Sunlight streaming on an emerald field.
Soft grass carrying the weight of disinterested steps.
Small breathes taking in the air full of stillness on a valley like few seen before by aged eyes.
The blue sky over a green meadow, with a slight breeze blowing across it, shaking the bushes and trees, and making dust rise as if flying to the heavens.
Drained eyes seeing the dirt dance on the wind.
The desire to fly away, to bring your own self to the expanse of blue above and forget all that's left on this earth.
To discard hurt and bliss, tears and laughs.
The unconcealed desire to fly, to fly away, and to flee tears and pain, the yearning to find happiness.
What would happen if you could fly away? Just leave everything behind and fly away on wings of light and sound?
Ranma didn't know the answer to these questions, for Ranma had never learnt to fly.
And he sure as heck would not run away.
At least that was what he said to himself everyday since he left Nerima along with Happosai, a man he loathed, and the only one to offer him unconditional acceptance.
And a fondle or two, for old times' sake.
But even if Happosai's quirks were fun in some way, Ranma knew his life still felt bare.
As bare as a hill whose forest had been cleaned away by the winds.
Nude as a newborn whose eyes open for the first time to behold a world offering him the greatest marvels, and the biggest sufferings.
Exposed as a truth when words are not enough to cover it, when silence is not near adequate to hold it back.
And so, with the happiness brought to him by Happosai's early mischief, and the fear of being chased by a whole town after their blood, Ranma decided it was time to stop fooling himself.
For he never was much of a liar, as he couldn't lie to himself.
And if he couldn't deceive himself he had to accept the truth.
The truth that, although his mind had found freedom, his heart desired more, and his soul craved for companionship and friendship. . . and love.
The realization that no matter how high he climbed a mountain, or how deep he descend an abyss, his eyes still hadn't regained that fire, that desire to live, that defiance to destiny he was so proud of, the same spark of life that he used to see on the mirror every morning, that glimmer of hope his eyes hadn't had in more than a year of wandering.
Even when his feet moved against gravity and his own body's tiredness, when climbing the peaks of China looking for a cure, a cure he had never found.
Yet as his hands bled when fighting a grand master after another, when trying to improve his own talent, to bring his skill beyond what most humans would reach in a lifetime.
For even as his eyes saw wonders around the world and his ears heard lessons further than anything he thought possible, his tears still fell freely in the nights.
And his promise was, even to this day, unfulfilled.
A promise to be a man among men, and to be the son that would make every mother proud.
The promise to be a Saotome, to take a breather instead of run away, to figure a way to fight his own past losses and win.
Winning.
His only real motivation had been winning.
And after a year of perfecting his body in the fine art of fighting, after what felt to him like a lifetime of turning his soul into a weapon capable of handling the harshest of clashes and survive, his mind finally thought he was ready.
It was time to face the past.
It was time to remember old vows.
It was time to return to Nerima and fight old pains.
It was past time to win. . .
******************************
I've seen so much
A Ranma ½ Fan fiction
******************************
---------------------------------------- Chapter Six A -----------------------------------------------
********** The moon weaves the way **********
How much does a city depend upon one person?
A question some people would say does not matter, an enigma most would say was just that, a curious puzzle to try and solve in a moment of idleness.
So, Nerima never thought much about Ranma once the news of his death were widely known.
Some tears fell, and some hopes died, but nobody seemed to really care.
After all, Tokyo, with its more than three million inhabitants could spare a single person to the nine springs below, couldn't it?
Even if that one person had been the anchor to hold all the chaos, the magnet to bring it forefront, and the only one capable of handling most of it.
And as the amazons decided to live in Japan a little more, waiting for the chance to meet a second warrior who would, hopefully, be as good as Ranma had been and as the Tendos moved on with their lives and the Ucchan's was reopened after a long absence from the market of food, Nerima still felt the same oppression it had felt on a rainy night, during a storm that had destroyed a great part of the city, damages that were even to this day present.
And some people still remembered that smile, or those eyes, eyes that spoke of a lifetime of wandering, smiles that told stories of life and death, tales of gods and dragons, and of hope for a better future.
For what was the case of watering the sidewalk if you couldn't get the simple pleasure of watching a handsome young man turn into a pretty red haired girl?
And what fun would there be in punishing the students at school with haircuts and ridiculous laws if no one thought of challenging the order of things?
And so, some people remembered, and waited.
Waited for the warrior to return home, yes home, for even if the road was a place where most of his life was spent at, it was Nerima that welcomed him, and it was Nerima that expected with great anxiety his return.
To a land where no thugs could be seen at any time of day or night, for fear of a super powered martial artist, who shot balls of energy from his hands and could create tornados at will, and who didn't approve of the strong picking over the weak.
To a place where insane kendoists, with more money than they knew what to do with, spent their days in training to defeat a single opponent, instead of torturing a whole school knowing no one was capable of facing them down.
To a city where, from time to time, would pass a fanged boy with a yellow umbrella, who would shout to the heavens about vengeance and killing, scaring kids and adults alike, and making policemen shiver in fright when their first car was lifted with a hand and tossed aside as a piece of trash obstructing his way.
To a place where blind amazons ran around, hugging girls with light hair while asking them for shampoo and proclaiming their love for a hair care product.
And so, some people remembered the boy that had to deal with these events and kept them under a tight leash.
And the pretty girl that a lot of shopkeepers waited to give a free snack in exchange of a wink and a smile.
Oh, and the photos that had started to miss at school.
The boys certainly missed the photos.
[------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------]
Loneliness, the only consistent company in Nabiki's Tendo life, the absence of a person with whom she could share every day's happenings, the lack of a twin soul that would, hopefully, understand her fully, the want of a heart that could beat at the same time hers do.
But it was all a dream, and she knew it.
A dream that vanished on a rainy night, almost a year ago.
The night that Ranma fell.
So enduring life she moved on. Trying to live a life she didn't find comfortable, she hadn't found comfortable ever since her mother died. But it was the only life she remembered, the only she knew of.
No matter how much she wished for a change, for a dream to come along and whisk her away from this monotonous existence, from this tedious routine of doing the same things everyday.
This reality of trying to make enough money to keep her family, although her work had been diminished greatly since her father started teaching again, this truth of helping Akane overcome her sadness while trying to suppress her own, of aiding Kasumi when her tears fell unnoticed by everyone but her, of this life of missing Ranma.
Oh how she missed Ranma.
It was true, she couldn't fool herself anymore, and she missed Ranma.
Ranma, who used to destroy the house at least once a week, Ranma who could make her sister smile or fume almost at will, Ranma who spent time off his day to talk to Kasumi and make her a tiny bit happier.
Ranma who made her feel alive after so many years of being dead.
Even now, sometimes, on clear days like this, she used to turn her eyes to the window and see him sparring with his father, a man she hadn't seen since that auspicious night, and sometimes, when walking down the street she would catch glimpses of his face, peeks at blue gray eyes and midnight black hair.
And sometimes, she would confuse a stranger with him, like right now.
She could almost swear the man walking down the street was Ranma, with his big knapsack on his back and looking around as if seeing this city for the first time, indeed, she could almost affirm on her mother's memory that this man was Ranma, he had the same eyes, although dulled and sad, and the same gait to his walk that made him stand out like a sore thumb, yes, this man most definitely made her remember Ranma.
Maybe it was his face, set on a cold mask very much like the one Ranma used whenever he fought with a powerful opponent, or his clothes, that although almost totally black if not for a small piece of a white shirt peeking under his large coat, seemed to be chinese in origin, a little more classic, maybe, but chinese nonetheless.
Or it could be his body, a body that spoke of undreamed of strength kept behind an iron will, or his hands full of calluses that held a petite timber staff with a daintiness almost unbelievable for a man of his bulk.
Perhaps it was the way her heart started beating faster when she saw his mouth set in a straight line, as if preparing himself for a confrontation beyond whatever else she had seen in her whole life, or the manner in which her head felt light when his eyes made direct contact with hers.
No matter what was the cause, he couldn't be Ranma, because Ranma would've stopped and talk to her, even if only to say something like "Hello", and this man didn't.
But most importantly, this man couldn't be Ranma, because she had seen Ranma die with her own eyes.
And so she went on her way, remembering the past and trying to picture a blissful future for herself.
And as she walked away she didn't see the man turn around and look intently at her back for a long time.
And she didn't hear the whispered "Nabiki. . .?" that came out of his lips.
No, she didn't notice any of this, for she just kept walking away.
[------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------]
A crystal door is, probably, one of the greatest inventions of man.
Or that was what Ukyo thought, for with a crystal door you could watch the world go by even if you're bound to stay at the same place everyday.
And so, between preparing the numerous orders of okonomiyaki for her regulars, and a light snack for herself whenever there was a respite in the business she stared out her glass door and saw the pedestrians walk by her restaurant.
And she remembered times when most people ran instead of walking calmly, a time when no one dared to touch an innocent from fear of Ranma finding out, and getting payment for the felony.
And her eyes misted as so many time before when she thought of sunny smiles and a young voice calling her 'Ucchan', Ucchan, only Ranma called her that, and only Ranma was allowed to call her that.
Even if after Ranma's death her father had allowed her to live her life as a girl, and even as the boys at school asked her to go out, she knew her heart missed Ranma.
Her Ranchan, the boy that stole her heart when they were but kids, and stole it again when she saw him after ten years of training, a boy that could make her hopes heave and her heart beat faster whenever he just smiled at her and called her cute.
And no matter that a whole year had passed, she missed the man that occupied all her night dreams, and brought her all her nightmares.
Nightmares of a handsome face scrunched up in fury, memories of blue gray eyes looking at her with defiance and braveness, memoirs of a sad voice that told her the only truth she didn't know, or didn't remember about Ranma "I don't beg for nothing Ukyo"
And again her tears fell, but this time they weren't tears of regret or remorse, but tears of happiness for she knew that even if it had took him his own life, he had found freedom.
Freedom from a life she now realized had to have been hard.
A life she didn't make any easier, even when she claimed to be the cute fiancée, the understanding fiancée.
Tears for a friend that had spent his whole life bound to responsibilities not chosen by him, to chains that prevented him from soaring the skies and finding happiness, a happiness he only displayed once in a while when fighting.
Tears for a man that passed away in a blaze of glory.
Without begging for anything.
And so her tears fell, and when she saw the man staring at her restaurant from across the street she thought she was dreaming, for that man looked exactly like Ranma used to.
That was, if Ranma used to dress all in black and carry a small staff in one hand.
And as she saw his eyes she knew the truth and ran across the street as if shot by a gun, for there was Ranma.
But when she reached the opposite sidewalk the man had disappeared, and she was left with the cry of "Ranchan!" still fresh on her lips.
And Ranma went on his way down memory line.
And ignored Ukyo's tears, for he had learnt that not all tears were real.
And if she had forced her mother to make him commit suicide, then her tears weren't real.
They simply mustn't be real, for if they were real then she was glad he had returned.
And if she was glad he had returned, she hoped he had done it for her.
And he didn't.
So his legs carried him away.
And his eyes blinked trying to dispel the image of a broken Ukyo crying on her knees for a lost dream, for a lost love.
And wiped his suddenly moist eyes, damn that dust.
[------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------]
The business was good, in fact it was even better than when Ranma was alive, the restaurant was bustling with chatter of salary men and house wives searching for a piece of tranquility and a good meal, and the kitchen was busily preparing countless orders of ramen and other chinese delicacies for those that searched for a little taste of foreign cuisine.
But even if the floors were immaculate due to Mousse's constant cleaning of the place, and even if most of the tables were old, an occurrence that was rare in the time when Ranma was still alive, Cologne knew that life was empty.
For even if money poured into her hands as never before, and even if her great granddaughter dedicated all her strength at working properly and training vigorously after work hours, she still saw her suffering behind those purple eyes that used to shine with joy whenever a pigtailed man came through the front door and asked for a free bowl of food to satiate a hunger that seemed endless.
And so she tried to teach her progeny all the secrets she kept inside her mind and heart, all those secrets accumulated for over three thousand years of amazon history, but as she talked to Shampoo about honor and responsibility, her heart still ached for a young boy turned man in one single night, and her eyes blurred with unshed tears whenever she remembered the tale told to her by two young amazons, of a blue eyed boy doing the impossible, of a young man, barely more than a kid, defeating the phoenix king Saffron, and so she trained her great granddaughter and hoped for another warrior to come along, a warrior that could be the equal to that same boy, a martial artist that would surpass Ranma.
So she continued to cook, and ignored all that chatter around her, all that noise of common men and women that occupied her restaurant and wasted their lives in ordinary activities, and when she turned to give an order for Mousse to deliver to a waiting table she saw him frozen up, as if he was seeing all of his ancestors together, and as she followed his line of sight the bowl fell from her nerveless fingers, for there, against the front entrance, stood Ranma, the same Ranma she had been thinking about not even a full minute ago, with eyes that seemed somehow sadder, somehow richer, and with a body sporting copious new scars.
And although the ki felt different form what she remembered, as if he had a piece of Happosai inside now, her mind told her this man was Ranma, maybe colder, as if he had perfected the soul of ice beyond whatever levels she thought possible, and at the same time a Ranma that appeared to be warmer, stronger, as if he had somehow become a person the likes of that Tendo Kasumi.
So with her mouth agape and her eyes moist she tried to approach him, only to watch him turn around and leave the restaurant without making any noise, as if he had been a real vision conjured by sad eyes.
And as she got atop her cane and pogo'ed to the front gate, she saw but the back of a man that didn't want to turn back and see old memories, and she saw the way his feet moved as if he was floating on a cloud instead of walking on solid ground.
And at the bottom of her heart she knew, knew Ranma had changed drastically, knew Ranma had become the man that she had envisioned the day she was beaten by a child using the cat fist.
And knew with all her soul that Ranma didn't come back for Shampoo.
And she once again returned to her kitchen to brew a special mix of tea, three thousand years of amazon history dedicated to a single pot of tea.
And three hundred years of existence she felt heavier this day than ever before.
But Ranma didn't turn back.
[------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------]
Slash upwards, switch to defense, slash downward, switch back to an offensive stance.
Strike quickly, faster with each thrust, then back to the first position.
Parry, disarm, and now the final stroke.
His opponent is down.
How common had become this routine of training everyday, of being the best when there where no more challenges to his godly skill, maybe that peasant Hibiki could be called something of a challenge, but he just took the hits and counter-attacked with the strength of a possessed man.
So tiring, so very tiring this existence of defeating foe after foe, opponent after opponent.
But keep on training, always training.
For even if he already was the best, as proven by the countless trophies set upon the shelf at school, and of all those medals kept safely guarded at home, he felt the uselessness of these.
For that vagrant Saotome still didn't think it wise to approach Nerima again, no doubt in fear of his noble fighting spirit and his righteous delivery of punishment.
So what if his peers at school feared him? Hypocrites, they cheered him whenever he fought for their name yet despised him when he did something not told to him by some lowly miscreant that dared to think he could order him around.
To boss him! The blue thunder, as if he would ever take orders from a man of such a low position.
And so train, and keep on training.
For the sorcerer will be back someday, bringing with him his goddess, and he would now free her, take her away from that scoundrel's control, and then she would be his.
Only his! For no one else could even hope to be the recipient of her lovely smiles and warm arms.
As it was predestined by the heavens the moment he laid his noble eyes upon her gracious figure and lively eyes.
Keep on training, for his tigress should be freed from that wrongdoer Hibiki that dared to stand in the way of true love, fool even the sorcerer ran from his might, was he to be afraid of such a sinner as he?
Keep on training, to become the best, to surpass all those samurai of old.
To become him, only him, only Tatewaki Kuno.
Keep on training. . .
[------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------]
Movements, katas, practice.
The drill of everyday, the thrill of teaching young boys the way of the fist, the way of the warrior.
And when classes are over walk back to home, to warm smiles and sad eyes, to hot soup and warm sake. To loving daughters and missing friends.
And find a way to keep on living, to overcome this great sadness that threatens to swallow you whole, to find the ability to help those you love the most, those you would give your own life for.
Return home, to find Akane training at the yard with a fire you had never seen before in her brown eyes , to find Nabiki cooking in the kitchen while she tries to fulfill the gap left behind by her sister's leave, and to discover that Kasumi had decided to visit, to speak with Tofu about all, and about nothing.
Return to a home of gray walls and wooden floors, to a house of warm couches and cold futons.
Return to a home full of poor memory and rich moments.
Return home, and sit at the porch besides an old shoji board and remember.
Remember time spent with a friend trying to unite the schools, remember masters that gave you nightmares, remember the smiles of a dead wife that made you the happiest man in the world, remember times when your little girls would laugh and play without worries in this world, remembrance the smile of your youngest daughter as you taught her the art, be reminiscent of twinkling eyes on your middle daughter's face when she saw Ranma playing carelessly on the backyard, and cry for the memory of a man that turned you back to the man you used to be, the man you are again.
And so, move your legs and walk, watching the scenery surrounding you, watching the pedestrians go by, do not stare it is rude, what would your wife think if she saw you staring at stranger's faces?, and breath, live, carry on the weight of knowing your own blindness destroyed your family, and the hope of knowing your eyes were now open.
Keep on walking, with the head tall and proud and greet those few known faces that walk past you.
Keep going, keep living, for even if Genma disappeared you knew of your friend's strength of will, of his defiance to all rules, even the rule that every living being must die.
Breath, in and out, and stand waiting for the light to change and the chance to cross the street, walk, mixed with the rest of the people, and keep on walking.
Don't stare at that man in the black coat, don't remember the way the old master wielded a pipe the same way this man carries a staff, keep on walking, don't stare at his blue eyes, they aren't that uncommon.
Feel your heartbeat, steady, steady, keep on walking.
Don't look at him even if his face is turned to yours, ignore him, it is ill-mannered to stare.
Keep on walking, for that man isn't Ranma, that man can't be Ranma.
Keep remembering Ranma died on your house, Ranma was burnt with your dojo.
And wipe your eyes.
And blink away those tears, you're a martial artist, you should have better control than this.
Just keep on walking. . . just walking. . .
[------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------]
A.N.: When I was almost finished writing this chapter I noticed it was bigger than any of the previous ones, so I chose to divide it into two parts, (A and B respectively) so I'm posting part A right now, part B should be up real soon, it's almost finished as it is, but I want to make a few corrections to it first as a couple scenes don't satisfy me completely, sorry for the wait, and remember, just keep on walking. . .
With that said there's only one more thing to say. . .
Bans. . . off!