Hope Remembered - Part II: Fury
Chapter 5
And it's you who cannot accept,
it is here we must begin
To seek the wisdom of the children,
And the graceful way
of flowers in the wind.
Submarine Base, France - 8 November 1996
Cassandra was in a cage. There was nothing new in that, of course. She had spent most of her life in a cage. But that had been a cage of time, a cage of waiting, a cage of her own making.
This was a cage of space, a cage of locks and bars, and someone else had put her there. She was hopeless and helpless once again. And still she waited.
She did not have to wait long.
She heard them coming even before she sensed them. Sound traveled eerily in this place, bouncing off the concrete walls and ceiling, magnified and distorted by the shallow black water that surrounded her. The cage was on a concrete block of an island, four pillared corners standing silent sentinel, a castle tower in a moat. Dark gray shadows wavered on gray walls and ceiling.
Cassandra did not know what this place was, and she did not know how long she had been here. She had revived in the car on the ride here, and Kronos had immediately injected her with some drug. She didn't remember the rest of the trip or being carried from the car. She didn't remember being placed naked in a concrete cell and handcuffed to a pipe. Kronos had been there when she had woken up. He had broken the sword Duncan had loaned her, snapped the blade in two. Then he had started on her.
Cassandra shoved that thought away. When Kronos had finished, he had allowed her to get dressed, then he had given her another injection. She had no memory of being put in this cage. She might have slept for hours. Maybe even a day.
There were no windows, so she could not see the sky. The only light came from four gas torches at the corners of the cage, and two more torches high on a walkway that overlooked the chamber. The flames flared and hissed in the cold, damp air, and the smell of the gas lay sharp above the mold and the wet. The chill from the concrete floor penetrated the thin blanket she sat on. The cage was not even high enough for her to stand.
Kronos did not like to see her on her feet.
The voices of the Horsemen murmured and swelled, and the ache in her head intensified. They would be here soon. The ripples in the water increased, and oily waves lapped at the edges of the walls. Cassandra waited.
She could see them now: Kronos and Methos, the heart and the head of the Horsemen, the prick and the asshole. She wasn't quite sure which was which, though. Maybe they took turns at that. They took turns at everything else. Including her. Silas and Caspian had had their turns at the hotel. Now it was time for Methos and Kronos. It didn't matter which went first.
They came closer, smiling, but did not bother to speak to her. Why should they? She was just a woman, just a slave, just a thing. Filthy men. Filthy fucking murdering men.
This time, she was determined not to make it easy for them. Not for Methos, anyway. Never for him. Cassandra backed into the corner of the cage farthest from the door. She had no sword, but she knew other ways to fight. She was sick of being helpless, and she had learned a lot during these last three thousand years.
They never even gave her a chance. Kronos took out a pistol and shot her through the heart.
The force of the bullet slammed her back against the corner of the cage, and the ringing echoes of the gunshot blurred into a higher-pitched ringing in her head. Shocked numbness gave way to searing pain as she slumped to one side, stopped only by the cold bars across her cheek and nose. Her vision dimmed quickly to black, and she could not see.
Kronos's voice, faint above the echoes, held an evil smile easily heard. "We ride, Brother?"
Methos sounded dim and far away, but she heard his answer clearly. "We ride."
The burning agony grew very cold, and the ringing faded to silence.
When Cassandra took the first painful breath and revived, she lay limp and relaxed, keeping her eyes closed. She knew exactly where she was. She had been here before, many times. She was naked again, lying on a rough blanket on a bed. Her arms were stretched over her head, and her wrists were handcuffed together. A chain went from the handcuffs to the metal bars of the headboard.
She sensed another Immortal in the room, and not only by the ache in her head. She could smell him, and feel him. Kronos was already on top of her, already in her, waiting for her to revive. There was another person in the room, too, perhaps three meters away; she could hear him breathing. It was probably Methos, watching, waiting his turn. She felt no embarrassment, no shame. She was not even there.
"Hello, witch," Kronos said.
She had heard that before, too, but it wasn't Roland now. It didn't matter. They were all the same; they all wanted to hurt her. Cassandra retreated within herself, finding that small still corner of herself where she could hide, where no one could reach her, where nothing mattered. She knew that corner well.
Kronos would not let her disappear. "Look at me."
She waited too long to obey him, and he hit her, a hard slap across the face. She opened her eyes to stare at him. She knew her eyes showed nothing. No hate, no revulsion, no fear. She was not there.
"Should I make love to you before I kill you?" They were Roland's words again. Kronos's eyes were alight with the peculiar satisfaction and glee he showed before he hurt someone, before he killed someone. He bent his head and kissed her gently along the line of her jaw, the touch of his lips following the path of the healing from where he had struck her.
Cassandra closed her eyes again. She felt nothing.
He started to move within her slowly, following the rhythm of his kisses. He whispered in her ear. "Come on, Cassandra. Move. Roland told me that you liked it this way—slow, steady, deep."
Nothing. She felt nothing. It did not matter. He did not matter. Roland did not matter.
Kronos bit down savagely on her earlobe, then laughed softly when she jerked. "See? You can move. And here I thought you might still be dead." He laughed again, a malicious whispering of pleasure in pain. "Still, it wasn't bad that way. Roland told me about that, too."
Nothing. He was nothing. Roland was nothing.
He was moving faster now, harder, and still she lay limp beneath him. Kronos did not like that. "Move!" he demanded, and hit her again.
Cassandra moved. It was not a difficult decision to make. She had made this decision before. The goal was to have him finish as soon as possible with the least amount of pain, and being raped was less painful than being beaten. She knew. Cooperate, make noises, move, smile, cry, beg, plead—do whatever it takes to make them finish faster. The sooner they were finished, the sooner you had won.
Submit. Live longer. Survive another day.
It was not much of a victory, but it was the only one available. Men liked to think they could dominate and control women. Let them think that; let them believe that. But always remember, in that small still corner where you hide, in that one place you have carved for yourself—carved in yourself, carved in your body with your blood and your pain and your tears—always remember that you hold this power over men. For that is their weakness, that they want you, while you want nothing to do with them.
Remember that the face of a man in rut is the face of a fool, and all men are fools.
Kronos was a fool, but he was not yet finished. She had not yet won. "I've seen you on your back, Cassandra," he said, as he pulled out of her. "Let's see you on your hands and knees. Roll over."
She cooperated. It did not matter. At least now he wouldn't be breathing in her face. She did not try to stifle her cry of pain as Kronos forced himself into her. Kronos liked to inflict pain. It excited him. It would make him finish faster.
Kronos started grunting and thrusting harder. Cassandra ignored the pain, ignored the feel of his fingers digging into her hips, ignored the noises he was making, the noises she was making. He finished finally, agonizingly, then pulled out of her and stood up. Cassandra immediately curled herself into a ball, her back to them, her wrists still shackled to the pipe. It was over. She had won. For now.
"Your turn, Brother?" she heard Kronos say jovially. "She's a bit reluctant still, but we've seen that before, eh? I know you'll be able to tame her. You did before. She was quite the willing little cunt for you, wasn't she?" He laughed. "I used to listen, you know, outside your tent. You had her panting after you, begging for it."
Cassandra felt nothing. The woman he was talking about had died long ago. Cassandra wanted nothing to do with any man.
"It's your turn now, Brother," Kronos said. Methos murmured something she could not hear, and Kronos laughed. "Don't want me to know your secret, eh?" Kronos said, still sounding amused. "Just let me know when you've finished, and maybe later I'll come back for another go." His footsteps and his laughter echoed and receded.
Methos came closer; she could hear the rustling of his clothes. His voice was dry and detached. "There's a shower in the next room. I'm going to unchain so you can wash."
Cassandra waited until he had unchained her from the pipe and unlocked one wrist. She opened her eyes to a narrow slit, just enough so she could see him leaning over slightly, very close to her now. She curled herself into a tighter ball, angling slightly away from him, but let her arms lie limply on the bed as he reached for her other wrist.
Another second, another inch, and…now! She uncoiled from her curl and slammed both her feet into his chest. She had been hoping to catch him in the throat and crush his larynx, but he had moved at the last moment, reacting to her attack, and she had managed only to send him crashing to the floor.
She rolled off the bed quickly, hoping to stamp on his throat and kill him. She knew she had only a few seconds before he recovered, but she still wasn't fast enough. He shot her with the gun, and this time the bullet knocked her backwards onto the bed.
First came the pain, then the silence and the coldness took her once again.
When she revived, she was still lying on the bed, and her side and her front were wet and sticky with blood. The handcuffs were off, and he had thrown the blanket over her. Cassandra pulled the blanket around her as she sat on the edge of the bed.
Methos was standing against the far wall, beyond her reach. The gun was in his hand, and there was no expression on his face.
She could not reach him, but the Voice could. "Methos," she commanded, "give me the gun."
He blinked uncertainly and his hand wavered, then he shook his head abruptly, like a horse jerking away from a pesky fly. His grip tightened on the gun once more. "Don't bother with the Voice, Cassandra," he said. "Roland taught all of us to resist it."
Cassandra summoned all her control and kept her face calm and composed. She had suspected as much, but it was still bitter news. She truly had no weapons now.
"Go wash," he commanded.
Cassandra simply looked at him. He had no right to command her to do anything. He had no rights over her at all. No man did. Methos and Roland had both insisted on silence and obedience, but Roland was dead, and she would never again let anyone terrorize her that way.
She stood slowly—she stood on her feet—and she let the blanket fall to the bed. She faced him, naked and unashamed. She had no reason to be ashamed. She had done nothing wrong. Mingled blood and semen ran down her legs and dripped on the floor and on her feet, warm slick spatters. "What's the matter, Methos?" she asked. "Don't want to take your brothers' leavings? You weren't always so fastidious."
He said nothing, and his expression did not change.
Cassandra took a step towards him. "Kronos certainly didn't mind taking yours."
She thought she saw a flicker in his eyes at that, but he did not answer.
"Or do you just not want to get blood on yourself?" She took another step. He was only four paces away. "You didn't use to mind that, either." Another step. "Before. Or during. Or after." She should be able to reach him in two more steps.
He motioned slightly with the gun, then said conversationally, "This is a nine-millimeter semi-automatic. It holds thirteen rounds. There are eleven left. I can shoot you again, and drag you into the shower. Or, you can walk in there yourself." He added calmly, "And if you take one more step towards me, Cassandra, I will shoot you."
She stopped. It was marginally satisfying to know that he realized even a naked bloody woman could be dangerous. "No," she said thoughtfully. "I've already died four times tonight. That's a good number, don't you think? After all," she added, her voice smooth and reasonable, "you killed me four times the first day you enslaved me. Remember?"
His eyes narrowed slightly, but the gun did not waver.
He remembered, she knew he did, but he had not remembered her last week, when he had first seen her in Duncan's dojo. Those first few minutes, he had honestly had no idea who she was. He had truly forgotten. The arrogant, self-centered butcher! He had destroyed her entire world, haunted her dreams for centuries, and he had not even known her name. She had been nothing to him. Nothing.
The fury she had ignored and forced down earlier flooded through her, and she welcomed it, encouraged it. She was not nothing, and the other women he had raped and tortured and murdered had not been nothing, either. They were long dead, but she could speak for them. Duncan had said that Methos had changed. If that were true, then she wanted to see some sign of it now. She wanted to see guilt.
"Tell me, Methos," she asked, using her anger and the Voice to enhance the contempt and revulsion in her words, in the way she said his name, "just how many Immortal women did you stake out on the ground and rape in your tent, and then leave them there all night? Just how many women did you strangle while you fucked them?" She took another step towards him, completely ignoring his warning in her rage. "Just how many women did you tame?"
There was the barest movement from him then, a tightening of the jaw.
Cassandra had one more question. "Tell me, Methos," Cassandra asked, her voice now soft and compelling, "just how did you tame Alexa?" There was a definite response now, a sudden haunting of pain in his eyes. Only for an instant, but it had been there. Good. He deserved pain. She did not bother to wait for an answer. She turned from him and went to scour away her blood and the remnants of the Horsemen.
Cassandra remained in the shower as long as the water stayed hot. Methos could wait for her. When she finally emerged, she saw that her clothes had been neatly folded and placed on the stool next to the sink. There had been a time when she had folded his clothes. There had been a time when she had done his bidding, and done it promptly, done it eagerly.
She whirled and slammed her fist into the mirror above the sink, cracking the glass. No more. Never again. Not for him, not for any man. Not for anyone.
She waited for her hand to heal, then picked up her shirt. There was a small bullet hole in the front, and a larger hole in the back. It was damp, but clean. Methos must have washed the blood out for her. Once she had washed his clothes for him. She had cooked his food and fetched his drinks. She had knelt before him and washed the blood from his hands, blood of other women, blood of children, blood of people just like her.
Goddess blast and annihilate that man! What a total, blind fool she had been! What a pathetic, simpering idiot! She had betrayed the memory of her people. She had abandoned everything she had been and everything she had believed in, all for the sake of his smile.
Kronos had been right. She had been willing. She had been more than willing. She had been proud to be the one Methos singled out for attention. She had been proud to be his woman. His slave. His whore. No, not even his whore. Whores got paid. She had done it for nothing. Kronos had been right again. His cunt.
She flung her shirt on the floor, then grabbed the stool and smashed it into the cracked mirror, over and over again. Stupid, naive, ignorant, trusting, damned bloody fucking wasted, gullible worthless willing little cunt!
She flung the broken pieces of the stool into the corner, then stood panting in the middle of the bathroom. A man's shaving equipment, now sprinkled with splintered shards of glass, was placed neatly on a tray at the edge of the sink. Cassandra stepped forward, ignoring the crunch of glass, the slicing pain in her feet. She backhanded the tray, knocking it and all its contents into the toilet. The towels followed the shaving gear, and the shower curtain followed them.
She took a deep breath as she looked about the room. Connor would be proud. "Let the anger out, Cassandra," he had told her. "Let it out." It was too bad there was nothing else to break, but then the Horsemen weren't very interested in interior decorating. All they did was destroy.
Cassandra took another deep breath as the anger started to come again, then closed her eyes and allowed the rage to fill her, a cold black bitter wash of hate. It felt good. She breathed out slowly, spilling some of that rage. She did not need to save it; the well of bitterness was overflowing.
She shook the glass shards from her clothing and dressed, then combed her hair. There was no need to hurry. Cassandra replaced her comb in the back-pocket of her pants, then looked about her one last time. She had forgotten the toilet paper. It went in the sink, with the water faucet left on and running. She opened the bathroom door gently and stepped into the room. She did not shut the door behind her.
Methos was sitting on the edge of a chair, his elbows on his knees, his head down. He glanced at her, then took one quick look at the bathroom, assessing the damage. His mouth twisted slightly, and he shrugged, but his eyes met hers in bitter amusement. "Yeah," he said softly, as he rose to his feet. The gun was still in his hand. He sighed, and his voice was weary and uninterested as he asked, "Ready?"
"For what?" Her voice was brittle as she looked at the bed against the wall. "Rape? Murder? Torture? Strangling?" She took a step toward him, filled and overflowing with rage again. "Taming?"
He said patiently, "Are you ready to walk back?"
So, there was to be no more rape now. Methos was pretending to be kind in an effort to make her feel grateful. She knew this technique, and it wouldn't work on her. Not again.
His patience was wearing thin. "Or will I have to shoot you again and then carry you?"
She was angry, but she wasn't stupid. She was tired of death. She walked. Kronos joined them as they walked through the hallway, and he and Methos took her back to her cage.
Cassandra was in the cage, waiting.
She was thirsty. The gentle lapping of the water surrounding her did not help.
She was cold. The concrete floor leached away warmth, and she could not stop herself from shivering. She shifted to a crouching position and huddled under the blanket. Her shirt and the bottom of her pants were almost dry; it would be better soon.
She was tired. She had dozed off after Kronos had locked her in, but it was too cold to sleep for very long. At least she had not had any nightmares. While she was sleeping, that is. Maybe she would never wake up from this one.
She was angry.
She was waiting.
An Immortal approached, and the gentle lapping of the waves became splashing. It was Methos, carrying another blanket, a bottle of water, and a bowl of food. He pushed the blanket through the slot in the door and then put the food and water in after it, as if he were feeding a dog. Or a slave. He did not leave immediately, but perched on the ledge of the concrete island, on the far side of the cage from her.
Cassandra sat on the blanket and leaned her back against the wires of the cage, her legs outstretched before her. She drank, but ignored the food. The ripples of the waves died away, and the silence lay empty between them. She had nothing to say to him. She was not grateful.
Methos finally cleared his throat and suggested, "You should eat."
He had no right to tell her what to do! She slammed her heel against the food bowl and knocked it across the cage.
He sounded faintly annoyed. "This is familiar."
Oh, yes, familiar. Very familiar. She had been here before, and so had he. She knew how masters broke slaves to their will, and so did he. Pain, rape, humiliation, hunger, thirst, cold. She knew how they tamed them, and so did he. A little food, a little kindness, a little sympathy. She remembered, and so did he.
Not this time.
Cassandra took a deep breath, forcing herself to speak calmly through the anger. "I'm not your sorry little slave anymore. I know what I am now, what you are." The rage was rising, and she allowed it to flow through her, to surround and engulf her. "You may have fooled MacLeod, but you've never fooled me."
"I wasn't trying to fool anyone." He sounded very sincere.
She wasn't that stupid or that gullible. Not anymore. Of course, he had been trying to fool Duncan. She almost laughed at him. "If MacLeod knew what you really are, he would have taken your head long ago."
"Well, he had his chance," Methos answered. "He didn't."
That was only because Duncan hadn't understand how dangerous Methos was. Duncan probably understood now, if he wasn't already dead. Cassandra pushed that thought away, unable to face it, not with Methos sitting right there.
Methos tried again. "It wasn't all bad, when we were together."
The good times between them had been lies—his lies. Her words did not come easily. "I only served you because you forced me." That was another lie, and she knew it.
So did he. His voice was gentle, even pitying, as he said, "Don't hate yourself."
She did not want his pity! She wanted nothing from him, except his head. Hate was all that was left to her. Hatred of the Horsemen, hatred of herself—it did not matter. Hate was the only thing she had, the only thing she could depend on.
Methos had moved to the door of the cage, and now he standing next to her, leaning over her slightly, babbling nonsense about some syndrome. He said, "Hostages come to rely on their captors for food and approval."
Hostages. Prisoners. Captives. Why didn't he just use the word slave?
He was still talking. "They fall in love."
She stared at him in amazement, then said through bitter laughter, "I never loved you." He couldn't possibly believe that. He couldn't be that much of a fool. Not even she had been that much of a fool. She had sought his approval; she had been pleased to have his attention, but she had never once thought that.
The truth was far worse. He had been too far above her to consider loving. He had been her master, her owner, her god. You did not love gods; you worshipped them.
Never again.
Methos said, "You thought you did."
The sheer arrogance of that man! Conceited, insufferable, self-centered…!
"You thought I would protect you."
Yes, she had thought that. She had thought she was special. She had thought she meant something to him. She had been wrong.
"You forgot what I was," he said earnestly, leaning close against the side of the cage.
"I forgot nothing!" she snarled, slamming her hands against the bars where he was looking at her, his expression so gentle, so sincere, so bloody arrogant. He had been the one to forget! He had been the one to betray her, just as he had betrayed Duncan! She wanted to strangle Methos as he had once strangled her. She wanted to rip his heart out and leave it bleeding on the floor. She wanted to kill him slowly and laugh at him while he died, over and over again, just as he had done to her. "I'll take your head with my bare hands—yours, then Kronos!"
He moved back from the bars and shook his head slightly, seeming almost puzzled. "Why do you still hate me so much?"
That didn't even deserve an answer. She just glared at him.
"Come on, Cassandra," he said engagingly. "You can't tell me that in over three thousand years you were only captured once."
"Captured?" Cassandra repeated incredulously. "Is that what you call it, when you murder someone, and rape her, and torture her, and keep her as a slave?"
Methos looked away and flinched slightly at the list, but turned back to her and nodded. "All right. Murder, rape, torture, slavery. Yes. All of that. I did all of that. To you, and to others. And I have had it done to me."
"Have you? Did they kill your family, your people? Did they stake you out on the floor and rape you, and then leave you there for hours? Did they pass you around to their friends? Did they kill you over and over again to tame you?
He had flinched again at each question, but he answered her. "Yes."
"Good." He deserved it. She had not.
Methos said in exasperation, "Do you think any Immortal past the age of five hundred has escaped slavery? You know what the world was like back then. And you can't tell me it didn't happen to you again."
He was right; it had happened to her again, over and over again. But that didn't make what he had done any less terrible. "You were the first," she spat.
"Bad timing?" Methos asked incredulously. "You hate me because of bad timing?"
He seemed to expect her to smile. Arrogant insufferable man.
"There's another reason, Cassandra." He looked at her like an eager puppy, friendly, interested, concerned. "What is it?" He waited, then asked again, "Why do you hate me so much?" He moved closer once more. "What else did I do?" He really seemed to want to know.
She decided to tell him. "You destroyed my son."
"Your son?" he asked in bewilderment, then caught his breath in remembrance. "Ah." He nodded and let the air out slowly. "Roland."
Cassandra blinked back tears at the name. She would not cry in front of this man. She would not.
Methos rubbed his hand over his face tiredly, then moved back to the ledge, sitting down once more. He stared in silence at the flame of the torch above him for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. "He looked for us, you know. He sought us out."
"Not at first," she said bitterly. "He was nineteen, and you found him. You found him, and you took him, and you taught him your ways. You taught him to be a murdering rapist just like you. Then you told him how to 'tame' me, and you sent him back to me, so I could see and appreciate what you had done."
Methos was shaking his head. "No," he protested. "I met him when he was past forty, right before he became an Immortal. I never knew him when he was that young."
"He told me!"
"And Roland never lied to you?" Methos let that sink in for a moment, then added, "Kronos was the one who found him first. Kronos was the one who sent him back to you."
She stared at him, not wanting to believe him, yet knowing it was true.
"You know Kronos hated you, after what you did to him." He smiled at her in rueful admiration. "He was…very angry when he revived."
He gave her another smile, and this time she almost smiled back. Kronos had kept the knife she had used to kill him for over three thousand years. It was not exactly comforting, but it was at least gratifying to know that Kronos had not forgotten her. She had not been nothing to him.
Methos said thoughtfully, "Kronos probably told Roland to tell you that I had been the one to find him, so that you would hate me." He glanced at her and added, "Even more than you already did." He fell silent again, staring at the water.
Cassandra watched him, wondering how much of this was an act, how much was sincere. She believed him about Roland, but Methos was not to be trusted. And there was more. She was not about to let him escape his responsibility. "But you did meet Roland later. You killed him for the first time."
"Yes," he admitted. "He was over forty, after all."
"But you didn't just make him an Immortal. You made him a Horseman, and then you sent him after me. You told him I was at the Temple on the Isle of Lesbos."
"Yes." Methos shrugged. "He had been trying to teach us to use the Voice, but all he had managed was to teach us to resist it. He was supposed to get you and bring you back to us, so that you could teach us the Voice."
Cassandra stared at him, icy fingers of horror crawling up her spine. To be a prisoner of the Horsemen again, to be forced to…! She snarled at him, "There was nothing—nothing!—you could have done to me to make me teach you the Voice." She hoped that would have been true.
He simply shrugged. "Maybe not. But that was the plan, and that was why I told Roland where you were." He shifted position and crossed his feet at the ankles, the picture of relaxation. "But when I saw him again, about four centuries later, he told me you were dead."
Roland had not liked to share.
Methos said, "That's why I didn't recognize you at the dojo. I wasn't exactly expecting to see you, and I had other things on my mind."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"What do you want?" he said in exasperation. "Flowers?"
He had given her a flower once, a rare desert bloom. She had kept it until the petals faded and fell off, and then she had saved even those. What an idiot she had been. "You took my son, and turned him against me. You made him into a Horseman and destroyed him."
"I didn't destroy him, Cassandra," Methos said. "He wanted to be a Horseman. The seeds of it were already in him."
"You were his first teacher!"
"Roland was your son, Cassandra," Methos countered acidly. "You were his first teacher."
Cassandra closed her eyes in anguish. Oh, Roland! She had tried so hard with Roland, tried to love him, to care for him, to keep him safe. She had failed, and Roland had hated her for it. She had failed completely, and Roland had become a monster, and then she had hated him. She had stood by and watched while Duncan cut off Roland's head, and she had rejoiced in her son's death. Then she had wept.
She shook herself and opened her eyes. She did not want to think about Roland now. He was dead, and she had other problems. One of those problems was sitting right in front of her.
"Yes," she said to Methos, willing her voice to be calm and cold once again. "I was Roland's first teacher. And you were mine. I learned a lot from you, and from Kronos."
Methos sighed, then came over to her side of the cage again. "Cassandra," he urged quietly, "we have to be careful. I have seen what happens to people who go up against Kronos. If we want to survive," he said, with a quick, anxious glance around him, "we will keep him happy."
Cassandra looked at him in disdain. He must think she was completely stupid. She knew why he was pretending to be frightened of Kronos. He wanted her to think that he was on her side; he wanted her to feel sympathy for him. He wanted to tame her.
Never again.
"I didn't do it then, and I won't now." She had submitted to Kronos earlier that day, but she had not surrendered. She had surrendered to Roland and to Methos, allowed them to own her. She had tried to keep them happy. In doing so, she had lost her own soul. She knew that if she surrendered to Kronos, if she "kept him happy," she would lose herself again. Once again, she would be nothing.
She might not find herself the next time. Cassandra looked at Methos and said simply, "I'd rather die."
His answer was just as simple. "Well then, you'll die." He shook his head in disgust, then added as an afterthought, "And you can forget about MacLeod."
She knew what was coming. She knew what Methos was going to say.
"MacLeod is dead."
The words dropped into the waiting silence between them, landed in the dark waters surrounding her, the ripples spreading and returning, fading away to nothing. His footsteps echoed and receded, too.
She knew why Methos had chosen to tell her now. She had suspected MacLeod was dead, but she had hoped she was wrong. Methos had stripped that hope away, leaving her broken and empty in the cage, leaving her alone once again. Cassandra waited until the last echoes of his footsteps had gone before she let her tears fall.
She wept for Duncan, for the bright promise of the young boy he had been, all those years ago in Donan Woods, the lad of sunshine and eager fire. She wept for the man she had come to know this last week, the man of courage and strength, tenderness and loyalty, the man who had been betrayed by a man he called friend.
She wept for Connor, for the anguish she knew would shred him and leave him stripped and bleeding. Connor had his mortal family now, but they would die, and then Connor would face the long empty centuries alone, without brother or kin. How would Connor find out? Who would tell him that his student had been beheaded? And what would Connor do when he learned that Duncan, his son, was dead?
She wept for her own son, for Roland, for the little boy he once had been, and the horribly twisted, lonely man he had become.
She wept for the woman who had been Methos's slave long ago—young, naive, trusting, dead.
Cassandra wept for all the women, all the slaves, all the children, all the sheer awful waste, the endless pointless pain, the total stupidity of this bloody nonsense called the Game, and the even more bloody idiotic waste of all the wars and all the battles that had been fought over the eons.
There were many more to cry for, and she did not have enough tears even to begin. She wept until she could weep no more, and then she slept in her cage.
Continued in Chapter 6