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 26 : Past Sins

At the door of life, by the gate of breath,
There are worse things waiting for men than death
-Algernon Charles Swinburne

     First of all, there is a mountain.  Not huge, as mountains 
go, but big enough.  The mountain is tall and steep, thrusting 
up several thousand feet until the sharp peaks pierce the 
curtain of mist that hangs heavy and low in the sky this early 
in the morning.

     Out of the mist, from the small palace complex atop the
highest peaks of the mountain, a dark shape flaps out on dark
wings, rising above the mist, above the mountains.  The bird 
turns once, and speeds towards the north, following the curving 
line of a pass that leads through the mountain chain.

     The bird flies very fast, skimming across the sky, black
wings spread wide.  He is a raven.  His name, in this time, in 
this place, is Shiso.  

     Miles to the north, he soars over another mountain, rising
jagged against the skyline.  This one has been damaged, and
recently, the most severe harm being to the cap of it, blown off 
as if by some great explosion, exposing an interior cave that, 
despite its size, is but a dot of black from this high up.  
Still, despite the damage, a waterfall spills down the sides of 
the mountain, flowing into a river that winds to the east.

     The morning sun has just begun to creep across the horizon,
and light is spearing out across the land, painting it in the
colours of the dawn, making the mist that lies amidst the 
mountain peaks and on the banks of the river curl and rise higher
into the air, as if some vast and ancient sleeper is awaking to
the light.  The light seeps in through the broken crown of the
mountain, and strokes across the bodies of the two great statues 
that lie within the exposed cave, and the scales of phoenix and
dragon ripple with light.  The raven turns once over the 
shattered mountain, and begins to follow the river, towards the 
rising sun.  As he goes on, and the river cuts through the rocky
hills, he follows the main stream, ignoring the small tributaries
that wind away from the gentle flow.

     A mile or so to the east, he passes over a tiny village in a
dip in the hilly land.  Near that village are the burned ruins of
a one-room house, several years old.  Beyond there, the land 
begins to rise, and he turns slightly to the south, following the 
course of the river as it runs, to where it then spills down into 
a low valley, draining away into the ground, before it becomes 
the source of hundreds of tiny pools of water, glittering in the 
sunlight, enticing.  Bamboo poles sprout from the pools, and thin 
walkways of damp earth sparsed with small trees range between the 
pools.  Near the pools is a small, crude hut.

     To the east the bird goes still, banking low over the pools,
and then rising high into the air again.  He passes over a much
larger village than the first, a village only just beginning to
wake sleepily to morning and the light.  Now he turns north, 
away from this more hospitable land, again towards the mountains, 
higher and taller than any of the others in this area.  He passes 
over a few tiny villages, rude collections of houses, and then 
they disappear altogether as the terrain becomes more rocky and 
hostile.

     As he comes closer to the mountains, close enough and high 
enough to see the expanse of blank desert that lies beyond them, 
he drops from the sky, into a long pass running east and west 
that would be nearly invisible to an observer on the ground.  

     He is at the end of the pass.  Here, an ancient and 
weathered fortress is built on the lower slopes of a mountain, 
approachable only from the west.  On the flatter slopes of the 
mountain, tiny figures can be seen moving, and the clash of 
weapons and the sound of battle cries rises into the air, quiet 
as whispers at this height.

     He turns to the west now, and follows the line of the pass
for a little more than a mile, until he reaches another fortress,
even more ancient than the first, slightly grander.  It fills the 
entire pass, walls built to join with the mountains north and
south protecting it from the east and west, the fortress lying
between them.  Perhaps it is the first line of defense for the
smaller fortress, or perhaps it is meant to keep the inhabitants
of the smaller fortress contained.

     The bird tilts downwards, and plunges through the mist
towards the larger fortress, a bringer of tidings, a bearer of
messages.

**********
     
     With yells, the half-dozen young men charged the single
figure they surrounded, lashing out with flying kicks or quick
punches.  A moment later, they were all flat on their backs, 
knocked on average ten feet away.  
     
     "Try again," Lime said cheerfully, as the boys groaned and
struggled to rise.  "You can use weapons this time, if you want."  

     Herb turned away, shaking his head, and seated himself on a 
flat-topped rock, flipping his cloak out so it hung down his 
back.  He folded his arms and watched as another group of boys, 
the oldest no more than sixteen, attempted swordplay with wooden 
training blades against Mint.

     It was comical to watch, really.  There were nearly ten of
the boys, all of them in top physical condition, all of them
trained as warriors since they'd been old enough to walk.

     They stood no chance.  Mint was simply too fast, disarming
them almost before they even got a chance to attack, sending
their weapons spinning away with his own wooden sword.  If he'd
wanted to, the young boy could have disabled or killed all of the
others in a few quick seconds.

     Herb looked back at his fortress, then at the mountains, and 
finally at the three hundred or so young men sparring in the 
shadows of them.  That was the population of unmarried men in the 
Clan of Musk under his command.  

     The morning sun was warm on his face, a pleasant enough
feeling, he supposed.  He rubbed his hands together, then closed
his eyes and slowly began to draw ki into himself, building it to
the point where it became dangerous, and then letting it flow
away into the air around him.  A simple exercise, one that helped
to maintain his powers in peak condition.  He hadn't been able to 
spar against others for years now.  All of his techniques were 
simply too dangerous.  These days, he was glad of that; he was 
unsure if he could have managed the right mentality for sparring 
with anyone anymore.

     The pleasant tingle of drawing power suffused his body,
blocking out the mild feel of the sun on his skin.  If he'd 
wanted to, he could have demolished the entire area with his 
power, torn down the fortress, smashed the mountainside.

     (Why don't I?)
     
     He shook his head, opened his eyes, let the power drain from
him.  He looked around at the other boys, some sparring singly
against each other with weapons or bare hands, others practicing
archery or spear-throwing, a few of the bravest trying to take on
Mint or Lime.  They were not his friends.  They were his 
subjects.  Mint and Lime were the closest any of them came, but 
they were still bodyguards, not equals.

     His eyes narrowed.  And they were both fools at the best of
times, obsessed continually with talking about girls now that
they had gotten some glimpses of them.

     (He would have them brought before him)
     
     Herb felt the anger building in him, the anger that he could
not explain, and he took a long, deep breath.  Another breath
brought him under control.  
     
     He closed his eyes again, drew the power, turned it now to
enchancing his senses rather than simply holding it.  Now the
sunlight was like a caress on his skin, mingling with the air,
the smell of sweat, the sounds of laughter, sounds of battle,
weapons clashing on weapons, horse's hooves clattering on stone.
     
     His eyes snapped open, and he rose, looked down to the west
where the unexpected sound had come from.  A single rider was
coming up the mountain slope, his mount's hooves kicking up dust
in the wake of their passage.  

     "Rogen," he muttered sourly, as the horse made its way up 
the slope.  The other boys had noticed too, and were stopping 
their sparring practice to watch the rider approach.

     Herb turned, cape swirling.  "Why are you stopping?" he
snarled.  "Get back to it, fools."

     The boys returned to as they had been before, some of the
bolder ones occasionally casting a sideways glance as the rider
pulled his horse to a stop and swung down, an absolute grace in 
his motions.

     "Greetings, Prince Herb," Rogen said, nodding respectfully.
     
     "Greetings, Rogen," Herb replied, studying his father's
bodyguard with a vague air of hostility.  

     In the old days, when transformed animals had been taken as
wives, it was said that most of the boys born to the Musk Dynasty
had the power of the animals their mothers had been in them.  
Despite the ending of the practice over a thousand years ago, the
bloodlines could still exert their influence.  It was extremely 
rare, happening at less than one out of every hundred births on
the average, and then only within a few years after the birth of 
an heir to the throne of the Musk Dynasty.  In Herb's generation, 
it had produced Mint and Lime.  His father's had produced Rogen.

     Rogen's ears tapered to mild points, just as the ears of
Herb and his two attendants did.  He was tall and slender, 
long-limbed and muscular, his hair and beard neat and dark.
Over his green tunic and pants, he wore a black cape sewn with 
eagle feathers, the tribute to the long-ago ancestry that had 
touched him.

     "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" Herb asked
icily.  Rogen looked at him for a long moment, his dark eyes
searching, a strange look in them that Herb had never seen
before.

     "Your mother died in her sleep several hours ago," he said 
finally.  "You must come with me now."

     Herb felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach.  Hard.  
Rogen put a hand on his shoulder as if to steady him, and he 
slapped it away.  "Get your hands off me."
     
     "We must go now, Prince Herb," Rogen said quietly.  "Your
father said you must come immediately."

     "Are Mint and Lime coming?" 
     
     Rogen was silent for a moment before answering.  "If you 
want them to."

     Herb nodded mutely.  Somehow, he could not find the words to
speak.     
     
**********     

     Kima woke to the illusion of feeling in her wings, twinging 
aches as if she'd been flying for too long that vanished as soon
as the last of her sleepiness faded.  Phantom pains.

     She lay there for a few moments, under sheets tangled from a
restless night, and then threw off the covers and put her feet on
the floor of her bedroom.

     Grabbing a robe from where it hung over the back of a chair
near the bed, she pulled it on and belted it at the waist.  Like
most of her clothing, it had been cut low in the back to 
accommodate her now useless and crippled wings.  A high collar to
the garment fastened around her neck to keep it from slipping
down.

     Glancing into a mirror as she stepped towards the door, she
frowned sourly.  Despite the shortness of it, her hair was a mess
of spikes from all her unconscious shifting while she slept.  A
bath and a comb would fix it soon enough.

     She opened the door and stepped into the sitting room of her
suite in the upper reaches of the mountain.  

     "Mornin'."
     
     Ranma looked up from where he sat, his feet propped up on
the table in the centre of the room.  He had obviously discovered
the bathroom upon awakening, his hair still slightly damp with
water.  Dressed in fresh clothing and recently bathed, he looked 
far better than he had the day before, when he'd finally awakened 
after three days of unconsciousness.

     As she stepped closer, though, she could see the beginnings
of dark circles under his eyes, and a haunted, distant look in
them.  There was a book open in his lap.  He pointed to it and
smiled, slightly sardonically.  "Interesting read, this."

     He laughed softly.  "Funny.  I can read Chinese as well as
speak it now.  Can't even explain why; the words just seem to fly
out at me.  It ain't like I'm translating them into Japanese or
nothing, I just... understand it now."

     Kima sat down in a chair across from him and unconsciously
raked a taloned hand through her tangled hair.  "How do you feel
this morning?"

     "Better."
     
     He turned a page back.  "How long ago was this Book of Fire
and Earth thing written, anyway?"

     "Three thousand years or so," she answered.
     
     He shook his head, pigtail dancing with the motion around 
his shoulders.  "It's... pretty dead on for some things."

     Again, he turned a page back and traced the characters with
his finger.  "A false son, bearing the weight of a thousand
mountains on his back, battered by a thousand seas, water over
rock."

     His eyes were distant and sad.  "False son in truth and true
son in falseness, mother of sorrows, mother of grief, you shall
not know your child for long as truly he is."

     He closed the book and put it down on the table, taking his
feet off it at the same time.  "Lemme show you something."

     Before she could say anything, he raised his hand, fingers
curved upward as if to cup something in his palm.  His face bore
an expression of intense concentration for a second, and then his
hand and fingers burst into white flame, though she felt no heat.

     He pursed his lips slightly, and the flames rolled down his
fingers, gathered into his palm in a spherical ball, so bright
they were almost painful to look at.  

     "And the point of this is?" she asked, raising an eyebrow
questioningly.

     "I'm not sure," he answered.  "But I can do it.  Easily.
Like lifting a finger.  I..."

     He paused, and looked uncertain for a moment.  "I think its
raw ki.  Not a battle aura or an emotion projection, real, pure
unformed energy."

     He raised his other hand, and the white flame streamed out
of his cupped palm to wreath his lifted hand.  "I fought a guy a
while ago whose techniques kinda looked like this.  He could do
stuff with his ki that I'd never have been able to do; straight
power blasts, ki blades, shaped beams."

     He clapped his hands, and the brightness faded.  "Now I can.
It's like a new muscle, a strong one, but..."

     He sighed.  "I need to talk to Cologne about this.  Where is
she, anyway?"

     Kima took a moment before answering.  "With Samofere, most
likely."

     "What, right now?" Ranma asked, blinking.  "They must both
be early risers."

     She felt her teeth clench.  "She probably spent the night
with him."

     "Huh?"
     
     As soon as the word left his mouth, realization dawned on
him, and he had the grace to look embarassed.  "Uh..."

     He grabbed the book back off the table, opened it, and hid 
himself behind it, but not before she caught sight of his 
reddening face.  Awkward as the air between them might be now, it
at least seemed less tense.  

     After a few seconds silence, Ranma looked over the top of
the book, a faint blush still tinging his cheeks.  "Is there any
way I can get something to eat?"

     "I can send down for food," Kima replied.
     
     Ranma looked around the room.  "Ain't you got a kitchen or
something in this place?  It's big enough for it."

     Kima gave him an offended look.  
     
     "You expect me to cook?" she asked flatly.

     He shook his head, lowering the book a little more as he
did.  "Nahh, that's okay.  You don't have to."

     "I never offered to," she replied crisply, standing up out
of the chair and walking to the door that led out of her
apartments.  "I will have food brought up."

     She opened the door that led into the hallway.  This early 
in the morning, no one else was about.  She whistled, soft and
high, and heard moments later the sound of small wings.

     Raising her arm, she presented a wrist, and the slight
weight of the dove settled down upon it, cooing softly and
regarding her with bright eyes.

     "Good morning, little sister," she said quietly.  "I have a
message for you to bear."

     The dove bobbed her head slightly, and took off down the
passage moments later.  Kima watched the blur of the small bird's
wings with an odd ache in her chest.

     When she turned, Ranma was behind her, his arms folded over
his chest, his expression slightly contemplative.  "You can talk
to them?"

     She shrugged.  "Just a little.  They understand what I want,
and we've learned how to understand them."

     "That's how that wizened little bastard controlled all those
crows, then?" Ranma asked.

     "Xande," Kima said disgustedly, suppressing a shudder at the
mention of the traitor's name.  "Not entirely.  He was always the
strongest at controlling birds, and he honed it over the years...
he could force those birds to kill themselves if he wanted."

     "He got away, didn't he?" Ranma asked quietly.  "I know
Helubor didn't, but he did, right?"

     Kima nodded silently.  She had not truly realized until now 
how much the thought frightened her.  Xande was still out there,
waiting.  

     Ranma sighed and dropped his hands to his sides.  "It really
sucks being unconscious for three days.  You miss too much 
stuff."

     He snorted.  "I just hope Tarou doesn't do anything stupid."
     
     Shaking his head, he slammed a fist into his palm, and for a
moment, an angry fear flashed across his face.  "If he puts Akane
in danger, I'll rip him apart."

     "I don't think he would," Kima said.  
     
     Ranma nodded slowly.  "I guess I don't think he would 
either..."

     He shrugged and turned around, gazing about the spacious
living room.  "This is a really nice place.  You the only one who
usually lives here?"

     A faint twinge of sadness went through her.  "It it my
family's chambers.  And yes, I live alone."

     "Isn't there a kitchen?"
     
     Kima frowned.  "A small one.  Why does it matter?"
     
     "I guess it just woulda been easier for me to cook something
than to go to all the trouble of having food sent up," he said.

     "It is what the kitchens are for," she replied.  "To provide
food for..."

     The words died in her throat.  To provide food for the
nobles, so they wouldn't have to cook for themselves.  An
unexpected sense of shame washed over her.

     Ranma tilted his head slightly and looked at her.  "You 
don't know how to cook, do you?"

     Kima's frown deepened.  "What do you care?"
     
     "I don't," he replied.  "You don't seem the domestic type
anyway."

     "I never really had the time to learn," she said.  Or, she
thought silently, the inclination.

     "Didn't your mother teach you or somethin'?"
     
     He said it so off-handedly that it somehow made it worse.
She fixed him for a long moment with an angry glare, until his
face showed the realization that he had made some grave error.

     "No," she said finally, in a cold voice.  "She was not 
around to do so for long."

     She regretted the words almost immediately, as soon as she
saw the stricken expression that passed across his face for a
moment, before he lowered his head and stared at the ground.

     "I'm sorry," he said finally.  "I didn't mean to..."
     
     Then he shut his mouth, turned, walked back to the table,
sat down, and opened the book again, burying his nose in it and
filling the room with the rustle of pages.

     Kima turned away from him and examined the door that led out
into the hallway intently.  She hated this confusion of emotions,
hated it with a passion.  Everything had been much simpler 
before.

     A soft knocking came at the door, and she pulled it open,
revealing a young girl dressed in rough clothing, wings folded
demurely behind her back as she knelt to present a tray.

     Kima bent down and took it.  Straightening, she looked down
into the slightly nervous face of the child and tried to smile.
"Thank you."

     The girl's eyes darted to the side, and her nervousness
increased.  After a moment, Kima realized that she was looking
past her, to Ranma.

     "You can go now," she said, nudging the door closed with her
hip and turning to see that Ranma had put the book down and had 
been staring past her to where the child had been.

     In silence, she brought the tray to the round table in the
centre of the room and put it down, then sat.  Ranma was still
looking past her, at the now closed door.

     "I saw her eyes," he said.  "She was scared of me."
     
     He seemed to lose something, slumping heavily back into the
chair.  "Can't blame her, I guess.  They must all be terrified of
me."

     Kima said nothing.  The presence of humans among her 
isolated people was not discussed; the new king had said it was
allowed, and so the people accepted.  But there was still an
undercurrent of fear in them that she could sense.

     Ranma closed his eyes, put a hand over them and bowed his
head.  "Damn it," he said softly, dropping a loose fist against
the carved arm of his chair with a dull thump.  "I thought about
it again."

     He laughed softly.  "Sometimes, you know, I can forget about
it for a little while, and then I almost feel normal, but then I
think about it, and I remember..."

     His voice trailed off.  He raised his head and opened his
eyes to look at her.  "Sorry.  I shouldn't..."

     He pounded his hand down on the table, making dishes rattle.
"God, I hate feeling sorry for myself."

     "What is done is done," Kima said quietly, staring at her
hands.  "You cannot change the past."

     "No," Ranma replied.  "But it doesn't mean I've gotta feel
good about it."

     She suppressed a sigh.  She had tried already to make him
see that what he had done was right.  If she had possessed the
power to strike down the traitors who had been shooting into the
crowds in the Hall of Speaking, she would have done it in an
instant, and never regretted it.  

     He had the power, and had used it, and she could see that it
was tearing him apart, just like killing Denkoko had been doing.
And she found, to her great surprise, that she wished it was not
so.

     She could rationalize it all she wanted, in the same way she
had at first.  He was somehow a necessary part of her people's
survival, and for that reason she could tolerate him.  But it was
not that anymore, she could not lie to herself.

     He was her friend, she realized with a strange wonder.  She
had fought beside him, had had her life saved by him, had perhaps
saved his, had suffered the loss of her wings because of him and
had somehow forgiven him of any blame as she had seen his grief
at his failure to heal the wound.  It hurt her to see his hurt, 
because he was her friend.  It had been that way for some time, 
since Saffron's death, even, but she had never seen it.

     She looked across to him, at his bowed head and sad eyes,
hesitated, and then spoke.  "My mother died when I was four.  
Childbirth is often difficult for the women of my people, and
mine left her very weak and susceptible to illness.  She might 
have lived much longer, if not for my birth."

     She breathed a soft sigh.  "My father never blamed me, but 
once I was old enough to understand how her pregnancy had
contributed to her death, I blamed myself for a long time,
until..."

     She shut her mouth, realizing she was coming dangerously
close to saying too much, to giving up feelings and memories 
that she did not want to share.  "He never remarried.  He was 
expected to, to produce a male heir, but he didn't."

     "Kima..." he said quietly.  
     
     "Never mind," she said suddenly, surprised at her own
vehemence.  "It doesn't matter.  I shouldn't have told you."

     Ranma looked as if he wanted to say something, and then
silently picked up a bowl of rice and a pair of chopsticks from
the tray, and began to shovel food into his mouth, making a clear
intention of looking awa