Hope Remembered - Part II: Fury

Chapter 2

It was morning, yesterday's clouds gone, a day of warm sunshine and brisk wind. Paper trash swirled along the gutters of the city streets. Cassandra walked swiftly and warily through the groups of people, searching. She had been searching for a long time.

Kronos had to be here. She had sensed an Immortal just a moment ago. A flicker of movement in an alley beckoned her, and she followed.

A rusty dumpster, more trash, white-scrawled graffiti on a dull brick wall. Where was he? The sullen ache in her head increased, and she whirled, sword in hand. But it was not Kronos.

It was Methos.

Cassandra froze, her sword suddenly heavy and unfamiliar. His hair was short, his face unpainted, but the eyes were the same. Gold and gray eyes, like yellow lichen on granite, a thin skim of life on a deadly cold rock.

He walked toward her, and she watched him come. He reached out casually and took her sword from her unresisting hands. She knew she should not defy him.

"You'll have to try harder than that," he said, and now his eyes were mocking and amused. He smiled, and he kept smiling as he used her sword to stab her through the heart.

She died slowly, while he watched her writhe in pain.

When she revived, he was still there, standing above her, looking down. "Surprise," he said charmingly. He had always had great charm. "You're not dead."

It was no longer a surprise, but it had been once, long ago. Once, long ago, she had been his. She still was.

Methos knelt beside her, and now his face was the face of a skull. "I will tame you," he said, as he put his hands around her neck, and then he started to squeeze.

Death had come for her again.

Duncan's Loft, 1 November 1996

Cassandra woke, and did not move. She lay limp and relaxed, controlling her panic. There was an Immortal in the room, but no one was touching her. She opened her eyes cautiously and looked around, then closed her eyes again in relief. She was in Duncan's loft, and he was on the bed not far away.

She lay quietly, waiting for her heart rate to return to normal. It was 1996, and she was in Seacouver. Methos was dead. He was dead. Death could never hurt her again.

Finally, she took a careful breath and sat up on the couch. She huddled into the blanket, staring at the bars of shadows from the street lamp outside the window. It was only three-thirty in the morning; she had been hoping for more than five hours of sleep. Cassandra wished Duncan didn't live in a one-room loft; she wanted to turn on a light, but she did not want to wake him.

She did not have to. She should have known he would be a light sleeper. He came over and sat on the arm of the couch, comfortable in a gray sweat-suit and bare feet, his dark hair loose about his shoulders. "Can't sleep?"

She shrugged. "You know how it is."

"Yeah." He lit the candle on the coffee table, then sat down next to her.

Cassandra controlled her impulse to move away from him and instead stared at the flame.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked.

"Connor," she said. "Heather, actually." Cassandra motioned to the candle. "Yesterday was her birthday." She knew Connor had driven to the village of Glencoe and visited Heather's grave, there on the hillside where he had buried her over four hundred years before. Connor had promised Heather he would light a candle for her on her birthday, and Connor was a man of his word. "He still remembers, after all this time."

"That's not surprising, is it?" Duncan asked. "Not for Connor."

Not for her, either. She would never forget. Not Roland, not Kronos, not Methos. Especially not Methos.

The Great Desert, The Bronze Age

Xhandra could not move, and she could not breathe. She was wrapped tightly in a cloth, her legs and arms lashed down with rope. With every breath she tried to take, the hard back of a horse slammed into her chest. At least, she thought it was a horse; it was obviously an animal, and it did not smell like a camel. And…They…had ridden horses.

She tried to take little panting breaths, but the air inside the cloth was hot and stifling, and foul with the scent of horse and death and fear. Xhandra gasped more feebly and struggled weakly against her bonds, but she could not breathe.

Finally, after an aching, endless time of fetid, suffocating darkness, the horse stopped. Hands grabbed at her, lifted her, dumped her on the ground. Still, Xhandra could not move. Her arms and legs seemed useless. The hands pulled at her again, unwrapped that winding sheet.

Xhandra squinted her eyes against the harsh desert sunlight, and took in deep grateful breaths of the air. At last!

Then she saw him, right in front of her, and she stopped breathing again, seized by rage and terror. He was one of Them, one of those who had killed her people and destroyed their tents. He was a monster, with a head shaped like a living skull.

"Surprise," the monster said. "You're not dead." His words sounded odd, clipped off and short, not flowing and musical as they were when her people spoke.

Xhandra watched cautiously as he pulled off the mask of the skull. He was no monster, then, but a man. At least, she thought he was a man; he looked almost as inhuman with his mask off as he did with it on. His face was painted blue on the right side, and his eye glittered from within that color, while his left eye was flat gray shot through with yellow spikes.

He seemed almost to smile as he said, "Your kind is hard to kill."

Her kind? What did he mean by that? What kind was he? Was he not, in truth, a man? She knew one way to determine that. Men died. She took the hand he offered her, but as he hauled her to her feet she snatched his knife and tried to stab him.

He wrested the dagger from her and sneered, "You'll have to try harder than that." He shoved her away from him and sheathed the knife.

She would try harder—later. Now, she wanted to see her people, to see Hijad, her foster-father and teacher. "Where are they?" Xhandra demanded. "Hijad? My people? Take me to them." It was not so much a demand now, as a plea.

The man actually smiled at her. "You want to see them?" At her tentative nod, he pointed to a framework of lashed sticks. "There they are."

The frame was piled with skulls, some bleached white, some still ivory, all human. They could not be the skulls of her people, not yet, but she knew well enough what he meant. "You killed them?" she asked in anguished disbelief. Her eyes filled with tears and she blinked quickly, unwilling to show such feelings before him. "All of them?" Not just the ones she had seen die, but all of them? Her father, her friends, her sisters, the boy Taren who liked to gather plants with her, the little children she sang to and played games with, the babies…all of them? They could not possibly have killed all of them.

But he nodded, seeming well-pleased with himself.

Xhandra stared at him, numb with a deep coldness even though the day was fiercely hot. All of them. What kind of a man killed a babe not yet old enough to walk? Great Mother, he was a monster after all! She recoiled from him, shaking.

He paid no heed to her distress as he reached over and touched the front of her gown. "Including you." He still sounded amused.

Her hands trembled as she examined the bloodied cloth. There was a hole there, a hole made by a sword. Xhandra remembered that sword, remembering the sharp edges of pain as it sliced into her, but now—nothing. "The wound…it's gone." She looked at him in bewilderment. "I should be dead."

The man with half a face said, "You live because I wish it."

Was he a healer then? What kind of a healer also killed? But no, she should be dead. He must be a magician—a very powerful magician—to heal such a wound, to bring her back from the dead. This was a more powerful magic than she had ever seen. Maybe he was a god.

He continued, "And you stay alive, as long as you please me." His hand went to the side of her face, then traced a line down her neck.

She slapped his hand away. He might be a powerful magician, or a god, but he was acting as a man, and she was not to be touched. Her tribe needed her to be virgin, to carry the power of the Goddess for the healing. When she had started her bleeding times, the elder priestess had opened her passageway, as she did for all the girls. But no man of her tribe had ever dared to touch her, or to look at her in such a way.

This man was not of her tribe.

She did not even see the blow that knocked her to the ground. The side of her face throbbed, and she could taste blood in her mouth.

"That did not please me." He was not amused now. Before she could move, he was kneeling in front of her, yanking up her gown, his hand moving up her leg. "I am Methos," he said, staring into her eyes. "You live to serve me. Never forget that."

She glared back through tangled hair. She would never serve him. Never. He was a murderer and a monster, and she hated him.

Shouts from the other tents drew his attention, and Methos left her lying on the ground.

Xhandra hurriedly pulled her gown back over her legs, shuddering at the remembered touch of his hand. She spat in the dust after him, then shuddered again as she thought of her people. They were dead, all of them. She was alone. What could she do? Where could she go?

She could not stay here, with that face-painted monster who called himself Methos. She had to escape. The horse she had been carried on was still standing there, with some kind of seat on its back. She made her way over to the animal and allowed it to sniff her hand, hoping it wouldn't bite her fingers off. For such a large beast, it seemed friendly. Now, how to get on?

She had almost gotten one leg up when hands grabbed her roughly and yanked her from the horse.

His arm was tight around her throat, and his voice spoke softly in her ear. "You died once today. Did you enjoy that?"

Xhandra whimpered in remembered fear and pain. She did not want to die; he might decide not to bring her back to life again.

Methos held her close against him, and in his other hand he held a knife. "Learn this lesson well," he said impatiently. "I will kill you as many times as it takes to tame you."

The sunshine glittered blindingly on the knife blade as he raised it, and she closed her eyes so she would not have to see it. But she felt the knife as Methos slammed it into her heart, and she tasted the blood again in her mouth, the coppery scent warm on the air. Then she felt nothing at all.

—-—-

She could not move, and she could not breathe. His weight was on top of her, and his hand was over her mouth and nose. Xhandra jerked her head to one side, then managed to bite the fleshy part of his palm. This time the blood she tasted was not her own.

Methos hit her on the side of the face with his free hand, but she did not let go. Only when his hand went around her throat and strangled her did she release her grip. Then both his hands went around her neck.

She did not want to die again! She struggled beneath him, and tried desperately to pull his hands away, but he was too strong. There was pain, and a desperate gasping for air, but after a while, she felt nothing at all.

—-—-

Xhandra could not move, and she could not breathe. Her arms and legs were stretched apart, tied at the wrists and ankles, and there was a wad of cloth in her mouth, held tight in place by a gag. It was all she wore.

Methos was standing between her feet, looking down at her. His mouth smiled, but his eyes did not. Then he crouched down, and he touched her.

She felt everything, and she wanted to die.

—-—-

When he had finished with her, Methos left her lying on the floor, still naked, still tied, still gagged. She closed her eyes, unwilling to face the truth, but unable to deny it or hide from it anymore. Her world was gone. All her people were dead. She had no tribe. She had no one.

Xhandra, virgin-healer dedicated to the Goddess, was dead, too. Methos had killed her body over and over again, and then he had killed her. The woman he had left lying on the floor was no one.

She was nothing.

She was his slave.

Duncan's Loft, 1 November 1996

Cassandra shivered under the blanket and stared at the flame of the candle. At least Methos was dead. Connor had once asked her how long she had been a slave of the Horsemen, and she had answered simply, "Long enough."

Long enough for Methos to tame her, to train her to be his slave. And he had tamed her, as he had said he would. He killed her twice more that first day, when she resisted him that night, and when she tried to run away after he finally untied her in the morning. After the first month, she stopped trying to escape. The Horsemen always caught her, and the punishments were always brutal. She was tired of death.

After the first week, she stopped disobeying him. She was tired of pain. He was consistent and firm, a technique perfectly suited for training a dog or a horse. Or a slave. Disobedience, sullenness, anger—all met with swift punishment. It was easy for Methos to break her fingers, and since she healed immediately, she could still carry out her duties. Compliance met with approval, and even pleasure. Methos stopped raping her after the first few weeks, and started to seduce her instead. Her body responded to him first, and then—later—so did she. That made it worse in the end, of course.

Duncan was watching her, but she did not look at him. She did not want to tell Duncan about Methos. She hadn't told Connor, either. It was too humiliating.

Duncan asked, "Want something to drink? Hot chocolate?" He smiled engagingly. "Warm milk to help you get back to sleep?"

She tried to smile back and almost succeeded. "No, thank you, Duncan." She shivered again. "I don't…want to go back to sleep."

"Bad dreams," he said in quiet understanding. "They're just dreams, Cassandra."

"Not for me." This time the shiver was a shudder, and Cassandra closed her eyes, trying not to remember, not to see.

"Shh," he said softly, and gathered her into his arms. Finally the trembling ceased, and she relaxed against him. He held her tightly for a time, then said, "Come on," and pulled her to her feet. He took her hand and led her toward the bed at the far end of the loft.

Cassandra stopped. "Duncan…"

"Sleep," he said. "Nothing more." He smiled again, that cheerful teasing grin that was playful, not taunting. "You can trust me."

She nodded and actually managed to smile. Duncan was nothing if not trustworthy. "Thank you," she whispered, and she fell asleep in Duncan's arms.

Later that morning, when the sun was above the horizon, they went to talk to Duncan's pet Watcher, Joe Dawson, to ask him to help them find Kronos. Dawson was disbelieving and skeptical at first, but he finally listened to Duncan. He didn't listen to her at all. Cassandra was not surprised.

They drove to Cassandra's hotel and got her things, then ate an early lunch at Duncan's loft. Duncan went downstairs to the dojo while Cassandra set up her laptop computer. She wrote messages to all five detective agencies she had been using and told them to stop looking for Kronos and send her the final bills. She did not want to think about how much it was going to cost.

Then she started to write to Connor. He had asked her to tell him where she was, to let him know how the hunt for Kronos was going, but it was not an easy letter to write. She finally settled for:

—-

Still in Seacouver. Saw Kronos yesterday from a distance. Duncan was hunting him, too, so now we're working together to find him. C.

—-

Connor would undoubtedly think she and Duncan were doing a lot more than working together, but she was not about either to confirm or to deny anything. aWhat could she say? Duncan and I are just friends? Spent the night in Duncan's loft—and in his arms—but did not have sex? I never want a man to touch me that way again?

It was none of Connor's business, anyway. Cassandra sent all the e-mail messages, then turned off her computer. She brushed her hair and put on her black jacket again, then picked up her sword and tucked it into the special pocket in the folds of her skirt. That was one advantage women had over men in this culture; swords were easier to hide in skirts than they were in pants.

Cassandra took the elevator down to the dojo, and the sense of another Immortal increased as the elevator descended. Duncan was not in his office; he was standing near the weight benches and talking to a man. She gave the stranger a quick glance as she lifted the gate, evaluating him as a possible enemy. He was slouching a bit, and he looked to be little shorter than Duncan, certainly more slightly built. But his slouch was deceptively casual, and the blue jeans and the baggy brown sweater he wore under his coat did not entirely hide the whipcord strength and grace in him.

Was he an Immortal? Probably. He was looking at her with the intensity that marked such meetings. Cassandra lifted the gate completely and stepped into the dojo, then looked at him again. This time, she did not give him a quick glance. She stared, dread coiling cold in the pit of her stomach.

It was Methos.

"You?" she demanded incredulously, then kicked herself mentally for being so stupid. That had not been a simple dream last night; it had been a vision of the future, the first dream-vision she had had in centuries. She had wondered if the prophetic dreams had left her forever. But they were back, and Methos was back, too. Roland had lied to her again. Both Methos and Kronos were in Seacouver, and they were undoubtedly working together. But what was Methos doing in Duncan's dojo, and why did they seem so friendly?

"Who's this?" Methos asked MacLeod, apparently thinking he could pretend not to know her, thinking he could fool MacLeod.

Cassandra was not going to be fooled. The man standing in front of her was Death. Just as in the dream last night, the hair was shorter; the facepaint was gone; the clothes were different; but it did not matter. She would know him anywhere, in any costume, in any time. He was Methos, and she was going to kill him. The cold dread was replaced by rage. Never again would she cower in fear of him. "Draw your sword," she commanded, as she whipped out her own sword and advanced on him.

He actually stepped back from her, then moved behind the weight bench, pretending to frightened, pretending he did not know how to fight. He kept watching her as he asked Duncan again, more urgently now, "MacLeod, who is she?"

"Cassandra, what are you doing?" Duncan demanded, and he moved to block her path.

"Stay out of this, MacLeod," she warned, incensed that he would actually come between her and her prey.

Methos said, slowly and deliberately, lying again, as he always lied, "You—don't know me."

"Do you think I could ever forget you?" she snarled. She had dreamed about him just last night. "I am Methos," he had told her. "Never forget that." She never had. She never would. Cassandra borrowed a technique from Connor and let her rage go ice-cold. "You butchered my people," she said, in a flat and deadly voice. "You killed me."

"This is crazy!" he protested as he hid behind the speed-bag frame. Then he turned to Duncan and lied again. "It wasn't me, MacLeod." He still had not drawn his sword.

Cassandra did not care. He had killed her when she was unarmed and helpless, and she was going to do the same to him. Slowly. Several times. Then she would take his head. She moved closer to Methos, wishing Duncan would get out of the way.

Methos actually had the gall to ask Duncan for help. "Do something!"

Cassandra jabbed at Methos with her sword, enjoying the way he was backing away from her. She knew his pretended helplessness would not last long, but it felt good right now. "This is between you and me, Methos."

But it was not, for Duncan was there. He came from behind and wrapped his arms about her, immobilizing her. "Get out of here now!" he yelled to Methos. "Go!"

And of course, Methos did, the opportunistic, conniving little worm. He turned around and ran.

"Let go of me!" she demanded, struggling in Duncan's grasp, hating his touch, the way he was overpowering her, wishing she had never let him touch her last night. "Let go of me!"

"Only if you calm down," he said, ignoring her futile attempts to escape. "OK?"

Arrogant, interfering man! He had no right to touch her at all! She took a deep breath and nodded. It was quicker to pretend to agree than to argue. "OK." He finally let go of her, and she took off after Methos. He was not in the hallway; he was not on the stairs, and she could not sense his presence at all.

She stalked back into the dojo and confronted Duncan. "You had no right to interfere!" Didn't Duncan know the rules? Hadn't Connor taught him anything?

Duncan dismissed her objections casually. "He didn't even know you."

"He's a liar!" she exclaimed, unable to believe Duncan could be so innocent, so naive. Had he learned nothing in the last four centuries? She took a calming breath and warned Duncan icily, "Don't come between us again." She headed for the door, ready to kill.

"Cassandra," Duncan called after her, "he's my friend!"

She pivoted slowly and looked at Duncan. He was so earnest. So confused. Methos had that effect on people. Methos always lied, and Duncan needed to learn that immediately, or he would soon be dead. Methos would betray him. She said distinctly, "Your 'friend' rode with Kronos, killed and raped alongside him."

Duncan was looking even more confused now, and Cassandra continued, anger edging every word. "He was one of the Horsemen." She waited a moment for that to register, then she turned on her heel and headed for the door one more time. Methos had been one of the Horsemen, and he was still one of the Horsemen, and she was going to kill him. Him and Kronos.

Duncan caught up to her before she reached the stairs and took her by the arm. "Cassandra, this is a mistake!"

She wrenched her arm from him. Blast him! He had no right to stop her, no right to touch her. She had gone to bed with him once five months ago, and he thought he owned her? Nobody owned her. "Why?" she demanded. "Because you want it to be?"

He looked uncertain and confused, but still stubborn, still ready to stop her again.

Cassandra took a deep breath and willed herself to calmness, forced herself to wait. She knew killing the two Horsemen was not going to be easy, and if Duncan kept interfering with her, it would be impossible. She didn't expect Duncan to join her, but she needed him to at least stay out of her way. She had to convince Duncan that Methos was not who he had been pretending to be.

She made her voice calm and reasonable. "Duncan, I know I seem…irrational right now." Describing herself that way would make her seem less so.

Duncan gave a small shrug and a rueful smile at that word.

She smiled in return and admitted, "I'm upset, yes. I'm angry. But I'm not wrong. That man was—and is—Methos. He is one of the Four Horsemen."

He was looking at her skeptically, still unwilling to believe.

She did not have time to argue. Perhaps another tactic would work better. "Duncan, we really don't know each other very well, and this is a hard thing to believe. Why don't you ask Connor what he thinks?"

"Connor?" he said in surprise.

"Yes," she said confidently. "Ask him about the Four Horsemen. Ask him about me." She glanced at her watch. "It's not even nine o'clock in Scotland now; he should still be awake. Call him."

He looked at her for a moment, then nodded. "All right. I will." He motioned with his head. "Come on."

She forced down her impatience and followed him back to the dojo. Duncan went into the office to use the phone, and Cassandra wandered about, looking at the weapons on the walls. She moved away from the office, not wishing to eavesdrop. Duncan's voice was a murmur now, but she could tell from the tone of his voice that he was becoming frustrated. She smiled grimly to herself; she knew how hard Connor was to talk to.

She glanced up when she heard Duncan say urgently, "She said Methos was one of the Horsemen!"

Duncan met her eyes, then turned away and spoke more quietly into the phone.

Cassandra slammed her fist into the punching bag. She knew Duncan was probably asking his former teacher if Connor thought she was wrong, or a liar, or maybe even insane. She hit the bag again, alternating her fists, a quick even rhythm. She wasn't wrong, she wasn't lying, and she wasn't insane. The Horsemen had lived over three thousand years ago, and both Methos and Kronos were still alive today.

She stopped punching the bag when she heard Duncan's voice, raised in protest, "Methos is my friend!"

His friend! She stepped back and aimed a vicious roundhouse kick at the bag. Methos had no friends, only brothers. He would do anything for his brothers, betray anyone. And he was going to betray Duncan. She knew it.

Duncan had no idea what that man had been, what he capable of, what he really was. She only hoped she could convince Duncan of the danger before it was too late. Methos had fooled Duncan into thinking that he was his friend. Methos was good at that sort of thing. She kicked the bag again, even harder this time.

Duncan came out of the office and stood in the center of the dojo, watching her.

She pivoted and gave a final satisfying back-kick to the bag, then asked him, "Well? What did Connor say?"

His face was carefully neutral as he considered her, then he said, "Connor said he'd heard of the Horsemen before you told him about them. Ramirez had mentioned them."

"Yes," Cassandra agreed, remembering the afternoon at Connor's house in Edinburgh when she and Connor had spoken of this. "Ramirez's teacher Tjanefer met two of them, a century or so after Troy fell. I don't know what happened to Tjanefer after he finished teaching Ramirez."

Duncan's expression darkened. "He took the name Graham Ashe, and he was beheaded nearly three hundred years ago."

"Ah," Cassandra said softly, but with no surprise. There were very few ancient Immortals left. When she had met Tjanefer in Troy, he had not yet been an Immortal. She had warned him of his future, knowing he was soon to die in the siege. It had not taken any of her visions to tell her that. Almost everyone in Troy was soon to die, including her. Cassandra shook her head impatiently, not wishing to remember the siege of Troy, or what had happened after. That was over; the only thing that mattered now was the Horsemen.

"So," Cassandra said impatiently, "about Methos?"

Duncan gave his familiar stubborn look. "I'm going to go talk to him."

Cassandra almost swore at him in her exasperation. Duncan was being incredibly blind; she had to make him see. "Methos is a liar, and he is very good at it. He'll just lie to you again, the way he's been lying ever since you've known him." She had no doubt that Methos had lied about what he was, or Duncan would never have considered him a friend. "He'll do things for you, pretend he cares, just to get you to trust him, but it's all a lie. I've seen him do it before."

Sudden uncertainty came into Duncan's eyes.

Cassandra wanted to say more, but she knew Duncan had to convince himself of this. She waited a moment, then she had to ask, "What did Connor say about me?"

Duncan looked at her carefully before he answered. "He said you were his friend."

She drew in a quick breath, welcoming the painful gladness that statement brought. "Yes. We're friends now." Connor had hated her for centuries, but no more. He had finally forgiven her for what she had done to him. His friendship and his forgiveness made it easier for her to continue, knowing she was likely to die. For that was what she was facing—a battle to the death. A battle with Death.

A battle she wanted to fight now. "I'm not imagining this, Duncan, and I'm not making it up. It's true." She started for the door.

"Cassandra, wait!" he called.

"I've waited too long already."

Continued in Chapter 3