One Morning in Spring A Ranma 1/2 Fanfiction by Andrew Aelfwine ********** Characters and situations of Ranma 1/2 belong to their creators and publishers. ***** This is old. Written in 1997, I think. I'm only including it because I'm a completist:-) ********** Ranma looked himself in the mirror. He checked his face over one more time for any sign of missed stubble, any uneven hairs in his carefully kept mustache and spike-beard; after all, he wanted to look his very best today. Finding none, he unbound and combed his iron-gray hair, rebraided it into a neat queue that fell halfway down his back, longer than he had worn it as a teenager. His wife had liked it that way. "O Gods!" he moaned, holding his head in his hands as he thought again of her. His wife, his dear, sweet wife, mother of his five children, companion of his youth, comrade in a thousand fights and quests, comfort of his life, now dead a month, and him still living. The children were grown and married; they could handle life without him. His will was long since made out. There was nothing to keep him from following her, nothing at all. He would not become a burden on anyone, he had decided that a long time ago. He remembered the widowers he had known his father-in-law, half-mad, unable to even teach, his own father, who had drunk himself into his grave within six months after losing Nodoka. That was not how Ranma was going to do it; one stroke of a blade, and he would rejoin his friends, his wife, his parents, all those who had gone before him. he thought He dressed in traditional clothing, Japanese, not Chinese, stark white. From a drawer he took two lacquered boxes, simple, plain, elegant. He left the bedroom, entered the old, familiar hallway, and descended the stairs. Passing through the dojo, he bowed to the family shrine. "Soon, ancestors, loved ones, I will join you." he said out loud. There was no living person to hear him, only the ghosts. As never before, he was comforted by the feeling of their presence. His actions in the next hour or so would please them, he was sure. Stepping out into the garden, he inhaled deeply the scent of spring. He walked to the grave, sat himself down upon it as he had daily for so many weeks, now. He could see her in his mind's eye, as they were in youth, her black hair shining as they sparred. He ran through his most cherished memories; how she had looked on their wedding day, how she had held him in her arms on their wedding night, her face bright with love and promise, their first child nursing at her breast, her at thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, still strong, long hair half- white, half-black, sixty-two, dying in his arms. She had asked to be buried in her wedding kimono; it still fit, perfectly. He remembered how peaceful she had looked at the funeral. He, too, would be buried in his wedding clothes he had checked his measurements just two days ago, to ensure that no alterations would be necessary. "Soon, my love, soon, and we will never be parted again." He opened the first lacquer box, laid it out, ready. With brush and ink and rice paper he would compose his final poem. He nearly cried as he remembered his wife encouraging him to study literature, to learn to speak grammatically, to write calligraphy. It had been hard, but he had never regretted his struggle with education, and its final results. He had more than made up for his lack of early learning. The other box he opened with equal ceremony. Within it lay an heirloom tanto, forged by Masamune in the sixteenth century. He did not intend seppuku; he had no friend to remove his head and prevent an unseemly spectacle, and there was no crime to expiate. The opening of his carotid artery would suffice. He paused as he reached for the hilt. A square of paper, folded, lay within, atop the weapon. On the outside, it bore only two kanji: Ran and Ma. His eyes glistened as he recognised his dear wife's spare, beautiful brushstrokes. He took it, gently, brought it to his lips to kiss, inhaled the scent of her perfume, the scent that haunted his dreams. "My love, what message have you left me?" He opened it, gently, handling it like a holy relic or a book of sutras. "Dearest Husband," he read, "I write this on my deathbed, and leave it where I know you will find it, before you act as I know you will. I beg you, do not proceed with this! "Do you remember that last hour I spent with Ryouga?" He did, all too well, his closest male friend and his wife bidding each other farewell while he consoled his dear childhood friend, Ryouga's wife, Ukyou. "Even then, my dearest, I thought it not unlikely that I should cross to the other side before you. Ryouga and I agreed that steps must be taken to see that our spouses live out their lives to the fullest, that our children not be completely abandoned by parents in an unseemly hurry to join partners whom they would inevitably see again. Thus he wrote Ukyou, and thus I write you. "We know that you were engaged by your fathers in childhood, that you chose to follow your hearts and marry us, your true loves. Yet, we know also of the love you hold for each other. It is good that old friends become more than friends, and comfort each other in their last years, and know that their spouses look down from Heaven in approval, not dismay. It is no violation of marriage vows to comfort, and seek comfort, and remain on Earth to strengthen families, continuing in duty and honour until the Kami grant a natural death. "My dearest Ranma, do not think to follow me over-soon. Heaven's time is not Earth's; I will miss your company, but will not grieve too much when I know that you will be at my side again. Neither should you. It is true that our children will inevitably bury their father, but it is also true that their children will inevitably bury them. There is no reason to hurry either event. "My dearest husband, I promise you this; if you follow me too soon to the Ancestors, I will hit you. Hard. Repeatedly. Remember the epic battles of our youth? They will pale in comparison to what I intend if you spill your own blood. I'm sure I can get everyone to help me, Shampoo, Mousse, Ryouga, all of us who have gone before. Just like old times, it will be." For a moment, Ranma could not continue reading, as tears welled up in his eyes. To his surprise, along with them came a sound, a strangely familiar sound, one he had not heard in months. With a start, he realised it was coming from him, recognised it as laughter. He held the message safely to his heart as he laughed and cried all at once, the laughter gradually increasing as it drove the tears away. He could feel them, all of them, laughing with him. "Dearest Ranma, go well in your life. I will not mind the decades, and neither should you. Remember that you promised to teach young Genma the Chestnut Fist? Even now I can sense the presence of your mother, telling me that she will be most unhappy if you should break such a promise to your own grandson. You have many more students to teach, more miles to travel, more things to do, before the world is ready to give you back to me. I will be there with you, always, to aid and defend you as I can, and at last to welcome you back to my arms. Love, always, Kodachi no Kurobara PS Do change your clothes before you go to see Ukyou, love. You know that wearing white makes you an even greater magnet for water than you already are. I'm sure Happosai would be made a very happy ghost by seeing your female self in soaked white kimono, but you really don't need to show off your still-girlish figure to the world." Ranma kissed the letter, refolded it, slipped it back into the box where he would leave it until it could be placed with his other treasures. He busied himself a moment with brush and paper for a moment, calligraphing simply :" Dearest Kodachi, Thank you. Love, always, Ranma." He took a trowel from the garden shed, dug a small hole, buried his note above her. With garden shears, he trimmed one of her favorite black roses from the bush, laid it on her grave, and went inside to put away his writing kit and blade and change to the casual Chinese clothing he had not worn in months. On his way out the door, he blew a kiss to his wife's portrait where it hung on the wall. For a moment, he felt warm, familiar arms around him again, two dear lips pressed against his cheek. Then she stood back, and patted his shoulder. He knew she would always be there for him, just as Ryouga would always be there for Ukyou. Outside he took another breath, inhaling the spring. He took off at a run. First Ucchan, then he would have to put some time into family duties. It was still early today; plenty of time to start teaching the Chestnut Fist. As he ran, a soft spring rain began to fall, cleansing the earth. Now a woman ran through the streets of Nerima, gray and red mingled in her pigtail, towards her childhood friend and the rest of her life. The Heavens and the Earth approved, and all the spirits with them Saotome Ranma would fulfill his honour to the fullest, as always.