Archive of Our Own (BETA rev. 2101)

IX.

"You bastard," MacLeod said, catching Cassandra as she fell. Amy and Joe were
deathly pale. Amy he could understand, but surely Joe should be used to this
sort of things from his immortal circle by now.

"Oh, but I learned from you, Mac. You want Cassandra to remember? Then let's
treat her like Cochrane and confront her with the original trauma. And let's do
it now, just to get this over with."

The taunting felt stale, but lashing out at Duncan helped somehow, so he went
on with it.

"Of course, this is just the first act. I'll need your help with the staging
now. You have a blanket somewhere here, or is this gym not equipped with these
things?"

"What are you..."

"...Planning? It should be obvious by now. I'll give you a first row seat in a
little personal melodrama, right out of the Bronze Age."

There was a blanket. He wrapped Cassandra in it, leaving the knife in place to
ensure she would not awaken too early. Then he carried her to his car, followed
by a silent, but visibly seething MacLeod. Amy seemed to have her own vehicle;
the survivor in him noticed such things as being followed by a Watcher. Or two,
in this case. She wisely had taken Joe with her, which was just as well. It
might be better if Joe saw the whole thing from a distance.

There were no skulls on exhibition in Seacouver, but a cemetery would do
nicely. Cassandra could not fail but pick up the atmosphere, especially if her
memories started to kick in. MacLeod, sitting next to him but keeping a worried
eye on Cassandra in the back seat of the car, one or twice opened his mouth,
only to close it again. Clever of him. The self-loathing Methos felt at that
point might just be enough to make him lash out unforgivably, if MacLeod said
one more word, and heaven knew the Scot had enough vulnerabilities to slice and
dice him verbally if one wanted. Keep silent, Mac, Methos thought, and I might
settle for a pantomine.

Thankfully, the duly found cemetery provided enough parking space so that they
could stop at once. Before he took Cassandra, Methos removed the knife, making
sure it remained highly visible fastened at his belt. The dusk had turned to
darkness, but right now, he could have cared less about any mortals making
pilgrimages to their graves. There didn't seem to be any left, though. Just as
he had done three thousand years ago, he threw Cassandra on the ground and tore
the blanket away.

"Surprise. You live."

She stared at him, confused, hurt, but with rising hate in her eyes, then,
right on cue, jumped at him to get at his knife.

"You'll have to try harder than that."

MacLeod, watching them, looked slightly sick. No wonder. The only other time he
had seen this was when Methos threw his past in Duncan's face, at the car, and
then it had just been words, not actions. Well, my friend, this is how it was.
No need to imagine it anymore.

"Hijad, my people - take me to them!"

"You want to see them?" Do you know, Cassandra, that this was when I decided to
keep you longer than just for the night? The original plan was just one night,
or two, and then your head. But anyone who had spirit enough to attack me and
make demands while barely recovered from their first death was worth more
attention, would provide longer amusement. *Not sane*? We defined the true
parameters of sickness back then.

"There they are!"

And then it started. He could see the memory dawning in her eyes. Her next
words were not uttered with the horrified comprehension she had shown then, but
with the deathly calm of judgement.

"You killed them. All of them."

"Including you."

When he touched her again, MacLeod tensed, obviously ready to interfere. This
was about all the abuse he was prepared to witness. Four centuries, and still
naive in some ways. You think this was bad? I was barely getting started.
Cassandra did not withdraw, nor did she stare at her vanished wound, as the
newborn immortal she had been had done, three millennia ago. Instead, she looked
at him, eyes burning.

"You. Methos."

He sighed. It was enough. She had said it in English. Confusion and innocence
were gone. In front of him stood an immortal, one of the ancients, hammered by
the same anvil as he had been. *Once out of nature, I shall never take/ My
bodily form from any natural thing.* But she had done. For a very short while.
"It was necessary", he said, waiting for her to attack him again. She glanced
from him to MacLeod, and back again.

"Damn you."

It was not clear which of them she was addressing. Suddenly he felt very, very
tired. Raiding and killing did that to you. He turned away, sitting down on one
of the grave stones while Duncan rushed to Cassandra.

"Are you..."

"Oh yes," she said, tonelessly. "I am as well as we can be. And headblind, it
seems."

"What do you mean?"

"The only way I can sense any of you is the immortal way. I can't hear Prokne's
voice in my head anymore. And," briefly, she closed her eyes, as if trying to
summon something. "Yes. It is gone as well. You could call it justice. I shall
never be able to use the Voice again."

Duncan didn't quite know what to respond, considering he had always disliked
the idea of powers like hers, or Garrick's. Or Coltec's, for that matter. Though
all of them had been good people, it had only brought them grief, and caused a
great deal of damage in the end. He still was troubled by what she had done to
those mortals of the Lazarus Project, but if he had learned one thing in recent
years, it was how two-edged any sort of judgement could be. Besides, he was just
thankful she and Methos had survived, with their heads and minds intact.
Frowning, he looked at Methos, who sat with his back to them. Without being
told, he could guess how the eldest immortal felt. Torn, he glanced at Cassandra
again, not sure which friend to comfort. As if in reply, she shook her head.
Then, to his surprise, he saw her go to Methos, touching him slightly on the
shoulder.

"Thank you."

"You can't be serious," Methos replied, incredulously. "I just put you through
hell."

"It seems to be an habit, to both of us." Carefully sitting down next to him,
she continued: "I think... I think I should leave cities behind for a while.
Go to the mountains."

"The Himalaya," Methos returned, tentatively, but feeling that ill-advised
sense of humour which came to him in the most ill-suited of situations rise
again, "is supposed to be very nice this time of year."

"Or any time of the year. For a year," Cassandra said, not looking at him,
while MacLeod decided he would never, ever comprehend the ancients.

"Did you get that?" Joe asked, stunned. Among the minor miracles of this day
was that Amy had finally, while distracting him with her slap, managed to get a
bug on Methos. Thus, they heard every word the immortals uttered. Since Marek,
who had claimed he still didn't trust Amy on her own, sat behind the wheel,
ready to drive as soon as the immortals decided to leave the cemetery, Amy could
turn to Joe after making sure the recording still ran.

"Yes," she said crossly. "Don't worry, you won't miss him for long. If he
believes I'm willing to settle down in the Himalaya just because he and
Cassandra are on a trip for enlightenment, he should think twice about it."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Marek demanded suspiciously. "You are a
Watcher, Thomas; you can't tell your immortal where to live just to suit your
needs."

"Oh, *I* won't tell him. One year. One year in the Himalaya could even be
interesting, and certainly an adventure. After that, I'll collect my debts."

"Meaning?" Joe asked, torn between amusement and the peculiar kind of terror
parents felt when their children did something outrageous. It was a new
sensation for him, and he couldn't quite decide whether it was a pleasant one.

Amy smiled, thinly.

"I'll send MacLeod after them again, of course."

THE END