We Hope Your Rules And Wisdom Choke You

Chapter 9: I Can't do this alone Pt 3

"Son?" His father's voice echoes into his hazy mind. He feels himself return to the conscious world, the whispering words of the voice fading into a recent memory.

Lloyd looks to his father with a despondent gaze. His heart is still thudding against his chest, his breath still coming in short bursts. He must look crazy.

Garmadon looks at him, patient eyes meeting his own and saying 'Take your time'. He intends to.

A shaking palm makes its way back to his chest, pressing against his sternum and feeling the shuddering rhythm of his heart. It was like a violent onslaught. His hand moved in time with each shudder.

Slowly, very slowly, his breathing evens. The thudding against his ribs comes to a gentle stop, and he feels a sigh of relief bud in his throat. He restrains; he could not relax yet.

With a near silent clearing of his throat, he responds to his father at last.

"Yeah?" His throat still creaks a little.

His father sighs a heavy breath, like he'd been holding it for a while. He probably had, considering Lloyd had taken such a long time to respond with just a single word, he must have worried so deeply. The thought made Lloyd smile.

"Perhaps... we should find a way out of this tomb..." Garmadon pauses, as if considering whether he should say something or not. "...I worry that the air in here will suffocate us."

Suffocate us? Lloyd considers his reasoning.

They were inside a tomb with very few windows, that was most likely infested with mold, hidden underneath the thick blankets of entwining ficus. The closest thing to fresh air was thick with the smell of blood.

Yes... Garmadon had a point.

He nods. "Yeah, that's a good idea."

His father makes no move to get up, so Lloyd takes the initiative. He peels himself from the tangle and stands, shoes crunching against thick leaves. A vine catches his foot, and he falls against the wall. His knuckle scrapes a loose cobble.

Soon after, his father does the same, only much more balanced.

They vacate the room in silence, stepping out of the open arch. The two share a look as the older leaves the safety of the hallway. A silent agreement is made between the two: Lloyd will not return to the hexagonal room.

Not that Lloyd would return without the agreement; he didn't want to see their haunting eyes.

Finally, he's alone again, and he can start his search.

What exactly he's looking for, he doesn't know. Well, he does know- they're looking for the exit- but he has a feeling he won't find it in some dingey left wing of a tomb.

A quick glance to his side, and he searches his first room.

In it lay what Lloyd assumed to be a blacksmithing forge. A heavy-duty anvil sat stoically in the center of the dusty room, a half-finished sword resting forgotten on its surface. A dirtied hand reaches to touch the sad weapon, but he finds himself unable to remove it from its resting place. It had practically glued itself to the anvil with rust.

Behind the anvil sat a bench and cauldron. On the bench lay tools and weapons of any and every calibre. Hammers, scythes, swords, brushes, bolts, and even some devices he couldn't even begin to comprehend.

As he approached the cauldron, a musty, almost rotten smell enters his nose. His eyebrows furrow and his nose scrunches at the horrendous smell.

But still, it was better than metallic.