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Yoriichi died standing. Not even death could make him fall on his knees; nothing in the world could make Yoriichi tremble, Kokushibō knew that well. Or that’s what he used to believe, because Yoriichi cried in front of him; his face remained as still as stone, but huge tears ran down his cheeks.
“This is heart-wrenching, brother”: that was what he said, before trying to put an end to his sins.
I don’t care. I hate you — Kokushibō thinks. He’s indifferent to his own tears, streaming down to the ground. A samurai should never cry, yet he forces himself to wipe his face carelessly with the kimono, as if he was a child. Then, at an almost agonizingly slow pace, he takes out the katana. His right hand is heavy, trembling for something Kokushibō doesn’t want to analyze.
Hate!
He slices his brother’s body in two.
Hate!
The cut is neat and perfect. Kokushibō’s training is paying off.
Hate!
A strange cloth catches his attention. It’s a small sack.
Hate!
Something made of wood pops out of the sack. It’s…
A flute.
I’ll keep this with me to remember you, brother.
Kokushibō takes a few steps back from the now disfigured corpse of his brother. The katana falls to his side.
No matter how far away we are... I will not be discouraged.
He falls on his knees. Get up! — a part of himself thinks — Get up! What are you doing?!
He digs his hands into the ground, fingers digging deep furrows. The dirt that accumulates in his palms feels too much like freshly hunted meat.
He brings his dirty hands close to his face, and the dirt that falls down resembles the last grain of humanity he had left, now lost forever.
This is heart-wrenching, brother.
Tears keep falling off all of his eyes, he can’t bring himself to calm down. What would his lord think of the pitiful scene he’s making?
His breath is heavy but shallow as the same time. He never felt like this. It’s so wrong.
And what does feel wrong?
I am a samurai. I must stop this pathetic cry and refer to my lord that…
His little brother is dead. And it should bring him happiness: a creature loved by the gods like that should never exist. So why does he feel so… pained?
Brother.
Brother.
Brother.
He starts to shake.
Brother.
Brother.
Brother.
A broken, cracked sob escapes from deep in his throat. Then another. And another. And another.
The sobs break into a scream. His eyes stare at the red moon. With so many tears flowing it is difficult to get a clear view of it, yet its indifferent light shines brightly in his eyes.
He crawls toward his brother's body. He doesn't care if his clothes are getting dirty; the only thing that matters is reaching Yoriichi.
His little brother.
The brother who he loved so much.
Underneath the envy, the anger, the despair and the sick admiration there was brotherly love.
«Yoriichi…» he mutters, picking up the flute cut in two. «Yoriichi…»
He finally stands. He puts the pieces of the flute back in his kimono and carefully collects his brother's remains. He deserves to be buried in an honorable place. Maybe a temple.
With his last tears falling, he walks in a direction unclear even to himself.
Perhaps it’s Hell.