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It's nightfall when Lloyd wakes up.
The monastery, per usual, is horribly silent. Lloyd aches for the sound of someone else's footsteps, or really anything to indicate the presence of human life. There's dust collecting on the pictures in Jay's room, and every plant in Cole's room has long since wilted. To keep busy, Lloyd had tried to dust the frames and water the plants, but he soon quit, too lethargic and too hopeless to keep up — what was the point in cleaning a room someone was never coming back to?
His life is redundant and meaningless, devoid of any interaction and purpose. He's too ashamed to show his face in the Crossroads, his fear of being recognized and consecutively blamed for the Merge too anxiety inducing to even bother. It's easier to hide here, atone for his sins in the privacy of his home, where no one can reprimand him for rubbing his wrists raw or accuse him of inducing the event that ruined his life, too.
His glance flits up to the grandfather clock that Wu had given to him for his seventeenth birthday, its intricate carvings the handiwork of a Merlopian. Lloyd hadn't known what a Merlopian was back then. It's been over twenty-four hours since he'd last gotten up from his bed, although he spent at least ten of them trying to stave off memories and gnawing hunger pains.
He closes his eyes again, fists clasped and pressed against his stomach, sinking into the mattress. If he tries hard enough, he can ignore the ache. If he succumbs to the will of his body, he'll end up eating the whole kitchen. He thinks he's forgotten what moderation is. His whole existence is an oscillation of all or nothing, now.
Finish off the entire pantry or starve. Eat till it hurts and he's retching over the toliet bowl yet still reaching for more, or ignore the growls of his stomach till he falls asleep again. Leave the knife and leave it to nature to finish him off through decay or slice open the delicate skin on his thighs, of course, both of them. The more it burns in the shower, the more it hurts to go up the stairs — the tears welling up in his eyes speak a different story as to how Lloyd feels, he doesn't hate the feeling, no, not at all. It'll always be some sort of cathartic release.
Lloyd runs a finger along his healing wrists, the most recent marks from two days ago. They're still red, still swollen enough to be noticeable from a distance. He wouldn't usually leave them so exposed; he'd hate to hear the ninja and Wu express their concerns about his objective bad habits, but there's no one here but him, and his sleeves cover his scars, anyway.
He sighs, long and loud. It echoes through his quiet room. Lloyd blinks blearily before burying his face in his pillow. He lets the rise and fall of his chest cease, teeth gritted together. One, two, three...
He knows it won't work; it never works. He's too much of a coward to give in to the temptation. The feeling is a temporary alleviation, a blissfull dizziness where the world becomes white and static behind his eyelids.
He loses count before the feeling becomes too much to bear, and he pulls away, gasping for air. His pants are loud and desperate, tears welling up in his eyes. His fists clench, knuckles going white and palms marked up with crescent moons in soft flesh, the blood spotting up against his pale skin.
He rolls over, staring up at the ceiling, and drifts into another endless, dreamless, sleep.
Lloyd isn't expecting to see himself on the other side of the arch, eyes heavy lidded with self-assurance. His gi is a darker green, but other than that, he's practically looking into a mirror.
It doesn't make sense — he was awaiting his father, or Ras, Aspheera, even. He gapes in shock, confused. His counterpart tilts his head, unfazed. Lloyd knows he isn't kind to himself — he's miserable, not stupid. But still, his behavior can't be enough to warrant himself being his own worst enemy. Everything he did was to numb the cruelty of his responsibilities, to satiate the desire of quitting without fully giving in.
Lloyd is unworried — it's him, after all. He knows his own fighting style and patterns like the back of his hand. But his reflection starts talking, words hitting true like darts to a board, and his stomach coils uncomfortably, acidic bile rising in his throat as he tries to come up with an arguement of substance as blow after blow comes.
"They'd be better off without you."
"That's not true," he refutes weakly. He doesn't believe it. With the lack of conviction in his voice, he's sure that his crueler counterpart can tell, too.
"Are you sure about that? What about all that time you spent in the monastery? Cold and alone? Do your friends even know about what you were doing?" The other Lloyd scoffs, pressing a knife against Lloyd's throat. He swallows hard, briefly relishing in the cool metal atop his Adam's apple, before he pushes the blade away. It clatters to the ground, but Enemy Lloyd is unbothered. He leers, leaning in closer to Lloyd. "Do they know how pathetic you really are?"
Lloyd shakes his head. He has nothing to say. He ignores the question, focusing on the combat at hand.
"Deflect, like you always do. It's what you know how to do best, isn't it? You deflect from the matter at hand, whether it's Jay's goodness or Arin's parents. Nya's disappearance after she merged with the sea? All you know how to do is run, Lloyd."
"I was protecting..." Lloyd's voice falters into nothingness.
"Protecting who? Yourself?"
Lloyd scrambles backwards as the other Lloyd swings again, this time rendering Lloyd useless as he loses his footing, falling to the ground.
"I know how heavy your weakness weighs on your soul. How hopeless you feel. How desperately you want to quit, but are so blindsided by your own expectations for yourself that you won't, even though it'd be better for everyone in the Merged lands."
"No," Lloyd says, grabbing Enemy Lloyd's wrist, grasp strong enough for him to pull himself up, but it's quickly shaken off, accompanied with a smug sneer.
"Consider this a gift, then. What you were too scared to do, all those years alone in the monastery, trying to escape your mistakes. Don't worry, I don't expect a thank you."
Lloyd wants to fight back, wants to push himself to his shaky legs and grab the sword three feet away from him. But the thought is so tempting that he almost stays rooted — that is, till he sees his enemy smiling in satisfaction. What is he doing?
He begrudgingly pulls himself upwards, insisting and determined, one last time. "Not today!" he says, briefly invigorated.
He talks about his mistakes, only partial truths coming out of his mouth as he talks about the mistakes that have taught him growth. It's not all untrue, per se. He knows what to do in battle, how to stand his ground, how to be reasonable. He knows his shame and hurt have manifested into this deep-rooted insecurity that washes over him every time anything goes slightly wrong. (It's in the minute hunch in his shoulders, the creases of worry permanently etched into his face from all the years of hating the person he saw looking back at him in the mirror.)
But it isn't enough, of course it isn't. He doesn't even believe what he's saying — how could anyone else?
"Nice try," Enemy Lloyd says, the faux sympathy so insincere it almost sounds poisonous. "But you'll never be able to shake the power of your own fears. You can cut yourself open and sew yourself back together a thousand times, but it will never fill the gaping hole of shame you feel. That inadequacy is the truth of your reality."
He jumps, kicking Lloyd squarely in the chest. This time, the impact is too much for Lloyd to come back from. He coughs, eyes watering. He's at the ledge now, eyes wide in horror. For every near death encounter he's experienced, at this point, Lloyd is used to it.
This feels eerily more final, though.
"They need me," he says, feeble, a last ditch effort to gain mercy.
"You and I both know that isn't true."
The fall down is just as terrifying as it is relieving.