Requiem II: Soul's Honor Lost

Prologue

by Alisa Joaquin

Eight months had passed since Peter Caine's left Chinatown. His father had been keeping in contact with him at least once a week, but for some unknown reason, the communication stopped just after three months. Peter waited patiently, far more than he had in the past, assuming if his father truly needed him, he would get word to him. Still, when five more months passed, no word came from his father. Something had gone wrong. Peter could feel it deep in his soul. The father that he knew and loved was no longer the same man. Something had happened to him while he had been in France. Whatever it was, it had caused his father to go deep within himself, to shelter his soul from whatever haunted him. Peter was certain of this. His Shaolin instincts told him that his father needed him, needed him to bring him back across the brink from where he had gone. One question though was foremost in Peter's mind. How? How was it possible to corrupt a Shambhala Master as powerful as his father? And who had that capability?

Just eight months ago, Caine had undergone the final Shambhala Master ritual. Splitting himself in two, Caine did battle with his darker side. He nearly lost the battle. His chi had been depleted from the separation alone. If it had not been for his son, his newly-branded Shaolin son, the side that was of the light might very well had been destroyed. But the two halves came together and merged to allow Caine to become whole once more. Caine had said that he finally understood that side and could accept "him."

Still, something had gone wrong, and the dark was once again walking among the light. So, Peter traveled to France and sought out the eldest of the Caine line to learn what caused his father to regress.

Peter walked down the path to Matthew Caine's cottage and greeted him at the door. He could see that his grandfather was deeply troubled. What his grandfather had to say though, had not prepared Peter and he learned it was far worse than he imagined.

"Are you sure?" Peter questioned.

"Yes, your father is no longer in control of himself."

"Grandfather, how can, you be sure?"

"Can you not sense the change in him?" Matthew Caine instructed.

"I thought he was just protecting himself," Peter said.

"No," Matthew said quietly, his head bent down. Deep shame filled his eyes.

"Grandfather, you've got to tell me what's happened."

Matthew's head remained bent, his words a whisper. "Your father has become the being that he feared and fought against the most."

"Feared, my father's never been afraid of anything in his life."

"No, Peter. You are mistaken," Matthew stated. "Your father did fear. He feared himself, and now because he has embraced the dark part of himself, the dark will not let him go. At night, as your father slept, he would rise and wander the town. And when he would return, I saw that he had done something terrible, but when I questioned him, I could see that even though it was your father that stood there, the good man that was the Shambhala Master was not present. Your father would walk past me as if I was not even there. He would return to his sleeping pallet, and when morning would come, your father would awaken and not even remember that it had ever happened. His sleep would be so deep that I would undress him without his knowledge and had done so on several occasions."

"Why would you undress him?" Peter asked.

Matthew walked over to a bucket and pulled out what looked like a pile of rags. But when Peter examined it more closely, it was the remains of one of his father's old shirts. The shirt was covered in blood.

Peter swallowed a lump in his throat. Something told him that the blood clinging to the shirt was not his father's. "Where is my father now?"

Matthew gave a deep sigh. "I do not know."

"Had he seen this?"

Matthew once again hung his head. "Yes."

At that moment, a pain-filled image flashed in his head, just like the time he and Eagleton had been connected in some twisted way. He saw a knife being raised, the very knife that he had recovered from the temple. A hand held the knife high in the air. Then the person's pain-filled eyes came into view. He knew those eyes, all too well. Tears streamed down them in miniature rivers of flowing sorrow. Words formed on the stricken man's lips.

"I am sorry, my son. Forgive me."

Then the knife descended.

"NNNOOOO!"

Continues with Part 1