Sooooooo. I've decided to continue this thing, with a bunch of other one-shots about the trainwreck Season 4 left behind. On a whim, I tried writing one from Misako's point of view, kind of trying to get into her head for a bit.
. . . Let's just say I should not be permitted to do such things. It worked a little too well.
And yes, that was a warning; consider yourselves duly warned.
Disclaimer: I don't own Ninjago, nor the titular song by Fall Out Boy.
One night and one more time;
Thanks for the memories, even though they weren't so great . . .
"He tastes like you, only sweeter!"
"Will you ever forgive me for the letter?"
"I already have."
That was what she had told him. What else was there to say, in a moment like that? What else could you tell a man who was laying down his life before you? It wasn't as if any feeling human being could have said "no." And in the moment, in theory, she really had forgiven him. He certainly had made his efforts at atonement.
But now, as night fell and the last few cinders of Clouse's spellbook smoldered away, Misako excused herself from the others with a heavy heart. As she settled into the small spare room on the Bounty that had been granted her, she finally had time to think about anything other than the prevention of Anacondrai rampages. The deeper implications of the letter slowly began to sink in.
That letter. The first love letter she had ever received. She had been a plain, bookish, uncoquettish young woman, and she had never dared hope anyone would ever call her beautiful. So to read such fervent, glowing words, directed at her—to be praised to the skies, told she was the most important thing in someone's universe—she still remembered the shuddering euphoria that had crashed through her when she first read that letter. She had been in tears well before the end of it.
More beautiful love letters had probably been written. Probably many times. Probably hundreds of flirtatious girls received letters just as beautiful every day, and merely brushed them off as no more than the attention they deserved.
But to a mousy-haired bookworm who never dreamed she would even be noticed—there was no way she could have thought rationally after that letter. She was head over heels from that day on, forever irrevocably his.
The wrong man's.
Her entire life, everything since she was twenty, had been built on a lie. Of course he truly loved her—with a passion, with a violence he loved her—but those words that first won her heart were never meant to channel her love towards him. They had been exploited. And so had she.
After they married, she had patiently borne his increasingly dark, violent temper when the Great Devourer's venom started to take over in earnest. She had stayed up all night sobbing when he was cast into the Underworld. She had stayed true. Had essentially torn out her own heart when she gave up her son to the tender mercies of Darkley's. Had whiled away her life (all the very best years of her life!) in moldy libraries, alone, night after night, poring over heartless old manuscripts, trying to find a way to save him. Trying to save him and Lloyd both, because he loved her. And she loved him back.
As she slipped into her nightgown, there was a soft knock at her door, as distinctive as any voice. Definitely Wu. Misako hesitated. Presumably he was coming to offer her sympathy, but there was no possible way this conversation could go that would not hurt them both more.
And yet she pulled on a robe and called for him to enter. He stepped quietly in, leaning on his staff.
"You do not mind?" he said softly. Misako shook her head, gesturing for him to sit down. He did. After a moment of silence he removed his hat and placed it over his heart, bowing his head.
"My condolences, Misako," he said. "If there is any way I can assist you . . . "
She nodded her thanks, not trusting herself to speak. They both sat in silence, she staring at the table, he gazing morosely across the room. There was nothing to be said; they simply sat and mingled their misery.
Cautiously she stole a glance towards him, taking in his weathered features, his soft, distant eyes. He was so gentle. The only time she had ever seen him raise his voice was . . . just today. When he found out about the letter. She shuddered at the fury that had blazed across his features in that moment. For decades he must have been swallowing his regret, telling himself that they had simply not been meant to be; now with one uncovered truth a lifetime of misery had been rendered pointless. They had been meant to be. And it spoke about the depths of his longing, too, that this had been the first thing in his life to wring fury from his heart.
He had never reconciled with Garmadon himself. He too had shed his anger for that final moment, unwilling to taint an already-painful sacrifice with bitterness, but he had not told his brother he forgave him. It was more than he could give in the moment. Looking into his eyes, she could tell it was more than he could give even now.
He should have been her husband. As he finally stood and clasped her hand in both of his, bowing his head in farewell, she fought hard against the thoughts that suddenly invaded her mind. What could have been? If—if only just—
Suddenly her hands were jerking free, finding their way to his shoulders; suddenly her lips were pressing against his. It only lasted for the briefest second, and in that second she felt him shudder and press eagerly (reflexively?) back—then they were both starting away from each other, eyes wide, breaths fast. Her hands were still on his shoulders; his were clasped just under her arms, half-possessive, half pushing her away.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, shivering. "I'm so sorry, I—"
Wu placed a hand gently over her mouth, silencing her. For a moment he studied her face, tracing a stray lock of hair along the side of her head, finally tucking it behind her ear.
"It is all right," he said softly, his voice heavy with guilt. "We are both not thinking clearly just now."
"Y-yes," she stammered, hanging her head. Wu disentangled himself hesitantly from her arms, clasped her hands again, and left quietly. As soon as the door closed behind him, she sank down into a chair. No, they were not thinking clearly, no. When they were neither of them crazed with grief anymore, that would never happen again, never never. It shouldn't have happened now. Shame already crawled up from her insides with the acidic taste of bile, and yet she could not stop.
He should have been her husband. There would have been no bitter nights listening to venom-driven diatribes. No years of grief and loneliness, no wasted youth. No Lloyd—perhaps some other child. No Lloyd. No Green Ninja. No savior of Ninjago.
Ahhhh, so there was the plum pit. If she had not been tricked, Ninjago would have been doomed—her wasted life was merely an unfortunate side effect of saving the world. Did it make her a miserable selfish creature, she wondered, that she drew no comfort from that knowledge?
Swallowing, she tried to push her thoughts away. She had come here to sleep, after all. Turning towards the mirror, she undid her braid with shaking hands, attempted to brush it smooth for the night, but the strokes lacked any strength and only tangled. For a moment her eyes met her reflection's wearily; then she threw the brush across the room.
Slumping against the table, she put her head down in her folded arms and willed the tears to come. She'd cried many times before, after all, when the prophecies kept stacking against her and she'd end up sobbing with exhaustion next to a guttering candle and a heap of battered scrolls. It had always brought her a sense of calm afterwards, a resignation that enabled her to dry her eyes, pick up the next scroll, and keep reading.
But she must have run out of tears at some point back then, because now she could no longer cry. Her eyes felt numb behind her eyelids, everything inside her begged to just cry and the ache would go away, but somehow she just . . . didn't. It didn't turn on at will any more than it could be turned off.
There was a soft tap at the door. Again.
"Mom?"
She rubbed her forehead wearily. Poor Lloyd. She was hardly in any condition to offer him comfort, but she couldn't just turn him away. He was her son, she loved him, and he was hurting too.
"Mom?" The tapping came again. "Are you okay?"
"You can come in," she called softly, sitting back. The door hummed open just far enough for Lloyd to slip through; he regarded her with wide eyes and tousled hair, his frame seeming small tangled up in a comforter.
"I heard something falling over," he ventured. "I . . . are you okay?"
So he had come to comfort her. Where did the years go?
"I'm fine, Lloyd," she said, finding she was smiling gratefully, if somewhat brokenly. "Just . . . tired."
He knew very well that they were not operating under the standard definition of "tired" here.
"I'll stay," he said. "If you want me to."
She nodded, settling down on the edge of her bed. He ghosted across the room, shed the comforter, and settled down next to her. A moment's hesitant study, then he wrapped an arm around her.
"How are you holding up?" murmured Misako.
"Getting there," he replied with a heavy smile. "I'll be okay."
And they both actually believed it, too.
Surreptitiously she studied his face in turn. Blood of her blood, flesh of her flesh; she loved her son more than words could describe, and yet in a sick sense he should never have existed. If she had not been deceived; if she had married the right man; if he had never been born . . . In a way she hated herself all the more for dragging an innocent into the world and tossing a load like this on his shoulders. He'd been through plenty of grief himself, and that was partly her fault.
"How did you find out about the letter?" ventured Lloyd.
"Chen told us," she said bitterly. "Called us just to let us know."
"Was . . . was Uncle Wu angry?"
"Yes. Very." She drew away, looking questioningly into Lloyd's eyes. "Chen didn't give us many details. Do you know what happened?"
Lloyd grimaced.
"It . . . w-well . . . Dad told me, back on Chen's Island. When he was young, he used to be Chen's student, and Chen was trying to influence him to start war with the Serpentine. Chen intercepted the letter that Uncle Wu wrote to you, and Dad . . . well, Dad . . . the venom was affecting him pretty badly by then, and he . . . signed his own name to it."
She nodded ever so slightly, drawing up her knees. Chen's fault then, to a large degree; she might have known. And yet it still didn't take the sting away, still didn't fix this mess or excuse what her husband had done.
Chen or not; she had been little more than a pawn all her life. A prize of Garmadon's desires. A cog in the prophecy that she dutifully helped fulfill. A mere hapless tool of Fate, which had decreed that she would wed the aggressor to birth the savior, that she would forever be tangled in this thatch of complicated misery. Did she have any control over her own life, or was she just a means to the universe's ends? Were she and all those she loved just puppets playing out a history book?
Lloyd looked at her anxiously, seeing the resentment churning just behind her eyes.
"Are you angry, Mom?"
"Yes, Lloyd." She closed her eyes, trying to keep her voice steady. "Yes."
Lloyd shook his head helplessly and reached over to clasp her hand.
"He did it because he loved you," he whispered. "He loved you that much."
"And loving me meant that he had to have me at all costs?" gritted Misako. "That it was all right for him to manipulate me, without considering the futures he was ruining? Yours and mine, your uncle's?"
"It . . . the venom . . . " Lloyd faltered.
"Yes, always the venom. It always comes back to that. Lloyd. Does it change any of this, whether it was the venom or not?"
Lloyd bit his lip. He searched his mother's eyes for a moment, reading the grief and fury and dull resignation. Eventually he slid closer again and wrapped his arms around her.
"I'm sorry, Mom," he whispered. "I'm sorry . . . "
She laid her head against his shoulder, drawing a long, shaky breath, and finally the tears came. Lloyd hugged her tight, rubbing her shoulder and murmuring in a helpless, soothing ramble. Bless his little never-should-have-existed heart, he'd never know the real reason she was crying.
No, there would be no forgiveness. Not today. Maybe someday. When she got back the years she had wasted; when all of their hearts forgot they'd been broken; when they were no longer trapped in the lives he had cheated them into. She would forgive him then.