Chrysanthemum and blood

It had been raining for two days. My father and mother, hidden under a torn umbrella, had spent months traveling to her family home. They avoided larger cities for fear of assassins from a rival clan lurking behind them. They stopped only at small inns to rest and regain strength for the journey ahead. It was in one of these places, during dinner with the other guests, that my father was struck by a feeling that could lead to his downfall. A young samurai from the Hojo clan, sitting alone in a corner of the inn, captivated him with his delicate, boyish beauty. Throughout the entire meal, my father focused solely on him. My mother didn't react. She knew he had previously had affairs with young boys. She dismissed this as just another of her husband's whims. However, when my father asked the samurai the next day to accompany them on their journey, she felt rejected, and although she didn't show it, she always walked a few steps behind them throughout the journey.

My father tried to hide his feelings, but as time passed, it became harder for him to refrain from confessing the truth. My mother, who had initially been only a few steps away from them, gradually increased her distance. However, my father, overcome with emotion, didn't notice. He often spoke to the samurai, but she was too far away to hear them. Despite this, she thought they understood each other perfectly, so she was surprised by what she saw when she caught up with them around the bend. The samurai was shouting at my father. He pushed him—but he didn't react. My mother realized he had revealed a secret that had been troubling him.

The samurai, offended by my father's advances, challenged him to a duel. He picked up two bamboo sticks from the ground and threw one at him. A moment later, he was standing opposite him. He stared into his father's narrowed eyes, trying to anticipate his tactics. He wanted to guess his opponent's attack strategy while simultaneously analyzing his own defenses. However, my father didn't betray his intentions; he stood motionless, stick in hand, waiting for his chosen one to attack. When the samurai, driven by anger, moved to strike a blow to the shoulder, my father dodged slightly to the side, parried the attack, and then quickly but weakly struck his opponent's head with the bamboo. Similar clashes occurred several more times. During each duel, the samurai received another gentle warning to the top of the head. The young swordsman was unaware that his father had previously fought in the Heiji War. He was no ordinary ronin, but one of the more skilled warriors of the Taira clan. But now, a year after the Gempei War, with the clan shattered, my father refused to mention his lineage, fearing persecution from the enemy. After another defeat, the samurai, seeking to regain his honor, demanded a swordfight. Both men threw aside their bamboo sticks and reached for their weapons. They faced each other again, but this time only one would survive. The samurai charged, aiming a side slash. My father easily blocked the blow and quickly struck the young man's head. However, just as the sword was about to kill him, my father twisted his wrist, inflicting only a faint pain with the blunt edge of the blade. The samurai, exploiting his enemy's weakness, aimed an attack at the carotid artery, unleashing a red rain. A few drops congealed on the young swordsman's face, bringing a faint smile to my father's face. Seeing that at least his blood had been honored to approach the young man, he could die in peace. The samurai quickly brushed the red from his blade and sheathed his sword. My father slowly sank to the ground. The assassin glanced at my mother and then walked away. She had been watching the duel the entire time. Initially, she wasn't worried about her husband—she was certain of victory, which is why his death was incomprehensible to her. Only after a long time did she approach his body. She stared at his lifeless face for a long time, but she didn't shed a single tear.