Date:         Tue, 23 Aug 1994 20:14:59 EDT
Reply-To:     Highlander TV show stories <HLFIC-L@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
Sender:       Highlander TV show stories <HLFIC-L@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
From:         "(Nancy Cleveland)" <NancySSCH@AOL.COM>
Subject:      Aloha Chapter 2 (p 79-84)

He was thirsty, and ravenously hungry, he found, after he stepped out from
the long, hot, steaming shower,  to smell frying eggs, bacon, toast. He
pulled on the soft terry robe Richie had left in the bathroom, and followed
his nose, his long damp hair curling loose down his back, one drop tickling
its way between his shoulder blades.

Richie was in the kitchen, slicing onions and mushrooms into an omlette,
stirring it into the sizzling iron skillet, and expertly folding it, sealing
in the moisture. He found himself hovering, his mouth watering, his stomach
rumbling. Two tall glasses of freshly sqeezed orange juice sat on the
counter. He finished the first in one long gulp, then eyed the second,
acquisitively.

"Go ahead, Mac, I can squeeze more." Richie smiled, proud to be showing off
his culinary skills. There seemed to be an element of challenge, as if the
student were teaching the teacher. <Was this boy in my charge? What did I
teach him? What connects us, what obligations, what past do we share? Maybe I
should just ask him, tell him I can't remember. It would be the easiest way.

<But what is his connection to Dawson? And what is Dawson, to me?>  It was
still too risky, too uncertain. Too early to trust, yet. He would wait, for a
while. Try to remember, himself. But time, time was pressing at him.
Something needed to be done, soon. <What? What?>

The boy put a plate in front of him. He stopped, smelled the delicate
combination of mushroom, onion, cheese, egg, bacon. Tasted it. "This is
really good, Richie." He wolfed the food, almost wishing he were't so hungry,
so he would have time to savor it more. Richie slid into the seat across from
him, and dug into his own meal. He watched the boy eat, and wondered how long
they had, here. How long, before those who followed, arrived. If they
followed.

"The bike....are you sure it can't be traced?"

Richie stopped chewing, looked at him and winked. "I...um...borrowed it for
the week, switched the numbers on the plate. Old trick from the old
neighborhood. Taped them. Nobody could track us from that, at least."

"And the house? How did you rent it?"

"Like usual. I took the money out of your account and paid cash. Used another
name, one of the extra I.D. I have." The boy looked at him, curious. "Why do
you ask, Mac? Are these guys really after you, or someone else? Do we need to
close up shop and change our names? Leave the country for  a while?"

"They're looking for someone else, I think. I just got in the way." He stood,
stretched, reveling in the feeling of well being, of perfect health that
glowed though every pore in his body. He felt great, physically. Mentally,
emotionally....time would tell. He tested his arm. Only a twinge of soreness,
nothing like the raw searing agony that had been there before.

The boy glanced away. He didn't seem surprised by the speeded up healing of
his arm. <So this was normal, for him. Perhaps for the boy, as well?

<Who were they? Were they the only ones, or were there more? Like me? Like
us?>  He felt a sudden surge of anxiety. <This was important. Very
important.> He struggled to bring the issue into focus, but could get no
more. Damn this elusive memory, damn these holes, these gaps that teased and
promised and delivered nothing but hints. Damn, damn, damn.

"I, ah, tossed your clothes, Mac. I hope you don't mind." The boy looked
embarassed, not meeting his eyes. "They were really messed up. I'm sorry I
pushed you about what happened, before. I won't ask about it, again." As he
watched, a blush crept along Rtichie's cheeks.  He felt his own flush for a
moment, as well. <Odd, how we can't talk about what really matters, about the
things that define us, shape us, make or break us, as people.>  He would
remember that white room forever. It was a part of him, now. But he would
never speak of it. Never.

"Your bag is upstairs. I put a few changes of clothes in it, before I left
New York. And I brought your spare sword." The boy had gotten up, clearing
the table, turning away to wash the dishes. <Not wanting to embarrass me
again, not wanting to shame me with his curiosity, his concern.>

"My sword?" The words slipped out, before he could stop them. <Why would I
need a  sword? And a *spare* sword?>

"Uh, yeah. Your...um....katana. You asked me to, right?" Richie turned back
to him, his soapy hands dripping over the floor, wiping them with a dish
towel.

"Where is it?" The sudden urge to hold this sword, this...katana. He stood,
eager. His fingers flexed, in anticipation. This was right. This was
something he needed. Something he must do.

"With your other stuff." Richie jerked his chin towards the hallway, upwards.
"Good thing you didn't run into any of *us* out there, huh?"

"Right." <What did he mean?> There was more to this comment. More to this
whole issue, than just the arrival of a sword. <Katana,> he mentally amended.
<It was a katana.> He strode out of the room, up the stairs, almost running.
<Why this urgency, this fear?> He identified the emotion, and wondered at it.
<Fear, to be without a sword?  Whatever for?>

The clothes were a relief. He dressed and felt like a new man, fresh, strong,
re-armoured, ready to take on the world again. There was even a spare clasp,
for his hair.

He'd lost his, he didn't know where, sometime in that mad struggle with pain,
in the white room. He pushed that memory aside. <Time to get on with life, to
go forward.> He wondered, idly, why he wore his hair so long. He'd seen no
one, in this crazy rushed day, with hair like his, only short cropped cuts,
in the men. Women, he'd seen women with long hair....was he some kind of
man/woman? He <felt> like a man....maybe it was  his nationality...he
remembered the language people spoke here had sounded strange,
different....different from what, he wondered.

He picked up the sheath, his eyes tracing the intricate knot work of the
golden ropes, admiring the glossy sheen of the highly polished black enamel
coating the wood, balanced its weight across his hands. It was light,
surprisingly light. He drew the katana, the blade sighing as it pulled free
from the embrace of its wooden home, its temporary resting place.

It felt good in his hand, good to move in the instinctive steps, the thrust
and parry that his body remembered, even if his mind did not. He let his
thoughts wander, and moved, trusting to instinct, glorying in the feel, the
control, the precision and expertise he could sense, could see, in himself.

Sense...

He turned. The boy was watching, standing in the doorway, his eyes somber,
his expression carefully neutral. He held a sword, too.  European style, with
a rounded guard.

"Care for some practice?"

<Am I his teacher in this? A fencing instructor? Evidently.>

"Certainly. Come in." He smiled, moved aside to let Richie enter. The room
was large, the maser bedroom of the house, but cluttered, furniture, rugs, a
book case, lamps, all would impede the practice session. He noted this,
almost instinctively again, and *watched* himself prepare to fight. He felt
again that some critical part of himself was missing, dormant or gone
forever, he didn't know. He was good, maybe an expert, but he could sense he
had been even better. Again, hovering just out of reach, the knowledge, the
skill and information he sought...

The boy stepped into the room, formally saluting him, then launched into a
strong, full out and aggressive attack. He had expected a few testing feints,
a chance to feel out each other's styles.  His blade came up, almost without
thought, and parried the blows, while his conscious mind gibbered in
surprise.  The boy was driving him back, across the throw rug, across the
room. He was defending himself, barely.

Richie pressed his attack, grabbed the standing lamp on the floor beside him
and threw it. <Damn, this is no practice session. This boy is out for blood.>
He ducked, off balance for a moment, and felt the boy's sword slip under his
guard, his block only deflecting it a bit, sparks flying as the two swords
grated together. He felt the sharp point slice through his side, scoring his
abdomen, slipping along the surface of a rib, then slide through, between the
protective cage of bone and cartilage, cutting deep into his gut.

He doubled over, as the boy twisted his blade, then wrenched it free, feeling
the cool sharp metal *inside,* then sliding out of him, a gush of blood
following it. <He's trying to kill me.> He could see triumph in Richie's
eyes, triumph, and something else. The boy lowered his sword, leaned towards
him.

All the pain he'd endured, all the bottled up rage and shame and
helplessness, all the fear and uncertainty he'd been fighting inside, in his
bitter, ugly memories of this day, rose up in one swelling tide of fury. He
reached deep into himself, focusing beyond the physical pain he now felt,
beyond the spreading weakness that was clawing its way up his chest , reached
inside and found the strength and will and directed flaming rage, and thrust
his katana, in one last spasmodic jerk, full into the boy's momentarily
unguarded chest. It went deep, and stuck. Through the heart, he thought.

Richie's eyes widened in surprise, his mouth dropping open as he lost control
of his body, his sword clattered to the floor, his bowels loosening, and he
collapsed, his eyes still open, still surprised.

<He's dead.

<I've just killed my only friend.

<The only person who helped me.

<Who knew who I am.

<But he tried to kill me first.

<What kind of a person am I?

<A monster.

<A murderer. >

He leaned back on the bed, still doubled over, feeling the slippery blood
soaking through his fingers, watching over the boy as the sheen of life faded
from his eyes, the rosy hue of his skin changed to the pallor of the grave.
He felt sick, not just with the pain of the hole tearing at his gut, but sick
in his heart, in his soul.

<Why did I do this?

<Why did he?>

He sat, hunched over, wondering if he was going to die, wondering how to deal
with the grief, wondering if he wouldn't be better off, dead, too.

He sat, staring at nothing, feeling his pain, his loss. Trying to understand
the reason for his existence. For Richie's behavior. His purpose, in life.
There were no answers he could find.

Time passed. An hour, maybe. The slow drip of his blood had stopped a while
ago. He felt light headed, but  the pain in his gut was lessening, the skin
knitting itself back together.

He explored his side, gingerly. Instead of the gaping hole, the ripped and
torn edges of flesh, he felt smooth tissue, new baby soft skin, pink, and
tender to the touch, but definitely there. No scar, no dead skin. Only the
blood that had seeped onto the bedding, stained his clothes and the floor,
remained to show the violence that had been done to his body.

He looked at the boy's corpse, lying in the floor. The chest was still. The
pale skin of its face had a bluish cast to it now, as the body's blood
drained to the lower part, pulled by gravity, the heart still, with no
circulatory pump to keep it distributed evenly throughout.

<I guess he's really dead. I guess *we* only heal...*I* only heal. > He felt
a wrenching sense of loss. He was truly alone now. He had hoped.....hoped
that somehow, the boy would not have died, or dying, would somehow...he
realized now how fantastic, how utterly mad his hope had been...that the boy
would somehow have come back, from the dead. <I am insane. I must be insane,
to have thought, to have believed that.>

He stood, his muscles stiff with the fatigue of holding the same position,
but otherwise, he was fine. Lightheaded, thirsty again, but fine. He reached
and pulled the sword from Richie's chest. It was stuck deep, and hard to
remove. It took both hands, and all his strength. He inadvertently carved a
larger hole, pulling and tugging, and the wound gaped in the boy's chest,
pale and bloodless, the spirit, the soul, the life long gone. <Why did he
challenge me? Why did we fight? What did we prove here, today? > Now he would
never know the answer to these questions, never know what the boy had hoped
to do, to win.

He laid the two swords on the bed, loathing for them, for himself, stirring
in his heart. "Swords don't kill,  people do." The phrase floated into his
mind, something he'd heard, seen, in his other life, before.

He went to the bathroom, to wash. He looked at himself in the mirror, at his
dark eyes, his pale skin, his smooth, unlined face. <I don't look like a
monster.> He peered at himself, trying to read his intent, his past, his
future, in his own eyes.  They stared back at him, dark, brooding,
unfathomable. <Who am I? What am I?> He could find no answer, there.

The shirt, the pants, were ruined. He tossed them in a heap on the floor, and
stepped into the shower again, opening his mouth and drinking deep from the
tepid water that splashed across his face, washing off the superficial blood,
but not touching the guilt, the stain on his soul.  <No matter how much I
scrub, his blood will always be on me. I will always carry his death, in my
heart.>

He turned off the tap, found a dry towel, wrapped himself in it and went
downstairs. He was avoiding the bedroom, avoiding confronting once again the
proof of his own violence, what he was starting to believe was his inner
evil, his murderous self. He sat at the kitchen table, his head in his hands,
reviewing everything that had happened, everything he could remember about
that day. Searching for some meaning, some pattern. Just a few hours earlier,
he had eaten here, shared a meal, with the boy.  Anticipated a future,
expected to learn, to uncover his past. Now, there was no future, no key to
the past. No boy. No Richie.

He had to do it. He didn't look forward to it, but he had to search the body.
Find some clue, some lead to his identity. He stood, and turned, aware of
that odd buzzing sensation that had been gradually growing, creeping into his
consciousness, again, as he did. He glanced across the room, and stopped,
frozen, shocked into immobility.

"Damn it, Mac, why the hell did you have to kill me?"

Richie stood, leaning on the doorframe, bare chested, a circle of pink new
skin glowing where the gaping hole in his chest had been. Hehad the two
swords tucked under his arm, casually wrapped in the shreds of his shirt, the
hilts in front,  points behind. The boy moved forward, an irritated look on
his face, started to add something, then checked his speech, staring in
surprise at the reaction he was provoking.

"You're alive."

He stepped towards the boy, grabbed his bare shoulders, feeling the solid
flesh, the firm muscle, the warmth of life radiating from his skin. Amazement
and joy mingled in his heart, played across his face, then the rush of
images, shared memories began again. This time, he didn't back away.

He stood, holding the boy, looking at his face, watching the puzzled
expression give way to understanding, to comprehension, and to compassion. He
stood, and let the boy know, let him see, let him feel,  that there was
nothing he had to share, no memories, no past, no knowledge, inside.

"Mac." Richie put the swords gently on the counter top, and clasped his hands
on the other man's forearms, deepening the connection, the sharing, between
them.
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