Chapter Text
VI.
Not every meeting without Becky to hold them back ended in an argument, thankfully.
Sometimes they managed to discuss quite civilly questions like the one haunting all
immortals: Where did they come from? Who were their parents? Hijad had regarded her as
a present from the Gods, but Cassandra had lost faith in that comforting explanation
when she met her living god, whose way of giving her life was to kill her first. Even
years later, when she had realised Methos had been no more a god then she, when she
had entered the service of the Great Goddess, she could no longer believe in a divine
origin for foundlings.
Methos, or so he claimed, never had. He told her about several theories the Watchers
had - recurring genetic mutation being a favourite, though that did not explain how
the parents of such mutations knew they had to get rid of them, since there was no
technology which could tell a pre-immortal from a mortal child. One of the more
outlandish theories of the last years, proposed by a Watcher whose cover was the
existence of a screenwriter in Hollywood, was that they were all aliens from outer
space.
"And people actually believe that?" Cassandra asked, amazed.
"You'd be surprised. Well, aliens have replaced sightings of saints and gods. Frankly,
I don't see much difference between a Roman peasant counting his eagles and sparrows
for lucky omens, his Italian descendant going to Naples to see the blood of St.
Januarius become fluid each year, or his grandnephew, born in America, getting
abducted by aliens."
"You wouldn't," she said, leaving it at that as she didn't want to discuss religion
with him, of all people. Instead, the debate shifted to mortal and immortal
physiology. Both had, at different points in their lives, done vivisections, but not
in this century, where the risk of witnesses and records was simply too great. They
had not found any additional organs, though Methos pointed out that the blood, when he
had had the chance to watch it under those lovingly made lenses the Dutch created in
the eighteenth century, did show some tiny differences. Unfortunately, they could not
dare to cross-check it now against mortal samples.
"I wonder," Cassandra said thoughtfully, "whether it might just hold the clue against
something like the AIDS virus. There must be something similarly adaptive in our
immune system - if it could be reproduced on an artificial basis..."
"Yes. But would you be willing to risk our existence on that supposition? We'd
probably end up as human lab rats; make no mistake about that."
Another question, a more urgent one, was where Becky had come from. The police still
hadn't found any clues; there were no descriptions of missing children fitting her.
Grateful as she was for the unexpected gift of a child, Cassandra couldn't help but
feel a vague sense of unease. In this, she was in rare agreement with Methos.
"It is almost as if someone had placed her there," he said, and used his excursions
into the forests which were ostensibly connected to his book and in reality to the
ever-fading hope of finding the damned cave or whatever relicts the hermit had left,
for investigations about Becky as well. There was not much chance he would find
something the police hadn't, but there was always the possibility another immortal was
involved, who knew Becky was a pre-immortal and had left her there to be found by
Cassandra, or Methos, or both, with unclear intentions. If so, he or she might return,
and no mortal policeman could sense that.
As it grew colder and colder, and Christmas approached, these forest trips grew ever
more uncomfortable. Methos disliked the cold. Which was why he all too often ended up
in cold climates; he didn't want to become predictable by indulging in his natural
preferences too much. Paris in winter was less than idyllic, always had been, even
when called Lutetia and used by Caesar for a meeting with some Gallic chiefs. But it
was downright southern when compared to Scotland.
*Explains much about MacLeod*, Methos thought, feeling the unpleasant in-between of
rain and snow needling any exposed skin it could find. *Anyone who grows up in this
climate *has* to be stubborn and immovable as a rock. Explains much about Cassandra,
too. After all, she stayed here for centuries.*
Christmas per se had no meaning for him, but he could understand the need for solstice
celebration which had prevailed throughout the centuries. He didn't want to think
about the last Christmas, when all had been well within the small circles of intimates
he had fallen in with. There had been a celebration at Joe's with MacLeod, Amanda, and
the inevitable Richie Ryan.
Fun and teasing on all sides, as Mac made Amanda prove that her gifts were actually
bought, and she paid him back by presenting the bills... each and every one from his
credit cards; as Methos got a CD from "the worst band I could find, so you'd really
like it," as Mac put it, and a silk shirt from Amanda who claimed she would found an
anti-Sweater-league if he didn't wear it at once; as Joe had presented songs he had
written for each of them. He tried to ignore the idea of Joe spending a lonely, bitter
Christmas in Paris, worrying about MacLeod. He could have told Joe Duncan's
whereabouts, but Joe being Joe would have traveled to Malaysia, only to be met by
exactly the same reception. Besides, Joe needed time on his own to mourn the cursed
kid whom he had regarded as something of a son as well. Even less did Methos want to
think about the Christmas before, when Alexa had been still alive. Anything but that.
So he said yes when Rachel invited him to her Christmas celebration, and busied
himself in making presents for Becky.
*Stupid*, his voice of reason, who didn't think much of this prolonged sojourn to
Scotland anyway, told him. *There is a reason why you didn't take any more students
after Byron. A reason why you thought MacLeod was foolish to have taken Richie. Any
immortal born that late in the Game is bound to die, and at the rate it accelerates,
sooner rather than later. Getting attached to mortals is bad enough, but at least you
know where you are with them, there's no chance of your emotions getting the better of
you and causing irrational hopes.*
*Oh, and the Methusalah Stone wasn't an irrational hope?*
There she was again, Alexa in the hospital, crying his name. No, better to think about
anything else, anything... even Cassandra. She had to spend a week in London, since
one of the authors she worked with insisted on a personal meeting, and had reluctantly
entrusted Becky to Rachel.
"I hope," Rachel said, eyes sparkling, while she prepared the inn for the big
Christmas party, having somehow bullied Methos into holding ladders and carrying
buckets around, "I hope you know what this means."
"Enlighten me."
"That she's entrusting the lass to you as well, of course! It's a declaration of good
faith if I ever saw one. Now Adam, all you have to do is listen to me. We'll fix this
between Cathy and you."
He wondered whether it was possible that some psychological structure was passed from
generation to generation of MacLeods. Certainly Rachel enjoyed taking charge of
people's lives every bit as much as Duncan did... had done. She made an ideal clan
chief. It didn't mean she was right in this case, though. Cassandra and he managed
some fairly normal conversations, now and then, but this didn't mean she had abandoned
her distrust of him. Nor was it necessary for her to do so. He had never intended
them to become friends. But he had intended to get rid of his nightmares, and whether
it was because of Becky or because of Cassandra, they had left him.
"Do you have a present for her?" Rachel asked.
"For Cathy? No. Believe me, she'd feel insulted."
"Adam my boy, you don't know women. No woman ever feels insulted if she gets a
thoughtfully selected present."
"Is that a hint?" he parried. "Don't worry, I've got something for you."
He had grown quite fond of Rachel, but in this case she really didn't know what she
was talking about. Giving Cassandra a present would automatically remind her of the
way he had used presents before. They had served him both as rewards, for obedience,
and punishments, for Cassandra the child of the desert had at first hated the
elaborate face painting he forced upon her. Teaching her to use charcoals on her eyes
and henna on her cheeks and mouth had not been a kindness; he had done it because he
wanted his prize to look as good as possible.
He could just imagine Cassandra's reaction if he presented her with some make-up now.
Or jewelry. Oh yes, by the time he had given her the gold torque, she had liked it,
but it had not been two days before Kronos had taken her.
However, the subject was brought up again, by Becky of all people. She showed him the
painting she had secretly done for Cassandra - featuring someone who, to judge by the
long hair, must be Cassandra, surrounded by the moon and the stars - and asked him
about his own present.
"Do you know what the celebration is about?" he said, hoping to distract her.
"Yes, Cathy told me." She stumbled across some of the longer words. "The birth of
Christ and the 'newal of all things."
The renewal of all things. The solstice night. She continued to look at him
expectantly, entreatingly, with her big dark eyes. The tiny scar, dangerously close to
her left eye, was still more red than pale. Blast it, he should have told everyone he
had to visit his family, risked the return of the nightmares and spent Christmas on
Tahiti or Bora Bora. A plunge in pure hedonism would have taken care of the dreams,
and he wouldn't feel the ridiculous need to reassure this infant that Daddy and Mommy
were getting along.
"Tell you what," he suddenly said, "we're making a trip to Edinburgh to get Cathy her
present. Have you ever been to a big city?"
"I don't remember," she said in her small voice, and he cursed himself.
"Then it's time!"
Originally, he had planned to take Rachel's car, but she needed it on that day, so he
decided a little blackmail was in order. Andrew Lanart had, surprisingly, not followed
Cassandra to London. Perhaps they already had a new Watcher assigned, because the
overconscientious fool didn't keep his mouth shut, or someone of the London staff
needed the training. Be that as it may, Lanart was in for a surprise. Predictably, the
man felt obliged to be outraged at first.
"Come on," Methos said, "giving us a lift to Edinburgh is hardly a big sacrifice. Take
it as a tribute to the spirit of the season."
"Look, Pierson, perhaps Dawson is foolish enough to still associate with you, but
certainly not me!"
"That's not what the headquarters are going to hear."
"What?"
"If you continue to act out this virtuous get-thee-behind-me-immortal-thing, then I'll
tell my old acquaintances at HQ Paris all about my good buddy Andrew who led me to the
woman whose head I'm planning to take. I think that's called interference in the
Game. No offence, Andrew, but people get fired for stuff like that. Sometimes they
even end up before tribunals."
The man's face took on an interesting shade of gray.
"You... you are..."
"Yes, I know. I've been told often enough. Now," Methos said gently, "about the use of
your car and that trip to Edinburgh..."
"I hope she tortures you before she takes your head," Lanart hissed, but he complied.
It resulted in a mostly enjoyable excursion. Becky, bless her, actually figured out
something he could give to Cassandra without risking having it thrown in his face.
While they were wandering down a street, she stopped before a pet-shop, pressed her
nose against the glass, and sighed.
"Are those wolf puppies?" she asked, pointing to a black, yelping bundle.
"No, just normal dog puppies."
She actually looked disappointed and explained that Cathy had told her tales about a
wolf puppy she once had owned. This propelled Methos to be unusually demonstrative and
whirl her around in his arms.
"Bright girl, Becky! That's it!"
Not a puppy, though. Wolf cubs notwithstanding, he just didn't see Cassandra as a dog
person. But a kitten would do nicely. He had never given her anything living in the
past; she couldn't blame the animal for its donor, and with her soft spot for pets
might actually like it. Besides, it would be a present for Becky as well.
He had been mildly concerned about encountering another immortal in a city the size of
Edinburgh, but luckily, none showed up, and the only thing that gave him pause for
thought was that Andrew Lanart didn't just glare at him; he looked at Becky with
something like distaste as well when they met in the late afternoon again as agreed.
It was just a glance, but it caused his skin to prickle.
With a combination of luck and skill, Methos had successfully managed not to be
discovered by James Horton and his followers while they were still in the Watchers,
secretly conducting their hunting. He had met Horton once, though, when the man came
into the library in order to check on Darius' chronicles. The expression with which
Horton had regarded the volumes had been similarly distasteful. Not that Andrew Lanart
had any connections with the Horton group, but there was always the chance he might
develop a basic dislike of immortals, a milder form of the resentment and hatred that
had driven Horton. It was a risk that came with the job. But even then, he had no way
of knowing Becky was a latent immortal as well, and thus no reason to feel any
hostility towards her.
Maybe it was just paranoia on Methos' part. But paranoia had kept him alive for quite
a long time, so he usually listened to it.
Cassandra spent only two of the days in London with her author. On the other days, she
did what she could not have risked in Glenfinnan: she went on another dreamwalk in
search for a demon. By now, she had confirmation about Duncan actually being in
Malaysia, and since there was no progress as far as the hermit was concerned, she
decided to follow the only trail left. She visited the British Museum and stayed for a
long time among the Persian monuments. It helped her to adjust to the state of mind
she needed, to form the visual images that were necessary as aids in the Otherworld.
The first time she tried, all she found were echoes of past lives, long, long gone.
The second time, she decided to concentrate on the immediate past, tried to find
Duncan at the point where he had taken his student's head. It was difficult, but at
last she had pinpointed the familiar aura in conflict with some severe disturbance.
She could get no closer than that, though, and as she was not sure whether she had
successfully kept to the past or had become drawn to the present again, she attempted
to consciously contact him in the here and now afterwards.
It was a mistake. She was too exhausted, and all too easily repelled by the walls of
grief and withdrawal he had formed. And the futility of her attempt wasn't the end of
the consequences. Her nightmares returned again. The first one even felt like a
vision, but in the state she was in she couldn't be sure. She saw Methos as Death,
cutting down Becky just as swiftly as he had murdered Hijad and all the others she had
watched him kill, and the same helpless, paralysing agony burned in her as she was
unable to stop him.
Then, it was the time after she tried to commit suicide for the last time. She had
thought she had finally figured out a way to escape him. Her people believed that the
soul hovered around the body for a day and a night, but after that, could not be
called back anymore. So if she managed to hide successfully for that time, if he
couldn't find her before a day and a night had passed, she would truly be dead.
She had waited until the horsemen were camping in an area full of rocks, mountains and
caves. Had been obedient and submissive to a fault, until she sneaked away and hid in
a cave, praying to the spirits of her ancestors for salvation and plunging the knife
she had stolen into her heart. When she had awakened, he had been with her, smiling
sardonically, and she had finally accepted that there was no escape, that he would
always find her, always bring her back, that he truly was a god.
"Really, woman," he had said, pulling her up none too gently, "this particular game
gets tiring. And you don't want me to get bored. You'll have to make it up to me."
"I hate you," she sobbed, hating herself for being reduced to such futile
protestations, "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"
With the bit of awareness that was not caught up in the past her sleep had conjured
up, she thought it couldn't become worse, but it did. Her dream shifted to a time some
weeks later. She kneeled next to Lystris, one of Kronos' women, who had just finished
the drink Cassandra had brewed to break her fever. Her body tingled, as it always did
when her Master or his Brethren approached, and she raised her head, praying it would
not be Kronos asking for Lystris once again. Her relief to see Methos turned into fear
as she thought he might disapprove of what she did. Still, she stood her ground. So
many of the women died: Lystris was one of the few who had an actual chance, and she
was determined to bring her through.
"Forgive my boldness," she said, "but please permit me to stay a while longer. She
needs me. She...." desperately she searched for an argument that might convince him,
"is more useful alive, she already knows her duties, a new woman would have to be
taught."
"Indeed," he said, nodding, and crouched beside her, taking the emptied cup away from
her and sniffing at it.
"Tell me," he asked, "are those the same herbs you used to make the skinny one with
the broken leg sleep yesterday? Something calming? And what are those herbs?"
Cassandra shook her head, glad he wasn't angry but still very careful, for his mood
might change any minute.
"No. This one got her fever from the knife cuts, and so I used...."
He listened, not interrupting her even once, while she spoke of herbs and mixtures,
always keeping her voice on a low, pleasing level so that neither he nor feverish
Lystris would be disconcerted. It was an odd, new sensation, having his complete
attention directed at her in a way which did not threaten anything. He even looked
different, serious, but not cold, and his voice, when she had finally ended and he
questioned her further, had lost its taunting edge.
That night, he did something else that was new: he kissed her. He had touched her in
any other way, both brutally and, when he wanted to humiliate her by showing her he
could get her body to respond to him even while she hated him, skillfully, but he had
never kissed her. It was the first sensation he caused in her which she did not hate
and resent, and she started to wonder whether to be chosen by a god was really such a
terrible fate.
Cassandra woke up, tears still streaming down her face, and the time she needed to
realise that the cold she felt came from an unheated hotel room in London and not from
the caves of Anatolia was disconcertingly long. The last dream, without any violence
at all, had been the worst. She could not stop the tears. The bastard had been right
in Bordeaux. He had actually managed to manipulate her into falling in love with him
back then.
For the rest of the week, all her endeavours to focus long enough for another
dreamwalk failed.
End, Part 6