Story #4: The Tragic Tale of the Dragonstone Pendant
Ninjago/Paw Patrol crossover (pre-series/post-Possession)
writing prompt: dragons; "Where did you get that?"
Summary: The pendant around Morro's neck is very precious to him; it is all he has left of his sister, Sylph. Though Bansha warns Morro that it's useless to try to hold onto the mortal world for long, he pays her no mind. But he is devastated when Ghoultar, Archer, and Wrayth get the idea to play keep-away with his precious pendant and end up losing it in a pool of water. Morro's imminent heartbreak allows the Preeminent to begin planting her lies, and soon Morro is entangled in a net of deception, bitterness, and hatred as gripping and core-draining as the beast's tentacles. Many years later, Morro wakes in the Land of Lost Things after being rescued by Skye—and finds something he once feared had been lost forever.
The Cursed Realm was dark—so dark that Morro had forgotten what true light even looked like. The only thing that could come close to light in this freakish, haunting place was a sickly-green pulsing, glowing aura that surrounded and cocooned everything and everyone in melancholy and deep despair. It was as if even the realm itself held within it a deep imploring to be free—free from the curse that held it fast. But it was hopeless, everyone here knew. The Cursed Realm had been darkened for centuries—all because of one being's disobedience.
The land was rotten—withering—all but departed itself, and yet neither departed nor living, but trapped perpetually in the middle, caught in a limbo as gripping and heart-shattering as the inhabitants themselves. Morro had seen forebodings of death and destruction everywhere he looked. A mother with skin as black as midnight had grabbed his shoulder as she wandered around, wringing her hands and asking everyone who passed whether they had seen her young girl, who had been killed in a bombing. A ragged, scruffy little boy of no more than seven gripped Morro's leg, wailing and howling dryly for his lost brother. An elderly man stopped Morro in his aimless path and asked him where everyone had gone when the office building he was in had collapsed from a terrorist attack.
All bore the mark of ghostly misery on their faces. Many had once possessed lives that were grievously unlived. Some had committed horrendous acts, but many were here because someone nastily cruel had sent them here for sheer spite or mere vengeance. Not one age group escaped unscathed. Morro had seen men, women, and children of all walks of life in the time he had been here. The rich, the poor, the weak, the strong, the old, the young…
Even Morro himself was no older than fifteen when he came here. And because keeping track of time here was nigh impossible, he wasn't sure whether he was aging at all—or how long he'd been here, in fact.
How dark the night that shrouded this world—this terrible realm where war and anguish, wounding pain and unending suffering, stinging tears and hopeless crying, great agony and melancholy woe, splintering misery and rueful heartsickness, reigned unchecked and unbidden! How deep the piercing darkness was, so vast and strong that it snuffed out even the smallest speck of penetrating light! How great the turmoil and tempest, the tumultuous and stormy emotions within even the bravest hearts in the realm!
The mere thought made Morro want to cry—and yet he couldn't. He could never, ever release the raw, wild, pricking pain within his core, deep within his innermost self…or what was left of it…because ghosts—whether wraith, banshee, shade, or ghoul—can never, ever cry.
Not true tears, anyway. Morro had heard of specter-tears, but they weren't true and precious tears, not the tears he knew from being mortal. And it was those tears he longed for the most—for at least if he could cry, he would know that there was a chance—however slim—that his core had not been truly lost, that a part of him was still slightly mortal.
But he couldn't cry. Ghosts couldn't cry, and neither could he. And he was wondering if he would ever be able to cry again. He felt so miserable and distraught within, so weak and helpless and forlorn.
It was all Wu's fault! If he hadn't been jealous, if he hadn't held the wind-child back from his true inner potential, Morro would never had ended up here, lost and alone and so, so haunted by what he'd seen that it sent shivers of frigid cold shuddering up his ghostly spine every time he thought of it!
And yet…
Why did Morro suddenly feel like he was the one in the wrong? Why did he sense that this whole ordeal was his fault, and his alone? He had chosen to leave. He had chosen to reject Wu's warnings. More to the point, he had been the one to fail his sister so long ago—to not protect her as he should have. His mother had told him to protect Sylph no matter what may come—and he'd failed.
As Morro sat all forlornly alone, forgotten and forsaken by all, on a rock in the road, his shaking hand desperately flew up to clutch the dragon bloodstone pendant he always wore around his neck. He felt his eyes stinging with dryness, and his chest was heaving with tight, tearless sobs as he clasped the only thing he had left from his sister.
Neither he nor Sylph knew where the pendant originally came from. It had been buried in the garden behind the tiny cottage they had originally lived in with their mother, before she gave the two twins over into the care of their aunt and uncle. Sylph had been in the garden all day making a new feeder for the dragons that occasionally dropped by the little house for a visit with the two children and their mother. Morro's heart swelled with sadness now as he recalled the events of that pivotal day in his life—and in Sylph's.
Morro was trying to solve a puzzle made from metal chain links when all of a sudden, the front door creaked open and in came his sister, her face and dress smudged with dirt, mud, and ash. Her wavy black hair with its unique cotton-candy-pink-and-baby-blue hair streak was mussed, tussled, and strewn with fall leaves, and her bare moonstone-white feet were covered in wiry scratches from thorns and brambles. Yet her eyes were twinkling and shimmering with happiness, her cheeks were flushed with excitement, and a triumphant grin was slowly spreading across her sweaty face.
"Mowwo, Mowwo, lookit wha' I found!" Sylph giggled, holding up a strange-looking pendant carved from a deep forest-green gemstone that Morro vaguely recalled was named a dragon bloodstone. The pendant itself was glassy and glossy in the sunlight, its shape depicting a dragon's head with beady eyes of frosty wolf-crystal that glittered and glimmered star-like in the soft, gentle light of midday.
Disregarding his sister's bedraggled, disheveled appearance, Morro dropped his puzzle on the wooden oak table, clambered off of his chair, and toddled over to his twin sister, who was still holding the pendant victoriously aloft. Sylph gave the pendant to him, and he silently turned it over in his hands, studying it at all angles.
"It's beautiful." he murmured curiously. "Where'd you find it?" he asked a second later, a slow smile beginning to spread across his own face, quickly mirroring Sylph's own childish grin.
"In the garden." Sylph piped up. "I found it buried a lonnnnnnngggg way down. It must have been hidden there fo' years and years!"
"Weally?" Morro exclaimed in amazement before moving to put it around Sylph's neck. She shoved his hands away and crooned softly, "No, Mowwo. It's fo' you, not me!"
"Fo' me?" Morro was a little confused, but he nodded silently and slipped the leather strap of the pendant around his neck. When he looked down at it, the wolf-crystal eyes seemed to wink back up at him.
"It's pur-fect!" Sylph crowed in wonder, throwing her arms up in the air in sheer exhilaration and excitement.
"Thank 'ou!" Morro cried in echoing delight, and the two of them hugged each other tightly, like they would never, ever be torn apart—like they would never, ever let each other go.
A sniffly sob escaped Morro's throat before he could hold it back. "Sylph." he moaned under his breath, clutching the pendant so fiercely it was beginning to make an engravement-like indent in his palm. "Sylph, oh, Sylph. I…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I—"
The sound of a poignantly loud ahem sounded from behind him, and he just about flew ten feet into the air in sheer shock and surprise. When he whirled around to see the cause of the disturbance, he couldn't help but silently groan. "Bansha?! What are you doing here?!" he demanded, letting a hint of bitter anger seep into his raspy, hissing tone. "Don't just sneak up behind me like that!"
"You should get used to it." the female ghostly telepath sniped, tsking slightly under her breath when she thought Morro wasn't paying attention. "The perpetual silence here, I mean. No one is alone in the Cursed Realm, and yet it feels like the most forlorn, downcast place in all the Sixteen Realms."
Morro nodded shyly and understandably. He knew what the banshee-shade was talking about. The Cursed Realm was indeed deathly silent. The silence, in fact, was so pervasive and so heavy-bearing that it seemed the entire world was sleeping, entranced under a spell of lonely, drowsy stillness.
Like the whole realm had been put on pause, and yet was still in constant motion.
Suddenly, Bansha cocked her head to one side and murmured in her tingling, hoarsely raspy voice, "Where did you get that?"
"Huh?" Morro blinked, rather taken aback by the direct inquiry.
"I said, where did you get that pendant?" Bansha rephrased herself, shaking her head in mixed disgust, amusement, and wonder at how silly it seemed the newbie could be sometimes.
"My sister gave it to me, if you must know." the wind-child groused, clutching the pendant even tighter in his hand protectively.
"And how do you still have it?" Bansha continued to badger.
"I was wearing it when…" Morro's voice was suddenly choked up with dry, tearless sobs, and his lip quivered as he stammered shyly and sheepishly, "When I was—gulp—brought here…"
Bansha didn't say anything for a few moments. Just stood (or rather hovered) there, staring at him pointedly, not blinking once—a sensation that sent freaky chills curling up Morro's spine and made tiny, white-cold goosebumps crawl all over his skin. How could anyone stare for so long without blinking? It was plain, full-out creepy, that's what it was.
"You shouldn't have kept it." the telepath finally murmured. "It's not worth it."
"Maybe not to you,…" Morro snarled under his breath, "but it means the world to me. It's all I have left of her."
"You newbies…" Bansha mused half to herself. "You're all the same. Always thinking and hoping you can hold onto the mortal world just a little bit longer. Well, I'm afraid to tell you this, but if you want my advice, you should forget about it."
"What?!" Morro was aghast. Forget the world he came from? Forget his life as a living human being? Forget what it was like to feel rain on your skin, and hear wind-chimes ding and chime with clarion bell-like tones, and to feel the sun on your face, and the wind blowing the clouds across the sky, and the joy of a child's wonderous laughter, and the awe of a twilight starry sky? Forget his own sister? Forget his own sensei?
"You…you…" he sputtered and stammered in alarmed disbelief, "You can't be serious!"
But Bansha's face revealed no change of mind, no shift in thought, just bland, blank seriousness and solemnity. And then, after what seemed like ages, she whispered a soft hiss of, "You cannot hang onto the mortal world for long, Morro—for sooner or later, the mortal world will let go of you."
Morro's cheeks flushed a deep sapphire-blue. His chest heaved with anguish and unbelief. He couldn't believe it! He mustn't! He wasn't lost! He wasn't!
Was he?
Clutching the pendant to his chest, he sniffled and sobbed, "Just go away, Bansha. I'm done talking with you."
The telepath didn't comment at first as she turned to leave, sensing that indeed the conversation was over. But then she turned back around and called to him, "You're right. It doesn't matter to me necessarily what you do. But for my part, I gave you a fair warning."
Then she left, leaving Morro alone in his thoughts once more. For several eternal-seeming minutes, he just stared up at what he might have called the sky back in Ninjago. He felt a little like a luna moth whose wings have been broken, who could no longer take his wings and learn to fly. A forlornly lonesome, moaning, wolfishly howling breeze swirled past him and made him shiver with its frosty chill, and then everything was still.
Absolutely still.
No moon tonight, he thought to himself. No true wind, either. The whole thing was giving him the shivers. It was just so dark, so eerie, so mysterious and mystifying and bewildering and haunting, that he felt as if his world—the world he took refuge in—was coming to a great and dismal end.
And then he thought again of Bansha's words. His lip quivered as he bemoaned the possibility of being forgotten, abandoned, left to be trapped forever in this accursed place.
Sooner or later, the mortal world will let go of you, the telepath had said. But Morro shook his head. As long as he had the similitude of breath in his body, he was going to find a way back—no matter what it took. And he wasn't going to give up on keeping ahold of the mortal world so easily. He was going to hang on to it, just as he was going to hold tight to the pendant around his neck.
He had to—for he didn't know what he'd do if he did not. And he was afraid to find out.
He was so engrossed in his own thoughts that the tinny sound of hushed voices startled him. Curious, he turned around and began crawling caterpillar-style towards the source of the voices. As he got closer and closer, he began being able to make out words and phrases and eventually whole sentences. But when he was near enough to listen in on the secret conversation, what he heard shook him to the very core.
"So, that newbie Morro thinks he can hang onto the mortal world for long, huh?" one voice spoke. Morro instantly recognized the voice as belonging to Soul Archer, nicknamed Archer for short.
"Ghoultar think we should teach Morro a lesson, tee-hee-hee." No mistaking who that voice belonged to. Morro's first impression of the younger ghost (in comparison to Archer) had been that Ghoultar wasn't exactly the brightest lightbulb in the workshop. And Ghoultar wasn't proving to be anything otherwise right now.
"But how? He's so shy…so quiet…keeps to himself a lot." That would be Wrayth. "He barely ever talks to us, let alone hangs out with us. And he hasn't even met the Pree—"
"Shut up!" Archer suddenly interjected, clamping a hand over Wrayth's mouth, his eyes darting this way and that as he hissed under his breath, "She can hear you, you know. She knows your thoughts. If you ever talk of her, you always address her as "Mother." Understand?!"
"Okay, okay, I just forgot!" Wrayth stammered, his voice muffled by Archer's gloved hand, still clamped over his mouth in a firm grip. But Morro's reaction was quite different. Had his jaw not been attached, it would have fallen off his face and onto the ground instantly. Who was Archer referring to as "she"? And how could "she" know his thoughts? Bansha could read his mind—he knew that already. But they couldn't be referring to her, could they?
No, he decided, shaking his head vigorously. But before he could ponder the bazillion questions swirling like a cataclysmic whirlwind around in his mind any further, he could feel a sneeze building up inside of him, and before he could stop it—
"WA-CHOO!" A huge shockwave of Wind Power burst out of his chest from the force of the sneeze, and all three hidden ghosts suddenly looked up—straight in his direction.
Uh-oh! Busted! he thought to himself, his nerves tightening and his muscles already bunching, readying him to fight—or to flee. But before he could even blink an eyelash, the three ghosts had vanished and materialized right in front of him a few seconds later. It all happened so fast that Morro couldn't help but blink in shock. His convulsively trembling right hand gripped his pendant protectively once more, and he gulped in great fear as Archer leaned in and hoisted him up by his worn, tattered gi collar.
"And just where do you think you're going, newbie?" the stronger, older ghost demanded as Morro tussled and squirmed, helpless as a fish out of water, in his iron-hard grip. "Lemme go!" the wind-child begged imploringly, his voice as frail as a butterfly's limp wing as he continued to struggle, to fight, to try and run away. "What do you want with me?!"
"Ooh, ooh, ooh, lookit what the baby Morro's got around his neck!" Ghoultar snickered, waving one finger in Morro's direction and grinning maniacally as he added cheekily, "It's a necklace!"
"Pendant." Morro couldn't help but correct the hard-headed ghoul. "It's a pendant."
"Where did you get this…pendant?" Archer asked mockingly, a sneer twisting his face into a cruel scowl.
"None o' your business!" the wind-child spat, still thrashing and writhing about in the ghost's grip, feeling his strength strangely draining away from him….like the few fragmented crystalline layers of humanity he had left were fading away altogether. Indeed, green ripples of ghostly energy were spiraling up Archer's arm, leaving Morro feeling weaker and sleepier by the moment. "Waz happenin'?" he slurred sluggishly, as his struggles became feebler and more half-hearted by the moment.
"First thing you gotta learn around here—" Archer hissed in his rapidly blanching face, "I make everything my business. Even newbies. Now give it here!" Before Morro could even blink, Archer's hand shot out in one lightning-fast movement and ripped the pendant right off from around his neck!
"No!" Morro screamed in horror, new strength and determination flooding into his mind as he swiped at Archer's face and tore himself out of the brutal energy-sucking grasp, collapsing to his knees before scrabbling to his feet in alarm and aghast terror. Archer simply chuckled and held the pendant high above Morro's head to where the wind-child couldn't reach it. He laughed meanly at Morro's desperate attempts to claw it out of his hand and then cried out, "Hey, Wrayth! Catch!"
Then he threw it through the air into Wrayth's outstretched hands before Morro could snatch it. Wrayth giggled in fiendish glee and yelled, "Back at you, Archer!" Zoom! The pendant flew in a long arc through the air and back into Archer's hands. It was then that Morro realized that the three ghosts were now playing a game of 'keep-away' with him—a game that they would never let him win.
"No! That's my pendant! Give it back!" he shrieked like a catamount at the top of his lungs, darting back and forth, trying with all his might to get his precious possession back from the ghost-bullies. But it was no use. No matter how much he screamed and sobbed and blubbered and wailed and whimpered and howled at the top of his lungs, they wouldn't give it back!
Then the worst thing of all happened. Wrayth shouted to Ghoultar, "Hey, Ghoul! Go long!" and tossed the pendant up so high in the air that Morro couldn't react fast enough. Before the wind-child could call on his Wind Powers to snatch it back, the pendant zipped past Ghoultar's outstretched arms and the ghoul-ghost exclaimed sadly, "Oh, no! Ghoultar miss!" Morro called on his powers and lunged for the pendant—too late!
Splash! The pendant plopped into a pool of water and sank to the bottom in an instant as a hissing wisp of acrid steam went rising up to the brink of the realm. "NO!" Morro screamed at the top of his lungs before rushing for the pool, crying tearless sobs and preparing to dive right in to get his precious pendant back. But before he could leap in, a strong, firm pair of arms clamped around his waist and began dragging him backwards, away from the pool and away from the pearl-priceless pendant.
"Let me go!" he sobbed, sniffling as his voice began to be choked up from dry, tearlessly throbbing chords of anguish and woe. "Let me go! I have to get it back!"
"No, Morro!" a gentle female voice crooned softly and worriedly in his ear, "Let it go, wind-child! It's not worth your hide!"
"Don't call me wind-child!" he screamed in response, fighting to push away from Bansha's rapidly tightening grip around his waist.
"Wind-child, stop!" Bansha repeated, holding her ground even amidst Morro's throes of pain and struggle. "It's not worth it. That water will kill you if you dive in. Just let the pendant go, Morro. It's gone."
Gone? Morro couldn't believe his ears. Gone…Gone…GONE! The frightening, core-shattering word echoed in his mind like an unending, sinister taunt. Gone! Gone! Gone! Gone! Gone!
"No." he moaned wolfishly, crumbling to his knees as Bansha sorrowfully released him. "No, please…no." And that's when he felt specter-tears well up into his eyes as he began to cry and cry and cry.
That pendant was all he had left of Sylph. And now it was gone. Gone forever.
Just like she was.
Time and space and reality itself seemed to blur and muddle into a state of pure, undisturbed nonexistence as Morro just knelt there and cried his very heart out. He thought that he would never stop crying—like this torment and heartache would never end. But then, all of a sudden, something changed. The very air began to ripple with a haunting, ghostly, yet authoritative and commanding presence. Suddenly, Morro felt an odd dizziness and lightheadedness beginning to overtake him, like his head was underwater yet his body was completely dry. A sickly-sweet smell like that of syrupy incense and wood smoke and acrid sulfur and dark charcoal and hazy cloves-and-vanilla began to seep into his nostrils, and he suddenly became aware that he was not alone. A shadow loomed over him so suddenly the realm itself seemed to have been snuffed of any light or love or life—if there was any life to be found. And when he looked up, the hideousness of a monstrous beast unlike any he'd ever seen greeted his swimming vision with a vengeance.
Morro bit back a shriek of mixed bitterness, fright, and disgust and simply continued kneeling there, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane as he fought to calm his frazzled nerves. And when a strong, cold, slimy tentacle wrapped lazily around his frame, he couldn't help but cry out in fear and worry and agony.
But then a low, soft, strangely soothing voice greeted him—not in his ears, but in his mind. Morro…the voice crooned to him as ripples of oddly relaxing, refreshing coziness and tender warmth began washing over him in waves of dazed dizziness and gripping drowsiness.
Morro, do not be frightened. It is I, the one who called you here, to your rightful home. I know my appearance may be…unnerving to you, but you do not need to fear. You are my son, my precious child. And my children need not fear anything.
"Who are you?" he moaned numbly, his voice muffled by growing tiredness and aching weariness as his eyelids flickered languidly shut.
I am the protector, guardian, and physical manifestation of this realm. I am the Preeminent. I am the Cursed Realm, and the Cursed Realm is me.
"That doesn't…make any sense." Morro protested shyly and weakly, feeling strangely docile…limp…submissive…and yet at the same time, calm and tranquil and serene. It was as if he was being cocooned in a soft, fuzzy embrace of healing slumber and oblivious dreams, so silky and comforting that he never wanted to leave its touch, its gripping hold swirling deep within his fatigued spirit and exhausted soul…
Why do you sob so profusely, my son? the Preeminent asked him sweetly and girlishly. Why are you so miserable and forlorn? Is this realm not sufficient to shelter you, to protect you from the winds of change that come within the mortal world?
"I lost the only thing I had to remember my sister, Sylph." Morro confessed, feeling his guard lowering, his lingering distrust fading, his heavy eyelids beginning to droop even more and more as the seconds passed and the grip around his waist grew slightly stronger. "I haven't seen her since I was five. We were separated in a battle, and now she's dead—gone forever. Just like the pendant…"
He felt like he was being cloaked in a mesh of unnatural, yet strangely reassuring contentment and sleepiness…like the sea of escape through darkened dreams was calling to him, beckoning him, yearning for him to come, whispering his name over and over, Morro, Morro…
How do you know for sure that your sister is departed? the Preeminent cooed with the tones of a wood-dove, weaving her charms, casting her spell of submission and web of deception over him as more and more of his core began breaking away, fracturing, splintering…
"What?" Morro gasped in wonder and amazement, his eyes flitting open instantly. "Are you saying that Sylph is not…"
She is not dead—she is merely sleeping within the folds of the Ethereal Divide. And yet I know of a way that you can awaken her.
"Really?" Morro's will was wavering, his resolve fading. Slowly but surely, he was beginning to let go of the mortal world and allow the Preeminent full access to his thoughts and sway to his motivation…
Yes…the Preeminent hissed in his consciousness. But you must first do something for me in return.
"I'll do anything—anything at all!" Morro exclaimed, determination swelling in his chest as the words poured like a waterfall out of his mouth. He did not notice his dilating pupils, his emerald-green irises slowly morphing into sage-green, the yellow-and-green rings beginning to form around his eye sockets as more and more of his humanity left him, as more and more of his remaining mortality was lost to him…
Very well, my son. Listen closely to what I will say next. With that, the Preeminent gave him her instructions, repeating them over and over in her mesmerizing, hypnotic tones until they were engraved in his mind and branded in his core and heart.
Are you ready, my son? she asked next when she was certain that he understood her desire.
Morro hesitated a moment, slightly unsure of what he was doing. This was it. What happened in this moment would seal his fate—he sensed it. But then he thought of Sylph's face—of the green gi—of Sensei's words to him, declaring that one more worthy than him would be chosen as the Green Ninja. And in that moment, he sucked in a shaky, shuddering breath and murmured wistfully and wispily, "Yes. I am ready, and I am willing."
Sleep now, my wind-child, the Preeminent whispered one last time. Rest and be at peace. I will awaken you when it is time to begin preparing for the work that is to be done.
"Yes…Mother." Morro whispered back, feeling his tensed muscles loosening, his bundled nerves unwinding, his whole frame going limp and numb and slumber-bound, senselessness seeping into his weary bones and sore joints as he sucked in one last, conscious breath and let himself fall deep into the welcoming arms of deep, deceptive healing and peaceful, drowsy sleep.
A long sleep from which he would not wake for a long, long time.
Many, many years later in the Land of Lost Things
When Morro woke, he felt…strange. His head was pounding lightly behind his temples, and his pulse was sleepy, his heartbeat tired and sluggish yet growing faster and stronger by the moment. He felt dizzy and hazy and sleepy and dazed all at once. His ghostly body was frighteningly, frigidly cold—wracked continuously by waves of chills battering him over and over again. His cheeks were so numb, his limbs limp and heavy, his misty, drowsy mind so languid and listless he couldn't think straight.
He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He wasn't sure he was breathing. He just wanted to curl into a small ball and dream the rest of his years away, forgetting the world existed…
But then, all of a sudden, memories of what had taken place in the past few hours came streaming into his mind in waves and floods and rivers of thought and understanding. His whole body began to twitch and twinge and tremble and shudder with great, heart-shattering shivers as he remembered everything that had happened to bring him here to this fog-shrouded place.
"You could never do it alone—could you? Weak—always needing others! I, on the other hand, need no one!"
"That's not true! What about Sylph? Is this what she would want?! For you to destroy Ninjago, just so you can save her?!"
"Leave my sister OUT OF THIS!"
"You took everything from me! My home! My family! My life! My sister! But I will NOT let YOU TAKE SKYE!"
"Morro, it looks like…you've just discovered…your True Potential!"
"I don't understand. Why would you risk your powers—risk your life—to save me—after all I did to you—and the Ninja—and Lloyd?"
"Because I believe in second chances, Morro. That is why I was called to be the Windrider—because I have the power to give you a second chance. I didn't realize that before, but I do now."
"The Allied Armor! You fixed it!"
"Take it, Morro! It will get you to safety!"
"Wait! No! SKYE!"
"Skye…" Morro murmured sadly to himself, a specter-tear slipping unbidden down his cheek as he recalled the great sacrifice Skye had made to save him—putting not just her powers, but her life on the line to give him—him—a second chance to walk in the light.
And now, she might be gone—lost forever. Whether she had lived he did not know, but what he did know for certain was that the Cursed Realm was gone.
Thanks to the Water Ninja's True Potential, the Preeminent and all of her ghost army—except for himself—were destroyed. Wrayth, Ghoultar, Bansha, Archer—they were all gone—drowned beneath the churning, stormy waters of the Endless Sea.
But Skye might have been drowned as well. Being directly connected to Morro through her power meant that if she touched enough water, her power could be drained—or she could be killed.
And now…he had no way of knowing whether she had survived—or perished.
"Skye…" he whispered upward to the clouds, "I'm so, so sorry. You were right. You were right all along. I was heading down a dangerous path. And now…I can never make up for what I did. If only I could turn back time, if only I could reverse the damage I've done…but I can't!"
His voice was beginning to choke up with sobs as he sniffled and shook and shivered and cried his very heart out. Hot, stinging specter-tears were pouring down his cheeks like twin waterfalls of misery and woe, and his chest heaved erratically as the full Deepstone-heavy weight of what he had caused sank into him like water oozing into a sponge. His breath was shallow and strangled, hoarse and raw and wheezy and wispy and wistful as he just blubbered and wailed and howled in great anguish, agony, despair, and guilty regret. He'd made so many wrong choices—unforgivable, inexcusable choices—choices he could never take back or change. And now he and he alone was suffering the consequences here in this misty, dreamy, sleepy plain full of lost things—including himself.
"I'm sorry, Skye! I'm just so, so sorry! I…" And it was in that moment that he found he could not go on. He just wrapped his arms tightly around his chest and cried, rocking back and forth on his heels as he sniffled and sneezed and sobbed his very core out.
But then, something happened. A glint of light caught his eye, and he stopped crying. When he looked up in wonder and confusion, there, partially tucked underneath a glowing golden rock was none other than—
The pendant…
Instantly, a cry of sheer delight burst from his lips, and he scurried and scrambled over to it as fast as he could. The moment he was able to grasp it in his hands and ever-so-gently extract it, he couldn't help but twirl and cheer and sing for joy as he clutched the precious pendant he thought had been lost for all of time to his chest, cradling it to his heart like he would never let it go before tying the broken, fraying ends of the cord together and looping it back around his neck where it belonged.
"Thank you, Skye." he breathed tearfully and joyfully as he looked back up at the sky for which the little cockapoo with which he shared power and pain was named. "Thank you. Thank you."
And then, as he stood there on steady, unbuckling legs, his fists clenched in determination, and he cried out again to the heavens, this time with boldness and confidence in his voice, "Don't worry, Skye. Don't worry, Sylph. No matter how long I may search, no matter how long my journey may take, I promise you both—I will find you. No matter what may come, I will find you."