Spring of Drowned Vampire

8. Epilogue

Author:

Disclaimer: The following poem, unfortunately, is not mine. The following poem, unfortunately, has been reprinted without the permission of its author. Please don't sue, Mrs. Jong! Really, I love your stuff. I would be really embarrassed if my favorite poet sued me for copyright infringement. That would be the epitome of irony, wouldn't it? But enough! On with the epilogue!

~~*~~

They locked into each other Like brother & sister, Long-lost relations, Orphans divided by time.

He bit her shoulder And entered her blood forever. She bit his tongue And changed the tone of his song.

They walked together astonished Not to be lonely. They sought their lonelinesses Like lost dogs.

But they were joined together By tongue & shoulder. His nightmares woke her; Her daydreams startled him.

He fucked so hard He thought he'd climb back in her. She came so hard Her skin seemed to dissolve.

She feared she had no yearning Left to write with. He feared she'd suck him dry And glide away.

They spoke of all these things And locked together. She figured out The jigsaw of his heart.

And he unscrambled her And placed the pieces With such precision Nothing came apart.

--Erica Jong, 1977

~~*~~

It was many months later, during the dead of a particularly harsh Nerima winter, that they felt safe in returning. It was twilight, and the two youths, bundled needlessly against the cold, shared their reverie only with thick flurries of snowflakes. The trees scattered throughout the cemetery were as bare as frozen skeletons, and about as foreboding. The upright headstones seemed like wandering ghosts, motionless spirits locked in stone to wait out their eternity.

The smaller of the two figures shivered, but not from the cold. She stared down at the two headstones before them, at the cold, false characters inscribed in stark blackness.

"I wish it could have been different, Akane," said the taller figure, his breath and face lit in the dying light of the dusk. "But there was no way we could stay and continue our lives." He slipped his arm about her shoulders, though neither immortal actually needed the physical warmth.

"I know, Ranma, I know." She said, turning to him, crimson tears filling her eyes. "Still, I wish we didn't have to do it to them--my father and my sisters, I mean. They must miss me horribly. I know I miss them." She chuckled suddenly, her breath puffing out evidence of her laughter in the chill air. She turned back to face her own grave, empty of her bones, though it was. "Can you imagine Nabiki running the dojo?"

"She'll drag a profit from that place if it's the last thing she does, if I know your sister. At least Kasumi's there to keep an eye on her." He chuckled along with her, tilting her chin up to wipe her eyes. "Ryoga and Dr. Tofu know we're all right, Akane. Pops, too. There's no need to worry. We'll always have each other."

He embraced her there in the deserted, snow-filled cemetery. Darkness was falling swiftly now, and fat snowflakes floated down from the sky to shower them in crystalline glory. She leaned into his arms, enjoying his scent. The past few months had been difficult at the best of times, but they had weathered all the trials presented by Akane's newfound abilities, and her newfound appetites. Together.

She pulled away from his warmth, returning her gaze to the two solemn stones commemorating the lives of two youths who mysteriously vanished, several months past. Quietly, without unnecessary flair or eloquence, she wiped away the snow that had piled itself at the foot of her headstone, and left a single red rose in its place. She repeated the somber ritual at the base of Ranma's headstone, and, after a moment's hesitation, turned to leave.

Hand in hand, the two youths disappeared without a trace into the night, swallowed up in the all-encompassing darkness. All that signified their fleeting presence were the two roses--awaiting discovery in the frosty nighttime air.

Three months later, the Tendo residence received an unsigned postcard-- addressed in mysteriously familiar handwriting--depicting a cherry blossom festival in Kyoto. These anonymous greetings continued every spring for many years to come, illustrating hundreds of cherry blossom festivals across Japan. Always these cards brought tears to Genma's eyes, and for weeks or months after their arrival, Ryoga would disappear, saying he was searching for something. He never did find what he was searching for, though, and after a few years he disappeared himself when it became obvious that his own lack of aging was giving him unwanted attention.

And every year, on the darkest night of winter, two roses, as red as blood, would find their way to the headstones of two long since dead teenagers-- teenagers who couldn't resist returning every year at least for one night to the place they had once called home. Always, they were careful never to be seen in public, and always they vanished without a trace into the frosty night air, hand in hand--together.