Blossom of the Samurai

by Sedonia Guillone

Sho whirled, sword lifted. Steel clashed against steel, a sound that echoed against the nocturnal choir. Sozaemon turned and lunged. Sho headed off the slicing motion yet again, and the menacing dance continued. Unfortunately Sho’s inverse grip on the handle did not allow him to use the Morimasa Flying Cloud technique, and Sozaemon was employing it with every chance. The third time Sozaemon’s sword descended from the skyward position, Sho bent at the waist and let his sword ascend straight up. He was rewarded with a grunt of pain as his sword sliced the ronin’s ribcage. Their bodies were positioned just right. In a flash, Sho threw aside his scabbard and bent his knee, tripping Sozaemon. The ronin toppled backward, his path to the ground accelerated by the heel of Sho’s palm against his jaw. Sho slammed his side into Sozaemon’s sword arm, bending it the wrong way, forcing him to drop his sword.

  A moment as long as a dragonfly’s breath was all he could afford to finish this task. Hearing Sozaemon land on his back, Sho stepped firmly onto the man’s chest, bore down with all his strength, and pushed his sword through Sozaemon’s throat. Sho heard the last gurgling sounds the other man uttered as he bled out, and his large body went still under Sho’s sandaled foot. When the last of the ronin’s life force had ebbed, Sho pulled out his sword and stepped off. He stood for several moments, breathing heavily, easing his consciousness from the intensity of the now-finished death match.

  When he’d collected himself sufficiently, he knelt, searching the ground for his scabbard. After finding it, he sheathed his sword and then proceeded to arrange the ronin respectfully, leaving him lying with his sword at his side.

  That done, Sho went into the forest, searching in the night for a stream. When he’d found one, he undressed, descended into the chilly water, and washed himself, also gulping down several mouthfuls of fresh water. Finally feeling clean, he climbed up the bank and sat, naked, shivering. Emotions tore through him, one after the other, melting together in a cathartic sob. As in deep meditation, he could not tell how much time had passed when his tremors ebbed, leaving him calm if not completely peaceful. Peaceful was something he’d probably feel when he was once again with his beloved Hirata. From their first moments together as children, something about their deep bond had always made Sho feel peaceful, even in the midst of arguing. Hirata always told him that he too had the same effect. A mysterious and beautiful synergy. And one that Sho craved. Though he needed to lie down and rest, he rose and dressed, making his way back out of the forest and toward the town he and Sozaemon had left in order to fight their duel. From there, he could follow the road back to Hirata’s arms. Home.

  Yet, even as that thought lifted him, made his steps lighter in the wake of the dark task he’d just completed, he knew something else, just as dark. Though the ronin’s physical presence was now absent from the world, the effects he’d left on the souls he’d harmed were a different matter. Hirata was better now. He’d healed. But Aoki? Sho remembered the beautiful actor’s shattered state. No matter that Aoki had intimately known so many men in his lifetime. The intimacy he’d shared with Sozaemon had proved devastating. Aoki was so openhearted, so kind and… innocent. He’d let Sozaemon into his heart, and the ronin had sliced it with the same deadly force he’d swung his blade. As he walked through the night, Sho prayed for his friend. In another seven days or so, Aoki’s rib would be well on the path to healing, but what about his soul?

  AOKI SIGHED. Staring at the gate would not make Sho return any sooner. Sho had been gone over a fortnight now, and there had been no word from him in all this time. Had not both Toho and Hirata reassured him numerous times as to Sho’s deadly skills as a swordsman, Aoki would have been all the more worried. Yet, skilled as Sho was, Sozaemon was at the very least his match.

  At his side on the stone bench of the garden, Toho stirred and picked up his hand. “Time to feel your pulses, Aoki-san.”

  Toho’s touch brought its usual rush of tears to Aoki’s eyes. The young man was truly gifted, a healer, kind and honorable. Like his father.

  Toho was already concentrating, his fingertips pressing gently into the pulse point. As always, he listened carefully for what felt like a long time, while his other father, Hirata, paced near the gate. If anyone missed Sho and longed with every breath for Sho’s safe return, it was Hirata. The devotion and passion between the two men filled the air wherever they went, even when they were apart. They had the bond, the sweet timeless love Aoki had longed for nearly his entire life.

  After what had happened with Sozaemon however, Aoki couldn’t imagine having such love. His heart still felt weighed with guilt, remorse, and a mix of other emotions he couldn’t distinguish, except that he found himself wishing the ground could open and swallow him into its depths. He felt so undeserving of the loyal, zealous care he received from Toho and the protection and vigilance of Hirata and his other dear friends, Genji and Daisuke. Everyone had rallied around him in his hour of need. Yet all he could see to do was sit around, feeling inconsolable and damaged. The fact that Hirata had also been violated by the same man didn’t help him feel any less responsible. Hirata had been barely a youth, a child at the time. Completely innocent and lonely, missing his dear Sho. Hirata had not entertained countless men, educated in their carnal ways and skillful at knowing how to satisfy them.

  Finally Toho released Aoki’s wrist. “You’re healing well, Aoki-san. How does your rib feel?”

  “It still hurts very much each time I move.”

  Toho nodded. “Yes, that’s normal. In the next few weeks it should knit and the pain will fade. Just keep resting.”

  Tears flooded Aoki’s eyes again. He smiled at Toho through the blur of moisture. “I will. I’ll feel better when Sho returns. I am so worried.”

  Hirata approached them. “He will return soon. I know his reasoning for not sending a message to us.”

  Aoki nodded. “Yes, I remember what you said. He would not want to risk a message being intercepted.” The reasoning was sound, of course. If Sozaemon was truly a spy, he would most likely know he was being followed and begin following his pursuer.

  Hirata too gave a brief nod. He studied Aoki’s face a moment longer. “Aoki-san,” he murmured, “please remember what I told you about Sozaemon.”

  Aoki blinked back the tears. “I remember.”

  “Yet you still look so troubled,” Toho added.

  Hirata knelt before him. “It is of no matter whether you were an older, more experienced person and I a youth. Sozaemon preys on loneliness. He senses a person’s vulnerability and makes him feel special and happy, as if you are the most important person in the world to him. He wins your trust.”

  Aoki could no longer hold back his sadness. “Your words are comforting. Thank you.”

  Toho took his hand again, this time to hold it, not to feel his pulse. “You can believe my father. He wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true.”

  “I know.”

  Just then a noise at the gate drew their attention. The tiny bell rang.

  Hirata rose and rushed to the gate. He pulled it open to reveal the one person they all wanted to see. “Sho-chan!” Hirata exclaimed.

  Sho trudged in and stood, looking weary. Yet already his arms were outstretched toward Hirata, drawing him closer. He pressed his forehead to Hirata’s, one hand gripping Hirata’s jacket, close to his neck.

  Aoki stood close by, next to Toho, watching the reunion while relief flooded his own soul. Toho approached his father and received an embrace. And then Sho was standing in front of him, Hirata and Toho on either side of him. Aoki smiled, though Sho couldn’t see his face.

  “Aoki-san,” Sho said, “my task is done.”

  A tremor shook Aoki’s torso, the unexpected relief of not needing to live in fear of Sozaemon’s return. He didn’t speak right away for the forceful breaths passing through his insides.

  “Listen to me, Aoki-san.”

  The firm command in Sho’s voice made his entire being still, even his wracked breathing. “Yes,” he whispered.

>   “Promise me something.”

  “Anything.”

  A vein stood prominently in Sho’s temple. His skin appeared darker from long hours spent trudging the roads. His cheeks looked sharper than usual. He’d been a hungry beast on the hunt. “Promise me you will remember that this task was long destined, not a problem you created. You were never responsible.” He reached up and cupped Aoki’s cheek. “Promise you’ll remember.”

  Aoki’s eyelids fluttered closed. He put his own hand over Sho’s. “I promise.”

  Sho paused, allowing the brief contact of their hands, as if he were waiting to make sure through the touch that Aoki’s promise was real. Seeming satisfied, he released Aoki. “I need to rest now.”

  Aoki’s role as host took over in spite of his still infirm condition. “Of course. You rest as long as you like. I will ask Peony to prepare a meal and a hot bath for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  As a small group, they moved up the stone path of the garden toward the house. “Toho,” Sho said as they walked, “you should take Aoki-san to the river house to finish his convalescence. Some time spent there in complete restfulness will aid the healing.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Would you agree to go, Aoki-san?” Sho asked.

  Aoki brightened. He’d always loved the peaceful little house by the river. The place was filled with the loving, healing energy of the people who inhabited it. The little home was where Toho had spent the first year and a half of his recovery as a little boy. Aoki had only good memories and associations of that place. “Yes, Sho-sama. I would gladly go.”

  “Good. Hirata and I will accompany you there tomorrow and then return here, if that is agreeable to you, Aoki-san. We will look after your house while you’re gone. And we will come to check on you from time to time, as I’m sure Genji and Daisuke will as well.”

  Aoki glanced at Toho, who now wore a puzzled expression on his handsome face. Was Toho afraid to be alone with him, burdened with someone who could barely seem to raise his head to smile these days?

  They reached the front door and Peony slid it open, probably having heard them all approach. She was ever the attentive servant, as well as a comforting presence. Perhaps she too would be distressed at her master’s absence? “Sho-sama,” Aoki said, “as long as I am not a burden to my dear friend.” He stole another quick glance at Toho, who’d remained faithfully by his elbow, always treating every step he took as a crucial part of his recovery even though he felt much stronger since that fateful night.

  “Not at all, Aoki-san,” Toho said, though there was a small catch in his voice that didn’t bring the reassurance in his words.

  Once inside, Aoki asked Peony to prepare the hot bath and a meal for Sho. Sho and Hirata went to the guest room while Aoki went to his room to pack what he’d need for his stay at the little house by the river. As always, Toho accompanied him to his room and knelt down nearby, watching him as if he might fall over and break at any moment.

  TOHO WATCHED Aoki open one drawer after the next of the chest against the wall, taking out various items he would need. Aoki would set the item down, kimonos, loincloths, hair combs, and stare down, deliberating over each thing before refolding it and placing it with the other things in a neat pile. Every so often he would change his mind and take something carefully from the pile, replacing it with another, as if the decision were a matter of life and death. The process made an odd restlessness in Toho, and he shifted his weight to ease the sensation of pins and needles in his feet. It seemed Aoki had been packing for nearly an hour without a word passing between them. Could it be perhaps that Aoki-san was as nervous about their being alone together at the little river house as he was? How odd that they should be so ill at ease in each other’s company now, after all these years. Yet, Toho couldn’t deny to himself, as much as he wanted to, that things had changed. Everything was different now. Not only was he a man and no longer the child Aoki had once cared for, but Aoki-san was different now too. Sozaemon had seen to that.

  His attention was thankfully distracted by Hirata’s voice calling to him from the other side of the shoji.

  “Yes, Father,” he answered, rising to slide the door open just enough to see Hirata’s face. His father’s skin appeared slightly flushed. Hirata’s hair, though still pulled up at the crown of his head, was somewhat disheveled. Stray locks had escaped the tie and Hirata’s lips looked slightly swollen. Evidence of what had no doubt been a passionate reunion.

  “Toho, Sho would like to speak with you privately. I will stay here and see after Aoki-san until you come back.”

  “Yes. Of course.” Toho slid the shoji open farther, and Hirata stepped in.

  If Aoki had noticed Hirata’s entrance, he didn’t acknowledge it, absorbed as he still seemed in the task of preparing his things.

  Toho stopped himself from reminding Aoki of how short the journey to the river house was and how anything he might leave here could be very easily retrieved. Instinctively he knew that Aoki’s indecision and worry about such small items was itself a symptom of his trauma. He remembered only too well his own experience with packing a few small items long ago. He’d worried over them, folding and refolding until Sho had gently rescued him from his distress with an embrace. Toho grimaced inwardly. How could he have silently sat there and not helped Aoki-san when he himself knew what Aoki was feeling?

  He went over to Aoki-san and knelt down, putting a hand over his friend’s. “Aoki-san, why don’t you rest from your task awhile? Hirata is here to keep you company. Sho needs to speak with me. I’m sure you have prepared your things perfectly.”

  Aoki was watching him, a distant sad look in his eyes, as if he were looking past Toho. “I suppose you’re right. I will lie down awhile.”

  Toho squeezed Aoki’s hand gently. “I won’t be long. I promise.”

  “All right, To-chan.”

  Toho rose and waited for Aoki to turn away from the pile of folded things. He looked at Hirata, who nodded his understanding, and then he went to see his other father.

  Chapter Seven

  TOHO FOUND Sho kneeling on his futon, hands on his thighs. Like Hirata, Sho’s skin was flushed. Though his hair was much too short to show dishevelment, his kimono loosely gapped, showing part of his chest, and the bedding around them was in disarray. Sho’s expression too was much more relaxed than it had been when he first returned, though tiny lines of concern still caused a furrow in his brow.

  Toho knelt across from him. There was no need to announce his presence. Sho obviously had heard him come in from the way he tilted his head. “How are you, Father?” he asked, suddenly overcome by guilt. Heaviness settled over him, like a shadow, knowing that Sho had wandered an entire fortnight to kill the man who’d violated Aoki-san. A task he should have done himself.

  “I’m fine, son. Now that I’m back here with you and Hirata. I don’t need anything else.” He sighed. “I’m more concerned with you. And Aoki-san.”

  Toho glanced away. Even though his father was blind, he always felt as if Sho could see right through him. “I’m fine, Father. You don’t need to worry about me.”

  Sho didn’t answer right away. He just sat, his head still tilted. He was listening, Toho knew, listening to what Toho wasn’t saying. “Toho,” he said softly, “the measure of a man is not in his willingness to draw and use his sword.”

  Toho let out a tiny gasp. He let his father’s words sink in, thinking he’d understand. Yet the statement only gave rise to a question. The answer he ached to know. “Then what is it, Father? What is the measure of a man?”

  The lines in Sho’s face deepened slightly. “Remember when you begged your uncle to let you see me? The way you used to climb into my lap?”

  The questions caused the memories to surge, pushing warmth through Toho’s entire chest. “Yes, I do. I will never forget.”

  Sho nodded. “To whatever degree I made you feel safe, Toho, to the degree you were able to heal while under my care. T
hat is my true measure.” He paused. “Do you understand?”

  Toho’s lip trembled. His heart beat faster. “Yes, Father. But—”

  Sho held up a hand. “I haven’t finished. If you can give that kind of care to another human being, then that is your measure too. From that measure, you will commit the acts you need to commit, no more, no less.” He was silent a moment, and Toho could feel his father listening, feeling, understanding his son’s inner workings, worries, questions. “Toho, if someone hurt you, someone large and strong, would you expect Aoki to draw a sword and slay that person?”

  Toho stared at his father. The idea was ludicrous, of course. “Aoki-san isn’t a samurai. Nor would he have the strength and skill. He’d probably get killed. I would beg him not to.”

  “Yes. Even so, he would want to avenge you, and would probably die in the process. Then you would never see him again, never hear his voice or feel his embrace. Would you want that?”

  “No, never.”

  “Then imagine him feeling the same way about you.”

  Toho bowed his head. “But I’m stronger, and I know how to fight.” What excuse could there possibly be? None, as far as he was concerned.

  “Listen, Toho. I don’t consider myself a good man, but there are several good men in my care. I draw my sword if it’s needed in order to keep those good men alive in this world. Good men should not have to draw their swords or suffer at the hands of evil men.”

  Toho could not hold back the tears that welled in his eyes at his father’s words. “Father, you would not even say that if you weren’t good.”

  A muscle twitched in Sho’s jaw and his eyes misted. “Yes, I would. I recognize goodness when I encounter it. You, Toho, are good to your very core.”

  A warm salty tear slipped down Toho’s cheek, but he didn’t brush it away. He remained respectfully still while basking in the sacred glow of such praise. “Thank you, Father.”

  The softness coming into his father’s face showed his acknowledgment. Several quiet moments passed before he spoke again. “As you know, Toho, I have no particular love for samurai. I don’t love Hirata because he is a samurai. I love Hirata because from the moment we were both born, he has been the other half of my very soul. I love you because you are my heart. I wanted you to be a samurai for the advantage such status would give you in life, not because I see samurai as better than others by any means. Do you understand?”