Honor

All he had in his life was honor.

In the corner of his small bedchamber, a smoldering ancestral votive with notes of incense, jasmine, and wildflower fought the stench of the world beyond. It was a futile effort. Moonlight reflected off his sword reverently held between two wooden pedestals. It was his father’s blade, cooled with honor by blood of the Emperor’s enemies.

He knelt, eyes closed and mind clear, as they taught him when he was a boy long ago. The bowl of rice lay empty; he deserved neither fish nor vegetables. The last maggot-like grains lay there on the bowl’s gently curving white porcelain… just like her skin…

He chased away such thoughts, seeking clarity in the monsoon raging around his body and soul. There must be a path.

Surrounded by darkness, too windy to allow for open flame lest he risk his home burning to the ground, he undid the silken sash around his torso, letting the white robe fall to the ground.

Cold air licked his naked body. Must the entire world remind him of his sins? Sin. He had no knowledge of that word until they came on their ships with black sails. Now, she filled his nights and his days with the memory of her screams. The memory of those sins.

Besides the empty bowl and blade sat a quill and parchment. With hand shaking, he left a short note.

Upon springtime winds

They spoke of God's salvation

Her skin condemns me

He was never much of a poet. There was beauty in such things, beauty reserved for better beings.

All he had in his life was honor, and therefore all was now forfeit.

He barely comprehended his body hitting the ground, blood from the narrow slit in his navel staining the white floor.

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A/N:

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