The Ronin

The blood left a crimson stain on his blade. He held it up faintly above his head and scrutinized the blade more directly. He remembered the blade when it was fresh out of its scabbard for the first time. His memory tried to grasp how the blade was naked, reflecting the dying rays of the sun when he first held it. Its slender body, elegant shine; the way it made a never ending hum like a pitching fork when he drew it. But now his memories started to set onward in motion.

 

He revisited the incidents that put all the small notches in what was once a faultless blade. The once slender body had endured many chips. The elegant shine was painted over with coats of blood. The ring of a new and beautiful blade was worn out and now a tiring tune to his ears. But he was happy to see his blade as it was. He was given an unmarked sheet of paper to write his story on, and that is just what he did.

 

He lived the life of a ronin, and he carved that life into his blade. And what now was left for him, that his story met its end? His master’s death now rest avenged, the ronins principle and purpose had now expired. His tale had reached an end, and in the morning his body would be found.

 

His legs went weak, but he planed on kneeling nonetheless. His scabbard was lost in the turmoil, but he had already planed for this. His legs folded underneath him as he faced the setting sun. His back sat straight and his expression proud. He let the point if the blade rest on his lower torso. He spoke his last words at a temperate level, but with the power to catch Gods ears. The last words he presented to the world were, “I die with honor.”

 

He then committed seppuku, the only ending fit for a ronin.

~ by champloo on March 25, 2008.