Two hours later, as they began walking down the corridor they'd been told led to MacLeod's room, Methos finally did sense another Immortal.
But just as he was telling Joe, "I can sense him now," they heard a muffled shriek.
"Oh, damn!" Methos wanted to kick himself. "It never occurred to me that he'd be sensing me too, and it might upset him!"
"I hadn't thought of that either." But after a moment's pause, Joe went on, "Hopefully, he'll recognize you, and then he'll calm down. If he isn't capable of recognizing us, he probably would have been just as upset at seeing me."
They both took deep breaths before they entered the room.
Which was probably a good thing, because they hadn't been prepared for the stench.
Undoubtedly just sweat, Methos realized. Can't be piss, shit, or vomit, if he never eats or drinks anything. But it's a decade's worth of sweat!
And the room was small, without a window. Methos had no way of knowing whether it was a typical monk's cell. But it contained absolutely nothing except one bare light-bulb at ceiling level, a straight-backed chair - presumably for any "observing" monk - and the hideous creature huddled in a corner, on the floor.
Much as he hated to acknowledge it, Methos knew he never would have recognized this...thing as Duncan MacLeod. It - no, he! admit it! - was semi-clad in the badly worn remnants of a monk's robe. His feet were bare. And the tangle of hair and beard, almost totally obscuring his face, had grown to a length Methos would have thought impossible. The hair probably weighed more than the rest of his body!
His wild-looking eyes were darting back and forth between the two - did he see them as "intruders"?
And he was still clutching that glove. With both hands.
Methos composed himself sufficiently to murmur to an equally stunned Joe, "You sit in the chair. I'm going to get down on my knees, to get closer to him."
Joe nodded and complied, without saying a word. He looked as if he didn't feel able to say a word.
Methos did get down on his knees - though it wasn't easy, encumbered as he was by his raincoat and the weapons it concealed.
Then he tried - little by little, and gently - to edge closer to the cowering MacLeod.
"MacLeod?" he said cautiously. "Do you recognize me? It's Methos. Remember me? And Joe Dawson is with me. I know you remember Joe..."
He was sure now that he saw recognition in those eyes. But fear, as well.
In a voice raspy from long disuse, MacLeod said, "Go. Away." He clutched the glove more tightly to his chest.
"You know we're friends, MacLeod. We can't just go away. And I don't think you really want us to."
"Go! Away!"
"MacLeod, I'm glad you have that glove to hold onto. But you know it isn't really Richie's. Will you hold it in just one hand for a few minutes, and let me hold your other hand? It may feel good to have a real, live friend holding your hand."
"No!"
"Would it feel better if you could free one hand to hold some thing that's really yours? I have something like that. Don't be alarmed! I'm just getting a thing that's meant a lot to you."
He reached under his raincoat and carefully pulled out MacLeod's katana. Holding it so his intent was clear - suggesting that MacLeod take its hilt.
But MacLeod recoiled in apparent horror. And Methos could see out of the corner of his eye that Joe was becoming uneasy.
Okay, I should have realized he'd associate the sword with Richie's death. I'll have to move this along more quickly. Forgive me, Joe, for not having told you what I intended!
"MacLeod...Joe and I want to take you home. To Paris - remember how you've always loved Paris?"
Of course, I haven't heard any news lately. I hope it's not in ruins.
"You have a choice to make. Either you agree to come back to Paris with us, or...I'll do what you wanted me to do, the last time we saw each other. I'll put an end to your suffering by taking your head - here and now, with your own sword."
Joe was screaming, "No!"
And MacLeod had dropped the glove. He was also babbling, "No, no!" as he scuttled away from Methos, both hands and arms raised to protect his head.
"I don't want to kill you, MacLeod! But the last time we were together, you wanted me to. Why don't you want it now?"
MacLeod gasped out, "Make you...what I am!"
"You mean...what you've let yourself become."
"Yes!"
"Yes, it might. But I'm willing to risk that. Because it's also possible it might make me the Champion! And someone has to deal with Ahriman!"
The frenzied MacLeod protested, "Too late...too late!"
And Methos sat back on his haunches, feeling the first relief he'd known that day.
After he'd caught his breath, he said, "You think Ahriman could only have been stopped before the turn of the millennium?"
"Yes!"
"We - Joe and I - have reason to believe he can still be stopped. So...will you try to pull yourself together, and listen to what we have to say?"
"Y-yes."
Methos felt that at that moment, he was taking a "risk" by looking at Joe. But he did it. As expected, he saw an icy glare. But then Joe sighed, and mumbled, "At least it worked."
And then, after a beat: "Would you really have done it?"
"If necessary...yes."
x
x
x
MacLeod was still far from "normal." But he was able to sit quietly, and listen to what his friends were telling him. They hoped he understood.
Speaking slowly and carefully - as if he'd almost forgotten how - he'd said, "I'm glad...someone...may still be able to...defeat Ahriman. But it...can't be me. I'm just...a wreck.
"Maybe you...should kill me?" He'd addressed that to Joe - who couldn't receive, and be harmed by, his Quickening.
Both men had said firmly, "No!"
"It's true, MacLeod," Methos acknowledged now, "that the world seems to be going to hell in a handbasket. But that's actually recent! So Ahriman apparently can't bring about change too quickly.
"And at about the same time the world went haywire, something extraordinary happened, that had special meaning for us.
"Can you tell me the name of your barge?"
That apparent change of subject would have caught anyone by surprise. But after floundering for a minute or so, MacLeod came up with "Nobile."
"That's right, that's what it always was," Methos agreed. "Italian for 'noble,' right? That was its name when you bought it, and you never changed it.
"Since you've been, uh, away, Joe and I have kept the barge where it was, exactly as it was.
"But we recently discovered the name on the barge had changed! Now it's 'Amadeus' - a name meaning 'beloved of God'! We didn't change it or authorize anyone else to change it. And your longtime 'neighbors' have told us not only that none of them changed it, but that they would have seen and reported anyone who did."
"And after that," Joe chimed in, "we remembered that in the past, both of us had experienced fleeting moments when we imagined we'd seen the name 'Amadeus' there! Hard to explain forgetting something like that...but we had."
Methos picked up the tale again. "Personally, I'm not a believer in the Christian 'God.' But the barge is associated with you, MacLeod, and someone or something is sending a message that your mission isn't over."
Joe said, "I do believe in God, and I think that's who it is."
MacLeod was trembling. But Methos couldn't read his expression, if only because of all the accursed hair.
"I didn't just tell you this at the start," he continued, "because while we think of it as - well, a miracle! - it isn't anything we can prove.
"We did bring a photo to show you -"
Joe was already opening his valise. He handed Methos a large color photo of the barge, which clearly showed the name "Amadeus."
"Like I said," Methos repeated, "I can't claim it proves anything! For all you know, one or both of us may have had it changed. But we both swear we didn't."
Since MacLeod made no move to reach for it, Methos held it up in front of him. At an angle at which neither Methos himself nor Joe could see anything but the back of it.
Methos was saying hopefully, "Maybe you'll have one of those memories of having seen it before, too -"
But MacLeod let out another shriek. Stared at the photo, wide-eyed - and kept staring, as if he was mesmerized.
No one else dared to move.
Methos wouldn't have been able to say whether one minute passed, or five. But the spell was broken when MacLeod finally looked away from the photo, and up into his eyes.
And he knew at once that despite outward appearances, he was seeing not the broken man who'd huddled in the corner, but the hero who'd saved the world from Kronos.
In a voice that was awestruck - but otherwise his old, "normal" voice - MacLeod said, "I just witnessed another miracle! I know you couldn't have seen exactly what I did. But did either of you see any part of it? An unusual light?"
Methos and Joe both told him they hadn't seen any "light," but were aware of a difference in him.
He didn't seem surprised.
"When I first looked at the photo," he told them, "the lettering on the barge read 'Amadeus,' like you'd said. But while I was looking at it, it wavered, and turned back into 'Nobile'! Still wavering, as if it was undecided about something. Then it turned into 'Amadeus' again. But this time, all the letters were glowing, with the brightest light I've ever seen. And all that brilliant light was reaching out directly to me!
"So I know you were right, Methos. My mission isn't over.
"And...words can't express my gratitude to the two of you, for having come all this way to find me..."
Suddenly, all three men were in tears. And they were all on their feet (Joe's, of course, being prosthetic), sharing an embrace. Despite MacLeod's murmured apologies for how he smelled.
x
x
x
The door had been closed throughout his friends' visit. But they knew the monks must have heard some alarming sounds. So when MacLeod strode confidently to that door and opened it, they weren't surprised to find a dozen monks - and the lama himself - waiting in the corridor.
There were more tears, more embraces. And some smiles...especially from Methos, when he heard MacLeod talking to the monks in Malaysian.
Whatever he was telling them, it wasn't about Ahriman. He'd decided there was no need to share that dangerous knowledge. It was safer for the monks that they not know.
It was quickly agreed that MacLeod would have a long-overdue bath, a much-needed haircut and shave, and an even more essential meal before leaving with his friends. The only clothing he could be given was a monk's robe - which would suffice until they reached the inn where the friends were staying, and they could find some of their clothes that would fit him.
In an especially emotional moment, he told the lama he meant to keep - and treasure - the glove they'd given him.
"I know it's not really Richie's glove..." He paused, and Methos thought He's having a painful memory. But then he went on to say, "It's important in itself, because it will always remind me of how wonderfully kind you were to me when I was in need."
Before he left for that bath, he looked at Methos and murmured, "I sensed you..."
Methos didn't understand. "You mean...in some way other than the usual? Did you 'sense' that I was searching for you?"
But MacLeod seemed, really, to be talking to himself. "I sensed you...now...and then..."
Methos had forgotten that cryptic remark by the time Joe slapped him on the shoulder and asked, with a grin, "Now do you believe in God?"
"No," he replied, just as cheerfully. "But I do believe in someone or something.
"And most of all, I believe in Duncan MacLeod."
