Date: Sun, 1 Jan 1995 16:38:25 -0500 Reply-To: NancySSCH@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Aloha ch3. p113-118 c 1995 N.L. Cleveland (comments to nancyssch@aol.com) - - - - - The hangover was just as bad as he'd remembered. Worse, if anything. His head pounded and his eyes throbbed as he tentatively opened them, squinting against the soft glow of the night light illuminating his room. He didn't remember coming back here. Or undressing. Yet his clothes lay in a tangled pile on the floor next to him, and he was wearing dark silk pajamas, the soft fabric caressing his hypersensitive skin with an almost intimate touch. He knew his Immortal healing ability would take care of the wine's effects. Eventually. But it was never soon enough. Duncan sat up, and winced with the pain the motion sent to his too tender head, then ran his hands through his tangled, sweaty hair, pulling it back from his face. Someone...he himself?...had removed his hair clip, as well. He rolled from the bed, raising himself to his feet and made his way to the bathroom, in search of water for his parched mouth, and relief for his aching bladder. He pulled off the pajamas, tossed them out the bathroom door, then stepped directly into the shower, turning the handles both to full blast, soaking in the moisture through his skin, letting the liquid pour into his open mouth and trickle down his throat, easing the raging thirst that burned inside him. He leaned against the tiles, his eyes closed, water scouring across his body in a cleansing ritual, trying to wash away his memories of the disastrous dinner. He'd made a fool of himself, he knew. Had voiced wild accusations against his hostess, had given into the devils of paranoia and fear, and insulted her hospitality and her intentions, publicly, in front of her guards, at the top of his lungs. The memory was more painful than the hangover, and he longed for the simple aches of the body, now fading too quickly away, to distract him from his embarrassment and mortification at the memory of his own behavior. Yes, he still had suspicions about the motives of the clan, and of its leader. But all he had were suspicions. Nothing more to go on, than his own speculations. Theory and conjecture of the possibility of betrayal and duplicity, which were no balance against the solid welcome and promises of assistance he had been offered. He remembered his fears of being drugged, and laughed mirthlessly at himself and his skewed sense of self importance in the cold light of rational thought. He had drunk the wine, himself. Had drunk more than he should have, faster than he should have, and had only himself to blame for any verbal indiscretions he had committed. There was nothing conspiratorial about the dinner. It had been a gesture of friendship. One that he had thrown in the face, literally, he remembered now, with a groan of horror, of his hostess. The guards had intervened...he did remember that. And she had kept her temper...He hoped only that he had not poisoned the clan against him. Hoped that his behavior would be seen as an aberration, or a western weakness, rather than the mortal insult it could be deemed if offered by a Japanese, to another. He had no excuse, for himself. Except that he was sick, sick to death of being watched, being followed, being observed and analyzed and discussed, and...worst possibility of all, being understood....by all these mortal watchers. It had unnerved him, he realized. Thrown him off balance, confronting the fact of his own private life being once again so public. So he'd been jet lagged. Tired. Stressed and distracted. But it was still no excuse. He expected more of himself, and he'd let himself down. Miserably. The water was steaming now, and he turned the handles down, to a trickle. Kenrei had been proud of her western plumbing, he remembered. She'd been pleased with his compliments on it, during dinner. Not many Japanese had switched over, according to her. Another example of the clan's adaptations. And at least he'd said one thing right, last night. It was small comfort. That, and the fact that he hadn't woken up in an alley somewhere, with his throat slashed and his pockets emptied. Or not woken up at all. So maybe his tactless words had not destroyed all possibility of the clan helping him. But he had to find her, and apologize. He just wished he could remember more of what he'd said. He was sure it had been too much. He stepped out of the shower, groping in the steam filled room for a towel. Wiping the water from his eyes, he moved back into the bedroom, and stopped, abruptly. He had company. Not Tenso, Kenrei's grandson, the boy who had welcomed him yesterday. No, this was her son. Her youngest son... Duncan struggled to remember the name Kenrei had mentioned last night.... Hideyoshi....that was it. The angry young tiger who reminded him so much of Murami. Duncan dropped the towel to his waist and pulled it around him. He raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry at his unexpected visitor. Hideyoshi bowed stiffly and glared back at him, resentment clear in every line of his body. " Pardon me, I was just leaving. I will await you, outside. I have been instructed to set aside a portion of my business duties to accompany you while you are our guest. I am anticipating the project with tremendous pleasure." Sarcasm dripped from his words, and Duncan felt a slow anger growing deep inside himself, in response. He bit off a sharp retort and tried for a mild tone as he replied. "I am honored to have the son of Kenrei devote his time to assist me. Please convey my apologies to your mother for my indisposition last night." He noted the smile that Hideyoshi didn't even try to hide, and flushed, feeling the red creeping up his cheeks. Hideyoshi inclined his head, irony in his glance, this time. "I will convey your regrets to my mother. She, unfortunately, will be busy with clan business until you are ready to leave and will have no time to accept your apology herself." "I understand. Please tell her I am *most* apologetic." Duncan summoned the shreds of his dignity and continued. "Feel free to remain here while I change. Please excuse me while I make myself ready." He managed a tight lipped smile in Hideyoshi's general direction, then turned and toweled himself dry, and reached for the pile of freshly pressed and laundered clothes that had replaced the crumpled items he'd cast aside last night. He dropped the towel deliberately, and pulled on the pants, then the shirt, studiously ignoring Hideyoshi's frankly curious gaze upon him as he dressed. He pulled his hair back and tightened the metal clasp that held it away from his face, checking in the mirror hanging on the wall to see that he hadn't missed a stray lock. Hideyoshi's eyes watched him, reflected in the glass. Duncan stared back, locking eyes with the man, challenging him with a look to say whatever lingered in his mind. "You don't appear to be so old." The Japanese words were a soft whisper, barely at the edge of Duncan's hearing. Duncan shrugged on the light silk jacket, and turned towards his unwilling host once more. "I am ready." Duncan saw the flat, aloof expression creep across Hideyoshi's face. "Perhaps you could show me something of this house? I noticed some weapons in the hall...do you know their history?" Duncan had hit on a subject close to Hideyoshi's heart. He saw how the man's eyes lit up at the mention of the artifacts. A bridge, between Duncan's understanding of the past, and Hideyoshi's family stories. It was a good save, from a very poor beginning. Hideyoshi unbent slightly as he showed Duncan the clan's heirlooms. He seemed to be forcing down a tremendous anger, but Duncan gradually realized it was not directed at himself. Hideyoshi was playing host, but his mind and heart were far away, locked in some internal dialogue that Duncan could only guess at. As they talked, Duncan wondered about this enigmatic younger son. There was so much power, such dynamism, coiled in his slender frame, seething like a volcano ready to explode. He was the uncrowned prince, in waiting. Waiting for the mantle of authority to descend to him. Chafing, Duncan suspected, at the wait. And perhaps doing more than chafe. There was a tension, in how Kenrei had referred to him, last night. And the same tension in Hideyoshi now, when he spoke of his mother. Of the clan. Of its business. His duties. Never giving away details of his work, just implying a sketchy outline of what he did, his role and position in the family. One that had changed abruptly, and recently. Duncan realized there were huge gaps in the information he receiving, but he could sense from the way Hideyoshi shifted his verb tenses, that a significant alteration in the entire power structure of the clan had just occured. Some event had upset the internal balances, and the repercussions were still being worked out. Even though oblique hints and shadowed references were all he offered Duncan, not specifics, the shadows began to take on form for the Immortal. And the form...took on meaning. Something new was brewing in the Japanese underworld. Some new avenue to power and wealth. Something that rocked the rigid traditions of underworld society on its heels. And Hideyoshi was going to be a part of it. Might be already. And without the approval, or even knowledge of his mother, Duncan guessed. He still kept seeing Murami's ghost in every gesture, in the inflection of the man's voice, in his quick, sharp use of the language, his impatience and caustic wit. And he had to keep reminding himself that this was an entirely different man. That he might feel a connection, a rekindling of the warmth and friendship he had once found with this man's ancestor, but in fact it was not there now, for him. But it was so easy, for Duncan , to assume it was. He did not fully understand his own feelings in this, only knew that his visit to the clan was stirring again his longing to belong, to be accepted and a part of mortal lives, once more. The tour of the ancient weapons had led, inevitably, to a discussion of martial arts, and the traditions of warriors, the samurai's bushido versus the courtly knights chivalrous. And that had led, in turn, to a challenge to test the skills of the different traditions, in the persons of their contemporary selves. All very polite, of course. And equally inevitable. Duncan had known this was coming, from almost the first moment he met the man. He'd tried to suggest a practice match with wooden swords, but Hideyoshi would have none of that. "What good are wooden blades, when you need to fight for your life? They teach you to relax, not to win." Duncan had to admit he was right. And he could use the practice, to tell the truth, especially with Raven as a potential opponent in the possible future. This *is* a good idea, he reassured himself, as he lifted his katana from its resting place, after laying the jacket back onto the futon, and loosening the collar and sleeves of his shirt. He just didn't want to find himself fighting for his life against the son of the leader of his putative allies. And he suspected, from the feral gleam he'd caught in Hideyoshi's eyes as he'd issued the invitation, that this match might in fact turn out to be more than * friendly.* Hideyoshi led him to another room, one Duncan had not seen before. It appeared to be a small dojo, with a shrine laid out on a tana, the painted shelf hanging off the far wall, set in a recessed alcove facing the door. A delicate celadon ceramic bowl filled with lotus blossoms, and a small carved jade incense burner rested at the feet of a golden statue of the Buddha. The sweet spicy scent of sandalwood subtly flavored the air. Duncan followed Hideyoshi's example, and bowed as he entered the room, giving obeisance to the spirit of the place. The matting on the floor was more substantial than the tatami in the other rooms. This was similar to the kind used for the falling martial arts practice, such as aikido and judo, in the west. A variety of weapons lined the walls. Scarred, sturdy working weapons, not fragile ancient treasures. Duncan was examining some of the bokken, the wooden swords used for kendo practice, as Hideyoshi walked to a wall rack and pulled down a katana and its shorter mate, a wakizashi. He balanced them in his hands, katana in the right, wakizashi in the left, bowed formally and then moved across the floor, towards Duncan, his eyes alert, his expression relaxed, almost blissful. Hideyoshi's whole stance changed, with the swords in his hands. His fast, western walk and erect posture disappeared as he flowed across the mats, his knees bent, his body supple and close to the ground, his feet testing each spot as if expecting the mat to drop out from under him any moment, his ki low and centered. Duncan returned the bow, then held his katana at the ready, both hands on the hilt, the curved blade pointing out and up, and watched Hideyoshi approach. He bent his own knees and lowered his stance, shifting his weight from side to side, finally centering as well. He focused his eyes on Hideyoshi's, trying to sense where the attack would begin. It took a whole different approach, to handle the double bladed attack. It *would* be good practice, no doubt about it. Duncan just hoped he and his sparring partner would both survive. The trick to fighting with live blades was in *not* injuring your opponent. A disabling or killing blow was far easier to deliver, than to simply try and disarm someone. And the intent of the person facing him mattered, too. Duncan hoped he had read Hideyoshi correctly, and that the man was eager for sport, not a kiling. The two men shuffled in a circle, their blades hovering, their eyes blazing at one another, probing for a weakness, for an instant's inattention. Duncan could feel a light sweat starting on his skin, and saw an answering sheen on Hideyoshi's bare face. A classic duel might last only one stroke. A moment, balancing life and death on the edge of a sword. With a master, there would be no second chance. And Duncan could tell that Hideyoshi was a master. He focused, and began his move, planning a difficult disarming strike, sensing Hideyoshi's body mirroring or anticipating his motion, in the same instant that the sliding door to the room burst open. He saw her running towards them, distracted for a second in his concentration, and felt Hideyoshi's short blade ripping into his chest. His own weapon slid across the man's arm, deflecting the other katana and slicing a long shallow cut towards Hideyoshi's shoulder. Duncan tasted the warm salty bite of blood, in his mouth. Felt it bubbling up from his lungs, as he dropped his katana to the floor and stood, wavering, in the middle of the room, all his attention now on keeping himself on his feet. He felt his vision darkening as he reached bloody fingers to his chest and pulled at the wakizashi. It fell free, and bounced, once, on the mat, with a dull hollow thud. Hideyoshi stared at him, avidly, his arm streaming red from his wound, watching Duncan like a vulture looking at its next meal. Duncan's last vision was of Kenrei, her face a mask of rage and fury, slapping her son hard across the face. He recoiled, shifting his eyes to her, from Duncan. The almost electric connection between the two men snapped, broken, and nothing more held Duncan to the earthly world. The sharp crack of sound pushed him over the edge, the slap echoing in his mind as he spiraled into unconsciousness, and death, his body dropping limp to the floor, his last fading thoughts flickering into incoherence, and the void. - - - - - The mat was hard. Uncomfortable. Sticky. Duncan rolled over, fast, reaching out for the shape whose breathing he had heard, hovering over him. The boy squeaked and bit him in terror, as Duncan 's hands groped across his face. Duncan pried open his eyes and let the child go. Now his thumb throbbed, with a fresh set of small, sharp toothprints deeply embedded in the flesh. At least it distracted him from the tenderness in his side and lungs, and the incipient headache that always threatened him whenever he came *back.* The child had backed against the far wall, almost into the shrine, his eyes wide with fright. "Sorry, kid. I didn't know it was you." He spoke as gently as he could, his voice thick and scratchy. He knew he must look terrible. He sat in a pool of half congealed blood, and felt the dried liquid caked along his chest and stomach. Behind him, the door to the dojo slid open again, and he turned, meeting Kenrei's neutral gaze. She moved into the room and snapped an order at the child, some kind of verbal coded language that Duncan did not understand but could guess the meaning of. In emergencies, the clan had used a secret battle short speech when he'd been with them before. Only the key words had changed. The boy scurried around her and out the door, darting one last, astonished look at Duncan, as he left. Duncan struggled to his feet, fighting a momentary wave of dizziness, and bowed low to Kenrei. "My apologies for my rude behavior last night. And my apologies also for initiating in this foolish duel this morning. I hope your son has not been too badly wounded?" "My son will be fine. It is I who must aplogize. He did not believe you were Immortal." She inclined her head, ice in her eyes. "Your presence here is revealing ...complications ...I was not aware of." "But mother, I believe now. " Duncan and Kenrei both turned to the still open door, where Hideyoshi stood, his now bandaged arm hanging loose at his side. He stepped into the room as well, bowing to the spirits and then to the human occupants. Duncan watched him cautiously. He had totally misread this man once already. What more suprises lurked behind the too familiar visage, what more hidden plots waited to enmesh him? He would be doubly careful, now, with the young tiger. He had tasted his fangs and claws. =========================================================================