Nyannichuan

the story of the original
red-haired girl
by
Shelle


Disclaimer: Ranma 1/2 belongs to Rumiko Takahashi and affiliates.
I claim no rights to it.


The girl ran through the night, her breath coming in short, hitching gasps, sharp branches tearing at her face and snagging in her hair. She struggled to throw a scarf over the wild, untamed mane, but the flimsy gauze material was torn to threads immediately.

She sobbed, stumbling at the pain in the soles of her bare feet, but kept moving, not daring to stop, even for a second. For the hundredth time that night she cursed her impractical clothing, useless against the barbs of the underbrush, and her tender feet, unused to anything but velvet carpets and smooth floors.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, she came to the end of forest. Blinking large, tearful eyes, she gazed at the many pools that lay before her, perfect mirrors from which rose slender poles of bamboo , breaching a spectral landscape. She stumbled forward, to her knees, and knelt by the nearest pool. Her own reflection stared back at her, and she stared at it wonderingly, for it was a far cry from what usually looked back at her in the mirror.

The face she gazed at now was wild and frightened in the moonlight, almost gaunt. A face that trusted no one. Not the face she remembered, proud and haughtily beautiful; the face of an emperor’s favorite. This, here in a still pool, in the chill of a vulnerable moon, was the face of a favorite who’s empire had fallen, as well as her emperor. The face of a favorite who had been sought and abused as some sort of retribution for her liege. The face of a girl, no longer anyone’s favorite, who had run for her life, and sought refuge with Amazons, in the depths of wilderness. And who had run again, when promised death by these warriors, a promise that had chased her here, to a cursed training ground, a world of vengeful spirits. Jusenkyou.

Pools of Sorrow, she thought, her tears falling to mingle with the thousands that filled every pool, that seeped into the very roots of this training ground. A spectral hand perhaps, a silent wish, a despairing soul. Or maybe the culmination of a thousand. But this young, bereft girl joined the thousands that night, and sank to the bottom of that fated pool, her spirit weighted by sorrow.


Back!