Late again! Oh boy. I'm so sorry, people. It really sucks to look back on one's week and realize that writing was, once again, pushed onto the back burner to make room for other activities. Why does that happen? D:

Bless iCloud, though. It really saved my skin when I was out and I wanted to get in a few tough paragraphs on my phone.

I might not have time for an update at all next week. Apologies in advance for that. v_v

Anonymous7: Thank you for the review! Have a cookie (::)

No More

"…and a reserve of my men can split and move into position here, here, and here," High General Santi pointed with a gloved hand to certain points along the Leirin River, "to cut off those who try to escape. And also to keep the passage clear for a retreat, should things go badly for us."

Santi was a young man- remarkably young, for one of his rank as both High General and Northern Regent. That youthfulness did not show in his eyes as he assisted his King and fellow general in planning the upcoming battle.

"Do we really need an escape route?" Garmadon asked from his chair across the desk from the two High Generals.

"A good leader plans for every contingency, My King," High General Derek said. "No matter how unlikely the odds of defeat. We must plan carefully, so we don't spend our soldiers' lives frivolously."

He says that as we prepare to spend thousands of innocent Southern lives, Garmadon mused, teeth gritted to keep from speaking the unwelcome thought out loud. He scanned the large map of the South spread across his desk, littered with metal pieces- colored green and white, to represent the Middle and Northern armies- with carefully concealed distaste.

The plan was to march the armies over the border and take the South by storm: spread out and systematically assault every town standing between them and Sheshin. At which point they would take the capital, regroup, and then move on toward the coast.

Not one stone was left unturned in their plan: every square inch of ground would be covered, ensuring that not one shack, farm, or obscure village was left standing.

It would be, without a doubt, the worst catastrophe since the Third Age. Driven by the Lord Rector, organized by the High Generals- sans the traitor Peran, of course- and approved by the King.

History will remember me as the King who destroyed the line of the Patriarch Lei and murdered his entire realm.

Garmadon had always desired to be a famous King. In the past, the idea of fading into the background of the history of the Blesseds- like his father, Azai- had always made him balk. He wanted to make daring changes, and be known for his bravery and boldness as the leader of a great people.

Now, Garmadon could think of nothing better than to fade into the shadows of history and be forgotten.

"Is something wrong, my King?" High General Derek asked, no doubt seeing the troubled look in Garmadon's eyes.

"I…" Garmadon searched for a safe way to voice his thought. "This is a difficult task. Despite the Lord Rector's public approval, there may be many soldiers who will have difficulty coming to terms with this…war."

"Our men will follow orders without question," said Santi, folding his hands behind his back.

"But how can you be sure?" Garmadon pressed.

"Sentiments toward the South have not been favorable, even before their alliance with Borg," Derek explained. "There is not a house in the entire country untouched by death, and it's a well-known fact that the plague originated in Sheshin. People are grieved, bitter, and have been helpless to do anything about it. They desire an outlet to express their frustration."

He tapped the map firmly with two fingers. "We are giving our soldiers a chance to exact revenge on the realm which birthed the plague that has killed their wives, children, parents, and friends. They will follow our orders eagerly, I assure you."

These words only troubled Garmadon more.

Yes, the South had the misfortune of carrying the first plague victims. And yes, that plague was the reason people were dying- why his son Lloyd was dead- but he had never actually blamed the South for it! Sicknesses were sicknesses, and nobody could control the path they took.

"Very well," Garmadon said, leaning back in his chair. "I approve the plan. You may begin preparations, and the troops will move as soon as the blizzard ends."

"Forgive me, my King, but we're not done."

Garmadon paused, looking to Derek. "What?"

"You need to be there when we conquer Sheshin," the High General explained. "Which group will you be leading?"

"Oh." Garmadon leaned forward, regarding the map with hatred- a sentiment with strength that he hadn't realized was possible to have toward an inanimate object until now. He furrowed his brows- as close to a scowl as he would allow himself- and pretended to think for a moment.

"Santi," Garmadon said finally. "Which do you recommend?"

High General Santi considered this, his expression pensive and grim. There were those who mistrusted Santi, claiming that he hadn't cut his friendship with Cyrus Borg after his infamous betrayal in the North nearly two months prior. Santi, however, insisted that all communication between him and Borg had ceased. The High General was, in his own words, "Loyal with all of his heart and soul to the wellbeing of this country."

Garmadon believed him.

"If I am honest," Santi said, turning to Derek, "I think the King should not come at all."

"Why is that?" Garmadon asked, surprised, but also- to his chagrin- relieved.

"The King's presence is crucial to provide morale to the troops," Derek said, frowning at Santi.

"That is true," Santi agreed. "But you said it yourself: there is almost no way we could lose this war. The King's presence, while it would be helpful, is not required." He regarded the King with a bow. "It is more important, I think, for you to remain here. You don't have a clear heir. If you were to die on the battlefield, there would be chaos throughout the realms."

"Nonsense," Derek scoffed. "The Lord Rector's grandson would take the throne!"

"That is a little-known law," Santi argued. "The people have always assumed that an heir of Mena would be on the throne, now and forevermore. Therefore, in the case of the King's death, they would want Princess Vara to take the throne."

"She is hardly qualified," Derek said. "And she hasn't even been officially introduced to the public yet! What do they know about her?"

"They know enough, thanks to the rumors, Derek," Santi countered calmly. "Our culture has devolved to the point where the citizens care about the color of a person's eyes more than their actual leadership qualifications. You think the people are rioting now? Wait until you try to put that blue-eyed boy of the Lord Rector's on the throne."

Derek's frown deepened. He pointed an accusatory finger at Santi, voice full of malice. "You-"

"Generals," Garmadon interrupted, cutting Derek off before things could get out of hand. The King stood, planting his palms on the desk. "I believe we should adjourn for a few hours and clear our heads."

Derek pursed his lips disapprovingly, but bowed.

"I'm sorry, my King," Santi said.

Garmadon accepted their apologies with a nod, and glanced at the clock. "Thank you for your time, Generals. Meet me here again at two, and we will continue."

With murmurs of assent, the two High Generals left the room.

As soon as the door was shut, Garmadon sank wearily back into his chair. Resting his elbows on the desk, massaging his temples, trying- and failing- to smother the sick sense of dread that pulsed under his skin; these days, it seemed to be as much a part of him as his own blood and bones.

I hate this, he sighed. I really, truly hate this.

He hated the plague that was killing his people. He hated the leaders of the South who had kidnapped his wife, maimed his daughter, and dragged all three realms into this cursed war.

He hated that, despite his soldiers, his servants, his wealth, and his crown, he was, at the end of the day, unable to do anything make things better.

He hated it, almost as surely as he hated himself.

This isn't right, he thought. Surely this isn't the way Mena wanted his country to be run.

Hell. Have I ever done things the way I was supposed to?

At one point in his life, Garmadon had abused his power, believing that he could do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

Now, out of grief and shame, he had retreated to the opposite end of the spectrum, allowing himself to be pushed around by his Priests and Generals until all that was left to him was an illusion of power: he was their King, but only in name. If he were to stand up now and tell his advisors to stop, he would undoubtedly be deposed.

What an absurd masquerade we participate in. One pretending to lead, the other pretending to follow, when in fact the opposite is true.

At what point in Garmadon's life had he begun to stray so far from the path ordained by God?

At what point had he decided to follow, instead of lead?

Selfish. Cowardly. Unable to face uncomfortable truths and stand up for himself as he was used by his advisors to wage war on a people who had no idea that death was looming at their doorsteps.

But it should come as no surprise that I'm unable to face my advisors, Garmadon reflected ruefully, when I can't even face my own daughter.

He looked to his left, at the portrait of Lloyd hanging on his wall. His son stared back at him with a whisper of a grin: even at eighteen winters, it had been impossible to capture a dignified portrait of the boy.

Why couldn't it have been me? Garmadon prayed. Why would you take my son away from this world? He would be a much better leader than I ever was.

It should have been me.

A well of unexpected emotion welled in Garmadon's chest, and he rubbed his eyes, jaw tense and throat tight.

It had been nearly six weeks since his son's death, and over those long days the emptiness- the loneliness, the blackness- in his heart seemed to only grow more vast.

If Lloyd had known… Garmadon shook his head in the darkness of his hands, hating himself for his weakness, but unable to find a mite of strength in his entire body. If Lloyd had known what I did to his sister… Of course, even Vara did not yet know the whole truth of hers and Kaeli's past.

Garmadon wasn't certain that he ever wanted her to find out.

But he was so tired. He was so, so tired of the subterfuge; the lies that contained just enough truth to pass a cursory inspection.

His fragile walls of untruths had to collapse eventually. She had to find out the truth. It was inevitable: if he didn't tell her, then eventually someone else would. It was better for her to hear it from him. However much it deepened their wounds- however much further it tore them apart- it was the right thing to do. Garmadon looked back at the portrait of his son, shaking his head slowly.

"You died believing those lies," he murmured. "You only ever knew the false image of your father. But perhaps it was better that way. I could not bear to have broken your heart. Your mother's heart." A weak, melancholy smile. That's why he'd kept it to himself all these long, hard years. If Lloyd and Misako had known that their house had been built on such a detestable, foul foundation…

But no more.

Taking a shaky breath, the King stood, looking resolutely to his closed door.

No more running; no more cowardice.

It was time to let down the walls.

Zakari was not certain how much time had passed in his little stone cell since his interrogation at the mercenary's hand. Three hours? Twelve? Twenty four?

A thousand?

Zakari hardly cared. It didn't matter, now. Nothing mattered anymore, now that Haeva was gone.

The malice, the hate, the rage.

He is guilty of every charge you've brought against him. And…and I never want to see him again.

She might as well have spit in his face.

The lock of his cell door clicked, and Zakari lifted his head with a jerk as a cloaked man entered. Was it the mercenary again? Damn it, I told the merc everything I knew! If he-

But it wasn't the mercenary. That much was clear as soon as he spoke.

"Zakari Tui," the man's quiet, muffled voice whispered from across the cell. He shut the door with a gloved hand. "You did not follow my instructions."

It's this man, Zakari realized with a jolt of alarm. He pulled at his bonds, though he knew it would do him no good. The one who paid me to kill the Princess!

"I- I tried," Zakari stuttered. "I was taking her to the South, but-"

"Don't lie to me."

The man's tone was eerily calm, like wind whispering through a graveyard. Zakari's mouth snapped shut. He pressed his spine into the back of his hard wooden chair and clenched his fists, trembling.

"What do you want?" Zakari asked. "I-if you want the money back, I don't have it. The High General confiscated it and-"

"I already took my money back," the cloaked man said. "That's not what I'm here for, Tui.

"I want you to finish your job."

Every time you think we're done with Zak, he comes back. ho boy. Who's the dude (or dudette?) that's pulling his strings, though?

Garmy, Garmy, Garmy. Sighh. That scene was a pain- I'm sure you could probably tell. It still doesn't feel right, but it's about as good as I can get it with the time that I have. Hours have gone into that last handful of paragraphs ALONE. It's been hard, y'all. And dang it, I really miss having a beta to help me smooth out these wrinkles. Garmy's sure got a lot of 'em.

Hey! I saw the Ninjago movie this week! I hope all of my readers intend to go and support it- it was pretty sweet. Garmadon was heartbreakingly different from the TV version of his character, but it wasn't all bad- he was lovable, in his own special way :) And that shiny silver chest hair of his... *Shivers* Luh-loyd was a precious boi.

Thank you all very much for your support! I've gotten a few more fanfiction notices than usual this week, letting me know that people are favoriting, following, and reviewing my content. It's a lovely feeling. Sending love to all of you lovelies! Have a fantastic weekend, and God bless!