#pc:ac

[cruelfeline]

Please consider, a concept:

It's time for a holiday visit to Mystacor, and everyone's invited! Yes... even Hordak. Mainly because no one knew how to get Entrapta to come without him.

It's a bit awkward, to be sure, but not a huge problem. The Princesses have found that, even when present, Hordak tends to keep to himself and interacts only with Entrapta. Perhaps, occasionally, with Adora. So while Mystacor isn't necessarily happy to have him, they're tolerant. And so the holiday get-together appears to proceed without too much upset.

Until the sweaters come out.

Meaning: until Castaspella decides that it's time to bring out the many sweaters that she's spent the last year-post-Prime knitting for everyone.

Glimmer gets a sweater. Bow gets a sweater. Adora, Catra, Scorpia, Frosta, Perfuma, and Entrapta get sweaters. Spinetossa get a matching pair of sweaters. Melog gets a sweater. Swift Wind, to his absolute delight, gets a sweater (which almost makes up for his still-lacking seat in Bright Moon).

"Hordak!"

Entrapta all but bounces up to him, clad in fluffy violet.

"Aren't you going to wear yours?"

No. He is not. Because he does not have one.

"Huh... that's weird. You've been so quiet all day, she must have missed you!"

Yes, that must be it. Surely, Castaspella wouldn't have left Hordak out. Not while conspicuously giving everyone else including an actual horse a cozy, comfy sweater.

No.

Couldn't be.

She was a grown woman and a diplomatic representative of Mystacor, if nothing else.

Surely she wouldn't indulge in outright pettiness, not on this holiday centered around generosity and good faith.

not after Hordak had worked himself ragged these last few months, seeing to floodgates in Salineas, and magic weed control in Plumeria, and stabilization of Mystacor's magical levitation fields, and...

Right?

Right!

Right.

"'Scuse me! I think you forgot someone!"

Entrapta is nothing if not swift, and she's caught Castaspella before Hordak can assure her that the situation was fine. Somewhat unfortunate, perhaps, because Mystacor is naturally chilly this time of year, but it's ultimately survivable. He's fine. It's all fine.

"Oh! Well, I... I didn't... that is I..."

Well. Perhaps he can concede to being just a tinge pleased at seeing the woman squirm and stammer under Entrapta's over-bright smile.

He is not the only one; while everyone else seems set on pointedly ignoring the unfolding interaction, Catra smirks at them from across the courtyard. Her sweater features a tiny kitten haphazardly hanging from a tree branch, and she isn't nearly as amused by it as Adora is.

Hordak assumes that the two of them will be trading barbs about this absurdity over the next few days...

"Ah, of course! Silly me... just a moment..."

Hm... what's this?

Castaspella suddenly disappears in a ripple of air, reappearing a moment later with... well. It's definitely a sweater.

...he thinks.

It's certainly not as intricate as the others. It doesn't have any lovely embroidery, or meaningful symbols, or designs, or... well, anything. Truth be told, it looks less like an intended sweater and more like something someone might make if they had a whole bunch of old black yarn they needed to get rid of.

"Huh. It's..."

"Yes! Well! I... ah... wasn't sure what he might like! What you," she glanced somewhat frantically at Hordak, "might like, so I... ah-ha..."

Entrapta's smile gets even brighter.

"Oh, of course; you just didn't have his measurements and preferences! Makes perfect sense. I mean, it's not like you'd make something for everyone else - including me! - and intentionally leave Hordak out."

Where I could see.

"No... no, of course not! Everyone is welcome. Mhmm!"

With a smile that even Hordak can tell is forced, Castaspella presents him with the... article of clothing. And he, ever mindful of his still-tenuous position, and ever dignified, takes it.

With the intent, of course, of stowing it away in their transport as soon as possible. And then giving it to Imp; the little spy would absolutely love tearing it to shre-

Oh.

Oh.

It was... soft.

He runs the material through his fingers.

Very soft.

He has some expertly-tailored garments at home - certainly better to look at than this - but he cannot recall anything feeling quite so...

Before he can truly think better of it, he's pulled the thing over his head and-

Oh.

Oh, by the blissfully vanquished light, it is delightful. Impossibly soft. Wonderfully warm.

It doesn't fit him properly at all: sagging here, too tight there. Too big in the collar. Not even close to his style.

But the feel of it! The sheer comfort! The warmth!

Whatever annoyance he's been feeling is forgotten. So have any plans to indulge Imp's love of ripping things apart.

He doesn't hear Catra's guffaw from his far left. Or notice Castaspella's mouth drop open in shock. He's barely even aware of Entrapta squealing, her eyes sparkling with glee.

Hordak is too consumed by this objectively ugly sweater's preternatural comfiness.

Eventually, he gathers himself and turns to Castaspella.

"This garment is exquisite. The material, the craftsmanship; both are highly sound."

"I- it- It's not... I didn't-"

Entrapta clutches at his arm with the sort of shriek born only of unbridled joy.

"You like it!"

Hordak smiles down at her. Somewhere over to the side, he's dimly aware of Adora frantically smacking a choking Catra on the back.

"Yes."

He nods at Castaspella again. She's still standing there, mouth open, face now gone a funny reddish color.

"Thank you."

"You're... you're welcome."

~~~

A few weeks later, a package arrives at the Crypto Castle, and Entrapta claps in delight as Hordak removes three new sweaters from amidst its wrappings. Black with red accents. A deep, rich blue. And a dusky violet to match Entrapta's.

All so amazingly warm against Dryl's winter chill.

Accompanying them is a letter thanking Entrapta profusely for providing such accurate measurements - and expressing hope that Hordak enjoys these gifts even more than the last.

He does. They fit perfectly, and Entrapta notes that he looks absolutely stunning in them - for the scientific record, of course.

The first sweater ends up going to Imp after all, though not to perish in a flurry of delighted ripping and tearing. Rather, the moment he touches the offered bundle, his face lights up, and Imp spirits it away to a place of true honor: his little bed.

Hordak nods in quiet approval.

He'll have to ensure that Castaspella receives Imp's measurements before the next holiday.

[cruelfeline]

Please consider, a concept:

If there is anything that may be considered a marvel of development - a truly impressive character-arc-of-sorts - it is Hordak's relationship with sleep.

Clones don't sleep, you see.

It's not that they can't. They're physically capable of the act, but under Prime's rule, it's just not done.

Why sleep - lazy and useless to all but oneself - when one can instead rest in a manner that fulfills a purpose? How could any brother endure laying about so selfishly, so slothfully, when they could use their resting bodies and minds in service of Prime?

So clones don't sleep. They enter a rejuvenating stasis: in their pods, connected to the network, using their living neurons to expand and bolster and stabilize the great hivemind.

Always useful. Always serving. Bodies and minds, even in rest, giving of themselves to Prime.

Keeping all that in mind, one can imagine the utter dismay Hordak experiences when, in his early days on Etheria, he realizes that he can no longer use his ship's pod for its intended purpose. Not surprising: the hivemind, after all, does not reach this accursed dimension. And however the pod worked, it requires access to the hivemind.

So Hordak, needing rest as anyone does, sleeps. And he hates it.

He hates how it feels: the confusion, the grogginess. The knowledge that he's just laying there, doing nothing, being even more useless than he already is.

Failing to serve a purpose. Just... failing.

Still, Hordak tries. He tries to make it as dignified - as proper - as possible. He tries to at least use his pod, to sleep standing and straight-backed, upright and ready for immediate activity. As a good brother should be.

Surprise: it doesn't work.

It's hard to sleep standing up, for one. Normally, a clone in stasis maintains some level of reflexive muscle tone: just the right amount to remain upright. Hordak finds, rather to his embarrassment, that this does not happen when sleeping.

And reflex aside... it hurts. Just as everything begins to hurt, courtesy of Hordak's defective form.

So, despite shame and resentment cruelly directed at himself, Hordak lies down.

But, as often seems to be his luck, the indignity does not end there!

Even lying down - on a bare pallet, of course - he can't seem to just rest normally.

He tosses and turns and twists about, never ending in the same position he starts in. He has difficulty falling asleep. Difficulty staying asleep. Difficulty staying cool enough, or warm enough. As his muscles continue to wither, he wakes to pressure and pain. Then to bruises and sores.

And, needless to say, there are the nightmares.

Eventually, the misery of it becomes... almost welcome.

All beings must suffer to become pure, after all.

Then Imp arrives. And with Imp, things change.

Imp is demanding. Imp does not accept sleeping on a bare pallet. Imp insists upon blankets. Pillows. More exact climate control.

And despite his ingrained judgment, Hordak provides these things. Because Imp is loud and insufferable when not provided for... and also because he is small. And really quite fragile at times. And... and because something twists oddly, in Hordak's chest, when he sees Imp suffering anything approaching discomfort.

This ends up being the first turning point, for just as Hordak loathes to see Imp uncomfortable, Imp loathes to see him uncomfortable. And so, ever so slowly, Imp's comforts become Hordak's.

Imp's bedding ends up on Hordak's pallet. Then larger, Hordak-sized bedding, stolen from who-knows-where and dragged in who-knows-when. No matter how Hordak tries to dispose of it, more takes its place until he finally gives in and accepts his fate.

His fate likewise involves Imp curling up with him whenever he is restless or painful or cold or distressed at odd hours of the night.

It doesn't make sleep enjoyable. It doesn't make the whole affair less shameful, less demonstrative of Hordak's deficiencies and failures.

But it does assuage the hurt. Just a bit. Just enough so that Hordak can approach his nightly rest with something more resembling neutrality, rather than nauseous dread.

This is the status quo for years: Hordak sleeps because he needs to, and he does so with some basic comforts because Imp insists it increases sleep's efficiency.

It isn't until the second turning point that he learns to enjoy it.

That turning point is, of course, Entrapta.

Entrapta, like Imp, delights in comfort. And like Imp, she all but imposes that comfort upon Hordak.

Now Hordak doesn't have only basic bedding on a pallet. He has a bed. He has sheets and comforters and an honestly shocking number of pillows.

Most importantly, he has Entrapta herself. Entrapta, who loves to tinker and create and keep madly busy, but who likewise loves to sleep. Oh, she may do so inconsistently, but when she finally retires, she does so with the deepest appreciation for all the luxuries slumber might provide.

And it's infectious.

Hordak can't resent his need for a warm blanket on chilly nights when Entrapta cheerfully wraps herself in one, the very picture of comfy satisfaction. He can't be cross over needing plush bedding to prevent bruises when Entrapta sighs contendedly every time she sinks into her mattress. And while, once upon a time, waking up in a fetal curl would have sent him into an angry shame-spiral, he just can't be upset when Entrapta is likewise curled around him.

Thus the sleep status quo shifts until, one morning, Hordak awakens.

He is wrapped in the softest quilt, head resting on the softest pillow, body curled around his beloved lab partner. At his back, Imp quietly chirps with every slow breath.

He yawns. Tightens the quilt just a bit around his shoulders. Buries his face in Entrapta's cloud of lilac hair. Sighs.

If anything hurts, Hordak does not notice it. And then he falls back asleep.

[cruelfeline]

Please consider, a concept:

Hordak's initial relationship with healthcare is... well. It leaves much to be desired. Let's put it that way.

He's not alone, mind you. None of the clones have a positive association with medical care.

Said care - if it could be called such - was provided with the goal of returning the afflicted to practical function and aesthetic form. Prime's medical robots were programmed to fix clones as other robots fixed machinery: maximizing efficiency and paying absolutely no mind to what their patients were feeling. "Functioning better" was the point. "Feeling better" wasn't even something that the unfortunate patients had a concept of.

The result is that, even after Prime's demise, clones not only view sickness and injury with shame, they view their remedies with discomfort and fear and deep-seated reluctance. Because remedies hurt. Medical drones hurt. Doctoring hurts. And it never occurs to any of them that this needn't be the case. Not when all beings must suffer to become pure.

Hordak, given his history, possesses this reluctance magnified ten-fold.

In short: he despises seeing the doctor. He despises having tests run, and taking medications, and reviewing his progress. He despises how anxious and pain-anticipatory all of the above make him feel.

And anything that makes Hordak anxious inevitably brings out the worst in him. "The worst" being rising temper and irritability and snarled refusal to participate in the situation.

So it is that his first visits are less-than-productive. Even with Entrapta's support, he remains taciturn and sullen, accepting the physician's recommendations with the air of enduring something necessary but deeply, deeply unpleasant. Which, in his mind, is exactly what is happening.

But the turning points come eventually, inevitable as they seem to be in the post-Prime world.

They come slowly. Awkwardly. But they do come.

When Entrapta tinkers with his new armor and upsets a nerve, her reaction to Hordak's bitten-back yelp isn't annoyance or indifference or even just waiting for him to settle. Rather, to Hordak's stammered half-protest, she immediately retrieves a bottle of local anesthetic... that has been prescribed for this exact purpose.

To stop pain. Not to increase strength or fine-tune energy efficiency or... or anything functional. Just to make the procedure easier. For Hordak.

For his comfort.

When following up on a new medication, the grumbled answer to a gently-probing question is that yes: it does make him nauseous.

All the time, actually. To the point of utter misery. But he leaves that bit out because it doesn't matter: the medication has steadied his heart rhythm near-perfectly, so it's done its job. It's working. It's-

Being replaced. With another. One that hopefully won't cause such unpleasantness.

Or would he prefer an additional medication, to try to address the nausea? It's up to him. Whatever is most comfortable. Whatever is easiest for him.

Whatever helps him feel better.

At Entrapta's gentle-yet-delighted encouragement, he ends up trying the replacement drug. The nausea stops.

Hordak feels better.

The turning points continue. They pile up, one after another.

New dietary plans are not limited to nutritional needs: they rely heavily on taste and texture preferences. Sleep recommendations are not tailored for work load but for alertness and diminished irritability and good energy. Arm braces get redesigned solely to ensure they don't chafe his skin, even a little.

Time and again, functionality is addressed, but never at the expense of Hordak's comfort. Never without ensuring that whatever is being done helps him feel better.

Thus, Hordak learns the concept of "quality of life." And another wound gradually begins to heal.

[cruelfeline]

Please consider, a concept:

Initially, Hordak's new room is quite barren: a bed, comfortable but plain; a wardrobe with nothing in it; a bedside table with nothing on it.

He has nothing, after all. The Fright Zone housed his meagre possessions, and it is gone. Or, rather, it is overgrown. Plants - and politics - stand between him and anything he might want to salvage, which is... admittedly not much.

So as Hordak settles into his new life, he does so in a fairly spartan manner. Which, really, is fine by him. He doesn't... well, it doesn't seem necessary, for him to have all that much, does it? He should be grateful - and he is - that he has the chance to settle into a new life at all. Thus, left up to him, the bed would stay plain, the wardrobe and bedside table empty.

But, as is so often the case, Entrapta has different ideas. She begins to fill the wardrobe: new tabards, new dresses. Long-sleeve shirts and sweaters. A couple of furred cloaks as Dryl's winter fog rolls in. All new. All bought or tailored with his - somewhat hesitantly supplied - preferences.

Winter's arrival likewise prompts an upgrade to his bed, and this time he's just a little less hesitant about the matter. He even enjoys the process: discussing the merits of various fabrics, the pros and cons of different patterns and colors and styles.

Granted, discussing just about anything with Entrapta is a pleasure. Especially when his more emboldened choices seem to truly delight her.

Once the new bedspread and blankets are out of the way, it doesn't seem that much more ostentatious to ensure that the curtains match. Or that the rug ties the room together as much as it protects his feet from the cold stone floor.

From there, the barrenness seems to just... naturally fill in. A bookshelf joins the wardrobe and bedside table, speedily filling up with volumes on astrophysics, biology, geology, and magic. Amongst these tomes hide a few fictional novels Hordak can't quite remember the origin of.

More evenings than not, one of these novels ends up on the bedside table.

Other surfaces start collecting objects, too: various tools, bits of machinery, a number of Imp's (mostly broken, but still well-loved) toys. The top of the wardrobe becomes home to Imp's new nest.

The LUVD crystal, when not inserted safely into his new armor, takes a place of honor on its own dedicated, tastefully decorative shelf.

And one day, while stepping in to retrieve a specific pair of gloves, Hordak realizes: this is his room. With his things in it, utilitarian or otherwise. And his tastes and preferences dictating its appearance.

It's such a small, even absurdly obvious sort of thing, but it makes him gently, comfortably happy.

[cruelfeline]

Please consider, a concept:

It is the first "party" Hordak has been invited to: a somewhat formal event involving what appears to be the majority of Etheria's royalty.

He's not sure why he was invited to this specific event; surely a smaller, less... populated get-together would have been more appropriate? Certainly it would have drawn fewer stares and hushed remarks and furtive glares.

Well.

Perhaps. Perhaps not.

Such discomfort follows him wherever he goes nowadays. Which is... more than fair. All things considered.

Either way: Scorpia invited him, Entrapta was thrilled, and he could hardly stand to dampen her delight.

Even now, he has to acknowledge the pleasure to be gleaned from watching her enjoy the evening, chatting excitedly with the recently-crowned Scorpion Princess. The fact that whatever she is saying seems to be making That Herbaceous One visibly uncomfortable is just a bonus, really.

He wishes, rather gloomily, that he could join her, but, well... he'd already declined her invitation. Excusing himself via a "need to rest." It's for the best: he doesn't need to ruin her evening by attracting suspicious observers and accusatory whispers.

And so Hordak remains the proverbial wallflower, enjoying what (Entrapta-related) sights he can enjoy, striving very hard to ignore... nearly everything else.

Which is getting harder. Because some people are getting bolder. Louder voices. Undisguised sneers.

A not-insignificant part of him kind-of-sort-of-really wishes that this whole affair would end, or that Entrapta would tire of socialization and announce their departure. Which makes him feel quite a bit worse, because she's having a legitimately good time. He knows that these sorts of activities are often difficult for her, so his wishing for a successful evening to end, solely for personal comfort, is really quite sha-

"Hey!"

Hordak blinks, startled from his brooding solemn reflection. Before him stands Adora, resplendent in a white gown befitting her status as Savior of Etheria. She smiles up at him.

He stares back.

Her smile doesn't waver.

"...hello."

Why is she... here? In front of him? Instead of... literally anywhere else?

"Enjoying the evening?"

Hordak is vaguely aware of the fact that he's gaping rather stupidly at her, but he seems helpless to do anything about it.

For some reason, she's still smiling.

And... presenting her arm.

"Walk with me?"

"I... what?"

"Please?"

And for some reason he cannot currently fathom, he does.

Hordak places his large, taloned hand atop Adora's offered arm and... walks with her. First along the wall he's been standing at, then out amongst the couples and groups filling the hall. Slowly, almost leisurely. Adora never quickens the pace, never seems to direct their movement toward a specific goal. She just... strolls along. Going seemingly nowhere. With Hordak at her side.

He glances down at her, but she's looking straight ahead, head high, eyes focused. Her arm remains steady and stable under his hand.

They're halfway across the room when he finds his voice again.

"Forgive me, She-"

"Adora."

"...Adora. But... what are you doing? What is the purpose of... this?"

Hordak hopes he does not sound as confused as he feels. He probably does, but Adora, bless her decorum, does not point it out.

"My first royal party was a lot smaller than this. Back when I found out I was She-Ra. And joined the Rebellion. Just a dinner with local officials."

He is silent.

"It... wasn't the best. Lots of stares. Gossip. That sort of thing. Even with the Sword I was... well, a Horde soldier."

She pauses, takes a breath, continues.

"I expected that, y'know? I expected that I'd have to prove myself. To earn my place. Especially considering... everything."

Something inside Hordak twinges at this, and his lips thin.

"And then Glimmer came up to me, took my arm, and just started going on about... actually, I don't remember what it was! I just remember feeling... better. About being there. About everything that was happening."

Adora trails off, almost sighing.

They pass a group of fauns, doe-eyes wide and shamelessly fixated on them. She places her other hand over his, gently stroking the knuckles of his talons. He remembers, at that moment, how her hand against his cheek was the first thing he became aware of, once Prime lost His vicious hold.

"It seems so long ago now, but I've never forgotten it."

The twinge turns into an ache. Suddenly, it is hard for Hordak to swallow.

"That is... you... I... do not deserve..."

The words, strained and halting, leave him before he can stop them, but he does not know how to continue, how to verbalize past his choking emotions. So he stops trying, falling silent again.

They are past the group of fauns, and Hordak does not see how wary curiosity has largely replaced the shock in their expressions.

"I don't know about 'deserve.' I... don't know what any of us deserve. You. Me." - she pauses - "Catra."

If she notices him stiffen, she does not say so.

"What I do know is that it's easier if we accept help. Even... even if we think we don't need it. Or deserve it."

Now Hordak remembers waking up dazed, confused, panicked... and wrapped safely in a blanket. He remembers Entrapta presenting him with that admittedly foul soup. He remembers... he remembers feeling better.

"...I see."

The words come out damnably hoarse, but Adora smiles anyway. Her hand, still resting stop his knuckles, gives a little squeeze.

"Now, tell me about what you and Entrapta are working on? Besides Salineas' irrigation systems. I know there must be something!"

"You... wish to hear about that?"

"Yeah. Can't promise I'll understand it, but yeah."

So he tells her. First about the miniature portal devices that he's been fine-tuning, based upon designs Entrapta has had laying around since her teen years. Then about an innovative style of generator meant to harness Etheria's newly-released magical energy.

Hordak no longer notices any cold stares or ugly sneers.

They are deep in conversation about the generators - he is unexpectedly pleased to realize that her magical knowledge helps her actually grasp the concept - when:

"Adora!"

Here's Entrapta, rushing forward on pillars of hair to meet them. Adora grins and gives a little wave.

"Hey, Entrapta."

"You found Hordak!"

Despite himself, Hordak chuckles.

"That she did."

"And just in time, too. Scorpia says the dancing's about to start."

"Dancing?"

Now it's Adora's turn to chuckle. She guides Hordak's hand off of her arm and into a waiting lock of Entrapta's hair. Entrapta grins.

"Yup!"

"...ah. That is..."

Adora's chuckle turns into a good-natured laugh.

"Come on! I'm only coordinated on the battlefield, and I don't think Catra knows what rhythm is. You'll look great next to us!"

Hordak sincerely doubts this, even when Catra saunters up to stand beside Adora, grumbling some version of "yeah, yeah...," but nevertheless...

He smiles at the sparkling enthusiasm in Entrapta's eyes, at the earnest kindness in Adora's. His fingers tighten around Entrapta's hair, returning the gentle pressure of her grasp.

"Very well."

[cruelfeline]

I am deeply sorry please look away

Please consider, a concept:

Imp likes to think of himself as an understanding, well-mannered, endlessly patient little gentleman.

After all, he stoically endures many hardships: having his hair combed (an ordeal!), daily vitamins (his palate suffers!), and (he shudders at the very thought) regular baths, to name a few.

And while contending with these difficulties, he performs his duties admirably.

He is an excellent spy: the best in the universe. He listens and watches and follows and records with utmost efficiency.

He is a fantastic guard: no one gets into - or out of - Crypto Castle without his knowledge. And absolutely no one gets anywhere near the New Sanctum without his personal approval.

Most importantly, he is an exemplary Little Brother. Thanks to him, there is not a single day when Hordak misses a medication, or a meal, or his totally real and enforceable bedtime. Not with Imp there, graciously informing him of what needs to be done.

via screeching

Yes.

Imp is diligent and devoted. He is clever and capable. And he takes care of Big Brother and Entrapta while also humoring their many requests of him.

Everything is as it should be.

Or.

Well.

It was.

Imp huffs, pudgy face resting on pudgy arms as he stares glumly out the window at the rain-drenched Salinean coastline.

Everything at Crypto Castle was as it should be, but here? In Salineas?

Here he is locked up in Hordak's depressingly meager room while the latter works all day. And not good work, like in the New Sanctum. Not fun work that allows Imp to ride cheerfully on his shoulder, providing invaluable commentary.

Awful work, without Imp. Work that leaves him tired and frustrated and hurting and out far past his totally real and enforceable bedtime!

Work that gets in the way of meals. Work that keeps him away from Entrapta. Work that prevents him from providing Imp with all important chin-scritches!

In short: Salineas is abysmal, and not even Imp's superb cleverness and devotion-to-duty can fix that.

Imp huffs again.

Not when every reminder to rest, or to eat, or to just slow down a little is dismissed outright, no matter how persistently Imp insists. Why, just yesterday, Hordak had snarled and swatted at him! He hadn't done that since... well, since Before.

He hadn't been upset enough to. He'd been doing so well.

Until Salineas.

So now Imp is locked up in this sad little room with nary a vent to escape through, waiting glumly for his elder brother to return. So that he can try, yet again, to maybe cajole him into eating a full dinner. Or at least nibbling on some of the untouched savory buns Baker had sent. Or... or...

Imp's sullen boredom derails his train of thought, and he falls asleep.

Only to awaken hours later, in the dark, disturbed by Hordak hissing while he lowers himself onto the bed.

He springs into action! Leaps a little clumsily he just woke up be fair! into Hordak's lap. Immediately starts to tug at his wet? why is Hordak still all wet? tabard.

Dinnertime! Sodapop's voice announces.

"Not now, Imp."

Imp pouts.

Dinnertime! Dinnertime dinnertime dinnertimedinnertimedi-

"Silence!"

Hordak settles into bed... for two hours.

Hordak may look absolutely exhausted, but his voice is thunder. Imp chitters angrily, then falls silent. He slinks away.

Two measly, miserable hours of restless tossing and turning and pained hissing and... is that a slight cough Imp hears?! On his watch? On his-

But then he's up again, dragging himself out the door before Imp can offer Baker's gentle admonishment: Breakfast is important!

Hordak is up and gone, and Imp is... Not Happy.

He spends the next... oh... half hour or so? Expressing this.

He chitters. He screeches. He flaps about, knocking over various instruments, tearing at the thin bedsheet, punching the-

Oh.

Well.

Would you look at that!

In his exhausted fog haste, Hordak hadn't locked the door.

Imp abruptly ends his tirade. His furious scowl instantly fades, replaced with a toothy little grin.

Now he can fix this!

~

"Um... sir?"

No response. He tries again.

"Sir?"

Nope.

"Sir!"

The guard's voice finally breaks through the haze and headache clouding Hordak's awareness, and he turns away from the tenth? fifteenth? construction bot he's repaired today.

"Yes?"

The guard jumps a little.

"Um... ah... the Princess requests your presence."

Hordak blinks.

"In the... uhm... in the throne room."

Silence.

"R-right now."

Normally, Hordak would be annoyed by such a slow, halting request. And by a sudden interruption in his work.

But today, after sleeping all of twenty minutes out of his generous two hours, his comprehension speed just about matches. And an interruption is... well, let's just say he's not angry over it.

He nods.

"Very well."

~

Pandemonium. Anarchy.

Unmitigated destruction.

These are the terms that come closest to describing the situation meeting Hordak in Mermista's throne room.

Tapestries lay in shreds on the marble floor. Something sweet-smelling and sticky covers every single cracked window, floor-to-ceiling. Actually... it's on the ceiling, too. And all over Mermista's throne. And-

"Get. Him. Down."

Mermista storms over, fists clenched, expression livid, the effect of both strongly negated by the copious amounts of goop plastering her hair to her skull.

Hordak blinks. She's moving a little faster than the graciously slow guard, and it takes him a moment to process.

Mermista very helpfully gestures ceiling-ward.

"Get him down right now! Look at what he's-"

She's cut off by another glob of - oh, it's syrup! Baker sometimes includes it with breakfast, and Imp...

Imp loves it. On his little pancakes.

And, apparently, on everything else. The walls. The windows. The ceiling. The upholstery.

The Princess of Salineas.

Hordak watches, with a curious sense of detachment, as Imp pours another dollop of syrup onto Mermista before gliding to perch in the rafters. Next to... goodness, that is a lot of syrup bottles...

"Hey! Etheria to Hordak! Are you listening? Get your weird little goblin-baby down right now! Get him back in your room and-"

Imp screeches viciously at her, and the sound breaks Hordak's trance.

"Imp!"

Another screech.

To Mermista: "I apologize, your majesty. I will handle him."

To the ceiling-goblin: "Imp! Return to the room at once. This is unacceptable behavior!"

This is unacceptable behavior!

"I order you to-"

I order you to-

"Cease this nonsense-"

Cease this nonsense-

"Immediately!"

Immediately!

"Imp!"

The aforementioned chitters and giggles and flits to-and-fro, doing anything but ceasing this nonsense immediately.

Hordak is... admittedly at a loss.

Beside him, Mermista is radiating fury.

"You were supposed to keep him locked in your room. I let him stay as a favor to Entrapta, and you-"

Hearing Entrapta's name in such an aggressive tone inspires Imp to open a brand new syrup bottle. To Mermista's immediate chagrin. Her throne earns a new coating of sticky goodness. She groans.

"Can't you make him stop?"

A pertinent question. An excellent question.

One that Hordak is pondering as well.

"Perhaps..."

He turns to an anxious guard.

"A confection of some sort may be useful. Or some form of-"

Mermista scoffs.

"Confection?! He's already ransacked the kitchen-"

But the guard has already gone and returned, tray of pastries and various fruits in-hand.

Imp chirps and, abandoning his syrup, flutters down to land on Hordak's shoulder.

Breakfast! Breakfast!

Ah, there. Problem solved. Hordak tries to ignore the guilt of "Imp was hungry" and focuses instead on the relief of compliance. And silence.

He grunts approval, taking a pastry from the offered tray; Imp swiftly grabs it.

"It appears he was hungry. I apologize for this... inconvenience-"

Mermista scoffs.

"I shall ensure that he is fed and return to my task. If assistance is required in-"

Problem unsolved.

Imp leaps from his shoulder, taking to the air with a screech and a squawk, returning to his ammunition hoard.

"You can't be serious."

Hordak snarls.

"Imp! What is the- There is food right here!"

Breakfast! Breakfast! Breakfast!

Imp has taken the little pastry with him, and now he chucks it back down... right at Hordak's face.

It hits him on the bridge of his nose, bounces off, and tumbles to the floor. Just as Imp's mantra ends:

You can't start your day without a good breakfast! Baker chides, just as she had done... weeks ago... when both Hordak and Entrapta had forgotten to...

Oh.

Ah.

Hm.

"Is he... telling you to eat breakfast?"

Beside him, Mermista has traded fury for incredulity.

Ahhh, you're right!

Imp borrows Entrapta to confirm. Despite himself, Hordak can feel a slight heat spreading across his cheekbones.

"...it would seem so."

A delighted chirp, and then:

A bit of food and rest, and you'll be good as new.

"Are you telling me that your weird little goblin-baby has completely trashed my throne room because you skipped breakfast?"

It is a credit to Horde clone composure that Hordak's voice remains steady as he answers. Prime himself might even be impressed from beyond the grave.

"This... does appear to be the case, your majesty."

A moment passes, then another. Mermista puncuates the silence with a drawn-out groan.

"You have got to be kidding me!"

You bet your biscuits, honey! Baker cheerfully remarks.

~

"That was unnecessary, Imp."

Imp chirps softly, burrowing his face into Hordak's neck.

Necessary. Necessary.

Hordak sighs, settling against his pillow, reaching up to stroke Imp's little hair-tuft. His eyes narrow to relaxed slits.

The ultimate result of the Syrup Debacle, as it shall go down in the annals of Salinean history, is that Hordak's work schedule is revised.

Heavily.

Largely because any surly resistance on Mermista's part quickly results in the brandishing of a syrup bottle, but also because Imp starts taunting Mermista in Entrapta's voice. More and more.

Which gets a certain point across in a way syrup cannot. Though... y'know, the syrup absolutely helps.

So Hordak finds his schedule reworked to ensure breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Eight hours of sleep. Abbreviated duties on cold or rainy days.

Mermista earns back a non-sticky throne room, absent one sassy ceiling-goblin.

"Mm... I suppose... it is senseless to argue with you."

A keen observation. Hordak answers himself.

And Imp reclaims his rightful place on Hordak's shoulder. As the most exemplary Little Brother.

[cruelfeline]

Please consider, a concept:

All her life, Entrapta has tried her damnedest to connect with others, and she has done so via science and tech and engineering. They are the languages she speaks most fluently, the disciplines she is most comfortable with.

And hey, sometimes, it seems to work! Sort of. Maybe. She thinks.

She makes her weapons, offers them to allies, and receives social acceptance in return. She helps out with tech troubles, and she secures her place as part of the group. Scientific information needed? There she is, ready to offer all relevant facts and figures for the chance to forge that all-important bond!

And if things don't feel quite right, if she doesn't get that sense of connection, well... she's never been very good at applying science in this particular manner. She's never had that skill. Perhaps she just needs to try harder. Perhaps she needs to revise her materials and methods. Perhaps she needs to collect more data.

After all, one can always use more data!

So she does.

Entrapta meets Hordak. She works with Hordak. She gains that all-important data.

Data gained by tweaking his armor so that his heart beats steadier, watching the tension bleed from his face as her modifications ease his pain.

Data gained by realizing that she's been talking about the physics of portal stabilization for two hours, and he hasn't interrupted her even once.

Data gained by watching a smile soften his features when she shows him her plans to further upgrade Darla.

It's these data points (and so many more) that she considers one evening, curled up in bed, Hordak's breath warming the nape of her neck as he drowses beside her. Entrapta considers and assesses and interprets, and finally decides upon a logical conclusion.

It seems that her science has always been sound; she'd just been applying it to the wrong people.

Ah, well. Unfortunate, that: a miscalculation.

She reaches out and strokes Hordak's hair with a strand of her own.

No matter. With adequate, data-driven guidance, any error can be rectified! And, as Hordak nuzzles against her in his sleep, Entrapta finds that she looks forward to doing so.

[cruelfeline]

Please Consider, a Concept:

She's been relaxing all evening, basking in the heady mix of relief and jubilation common to them all in the wake of Prime's defeat, but that does not mean that Adora’s powers of observation have waned. Though, she supposes, it would not take a particularly impressive level of observation to notice that Hordak and Entrapta are not among the celebrating crowd. Or, oddly enough, among the somber clones being gently shepherded to their first night’s rest outside of recharging pods.

So, while everyone else busies themselves with pitching tents and securing sleeping arrangements, Adora searches.

It doesn't take her long to find them. They're only a short way off, settled under a heavily blooming tree. Hordak is asleep, curled up at Entrapta's side and half-covered by a blanket of lavender hair.

Once upon a time, this is a sight that she would have had difficulty imagining, but after all she's seen today (though her eyes and She-Ra's), her only reaction is a small smile.

Entrapta meets her smile with a cheerful grin-and-wave of her own, though Adora does not miss the very subtle, very slight (yet very present) frizzing of the hair draped over Hordak. Or the way it curls and twists, numerous locks arranging themselves to settle between her and the pair.

"Hi Adora! Did you need something?"

Entrapta's voice is as cheerful as her smile, though quieter than Adora is used to hearing it. Beside her, Hordak tenses a touch, seeming to shudder, before curling tighter against her. He does not wake. A strand of hair moves to rub his upper arm, though Entrapta's eyes remain on Adora.

"No. No, I was just... I wanted to check on you guys. See how you were doing."

"Oh, we're fine! Hordak's a bit tired; getting possessed by the soul of a mind-controlling entity is pretty taxing, you know?"

Adora swallows, smile fading. The memory of that vicious darkness, of its enraged screams at being vanquished, of the exhausted mind left in its wake, makes her throat tighten. She nods stiffly.

"Yeah. I know."

"So he's just taking a little nap."

"That's... good."

It occurs to her now, as she's having this unexpected conversation, that Entrapta's face is pinched and drawn. There are dark circles evident under her eyes. Her hair isn't as glossy as it normally is and, following its initial burst of activity upon Adora's approach, lies limp and lifeless.

Hordak, curled up and pressed into her side, looks strangely small in his plain clone garb. His face is the same stark-white it's always been, but his cheeks are noticeably pale, a lighter grey than the slate-blue Adora is used to seeing. Every so often, his shoulders tremble; a lock of hair snakes up to stroke his upper arm, as before, until they still.

As she takes in all of these details, Adora becomes aware of sounds of celebration coming from the camp behind them. Laughter and cheering. The crackling of a bonfire. Music, too; someone seems to have procured a flute and has begun to play a jaunty tune.

Something in Adora's chest tightens, and she sets her jaw.

"Do you need anything?"

The words come out somewhat strained, but Entrapta doesn't seem to notice. She glances about and hums for a moment.

"A blanket or two would be nice!"

"Sure."

Entrapta waves her off as Adora makes her way back to camp.

"Bye!"

When she returns a few minutes later, two thick blankets folded over her arms, Entrapta greets her not with a smile but with an expression of plain confusion.

"Oh."

Adora crouches down, beginning to unfold the blankets. She holds one out.

Entrapta blinks at it.

"You... you brought them."

Adora offers that small smile again.

"Yeah. Here."

A lock of hair flips her visor down, and Entrapta remains still for a few breaths before silently taking one blanket in both hands. She studies it from behind the insectoid eyes of the mask.

Suddenly, in one fluid motion, she drapes it over Hordak's form, hair rustling to life and busying itself with the task of tucking the folds tightly around him. He does not stir as she works, though his body seems to relax from its tight curl. His shoulders cease their intermittent trembling.

Adora releases a breath she only now realizes she's been holding.

Once Hordak is properly covered, Entrapta grabs the second blanket and wraps it around herself, pulling it securely over her shoulders. It is only when the both of them are settled - she returns, for a moment, to adjust Hordak's blanket so that it's pulled up to his chin - that she turns back to Adora. After another brief pause, she lifts her visor.

Entrapta's eyes are a little red, a little watery, but she's smiling again.

"Thank you."

Adora returns her smile in kind.

"You're welcome."

She leaves them for the night, turning back once to see Entrapta nestling her head into the curve of Hordak's neck. Now he does stir, sleepily draping a blanketed arm over her. Then they are still.

Adora continues her way back to the camp, to songs and happy chatter. To crowds of friends and allies. To Catra.

Tomorrow, she'll return. Perhaps with some tiny food, or a fizzy drink. Perhaps with some amniotic fluid, if she can find a vial.

Perhaps just to ask:

Do you need anything?

[cruelfeline]

Please consider, a concept:

Hordak wants to kiss her.

He realizes this one afternoon, upon seeing Catra and Adora engage in the act while departing a Bright Moon luncheon. After recovering from the embarrassment (Catra very pointedly asks him what he's looking at), he recognizes the feeling of longing when he marries what he's seen with the thought of Entrapta, and well...

He wants to kiss her.

But when? And... and how?

He's never done such a thing, never even considered it beyond vaguely acknowledging that it was a thing that people-who-were-not-him did.

How does he start?

It seems so easy, when others do it. When Catra and Adora did it. A smooth, spontaneous, intimate show of affection. A natural thing; absolutely natural for them.

...could it be natural for him? He can't see how.

Not when he hasn't the faintest idea of how to... anything.

How does he position his body? His arms? His hands? Does he lean down to her? Does he wait for her to lift up on her hair? How does he approach? How does he tilt his face; which way, and how far? What about her face? Does he keep his eyes open, or close them? Does he move his lips? Does he purse them? Does he meet hers with his, or does he start somewhere else? Her cheek, maybe? No? Yes? Perhaps? With what pressure? For how long? Does he have to hold his breath? Does his tongue-

Hordak stops, takes a deep breath. Another. And again. His heart has started to pound, and he feels a little lightheaded. 

With a rush of determination, he pushes the thoughts to the back of his mind.

He manages to quell them until the following night, when he and Entrapta are curled up in bed, her head nestled against his collarbone. She’s already fallen asleep. Hordak drowses, but when he feels the sensation of her breath warming his bare skin, the desire returns, rousing him from his near-slumber. He looks down at her, still asleep, cradled both by him and by a cocoon of her own hair, and it strengthens: a longing that manifests as a quickened heartrate and a lump in his throat. He swallows against it, shifts slightly, gently curls his arm a little tighter around her shoulders.

...

He lowers his head just a little.

Perhaps...

He lowers it a touch more. 

Perhaps if he just... 

A flyaway strand of her hair tickles his cheek.

If he just...

She always smells of machine oil, even if it’s faint underneath the shampoo she uses. The scent slows his heart, even as his throat tightens a touch.

Just...

Hordak closes his eyes without consciously meaning to, just as his lips touch the top of her head, right where her hair parts. A little pressure, a little time, enough so that his lips feel warm where they meet her skin, and he lifts his head again. Opens his eyes. Lets out a breath he only now realizes he’s been holding.

His heart speeds up again, but the lump in his throat is gone.

Was that...? Had he...? Would she...?

The warmth spreads from his lips out along his cheeks, into the hollows under his eyes.

Should... should he have...? 

So caught up is he in what he’s done that he doesn’t notice Entrapta stir, doesn’t notice her eyes open, doesn’t notice anything until he feels her hair cup his cheek. His breath catches. He nearly starts to stammer, haphazardly thinking to provide an explanation, but before he can do so she, in one smooth motion, pulls herself up and presses her lips to the angle of his jaw.

His eyes widen. The fading heat in his face flares and spreads to his ears, and any words he might have spoken fade into stunned silence.

Entrapta maintains the contact. Hordak’s skin tingles beneath the gentle pressure of her lips. The sensation makes him shiver just a little.

After what seems like an age, she pulls away. Her eyes, half-lidded with sleep, meet his, and she’s smiling as she settles back down against his chest.

“Goodnight, Hordak.”

His skin is still tingling. His ears and cheeks are still hot. His heart flutters, and he’s lightheaded again.

It’s wonderful.

He shifts, rearranges himself, drapes his arm back around her shoulders. Once he’s able, he smiles, too, even though she’s already nearly asleep again and cannot see it.

“Goodnight... Entrapta.”

[cruelfeline]

Please consider, a concept:

Initially, when Hordak and Entrapta lay together, it is always Entrapta doing the holding. Hugging, cradling, cuddling: in all positions, she is the one wrapping her hair and limbs around his body and pulling him close. 

One reason behind this is that she is the more forward of the two, making her more likely to initiate and direct such intimate contact. Another is that, practically speaking, Hordak simply enjoys being held: he is cold-sensitive and often suffers various aches and pains owing to his defect; being held in Entrapta’s arms and swaddled in her hair brings physical relief to both of these problems, not to mention the emotional benefit provided. 

There is another reason, however, that is far less pleasant, one that causes Hordak to falter whenever he has even the vaguest impulse to offer Entrapta similar physical comfort.

Each time, he reflects on how lovely it feels to be cradled by her: his head laying against the soft warmth of her chest, her arms strong-yet-gentle around his shoulders, her hair a soothing blanket over his body, and he despairs because... well, how can he hope to offer anything of the sort?

His chest is wasted and bony, ribs painfully prominent under skin that is either thin and fragile or grotesquely rough with scars. His arms, stripped bare of armor, are as wasted as his chest, and they’re all sharp angles and jutting elbows with little to recommend them in terms of strength or gentleness. And, of course, he has no voluminous locks of silky hair, or any sort of equivalent, that he can use to keep her as safe and warm as she keeps him. 

Hordak is, as far as he is concerned, the vastly inferior choice, and so he suppresses any sort of urge to hold her, very much convinced that, try as he might, he would only reveal himself as being a shamefully inadequate and uncomfortable partner. Which is, of course, not at all what Entrapta deserves. And disappointing her is absolutely not something he wishes to experience.

Thus, this remains the state of things for quite some time until, one evening, Entrapta settles herself not beside him as usual but, to his mild shock, essentially on top of him. She curls up against his chest, nestling herself in the space between his body and his left arm. She answers his surprised grunt with a bleary yawn, lays her head on his sternum, and mumbles... something.

He remains still. Stunned. Uncertain. 

She mumbles again, this time sleepily wrapping a lock of hair around his wrist and guiding his arm to drape over her, his hand to rest on her head. Almost immediately, Hordak finds himself absentmindedly, instinctively, scratching at her scalp with his claws. 

The motion is gentle, rhythmic, and he glances down to see that Entrapta has stilled, a smile softening her face as she sighs in... contentment? Even though he’s cradling her with next to no muscle? Even when a patch of rough scarring brushes against her cheek?

He swallows, confused, but... encouraged? Is this what encouragement feels like? His ears twitch slightly at the thought.

He maintains his gentle grooming of her scalp, claws easily threading their way through her thick hair.

She sighs again, pressing closer against his chest, nestling right up against what he is certain must be uncomfortably prominent ribs, and... nothing. No grimace. No huff of displeasure. No noting of how unpleasant it is to lay, cheek-to-chest, against him. No-

“Mm... can hear your heart...”

She presses even closer. Her eyes are half-lidded, but she’s still smiling.

“Like gears...”

He finds himself smiling, too, though a part of him wonders if she can discern the nervous thud in what she’s hearing. He nods a little, his one hand still buried in her hair. His other has somehow found its way under her chin, curled comfortably against the warm curve of her neck. It’s held there by her own hands like the world’s strangest plush toy. One of her fingers strokes his longest talon.

His voice is low and rumbling, yet strangely steady as he answers.

“You are hearing the cybernetics that stabilize it.”

“S’fascinating... have to tell me ‘bout it...”

He begins to tell her that he will, tomorrow, but she’s already asleep, breath an even warmth against his skin. Her hands are still holding onto his one. His other has stopped its scratching and stroking, now seeking to pull the blanket up around the both of them before settling to cradle her curled up form.

And though he wants to savor this, wants to revel in the impossible sight and sound and sensation of Entrapta so willingly, so happily resting in his embrace, he cannot, for after a only few peaceful moments, he is asleep, too.

[cruelfeline]

Please consider, a concept:

While many Etherians expect the Horde clones to jump at the chance to embrace individuality (perhaps accustomed to Wrong Hordak’s successful foray into self-actualization), they end up quite disappointed by what actually happens.

The overwhelming majority of Horde clones have no desire to take names, or to change their clothes, or to color their hair. They have no initial interest in becoming their own people. Rather, they are consumed by fear and pain and anger and a sense of terrible, all-consuming loss. They are hurt, and their hurt very much takes center-stage.

So the first whispers of individuality don’t come in the fun, whimsical form of new outfits or cute facial expressions; rather, they come in the form of Etherian caretakers learning how to best look after their new charges. How to heal their hurts and fulfill new, unfamiliar needs.

A young satyr learns that humming a quiet, gentle tune will help their assigned clone fall asleep on even the stormiest of nights, when cracking thunder would otherwise keep him awake and whimpering.

A married couple realize that running their clone’s hand through their dog’s fur helps him slow his breathing when the void left by the hivemind becomes too much to bear.

A beastwoman finds that, when her clone wakes up ill one morning, wincing miserably at a painful sore throat, he prefers slippery elm tea over chamomile to help soothe it.

An elderly grandmother discovers that her clone, weeping silently for reasons he himself cannot express, barely responds to being hugged, but does lean into her hand when she tentatively strokes his hair. 

A man notes that, whenever his clone suddenly pauses, paralyzed by some nameless fear, all he need do is take one clawed hand in his own and apply firm, even pressure to help bring him out of his trembling daze.

This is how the clones first become “people” to the Etherians: not through an exciting flurry of self-discovery, but through the personalized comforts they so desperately need. And it is with a sense of gentle pride and growing fondness that Etherian caretakers learn to provide those comforts, playing a vital role in the clones’ harrowing first weeks of their new lives.

[cruelfeline]

Please consider, a concept:

One of the many things that Hordak is ashamed of (and my word, are there a lot of those) is the nature of his knowledgebase. Not its breadth or depth, mind you; that’s perfectly serviceable. Rather, it is the purpose of his learning that alternatively disturbs and angers him, everything fine-tuned to serve Prime’s interest. It is a mixture of instinct and habit that remains months after the tyrant’s death: when prompted for this fact or that, asked about this concept or another, the first thoughts that come to mind are always in reference to Prime. 

It’s most noticeable when Entrapta asks him about his travels through space, about the planets he’s been to, for what else could a clone know, should a clone know, about other worlds except their value to Prime?

She eagerly asks what this world was like, what he saw on that one, and all he can think of is a list of resources gained, of species conquered, of supply lines and battle statistics. It sours his mood, this Prime-centered tendency, and where her enthusiastic curiosity normally delights him, any mention of space travel and planetary exploration turns him sullen and taciturn. So much so that, to his further shame, she eventually stops asking and focuses instead on other matters during their time together. It is a change that Hordak desperately wishes to undo but cannot fathom how. After all, even if he swallows his discomfort and indulges her curiosity, what could he possibly tell her? What information could he offer, save what he’d been programmed for: dull statistics and logistical facts useful only in running a tyrant’s empire. Hardly the sort of thing she’d want to hear.

And hardly the sort of thing he wants to revisit.

It’s only when, for the first time since Prime’s demise, they finally leave the planet that this changes.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

He follows her gaze to the swirl of dust and debris filling the space beyond Darla’s windows. It is vast and colorful and constantly, subtly shifting in the aethereal wind. A nebula.

“Oh, what do you think it’s made of?”

There is something about her eyes, something in them that shimmers and sparks and hints at only the purest joy. He can see the nebula’s colors reflected in them.

“Hydrogen. Helium. Various other ionized gases. Cosmic dust.”

For the first time, the memory of Prime’s ships mining these materials does not follow. The fact that nebulae were little more than fuel depots does not come to mind. Instead:

“They often contain regions that facilitate the formation of new stars.”

She squeals, darting back and forth on tendrils of frizzing hair, and he cannot help but smile. Just a little. 

“We have to collect samples!”

If any of Prime’s programming is attempting to reassert itself, to insert its utilitarian notions into his thoughts, Hordak cannot sense it. The warmth blooming in his chest is too great.

“But of course.”

[cruelfeline]

Please consider, a concept:

Hordak is woefully cold-intolerant, not only because his body fat percentage is in the single digits, but because certain aspects of his defect make him prone to losing heat quickly. His depigmented skin is particularly thin, and in areas where he's lost significant muscle tissue, such as his arms, blood vessels run quite close to the surface under said thin skin. The result is rapid heat loss, unless he keeps such areas well-covered and insulated.

Once upon a time, in the Fright Zone, this was not a problem. His armor, both original and Entrapta-made, not only insulated him but provided an actual source of heat. And even when he took it off, the ambient temperature of his sanctum was quite comfortable, thanks to multiple machines warming the air as they ran.

Nowadays, at his new home in Dryl, it likewise remains largely a non-issue. He may not yet have a full set of armor (Entrapta is still working on the new prototype), but their joint-lab is likewise quite warm, and when he's in other parts of the castle, he simply wears a comfy sweater, or one of Entrapa's oversized hoodies. Maybe these articles of clothing make him look less-than-imposing, but he's at home with no one but Entrapta to see him. He hardly minds.

Even outside of Dryl, it's rarely a concern, as he has enough foresight to assess the weather appropriately and wear long sleeves and layers when he goes out. Not a huge problem, and if he ever does get chilly? Well, it's often just him and Entrapta traveling together, and she's not shy about wrapping him in her hair should he ever look the least bit shivery.

All that said, when it does become a problem, it is, of course, at the least convenient time, because Hordak's luck is just that good.

They've been called to a meeting in Bright Moon to discuss progress on some new irrigation tech in Plumeria. Seated around a large table in one of the many bright, airy rooms, everyone is listening to Entrapta explain the specifics of the planned system. She's having a great time of it, going over the new bots she's developing specifically for the task, and Hordak would be enjoying her animated presentation, except that he is absolutely freezing.

He hadn't been before; he'd worn an appropriately long-sleeved dress, and it had served him perfectly well for most of their visit. Even when the weather grew a little breezy, the black fabric absorbed the heat of the day moon and kept him very comfortable despite the faint wind ruffling his hair.

Now, however, he has the misfortune of being seated in front of one of the large, shutterless windows so common in Bright Moon, and while the breeze still blows regularly through said window, the moon has hidden itself away behind thick clouds, robbing him of the heat that was making said breeze bearable.

The result is that, rather than devoting his attention to Entrapta as he would prefer, he has to focus on tensing his muscles to prevent himself from shivering. Which is painful, and unpleasant, and growing more and more difficult to do as the breeze steals more heat from him.

He wishes that he was in Dryl, so that he could grab a sweater, or hunker down in the lab, or seek out Entrapta and allow her to swaddle him in hair and provide welcome body heat, but sadly, he is in Bright Moon.

He is in Bright Moon, surrounded by people he is still wary of, and the idea of admitting to his growing discomfort, especially when everyone else is plainly comfortable despite this damnably arctic wind, is absolutely out of the question.

Alas, his only acceptable option is to stubbornly fight the shivers with a rigid posture and conceal his faintly chattering teeth behind tightly-pressed lips. At least his stiffness is going entirely unnoticed; the other members of the group are very much focused on Entrapta, and if they do happen to glance his way, his posture can be interpreted as a manifestation of Standard Hordak Grumpiness. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing for any of them to be suspicious of.

All well and good, but he is so cold, and for the first time in his life, he finds himself wishing that Entrapta would perhaps hurry to the end of her explanation. Which adds a sense of cringing shame to his misery, but he can't help it: his talons are starting to go numb, and he aches both from cold and cramping muscles, and he's uncertain how long he can endure before he's unable to keep his breath from shuddering, and-

Huh. The breeze has stopped.

For a moment, Hordak can scarcely believe that nature has decided to have mercy on him, of all people, but then he sees the lazy twitching of a long, brown tail in the periphery of his vision and realizes that Catra has seated herself in the window.

Caught up in the utter surprise of her sudden appearance, he can only stare at her until she scoffs and scowls at him.

"What? This is taking forever, and I need some air."

Normally, he'd not hesitate to point out that it was only "taking forever" because Entrapta was making sure to explain things very thoroughly for the less technically minded in the audience.

Normally, he'd also demand why, exactly, she needed to obtain her air from the window directly behind him, rather than literally anywhere else.

Now, however, he simply responds with a narrow-eyed glare and an ill-tempered growl before turning away from her. Bizarre and rude though her intrusion might be, and probably something he should be more suspicious of, he is too relieved to truly question it. And besides: as moments pass, she remains still, doing little else apart from lounging in the window.

He tentatively resolves to count it among his rare blessings, for he can already feel himself warming up, shivers dissipating and feeling tingling back into his talons. Within a few minutes, he is able to relax and, ears perking up with renewed interest, focus his attention where it belongs: on his enthusiastic lab partner.

All of this is very much fine by Catra, who settles down with a quiet sigh of relief. She isn't sure what she would have said, had Hordak reacted more strongly to her presence. After all, she muses as the breeze blows gently against her fur, she'd rather jump from her window perch into the lake below than admit that her supposed need for air had really been the result of her sensitive ears picking up the hidden chattering of his teeth.

y'all can pry the idea of Catra secretly looking out for Hordak from my cold, dead paws

[cruelfeline]

Agh, it got so long I had to read-more it; no one look at this; I just had to get it out of my mind, but don’t look at it just ignore this and go examine a pretty nature photo; honestly these just keep getting worse why does this keep happening? And I hate dialogue. And I hate characterization. Ugghhh... just insert a Mermista groan here.

also a more mature Catra helping Hordak on his journey provides me with happiness don’t judge me

Please consider, a concept:

A few months have passed since Prime’s demise. Reconstruction of Etheria’s damaged settlements is well underway, and all parties involved have gotten... if not entirely comfortable with one another, then at least able to interact with civility. Enough so that, when Entrapta and Bow end up delayed on one of their interplanetary trips, Hordak is only moderately uneasy about heading off to Bright Moon on his own. Oh, of course he’d rather wait for Entrapta, but certain planned meetings (dictated by Etheria’s terribly inconvenient seasons) simply cannot be delayed. So off he goes, determined to maintain decorum and dignity and uphold his end of all relevant treaties. He is received by Glimmer, Adora, and Catra. The other Princesses are all otherwise engaged (with what, he cares little, though he is admittedly amused to learn that Mermista and Perfuma are occupied with an apparently disastrous seaweed-related snafu). So it is the four of them against a whole mess of administrative work.

The girls, for their part, are equally uneasy but likewise determined to proceed as usual (Adora and Catra seeming particularly determined). They meet Hordak’s reserved politeness with a tentative poise of their own, and the group’s work commences.

And for a number of days, it goes fairly well. Even Glimmer has to admit that, whatever anyone’s misgivings about how an Entrapta-less Hordak might behave, things are running smoothly. She maintains control of the meetings, guiding them through agenda after agenda, while Adora and Catra provide input based upon their recent scouting trips to Etheria’s various corners. Hordak rounds the discussions out with whatever technological information is relevant. Their sessions run long most nights (too long, if Catra were asked her opinion on the matter, which she pointedly is not), but they are productive. The four of them get an impressive amount of work done, and all without any tense moments or uncomfortable quarrels. One might even say that they are getting along quite well, all things considered.

In fact, Catra is nearly certain that, when Adora mentions appreciating the work of some Dryl-made construction bots in a seaside village, Hordak subtly quirks his lips in what a careful observer could term a smile.

So the three girls are legitimately stunned when, about three-quarters of the way through their intended time together, Hordak’s behavior abruptly changes. His calm demeanor turns sullen and tense. Previously comprehensive explanations gain a taciturn edge, eventually devolving into clipped, half-snarled responses and sneered refusals to provide clarification. More and more often, words are accompanied by the baring of red teeth and the angry glare of red eyes. 

Glimmer is... less than pleased, but between her own determination to make this treaty work and Adora’s dogged, somewhat frantic optimism, she strives to maintain civility long enough to get through the last few days. But, well... limits are limits. And limits are surpassed when, one evening, Hordak furiously declares that he has lost patience with their “embarrassing incompetence” and, with nary another word, storms out of the conference room. 

“That’s it! How dare he?!”

Glimmer promptly explodes, and Catra spends the next few minutes watching Adora try to quiet what is proving to be a very loud, very angry, moderately uncouth Queenly rant. It is in the midst of this rant that Adora catches her eye and, with a quiet groan and a nod and a mental wish of good luck, Catra slips away with Melog silently following at her heels. 

“I guess this is better than dealing with Sparkles,” she mutters to herself as she stands at the door to Hordak’s temporary quarters. Beside her, Melog trills encouragement, and she sighs. They’re right, of course: between the two of them, Adora has more experience dealing with an upset Glimmer. And Catra... okay, so she doesn’t have “experience dealing with an upset Hordak.” Not... not good experience. But she worked with him for nearly a year. And, given what she’s seen, what she knows... she has a fair idea of what’s been happening. She’d been quietly hoping that it would work itself out, or that it wouldn’t become enough of a problem to cause trouble before they finished their work, but alas: it seems that that sort of luck just isn’t on their side.

Which, given the fact that Hordak seems to have the worst luck of anyone she knows, probably should have been something she’d seen coming.

Melog trills again, adding a gentle headbutt this time.

“Okay, okay... give me a second.”

She takes a breath, lifts a hand to knock, grimaces, and drops said hand. She clears her throat.

“Hordak?”

Nothing. She frowns and tries again.

“Hordak? Are you-”

“Leave.”

His snarl is all-too familiar, and even muffled through a door, it causes her hackles to rise, her ears to pin back, her tail to lash.

“Look, I just-”

“Go. Away.”

She grits her teeth, clenches her fists, and turns away, ready to return downstairs with nothing to show for her efforts but a bad mood. Next to her, Melog meows in protest. She rounds on them.

“What? If he wants to be a jerk about it, then that’s his problem! Besides, what am I supposed to do? Break down the door?”

And she resumes making her way back to the staircase, ignoring Melog’s continued protest (which, come to think of it, sounds fairly alarmed, but... well, what is she to do?) and... she freezes. The world around her is starting to shimmer. She knows that shimmer: teleportation via alien cat.

“Wait! I said-!”

And just like that, they’re in his room, and though Catra’s first instinct is to make her displeasure very loudly known, said instinct quickly fades at the sight of Hordak.

“Oh, damn it.”

From his place on the floor, crumpled in a sweating, trembling heap, Hordak looks up at the intrusion. His eyes widen, face twisting with fury as he prepares to shout what Catra predicts will be his trademark “get out,” only to choke up and curl in on himself as some sort of painful spasm races through him. 

Once upon a time, this sight might have spurred Catra into a bout of cruel gloating, but circumstances are vastly different today. 

Today, before either of them can really take stock of what is happening, she helps him up and half-leads, half-carries him to the corner sofa, depositing him with a strained grunt before taking a step back and giving him a moment to collect himself. Which he does while glaring at her.

For some time, the only sound between them is the ugly rasp of Hordak’s panting, then: “Get. Out.”

Ah. There it is. As expected. As anticipated. Catra’s ears flick at the command.

A part of her still bristles at his snarling, at his combative ire, at his accusatory glare... but a different part notices instead how that glare comes through dull eyes, how that snarling fades into exhausted panting, how he’s still trembling, even before his very unwanted audience. As the seconds pass, this part maintains its position at the forefront of her mind, until:

“You want some water?”

“...”

“...”

“...what?”

There’s a sudden lightness to her thoughts.

“I���m gonna get you some water. Just... stay there, okay?”

Melog punctuates her words with a happy chirp before providing the necessary teleport. A minute later, they’re back from the kitchens, glass of cool water in hand. Hordak remains where they left him, though he actually gives a bit of a start when they reappear. The momentary surprise disappears under a scowl as Catra holds the glass out to him.

He curls his lip. He doesn’t take it.

Catra remains steady. Next to her, Melog sits, tail waving a constant, slow path in the air.

Hordak bares his teeth.

“I do not require your pity, Catra.”

“Good, ‘cause all I’ve got is this glass of water.”

He gapes at her.

“Which, y’know, you should take. Because my arm is getting tired.”

His expression closes off again in another scowl (he never did see the humor in her sass, did he?), but after a few more moments, Hordak relents. Slowly, clearly trying to keep his hand from trembling too much, he takes the offered glass.

Catra sighs and, suddenly drained, sits down on the ground a few feet away from him, resting her back against the arm of the sofa. Melog stretches out beside her, and Catra turns her back to Hordak to focus on providing the desired belly rub. She swivels an ear towards him, listening for him to finish draining the glass. He does so. 

She can hear that his breath has lost that ugly rasp, and a tightness in her chest that she hadn’t been aware of loosens.

“So,” she begins, trying to keep her tone casual, “do you... need to call Entrapta? Is it... is it your-”

“Entrapta is currently beyond the reach of our communication modules.” She’d steeled herself for another snarled response, but his voice is calm, almost quiet. “And no; it is not my armor.”

“...oh.”

A minute passes. Two. Catra starts to tentatively turn around, wishing to steal a glance, but Melog thrusts their head into her lap and refocuses her gaze downwards. Another minute passes, then:

“It... it has proven somewhat...” He starts, stops, starts again. Stops again. Something that is not pain chokes his words, and though she wants to somehow encourage him, a soft rumble from Melog compels her to wait.

“Even with the armor, there are times that I... have difficulties.” He is breathing quicker again, she can hear; not quite panting, but definitely breathing quicker. In her lap, Melog seems attentive but otherwise unconcerned.

“Particularly during periods of higher stress, or exertion. Though,” he suddenly hisses, and Catra hears claws scrape against fabric, “hardly anything about our current work should merit this... exacerbation.”

He falls quiet, and for what feels like a long while, neither of them say anything. Melog’s soft purring fills the silence.

“Sparkles is mad,” Catra finally says, “Adora’s calming her down.”

This time, when she tries to turn her gaze back to him, Melog remains quiet. She watches Hordak nod, sees his ears droop.

“My behavior has been... unacceptable. I shall go request an audience with Queen Glimmer and make an apology-”

“Uh-uh.”

He frowns at her. 

“Oh, I mean, yeah! Definitely apologize. You were a jerk. But not now; you should rest first. I’ll go tell them that you’re not feeling great, and-”

His scowl returns.

“That is not necessary.”

She matches his frown with her own and scoffs. “Uh, according to what just happened, it is. What? You’re just gonna... pretend you’re fine and keep going?”

He looks like he wishes to say something less-than-polite, scowl deepening, but instead he turns away with a quiet huff. His ears droop even further.

“The terms of the treaty are fair, and it is my duty to adhere to them. This... lapse... aside, I am entirely capable of doing so.” He sighs and seems to will his ears into a more neutral position. “So yes: I shall ‘keep going.’” 

Catra blinks at him.

“That’s... really stupid.”

He blinks at her. 

“...what?”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s stupid. What’s the point of it... pushing yourself like that when you’ve obviously had enough? If you need a break, then-”

Suddenly he snarls, he rounds on her, teeth and eyes glowing too-brightly, and she nearly jerks back. Melog tenses beside her but remains still.

“Then what?! I should inform the Queen, and she will suspend proceedings and accept needless delays for my comfort? That is... that is-”

He stops abruptly because she’s laughing, a dry sort of chuckle that might have infuriated him save for the fact that, when she notices his attention and stops, it’s to smile at him. Catra smiles at him, and the expression holds an honest sincerity that he’s never seen her exhibit before. His indignation fades; his aggressive posture deflates.

“Yeah. That’s exactly what she’ll do.”

At first, he only stares at her, as if uncertain that he has heard what he believes he has heard, but eventually Hordak swallows, glances away, glances back, presses his lips together.

“That is... highly illogical, given the circumstances. I am not... I do not...” His voice fades, and his ears all but wilt.

For the second time that day, Catra does something without thinking, settling herself into the seat next to him and placing a hand over one of his. It’s tense and cold to the touch; her thumb begins to stroke his knuckles without her realizing it. Hordak remains silent, lips slightly parted, transfixed. He does not even react when, on his other side, Melog presses their body gently against his leg.

“It’s a treaty, Hordak,” she begins, and her voice nearly strains for a moment when her brain catches up with her actions, but she steels her resolve and continues, “not a sentence. Not a punishment. I thought it was, at first. I figured it had to be, because of all we’ve done... all I’ve done. But it’s not.”

Catra remembers how she first felt, all those months ago, and she makes the connection between her old fears and his current ones, unconsciously pausing to squeeze his hand; her ears have pinned back, and her chest is suddenly tight again.

“It’s not supposed to... to hurt. For either of us. Y’know? I mean... I was out with the flu for a week a couple of months ago, and the worst thing that happened was having to choke down Perfuma’s gross herbal junk.” She huffs out a laugh, but there’s no amusement in it. “This...”

Now her voice does strain, and she has to stop for a moment before continuing. Beside her, Hordak is breathing quickly again and trying very hard to stop.

“This isn’t the Horde. Either Horde. How we feel matters. How... how you feel matters. So if you need a break, you get a break. ...okay?”

It takes him some time to answer, and in that time Catra realizes what her hand has been doing; she snatches it back just as he finds his voice.

“If... if you believe that your suggestion is... appropriate, then I shall agree to it.”

Catra lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The smile returns to her face, and she nods. Melog trills happily and rewards each of them with a gentle headbutt.

~

For what had seemed such a dramatic conversation, the aftermath is anything but. Catra and Melog return downstairs and tell Glimmer and Adora of what has transpired. Their reaction is as expected: the work is postponed, and Hordak is given leave to rest as long as is necessary, no questions asked. 

He spends the remainder of that day and the next in bed, rising in the late afternoon to deliver a very formal, semi-awkward apology to Glimmer. She responds with a very formal, semi-awkward acceptance. Their working session resumes, though Hordak finds that he needs to excuse himself again after only a couple of hours. That evening, Glimmer has a basket of strawberry tarts delivered to his room. She also makes a point of ensuring that their sessions no longer extend into the late night hours.

Catra remains nearby, much to Hordak’s (admittedly only half-sincere) chagrin, and between her stubbornness and Melog’s perception, he is kept well-supplied with snacks, water, extra blankets and, though both refuse to admit it, friendly company. Adora spends her time trying to contact Darla; when she succeeds, Hordak happily accepts Entrapta’s enthusiastic check-in (and assures her that, yes, he is being provided an adequate amount of soup). 

A few days later, he is able to rejoin the group in full capacity, and they finish their work with little harm done by their extended schedule. 

Then it is time for him to return to Dryl (Entrapta arrives the next day), but before he boards his transport, he takes a moment to do something he’d once never imagined he’d do: thank Catra. Awkwardly, as seems is his communicative style this trip, but sincerely. 

She grimaces slightly, refusing to meet his eyes, and scratches absently at the back of her head. Next to her, Melog utters a noise that sounds like a warbling coo, their mane glowing a faint pink.

“Yeah... well... better than you passing out and bringing the wrath of Entrapta down on us. Bright Moon’s still rebuilding, y’know.”

This elicits an actual laugh from Hordak, sudden and rather loud, and Catra fails to keep the surprise from her face as he regains control of himself and gives his final farewell with a small, genuine smile.

Despite Melog confirming for the world that she is blushing under her fur, Catra smiles back.

[cruelfeline]

Please consider, a concept:

Most nights, Hordak sleeps just fine. 

He is recovering rather well, all things considered, physically and otherwise. Between Entrapta's foundational support and the (surprising, but not unwelcome) help of numerous new friends, he is making appreciable strides in acclimating to his new, post-Prime life. And getting a healthy amount of restful sleep is part of that.

Comfortably nestled among blankets and pillows and Entrapta’s hair, he enjoys peaceful slumber the majority of his nights at the Crypto Castle. If he dreams, it is of negligible nonsense, and his sleep passes uninterrupted until morning brings a leisurely awakening, typically with Entrapta in his arms.

Some nights, though... some nights are unfortunately different. They’re usually the stormy ones, marked by black clouds and driving rain. On those nights, he dreams badly. 

On those nights, awful memories seem spurred on by flashing lightning and oppressive thunder, and Hordak tenses and shudders, whimpers and chokes as nightmarish images flood his mind. 

Images of acid green pools, of cruel green eyes, of green fangs flashing behind a sinister grin. A haughty, sneering god reveling in the desperate subservience of the acolyte trembling before him. Sensations of dread, of shame, of all-encompassing terror. Worst of all: a vision of a tearful, purple-haired woman, reaching out, crying, begging... screaming, convulsing, laying so horrifically still-

All of it culminates in him jolting awake, heart thudding painfully against the cybernetics trying to regulate it, breath coming in panicked gulps as he grips new holes into his blankets. He presses the heel of one trembling hand against his eyes, trying to rub the images away, to rub the beginnings of tears away, and...

Hordak takes a breath through his nose: sharp and short. He tries to hold it but cannot. Something clicks and whirs in his chest but fails to catch, and his heartbeat continues as a deafening thud in his ears. For a minute, he can only endure, shivering and panting, then:

He takes another breath, slower. As slow as he can, through his nose again. Like they’ve taught him. This time, he manages to hold it for a moment before exhaling through his mouth.

Again. Slower. 

Again. Even slower.

He remembers the lesson, remembers instructions given calmly and patiently during one of countless sessions, and he follows them.

In the corner of the room, he can hear the faint sound of machinery. Hordak flicks his ears towards it, focusing on the constant drone of Emily’s inner workings: the regular, unchanging hum of well-oiled parts. Every four seconds exactly, a small purple light on one of her panels blinks, and he focuses on that, too. His breathing begins to follow the same pattern, and he finds controlling it easier.

There is a solid weight against his right leg, a warmth pressed against his calf. Somewhere in that sensation is the feel of ten tiny claws pricking through his nightgown, and Hordak shifts his attention to the pressure of Imp’s tiny hands clinging to him. The little creature shifts in his sleep; the slight change in position sharpens Hordak’s focus, and his heart rate slowly begins to fall. 

Cybernetics whir again, click, and catch this time; the pain in Hordak’s chest fades.

"Hordak?”

His ears tilt to catch the sound of Entrapta’s sleep-muffled voice, and he looks down to see her blinking owlishly in the red glow of his gaze. 

“You okay?”

Her hair, silky and soft and gleaming purple even without the moons to highlight it, curls around his torso. Strands stroke his bare skin, and the friction brings warmth against a chill he hadn’t realized was there. He turns his attention to that warmth and lets it expand to focus on the steady, even pressure being applied to his shoulders and upper back, along the gentle curve of his spine. What little trembling is left in his hands stills. He no longer has to slow his breathing.

And he is able to give her a small smile.

“Yes.”

everyone gets one guess as to why this happens on nights featuring lightning :D

[cruelfeline]

Please consider, a concept:

“Time to go home!” she chirps, pulling him along as they exit Bright Moon’s conference hall, another meeting behind them. 

“Time to go home!”

Not so long ago, home was a labyrinth of endless, sterile halls and silent, staring brothers. It was the perpetual hum of blunted emotion and overwhelming intent and rigid directives conveyed across the hivemind.

It was rations of viscous green fluid: thick and tasteless, meant to supply everything he needed for optimum functioning yet always leaving him unsatisfied and craving, wrought with seemingly perpetual hunger pangs. Asking for more was a blasphemous waste of resources.

It was forever searching for a suitable pod to recharge in while sadly knowing that each was the same: hard and cold and lacking in even the most basic comforts that he shouldn’t need. He would wake exhausted and aching hours later, trying to rub the chill from his bones so that his shivers would cease by the time he reported for worship.

It was watching his brothers perform their tasks smoothly and effortlessly, serving Brother with an honor and ease he could only dream of. All while he struggled against the shooting pains in his arms and the tightness in his chest and the irregular thud-thud-thudding of his heart. 

It was the shame of Brother’s disappointment, of his acidic revulsion when faced with his little brother’s vulgar deficiencies. It was the mortification of being sent away from His sight, the tearful agony of feeling Brother’s presence grow fainter and fainter as he approached the front lines. His only hope for repentance had been to cleanse himself of his failure via an honorable death.

It was knowing that he would never be enough; that he would never be perfect.

That he would never be worthy of Brother’s love.

“Time to go home!”

Today, home is a labyrinth of clever traps (he knows them all) and curious bots (he knows them all, too, by name), full of confused-but-learning brothers that have begun to clumsily greet him when they cross paths.

It is a kitchen that is always open to him should he feel even the least bit peckish, stocked with foods specifically prepared to cater both to his tastes and to his health. Cook is still a little afraid of him, but not so much that it prevents her from adding another helping to his plate at suppertime, or making sure those fruit tarts he so enjoys are always available to nibble on.

It is a bed piled high with pillows that cushion his joints and blankets that keep the night chill out, all soft and gentle against even his most sensitive skin. And should they not be enough, he knows that he will wake in a cocoon of lavender hair, snugly wrapped to ensure that his sleep is warm and safe and sweetly restful.

It is reveling in the strength his armor gives him, in easily keeping up with and at times even outpacing his brothers in the rebuilding efforts. It is knowing that she made it for him without demanding anything in return, made it for the sole purpose of restoring his function and easing his pain. The idea of it still brings an indescribable warmth to his chest.

It is watching the Etherians grow less wary of him, their scorn slowly fading to careful curiosity and, as he commits to restoring what he once destroyed, gradually transitioning to quiet respect. It is learning to have real hope, for there is no repentance-through-death here. Rather, there is a community that offers care and nurturing and welcome to any who decide to join it, no matter their past transgressions.

It is Entrapta telling him that his imperfections are beautiful; it is him finally accepting that she is right. 

It is receiving her love and giving his own in return.

“Time to go home!”

Hordak smiles.

“Let us go, then.”