Healer
©2000
fictionbyA
Rating:
PG-13
Premise:
After Bordeaux, Cassandra must come to terms with her anger.
The heavy backpack slid off her shoulders and thudded softly onto the grass
at her feet. She sat down next to it and studied the trees in the distance
wondering if their spirits thought well of her. She gazed at the
curtain of greenery whose folds had the shadows and secrets of the forest
nestled quietly within, whose secrets she had once known and hoped to know
again. But she felt as a stranger, or more accurately, as a prodigal child
who did not know if the home she came back to was the same or would even
remember her. For a long while she sat listening to the quiet world around
her, but refused to continue into the forest until she knew that she was
welcome. A young buck that had been grazing at the edge of the grove
perked up his head, suddenly aware that a human sat not far from him. The
deer regarded her for a moment, disappeared in a flash into the safe darkness
of the wood.
She began fidgeting with the laces on her hiking boots, speculating that
perhaps she had been wrong to come here. In that moment of doubt,
the wind abruptly picked up and rushed past her toward the forest.
Its force increased and it rippled across the emerald leaves causing them
to shimmer like an elegant but natural fabric. She stood up, reassured;
this was the sign she waited for. A small flock of birds rose from
the trees, twittering at the gust that had awakened them. The current
blew downward and at once, the long meadow grass billowed into waves, tossing
dried leaves back and forth like ships upon a jubilant sea. However,
when it reached her, the gale slowed into a gentle breeze and stirred her
hair gently, and she heard the voices of the woodland spirits whispering
her name.
*"...Cassandra..."*
She closed her eyes and smiled. The Donan Wood welcomed her return.
That night, she sat beside a small campfire, absorbing its warmth and feeling
comfort in the environment that surrounded her. The cabin she had
lived in centuries ago had long since wasted away, but the peaceful feeling
of home had not. Even as a sense of belonging filled her, a faint trace
of apprehension started building inside of her, clouding her contentment.
She knew nothing in the wood threatened her, but she feared what she had
to face inside herself. After the events of the previous weeks, namely
the eradication of the Four Horsemen, she knew in her heart that if she
did not confront her demons now, she would be slave to them forever.
Visions had always come strongest to her here, in this forest, and she
knew that they would come to her soon. One of the trees above her rustled
and she glanced up. A cream colored owl regarded her curiously and
hooted softly, telling her not to worry. She smiled, reassured.
No matter how strong or real a vision seemed it always gave way to reality
in the end. Nestling inside her sleeping bag, she could feel herself
drifting away as she looked long into the fire.
The muted rhythm of horses' hooves on the sandy earth woke her and she
scrambled to her feet. Her heart pounded in her chest, she had fallen
asleep next to the fire while preparing her master's meal. Taking
a large spoon, she dipped it inside the small pot that's contents simmered
over the fire. As she raised the utensil back to her lips, she blew
gently on the spoon to cool its contents. Tentatively, she tasted
the stew of rabbit, potatoes, and carrots. She grimaced at what she
tasted and she knew nothing could mask the strong burnt flavor. Though
the camp had an ample storage of food supplies, she did not have enough
time to prepare a new meal.
The whole camp prepared as the Horsemen returned. Some slaves dished
up hot meals into bowls for their masters while others set about cleaning
their areas and dousing their cooking fires. All four of the Horsemen
had slaves and could have as many as they wished, or so it seemed. Methos
only kept Cassandra. The slaves of the other Horsemen could assist
and rely on one another. When mishaps occurred, they covered for
each other; when one was punished, they knew someone would be there to
tend their wounds. Unlike the other slaves, Cassandra was alone.
She despaired under the weight of her isolation though she would prefer
it to the company of her keeper. Methos would hold her solely responsible
for having no meal to give to him after his ride. She could do nothing
and she had no hope left to comfort her. Away from the fire, she
watched her master dismount his horse and enter his tent. Quickly,
she fetched a bowl of water and a cloth so he could refresh himself and
entered after him. Cassandra approached Methos to wipe the dirt from
his arms, hands, and face, but he waved her away as one might shoo a fly.
"My dinner," was all he said.
Swallowing, Cassandra whispered, "I can't."
He froze and locked his eyes on her. She looked away.
"Can't?"
She quivered, afraid, "I wanted to make something new, I burnt it."
To her surprise, he laughed. "Burnt it! You should ask the others
when you try and make something new," he said.
Relief washed over her. A scold, nothing more. She almost smiled.
"Yes, yes, I should have! I was quite stupid; I did not know the
proper time to cook it. I shall be more careful. It will not
happen again."
Again, he laughed, but suddenly he grabbed her left arm and locked it into
a vice grip. His voice iced over, "Did you do it on purpose?"
"No!" Cassandra cried, quaking against the pain spreading through her arm
and the sickening sensation of dread that weighted her stomach.
"What happened? I will know if you lie. And if you lie, I will
break your arms. First this one," he tightened his iron hold, "then
the other."
Her knees buckled from her fear but he forced her to remain standing.
"I fell asleep!" She wailed, "A moment, I closed my eyes for only a moment
but it was too long!"
Methos released her and she fell hard onto the ground. She wanted
desperately to massage the pain out of her throbbing arm but she did not
dare to move. Keeping her eyes fixed downward, she did not see his
incensed pacing, but she could hear it and feel the fury that charged the
atmosphere.
Finally, Methos reached down and yanked Cassandra by her hair, sending
a shock of pain through her head and neck. He shoved her forcefully
out the entrance of his tent, then grabbed her by her still tender arm,
and dragged her to the cooking fire.
"Cook it again," he commanded her.
Dazed, she obeyed him and went about cleaning the pot, adding more wood
to the fire, and gathering the necessary ingredients. She filled
the pot with water and as it began to boil, she added the meat and vegetables.
The whole while, Methos simply sat and scrutinized her under his cruel
gaze.
After a couple of hours, the stew finished cooking and she dished it into
a bowl and gave it to him with a loaf of bread. Apprehensively, she
watched him take his first bite and dared to allow herself a moment of
ease when he grinned up at her.
"This is very good," said he. He took one more bite then flung the
contents of the bowl onto the earth. "Now make it again."
Frightened, she honored his demand. Into the night, she could hear
the others of the camp retiring and the terrified cries of those who were
forced to bed down with Kronos, Caspian, or Silas. A second time,
she served Methos the stew, and again he took but a few bites before hurling
it away.
"Again!" he yelled.
Weary, she repeated the process and when she went to give him his meal
for the third time, she found him staring at something in the fire.
Following his gaze, Cassandra saw the end of his sword resting in the hottest
part of the fire; the tip glowed a brilliant orange. He did not even
taste the stew when she handed it to him, but immediately poured it disdainfully
onto the ground.
"You're growing tired," he commented as he lifted the sword from the flames,
keeping his eyes on the fiery tip. "But if you close your eyes, even
if for only a moment, this," he said, indicating the glowing metal, "will
keep you awake. You don't sleep unless I say so. Now, make
my meal again."
The rest of the night continued thus and more than once the tip of the
sword seared her flesh. Though they healed quickly, the pain from the burns
echoed and lingered even when the wounds vanished. Methos did not
discriminate where his weapon scorched her, but Cassandra found those inflicted
on her hands to be the worst for she needed her hands to continue her labor.
She dared not cry out or complain though because that would only bring
on more agony.
As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, Cassandra found herself
mindlessly exhausted but still slaving to meet Methos' demands. Finally,
as the rest of the camp began rousing, Methos turned to her as she stirred
the pot; "You are done cooking, return to my tent."
Nodding and bowing to him, she made her way back to the tent. Inside,
she sank down upon a rug, relieved that her toil was over. She could hear
Methos outside, ordering another slave to clean Cassandra's cooking area.
Hugging her legs, she rested her head on her knees. She started to
lull away, keeping her mind empty. Earlier, she had tried to make
sense of why Methos compelled her to prepare the stew over and over again,
but now she did not think to question it. The reasons did not
matter. It had been his wish, and that was enough. Without
warning, she felt a sharp pain blossom in her side as a sharp kick struck
her ribs. She cried out and, bewildered, opened her eyes to see Methos
glaring down upon her.
"Did I say you could sleep?" he hissed.
Realizing her mistake, she scrambled to her feet and spoke nearly inaudibly,
"No, master, you did not. I will not sleep until you allow it."
"Good," he said with hostility, "I am not through with you yet."
Pushing her back down upon the rug, he began loosening his trousers and
she knew what was to come. She opened her legs to him, not because
she was willing, but because she had no choice.
After he finished, he leaned over her and breathed into her ear, "Now,
you may sleep." And she was grateful to him for it.
Cassandra awoke and saw the twilight turning the sky gray and the stars
beginning to fade away. She noticed that she was shivering; she touched
her face and felt it damp with tears. The vision had been horrible,
and the disgust inside of her made her nauseous. She hated Methos
for what he had done, and she hated herself for submitting to him.
The vision was no mere nightmare though; she had experienced it for a reason.
As she ate a few granola bars for her breakfast, she tried to understand
the purpose of all she had relived that night but found that objectivity
escaped her. The flashback had reinforced her anger and filled her
with loathing. She could not see past it; she had never been able
to see past it.
Wishing to clear her thoughts, she laced up her boots and went for a walk.
Silence saturated the forest and she relaxed; the woodland calmed her.
To the edge of the trees she hiked and looked out upon the grassy meadows
beyond. The sun peeked through clefts in the craggy blue mountains, gracing
the drab twilight with threads of gold. A breeze picked up and moved
sinuously through the long grass; she watched as it swirled around a small
pond then rippled across its surface. The wavelets caught the early
sunlight and they glittered excitedly. Cassandra approached the pond
and when she reached its edge, the rippling abruptly halted and the surface
became smooth as glass. She removed her clothes and set them next
to a rock near the edge of the small pool. She slid herself into
the water and shut her eyes.
Cold surrounded Cassandra and the wintry chill in her heart told her that
death was not far away. She opened her eyes and found herself in
a starkly white hall with harsh fluorescent lights glaring down from the
ceiling. Cassandra quickly discovered that she had no corporeal form
and she found herself floating into a room, though not of her own volition.
Natural light filled the room and gave it a softer, more comfortable atmosphere
than the stark illumination of the hall. The walls were white here,
as well, but someone had gone to the effort of hanging drawings and photographs
to give the room a little color. Cassandra saw the back of a man,
and in the bed, a sleeping woman with an oxygen mask over her face.
Machines beeped and lit up as they monitored the woman's heart rate and
blood pressure. A tube connected her arm to an intravenous drip.
The man reached out a hand to the woman's face and brushed his fingers
gently over her cheek. The woman's eyes fluttered open and Cassandra
heard the man speak.
"Hey," he greeted softly, "You're awake."
The woman gave him a weak smile and then reached to her face to pull the
oxygen mask off. The man carefully moved her hand away and replaced
the mask.
"You need that." Cassandra could hear the pain in his voice.
The woman was dying.
Shaking her head, the woman pulled it off again, "I don't want it."
There was a slight slur in her voice caused by the morphine that the I.V.
steadily administered to her. She could communicate, but she
was confused.
"Are we going to miss the plane to Oslo?" She asked.
"We'll catch the next one," he assured her, "Not to worry."
"I want to see the fjords," she insisted.
"I want to see them with you."
"Where are we now?"
"Geneva, remember?"
As if just realizing her current state, "Oh yes, the hospital." Her voice
sounded sad and a little frightened.
"That's right." He covered her small hands with his own larger ones.
"There are no fjords here."
The man gave a light laugh, "No, love, I'm afraid not."
She smiled at her joke.
"I can tell you about them, if you like," he offered.
"No, I want to see them for myself."
The man's shoulders trembled slightly and his words sounded choked, "I
don't know if that's going to happen, my dearest one." He brushed a few
strands of hair out of her face.
"I know, but I like to think that it might," she paused and regarded him
tenderly, "You don't have to be strong for me, you know. You just
have to be there."
At these words, his reserve broke and he wrapped his arms around her, crying
against her chest. For her part, the woman raised one of her
hands weakly and stroked his head.
"I'm very tired," she murmured, her breath sounded raspy. Now it
was his turn to comfort and Cassandra could hear him whispering into his
lover's ear. Though Cassandra was not privy to what he said she could
see the frail woman's mouth occasionally twitching as if to smile, but
without the strength to do so. Finally, she said to him, "Thank
you." She sucked in a few more difficult breaths and then breathed
no more. The heart monitor ceased its beeping and began to release
a flat, whining sound.
A cry of grief rose from the man and he hugged his beloved tighter and
whispered fiercely, "No, not yet! Just one more day, just an hour... a
minute, just one more, please. Please."
Sympathy filled Cassandra and she wished it were in her power to grant
the man's desperate prayer. However, her compassion dissipated when
the man raised his head and turned so that she could at last see his face.
Methos.
Anger started to build up in her but she forced it back. Now was
not the time for hate. She regarded the frail form of the woman for
a moment. The innocent dead were entitled to nothing but respect.
"Alexa, please..." Methos trailed off and released her from his embrace.
He ran a hand through her hair and smoothed it out against the pillow and
she only appeared asleep rather than taken away forever by death.
Methos' shoulders shook and though he blinked against the tears, he wept
nonetheless.
The heartbroken man reached out to the bedside table and picked up a framed
photograph. Cassandra looked on with him. In it, Methos and
Alexa stood on a balcony over Mediterranean Sea. Suntanned and fit,
Alexa barely resembled the pale, thin woman who now lay dead in the hospital
room. In the picture, Methos' arms hung loosely around her and his
forehead pressed lightly against hers; they were laughing together.
The photographer had captured a moment of pure joy between the lovers.
Methos removed the snapshot from its frame and traced a finger over the
image of Alexa's live body and face. A droplet of water splashed
onto the glossy photo, which he wiped away quickly though it left a faint
mark upon the cerulean sea. Methos laughed quietly and Cassandra
regarded him with surprise.
"I will always think of you this way," he said to Alexa, "As someone full
of life." Methos gently placed the photograph in the dead woman's
hands. His voice choked, "I will love you, for the rest of my life,
even if I cannot be with you."
The old Immortal's body slumped down into his chair and he placed a weary
hand over his face, crying to himself. "I came so close to saving
you and I failed," he whispered.
In spite of herself, Cassandra felt moved, and she again wished away the
pain that she saw.
Cassandra shuddered from a chill brought on by the liquid around her and
she opened her eyes. She eased herself from the pool and sat on the
rock near the edge. The cool wind slid over her bare skin, drying
the water. Confused, she tried to make sense of the vision presented
to her. From the setting, a modern hospital, she knew the events
had occurred recently, certainly no more than a few years ago. The
meaning of the vision forced her to think about that which she had not
wished to consider. She had borne witness to the boundless depths
of Methos' hate but she had never had to ask herself if there could be
duality. Now she wondered if there could be an equally boundless
capacity for love and compassion. She shook her head angrily.
Methos had shamed her, beaten her, raped her, and finally broken her so
that her existence meant nothing beyond serving him. It had taken
her centuries to rebuild what he had shattered and even as milleniums came
and went, she remained haunted by her early life.
Then she thought of Alexa. How could the death of one frail mortal
woman nearly destroy the destroyer? Cassandra's anger burned strong
but she knew the answer. Methos had loved Alexa with all his heart.
Resentment could not change the truth.
Cassandra stared into the dark waters of the pond. She did not know
Methos, not anymore. Instead, knew something of him, something she
saw also in herself. The ability to change, the capacity to love, the desire
to live:
Humanity.
She put her clothes back on and slowly made her way back to her small camp
considering the truth that she could not deny. She recalled the destruction
of the Horsemen in Bordeaux. She thought of herself, standing above
Methos ready to sever his head from his neck. Cassandra remembered
the rage acutely, her hatred of Methos and her fury at Duncan MacLeod for
insisting that Methos live. Tears filled her eyes and slid down her face,
but neither sadness nor loathing found a home within her. She had
not decapitated her former tormentor, she had not struck him when he was
defenseless, she had not become what she hated. She remembered the
rage, but she did not feel it. Before arriving at the Donan Wood, she had
been looking for something to do with her hate. More than once in
the weeks following Bordeaux, she considered hunting down Methos and butchering
him for who he had been and what he had done. From what the visions
had shown her, she knew that the creature she had known as Methos, was
not the same man who had cherished and mourned a short-lived mortal woman
named Alexa. To have slaughtered him in the submarine base would
have been to murder a stranger. MacLeod had known it and, this day,
she knew it too. Cassandra could never forget what happened, but
she could move on. Looking to the sky, she proclaimed what
her heart already understood.
"I am free!"
End
Props
to my betas MacGarp and Bria! Thanks so much for your help in working
with this story :-)
