Images flash through his mind as he's slammed back into the waking world. His mouth gapes open as he desperately tries to drag air into his lungs, but torrential rain hits the back of his throat and he chokes on it. He sputters and shudders and his chest is heaving and his leg. Why does his leg hurt so bad?

Shaking hands grip the ground either side of him- why is he on the ground? Why is the ground covered in mud and dead grass? And why do his hands seem to sting so badly?

The world slowly comes back to him as the black spots at the edge of his vision seem to dance less and less, until nothing but a sheen of blur is left. A great cliff comes into his vision.

His chest heaves.

Why am I lying at the bottom of a cliff?

He tries to remember.

The bounty- he was attacked on the bounty, he can remember that clearly - and then... the Dark Island. That's where he is, the Dark Island.

He leans his aching head to the side, trying his best to ignore the flurries of pain that shoot down his spine. He looks around.

Trees, trees, nothing but trees. Where is the tomb?

He woke up on the tomb before, on the floor, just like this. Then he- oh. Then he killed a man.

He coughs -deep and scratchy and full of rainwater - as the sound of teeth crunching into flesh echoes in his mind.

And suddenly, he was back. Back at the end of the beaded curtain, watching as a man tore out the insides of a young boy. Watching as he devoured raw flesh. Watching as blood Spurted and pooled under them. He was listening to the horrid sound of blood gurgling at the back of the boy's mouth, all too similar to the sound Jay made when he had nearly drowned. Listening to his cries for help as his own father tore the flesh from his body.

Suddenly he was moving again, charging towards the violent cannibal and tearing him off the mangled boy. The man attacked him, he remembers. He bit him. So Lloyd used his powers, the good ones. He summoned a great flaming ball of green energy and set it on the man. Whether he was killed instantly or when he cracked against the opposite wall, Lloyd hadn't bothered to check.

Movement catches his eye, snapping him away from the memory.

Something was moving on the face of the cliff. It jumped from ledge to ledge, quickly, efficiently.

It was Garmadon.

Lloyd's face scrunches as he remembers.

A yell reaches his ears, hardly audible over the booming rain. It was his father yelling out to him.

With a pained grunt, he flips his torso onto his side. His leg shifts with the movement, and he swears he could feel his femur jostle inside his thigh.

A pained noise escapes him, hardly loud enough to be heard over the rain. He doubts his father heard it.

Speaking of his father; Garmadon jumped from the bottom of the cliff, landing on still uneven ground as he ran down the knoll to where Lloyds pained figure lay.

"Lloyd! Stay still, son-" he falls to his knees beside him but Lloyd can hardly listen to him as he stares at his father with what could only be described as visceral hatred and shame.

Look at him: untouched, perfectly fine in his all-powerful Oni form, he spits in his mind. And look at his pathetic little human son; he tried to prove himself and look where that got him.

A hand reaches out to him and Lloyd slaps it away without thinking, in doing so the elbow underneath him gave way and he tumbles onto his back. A grunt of pain escapes him, he clenches his teeth.

"No- go away, I don't need your help, I'm fine-"

Garmadon was having none of it. "You are not fine in the slightest, son!"

Lloyd looks to glare at him, and he spots red eyes swimming with guilt and worry and pity. It makes his head spin, bile creeping up his throat. His jaw clenches impossibly tighter.

A hand snakes under his shoulder, hooking under his armpit and gently tugs him up. Lloyd tries to smack him away again but his leg shifts and he jolts, trying not to cry out in pain.

Another hand hooks under his knee, and in a panic he tries to smack that one away too.

"No! I don't need your help-"

He cuts himself off with a Futteral scream of white-hot pain as his father stands, jostling his leg. He shudders at the realisation that he can't feel the lower half of it.

Wind brushed over him, and Lloyd felt as if every drop of water on him froze with the breeze. He was verging on hypothermic, he was sure, but the icy air felt pleasant against the many injuries littering his body. It numbed them, soothing his pain, yet cutting air from his lungs.

The Dark Lord gave his son no time to get used to the feeling of dangling from his arms. He quickly began further descending the knoll, and Lloyd realises that he must have rolled a part way down once he'd hit the ground. The thought made him shudder, and he found himself dragging his arms up from where they hung and folding them over his chest.

His leg- it seemed to throb in time to his heartbeat, sending tendrils of pain shooting up his thigh, around his hips. It settled at his lower back, right where he rested again one of his father's hands. A grunt escaped him as they dropped down a small ledge, jostling against his father painfully.

He felt the haziness creep back over him, and the tension that had built up in his neck dissipated as his head hung.

Unconsciousness seemed so close, the edges of his vision verging on darkness, yet he remained awake. The pain wouldn't let him slip that easily- but neither could the shame.

He didn't need this! He didn't need his father to baby him! He could walk on his own, he could help himself- he didn't need his father's help to get down the cliff, much less the Oni power! He was capable, why couldn't anyone see that?

The voice yelled at him, but it felt far away, muffled.

He could look after himself, he could do this. But nobody else thought that way. Everyone thought of him in this great, shining light, this great figurehead of safety, of protection, yet it didn't matter. Because when it came down to it, when lives were in danger, suddenly he wasn't capable, suddenly he was a powerless child adorning the great gi of a legend. Suddenly, when all was lost, when he was in trouble, he had to rely on others to get him out of it.

And the realisation finally struck him. He really was powerless. He really did have a constant need to rely on others to get by. He was so utterly weak.

It didn't sit right with him.

The onslaught of rain against his skin ceased, and all at once the world came back to him.

Dirt and mold filled his nose.

Muffled rain thundered against stone in the distance. The sound overwhelmed his ears, yet it was quiet.

He opens his eyes - he didn't recall closing them - and the octagonal room surrounded him. Stoney gray and worn down, ficus drowning the walls and floors in familiar patterns.

Before he could fully get a grasp on what was happening, he felt the world lurch slowly around him as his father kneeled, and soon he felt himself pressing against the ground. His shoulder made constant with something hard behind him - the strange stone table - and he eagerly leant his weight against it, arms in his lap.

Then his father put his legs down, and he suddenly remembered why he had been carried in the first place.

Pain shot up his leg, attacking him in throbbing waves as his consciousness cracked back to him. His stinging hands shot down to the ground either side of him, gripping like his life depended on it as he struggled to gasp breath into his lungs. His neck dug uncomfortably into the stone table; a far more welcome feeling than whatever was happening with his leg.

Tearing his eyes away from the ceiling, he glared down at his right leg. He was relieved to see no blood, just mud and grass caking the fabric. Biting through the venomous pain, he felt around his thigh with both hands, feeling for the spot where it hurt the most. When he felt right in the middle of his thigh, he couldn't control the guttural cry of pain that bit through his teeth. His vision flashed away from him for a second, but when it came back he pushed on. His heart plummeted to his stomach when he felt the hard lump.

Oh no, oh no- I've broken my leg, haven't I?

Before he can prove the notion wrong, he feels a hand on his shoulder. His head shoots up and when he meets his father's eyes he nearly recoils at his expression. Lips pulled taut, eyebrows arching above wide eyes. It screamed pity.

It only made him aware of the pained expression on his own face: Eyes teary, brows furrowed, nose scrunched, his jaw clenching to the point of grinding his teeth.

He snaps his head back away, staring away at his other leg. The hand on his shoulder does not move. He's faintly aware of how his own shake.

The hand squeezes. "I am going to find something to wrap your leg in, alright?" His father mutters, voice stern but gentle. "Do not move."

Lloyd wants to huff at his father, say of course I won't move, look at me! But he stays bitterly silent as his father runs off down one of the many hallways that lined the walls. The beaded curtain clinks together as he passed through, the only noise to fill the room other than the faint sound of thunder and rain.

Once he's sure his father is gone, he glances back at his leg.

Leaning over, he clutches at the bottom of his pants and tugs them out from where they were tucked into his boot. Cold air stung at his bare skin, still dosed in rainwater. He pulled the fabric as far as he could before it stopped in a thick bunch at his knee. Before he had time to think it over, he tore at the fabric, ripping it in a line so he could pull it up further and inspect his damaged leg. He knew he would regret it later, but now was not that time. He cringed at the bruising that coated his upper leg, dark and violent like the skin of an Oni.

Once the fabric bunched messily near his hip, he took a deep breath before pressing his hand against the damage. He hisses at the pain, but keeps pressing around, feeling the swollen area for abnormal bumps.

When he finds nothing, he sighs in relief.

It's not broken, probably just fractured.

He chuckles airily. How weird it was that having a fractured femur was a good thing.

Just as reassurance, he flexes his foot inside the heavy boot. Watching it closely, he noticed the colour on his boot had faded out into monotone greys, a stark contrast to the deep green it had been before.

He can hardly think on it for long before the telltale noise of beads clinking together rings in his ears. He looks up, spotting his father jogging back into the room, something black dragging from his hand. Lloyd squints his eyes at it, trying to remember where he'd seen it.

Lloyds eyes drag across his father as he kneels beside him, noticing the 2 extra limbs that still adorned him. He scowls.

His father places the object down near his leg, and after it 2 sticks, one as long as a spear and the other just shorter. Only when a hand moves towards his leg does Lloyd realise what he's trying to do.

He grabs at the hand, trying to push it away. "No- I can do it myself-"

"No, you cannot."

Another hand presses against the fracture, and Lloyd bites a hiss, the back of his head thudding against the stone table. He squeezes hard at his father's wrist, suddenly grateful that he had something to grab.

He feels the rough bark of one of the sticks pressing against the inner side of his thigh. He hears a huff, and his father pulls the stick away.

"I need you to lie down for this, son."

Lloyd groans, but reluctantly, he pushed himself down, his back leaving the somewhat comfortable table. His leg jostles a little as he tries to shuffle down and he hisses at the pain before his father grabs under his knee and helps him move down.

Words couldn't describe the shame he felt.

Once his head rested against the ground, he faintly felt two hands wrap around his ankle, gently pulling. Lloyd cursed through his teeth at the feeling, and his father shot him a sharp look before he stopped, pressing one lower hand against his ankle and holding it in place.

The stick presses against his inner thigh again, and Lloyd leans his head as far away as he can, shutting his eyes tightly as his face scrunches. He feels it press down against the side of his shin, jutting into the flesh uncomfortably. The other stick presses against his other side, from just above his hip, to his thigh, and down to his ankle. This one was considerably longer than the other.

A tearing noise splits through the air, and something like fabric snakes on the underside of his knee. His father's hand squeezes his for a second: A warning.

The fabric tightens above his knee, and Lloyd almost crushes the hand in his as a sharp pain shoots through his entire body at the feeling. His spare hand flinches toward the tie, but he can do nothing. The fabric strip keeps wrapping around the sticks and his thigh until it's pulled taut, secured in place by a double knot.

Lloyd's chest heaves, his throat aching, and he spews a mantra of curses that would make a master of spinjitsu faint.

Another strip of fabric wraps around the top of his thigh, and the flaxen-haired boy nearly screams. He dragged his spare hand up to his face, pressing it against his mouth in a vain attempt to stop the guttural cries of pain.

Finally, a strip of fabric ties the longer stick to press against his hip. It ties around his waist, joining the parade of ties that already adorned his gi.

The hand leaves his ankle, and Lloyd sighs in relief. He could still feel the stinging feeling in his chest, but it wasn't as bad.

Garmadon stays silent, and in the silence Lloyd realises that he's still gripping his father's hand. He tugs it away, folding it over his chest. His gi is still wet.

For a moment, he does nothing but breathe.

Deep, shuddering gulps of air, just filling and emptying his lungs with stagnancy.

His eyes pry open.

I'm so dumb.

I can't believe I hurt myself trying to prove a point, He broods. He had even argued with his father beforehand- it made the embarrassment all too much worse. This is terrible.

A familiar voice reverberates in the back of his mind. It sounded closer than it had been the last time it spoke, as if it were laying down beside him in place of his father. It spoke in intangible murmurs, but Lloyd knew that it was mocking him, berating him. He knew what it would say if he allowed himself to hear it:

"To think this could have been avoided if you had just listened to us- if you just used your Oni powers."

And Lloyd- he wants to argue, to say that it's wrong and that this would have happened either way... but he knows it's right. All of this- the embarrassment, the pain, the shame, could have been avoided if he'd just listened to it. If he'd given in like the first time, allowed the power to overrun him. If he just allowed himself to use the power, to let it make him stronger.

Lloyd had done it before. At least three times he'd used his power as a crutch, and whether he initiated it or not, he couldn't lie to himself any longer:

It felt amazing.

The way the chilling, almost copper-like power would run through his veins, and bend to his needs when he willed it to. When it shot out of his hand it was wild and powerful, like a flame, so unlike his calm and controlled green power. Even when he didn't use the metallic power, he could still feel it running through his very self, making him stronger, faster, it was amazing what it could do!

And what it could do to him if he just gave in to it- fully. He'd done it only once before, when he'd defeated the Overlord. He turned into an Oni, he had four arms for cloud-kingdoms sake! The power he had felt before had just been a taste of what the true raw power of an Oni was like. It was intoxicating.

He shifts his leg, and the ties on his leg catch his eye.

They were black- very dusty, but black nonetheless. The knotted fabric around his waist was just the same, but near the middle, staring at him, were the telltale eyes of an Oni. It was the tapestry he had removed from the rubble- maybe not the same one, maybe just another that looked the same. Purple slits, that's all they were, but with the thought of Onis already on his mind it practically confirmed his previous suspicions.

The eyes kept staring at him, urging him to do something he'd regret.

The power of the Oni - It can make me stronger, faster, more powerful - but it can also heal me.

His eyes trail down to his leg, at the sloppily made traction splint.

An idea pops into his head.

Something he'll regret.

He closes his eyes, huffing a breath out of his nose.

I'm gonna regret this, I'm gonna regret this-

"To the cursed realm with regret- do what you have to do."

He didn't really know what he was doing. He just breathed, thinking about the last time he'd used his Oni powers. The first time, he'd given in to the voices pestering, and his anger did all the work for him. The only thing that stopped him was the thought of what he could have done to Harumi otherwise. He had sat in the backseat, but he didn't want that. He wanted to be in control.

The second time he hadn't just given in to the power, he'd accepted it. He allowed the power to change his form, allowed it to make him stronger. He let the power run its course until he- until he saved his enemy, and the form disbanded.

The third time, it had come to him when he needed it. It overtook him and pushed him into an adrenaline rush, dragging him up the cliff face until his fear overtook him and the power left him once more.

He ponders deeply on those moments, reliving them in his mind, feeling what he had felt. A pressure builds in his chest- more specifically his lungs. It buds into his trachea, and a rush of ecstasy fills him as he feels it travel through his arteries, spreading into his body like oxygen. It numbs where it touches, soothing and healing pain he didn't even know he had; a bruise on his ribs, an aching right shoulder, a cut on his forearm. Feeling builds up in his right foot again - he nearly forgot he couldn't feel it - and anticipation drowns him as he feels the cold power reach his leg.

Almost immediately, the pain in his thigh leaves him, like a breath of fresh air.

He sighs at the feeling.

Quickly - maybe too quickly - he thuds his hands against the ground underneath him, trying to push himself to sit. When he can't, he realises the splint was stopping him. His hands rush to untie the ripped tapestry at his waist, unwinding it and prying the stick away from just his hip.

Garmadon hurries to stop his son from further hurting himself, but Lloyd slaps the ready hands away, pushing himself upright once more.

He can't help the smile that stretches across his face, eyes wild with happiness at the all-too-familiar sheen of purple that covered everything. But most importantly, the pain in his leg- the pain everywhere was gone!

He throws an excited stare at his thigh. No swelling, no ugly lumps, no dark and painful bruising, just the faint mark of what looked like a week-old bruise.

As a test, just to be sure, Lloyd presses his palm against where there had previously been damage. His thigh is cold, much like his hands, and a faint cheer escapes him as he feels no pain.

His eyes scan the back of his hand as he recalls the stinging sores that once covered his palms, but when he turns them over- nothing! Just a faint trace of blood and dirt, and what looked to be strong calluses.

He realises he must look crazy like this, sitting and smiling like an idiot at his hands, but he can't find it in himself to care whatsoever. His power was amazing!

His father's presence makes itself known beside him as he shifts to look at his son.

Lloyd makes the job easier, turning his head to stare at his father in exasperated bliss.

The confusion leaves the Dark Lord's face as his eyes widen, the undeniable look of recognition coating his features. It doesn't seem bad, though. Garmadon looks almost... proud.

His father smiles. "How does it feel, Son?"

Lloyd smiles back. "It feels amazing."

He glances at his palms again, clenching and unclenching them in utter amazement.

I should have listened to you sooner, Lloyd admits.

Who he is talking to, he again couldn't find it in himself to care.

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