A note on hair color: It seems that the prevailing view in the fanfiction world is that Ranma has red hair in girl form. I have no real complaints with this view, as a general rule; the anime certainly uses this as a standard, and I'm fairly mellow about these things. However, I feel compelled to point out that in Monogatari (and in my other fics as well, though it's not always important) girl-type Ranma sports black hair. Why? Two reasons: (a) it's important for certain aspects of the story, and (b) that's the way I think it "really" is, per the manga. In my support, I offer the following quote from Takahashi-sama, from the Ranma Memorial Book: "Although in black-and-white, both (male and female Ranma) have black hair, when using color, I tried making the girl Ranma's hair pinkish, to make it easier to tell them apart." End of argument, as far as I'm concerned. So there. :P Ranma Monogatari a Ranma 1/2 fanfiction by Bridget E. Wilde Part 6 Branches whipped at Ranma's face as she ran through the twilit forest, dodging around tree trunks and over roots. The woods sloped down to her left, and she angled her path in that direction, thinking furiously that the valley meant civilization, and civilization meant hot water, and hot water was the only thing she needed right at this particular moment. She could hear Yoshikichi crashing through the undergrowth behind her, right on her trail. Just her luck that he had a sense of direction. Once she had changed back, she'd show him who's king of the forest. That ki attack had been a shock, all right. Cho-ga-dan - probably the "ga" was fang and the "dan," missile... She smiled grimly as she realized what the "cho" must mean - boar. That sweeping movement of the two arms _had_ been rather like the goring tusks of a wild boar. The blast had been unusual, though - even though balls of ki had flown from Yoshikichi's hands, the ki itself had not been what flung Ranma through the wall; there had been heat, and force, but not the familiar spicy tingling blast of ki coursing through blood and bone. So how did it work? Her loose outer robe caught on a bush, and she cursed as she ripped it away, leaving a shred of fabric behind as she stumbled onwards. This really sucked, and the worst part was that Ranma had, in a sense, brought it on himself by assuming too much. He had assumed he had been cured. He had assumed that Yoshikichi and Mokuito were easy marks. Hell, he'd assumed just about everything, and this was the result. Stuck as a girl, no hot water in sight, and a crazed poet with ki attacks hot on her heels. At least she'd managed to escape the Retired Emperor's pavilion before Yoshikichi had seen her. Somehow, she didn't think having her curse broadcast around the eleventh century was going to help - and in any case, she needed to regroup. The dim blue light brightened abruptly as Ranma burst out into a clearing of sorts, smashing headfirst into a dark wooden piling. Shaking her head painfully, she gazed up at the somber wooden building that almost seemed to grow out of the hillside on thick pilings. The building was square, the walls entirely composed of sliding doors of the same dark-hued wood as the pilings and the walkway that surrounded it on all four sides. A tile roof spread out over the walkway, curving up gracefully at the corners; from Ranma's vantage point on the ground, she could see the numerous carved ribs that supported it. Ranma thought dizzily. She leapt lightly up to the walkway and slipped around to the other side, farthest from the forest. As she skulked past one of the open doorways, she glanced in and saw a Buddhist priest, hands fumbling at prayer beads as he muttered prayers under his breath. On the other side of the hall was a steep staircase that followed the slope of the hill downwards; Ranma hurtled down these, ears straining for the sound of Yoshikichi's passage. As she reached the foot of the stairs, she heard his crashing progress halted by the hollow thunk of skull against wood. Not much time to waste; from here, she could either head up another set of stairs into near-blackness, or left along an open walkway, to a set of buildings that looked out on a verdant garden. The garden was tranquil in the dusk, the echoing grumble of frogs resounding off the wood. Buildings seemed like her best bet; at this point, the chance of locating hot water before Yoshikichi caught up seemed to be nil, so she needed to throw Yoshikichi off her trail some other way. She felt the glimmer of a plan rising up in her mind -- a brilliant plan, oh yes it was. Of course, she would need a poem, but she'd been getting faster at those, and now that the opportunity had arisen to use one strategically, she was struck by sudden inspiration... Tearing at the fastenings of her shredded outer robe, Ranma raced down the walkway to her left. ***** Yoshikichi rubbed his tender forehead as he stalked along the walkway, casting his gaze about for some sign of his enemy. The temple was quiet - not completely silent, of course, but the distant murmur of monks at prayer and the hushed sounds of night creatures imbued the temple with a sense of stillness that transcended silence. Yet Yoshikichi was far from soothed by the surroundings. Ranma was near, he could feel it. The coward. Running from their poetic discussion like that. He had traversed a steep flight of stairs and was following the walkway alongside the garden when he sensed a nearby presence... there! In the shadows behind that sliding door. He gathered himself for the attack, one hand reaching out to slide open the door, the other poised to strike... Yet a voice from within froze him in his tracks - a voice low, musical, and unmistakably female: "Is this then love's path, Entangled and confusing, So painful and dark? Departing the mountain's foot, How clearly I go astray!" (Torikaebaya) "What could bring such a fine gentleman to this place?" A woman - here in the temple? How unusual... and yet, Yoshikichi's interest was piqued, and he drew a bit closer, replying in a soft voice, "To the newcomer who ventures so deep within the Mountain of Love, How bewildering it is, How easy to lose one's way." (Kokin Waka Rokujo, book IV, #19) In the dimming light, he caught a glimpse of dark rustling robes, and was inflamed with curiosity. She was obviously smitten with him, and a sudden flare of interest took him by surprise. Had he ever had a woman extend overtures to him? He could not recall such an occasion, but now that it was happening, he felt his customary reticence fading away, replaced by a surprising passion. Emboldened by his newfound confidence, he slid open the door and slipped cautiously inside. The woman drew back a bit into the shadows, sleeve coming up to cover her mouth. She had to have taken vows of some sort, for her hair barely reached to her shoulders, and though her underrobes seemed to be of fine material, over them she wore the rough black robe of a nun. Yet she was young - far too young to have renounced the world, he thought. And her quivering, limpid eyes... the disarray of her hair, wavy and roughly combed... Surely she must be some child of the nobility, hidden away by a concerned parent? "Sir," she said in a high, sweet voice. "It is most improper for you to enter here." "And yet, it was you who called out to me," he countered, taking a step closer. "And your voice... it says to me that you but pretend." She retreated further, stiffly. "Oh, really, my lord? How is it that I pretend?" "Pretend to be so shy. I sense that you are indeed truly drawn to me, that you wished for me to enter here. Else you would not have uttered your poem." The girl muttered something that Yoshikichi barely caught. "Casanova? What does that mean?" he said, frowning. She laughed, a high, coy laugh. "Oh, my lord. It is but the name of a bodhisattva, one of the lesser-known deities. I was merely offering up a prayer of thanks that fate has brought you here... Wake no Yoshikichi." "You know my name?" "Ah, who has not heard of the great Yoshikichi, renowned for his skill at hunting pigs!" "That would be wild boars, the great beasts of the forests." "Oh..." she blushed charmingly. "I was so certain it was pigs, little squealing pigs. How foolish of me!" She sidled away from the wall. "Yet, I must ask again. What brings you to this, my lonely retreat?" "I come pursuing an honorless dog who has fled my poetic wrath. Have you perhaps seen him?" She replied in a strangled voice. "No... honorless dogs have passed this way." She paused, and resumed in a lighter voice, "Of course, there was that fine, elegant, manly nobleman who passed this way not too long ago..." "Did he have his hair knotted up ridiculously?" "Indeed, no, sir, though his hair was styled unusually. I thought it was quite striking." "Hmmm... Perhaps it was not, then, Middle Counsellor Ranma..." "Ranma! Yes, that was the name he gave. Such a tragic story as he told... It seems he was engaged in a literary debate when, through some mischance, his clothing became wet. Being a man of such sensitivity, such delicate sensibilities, naturally he could no longer show himself in public. When he passed by here, he was on his way home to repair his toilette..." "You spoke with him?" "Through the door only, of course. Though he is indeed an amazing specimen of manhood, all any woman could wish for, even so I felt myself held back by something. And now I know. I was waiting for you." She lowered her eyes adorably, a faint, pursed-lipped smile on her face. It was dizzying to hear such words coming from a woman. Overcome with emotion, Yoshikichi lunged forward to take her in his arms. Yet she seemed more slippery than the boars he wrestled, ducking aside from his advances with little effort. He lunged again. Stars exploded in his head, and he crumpled to the floor beneath the weight of a huge wooden mallet in the hands of his beloved. The shards of his hat fell around him. "Oh, dear," he heard her say. "Did that hurt?" He pushed himself groggily to his knees. "Only... only with the sweet agony of love..." he lied brokenly, resisting the crass urge to rub the lump that had formed on his head. Such a shy one she was. The maiden had seated herself a short distance away and was gazing at him sidelong, mouth twitching slightly. He must have offended her, he realized with chagrin. She was obviously no pampered beauty of the court, used to intrigues and seductions, but a sheltered innocent - what he had taken for blatant invitations were naught but the artless words of an innocent. And he... he had blundered in like a rutting boar! He felt his cheeks burning furiously, and he bowed before her, forehead touching the rough plank floor between his hands. "Forgive me," he said in a voice husky with penitence and shame. "I should not have behaved so boorishly, especially when I have intruded upon your solitude. I shall leave you to your devotions..." Yoshikichi sat up, eyes fixed on the hem of her nun's robe, and continued with determination. "Yet I cannot help but think it cruel that you be shut away from society like this. Perhaps I could speak with your father...?" With that, he turned his eyes up to her face hopefully. She met his gaze steadily for a moment, then averted her eyes to gaze forlornly at the door, biting her lip in grief. "Alas, my father is out of the Capitol on a... long journey." She hid her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. "Perhaps it is better that we part now, before our hearts are torn by a hopeless love..." Yoshikichi watched her in shame. Perhaps it would have been better if he had never entered the room, if he had continued to follow Ranma, for now he had made this woman - a child, really - utterly miserable, and in the meantime had lost his chance to pummel Ranma for his cowardice. His hands fisted by his side in reawakened anger. Ranma. This was all his fault. At that moment, he vowed deep within himself that he would make Ranma pay for this as well, for being the primal cause of this girl's despair. Oh yes, Ranma would pay next time he dared show his face... *** Ranma couldn't possibly show her face again - not until she managed to stop laughing. Her shoulders were shaking uncontrollably, and it was all she could do to keep from bursting out in loud guffaws. What a maroon! She had always been able to take Ryouga in with the lamest disguises, but this had to be the easiest ruse of her life! Now all she needed was to get the dork to take a hike, and she could get back to the house - she couldn't bring herself to call it home, though it was obviously that for Lord Ranma. Yoshikichi was obviously at a loss for words, and needed a little push before he would vamoose. Ranma sniffed loudly, forced a few tears from her eyes, and looked up. "Sir," she said as pathetically as she could, "My caretakers will be returning soon. They would be appalled to find you here..." She left the implied threat hanging - while she honestly couldn't think of anything the mumbling monks who lived here could do to this bulldozer, perhaps he could. Indeed, his eyes narrowed, and he took her hand fervently in his. "I shall return, and you shall be saved from this dark prison!" he vowed. His grip was crushing her hand, and with a great deal of effort, she managed to free herself, surreptitiously feeling for broken bones. "Oh, will you? Will you really?" she said coquettishly, batting her eyes. "My hero!" "Yes!" he went on. "And rest assured, I shall punish that vile Ranma for what he has done to you!" He leapt to his feet excitedly, hands balling into fists as he dashed for the door. Ranma frowned, opening her mouth to speak, but Yoshikichi was gone, leaving behind him only the rustling of the pines. *** Ranma found her way back to the house with little trouble; once she reached the valley floor, it was a simple matter to navigate the rooftops until she found a familiar garden. Well, there were not quite as many buildings as she was used to; she spent much of her time on the ground running between the sparse houses, but at least from the rooftops she could see far enough to find her way despite the darkness. Finding hot water was another matter entirely. She circled the sprawling building several times before catching the scent of food and following it to the kitchen. She had to watch the kitchen for several more minutes before an opportunity arose to fill a pot with boiling water, which she judiciously cut with water from the garden's pond until it was bearably hot. She poured it over herself with a sigh of relief. The thought of entering the house, of continuing the charade, suddenly exhausted him; he sank down on a boulder at the pond's edge, moodily gazing at the clear water. The surface rippled with moonlight; through the shifting ribbons of white he caught a glimpse of a carp, its orange sides reddish brown in the water's nighttime shadows. It was full dark now, the sky having completed its transformation as she traversed the rooftops of Kyoto; Ranma was amazed at how black it was with no streetlamps or neon signs, how huge and bright the moon was with no lesser lights to steal its thunder. It was no wonder the Heian dorks had written so many stupid moon poems, he thought absently. The light on the water was mesmerizing, and as if in a trance, he heard his own voice: "The light of the moon � does she watch it now as well, in a distant sk..." He cut off the sentence abruptly, nearly biting his tongue. What the hell was he saying? He was going crazy. The time-travel had been too much for him, that was it, and if he didn't get ahold of himself soon, next thing you know he'd be passing out flowers in whatever the Heian equivalent of the airport was. With a grunt of determination, he leaped off the rock, popping his neck. The moon was just the moon, after all. A big stupid rock in the sky. But as he stalked irritably towards the entrance to the house, he couldn't help but wonder if Akane was looking at the moon... somewhere. ***** Koremitsu paced anxiously in the entrance hall, his jovial round face creased with worry. Lord Ranma was late. On another night, he would not have worried so; his charge was not a predictable man, and would frequently spend his nights elsewhere. But Koremitsu had specifically requested that he be here tonight, to be by Lady Aoi's side - and, truth be told, he had been remaining in the Minister's household more and more of late, roaming less and less. Some of the other servants had begun to speculate on his increased attention, and Koremitsu had heard from acquaintances in other households that the lack of visitation was causing distress among his other women. No, Lord Ranma would not have abandoned his duty for a tryst tonight, of all nights. He was jarred from his speculations by the distinctive sound of the door opening. It had to be him! He sighed in relief, stepping forward. "Ah, Chuna...gon." He stared in pained disbelief at the tattered remains of Lord Ranma's contest robes, barely recognizable as the glittering raiment Koremitsu had so carefully, so lovingly arranged. His hat was gone, the carefully hand-embroidered sleeves of his robe practically shredded; what remained of the silk was puckered and discolored. Koremitsu bowed his head in a brief prayer to any kami that might be listening that someday, someday Lord Ranma would just settle down. Ranma grinned at him, apparently unconcerned for his bedraggled appearance. "Hey, Koremitsu. How's it hanging?" Koremitsu almost asked him how WHAT was hanging, but decided before the words left his mouth that he didn't really want to know. Besides, there was really no time to waste. He told Ranma as much, ushering him down the hallway towards the room chosen for the ceremony. He noticed with a fatalistic grimace that the Middle Counsellor smelled like pond water. "What's the hurry? Don't tell me, there's a flower-picking contest or something." Had Lord Ranma really forgotten in the heat of battle about tonight's plans? He must be joking, Koremitsu decided. Lord Ranma knew full well that the Iris Festival was not until later in the year. "The priests have been here since sunset for the exorcism," he said with a touch of impatience. "I believe that they may have already begun their ministrations." "Exorcism?" Ranma stopped in his tracks. Koremitsu's eyes narrowed as he regarded his face. Was that expression on his face one of concern? Concern for Aoi... or... "Yes, the exorcism," he said carefully, watching his Lord's face. "The priests have come fully prepared to cast out any spirits that do not belong in the bodies they inhabit." "Don't... belong?" Lord Ranma's face went through a gamut of emotions - from confusion, to elated relief, to thoughtfulness. Not fear, though; Koremitsu felt somewhat relieved himself at that particular lack. Surely a fox spirit would fear the pain of being ejected from its host. "For the Lady Aoi," Koremitsu reminded him. "To cure her affliction." That certainly provoked a response; Ranma's face hardened, and he strode forward with a speed more to Koremitsu's liking, leaving the servant to flutter along in his wake. ***** Casting out spirits that didn't belong. Ranma's mind kept turning that over and over as he strode down the hall. Did that mean he would be sent back to his own time? He hoped so, he was already sick and tired of living in a time with too much poetry and not enough fast food... but if he did get cast out and sent back to his own time, what would happen to Aoi? He doubted seriously that she would be left in peace simply because he was gone - unless the exorcism worked for her as well... But what if the spirit returned? And what if, instead of being sent home, he were simply... cast out. Out of this body, but not into his own. He tried to imagine being without a body, and failed miserably. If he were bodiless, how could he practice martial arts? It was unthinkable... But, of course, he still thought of it, as his feet pounded down the hallway towards the exorcism. He couldn't back down now, he thought grimly, his lips compressing into a thin line. He recalled what Koremitsu had said to him that morning: that his presence might mean the difference between success and failure for Aoi. He had vowed to himself that he would save her from the spirit, and he repeated it inwardly now, adding a small caveat to the end: Even at the cost of his own soul. They were approaching what must be the room; there were a number of people outside in various attitudes of concern. Ranma could hear the sound of chanting from within, sonorous and urgent. Against his will, his steps slowed, and finally stopped a short distance from the door. The gathered people grew silent as his feet remained still, watching him with various degrees of interest and concern. Ranma stared at the door, brow knotted. He would never admit it to another living soul, and didn't want to admit it to himself, but he couldn't deny it. He, Ranma Saotome, was afraid. What surprised him was that he wasn't afraid of being cast out into eternal formlessness, or even being... extinguished. He thought numbly that he should be afraid of those things, but they were not what stopped his feet in their tracks, froze him with trepidation. No, despite all his wishes and expectations, he was afraid that he would be sent home after all, and then Aoi would have nobody to protect her in the night, nobody to find out who was trying to kill her, nobody to sit by her side and argue with her and... He was distracted from his thoughts by a familiar sound, the sound of weeping - no, more like wailing - and the sensation of hands clutching at his legs. There, prostrate before him, was Soun Tendo - but no, he was the Minister of the Left, Aoi's father - tears running down his cheeks. "Ranma!" his father-in-law said between sobs. "You've come to take care of my little girl, haven't you?" Ranma grimaced. "Cut it out, already!" he said without thinking. Aoi's father was not to be dissuaded. "I knew you loved her," he sobbed. "I knew those other women could not hold you for long, that you would come back to my little girl!" His wails reached a crescendo again, and Ranma tried desperately to disentangle himself. "Leggo, Mr... um... just leggo!" Ranma sputtered. "Look, how'm I supposed to take care of her if you won't let me in the room?" That got the man's grip loosened enough that Ranma could tear himself away, and before he could be caught again, Ranma opened the door and slipped in, followed by Koremitsu. There were worse fates, after all. ***** The chamber was an inferno, hot and red, lit by a number of flaming braziers arranged haphazardly about the room. The largest of these held a flame that reached more than a foot towards the ceiling, casting grotesque, cavorting shadows on the walls. Kneeling before this flame was a black-clad priest, rivulets of sweat trickling down his bald head as he rocked back and forth, worn hands fingering a string of prayer beads. As Ranma watched, the priest reached into a weathered clay pot at his knees, scattering a handful of tiny black pellets like buckshot into the brazier. The room was filled with a bitter, acrid scent as a drift of black smoke dimmed the leaping flame for several seconds before it returned to its prior fury. "Poppy seeds," breathed Koremitsu. "They already burn poppy seeds to hasten the exorcism. The spirit must indeed be strong if it yet remains." There was a bamboo screen that shielded one corner from sight; the corner seemed unlit, though curls of fragrant smoke were visible at the top of the screen. Just before it, a number of young women - Ranma recognized them as some of Aoi's servants - seemed to be in various stages of hysterics; some moaned terribly, while others muttered under their breath, eyes darting frantically about. They were all clad in white, their garb shadowed frighteningly by the flames. Koremitsu stepped over to an acolyte who stood near the door watching. "How goes the ceremony?" he asked in a low voice. "Poorly," the acolyte murmured back, dabbing at his own sweating brow with the hem of his sleeve. Ranma leaned closer to hear him above the priest's chanting. "There were a few minor spirits that were cast out into the mediums with ease, but the most malignant of them clings to her yet. No sutras have had effect..." There was a hoarse cry from beyond the screen. Aoi's voice. Ranma didn't remember deciding to move, but there he was behind the screen, gazing down at Aoi's unconscious form. She was clad in the same white robes as the mediums, and Ranma noted in shock that her face was as pale as her robes, stark against her damp black hair. The flickering light from the braziers barely illuminated her, reflecting off the walls behind her in a maddening swirl of light; her personal incense burner was beside her pallet, glowing with the scent he now recognized as Lord Ranma's gift. Droplets of sweat lay like blisters on her face and throat; her hair was draped across the floor behind her, the strands edging her face tangled and wild from the humidity. Her hands clutched spasmodically at the coverlet, twisting it until the fabric seemed like to tear. As Ranma watched, she contorted in pain, her back arching off the pallet as her mouth stretched in a silent expression of agony. That was all the impetus he needed to fling himself down by her side, taking her hand in his. It was clammy. "I'm here, A... Aoi." Her eyes were tightly shut, tears coming out like water from a sponge, but she seemed to hear him; her body relaxed, and the horrible expression of pain lifted for a brief moment. There must be more he could do� His free hand stroked nervously at her damp, hot forehead, feeling the tiny muscles knotted in pain. From outside the screen, Ranma heard the hiss and sizzle of more poppy seeds being cast into the fire. Simultaneous with the sound, Aoi writhed again, her free arm flailing about. Ranma caught at it, clasping both her hands firmly between his. The smoke from the poppy seeds was wafting around the edges of the screen, making his eyes water with its heady bitterness "Aoi, it's me, Ranma," he said hoarsely, eyes searching her twisted face, so frighteningly unlike any expression he had ever seen on Akane. "Ran...ma?" she said in a voice barely above a whisper. There was a leap of adrenalin in him at the sound of her voice, pain-soaked and yet so very welcome just for its existence. "Yes, Ranma!" he said quickly. "Your... your husband." It was only a little lie, he told himself, bowing down over her hands and his. Nothing compared to what he had already perpetuated. "Ranma." Her voice was suddenly clear as a bell, and it made him shiver. Aoi's eyes flew open; her trembling stopped, and she looked about her with wide, staring eyes. "I must speak with Ranma." "I'm here," he said hesitantly. There was something... not quite right about her, about the way her eyes cast about the dark space. She was undoubtedly feverish. "Make them stop." Ranma didn't hesitate. "Hey! Out there!" he yelled unceremoniously. "Shut up for a minute, will ya? She's talking." The chanting stopped abruptly; Ranma could hear mutterings between the priest and his acolyte, but they were too low to understand, and he was much more concerned with the woman before him, who sighed in intense relief. "Thank you...Ranma. It hurts so." "Um, yeah." He supposed it would hurt to be tormented by a malicious spirit in such a way. He had a sudden vision of Aoi's head spinning around and around, and firmly cast it out. Aoi was feeling better now... wasn't she? Her eyes were still wide open, and her gaze wandered drunkenly around their solitary corner before coming to a halt, abruptly, on Ranma's face. "Ranma," she said again, sitting up halfway. She was leaning on her elbow, sweat-matted hair trailing across her face like jagged scars. The expression on that face... it was somehow familiar, but not on the face of Aoi. There was a hunger in those eyes, a desperation that he could never have imagined. "Ranma, help me..." Aoi lifted her face to his imploringly - but it wasn't Aoi looking out of those eyes, he realized, the shock sinking into his belly like a block of ice. Not Aoi. The other, the spirit. HER. He could see it, it was there in the vague wildness of her eyes; the way she moved, like a marionette; the low and halting intonation of her voice. Ranma stared into those blank and miserable eyes, barely able to breathe. "Help me," the spirit said again through Aoi's lips, with her voice. "I never wanted this, never wanted to come see you like this. But... it is true. A troubled soul will sometimes wander..." Aoi's head dipped low, nearly to the ground, and her voice recited slowly: "Bind it well, the hem of this, my tear-laden robe, that it bind within my grieving soul, wandering through the dark and empty skies..." (Genji, chapter 9) Ranma grasped Aoi's sleeves, gently bringing the face up to his. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice edged with fear and fury. "Why are you doing this to her?" Aoi's hand came up to touch his cheek, wonderingly. It was cold, like the white belly of a frog. "So worried..." the spirit said sadly. Aoi's body quivered abruptly, as if doused in freezing water; then the spirit gazed through her eyes with sudden fire. "You would not, I think, be so worried for me." She pushed herself away, shaking as if in a seizure. "Not for me, never for me..." Aoi's hands arched stiffly, became claws; the sharp nails came up to rake her face... Ranma snatched her wrists just before the fingernails dug into flesh. "Who are you?" he repeated harshly, glowing faintly with ki. "Tell me!" Aoi moaned in response, her head rocking back, her back arching so that her wide, staring eyes gazed at the ceiling. Her dry lips moved faintly, breath barely passing them. Ranma let go of her wrists, arms reaching out to support her; the muscles of her back were knotted fiercely under his hands, while her arms hung limply from her shoulders, hands trailing on the pallet as if forgotten. He leaned his ear close to those trembling lips, closer and closer, until he could make out what the spirit was repeating. "Help... me..." Aoi screamed - her own voice now, her own tortured eyes - and collapsed in his arms. ***** Ranma would have liked to get Aoi tucked into her own bed, but it didn't seem wise to move her after the shock to her system, so when he was certain she was sleeping peacefully, he finally left her behind the screen, one of her ladies sitting by her side. Koremitsu was waiting outside the screen, his face sagging with disappointment. "It was not a success," he said, almost apologetically. Ranma sighed and hunkered down to sit on his heels, running his fingers through his bangs. "Nope. She's gone, all right, but she'll be back." He felt drained by the experience, and somewhat guilty, for his predecessor's sake. It seemed obvious to him that this was the result of Lord Ranma's past infidelities, and that Aoi was the one paying for them. "She won't give up easily." "She?" "You couldn't hear her, then?" Ranma didn't really feel like talking about it, but at this point Koremitsu seemed like the only ally he had - and he would definitely need his help to do what he needed to. "She... she wanted to talk to me. I don't know who she was, but it seems she's someone alive. Someone alive, and very jealous." Koremitsu's face lit with sympathy. "One of your women." "Probably. Though I suppose it could be someone I've never even met..." It was beginning to feel strangely natural to discuss this past he had never lived as if it were his own... Ranma sighed heavily, resting his elbows on his thighs and staring emptily at the floor. He had felt he needed to stay, but he could sense that the battle to save Aoi would be an uphill one, and he was starting from scratch. Why was it that he was supposedly better able to deal with this than Aoi's husband, his other self? He had no knowledge of this place and time, no real knowledge of the people involved, except for his memories of their analogues in his own time. What they were like in this time, he had no way of knowing. Why him? He could feel Koremitsu watching him, waiting for him to speak. He needed a plan. He needed to find something to do that could possibly unearth Aoi's enemy, and he suspected he didn't have much time to waste. He may already have wasted too much... "Tomorrow," he said slowly, hands meeting between his splayed knees and clenching firmly. "Tomorrow, I'll have to start visiting them. One by one. And when I find her..." There his train of thought ended. Would he... kill her? Could he? Against his will, he recalled the look of utter misery that had shone from behind Aoi's eyes. The tortured pleas for help. But what if he had to kill her to make it stop? What if even killing her couldn't end it? "Lord Ranma?" Ranma looked up wearily. "What now?" "I must ask you... how did you feel during the exorcism?" How was he supposed to feel when his "wife" was being tortured by his "lover"? "Fine." "No... headaches? Pain? Burning sensation?" "Nope." "No feeling like you were torn apart, like you were being beaten with a brand of fire..." "Koremitsu, what on earth are you..." The image of Aoi, thrashing as the poppy seeds were cast into the fire, burst into his head. The spirit using Aoi's voice, making him stop the ceremony. *It hurts so.* "Koremitsu... were you trying to exorcise *me*?" Koremitsu's reddening face was all the answer he needed. Ranma smiled bitterly. Maybe the servant was more observant than he had thought. But in the end, they both had their answer. "Sorry, buddy. I guess I belong in this body after all." The servant didn't smile at that. If anything, he looked more concerned. Ranma could practically read his thoughts: If Lord Ranma wasn't possessed, then why was he acting so oddly? Somehow, Ranma didn't think he would figure out the truth. Meanwhile, he had urgent business to take care of. "Is there any food in this house? I'm starving!" ***** She awoke from the dream with a start, her heart beating wildly, like the swift feet of a rabbit in flight. She was sweating profusely, though the breeze that swept in from her open window was still chilly with early spring, and for several breaths her familiar room seemed cramped, smoky, filled with the stench of sickness and perspiration... Then with a gasp it became her room again, the rush of familiarity filling her with relief. Only a dream. She buried her face in trembling hands, the dampness of her cheeks and brow seeping into the crevices between her fingers. The sensation of heat would not leave her; she felt new beads of sweat breaking out on her neck, trickling down between her breasts, and she abruptly rose to her feet, tossing aside her bedclothes. She would bathe in the clear, cool water of her garden pool; that would banish the fever that gripped her. Her private rooms opened out onto the garden, its trees and bushes barely beginning to sprout leaves; it was a small matter to open the sliding door and step out into the coolness of the night. Her bare feet made no sound on the moss as she followed the worn path to the small, secretive pond that shyly hid among the tall bamboo. It was one of her few delights, this clear, rocky pool � fed by a tiny spring that bubbled down from the rocks in tiny waterfalls and rivulets, the foam of its passage pure and sparkling white in the moonlight. At its edge, she paused in exhilaration, letting her robes fall to the ground so that the moon shone on her nakedness. It was not a luxury she permitted herself often � but it was night, no servants likely to be about � and what if they were? she smiled to herself. They were all loyal to a fault, hers body and soul. They had to be. She stepped in quickly, knowing even before her toes touched the surface that it would be frigid � and it was, setting her teeth to chattering. She welcomed the water�s familiar iciness, leaned near the waterfall to splash her hot face, her neck, her breasts. She was all over gooseflesh, and she paused in her libations to gaze at the moon, which to her seemed a handful of snow in the sky. It had to be a dream, she assured herself, running her wet fingers across her stomach thoughtfully. It was odd that it was so intense, that it was nigh the same each night � but then perhaps not surprising, for it seemed each night as she lay down to sleep, she felt the same misery, and were not the dreams a response to that? The same every night... For some time it had been thus, until now she closed her eyes practically anticipating the dream that horrified her so. She would wander in darkness, calling out to him, to her love � until she would find herself in a bedchamber not her own, where a woman lay in slumber. As if in a trance, she would watch her hands roughly grasp the sleeping woman, shake her, strike her, consumed by fiery jealousy � unable to stop her hands from the terrible thing they did � until the woman cried out in agony... She would struggle against her own hands as they struck and abused the woman, until at last the dream ended, snapping her back to consciousness... Tonight had been different, though. Tonight there had been pain, tearing at her, tearing her apart as her hands did what they always did, what she suspected they must do. And � she gasped in sudden remembrance � HE had been there. Unexpected indeed... She shook her head sharply. A dream, no more. Indicative of her own troubled state of mind, certainly, but a dream. She inhaled the night air deeply... An acrid scent hit her nostrils, faint but distinctly present. She knew that scent, the faintly seductive charred fragrance. Poppy seeds, burning poppy seeds. But her pool was in the depths of her garden, far from any sign of man; there were no sounds in the night to accompany the scent. And there should have been; poppy seeds were only burned on one occasion, the thought of which made her stiffen with fear. Exorcisms, when spirits of all kinds were cast out from the bodies they had invaded. She had been present at a few, as had most members of court, and had been sick at the sight of the spirits that howled through the mediums, unable to release their earthly lives. There could be no exorcism going on here, no reason for the scent; yet it teased at her senses, refusing to leave. She turned slowly, trying to determine the source of the smell, but no matter which direction she faced the scent was the same. Not carried on the breeze, certainly not born from the garden itself... A movement of her hand wafted the scent ever stronger, and she looked down in horror. The scent, the fragrance of exorcism, came from herself. She sniffed at her hands, her elbows, her shoulders. All bore the scent, as if it had been rubbed into her with an exotic oil. Her hair swung across her face as she leaned over to check her knees, and the fragrance from the silken black locks nearly overpowered her. She felt sick from more than the scent. How could this be? Slowly at first, then with increasing vigor she began to splash herself with the spring water, scrubbing her thighs and arms and breasts with her palms, then as the scent refused to fade, with her fingernails, leaving stripes of white that quickly turned to red. She knelt in the pool, her knees slipping on the mossy rocks beneath the water as she rinsed her hair over and over again. And yet the smell of poppy seeds burning surrounded her, suffused her... She was freezing, her skin felt raw and she feared if she scrubbed any harder she would break the skin, tearing at herself until she was bleeding, until the water about her was red with her ministrations... She refused to go that far; she scrabbled at the edge of the pool, clutching at the bamboo to pull herself out, desperately gathering up her discarded silk robes - and yet as she gathered them to her breast, the fragrance again wafted up to her face, choking her, coming from her clothing as well... She sobbed in disbelief, casting the robes away, and fell to her knees by the side of the pool, shivering with a cold that was more than the water, more than the breeze. As she wept, naked and alone, she thought bitterly that now, now at last he truly had a reason to hate her. END PART 6 Author's Notes: Thanks to Krista Perry and, of course, my wonderful husband for prereading various scenes of this chapter and making sure I made sense most of the time. Those of you who are familiar with the Tale of Genji will find a great deal of it in this chapter - and probably have a good guess at the jealous woman's identity. All I can say is, you ain't seen nothin' yet! I did an outline not too long ago that detailed 22 chapters of Monogatari. However, since I have combined the outlined chapters 6 and 7 into this chapter, and expect that there's another pair I can condense as well, it will probably end up at 20 - a nice even number, right, Krista? Things seem to be moving along faster now that graduation and the wedding are both behind me, so expect the next chapter relatively soon (i.e. this year :)) The Iris Festival was, in fact, something of a flower-picking contest. _Awase_ contests, in which like objects were compared to find the "best", were very popular in Heian times. The poetry contest detailed in Chapter 5 was known as an _uta-awase_; there were also comparisons of seashells, fans, birds, anything you could possibly imagine. The Iris Festival was the date of one of the more unusual ones; the participants would pull up iris plants and compare the length of the roots. I am not making this up.