Cassandra sat in the cafe and stared at the window fixedly, barely touching the croissant and tea that sat before her. She reminded herself of where she was in relation to Sanctuary (two blocks up, and a left, so that would be...a right, and then down), and tied to block out the reason why she was so worried about getting lost--not like she had never been in Paris before (there was that one very nice time in the 18th century...before the revolution, of course, but the salons...ah, it was good to have been there, and felt the changes, the passing of the old religion and the speech of educated women and men, the ideas that would shake the world)--but she had good reason to remember. And she did remember. Why. Why a lot of things were the way they were. Why she would feel lost at times.
Like that night, running. No, several nights, running, it had been more than a few...no...her whle life. Escaping. And there were times when she didn't know where she was. There were no signs to mark her way--nothing but memory.
And she had known, or thought she had known, why that was--it was him. Methos. She had thought of him more than once along the way. She knew what his life had to have been--simple. He had his brothers, he knew who and what he was. The diection for him had to have been clear. He was a man, and older. He was what he was, a monster, without conscience or fear--wasn't he? And she remembered that much. Why else would she need to get away from there--not be in the same building with him?
But that wasn't really it. The worst thing the years could do had finally been done--they had made them the same. He was no better off than herself at such things--dealing with the present. Being himself, when who he was...
She smiled when the waiter passed her, giving her a certain look. He was perhaps in his early twenties, a blond boy--and, she had learned, an American studying abroad. She wondered if the look he gave her was genuine appreciation, or...she decided, rapidly, that he was appreciating her. Would he if he had any idea she could have known his great-great grandfather? There it was...or his great....great....
She herself was a monster, she noted with amusement and some horror. She thought it, and knew it was crazy, and knew it was true. Old, ageless...a killer...all the things...
She picked up the croissant between her fingers, and picked at it...lifting a piece to her lips and chewing, absently. Could it be? That the difference was really so slight? That the men she thought of as her captors--that the man she had as a master...was not so much different? That time made people what they were...who they became? And Methos and herself were only a part of time's plan...
She shook that thought off. Genevieve's influence, perhaps, a lack of sleep, and too much time on the run, lately. But no, in heart, she did know the difference between Methos and herself. She had to.
Posted on Oct 28, 2000, 9:28 PM from IP address 172.139.101.19