He had not expected this. His son's memories, long covered by smoke and dust, damaged by fire, were awakening in the sanctity of the Temple grounds. He felt closer to his son than he had since they had found each other.

When they walked through the training area, his son had stopped suddenly to remember an uneven spot on the floor that had caused the students endless difficulties until it had been repaired. Stopping under the remains of a balcony to draw a half-remembered target; in a hallway to remember a difficult moment when he had exploded in anger; in the room of one of his friends, where he recalled a group of children trying to read Liaozhai Zhiyi without success.

His Master would likely be less than pleased that he had prioritized his son's memories rather than Shamballa, but... perhaps he would find this to be a good use of time. If the Ancient's visions of the book had included Peter, then surely it would be best for him to remember what he could..?

Perhaps, Kwai Chang Caine thought, he was simply indulging in his own selfish need to be remembered by his child. Could even the Ancient fault him for that?

When evening arrived, they retreated back to the main entrance hall. Peter was uneasy about spending the night in their old rooms, and, the priest supposed, it would have given him no great comfort, either.

When darkness fell, he invited his son to spar in the gloom. Hidden from any wayward travelers by Temple walls and the trees and flowers that had grown up around them, Kwai Chang and Peter joined each other in a battle whose stakes were nothing more than sore muscles and the odd bruise. It was strange, teaching at this level once again: his son was at turns brilliant and wasteful in his techniques; strong, powerful, his son had not learned to yield as the fight flowed from one man to another.

When he was defeated, Peter lay on the ground with a smile on his face, and Kwai Chang yearned for the years they had been apart.

They shared some granola that Kwai Chang had brought from home and some beans that Peter had bought in the store in town. As they ate their meager dinner, they spoke of nothing and of everything, all at once.

After dinner, Kwai Chang lit a candle he'd found, and they meditated together for some time— briefly from the priest's perspective, though Peter's fidgeting would indicate it was a much longer period of time than he was used to. He excused himself, and left for perhaps an hour before returning.

With a great but quiet joy, Kwai Chang watched over his son as Peter fell asleep.

Peter woke with a start, gasping for breath. The nightmare again. He shook his head, then turned to see if he'd woken his Pop— only to see the man staring at him from a full lotus. The whites of his eyes were bright and piercing in the darkness, almost as startling as the dream itself had been. "Don't you ever sleep, Pop?"

"Occasionally," replied his father in a calm, even voice.

Peter stared at him, brow lowering. "Is that a joke? Are you joking?" His father said nothing, but one side of his mouth quirked up for a fraction of a second, lit by the same preternatural light as his eyes. Peter shook his head and let out a small laugh.

"You... were dreaming. Of the last days of the Temple?"

Peter shook his head. "No. Of the Dragons." He couldn't help but laugh at his own words, at how his father's head tilted. "Did you know, Pop, that leaders of the Triad are known as Dragons?"

"Yes."

Peter breathed in deeply and leaned forward, trying to get the images out of his head. Bloody hands, bloody knives, blood mixed in with the water he tried to drink and the air he tried to breathe... The Triad had always been about violence. It hadn't mattered to him once, but now, it seemed to be all that mattered. He needed to find his center, like Lo Si had taught him.

"You dreamed of Tan."

Peter shrugged; how his father saw him in the darkness, he did not know, but that he did Peter could not question.

"You dream of him often?"

"No. Must be something about this place." He took another deep breath.

"Will you share your dream with me?"

Peter looked at his father in surprise, but shook his head. "I don't think so." He wasn't quite sure why. Maybe it was that he didn't trust his father, and wouldn't that be a horrible thing to have to admit to the man. All he knew was that he wasn't ready to share the most intimate details of his own psyche with a man who could take off at any time, leaving him alone again... besides, talking about it would certainly bring the images back. "It's just a dream," he added, hoping that his father wouldn't press the issue.

Perhaps Pop picked up on the silent prayer; perhaps his father was looking for a way to distract him. He seemed to accept the answer, whatever the reason. "Then... would you share with me... a memory of Tan? A... happy moment from your time as... father and son."

Peter looked at his Pop. "You want to hear something like that?" These were his memories. He wasn't sure he wanted to share them— his father hated Tan. If sharing them drove his father away, he wasn't sure he'd ever forgive himself. "Shouldn't I... shouldn't I forget them? Won't they make you feel bad?"

"You are my son. How can your joys not be my own?"

Peter blinked in the darkness, then shrugged. If that was how his father felt, then... why shouldn't he tell his father a story or two? "I guess... New Year's, 1983. February, I mean, not... well, we were in Hong Kong at the time..."

Sharing happy memories in the darkness. Pop's steady breathing acting as quiet comfort against the blood and pain. Peter spoke until his eyes grew heavy and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next morning, they continued their search, Peter for memories, and Kwai Chang Caine for the book that the Ancient needed. He allowed himself a few more hours of helping his son.

The classroom where he and others had taught the basics of both American and Chinese history had brought a laughing tale of attempting to write Chinese characters backwards to keep the meaning secret from the childrens' parents and teachers.

The kitchen held a quiet tale of a cat that had snuck in and stolen the cupcakes that Master Ping Hai had received as an offering. The children had tried to remake them, and succeeded only in causing a mess; Kwai Chang remembered how a crestfallen Peter had come to him that day, his friends trailing behind him, to report their failure. Even a storage closet had held a confused memory of Ping Hai giving him a charm on his birthday. Each memory seemed to lighten Peter's steps.

Until they reached the Library.

His son stopped short as they reached the threshhold of the room, the disturbance radiating out from him in waves that anyone with the least bit of sensitivity would have easily discerned. "I've been here," he said.

"Yes," said Kwai Chang, waiting for his son to explain his memory. Why he would have a bad memory in this place—

"No, Pop, I mean... I... Last night, with the Dragons... I was here."

"With Tan?"

"And Uncle Li."

Kwai Chang frowned and looked at his son pensively. His son had asked him not to delve into his dream, but surely he could not avoid this conversation.

Peter frowned, ran a hand along the ruined bookshelves. "I was in here. Maybe I was a kid... there were other boys with me—" He paused, then walked to the center of the room. "I remember that. That's a memory. We came in here, all of us, looking for books, looking for forbidden books." He laughed, self-consciously. "I was looking for books about dragons. They were older... they thought they could find dirty magazines."

"Ah. You would not have found any in here."

"I know that!" He turned, looked around the room as if with new eyes. "I knew it then, but... I didn't want to disappoint my friends, and this place was forbidden... You know, Pop, forbidding things to a child is really an invitation."

"Is that why you call me Pop instead of Father?"

Peter rolled his eyes in response, then walked around a bit, avoiding the damaged places on the floor. "There were books and scrolls everywhere back then. And this one book, one of the other boys opened it. And I said— this is Shamballa— and they asked how I knew, and I... I didn't know." He put a hand out in front of him. "It was right here. And then someone came in, and we all hid, but I was peeking and... well, I'm not sure what happened. It's like I can see it, Dad, only it doesn't make sense. He was there, and then he wasn't."

Kwai Chang nodded, watching his son in surprise. How had the young man known why they were here? He had not mentioned Shamballa. And this... disappearing story...? What exactly had the Ancient sent him to retrieve? And how did Peter's Dragons fit into it? "Is this when Tan and Li Sung appeared in your dream?"

"No, that wasn't the dream, that was real. I mean, it was a dream, but it was also..." Peter frowned and shook his head in confusion. "I d-don't know how to describe it. In-in my memory, Master Dao came in and threw us all out. And-and in my dream, w-we were searching for the magazines, and then they were both there. The other boys were gone, and the two of them were just there, yelling at me to find it. Find what, I asked, but... it didn't make sense." Peter picked up the remains of a cabinet door, stared at it for a moment, then threw it aside. "They're not part of the memory. It's not Master Dao as he was then. He was as old as he was when you— when he died."

Kwai Chang took in a deep breath and let it out again. "When I killed him."

"Yeah. When you killed him." Peter looked at the wall for a moment, anger building in the air, then struck out with his fists, dissipating it with a choking cloud of dust from the concrete wall.

They needed to talk about that. Perhaps now would be a good time. "Peter—"

As if anticipating his question, Peter quickly spoke, turning the conversation away from his anger. "Why do you think I'd dream something like that, Pop?"

"I do not know." He frowned and took his son's hands in his own, rubbing bruised knuckles with his thumbs. "Last night, you were disturbed. Was Tan's death the reason?"

Peter pulled his hands away and stared at them. "No," he said quietly. "I told them I couldn't give them what they wanted, and Tan... he yelled at me. I can't remember what he said, but it was bad. He put some white book in my hands, and I realized my hands were covered in blood." His eyes dimmed suddenly, and it felt like the light left the room as Peter continued. "I was getting blood all over it, so I threw it back at him, and he looked at me, just like that night." Peter's eyes closed tightly. "Like he was going to kill me.

"He came at me, and I pushed him away, except that somehow I had a butterfly knife in my hand. His blood ran down the blade, and he gave me the book again. It was red with blood. I turned around. I wanted to run, but—" Peter's voice dropped to a whisper. "They were... all the people I've killed... all the people I watched die... I was standing in a river of blood. I looked down and I was covered in it." Peter swallowed heavily. "Dragons on one side, the dead on the other..."

Kwai Chang looked at his son with sorrow. This dream of his son's was ferocious in its plain and terrible imagery. His son should never have been a killer, his essence had always been too gentle for murder, and now, he paid the heavy price for following a father's will. And to his own great shame: the priest did not know how to comfort his own son!

He took his son's hands again; this time, the younger Caine did not pull away, but leaned his head against his father's shoulder. They stood in silence, and after some moments, Kwai Chang was surprised to feel tears through his rough linen shirt. "Dad... can I ever make amends for everything I've done?"

Kwai Chang took a deep breath and lay a hand on his son's back as he considered his words carefully. "There is a path," said the priest, slowly and deliberately. "One that is yours alone. It winds through the battlefield of your life, past the dead and the dragons. You direct the path, and you are led by it. Where it takes you, how many dragons you must fight, which people's paths will cross your own, neither of us can say. But if you wish, and while I am able, I will help you to walk it."

They stood there together in silence for a few minutes, before Peter shook himself and pulled away. "I was expecting memories of the Temple," he said, a little shake in his voice. "Well, hoping for them, I guess. But I didn't think any of them would hit me this hard. I remember you telling me that life was sacred, whether it was a mouse or a tiger or a man. I remember I believed what you said. I was so sure of it. And then I grew up."

Kwai Chang nodded. "All boys become men—"

"Pop, I killed people! Don't you get it? I went against everything you ever taught me, and you're going to give me platitudes—" The frustration and anger was clear in Peter's face as he cut himself off. He pushed Kwai Chang's hand away as the older man reached out. "I'm just going to go think by myself for a while."

Kwai Chang bowed his head. "Where will you go?"

Peter frowned for a moment, dredging through the morass of memories. "I think... there was a place I used to go when I wanted to think. I'm going to see if I can find it."

"I could bring you there—"

"No." Peter put his hands up defensively, then took a deep breath and lowered them again. Kwai Chang ached at the thought that his son felt the need to defend himself from his father, but there was little he could do. "No. I need to do this myself," said Peter.

Kwai Chang bowed and watched his son leave. Ah, Master, he thought to himself in the privacy of his own head, the damage you caused... He would, of course, never voice such thoughts to either Peter or the Ancient. The Ancient already knew, and for Peter, it would cause only resentment.

And his son was correct, no matter how it pained him to admit his own shortcomings. Kwai Chang Caine had not killed in the same way that Peter had; he had never had to make the sorts of choices that he could only imagine his son had needed to make while he was a criminal with a gangster for a father.

Kwai Chang Caine felt little regret for killing Tan. His true regret was in harming his son. And but for Tan, he had not killed another man intentionally. One man's death would not compare to the regret his son felt. His father's time as a medic in the war seemed equally unhelpful. But his grandfather... perhaps there was some wisdom in that man's words that would apply to Peter. What, he wondered, would Master Po's words of advice to his student have been after killing the Emperor's nephew?

He shook himself suddenly. These thoughts wouldn't help in his current task. Allowing himself to be distracted by Peter when the younger man wasn't even there would help no one. Peter's absence was permission to focus on the mission at hand.

He began searching the damaged room, looking through the remains of books and drawers, in the burned cabinets and under the overturned blocks of concrete. The book had to be here somewhere.

But it was not.

The rest of the day was spent exploring rooms that indeed held memories that clutched at his own heart, but had been stripped of physical items. Defeated, he left to find his son.

It was... overwhelming to suddenly have clear memories of things that you had repressed for over half of your life. It was one thing to know he'd grown up in a Temple. The things he must have done, must have said— the vague memories that had always been there, but never quite real; flashes of images, brutally repressed.

But Peter Caine had a very good memory, and now that he was allowing those memories to return, now that they were getting triggered by the time at the Temple? The befores and afters of his life were disconcerting and powerful.

He could remember sitting with his father— with Kwai Chang Caine.

"This garden... it is a world unto itself. Its own universe. And as such, it is in flux, constantly changing. It is important to notice these changes," said the priest. Peter's eyes went over the flowers and the water, taking in all the details. "Close your eyes. Remember it as it was." Birds chirped, and Peter watched over the garden using inner eyes that saw everything and nothing. "Now open your eyes. See it as it is."

See the world as it is. Peter had seen the world as it is, filled with evil and death. What he had seen then was only the surface.

Peter's eyes opened. "Is it the orchid? Is it missing a petal?"

His father pulled the orchid petal from his mouth while the other students laughed along with the priest. "You're very good at this."

He'd had a very good memory back then. Later, at the orphanage, there were people who called it photographic, though he thought it was a bit more like video than photography. But Kwai Chang Caine had not been the only one to teach lessons. One father taught him to remember, and the other had taught him to forget.

"But you look exactly like him—" A brutal backhanded blow came past his defenses, knocking the young teenager off of his feet. Peter rose quickly, his eyes angry, his body wary of another attack.

"This arrogance will not be tolerated, Peter." Tan's eyes stared into his.

Tan wasn't much bigger than Peter, but he was far more experience with fighting meant to injure, and he obviously wasn't afraid to use his techniques against the boy. Peter didn't want to back away, but he didn't know how to fight such a superior enemy. Why had no one at the Temple taught him that? "I can't help remembering what I remember," he said sullenly. "And I'm not going to pretend that I don't recognize you."

Tan stared at him for a moment, then nodded, as if he'd made a decision of some sort. "It will be better if you don't remember any of it," he said, then left Peter alone for a while.

Later that evening, after dinner, he'd repeated the sentiment before locking Peter in his room. The memory became disjointed, but Peter knew he'd dreamed of smoke, fire, and a hail of bullets. He'd awoken, screaming, in Tan's arms. "Try to forget," said Tan quietly as he'd comforted the teenager.

It had happened the next night, and the next, and the next.

It wasn't long before Peter was begging to be told how to forget everything that had happened in the Temple. And Tan obliged, helping him to repress the memories, good or bad, so that they could not hurt him any more.

But of course, nothing was ever truly gone. Forgetting the past didn't make it disappear.

Smoke. Fire. Fear. For a very long time, his only memories of his father had been tainted by that fire and smoke. For a very long time, any thoughts of the Temple had been accompanied by fear. Those nightly terrors had not gone away until he'd finally managed to forget about his father and all the Masters. Even after, memories of the fire had come to him, unbidden, and he'd endured them with all the bravery and resolve he had.

Would they return now, even worse?

And then...? What if his other memories could be tainted in a different way? Everything that he remembered in the Temple seemed to be accompanied by flashes of things he had done later.

"This exercise is for those times when one doesn't have a knife..." A memory of escaping bonds that his father had tied around his hands as an exercise. "A rope can cut into the skin like glass..." A memory of his adoptive father showing him how to break a man who'd refused to pay his rent.

He threw a rock into the lake and watched the sun set slowly.

This place, at least, had come with no additional memories. Master Dao had not come here; he'd remained on the Temple grounds, a specter haunting the rooms with a Master's watchful eyes. Only Kwai Chang Caine had ever—

A footfall? "Pop, is that you?"

He turned, but instead of his father, a young teenager stood staring at him, blond hair shining in the golden light. "This is my mom's property," he said, voice breaking as he puffed out his chest. "You're not supposed to be here."

Peter considered his response for a fleeting moment, then smiled. "I guess I figured a Buddhist association owned it. My dad and I are visiting the Temple up on the hill; maybe we should have asked your mom's permission...?" The boy frowned, then looked up in the direction of the Temple. "I'm Peter Caine. I used to live there when I was about your age."

"Up there?" The boy bit his lip, then nodded. "I'm Sam. Sam Lowry." He stuck a hand out, and Peter stood to return the shake.

"That name's familiar... Right! Master Lowry! The Ancient said— That must be your father! I'm sure my dad would love to see him again."

Sam's face fell. "My dad died a few months back."

"Oh." Peter quieted. If anyone knew how hard it was to lose a parent, it was Peter Caine. "I'm sorry to hear that. It would have been nice to meet him again. So what are you doing out here?"

"Dad used to patrol the area, when he was feeling good. He said we needed to scare off anyone who went to vandalize the Temple. So I figured, I'm the man of the house now, I'd better do it." He shrugged, then looked at Peter. "Where's your flashlight? You'll never get back up to the old buildings before dark."

"I'm sure I can manage. The moon—"

"It's a new moon tonight, don't you know anything?" The kid shook his head, then squinted at Peter and sighed. "You'd better come back with me. Mom'll want to meet you."

The house was small and in some amount of disrepair, but the shotgun that was pointed at him as Peter arrived looked like it had been kept up well, and the woman behind it certainly looked like she knew how to shoot it.

"Sam! Get away from that man!"

"It's okay, mom, he used to live at the Temple. He came here with his dad."

The gun did not waver at her son's words, and if anything, the woman looked skeptical at the idea. Peter put his hands up. "I was a kid at the time," he said. "I don't remember a woman there, but if your husband told you anything about the Temple, he probably told you about my father: Kwai Chang Caine."

At least that name got a reaction. The gun didn't turn away, but it did lower slightly. "Kwai Chang Caine? He was a legend in Mike's eyes... he was the leader of the Shaolin up there," she said. "My husband said he died when the Temple was destroyed."

"That's what we were all led to believe." He couldn't help the momentary sound of bitterness in his voice, but he shook his head and put on his best smile. "I'm sorry we didn't say something earlier, I don't think either of us realized that you were here." The expression on her face wavered and Peter sighed. "Look, if you want us to leave, we'll go, but we're not here for any trouble. My dad's up there in the Temple right now, probably... communing with the Temple walls, if you'd like to go see him instead."

She lowered the gun and huffed. "I'm... sorry for the reception. It's just that there's a lot of people around here who... well, they're not pleased that I haven't torn it down."

Peter let out a breath of his own. "I kind of remember the people here. Bunch of bigots. And you're a single woman with a son, a mile out of town, didn't grow up here... people probably try to take advantage of that."

"We've had some trouble," she agreed simply. She looked up at the moonless sky. "You and Master Caine are staying at the Temple?" Peter nodded. "I suppose it wouldn't be right to send you back there tonight."

A very deliberate sounding footstep had the shotgun back up in a flash, but Peter looked over and grinned. "Pop!" He turned around and walked over to his father, clapping him on the arm. "Mrs Lowry, this is my father, Kwai Chang Caine."

She gave the priest a once over, then put the gun down with a sigh of relief. Peter wondered if she could see something trustworthy in his father's humble look, but thought it just as likely that she had relaxed instinctively by the sight of the tiger and dragon brands visible on his casually bared forearms. As a Shaolin priest, Lowry would have had them, too.

"Sam, go set the table for two more— you'll stay here tonight, won't you?"

His father bowed. "Thank you. My son and I were intending to eat trail mix tonight; a proper meal would be very much appreciated."

"My husband talked a great deal about you," said Mrs Lowry as she put the pot of water on the stove alongside the saucepot she already had on the burners. "He said that you were the life force from which the spirit of the Temple emanated."

"An opinion not shared by everyone," said Kwai Chang ruefully.

"Yes. Mike told me of the Temple's unfortunate end..." She paused for a moment, then looked at him directly. "Tell me about Mike?"

"He was... strong, wise, incisive."

"Yes. I... I think I would call him that. Also a man who prized the love of his family above almost all else." She turned and stirred the sauce for a moment. "He spoke often of you, but rarely of himself during his time back then, and... well, it's too painful now, but I know that one day, Sam is going to ask about him. About his youth, about his time up there. It's... it's why I've stayed here, even after... Well, I just want Sam to be able to see his roots." She shook her head.

"Yes," said Kwai Chang. He thought more of Peter than of Sam Lowry when he said, "it is good for a young man to know where he comes from."

She nodded, and the hard spaghetti went into the pot. "Maybe you can remember some incident that I can tell him about when that day comes. Something that happened in town?"

Caine thought for a moment. "He... was fond of an old priest."

"Old Ping Hai?" Caine nodded. "Mike talked of him often."

"They would often go to town together. Many times, they were accosted. Ping Hai would help him to keep his temper... He struggled with his emotions. A Shaolin priest is called upon to be..." Kwai Chang paused for a moment to search for the word. "Stoic?"

"I wouldn't accuse Mike of stoicism," she said. "He never said a cruel word to me or to our son, but... he was often angry. He said it helped him to write. If you aren't angry at the suffering in the world, you are not paying attention."

"He became a writer?"

"Well, that and other things. He sold a few books. Unfortunately, the residuals were never enough to cover all our bills." She shook her head. "Moving back here cut a lot of our expenses, but added others. I thought I would make the barn into a shrine, a place where people could come and pray, but... The property is in disrepair. If he'd been well... but then we found out about the cancer."

A shrine? Kwai Chang thought it would be a fitting tribute to Mike Lowry, to his time as Shaolin student. "My son and I will complete the repairs on your house and barn," he declared.

"Oh, but... I have no money," she said.

"That is not required."

"Oh?" She smiled in relief, stirring the pot of spaghetti, pulling out a thread to test the readiness. "You are a good man."

Kwai Chang shook his head. "A man. Not a good man, not a bad man, but both."

"Well, the only man Mike said he would trust with his life," she said in reply. "Tell me something, Master Caine: Why did Mike leave the Temple?"

"He lost his faith. He could not accept certain... underlying truths of the faith... and so he left. He was always welcome to return, of course, but... he had to deal with those emotions."

She looked at the priest skeptically. "So to deal with his emotions, he got married and raised a son?"

Kwai Chang smiled. "Not so strange. He loved deeply. It is... not precisely a flaw." He paused. "I also got married, and raised a son. He was, perhaps, the age of Sam when I lost him. I had lost my wife, years before, but losing my son was even more painful... Anger at the suffering in the world is... not ignoble."

"You found your son. He found you. My son will never find his father."

"I found him," replied Kwai Chang. "Changed."

"I think Mike would have said... we all change."

"Yes." Kwai Chang nodded. "But knowing the change and accepting the change can be... difficult." He smiled after a moment. "Mike would also have agreed with that."