A Flower Once Bloomed

A Flower Once Bloomed

Trigger warnings:

Implied sexual violence (rape)

physical violence and gore

suicide (seppuku)

This is somewhat inspired by The Crow and Blue Eye Samurai :)

The snow drank my blood in discrete silence. With each staggered step I took crimson tainted sparkling white, sullying the frozen terrain to let it gorge on my suffering with greed, only for my tracks to be covered haphazardly by the wind that swept up the crystalized earth. My legs trembled and ached beneath me, threatening to throw me off balance, but I pressed forward.

A ronin does not grovel. Not until the very end.

Jagged mountains loomed ahead through the haze of exhaustion, gray and faceless, their frost-bitten peaks reaching towards the heavens. I did not know their names. I did not care. All I sought for was a quiet place, a place where no one could hear me, not even the gods. After all, they had already turned a blind eye from me long ago: I wanted no company but hers.

My lips parted in a sharp exhale as a particular blast of frigid air cut through my layers, my blood-soaked hand that pressed onto the wound on the left side of my waist reflexively tightening as its sting sang throughout my weary soul. I stumbled forward with a pained gasp, steadied myself while cursing underneath my breath in a voice so low it was swallowed by silence, then continued onward.

Sleet blurred my vision, my eyes narrowed as I tried to discern what lay ahead. Ragged gasps drowned my numb ears, puffs of cold breath escaping my lips as I fought to maintain consciousness.

I couldn’t faint now. I couldn’t give up now.

As the wind unexpectedly reversed direction, nudging me forward as if coaxing me to keep going, my eyes rolled back as—for a fleeting moment—the smell of incense graced the crisp breeze. I tried to blink against the sting, against the dizziness, my breath growing shallower and heavier as the mountains blurred into temple eaves, snow into stone.

My knees remembered those stones. My forehead remembered the kiss of wood.

The smoke coiled lazily like a serpent from the incense stick pressed into the holder suspended above the shrine’s weathered altar. From the amount of charred incense burned in the temple, the amount of paint that had been stripped by the elements, the shrine still proved to be a sanctuary for answers from the gods—or so the villagers believed. Nevertheless, kneeling before the altar, I clasped my hands and bowed my head in prayer.

I did not pray for mercy. I did not pray for strength.

“Let me find him. Let her name not be forgotten.”

I unclasped my hands to press my palms against the cold wood and let my forehead kiss the floor, hoping my prostration would evoke the gods’ favor.

“Please, I beg of you,” I pleaded. “Give me a sign that you will answer me. For her.”

I was met with the harsh whistle of death and the metallic taste of blood on my tongue.

“Gah...” I coughed, regaining my senses. The temple’s floor blended back into snow, incense drifting into ozone. I groaned in pain as I pushed myself up from the grave I’d almost buried myself in, my knees buckling beneath me after having been in repose for who knows how long.

Heavy with fatigue, I attempted to trudge through the frozen earth once more, but the snow betrayed me. It rose to meet me in a welcoming embrace, cold and numb until it smothered my vision.

And then I was back there, only hours earlier.

The courtyard of the estate was slick with frost, its stones glinting in the afternoon light like a blade. My hands tightened on the hilt of my katana with a tremor, not from weakness, but from the weight of resolve.

Across from me, there he waited—unmoved, unbothered, standing with the languid grace of a seasoned samurai. His critical gaze rested on mine, almost bored, as if I were just another nameless wanderer in the long line of corpses he’d dishonored.

But I remembered her.

“Do you remember her name?” I demanded once more, pointing the tip of my katana at him.

He didn’t answer—just narrowed his eyes and settled his lips into a smug grin.

“Her name was Hotaru Yoshikawa,” I continued with bated breath. “She was a blessing. A daughter. A lover.” My voice choked on itself. “A mother.”

At this, he laughed. A cruel, mirthless sound. I gritted my teeth and tightened my grip.

“For a man bound to honor,” I said coldly, readjusting my stance, “you have only sown dishonor. Not only upon your clan and those you have stained, but upon yourself.”

Ka-shing!

Our blades clashed together in a heartbeat, the snow crunching underneath his feet as he closed the distance between us. His blow was heavier than expected, and my knees buckled, but the determined fury burning my veins kept me moving.

He had taken everything from me—I would not let him take my own life too.

Steel kissed steel, again and again and again. His movements were precise, rehearsed, every swing and block wasting none of his energy—mine were desperate, sharpened by grief.

Before I could blink, his blade slashed against the left side of my waist, quick yet deep. I gasped as the pain shot through my body in an instant. I stumbled back, my empty hand quickly pressing against the gash to alleviate it. Warm blood coated my palm, slick and wet and thick. I gritted my teeth.

“You think you are the first to seek vengeance?” he said calmly, almost mockingly, as he relished my pain. “Your woman was nothing. Just another—”

My vision went red.

It was not the man that I saw in front of me anymore. It was her. Hotaru. My Hotaru.

Her long hair, soft as silk, draping down her back in a curtain of black as we sat at the edge of a koi pond, now matted and tangled.

Her laugh from those beautiful lips as we playfully splashed each other in the bathhouse, now kiss-swollen and silent.

Her bare warmth against mine as we lay tangled on the futon, now cold and empty.

Her lovely kimonos and yukatas framing her figure, now stained with scarlet and ripped open to reveal the violation of her most precious and sacred place.

If only I had stayed at home. If only I had been there to protect her.

If only if only if only—

The world blurred, narrowing in on the curve of his throat, the smug curl of his mouth. Blade found flesh. Blood sprayed on snow. He choked, eyes wide with not fear, but confusion, as blood started to drain from the wound in curtains of red. He tried to speak, but the gurgle drowned his attempted words. The katana slipped from his grasp as he collapsed into the snow, a pool of vermillion forming near his throat.

Flakes of crimson and white drifted in the air as a wind swept through the courtyard, my arms trembling at my sides, my blade weightless in my hand.

This was the man that I had hunted through provinces and seasons. This was the unknown face that had haunted me everywhere I went. This was supposed to be the moment where I would feel whole again for avenging Hotaru with the death of her offender.

But as I stared at the corpse, my ragged breaths the only sign of life in the courtyard, emptiness coursed throughout my battered soul. I felt like the shell of the man I used to be.

“Why?” I breathed out, my body shaking with confusion and rage. “Why?”

No answer. Only silence.

I gagged as pain shot through my nerves, sending my soul ablaze and grounding me back to reality. My eyes rolled back inside my skull and the world tilted. Snow became stone again. My knees struck it hard, but I barely felt the impact from how numb my body was. When I opened my eyes, the shrine was before me. Not a vision this time, but real again, its eaves weighed heavily by crystals, incense ash frozen at the altar.

With a groan, my blood left a dark trail as I crawled up the steps, my katana dragging behind me like an amputated limb. Upon reaching the platform, I slumped against the cold wood with shallow gasps, hoping to catch my breath.

My fingers fumbled for the parchment paper and brush tucked into my sleeve, then with trembling hands I smoothed the thin paper on the floorboards and dipped the brush into my own blood. The strokes came slowly at first, then surer, as each word became a release, a confession of my soul. Once the last line was drawn, I set the brush aside and raised my eyes.

There she was. Hotaru. Kneeling next to the altar, her pale kimono a stark contrast to the dark and empty temple. Snowflakes clung to her lashes, her cheeks pale, a tenkan funeral garment adorning her forehead. A slender hand reached out to me—not in reproach, but in welcome. Her lips parted in a soft smile as she beckoned silently:

“Arata.”

My chest tightened. My throat burned. I immediately understood the meaning of that gesture. It was time.

I forced down the tears that threatened to spill as I started to cough up blood. With a trembling hand, I reached out to hers with a dazed smile, my fingertips grazing cold air before smoothing the blood-smeared parchment paper once more and tucking it underneath my knee.

I wanted the gods to see what I had wrote.

Blade unsheathed, I rest in on my knees before bowing once, twice, thrice.

Then white-hot pain as I sliced open my abdomen.

As I collapsed onto the bloodied floor, preparing for my final breath, I read over my jisei once more:

“A flower once bloomed,

but I watered it with blood.

Now the stem is bare,

and I follow where she’s gone.”