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Garmadon sucked in a breath as the familiar stab of pain came through his sides in earnest.
Shit, it hurt again.
That was to be expected by now. Pain often visited him like an old friend—knocking on the door to his soul, dragging its feet in the genkan, and making itself at home in a way that Garmadon couldn’t pry out of himself anymore. Oftentimes, the best course of action was to let pain move through him, let it stay until it had grown bored of him. It departed much quicker that way.
This pain, though new to him, behaved no differently. Thus, he could weather it. Everything that made it worth it to obtain the Golden Weapons, including the ability to hold them with all of his hands.
All.
Garmadon couldn’t help the chuckle rumbling in his throat at the mere thought of it. All of his hands. Not both. All. Four to be exact. It had taken a considerable amount of work to get this far, traversing ruins and rituals with near-reckless disregard for his own safety. But every step he took through this realm was another step closer to recreating Ninjago in his own image. It was all worth it.
He winced as a deep ache welled up around his ribcage.
Mostly worth it.
Of course, growing an extra set of arms wasn’t without its drawbacks. It was a tiring affair—long and arduous and testing the limits of his patience. He conceded the Devourer’s Venom might have helped him out in this department, seeing as it trained his self-restraint and prepared his body for the inevitable.
Still, he wouldn’t wish this pain on anyone. Not his worst enemies, not even his brother.
Garmadon suppressed a snort.
Gods, Wu. He’d flip his lid if he saw Garmadon now. He could almost hear the lengthy, self-righteous spiel about upholding the promise they made to their father, standing for good, and protecting Ninjago.
Garmadon rolled his eyes. Oh, he’d protect Ninjago alright. He would do it his way, where Wu and that pesky team of elemental masters he’d accrued couldn’t interfere. He had to—for himself, for Misako.
For Lloyd.
Garmadon felt the beginnings of dread form a rock in his throat. His image of Ninjago… wouldn’t necessarily be the ideal place to raise a child. But Garmadon could make it work. He’d find a way to give Lloyd the upbringing and safety he deserved, even if he had to unearth it from the core of Ninjago itself. Lloyd could ask for the sun and moon and stars and Garmadon would build a rocket just to give it to him.
That’s what all of this was for, wasn’t it? The pain and suffering?
Garmadon ground his teeth together as the dull throb of his new arms reminded him of their presence.
Not for the first time, he remembered all the ways the Devourer’s Venom changed him, mentally and physically. And not for the first time, he wondered if that would have any effect on Lloyd. Firstbourne forbid Lloyd inherited any of the venom or propensity to grow sharp teeth and four arms.
No. Garmadon forbid that ever happen—he wouldn’t let it. So help him, he would undertake every ounce of misery just so Lloyd wouldn’t have to.
He’d protect Lloyd, no matter the cost.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Garmadon hisses.
The apartment is louder than usual. Bloodier too. He supposes that’s to be expected. Pain is a familiar presence by now, coming and going from his family tree with more ferocity than any wild animal, awaiting its next attack, and raking its claws down every branch it climbs.
It chose Lloyd this time. Of course, it did. Unfortunate though it may be, over the years, Garmadon has learned that pain chooses Lloyd more often than not. It chose him to bear the prophecy of the Green Ninja. It chose him to continue the endless battle. It chose him to be the hero— the one who takes it all in the face of adversity.
This time around, pain manifests itself within Lloyd’s heightened Oni form.
It happened somewhere around 3 AM. At least, Garmadon thinks so.
He and Vinny had finally turned down the bed when the once peaceful night shattered apart, rage and desperation pounding away on their door so hard it made the hinges rattle. His son—Lloyd—appeared in a wave of thunder and lightning, collapsed in front of his apartment, wailing in agony.
To say Garmadon hadn’t a semblance of what to do about it would be an understatement. His experiences ranged from causing pain to this degree to suffering on the receiving end of it. He’s never had someone crumpled at his feet, begging to be saved from it, especially not his son.
No, not Lloyd. Anyone but Lloyd. Let this curse take anyone else, let it take Garmadon a hundredfold, let it-
Lloyd screams, digging his claws into Garmadon’s robes. “Stop! Make it stop!”
Garmadon grits his teeth.
‘Get a grip, you loon,’ he scolds himself. He can’t let panic cloud his judgment now, not when Lloyd needs him.
“Hang in there, son. It’s almost over.” Garmadon tries for a soothing tone, one he hopes resembles those few days they had together when he preferred the title of master more than lord. He’s gentle with his hands—four of them, this time—as he holds his son steady and examines the wounds on his sides.
The wounds in question stretch across Lloyd’s body, starting at his back and circling around the brand-new set of limbs that have burst into existence. The connective tissue flushes a soft pink with the occasional stretch mark, an indicator of newborn skin that requires delicate care. It looks much better than it did about an hour ago, mostly clean and properly cared for. A majority of the pain— growing pain —should be internal now.
But there’s a faint nagging in the back of Garmadon’s mind. Something that can’t be ignored.
‘It’s supposed to be a slow transformation.’
To the best of Garmadon’s recollection, growing an extra pair of arms was a long, drawn-out process, meant to take upwards of a week to complete. For him, the pain had been debilitating. It forced him to stay still so as to avoid exacerbating what felt like lava roiling beneath his skin.
To grow them as quickly as Lloyd no doubt has…
Garmadon has a couple of theories but most of them boil down to this:
Lloyd neglected his Oni side.
Again.
Though Garmadon knows it’s moot to have hoped for, he wishes he could have taught Lloyd something about his Oni side. How to control it, harness it—convert his anger and fear into power to protect the people he loves with it. Learn how to stave off the constant desire for destruction, and keep it from overpowering him in battle.
Instead, due to Lloyd digging his heels in and refusing the slightest bit of help, Garmadon’s left resisting the urge to say “I told you so.”
It wouldn’t be the first time, seeing as Lloyd’s penchant for stubbornness has gotten him into similar situations, the infuriating little twit.
“Be nice,” Vinny’s words echo his memories.
Garmadon lets out a sigh. The past is in the past. At least that particular part of it is. No point in getting hung up on it now, not when he has worse things to be concerned with.
Garmadon keeps his movements slow as he lifts his son into his arms, careful not to jostle the new limbs when he stands.
“It hurts,” Lloyd groans, his voice made hoarse from so much screaming. His chest hitches on a half-formed sob. “I can’t… I don’t want…”
“I know,” Garmadon murmurs. “I know it hurts. Just give it time, they’ll stop hurting eventually.”
He moves through his and Vinny’s shared apartment through pure habit, pulled along by the measured years he’s spent remembering what home is supposed to feel like. His long strides take him to the faded, well-worn couch where he places his son down to rest.
Lloyd’s face contorts into a wince, his eyes squeezing shut as his head drops down onto the cushions. Both sets of arms wrap around his torso and follow the curve of his figure as he settles into the beginnings of a pain-fatigued slumber. Where the darkness of night once was, a sun-kissed sky begins to seep into the room and give light to the dark circles blooming on Lloyd’s face.
A stab of despair goes through Garmadon’s heart at the sight of it. Had it been a few years ago, he might have just commented that Lloyd looked awful. Now he wishes his son never had to experience anything like this . Pain like this… Garmadon would not wish it on anyone.
Not much he can do about it now , he thinks. Except maybe clean the bathroom, since he knows Vinny will have a conniption as soon as he sees it—bloodstained and decimated as it is.
Aw, jeez.
Later.
He can do that later.
Right now, he should be watching over his son. He sinks down onto the other end of the couch without many other thoughts than the ones that Lloyd consumes, all of them racing around at high speeds.
Lloyd arrived here hours ago, battered and bloodied and bruised, sick with grief and fear. Garmadon can’t help but wonder why. Of all the places his son could have gone, he had come here. Anywhere else—the monastery, his mother’s house—would have been safer and yet he still chose to seek Garmadon out. Had that been intentional? Had Lloyd meant to go in search of Garmadon? Or had his perception of the world been so clouded by pain that he ended up here by accident?
The best of Garmadon knows that it’s likely the latter. That Lloyd would rightfully only come to him when afflicted by a shattered mind and broken body. But deep inside, flowering where no one except he can see, Garmadon wants for it to be the former. He wants to entertain that maybe, just maybe, he had gotten through to his son.
Maybe Garmadon had finally proved himself worthy of a connection with him.
Maybe his desire and attempts to mend things had finally paid off.
Maybe, in the deepest parts of his resentment and anger, Lloyd had uncovered a shred of faith in his father.
Garmadon can only hope that might be the case.
