The Willow

In the outskirts of Soul Society, far from the crazy events of the Shinigami, if one were to walk out a bit further from the city, one will inevitably meet the willow. A willow that had been standing for at least a 1000 years.

The tree was ancient, its pale white bark ageless and its presence timeless as it stood there, unmoving, forever strong. For 100 years it had been like this, rooted there to the ground, never leaving from its place, as its infinite tree rings within recorded the unstoppable pass of time. As a flake of bark slowly cracked off the willow's impenetrable trunk, its descent slow and light in the wind, another was sure to take its place eventually, as the tree continued to stand, unafraid in the test of time.

Its leaves, each one extremely thin, yet green as if brim with life, were all pointing towards the ground. However, none of them touched the ground, as the even thinner hair-like branches held on fast to each and every one, never letting a single one break off to meet the all-consuming ground. As the breeze now picked up into a brief strong gale, the branches and leaves flailed about in its force, each and every one of the latter seemingly near to breaking off and resultantly dying. Yet the willow held fast, strong forever. For in its eyes, each and every leaf was its sons and daughters.

In the final breath of the gale, the tree cringed as it felt the moving air touch against the stinging wound on one of his branches. And on the thick smooth wood with his white plaster-like bark was the never-ceasing fungus. Like little immortal parasites, the fungus have been eating away at the powerful solid tree, desiring to bring him down to its very roots and then devour every little leaf of life on it. Yet the willow wouldn't have it, as it continued to stand strong against this adversary and so the fungus has never touched its precious leaves. The willow shook off the memories of one of his more barren branches, one of his arms, which he had so willingly broken off to throw one of the menaces into the ground and let it be consumed in the gaping maws of the soil. He remembered weeping for the loss of whatever little life was on that arm but he was able to stand for another day. Protecting his leaves.

And more.

There was only one thing that he would choose over his sons and daughters over. The world itself. The willow smiled proudly as it looked up to the center where all its branches now converge. And resting nicely in the spot, was a little bird's nest. And within the craggy mass twigs and leaves, all gladly given by the tree, were two little eggs. Two little birds' eggs. Their little mainly white soft shell hid whatever lovelies were growing inside. Just waiting to be born. One of them had little spots around it, the colour of Earth, as its amaranthine hard coat gleamed brim of happiness, much to the content of the willow. It was beautiful for being normal. The other was special-looking, with a mixture of white and black, the colors so often worn by the Shinigami, as its flawless surface sheened like a perfect pearl. It was beautiful for being unique.

The tree grinned in great pride, his hidden smile forming on every little stomata on its little thin leaves. To tell you the truth, he felt like he was protecting the worlds. He was protecting the innocent worlds from the stains of the fungus, the hunger of the ground and the treachery of the ever-blowing wind. The willow will make sure that they will hatch. Even if they arealready dead, it can wait until someone breaths life in them. It can wait till its fabulous trunk rots away, till its sons and daughters each fall off one by one, till its extensive roots will become nothing more than stumps. And still it will wait. It will sacrifice everything it has to protect these worlds he hold in the palm of his trunk. The tree, with its standing resolve relentless as ever, gazed at its thick base, its foundation, its starting point from a little seedling. And within a relatively large hole, the wooden edges seemingly bilious, yet bursting with energy in its veins, a little stick was lying within. It was a normal walking stick, innocuously harmless, its blunt end in a snail-shell spiral of wood.

The walking stick has been the tree's very support for so long. Its blessing. Its source of power. Its very first of roots. And for a long time, the stick continued to fuel the tree with the fiery energy that has allowed him to stand for so long through the worst and the best. Yet, the tree knew, deep in his mind, that he has not received the stick's blessing for a long time. The willow knew that his peak has long past, that he could not continue his mission for long. Yet as he gave the eggs another look and his vigour was rejuvenated. With or without the long piece of sacred wood, he was going to stand. Stand till the birds finally come home.

And stand it did. The tree would continue its strong stand against time, as each glance at the eggs gave it another burst of power, enough to last it for another day. And so day by day would past. For years. For decades. For centuries.

Then one day, as the tree laid weakly, its precious trunk being eaten by the fungus, its roots shortening away by the second, its sacrificed leaves all dropped and falling victim by the ground and the wind blew off all of its branches. Yet it stood strong. One more day, It thought, I just need one more day. As it tried to give the eggs another of its daily glance, its eyes failed to even raise high enough to admire upon the eggs' beauty. The end was close. Time was nearing for the win. A pity, it thought. But then the stick, still embedded firmly within its chest, begun to glow. As the tree stood astounded by this sudden revival of the sword of immortal fire, the ground stopped eating, the fungus was burnt away and the wind dropped. The stiff stillness in the atmosphere gave the exhausted willow both fear and ecstasy, but it didn't have the energy to even frown or smile. Instead, the now bare trunk of a tree slowly raised its eyes, just enough to see the horizon in the distance.

And the boy.

The willow's eyes were weak, the boy nothing more than a blurred image. But those red eyes, full of wise youth and mature determination, struck the tree with great recognition. As the tree looked on, literally stumped by the boy's sudden appearance, the child, no taller than a 10 year-old, walked up towards it, his steps proud and strong. At first the willow was frightened, as it slowly and tiredly shook in order to scare away the kid but the boy simply kept on approaching, bold and unhesitating. Soon, the willow gave up as it once again sank down into its sagging position, surrendering the eggs it had protected for so long to the new kid on the block. And in its mind, failure began to haunt him.

And a miracle happened. Cheep. Cheep. Cheep.

The tree gasped, using the last of its energy to raise its eyes once again, in time to see the two little birds in the nest now in the outstretched palms of the boy. One was a normal earth in colour, the other a unique black and white. As they raised their heads towards the sky, their little yellow beaks opened while they chirped away hungrily. They were beautiful. One for being normal, the other for being unique. The tree could not help but smile for the last time. It's mission was done.

"You have done me...a great favour, boy...What is your name?"

"Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto..."

"Well, Yamamoto...I am Ryujin..."

The tree's weak but grateful words trailed off as the tall willow finally disintegrated away, its body having long been dead for what seemed like eternity. As the little glowing walking stick fell to the ground, the boy named Yamamoto looked down upon its seemingly harmless exterior. And carved in within the snail-shell spiral was the word "Jakka".

Hence, Ryujin Jakka.