Frozen Ninjago 3/?
Soon the beast's run shifted to a measured trot. The wolf no longer lunged forward, as if sensing that the worst was behind them. Lloyd, still clinging to its fur with white-knuckled fingers, felt the powerful muscles working rhythmically beneath him — no longer panicked, no longer rushed. He opened his eyes slightly and through his lashes saw something dark beginning to take shape in the white haze. At first, he thought it was a hallucination — another mockery of a dying brain. But the silhouette didn't disappear. On the contrary, it grew clearer, more massive.
A house. Old, roughly hewn logs, buried up to the windows, with a crooked porch and a slanted roof where snow lay in century-old caps. Once, a forester must have lived here — a stern man who knew every trail and every pine tree for miles around. Now the house looked old, but not abandoned. The logs had darkened with age but held firm. The shutters were closed. Only a barely visible path to the gate suggested that someone came here. The wolf pressed its muzzle against the wooden gate — rough, made of thick planks, dusted with snow. Pushed with its head. Once. Twice. Lloyd heard the hinges creak, snow fall from the top beam, and the gate gave way. The beast stepped inside, into a small enclosure — part entryway, part hastily but solidly built vestibule. Then Lloyd fell off the beast. The wolf simply lowered its back, and the ninja slid off like a sack of flour — limp, heavy, still not believing the ride would end gently. He fell onto something amazingly warm, soft, clean, and for a few seconds just lay there, arms outstretched, staring at the ceiling. His consciousness refused to believe it. The ceiling was wooden. Real. Above him was no longer the endless gray sky he'd been gazing into for the last hours. No snow falling on his face. No wind sucking the life from every cell. Only warm half-darkness, smelling of wood, dry pine needles, and... oil. A lamp was burning.
Lloyd slowly, with difficulty, propped himself up on his elbows. His wounded arm responded with sharp pain, and he hissed through his teeth but didn't fall. He looked around. The lamp stood on a roughly crafted table — small, tin, with a wick dipped into fuel made of wood chips. It burned steadily, without soot, casting warm, dancing reflections on the walls. The walls, made of dark, old wood, were densely hung with fabric. Rough, homespun, patched in places, but clearly intended for one purpose: to retain heat. Someone had insulated this place as best they could.
Lloyd shifted his gaze to what he was lying on. Old fabric. Beneath it — fur. White, soft, incredibly clean for the deep forest. Someone lived here. The boy's heart beat faster, but no longer from fear. From hope.
The wolf, meanwhile, turned, walked to the gate, and pressed his massive body against it, pushing it back shut with effort until the snow crunched under the planks, cutting off the icy wind outside. Then he paused, listening. Inside, it became quiet. Only the lamp crackled and somewhere far away, beyond the thick walls, the blizzard howled.
Lloyd pressed his back against the wall, pulled his knees up, and looked at the wolf. The beast stood in the middle of the enclosure, and his amber eyes looked at the ninja. In them danced reflections of the flame — alive, warm, almost human. Then the wolf moved on. He walked past Lloyd, toward another door, an inner one leading into the house itself. He pushed it with his muzzle; it creaked open slightly, and the beast made a sound. Short, abrupt, quiet but demanding. "Woof." Like a dog calling its master.
Silence. The wolf listened, twitched his ears. No sound. No footsteps. No voice. The beast turned and approached the roughly crafted boxes against the wall, sank his teeth into the edge of a blanket — thick, fur, heavy — and pulled. The blanket slid off, and the wolf, dragging it across the floor, brought it right to the frozen ninja, let go, and sat down opposite, waiting, head tilted. His eyes looked attentive, almost questioning. As if he was waiting. As if asking: "Well?"
Lloyd looked at the blanket. At the wolf. At the lamp. At the fabric-covered walls. His head buzzed — "Who are you? Whose place is this? Why did you bring me here? Do you have a master? And if so, where is he?" — There were hundreds of questions. But no strength to seek answers.
Lloyd reached out with his good hand toward the fur blanket — his fingers trembled, wouldn't obey, grasping at air. He found the edge, pulled the blanket toward himself, and draped it over his shoulders. Heavy, warm, smelling of beast and smoke. Immediately, it became easier. Not much. But he wasn't dead — that was already a success.
Lloyd just sat, looking at the wolf through the haze in his eyes, and quietly, barely audibly, whispered — "Thank you..."
The wolf blinked. Slowly, cat-like. But didn't look away. Intelligent, thoughtful. Then stepped closer. Lloyd instinctively flinched back slightly but didn't panic. If the wolf had wanted to eat him, he would have done it already.
With his head, the wolf pushed between Lloyd's back and the wall, circling around him. Lloyd froze, afraid to move. The wolf's body sank to the floor, arranging itself around him in a semicircle, and the beast's head rested on his legs. Through the fur blanket, through his frozen pants, through his numbed skin, Lloyd still felt that weight. Alive and warm.
The wolf closed his eyes. But his ears didn't relax — they caught every sound. The predator wasn't sleeping. He was guarding.
Lloyd's palm, frozen, stiff, reached down on its own. His fingers touched the coarse fur on the wolf's scruff — and Lloyd couldn't help it. They began to run through the dense, thick fur, fingers sinking into the warm undercoat, warming, thawing, returning to life. The fur smelled of forest, frost, snow, and something ancient, primal, that made him want to close his eyes and just breathe.
The wolf twitched his puppyishly broken ear. And let out a pleased, low rumbling sound.
Lloyd looked at the calm muzzle, the half-closed eyes, the steam slowly emanating from moist nostrils. And felt the tension of the last hours — no, not hours — of the last days and months begin to release. Muscles, locked by fear and cold, melted. Shoulders dropped. His heart, which had been pounding somewhere in his throat all this time, gradually descended back into his chest.
The lamp crackled softly. Warm, oily light danced on the wooden walls, on the coarse fabrics, on the white wolf's fur.
Outside, the blizzard howled — angry, hungry, throwing handfuls of snow against the flimsy door. But here, inside this strange, half-forgotten refuge, it was quiet. Warm. And... safe.
His fingers continued to stroke the wolf's scruff — slowly, heavily, almost sleepily. Lloyd watched the dancing shadows on the ceiling, the reflections of flame in the beast's amber eyes, and thought. About everything and nothing. Questions came and went, finding no answers. They melted in the warmth like ice chips in a hot palm.
His eyelids grew heavy. His body filled with a leaden, unbearable exhaustion — the kind that comes only after you stop fighting for your life. His hand stopped in the thick fur, fingers remaining on the scruff — no longer stroking, but not pulling away either. His breathing evened out, grew deeper, calmer.
At some point, reality began to dissolve. The shadows on the ceiling blurred into a warm, reddish spot. The crackle of the lamp became distant, like a lullaby. The heavy wolf head on his legs — reliable, unwavering, like an anchor in this sinking world.
And Lloyd fell asleep. A deep sleep without dreams. His first full sleep in the last twenty-four hours.
And the wolf lay motionless, ears alert, listening to the human's breathing becoming steady. To his heart beating calmly. To his body finally stopping its trembling.
---
---
---
The sleep was deep, black, without a single glimmer — the kind you fall into when your body decides it's either rest or death. Lloyd didn't dream. Didn't hear the blizzard. Didn't feel the cold still lurking beyond the walls. Only warmth, only silence, only the wolf's steady breathing somewhere nearby.
Then a sound. The creak of the gate. Rattling, icy.
Lloyd didn't wake up — he was thrown out of sleep like from a moving train when cold metal touched his shoulder. Consciousness didn't kick in immediately. Reaction outran thought. His eyes flew open, his good hand jerked toward his belt for an axe, but found only the edge of the fur blanket. His wounded arm responded with sharp, shooting pain, and Lloyd hissed through his teeth but didn't scream.
Directly in front of him, half a meter away, stood a figure.
A human. From head to toe wrapped in furs and thick, coarse fabric — no face visible, only darkness under the hood and scarf, vague outlines. And a rifle, whose barrel was pointed right at Lloyd's face.
His heart, which had just returned to its usual rhythm, began pounding dully somewhere in his throat.
Lloyd froze. Even stopped breathing. His hands slowly, very slowly rose up — not sharply, not threateningly. A conciliatory gesture. The gesture that in any language means: "I'm not your enemy. Don't shoot."
"Hey..." His own voice came out hoarse, unfamiliar. After the icy wind and long silence, his vocal cords refused to obey. "Easy with that thing..." Lloyd swallowed. His throat was as dry as sandpaper. "I'm unarmed. Look." He spread his hands slightly, showing empty palms. "I was... brought here by a wolf. I was in the forest. I was attacked..." The words came out disjointed, ragged, as if he was laying them on the table — anything to fill the silence, to keep that dark silhouette from pulling the trigger.
Lloyd's mind raced. If the man had wanted to shoot, he would have shot already. He wouldn't be poking with the barrel, checking if he was alive. So he's hesitating. So it's possible to negotiate. Well... or at least try.
The figure in furs didn't move. The rifle didn't lower. But it didn't fire either.
And then Lloyd noticed the beast. He hadn't jumped up. Hadn't growled. Hadn't bared his teeth, defending his shelter. He lay the same way, merely resting his head on the floor, looking up at the newcomer with a happy and slightly guilty expression. His muzzle was calm, ears slightly pressed back, and his tail...
Lloyd couldn't believe his eyes. His tail was slowly, lazily thumping against the wooden floor. Wagging. Like a dog greeting its master.
"What the hell?" was all Lloyd had time to think.
The wolf made a quiet, short sound. Not a growl, not a whine, but something in between, questioning. His head moved closer, tilted sideways, ears pressed flatter, and in that gesture, something suddenly emerged that was absurdly familiar. A dog who has misbehaved and is waiting for forgiveness.
Lloyd shifted his gaze from the wolf to the figure with the rifle and back again. Sweat poured down his back despite the warmth. The palm of his hand trembled slightly. Not from fear, from overexertion.
"Listen," he said quietly, almost in a whisper, trying to keep his voice from breaking. "I don't know who you are. I don't know where I am. Or why this..." he nodded toward the wolf, "...brought me here. But I won't harm you. I swear. I just need to warm up and bandage my hand."
He fell silent. In the room, only the crackle of the lamp, the distant howl of the wind, and his own ragged breathing could be heard.
The figure in furs stood motionless. The rifle didn't lower, but didn't rise any higher either. Then the person tilted their head slightly to the side, much like the wolf had done, and for some reason, that similarity sent chills down Lloyd's spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
He imagined — or perhaps he just wanted desperately to believe — that behind the layers of fabric and fur, someone was watching him intently. Studying him. Waiting.
The rifle jabbed his shoulder, pushing demandingly. "Talk, keep talking, convince me, or say goodbye to your life."
Lloyd exhaled raggedly and went all in.
"I... I'm Lloyd. Lloyd Montgomery Garmadon." The name hung in the air. "I was the Green Ninja. Before all this."
He hesitated but forced himself to continue, looking directly at where the face hid beneath the furs. "You can trust me."
The person rocked back slightly. Barely noticeable, but Lloyd saw it — shoulders flinched, the rifle dipped for a moment, then raised again. Startled. The stranger clearly hadn't expected to hear that name.
"Please..." Lloyd felt his voice beginning to crack and hated himself for that weakness. "Just let me..."
He didn't finish.
The barrel jerked sharply, harshly, jabbing into his chest, right into the solar plexus. His breath stopped; his heart, it seemed, stopped with it. He looked at the rifle, at the finger resting on the trigger, and an icy, clear thought flashed through his mind: "This is it. This is the end."
A click. The safety.
Short, dry, inexorable — the sound Lloyd had heard on crime-ridden streets hundreds of times. The sound after which a bullet always followed.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Pressed his back against the wall. Curled up, bracing for the pain, the fire, the feeling of his body being torn apart from the inside...
