Date: Fri, 6 Jan 1995 00:20:20 -0500 Reply-To: NancySSCH@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Aloha Ch3.p130-136 c 1995 N.L. Cleveland (comments are always welcome) "They killed my parents." "And they killed mine." Purpose filled her voice now. A sudden, deadly enthusiasm animated her eyes, and burned within her as she leaned forward, her hand grasping Jonathan's wrist, her nails biting deep into his skin. "Let me come with you. Let me help you. Let me avenge my family, too." How to explain. How to dissuade her, from certain death. From eternal damnation. Jonathan recoiled as he saw himself, reflected in her face, heard himself, in her passion. Himself, twenty years ago. But that was no reason to pull another soul down, with him. No reason at all. And certainly not Mariko. Gentle, sweet Mariko. Mariko, who upheld and believed in the law. In doing good. In truth, and justice. He could not allow this. Could not have her join him in this doomed and deadly crusade. Could not let her join him outside the ken of human law. Because she was mortal, and this was her only life. But how could he keep her safe, until the Dragons were eliminated? And how could he answer the anger, the accusation he saw growing in her eyes, as she realized what his stony silence meant. Realized why he looked away. Realized that he would not let her join him, would not let her participate in his bloody plans for vengeance. Her nails bit deeper into his arm, cutting into the skin, as her voice cut into his soul. "Jonathan. Look at me. Tell me the truth." He turned his head back, and met her eyes. Met her pain. Shared it. " You are here to die, aren't you?" Always too perceptive for her own good, was Mariko. Too quick to see to the heart of an issue. Too quick to understand the human dimension, the hidden currents that impelled men towards their fates. Too quick. Too perceptive. Too precious, to throw her life away with his. Tomorrow. By tomorrow it would all be over. But he needed *all* the Dragons to be in their compound. All of them together, penned in for the slaughter. If even one escaped, Mariko would be still in danger. Would never be able to pick up the shreds of her life, and go on with her career. Would spend the rest of her short, harried existence looking over her shoulder and running, until the Dragons caught up with her and she died. So there it was. He could no longer count on his edge of surprise. They had to know he was coming. Had to be expecting him. Had to be waiting for him, while he walked knowingly into their den. While he pretended not to know, he had to reel them in to his trap too. It was the only way to be certain. The only way to get them all. And Mariko could help. She could bait the trap for him. Could even save her life, later, if they survived. If he failed. She could tell them he was coming. Tell them she was giving him to them, because he had led them to her family, and led her family to their deaths. She could say she was giving him to them, to save the rest of her family. There were others, he knew. Aunts. Cousins. A sister, at school. It was a chance. More than the chance she had, coming with him. More than the chance she had, running. But would she agree? "You don't expect to survive, Jonathan. I can see it in your eyes." Mariko stared at him, fascinated. Drawn to death. Eager to seek its sweet emptiness, herself. Eager to bury her grief, in action. To buy honor for her family, with her own blood. Jonathan understood her, understood that fascination, too well. He had walked this road so long, he knew no other. Yet he also knew this was not the path for her. While he. He had only his past. It was his life, now. His future. His fate. He had surrendered his will, to it. Surrendered hope. Surrendered everything except hate. And vengeance. Those he would cling to. Cling to them, to the grave. Beyond, if necessary. "What of your family, Mariko? Think of your sister. The others who still live. Who still love you." He pulled his heart back from its grim contemplation of death, summoned a last spurt of conviction, of concern for mortal affairs, and put all that concern into his voice. The ringing in his ears was almost gone now. He knew if he'd been a mortal man, he'd still be deaf. Maybe even dead, again. And again. So it wasn't as if he was giving anything up. His time had already come. He had already died. More than once. He had no more connection to the earth. Only his vengeance animated his will, now. And his concern for the woman who faced him, whose warm breath frosted in the chill evening air, whose eyes looked deep into his soul and judged him not. "And what of my family? The Dragons will kill them too, no? I must destroy them first." Mariko leaned back and loosened his grip on his arm. He felt a trickle of blood well up from the places her nails had cut through the skin. He ignored it. Focused all his concentration, all his will, on her. He must convince her. He *must.* She represented all he had turned his back on. All he had once cherished. Life. Love. Family. A future. A legacy of hope. Of forgiveness. If he could save her, save her remaining family, he would find his own passing a bit easier. The guilt would weight a bit less heavily on his shoulders, for all the others who had died. He would have left behind something more, something greater, than death. He would have left behind, life. "I can show you how to save them. To save them all. And yourself." She shook her head, denying him. Denying the possibility. Refusing to listen. Hunching her shoulders and looking away. He turned his body towards her, reached out and gathered her stiff, resisting form into his arms. Felt her flinch away, her skin, her muscles and bone and sinews hardening, armoring her body and her soul against him. Against feeling. Against the pain of loss. And love. Knowing the cold empty void that burned with frozen fire in his own breast, he knew what Mariko was feeling, in hers. The icy passion of directed hate was so much easier to bear, than the hot searing flame of helpless love, of useless regret, of overwhelming grief and remorse, for those who had died. Yet that heat, that pain, were necessary. Necessary to life itself. He held her in his arms, cradling her cold, rigid body. Feeling his body's warmth, reaching out to hers. Feeling his own once-mortal soul, reaching toward hers. Trying to find the key, to re-awaken her heart. To re-ignite her passion for life, not death. "Just listen, Mariko. Just listen. Please." It was all he could ask. All he dared ask of this woman whose family's blood was on his hands. Whose grief was by rights all his fault. Who could have, should have, hated him. Blamed him. Come to him to exact her own vengeance, instead of come to him for help, instead of offering her own help, and her own understanding. He held her, his arms wrapped around her, shielding and enfolding her. Warding off the whole world, for that moment, in the fragile protection of flesh and bone. In the fleeing, transient warmth of life, and his love. He felt her draw a long, shuddering breath. Then she lifted her arms to him as well. Lifted them and held him. Held him tight, as if he were the only buoy, the only link to life, the only living being in a vast empty universe. They held each other. Seeking and giving warmth. To one another. Finding meaning, in the touch of arm on arm, of shoulder, to shoulder. Meaning, purpose, and life. She made no sound, but he could feel her body shaking against his. Shaking with silent sobs, silent tears. Tears that burned like liquid flame, though his shirt. Tears that scalded his skin, and his heart. And found their matching cousins, in his own eyes. His own salty offering , to the gods of death. To the gods of life. They slid down his face, and touched her, touched the bare unprotected skin on the delicate nape of her neck, like brands of fire. He felt her flinch, at their touch, then relax. She lifted her head to his, her eyes blind with moisture, with grief, looking into eternity. He lowered his face to hers, and they brushed together, dumbly, silently. Skin touching skin, lips soft against lips. Seeking and finding solace, in their connection. In their shared sorrow. Their shared loss. For an endless moment. For all time. They clung together. Two beings, mortal and Immortal, floating in the star filled night. Still silent. Still connected. He felt her nod, her head resting against his chest now. Nod twice. Slowly. Deliberately. And she relaxed, in his arms. The resistance, the denial, leaving her limbs, leaving her heart. "I will listen." Her voice was muffled, but the words, the meaning, were distinct. "Tell me. Tell me your plan to save my family." * * * * * The silent guard came for Duncan as he was finishing his meditations. He stood, stiffly, coming out of the zazen position, and waited to hear what the answer to his question would be. The man carried new clothing, and offered the neat stacked pile to the Immortal. He took it, and shook out the clothes, surmising from the elegant feel and formal cut of the fabric that a dress dinner was in the offing. He dressed rapidly, the guard standing mute and patient in the corner, and then followed the man out the door and far into the heart of the mansion, into rooms he had never passed, before. The style of the corridors changed, from larger, spacious hallways to smaller more cramped ones, where Duncan had to duck his head from time to time to avoid brushing against the roof. The details of the woodwork changed as well, with tiny carved demons and intricate winding stems of flowers and vines appearing where there had been simple unadorned wood, before. The age of this place showed. It was a warren, added on to in a sprawling expanse across the generations of the clan. Duncan could sense that intense dramas of death and life had been played out here. Blood had strained these corridors, siege fires and weapons of war had scarred these walls. Hints, remnants of the past, were there for the alert eye, for the informed mind. That shallow groove in the wooden paneling that paralleled his eyes, now smoothed and sanded almost away. It was the path of an arrow, or a spear, he suspected, that had gouged a splintering path along the wood. These blackened panels, the survivors saved from some fire set by enemies of the clan. And here, a long narrow slit in the wall, now backed with wood from a later era. Once, he believed, this wall had overlooked a yard, and archers had used the slit to send their arrows flying towards the throats of the attackers. The very corridors seemed peopled with ghosts. Whispering, fluttering, elegant silk noble and simple peasant cotton clad ghosts. He brushed his hand across his eyes, brushed away these images of the past, and brought his mind firmly back to the present. To the family of Shikoto who sat, waiting for him, as the guard slid aside the final rice paper door. This must be the heart of the clan's stronghold. The elaborately lacquered walls, the gold and red enamel that covered every inch of available surface in the room. Very old. Straight from the Chinese. Murami had never taken Duncan here, but it was obvious that this home was far older in some parts than even the compound and temple that had served as the refuge of the clan when Duncan had visited. The clan had many homes, it seemed, and they shifted their main abode depending on the mood of the times. Now, with no need to defend their very lives from flaming arrows and the shogun's swords, they had left the high walled compound for this place. Duncan bowed low, and sat on the floor pillow seat that Kenrei indicated for him, next to the low black lacquer table. His hosts were all dressed in ceremonial style, and Kenrei had even put up her hair in an elegant and elaborate coif, with enameled stickpins holding it in place. He faced her, her son Hideyoshi glowered at his left, and a small, elegant looking woman in her 30's, with a strained and unhappy expression on her face, frowned at him, on his right. Kenrei's face was the only one bearing a smile of welcome, and he smiled back at her, determined not to let the others dampen his mood. He might die tomorrow, might face mortal or Immortal peril, but he intended to enjoy himself, tonight. He had thought long and hard in the past few days about Raven, and the Dragons. He had considered just leaving, fighting his way out if necessary from the Shikoto clan's hideaway, afraid he was taking too long to track down the Dragon clan. But his rational self counseled patience. He could wander the streets of Kyoto for days, weeks, and find no trace of the Dragons unless they wanted him to. Their secretiveness was legendary. Their lairs changed so frequently, he might have walked right past their current headquarters and never known it. This was the best way. The only way. The Shikoto would deal fairly with him. They had promised him their help, and he expected them to deliver. So he reassured himself. "Duncan, please meet my daughter in law, O-Maki, the mother of my grandson." Kenrei made the introductions. As he had suspected. Tendo's mother. Hideyoshi's wife. They exchanged bows, O-Maki's frown never leaving her eyes, although she tried to wipe it from her lips in a grimace that aimed at becoming a smile. Duncan thought they made a fine pair, the sullen Hideyoshi and his unhappy spouse. He felt an impish urge to flirt with the woman, to make her laugh and forget whatever troubled her, to show up Hideyoshi before his face. Kenrei set the tone for the conversation, as she offered the steaming bowls around to her guests to eat. Light banter, inconsequential chit chat, gossip on the current issues of the day. Duncan would follow her lead, for now. Later, though, he expected to have a serious talk about her plans, and how they involved him. He put himself out to be especially charming, especially attentive to O-Maki. And it worked, while Kenrei looked on with a benign eye and Hideyoshi glared instead into his soup. The young woman smiled, really smiled, a few times, and even laughed, aloud, once, at one of Duncan's attempts at a punning epigram in which he mangled the language, and the pun. Then she looked across at Hideyoshi's impassive visage and literally wilted before his eyes, as if the man's stare had conjured up an evil shadow that moved across her shoulders and hovered there, blotting out all the light and liveliness from her countenance, and her life. It wasn't right. But it was her choice. Her life. Duncan could do no more than regret that the vital flare of humor and beauty that he detected in this woman were stamped out by the humorless, unhappy match she'd made. He essayed one last compliment, to try to win a final smile from her eyes. "Your son, Tendo, has all your good looks. And all your husband Hideyoshi's concentration. He's a determined youth..." He broke off, in consternation. O-Maki had suddenly folded up like a broken doll, sobbing loudly into her hands, and Hideyoshi was on his feet, rage suffusing his face, his mouth working silently but no sound coming out. Duncan sat, his mouth open, his mind running rapidly through the possibilities in the few words he'd spoken, his eyes alert and muscles ready to react instantly to defend himself against any attack from the man standing over him like a thunderstorm looking for a place to unload. "There, there, O-Maki." Kenrei's clear voice cut through the confusion, restoring a semblance of calm and order to the emotional chaos that had just been unleashed in the room. "Hideyoshi, please sit down. He didn't know. Doesn't know." Her voice strengthened, sharpened to a command. " It is no insult. Sit. Now." Hideyoshi stepped back from the table, but crossed his arms and remained obstinately standing. "I will not sit at table with this *creature* again." Duncan had him pegged now. A wannabe-Hunter. One of the "Immortals are evil and must be destroyed" crowd. It caused a pang of loss, to acknowledge that. He had come to these people with such high hopes. But at least Kenrei seemed reasonable. And *what* had he said to set all this off? He looked to her, his amazement plain on his face. "I apologize for any insult I may have given, but I do not understand what the problem is." She was patting O-Maki's shoulders now, as the woman's sobs quieted. "We have suffered a loss. A great loss. Very recently. O-Maki's husband. My eldest son." She looked up at him, from the still sobbing woman. "I did not think it necessary to share our grief with you. It was private. And too new for us to speak of without more pain. Yet now I see how you in all innocence have caused more pain, not knowing." Duncan's mouth snapped shut and his mind snapped into gear. An accident? Killed, by a rival organization, perhaps? Or by his too ambitious younger brother? He looked at Hideyoshi, still standing, arms crossed, his face closed, his eyes guarded and expressionless, showing no hint of what went on in his soul. At this point, Duncan would not put much faith in Hideyoshi's restraint. The man's ambition was clear. And his drive for power would not be denied, not by love, not by blood, not by the bonds of a child to its mother. Duncan suddenly feared for Kenrei, as he watched her son. "I grieve with you." He bowed low to Kenrei, then looked up. He must know. He must ask. Even if there was no answer, that would be an answer, of sorts. "How did he die, your son?" Kenrei closed her eyes for a moment. Duncan watched her . She looked old. Drained. Tired. The vitality and dynamism that electrified her form, that made him forget her age and fragile body, disappeared for a moment and suddenly she was an old woman with lines on her face. An old woman who had buried her eldest son. Duncan understood, and pitied her. =========================================================================