Chapter Text
VIII.
The spring arrived, and the peaceful interludes in their daily lives grew longer and
longer. Only during their irregular sword practice, when the physical proximity, the
movement and the smell of sweat triggered memories of the body as well as of the mind,
did Cassandra feel her hatred with its full intensity. But she was no longer sure she
wanted Methos dead, or even that she wanted never to see him again. She had nearly
grown to accept their strange, new relationship, when the deception they both lived in
was brutally shattered. The beginning of the end started on the day when Methos
finally found the cave.
*******
Cassandra was reading one of the more outlandish romance novels that she had ever come
across, "Blade of the MacLeods," because Rachel, who had been among the locals
interviewed by the author when the woman had done her research, had received three
copies she didn't quite know what to do with.
"First I thought, oh no, not another bloody American tourist in search of her
ancestors or her soulmate across the centuries," Rachel had said when giving Cassandra
the book. "That Gabaldon woman has a lot to answer for. Now every single woman in need
of consolation who ever lived seems to think the Highlands are bursting with
sensitive, sexy men for the picking. How they get that idea when the only sex symbol
Scotland has ever produced is over sixty, with no successor in sight, is beyond me."
She grinned cheekily. "Well, the only *screen* sex symbol. Anyway, the thing was,
this Carolyn Marsh was depressed as hell because she was just going through a divorce,
and I can't help myself; I'm a softie for divorce cases. So I thought I'd cheer her up
and told her some local legends, to get her through the *all men are bastards* stage."
"Rachel," Cassandra had said, staring at the bare-breasted man on the cover who looked
suspiciously like Duncan, "you didn't give her a physical description as well, did
you?"
"In for a penny, in for pound. I *really* wanted to cheer her up. Well, I could be
snobby and pretend I didn't read the book, but I did. It's crap, but entertaining
crap. Every girl needs a little romance now and then. Didn't you ever want to be
ravished by a strong handsome barbarian?"
Cassandra gave her a dark look. "Don't go there."
All of which had led to the guilty pleasure of presently wallowing in highflown
descriptions of the hero saving the damsel in distress for the third time in a row,
while Becky was busy piercing together the pieces of a gigantic puzzle, when Methos
arrived, carrying a thick briefcase under his arm. He didn't give Becky more than a
short nod, which was unusual enough to tell Cassandra immediately that something was
wrong.
"What is it?" she asked in Greek, because Greek was more adjustable to modern problems
while being at the same time incomprehensible for Becky.
He slumped in the next chair. "Your immortal acquaintance of some centuries ago and
Duncan's hermit are one and the same. He did exist. I found the damned cave."
There had not been much left which could be used. Rotting wood, for the most part.
Some cave paintings, too sophisticated to originate in the stone age, though it needed
an archaeologist or the world's oldest man to tell. He had made hastily drawn copies.
But most importantly, there was, in the midst of that rotting wood, a book. Equally
rotten, but consisting of the fine parchment which had been made to endure for
centuries, so there was actually something salvageable left.
"And what do you think our mystery man used? Persian letters? Sumerian? Assyrian?
Something as nice and uncomplicated as Greek? I'm not even demanding Roman letters -
Russian or Egyptian would be just fine. But no, the guy used *runes*." He made a
disgusted face.
"Not very big on runes, are you?" Cassandra asked sweetly, always delighted to find
chinks in his armor.
"Are you kidding? You might have had fun hanging out with German and Gallic
barbarians, but I was in Rome at the time. Well, most of the time. Nice, warm,
civilised. I miss the thermae to this day."
"Well," she said, regarding the heavy volume he had laid out on the table before her,
"this means work."
It made her uneasy from the beginning. Runes were not just letters: they were magic
signs, the language of the gods, and once she had sworn to keep them secret. But now
that they finally had found something which could be of help, any further hesitation
would be unforgivable. While Methos tried to make some sense of the wall paintings,
she sat in front of the half-destroyed pages, hour after hour, trying to decipher them
and only interrupting when Becky made her presence more than noticeable by crying out
loud. Absently, she prepared dinner for her. Methos called Rachel and asked whether
she could babysit once again, but she had to decline; the inn was too full. So they
told Becky they were working on something which was very, very important, and were
pleasantly surprised when the girl actually nodded and quietly began to play with
Duncan the cat.
Finally, Cassandra looked up, pale, but resolute. "He knew of the same prophecy; that
much is certain, but he interpreted it differently. The foe is not human: it just uses
humans, eating up their essence, and it has to be defeated by 'one of the bounteous
immortals'."
"Anything on why it has to be an immortal, or how to defeat this thing?"
"No. At least not on the pages I could decipher. But there's quite a lot on what it
wants. It envies both mortal and immortal humans the combination of spirit and flesh,
the fact that we can enjoy the tactile sensations while having minds as well. He
writes there's much resentment, especially of the immortals, for we can absorb each
other's souls without paying the price, the abandonment of our own body. This seems to
indicate it was once physical as well. And , according to Taliesin, this is what it is
getting at. Defeating the champion in body and mind, absorbing his soul completely,
thus becoming physical again. It doesn't want to be trapped in a mortal body, though,
which would die quite soon, making the whole enterprise pointless."
Methos didn't waste time asking who Taliesin was. She had discovered the name of the
hermit quite early on. "Of course. An immortal body means immortality and the ability
to absorb other souls. And not just any immortal body, but the one of the champion,
who will take the Prize and live forever."
They looked at each other. Cassandra wondered whether Methos would argue that the
hermit could have been delusional himself when he wrote this, but he didn't. She saw
only certainty in his eyes.
"We have to tell Mac at once. He could be still in Malaysia, but with our luck he's
roaming the world again. Unfortunately, they don't have phones in the blasted
monastery. I'm all for taking the next airplane, but if it turns out to be a wild
goose-chase we'd be wasting valuable time."
"I still have the number of some Malaysian investigators," Cassandra said. "They can
check. And..."
She stopped. After London, she had not attempted a dreamwalk again. She could try now,
of course. Only... her glance fell on Becky, absorbed in playing with the cat. An
immortal host. If she encountered Ahriman in the Otherworld and was defeated, he could
wreck incredible havoc with her body and her abilities, and the girl might very well
be the first victim. She would not be used by evil again. She had told Methos the
truth in Bordeaux: she would rather die.
Meanwhile, Methos had plans of his own. Time to pay Andrew Lanart another visit,
preferably in his absence. The Watchers had changed their codes after he left, of
course, but he was reasonably sure he could hack into their database when operating
from a secured terminal. It had been easy enough from Joe's, after all. But then,
Joe's access codes were predictable. Andrew Lanart's might just take a longer time.
Well, the man needed some distraction, and after all, he still was Cassandra's
Watcher, as far as they knew. He fell back on Akkadian, a language he could gamble on
being beyond Lanart, and told Cassandra of his idea.
An hour later, she vanished into the woods, Lanart in tow. The man was far from
clumsy, but Methos had been a Watcher off and on for a long, very long time, and he
could spot them practically everywhere. He waited a safe interval. Then, he did
something they had never done before, which was why he was certain Lanart would never
suspect. He left Becky, who had just fallen asleep, alone in Cassandra's cottage.
Breaking into Lanart's house was a piece of cake. Getting into his computer was much
more difficult. At first, all he could get his hands on were the man's
in-and-out-going e-mails. Well, it was better than nothing, and just might give him a
clue for the access to the International Database.
He skimmed through some personal mails. One, by a chatty American Watcher, caught his
attention because it referred to Richie Ryan's death.
"Andrew, you wouldn't believe what's going on here in Seacouver. I mean, the kid was
cute. I watched him in his first immortal year before Mike was assigned to him, and I
can tell you, he was quite popular with the female population. So now there is this
weird group of former girl friends hanging out in Dawson's bar, pretending Ryan isn't
dead, talking to him as if he were alive and calling themselves, ' The Clan Denial'.
Hey, whatever gets you through the night, I always say."
Methos would have found this mildly amusing, but he just didn't have the time. Some
e-mails later he found something which chilled him to the bone. Lanart wrote to a
superior in Paris:
"I can assure you M does not have the slightest suspicions. Believe me, ever since
over- hearing that conversation between C and DM in the dojo I have not had the
slightest doubt of how dangerous he can be. I let him believe we thought Adam Pierson
became an immortal after the Kalas affair, and he bought it hook, line, and sinker."
Wounded vanity was the least of Methos' concerns. So much for anonymity. If any other
immortal got his hands on this, it was head-hunting time again. And Lanart sent this
through a public net? Bloody hell.
"You assigned me to C because of my proven ability to handle the ancients, and I think
I have shown I can handle M as well. Another Watcher will not be necessary in the
present situation and could be counterproductive, since a new arrival would only raise
his suspicions. As long as he stays with C, I can do the M chronicles as well."
*Oh no, Andrew*, Methos thought. *Not if I have anything to do with it.*
Well, this presented additional incentive to break into the database as quickly as
possible, check on MacLeod's whereabouts, and then get out of here. Time to end this
doubtful Scottish idyll.
It took him ten more minutes, but then he had successfully hacked his way into the
database. He started by looking for current reports from Joe Dawson. What he found
there drove Andrew Lanart from his mind, at least for the moment. First, Joe had
assigned four Watchers on a quest for "an immortal, older than Methos." They were
reported as killed in various gruesome ways. Physical or not, this Ahriman creature
was clearly more than dangerous. Second, Mac was back in Paris. Having adopted a
monastic lifestyle, with Joe none too happy about it, it seemed. Which didn't matter
right now. Time to grab the book, get Cassandra, and take the next plane to France.
Cassandra and the few facts they had about Ahriman delivered, he would ditch Andrew
and hit the road again. Sure, Mac would need comfort after getting rid of the demon,
but Joe and Cassandra could deal with that. Methos had no intention of offering the
net world further reports on his existence.
He shut down the computer again, after following an impulse to start the ditching
process, while he was at it. He wrote an e-mail to his successor as chief researcher
of the Methos Project.
"Dear Ian: Frankly, your concern about M discovering my knowledge of his true
identity is getting tiresome. Besides, chances are C will rid the world of him quite
soon, and the world will be the better for it, I'm sure. After spending nearly a year
close to this horrible example of what 5000 years of immortality produce, you would
agree as well. So stop pestering me about caution - Andrew."
If this display of partisanship and bigotry did not get Lanart reassigned, nothing
would. So much for Andrew Lanart. Methos returned to Cassandra's cottage still on the
alert, but in a better mood than he had expected. After waiting for Cassandra to
return for a while, it occurred to him he would not see Becky again for a long time,
and the thought was painful to an astonishing degree. Still, it couldn't be changed.
He decided to check on her, to make sure she had no nightmares and perhaps to catch a
last glimpse of her.
The door to her room was closed: that was the first thing which was wrong, and he knew
at once something must have happened. When he opened it, the cat nearly jumped at him,
fur bristling and claws stretched. And Becky was nowhere to be seen, only the signs of
what little havoc a struggling girl could cause when being dragged away against her
will. He did not even have the time to curse, for that was when Cassandra returned. He
ran downstairs and in a rush, brought her up on recent events.
She went white. "We did this," she whispered. "We left her alone, and it took her."
"No, *it* can't have. Remember, it's not physical. Someone certainly did, and I
think..."
He stopped, disbelieving, when he heard an all too familiar laugh.
"Having grown attached, brother?"
Cassandra gasped, which proved she heard the same voice, saw the same man, leaning on
the frame of her entrance door and regarding both of them. The cat, withdrawing into
the deepest corner of the room, hissed.
"You are dead," Methos said and even to himself, his voice sounded uncertain. Then, he
shook himself. This was how it had started for MacLeod. Seeing the dead, who were
nothing but illusions.
"Kronos is dead," he repeated. "We both saw him die. So whoever you are, you are not
Kronos, and you might as well stop playing this ridiculous game."
"Ah, but I like the reaction this shape gets me from the two of you. Such a thrill."
The voice was perfect, and even the laughing glint in the eyes was exactly the same.
The overall appearance, though, was wrong, now that Methos had pushed his shock back
far enough to consider it. Ahriman had chosen the Kronos of the Bronze Age, but had
equipped him with his modern weapon. Now what did this remind him of? *My dreams*, he
thought, and felt sick to his stomach.
"Bright boy," the Ahriman creature said, mocking Methos' own phrase. "Of course I
invaded your dreams. From the beginning. You were so easy, both of you. Pathetic. The
old mortal in Paris was a larger challenge; let me tell you that. You let yourselves
be distracted from helping your champion by some quiet nights and a chance to live in
never-never-land. You immortals are so sentimental. Children. Forming a family. Gets
you every time. And, of course, some dulling of the memories so that you can actually
live with each other instead of killing each other. Easy. And now the battle has
started, and you are not there to help your champion."
"He won't need our help," Cassandra said. Because she stood so close to him, Methos
felt her trembling, but her voice was deathly calm and quiet. "He will defeat you, as
has been prophesied."
"Sure of that, are you, witch? You couldn't even understand your own prophecy. No,
there is this delightful concept of free will. He can lose. He will lose, and soon,
your pathetic race will be gone from the face of the earth while I rule."
"Now this does sound like Kronos," Methos interrupted, desperately clinging to the
sarcasm that was his favourite weapon. "Unfortunately, he lost his head the last time
he sounded like this. Can you take a hint?"
"Not from you, Death. What a presumptuous name for you to take, by the way. And
neither will your champion. Oh, he is good at killing, a truly gifted killer, but as
we all know, he can't kill something which has no body to begin with. Only those
unfortunates standing in the way. Which brings me to my gift for you, both of you. You
don't assume it was an accident I permitted you to find the cave now, do you? I
thought you might want to share some personal experiences of the tragic kind with dear
Duncan before his soul departs this world."
Suddenly the apparition vanished, but only seconds later, someone else appeared within
the door frame. Andrew Lanart, holding Becky with a gun pressed on her head. Only they
had never seen Lanart with such an expression, as if someone else moved his muscles.
The eyes which regarded them were red.
"This vessel let me in, and it is not the first time," Lanart's voice said, with an
alien intonation. "He wasn't so resistant as his colleague in Paris, I'm happy to
report. After all, l promised him he could become just like you, and this is what they
all want, isn't it, those mortals who watch you?"
Becky stared at him with stark terror. "Cathy," she whispered, "Cathy, I remember now.
It was this man. He took me in the forest. The man with the red eyes."
"As I said," Lanart continued, disregarding her and smiling benevolently at Methos and
Cassandra, "immortals are easy. They always fall for a child. And who would better
know about mysterious foundlings than a Watcher?"
Methos turned to Cassandra, trying to ignore Becky' s desperately pleading eyes.
"Could this be another illusion?" he asked her. "Could Becky have been always an
illusion?"
She shook her head, violently. "No. Many people besides us saw her. She is real, and
she is really here now. I can sense her. Remember, this is how he tricked Duncan the
first time - making him believe his student was an illusion."
"Oh yes, the girl is real, witch. Wouldn't be any fun otherwise. You see, I still have
some use for you two, and she is my way to ensure you will obey. As I've said, at this
very moment, your champion is preparing to fight me, and while I'm reasonably certain
of the outcome, I would like to leave nothing to chance. So, just in case he has found
a way to defeat me, I will not let him practice it for long. You see," Lanart went on,
and took a few more steps inside, never losing hold of Becky for a moment, "there was
this odd occurrence at Bordeaux."
Methos was busy with juggling plan after plan to overwhelm Lanart without endangering
Becky, so Cassandra saw it first.
"The double quickening," she said slowly.
"Exactly. It leaves the champion vulnerable to an attack from that particular side.
There is a connection. Don't you find that ironical, witch? A connection between Life
and Death? Sad to say, Death is blind when it comes to the spiritual plane, so here is
what I want you to do. Take him on a dreamwalk. He will find the champion, even if you
can't. And then, he will take his quickening. Isn't that what you had always planned,
Death? Take the champion's quickening when there is no one else left but the two of
you? Now you can do it without risk, without a fight, and without that beheading your
race is so fond of."
Lanart laughed. "Here is a historical detail for you, my dear," he continued, now
addressing Cassandra again. "Remember what he told you about taking his first head
with a stone axe? He truly brought Death into the world then, at least to your world.
No one knew how to kill an immortal before he did this. I'm in a generous mood, and
once he has finished taking poor naive Duncan's quickening, I might just let you
avenge your entire race on him. I haven't decided yet which of you will have the
honour of being my vessel if I can't have the champion."
"Neither, I'm afraid," Methos said grimly. "Sorry, but you've made a gigantic
miscalculation, Ahriman. We both know your present vessel cannot truly kill this girl.
Not permanently."
"No, but you would, rather than condemn her to eternal hell in this body. Of course,
it will tear apart what is left of your soul, and the woman will hate you even more
for it and kill you immediately afterwards."
Methos looked at Becky, who had, by now, started to cry. "Help me," she whispered,
"please, Adam, Cathy, help me."
Then he glanced at Cassandra, hoping she would understand what he was getting at,
hoping at the same time Ahriman was too busy with battle preparations to read his
thoughts any longer. Powerful Ahriman might be, but if he were truly going to fight
Duncan quite soon, he would have to leave Lanart's body. Of course, Lanart could
continue to hold Becky hostage on his own free will; they didn't know whether Ahriman
had said the truth about his cooperation. But without the demon inside him, Lanart
could not possibly prevail against the Voice. They would just have to play for time
now.
"True," he agreed, "this doesn't sound like a healthy prospect to me. And we all know
I'm a survivor, above all. But you see, Ahriman, Cassandra is one of those
problematical types with ethics. She wouldn't just stand by and let me take Duncan's
quickening, let alone bring me into a position to do so. Doesn't look like this
dreamwalk was one of your brighter ideas."
"But you have already chosen the child before the champion, haven't you, witch?"
Lanart/Ahriman taunted. "Besides, if you are so sure that destiny protects him, then
he might win against both me and Death. How strong is your faith in him?"
"This has nothing to do with faith," Cassandra retorted. For a moment, the red in
Lanart's eyes flickered, and Methos had to use all his self-discipline not to show any
reaction. Cassandra ignored it, which meant she either had not noticed or had a
similar strong hold on herself by now.
"Even if I were willing to sacrifice Duncan, I could not take Methos to the Otherworld
now. You know very well how much I hate him. To touch his soul in that way against all
my wishes would require a tremendous effort of will and concentration, and with my
mind split between worry for Becky and worry for Duncan as it is, I cannot make this
effort."
For the first time, Ahriman showed anger. One of Lanart's hands dug deep enough into
Becky's shoulder to make her cry out loud while he snarled: "Do you hear that, child?
They are both willing to let you die!"
"Help me," Becky sobbed, "please, help me! Why are you doing this?"
She called their names, again and again. Cassandra whispered something, but Methos
didn't understand it anymore. He had shut himself away, far, far away from this time
and place.
*How could you do this to me?*
Lanart shivered, as if feeling something cold touch him, and the normal, pale gray
returned to his eyes. Methos felt Cassandra tensing beside him.
"Andrew," she said, low and steady, using the Voice to its full effect, "you don't
want to do this. It cannot make you. Get away from the child. Your arms are heavy,
Andrew. Very heavy. You want to throw that revolver away."
He looked at her, confused, and started to lower his arms. Then, he shivered again,
and his eyes burned for the last time.
"Very well - if that's how you want it!" the thing inside Lanart's body screamed, and
the muffled shot against Becky's head coincided with Methos jumping him, pushing him
away from the child. Lanart crumbled to the floor, but it was too late. They felt it
both, the ebbing away of mortal life, without Becky making as much as another cry.
Blood and parts of her brain were flooding on Methos as he cradled her.
"No," Cassandra whispered, "no...."
They hardly noticed Lanart slowly sitting up again, breathing heavily and breaking
into sobs.
"Oh God," he cried helplessly, "I killed her! I killed that little girl! I didn't want
to, I swear, that thing forced me. It was in my head, in my head; I didn't want to
kill her!"
No more, probably, than he had wanted to abduct her, beat her, and leave her in the
forest for Cassandra and Methos to find. Whether or not he had agreed to his
possession was not important to Cassandra, as she took Becky's dead body from Methos.
She did not even hear Lanart leave. But when time began flowing again, it was much
later, the blood on her hands and on her dress had dried, and the cat was the only
mortal creature in the house. Methos still sat on the floor with her, as Becky slowly,
oh so slowly, began to stir again.
The girl opened her eyes to find them both bent above her.
"It hurt, Cathy," she said. "It hurt so much. But not anymore."
Cassandra forced herself to smile at Becky. "No," she replied. "And nothing will ever
hurt you again."
Becky sat up. "Am I magic now, Adam? Like the MacLeod in Rachel's story?"
"Just like him."
Cassandra took her to the bathroom, cleaned her and asked her whether she was hungry,
since she had not eaten much for dinner.
"No. But I'm afraid the bad man will come back. Will you stay with me this night,
Cathy? You and Adam both? For the whole night?"
"I promise," Cassandra said. "But little girls who have just become magic must have
something in their stomach, so I'm going to make you a very special drink, only for
magical people, which you will drink to the last drop. Then, we will stay with you for
the entire night."
The body in her arms felt so warm, so alive, when she carried Becky outside. With the
sleeping draught and her Voice-enforced command, there was no chance of Becky
awakening now, but she still moved very, very carefully. When the warm air of early
summer touched her, Methos, who had not spoken a word that was not directed at Becky,
finally said: "You don't have to stay. Believe me, experiencing it is worse than
imagining it."
"It is my punishment," she answered, hardly audible. "I did this to her. I left her
alone. I let it happen."
"We both did."
"Yes."
Two thousand years ago, she might still have protested, would have done everything to
protect Becky from what Methos was about to do. Three thousand years ago, even
Cassandra the slave girl would have been horrified enough to risk another death in
order to save this child. But by now, she had as much experience with child immortals
as he had. And she, too, had not found a single one who was not bent and twisted by
time, not in all the millennia. She would not do this to her daughter. What had that
creature said? Condemning her to living hell in this body. Not to her Becky.
When they were outside the consecrated circle around her home, she laid Becky down on
the ground, brushing the pale hair away as it fell on one cheek. Methos knelt again
beside her, and as he kissed Becky on the forehead, she reached out for the first time
in millennia to touch his hand. His fingers closed around hers and stayed that way
while his other arm moved, so swiftly she could hardly see the flash of steel in the
dark.
It was a pitifully small quickening, short and light, as the girl's life had been, the
girl whose true name they would never learn. Images of pain and fear, but also the
relief of not having to be afraid anymore, and the love Becky had felt for both of
them. They stayed with her for the rest of the night, as they had promised, all the
millennia of grief helping nothing with the guilt and the devastation. Finally, when
the horizon grew brighter, Methos asked Cassandra whether she would stay at
Glenfinnan. He didn't think so, not because of the inevitable questions of both police
and social services; she could deal with that, and ensure Lanart would take the blame
for Becky's death. Consequently, he wasn't surprised when she shook her head.
"No. I will not say I will never return, for we both know that nothing lasts forever,
but certainly not for a long, long time."
"You could go to Paris," he said, watching her. "Don't worry about me being there. I
couldn't stand the company at the moment."
The company, the questions, the concern. Also the necessity to show some concern
himself. Just how he knew that MacLeod had succeeded, had defeated Ahriman, he could
not say, but he was certain. Probably another thing to blame on the double quickening.
It did not change anything about the emptiness he felt inside. He would go to Paris
when he was ready to resurrect Methos the invulnerable.
She shook her head, then asked so softly he almost could not hear her: "Is it true,
what Ahriman said?"
"What in particular? That I brought Death into our world, or that I'm planning to kill
MacLeod when this whole sorry business has come to an end?"
"Both."
"Cassandra," he sighed, "why ask something when you won't believe the reply anyway? If
I said yes, it could be to taunt you; if I said no, it could be to protect myself. In
any case, the creature obviously wasn't omniscient. It could never have been defeated
otherwise."
He was silent for a long time, but when she wanted to rise, he suddenly added: "It
also said you would kill me for this."
Her face was expressionless. "I cannot forgive you anymore than I can forgive myself.
And maybe the world would be better without both of us. But at this moment, I could
not kill you any more than I could kill myself, either."
He was careful not to read either too little or too much into this answer. For all the
terrible mistakes he had made this last year, the things he had neglected to see, he
had, in a way, received what he had come for. A way to deal with a regret that had
been festering for too long. For someone who did not believe in any kind of religion
anymore, it was strange to realise that Cassandra was his penance, which would endure
as long as she lived. He wondered whether she knew.
"Farewell, Cassandra," he said in the ancient tongue, rising with her, and added a
salutation he had not spoken for many centuries and barely even remembered. "May the
winds and the sun and the sea be kindly for you."
Something mingled with the grief and exhaustion in her voice, as she answered, never
taking her eyes from him:
"Farewell, Methos. We will meet again."
THE END