Ranma turned now to Ranko, knowing that he had to talk to her, had to discuss what they were going to do, but not knowing how to do it. The mere thought that after all this time doing what his father said, he now had to fend for himself, as well as protect this young girl, whose knowledge of the world was either fifteen hundred years out of date, or second hand from himself, was terrifying.
He fought in his mind for something to say, but found his attention caught by the glistening tracks of the tears on her cheeks, slowly drying. He knew little enough about girls, and had no idea why the sight of her tears had affected him so viscerally, yet somehow seeing her cry made him feel a strong desire to protect her, to shield her from anything that might make her cry, and a dread of causing her to cry himself. Where were these feelings coming from?
Ranko, for her part, was happy to turn her attention to Ranma. Fifteen hundred years ago, she had been a reasonably strong Amazon battle-mage, though by no means the strongest in the area. Her memories of that time had two distinct veins of emotion running through them. A powerful stream of confidence in her own battle skills was primary, but it was met and countered by an equally strong thread of depression rising from her failure to find a strong male who could defeat her.
She had detested the weak males around the village, their wills broken from childhood, and longed for someone who could meet her on an equal level. They were rare in the village even then, but there had been those few warriors who had outsider males, and the two warriors she most admired were among them. They had not broken their mates, but met them as equals, and if anything, they were admired all the more for it in the village, that they could handle marriage to strong men who refused to be broken. They were honored for it, for they took the more difficult path, and in so doing, blessed their children with the strength of two strong parents.
Now, she had Ranma, and from his memories she had come to admire him. Indeed, from her perspective, the memories Fey had given her were far more important for the understanding of Ranma that came with them than for the skills and knowledge that they had imparted.
Because of those memories, she knew the training that he had been through, and surpassed, and to her amazement, it was beyond what even the best Amazon warriors were subjected to. He was a truly strong male, and his pride would never let him be broken, never allow him to be subservient, but at the same time, she could see the endearing vulnerability in him. From his memories it was clear that he had an overwhelming fear of loneliness, of rejection, and a powerful need to be loved.
She had little doubt that he would be hers, for he would meet no-one who could understand him as she could, and most of those who might have the potential to learn to love him would be put off by his rough exterior, by the complete lack of social skills he had gained from his father.
Ranma looked at her for a long moment, waiting for her to speak, as he had no clue what to say. When she did not speak, but simply watched him, her eyes traveling over him in a fashion that made him uneasy, though he didn't know why, he finally gave up, and hoping that she would not react to badly to his ineptness, he tried to think of her as just another guy. What would he say if this were his childhood friend Ucchan?
"So, uh, I guess we should be going, huh? My pack's over there." He pointed across the field of pools.
"Alright," Ranko replied.
He waited a moment, not sure if he should respond, then decided it was too hard to think of her as a guy when he was looking at her, realizing how beautiful she was, with that hair, and those eyes, and gah! What was he thinking? He turned away, and started walking towards his pack, hoping that she would follow without making him say anything else. He felt flustered, and his cheeks felt hot, but well, what was he supposed to say? "Baka Oyaji, how come you never told me nothin' about girls?" he silently groused.
They weaved their way carefully through the pools, both dreadfully conscious of their dangerous closeness, though the locus of their fears differed. For Ranma the fear was that he would fall in and his humanity or his manhood would be stolen away again, as his mind replayed for him the horror of discovering that he had become a girl. For Ranko the fear was far greater, and it took all her willpower to follow Ranma through the pools, for in each one she knew that some poor spirit was trapped as she'd been. What if they desired vengeance against the one who had escaped? What if the magic that fueled the springs reached out to take her again?
They walked through their fears, and came out unscathed, to stand over the two large packs. Ranma paused as he was about to lift his pack to his back, staring at his father's pack. "Oyaji . . ." Memories of the ten years rolled through his mind, and this time it was the pleasant memories that assaulted him. He thought of the nights under the sky filled with an endless stream of stars, a sky that most people, living within the light polluted cities, would never see. He thought of the clear mountain air as he walked with his father through beautiful forests, of the cold clear mountain streams and pools they would bathe in, of the waterfalls he'd seen.
Ranko watched him and from the expression on his face, divined the course of his thoughts. It amazed her, knowing all that he had been through, that he still apparently had strong feelings for his father and was able to remember the good times he'd shared with the old man. She knew, of course, of his fear of loneliness but sensed that this was something deeper. After all, what teenage male could feel loneliness because he was trading in an abusive old man for a gorgeous female companion his own age? No, this was true emotion. Clearly he still loved the old bastard. Ranko feared that his love for his father would yet be the cause of further trouble for them both.
Unbeknownst to the two, a portly figure had shadowed their passage through the pools, and even now was watching from beyond the guide's hut. This was not a figure with a bandanna and tattered gi, however, but a figure that neither teen had yet encountered or seen, the Jusenkyou guide.
He was in something of a quandry, for it was his clear duty to guide any who accidentally encountered the waters of the Nyannichuan to the Amazon village, where they might receive guidance, lest they fall into the hands of the Musk.
He had been near enough to hear the voice of the winged man twice warning the two teenagers not to go near the Amazons, but the Amazons would be wroth with him if they learned that the spirit of the Amazon who had drowned to create the pool had been resurrected, and he had not guided her back to the place of her birth.
He frowned in indecision for a time, until the sound of a splash caught his attention, and looking up, he realized that the teens were gone, and that someone had just landed in a pool. He hurried towards the sound, worried that the victim might drown before he could get there, for it was some distance away, near the base of the cliff, about where the path from the cliff-top opened out into the valley.
As he reached the vicinity of the pool, he recognized it, and paled, even as a massive black wolf erupted from the disturbed waters. The victims of the pools were often distraught upon emerging, and whenever the form taken was that of a large predator, there was the chance that in their emotional turmoil, they would act on the animal instincts that they might otherwise have been able to resist.
The guide was very nervous, therefore, as he approached the disturbingly large beast. He leapt backwards in fear when the beast shook its coat vigorously, sending droplets of the dangerous water flying in every direction. There were two reasons for the Guide's fear. First, of course, was the water itself . . . it was not likely that enough water would be present in the spray to cause a curse, but then, no-one really knew how much was required. The main reason, though, is that the victim's reaction had been very in character for a wolf, which indicated that there was a strong probability that the victim had succumbed to instinctive behavior.
The guide approached very slowly, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. This was always the worst time. Sure, it was terribly frustrating to watch customers fail to heed his warnings and become cursed . . . but that frustration was nothing compared to the genuine danger present whenever he found a victim without having seen them in their true form first. After all, the springs would affect animals as well, and coaxing the victim to the hut to apply hot water was never easy. The victims were generally incoherent, so it was rarely possible to be sure via simply observation whether the victim had been human or not. He did not fancy introducing the victim to hot water only to discover that it had been a tiger, or a poisonous snake, or a wild boar, all three of which had happened to him on at least one occasion.
Before he could capture the creature's attention, it had turned back to the pool, and with its teeth, grabbed the strap of a backpack lying partially submerged at the edge. The wolf dragged the huge pack from the waters, then stilled, unmoving, not reacting in the least to the guide's approach.
The guide had seen this before, too. The victim had gone into shock. That was a good thing, as was the backpack, as they indicated a human victim, though of course, the shock was certainly not a good response in and of itself. It was unquestionably a common one though. Indeed, the responses of the accidentally cursed seemed to vary between two common reactions . . . the victims generally either went into shock for a time, becoming unresponsive as they struggled to assimilate what had happened to them, or, if there was someone present upon whom they could vent their anger, they would become violently angry, as if sheer vituperation and violence could repudiate their curse.
The guide waited patiently, knowing that there was little he could do. If the victim had become something smaller, the guide could have carried the victim to the hut, but with the size of this wolf, there was no chance of that. He would simply have to wait until the victim got over the shock on his or her own.
Finally, the wolf stirred, and the guide moved forward slowly. Seeing the wolf fix its yellow gaze upon him, the guide gulped, and spoke, softly. "Do you understand Mandarin?"
Seeing no reaction, the guide tried several more languages, before getting a positive response when he tried Japanese. That was certainly curious . . . while it was not uncommon to have foreigners show up at Jusenkyou, it was rare for foreigners from the same country to show up the same day, unless they were in the same party. He wondered if this victim might be connected in some way to the strange pair that had just left.
He had no way of knowing how right he was. The victim, in fact, was none other than Hibiki Ryouga, the 'Lost Boy,' who had been following Ranma, after failing to meet up with him in time to have their fight. He had known Ranma in school, where they had met in fights over bread in the cafeteria. A strange mixture of friendship and rivalry had built up between the two, both of whom were martial artists.
Ryouga had issued a challenge, and named the time, and place, a lot behind his house. It had taken him longer than he had anticipated to reach the lot, and Ranma had been gone.
In another time, another world, one where Fey had not intervened, Ranma, in his female form, chasing after his father in a blind rage, might have passed by Ryouga on the cliff top, from which Ryouga would have fallen, landing in a spring and becoming a small pig.
The travel from Japan to China was as nothing to Hibiki, who, due to his painfully poor sense of direction, traveled constantly. The curse, on the other hand, would have turned an otherwise pleasant search into a nightmare, as cold water would seek him out, and he would be forced to flee time and again, as he was seen as free meal by those he came upon.
By the time he caught up with Ranma a second time, the horrific experience would have built up his anger until he was no longer rational with respect to his rival and former friend.
This time, though, Ryouga made his own way into a pool, and it was one which, as he learned more about it, would affect him in very different ways. While a wolf would be hunted under certain conditions, it was well-suited to avoiding notice in the region he first found himself, and most importantly, it could defend itself much more effectively than a small piglet.
When the guide finished demonstrating the curse, in the small hut, and explaining the triggers, Ryouga's constant depression had eased somewhat. The guide, recognizing the signs, had spent some time listing the pools he knew of, describing them in such a way that even Ryouga could feel some gratitude that he had fallen in the one he had, and not some of the others.
The thought of them made him realize that if he had followed Ranma here, then there was a good chance that Ranma had been cursed. Ryouga growled, thinking of the boy's no-good father, remembering the ground at the empty lot where he had intended to meet Ranma. He had talked to one of the neighbors, and been told that the boy had waited there for three days, showing up soon after sun-up, and not leaving until the sun fell again. The ground had shown signs of a struggle.
The simple fact that Ranma had waited three days, and the presence of a struggle, had convinced Ryouga that his rival's father had forced him to leave. If Ranma had waited three days, surely he would have waited four.
When he asked the guide about it, he learned, to his horror, that a boy matching the description of Ranma had indeed been seen at the pools a few hours before, and had fallen into the Nyannichuan. Ryouga shuddered, picturing turning into a girl.
Ryouga felt the last dregs of his anger at Ranma draining away. During the short time he had been a wolf, he had reveled in the heightened senses, in the way that scents seemed to make paths on the ground . . . he had successfully followed the guide to the hut, by following the guide's scent, and he had not gotten lost, in spite of the ease with which he normally did so. It had been strange, the way there were no colors, but the almost visible smells had made up for the lack. His hearing had been much sharper, and the body had felt powerful. It was a curse, to be sure, particularly given the way the guide described the trigger . . . but it was one he could live with.
To turn into a girl, though, to have all his strength taken away, his manhood gone, his balance stolen, seemed horrific. He wondered how long it would take Ranma to regain his center. From the description the guide gave, it sounded like Ranma's father had left him, which didn't surprise Ryouga much. He had never had much respect for Ranma's old man.
The guide said nothing about the second man that appeared, or the apparent cure. He knew well enough that there ordinarily was no cure for the curse of Jusenkyou, and he felt certain that the winged man had had some reason for what he had done. He was also familiar with the obsession victims could develop regarding cures to their curses, and did not want this young man to waste his life in that way, so he held his silence.
Examining the sky outside, the guide decided that his explanations to the young man had taken too long. Insufficient time remained to reach the Amazon village before nightfall, and he had no desire to approach the village after dark.
It took some doing, but he managed to convince the boy that the Amazons would be able to help him with his curse, though the guide was careful not to imply that they could offer a cure. In any case, it was sufficient to convince the youth to camp by the hut for the night, and in the morning, let the guide bring him to the Amazon village.
The guide hoped that by bringing in this youth, he would appease the elders. He knew that it would not be sufficient to buy forgiveness for having been unable to stay the Nyannichuan cursed youth, but this Japanese boy seemed to know the other, so hopefully, the aid he could offer in finding his friend would be enough to placate the elders and have a meliorating effect on his own relationship with them.
As he pitched his tent, Ryouga's thoughts were on Ranma. The thought of what might have befallen his one-time rival was causing Ryouga to reevaluate how he felt about the boy. Unable to feel any anger towards Ranma, who had already, it seemed, been punished far more thoroughly, not to mention harshly, than Ryouga had ever intended, he found himself looking back on the events of their brief acquaintanceship in a new light.
To be sure, Ranma was a jerk, always taunting and insulting, and constantly wearing that annoying supercilious smirk, but he was a genuinely good martial artist.
Furthermore, there had been no need for him to lead Ryouga back and forth to school. Granted, Ryouga had not really thought of it as leading, at the time, as he had generally been in a state of rage chasing a taunting Ranma, but in the light of hindsight, Ryouga realized that, infuriating as it had been, it had also been the longest stretch of time that he had attended school regularly in his life.
Whatever Ranma's reasons for his behavior, he had become a constant in Ryouga's life, a fixture even in the short time he'd been there, and Ryouga realized sadly that his following of Ranma had been as much due to his desire for that constancy as to his desire for revenge. Ryouga had become used to the insults . . . they had become part of his routine . . . and he missed them.
He had to admit that he had never improved so swiftly in the art as when Ranma had fought him. He had never had an equal or near equal sparring partner for any significant period of time before, and he recognized consciously, finally, what he had already subconsciously realized . . . he needed it, needed that rivalry, the constancy of Ranma's arrogance, to give himself a target to work towards, if he wanted to continue his steady improvement . . . which he did, indeed he did.