Fair warning, this was dashed off way back in February, right after I first saw the Season 4 finale. I regret nothing.

You could bend reality here, a little bit. There was no reality. If you convinced yourself hard enough, you could believe anything was true, voice in the back of your head be damned.

Paper. Pen. Inkwell. Old-fashioned calligraphy tools, reminiscent of a long-gone time; they felt good in his hands, solid. Real. Teeth plastered over his lip, he touched the nib to the paper and began to write in slow, careful strokes. The introduction to a last will and testament.

He had only gotten to "of sound mind and body" when he faltered, still in doubt. What were the quirks of the legal system? If you said "of sound body" when you had none to speak of, would they reject the will as worthless?

It was a pointless question anyway, really. There was no way this will would ever reach anyone in the land of the living, no way it would ever be carried out. But if he let himself think that, he would lose the strength to complete it. And he had to complete it. In case. In case there ever was, somehow, a chance to make this figment of his imagination real and toss it out into the world. As long as he believed that, he could keep a white-knuckled grip on hope . . . on sanity.

Ah, that solved his dilemma. "Of sound mind" was already debatable. No sense quibbling over the details of his body.

He resumed.

". . . do hereby declare my last will and testament."

He considered adding a date, then tossed the thought aside. That really would be fabrication.

To my son, Lloyd Garmadon, I bequeath the contents of the monastery's armory, to be used or disposed of as he sees fit. Also the silver claw pendant and other contents of the oakwood box in my room, and any and all contents of the secret cubicle in the downstairs hallway.

He almost smiled, remembering Lloyd tapping and prodding at that strangely-echoing wall, brows knit in puzzlement. Never had found that hidden button. Never had pried out of his father whether there really was a secret panel there.

The trigger to open the cubicle is in your room, Lloyd. In the carved cat's head.

You know, the one you always hated? he almost added. He did smile this time, a brief flicker. Nudging the pen carefully into the inkwell, he continued on to heavier topics, his strokes growing slower, more reluctant.

To my brother, Wu, I bequeath my books, papers, and our father's staff. Also the Helmet of Shadows, to be kept safe to the best of your abilities. The pen wavered. If you have forg

—He snatched the pen back, gripping it with his other hand. A will. This was a will. Funny they should call it that, he had to exercise so very much of his own. Must keep this legal, professional. It had to be all by the books, or it might not be executed.

—forgetten where it is stored, he salvaged, teeth set in determination, there is a map when light is shielded by the dark.

That black sheet of torn paper stored with his other documents. If held up to a candle, it would project the location of the Helmet of Shadows onto the wall. His brother should be able to figure that out, if necessary, especially since he would now be owner of Garmadon's papers.

To my wife, Misako, he stopped to take a deep breath and steel himself as the pen scratched paper harder and harder. I bequeath the monastery itself and whatever other of my possessions remain, to be used or disposed of as she sees fit. Lastly, due to extraordinary circumstances, I now

His grip loosened. He felt the fingers of his other hand dig into his palm. It had to be done. For her sake, it had to be done. He had to fix what he had done such a good job of ruining.

A few times he breathed in and out, steadying his resolve. His will.

He gripped so tight that the pen creaked between his fingers and started to write again.

officially

—his breath stopped—

annul

—almost there—

my m

The tip of the pen snapped. Ink spewed all over the paper, splattering out in a dark explosion and then cascading down the page in eager black rivulets. For a second he stared as if unaware what had happened; then he let out his breath slowly and sank back. For a while he watched the streams of ink dripping from the edge of the paper, slower and slower. Heavily he raised his hand again and began to draw the useless broken tip of the pen through the blot on the page, tracing out letters in dribbling trails. His hand moved faster and faster, lighter, quicker, ever more easily, even as the words grew more and more illegible, more reckless.

They were not the words of a will.

At last he ran out of words, ran out of paper. He pulled back again, breathless, and regarded the scrawled, dripping mess before him. It never would pass for a legal document. It gave him a moment's release, but it would not do. This was his will. It had to live up to every possible sense of that word.

Only one thing to do. Crumple it up. Toss it away.

Just like the previous thirty-seven attempts.

He looked briefly out over the tumbles of discarded paper. Attempts six through twelve, seventeen, ripped through in anger. Attempts twenty-one, twenty-eight, thirty-two through thirty-four, rambling off into some unnerving gibberish. Attempts one through five, fourteen, thirty, thirty-five . . . runny. All the others bleeding ink like the thirty-eighth, scrawled over with futile words that fought their way to the surface every time. Words he'd give anything to say. But words that had no place in a will. That would not submit to his will.

There was new paper now. A new pen. He did not question it; he dipped into the everlasting inkwell and started again. No, he never did have his brother's way with words, but that was all right. He would get it right. He had time.

Maybe eternity.