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. 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?" 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. 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. 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. (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." 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.