FIC: Into Darkness Peering, Chapter 3
A very difficult chapter to write.
Chapter Three
Duncan signaled that he was stopping, and Richie obediently crouched low behind him. They had made it across the border into Alucia with no problem and in front of them was St. Aquinas Abbey. Its dark, stone-hewn facade made Richie think of all those gothic matinees he used to sneak into on Saturday afternoons. The theater had called it a "Revival of Horror." He'd called it a way to cool off since his foster family didn't have air conditioning.
"Doesn't look like they have much in the way of security," he whispered.
"It's a monastery. There aren't that many people trying to break in," Duncan said.
"Not even for the antiques and stuff these guys must have?"
"Not worth the risk of running into one of Alucia's messy wars. Let's go."
Duncan was halfway across the lawn before Richie was even aware his mentor was moving, and he had to sprint to catch up with him. The tall, arched door opened easily, and they slipped inside. The long narrow hall was empty. Duncan said something about most of the monks being at evening prayers. Richie shrugged; he knew nothing about monks and didn't care to learn. Holy ground or not, the whole idea of being a monk was not something he wanted to think about. Not when there were Heathers, and Marias, and Tinas....
"This way."
He followed Duncan down the hallway, the passage weakly lit by an occasional flickering torch. Gee, someone as old as Methos should feel right at home. Methos. How could someone like Adam Pierson be Methos? He was so--ordinary. He swilled beer, left his boots out to be tripped over, and basically freeloaded off of Mac every time he came to town. Hell, what a waste of five thousand years. At least his Methos had tried to share what he'd learned, had tried to stop the stupid, useless Game they had to play. The real one just avoided the Game and left the rest to do as they pleased. Selfish. Which, of course, probably explained how he had survived so long. Well, if that was the cost of long survival, he'd just try for Mac's four-hundred mark and take it from there.
"He's in here."
Richie stared at the heavy wooden door. He strained but got no sense of an Immortal. "You can feel him?" Mac was way more sensitive to the buzz than he was.
"Just barely," Duncan answered, grimacing. "There's probably a guard inside."
"I'll handle him; you free the old man."
Duncan nodded, then stormed through the door. A man, kneeling in front of a wooden cross, stood at their intrusion, his cape flowing back as he reached for--Richie didn't wait for him to reach for whatever it was. His sword was at the man's throat in an instant.
Hissing a warning at his captive, he turned to watch Mac inspect the room. The Scot paused, knelt, and yanked at a grating in the floor. Without a word, he lowered himself into the hole and disappeared.
*****
The beast felt the change of light and knew a painful thing was coming. He could no longer see them clearly; when he woke after one particularly bad beating, he found his eyesight had dimmed to the point that he could only differentiate between light and dark. Dark meant he was safe. Light meant he was at the mercy of the painful things. He vaguely recalled a time when he fought the painful things, but that had been a long time ago. Now he knew the painful things would always win, so he saved his strength to keep himself from displeasing them. His cries angered them, and the blows would fall harder and faster, so he no longer cried out. If he balked when they tugged on his chain, they found different ways to hurt him, so he always went in the direction of the tug. If he looked towards them, they beat him on the head, so he never looked up. This was what the painful things required. This was what he gave them.
But something was different this time. A thrill of fear raced through his body as something clicked in his brain just beneath the odd strumming that had begun moments before. This wasn't just a painful thing; this was a very, very bad painful thing. He bit back a whimper as it drew nearer and even though he knew it was wrong, he pushed back toward his corner, toward the safety of his darkness. Still, the very, very bad painful thing came closer. He jammed his fingers into his mouth to stifle the sound he felt building in his throat.
The very, very bad thing touched him.
The beast screamed.
*****
Duncan grimaced as the stench of the pit assaulted him as he made his way down the short wooden ladder. Human filth. It had been a while since he'd smelled it, but it was something that never really left the brain. He pushed the thoughts that accompanied the smell into an appropriate space at the back of his mind and pulled a flashlight from his pocket. He aimed it in the direction where a faint Presence emanated, sighing because he was sure this wasn't Methos. Methos' Presence was full-bodied and rich, like a perfectly aged wine. This was more of a weak, cheap, wino special. Not Methos, but still a trapped Immortal. He would free the unfortunate, then turn the Abbey upside down if he had to.
He walked toward the figure he finally found crouched in the farthest corner. Long, dirt-matted hair covered most of what he could see, but Duncan did manage to see a flash of a skeletal shoulder. Poor thing. It whimpered, and Duncan hastily cut the flashlight before reaching out to reassure the Immortal. A thin wail pierced the silence, and Duncan's hand automatically flew out to cover the Immortal's mouth. Richie could handle the one monk--no need to alert more.
"Shh! I'm not here to hurt you, my friend. But you must be quiet!" He loosened his hand, and the silence returned. "Good." Since he was so close, he decided to pull back the hair, trying to determine whether he was facing a male or a female. Since it was unclothed, there were other ways, but Duncan figured examining facial features would be more humane.
His fingers started trembling when the nose came into view, and he hastened to reveal the eyes. But the eyes were closed and remained that way until he touched one of the lids. The eyes flew open, then quickly dropped in the direction of the floor.
Duncan stumbled backward.
No.
"Methos?" he whispered. The figure did not move. Without being aware of what he was doing, Duncan turned the flashlight back on and played it over his friend. He pushed the arms down that was covering the body, revealing a figure so gaunt that his heart could be seen pulsing against the deeply outlined ribcage. The sunken stomach below heaved with the shallow, rapid breaths of a frightened man. Manacles on bony wrists had chains that attached to manacles on equally bony ankles. The flashlight followed the chains but didn't see where they attached any place else. He moved the hair back further and found a metal collar. Its chain was attached by a huge lock to a metal hoop embedded in the stone wall.
Enraged, Duncan stood and drew his sword. With one vicious swing, he severed the chain. The figure's chest bobbed up and down faster, but didn't emit another sound. He debated cutting the other chains, but needed more room to do it without hurting Methos.
"We need to get out of here, then I'll remove the others, Methos. Let's go." Methos remained still. "Methos? It's okay. I won't let them hurt you anymore. Come on." Nothing. Duncan picked up the end of the chain to make sure the cut was completely clean. Methos dropped to his hands and knees. An experimental tug, and Methos began crawling in his direction.
Duncan wanted to cry but knew that could wait. With a stoic grimace, he led Methos out of the pit.
"Mac?" Richie asked as the grimy figure followed Duncan out of the hole and squatted patiently beside his feet.
"I need something to cover him with." In the light Duncan could see details he didn't want to see. Half-healed lashes. Dark bruises. Rat bites. And blood. "I need him covered, Rich. Or I am going to kill every monk in this hellhole," Duncan admitted, his entire body trembling.
*****
Richie knew without a doubt that Mac meant exactly what he said, and although he didn't care what happened to the monks, he knew Mac would eventually feel guilty if he took them all out, so he ordered the monk he held at sword point out of his robe. Then leaving behind a threat to kill him if he moved, Richie took the robe and went over to the other two Immortals.
Up close, he could see why Mac was so upset. Adam looked like one of those pictures of Holocaust survivors, all bone and taut, thin skin. He, too, felt the urge to kill--and he wasn't even in love with the abused man. Squatting beside the wraith-like figure, he draped the robe around the bony shoulders. He looked up at his mentor, noticing the whiteness around his lips and the fire in his eyes. Shit, but the monks had really fucked up. "Mac, we need to get him out of here."
"Aye." Duncan clutched his sword.
"We don't have time to go postal on them now, okay? They'll be here later. So will you."
Duncan nodded and knelt beside his friends. "We will destroy them for this, Methos, and salt the earth behind them," he vowed. He cradled the thin figure in his arms and stood.
"You mustn't free him," the frightened monk said, left only wearing long underwear. "He is a demon."
Duncan stalked over to him, indignant anger darkening the usually warm brown eyes. "Tell your brethren," he spat, "that this is no demon, but one of God's own whom they have defiled. Hell's fury is no match for Heaven's. Retribution will surely follow."
"He will take your soul," the monk warned.
"He already has it," Duncan replied and walked out of the chamber.
After warning the monk about calling out for help, Richie raced after him.
In the middle of the forest, Duncan paused, then carefully placed his burden on the ground. "Protect him," he said, drawing his sword.
"The monks?" Richie asked. He hadn't heard anything, but he trusted Duncan's instincts.
"No. The Alucian army." He tossed Richie a gun. "I know they're mortal, but I don't care. Understand?"
"Gotcha, Mac." The Highlander faded into the dark.
Richie stared at the man curled in a fetal position at his feet. The robe had fallen open, and the pale skin seemed to gleam in the moonlight. Knowing Adam--Methos--would hate being exposed like that, he reached out to pull the robe closed and noticed why Mac had carried the man around like an overgrown baby instead of slinging him over his shoulder. The chains that connected his wrists to his ankles were short. Methos could neither stand nor stretch out.
"Let's see what we can do about that," he said softly. Only the moving chest told him Methos was alive. He drew a switchblade out of his jeans pocket and flicked it open. Methos flinched at the sound. "I'm just going to show you what I learned in my misspent youth," he told the older man gently. He made short work of the latches on the shackles. Gagging slightly, he took a handful of grass and scraped away the bugs that milled about when the flesh of the wrists and ankles were exposed.
Tugging Methos into a sitting position, he carefully threaded the damaged wrists through the robe’s sleeves and then pulled it over the Immortals head. Adam was apparently shocked to find himself in clothing, and his eyes opened wide. That was when Richie found out Methos' eyes were covered with a white film.
"Oh, man. Can you see?" The eyes went down to the ground again and although Richie hated it, he reached out to grasp the man's chin and force his head up. He waved his hand in front of the damaged eyes. Far from being an expert, he thought Adam's reactions to the movements were slow. "Damn them," he whispered angrily.
A noise made him raise the gun.
"It's me, Richie."
The young Immortal lowered the gun.
"You took off his chains. Good."
"Mac, I think he's blind."
Duncan just nodded. "He's too thin and too dehydrated to heal properly. I think some of those bruises are at least a week old, and the whip marks haven't even scabbed over. But he'll be fine, Rich. Good food, warm clothing...he'll be fine. Won't you, Methos?"
Richie watched Mac caress the thin face before picking him up in his arms again. He started to tell him that he could now sling him over his shoulder, but realized Mac would have already figured that out for himself. "The army?"
"Off in another direction."
They made their way across the border without further incident.
Chapter Three
Duncan signaled that he was stopping, and Richie obediently crouched low behind him. They had made it across the border into Alucia with no problem and in front of them was St. Aquinas Abbey. Its dark, stone-hewn facade made Richie think of all those gothic matinees he used to sneak into on Saturday afternoons. The theater had called it a "Revival of Horror." He'd called it a way to cool off since his foster family didn't have air conditioning.
"Doesn't look like they have much in the way of security," he whispered.
"It's a monastery. There aren't that many people trying to break in," Duncan said.
"Not even for the antiques and stuff these guys must have?"
"Not worth the risk of running into one of Alucia's messy wars. Let's go."
Duncan was halfway across the lawn before Richie was even aware his mentor was moving, and he had to sprint to catch up with him. The tall, arched door opened easily, and they slipped inside. The long narrow hall was empty. Duncan said something about most of the monks being at evening prayers. Richie shrugged; he knew nothing about monks and didn't care to learn. Holy ground or not, the whole idea of being a monk was not something he wanted to think about. Not when there were Heathers, and Marias, and Tinas....
"This way."
He followed Duncan down the hallway, the passage weakly lit by an occasional flickering torch. Gee, someone as old as Methos should feel right at home. Methos. How could someone like Adam Pierson be Methos? He was so--ordinary. He swilled beer, left his boots out to be tripped over, and basically freeloaded off of Mac every time he came to town. Hell, what a waste of five thousand years. At least his Methos had tried to share what he'd learned, had tried to stop the stupid, useless Game they had to play. The real one just avoided the Game and left the rest to do as they pleased. Selfish. Which, of course, probably explained how he had survived so long. Well, if that was the cost of long survival, he'd just try for Mac's four-hundred mark and take it from there.
"He's in here."
Richie stared at the heavy wooden door. He strained but got no sense of an Immortal. "You can feel him?" Mac was way more sensitive to the buzz than he was.
"Just barely," Duncan answered, grimacing. "There's probably a guard inside."
"I'll handle him; you free the old man."
Duncan nodded, then stormed through the door. A man, kneeling in front of a wooden cross, stood at their intrusion, his cape flowing back as he reached for--Richie didn't wait for him to reach for whatever it was. His sword was at the man's throat in an instant.
Hissing a warning at his captive, he turned to watch Mac inspect the room. The Scot paused, knelt, and yanked at a grating in the floor. Without a word, he lowered himself into the hole and disappeared.
*****
The beast felt the change of light and knew a painful thing was coming. He could no longer see them clearly; when he woke after one particularly bad beating, he found his eyesight had dimmed to the point that he could only differentiate between light and dark. Dark meant he was safe. Light meant he was at the mercy of the painful things. He vaguely recalled a time when he fought the painful things, but that had been a long time ago. Now he knew the painful things would always win, so he saved his strength to keep himself from displeasing them. His cries angered them, and the blows would fall harder and faster, so he no longer cried out. If he balked when they tugged on his chain, they found different ways to hurt him, so he always went in the direction of the tug. If he looked towards them, they beat him on the head, so he never looked up. This was what the painful things required. This was what he gave them.
But something was different this time. A thrill of fear raced through his body as something clicked in his brain just beneath the odd strumming that had begun moments before. This wasn't just a painful thing; this was a very, very bad painful thing. He bit back a whimper as it drew nearer and even though he knew it was wrong, he pushed back toward his corner, toward the safety of his darkness. Still, the very, very bad painful thing came closer. He jammed his fingers into his mouth to stifle the sound he felt building in his throat.
The very, very bad thing touched him.
The beast screamed.
*****
Duncan grimaced as the stench of the pit assaulted him as he made his way down the short wooden ladder. Human filth. It had been a while since he'd smelled it, but it was something that never really left the brain. He pushed the thoughts that accompanied the smell into an appropriate space at the back of his mind and pulled a flashlight from his pocket. He aimed it in the direction where a faint Presence emanated, sighing because he was sure this wasn't Methos. Methos' Presence was full-bodied and rich, like a perfectly aged wine. This was more of a weak, cheap, wino special. Not Methos, but still a trapped Immortal. He would free the unfortunate, then turn the Abbey upside down if he had to.
He walked toward the figure he finally found crouched in the farthest corner. Long, dirt-matted hair covered most of what he could see, but Duncan did manage to see a flash of a skeletal shoulder. Poor thing. It whimpered, and Duncan hastily cut the flashlight before reaching out to reassure the Immortal. A thin wail pierced the silence, and Duncan's hand automatically flew out to cover the Immortal's mouth. Richie could handle the one monk--no need to alert more.
"Shh! I'm not here to hurt you, my friend. But you must be quiet!" He loosened his hand, and the silence returned. "Good." Since he was so close, he decided to pull back the hair, trying to determine whether he was facing a male or a female. Since it was unclothed, there were other ways, but Duncan figured examining facial features would be more humane.
His fingers started trembling when the nose came into view, and he hastened to reveal the eyes. But the eyes were closed and remained that way until he touched one of the lids. The eyes flew open, then quickly dropped in the direction of the floor.
Duncan stumbled backward.
No.
"Methos?" he whispered. The figure did not move. Without being aware of what he was doing, Duncan turned the flashlight back on and played it over his friend. He pushed the arms down that was covering the body, revealing a figure so gaunt that his heart could be seen pulsing against the deeply outlined ribcage. The sunken stomach below heaved with the shallow, rapid breaths of a frightened man. Manacles on bony wrists had chains that attached to manacles on equally bony ankles. The flashlight followed the chains but didn't see where they attached any place else. He moved the hair back further and found a metal collar. Its chain was attached by a huge lock to a metal hoop embedded in the stone wall.
Enraged, Duncan stood and drew his sword. With one vicious swing, he severed the chain. The figure's chest bobbed up and down faster, but didn't emit another sound. He debated cutting the other chains, but needed more room to do it without hurting Methos.
"We need to get out of here, then I'll remove the others, Methos. Let's go." Methos remained still. "Methos? It's okay. I won't let them hurt you anymore. Come on." Nothing. Duncan picked up the end of the chain to make sure the cut was completely clean. Methos dropped to his hands and knees. An experimental tug, and Methos began crawling in his direction.
Duncan wanted to cry but knew that could wait. With a stoic grimace, he led Methos out of the pit.
"Mac?" Richie asked as the grimy figure followed Duncan out of the hole and squatted patiently beside his feet.
"I need something to cover him with." In the light Duncan could see details he didn't want to see. Half-healed lashes. Dark bruises. Rat bites. And blood. "I need him covered, Rich. Or I am going to kill every monk in this hellhole," Duncan admitted, his entire body trembling.
*****
Richie knew without a doubt that Mac meant exactly what he said, and although he didn't care what happened to the monks, he knew Mac would eventually feel guilty if he took them all out, so he ordered the monk he held at sword point out of his robe. Then leaving behind a threat to kill him if he moved, Richie took the robe and went over to the other two Immortals.
Up close, he could see why Mac was so upset. Adam looked like one of those pictures of Holocaust survivors, all bone and taut, thin skin. He, too, felt the urge to kill--and he wasn't even in love with the abused man. Squatting beside the wraith-like figure, he draped the robe around the bony shoulders. He looked up at his mentor, noticing the whiteness around his lips and the fire in his eyes. Shit, but the monks had really fucked up. "Mac, we need to get him out of here."
"Aye." Duncan clutched his sword.
"We don't have time to go postal on them now, okay? They'll be here later. So will you."
Duncan nodded and knelt beside his friends. "We will destroy them for this, Methos, and salt the earth behind them," he vowed. He cradled the thin figure in his arms and stood.
"You mustn't free him," the frightened monk said, left only wearing long underwear. "He is a demon."
Duncan stalked over to him, indignant anger darkening the usually warm brown eyes. "Tell your brethren," he spat, "that this is no demon, but one of God's own whom they have defiled. Hell's fury is no match for Heaven's. Retribution will surely follow."
"He will take your soul," the monk warned.
"He already has it," Duncan replied and walked out of the chamber.
After warning the monk about calling out for help, Richie raced after him.
In the middle of the forest, Duncan paused, then carefully placed his burden on the ground. "Protect him," he said, drawing his sword.
"The monks?" Richie asked. He hadn't heard anything, but he trusted Duncan's instincts.
"No. The Alucian army." He tossed Richie a gun. "I know they're mortal, but I don't care. Understand?"
"Gotcha, Mac." The Highlander faded into the dark.
Richie stared at the man curled in a fetal position at his feet. The robe had fallen open, and the pale skin seemed to gleam in the moonlight. Knowing Adam--Methos--would hate being exposed like that, he reached out to pull the robe closed and noticed why Mac had carried the man around like an overgrown baby instead of slinging him over his shoulder. The chains that connected his wrists to his ankles were short. Methos could neither stand nor stretch out.
"Let's see what we can do about that," he said softly. Only the moving chest told him Methos was alive. He drew a switchblade out of his jeans pocket and flicked it open. Methos flinched at the sound. "I'm just going to show you what I learned in my misspent youth," he told the older man gently. He made short work of the latches on the shackles. Gagging slightly, he took a handful of grass and scraped away the bugs that milled about when the flesh of the wrists and ankles were exposed.
Tugging Methos into a sitting position, he carefully threaded the damaged wrists through the robe’s sleeves and then pulled it over the Immortals head. Adam was apparently shocked to find himself in clothing, and his eyes opened wide. That was when Richie found out Methos' eyes were covered with a white film.
"Oh, man. Can you see?" The eyes went down to the ground again and although Richie hated it, he reached out to grasp the man's chin and force his head up. He waved his hand in front of the damaged eyes. Far from being an expert, he thought Adam's reactions to the movements were slow. "Damn them," he whispered angrily.
A noise made him raise the gun.
"It's me, Richie."
The young Immortal lowered the gun.
"You took off his chains. Good."
"Mac, I think he's blind."
Duncan just nodded. "He's too thin and too dehydrated to heal properly. I think some of those bruises are at least a week old, and the whip marks haven't even scabbed over. But he'll be fine, Rich. Good food, warm clothing...he'll be fine. Won't you, Methos?"
Richie watched Mac caress the thin face before picking him up in his arms again. He started to tell him that he could now sling him over his shoulder, but realized Mac would have already figured that out for himself. "The army?"
"Off in another direction."
They made their way across the border without further incident.