Chapter Text
VI.
The two immortal research subjects of the Lazarus Project didn't prove to be
exactly grateful for their liberation. More than anything else, they wanted to
kill every researcher in sight; what Cassandra needed to subdue them and send
them, without the memories of the last months, away, nearly took the last of her
strength. As it was, she didn't believe she could cope with the ten mortals that
were left to mindwipe completely. If the Sunday had been exhausting, this was
hell, pure and simple. She felt like a vampire, only the draining of others
didn't strengthen her, it somehow took from her, bit by bit. She hardly
remembered why she was doing this anymore. She did not know how they had come
here, and it was hard to keep talking in English; she actually had to pause
again and again, fumbling, grasping for words, like a first year student,
falling back again and again upon ancient languages which sometimes nearly
ruined the effort, since the Voice could only access familiar patterns in the
minds of its victims.
The building itself, now that most of the staff was gone, erring through the
Oregon landscape like newborn children, resembled a gigantic tomb. Methos was
tempted to burn it, to make absolutely sure there was no more physical evidence
left behind, but he didn't want any undue attention before they were miles away.
Only ten more mortals to go. Cassandra looked like she was going to break down
any minute now, but she was keeping on. The mortals, already unable to run away,
held in check not only by her command to stay but also by Methos' gun, stared at
them in a way that was all too familiar to Methos. By now, they knew what
Cassandra did to them, what he could do and what both of them were. He could
hear Kronos' voice whispering in his mind, fragments that usually only came to
him in the night, or when his self-control failed for one reason or the other.
*The most terrible thing they ever saw. Don't fight. Feel it. The freedom,
Methos, the power!*
Memory or the remnants of the Quickening he had absorbed through MacLeod? What
an irony, Brother, he thought. If we had known then what Cassandra could be she
would have replaced Caspian in the blink of an eye. What is a skilled sadist
compared to this? And here she is, a vision of power you could have only dreamed
of, using it to save lives. By destroying personalities, true, but you know
what? I'd take life anytime. If she could have done this to you, who knows, it
might have satisfied her and kept you alive.
But Kronos was dead, irrevocably dead, and what hold he had had over Methos
with him. The only tie left to the millennium he preferred not thinking about at
all was slowly, inevitably, breaking down and had even asked him to kill her.
*Freedom.* What an option. But just in case he felt tempted, he had ensured
that there wouldn't be time enough. By now, Amy, bright girl that she was, and
justifiably furious, should have set the cavalry in motion. With MacLeod
arriving to protect her, Cassandra could not blame him for not keeping his oath,
even if she lost her mind.
*I'm sorry*, he told her silently, while holding her arm as she staggered. The
fact that she accepted this kind of physical help and even leaned on him for a
moment before turning to the next mortal who regarded her with helpless terror
showed how far she was gone already. *I'm sorry, but I won't kill you. It would
be one death too many for me. Besides, I never killed anyone who meant something
to me because of madness. Not Kronos, not Byron, and not you.*
What it was she meant was painful, for the most part, but he preferred the
earth with her. That Yeats poem came again to him. *Was there another Troy for
her to burn?*
One of the mortals, seeing Cassandra nearly fall after her last effort and
obviously not held enough by her original command, used Methos' distraction and
tried to escape. Methos let Cassandra go, turned and shot. If she had been in a
better condition, he would have simply aimed for the leg, which would have
ensured the man would not run away before he could be mindwiped. But as it was,
he doubted she would even manage the six that were left without the runaway. One
of those six, a young woman, looked at the suddenly still form on the floor and
started to cry. Methos felt sick enough to throw up. Please, he thought, not
sure who he was pleading with and what he was pleading for. Still, as if she had
heard him, Cassandra closed her eyes as if collecting whatever strength she had
left. Then she went on, miraculously, against all odds, until the last of the
mortals had stumbled away. Not daring to believe, Methos went to check every
room once more, but there was no one left. When he returned to Cassandra, she
had not moved. She stood still, very still, and the vacancy of her gaze
frightened him more than anything previously. No doubt she would be furious, if
there was a Cassandra to be furious left, but the only thing that sprang to mind
was his previous radical cure. Knocking her out and killing her once again.
When he carried her outside, to the car they had rented, the sun, surprisingly,
proved it was still only early afternoon.
The first thing she noticed when she awoke were the unfamiliar smells in the air
that assaulted her. Or rather, the absence of smells. Nothing of animals, human
sweat or the sometimes bitter stench of the herb mixtures Hijad had taught her
to prepare. Instead, there was a faint, very faint trace of old leather, but
that was the only thing even vaguely familiar. She opened her eyes and was
horrified by what surrounded her. Not the planes of a tent, or the sky above the
desert. Instead, there were walls, but not natural, uneven walls like those of a
cave. They were smooth and straight, covered with unfamiliar, unnatural colours
and signs. Some merchants travelling through the desert who had traded with her
tribe had described the tombs in the big cities like this. So this was where she
was. A tomb. She couldn't stop the scream escaping her.
Immediately, a man came, taking her shoulders and telling her something in a
language she couldn't understand. He wore odd cloths; she had never seen anyone
dressed like this. And his hair was shorn, which in Cassandra's tribe was only
done to women on the day of their marriage, when their men claimed them and they
started a new life. It was funny, in a way, to see a man like this. The urge to
laugh battled with her fear; neither won out, but it served to calm her a bit.
"Where am I?" she asked, pronouncing each word slowly in the hope he would
understand her. Unfortunately, there wasn't any other language she could speak.
The travelling merchants had taught her some Egyptian terms, but by no means
enough for a conversation.
The man stared at her. There was something familiar about him, something in the
hazel eyes she should remember, but she couldn't. He spoke again, and again it
was incomprehensible gibberish to her. Her heart sank, but then he repeated his
answer, haltingly, in the tongue of her tribe. Still, some words simply didn't
make sense.
"Seacouver. I thought it would be best to put as much distance between us and
Lazarus as was possible, and since I didn't want to risk anymore hotels before
we have new identities, I came up with this. Mac won't mind, you know. He's used
to his friends breaking into his loft on a regular basis. It's almost Immortal
Central."
"Seacouver?" she repeated, trying the first of several unknown words. It had no
meaning to her, and it did not belong to her language; he must have adapted it
from the strange dialect he had used before.
"Well, it was a very long drive, but you weren't in a position to complain, and
I've done worse."
He became more incomprehensible by the minute. "Who are you?"
This shocked him. So she was supposed to know him. He had brought her here,
that much was obvious. Wherever "here" was. The idea came to her that she was
dreaming, a dream sent to her by the gods, who often spoke in strange images.
She looked down and noticed that she wore bizarre clothes herself. And her head
felt somewhat lighter; when her hand went to her hair she discovered it was cut,
not as much as this stranger's was, but still cut. Had she been married to him,
in the world this dream had transported her in?
"What is the last thing you remember?" he asked her, uncertainty clouding his
eyes. She tried to concentrate.
"Binding L'ul's arm," she finally replied. "Hijad was not content, he spoke a
spell as well."
"Nothing after this?" His voice sounded strange, with disbelief and an odd
note of hope intermingling. What was he hoping for? That she would remember
more, or less? Cassandra frowned.
"Something... someone arrived. I do not know who. Someone came, and we all
looked in the same direction, but... no. It's gone. There is nothing else." She
looked around, and again the similarity to a tomb made her shiver. Gathering her
courage, she asked: "Was I to be buried here?"
Comprehension dawned in Methos, a memory of what stone walls used to mean to
nomads. Still, it was incredible. There was no trace of insanity in her eyes
looking curiously at him, with a trace of discomfort because of the
unfamiliarity of the surroundings. There was no fear or hate directed at him,
nor the more recent haunted expression. Could it be? Three thousand years burned
away by that wondrous, terrible feat she had performed? There was no reason why
she should pretend something like this.
First things first. "No," he reassured her. "It is simply the custom of the
country. The people here don't live in tents. You must have heard something of
the cities in Egypt."
"So this is Egypt?"
"No. Much, much further away than Egypt."
"Did you and I travel together?"
Some shadow came and went, and then he smiled at her. "Yes." He had a very nice
smile, she decided, but she was also sure that he kept things from her. When
Mirali had worked on a new dress to present her with on the day she first bled,
the older woman had had shown just such a secretive smile.
"Did any of my tribe come with us?" she explored. "Hijad? Mirali? Dan?"
"No. I'm sorry. It was impossible."
"Why can't I remember any of this?"
"You exerted yourself by using magic," he explained, and this she could
believe. She was still unsure about the things she could do, and more often than
not they left her with a headache, just like the faint sensation she had felt
when waking up, but it was disappearing now.
"Come on, Cassandra," he said, smiling at her again. "You must be hungry. Let's
eat something, and then I will show you a bit of this country beyond the sea."
Indeed she was hungry, and said so. Then she recalled he still had not told her
his name, and asked again.
"Aragorn." There was nothing even remotely familiar in the sound, no emotion,
no memory. Surely, if he was her husband, she should at least remember his name?
Perhaps she was wrong about the significance of the shorn hair; who knew what
the custom here was. In any case, now she had a way to address him. She returned
his smile, rose, and followed him. The cold, unnatural smoothness below her feet
still felt very wrong, but she was determined not to let it frighten her
anymore. Dream or reality, he seemed to be her guide, and until he proved
otherwise, she could probably trust him.