Ranma Monogatari
by Bridget Engman

based on characters created by Rumiko Takahashi
and on the Heian works "Genji Monogatari" and "Torikaebaya
Monogatari," plus whatever else I felt like using.

PART 2

     Ranma awoke with a killer headache; this was, of course, not
unusual.  The fact that it was almost noon when he awoke *was*
unusual.  Groggily he wondered why his father hadn't woken him up
for training at dawn, and whether there was likely to be any of
Kasumi's miso soup left in the fridge.  Then he came to full
consciousness and stared in shock at the room he was in.  It was
approximately the same size and shape as his room at the Tendo
Dojo, but there the similarity ended.  The glass window was gone,
and in its place was a strange set of shutters.  The room was
decorated with silky curtains and folding screens that surprised
him with their brightness -- he had never before seen a painted
screen that wasn't tarnished and faded with age.  Scattered about
on the floor were a number of colorful robes; several more robes
hung on a frame over a brazier and seemed to be steaming --
tendrils of sweet-smelling smoke curled lazily out of their
folds, and Ranma sneezed.
     At the sound, the door slid open to reveal a simply-dressed
man carrying a tray of food.  Ranma's stomach growled
frantically, and he quickly decided to save his questions until
after he'd eaten.
     While Ranma tore into the rice gruel, the man who had
brought it bustled around the room gathering up the scattered
clothing and putting things away in the closets.  Ranma eyed him
curiously over the edge of the green ceramic bowl.  He was
perhaps in his thirties, with a slight pot-belly that his dark
robes and _hakama_ were arranged to emphasize and a round face
that seemed absurdly childlike and merry above the somber
clothing.  From his actions he seemed to be some kind of servant,
though it baffled Ranma why the man would be waiting on *him*. 
Perhaps someone was playing a practical joke -- but Ranma
couldn't think of anyone who would go to all this trouble for a
joke.  To kill him, yes; for laughs, no. (1)  For that matter,
the only person he knew with the cunning to set up a ruse this
complex -- for the situation seemed authentic in every detail (2)
-- was Nabiki, and he could see no way she could possibly make a
profit from this.
     Quickly Ranma ran through his most recent memories.  Trouble
in school: normal.  Hit by Akane: normal.  Wake up next to Akane:
not quite normal, but plausible.  Hit by Akane: normal.  Scratch
that.  Hit by pregnant Akane with long hair: not normal.
     Ranma was well known for his mastery of logic.  Obviously
something was not normal.
     His pause for thought had evidently convinced the servant
that he was, if not finished, at least slowing down (3).  The man
took one of the fumigated robes off the frame and approached
Ranma with it, flapping the sleeves ostentatiously.
     "Chunagon, are you ready to dress now?" (4)
     Ranma eyed the robe warily.  It reeked of the incense that
still burned in the corner, and he fought back the urge to sneeze
again.  His first reaction was that there was no way he was going
to wear that, not if he had to go naked.  Then again, the last
thing he wanted to be was conspicuous.  To buy time, he stood and
strolled around the room.  There was no sign of the girl from the
night before -- had he dreamt her?  Or maybe he was just dreaming
now... Well, even if he was, that was a completely useless train
of thought; whether dream or reality, he had to deal with the
situation in some way.  The best he could figure, if he wasn't
dreaming, he had either been kidnapped by some nut of a martial
artist, or he had traveled in time.  Since no one (other than the
mysterious Aoi) had as yet tried to attack or marry him, and this
man acted as if he knew him well, he suspected the latter, crazy
as it sounded. (5)  He figured from the clothes that he was right
around the turn of the millenium, give or take a few centuries. 
It occurred to him that maybe he should have paid more attention
in History class, but he quickly dismissed that idea as not
fitting his particular idiom. <Like I could have guessed
something weird like this would happen to me anyway...> Well,
given that he seemed to be in some authority here, he quickly
decided that the best course open to him was to act arrogant and
pretend he knew what the heck was going on, at least until he
figured out exactly what that was.  Luckily, arrogance was just a
step up from self-confidence, and *that* was something Ranma had
in spades. (6)
     So -- the first step, he concluded, was to subtly grill
this... valet? manservant? whatever he was... about his life. 
Unfortunately, Ranma's usual modus operandi being about as subtle
as a hippo doing the tea ceremony, his thought process -- which
had already gone on much longer than was quite normal for him --
ground to a halt.  How exactly *did* you convince someone to tell
you all about yourself without seeming crazy?
     He needed to clear his head.  He also needed to clear his
lungs of that cloying incense.  The best way he could do both of
those was to practice kempo...
     "My lord Ranma...?"  the man interrupted his thoughts. 
Ranma realized he had been staring out the window for some time,
and hastily tried to allay the man's suspicions.  Not that the
servant looked suspicious; actually he looked confused, but it
was best to take preventive measures.  Ranma turned with an
overly bright smile.
     "Yes?... uh, wait.  What was the question?" he brilliantly
began, mentally kicking himself as soon as the words came out. 
Strangely, the man didn't look surprised at this; in fact, if
anything, he acted as if this were completely normal.
     "I asked if you wished to get dressed, Chunagon.  However,
perhaps I should take a look at your head first.  Did your wife
hit you again last night?"
     <Wife?  Again?>  Ranma's eyes glazed over as memories of the
previous night and an image of Ak... Aoi, her long hair flying
out as she smashed him into the floor, flooded his brain. <Oboy. 
I guess she doesn't just *look* like Akane, she's also just as
violent... For that matter, this guy called me "Lord Ranma."  So
at least I've got the same name... I wonder what else is the
same?>
     The servant approached him tentatively, a worried frown
creasing his smooth brow.
     "My lord?  Do you at least remember me, your faithful
servant Koremitsu?"  Ranma panicked at having to answer another
question, until he realized something: he now knew the man's
name.  A moment later, he realized something even more important:
he now had an excuse.
     "That's it!... uh, that's right, Koremitsu.  I have no
memory of my life.  In fact, I didn't even know your name until
you just told me..." He put his hand behind his head and laughed
heartily, if a shade hysterically.
     Koremitsu's round face lit up, and he joined in the
laughter.
     "Ah, Lord Ranma!  You have such a subtle and ironic wit!  Of
course you would not have lost your memory merely from being hit
on the head by your wife.  How silly of me to suggest such a
thing!"  Ranma's laughter died out, and he stared at Koremitsu in
disbelief, seeing his hopes for a quick resolution going down the
drain.  He really needed to hit something.
     "Uh, yeah, sure.  Anyhow, could I just go to the dojo now?" 
Koremitsu stared at him blankly.  "The dojo?... the practice
room?"  Still no response.  "Look, is there someplace I go to
practice?"  Recognition dawned on the servant's face.
     "Oh, you wish to go practice your art!  Why, naturally you
would wish to go there, it being the morning and all."  Ranma
nodded in relief.  At least he practiced martial arts, whoever he
was.  "And how splendid of you, doing your duty even after a blow
to the head!  Now, if you'll but allow me...?"
     Ranma had forgotten about the clothes.  The robe Koremitsu
held seemed to have aired out a bit, but the rest were still
smoking in the corner.  "Isn't there something else I can wear?"
he asked dubiously.  Koremitsu clicked his tongue in disapproval.
     "Now, Chunagon, this is the ensemble your wife prepared for
you yesterday.  It would insult her terribly if you were to
refuse it, and though I know this in itself does not disturb you,
might I suggest that another blow to the head this soon might
prevent you from going to court tomorrow, and therefore you
should simply wear this robe, which is, in addition to being a
gift from the Empress, already infused with your favorite
fragrance."  He waggled the sleeves invitingly and stepped
closer.
     <My *favorite*?  Boy, whoever I am, I have *no* taste.> 
Resigning himself to the inevitable, Ranma reached out to grab
the robe.  Koremitsu's eyes widened, and he pulled the robe back
a few inches before Ranma could take hold of it.
     "My lord, you need not dress yourself.  I will take care of
it, as I always do."  Grimacing, Ranma held out his arms and
allowed himself to be dressed, breathing as shallowly as
possible.  It felt incredibly strange to be standing still while
someone else put clothes on him, although Ranma soon realized
that this was a blessing, since he wasn't sure how the robes were
supposed to be worn in any case.  After what seemed like an
endless number of garments had been retrieved and precisely
arranged, Koremitsu finally brought out a circular mirror of
polished metal and tilted it in its frame so that Ranma could see
himself.
     What shocked Ranma was not the fact that the face reflected
in the mirror was indeed his own.  Nor was it the absurd
spectacle of himself in stiffened ankle-length bloomers and silk
robes. (7)  It was his hair.  Where was his braid?  His hair was
loose and tangled about his shoulders, and seemed to have the
remnants of some sort of slicked-back style.  Koremitsu's face
loomed over his shoulder in the mirror, and he spun around
belligerently.
     "Hey!  Don't touch the hair!"  He snatched the comb out of
the servant's hand and proceeded to reconstruct his usual rakish
style while Koremitsu looked on in horror.  When he tied off the
braid with a piece of thred, he turned and glared at the servant. 
"This is one thing I'm not bending on, got that?"  Koremitsu
didn't, but he had served Ranma for many years and was accustomed
to stranger things.  He heaved a long-suffering sigh and held out
Ranma's _eboshi_.
     "At least wear the hat!" he pleaded.  Ranma curled his lip,
but he allowed Koremitsu to put it on him.  He felt silly, but
just having his hair braided was oddly comforting.  He felt even
better as soon as they had left the room to go to the dojo,
although the clothes were strange to walk in.  Briefly he
wondered how the heck he was going to practice dressed up like
that, but he blithely figured he could shuck most of them when he
got started and make Koremitsu put them on again.  There were
benefits to servants, after all.
     After an absurdly long walk along shuttered walkways,
Koremitsu slid open a door to reveal a large room lined with
shelves.  Some of them were piled with scrolls; others held
stacks of colored paper and brushes.  Ranma narrowed his eyes. 
Although the room was certainly large enough to run through kata,
it didn't look like that was its main purpose.
     "Hey, I thought we were going to my practice room!" he
accused, whirling on Koremitsu.  The servant looked confused once
again.
     "But my lord, this *is* your practice room.  This is where
you practice the fine art of _musabetsu kakutou waka_!"  Ranma
listened in disbelief.
     <Anything-Goes Martial Arts... *Poetry*?> (8)
     Koremitsu opened a Chinese writing box and set out writing
utensils, taking a selection of papers off the shelves.  Ranma
was still mulling over the idea of martial arts literature of any
form.  Did he write the poetry on people's bodies in bruises?  Or
maybe arrange unconscious people in the shapes of kana?  Perhaps
he merely inspired poetry with his manly physique, not that
anyone could see it through the clothes he had on... He noticed
some samples of writing on another shelf and wandered over to
take a look at them.
     Ranma was far from an expert on poetry.  In fact, he was
about as unexpert as the Japanese school system would allow him
to be.  Which is to say he had written exactly one poem in every
year of school, usually about fighting.  Okay, always about
fighting.  This didn't leave him with much of a foundation for
criticizing poetry.  Luckily, he didn't generally find any need
to even read poetry, much less assess it, so this had never
caused him any problems.
     Nor did his lack of specific poetic knowledge cause him any
problems now.  It didn't take an expert to notice the one thing
all the poems stacked on the shelves had in common.
     They all stank.  Worse even than the incense of the clothes
he was wearing.  Verbs were conjugated impossibly, the syllables
were almost always miscounted, and the presumptive case had been
used far too often. (9)  The one he had written in first grade
was better than these, and it had been given a C- by the teacher. 
Ranma shook his head in disgust, placing the last of the poems on
the shelf and turning to Koremitsu, who held out a brush to him.
     "Are you inspired to compose a poem to the lady Aoi now?"
     "To that kawaiku..."  Ranma stopped himself.  Writing a poem
to a lady after spending the night with her?  That implied that
he... and she... His mind blanked out at the thought of what he
and his *wife* might have done the night before.  Besides the
head-smashing thing.  Whatever it was, he hadn't even been there
for it!  How was he supposed to write a poem to a woman he didn't
actually know, despite her uncanny resemblance to Akane, about
something he hadn't even experienced?  His mind couldn't deal
with this on top of everything else, so he changed the subject.
     "So, uh, just pretending I *had* lost my memory, why don't
you tell me where the martial arts part fits in?"  Koremitsu
stood and casually walked over to the other side of the room,
almost as if expecting an explosion.  Ranma narrowed his eyes. 
"Come on, just say it."
     "Well," Koremitsu began hesitantly, "on occasion you present
your poems at court, you know."  Ranma nodded.
     "Go on."
     "Well, you know what happens next."
     "Let's pretend I don't."
     "Well, the reception is... not always favorable."
     <That's a big surprise!> Ranma thought sarcastically. "And?"
     "And..."  Koremitsu heaved a deep breath before saying in a
rush, "And so you end up getting in a lot of fights defending
your poetry.  Which you know *I* find enchantingly original." 
Koremitsu bowed obsequiously, apparently hoping to escape Ranma's
wrath.  Which didn't exist, of course, but Ranma did note in the
corner of his mind that wasn't grappling with the idea of being a
poet that he was *expected* to get angry.  But then, since he
hadn't actually written the poetry that was being insulted, he
wasn't too offended.  He moved back to the matter at hand.
     "And now I have to write a poem to my" -- he winced slightly
-- "wife."
     "Well, you probably should.  Remember your head."
     Ranma sighed and took off his _eboshi_.  He was going to be
there a while.

END PART 2

NOTES

(1) A demon in my head told me to write "people got their kicks
by kicking him, not tricking him," but I squashed it before it
could do any more damage.

(2) Though this fanfic may not be... :)

(3) (a) Does Ranma ever *really* finish eating?

    (b) Obviously the concept of Ranma actually having stopped to
think never occurred to the servant.  He knows him well.

(4) I know I'm ignoring the language barrier, but work with me
here!  If I can send Ranma back in time, I can make him speak
classical Japanese, too.  Besides, it is important, so I'll come
back to it later.  Oh, and Chunagon means something like Middle
Counsellor.

(5) But then again, this is the Ranmaverse

(6) But not in trump :)

(7) (a) _sashinuki_ (worn over _ooguchi_) and _noushi_,
respectively.  Most of the details I use are from the Kodansha
Encyclopedia of Japan, which is embarrassingly technical about
these things.

    (b) "They're very tasteful, if you like bloomers on guys..."
--Rizzo the Rat, Muppets Tonight!  Garth Brooks episode

(8) _waka_ are poems with 31 syllables in a pattern of 5-7-5-7-7,
but we'll see plenty of these in the rest of the 'fic.

(9) This is a bit of an in-joke.  Don't sweat it.