Chapter Text
II.
The nightmare started, just as it always did, out in the middle of nowhere. He was
talking to Kronos, had been for some time, for he never remembered any start of their
conversation. Kronos' appearance kept shifting between the man he had first met, all
those millennia ago, and the modern incarnation who had tracked him finally down in
Seacouver.
"But of course," Kronos said, smiling, "you didn't really expect him to forgive you,
did you?"
"Of course not," Methos replied, aware that he, too, shifted through time, and finding
it normal in the way dreamers do. "I never asked him to. Just to accept. He can do
that."
"How pathetic. I never thought to see my brother, Death, groveling before a Scottish
boy. I suppose you want the bitch to accept you, too? Is that why you are here?"
"You don't understand. You never did. That's why you're stuck here," Methos said, for
now they were in their camp, standing in front of Caspian's collection of skulls,
even though Kronos still wore the sword he had in Bordeaux, rather than his Bronze
weapon. "I found a way to leave, and so will..."
He didn't finish; he never did. The searing pain in his chest told him that Kronos had
stabbed him again. They were back in Seacouver, and Kronos caught him just before he
hit the floor.
"It's you," Kronos murmured, "who doesn't understand - Brother. The only ones who'll
ever accept you are those you have betrayed." Rage transformed his voice into a hiss.
"Death you were for us, and Death you'll always remain!"
Instead of the blackness of death, there was the bright, merciless light of the
desert. He remembered that day; Silas had just saved him from getting beheaded by one
of those annoying mortals who had figured out how to kill them. But instead of
embracing him, as he had done in the memory, Silas stepped back, confused rage and
heartbreak written on his face.
"Why, Brother?" he asked. "Why did you kill me?"
Methos stood frozen, unable to move, even as Silas swung. But it wasn't Silas anymore
who held the ax; it was Cassandra, and a part of him knew that the worst part of the
nightmare had only just started. For again, as soon as the blade touched his throat,
there was no plunging into oblivion, only a new distorted memory. Twilight, weariness,
and Cassandra serving him. He wondered about her strange ability to make him feel
peaceful. Then Kronos came, just like he always did.
"Growing attached, Brother?"
As soon as he denied it, he knew the woman behind him, who stared at him,
disbelieving, while Kronos started to drag her out of the tent, was not Cassandra
anymore. She screamed his name, but it was not a name he was to bear for thousands of
years. Those screams were addressed to a person who was not there yet, and yet he
should be, and his awareness of his failure to be there tore him apart. He closed his
eyes, not wanting to see her, but he knew the voice, desperately calling for help. Not
Cassandra, but Alexa. Alexa cried for Adam, and he never managed to bring Adam into
that time and place. There was only Death, and he knew Kronos was right.
The nightmare that came to Cassandra was unexpected, for it did not relate to MacLeod,
Methos or the other Horsemen at all. After Methos had left, she had made some calls to
investigators she knew, and then, once she could manage to center herself enough to do
so, started the dreamwalk to find Duncan in the Otherworld. She was partly successful;
for a moment, she was sure she touched the essence of her solstice child, the champion
she had searched for and found. Only his aura was dark, grief-stricken and nearly
shattered. She tried to transmit friendship and help, and thought there was a spark of
recognition, but then she was suddenly cut off, thrust away, and try as she might, she
could not reach him again, only something her imagination translated into walls, walls
of grief and rejection. When she opened her eyes again to the material world, she
realised she must have cried. Since the strong echoes of Duncan's grief which
reverberated in her left her in no shape to try and find a demon as well, she
postponed that and went to bed, knowing sleep would be hard to find but necessary if
she were to cope with Methos on a day-to-day basis.
When she finally had managed to surrender conscious thought, her unquiet slumber drew
her into a memory she had avoided for years. She was living in what was later called
Germany, working as a midwife. It was the time of the first millennium since people
had began to count from the year they had fixed as the year of birth of their god. A
time full of prophecies about doom and destruction, though for Cassandra one of the
times where she definitely avoided using her own abilities in that direction. Besides,
she didn't need those powers to notice that the people waiting for doomsday and the
Antichrist grew more and more suspicious of anything out of the usual. So she kept to
helping women survive their pregnancies and births. Consequently, to be arrested as a
witch was unexpected, and she wasn't prepared for it. It didn't help that the
magistrate coveted her sword once it was found. He declared it to be stolen, of
course, for how could a midwife afford something which was the privilege of nobility?
Cassandra thought of using both Voice and mind-tricks; but decided against it. For one
thing, fanatical and single-minded as the town's citizens had become, it might not
work with all, and for another, if it worked only on some, these would later
undoubtedly end up as accused themselves. She did not wish this fate on any mortal.
So she confessed, expecting to be hanged, which was to her experience the usual fate
for witches. It made no sense to let them torture her - not only because of the pain,
but because the age she had reached by that time made her heal very quickly, and once
they noticed that... Better to get it over with quickly. Only she wasn't hanged. The
magistrate turned out to be slightly ahead of his century and ordered her burned.
In her dream, she was back on the stake, and the pain was more terrible than anything
she had ever known. Not even dying of thirst in the desert, escaping from the
Horsemen, could compare to this agony, and it drove her mad. Somewhere back in her
mind she knew she had recovered from this, even if it had taken her years on holy
ground and the acceptance of help by Christians whom she had ample reasons to
distrust. But this bit of awareness was nothing, compared to the engulfing nightmare
which had her sobbing, screaming as she had done then, cursing her immortality with
its healing powers that only prolonged this torture. This was hell, and it went on
forever.
The recuperative power of their quickenings aside, the next morning saw two weary
immortals with not enough sleep and too short tempers making their way through the
woods, following MacLeod's vague description of the place where he met the hermit, or
rather Richie's even more vague rendering of it, and Cassandra's centuries-old
memories. The things she remembered about the immortal she had encountered two hundred
years before Duncan's birth were not very helpful. He hadn't been any more Scottish
than she was, similarly gifted and as keen on preserving his privacy. After carefully
establishing that neither wanted to challenge the other, they had gone their separate
ways.
"Wonderful," Methos said, when noon had come and gone and they still had not found
anything resembling the cave Richie had mentioned. "This gives a whole new meaning to
the phrase 'fool's errand'. And speaking of phrases, I don't suppose you could
broadcast something on the lines of 'Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi' and summon the old guy
from the beyond, providing he existed outside of Macleod's imagination?"
She retorted that their search had been his idea in the first place, but it was an
half-hearted reply. There were too many things puzzling her. When she had still been
mortal, Hijad had taught her to listen to her dreams, a lesson she never forgot. So
what had been the message of this one? That she had survived through worse things than
the Horsemen? She had known that before, had clung to it during her recovery in
Switzerland. Watching Methos, who looked as tense and tired as she felt, she fought
against her instinctive response, which was to run as far from him as she could.
Millennia ago, this state had signaled danger, and the more they were in each other's
company, the more she realised she had never quite lost those trained reflexes to his
every mood. Perhaps she would now. She couldn't decide whether this would be more or
less dangerous. In any case, it seemed he had spent as bad a night as she had, and she
wondered. No matter how determinedly detached he behaved during daytime, everyone was
prone to nightmares, given the right circumstances. Their situation was certainly
incentive enough, but if there was such a thing as Ahriman, it might very well try to
influence them through their dreams.
This brought her back to the horrible sensation of being burned. She shuddered, then
forced herself to confront the dream once again, still not understanding why she
should think of this particular incident in her life, unconnected to the man walking
beside her. Had she subconsciously replaced the magistrate of that German hovel with
Methos? No, certainly not. She had not even hated the magistrate. Despised him, yes,
even pitied him a little, for giving in to greed enough to murder another for a sword,
but now she could not even recall his name. Even then, after she had recovered enough
to leave holy ground again, she had had no desire to search for him and the others who
had burned her to avenge herself on them. She had simply moved on.
The realisation hit her. She had been willing to be hanged instead of forcing the
mortals bent on her death to free her, so that none of them would be killed later for
helping a witch. Later, after they had put her through the worst torture of her life,
she still had not wanted to retaliate. It had not been forgiveness, really, just that
they were mortals, whose time on earth was incredibly short and generally unpleasant
anyway.
*But Methos is immortal. Worse than that, as far as I know, he was the eldest immortal
even then. He should have known better. I cannot...*
What? Use the same standards as she did for mortals? Let it be, and move on?
"Let's move on, shall we?" She flinched as his voice interrupted her thoughts, using
the very expression which had come to her mind. High-strung as she was, she would have
suspected him of reading her mind, but she had always known Methos was head-blind,
something which she had been profoundly grateful for in the past. "I'm giving this one
hour more, then we have to postpone the search until tomorrow."
"Why? There will be daylight for at least three more hours, if not four, and I've
brought searchlights."
"I told you. I'm not camping in the woods."
"This convinces me. You *have* changed," Cassandra said sarcastically. "You never used
to whine when you were terrorizing the world."
"I like my 20th century comforts," Methos returned, unruffled. "Don't tell me you're
pining for the glorious days of lice and flea and half-frozen water in the middle of
winter."
She didn't, and if he had been another man she would have said so and smiled. Things
being as they were, she settled for a noncommittal sound and suggested trying out
another path. For a while, they walked silently again, and she was struck by the fact
that, his complaints aside, Methos certainly hadn't lost his gift for moving
noiselessly through the wilderness, something inbred for those who had been born in a
world where sound could be deathly. The younger immortals never seemed quite able to
do it. That was what had made her certain about Kronos, when she saw him after three
millennia. Not the face, though even without the warpaint and with his hair cropped,
it was familiar enough. But that could have been a bizarre coincidence; during her
long, long life, she had encountered men and women, both mortal and immortal, who
looked completely alike though born centuries apart. No one born in the last
centuries, however, moved like an ancient who was hunting or hunted.
Methos was thinking about Kronos as well, and his reason wasn't that different. He
remembered the last wilderness, those Ukrainian forests where Silas had lived. When he
had offered Silas and Caspian to Kronos, it had been a last resort; he knew very well
that, no matter the outcome, he was condemning them to death. Even if Kronos had
killed MacLeod, and he had not challenged Silas, they would still all have died.
Reality wasn't a James Bond film, and a few men couldn't hold the entire planet ransom
with a virus. No matter how many thousands would have died, the idea that the
governments of the most influential nations would simply turn over their power to some
mythical creatures out of their legends was ludicrous. They would have been hunted and
found pretty soon, and by then, some immortal, or more likely a Watcher, horrified by
what they had done, would have told the world the way they could be killed. That
Kronos, who had been one of the most intelligent men Methos had known, had not seen
that, was a better comment on his insanity than anything he had said.
Condemning Caspian to die had been easy. Even in the heyday of the Horsemen, Methos
had never cared much for Caspian. Giving Silas to Kronos as a kind of living
sacrifice, though, whose death was imminent, had nearly torn him apart. Silas had been
content in his woods, would not have harmed anyone if his brothers had not come for
him. Thinking about Silas and the look on his face when Methos had challenged him hurt
too much, even now, so Methos contemplated Kronos again. He had told MacLeod the truth
- he could never have killed Kronos. Silas, who had trusted him the way Kronos never
had, yes, but not Kronos, and even when he made his half-hearted attempt with the
sword, ignoring all the other useful instruments of death in his possession which were
to prove so helpful with Keane and MacLeod later, they both knew it. Kronos had seen
it as the latest in the thousands of mind games they played with each other, and in a
way, he had been right. Mind games... he couldn't be sure whether his nightmares
weren't exactly this, the result of however much of Kronos' quickening he had taken
when the bizarre link between him and MacLeod had occurred. It would certainly be just
like Kronos, possessive bastard that he was, to invade his mind even in death.
*We don't need any Persian demons, Mac*, Methos thought, *we have enough of our own to
haunt us.* He grimaced, aware that he was being melodramatic. He couldn't bring
himself to see Kronos as a demon; he left that to the pure and righteous like MacLeod
or Cassandra. Too many memories of being just like Kronos, though without the insanity
which had overwhelmed Kronos in the end. Too many memories of being drawn to the
elementary life force that was Kronos, being fascinated by the younger immortal the
way he was going to be fascinated by the man who would kill him. Not that either
Kronos or MacLeod would appreciate the comparison.
It was inevitable, though. Now Kronos was dead, Mac had withdrawn deep into himself,
shattered by the closest thing the immortals had to infanticide, and he was traipsing
around in the forest with his best enemy in search of he didn't quite know what. It
had all the makings of a prolonged bad joke, but no one was laughing. Who would have
thought that he was going to regret killing that Kristin woman? If she had taken the
kid's head years ago, it would have resulted in a guilt trip for MacLeod, sure, but
nowhere on the same scale. *Stop it*, Methos told himself. *More brilliant logic like
this, and you're going to wish you whacked the irritating youngster yourself. You
really need to get more sleep.*
For a moment, his memory showed him Richie Ryan again, earnestly, loyally insisting
that Mac didn't hallucinate and might actually be haunted by a demon. He hadn't known
the kid very well, had just seen him as MacLeod's sometimes useful, more often
bumbling sidekick, not really a person in his own right until those last days, when
the kid had suddenly been the adult, taking care of his tormented teacher, defending
him. Who had said that you never appreciate people until they were gone? Doubtlessly
someone with a rare gift for platitudes. Still, there was truth in it, and now that he
desperately tried to recall every single word Ryan had spoken shortly before his
death, he could see the irony.
Just when he thought he had finally succeeded in finding another clue, he felt it and
stopped. A second later, Cassandra stood still as well. The sensation was very, very
faint, but close. Not another immortal. A pre-immortal, and a very young one at that,
or the signature would have been stronger already. Methos and Cassandra looked at each
other, in a rare agreement of complete uncertainty. Then, their ears picked up the
presence as well; a quivering, high voice wailing and crying for help.
"It's a child," Cassandra said, stating the obvious because she couldn't believe it. A
child, so deep in the woods, and a pre-immortal child at that? Well, she could wonder
about it later, she decided, pinpointing the location of the mystery very easily now
she had two senses to help her. Methos followed so close that he nearly crashed into
her when she halted abruptly, seeing what had alerted their attention.
It was a child, all right, a small girl, no more than five or six years old. But what
shocked Cassandra into freezing on the spot was that someone had beaten that little
girl within an inch of her life. She was bleeding, covered with bruises, and
completely naked. When she lifted her face, looking at them, they could see that one
of her eyes was completely swollen.
End Part 2