in the early stages yet. "This is Holy Ground, Roland," she reminded him, when she felt she could speak clearly again.
He looked about him in mock surprise. "Why, so it is. But we're not fighting, Cassandra. You wouldn't fight me, would you?" He knew the answer to that. "We're just having a little discussion, and I'm simply driving my points home." He hit her again, this time on the other cheek.
Roland waited until Cassandra stood upright. "Do you think they would like to watch, too?" He held out the final picture.
A woman, blond with delicate features, and a boy, perhaps ten or eleven with dusky skin and dark hair and eyes. It looked like a picture from a wedding; the woman wore flowers in her hair, and the boy was uncomfortable in a suit. She did not recognize either of them. She looked back at Roland, her face totally impassive, the marks of his blows gone.
"Maybe I'll have Connor watch when Duncan fucks his wife. Then Connor can strangle her himself. Of course, she's not Immortal, so he can only kill her once. I'll have to make it good." He put the pictures back inside his coat. "I have people looking for them now; it shouldn't take long."
Cassandra kept her face calm, but she could not control the flare of panic and hatred in her eyes. So they were Alex and John, Connor's family. It must be an old picture; she wondered how Roland had gotten it. She felt sick; she should never have gone to see Connor.
Roland smiled at her reaction. "When I heard you were traveling quickly and had been in the Highlands last week, I knew something was happening. You haven't been to Scotland since 1630. Since Aberdeen."
A blow upon a bruise. He kept reminding her of things long past. She couldn't stand to look at him anymore, and she closed her eyes, not caring if he hit her again.
But his voice went on. "I wondered why you were in that worthless country back then. You must have been confused by the words of the prophecy, too. I thought I had tracked down the foundling child once in that forsaken wasteland they call the Highlands, but the stupid peasant woman told me that the one I sought was not there."
Cassandra felt a grim surge of satisfaction. She had long wondered how the people of Glenfinnan had managed to get rid of Roland without betraying Duncan to him. He must have asked the wrong question, and he was simply so arrogant that he could not conceive of making a mistake. He was convinced that no one could lie to him, so he had left.
What a vicious fool he was. She might as well tell him so, even though she knew he would hit her again. He would hit her anyway, no matter what she did. It would be worth it. She opened her eyes and stared at him in derision. "You always were arrogant and impatient, Roland. Duncan was right there, in the Highlands in 1606. You could have had him when he was thirteen if you hadn't been so stupid."
She didn't really see the blow coming so much as hear it, a whistling of the air as his fist landed on her nose, breaking it. She didn't see or hear his other fist, but she felt as he drove it into the pit of her stomach. She fell gasping to her knees, blood in her hands when she touched her nose.
She didn't see his foot as it came up and kicked her in the face, but she rolled toward the tree, curling herself around the trunk. His next kick caught her in the back in the kidneys, not as hard as he could, but enough to make her vision fade to black. He waited then, waited for her to heal. She knew what he expected; he had trained her well. She pushed herself up on her hands and knees, getting ready to stand and face him again. But Roland wasn't finished. He kicked her again, the point of his shoe catching her just below the ribs. It took her several minutes before she could stand after that. He waited until she was facing him, her expression calm, her hands against the tree trunk once again, waiting for him, waiting for him to punish her again. There was blood between her hands and the bark.
He stepped very close, not quite touching her. "You seem to have forgotten quite a bit, Cassandra." His hand reached out and lightly traced her cheekbone. "I'll have to teach you again, I see." He gently moved her hair away from her face. "And you've let your hair grow. Good."
His hand continued its caress of her face as he spoke softly. Cassandra hated his gentleness more than his violence. She never knew when he would become vicious again.
Roland continued, his hand moving down to her jaw. "It's been quite a while, I know. I almost found you in 1625, near Amsterdam. I did find some of your students. We burned the whole lot of them as witches. But, of course, you weren't there to see it. You left." The gentleness shifted to coldness, and his hand tightened on her throat. "You always leave."
Cassandra didn't blink, didn't flinch. He couldn't kill her on Holy Ground; she knew that. He was toying with her, tormenting her, enjoying his power over her. But when she looked into his gray eyes, so close to her own, she saw buried deep inside them a frightened little boy, and she realized with a painful mixture of pity and glee that he was afraid. Roland was here wasting time, delaying the battle with Duncan. He knew the prophecy would soon be fulfilled, and he was afraid. The pity and glee gave way to knowing sadness, and Cassandra's mask of composure became a look of compassion and understanding. Even, somehow, a memory of love. And the beginnings of forgiveness.
Roland blinked then, and his hand fell to his side. The Voice of Death was silent. The frightened little boy peered out at her from the depths of millennia of pain and abandonment and loneliness, screaming silently for someone to help him, someone to rescue him, someone to care. He didn't want to be alone anymore; he would make sure no one ever left him again.
"You need to leave now," she said softly, her voice gentle. She quelled the impulse to reach out and smooth his hair. She understood him now in a way she had never understood him before, understood his fear and his anger and his madness. She used the Voice to control him completely. "You must go and fight Duncan." Her words and her tone were exactly right to reach him, reach the little boy inside him.
Roland blinked again, and the little boy disappeared, sucked back into the pit of blood and pain and madness and drowned there alive, still screaming silently in terror, choking on blood. Roland walked away from her and left her there alone.
Cassandra stepped forward and looked at the spider, still lying on the top of the tombstone. Its one leg was moving feebly. "I'm sorry," she whispered and crushed it under her thumb. She went to the base of the tree and sat down, then leaned her back against the tree and closed her eyes, reaching out to the Highland foundling once again.
Sunset
She was standing in the darkness, waiting. The low-slanting rays of the setting sun cast long shadows in the room, shadows of the gratings in front of the windows, shadows of the bars in the center of the room, shadows of a cage. The room was empty and smelled of dust. She could not move; she could not speak. She could do nothing. She could only watch, and wait.
The door opened, and her son came in, walking in the long path of sunlight that streamed through the doorway into the dark. Roland had come.
But her champion was waiting, too. "Catch up on your beauty sleep?" Duncan asked, his voice charming and deadly, his sword at the ready as he crouched on a stack of wooden pallets.
Roland smiled, that small evil smile she had seen so many times throughout the years, that smile she hated. "We're making history, MacLeod," he said, as he took out his sword. "No point in rushing it." He rushed at Duncan, slashing at his feet.
Cassandra closed her eyes, unwilling to watch as the fight continued. She would not watch, but she could hear. She could hear the sounds of the sword-fight. She could hear the labored breathing of the combatants, the grunts and harsh gasps, the quick running footsteps, and the cold solid ringing of steel upon steel. And above all these sounds she could hear Roland's voice using the Voice, the Voice she had taught him.
He was playing with MacLeod, enjoying his power, enjoying this game. But the game was not over; the game was not won. His cruelty became confusion, and the taunting in his voice turned to anger and frustration as he exclaimed, "It cannot be!"
She opened her eyes and saw that Duncan was still watching, still waiting, but Roland was advancing, his sword high. She tried to speak, to whisper, but she had no voice. She must be silent. She could do nothing.
But Roland could speak, and he spoke the words she had wanted to say. "The prophecy -must be- fulfilled!"
O Goddess, please! The prophecy must be fulfilled! Good must triumph over Evil! Duncan was waiting, and as Roland came toward him, Duncan pivoted and slashed, his sword slicing into Roland, cutting deep.
Roland gasped, "Impossible!"
Another stroke, from hip-bone to breast-bone, gutting him, laying him open. Roland's eyes were wide and staring, his smile finally gone. Duncan raised his bloody sword again.
Cassandra could not speak; she could not move; and she could not bear to see. She could not watch the death of her son.
There was a sudden singing of the air as Duncan's blade swung round, a sodden thump, a slow exhalation of life as the body of her son crumpled to the ground. The sound of Duncan's breathing lay harsh above the silence, and Cassandra wished she could not hear.
Shadows of lightning flickered against her eyelids, and Cassandra slowly opened her eyes. There was lightning rising from the ground, lightning coming from the burning outline of the crescents, the triple crescents of the Lady, the symbol of the Goddess. Duncan stood within the center, his sword held high in both his hands, flat across the palms.
An offering there, from the man to the Goddess, as once there had been an offering from the woman to the child. Child no longer, but a man. The power and the lightning struck into him, tore through him, and he accepted the power of the Quickening, his tortured screams echoing long and loud in the confines of the room. As the lightning faded into fire, Cassandra felt the faintest of touches on her forehead, the forgotten memory of a kiss, and then the crescents were no more.
The waiting now was ended; the prophecy fulfilled.
Cassandra need no longer be silent; her voice was hers once more. She spoke softly, her voice falling into a measured cadence. "An evil one will come, to vanquish all before him. Only a Highland Child, born on the Winter Solstice, who has seen both Darkness and Light, can stop him. A child, and a man."
The visions started then, memories of his childhood, of his life and death and life. The fire burned behind him, warmth instead of heat. Watching from the darkness, Cassandra saw Duncan turning slowly, turning in the circle of the images, the circle of his life.
- The young Duncan, his face alight with sunshine and hope, standing tall and proud, speaking of his dreams, "I will be a great warrior! I'll get to marry Debra Campbell."
- And Debra herself, her promise of beauty fulfilled, smiling with love in her eyes, love for Duncan, love never attained, for Duncan watched her as she fell to her death, watched her as she left him alone, and the bracelet he had given her fell unnoticed to the ground.
- His first death, a simple wound that stripped his body of life; Duncan lying back, confusion and pain in his eyes before they closed for that last time.
- Duncan reviving, looking up, his hands bloody and his body whole, speaking to his father, "It ... it is a miracle!"
- And Ian MacLeod, staring with horror and revulsion, backing away in fear, casting him out-as Cassandra had known he would do -his face and voice terrified as he looked at the demon he had raised as his son. "You're no bairn o' mine! You're not my son!"
- Duncan running after his father, the man he had thought was his father, running and stumbling on the sharp stones of the road, his voice anguished and panicked as he pleaded for an answer, an answer no one could give. "Where do I come from? Where? WHERE?"
- Duncan as a child again, earnest and innocent, speaking the truth he believed, "You will win, because you're good, and Good must always triumph over Evil," while Duncan as a man saw more battles, more fighting, more bleeding and dying, the sunshine gone from him now in the darkness of killing, an orgy of killing and blood.
- Duncan leaving, forsaking the land of his birth and his death and going on alone.
The visions faded into shadows, and Cassandra spoke once more. "A child. And a man."
The sun disappeared, and the fire burned behind him, casting its own shadows and its own light into the cage. But Duncan was in darkness, and she could not see his face.
Cassandra awoke from the dream of fire and shadows and blood. The Prophecy had been fulfilled, and the Voice of Death was forever silent. Cassandra leaned her head against the willow tree and wept.
As the darkness started to gather, she felt the sensation of an approaching Immortal. She did not move; she did not turn around. She watched as the ants tugged the last of the butterfly wing into their nest. Only when the wing had disappeared did she stand and turn to walk the last few steps to Duncan.
They returned to Duncan's loft from the Mexican restaurant after dark. Cassandra couldn't quite remember what or if she had eaten, though she knew she had had two margaritas. Or maybe three. They had been good. Life was good.
In the bathroom of Duncan's loft she dialed Connor's number on her cell phone. It rang five times before it was answered.
"Yes?"
No name, no polite welcome, no asking "May I help you?" It was definitely Connor. "Connor, it's Cassandra." He did not acknowledge her name, he simply waited. This last week must have been a long one for him. "Roland's dead."
A short pause, and she thought she heard a faint sigh of relief. "Good," came his dry voice. "Duncan?"
"He's fine. He's in the next room. Do you want to talk to him?"
Another pause, a little longer this time. "No."
Stubborn man. Pig-headed fool. He would wait for Duncan to come to him. And the longer he waited, the worse it would be. Perhaps she could do something about that, something to help. She had said she would help him in another thing as well. "About the training, do you still want to do that?" She was the only one left who knew the Voice.
"Yes."
A very definite yes. Connor didn't like anyone having such power over him, even her. Especially her. She was not surprised. "It will take at least a month, Connor, maybe two. We'll need to work at it every day."
"I have a house in Edinburgh," he said, after a moment. "Next week?"
She hesitated. "There's something I need to do first. How about two weeks?"
"Two," he agreed. "Call me."
"I'll call you." Cassandra took a deep breath and said, "Connor, I ... ." But she was talking to no one; he was gone. She stared at the phone for a moment before putting it back in her bag.
She took a quick shower and dressed in a white silk gown that skimmed over her body. She looked at herself in the mirror, wondering if she had changed now that her world had changed. She looked the same, except a little around the eyes. Less haunted, perhaps? At least the fear was gone.
When she came into the loft, she saw that Duncan had been busy. Most of the furniture covers had been put away; the place looked much more comfortable. He was coming back home.
Duncan was sitting near the table, staring at a candle flame with a far-away look in his eyes. She watched him for a moment, knowing he was thinking about the child. Himself as a child. He snuffed out the candle.
"What would you have said to him?" she asked softly as she came closer.
He did not look at her. "I don't know. Maybe I could have warned him about the life he was going to lead."
"What could you have said? Don't feel? Don't grow?" She perched on the arm of the couch. "Don't live with hope?" She knew all too well what a life without hope was like.
"Probably not." He looked at her briefly and stood up. "So," he said, as he walked over to the bookshelf, "the prophecy is fulfilled. Now you leave."
He was right. She could leave. Maybe she should leave. She wondered if Connor had contacted Alex yet and told her to come home. But that shouldn't matter to her. Connor didn't want her or need her. He had his own family.
She was tired of living in the past; she was tired of living for the future. Just now, just this once, she wanted to live for the present, without any thoughts or concerns or plots or schemes or lies. She didn't want to think about anything else but what was happening right now. She didn't need to use Duncan or manipulate him anymore; she could simply be with him for the night. Finally, she was free. She had made a promise to him long ago in Donan Woods, a promise to the man he would become, a hope for herself through all the long years. And he was a man now. He was very much a man. She decided she wasn't ready to go yet.
She walked over to Duncan and laid her hands on his chest. He felt very warm. She watched him carefully to see if he objected. He certainly didn't seem to mind. "Well, there is - one more thing," she said softly, as she started to unbutton his shirt.
Duncan waited until she had undone three of the buttons before he asked, "Is this part of the prophecy?"
"No," she said, somewhat breathlessly, pushing his shirt from his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. She ran her hands up over his shoulders and down his back, marveling at the smoothness of his skin. "This one's for me." It had been a very long time since she had done something purely for herself, something that wasn't part of the prophecy. It was intoxicating, frightening. It was a feeling of freedom, a feeling of responsibility. It was a choice.
She chose to kiss him, tasting the sharpness of the salsa still on his lips. His lips were still soft and warm, as they had been all those years ago, but he did not tense in surprise now.
But he did pull back, and he placed his hand gently under her chin.
Cassandra froze; she hated being touched that way. "Is something wrong?" she asked carefully, trying to still the fear that coiled within her, hoping he wouldn't turn her away and leave her alone, knowing she would have to accept it if he did.
Duncan shook his head. "No." He touched her face, tracing the same path Roland had traced earlier in the cemetery, but not touching her the same way at all. His hand moved down to her neck and then to her shoulder, sliding her dress down and away in a whisper of silk. He said softly, "Just making sure you're real," as he bent his head and kissed the softness of her neck.
Cassandra closed her eyes as the warmth from him enveloped her. She needed this, and she deserved this. She gave herself to the moment, and to him.
In the morning, she surprised herself by singing as she showered. She had not sung for centuries. Ever since Aberdeen. There were a lot of things she hadn't done since Aberdeen. Such as making love. She slowly and pleasurably massaged the soap into a lather on her leg. It had been a long time since she had taken pleasure in something so basic as washing herself. After Aberdeen, she had not wanted to feel her body, not wanted to be connected to such pain. She had lived in her body, not with it.
Last night had been a reawakening for her, a rebirth. Duncan was a tremendously caring person in bed. Even though they really did not know each other, even though she knew they did not love each other, last night they had made love between them. Duncan had made her feel whole as a woman again; he had worshipped her body with his own, touched her everywhere and loved every part of her. He had made love to her easily and joyously because she was a woman, and he was a man. Last night, she had been Woman, and he had been Man, and it had been as simple and profound as that. The act of love had been a healing sacrament between them, a sacred joy, the way it was meant to be. She felt alive and holy and whole again, and deliciously clean for the first time in centuries.
She rinsed off the soap, delighting in the feel of the water on her bare skin, then luxuriating in the roughness of the towel as she rubbed herself dry. She stroked the skin on the inside of her arm gently, enjoying it. She remembered all too well that only yesterday she had gritted her teeth at the same touch. She knew that Connor could never have done this for her, never healed her in this way, never accepted her so completely. There was too much pain between them. She closed her eyes briefly, resolving that someday she would try to heal those wounds.
But that was in the future, and she was interested in today. She dressed quickly and brushed her hair, then joined Duncan at the table for breakfast. He had gone out early that morning and bought bagels and coffee and fruit; there had been no time to go shopping for groceries yesterday.
They spoke of various things as they ate - movies and books and chess. When they were sipping their second cup of coffee she said quietly, "You should call Connor, Duncan."
He stared at her, his coffee forgotten. "You know Connor?"
"I was the witch of Donan Woods since before your grandmother's time," she reminded him. "And you were not the only one to go wandering in the forest."
He nodded slightly, obviously wondering what else Connor had wandered into. She was not about to tell him, and she doubted if Connor would either. At least, she was relatively sure Connor wouldn't tell him. Not the entire story anyway. She continued, "Or better yet, you should go see him."
"See him?" Duncan shook his head. He had just come home from Europe.
"Connor is worried about you."
"Worried?" Duncan snorted slightly. "Connor never worries about me."
Did he really believe that? Probably. Stubborn Scots. Cassandra set her coffee down and laid her hand on his arm. She said gently, "You need to tell him about Sean Burns, Duncan." She saw Duncan's eyes change then, go flat and black and hard, and she finally saw the resemblance between the two MacLeods.
Duncan shook his head and looked away, but Cassandra persisted. "He needs to know, and you need to talk." The hardness in his eyes softened to pain and something else. Shame? Guilt? She ought to recognize them by now; she had seen them often enough in mirrors. "Promise me you'll go, Duncan. Soon."
He swallowed hard. "I need to talk to someone else first," he said.
Probably Richie, thought Cassandra, remembering the name Duncan had called with such an agonizing blend of hope and despair the first night she had been in his loft. She wondered what had passed between them, what else Duncan had done while the Darkness had him. His road had indeed been hard, and she knew it would be harder still. The prophecy was not yet completely fulfilled, but she could not warn him. She knew Duncan understood the perils of such foreknowledge now. Nor could she help him. He must face it alone.
Cassandra reached over and took his hand in hers, hoping to comfort him for both what had happened and what was to come. "But you will see him," she said.
"Yes," he agreed, "I'll go see Connor."
And so would she. But not just yet. She kissed Duncan lightly on the cheek and left.
This story is concluded in Hope Forgotten VII: Pilgrim