(no subject)
Subject: "Don't think, just do it."
Fandom: Highlander
Pairing: none
Character: Cassandra
18 February, 1997
An elderly train, riddled with squeaks and rattles, grumbled along the narrow-gauge branch line carrying her the last few miles from Bordeaux. Now and again, she dozed, only to jerk awake gripped in nightmares: some foul thing that vanished as soon as her eyes opened, yet left her sick and shaking. Before dark, the train paused at some station not much larger than the one for which she waited. From the slovenly woman in charge of the grimy counter, she bought bitter black coffee and stale brioche, and one desiccated, lopsided orange. The station clock ticked steadily for four minutes, then paused on the fifth as if it, too, would never find the energy to move again - and then slap into the fifth minute, pause a second, and tick off another steady four minutes. If she'd had to listen to that for more than ten of the twenty minutes of the stop, she'd have been driven madder than she already was, so Cassandra took her lunch back to her empty carriage.
Several passengers disembarked. None joined them.
She counted it a victory, getting food past the knot in her throat. The orange surprised her: beneath the thin, withered rind, warm sweet pulp burst within her mouth, flooding her with sweet concentrated sunlight. The other stuff lay sullenly in her gut. No matter; it stayed. The orange offered her a hope that the end of the journey would not be as stale as the beginning.
And you thought yourself past believing in signs and portents.
Dusk slithered down in a grey fog and melted into dripping evening black. The train at last stopped at Mirie-sous-Èsperanche. She stepped off alone into the cold night. Stood in the dark on the platform alone except for the bag brought from the hotel at Bordeaux. No lights welcomed her; she tried the doors and found them, as expected, locked. The phone kiosk responded neither to coins nor voice. It had been perhaps twenty years since she'd last come here, and she had no idea what might have changed in either the village or the mountain since then.
Faint rhythmic thumping heralded a motor, coming closer. Then, for one moment, the world paused. The little hairs on her arms and neck bristled with the warning of another Immortal approaching. The signature crescendoed then faded, a soprano vibrato repeating scales, mingled with the brisk scent of pine trees and the rush of a cool crisp wind.
She knew that signature. Tears prickled in her eyes; Cassandra dragged the back of her hand across them.
The moonlight showed her a battered truck stuttering to a stop by the platform. The door opened, and although she could not see a face, she knew the walk and she knew the voice.
"Cassandra?"
"Yes," and to her shame, her voice cracked.
"Ah, there, now." Arms tough as oak root surrounded her. "Did you think I wouldn't know you were coming?"
She put her head down a moment on the sturdy shoulder. "I - wasn't certain. I meant to phone, Jhenette -" and she had not meant to use pet names, not so soon after so long.
"Ça ne fait rien," all in one breath, punctuated as always with a flick of the fingers. Jehanne said, "You are always welcome, and an unexpected pleasure is twice itself."
Fandom: Highlander
Pairing: none
Character: Cassandra
18 February, 1997
An elderly train, riddled with squeaks and rattles, grumbled along the narrow-gauge branch line carrying her the last few miles from Bordeaux. Now and again, she dozed, only to jerk awake gripped in nightmares: some foul thing that vanished as soon as her eyes opened, yet left her sick and shaking. Before dark, the train paused at some station not much larger than the one for which she waited. From the slovenly woman in charge of the grimy counter, she bought bitter black coffee and stale brioche, and one desiccated, lopsided orange. The station clock ticked steadily for four minutes, then paused on the fifth as if it, too, would never find the energy to move again - and then slap into the fifth minute, pause a second, and tick off another steady four minutes. If she'd had to listen to that for more than ten of the twenty minutes of the stop, she'd have been driven madder than she already was, so Cassandra took her lunch back to her empty carriage.
Several passengers disembarked. None joined them.
She counted it a victory, getting food past the knot in her throat. The orange surprised her: beneath the thin, withered rind, warm sweet pulp burst within her mouth, flooding her with sweet concentrated sunlight. The other stuff lay sullenly in her gut. No matter; it stayed. The orange offered her a hope that the end of the journey would not be as stale as the beginning.
And you thought yourself past believing in signs and portents.
Dusk slithered down in a grey fog and melted into dripping evening black. The train at last stopped at Mirie-sous-Èsperanche. She stepped off alone into the cold night. Stood in the dark on the platform alone except for the bag brought from the hotel at Bordeaux. No lights welcomed her; she tried the doors and found them, as expected, locked. The phone kiosk responded neither to coins nor voice. It had been perhaps twenty years since she'd last come here, and she had no idea what might have changed in either the village or the mountain since then.
Faint rhythmic thumping heralded a motor, coming closer. Then, for one moment, the world paused. The little hairs on her arms and neck bristled with the warning of another Immortal approaching. The signature crescendoed then faded, a soprano vibrato repeating scales, mingled with the brisk scent of pine trees and the rush of a cool crisp wind.
She knew that signature. Tears prickled in her eyes; Cassandra dragged the back of her hand across them.
The moonlight showed her a battered truck stuttering to a stop by the platform. The door opened, and although she could not see a face, she knew the walk and she knew the voice.
"Cassandra?"
"Yes," and to her shame, her voice cracked.
"Ah, there, now." Arms tough as oak root surrounded her. "Did you think I wouldn't know you were coming?"
She put her head down a moment on the sturdy shoulder. "I - wasn't certain. I meant to phone, Jhenette -" and she had not meant to use pet names, not so soon after so long.
"Ça ne fait rien," all in one breath, punctuated as always with a flick of the fingers. Jehanne said, "You are always welcome, and an unexpected pleasure is twice itself."