There is no dishonor in dying this way.
That is the thought that prevails in my increasingly hazy mind. All who come into this world must die - that is the inevitable truth. All can choose how they live, but few have the privilege of choosing how they die.
I am one of the few.
I could have gone with my father and Captain Algren and the rest; I could have returned home and died in peace. Or I could have killed myself as soon as the first bullet entered my body. I still could. But suddenly, that doesn't seem like the best way to go. Not while my family still lives, and not while the ones who pursue them still draw breath. To end my life now, while my family is in danger, seems cowardly, craven.
Dishonorable.
I lean against the tree, taking deep, shuddering breaths, readying myself for my final stand. I know it is the end, and as my life draws to a close, my senses come alive. I can hear the crack of the guns and the scream of each individual bullet as it tears through the air on its deadly path. I hear the rustle of leaves and the soft hiss of the wind as it caresses my perspiring skin. I feel the sticky blood on my face and neck, the rough bark behind my back, the scratching ends of my recently cut hair. I smell damp earth, gun smoke, and cherry blossoms. I smell the water that flows under the bridge, and I smell the acrid, coppery scent of blood as it pours from my body.
It is time.
I move past the pain, pushing it aside. It does not matter. It does not exist. It is not real. All that is real is this, the end, the end on my terms.
I set an arrow to my bow and fire, barely noticing one of the guards fall before I send a second one ripping into another enemy. My movements become automatic - pull an arrow from my quiver, set it to the bowstring, draw back, fire. Pull an arrow from my quiver, set it to the bowstring, draw back, fire. Over and over, until I reach back and my hand meets with air. My quiver is empty.
Casting aside the bow, I draw my blades, letting a furious cry ripple out of me as my feet pound along the bridge. I feel the thrust and sting of a bullet as it slams into my body, and then another one. I am forced to a halt as a hail of lead rains down around and through me, and I slowly fall to my knees, my arms flung wide, my fists still clenched around the hilts of my weapons.
I did not kill them all. I could not prevent them from pursuing my father and my friends. But I tried. I am not dying in vain; as long as the few guards who remain are occupied with me, then there is a chance that the rest of the samurai will escape.
They will live for me. I am dying for them.
And there is no dishonor in that.