Hope Remembered - Part II: Fury
Chapter 6
Cassandra opened her eyes and saw nothing. She blinked and tried again, but it was still completely dark. No fire burned now; all the torches were dead.
She was almost asleep again when she heard the voices - - loud and soft, jabbering and whispering, in a mixture of languages and tongues. Hundreds and thousands of voices, all at once, all around. She clapped her hands to her ears, but the noise did not go away. The voices were inside her.
The voices grew louder, and thunder rolled. Through lightning flashes she could see Methos standing on the walkway above her. His arms were outstretched, his head down-a Christ without a cross. A searing flash of lightning stabbed him in the back, and he lifted his head and flung his arms outward in a spasm of pain. His eyes stayed open, and they were filled with hate and rage and despair.
Cassandra shivered and closed her own eyes, for the eyes of the Horseman were mad.
"I am Death!" he cried out, as the lightning took him again.
When she dared to look, his face was the face of a skull, and the lightning came from the empty sockets that had been his sightless staring eyes. Rain poured down, washing over him.
But as the water touched Methos, it turned to blood. Blood-tears coursed down his face. Blood dripped from every fingertip, and rivulets of red covered his arms. He stood crucified in a pool of ever-widening darkness, and the blood-water grew deeper around him, up to his ankles, his knees, and his waist. The rain and the lightning continued, and still the blood came forth.
The lightning faded, and it was dark once again, but the voices remained-murmuring and swelling into the rushing of water over rock, the soft patter of rain on the leaves. And then came a new sound- terrible wracking sobs, coming from a black well of despair.
After a very long time, the voices and the water faded, but the sobs continued in the blackness, empty and alone.
Cassandra woke, cold. The torches were still burning, and there was no one there. She stretched, then shivered and pulled the blanket closer around her, hearing again the voices of the dream.
She had not had one like that for a long time. Lately, she had had only nightmares from her own past. This had been a dream of prophecy, and it was from Methos's future. Would the insanity be induced by delayed grief at killing Duncan? Had he changed that much? Or would something else happen?
She shivered again at the memory of his eyes. Methos as a sane Horseman had been bad enough; she did not want to be anywhere near him when the madness took him. Cassandra ate the food Methos had brought earlier and drank some of the water, then washed away the marks of her tears. Tears were useless, and she had none left.
Hate was better, and she had plenty of that.
Methos came back again, splashing through the water, carrying cheese, bread, and apples. He perched on the edge of the cage once more, but she ignored him while she ate, then she wrapped the blanket around herself and stared at the shadows on the wall. Methos could sit there until he rotted.
He was not willing to wait that long. "The sun will be up soon," he commented.
Cassandra did not answer. Maybe he was going to start talking about the weather next. But some small part of her was obscurely reassured by the information. She had had no idea what time it was. Kronos had captured her before midnight, so that meant she had been in the cage for at least an entire day. Maybe two days. Maybe three. That is, if Methos were telling the truth about the sun rising at all. Cassandra dismissed it from her mind. They would kill her eventually; what did the time of day matter?
She wondered when they had killed Duncan, which of the four had taken his head. Had they argued over who took the Quickening? Had they tortured him first? Had Methos sat by and watched, as he had when Kronos had raped her, or had he joined in? "Tell me, Methos," she asked, wanting to see if he did indeed have a conscience now, "did you take Duncan's head? Or was it Kronos's turn this time?"
His head snapped up, his eyes dark pits of shadows.
Cassandra smiled to herself. Oh, yes, there was guilt in those eyes, and a lot of it. Good.
The guilt in his eyes became an immense weariness, and his voice was tired, too. "I didn't mean for this to happen."
"Your sword slipped?" she asked.
"I didn't kill him."
"No?" she challenged. "Maybe you didn't take his head, but who lured him away? Who handed him over to Kronos? Who lied to him? Who betrayed him?" She smiled again, and this time she let him see it. "It was you, Methos."
Methos turned his face away.
Now Cassandra knew just where to strike. "You know, Methos, sometimes Duncan sounded as if he thought you were his teacher. He trusted you. He thought you were his friend."
His words came in a hoarse whisper. "I was."
"I'm glad to be your enemy then. At least I know where I stand with you."
"Cassandra," he said, earnest, turning to her now, "I didn't mean for this to happen, either."
"No?" she questioned, looking about the cage in mock surprise. "It's a mistake, then? A little torture, some rape, a murder or two ... Just a misunderstanding?"
"If I had tried to stop Kronos, then or now, he would have taken your head, or made it even worse." He came over to the door of the cage, then leaned towards her, looking at her with that same damnably earnest expression on his face. "I knew you would survive."
"I didn't survive," she spat back at him. "I died in his tent." He did not answer, and she said more softly, "My body died, too."
The Horseman's Camp, The Bronze Age
Her master had come back, hot and tired from his ride. In his tent, she bowed her head and offered him refreshment, and he took the cup of grape juice from her hands. "It's good," he said, and sipped again as he sat down on the stool.
"I cooled it in the river for you," she ventured, for she could tell by his quietness that today he would permit such liberties. She knelt before him, as was fitting, and with a cloth she wiped the dust from his hands, then dared again to speak without permission. "You rode far today."
He nodded, but did not reply.
Her master was weary, and she should offer him the comfort of her body. If he wished. She reached to wipe the dust and sweat from his face, watching him, ready to stop instantly if his eyes said no.
They said yes, and she continued until he reached to touch her cheek, his hand gentle today. She waited for whatever he might do, hoping to please him.
But his hand dropped from her, for his brother Kronos had entered the tent.
"My compliments, Brother," Kronos said. "You taught her well in everything, I see." He picked up a piece of the fruit she had gathered so painstakingly earlier that day. "And it seems she keeps the best fruit for you."
Her master answered, his voice quiet, as he was always quiet, "It's no different from the rest."
"Maybe it just tastes better in here." The brother Kronos took a bite and came over to look at her.
She stared at the floor and waited, feeling his gaze on her, a prickling heat along her body.
"Made quite a prize of her, haven't you?" he asked.
Her master's voice was still quiet. "She's no different from the others."
She did not move, did not speak, but she knew that was not true. Did her master gift the other slaves with new gowns? Did he give them gold to wear? Did he permit them to speak? The other women came and went, but she alone remained. She knew she was different. Her master had made her so.
"Except you seem to prefer her to all others," the brother observed.
She kept her head down, but fierce joy mixed with pride inside her. Her master did prefer her. She had pleased him well.
"Why is that?" Kronos asked, his voice suddenly cold, the smile gone.
She dared to glance up, wondering at the tension between them, for now her master was standing, too, and facing his brother, like two rams at mating time.
"Have you grown attached?" Kronos said.
"No." Her master's voice was still quiet, but cold now, colder than his brother's.
Kronos was smiling again. "Good. I didn't think you'd make a mistake like that, Brother." His voice was once more cold. "Because now it's time to share the spoils of war."
Her master looked at her briefly, then turned away as his brother Kronos grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her to her feet.
"No!" she cried, trying to pull away. She belonged to Methos, not Kronos! Methos was her master. No one else should touch her.
"You've left some spirit in her, I see!" Kronos exclaimed, twisting her wrist until she bit her lip with pain. "I like that, Brother." He pulled her behind him as he headed for the tent flap. "When I'm finished with her, maybe I'll let Caspian have her."
"Methos, please!" she cried, desperate enough to call her master by his name, even in front of one of his brothers. "Please!"
Her master did not turn.
She kept calling for Methos as Kronos dragged her into his tent. Her master did not come.
She tried to run, but Kronos grabbed her by the hair and yanked her onto his pallet on the floor. Then he smiled, and he taught her more about pain in a few shattering moments than Methos had in a month. "Call for him," he commanded, while he was waiting for her to heal. "Beg Methos to come to you."
She did, but Methos did not come.
Kronos smiled, but not at her. "He can hear you, you know," he told her. "He just doesn't care."
She shook her head. Her master would not abandon her. She knew that, and she trusted him. She had pleased him well, in all things. She belonged to him, and it her duty to protect his property, to allow no other man to touch her.
But Kronos touched her. Over and over again, as the sun sank lower in the sky and the tent grew dim. And still she fought Kronos, and still she called for Methos, and still he did not come. Perhaps he was no longer there, she thought, dazed with the pain and the scent of her blood. Perhaps he had gone riding with his brother Silas, and so could not hear.
"He won't want you now," Kronos said, close against her ear. "Not anymore."
Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, and she shook her head again, but not in denial this time. Kronos was right. She had dishonored herself and failed in her duty, and Methos would not want her anymore.
She was truly nothing now.
This time, she did not protest when Kronos raped her. She belonged to no one, and any man could take her. And she did not struggle when he killed her one last time. She was already dead.
Submarine Base, November 1996
Cassandra's voice was brittle with remembered pain. "Did you leave the camp?"
The same hoarse whisper from him as he admitted, "I was there."
"Then you heard." He had heard her screams for help, and he had done nothing. Why was she surprised, even now?
"I saw you escape that night," he offered, in a pitiful attempt at atonement. "I let you go."
"Yes," Cassandra said, nodding now. "You let me go."
"Don't you understand?" Frustration and rage scraped at the edges of his voice, like a rasp across the knuckles that grinds away the skin. "He was my brother! There was nothing I could do! There are cages you can't see, and promises you can't break."
Cassandra knew that. She knew that same rasping, grinding, helplessness that left the open flesh raw and bleeding, down to the white of the bone. She had spent over three thousand years trapped in a cage of promises. She had stood by and listened-and *watched*-while her son Roland had tortured her families to death, and she had done nothing.
Just like Methos.
Cassandra buried her head against her knees. Methos had told her, "You forgot what I was!" and he had been right. When she was with the Horsemen, she had created a dream-world for herself, trying to make the nightmare she lived in more bearable. Her vision of Methos had been part of that dream. She had expected too much of him then, and Duncan had expected too much of him now. Kronos owned Methos, body and soul, just as Methos and Roland had once owned her.
"I didn't want MacLeod to die," Methos said, the rasp of frustration and pain scouring deeper, into the bone, down to the marrow. He looked younger somehow, standing by the side of her cage, a lost child crying out against the unfairness of it all.
It was the truth, Cassandra knew; she could hear it all through him. But she could summon no pity for him now. He had brought it upon himself, and it was his fault Duncan was dead. "Why are you here?" she asked him, wondering why he didn't just go away and leave her alone. "Are you looking for some kind of absolution from me, Methos? Or forgiveness?"
His eyes were dark against the stark pallor of his face, the skin drawn tightly over the cheekbones, like a starving child begging to be held. "Can you?"
She had seen too many starving children to be moved by his plea. And he wasn't really asking her to forgive him, he was just wondering if she could. The answer was easy. She swept her glance around her cage, then leaned forward and grasped the bars of the door, shaking them. The door stayed locked. "Ask me another time," she suggested.
Anger darkened his eyes even more, and he leaned forward and grasped the bars just above her own hands. "I haven't got the keys, either," he said, as they stared at each other through the door of the cage. "I'm as much a prisoner as you are."
Cassandra smiled in useless triumph as she let go, then she shook her head and whispered, "More."
Hopelessness washed away the anger, and Methos nodded slowly. "More," he whispered in return. He went back to sit on the ledge at the end of the cage, and they sat in silence once again. Finally, he ventured, "I am trying to get both of us out of here alive. And I can't do that without your cooperation."
Cassandra pulled the blanket close around her, then leaned back against the bars. "Being politically correct doesn't suit you, Methos. Don't you mean obedience?"
He almost hiccupped with laughter, then Methos sighed and closed his eyes briefly. "Cassandra...," he started, seeming almost nervous, then plunged forward, "you killed Kronos once, and you can do it again." He leaned toward her and lowered his voice, offering her a deal. "We can make it permanent this time."
She could only stare. How stupid did he think she was? The only way she could get close enough to kill Kronos was to "keep him happy," and it would take a long time before Kronos decided she was broken enough to be trustworthy. Keep Kronos happy. Easy for Methos to say, but she knew how hard it would be to do.
Did Methos know what he was asking of her? Methos wouldn't have to cooperate in his own rapes. Methos wasn't going to be beaten to death, or be strangled while Kronos was fucking him. Methos wasn't going to have to smile while he spread his legs or opened his mouth. Oh, he probably smiled, but he didn't have to; he wanted to. She did not.
She could not.
She laced her words with sarcasm and disdain. "I get to 'keep him happy,' and you get to take his head?"
"You can have his head," Methos offered. "I'll give you a sword."
He did think she was that stupid. As if Methos would ever really give her a sword. Or join with her in a plot to kill his brother. He would set her up, then betray her to Kronos. She knew that. But still ... she might as well see just how many lies he was willing to tell. It would be amusing, and she had nothing better to do. "And what do I get out of this?"
Now it was Methos's turn to stare. Had he thought he would simply agree with him? Bow her head and say, "Yes, Master"? She wasn't his sorry little slave anymore. Cassandra smiled at his confusion and stated her demand. "When he's dead, I want your head, too." Ask for everything; you might get something. "Will you kneel down and offer it to me?"
His disbelief became shock. It was rather funny, the way his mouth stayed open while he tried to think of a witty response. Then his mouth snapped shut, and he slammed his fist against the side of the cage. Methos looked away, staring down at the water.
So, the answer was no. What a surprise. "I thought not." Cassandra settled back against the wall of her cage and watched him. "You haven't changed at all." Still playing games, still trying to mess with her mind.
"Cassandra," he said wearily, "can't you let go of it? It was three thousand years ago."
The bitterness of those three thousand years and the rapes of the past two days came out in her answer. "It was yesterday," she snarled.
"Yeah," he admitted. "But yesterday's over. Want a tomorrow?"
"Not with him," she said, then added with a half-hysterical giggle that came all unbidden, "That would be a fate worse than Death."
Methos stared at her, then a wry smile crept over his face as he shook his head. "I never knew you had a sense of humor."
The giggle disappeared, a broken bubble on the surface of still, dark water. "We never had much of a chance to laugh."
"No." The word was more whispered than spoken. Methos sat with his head bowed for a moment, then looked at her. "We never will, unless we get out of this. And the key to escape is Kronos."
Keeping Kronos happy was just another cage. "I can't do that, Methos."
Methos sighed in exasperation and said, "You have got to be the most stupidly stubborn woman I have ever met."
"I am what you made me," Cassandra replied evenly, "a Daughter of Night." He looked at her blankly, and she asked, "Have you forgotten that story, Methos?" She sat up straight on the floor of the cage, her eyes intent upon him, her hair loose around her shoulders. Once more she was an elder of her tribe. "You should never forget. Not that story. Not you."
The concrete floor beneath her was created of lime and sand, rock and shell - Earth, both once-living and seemingly-dead. Water surrounded her. Fire flickered above her on the four corners of her cage. Air she drew within her, air that gave her breath and life. Once more she was a priestess of her people.
The power swelled within her, into her voice and into her hands, and the story was poetry and music and dance, told as it should be, told by firelight in the dark of the cave. And Methos was listening.
"Long ago, in the dim time, before the time was counted, Uranus the Sky-Father was challenged by his son to determine who should rule. The battle raged fiercely for many years, high in the heavens, with thunder and with lightning, with hail of bones and rain of blood.
"Until finally, there was silence, and the sky was clear. The father was defeated, vanquished, banished to eternal darkness, to Night. But before he was banished, the son castrated the father, so that no more children might be born who might one day challenge his rule."
Methos moved slightly on the ledge, shifting his weight, crossing his legs. She knew why, and she smiled to herself as she continued.
"But from the wound of Uranus the Sky-Father there came blood, and three drops of the blood fell onto Gaia the Earth-Mother. And the Mother accepted the blood and held it within her, and brought forth from herself three women, three sisters, and she called them Daughters of Night.
"The three sisters were born with eyes of flame, and winge'd feet, and snakes for hair. They are Immortal. They carry whips and torches, and they pursue those who have done wrong, driving them mad, hounding them even unto death, and beyond. And the sisters are called by name Alecto the Unceasing, Megaera the Grudging, and Tisiphone the Vengeful."
Methos merely shrugged.
"Men call them the Furies," Cassandra added.
"Should I start calling you Tisiphone?" he asked, flippant in his uneasiness. "Or Alecto? Or Megaera? Or just plain Fury?"
"All of them." Cassandra was neither perturbed nor amused; she knew he had heard her words. "All three. And more. I am all women, Methos. All the women you ever abused, ever raped, ever killed. The men and the children, too. The others are dead now, but I am not. I speak for them, and I have come for you."
"Very poetic, Cassandra," he said, clapping his hands slowly. "Very Greek."
"I am more a Trojan than a Greek," she reminded him. "And there was another Cassandra in Troy - my namesake, my foster-daughter. No one ever believed her, but she was always right in the end." Cassandra felt the power surge within her. She was once more prophetess and seer, and her words were Truth as she spoke of her dream. "I tell you now, Methos, there is no escape for you. The Furies pursue into madness, unto Death, and beyond."
Methos shifted his position on the ledge, stretching his legs, and Cassandra asked him one last question. "You know the name of the son who castrates his father, don't you, Methos?" By his face she saw he knew it, and by his eyes he would not speak it.
But Cassandra would. There was power in names.
"His name," she said, "is Kronos."
They sat there silent, the lines clearly drawn. Cassandra waited. She knew how. Neither she nor Methos moved when they felt the approach of Immortals. There was nowhere for them to go.
Only two of the brothers now, Kronos and Silas. Caspian was not there. Kronos unlocked the door to her cage and spoke quickly to Silas. "If MacLeod even gets close, kill her."
"He's alive?" she exclaimed, throwing off the blanket she had wrapped herself in. Duncan was alive! Alive! Methos had lied once again.
Kronos deigned to answer her as he went to Methos. "Not for long."
Cassandra crawled towards Methos on her hands and knees, speaking to him from inside her cage. "You failed!" she exulted. Duncan was alive!
Methos did not answer her, for Kronos beckoned. "Come along, my clever friend. We're going to poison a city." And of course, Methos went, chained by unbreakable promises, imprisoned by ever-tightening bars.
Cassandra was left to sit in her cage and wait, but this time she was not alone. Silas stood behind her, sharpening his axe. After a minute of the mind-numbing noise, she snapped, "Do you have to do that?"
He stopped, than ran his thumb along the edge and grinned. "Sharp enough."
No doubt. At least it would be quick. She turned around to look at him more carefully, a hulking brute of a man. Unlike Kronos and Caspian, there was no malice in Silas. He wasn't smart enough for that. He was simply waiting now, a silent bear-like figure-patient, lumbering, deadly.
Kronos was definitely something reptilian. Not a crocodile or a snake, she decided, but a Komodo dragon, eating its young, bringing with it the stench of corruption. Caspian was - or had been? - a jackal, slavering after other's kills, eager enough to kill on his own when the chance arose. Methos now ... Methos was a sphinx, a male one - part human, part lion, all riddles. Connor, of course, was a lone wolf. Duncan reminded her of a black panther in his movements, but he was too social. A black-maned lion, perhaps. Herself? Cassandra did not want to think about that.
And she should not be thinking about the others, either, she realized. She should be trying to escape, not distracting herself with foolish imagery. Cassandra needed to hear Silas speak more, so she could register him and try to control him with the Voice. Then he would let her leave the cage. "Where's Caspian?" she asked.
Silas did not speak, but the flash of anger and hurt in his eyes told her that Caspian was indeed dead.
"MacLeod killed him?" she guessed and knew by Silas's face that she was right. "Where you there?"
A warning rumble was his only response, and Cassandra abandoned the conversational approach. "Silas," she commanded, with the firm and soothing tones she would use to a horse, "move back against the wall."
He actually took a step backward, then stopped and shook his head slowly, fighting off her influence. Roland had taught him well.
Cassandra slumped back in the corner of her cage and waited. Maybe for the last time.
Only a few minutes later, Methos splashed through the water to the cage again, but instead of food and blankets, this time he carried his sword. He was panting slightly, and he leaned one hand on the concrete pillar of the cage for support.
"MacLeod's here?" Silas asked.
For a moment, Cassandra thought Methos wasn't going to answer. But, "Yes," he said, even as he closed his eyes, and Cassandra closed hers, too. The waiting was over.
Silas had the cage open, then crawled in and dragged her out by the back of her shirt. She struggled against him, a final useless protest, a helpless kitten caught by the scruff of the neck. Silas was too strong. Maybe, she thought, with an odd calmness as she writhed in his grip, maybe Duncan will kill Kronos before Silas and Methos go back to help their brother. Maybe my life will buy Duncan that much time.
Maybe my death will be of more use than my life. At least the heart of the Horsemen will be cut out.
She stopped struggling, and stayed there at the door of the cage, on her hands and knees, her head down, her neck exposed. There was a breath of air from the upward swing of Silas's axe, and Cassandra closed her eyes and waited. Blessings upon you, Duncan. And you, Connor. I wish -
A sudden movement caught her eye. Methos was holding his sword in front of the axe, blocking his brother's blow. His head was down, his face turned from her.
"You're challenging me?" Silas said, almost laughing in his disbelief. "For the girl's head?"
Cassandra could not believe it, either. Methos had never wanted her Quickening before.
Silas didn't mind giving her to Methos, anymore than Methos had minded giving her to Kronos. "Take it," Silas offered, then dropped his axe slightly and moved out of the way, still holding tight to her shirt. "She's yours, brother."
Again Cassandra readied herself for the fatal blow, and again it did not come.
Methos stepped forward and placed his sword against Silas's axe, then said fiercely, "I am not your brother."
"How can you do this?" Silas asked in confusion. "How can you go against what you are?"
Cassandra stared up at Methos from her place on the floor of the cage, wondering exactly the same thing. A sphinx, indeed.
Methos glanced at her, his eyes dark but free. He had decided to open his cage. "You don't know anything about me!" Methos snarled, and he struck out against his brother.
Silas dropped his hold on Cassandra's shirt and grasped his axe with both hands to beat back the attack. And so the battle began, while Cassandra crouched forgotten in the opened cage.
She waited until Methos and Silas had left the room before she dared to leave. The water was even colder than she remembered, and she hurried to the dry concrete walkway. The sounds of battle were loud but confusing, echoes floating down the many corridors and rooms. Cassandra moved carefully, following the noise, until she arrived at a large chamber. She stayed in the shadow of the doorway, watching.
Kronos and Duncan were on a high walkway farther down the hall, the edges lit by flaming torches. Silas and Methos were fighting below her, on a small dock next to a watery bay, and more torches and two braziers burned there as well. Hadn't these Horsemen ever heard of electricity?
They didn't need the light from the fires now. Morning sunlight poured through large openings set high in the far wall.
So the sun had risen. Methos hadn't lied about that.
What else hadn't he lied about? What else could she believe? He had not wanted Duncan's death earlier, and he was fighting Silas now. What did that mean? Had he truly broken with the Horsemen? Or maybe Methos had gotten used to being by himself, and he was simply using Duncan to help eliminate his competition. Maybe that was why Methos had wanted Duncan to be alive. And maybe, after Duncan killed Kronos, Methos would eliminate Duncan, too.
She could not take that chance. Duncan was too important to lose. If Duncan killed Kronos, then she would have to protect Duncan while he was recovering from the Quickening. She would kill whomever survived the other battle-either Silas or Methos. Then all the Horsemen would be dead, and it would all be over.
But if Kronos killed Duncan... Cassandra made her decision. She would kill Kronos before he had a chance to recover from Duncan's Quickening. Either Silas or Methos would take her head immediately after that, so she did not have to worry about becoming insane, at least not for long. And it would be worth it. Kronos would be dead. Sacrificing a queen to take out a king was a good move in this game, and she had been a pawn too long.
The game was almost over now. She could see that all of the combatants were tiring, their blows coming more slowly, their breathing harsh and ragged.
Kronos shouted forth his war cry. "I am the End of TIME!"
She could not hear Duncan's words, but the tone of his snarled response was plain enough. A few more blows were exchanged, then Duncan smiled and swung. His blade sliced Kronos open from hip to neck, then Duncan cut off the Horseman's head. It flew through the air, then skittered along the floor. Cassandra watched every bounce, every roll, every spurt of blood, wondering in vague surprise why she felt nothing.
When the head came to rest against a wall, she turned her attention back to the other Horsemen. That battle was over, too. Silas was a crumpled bulk on the floor, and Methos was simply standing there, his arms outstretched, his sword held loosely in his hand, waiting for the Quickening.
So Methos was the one left for her to kill. It was fitting. As soon as the Quickenings were over, she would pick up Silas's axe and take Methos's head. Then the Horsemen would be destroyed, and Duncan and she - and everyone else - would be safe. That was the way it had to be.
The Quickenings started, a rising wind, a crackle of electricity. Cassandra backed away and closed her eyes as the lightning blasted its way through the room and through the men. She could hear their agonized moans and their cries of anguish, even above the explosions. She felt no sympathy for them. She had heard many people make those sounds over the centuries-women, men, children, infants-people who had done nothing wrong, killed no one.
Methos had listened to her make those sounds, and he had felt no sympathy for her. He had listened, and then he had hurt her even more.
Never again.
The Quickenings were finally over, and Methos was on his hands and knees now, his sword lying on the ground. The waiting was over. It was her turn to kill. She had to protect Duncan, and all the others that Methos might hurt.
Cassandra ran down the gangplank and picked up Silas's axe. She could never had used it in a fight; it was too heavy for her, but she could lift it. And it was still sharp enough.
"I killed Silas!" Methos cried out, his head still down, his shoulders shaking. Raw anguish edged every word, and rasped away the skin again, flaying him alive. "I liked Silas!"
Cassandra did not care. Methos had killed thousands-butchered, raped, and maimed. He had never listened to their cries of sorrow, never once even paused. He deserved to die, and she was glad he was going to die in pain.
She cried out, "Now I'm supposed to forgive you?" as she raised the axe over her head. Her master was on his hands and knees before her, sobbing. She had been in that position, many times, while he stood over her. Silas had stood over her this way too, just a few minutes ago. But no more.
Cassandra paused, savoring this final moment, the satisfaction of having a weapon in her hand while her master lay helpless before her. She wondered if he would beg for mercy the same way she had once begged him.
Methos had given her no mercy, and he deserved none. All of the Horsemen had to die. She focused on the column of his neck and started the downward stroke.
"Cassandra!"
She froze, checked by the power of that call. It was Duncan, the Highland Foundling, her champion, the child and the man. The axe was a solid weight in her hands as she looked across the cold black water. "You want him to live?" she asked him unbelieving.
Duncan answered from where he sat on the floor. "Yes. I want him to live."
She owed her life to Duncan, and he owed his to her. She did not owe him this. It was not his place to interfere. She shook her head and looked down on Methos. He was still sobbing, still on his hands and knees. It did not matter what he looked like, what he pretended, how he lied. He was still a Horseman, and she would make sure he never hurt anyone again. She readied the axe for the blow.
"CASSANDRA!" Duncan held power over her, and it surged in the sound of her name, reached out to her and stopped her once again. "I want him to live!"
What he wanted? What he wanted! What about what she wanted? What about what Methos deserved? Cassandra looked no more at Duncan. He was not important. This was between her and Methos, as it had been from the beginning. As it was now, at the end.
Methos had not moved. He was still on the ground, still prostrate before her.
Cassandra started trembling then, and she lowered the axe to her shoulder. At the end of what? His life? Or hers? What would she be if she killed Methos, if she took his head and stripped his Quickening from his soul? Who would she be, if she took Methos inside her forever?
Was that what she wanted? To be a killer, just like him? To carry that burden within her for the rest of her life, to hear his voice forever? And what would she deserve then? Her sins were different, but were they any less great than his? How can you weigh a sin? An evil? Do they grow less heavy with time? Or more?
Methos had not moved, had not said a word, but she had had her answer. Let she who is without sin strike the first blow. She could not forgive him, but neither could she condemn him.
The axe was too heavy for her, and she cast it aside. Not easily, not with charity or with grace, but she let go of the weapon. She was not yet ready to let go of the hate. Cassandra started up the path away from him, toward the doorway where the sunlight shone, then turned for a final look.
He was still on his knees in the shadows, his sobs quieter, deeper, terrible wracking sobs, coming from a black well of despair. She could almost feel sorry for him now. By sparing his life, she had left him to face the future she had foreseen. The Furies of his conscience would pursue him into madness, unto Death, and beyond.
It was fitting. It was just.
It was Hell.
It was what he deserved.
Cassandra did not bother to return to the hotel; there was nothing for her there. But there was one last duty she must perform. At the bank at the airport, she purchased a money order with her third credit card, then wrote on a piece of paper:
$ 5000 - Payment for sword
$ 500 - Interest due
$ 5500 - TOTAL
She mailed it to Duncan MacLeod, care of the Hotel de Seze in Bordeaux. Then she bought a ticket for Mitilini, on the Isle of Lesbos. She was going home.
Cassandra's story is continued in
Hope Remembered III
CONFIDANTE
The story of Methos being pursued by the Furies is told in "Long Have I Waited" by Nightsky and Parda.
The story of Roland and the Horsemen is told in "The Voice of Death."
Connor and Cassandra's story is told in "Hope Forgotten" and "Hope Remembered I: Friend."
STANDARD DISCLAIMER: Not my universe, not my characters. They belong to the Rysher/Davis/Panzer types. Some of the dialog is directly from the episodes "Comes a Horseman" and "Revelations 6:8" in Highlander: The Series. This story was not written for profit, but because I want Cassandra to get out of my head and she demanded I finish her story.
Author's Notes
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO:
- Rhiannon Shaw (for reading the cards)
- Megan Serenco (for finding the weak spots)
- Genevieve (for keeping me straight about Methos)
- Andrea Covell (for her defense of a character she isn't a fan of)
- Stacie DeShazer (who spots missing "you"s)
- Johanne Briere (who helped me with the French language)
- Annie Wortham (fellow member of the Cassandra Wolf Pack.)
- Leah Rosenthal (who shared some interesting ideas about Cassandra.)
SPECIAL THANKS TO:
- Tanja Kinkel (who has a different yet strangely similar vision of Cassandra.)
- Cathy Butterfield (who knows all sorts of things, both odd and true.)
- Robin Tennenbaum (who is joining the big leagues now.)
- Vi Moreau (who is tired of the Horsemen, but read it anyway and noticed [of course and as always] the things that needed fixing.)
- Bridget Mintz Testa (who reads everything I write at least three times over and still wants more. [Even if Connor isn't in this story, either.])
Many, many heartfelt thanks!
~~~~~
Books used as Resources
"Idiom's Delight" by Suzanne Brock, First Vintage Books, 1988.
~~~~~
ABOUT CASSANDRA BEING STUPID:
Cassandra does stupid things in this story. I admit that freely. Some of it is due to the really annoying television practice of letting the hero do everything and having side-kicks (especially female ones) wait around and be helpless.
After the fight in the power station, Cassandra should never have waited in Duncan's loft. She knows Methos knows where Duncan lives, and she knows that Methos and Kronos are working together. She should have gone to a hotel and called Duncan at his loft until he answered. However, TV rules deem it easier to have scenes in a familiar setting, and so Cassandra was waiting for Duncan when he got home.
In the Hotel de Seze, when she's waiting for Duncan and feels a buzz, she opens the door without picking up her sword. Hello? Is there any doubt that the three Horsemen could easily defeat Cassandra, even if she is holding a sword? Did they (writers, directors, or whoever sets up those scenes) deliberately set out to make her look as stupid as possible? And why?
It is interesting to note, however, that not one of the three Horsemen had his sword drawn, either.
However, even beyond the standard "helpless female on TV" scenario, Cassandra is stubbornly immune to reason or logic. She ignores, denies, or refutes any evidence that contradicts her original view of Methos.
This is entirely in keeping with her character as a "person on a mission." People who are fixated on a goal - whether that goal is to kill someone (Cassandra), take over Russia (Hitler), or fix a toaster (my father) - ignore anything that suggests their original plan might be wrong. They will twist and interpret facts until the information agrees with what they already "know." They become irritated with people who present them with facts that they do not agree with. They insist their plan of action will work, and that it is the only solution. They are obsessed, in the full meaning of that word.
They are, indeed, stupid - unable (or at least unwilling) to learn or process new information.
However, even though she is under great mental and emotional stress while she is holding an axe over Methos's neck, Cassandra finally allows herself to learn, and decides not to take his head.
~~~~~
ABOUT KOMODO DRAGONS:
Komodo dragons are monitor lizards, and they live exclusively on six islands in Indonesia. They can grow to ten feet in length. They are excellent swimmers, and when younger and smaller, they can climb trees. Their diet includes goats, deer, pigs, monkeys, and smaller Komodo dragons. (This is why the little ones climb trees.)
Their saliva contains an enzyme which induces gangrene. Should an animal be injured by a Komodo dragon and then escape, the wound will soon start to fester. The smell of the rotting flesh in the wound will attract other dragons.
~~~~~
TAROT CARDS
Originally, I had planned for Cassandra to use Tarot Cards and do a reading for herself the night before she met Methos in the dojo. Due to various story-telling reasons, this scene was cut. However, the cards I laid out were interesting enough that I thought I would include the reading here. (And no, I did not stack the deck in any way.) Many thanks to Rhiannon Shaw for reading the cards for me.
The Celtic Cross pattern was used:
~~~~~~~Rhiannon's Reading ~~~~~~~
Whoofda! Ended up going with the Norse deck on this (the one which works best for me).
As an overview: You have an abundance of arcana, indicating much of this is fixed, immutable, inevitable. You have no true pattern of numbers, which frequently mean that a number of threads are tying together into one knot, but that no one thread predominates. There is no overall 'pattern' as such, only texture and event. There is a shortage of Cups, as well, indicating that emotion is not fully given its share of the work, and emphasized by the abundance of Discs (material things) and Wands (logical thought).
[Author's note: the descriptions of the pictures on the cards are from the Robin Wood deck, not the Norse deck that Rhiannon used. Reversed cards generally have the opposite meaning of what is pictured.]
Goal:
10 of Discs
Outcome
Empress (rev)
Near Past:
Knight of
Cups (rev)
Seeker: Chariot (rev)
Covering: 2 of Wands
Crossing: Ace of Wands (rev)
Near Future:
Wheel of
Fortune (rev)
Hopes/Fears
6 of swords
Basis for situation:
9 of Swords (rev)
Environment:
King of Discs (rev)
Self:
Strength
ENHANCED OUTCOME
Knight of Wands (rev)
5 of Discs
Justice
*At base, the Seeker: The Chariot, reversed. [A man standing in a chariot and playing a harp. The chariot is drawn by a white unicorn and a black unicorn.]
(Card which signifies Cassandra)
A harsh card, indicative of incomplete success, things unto accomplished because they passed beyond your control. An imbalance or inability to adjust.
*Overlying: 2 of Wands. [A man holding a globe in one hand and a staff (wand) in the other, staring out to sea.]
(The current situation Cassandra is in)
This is enterprise, success through hard work, but it also can indicate someone rushing forward into new things as soon as the old one is completed.
*Crossing: Ace of Wands, reversed [a wand surrounded by light, with two sunflowers at the base]
(Cassandra's challenge, what crosses her and gets in her way)
Decline, destructiveness, a failure to take advantage of ideas.
*Far past: 9 of Swords, reversed [a woman sitting up in bed, her head in her hands, nine swords on the wall behind her.]
Isolation, lack of aid or assistance, suicidal actions.
*Near past: Knight of Cups [a knight riding the crest of the waves on a white sea-horse]
Intelligent person, a bringer of ideas, but one who needs constant stimulation to retain an interest in things. (Cassandra met Duncan this afternoon. In Janeen's deck, the Knight of Cups can be a lover.)
*Near Future: 10 of Discs [a happy family scene]
Inheritance, family wealth, a legacy from days past falling due at last.
*Possible outcome: Wheel, reversed [the wheel of fortune, divided into 8 sections]
Bad luck, or at the least, a turn for the worst. The past catches up to you in the spinning wheel, and you can't adapt or adjust fast enough.
*Self: Strength [a woman with a lion]
Thoughts, self-discipline, the overcoming of obstacles through control of one's thoughts, the suppression of unwanted emotion.
*Environment: King of Discs, reversed [a crowned man dressed in green, seated on a throne in the forest]
Materialistic, grasping, a person insensitive to change.
*Hopes/Fears: 6 of Swords [a person in a boat being rowed by a ghostly figure]
Leaving troubles behind, solving problems by intellect. Sometimes a long journey or flight from danger.
*Outcome: Empress, reversed [a pregnant woman seated at a spinning wheel, with symbols of harvest around her]
Restriction, an overcontrolling (maternal) figure; female domination. Sterility of body or soul.
*Enhanced outcome: (three more cards)
-Knight of Wands, reversed [a knight in armor on a horse in a desert landscape]
A quarrelsome, narrow-minded person.
-5 of Discs [two beggars outside a church]
Financial troubles, possibly. A favorable outcome is possible but must be watched for cautiously.
-Justice [a woman holding scales in one hand and an upraised sword in the other]
Justice and balance, truth. Arbitration and agreement, through outside influence.
The reading:
Old forces are coming back (10 Discs; Wheel of Fortune, reversed), old thoughts and legacies returning to roost. Things that were beyond your control (Chariot, rev) may be marginally within your control now (2 Wands), but be very, very careful. The reversed Wheel shows there's no escaping it, and the 9 of Swords reversed indicates a lack of prior preparation for this.
Consideration must go into this, and a willingness to do what is most useful, not most safe or most desired (Ace Wands; Wheel, rev; King of Discs; Empress, rev; 5 Discs). Beware the surfeit of thought without contemplation shown in the combined Wands at the center of this. A successful path may yet be picked, but an overabundance of intellect, of planning, could be disastrous.
Above all, be willing to look at alternatives, at necessary costs and outcomes, at other people's points of view. Mental inflexibility and narrowness of focus could be disastrous. Take what help you have, and value their sight as well as your own (Knight of Cups)
~~~~~
Hope that helps. That one was... interesting. If I got that reading for someone, I'd want to know what they *did* in their past life. We have serious issues here of old griefs and injuries which have been picked at, or left to scar without Physical Therapy to restore mobility. That dreaded goddess Karma is coming home to roost on someone who's not prepared to clean the pigeon droppings. Ech. Also, the reading indicates the recipient is, essentially, isolated still, which is *not* good. Nasty one. Haven't seen one that bad in *ages*.