Sakura Blossom (or Death of a Samurai)

The inspiration was a nightmare. I use several Japanese words that may not be familiar to you, so here's a glossary. Hakama- men's kimono trousers. Wakizashi-- short katana. Sakura-- cherry blossom.

The trees were blossoming, budding, filling the spring air with their sweet perfume. The air was still crisp with the winter's touch. The sun was warm while the shadows were still chilled. Spring was always a strange season, filled the promise of the future and the memories of the past. He breathed deeply, savouring a few moments to take in the beauty of such a short time in the earth's eternal cycle.

He paced the path, his hakama making a soft swish sound as he walked. He was tall, muscular, well trained for his sworn duty to protect the shogun. He was samurai, sworn by honour and bound by duty to serve his noble lord. There had been attempts upon his Lord's life in recent months. The winter snows had revealed the foot prints of the last intruders. He had personally ended the life of the assassin that attempted to poison the shogun. Duty and honour.

This day, he was serving to protect the perimeter. Shortly, he would be relieved of this duty and given his next assignment. He allowed himself a rare smile. It was an honour to preform any duty for his Lord, to be among the blossoming gardens that graced his Lordship's territory. He would have been content to search every sakura for the perfect blossom, but that was not to be.

He felt the movement before he ever heard it. Instincts were his armory and he used them as well as he did his razor sharp katana. The blade was free of its sheath and sliced through the air with practiced ease, removing the head from a ninja before the dying man ever felt the sting. A second attacker threw a star. It sang through the air, missing its intended target, but slicing through the samurai's kimono and leaving a bloody trail flowing down his arm. The ninja ran at the samurai, his own shorter wakizashi at the ready, in an attempt to silence him quickly. The shadow warrior was the one silenced that day.

The samurai called out the warning, running up the hill side to the bafuku, the noble house of the shogun. His feet barely made a sound as he raced up the earthen path to the bell whose sound would reach farther than his own voice. He was within sight of the alarm when the third ninja appeared in his path.

Neither paused, neither bowed. This was not a simple bout at the dojo, but a battle for their lives. Only one would be left standing, it was the truth of such times. The katanas glanced of each other, clanging in the crisp air. An intricate dance that paired two sword styles, two classes of training. Both men were skilled and in another life would have taught each other much in the dojo, but that was a dream and this was harsh reality.

The ninja backed away, readying himself for the final blow. Both warriors were breathing heavily and stained red with blood fro their injuries. There was no more time to dance. Neither warrior intended to survive this battle, that resolve each could see in the other's eyes. The lone shadow warrior paused for only a moment before sprinting toward the samurai, who understood this final desperate move. Kamikaze, the divine wind, was intended to kill the opponent as well as the instigator. The ninja had no intention of surviving, neither did the samurai. The samurai mirrored the ninja, they ran toward each other, blades ready.

There was hardly a sound as the men engaged. The katanas passed each other, slicing through nothing and then the resistance of flesh. The ninja struck first, but his victory was short lived as the samurai swung mightily from above, nearly slicing the other in two. The samurai coughed, blood gushed from his lips and from the wakizashi that was sunk nearly to the hilt in his chest. It was a mortal wound, but there was still time.

Staggering his final steps, his vision starting to blur, his head becoming light, the samurai pulled back on the log, letting it slam into the bell, ringing its warning toll. He pulled it back a final time and sent it sailing into the bell.

Sinking to his knees to the resonate sound of the bell, the samurai accepted his fate. He took a final ragged breath, inhaling the spring's perfume for the last time. The sakura blossoms swayed, the breeze carrying some of them away. The blossom, the symbol of the samurai, beautiful life and a quick death, danced around the fallen warrior. The samurai heard other bells ringing along with his own, a symphony of warning. He smiled once more, his duty complete. he exhaled, his eyes closed, his torn body crumbled upon a bed of bright sakura blossoms.

Reviews

[JLXXXVIII]

I had a nostalgic rememberance of the "Tales of The Otori" saga. Absolutely loved those books. Have you had the pleasure of reading them?

[Nyida Strong]

A very long time ago yes.