Thank you for all your kind reviews so far. Later, I do intend to write a little about my inspiration for why I portrayed certain characters the way I did, so you guys can look forward to that!

This is the final story in the second set of three. Skylor has always been one of my favorite side characters in Ninjago (what with the Tournament of Elements being the season that got me into Ninjago in the first place), so I hope I did her character justice!

unfinished

The last gift Skylor received was from her mother. She was nine when a small book and a fountain pen were pressed into her hands. Then she was sent outside from the bedroom never to return. There were exactly one hundred pages, no lines. She counted them over and over again while sitting at her favorite spot, nestled between the edge of the dense jungle and the sandy shores of the island. Lying underneath the shade of a banana tree, she flipped back and forth between the pages imagining all the possibilities.

She would write about how wonderful her birthday had been or make a map leading to buried treasure. Sitting on a rock circled by nine trees, Skylor scratched the red ink into the pages of her book. She vowed to hold onto her book forever even when she was finished writing in it. That way she would never forget who she was at nine. Her work continued until the crickets began to chirp among the blades of grass beneath her bare feet.

Skylor brushed the dirt of the island off of her white birthday dress before running away from the setting sun. Her mother would be more than disappointed if there were any smudges left. She hoped no one would notice the dark streaks on her skirt. Holding the unfinished book tightly, she twirled all the way home, chasing the evening birds whenever she heard them call in the dark. She ran past her father's warriors, whispering to each other as they gathered around campfires.

Running through the courtyards, doors, and hallways of the incredibly large Chen estate didn't seem to bring her any closer to where she wanted to be. After several minutes, she stopped in front of the familiar doorway, letting herself recover her breath. She reached out to the knobs carved into dragons as the door swung open. Her instincts proved to be sharp for her age as she slid aside to avoid running into whoever was coming out.

It was a man with hair as black as midnight and robes as red as blood. Clouse, her father's sorcerer, closed the door with a thud only to find Skylor staring at him with mingled curiosity and terror in her eyes. She stepped forward bravely and said, "I want to see my mother."

"Your father will not let anyone inside. It would be best for you to go to your room," he said, his features set in a permanent scowl.

"You were just inside," she replied curtly. "And I'm not staying. I just want show her what I've drawn in my journal." The book was tucked under her arm, slightly obscured under a long thatch of cherry red hair.

"You cannot speak to your mother. Go to your room and find company elsewhere," he replied firmly. Clouse no longer intended to walk away. He was blocking the door, waiting for her to leave. Skylor wouldn't give that to him. She tried to slide by him, forcing him to lunge out to one side and leaving the ornate painting on the doors in view. She reached for the golden knobs, her fingertips nearly feeling the cold metal, when she was pulled back by the ear.

Skylor winced in pain and attempted to thrash her way out of Clouse's hold. Her pen and book dropped to the ground in the process. With a grip as tight as steel, he closed his eyes and began chanting in a foreign tongue. Skylor stopped moving, her eyes wide with horror and filled with tears. "No, don't!" she yelled as he loosened his grasp. She backed away from him, shivering despite the damp humidity of mid-summer. "Just don't. Please."

The spell was no longer being uttered, yet Skylor didn't feel safe. She calmed her shaky breaths and whispered, "Why are you doing this?" It was the only sound heard in the dim quiet of the hallway, save for the flickering of the torches. She straightened herself as tall as a girl of nine could, took a deep breath, and yelled, "Why are you keeping me away from my mom?"

Clouse's face remained as dark as ever, but his words struck like thunderclaps. "Don't you see, girl? Your mother is dead." His voice echoed off of every object in the long hall. He bent down, picked up the pen she dropped, and held the engraving up to the light. "To Skylor, From Mom. What a useless legacy." He smiled blithely. "Your father has planned much more for you. You will have no need of this." He broke the pen in half and tossed the book at her feet.

Red ink spilled out onto her hands as she tried to grab the remains. Something sharp cut her finger in the process, but the pain would never compare with what had made the tears sting in her eyes. Outside the doors she would never enter again, Skylor softly called out to her father. She received no answer as Clouse began to walk away, blowing out the torches in the hall. One by one, each cone of light became a shadow, until there was nothing to be seen.

Weeping quietly, Skylor gathered her things in the skirt of her dress and fled to the grove. She flung herself on the grass among fireflies that shone brighter than the stars. Sooner or later, her father would find her. But she wouldn't resist anymore. This was all she had now. Was she ready? The ocean waves lapping at the shores of the island, her father's island, lulled her to sleep. The clock chimed nine, but her birthday was over.

…

The morning sun dried the tears on her face as someone entirely new walked into the courtyard. This girl's hair was the color of blood, and her skin was smeared with the dirt of the island. Facing the mirror that night, Skylor saw someone she didn't recognize. She washed the red ink off of her hands, and put the blood-stained dress in a bonfire with the rest of her mother's things. It was never her choice to make.

Skylor was merely a child when she pulled a book out of the fire. She counted the pages in the book over and over again. Only nine pages remained, the last empty, no lines. It was thrown under her bed to be eternally shrouded in darkness. But maybe, daylight would shine upon it once more. She would grab a pen that could never be broken and sit in the midst of nine charred stumps that rose out of the ashes. She would start writing and never stop. And what once ended would always remain unfinished.