Chapter Two

Pain. It was all he knew upon awakening. And he wanted nothing more than for it to go away.

Opening his eyes slowly, he squinted against the bright light as he tried to figure out where he was. The stark white walls surrounding him, and the multitude of blinking, softly blinking machines told him he was in a hospital.

He tried to sit up, but cried out as a sharp spike of pain lanced through his body. He slumped wearily against the pillows as the sound of running feet told him that his outcry had not gone unnoticed.

It was then that he noticed the soft bandages wrapped snugly around his abdomen and his head. There was a hard cast covering his arm from his palm to his wrist. An IV line, attached to a needle taped in his forearm, dripped fluids slowly into him.

'What happened to me?" he thought, blearily.

Then, shadows darkened the doorway, and he looked up to see Ping Hai and Kahn standing near his bead, an anxious nurse right behind them.

"Are you in pain, Peter?" Ping Hai asked, quietly, as the nurse bustled around, checking machines and taking his vitals.

"Everything hurts, Master," Peter admitted, honestly. "How-" his voice cracked, and, licking parched lips, he tried again. "How did I come to be injured?"

"You do not remember?" Kahn asked, shock evident in his voice.

"No," Peter said, slowly.

He watched as the nurse left the room, and then looked around closely, taking in everything he saw. Then, he noticed something important missing from the room. Something very important.

"Master," he asked Ping Hai, "where is my father? Why isn't he here?"

"Peter," Ping Hai asked slowly, carefully, "do you remember what happened last night?"

"Not really," Peter started to answer, when he was suddenly overcome with memories of the attack on the temple.

Of the angry lynch mob burning everything in their path. Of the bodies of the injured and dead littering the ground. Of Danny's eyes staring sightlessly up at him, a dark crimson stain spreading slowly across his chest.

Peter's stomach lurched, and Kahn barely got a nearby bedpan in place before he was violently ill. He hung weakly over the edge of the bed, his stomach expelling all its contents. When there was nothing left, he shook with the exertion of the dry heaves racking his body, tears running soundlessly down his cheeks. Kahn's gentle, firm hand on his back kept him grounded, allowed him to keep a tenuous hold on his turbulent emotions.

Finally, he stopped, sagging weakly against the pillows, completely exhausted. Kahn removed himself to empty the bedpan, leaving Peter alone with Ping Hai.

"You do remember," the old priest said, quietly.

"I do," Peter replied. "Master, why would they do that to us?"

"It is a hatred bred from fear," Ping Hai told him. "They fear what they do not understand, and so seek to destroy it."

"Where is Father?" Peter asked again, suddenly restless. "Master, why isn't he here?"

"Peter," Ping Hai said, softly, a terrible heaviness in his voice. "Peter, Kwai Chang Caine is gone."

"Gone?" Peter repeated, confused. "What do you mean he's gone?"

"He is dead," Ping Hai said simply, seeing no other way to soften the blow.

"No!" Peter screamed, lurching out of the bed, barely noticing when the IV was ripped from his arm.

"Peter," Kahn said, dashing across the room to catch the boy before he fell.

"No!" Peter cried, again, swinging his fists wildly to get Kahn to let him go. "Father's hurt; he needs me!"

"Peter, your father-" Kahn said, tears choking his voice.

"He's not dead!" Peter yelled, anguished. "He's not. He said he'd never leave me!"

Peter made another break for the door, but was stopped by Kahn's arms holding him back. Wildly, the boy struggled, but the monk never let him go. Finally, Peter stopped fighting and collapsed against Kahn, sobs racking his body.

"He said he'd never leave me," he whispered, over and over, as the tears fell.

"I know," Kahn said, wrapping his arms around Peter and holding him as he grieved.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX

A week later, Peter stood in the wreckage of his home, and mourned. He'd been released from the hospital the day before, but Ping Hai had forbidden him from going to the temple so soon after his release, and Peter had been too tired to argue.

Now, as he stood there, a part of him wished he'd never come at all. There was nothing left, after all. Nothing but ghosts, and demons, and dragons under the bed.

'Father, I'm over here!"

Shaking himself before he could get lost in the memories, Peter wandered aimlessly through the fallen stone walls. He stopped suddenly, when he reached the place where he'd fallen, and saw nearby, a splash of blood that had to have come from Danny when he tumbled from Peter's arms.

Dimly, Peter remembered how the little boy had kept bleeding long after life had left his body, and he wanted desperately to be sick, again. But he reined the impulse in and forced himself to stare at the ruins.

For a second, Peter half expected Danny to be lying there on the ground, his eyes open wide, accusing Peter of not protecting him. But he'd been buried like the rest of the dead had been buried. Like his father had been buried.

At the thought, tears welled up in his eyes, but he dashed them away, angrily.

'Stop it,' Peter told himself, sternly. 'Falling apart here does no one any good. It certainly won't bring him back.'

"Nothing will ever bring him back," he muttered, and was shocked at how loud his voice sounded in the chilling silence of the temple.

Continuing his solitary trek, he made his way to what had once been his father's quarters. Fallen stone covered everything, and Peter shifted it aside, ignoring the stabbing pain in his abdomen as the movements pulled at his stitches.

He'd been told, before his release, how close he'd really come to death. The bullet that had imbedded itself in his back, the doctor had said, would have killed him, had it been an inch higher. Instead, it nicked a lung, necessitating a long surgery to remove it and repair the damage. That, and his broken wrist, was the reason he'd been kept so long at the hospital.

The doctor who'd treated him had expressed concern over Peter leaving the hospital as soon as he did, but Ping Hai had been adamant. He'd been worried that Dao, who'd orchestrated the attack on the temple, would come after Peter, and the other survivors, if they stayed there any longer.

'And innocent people would be hurt in the process,' Peter thought, as he uncovered what he'd been searching for: his father's chest. 'No, Ping Hai was right to get all of us out of the hospital. No matter what those doctors think.'

Peter pulled the heavy chest out into the meager light, brushing dust off the lid with a gentle hand. The lock, anchored only by charred wood, snapped off easily in his hand, and he threw back the lid.

Inside were the few material possessions his father had treasured, and they were what Peter was after. The pictures were mostly ruined, but there were a few, of Peter, of his father, a single, precious one of his mother, that were salvageable, and Peter gathered them up carefully, putting them in his jacket pocket.

His father's ceremonial dagger was next, and Peter anxiously checked it to make sure it was undamaged. Then, at the very bottom of the chest, he found his great-grandfather's medallion, the heirloom that had survived over one hundred years in their family.

Very carefully, so as not to break the fragile chain, Peter unhooked the clasp, placing in around his own neck. As the metal touched his skin, he was surprised at how cool it felt.

'Like it was never touched by the flames,' he mused.

Then, he heard his name being called, and turned to see Ping Hai standing at the edge of the ruins, gesturing at him. Picking his way carefully across the broken stones, Peter joined the old Master.

"Peter," Ping Hai said, "it is becoming late. We need to be leaving."

"Can I see Father, first?" Peter blurted out, anxiously.

"Of course," Ping Hai said, softly.

He led the boy to the beginning of a path into the forest, where a stone marker had been erected. There was no name on the headstone, but there didn't need to be. This place, so completely calm when so close to such horror, could only be because of his father's spirit.

Peter reached out, hesitantly tracing the elegant characters carved into the stone, one of Kwai Chang Caine's favorite parables. Then, he sank to his knees in front of the stone, tears flowing freely down his face.

Dimly, he heard Ping Hai's voice, but he couldn't make out the old man's words. Eventually, Ping Hai moved a respectful distance away, leaving Peter alone with his thoughts and his grief.

"I miss you, Pop," Peter said, softly, when he was sure he wouldn't be overheard. "I know, I know, don't call you that," he added, a small, tearful smile gracing his face as his father's words came unbidden to his mind.

"It feels like something was just ripped out of me," he whispered. "It hurts so much."

A lump formed in his throat, choking him, and he cleared his throat a couple of times.

"Ping Hai's my guardian, now," he continued, when he could talk again. "Just like you arranged with that lawyer. Why did you do that? Did you know something was going to happen? Did you know you'd be leaving me-?"

He cut himself off, dashing angry tears from his eyes as he forced himself to calm down.

"I'm sorry, Pop, of course, you couldn't have known," he said, quietly. "How could you have? Anyway," he continued, stronger now, "Ping Hai has a brother in New York, and we're flying there tonight, to live with him and his daughter, Xiaoli. I guess I'm just too much for Ping Hai to handle on his own."

He laughed, softly, sadly, as he remembered his father's remarks that, as active as he was, it truly would take a village to raise him.

"I have to go now, Pop," he said, after a long moment. "Kahn's waiting to drive us to the airport."

Standing, he sucked in a sharp breath as his side ached, then turned away to join Ping Hai. Walking away, he whispered, "I love you, Father."

A/N: Please leave reviews. They're the only way I can tell if this story is worth it or not.