Earlier this year, I was asked by Paul Gallegos to participate in a
project with a number of talented writers.  The point of the project was to
write preludes, histories of certain characters or families.  We were asked to
keep the results between ourselves until the results were released.  Well,
apparently my story, the fourth of the series, has now been released, so I'm
posting it here for possible feedback.  If you want to read any of the other
entires in this series, the web page is:
http://www.tass.org/~ranma/preludes.html

    Note:  This story is unrelated to my Shadow Chronicles continuity ... if
you're interested in the next chapter of Doors, it probably won't be finished
until next week (it's another long one).

    That's it.  Hope you enjoy the story.


                            *  *  *  *  *

                      The Ranma Preludes: Kunou
                          by Mark MacKinnon

                               LESSONS


     Tatewaki Kunou was afraid.
     He knew he wasn't supposed to be.  His father was always
telling him that he had to be a man, and that meant always being brave
and strong.  But Tatewaki wasn't a man.  He was a seven year old
boy, and he didn't like this place.  No, he didn't like it at all.
     Still, he tried to at least look brave.  Kodachi clung to his
hand, showing no qualms about showing her nervousness.  Her dark
eyes were huge in her pale delicate face as she watched the controlled
chaos that went on around them.  People scurried to and fro, machines
squealed and pinged and beeped, and distantly a siren wailed.
     And of course, there was their father.
     He was talking to a man wearing a white coat over his casual
clothes, talking very loudly actually.  People were starting to notice,
and Tatewaki wished he could leave this place.  But he knew he
couldn't.  Mother was here, for one thing.  She had to stay here for a
while, and they had to come here if they wanted to see her.
     "So what can you do?" his father asked angrily.  The other
man just stared in a way that made Tatewaki's stomach hurt.
     "Sir, it's as I've told you, there is nothing that can be done
now."  Tatewaki didn't know why he had to say that again.  He'd said
it four times already, but father couldn't seem to understand.
Tatewaki wondered at the fact that he could understand something
father couldn't.  That thought didn't give him any comfort.  Far from it,
it made him even more scared.
     "I don't think you understand."  An ugly tone entered his
father's voice, uglier than the anger that had been there before.  This
was desperation tinged with denial.  "I have money.  As much as you
need.  You just do what you have to, you just help her."  The doctor
stared at Tatewaki's father again in that horribly quiet, sorry way, and
that seemed to infuriate the other man.
     "I can pay!" he shouted.  "As much as you need!  What's the
matter with you, man?  Are you a doctor or aren't you?"
     "Mr. Kunou ..."
     "If you can't help her, then I want to talk to someone who
can!  Now, do you hear?"  Kodachi was starting to tremble, her hand
feeling tiny and frail in his, and he wished desperately for this to stop.
But the man in the white coat kept talking in his low, calm voice, and
his father kept shouting, waving his arms and making a scene.  Finally,
his father turned away from the other man and seemed to register their
presence for the first time.
     "Come on," he said roughly, striding down the bright tiled hall.
Tatewaki hurried after, pulling Kodachi along.
     "Are we going to see Mother?" he asked, hating how squeaky
his voice sounded.  His father didn't answer for a moment.
     "No," he said at last.  "Not today.  Perhaps tomorrow."
Tatewaki tried hard to hide his disappointment.  Father had brought
them so they could see Mother, and now, after waiting in this scary
place for so long, they weren't even going to get to see her.  It wasn't
fair.  It just wasn't.  He didn't complain aloud, though.  He knew
better.
     Father hated children who complained.
     "My poem is next week," Kodachi said suddenly.  She'd been
uncharacteristically quiet the whole time, and Father looked surprised,
as if he'd forgotten she was there.
     "What?" he asked, sounding distracted.
     "My poem," she repeated, her delicate features set in a serious
mask.  "The whole class had to write one, and the parents are
supposed to come hear us read them.  Mother was going to come.
She said so."  She turned her dark eyes slowly from Tatewaki to her
father, her terribly serious demeanour so unlike her usual exuberance
that it was a little unsettling.
     "Did she?" Father asked.  Tatewaki frowned.  Kodachi
shouldn't be talking to father about something like this.  This was
Mother business, not Father business.  But Kodachi just nodded
solemnly.
     "Uh-huh," she said.  Father rubbed his chin with his palm,
glancing towards the double doors at the end of the hall.
     "Well, then, she'll be there," he said simply.  A spark of
animation appeared in Kodachi's eyes.
     "Really?" she asked.  "Do you promise?"  Father grimaced.
     "Yes, I promise," he said gruffly.  "Don't worry about it.  Ah,
good."  He caught sight of someone and waved.  Then he turned to
the children, not noticing Kodachi's sudden change of mood.
Tatewaki noticed, though.  Her tiny hand squeezed his, and she began
to shuffle her feet in a manner much more like her usual self.
Tatewaki wanted to be glad, but somehow he wasn't.
     "Here's Ryu," Father said as the driver came up the hall.
"He'll take you home.  The servants will see to everything.  Tatewaki,
look after your sister."
     "Yes, Father."  The big driver nodded to Father, and
Tatewaki started to follow him away, pulling Kodachi lightly along.
     "Bye-bye, Father!" Kodachi called.  Their father just walked
away, his head down, not acknowledging her.  She looked troubled
for a moment, then turned her attention back to her brother.
     "Did you hear?" she asked, barely managing to mute her
excitement.  "Mother's going to come to my school after all!"  He'd
thought he would be glad to see the excitement in her face, but he
wasn't.
     "Well, maybe," was all he could say.  She scowled, her mouth
twisting petulantly.
     "Not maybe!" she snapped.  "She's coming!  Father
promised!"  Tatewaki saw Ryu's face when she said that.  The
expression there made his stomach hurt again.
     He didn't argue with her any further.

================================

     Tatewaki was only seven, and seven was too young to try to
understand a lot of the subtleties in the relationships between men and
women.  His father would have told him that such understanding didn't
come easily at any age, had he been able.
     But he wasn't.  Akira Kunou understood certain things about
himself on a level that was somewhat akin to instinct.  He understood
them, but couldn't articulate them, and so he didn't try.
     He wasn't an easy man to like, he knew that about himself at
least.  Even growing up wealthy, he hadn't managed to achieve the
easy nature that many of his peers possessed.  He remained
withdrawn, self-reliant.  And when others believed him instead to be
aloof and prickly, he never troubled to correct them.  As he grew, he
began to keep others at a distance almost instinctively, never stopping
to think about it.  He made few friends, and told himself that was the
way he preferred it.
     And then, of course, just when he'd become accustomed to
his solitude, she'd happened along.
     It was a stupid, romantic notion, really.  Oh, sure, he'd
fantasized through high school that some girl would come along who
would look past his outer shell, who would see the boy inside and
gently coax him out.  But such fantasies were simply comforts for rainy
days, alone in the dim recesses of his rooms, never to be admitted to
anyone.  They were guilty pleasures for a boy who wouldn't admit,
even to himself, that he was lonely.
     But the boy became a young man, and one day while at
university he'd knocked over a pretty girl while rushing to a class.
     Fate.  She's capricious even when she's on your side.  And cruel
when she's against you, but that was for the end of their story, not the
beginning.
     Her name, as it turned out, was Yukio.  He'd been so attracted to
her that he'd become frightened, because after so long he didn't want
to get his hopes up.  It would hurt all the more if he dared to hope,
only to be let down in the end.  So he'd resolved not to acknowledge
his attraction to her, so she would have no power over him.
     Fat lot of good that resolution ended up doing him.
     It turned out that they shared a class, and so they got to
talking.  And after class one night, a group of students went out for a
beer.  She asked him along.  Instead of saying no, as he would have
only days before, he said yes.
     After all, it was just talking.  And he had nothing else to do.
And if his heart raced whenever she smiled, well, that wasn't his fault.
His resolution had been made, after all.  He wasn't like other guys, to
be ruled by his heart.
     He was above all that.
     Really.  Even though it became harder to remember that fact
as time wore on.
     Yukio was the type of girl that got along with everybody, and
she was strangely unaffected by his moods.  She could jolly him, draw
him out, make him smile, when no one else could.  Or, more
accurately, when no one else cared to.  She would invite him along
whenever the group went out, and he slowly became a default
member.
     He began to look forward to seeing her.  He lied constantly to
himself about that fact, even though said lies were getting pretty
damned transparent.  He felt the need to keep up the charade that
he didn't need her, that if she never wanted to be more than his friend,
it wouldn't matter.
     Still, things advanced.  They began to go places alone, just the
two of them.  One night, lying under a cherry tree while the blossoms
fell around them like fragrant pink rain, drunk on beer and youth,
they'd talked long into the night.  He'd told her things that he'd thought
he would never tell anyone, secret wistful things.  And he told her just
because she asked.
     No one had ever asked before.
     And at the end of that night, he'd leaned over to kiss her, as
natural as could be, as if his heart wasn't pounding fit to burst.
     And she'd let him.
     He was in love.  But more importantly, as far as he was
concerned, someone was in love WITH HIM.
     And it was glorious.  Oh, perhaps not like he'd fantasized as a
teenager, but all the better for being real.  He didn't change magically,
like a butterfly emerging from its dull gray cocoon, but his sharp edges
did soften a bit.  And, after a decent courtship, he'd asked her to
marry him.
     She had.  And they had a good life, with his family money,
living on the estate.  She bore two children, a son and a daughter, and
if she was much better with the children than he was, well, fine.  He
still liked them, even if he was often unsure of how to treat them.
Yukio was always there to smooth things over with a joke or a teasing
remark.
     And she always would be there.
     Always.
     Being who he was, he couldn't tell the doctors, of course.  He
couldn't tell them that he needed her.  He couldn't look into their
professionally sympathetic eyes and tell them that.  He couldn't say
that he'd been alone before her, all alone, and that without her his
spirit would shrivel up and die.  He couldn't tell them that she was the
best thing in his life and always would be.
     But he tried to make them understand.  He tried to ensure that
they knew that this woman was important, and couldn't be allowed to
die just because of some disease.
     After all, they cured diseases, didn't they?  Wasn't that what
hospitals were for?  And he had money.  He had all the money they
could ask for, all the money they could need, if only they would save
her.
     They could have it all, the bastards, if they would only save
her.
     But they kept insisting that he didn't understand, that nothing
could be done, that it was only a matter of time.
     Bastards.  THEY were the ones who didn't understand.  How
could she die?  How could the girl who'd sat under the cherry trees
with him, half drunk and smelling of blossoms and musk and cheap
beer, die?  How could the girl who'd kissed him in the moonlight be
lying wasted and pale in that bed with tubes in her arms and in her
nose and looking so frail?
     That wasn't the way it was supposed to be.  He'd finally
opened his heart to someone.  She was supposed to save him.  They
were supposed to grow old together  Why couldn't they understand
that?
     If he seemed selfish in his denial, well, perhaps he was.  If his
driver, Ryu, heard Kodachi tell of her father's rash promise and felt a
brief surge of black anger towards his foolish employer, well, he was
certainly justified.  But Akira Kunou wasn't trying to hurt anyone, if
that counts for anything.  He just didn't know how to deal with what
was coming, and so he fell back on his old habit of denying his feelings
even when he knew it was a lie.
     He denied that he would lose her.
     Right up until the very end.

================================

     Tatewaki hated being seven.
     Everyone kept things from him.  They talked in hushed voices
behind his back, but not one of them would tell him what was
happening.
     He remembered the way Ryu had looked when he'd heard
Kodachi talk about Father's promise.  That look had spoken to
something dark in Tatewaki's soul.  Ryu knew something, something
that they ALL knew.  Something that was being kept from the
children.  Tatewaki couldn't articulate it, but he knew that there was
something awful going on with his mother, and no matter how many
times he asked nobody would tell him the truth.
     Because he was only seven.  Because he was too small, too young.
     He ran into the house, his head down and arms pumping,
barrelling past the startled housekeeper, trying to keep his bottled rage
from escaping.  He ran to the dojo, where Father kept his bokken.
He wasn't allowed to touch any of Father's practice equipment, but
this once he ignored that rule.  He hefted one of the bokken in his
small hands.  It was heavier than he'd thought it would be.
     He swung it over his head, feeling his impotent rage churning,
seeking escape.  He brandished the weapon fiercely, feeling a strange
heat suffuse his body.
     If he was strong, they wouldn't keep the truth from him.  They
wouldn't talk about those secret things all the time, making him afraid
for his mother who looked so small in that bed, who couldn't even sit
up anymore.
     He wished he was strong.  If he was strong, he would take this
bokken and go out there and make them tell the truth.  Then they'd all
be sorry.
     If he was only strong.
     I will be, he promised silently, cradling the bokken in his hands
reverentially.  One day I'll be strong, and then I'll punish anyone who
tries to keep me from what I want.
     One day.

================================

     The atmosphere around the house was strained for the next
couple of days.  For Tatewaki, it was all the worse because he knew
that something was happening, and that nobody would tell him the
truth.  All the servants got a funny look in their eyes every time he
mentioned wanting to see his mother, or wondered aloud when she
would be coming home.
     Tatewaki was beginning to believe that, for some reason, his
mother might not be coming home.  Ever.  That thought was so huge,
so monstrous, that he tried not to have it.  The harder he tried, though,
the larger it loomed.  He lay awake nights, staring at the shadows cast
on his ceiling, trying to remember what life had been like only a few
short weeks before.  He tried to remember the sound of his mother's
laughter, or the way she smelled when she and father went out, or the
way her lips felt gently brushing his forehead as she kissed him
goodnight, the only concession he allowed since he'd decided he was
too big to be tucked in any more.
     The thought that all those things might be gone from his life
was just incomprehensible in his young experience.  And yet, the awful
dread continued to sit in the pit of his stomach, refusing to be banished
no matter how many times he told himself that everything would be all
right.
     The day after their father's discussion with the doctor, they got
to see their mother.  She looked terribly thin, but she smiled for them
and spoke in a paper-thin voice.  They couldn't stay long because she
was so tired, but as he ushered them out their father told them
brusquely that perhaps the next time she would be feeling better.
     There was to be no next time.

================================

     Two days later, the news came.  It was no great surprise, of
course.  Ryu came to the house to pick up his wife Akemi, who was
the housekeeper.  Ryu simply hadn't felt up to dealing with what was
to come alone, and together they headed to school to pick up the
children.
     Akemi sympathized with her husband.  She tried to conceal her
anger as they arrived at the school.   This was something that the
children's father should have been doing.  They shouldn't have to hear
news like this from family employees. It just wasn't right.
     Unfortunately, their employer was currently a basket case.  Ryu
had left him sitting next to his late wife's bed, still holding her hand and
staring blankly into space.
     She'd been livid when Ryu had told her of the elder Kunou's
rash promise to his daughter only days before.  How could that man
have made such a promise when he knew his wife was dying?  But
now, hearing from Ryu about Akira Kunou's fragile mental state, she
began to wonder if maybe he hadn't actually believed that promise
himself.
     If that was so, she felt sorry for the children.  It was entirely
possible that their father hadn't readied them for the inevitable
outcome of their mother's illness.  They were so young, how would
they ever be able to understand?
     Still, they had to be told, and there was no one else.  She and Ryu
collected Tatewaki and Kodachi from their classes after speaking with
the principal.  Outside, she sat both children down and began to speak
to them, using her best maternal tone.  She spoke of how their mother
loved them very much, and how she would have wanted them to be
brave.  She talked about how their dear mother wasn't in pain any
longer, and how she was with all her ancestors.
     The children stared at her with their large, dark eyes as she
talked, and she thought of her own two children, slightly older than
these two.  She hoped someone would have been as kind with them
had something happened to her.
     "When is she coming back?" Kodachi asked solemnly.
Akemi blinked.
     "What, dear?"
     "Mother.  When is she coming back?  She has to come to
school to hear me read my poem."  Akemi looked into those beautiful
dark eyes, so much like the girl's mother's eyes had been.  She
realized that during her entire speech, she hadn't used the word death
once.  She was beginning to suspect that nobody had mentioned that
particular word to these children in all the time since their mother had
abruptly fallen ill.
     That might have seemed like a mercy, but she was coming to
find out that it was no such thing.  And she stifled a sudden sense of
resentment at the discovery that she was the one to end up with the
responsibility that should have been their father's.
     "Dear, she's not going to be able to come," she said quietly.
Kodachi's eyes smouldered, and she stamped her foot.
     "Yes she is!" she cried angrily.  The girl rarely lost her temper,
but when she did it was a sight to behold.  "She is coming, Father
promised me!  Don't you dare say she's not!"  Taken aback, Akemi
decided not to press the issue just then.  She glanced back at Ryu,
who gave her a sad, sympathetic smile.  Sighing, she began to herd the
children into the car.
     "Are we going to see mother?" Tatewaki asked.  She shook
her head.
     "No, dear.  We're taking you home now."  Tatewaki, at least,
seemed to understand the implications of what was happening.  He
looked up at her, his face drawn and miserable looking.
     "Will Father be there?"  She took a deep breath.
     "I hope so," she sighed.  "I dearly hope so."

================================

     Kodachi didn't believe at first.
     She didn't see any reason to.  People kept saying that her
mother had to go away and wasn't coming back, but she thought they
were just being stupid.  After all, Mother WOULD be back.  Kodachi
was going to read in front of her whole entire class, and Mother would
be there.  She knew that, because Father had promised her, and
didn't he always say that promises had to be kept?
     Didn't he?
     So she'd watched silently as the box went into the ground, not
really comprehending what it all meant.  That wasn't her mother in
there, that wasn't really anybody at all, just some big doll.  She didn't
see why she had to stand around with all those people and watch a big
doll being put in the ground.
     And if her heart started to pound when the dirt was thrown in
the hole, why she just had to remember her father's promise.  Even
though they made her stay home from school for a couple of days, she
didn't fret.  She'd be going to school on the day that mattered, and her
mother would be there to see her.  Her poem would be the best one,
and her mother would smile and clap and she would be PROUD.
Kodachi would make her mother PROUD of her, and everyone
would see that she was a good girl.
     Everyone.
     So she stayed home for a couple of days, stubbornly ignoring
the muted sounds, her father's vacant stares, and the tentative
behaviour of the servants.  She acted as if nothing had changed.
     She never asked where her mother was during those days, or
why they never returned to the hospital.  Perhaps, at some level, she
believed that to ask flat out would have been to end all hope.
Whatever the case, she thought only of the promise that had been
made.  Her mother was going to come to her school to see her read in
front of everybody, and that was that.  That stubborn belief became
her mantra through the tense days that followed.
     At last the day arrived.  She rose early, dressing and shoving
her things into her knapsack in a rush.  She felt anxious, but that was
just nervousness about reading in front of the class.  Yes, that was all.
Just that and nothing more.
     Tatewaki was standing outside her room, waiting for her.  That
fact made her heart leap with fear, but she quickly hid it.
     "You're not dressed for school, stupid," she said angrily.
"Hurry up."
     "We're not going to school," he said simply.  His hair was
spiky from bed, sticking up untidily, and he leaned against the wall, his
arms crossed.  He wouldn't look at her.
     "If you make me late, I'll be cross!" she warned him.  He
didn't move.  "Hurry up!"  Still nothing.  Finally, she went to push past
him.
     "She's not coming."  She froze at those quiet words, fear and
resentment rising quickly in her.
     "She is too!" she shouted, her little fists clenched at her side as
she stuck her chin out defiantly.  "You just shut up!  She is coming,
Father promised!"
     "You know she's not," he said tightly, still not meeting her
eyes.  "She can't come.  She's ..."
     "Shut UP!" she screamed.  She wouldn't let him say that
word.  If he didn't say it, if nobody said it, then it wasn't true, it could
still be all right ...
     "She's not coming to school!" he blurted, finally meeting her
eyes.  Had she not been so lost in her own fears, she would have
noticed the sheen of moisture there.  "Not today, not tomorrow, not
ever!  Don't you get it?"  She shook her head angrily, dropping her
knapsack so she could press her fists to her ears.  She wouldn't hear
this, he couldn't make her.
     "You're lying!  She IS coming, Father said, he said he said he
PROMISED!"  Hot tears spilled from her eyes, coursing down her
cheeks as she felt her last hope being dragged away from her.
     "She's dead and she's never coming back!" Tatewaki shouted
back, his voice breaking on the last words.  She stopped, stunned by
his words, by the finality of it all.
     "You're stupid," she whispered.  Then she gathered herself
and pushed him as hard as she could.
     "You're stupid and I hate you!  I HATE YOU!"  Sobbing, she
turned and ran down the hallway, blindly seeking some sanctuary,
some dark place to curl up and nurse her misery.
     She could deny the truth no longer, and she hated him for that.
As unfair as it was, she hated him for taking her last hope away.

================================

     Tatewaki slumped against the wall, holding back his tears
manfully.  After all, real men didn't cry.  Father hadn't cried, not once
that Tatewaki had seen.  It never occurred to him that tears might be
preferable to the vacant stares and emotional numbness that were all
his father had to give.
     So he stood against the wall, sick at heart, and forced himself
not to cry.
     He'd known that Kodachi was clinging to their father's foolish
promise.  He'd hoped that she would realize the truth on her own, but
somehow he'd known that wouldn't happen.  So he'd waited for her,
thinking only that he couldn't bear to let her go to school and stand up
in her class, looking around for a mother who would never come.
     He knew that he'd handled her poorly.  He cursed himself
inwardly as he replayed their conversation.  If only he had been
smarter, smoother, more controlled.  He longed for the words that
would have broken through to her gently, sparing her the pain she'd
hidden from these last few days, not caring that perhaps no such
words existed.
     He longed for the slivered words of a poet, delicate and
beautiful, able to convey any meaning with subtlety and grace.  Had he
possessed such words, surely Kodachi would have been comforted
instead of enraged.  With such words, the anguish in his heart could be
expunged, lanced like a foul boil instead of lingering, churning and
burning like acid to eat away at his soul.
     But all his words were awkward, clumsy.  They emerged from
his mouth to fall upon the expensive carpets like stupid rocks.  They
were brutal and ugly, and would not tell that which he wished to tell.
They couldn't express what he wanted expressed; he felt inarticulate,
bereft, trapped by his own inadequacies.
     And so he stood, feeling lost, knowing that even if he was now
suddenly able to articulate the confusion and loss and fear for the
future that tore at his vulnerable young heart, it wouldn't help.
     After all, there was no one left to tell.
     He was alone.

================================

     Always before her secret place had been a refuge from trouble
and hurt.  But there had never been any hurt before like this one, and
even her secret place held no charms against this.
     She huddled miserably in the small depression under the
sheltering branches of the huge shrub.  Her ragged blanket was there,
and she clutched it in her arms like a lifeline.
     Even if someone came this far back into the garden, they
wouldn't see her unless they knew just where to look.  Nobody would
find her here.  Nobody.
     She was curled up on her side, her cheek resting on her arm.
Her sleeve was soaked with tears, and she drew her knees up to her
chest instinctively, her body rocking in a gentle motion as her sobs
slowly subsided.
     It wasn't fair.  Mother was going to hear her read in front of
everybody.  She was going to be PROUD of her daughter.  She
would have brushed Kodachi's bangs back the way she always did
and told her how clever she was.  She would have smiled and called
her Clever Kodachi, the way she sometimes did when they were
alone.
     Now nobody would ever call her that again.  Mother wasn't
coming back.  Kodachi would never see her again.
     Not fair.  Not FAIR.
     She gazed out from her shelter, seeing the red roses her
mother had prized so much bobbing lightly in the breeze nearby.
     "I hate you," she whispered, disconsolate.  "I hate all of you."
     She stayed hidden there for hours.  The expression on Akemi's
face when she finally returned to the house was almost comical, but
she felt no urge to laugh, not even when she passed a mirror and saw
her dirt stained face and clothing, or the twigs and grass in her hair.
     She felt quite certain she would never laugh again.

================================

     Tatewaki was never absolutely certain why Father fired Ryu
and Akemi, but he had a pretty good idea.  In the weeks following his
mother's death, his father had retreated from the world, spending
hours in his study staring at an old photo album.  Tatewaki had crept in
one time after his father had drunk himself into a stupor to see what
held his father's attention so raptly.  The album turned out to be full of
pictures of his parent's honeymoon to Hawaii.  He marvelled over the
images of his father, dressed outrageously and laughing beside his
mother, who looked very young and pretty in a bikini top and
sarong-style skirt.
     He'd crouched on the floor of the study, surrounded by dark
wood and books, and tried to blink away the sudden sting of hot
unshed tears.  His mother had been so pretty, so happy.  How could
she be dead?
     But dead she was, and since there were no relatives from
either side of the family in the city, he and Kodachi had been left to
deal with it pretty much on their own.  That fact apparently offended
Akemi to the point where, despite being merely a servant, she had
finally been compelled to speak out to the elder Kunou.  Tatewaki had
heard their voices, slightly raised, in the study one evening, and though
he hadn't gotten close enough to hear exactly what was said, he heard
enough to get a pretty good idea.
     Akemi and Ryu were gone the next day.  That was too bad;
Tatewaki had liked them both well enough.  Still, it was a bad idea for
servants to try to get involved in family business.
     Their replacements didn't make the same mistake.
     And so time passed.  Their father, who'd never been terribly
comfortable with them in the first place, remained distant and
unreachable.  That quickly ceased to concern Tatewaki, who sought
refuge in other pursuits.  The precise forms of kendo and the beautiful
words of worthy poets filled the void inside him, and if he missed the
gentleness of his mother's presence, well, he was a big boy now.  And
big boys didn't cry because they couldn't have their mothers.
     They were strong and carried on.
     Of course, there was the matter of his sister.  Their mother had
always been able to defuse the girl's volatile temper with a word or a
gesture, had always been able to coax her from her dark moods with
instinctive ease.  But Kodachi's black moods in the wake of their
mother's death had given way to something different and disturbing.
She seemed at times almost manic, occasionally evidencing a malicious
glee.  Tatewaki simply couldn't comprehend the reasoning behind
many of the things she did, like the day he'd found her in the garden
painting some roses from their mother's bushes black.
     Or the matter of the alligator.
     He remembered vividly when she'd approached their father
about it one day.
     "Do you know what that pool out back needs?" she'd asked
brightly, with the gleam in her eye that Tatewaki had come to know
meant trouble.  Father had barely acknowledged her presence,
apparently engrossed in the newspaper.
     "An alligator," she'd continued, as if he'd expressed some
interest.
     "You must be joking," Tatewaki had said stiffly.  He'd taken to
trying to sound more adult and sophisticated in his speech, something
that invariably annoyed Kodachi.
     "Why don't we get one?" she'd asked their father, ignoring
Tatewaki completely.
     "What on earth for?" Father had asked absently.  She'd
leaned forward, her hands on her knees, eyes gleaming with some
fervid inner light.
     "They are marvellous predators," she'd breathed.  "And
completely soulless.  I saw one at the zoo on our field trip last week.  I
looked into its eyes and, do you know, there was nothing there?  No
doubts, no fears, nothing soft or weak at all.  I quite liked it."
Tatewaki hadn't known what to say.  Their father had simply rattled
the paper and muttered that he'd think about it.  Tatewaki had been
quite sure by his tone that he would do no such thing, and hoped
Kodachi would soon get over this odd infatuation.  Apparently
Kodachi had noticed as well.
     "Well, then, if you promise ..." she'd begun lightly.  Then she'd
paused quite deliberately.
     "But what am I saying?" she'd asked no one in particular.
"That would mean nothing at all."  So saying, she'd gotten up and left
the room.  That had left Tatewaki to see how his father's fingers
tightened on the newspaper, crinkling the edges.  The glimpse he'd
caught of his father's face told him that Kodachi had found a way to
strike through their father's defensive apathy.  Tatewaki had found
himself appalled at his sister's tactics even while sympathizing
somewhat with her frustration.
     Days later, she had her alligator.
     Midorigame, she called it.  She would crouch beside its
enclosure, watching with unnerving fascination as it fed.  Tatewaki felt
that such pursuits were unsuited to a young girl, but their father had
nothing to say on the subject, and he himself had no idea how to
approach his sister.  She was quite willful, and her inner turmoil made
him nervous.  He decided to content himself with watching over her
from afar in his role as big brother, bemusement his only reaction when
her interests turned to chemistry and gymnastics, among other things.
     She was truly a strange girl, but then, if he was honest, theirs
was turning into something of a strange family.
     And so time passed, and they all became wrapped up in their
own particular obsessions.

================================

     It had finally happened.
     Kodachi knew she shouldn't let it bother her, but it was just
the last straw.  She stomped through the house, still dressed in her
gymnastics leotard, until she found her idiot brother.  He was in the
library, of course, reading more of that stupid poetry that he thought
made him so sophisticated.  Kodachi thought that he just looked
pretentious, spouting things that nobody could understand, and wasn't
at all shy about telling him that.
     That wasn't her purpose today, however, no matter how fun it
was to taunt him.  She stalked angrily up to where he was sitting, a
musty old tome of obtuse poetry opened on his lap, and curtly
snapped the ribbon she'd forgotten to leave behind.
     "Well, he's gone," she said simply.  Her brother looked up, his
expression one of faint distaste and irritation.
     "Excuse me?" he asked.  "Who is gone?"
     "Our worthless father, that's who!" she snapped.  Tatewaki
shrugged and looked back down at his book.
     "And this is news?" he sniffed.  "He is always gone these days.
Even when he is here, he is not here, if you take my meaning."
     "Oh, well said, Lord Shakespeare," she sneered.  "You aren't
listening very well, though, brother DEAR.  I mean he's gone.  From
this house, from this city, from this COUNTRY ..."  That got his
attention, she saw with no little satisfaction.
     "Not Hawaii," he said, disbelief heavy in his voice.  She
crossed her arms under her budding breasts and nodded primly.
     "Oh, but where else?  At first it was pictures in his study, then
travel books left all about the place.  He began to talk of it constantly,
and now he's just gone, without a word.  He left the running of the
estate to his lawyers.  I just got off the phone with one of them."  She
scowled, remembering the conversation.  "Impudent little twit."
Tatewaki closed the book with a soft snap, tapping his free hand
against the heavy leather-bound cover.
     "Indeed," he said casually.  "The way you are carrying on,
sister, one would think you actually cared."  She glared at him and
began to pace.
     "Care?  Of course I don't care!  It isn't like the man was ever
much good to anybody even when he was here!" she growled.  "It's
just the irresponsibility of it all!  I will bet you he never even
considered how this would affect the estate, or us.  He just picked up
and left on a whim.  This is just like him, of course.  So ...
irresponsible!"
     "You've already said that," her brother pointed out calmly.
Vexed at his tone, she lashed out with her ribbon, flicking the book out
of his hand with deadly accuracy.  That finally got a rise out of him;
he stood and faced her, his brows drawn together angrily.
     "So he is gone," he said evenly, glaring down into her eyes
from only inches away.  "What of it?  I say he has been gone for a
very long time.  What difference will his physical absence make?"
     "It might inconvenience me, that's all," she sniffed, coiling her
ribbon easily with one hand.  He shook his head.
     "You will survive, I am certain," he told her.  "If it is money you are
worried about, I am sure you will still be able to do what you like,
including buying all of those esoteric chemicals and dangerous toys.  I
mean really, an alligator?  What on earth possessed you?"  She
smiled, twirling lightly on her toes, savouring her perfect balance.
     "But Midorigame is such a perfect creature.  So pure in form
and intent.  Don't you think?"
     "No.  And while we are on the subject, whatever possessed
you to cross-breed black roses?"
     "They suit me," she said simply.  "I find them ... soothing.  In
fact, I may make that my sobriquet.  Yes.  Kodachi Kunou, the Black
Rose.  It has quite a ring to it.  Don't you think?"  He just sighed.
     "If you say so.  I can see that the lawyers interrupted your
practice, sister.  Perhaps you should go have a bath."  She fought not
to let her irritation show.
     "Trying to get rid of me, brother dear?" she asked with
venomous sweetness.
     "Yes," he admitted.  She smiled and swept grandly to the door
of the library.
     "Well, before you get back to your dusty old books, think on
this.  If anyone finds out our eccentric father has run away from his life
to play in the sand, it may reflect poorly on your efforts to appear
lordly.  Don't you think?"  The expression on his face as she left was
priceless.
     And well worth the effort.

================================

     Unmindful of the burning of his fatigued muscles, Tatewaki
pushed through his practice, bringing the bokken up and down with
almost mechanical precision.  Usually, he could find some measure of
peace in his art, but today that peace eluded him.
     It was the laughter, of course.
     He still heard it, although he was quite alone.  A misstep broke
his careful rhythm, and he let loose a short, sharp exhalation that was
the only sign of anger he would allow himself.  He reached again for the
familiar patterns of motion, seeking to lose himself.  Hot sweat coursed
down his body in tiny rivulets, soaking into his worn cloth headband
and dripping off the point of his chin.
     That laughter.  It was maddening.
     They'd been gathered in group at the back of the class, those
girls, which was not unusual.  But the surreptitious way they'd glanced
at him, those conspiratorial winks and nudges, the hushed salacious
tones, had been at his expense.  He knew it.  He was certain of it.
     Word had gotten around, of course.  Only that his father had
gone suddenly, not where or why, but the rumours circulating were
even worse than the truth.  Still, he was determined to stay above such
vulgarities as rumour mongering and childish displays of giggling.
     Absolutely determined.
     He missed another step.
     The way those girls in his class had looked at him ...
     Pity.  Scorn.  Contempt.  Calculation.  As if there was
something wrong with him.
     Slash.  Step.  Block. Step step slash.
     Laughable, really.
     Slash.  Step.  Block.
     After all, there was nothing wrong with him.  There was ...
     He stumbled, nearly falling, then pushed himself back into the
flow of the pattern.
     There was something wrong with THEM.
     Yes.  Yes, of course.  His movements began to come more
easily, more naturally, as the realization washed over him like a cool
breeze, soothing his fevered thoughts and burning muscles alike.
     They were just being petty, because they knew that they were
... unworthy.  They were unworthy of his attentions.
     Step step slash.
     Ah, it was so clear now, and he felt his anger, unacknowledged
though it had been, falling away.  He felt lighter without it.  Stronger.
     Better.
     After all, it wasn't their fault.  They just didn't measure up, that
was all.  He was Tatewaki Kunou, not some common schoolboy, and
when he finally found a woman worthy of his attentions, she would
enjoy a bounty unknown to most of the fairer sex.  He would gift the
fortunate one with flowers, gifts, poetry and best of all, his undying
devotion.  He would ensure that she never wanted for any proof of his
love, which was only proper.
     Those other girls knew that they did not have his favour, and so
they felt lessened, bitter in their disappointment.  Understandable, now
that he saw it clearly.
     He resolved not to hold it against them.  They were simply not
of sufficient mettle and beauty to attract the attentions of Tatewaki
Kunou.  After all, with his witless father gone, he was the head of the
entire household.  Many responsibilities fell on his shoulders now.
     Such as looking out for his sister, a task made all the more
difficult by the fact that she seemed determined to constantly ignore his
good advice.
     Still, no matter.  Now his sweat-slicked body flowed through
the patterns like a coursing mountain stream, all resistance gone.  He
felt peaceful, at ease, and that was what mattered.  This was the way he
wanted to feel, the way he DESERVED to feel.  The troubling thoughts
that had driven him here to his art were easily banished by merely
perceiving the small-mindedness of those around him.
     He would find the one truly deserving of his attentions, and
show her how a proper courtship was conducted.  He would dazzle
those bitter, jealous girls with his displays of ardour.  And he would
watch out for the welfare of his rambunctious sister, whether she liked it
or not.
     After all, he was the head of the Kunou household now.  And
he owed his guidance and noble wisdom to those who were less than
he.

================================

     Kodachi sat on the floor of her room, feeling like all the air had
been let out of her.
     She couldn't believe she'd kept it.
     She'd been searching for a piece of paper that contained a
rather good paralysis gas formula.  She'd somehow managed to
misplace the damned thing, and she'd been tearing the place apart
trying to locate it.  The mere fact that her whim was being denied
drove her to an irrational rage, and she proceeded to plumb every
crevice and hidey-hole in her room, even though many of them hadn't
been used in some time and couldn't possibly be concealing her prize.
     And then she'd found it, and been taken utterly off guard.
     She stared at the creased, worn piece of paper that lay where
she'd dropped it.  Just the sight of it had lanced her temper, leaving
her feeling limp and dazed.  And vaguely ashamed.
     Her poem, the one she'd been planning to read in front of her
class that day.  Why had she kept it?  She had never read it, not for
anyone.  She'd folded it tightly, as if by making it small she could
somehow contain the pain it represented to her, bound it with a scrap
of pink ribbon, and then ...
     And then she'd apparently stuffed it in this box of childish
treasures and hidden the box in the recesses of this drawer, where it
had languished unnoticed for years.
     She just sat on the floor for a time, her legs splayed out
gracelessly, hands lying limply on her lap.
     Why had she kept such a thing?  Had she believed, way back
then, that there might someday be someone so special to her that she
would once again want to read it?  She couldn't believe that she'd
ever been so childishly optimistic.
     The heavy, creamy paper with its childish scrawling
represented some vulnerable part of her, and as she had the thought
she knew that she must immediately destroy it.  It was just a stupid
poem anyway, wasn't it?
     But she didn't move.  Could it be possible that she, Kodachi
Kunou, the Black Rose, still entertained such girlish fantasies as finding
a shining true love who would wish to know her true heart?  She tried
to summon some of her archness, her temper, to protect her from this
little scrap of the past, but for once her nature failed her.
     Such a thing is a terrible risk, she told herself.  People resent
someone who disdains their stupid rules, and would surely seek to tear
such a person down.  I simply can't afford such a vulnerability.
     I simply can't.
     Slowly, almost reverently, she reached out, picking up the
sheet of paper and cradling it in her hands.  She fancied that it
possessed some profound weight beyond the physical, even as she
told herself that was a stupid thing to think.  It crinkled intimately as
she folded it along the worn creases, averting her eyes so as not to see
the words of childish, innocent hope and purity.  She kept folding until
it had once again become a small, thick square, then held it up
between her thumb and index finger.
     Burn it, she thought.  That's the surest way.  She nodded to
herself.  Burn it, and throw away such foolishness forever.  Whether
such a thing would be her salvation or damnation she didn't know.  All
she knew was what it represented to her, and that was vulnerability.
And she'd promised, long ago, never to make herself vulnerable that
way again.
     Never.
     She stood, resolved, and walked over to the low dresser.
With astonishing gentleness that would have shocked anyone who
knew her, she tied the square with the faded, creased pink ribbon that
had held it, then tucked it neatly back into the lacquered box.  She shut
the lid and latched it, then lowered the box to the still-open drawer.
     And tucked it into the back corner, where it had lain
undisturbed for so long.
     She didn't care about being damned and she didn't believe she'd
need to be saved, she told herself.  But surely it would be a sin to give
up such a thing out of fear.
     "Just in case," she whispered aloud as she closed the drawer
softly.  "Just in case."  Then she stood, looking around at the shambles
of her room.  She'd already forgotten what she'd been looking for; at
any rate, it no longer seemed very important.  The unfamiliar but
somehow sweet ache that had coalesced in her chest was oddly
comforting, and she wanted to savour it for a time.
     She wandered out into the garden, where she lay beside the
bushes where she'd hidden so often as a girl.  Lacing her fingers
behind her head, she stared wistfully at the cloud-dotted sky, and let
the gentle summer breezes, scented with the perfume of her black
roses, carry her thoughts where they would.
     And for a time, she knew peace.
     But that time was all too brief.

================================

     The crowd was mainly comprised of girls, and usually this
would have held Tatewaki's attention.  Right now, though, he was
somewhat distracted.
     The girls were cheering and clapping, calling out for the
captain of the gymnastics team.  Calling for the Black Rose.
     Calling for his sister.
     Kodachi stood at the centre of the storm, basking in the
adulation of her school, waving with cool poise that only seemed to
excite them further.  Only because he knew her so well could
Tatewaki detect the flush of pleasure that she derived from all the
attention.  He leaned casually against the wall next to the dressing
room, and hid a smile as he heard her coming down the short hall from
the gymnasium.  He was certain that she would be irritated at his
presence, which would be a point for him in the little game that they
constantly played with one another.
     "Why, brother dear, what a ... pleasant surprise," she said
insincerely when she spotted him.  He straightened up, tossing his
bangs out of his eyes with a casual flip of his fingers.
     One point for him.
     "I thought I would come observe your match," he said
smoothly.  "I find the concept of martial arts rhythmic gymnastics ...
fascinating."
     "Oh really?  Are you certain that it isn't the notion of girls in
leotards that you find so fascinating?  I mean, since you fancy yourself
such a ladies man, brother dear."  She shot him a triumphant grin.
Point for her.
     "I never did congratulate you on your promotion to captain of
the team," he said, suppressing his irritation.  "How fortunate that your
predecessor suffered that untimely accident."  Kodachi towelled beads
of sweat off her face, her eyes gleaming with barely restrained glee.
     "Fortunate for me," she said lightly.  "Still, it's only a sprained
ankle.  She'll recover.  And since I took over as team captain, we
haven't lost a single match."  He raised an eyebrow, trying for a
disapproving stare.  Kodachi remained distressingly unaffected,
however, forcing him to be blunt.
     "Small wonder," he said.  "You cheated."  She let the towel
hang from her shoulders, tossing her hair over her shoulder with a light,
contemptuous motion.
     "And?" she asked sweetly.  He blinked.  This was not the
response he'd expected.
     "And?  What do you mean, and?  You cheated!"
     "Yes, I know.  And I won."  She stared at him, raising her
chin slightly in the challenging manner he'd come to know all too well.
He just stared at her for a moment, uncharacteristically at a loss for
words.
     "Your victory is tainted," he said at last.  "It is meaningless."
A flash of anger lit her dark, almond shaped eyes at that.
     "The lord of the manor disapproves of my methods," she breathed
icily.  "How distressing."  She stepped closer to him, and he noticed a
flush high in her cheeks that had nothing to do with the exertions of her
match.
     "I am hardly the only one," he said stiffly.  She laughed behind
her girlishly upraised hand, a high, slightly mad sound that set his
nerves on edge.
     "Oh really?" she asked contemptuously.  "I think you are.  Did
you not hear the crowd?  They cheered.  They applauded.  And they
called for me.  FOR ... ME.  Because I won.  That's what matters,
brother dear.  This team never won anything before I took over.
These people are tired of being mocked, of being looked down on.
They have learned their lessons well.  Winning matters.  In the end,
nobody remembers a loser.  Nobody."  His sister's moods had
become, if anything, more difficult to penetrate over time.  Still, he felt
compelled to try to make her see that his way was the right way.
     "Sister, I too have risen in the ranks of my school club.  With
this," he said, touching his bokken reverently, " and my skill, I have
risen to the position of captain, and do you know why?  Because I am
the best.  My skills place me above the others, as it should be."
     "And when you come up against someone whose skill is
superior, what then?" Kodachi asked casually.  He frowned.
     "I will hone my skills until that person is defeated, of course."
She shook her head as if she was dealing with an idiot.
     "For someone who prides himself on being learned, you are
astoundingly stupid, brother dear," she sneered.  "How can so much
of importance have escaped your notice?"
     "What do you mean by that?" he asked wearily, his sister's
contempt beginning to wear at him.
     "This whole notion of nobility that you revere so is terribly
outdated.  Adhering to such nonsense only makes you a fool, and you
cannot even see that."  She leaned in close, her nostrils flaring as she
glared at him, her mouth twisted into a petulant little frown.
     "Life is not fair," she hissed.  "By now I would have expected
even you to have figured that out.  What point is there to following
rules, to being obedient and nice and polite?  Life will simply take from
you what it wishes with no regard for fairness."  Her eyes danced with
anger, the fey anger that touched everything she did, and she poked
him in the chest with her index finger.
     "You have not learned the lessons that life has striven to teach
us, brother dear.  But I have.  In the end, it will not matter if you
played by the rules, because life changes the rules as it sees fit.  No,
the only thing that will matter in the end is whether you got what you
wanted.  Whether you came out on top.  Whether you were a winner.
If you try to play by the rules, life will take away everything you ever
wanted and it will laugh at you all the while for being such a fool."  He
flinched, stung by her venom, aware that he was seeing something that
had been within her for a long time, something honest that rarely
showed through her facade of brittle malicious glee.
     "I am no fool for seeking to follow the ancient codes of
honour that made our family great," he said, meeting her eyes and
trying to let his pride smother her dark fire.  "You are wrong to dismiss
the role of such rules in our lives."  She smiled slightly then.
     "Oh, really?" she breathed.  "Tell me, brother dear.  I've
heard about your challenge to the boys at your school.  You wish to
date with some girl there, and you have demanded that no other may
date her unless he defeats her first, yes?"
     "And what of it?  None shall defeat her but the Blue Thunder
of ..."  She waved her hand impatiently.
     "Yes, yes.  But if one of them cheats, then more the fool you,
for he will have her, and all you will have is your stupid pride in your
skills.  You see?"
     "I shall have her," he said stubbornly, "because I am the best,
and because only I deserve her.  I will triumph over those lesser
suitors by the strength of my will and the skill of my sword arm."  She
shook her head sadly.
     "I really don't see why I bother," she sighed.  "You just can't
understand."  A group of chattering girls in matching leotards came
down the hallway toward them, and called out as they caught sight of
Kodachi.  She smiled triumphantly.
     "Well, the fruits of victory await, brother dear.  I hope your
outdated beliefs and musty tomes of poetry will keep you warm, for I
am certain that someone ruthless and clever will have that girl before
you do.  Ta."  With that, she joined the group of gymnasts who
crowded eagerly around her, all talking animatedly as they moved
down the hall.  Tatewaki watched them go, fighting down his own
confusion.
     His sister was quite twisted, and yet he could almost admire
her single-mindedness.  Almost.  But she was wrong in thinking that he
hadn't learned the lessons that life had taught.  He'd learned them very
well.  The trappings of life were very important, for without them his
victories would mean nothing.  He would win Akane Tendou not by
guile but by showing that he was the only one worthy of her.  Then
they would see who laughed loudest, his sister or himself.
     He thought again of her admonition, that someone could come
along and win her away through foul means.  That was ridiculous, of
course.  If anyone tried, they would answer to the blade of the Blue
Thunder of Furinkan High.  He would not rest until such a travesty was
set right.  If such a person tried to win his beloved away, he would be
forced to punish the knave severely.
     He walked to the door, looking out at the steady rain.
     The panda that went by on the street carrying an unconscious
girl escaped his notice entirely.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------

    Well, that was my entry in the Preludes cycle.  Hope you liked it.  I
realize it's sort of a different take on the Kunou family's particular brand
of eccentricity, after all.  In the process of getting inside the character's
heads, I confess to taking more than a few liberties, so let the end result be

judged accordingly.  Feel free to let me know what you thought.

    And let me just say that I was flattered to be asked to participate in
this project, considering the talented authors involved, and I look forward
to seeing what everybody else did for their stories.

Ciao,

Mark MacKinnon
July 26/98
emmack@ibm.net