Hope Remembered - Part II: Fury

Chapter 3

Seacouver, 1 November 1996

Cassandra had waited too long. She was not able to find Methos. But she did find Kronos. He was in an abandoned power-station, south of Seacouver. She sat in her car and watched the building for a while, then gathered up her courage and her sword and went in.

The sensation of another Immortal crawled into her skull as she entered the main hall. Kronos's voice—that hated, mocking voice she had not heard for millennia and still remembered perfectly—echoed off the concrete walls and the metal pipes and silent machinery.

"You're late," he said. "I hope you brought his sword."

"I brought mine," she called, the hilt comfortable and comforting in her hands as she advanced on him. "It's all I need."

Kronos looked up from his desk. His hair was short now, just like Methos, and the face-paint was gone, but the scar across his right eye was still there, and the hate was still there. He smiled in lazy anticipation as he picked up his sword.

Cassandra suddenly realized where Roland had learned his smile. Kronos had taught him well. She wet her lips and kept walking toward the Horseman. She was not going to run. Not again. They circled each other at a distance, watching, judging, waiting.

"You look different somehow," he said appraisingly, as he stripped the clothes off her with his eyes. "Maybe it's because you're on your feet, instead of on your back." He smiled again, a lewd, knowing leer. "Or on your knees."

Cassandra did not respond.

"Or on your hands and knees," Kronos continued. "Or on your face in the dirt." The cheerful smile grew wider. "Do you remember, Cassandra?" His wet his lips, but not in nervousness. "I do," he confided.

"Do you remember the last time I knelt at your feet, Kronos?" she countered. "In your tent?"

The Horsemen's Camp, The Bronze Age

It was evening now, and the inside of the tent was dim, lit only by the red flickers from the fire in the brazier. It had been mid-day when Kronos had dragged her into his tent, a lifetime ago. Many lifetimes ago. She couldn't remember how many times he had killed her, how many different ways she had died.

"No more!" she begged, as Kronos yanked her to feet yet again. "No more!" she said, finally willing to cooperate instead of merely surrendering. It didn't matter anymore. "Please, don't hurt me."

He smiled then, pleased at her total submission, and he let go of her wrists.

She slowly went to her knees before him, using her mouth and her hands to touch him in the ways that Methos had taught her, hoping to please this new master as she had pleased the old.

Kronos sighed in satisfaction and tilted his head back, his eyes closed. "Maybe I won't give you to Caspian after all."

She forced herself not to tremble. She had seen what Caspian did to his slaves. And Kronos would share her with his brothers eventually. She knew that.

Unless she ran away.

She could not control her trembling now, as she remembered the brutal punishments from before. But what were her choices? The slim chance for freedom now? Or Kronos, then Caspian, then Silas, then probably Kronos again? Over and over again, forever. Methos did not want her anymore; today had made that very clear.

She could not bear to stay here, to see Methos from a distance every day, to remember.

Kronos still had his eyes closed, and she made her choice. The broad-bladed knife lay on his pallet, dark-wet with her blood. She had never killed anyone before, but it should be no different, really, than butchering a goat, and she had done that many times. She picked up the blade and drove it straight up into his groin, twisting the knife in the wound before she backed away, his blood spilling over her hand.

He shuddered and fell, gasping with pain and surprise. She shuddered, too, with revulsion and fear. But there was one difference between butchering goats and killing Kronos. She felt sorry for the goats.

She did not wait to watch him die, but ran out into the night, pursued by his final agonized cry of rage.

Power Station, 1 November 1996

"That's what I remember," Cassandra said, stepping carefully on the uneven floor of the power station. It was her turn to smile now.

Kronos nodded slowly, as anger edged out the ugly glee in his eyes. "I remember, too." Then he smiled once more. "Did you come here for me?" he asked. "I'm afraid Methos is busy. He's out killing MacLeod."

That was no surprise, but there was nothing she could do about it now. Cassandra kept her gaze on Kronos, evaluating his stance and his reach. He was certainly stronger than she was, but not much taller. She hoped he was not as quick.

"Let's see if you've learned anything in the last three thousand years," he challenged her.

She had learned a great deal—about herself, about others, and about the Voice. She had him registered now. "You're weak, Kronos," she said, using the power of the Voice to amplify her suggestion. "Tired." She used a firm command tone with him, knowing that Kronos responded best to strength. "All you want to do is close your eyes." He had not reacted to her words at all, and she repeated with more control, "You have to close your eyes."

"Why?" he asked, still grinning. "So you can kiss me?"

He should have at least blinked. Cassandra forced down her growing dismay and tried again. "Your sword grows heavy."

Kronos's sword did not waver. "Make love to me before I kill you," he said softly, staring into her eyes.

Cassandra froze where she stood, her palms suddenly slick with icy sweat. Those had been Roland's words. No! Roland was dead, and no one would ever do that to her again. She forced herself to start moving again, to stay focused, to stay alive.

Kronos smiled in triumph. He had seen her hesitation, and he knew why. Kronos had taught Roland well, and the student had reported to the master. Kronos waved his sword airily, a casual gesture of dismissal. "And cut out the feeble tricks. They won't work on me."

Cassandra's hands were still damp, and more sweat trickled down her sides, bringing with it the sour raw smell of her fear. The student and the teacher had traded places, at least for a while. Roland had taught Kronos to resist the Voice. Cassandra had no weapons against Kronos but her sword. It would have to do.

She swallowed the metallic taste in her mouth and summoned her strength and her rage, then she lifted her sword and attacked. "Maybe this will!"

It didn't. She got in maybe six blows, three of them defensive, before he disarmed her, a quick twist of his sword that sent her weapon clattering down to the floor far below. She backed up along the metal gangplank, her mouth totally dry now.

Kronos was still smiling as he stalked her. "Methos never liked the idea of killing you. But I do."

Kronos had always been the most straightforward of the brothers. Both Methos and Silas had liked to play with their pets. Caspian had liked to eat his. Cassandra stepped backwards past a valve, then gave it a quick turn, releasing a sudden blast of steam. It wasn't much of a distraction, but it was enough. She turned and ran, heading for the ladder, hoping to find her sword down below.

Kronos yelled after her, "You, witch!"

That had been Roland's name for her. Cassandra reached the bottom of the ladder, and took a few quiet steps. The headache that signaled the approach of an Immortal started again, and she turned, wondering how. Had Kronos gone out of range? But she could still hear him, calling for her on the floor above.

"You're dead!" Kronos shouted. "Come out now, and I'll make it quick."

Cassandra turned again, and Methos was there, right in front of her. There was a sudden blinding pain, and then the world went black.

She drifted back to consciousness, her nausea intensified by a headache and an unpleasant jogging motion, and the long-remembered scent of the man who was holding her in his arms. She could not move, and she could not breathe. Then the world went black again, and she welcomed the oblivion.

Cassandra came back to awareness; her Immortal healing giving her only a few minutes respite from the nightmare. Methos was still there, still touching her, but he wasn't walking now. She shuddered, but could not summon the strength to try to escape. She glanced about cautiously and saw that they were on a bridge.

He shifted his hold on her, and she realized with dim surprise he was going to throw her into the water. Cassandra looked up at him, as she had so many times before, but now she looked at him with hate, instead of submission or fear. "You should have killed me when you had the chance," she told him, but he made no reply. He didn't even look at her.

It was a long way down to the river, but the water still came fast and hit hard. She passed out again and nearly drowned, then managed to struggle to the surface for air. It took her nearly ten minutes to swim to the shore.

She huddled on the rough gravel of the riverbank in her wet clothes, shivering in the chill afternoon breeze. The wail of sirens came from across the river, and she watched as the firefighters arrived to battle the blaze in the power-station. The police were there, too, but she saw no sign of Kronos or Methos.

Maybe they were burning to death, slowly and painfully. She hoped so, but she doubted it. They were both too smart for that. She walked over the bridge to get back to her car, then drove to Duncan's loft, hoping he would be home.

He was not. Maybe Methos had already taken his head. Cassandra shoved that thought away and went to take a shower. She scrubbed quickly but thoroughly, removing the smells of fish and oil from her hair and skin. She was still shivering, so she dressed in her warmest clothes, a thick black sweater over a white shirt, leggings under her jeans, then wrapped herself in a blanket on the couch with a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. Only then did she allow herself to think of what had happened.

Methos had set out to kill Duncan, and Duncan had said he was going to talk to Methos. Had they met? Or were they still looking for each other? If Duncan was dead, then she would continue on alone. If Duncan were still alive, she had no idea where to start looking for him. She would wait for him here, at least for a few more minutes.

She had faced Kronos. She had challenged him to battle and actually stood up to him. And it had been worse than she had feared. He was immune to the Voice, and she had lost immediately. She had even lost her sword! There was no way she could get it back from the power-station now, not with that fire. She was truly weaponless.

Then Methos had shown up. Kronos had wanted to kill her, but Methos didn't think she was even worth the effort. He had simply tossed her off the bridge. Maybe he had been in a hurry to go kill Duncan, and was simply planning on chasing her down later. He liked to hunt. It kept him amused.

Cassandra shivered and drank the rest of her coffee, then started packing her things. She needed to leave the loft now. Methos undoubtedly knew Duncan lived above the dojo, and she couldn't wait any longer for Duncan to come back. She was heading for the door when the sense of an Immortal crawled up her spine, and the elevator clanked and groaned. Perhaps the noise was Duncan's version of an alarm system. Cassandra hid in the shadows near the open window, ready to go out the fire escape if it were Methos or Kronos. Or both.

But it was Duncan, his clothing torn, his hair disarrayed, bringing with him the scents of oil and smoke. Cassandra closed her eyes in relief and joy.

"I didn't think you were still alive," he said, as he came toward her, voicing her own fears.

"I'm here," she said, reaching out to him, taking comfort in the solid warmth of touch. Methos hadn't killed him, but Duncan had obviously been fighting. "You found Kronos?"

"Yeah. I followed you to the power station, and Kronos and I fought."

"He's dead?" she asked, hoping—praying—it was true.

Duncan shook his head.

She stepped away from him, nodding. Of course Kronos was not dead. Her enemies would come back again and again, and she would never be free of them. "Then, I failed." Why should she be surprised? She always failed.

"You didn't fail," Duncan said, coming over to her. "You're still alive."

"So are they." Both of them. Kronos had been bad enough, but Methos, too! "It'll never be over," she vowed, "until they're both dead." Or until she was.

Duncan turned her to face him and held her close. His body was warm, but his voice was like ice. "Then we'll find them."

Cassandra slowly realized what he had said. "Duncan," she protested, pulling back to look at him, "I know we both want Kronos, but fighting Methos is my battle. Not yours."

"It's mine now." Duncan's eyes were cold, too, as he gave her a short, quick nod. "Methos was there at the power station."

Cassandra nodded, but did not offer any more information. She didn't know what game Methos was playing, but she wasn't going to be a part of it. Duncan didn't need to know that Methos had tossed her into the river like yesterday's garbage.

"I saw him give Kronos a ride after the fire started." Duncan's voice was flat, but his rage and disbelief were palpable. "You were right about him, Cassandra. Methos was…"

"Death," Cassandra finished for him, then she held Duncan close again. She had seen the hurt behind the anger, the pain that came with the hate. Methos had lied to Duncan and betrayed him, and she knew exactly how Duncan felt.

After a moment, she said to him, "We need to leave. They know where you live."

"Yeah," he agreed grimly. "They do." He quickly packed a small suitcase, and they headed for the elevator. His hand was on the gate when he asked her, "Where's your sword?"

Cassandra grimaced in embarrassment. "Kronos disarmed me," she said simply.

He frowned slightly and looked her over, then said, "Just a minute." He went to a closet and came back with a long slim case. There were at least ten such cases in the closet.

"Do you usually keep so many extra swords in the house?" she asked.

Duncan shrugged as he set the case on kitchen counter. "I used to be an antique dealer."

And there were other ways to acquire swords. Cassandra didn't want to know how many had been bought with money, and how many had been bought with blood. "Did you work with Connor?" she asked, wondering how two Highland barbarians had both decided to learn about the finer points of eighteenth century silver and tapestries.

"About a hundred and sixty years ago, in London," Duncan answered as he opened the case and took out the weapon, a shortened broadsword with a jeweled handle. "I think this will suit you," he said, then unsheathed the blade and held it out for her inspection. "Try it before we leave."

Cassandra did not reach for it. "How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing."

"How much?" She had accepted too much from him already.

Duncan shrugged. "It didn't cost me anything."

Cassandra knew better. "Not even blood?" she asked sharply. "Pain?"

He winced, then lowered the sword.

"How much?" she demanded. "How much could you sell this for?"

"About five thousand dollars," he admitted finally. "Look, Cassandra, why don't you just use it for now, and then give it back to me when you get another sword? Think of it as a loan."

"A loan." A gift with strings. Cassandra shook her head.

"A loan," Duncan repeated evenly. "And I won't even charge interest," he added, smiling, trying to make her smile, too. It did not work. "Use it to defeat the Horsemen," Duncan said, "and I'll consider myself well paid." When she continued to hesitate, he said patiently, "You need a sword now. Tonight."

He was right. Swords weren't all that easy to find, and they needed to leave. "All right," Cassandra finally agreed. "A loan, until the Horsemen are defeated." She would give it back to him then. If she were still alive.

He nodded, then presented the sword to her formally, the blade lying flat against his palms, a faint smile on his face. "Your weapon."

She had said the same to him once, many years ago, in just this way. She smiled in return and bowed slightly, then took the sword from Duncan's hands. She stepped back and held it high to the light. Her reflection shimmered in the polished metal, a blurred miniature version of her face, tattooed by the patterning on the blade. Cassandra did a few lunges, a few practice moves. Duncan had a good eye. It was just the right size for her. She nodded to him, then sheathed the sword and closed the case. She picked up her bag again, ready to go. She hated swords.

She hated waiting. Kronos and Methos disappeared after the fight at the power-station, and she and Duncan had no idea where the Horsemen had gone. Dawson didn't know, either. Cassandra was thoroughly irritated with this whole Watcher nonsense. What was the point of Watchers if they didn't watch? She had a Watcher. Duncan had a Watcher. But did Kronos have a Watcher? Did Methos have a Watcher? Oh, no! The Watchers never knew what you needed them to know.

Methos was too devious to have a Watcher. In fact, he was a Watcher. That was hardly a surprise, for he had started the Watchers, even before he had started the Horsemen. She wondered if Methos had told Roland where she was over the centuries, if Methos had helped Roland track her down again and again. Probably. Methos had done it the first time.

Cassandra and Duncan sparred in the mornings in the dojo, and spent the rest of the entire weekend searching Seacouver, going to abandoned warehouses and madhouses and lighthouses, to forlorn amusement parks and deserted train stations and more unused power plants. They searched for some clue, some connection, something. Anything.

Nothing.

"Where could they have gone?" Duncan asked in frustration, pacing back and forth in the living room of Methos's apartment. They had watched the building for a short time this afternoon, then Cassandra had used the Voice to ask the building manager for the key to the apartment, and to ask the neighbors for information. No one had seen Methos since at least last Thursday. Or had it been Friday?

The apartment was sparsely neat. Just some clothes and some books left behind, and a copy of TV Guide on the television. There was beer in the refrigerator, and a half-empty box of take-out pizza. He might have left for a long weekend, a holiday. A rampage. A rape.

"They could have gone anywhere," Cassandra answered, staring out the window to the parking lot below. The Horsemen had the whole world to choose from. What could have induced them to leave Seacouver so quickly, to run from a fight? She turned and said softly, "But more importantly, why did they go?"

At Duncan's puzzled look, she added, "For a long time, I thought all of the Horsemen were dead. But Kronos wasn't dead, and Methos wasn't dead." She let Duncan state the conclusion; it would make him feel good.

Duncan was nodding grimly. "And the other two aren't dead, either, and Methos was a Watcher. He knows where to find them. They're reuniting the Horsemen."

Cassandra shuddered at his words, imagining all four of those men together again.

"Come on," Duncan said quickly. "We're going to Joe's."

But Joe was not at the bar, or at his home. They had to wait even longer. Cassandra paced in the hotel room, unable to sit. "I'm going running," she said abruptly. She ran through the streets to the park, wanting to feel the earth beneath her feet and see the trees overhead. The autumn day was overcast and chill, and a slight drizzle was falling. It reminded her of Scotland, except this part of the city was too flat. She wanted to run hills. She wanted to run and not think and not remember and not feel, and then run some more.

She could not continue this way much longer, with her memories and her dreams. Even with Duncan there to comfort her afterwards, she could not stand many more dreams.

She ran faster, the damp leaves swirled by autumn breezes into brief flurries, her footsteps firm upon the ground. When the Horsemen were dead, the dreams would stop. When they were dead, she could sleep. When they were dead, she would be free. When they were dead, it would all be over.

Outside the hotel, Cassandra finally stopped running, then bent slightly at the knees, breathing deeply, trying to calm herself before she went to their room. Maybe Dawson was back, maybe now they could find the Horsemen. She stretched again, then climbed the stairs to Duncan.

Dawson had returned from his weekly meeting with his beer supplier, and with his help Duncan and she did indeed find the Horsemen, or at least one of them. Cassandra recognized Caspian's photo in the Watcher database. He was using the name Evan Caspari, and he was in an asylum for the criminally insane near the city of Bucharest. An asylum was a good place for him, for all of the Horsemen. A cemetery would be even better.

Cassandra and Duncan left immediately on a flight for Bucharest, only to find that Kronos and Methos had already been there. Caspian was gone. But the cell was not completely empty. Duncan found a matchbook on the floor, imprinted with the name of a hotel in Bordeaux. "Methos must have left it for us," he said, over Cassandra's protests. "Come on."

She was still protesting after they boarded the airplane on their way to Bordeaux. "Why do you think Methos wants us to follow him, Duncan?"

"Maybe he needs our help," Duncan said, trying to find room for his long legs in the small space between the seats.

"Help? Against his brothers?" Cassandra shook her head. "He'd never do that."

"Cassandra, you told me what he was," Duncan replied. "Even he told me what he was. But he's changed. He's been a good friend, to me and to others. And he was more than a friend to Alexa."

"Who?" Cassandra asked.

"Alexa. She worked in Joe's bar, and she was dying of cancer. Methos took her on a tour of the world, took her places she'd always wanted to see." Duncan said softly, "He loved her, Cassandra, and he made her last months happy ones."

Cassandra tossed her hair back from her face, then stared out the small window at the sea of white clouds below. Pretending to care was something else Methos was good at. It was part of the way he tamed women.

"He's not a Horseman anymore," Duncan insisted.

"You'd stake your life on that?" she asked, turning back to him. "Because that's exactly what you're doing. Trusting him with your life."

"I've trusted him with my life before."

So had she.

Duncan fiddled with his seat belt, then said quietly, "And he's saved my life, too. I wouldn't have come out of the Dark Quickening if it hadn't been for Methos."

Cassandra waited, knowing he would talk more if she simply listened.

Duncan did not look at her. "He helped me…find myself again. He brought me my father's sword, took me to a sacred spring in a cave. It was like fighting myself, another half of myself." Duncan closed his eyes briefly at the memory, then admitted, "But when Methos first came to help me, I almost took his head." His voice became quieter still, barely audible over the drone of the engines. "Like I took Sean's."

Cassandra reached over and took Duncan's hand in her own. Sean Burns had been an psychologist, a kind, good, caring man. And a very, very rare kind of Immortal. He and Duncan had been friends for centuries. "It was the Darkness in you, Duncan," she tried to reassure him. "Not you."

"It's still there," he said, holding tight to her hand. "Still part of me. And I can still hear their voices. Even now."

"Don't you always?" Cassandra asked in surprise.

"No," Duncan answered, surprised himself, looking at her. "Not after a day or two. You do?"

"Always," she said, then whispered, "Even now."

"How long has it been?" he asked, curiosity and concern overcoming Immortal rules of politeness.

"Since I took a head?" Cassandra forced her voice to lighten. "About fifteen hundred years." Duncan blinked in shock, and Cassandra added casually, "After a while, I hear them only at night, or when I'm tired. The last one was less than a hundred years old, and she took about twenty years to be quiet."

There was silence, until Duncan asked her the question she did not want to hear. "How long do you think it's going to take for Kronos to be quiet?"

It was her turn to look away, and she pulled her hand from his.

"Cassandra," Duncan said, clearly worried for her, "he's older than you are, maybe almost four thousand years old. If you take his head, you'll go insane."

"Maybe," she admitted, wondering if she would be able to tell the difference. Kronos was already in her dreams. Would it matter if she heard his voice when she was awake, too? But it would. If she did go insane, if she became like Kronos, or like Roland… She could not let that happen. "Duncan, if…I do go insane, would you take my head?"

"Cassandra!" Duncan protested.

She had to make him see. "You know about the Voice; you know what I could do with it."

He nodded slowly, obviously remembering what Roland had done with it.

"And you know how to stop me," she said. "Promise me, Duncan. Promise me you'll take my head if that happens." He hesitated, and she took his hands in hers. "Promise me," she insisted. "I don't want to hurt people like that."

"A dark quickening," Duncan murmured. "Yeah. I know. I will."

"Thank you," she said softly, then let go of his hands and leaned back against the seat, closing her eyes. She would have to ask Connor to take her head, too, in case Duncan couldn't. In case Duncan were dead.

Duncan's voice broke that thought. "Cassandra, about Kronos…"

She didn't even bother to open her eyes. "He has to die."

"And Methos?"

Always Methos. Cassandra sighed and turned to look at Duncan. "After the things he's done, he deserves —"

"We've all done things," Duncan interrupted. "Things we wish we hadn't done. Things other people could condemn us for. Things we wish we could change, and can't. I know I have. And so has Connor, and Amanda, and Darius. And Methos."

He didn't need to say it. The hard challenge of his stare was enough.

Cassandra nodded, an abrupt forced motion. And so had she.

Duncan said, "We just…have to go with our lives."

"Methos killed my father, Duncan," she retorted. "My father was unarmed and defenseless, and Methos cut him down where he stood. Would you forgive that? Let the man who killed your father 'just go on with his life'?"

Duncan opened his mouth, then shut it. "Cassandra…," he began, then sighed and shook his head. "Revenge isn't the answer. It won't bring your father back."

"It isn't just revenge," she insisted. She wouldn't waste her time with that. It was preventive maintenance, like spraying for termite infestation. "They have to be stopped before they hurt anyone else."

"But if they've already stopped?" he asked. "If someone has changed, Cassandra, there has to be room for forgiveness. Otherwise, there's no end to the hate."

She looked away once more, hearing the truth of his words. Connor had forgiven her, and she had—in some fashion—forgiven Roland. If Methos had changed, then maybe…

Duncan said again, "Methos isn't a Horseman anymore, Cassandra."

"Maybe he hasn't been a Horsemen for a very long time," she acknowledged. "Maybe he has changed. But he's with Kronos and Caspian now, and probably Silas."

It was her turn to challenge Duncan with a hard stare. "Maybe he's changing back."

Continued in Chapter 4