Waters Under Earth

A Ranma 1/2 Fanfic by Alan Harnum 
-harnums@thekeep.org
-harnums@hotmail.com (old/backup)

All Ranma characters are the property of Rumiko Takahashi, first
published by Shogakukan in Japan and brought over to North
America by Viz Communications.

Waters Under Earth at Transpacific Fanfiction:  
http://www.humbug.org.au/~wendigo/transp.html
http://users.ev1.net/~adina/shrines2/fanfics.html

Chapter 21 : The Truth of Power 

     "He's awake."
     
     "What?"
     
     "I said, he's awake."
     
     "Can I talk to him."

     "I suppose."
     
**********

     The last of the white flames died, and Ranma crumpled to the
stone floor of the Hall of Speaking before the great golden
phoenix statue like a broken doll.  His hundred-foot fall had 
been gentle and fluttering as a feather dropped from high, or a 
leaf spinning on the currents of air as it tumbles from the tree.

     Kima was at his side moments later, kneeling down beside
him, still half-disbelieving what had happened.  For a few short
seconds, as Ranma had hung suspended in the air after slaying
Helubor and the traitorous guards who'd been shooting down the
population of Phoenix Mountain as they fled, the shape of the
phoenix had blazed around him like a cloak of power, wings shaped
of white flame dozens of feet long.

     His still form looked gaunt, skin stretched tight over the
bone beneath.  His red shirt was caked with blood on his left
shoulder, where the bullets had gone through.  

     But his chest rose and fell slowly, and he lived.
     
     "Why do I have to keep on giving this back to you?  Just 
keep it, for once."

     She raised her head and looked up at Tarou, who grinned
wearily and offered her sword to her, handle first.  She accepted 
it without a word and sheathed it at her side, then turned her
attention back to Ranma.

     All around the Hall, she could hear the low hum of voices,
the sounds of children sobbing.  It was over now, Helubor slain,
Xande fled.  They were safe for now, at least.

     She wondered, though, how many of her people had fallen to 
the bullets before Ranma had killed those he held the guns.  

     "Hey, fem-boy," Tarou said, giving Ranma a light slap on the
side of the face.  "You going to lie there all day?"

     Ranma didn't make a sound.  Tarou snorted and slapped him on
the other side of the face.  "Get up, you wimp."

     "Stop that," Kima hissed.  "It's not helping."
     
     Tarou shrugged.  "Kinda fun, though."
     
     She glared at him and shook her head.  Carefully, she put
one taloned hand under Ranma's head and tilted it up slightly.
"Ranma?  Can you hear me?"

     He coughed, a savage sound.  Blood flecked his lips.  Kima
blanched and wiped it away with the back of one of her gauntlets,
leaving crimson trails across the white leather.

     "Ahh, geez," Tarou said, making a disgusted face from where
he knelt on the other side of Ranma.

     The young man coughed again, and again blood spotted his
lips.

     "You're paying my drycleaning bill, fem-boy," Tarou 
muttered, undoing his sash and wiping at Ranma's lips with it in
a surprisingly gentle motion.

     A long, low rattle sounded from Ranma's throat, and his eyes
opened.  He moaned softly.  

     "Ranma?" Kima asked again.  His eyes moved slightly, staring
at her, unfocused and blank.     

     "Ahh, it's you," he said, and grinned without humour.  "But
you died, didn't you?"

     He turned his head slightly where it rested in Kima's palm
and gazed at Tarou, his eyes going sad.  "And you as well.  But
you died too."

     He closed his eyes again, and his grin faded.  
     
     "We have all died so many times," he whispered, and his
voice was filled with an agony beyond imagining.  His body went
limp, and Kima let his head sink gently to the stone floor.
     
     "Kima!" someone called.  
     
     She looked up to see Samofere advancing across one of the
eight bridges that spanned the shallow moat of water that circled
the centre of the Hall, still in his guise as an old man.  
Following behind were Cologne and the Order of the Raven, eleven 
winged men in steel breastplates and clothing of grey and black 
and deep purple and carrying long spears.  Their leader, Loame,
walked in the front of them, a great hammer in his hands.  

     There was a pressing sense of anticipation, of waiting, and
she saw that every eye was turned to the scene beneath the
phoenix statue, her and Tarou kneeling on either side of Ranma
Saotome.

     That name had been whispered in the days following Saffron's
fall.  Saffron's slayer, he who had beaten the Phoenix King.  It
was a name whispered with fear, and with awe, and a name she had
hated to hear, as every mention of it brought back the memory of
her failure to protect Saffron's transformation.

     And now he had returned, and she had brought him here, and
he had saved them.  She knew that those were their thoughts, if
only because they were her own.  

     "Ranma?" she said again, putting fingers to his throat.  His
skin was cold, the pulse weak but steady.

     "Don't worry about him," Tarou said, rising to one knee and
looking down on Ranma with a snort.  "He's a tough idiot.  I'll
give him that."

     He rested his elbow on his knee, balling the sash he'd wiped
at Ranma's lips with in his fist, and smirked.  "I won't give him
much more than that, but I'll give him that."

     "Is he alright?" Cologne said sharply, kneeling down by
Ranma's head.  "Give me some room, you two."

     "No problem," Tarou said, languidly standing to his feet and
stepping back to gaze up at the thirty-foot high statue of the
phoenix, the wings outspread, light from torches and lamps 
rippling reflected through the metal body and feathers.  

     As Cologne began to check on Ranma, Kima stood as well and
walked over to where Samofere stood, his back to the rest of
them.  Loame was kneeling down to check on Lord Kavva, Koruma's
father, who had been wounded by the gunfire, and the rest of the
Order of the Raven stood near their leader, the two perches
bearing Shiso and Kioku resting on the floor, as the brother
ravens gazed out across the Hall, depthless dark eyes and blank,
blind white.

     All her people were still looking at the centre of the Hall.
They were waiting, she realized, for something to happen.  They
were confused and frightened and unsure, and they did not know
what to do.

     "Samofere," she said, laying a hand on his shoulder.  He
turned and looked at her, green eyes somehow both incredibly
youthful and impossible old gazing from his ancient face.  

     "Yes?" he said softly, his voice sounding impossibly weary.
     
     "They need something, Samofere," she said gently.  "They do
not understand what has happened, and they are terrified.  We
need something to unite them, or we will lose what we have fought
to maintain.  We cannot be divided; they are too few of us for
that."

     She closed her eyes, unable to face that gaze, the eyes that
seemed to know her, to understand all of her.  The eyes of
Saffron's brother.  "I'm sorry."

     "It's alright, child," he said gently, moving away and
causing her to drop her hand from his shoulder.  "You are right.
I was given my power for a reason, and with that great a power,
there comes a certain duty."

     He took another step forward, and raised his arms, the folds
of his plain brown robe spreading out.  His wings trembled, as if
he were moments from taking flight.

     Kima felt the power building around him, a tingling 
sensation in the air, a hum that set her hair on end, a thrumming
roll like the ocean lapping the beach, a gathering of something
ancient and awful and great.

     Samofere opened his mouth, and spoke.  His voice rang from
one end of the hall to another, commanding, powerful and deep.

     "My people," he said, and every head turned to him, every
eye.  "I stand before you now, and I speak.  I speak with the
speech of the winds, with the voices of the waters, with the
language of the earth and with the tongues of fire."

     The King's Words, Kima thought sickly.  The words reserved
only for Saffron, on those few times when he addressed the
mountain.  She heard the hush, the awful aching silence, grow
deeper, heavy like a weight.

     There was a sound like waves crashing against the shore, and
Kima watched, eyes widening, as the water in the moat began to
rise, rolling up upon the stone, swirling, currents of the sea,
currents of power.  Like a ring they came, surrounding them, the
ones who stood at the centre, encompassing the statue of the
phoenix and the forms of those who stood around it.  

     "I speak," Samofere intoned, and the silence took his words
greedily, starved for the sound, "with the power of the mountains
in me, and the power of the oceans in me."

     He was changing them, Kima realized.  Changing the King's
Words, keeping them recognizable, but subtly changing them.

     "I speak," he cried, and waters rose higher, head height,
held back from falling upon those they surrounded by his power,
"as the servant of the people, as the servant of the mountain."

     Lord, not servant, it was supposed to be.  Kima remembered
that, remembered the only time Saffron had spoken to the people
in the hall in her lifetime.  She had been eleven, standing with
her father, watching the king speak standing before the statue of 
the phoenix, the purity of light sheathing his body, the blaze of 
fire all around him.

     The waters began to rise into the air, tiny beads of 
moisture at first, but then more, waves, sheets of water falling
upwards, in defiance of their nature, white-capped, streaming.

     "I speak," Samofere called, and his voice echoed, resounded,
and the hush of the people in response was one of awe.  "I speak
to you, my people, and mark my words well."

     The waters were gathering over his head, flowing upwards,
into a shape. A winged shape, the head graceful and long-beaked,
the tail a twisting thing, the wingspan nearly a hundred feet.  A 
phoenix, a bird of fire shaped from the waters, impossibly 
beautiful, graceful beyond imagining.

     "I name myself," Samofere said.  "I am Xanovere of the
Phoenix Tribe, brother to Saffron, and I stand revealed to you
now after four thousand years of hiding."

     Overhead, the phoenix Samofere had shaped was shifting,
waters circling endlessly through the form, head turning to look
round the Hall.  Kima felt a tightness in her chest, a feeling of
joy, of such pride that it hurt to bear.

     There should have been cries, shouts, denials.  But there
was not; only the silence, the silence that magnified Samofere's
words, sent them crashing back upon him.  

     "Oh, Samofere," Kima whispered under her breath, barely able
to even speak.  The brother to her king, who had borne his long
duty, who had watched in sorrow at what his brother had become,
who had not been able to stop the long fall to isolation and the
slow dying of his people.

     "My brother and I were given a duty four thousand years
ago," Samofere said.  "Power was given to us, weapons shaped for
us.  Not that we might rule, but that we might serve.  Not that
we might sit and be content in our dominion, but that we might
strive to battle the darkness that threatened our people."

     The phoenix's tail flowed down from the air, washed across
Samofere.  Kima watched as he changed, as he stood tall, as his
hair turned from white to black; a near-twin to Saffron, dark
where his brother had been fair, a shadowed mirror.  Drops of 
water clung to his black-feathered wings, as he spread them up, 
matching his raised arms.

     "We forgot," he said, a whisper loud as thunder, sick with 
sorrow.  "We forgot and for a thousand years we fell, my brother 
and I, and you fell with us, my people.  And when I remembered, 
I found that he did not, could not, and I could do nothing but 
wait.  And for three thousand years we fell, oh, how far we 
fell.  I tried, but I did not perhaps try hard enough."

     And then, of all things, with the hearts and souls and minds
of every one of his people upon him, he knelt.  His wings folded
to his back like a cloak.

     "Forgive me," he said.  "Forgive my brother and I for what
we became.  My brother is dead, and his long duty is ended.  Mine
has only yet begun.  Ask of me what you will, my people.  My
power and my life are yours."

     The form of the phoenix unravelled in the air above him,
water spilling down to roll across the ground to the moat again,
leaving damp streaks across the stone floor.
     
     Samofere bowed his head, touched it to the stone floor.  He
said nothing, as if awaiting judgement for some sin.  

     Kima never knew who the first voice was.  But after that
voice, from somewhere in the rapt crowd, there came a single,
soft sound.

     "Our king."
     
     And the cry went up, and was taken up by many more, and it
spread through the hall like wildfire, until it seemed that every
voice spoke it.  Our king, our king, our king.

     In her heart, in the very essence of her soul, Kima felt a
sorrow rising for Samofere, so great that she could hardly stand.
Because she knew, knew, that this was the very last thing that he
had wanted.  

     He stood to his feet, his wings still folded upon his back,
looking broken and crippled as hers.  His arms fell slowly to his
sides.

     "Very well," he said softly, brokenly, and he looked as if 
he wanted to weep.  "If it be your will."

     And he crossed the floor, to where a golden and silver shape
glittered on the stone, abandoned in the battle by Helubor, the
Phoenix Crown, the crown that had been his brothers, hidden 
inside his form, the focus of Saffron's power.

     He knelt down and took it up in his hands, raised it up,
water droplets clinging to the metal.  His arms trembled; he
seemed unable to move.  

     And Kima realized, with an awful, aching pity, what she must
do.  She began to walk, lamed wings trailing behind her, and she
closed the distance between them and stood before him.

     She looked at him, at his weary young face and ancient,
agonized eyes.  She reached out and took the gleaming crown of
braided gold and silver from his unresisting hands.

     "Forgive me," she whispered softly, so only he could hear.
His green eyes flashed with pain, and, oh, mercifully, 
understanding. 

     She stared at the crowd in her hands, at the phoenix shaped
rising from the metal.  Their symbol; the symbol of her people,
her dying, isolated, threatened people.

     Then, gentle and slowly, she placed the crown upon his brow,
set it amidst his dark hair, and knelt before him.  

     "My king," she said, raising her voice, letting it resound
throughout the Hall of Speaking.  "I am yours."

     And her voice went up, and the people gathered it, and their
voices echoed those words.  We are yours, we are yours, we are
yours.

     Someday, someday, Kima prayed silently to any powers that
might be listening, let him truly be able to forgive me for this
thing that I have done to him.

**********

     "Do you mind stopping that?"
     
     "Hmm?"
     
     Tarou looked up at Kima from where he sat in the chair.  The
tapping of his fingers on one of the carved wooden arms ceased
momentarily, then began again as he stared up at the ceiling,
looking very, very bored.

     "The tapping," Kima said, leaning forward a little in her
own seat.  "And take your feet off the table."

     "Yes, your majesty," Tarou said in an edgy voice, swinging
his feet off the wooden table between them and placing them on
the floor.  

     It had been perhaps an hour now since they'd left the Hall.
Samofere was meeting with the heads of the noble families, and
all that they could do now was wait.

     They'd put Ranma in the old room she'd had as a child, of
all places.  Cologne was in there with him now, in one of the
chambers that adjoined the central room of Kima's quarters in the
mountain; she had told the two of them quite firmly to stay out.

     Half of the Order of the Raven was standing guard outside
the doors.  Samofere had judged it best that the rest of them
wait until he had finished meeting with the nobles.  

     That had included Tarou, who, after much complaining, had
finally been persuaded to go peacefully.  There had been almost
total silence between them, neither having any great desire for
conversation.

     Tarou began tapping his fingers again.
     
     "Are you _trying_ to annoy me?" Kima hissed.
     
     Tarou smirked and nodded.
     
     Kima slumped down into her chair with a heavy sigh.  "I
should have guessed."

     "Look, I'm bored," Tarou said diplomatically.  "If I don't
do something, I'll get even more bored.  I don't like being
bored.  I tend to do things to end my boredom."

     "Don't threaten me, human," she said wearily.  "I'm not in
the mood."

     "Well, pardon me, your majesty."
     
     Kima glared at him.  "Stop calling me that, human."
     
     "Well, what else should I call you?"
     
     "I have a name."
     
     "So do I."
     
     An opening.  "Yes, I believe Ranma mentioned it a few times.
Isn't it Pan-"

     Tarou held up a finger, leaning forward slightly in his 
seat.  The smirk had left his face, as had any trace of 
amusement.  "Don't."

     "Tarou, then," Kima said.
     
     "Kima, then," Tarou said agreeably.  He settled back into 
his chair, and steepled his hands, drumming his fingers together
soundlessly.

     Kima nodded and leaned back, closing her eyes and trying to
relax.  

     Then the tapping began again, Tarou's nails rattling against
the wood.  

     "That's it," Kima said, standing up and gazing murderously 
at him.  "I'm going to take a bath.  Tap all you want."

     Tarou stopped tapping and looked up at her, displaying
interest for the first time since they'd begun waiting.  "You
have a bath?"

     "Yes," Kima said shortly.  "And I'm using it now, so don't
get any ideas.  You can have it when I'm done, if you want."

     "How do you get running water in this place?" Tarou asked.
"Is it heated?"

     "We have our ways," Kima said, as she opened the wooden 
bathroom door, carved with fancifully entwined red and blue
phoenixes, and stepped inside.  She neglected to mention that
those ways had only become available in the last few days; giving
Tarou something to ponder might stop him from getting bored.

     She shook her head as she entered the stone-tiled bathroom.
So much had changed in the last few days that it was almost too
much to comprehend; Saffron slain, Xande revealed as a traitor,
the dark plan to place the mountain home under the control of
Helubor and the evil that he served averted.

     "What would you think of all this, father?" she said,
looking at her face in the mirror over the marble basin that
served as a sink.  

     A wave of grief swept unexpectedly over her, and she 
clutched the sides of the basin and bowed her head, feeling
unwanted tears gather in her eyes.  She looked up, at her
reflection, saw her limp wings sagging down her back, and the
pain and sorrow threatened to overwhelm her.  

     Shuddering, she drew herself up straight and pressed the
silver button atop the golden phoenix head, letting hot water
flow steaming into the sink.  She could not, would not dwell on
this, on the crippling that had been done to her, because if she
fell into despair, she knew that she would not come easily back.

     But it hurt so much, to think that she would not fly again.
     
     With a sudden angry motion, she splashed hot water on her 
face and stepped over to the massive square tub, absently 
shutting off the water in the sink as she did.  

     Turning on the tap in the bath, she watched the hot water
falling from the open mouth of the sculpted golden phoenix head
to splash on the stone floor of the tub for a moment, then turned
away and sat down on the side of the tub.  

     Reaching up, she carefully unhooked her earings and laid
them on the edge of the sink, then took the braided leather band 
with two white feathers from her short hair and laid it beside
them.  Putting her hands behind her neck, she undid the clip of
her pendant and the catch of the high-necked collar of her
uniform at the same time.  

     Someone knocked on the door outside.
     
     "I said you can have it when I'm done," she snapped angrily.
"And that is not now."

     "It's me, child," Cologne's voice called, muffled by the
door.  "May I come in?"

     Kima hesitated a moment.  "I suppose."
     
     The door slid open, and the small, slender form of the
Joketsuzoku slipped inside, shoulders bowed, face weary.  Her
ancient dark eyes, showing the weight of her years despite the
guise of youth, were half-fogged, as if she'd just awoken.

     "Are you feeling alright, Cologne?" Kima asked, as Cologne
closed the door behind her.  

     "Just tired," Cologne said softly.  "Very tired."
     
     "How is Ranma?" 
     
     Cologne frowned.  "He is stable.  He has not awoken, 
though.  I do not think he will for some time.  He has been... I 
am not quite sure how to describe it.  Drained, I suppose.  Of
everything; ki, strength, will.  He is recovering, but slowly.  I
think what he did in the Hall of Speaking took a lot out of him."

     Kima nodded, remembering in silence, white flame, Helubor
slain in an instant, the traitors shooting down their own people
destroyed seconds later.  She began to slide her boots off her
feet.  

     "That bath looks very inviting," Cologne said quietly.
     
     Kima looked up, then hesitantly spoke.  "It is large.  There
is room enough for two."

     "I don't mind if I do," Cologne said, undoing the collar of
her shirt, flower-patterned red silk, and sliding it over her
head.

     Moments later, the two of them lounged in opposite ends of
the steaming tub, the hot water taking the dirt from their skin
and the weariness from their bones.  Kima rested her head back
against the lip of the tub, crippled wings half-floating in the
water, and felt something almost like peace.

     "Are you well, child?" Cologne asked suddenly, her eyes
closed, dark hair hanging soaked across her bare shoulders where 
she rested 

     "As well as I could be, I suppose," Kima said wearily.  "I
will survive, Cologne.  Do not worry of that."

     "I can't help worrying," Cologne said softly.  "I like you,
Kima.  You have been a loyal ally and a good companion since this
endeavour began.  Of course I worry."
     
     Kima raised her head and looked at the other woman, 
surprised at the sincerity of the words.  "Cologne..."

     "We are not allies by necessity, Kima," Cologne said
gravely, sliding down so that she was almost entirely submerged,
hair floating up upon the surface of the water in a dark halo.
"We are allies by choice.  Would it not be easier if we were also
friends?"

     A sudden memory came, laughing half-hysterically with 
Cologne as they sat around the fire and waited for the water to
heat, only a few minutes after Saffron's death and Galm's defeat,
taking some small comfort in each other.

     Kima smiled slightly.  "We already are, Cologne."
     
     "I am glad," Cologne murmured, eyes still closed.  The steam
from the water was filling the room with a misting haze, and
leaving droplets of condensed water upon the walls that rolled
slowly down.  

     "We shouldn't stay in here too long," Kima said, letting 
herself sink down until only her head was above the water.  "I
told Tarou he could use it after us."

     "Don't worry about him," Cologne said.  "I gave him
something interesting to read."

     "What?" Kima asked softly.
     
     "The Book of Fire and Earth," Cologne responded.
     
     Kima laughed softly, then felt the feathers of her wings 
brush gently against her arms.  She grimaced, laughter dying
nearly as quickly as it had begun.  

     "Something wrong?" Cologne said, obviously picking up on the
shift in her mood.

     "No," Kima replied.  "Just too much thinking."
     
     There was a small splash as Cologne sat up.  Kima did as
well, surprised at the other woman's motion.  "What is it?"

     "Nothing much," Cologne replied.  "Let me see your back,
child.  I want to see the wound."

     "Cologne, I would prefer-"
     
     "Kima."
     
     The tone left no room for argument, even from her.  Closing
her eyes and taking a deep breath, Kima turned around in the bath
and heard the sound of the water shifting as Cologne moved up
behind her.

     Cologne's slim fingers began to probe at her back, at the
points near her shoulderblades where her wings sprouted.  The
wings that she could no longer feel.

     "What happened to them?" Cologne asked bluntly.  "Why is
there no scarring, no trace of the wound?"

     Kima licked her lips, scrunched her eyes closed even
tighter.  "Ranma tried to heal the wound, like he healed you when
Galm stabbed you.  He wasn't able to repair the internal damage,
but..."

     "Oh," Cologne said, very softly.  "I'm sorry, child."
     
     Kima took another deep breath, inhaling the scent of the
steam in the room.  "It's alright."

     But it wasn't.  No matter what she might say, it wasn't.
There had been hope, for a moment, and Ranma had tried so hard,
tried until he had nearly died, swallowed by his own excess of
power, but he had not been able to do it.

     "No, child, it isn't," the other woman said, placing a warm,
damp hand on Kima's shoulder, gently touching the feathers that
sprouted there independent of the wings, the only ones that she
could still feel.  "It isn't alright at all.  I know what this
feels like."

     "How could you know what this feels like?" Kima whispered.
"How dare you even think you could know?"

     "Not all wounding leaves scars upon the body," Cologne said
gently.  "Not all maiming leaves crippled limbs behind."

     Kima glanced back, saw sadness in Cologne's ancient dark
eyes, and realized, somehow, the older woman could understand
what this was like.  

     Cologne smiled slightly.  "We go on, child.  Despite pain,
despite sorrow, despite loss, we have no choice but to go on or
fall.  And I do not think you are one who falls easily, are you?"

     "No," Kima said softly.  "No, I am not."
     
     "I know it is hard," Cologne said.  "But you are not alone.
Do not forget that."

     Kima nodded, and slowly felt herself begin to smile.  "No.
I am not."

     The hot water was beginning to cool around the two of them
as they sat together in the bath, as Cologne moved back to rest
again against one end of the tub.

     Someone banged on the door.
     
     "Are you two going to be in there forever?" Tarou shouted.
     
     "You could come join us if you're that desperate," Cologne
called back, smirking fiendishly and winking at Kima.

     There was the sound of angry muttering that slowly faded
away.  Kima looked at Cologne, who was grinning whole-heartedly,
dark eyes flashing with mirth.

     Kima shook her head, and laughed.  Sometimes, it was the
only thing left to do.

**********

     Cologne ran the brush through her hair one last time, then
flipped her head so it hung straight and silky down her back and
shoulders.  Reaching forward, she grabbed up her hairband from 
the table and slipped it on, gathering strands of hair away from 
her face.

     She looked across to where Kima sat in another chair, paging
intently through the copy of The Book of Fire and Earth that had
been left with Tarou when Cologne went into the bath.  He'd been
waiting when the two of them finally emerged in a haze of steam
from the bathroom, and had pronounced the book a rather boring
read before flipping it absently onto the table and striding into
the bathroom from which the two of them had just emerged.

     The winged woman's face was rapt as she looked through the
book, a strange intensity shining in her blue eyes, as if she 
might find whatever answers she wanted.

     Cologne sighed, laying the brush on the table and settling
back into the chair.  She had grown used to her old, youthful
body in the days gone by, but at times the strange ease of it
felt alien to her.  

     She glanced to Kima, sighed again.  She felt a kinship with
the other woman.  They were much alike; so much pride, so much
independence, hiding so much else beneath.

     There was a lot of pain in that young woman, covered by 
layer upon layer of coldness.  It went further back than the
awful, sadistic crippling, further back than Saffron dying in the
shadow of the mountains.  Cologne wished she knew how to truly
reach the other woman, but she knew herself how hard it was to 
let go, to leave yourself vulnerable, to let someone else know 
your pain.  All she could do was make it obvious that she would 
be there if she was needed.

     The door to the bathroom swung open and Tarou stepped out in
a cloud of steam, scaled vest and bracers glistening with
condensed moisture, towelling vigorously at his thick blue-black
hair.  

     "I could get used to this," he said cheerfully, dropping the 
towel on the floor and raking his fingers through his hair to
comb it as he walked towards them.

     "Don't," Kima said, not looking up from the book.  "And pick
up that towel."

     Tarou shrugged, hooked the slightly-damp towel with his foot
and flipped it into his arms.  Then he lounged into one of the
heavy wooden chairs that surrounded the large round table with
exaggerated casualness.  "So when can I leave this place?"

     "As soon as Samofere says it's alright," Cologne said.
     
     Tarou smirked.  "You think you could stop me if I really
wanted to leave?"

     "Yes," Cologne said bluntly.  "I could.  Don't test me, 
Tarou.  You're quite good, but I'm better, and as I have grown to
have a mild fondness for you in the last little while, I would
prefer not to take away from that by being forced to knock some
sense into you."

     "Just asking," Tarou said, raising his hands defensively.
     
     "Of course," Cologne said drolly, leaning an elbow on one
arm of her chair and gazing at the stone fireplace that dominated
one end of the room.  

     There was silence for a moment.  Kima turned a page in the
book with a rustling sound.

     Tarou began tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair.
     
     Cologne looked up at him.  "Stop that."
     
     Tarou did.
     
     After a moment, he rose out of his seat, leaving the towel
on the chair.  A single bead of water rolled from the damp cloth
and fell to spot upon the thickly-woven blue rug that lay beneath
the table and chairs.

     He walked over to the fireplace and began to examine the
contents of the mantle, carved and sculpted figurines, graceful
shapes in the form of dragons or phoenixes.  

     "Please don't touch those," Kima said, glancing back to
Tarou.  

     "I won't," Tarou said.  "Just looking at them.  Nice."
     
     "Thank you," Kima said, still buried in the book.
     
     Cologne stopped herself just before she began tapping her
fingers on the arm of the chair.

     She stood up.  "I'm going to check on Ranma."
     
     "Mmm," Kima said in response, turning another page.
     
     "Uh-huh," Tarou replied, still looking at the figurines.
     
     She was about to place her hand on the doorknob that led
into the room where Ranma rested when the door that led to the
hall outside opened, and Samofere stepped in.

     Cologne glanced at him with concern; he looked very tired.
Kima stood up from the chair, closing the book with a snap, and
Tarou turned from the fireplace and took a few steps across the
room.

     Samofere waved them back with one hand and sank down into 
the chair Tarou had occupied.  He realized he was sitting on a
damp towel moments later, and carefully extracted it and dumped
it on the floor.  

     "I remember now why I hate politics," he said softly.

     "Lord Samofere--" Kima began.
     
     "Not you too," he groaned.  "Don't call me lord.  Please,
don't call me lord.  I can't stand it."

     Cologne walked over to stand behind him and began to rub his
shoulders, occasionally stroking her fingers through the black
feathers of his wings.  He was a bundle of tension, an 
undercurrent of barely-suppressed emotion singing through his
muscles under her fingers.  "How did everything go?"

     "Terribly," he said.  "They all want me as king.  They all
think they can use me for their own petty ends."

     She felt him go even tenser, if that was possible, and a
twinge of almost sympathetic weakness rushed through her.  "They
know nothing.  They care only for their own power, the fools.  I
should--"  He sagged back in the chair, relaxing somewhat.  After
a moment, he laughed softly.  "Is there anything to drink?"

     Kima, who had been standing silently since Samofere's
admonition, seemed to snap to attention.  "I'll see what I have."

     She bustled off through a door, wings sweeping elegantly
behind her, as Tarou sat down in a chair across from Samofere and
looked at him intently.  "What's the big deal?  You're king now.
I don't see what's wrong with that."

     "Everything," Samofere said, holding his forehead in one
taloned hand.  "The entire concept of it.  The idea that one
single person is somehow qualified to decide the fate of many,
without having to listen to anyone else."

     "But you will not abuse it," Cologne said soothingly, 
digging her thumbs into strategic points of his back, trying to 
take the tension away.  "That's the way you are."

     "But that's not the point," Samofere said.  "The point is, I
don't have to listen to them."

     He sighed.  "What is it, I wonder, that makes them desire a
king?"

     "Easy," Tarou said.  "They're used to it, for one thing.  
And most people couldn't care less about thinking for themselves.
They'd rather do what someone says.  They don't want to think
about tomorrow; they want someone else to do it for them."

     He shrugged.  "That's why they have kings, leaders,
whatever.  So they don't have to think.  Most people are sheep;
they just need someone to lead them, and they'll go whichever way
their leader does."

     Samofere raised his head and looked at Tarou.  "That is the
most cynical thing I have heard for quite some time."

     "Yeah, well, I'm a cynical guy," Tarou said.  
     
     "One is seldom disappointed if one expects only the worst,"
Cologne murmured softly under her breath.

     Kima came back in, a bottle clutched in one hand, a number
of glasses held under her arm and in her other hand.  She
carefully put them down on the table.  "Water.  It should be 
cold, they hooked up the water flows so I have something of an 
icebox, if it isn't, we can have them send up--"

     "Kima, sit down," Samofere said wearily.  "Please don't do
this to me.  Please don't treat me differently.  Try to think of
me as a librarian again, if that helps."

     Kima sat down, looking at Samofere nervously.  She bowed her
head.  "I'm sorry, Samofere.  It is hard to..."

     "I know," he said.  "I know."
     
     Tarou had picked up the bottle and popped the cork out, and
was busily pouring a measure of sparkling water into each glass.
He grabbed one up and sipped it, settling contentedly back into
his chair with a relaxed expression on his face.  "That's cold,
alright."

     Samofere leaned forward and took two glasses, handing one
back to Cologne.  She drank the cool water, surprised at her own
thirst.  

     Samofere sipped from his glass, then put it down on the
table.  "I'll make this quick.  Kima, you have been cleared of
any wrongdoing in Saffron's death."

     Kima's eyes closed for a moment, and she drew a long breath.
"I see."

     "Your position has been reinstated," Samofere said.  "You 
are seneschal again, if you wish it."

     "I do," Kima said, eyes still closed.  "Though I do not know
if I am worthy any longer."

     "You are worthy," Samofere said softly.  "Never think that
you are not."

     He glanced back at Cologne, then at Tarou.  "As for you 
two... the explanation I gave for your presence, and that of
Ranma.  I said that I had grown aware of the activities of
traitors in the mountain, and, as I was not sure who I could
trust, recruited aid from outside.  It will do for now.  They
prefer not to question me anyway."

     "That demonstration you did _was_ pretty impressive," Tarou
said.  "The water, the speech.  All good."

     "I am glad you approve," Samofere said vaguely.
     
     He drank the last of his water.  "It came easily, the lie.  
I was surprised how easily."

     "What were you supposed to tell them?" Cologne said softly.
"That we had brought Ranma here because three thousand years ago
you wrote a long series of prophecies that he has fulfilled?  
That Saffron's death, that Helubor's attempted coup, they were
only the start of something long and terrible whose end we do not
know?"

     "I could have," Samofere said.  "They likely would have
believed me."

     Tarou set his empty glass down on the table with a sharp
clink and stood to his feet.  "Well, then, fun as all this is, 
I've got no desire to stay around longer than I have to."

     "You wish to leave, then?" Samofere said, looking up at the
young man.

     Tarou nodded, a slight smile tracing his face.  "Yup."
     
     He spread his arms out, fingers interlaced, and cracked his
knuckles.  "I know how much you'd like to have a warrior of my
calibre stick around, but..."

     "Isn't he gone yet?" Kima said.
     
     Cologne hid a smile behind her hand and looked at Tarou.
"We'll walk him to an exit."

     "Someone needs to stay and keep an eye on the boy," Samofere
said.  "Cologne, if you do not mind..."

     "No," she said softly, stepping back from where she stood
behind his chair.  "Not at all."

     Samofere and Kima stood from their chairs, walked silently 
to the door with Tarou between them, and stepped out.  She 
watched them go, three tall figures, two winged, one wingless,
and felt, of all things, an odd twinge of jealousy.

     With a sigh, she sank down into a chair, feeling very tired.
Much as she loved Samofere, as much as she had always loved him,
she could never hope to understand him.

**********

     Tarou stood on the edge of the steps, a half-filled bucket
dangling from one hand.  Beyond the steps was open air, a plunge
thousands of feet down, through the misty shroud that did not
manage to entirely conceal the jagged spires of stone that
composed Phoenix Mountain.  

     He glanced back at Kima and Samofere, standing in the open
doorway that led back into the halls of the palace complex at the
top of the mountain.  "So long, then."

     "You have our thanks," Samofere said quietly.  "And you are
always welcome here."

     "Sure," Tarou said, surprised at the strange, happy feeling
that unexpectedly swept over him.  He was welcome; such a strange
thing to hear.

     "This is not over," the black-winged man said in his deep,
rich voice.  "It has only just begun."

     Kima took a sudden step forward, walking down to stand on 
the steps above Tarou, one hand resting on the slender railing
that bordered the jutting, narrow balcony that edged out from the 
building on the side of the mountain.  A gust of wind played
through her short hair, half-lifted the limp spread of her wings.

     She smiled at him, but it didn't reach her eyes.  "Without
you, I think we would have died against the hound," she said
softly.  "For that, I thank you."

     Seeming hesitant, she reached out one taloned hand.  
     
     Tarou half-turned and shook it lightly, intrigued at the odd
feel of her hand in his hand.  He tried to smile back without
smirking, hoping he succeeded.  "No problem."

     Kima nodded and released his hand, stepping back up the
stairs to stand by Samofere.  She folded her arms and stared up
into the sky, at the drifting clouds, so close this high upon the
mountain.

     Tarou waved again, then dumped the bucket over himself as he
leapt from the stairs, his tiny wings spreading as if they could
somehow cease the fall of his ponderous body.  Somehow, they
always did; he'd found it better not to question that.

     Thousands of feet below, he heard the ring of the bucket
he'd dropped hitting the stone.  As he flew off to the north, he
turned his head back once, to see two tiny figures, white-winged
and dark, standing together in the shadow of the doorway.  
     
     In his massive beast shape, Tarou gave a loud snort that
would have amounted to a sigh in a human.  Perhaps he truly was 
welcome there.

     He had changed a lot in these last few days.  But he had not
changed that much.

     And he had always walked alone.
     
**********     
     
     A day passed for Kima, and then another.  There was much to
occupy the time, much that was like the mundanity of her previous
life.  She accompanied Samofere at all times, as he walked 
through the halls of the mountain; he seemed to extend a kind of
protection over her.  And when times came that flight was needed,
he carried her, and the staring, pitying gazes of the rest of her
people somehow seemed less harsh to bear.

     Samofere went among the people, all of them, and he talked
to them.  And most were fearful, awed in his presence, but some
few talked back to him, and in time, perhaps, they began to
realize that this rule would be of a different kind than 
Saffron's had been.  The Order of the Raven were always with him,
following in his wake, hard-eyed and attentive; the ravens
themselves spent most of their time at Ranma's bedside, with
Cologne.

     Sometimes, though, when he thought there were no eyes upon 
him, Kima would see Samofere clench his fists and draw long, 
shuddering breaths, like a man long beneath the water who 
desperately gulps air when he surfaces, not knowing how deep he 
must go when next he plunges.  And she felt silent worry for the 
new king, though she said nothing.

     There had been a bed laid out upon the floor of the sitting
room in her chambers for Cologne, but late in the night, as she
lay in her own bed in an attached room, she would hear the other
woman rise and go out into the hallway, and Kima knew where she
went.  Samofere had been given Saffron's chambers, which lay 
close to her own quarters, over a bridge that spanned between
peaks of the mountain.  And if she could not entirely approve of 
such a thing between them, she could at least understand some
parts of it.  And he was the king now, and it was not her place 
to question such things; that was what she told herself, at 
least, and it helped.

     Saffron's body had been lain, as all the dead of the 
mountain were, in a sealed casket of stone, where he would lie
until the moon had gone a full cycle from the day he died, and
then he would be given to the flames.  Almost twenty others had
been laid to rest in the same way, slain by bullets in the chaos
in the Hall of Speaking.

     On the second night after the battle in the Hall of 
Speaking, she had woken suddenly near the darkest point of the
night.  Not from nightmares, but dreams, dreams of flying, 
wonderful dreams that left her sick with grief and wanting to
weep when she awoke.

     Rising from bed, she took a robe, soft white silk cut low in 
the back to accommodate her wings, and pulled it on over her
nakedness, belting it loosely at the waist.  Then she walked out
into the main room of her quarters, and from there into the old
room, the bedroom of her childhood, where Ranma had lain in 
deathlike sleep for the past two days.

     The lamps in there burned night and day, casting blue-white
fingers across the room, streaking the gauntness of his face as
he lay on his back with bands of light and darkness.  On the
headboard, the two ravens perched, eyes closed in sleep, bodies
occasionally stirring slightly with nocturnal dreams.

     She stood looking at him for a long time, a strange sense of
peace upon her as she did.  He looked far older than when she had
first met him, less than a month ago in Japan, though it seemed
somehow longer.

     He had been chosen for something, she realized, just as
Saffron and Samofere had been chosen so long ago.  The blinding
speed and power with which he had struck Denkoko down, the
emerald dragon graven on his flesh, the power in his hands, the
wound on Cologne's heart healed, the white fire slaying Helubor.

     He had been chosen, for something awful and terrible and
wonderful, and somehow, somehow she had been caught up in it as
well.  She felt like a leaf, borne along on a river, carried by
forces so much greater than her, forces she could not hope to
understand.

     She stood there for a moment longer, looking at him
contemplatively, and then returned to bed, and slept without any
dreams at all.

     And the next day, the third day, she learned the truth of 
why Samofere had not wanted to be king.

**********

     It was the end of a long day, most of which had been
occupied with a fruitless meeting between the new king and the
heads of the noble houses, who had been probing for the past
three days as to just what Samofere's intentions were regarding
the wide division between the two castes of people in the
mountain.  He had given few concrete answers, maintaining a calm
visage throughout the entirety of proceedings, though Kima had
seen him coming near to anger a half-dozen different times.

     The closest he'd come had been when Lord Mazarin, Masara's
father, had asked him somewhat bluntly what the purpose of his
rule was going to be.  

     A shadow had passed across his face, one which he quickly
hid.  From where she sat beside him at the massive, circular 
stone table where meetings where held, she saw his hands grip the
arms of his chair, so hard that when he took them away, she saw
he'd left an impression in the wood.

     "I shall rule," he had said softly, "as I see fit."
     
     "And what do you see fit?" Mazarin had asked.
     
     "That I may prevent the suffering of all my people," 
Samofere had replied in a quiet, heavy voice.  "Not just 
guarantee the continued happiness of some."

     Mazarin, nor any of the other nobles, had any answer to
that.

     But the day was done now, the meeting over, and she stood in
the enormous bedchamber that had belonged to Saffron, and now had
been given over to his brother.  Outside the doors, Loame and the
other members of the Order of the Raven stood guard on a
recently-repaired bridge that spanned between the spires of the
mountain, the door at the other end leading into the rest of the 
palace complex that dominated the upper reaches.

     Samofere had been very firm on not wanting any attendants,
and, after the day was done, he spent the time alone, except for
Cologne.  He seemed at times to have little desire to see even
her at times, though he had ordered that she be allowed to move 
freely among them.  It was an unheard of thing, a human moving 
freely in the mountain, but, he was king now, and his word was 
the law.
     
     "I will have dinner sent up for you, Samofere," she said as
she prepared to exit.  She had grown somewhat used to calling him
simply by his name in private, though in public, appearances had
to be kept up, protocol had to be followed.  

     "Thank you," he said, sitting wearily on the edge of the
massive bed.  Plants bloomed greenly in brightly-painted vases
situated around the room.  

     She nodded and prepared to leave, when his voice stopped
her.  "Kima, wait."

     She turned back, looking at him questioningly.  "Is there
anything else you need?"

     He shook his head.  On the bed beside him, the golden and
silver shape of the Phoenix Crown lay as if discarded.  "I need
to tell you something.  I need to tell someone."

     Half-hesitating, she walked back to stand near him.  "What
is it?"

     "I suspect it will answer a question you have been wanting
to ask as well," he said.  "You want to know why I did not want
to be king, do you not?"

     After a moment's pause, Kima nodded.  
     
     "Yes," she said softly.  "I cannot understand it.  You are
wise, and good, and you can lead us so well.  You can change so
much for the better."

     "But why must it be only me?" Samofere asked quietly.  "Am I
the only one who can change things?  What gives I, who am only
one, the right to decide the fates of so many?"

     "You were chosen," Kima said.  "With your brother.  You have
such power, so great a power--"

     "My brother and I were chosen to battle the Ravager," 
Samofere said.  "Not to rule.  We had been chosen as rulers
before then, both of us.  We led the mountain, but because we had
been chosen by the people.  Power does not give me the right to
decide the way in which another's life should go."

     "But--"
     
     "Hear me out," he said quietly.  "Power can be an end unto
itself, if that is what you wish.  The purpose of power can 
become the retaining of power, an endless cycle.  But that way
leads to any evils that we may think of.  Power can be used to
dominate, to rule by fear, by force.  I do not wish to rule like
that."

     "But you will not rule like that," Kima said.  "I know you
will not."

     Samofere laughed softly.  "You say that now.  What if I
change?  Can I not change, for the worse?"

     "You waited for four thousand years," Kima said.  "How much
did you change in that time?"

     He laughed again.  "You have no idea."
     
     He stood up from where he sat on the bed, facing her.  His
eyes shone strangely.  "Did you not wonder, Kima, if I truly did
as much as I could while I watched us fall?  Do you think I did
everything in my power to help my brother, to help my people?"

     Before she could speak, he swept his arms wide, and turned
his back to her, wings half-spreading for a moment.  "I did not.
I did not do one-hundredth of what I should.  Because I was a
coward, and because I was afraid."

     "Samofere..." Kima said, taking a step forward, reaching out
a hand.

     He whirled and stared at her, mouth half-twisted into a
grimacing smile.  "Kima, go and kill Ranma while he sleeps."

     "What?" Kima said, taking a shocked step back almost as
quickly as she had stepped forward.

     "Go and kill him," Samofere said, smile growing broader.
"Cut his throat while he is helpless."

     An intense, sick horror spilled through her, a sense of
disbelief.  "My lord..."

     "You see!" Samofere shouted triumphantly.  "You see?  This
is what a king is!  This is what a king is!"

     "Samofere, I don't understand," she said helplessly.  "What
is wrong?"

     "You thought about it," Samofere said.  He closed his eyes,
and he trembled as if he were on the verge of breaking down.  
"Even if only for a moment, you thought about it.  Though you
knew it was wrong, you thought about doing it because I told you
to.  Because I am your king."

     "But you would never have told me to do that," Kima said,
shaking her head.  "Not truthfully."

     "But what if I had?" Samofere asked.  "What if I had 
insisted?  Would you have done it, Kima?  Would you have done 
it?"

     And she could only stand in silence, watching him, watching
his shaking hands, the deep, sad depths of his eyes, and she
could not speak.

     "Please," she said finally, bowing her head, closing her
eyes.  "Do not talk of this.  Why do you talk of this?"

     Samofere took a long breath, and drew himself up straight.
"What I am going to tell you is not known by any who now live.  I
think that I will tell Cologne, in time, but it is the first time
I have... ever spoken of this to anyone."

     And Kima felt a terrible feeling rise in her, and realized
that she desperately, desperately did not want to hear what he
was going to tell her, and yet had no way in which to stop him
from telling her.

     "In the final battle between the Ravager's armies and those
arrayed against him," Samofere said, "it fell to my brother and I
to combat him.  His strength was beyond anything ever seen before
upon the earth, anything that has been seen after.  He was
stronger alone than Saffron or I, and both of us were far 
stronger in those days than now.  He was stronger alone even than
Saffron or I together."

     He stepped back to the bed, sat back down on the edge of the
enormous mattress.  Reaching down, he picked up the Phoenix
Crown, torn from his brother's essence and made material by Galm,
and cradled it in his hands.  "We nearly lost that day.  Would
have lost, but for the Ravager's own arrogance.  Every ounce of
power my brother and I threw against him, every spell cast by the
mages of either side, he gathered that energy in, waiting.  And
when he was ready, he tore open the barriers and let the Dark
come.  He released entities bound at the beginning of time, of
which Galm was only one.  He let absolute malice and pure chaos 
into the world through the rents in the air, and it began to 
kill.  Everything.  His armies, our armies, everything.  Everyone 
began to die."

     His face was a mask of grief, his eyes half-closed.  "And he
stood there, and laughed.  He laughed, and kept on killing.  My
brother and I tried to fight him, and those on our side who could
work magic tried to repair the damage he had done.  The Ravager
ripped Saffron apart, hurt him so badly that even he could not
immediately repair the damage done, and then he began to kill me.
He was on the verge of ripping out the source of my power, as
Galm did to Saffron, the only thing that could have truly killed
me."

     And now he bowed his head, and closed his eyes, and tears
began to leak silently from beneath his shut lids.  "I loved a
woman in those days, Mei Ming.  She was a member of the great
warrior nation that lived in the area around Jusenkyou, the
people who were scattered after the final battle; the last and
most true remnant of their culture is Cologne's people, the 
Joketsuzoku."

     He drew a deep breath, held his forehead with one hand.
"Mei did the bravest thing I have ever had the honour of seeing
done, an act whose equal I do not know if I shall ever see.  She
came, as if from nowhere, and attacked the Ravager as he was 
about to slay me.  He never saw her coming, and though he could 
have destroyed her in a second, he did not have a second then, 
because she threw both of them through one of the portals, 
clinging to him and driving them through, and gave both of them 
to the Dark."

     "She must have loved you very much," Kima said softly,
feeling an ache in her heart.  

     "You have no idea how much," Samofere said softly.  "She did
more than sacrifice her life, she sacrificed her very being.  Her
soul, her mind, all of it.  She gave herself, freely and
willingly, to a fate truly worse than death.  She went to the
Dark, to a place of absolute unlight, absolute evil."

     "I am sorry," Kima said, sitting down on the bed beside him,
surprised at her own grief, for the death of a woman dead four
thousand years before her birth.  

     "That is not the worst, though," Samofere said.  "As the
portals began to close, the Ravager's death cutting off the power
that had kept them open, I _heard_ her.  Screaming, in torment, 
in agony, in pain beyond anything I had ever thought possible.  
The Dark had her; her mind, her body, her soul, the very essence
of her.  And it was taking vengeance on her, ripping her apart
and piecing her together, again and again and again, and it would
do so until the end of time, because she was with it, now, no
more than a plaything, hated beyond human comprehension of hate."

     He seemed to be having trouble speaking, and was still 
weeping, in absolute silence.  "It had her then, and it still has
her, some tiny, wounded fragment of her, suffering for all
eternity, because she loved me enough to do this for me, loved
the Light enough to give herself to the Dark to slay its greatest
champion."

     "Oh, Samofere," Kima whispered softly.  She could say no
more than that; she could not possibly imagine the depths of his
grief, had no right to think she could understand.

     "That is the worst of it," he said finally.  "But it is not
why I do not wish to be king.  That Mei died for me is a great
weight upon my soul, but it is not the greatest of my sins.  
What I did when I heard her scream, I did something of such evil,
such a serving of the Dark, that I can never be forgiven.  I
reached out with my power, and I tried to bring her back."

     "What is wrong with that?" Kima asked.  "What is wrong with
an act of love like that?"

     "Because as I reached through into the Dark, it reached
through into me," Samofere said, barely a whisper.  "And it drove
me mad, and I began to kill, with all the power given to me.  
Nine-tenths of the army that went against the Ravager died that
day, and I was responsible for many of those deaths, before my
brother and the magic-workers of our armies managed to bring me
down, drive the Dark from me, and leave me little more than an
broken wreck, insane."

     He gave a soft sound, as if with the confession of this
awful thing, he had finally found some measure of relief.  "And
for a thousand years I lay in madness and darkness, and my 
brother died and was reborn again and again, and forgot that I
existed, and in time, the rest forgot as well, and still I lay
mad.  And when at least I woke to find that I was no longer mad,
everything had changed, and I could not change it back."

     Kima could not speak.  She could find to words to say, no
words that would allay this guilt.  They were not within her;
perhaps they did not exist.  Sorrow for a sin four thousand years
past went coursing through her, filling every fibre of her being.

     "And the madness is still there," Samofere said finally,
sounding almost peaceful.  "Still inside me.  I can feel it
waiting, patient, gnawing like a worm.  I can hold it back, but
it is so hard, so hard.  And if it ever claims me again, I 
cannot imagine what will happen."

     He laid a hand on her shoulder.  "That is why I did not wish
to be king.  Do you understand now?"

     "Yes," Kima replied softly.  "I understand.  And I am sorry
that I did what I did in the Hall of Speaking."

     "No," Samofere said softly, taking his hand from her 
shoulder and gently brushing white hair away from her forehead to
look into her eyes.  "Do not be sorry.  Perhaps it is best this
way for now.  We shall see.  This is the path we walk now, for
good or for ill."

     He turned away, gazing at the Phoenix Crown held in his
hand, the remnant of his brother.  "You should go now.  If you
would tell Cologne I would like to see her, I would be grateful."

     "Of course," Kima said, rising and going to the doors.  She
opened them and stepped out onto the bridge, walking past Loame
and the vigilant Order of the Raven with a curt nod, gazing down
over the sides of the bridge into the swirling tendrils of mist
that hid the ground below.  For once, looking into the empty
vastness of the space, she did not feel any grief, any thought of
flying.  There was too much grief weighing upon her already, too
much sorrow.

     She went to her quarters, and stepped in to find Cologne
sitting in one of the chairs, chin resting on one small fist.

     "He's awake," she said softly, looking up at Kima with tired
dark eyes.

     "What?" Kima said, knowing who she meant all the same.
     
     "I said, he's awake."

     "Can I talk to him?" Kima asked hesitantly.
     
     "I suppose," Cologne said wearily.  "He's very weak, and
will be for some time.  Try not to upset him."

     "I will," Kima said.  "Samofere wants to see you."
     
     "Oh," Cologne said, rising out of the chair and going to the
door.  "Alright."

     After she was gone, Kima stood alone in the room for a
moment, then walked to the door leading into Ranma's room, 
opened it, and stepped through.

     The ravens perched upon the headboard turned their heads to
look at her as she entered, solid black, blind white.  Ranma's
eyes were closed, and he seemed to be asleep.  The glow of lamps
on the walls confined the shadows and the darkness to the corners
of the room.  

     Ranma opened his eyes and shifted his head slightly to look
at her.  "Hey," he said weakly.

     "Hello, Saotome," she replied, sitting down in the chair.

     He turned his head back and stared up at the ceiling.  
Shiso made a soft, sad sound, and preened one of his wings, 
purple highlights glinting on his inky feathers.  

     "How are you feeling?" she asked quietly, adjusting the
skirts of her robe as she sat.  The garment was white silk, cut
up on one side of the legs to allow manoeuvrability, high-necked, 
and with the hem and sleeves trimmed with scarlet thread.  The 
chest was sewn with a stylized image in gold and scarlet, two 
golden phoenixes supporting the sun upon their heads.  It was the 
ceremonial garb of her position, what she generally wore when not 
in her fighting uniform.  Her sword hung at her waist, on a belt 
of threaded silver links.  

     "Why're you dressed like that?" Ranma asked, still gazing up
at the ceiling.

     "You thought I wore the same thing all the time?" she said
quietly, leaning back slightly in the chair.  "My fighting
uniform is a bit sparse for everyday wear, though it is much
easier for..."

     She trailed off, leaving the words incomplete.  Easier for
flying in.  "So, how are you feeling?"

     "Tired," Ranma said.  "And sore."
     
     Kima looked at her hands, folded in her lap, and tried to
think of something to say.  "Tarou left."

     "Oh," Ranma said.  "Probably a good thing.  That guy's a lot
of trouble to have around."

     "And you aren't?" Kima mused.
     
     "Point," Ranma said, and laughed harshly, without amusement.
"So what happened while I was out for three days?"

     "Well," Kima said, "Samofere is now king, and you and 
Cologne and Tarou have been credited with helping to save my
people from being ruled over by a power-mad usurper."

     "You miss so much when you're unconscious," Ranma said, and
closed his eyes, the barest smile upon his face.

     Kima smiled briefly, feeling some of the dark feeling that
had lain upon her heart since talking to Samofere lift.  "I 
suppose."

     "Kima?" he said softly, questioningly.
     
     "Yes?"
     
     "What would have happened to those guys with the guns if
they'd been taken alive?"

     She was silent for a moment before speaking.  "They would
have been executed."

     "Oh."
     
     He laughed again, a cold sound, like ice cracking, like
something delicate shattering into thousands of fragments, jagged
as glass.     
     
     "I thought if it was that, it would make it better.  But 
somehow, it doesn't."

     He rolled over, put his back to her.  His hair was matted
and tangled at the back from three days of lying on it, his
pigtail scrunched and frazzled.  "I think I'd like to sleep now."

     "Ranma," she said softly, almost wanting to reach out and
touch him, offer him some comfort beyond words.  "It was the only
way."

     "That's what Cologne said," she heard him say.  "And I keep
on telling myself that.  But it doesn't make me feel any better.
It doesn't make me feel any better at all."

     His shoulders shook slightly.  "I'd like to sleep now.
Please."

     "Alright," Kima said, rising slowly from the chair, looking
away from him, looking into the dark eyes of Shiso where the
raven perched, oddly silent, on the headboard of the bed.  "I'll
see you in the morning, then."

     "Yeah," Ranma said.  
     
     "Sleep well."
     
     "Uh-huh."
     
     His voice was half-choked.  Kima stepped out the door and
closed it, leaving him alone in the light and the darkness.  For
a moment, she leaned back against the door, the cool metal-banded
wood, resting for a few seconds.

     Muffled, through the door, she heard the sound of soft,
lonely weeping, barely audible, and felt a deep pain inside her,
a sadness for the evils that are done by the good, the mistakes
made along the road that people walk upon that cannot be undone, 
and for the darkness of the path that some must walk in service 
to the Light.

     No matter what the ends, there was always a price to be paid
for them.  But sometimes, oh, sometimes, it was so very great a 
price.
     
**********

     Xande huddled in the crag of the mountain, watching as
another winged patrol swept past.  He had been hiding out here
for three days, ever since he'd escaped from the Hall of Speaking
in Phoenix Mountain, ever since his plot had failed.  

     The patrols had been so thick in the first two days that he
was surprised he was not found; he had barely managed to escape
from the mountain after his spell had transported him to his
quarters from the carnage and the killing in the Hall.  The
effort of that magery had left him drained and tired; 
transporting himself even that short a distance was extremely
difficult, even for someone with his skill in sorcery.

     He was powerful, but not invulnerable, and he had not
survived for nearly a century, working as the most trusted
servant of the king while secretly plotting his downfall, by
being impulsive.  He would wait for the patrols to die down
before he made his way further out.  

     In time, he would find a way to have revenge.  Not a one
would be spared; not a one.  At first, he had considered using
his crows to attack, but the range of his control shortened the
greater the number he dominated; to have enough that they would
be a true threat and not a nuisance, he would have to be right in
amongst them.

     Seemingly at that thought, a half-dozen of the 
dirty-feathered carrion birds landed at the entrance of the tiny
cave in which he had hidden himself, yellow eyes gleaming.

     <The patrols,> he silently communicated.
     
     <Many many, but far far,> the dull, avian minds of the birds
called back.  

     Xande sighed.  He had been in here too long already.  He had
to gather his things from the place he had hidden them.  They
would have searched his quarters already; he knew they would have
found nothing.

     <Spread out,> he called, to the dozens of crows that lurked
in the area.  <Watch for patrols, warn me if they get near.>

     <Yes yes,> the minds of the birds said.  <Yes yes, good 
good.>

     He snorted as he stepped out of the cave and spread his
wings to fly.  Stupid things, but useful tools.  Like Helubor had
been.  He knew the prince was dead; the fact that the people of
the mountain still lived was testament enough to that.  He
wondered if he had managed to kill any of them before he died; he
hoped so.  He hoped Kima was still alive, though.  He had plans 
for her.  Many of them.

     Carefully skulking in the shadows of the mountains, he made
his way north, until he came to a dipped valley that lay nestled 
in the mountains, a fertile, pleasant land of rolling hills, the
thin blue streams of rivers running through the green rises
snaking ribbons in the approaching darkness.  Hundreds of feet
overhead, crows flitting around him in shadowy silence, he gazed
down at the small villages that passed by, until finally he saw
below him a wide circle of land that lay even lower than the rest
of the valley.  Mist-shrouded, buried in the belly of the
mountains, hundreds of pools of water were scattered across the
landscape, tiny and glittering like the stars in the sky above
his head as he flew.

     He landed on the edge of the pools, his crows settling on
the lush ground around him, or perching on the bamboo poles that
rose like sentinels from the water, gazing about with cold yellow
eyes.

     He stared out across the pools for a moment, then turned and
walked towards the small hut that lay on a hill a hundred feet
from the pools, a strand of sparse trees rising behind it.  

     He tried the handle, found it locked, then calmly knocked.
     
     "The Jusenkyou Guide office is closed till morning," a thin,
frightened voice called back.  A child's voice.  "Please go away,
honourable customer, come back tomorrow."

     Xande smirked, raised a hand, and slowly gathered in the
power.  A rippling darkness began to seep out from his skin, 
slick and cold like oil from his pores, writhing around his limbs
like black flame, running along his wings.

     "KIYOKARASUKAMINARIKAZE!" he shouted, sweeping his arms
outward and his wings forward.  The door was torn open, the lock
breaking, and he heard a small shriek of fear from inside, and 
the frantic scrabbling of tiny feet across the floor.

     He reached down and snagged the child by the back of her
shirt as she tried to run by him, dragging her to her knees on 
the ground before the door.  She screamed and hit at his legs
with her hands, and began to cry.

     "It's okay, little one," he said softly, smirking cruelly.
"You don't need to be afraid of me."

     "Why can't you stupid bird-people just leave father and I
alone," the girl said, and then broke off into jagged weeping.
"Please let me go.  I won't tell anyone."

     Xande yanked the girl to her feet, then cupped her small,
trembling face with his other hand.  "Now then... Plum, isn't 
it?"     

     The girl nodded, and closed her eyes.
     
     "Do you remember me?" 
     
     "No," the girl said fiercely.
     
     "Good," Xande said.  "You weren't supposed to."
     
     He leaned down, put his withered mouth to her ear, and
gently whispered a few words.

     As he drew back up, he saw the girl's eyes go slightly
glazed, then clear again.  "How may I serve you, master?"

     He smiled.  The surikomi eggs lasted a long time.  "You have
some things that are mine."

     The girl nodded.  "You hid them behind the sacks."
     
     "Yes," he said softly.  "Such a good child."
     
     The girl smiled and nodded.  "Thank you."
     
     He walked into the crude hut, the girl following, and knelt
down to pull several sacks of grain out of the way.  Behind, 
there was a smaller leather sack, which he picked up and checked
the contents of carefully.  He smiled; it was all in order.

     "Is there anything else I may do to serve?" the girl asked
from behind him.

     He stood up and looked down at her.  A pity she wasn't
older; she would be a pretty thing in the years to come.  Even he
had his limits, however.  "No.  I am going to say 'ashes' soon.
When I say that, I want you to go to sleep.  And while you sleep, 
you're going to forget I ever came here.  You're going to forget 
that I'm your master.  You'll wake up in an hour, and you'll have 
had a nice nap with lovely dreams."

     The girl nodded.  
     
     "Ashes," he said softly.
     
     She crumpled to the floor, snoring instantly.
     
     "Such a good child," Xande said, closing the door behind him
as he stepped outside into the night.  The pools of Jusenkyou
glittered in the starlight, reflecting image upon image of the
waning, nearly-full moon.  

     The dozen or so crows accompanying him flapped down from
their perches atop the poles in an inky mass to land before him.

     <We go now,> he said silently to them.
     
     <Go, go, go,> the birds mimicked cheerfully.
     
     And then, softly, silently, a stinking shape landed on his
shoulder.  It was a crow, huge and reeking, bigger than he had
ever seen.  He was used to the birds being dirty, but this one 
was beyond even that.  The bird smelt as if it had been a week 
dead, the carrion scent making him feel like retching.

     <Get off me,> he ordered silently, raising a hand to hit it
away.     
     
     "No," the crow said out loud, in a soft woman's voice.
     
     Xande paused his hand in mid-strike.  "What?"
     
     "You will come with me," the bird said, a light soprano,
elegant.  "We have far to fly."

     "Where?" he asked quietly.
     
     "East," the filthy bird said.  "To Japan.  To Kagoshima,
specifically."

     "Who are you?" he said suspiciously.
     
     "I am greater than you will ever be, little winged worm,"
the bird said.  "And if you do not come now, I will have these
birds tear your withered body to pieces.  Slowly."

     Suddenly fearful, he reached out and felt for the minds of
the crows.  It was like trying to climb glass.  The bird laughed
in its woman's voice.  "Fear not.  We serve the same master, and
we desire many of the same things.  Do exactly as I say, and I 
will let you live."

     "Who--"
     
     "No more questions," the bird said, raising one wing like an
admonishing finger.  "I am called Fuhaiko.  You will be of use
to me when we meet in person, little worm."

     "I will need to rest many times if I am to fly that far,"
Xande said.  

     The bird seemed to smile.  "We shall carry you when it is
needed.  Come, now."

     Xande licked his lips, and reached for the crows again.
     
     On his shoulder, the crow's head flicked forward, almost too
fast to see, and the sharp beak stabbed into his cheek, right
below his left eye.  He shrieked in surprise and pain, raising a 
withered, taloned hand that came away bloody.

     "Try that again and it will be an eye," the crow admonished.
     
     Xande nodded.  He knew when he was beaten.  "I will come."
     
     "Good," the bird said shortly.  "But you will return later,
of course.  As shall I.  We shall reclaim what is rightfully our
lord's, reclaim it all."

     And it laughed, lightly, amusedly, and flapped up into the
air.  A single white carrion worm writhed out from somewhere
within the filthy folds of its wings, and dropped to land on his
shoulder for a moment before he disgustedly brushed it away.

     The crows leapt upwards from the ground, beating their
wings, circling the huge, filthy bird that spoke with a woman's
voice.  After a moment, Xande joined them.

     As they headed to the east, beneath the light of the moon
and stars, Xande stared to the south, towards Phoenix Mountain.
He would have vengeance, in time.
     
     Time was on his side, after all.
     
     And, he thought, looking at the massive carrion bird about
which the other, smaller birds orbited, it seemed that other
things were as well.