Chapter IV

A/N: Hey, all. Sorry for the long absence; I've had a busy summer so far. And, gosh, has it been one year since i'd updated this?!! Damn, I fail, especially since i've had the whole chapter mapped out in my head to begin with... Alright, so i'm bringing you the 4th installment of Revelations.

( Alittle side-note on the story's timeline: It's all been set so far sometime before World War II. Yeah, I know, it sounds wrong, but for some reason i can't seem to look at Heihachi and not imagine him to have lived through that period.)

Expect an update of An Alternate Life soon, like next week-soon.

Now i'm off to sleep(it's quite late), and from tomorrow, i'll start catching up on the fanfics i missed.

Kazuya sighed, his frustration mounting, as he continued to flip through the yellowed pages that were the gateway to his mother's secret little world. The shock that arrived with the revelation about his uncle had long since dissipated, and he was left with nothing but an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach and a sour taste in his mouth, for the journal entries that followed all seemed terribly anticlimactic in comparison: Pages upon pages recounting how young Kazumi had skipped dance school, or sneaked into some training dojo or Mahjong parlour( those feats appeared to be current favourites), and a recurring tendency to overdramatize events, and, very much like a pendulum, to oscillate from one extreme emotion to another, plagued her narrative.

It was extravagant, all that.

And it was childish.

And it was beginning to grate on his nerves.

But worst of all, it was revealing nothing about what his soul burned to know: The intiguing dynamics of his parents' relationship and the circumstances behind it.

One thing, however, was growing increasingly clear: His initial suspicion that Heihachi might have loathed his mother might very well be solidified into fact in an upcoming entry, and that thought saddened him a great deal.

For a moment he simply stared listlessly at the entry before him, sorely tempted to skip a few pages, but then its heading seemed to burst out of the pages to greet him, jarring his very soul:

Honmaru, Fall

A chill that was preternatural in nature ran down his spine at the mention of the estate, nestled deep in the mountains of Japan, that his father owned, an estate housing a temple of the same name, a temple where, he would bet the remains of his maimed soul, his beloved grandfather Jinpachi had met with foul play, at the hands of none other than his own son, almost a decade ago....

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Dear Diary

A great deal has happened since I last wrote, so much that I myself feel quite altered, even though it hasn't been more than... what? Three months? Now, I'm not at all in a generous writing mood, but it's important for me to outline to you what this life-changing expreience I'm going through is all about. Important to my current state of mind. Yes. And after all, who could ever provide me with a more willing audience than you could, dear diary?

Well, it all began around the time I stopped confiding in you, when a certain invitation was sent to Father. Apparently, Mishima Jinpachi-sama, the head of the wealthy and influential(but only in the Kanto region) clan, to whom we are very distantly related, wanted us to undertake a journey to join him and his family, for a stretch of time, at their remote estate in the mountains, and would we please accept the humble gifts that had been sent along?

'Humble' was a questionable term, diary. To dear Nee-nee they'd sent the finest coloured pigments; the best quality paints and oils, all too aware of his passions, it seemed. And to me, the most exquisitely crafted dollhouse, complete with a set of porcelain dolls. Even I, who has never shown interest in such rich, girlish trappings, could not help tracing my fingers along the smooth, lacquered wooden roof, or turning the dolls again and again in my hands. Oh, but it so mystified me, receiving such generous presents from someone I'd never met! (I wonder whether Nee-nee felt the same way....) And so I resolved to look upon the faces of our benefactors.

Well, I got my wish, didn't I, diary? When we arrived at the train depot, we were greeted by Mishima-sama himself. Now, a taller, more muscular man I have yet to see in my life; He towered over everyone in the vicinity! His face was prematurely lined, his hair and beard streaked with grey, but, oh, his eyes twinkled in such curious manner! And he was so amiable and talkative, as he gave his personal driver instructions to drive us this way and that, manoeuvring across treacherous stretches of wooded, mountainous paths, and boasted to us, with a quiet touch of pride, of his ancestral lands. And best of all, he did not once ignore me, as so many of Father's friends and acquaintances did, but sought to involve me in the conversation, asking what I thought of each piece of breathtaking scenery we passed. I liked him immensely!

With his permission, I rolled down my window and was instantly buffeted by the cool breeze. I inhaled lungfuls of the fresh, crisp air that carried the faint scent of herbs, as I watched the mountains- sentinels they seemed to me, impregnable fortresses- roll past us, locked at their waists in an eternal embrace with the teeming vegetation of the forests. I then turned to Mishima-sama and loudly prattled to him about Kyoto, how different it is, and how I love the infusion of old and new that make up its length and breadth- from the market streets bustling with activity, where school children run freely and the occasional animal canters, and how they reek of smoky woods, food and other wares; the Sakura trees that line the avenues in spring; the neat, low-ceilinged houses, a flimsy combination of wood and paper; the radios that sound their quiet chatter from inside them every single morning; the carts that young people pull along the streets, overflowing with statues, puppets, lanterns, kimonos , masks and all the trappings common to our festivals; the sleek, wondrous Western automobiles that drive up and down the richer areas, and the businessmen, decked out in crisp Western suits, as they walk hand-in-hand with the Geishas, milling in and out of elegant little teahouses. I was out of breath when I was done. Father looked faintly disapproving, Nee-nee amused, but I rather thought Mishima-sama was genuinely impressed.

It was mid-afternoon when we reached the Mishima estate. During the ride, Mishima-sama had remarked to us that the day had marked his only son's fifteenth birthday. The way he'd said it held some significance, as if he'd wanted me in particular to take note of it. And now, as I stood in the garden admiring the Mishimas' koi pond, a boy stepped out of the house( which seemed nothing more or less than a vast replica of the homes in Kyoto) to meet us, as if lured out by our very presence.

" Hei-chan!" Mishima-sama called genially. He turned to Father. " Kenji-kun, this is my son, Heihachi. Hei-chan, this is the esteemed Shirakawa-san, his son, Kazuki-san, and the delightful Kazumi-san."

I stared long and hard at this new arrival, gauging him. He took after his father, that was clear: Tall for his age and well-built. He wore a sombre, iron-grey kimono, and his dark hair was cropped short. Oh, but his eyes! Hawk-like in their intensity, fox-like in their cunning! They defined the rest of his face, those fierce eyes. I tore my own eyes from their pull long enough to observe the rest of him. He had a rather heavy jaw, and his mouth seemed to be perpetually poised downwards, caught somewhere between a frown and a grimace. Such striking features! Not handsome, the way Nee-nee was handsome, but fascinating all the same.

I watched as he bowed once, quite stiffly, to his father, and then again in our general direction. His calculating eyes swept over Father, lingered on Nee-nee, and passed me by with not the slightest bit of interest.

I must confess, diary ,that I felt quite offended. I did not like being ignored by individuals I deem interesting, and this Heihachi Mishima certainly seemed interesting!

But other guests seemed to be arriving, in honour of the occasion, and then Mishima-sama finally decided that it was time to unveil the 'special gift' he had procured for his son.

Out of the nearby stables came two servants, wrestling with the reins of a magnificent silver gelding. I think I struggled to keep my jaw from dropping to the floor-never had I seen something so exquisite given away as a birthday present. And I certainly struggled to hold my envy in check.

But I was also quite keen on registering Mishima Heihachi's reaction. I studied his face, and to my shock, there was nothing. No pleased smile. No words spoken in gratitude. Just a faint gleam of triumph in his eyes that told me that he had gotten what he wanted, and no more and no less. I continued to watch as he slowly walked to the restless animal, lightly stroked it, calming it, mounted it and set off at a slow trot. He then abruptly broke into a sprint, covering a distance of perhaps two hundred yards, before racing back towards us at break-neck speed. When the demonstration was over, he slowly dismounted, faced his father and nodded in acknowledgement of his gratitude. Then he handed the reins back to the servants and walked back into the house.

Stoic. Far too stoic.

Far too interesting, too, diary, you have to admit!

When all the other guests had arrived, we sat down for the evening meal in one of the spacious, tatami- lined rooms that seemed to litter the house. The sake cups were passed around, and that seemed to loosen people's tongues, and the topics of conversation kept shifting and changing faster than the sake was being drained- politics, the economy, philosophy, mainstream art- matters I didn't understand and didn't care to. I sat stiff and composed, between Father and Nee-nee. To keep from yawning was a chore. It all eventually went back to politics. The men gathered exchanged genuinely worried looks. There was talk of foreign dignitaries in Tokyo; talk of how the Americans were interfering too much in the Pacific, denying us rightful military expansion in that region. There were whispers of an impending war. All that intrigue meant nothing to me; what I wanted to know was what those ambassadors in Tokyo-and the Americans as well- looked like, how they dressed, talked, moved and what our islands in the Pacific looked like and such and such. To me that was infinitely more interesting. And Mishima-sama answered all my questions with an ever-ready indulgent smile.

But it was his son who shone.

Incredibly, the stoic one rose to claim centre stage( and it was not due to the sake!). No topic did he leave unexplored, as he argued back and forth on all fronts, and battled against all parties, his voice growing more and more impassioned. But would the militaristic rule in Japan hold out in the event of a long term war against America? Why, yes, it certainly would. But Japan has precious little in terms of resources for a war! Why did you think we went after the Pacific isles in the first place? But look at all those unnatural philosophies that permeate the modern world! We must look to Bushido for answers. His voice had a deep resonance to it, and it had me thinking of those reclusive monks who spend their lives chanting their prayers up in the mountains. His voice would have complimented their hymns beautifully!

I continued to listen in awe, and it finally hit me that no boy his age talked or acted that way-they all pulled pranks and played truants to school- that not even Nee-nee, himself far removed from the fickleness and worldliness that governed his peers, was a match to this; that I was sitting in the presence of a man- and that thought, diary, it was enough to send shivers of excitement down my spine! But something else filled me with confusion; how, whenever he'd fall silent and cease to be the centre of attention, he'd take to staring at his father, with a disdainful, albeit very subtle, look on his face.

Later that evening, when all conversation had been exhausted, the men decided to play a game or two of Mahjong. Several games started simultaneously, and at first, I watched and quietly rooted for Father and Nee-nee. But, oh, Nee-nee was no gambler, and Father was always down on the luck side! And only Nee-nee was aware of my exploits at the Mahjong parlours in Kyoto. And they were playing against the Mishima father and son!

I nudged Nee-nee, who had an expression of consternation on his face(apparently he thought he was losing), and he allowed me access to his tiles.

" Oh, Nee-nee, you baka!" I berated in spite of myself, " Why are you wasting such a good hand!?" Poor Nee-nee was so clueless, sometimes! As it was his turn, I carefully selected a tile to be discarded and picked another off the table. And, as my good luck would have it, my hand was now complete. I triumphantly revealed my tiles, thrusting them close to the younger Mishima.

" Haand!" I chirped. " Oh, kami, this was easier than playing three drunken Yakuza in a smoky Shimabara parlour!"

This statement was greeted by perfectly horrified silence, even from those engaged in games at the far end of the room. And for good reason. Sneaking into a Mahjong parlour and playing against gangsters was one thing, but doing it in Shimabara, Kyoto's red-light district, was another. It was a hideously unspeakable thing to say, for a girl of my class, never mind do. Oh, Kami, how could I have been so caught up in my moment of triumph that I let it slip? I flushed at the smouldering look of rage Father gave me, and at the disappointment etched clearly on Nee-nee's face.

I was jolted out of my self-loathing by the sound of laughter. Great peals of loud, metallic laughter, each sound running into the next.

Lo, and behold, Mishima Heihachi was laughing! Was it what I'd said? It had to be! But why? He hadn't struck me as the sort who'd laugh at vulgar things-quite from it.

He suddenly shook his head, whispered something to his father, then stood up and left the room, his broad frame still shaking with suppressed mirth.

That night, before bed, I had to put up with an earful from Father. Nee-nee interceded on my behalf, if only to prevent Father from waking up the entire house with his shouts-he felt that I'd deserved it.

The next morning I was up before anyone else Utterly dejected. I kept thinking of the magnificent silver gelding Mishima Heihachi had been given for his birthday, and for some reason I thought, that if only I could see it again, my spirits would be lifted. I quietly slipped out of the house and sneaked into the stables. To my shock, I wasn't alone.

Mishima Heihachi was at work saddling his horse. He smirked when he saw me.

" Well, well! I hardly know you, and you already seem to be coveting what is mine!" He indicated the horse.

I scowled at him." I wasn't coveting anything but peace and quiet!" I retorted.

He sneered at me with the impatience of one who is forced to listen to the lies of another. " And why am I even talking to you? You, a little girl with fanciful little notions and idiotic little whims. You, who are ignorant of even the simplest things in this world." He smirked at the hurt look on my face." Need I go on?"

I almost crumbled at the violence of his onslaught, but I quickly rallied myself against him. " Why are you being such a hypocrite, when you seemed to take a liking to what I said last night? Clearly you liked my brand of humour, otherwise you wouldn't have laughed like there was no tomorrow!"

The strength of my response startled him. His fierce eyes flashed momentarily. " I was simply taken aback. And I do not like it when that happens. I laugh to cover it up. That was all there is to it." He shrugged his massive shoulders.

I think I gaped at him. But at least he was being candid, diary. In a way, he reminded me of Nee-nee; Nee-nee who is always so straight and up-front....

He carefully mounted, then looked down at me. " I may be plenty of things, but I'm not unreasonable. I realise Father would have me play the perfect young host to appease you, but I can't, at this rate, do it, when I can't even stomach you. But you needn't change for me. Just hammer a little useful substance into your head. Then, perhaps, I can bear to take you riding with me, show you the lay of the land, take you hunting, even... But until then, I shan't ever exchange any words with you."

And he sped off, leaving me standing there with a tiny sliver of hope, a key to a gateway of possibility...

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There was more-in fact this entry went on for at least half a dozen more pages- but Kazuya simply slammed the journal shut and flung it away from him in disgust.

So there it was, laid bare before him: The circumstances behind his parents' meeting( he hadn't actually been expecting them to meet so early in life), his dear departed mother's intense fascination with his father, from the word Go, and Heihachi's attitude and mentality at that age, that so mirrored his own. Except for the laughter part. Kazuya never laughed. The old man was indeed prone to fits of laughter, as when that imbecile Lee Chaolan had performed that ridiculous dance to surprise him on his fortieth birthday, just to name one example.

He hugged his knees, battling wave after wave of disgust that sought to overwhelm him. Not even the mention of his beloved Jinpachi in a positive light could alleviate his pain. He reflected with great sadness that his mother must have viewed his father as a challenge to win, an obstacle to overcome, and that while doing so, she would be having all the fun in the world.

Except that this one challenge led to your downfall...

He sighed.

Why, Mother? Why?

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