Wisps: Recollection (Ninjago X Reader)

16. The Invitation

        You're slouching, head drooping, and shoulders sagging. When Clouse announced you would be there for a few days, he was not exaggerating. Even so, you didn't finish with all the restless spirits- there were too many. Some accepted their fate with grace, others went down battling. The weaker, smarter ones scattered far into the ground under the palace.

Clouse never granted you passage within the snake engraved walls. He left you in the dark, literally and figuratively, demanding you embed the wisps you collected into the Stygian book's jade. At least that explained why he didn't attempt killing them himself; he needed wisps to unlock the book. You recall it glowing with the color of red rum, and then he ran off, deep into the maws of the palace. Yet, that feeling of someone watching you loomed over you like a creeping fog.

When he returned, he told you to retrieve your journal, the same one with the Stygian leather as the book. He left it that, snubbing your questions. Once again, he ordered you to stay away from Wu and Garmadon; that familiar weight on your neck making itself known.

That same order. Why was he so insistent on it? This man infuriated you to the very core. He dangles Pixel. Zane. Your past. That pact. At every turn, he reminded you of what's on the line. His scare tactics are waning you.

He carried around that book, holding it with a grip of an Anacondrai, his bits of information with that same hold. He won't tell you anything unless it benefits himself. In essence, a man who plays his cards close to his heart, if he even had one.

Your nail is unremitting, scraping at the stinging, lime inscription on your neck.

He assumed it was from the cursed realm; a place where only the most degenerate spirits go.

Your skin crawled, the sordid smirk he wore directed right at you.

You're beyond stressed: uneasy, tense, and your mind is traveling a mile a minute. Relaxation is challenging when you're trying to balance on the tightrope. You feel like you're about to crack under the pressure, but you can't tell anyone.

You can't.

Not a written word.

You steel your nerves to pull the door handle, a bell ringing once you enter. You're quick to adjust to the dim lighting of the noodle house.

Hanging from the ceiling are tv panels chalked full of gaudy-colored backgrounds with food items. The lighting is veiled by the colorful glass spheres containing the light balls. You're waved over before you can take in the newest renovations.

You slide into a seat, resting your tired ass on a teal cushion. There's already food on the table, a mix of yours, and his favorite items.

"Been a while."

"Yeah, been busy with stuff." He brought his carmine shades to the bridge of his nose.

"Too busy to leave more than a few words in a message?" You complained under your breath.

"I'll make it up to you." He pointed to your face, the faint scar on your cheek. "Heard you were pretty busy yourself. You're okay right?"

"For the most part."

"Guess I should have expected as much." He smiled. "Can't believe I doubted you for a second."

"I can tough out a few punches."

His smile faltered and suddenly picked itself up again.

"Yeah, you can."

"So, why were you so busy that you couldn't call me?"