The freshness of elder
pines.
His hearing strains as he
walks through the path. The pines stretch above on either side of him. His
slippers softly crush the needles beneath his feet.
He can hear them.
There are six of them. Hiding in the branches.
He does not slow his
steady pace, but instead adjusts his Katana nearer to him. When he needs to
unsheathe it, it will be over quickly.
Almost painfully he
remembers the night in the Shögun’s keep. Her name was Misako, and she was First Geisha to Homori-kun.
As one of his Samurai,
he had been invited for the victory feast, and in honour of his feats in
battle, Misako had performed a dance for him.
She had danced in the
rain, to the sound of a single Koto, and it was poetry in motion. As he sipped
at his impeccably made green tea, he realized she was the most beautiful thing
he had ever seen in his life.
That same night he
went to her room, and proclaimed his undying love for her. She raised a single,
slender, white finger to her painted lips, pointing to the mark of her
servitude. She was Geisha, a living work of art, a symbol of status, property
of the Shögun. Not to be loved, but admired.
He did what he had to
do.
They were closing in,
now. He could feel the woods breathing closer.
He catches an arrow
mid-flight with his left hand, quivering inches from his neck. The shooter had
exhaled as he released it, giving himself away. They were either nervous or over-confident.
He might yet survive this.
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