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The River Part Thirty-One: Shards of Memory Ash sat on the couch and stared into the dying fire. She was tired, so tired, but there would be no sleep for her. She remembered the voice she had heard at the beginning of her brief loss of consciousness. She knew that voice far too well. Kell was in her now. She�d succeeded in saving Duncan, but how could she save herself? It wasn�t supposed to end this way. She�d not intended to survive, and if there were fates worse than death this was one. She closed her eyes and turned her consciousness inward to find Kell, but it was like trying to find a snake hiding in a pile of dead leaves, the only indication of its presence a slight rustling, easily mistaken for an effect of the wind. Even so, Ash could feel something, some deep fundamental shift. She decided that none of this was any use. Kell was inside her and she�d learn what he was capable of soon enough. But at least she would know what she was fighting against. Kell would not be able to trick her as he had Duncan. But what could he do when she blacked out? Could he possibly take over her body and�Ash didn�t want to think of what he could do then. She had come back to herself half-lying on the floor of the shower stall. She had fought off the blackout quickly, managing to keep the loss of consciousness down to mere seconds. She picked up the soap and mechanically washed the remaining blood from her skin, then got out of the shower and dried herself absently, unable to shake this odd feeling, detached yet at the same time hyperaware, as if a layer of her skin had been removed and all her nerve endings were that much closer to the surface, and all that much more exposed to the air. She picked up the bloodstained sheet from the corner of the stall and dropped the dripping mass into the tub with Duncan�s coat. Ash stopped and looked into the mirror again. She would never grow old; never get gray hair or wrinkles. It was not comforting. She thought that the monk from Kopan had been right. She must have done something truly horrible to be reborn into this immortal body, never to die and pass from the wheel of existence, never to know the consolation of the loss of memories that went with the body. Immortality was a curse, and memory was its torture. Death was more kind. Ash turned and walked away from the mirror, out through the kitchen to the main room of the barge, the air cold on her bare skin. She pulled the bags of new clothes out from behind one of the trunks where she�d stashed them earlier, and took out panties, a dark turtleneck sweater, black jeans, and heavy black socks. Skipping shoes, she�d dressed quickly. A thought ran through her mind, that she had wasted money on clothes she would not have much time to wear. It was then that she sat on the couch and lost herself in useless worrying. She needed something to do, to occupy her hands if not her mind. She decided to take care of her falcatas and their blood-caked sheaths. She took them to the kitchen and ran cold water over the whole mess until the swords came loose, then washed the blades and dried them carefully. Ash then worked on the sheaths, bending the leather in her hands to dislodge the clotted blood, then wrapped them in a towel to dry. The severed strap could be stitched together with heavy thread, she�d rather not try to replace it, the straps were made of a special soft buckskin and hard to find. The water hadn�t penetrated deeply, neither had the blood. The leather was protected on the outside by her own skin oils that had soaked into them from direct contact with her back, and on the inside they were coated by the light oil she used to keep her blades free of rust. She unwrapped the sheaths and examined them, twisting them in her hands. They were supple enough; they would be fine as long as they were kept from heat. She left them on the counter to allow them to dry slowly. It was chilly in the kitchen, so far from the fire. The falcatas she carried out to the living room, dropping them onto the trunk. They would have to be perfectly dry before she oiled them. She glanced at her swords, remembering how long she�d had this pair. They were not her original falcatas; those were lost long ago. This pair had been made in Damascus during the Crusades by a master of the art, and had served her well all these years. Somehow she had managed not to lose them, though she had lost so much else that had once been hers. She realized she was drifting into dismal thoughts again and stopped staring at her weapons and went over to look out a porthole instead. It was daylight, but a weak, strained through heavy overcast kind of daylight. She turned away to build up the fire; the snow had stopped, but the cold had not eased. The kindling she added to the dying embers caught, and the flames began to rise. Ash picked up the letter she�d written to Methos from the top of the trunk and threw it into the fire with a hard snap of her wrist. There was a faint dull thud as it hit the back of the metal fireplace. She went to the desk and picked up the other letter, the short one to Duncan, and the envelopes, and threw them into the flames also, then went back to the couch, wrapped herself in the afghan, and stared into the fire, watching the paper burn and blacken, then fall apart. Now there was only time for thought, for planning. Duncan would wake up soon enough and the work would have to begin. She shifted her thoughts to what needed to be done now, preparing what she would say to Duncan, how best to explain while telling him as little as possible. She�d never expected to have to explain, but she knew she couldn�t tell Duncan the truth. His personal code of honor would never bear the guilt and he would never rest until he found a way to free her. She decided it would be better to tell Duncan nothing, and best if she could make him forget his attack on her completely. She was expendable now she had served her purpose. �But you haven�t served your purpose and you know it,� her conscience reminded her, �You�re too afraid, you�ve always been too afraid to finish it.� Ash bowed her head in acknowledgment of defeat. She knew her mission, and it had not been to save Duncan from Kell. Her thoughts went on, gratingly, �I tried, but I failed. I was supposed to defeat the Metamorph, but instead it defeated me. I didn�t give in to its power, but I should have removed its threat forever, and I couldn�t.� Ash shuddered at the memory of the one time she�d tried, the way the Metamorph had dredged up her worst hidden memories in an effort to break her and force her to bond with it. She�d had the will to resist, but not the strength to defeat it. �And I�m not as strong now as I was then; it would be impossible now,� Ash admitted to herself, regretfully. Metamorph. It was a much better name for a thing that could transform itself at will. She�d hidden it deep in a cave, buried under dirt and shattered stone, but it had eventually escaped, as it always had, to cause more destruction and death. Ash held herself responsible for all of it, knowing it was her fault for failing to withstand the onslaught of deeply buried memories so painful that she could not bear to consciously recall them, then or now. If she had done what she was supposed to Duncan would have been safe, Kell would never have had the power to torture him. Ash knew about memories, how they can bury themselves, and how agonizing it could be to try to dislodge them. She could hear Sean Burns� voice in her head saying, �It�s always the most painful memories that are buried most deeply, and in Immortals those memories are often the among the oldest.� She had sought out Sean Burns for help long ago, and he had done what he could. Or rather, he had done as much as she would let him. She had resisted, telling him, �There are some memories that are like shards of glass, and the deeper they are buried, the greater the pain of digging them out. Sometimes it just hurts too much.� He had answered her with, �It doesn�t hurt as much as your fear it will. Often once you can see the past clearly you discover it�s not what you thought it was, that facts have been distorted in the repression of memory �especially if you were very young at the time.� Sean had tried, but Ash had been reluctant. He had told her not to blame herself, that she would be ready to deal with the past someday in the future. But that day had never come. She got up and crossed the expanse of bare floor silently in her sock-muffled feet. Ash stood looking down on the two figures in the bed. Sometime earlier the soft tickling of Duncan�s breath on the back of his neck had caused Methos to turn over, Duncan had shifted onto his back, and Methos had curled his arm around Duncan�s waist and comfortably tucked his head into the curve of Duncan�s shoulder. Both seemed to be at peace. �Please let them be happy,� Ash hoped silently. �Not for me�, she thought, �neither of them is mine and never will be. It�s just as well, all things considered.� As Ash watched over them, Duncan�s sleep became troubled, then he woke and gently disentangled himself, easing Methos� head from his shoulder, and sat up with a muffled groan. Still somewhat groggy from the tranquilizer, it took him a few moments to orient himself. Before he managed to remember the events of last night, Ash was standing close by the bed, smiling as she reached out and smoothed back his shaggy sleep-ruffled hair. Duncan looked up at her and smiled back for a instant, then his expression began to shift, but before he could fully remember and react, Ash was saying, �Good morning Donnchaid.� Duncan�s expression of horrified remembrance changed as the hypnotic trigger took hold, though he began to say � Last night�� Ash quickly interrupted him saying, �Last night was an accident, Donnchaid. You mistook me for someone else, that�s all.� Ash was using her most persuasive tone, pushing as hard as she dared. She had to first alter, and then erase his terrible memory of almost killing her, and she had to do it at once before the memory came fully back. �It was just an accident. Forget all about it, Donnchaid.� It was easy to make Duncan forget a memory he didn�t want to recall. He let go of it, trusting Ash completely. There was another memory he did recall, an intense brief flash of pain, followed by a complete easing. But an easing of what, that was what had him confused, that and the trank hangover. But why was he sedated? Had someone drugged him? Duncan let go of those questions and all others related to last night under the influence of Ash�s voice. He trusted her with his life without knowing why, and on a subconscious level he associated her with the easing of his pain. Without thinking, Duncan reached out and pulled Ash closer, hiding his face against her, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tightly. Ash stroked his hair, whispering over and over, �Forget all about it, Duncan, forget.� ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ |
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