The Edge

Shijima took in a deep breath, enjoying the mountain’s scent. There were few things as enjoyable for the Captain-Commander as her long walks through the east, where mountains of all sizes stretched out in massive ranges. The way the birds sang in the morning, and the deer in the forest that she caught from the corner of her eye, and even the chilled wind blowing down from the snowcapped peak brought the softest of smiles to Old Shijima’s face.

“We’re almost there, Commander,” Morochika said.

“Indeed we are,” Shijima replied, leaning on her cane to make it up the steep incline they now faced.

Endo Morochika was an old man, from the same era as Shijima. He had followed in her shadow just as she had her predecessor’s own, and together the two had become so close that they were siblings in all but name. He trailed in her wake even now, his bald head sweating and his wrinkled face red with exertion. Shijima looked back at him and smiled. Always jumping off the bridge with me, she mused, before turning and continuing her way up the mountain.

Their trip had begun peaceful enough. It was a holiday in the Seireitei, so she took the chance to escape if for nothing more then to calm her nerves. Once the festivals were over, Shijima would once again don her haori and floppy ears to serve the Shinigami as their leader. Morochika himself would return to his shop in the first district, as long as there were no immediate threats facing the Seireitei.
For a moment that dark word hung in Shijima’s mind and she sighed. “What is it, Commander?” Morochika asked, and Shijima took in a deep breath and smiled.

“Nothing,” she answered after a time. Today is a day of peace, Shijima reminded herself. I am Ichimatsu Shijima, old woman and mountain climber. Not Ichimatsu Shijima, Captain-Commander of the Gotei Thirteen.

Once the two had made it out of the flatlands that were the lower Rukongai districts, much of their trip had been done in silence. The few hours that it was not they talked about the weather, or to locales, or gave out candy to the kids they passed by. Shijima was glad that she had grown so old and unimposing. Few of the commoners knew who she was, and even the newest generation of Shinigami were like to forget her face if not for her haori and history. And of course, she had made sure to suppress her reiatsu as deeply as she could. That way, she would neither scare the locals or be tracked by her over-cautious lieutenant, or the Onmitsukido’s watchful eye.

Another wind came rushing over her, and this time Shijima felt the chill. Following behind it was a plain man, wearing thin cloth pants, a loose robe, a backpack, and a hat of straw. Shijima nodded at him as he walked past, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes. When she turned to look at him again, Morochika pointed to himself. “Not you,” she murmured. Just my imagination, I suppose.

“It’s going to snow tomorrow,” Morochika said.

Shijima looked up, but the sky was clear—all but the horizon, where a thick band of clouds was beginning to grow. “Seems that way,” she said. “We best make it to the village before sundown then.”

“I’d rather not Shunpo to get there, Commander,” Morochika complained. Shijima only smiled and turned around, continuing her hike up the mountain side.

When they have finally reached the village, the sun was half-dipped beneath the horizon. The once vibrantly clear and blue sky had become something out of a children’s book; it was all cotton candy and sherbet and chocolate, scattered every which away amongst the encroaching clouds. The skies up here are always grand, Shijima thought. She reached up and touched the necklace at her throat, remembering when her husband had brought her all this way so many centuries ago.

“One for you, one for me,” Morochika said, stepping out of the dumpling shop and handing Shijima a stick. She took it and sat down on the bench outside, blowing on the dumplings softly to cool them down.

“I was going to get a bowl of ramen for us too, but I think that’s best saved for when the snow falls.”

Shijima took a bite and swallowed before answering with a simple, “That sounds best.”

“You sound tired.”

“I am.” She smiled and took another bite. “And old.”

“That makes two of us,” Morochika said with a nod, before he began to eat his dumplings with those dainty bites that only he could enjoy.

That night the two slept in the same room, with both their beds being old straw and dusty fabric. Morochika had complained that his allergies would get the best of him that night even though he never had suffered from them before. When the lantern was put out, she fell asleep fast enough. When she was younger, Shijima never rested well. Whether it was a battle to fight, a Hollow to hunt, or an enemy to prepare for, insomnia had long ago plagued her younger years. Now, an old woman of over two thousand years, Shijima found that sleep came easy—though it was never as peaceful as she prayed for. She always dreamed of the past, and how things would be if things were not how they were. Of a child she could never have, with brown hair. Of a man she could never be with, whose shadow encompassed the world. Of a another man who held her hand through it all, who loved her and held her and gave her hope. Of a corpse, bloody and destroyed, lying on a stone bed with crystal tears falling from his eyes. Rokunosuke, Shijima said. Rokunosuke. And when she reached out the body turned to dust, and everything else along with it.

When she finally woke, never did Shijima feel rested. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and grabbed her glasses before looking out the window. The world was blue outside, and the sun had yet to rise. Slept late when young, and now I wake early when I’m old. She sighed and looked over to Morochika, who was also just sitting up.

“Sleep well?”

“Eh,” was all Morochika said. “Seems the older we get the less we sleep, huh?”

“Yeah,” Shijima said, turning back to face the window.

“Not as witty as your usual self,” Morochika chimed in, standing up, stretching, and yawning. “Would you like to go to the cliff alone today?”

“I won’t ask you to do that,” Shijima said, standing herself and reaching for her travel robes. “You accompanied me up her many times before, Endo-kun, but you never want to go all the way.”

She smiled at Morochika then, and he smiled back, but she knew he would stay in the town all the same. Every time they made this trip after Rokunosuke had died it was always the same. He says I’m sullen when I’m here. Shijima shrugged, washed, and dressed.

The two broke an early fast on black bacon and a single egg before Shijima set out. Of course, Morochika stayed, likely to visit the shops and get slapped by the young women who owned them. He had always been a womanizer in his youth, and time had done little to cure that. Shijima was not sure why, but he was always the opposite with her; protective, polite, and kind. As I imagine a little brother would be, Shijima thought. As I imagine he was with his own older brother. But Endo Ashihara had only been Endo Ashihara before he became Kenpachi and severed that tie. Since then Morochika had always been in her shadow, and she assumed that, by now, that would only change when his heart stopped beating.

“But I don’t need that to happen now do I, Roku,” Shijima told herself. She reached up and touched the charm he had given her before his death, and felt a warmness overcome her.

It had snowed over the night, as expected. The mountain wind that whipped through the air hit her bones, but she breathed it in and let it fill her all the same. The crust of snow broke under her sandals as she walked, and Shijima was glad that it was not cold enough for serious ice to form, or for the snow to grow any deeper. Captain-Commander or no, hobbling through the woods after a late summer snow was a dangerous affair for an old woman.

Shijima guessed it had been about two hours when she finally reached the cliff. The sun had begun to rise, and the white world turned gold. As she reached the edge of the forest, she saw that the summer sun had cleansed the cliff beyond of its shell. It’s as beautiful as our first time here, Roku, she thought, and a wetness touched her cheeks.

The cliff had no name, but it was special nonetheless. It jutted out some twenty odd feet into the open air, covered in grass with a bed of pink chrysanthemum’s lining the edge. Shijima took slow steps to the precipice, as if she were making her way through a sacred temple. In her mind, she was. She could vividly remember Rokunosuke holding her by the hand as he led her to this place for the first time. And when she reached the peak, both back then and now, her heart skipped a beat as she saw what lied beyond.

The valley was more than a thousand feet long and buried under just as many species of flowers. Violet, blue, red, pink, white, gold, and a hundred more colors shone brilliantly under the dawn sun. Where the mountain’s cast their shadows along the walls the snow was still thick, but that did little to detract from the beauty. And cutting through the middle of it all was a series of four streams, sometimes joining into great ponds before flowing out again into some cave or joining another river hidden by the bend of the valley.

For a long time Shijima stood speechless, her eyes wet with tears and her mind clouded by memories. She remembered the day that Rokunosuke brought her here, showed her the valley, and fell to one knee. That was the day he gave his heart to her, and the day she gave her heart in return.

A branch broke and snow fell, but Shijima did not feel Morochika’s aura. She turned, her eyes wet but hard now, and looked at the man emerging from the treeline.

“You’re the boy from yesterday,” she plainly said.

“And you’re a Shinigami, going by your dress and aura,” the man said. He lifted his straw hat and gave her that same odd look he had the day before. I was right, Shijima knew. She closed her eyes, inhaled a deep breath, and turned back towards the valley.
“Do you have a reason for being here? I am trying to enjoy the view.”

“Nothing much, really,” the man said. Several pairs of footsteps could be heard moving through the snow. Shijima did not need to turn around to know who was there or how many there were. “Just thought it was odd, seeing an old Shinigami around here and all. Especially one weak as you. Odd, but not unprofitable.”

“I see,” was all Shijima said. Her grip tightened on her staff so hard that her knuckles turned white. Just a few days was all I asked for, Reiou. “And I suppose you want to kidnap me and hold me hostage.”

“Oh ho! Old but wise, I see,” Shijima heard the man spit. “I hope you don’t mind this. We gotta’ eat is all.”

“Have to eat, eh?” No respect from the ignorant. “You see your elders as a meal ticket?”

“Like I said, no hard feelings, ma’m.”

Shijima turned her body half way, her head lowered but her eyes flicking to them. “Of course not,” she said, rising up her cane just inches above the ground. “The hare never blames the fox for eating him.” And when her cane touched the soft soil, so too did her reiatsu touch their shoulders.

There was no Resistance. All seven men were down on the ground before they could take their next breath, and many of them were foaming at the mouth. The one with the straw hat was even twitching, and reaching at his throat as if that could help him. And just before her aura grew so heavy that it would crush their bodies, she lifted it and turned back to her valley. The flowers at her feet stood straight, as did the ones below. She was glad she did not crush them.

“See you next year, Roku.” Without another word Shijima hobbled past the broken men, sighing as she stepped back into the gloom of the forest.

“Everything go ok, Commander?” Morochika asked when she returned. He had a red imprint on his face and a bit of blood on his nose. “I felt your aura down here.”

Shijima gave him her most comforting smile and bowed. “Just an old woman having old memories is all, Endo-kun.” She took a seat in front of him and leaned her cane on the table. “Ramen for the snow?” she asked.

Morochika had a blank face, but then he scratched his head and smiled. “Yeah. Ramen for the snow.”