#this one got away from me boys!!!

[imhereformysciencefriends]

Day 5: Historical Period

Tags: @loturaweek2024 Frozen AU, minor character death, schemes, background Shiro/Keith, Extremely background Alfor/Melenor, magic, Lotor's generals are there

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The fourteenth child of a man who hated all of them would gain no power. Lotor had known that before he’d even really understood how the line of succession worked, when he was still asking questions like he might receive useful answers, but oh, he’d always known.

When he’d grown a little older, he surmised that if he was ever going to hold political power, it would be in a different country, married off to that country’s sovereign; it would never, ever be won from his own merit or worth. But that, of course, presented the problem of what sovereign would marry the fourteenth son, instead of a second or third.

But perhaps he could marry a duchess close to the top of her own line of succession, and then. Well. Accidents happened all the time, didn’t they? It seemed the best, if not only, option, and Lotor was determined to one day hold a throne, he wasn’t picky on which.

So he studied foreign languages like he would die if he didn’t, and wound up fluent in tongues his brothers and sisters had only ever passingly heard of. He sent his spies out far and wide, looking for chinks in the armor of foreign dignitaries, gossip, predictions, oracles.

And then, one year, he found it. The little magic country of Altea. Known largely for its exports of ice, and the shrouding rumors that surrounded it of powerful magic. Lotor had magic, himself, most noble lines did, but Altea’s was rumored to be something else entirely. Pity, then, that they were largely regarded as hermits by most of the civilized world, sequestered away on their little northern island with its large fishing ports and large ice production and nothing else of any noteworthy size at all. Except, of course, that whenever someone did try to conquer the tiny island to round off that ugly looking little corner on the map, they were thoroughly bested no matter if they sent ten or a hundred thousand troops to Altea’s borders.

Enticing, even if the rest of the island’s economy was dull.

Still. A throne was a throne, and Lotor would not be picky in his pursuit of the title he knew he was destined for. And the spy he’d sent north, his Ezor, who had what was well regarded as powerful magic in her own right, spoke marvels in his ear.

Twin sisters the only heirs. The throne held by a regent after a horrible accident at sea had taken the rulers. The elder twin was seen as cruel and cutthroat, her peoples hesitant and wary of what would happen to them when she took the throne. The younger twin was sweet and beloved by all Altea, a kind-hearted girl who’d been kept locked up in the castle since her parents’ passing.

And oh, what an opportunity. Exactly what Lotor needed. The younger would be sweet, lonely, a little naive, Lotor was well familiar with the act of shaping himself into anything another person wanted, he could be her dashing prince, wed her, and discreetly remove her elder sister, who sounded reviled enough that the people might not even investigate her death too closely. Of course, he’d have Narti or Ezor do it, their work as assassins flawless, but there might be room for error, which Lotor rarely received.

He called the other three back from their scouting.

Altea would have its coronation on the twins’ birthday, when they came of age to take the throne from the hands of their regent, and Lotor needed only to convince his father to allow him to be the representative their country sent. Something that would, ideally, not be too difficult, as he did not believe that callus man had any intentions of sending any representative to little Altea at all.

Finally. Finally, the opportunity Lotor had been waiting for all his life.

***

Altea was beautiful. Even Zethrid, who was rarely moved by any beauty not attached to a giggling woman, agreed. Its trees were old and… alive, in a way that Lotor would not typically liken to an inanimate object. The sky was crisp and blue, the architecture quaint but solidly built, favoring quality and longevity over speed in erecting the buildings, the streets were clean, its people sensibly well dressed, and the glistening ocean port was clear as a gemstone.

This would be a fine country to be king of.

“Sire, is that… the princess?” Acxa asked with quiet confusion, and Lotor glanced at her only long enough to follow her line of sight.

There in the streets, dancing and singing with a group of children, was one of the most beautiful women Lotor had ever laid eyes on. She had long, cascading, wavy hair so dark a brown it was nearly black and light brown eyes squinted up in a smile, pink markings on her cheeks that were such a defining mark of Altean beauty standards and pigmented cosmetics, her dress lovely, but not necessarily noticeably nicer than the peasantry around her. Even so, when compared to the sketch that Ezor had given him of the younger twin—

“Yup, that’s her alright,” Ezor said from behind Acxa, leaning in a little. “She’ll do this, just wander around outside the castle until her sister’s guardsmen come haul her back in. For someone sneaking out, she doesn’t really hide her identity much.”

“We can only hope her elder sister will be similarly careless in allowing her guard to drop,” Lotor muttered, so quietly that only his four most trusted allies could hear him. “Still, an opportunity should not be wasted, I will introduce myself.”

Narti’s hand on his arm stilled him as he took his first step, and she gestured, subtly, towards the castle.

The guards were here to collect their princess. Well, better then to spare her any embarrassment. He would introduce himself properly inside the castle halls, as a foreign dignitary to local royals, no real loss there. And this confirmed his suspicions: that she was sweet and naive. That she was a softhearted little fool that snuck away from her minders to play with children and flowers.

Naivety could be exploited. Who better, then, than him? He would do her no harm for being sweet and young and trusting. He would help her rise to power and be her ally and confidant, help her with ruling and her responsibilities, shape himself to what she wanted and be the dashing romantic hero of her dreams. She would be the happiest queen in the world, and he would be rightfully made king.

He arched his back and squared his shoulders, pictured himself the beautiful man of a sweet young girl’s imaginings, and strode forward.

***

The castle was opened on the day of the coronation, Altea’s people welcomed into its halls to mingle and eat and dance before the ceremony that evening. To say Lotor was unused to such customs would be a wretched understatement, but while in Altea, do as the Alteans do. He put on a charming smile and pretended he was not at all bothered by being spoken to as though an equal by peasants, was carefully neutral towards all wait staff who he overheard the paupers thanking (he would wait to see if the Altean nobility did such things before lowering himself such), and did not raise his hackles at being so crowded. How Altea’s royal line persisted at all was a mystery to him, anyone could slip in with the crowd and assassinate anyone they felt like! Ezor and Narti would have a trivially easy time removing the elder twin once his marriage to the younger was complete.

But it was a day of celebration, and Lotor had larger fish to fry (there was quite a lot of fish on offer, this being a port city on a small island). He searched for the young princess but couldn’t quite find her, the lovely lady all but invisible since he’d formally introduced himself on his arrival.

The elder twin was far more obvious, accepting nervous shows of goodwill from her citizens and schmoozy congratulations from foreign sycophants. Typically Lotor would be among them, but Hira was not his target (well, not in that way, and not tonight).

After a few fruitless hours, he made a casual, half-careless inquiry to a group of diplomats who seemed as offput by the paupers’ presence as he was, and showing it thrice as badly, “Has anyone seen the lovely Princess Allura?”

“No, and neither the Regent.”

Hm, Lotor admittedly hadn’t even been looking for him. But very well, then, he would simply have to go searching for his mark. Just as he resolved to do so, heralds announced the arrival of the King Regent, Coran, some cousin or distant relative of the late King Alfor (and that their regent wasn’t even a relation to their sovereign was. Interesting. He still wasn’t sure if perhaps Ezor was mistaken on that). Allura swaned in behind him, silent and more beautiful than the day he first laid eyes on her.

King Regent Coran gave a truly lovely speech, extolling the virtues of Hira while dancing neatly away from her vices, which the people of Altea seemed all too uneasily aware of. Hira then proved herself the rightful heir to the throne with a display of magic, her snow-white hair and ice-blue eyes glittering with energy as she summoned a flurry mid-summer, snow dancing around delighted children and a chill wind sending shivers up the spines of their worried parents. Lotor admitted he was, at least a little bit, impressed. No magic of his home country could change the weather, though many a witch lost themselves in their hubris attempting to do so.

Hira stood, proud and regal and with an all-too-familiar glint of cruelty in those ice-blue eyes, and waited as the King Regent removed his own crown, setting it neatly on a silken pillow, and lifted the coronal to place on Hira’s brow.

A knife protruded from the princess’s stomach, just barely below her ribs.

For a flash, Lotor panicked. It was too early, far too public, why would Ezor or Narti—but then the corpse fell to the floor and revealed not his own women, but the Princess Allura behind her.

The room was as shocked as he was, rising tension speaking of a bubbling panic that would seize the room in scarce moments. The guards were reacting the best, getting the regent away from the princess, others were crowding on her, but then her voice cut, clear as the day, through the whole room,

“My people!” The air itself seemed to still for her. “Forgive me! This is not how I wished for this to go. But please, please believe me when I say that this was a cruel act born out of necessity, not any pleasure of mine.”

The guards that had closed on the princess were now retreating half-steps back, warned away by the two that had joined Princess Allura on the dias. Altea’s Champion, Shiro, famed throughout the little country as being undefeatable, rumors swirling around him of how he’d defended their shores near-single-handedly from any foreign attackers from the moment the previous rulers had knighted him, one who bore a white shock of hair despite no relation to the royal line and possessed arcane magic down his right arm. Altea’s Blade, Keith, whose hair might be raven black, but could perceive magic with uncanny ability, such that Ezor could never approach him when she was invisible, his hackles immediately raised. He was less famed though no less deadly, and that these two would side with the younger princess would work marvels for her reputation amongst the people. Lotor knew all too well how helpful it was to have competent supporters.

“Whatever cruelties you feared from my sister Hira, know she intended worse,” Princess Allura implored her gathered people, the regent now quite successfully removed from the area, her hair slowly turning white from the tips up, her soft brown eyes turning colder, lighter, ice-blue. “For years since our parents’ deaths, she has locked me in this very castle and tormented me with horrible stories of what she planned the moment she had power to enact it. The beautiful magic our grandmothers and our grandmother’s grandmothers passed down for generations would have been perverted and twisted, used for cruelty for the sake of her own amusement. She would have fashioned herself a conqueror, rather than a defender, and sent our people out to die on foreign shores for the sake of her own ego. I did not do this for power, only for the safety of our people, and those she would have raised Altea’s fist against!”

It was a moving speech. Even more impressive if it was true. Lotor would hardly have blamed her for killing her sister even if she had done it just for power, he’d had the same aim after all, but her competence of speech and intellect could not be ignored. All around him, Altea’s people were moved by the lovely young princess’s words, and Lotor felt a thrill heretofore yet unexperienced at his next realization.

He had been so, so wrong about her.

Wilting, soft, naive, sweet little girl she was not. Well, sweet and soft, perhaps, perhaps still those, yes. The tears in her eyes at the blood on her hands truly did not seem feigned, and if they were she was a phenomenal actress, and he had seen her out dancing and flower braiding with children. But there was a desperate steel within her, also. Politically shrewd enough to win Altea’s Champion and Blade to her side before committing the deed. Conducting her sororicide in public, in full daylight, in front of the largest crowd she would ever get on this tiny island, rather than taking the sneaky route, he wasn’t sure if that was bravery or madness.

The white reached the roots of her hair, her eyes seemed to glow with the iciness of their new blue. The transferral of their bloodline’s magic was complete, Hira’s corpse now on the floor with strawberry-chestnut hair and eyes Lotor couldn’t see.

She staggered.

“I, wait, what is—?” she asked, now quieter, confused. The temperature of the room dropped palpably, and continued to decline.

“Wait, stop, this isn’t, wait,” she murmured, staring at her own hands in front of her, her eyes glowing in earnest now. Outside, the soft, white, fluffy clouds that Hira had summoned turned heavy and black, blotting out the sun. A harsh, bitter wind wailed down the empty streets of Atlea, through the open doors and windows of the castle, and Lotor shuddered at the cold.

Shit, Narti was cold-blooded, fuck, it was summer, they’d not brought any of her gear, he needed—

“Princess,” Shiro said, his arms outstretched, placating, while Keith kept himself between the princess and the crowd.

“No, no, this isn’t supposed to—I am its rightful heir it shouldn’t—no, listen to me, stop!” Princess Allura seemed to be arguing with her own magic, and Lotor abruptly realized what was happening as he gathered Narti close to his chest and had Zethrid crowd her from the other side.

Immense, generational, ancient, powerful magic was now in the hands of someone who had never wielded it before. Hira had learned control over her birthright from childhood. Allura was entirely new, and overwhelmed, emotions already running high, and it seemed her natural talent for the power was far stronger than her sister’s had ever been, the magic pouring out of her like a burst dam. Frost spread across the stone floors, beautiful and patterned and unwelcome, flowing outwards like a mop bucket spilled.

“This isn’t—”

Icicles formed from the ceiling, the doorways, the window sills, people screaming, some fleeing, others gathering their children under them, shielding them so their backs would take any icicles that fell, if they did fall.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen—”

The stormclouds broke, heavy, fat snowflakes pelting down in the merciless winds.

“I was meant to stop—!”

Someone screamed, and Lotor heard an icicle shatter against the stone floor. Not a body, at least. The crowd was well and truly in a panic now, people fleeing, feet stomping, shit, trample risk, the princess—

In a burst of magic, an icy arch left in her wake, the princess fled. Out the doors, into the storm, and oh things were really out of hand now. Someone needed to seize control of the situation before the body count rose higher than just the once-princess Hira. Someone should—

Lotor was someone.

“Everyone, please!” he boomed, projecting his voice as best he could, summoning all his princely presence. Maybe a little dampened by his hair smacking himself repeatedly in the face in the torrent, but he’d suffered worse indignities than this. “We mustn’t panic! Everyone, further into the castle, guards, shut the doors and windows, barricade against the wind, castle staff, light fires, we need to gather together and preserve warmth!”

Okay, the panicking at least had stopped.

“I need volunteers to go out in groups of three or four with lanterns and find those who already fled! They are unlikely to last in this sort of storm wearing only their summer clothes! Castle staff, we need winter gear, those not lighting fires go unearth coats and gloves from storage and pass them along to the search groups. Everyone not engaged thusly: blankets! As many as this castle has. Everyone not assigned a task, crowd together and keep warm!”

Slower than he’d like, but moving for him (listening to him, obeying him, heeding him, these people, his people to be, it was a heady thing), people did as he ordered.

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

“Champion. Blade.” Lotor approached the pair, leaving Narti between Zethrid and Acxa, “I must speak with the King Regent.”

Keith was sporting a new slice down his cheek, likely clipped by the princess’ icy exit, Shiro’s glowing arm warm and wrapped behind him, his mortal hand pressing a cloth to the wound to stay the bleeding. Meeting his eyes, the Blade’s a curious shade of purple—maybe not so bereft of magic as all that—the pair nodded.

“Thank you for your help with all of this,” Shiro said gravely, and Lotor nodded his head in acknowledgement. Shiro was of suitable rank Lotor did not mind half so much to bow or speak as equals.

He was incredibly visible. Everywhere he went, all eyes were on him. He could feel the public’s approval. In this crisis, he’d swayed Altea to his side, and if he could ride this momentum he would be welcomed with open arms and celebration as their king. He nearly shivered with it, this was incredible, the chance he’d always wanted, his heart beat with how quickly things were moving.

He needed to keep them all safe.

“King Regent, I am Prince Lotor of Daibazaal,” he greeted, bowing precisely as low as a prince must to a foreign king while on that king’s land.

“Prince Lotor, I’m told you took control out there, my apologies I wasn’t there to do so myself,” the king returned, bowing much more shallowly to him.

Still, it was an optimistic sign that he bowed at all. Lotor would win his favor, also, and his path to the crown would be made all the easier.

“Not at all, your safety was paramount. I’ve gathered the people of Altea inside the castle walls, with search groups for those that fled to bring them here to share their warmth. Blankets and fires and what coats are available have been distributed, your people will be kept safe.”

“And of the princess?”

No longer the regent or king, Coran’s face broke in wretched distress, just a kindhearted old man worried sick for his little girl.

Lotor made himself soft. Compassionate. Assuring. Whatever the King Regent wanted him to be.

“She will be alright,” he said, not knowing or caring if it was true or not, his voice gentle, and made the bold choice to cross the distance between them and settle a soft hand on the regent’s arm. “Her own magic would surely not dare harm her, you will not lose a second niece today.”

The sweet old man had tears in his eyes, and covered Lotor’s hand with his own.

“I pray to all our Ancients you are correct.”

“Your Majesty, with your permission,” Lotor said, now locking on this next wild and swift opportunity, “I would search for her, myself. Grant me gear enough for myself and my four most loyal to brave the blizzard, and we will return her safely to you.” And perhaps, in doing so, Lotor might finally win himself a blasted conversation with the elusive woman he was set on marrying.

“I could not ask this of you.”

“You are not asking. I make the offer.”

“It is deadly outside these walls.”

“The princess is not the only one with white hair.” Because she wasn’t. He couldn’t consciously use the damned magic, but he had it. He knew what his own magic did. Fortunately, it was all that it took to convince the worried, fatherly man.

“Then please, Prince Lotor of Daibazaal,” the regent said, lifting Lotor’s hand and clasping it between his two, “bring my princess home safe to me.”

Such trusting creatures, these Alteans.

Well, it wasn’t like Lotor was going to shatter such trust. Merely exploit it.

“Of course.”

He returned the way he came, passing by the guards outside the door, passing by the Champion and Blade, heads on one another’s shoulders, past Ezor, who waited invisibly for him in the hall just outside of the Blade’s range, and returned to Narti.

“We will have equipment soon, by the regent’s order. Will you be capable of facing the snow?” he asked, low and quiet.

Narti, bundled in a heavy blanket she shared with Zethrid and Acxa, nodded gravely, only once.

“Good. We search for the Princess Allura, and will bring her back here, safe and unharmed.”

“We’re gonna be heroes, boss?” Ezor asked, playful and spritely but just as quiet.

“Our names shall be remembered in the histories of this kingdom’s tomes. I continue to curry favor. The plan remains unchanged.”

Well. They wouldn’t have to kill Hira themselves. But aside from that, unchanged.

Once swaddled in coats and gloves and scarves and heavy boots, Narti’s pockets lined with magic-touched firestones and runes embroidered at the hems (it was good of them, to give her something clearly constructed for royalty (but then again, Hira wouldn’t be needing such articles ever again, now would she?)) they slipped through the doors of the castle, opened only just a crack to ward off the cold, and braved the blizzard.

If he were a sweet young princess, distressed with the blood on his own hands, terrified of the power he now freshly wielded, blindly fleeing, where would he go?

“Boss!” Acxa called over the howling wind, “Something’s on the mountain that wasn’t there before!”

His sharp eyed shooter. He could barely make out the shadow of the mountain, but Acxa had always had a keener eye than most.

He led the way.

It was not what he would call a pleasant climb. Even when the blizzarding mount gave way to magically constructed stairways and bridges, it was still a very tiresome number of stairways, uphill. The storm continued, worsened, by his measure, and at more than one point they had to catch one another from falling on the icy steps.

But eventually, many hours or even a day later, they did arrive at the… structure. It looked loosely like a castle? But only just. Less inviting. A lot more spikes.

And a horrible, snowy warden, that was rather atypical.

The beast lumbered up, made of snow and ice and trapped twigs and dirt and gravel, a shambling mass that towered and lurched. It bellowed at them, and behind him, Lotor heard Zethrid laugh.

“My turn!” she crowed, and rushed past him with her axe already out.

“Sir, what is that?” Acxa asked, rather incredulously.

“Likely just a manifestation of the princess’s magic, summoned to protect her from unwanted visitors. Acxa, Narti, keep Zethrid alive and the beast distracted. Ezor, watch their backs.”

“Sir!” the three chorused, Ezor stepping backwards and flicking invisible, the other two surging forwards, drawing their weapons as they went. Lotor, for his part, snuck around behind the thing, and entered the not-quite-castle.

Jagged, sharp edges protruded from every surface. Atlea’s castle made of ice instead of stone, and far less welcoming. Spikes and blades, icicles and whatever the frozen equivalent of a stalagmite was, shards as sharp as glass and just as clear, Lotor found himself thankful for the lent, thick boots, and navigated carefully.

He heard no weeping, so, no finding her by sound. Though, if the girl had killed her own sister so boldly, maybe she wasn’t the type to weep after all. If this castle was any indication of her mind, he might even find a kindred spirit in her.

She wasn’t crying. But when he found her, he did find her curled up in a little ball, huddled in the corner of the spikiest room to date. Her dress was in tatters, her hair a mess, her fingers trembling where she gripped herself in some facsimile of a hug.

“Princess,” he said gently, fashioning himself into a dashing hero, a suave prince, a savior, a fairy tale.

Her head jerked up with a jolt, eyes wide with fear, mouth open in a sharp breath of panic.

“Come no closer! It is not safe for you here!”

“Princess, it is alright,” he said, so gentle and placating, hands raised, face open.

“No, no, it isn’t, nothing was supposed to go this way, everything is wrong!” She clutched the sides of her head, still panicking after all these hours, her breath short and shallow.

“Breathe, Your Highness, it’s going to be okay,” he coaxed, stepping closer slowly.

“It can’t be!”

Okay, the dashing gentle angle wasn’t working. He tried commanding, straightening his shoulders and emboldening his voice. “It is your power, your magic. You must gather your wits about you—”

A sudden, heavy jut of ice erupted from the floor and struck him dead center of his chest, sending him flying backwards. On any other man, it might have killed him.

The princess wailed. “I told you!” she cried, feet kicking out against the icy floor, driving her further into the corner, “I told you! I told you this would happen!”

“I’m fine,” Lotor grit out, then coughed sorely. Alright. Not commanding, lesson learned, he would be giving the princess no orders. He rose slowly back to sitting, hand on his chest, ribs burning with ache, but he would live. It was a magic blow. It couldn’t kill him.

“Princess, I’m alright,” he said, unable to keep the pain from his voice, a smidge of irritation, but he couldn’t tell if she heard him. Her face was buried in her knees again, trembling hands tangled in her hair.

Hm. He found himself at an unusual loss for words. He could normally think of at least something, but he wasn’t sure what Allura wanted him to be, and he was making no progress on figuring it out.

He drew closer to her, not particularly hiding his footfalls, but not making any intentional noise either. Once close, he leaned his back to the wall and slid down, seated right beside her, close enough to reach out and touch.

He didn’t. One pillar of ice to the chest was more than enough for the day. But still, he found himself at loss for words.

Outside, just barely over the din of the raging storm, he heard Zethrid crow with delight and the heavy sound of some sort of impact. At least someone was having a nice time with all of this.

Dashing, gentle prince didn’t work. Commanding, powerful authority didn’t work. It was too late to play meek, and he wasn’t very good at that angle anyway. Perhaps something related to how the regent was worried about her? An assurance that her destructive powers had not caused her people any harm?

But in the end, it was not him that broke the silence. “What are you doing here?” she asked miserably, words muffled in her knees.

“Looking for you,” he answered honestly, before he could think of a more witty or poetic answer.

She lifted her head, appearing much less panicked, and looked at him—truly looked at him, as she hadn’t even when he introduced himself upon his arrival—with tired eyes and a stray lock of hair falling over her face. Lotor had never seen a woman in such… mundane disarray. Even in Daibazaal, when a noble was in a fit, they might go for a fainting couch or artful dishevelment, not this painful, miserable, tired sort of…

“Tch,” she clicked, raising a hand to swipe at her eye. “And what is a prince of Daibazaal even doing here?” she asked, a much different question from before.

Still, he answered honestly, with a small shrug as he said, “Looking for you.”

“Me?”

“I would have courted your sister, if I had thought she’d ever allow me to woo her.” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he realized he said them, surprising himself with his own honesty.

She snorted, jerking, and it was an ugly, mundane sound, so fitting with the miserable, tired bags under her eyes and the shredded mess of her dress, that he suddenly found himself feeling fake. Glass facets where she was a jewel. Dead wood painted with browns and greens, carved and shredded, where she was an actual tree. There was something more real about her than even the ice and snow and stone beneath them, and his breath caught in his throat.

“No, you would have had no success there. She had no interest in… anyone, really. Save herself.”

Lotor wanted to reach out and touch her. To caress the crumpled lock of snow-white hair from her face, to touch this radiant being that was somehow so much more real than he was. It distracted him from finding words that would—impress her? Woo her? Calm her, manipulate her, puppet her? He forgot what he was meant to be doing.

“I don’t blame you for what you did,” he said, not sure what his damned mouth was doing, but he let it prattle on anyway. “I don’t think anyone does.”

“Everyone must hate me,” she said, wet and high, and tears gathered in her eyes again.

“No one hates you. They understood your reasoning, and the snow has frightened them, but none hate you.”

“I—have you…”

Lotor tilted his head.

“Have you heard any word from my uncle?”

“He worries for you,” Lotor said, gentle and soft without even trying to be. “He was nearly moved to tears with his fear for your wellbeing.”

Princess Allura sniffled and wiped at her eyes again.

“He is a good man,” she said.

“Would that I had such an uncle,” Lotor said, since, well, honesty had been the only thing she’d responded to thus far. Might as well.

“He has always been good to us. She would’ve killed him, I know she would have. Not right away, but as soon as he got in the way of her plans, she would’ve gotten ‘rid’ of him, just as she wanted to rid of me.”

Lotor reached out before his good sense could stop him, curling his fingers gently around her hand.

“You would not have let her.”

Nor would Lotor. But that wasn’t the important part, and also she didn’t really need to know that.

She squeezed his hand with impressive strength.

A silence passed between them, Lotor marveling at the touch of her. A sprawling mountain forest, holding the hand of a potted plant.

“Sorry I struck you. I didn’t mean to.”

“It will take more than that to kill me, Princess, worry not. I am merely sore.”

“I could kill you,” she said, her hand in his own beginning to tremble again. “I could—I am—”

“You could not,” he said, trying to sound firm without being commanding or arrogant. “Allura, you are not the only one with white hair.”

She looked at him again, surprised, but, yes, he did in fact have white hair.

“Oh. You are—a witch then?”

“Not quite,” he said, a little ruefully, “I might have had an easier time, if I was, but then again, I might be dead. I am what is called ‘fate touched.’ No magic can kill me.”

She made a curious sound, and in the corner of his eye, he realized the spikes and icicles were receding into the walls.

Well. Honesty was working. Time to share his secrets.

“It is as it sounds. No act of magic can kill me, no matter how powerful. I am not protected from all harm, and I do still feel pain, but I’ve survived every magical act ever laid upon me, even when others wouldn’t, or didn’t. If I am to be assassinated one must use more primitive means. And even then, an enchanted blade could not kill me any more than a magic column of ice.”

“You sound quite sure of that.”

He shrugged.

“To be stabbed by one’s sister is a more common occurrence in Daibazaal, than I gather it is here.”

Allura’s face caved with pity and horror. “Your own sister?”

Lotor shrugged again. “As the fourteenth of fourteen, I was not particularly needed, and my personality, in Daibazaal, is not quite well liked. It made manifest my magic, at the least, so now I know what this blasted hair indicates. Even though I’ve no control over it, and outside of perilous situations it does nothing.”

Allura huffed. “Would that mine was so passive.”

She stared out at the room around them, then frowned, noticing the changes.

“It seems tied to your emotions,” Lotor remarked, her hand a burning star in the brittle earth of his own. “Such magics are difficult to control, but not impossible. Is not your Champion’s much the same?”

Allura sighed. “He has a lover on which to ground himself when his mind feels lost, a steadfast, even personality from default, and far more practice than I.”

“You seem to be doing better with it now, by my measure.”

Beyond the icy walls, the sound of blizzarding gales was subsided, and the sky, though not quite visible through all the ice, felt as though it was lighter.

He’d helped. This was, at least in part, the result of his own doing. He’d helped her. Grounded her. It was a pride immeasurable, beating in his chest.

“And if I am lost to my distress again?”

Lotor turned to face her fully, twisting onto a knee and genuflecting before her, clasping her hand earnestly.

“Then we will deal with this again. It is your magic now, you cannot hide from it, only grasp the opportunity you have made for yourself and shoulder the consequences. I—” he felt unusually self-conscious, as he spoke his next words, “I would remain with you here, if you think my presence at all a boon.”

She smiled, a little wryly, and tilted her head at him, one brow neatly arched. “Here to look for me indeed.”

Lotor blinked. Oh he, well, yes. Yes, he was here to win her, but, in making his offer he’d forgotten—

“I… am not opposed, though,” she mused, staring down at their hands between them, her thumb brushing a fire-bright line over the back of his glove.

Lotor burst out laughing, his head dropping. “Princess,” he said around his own hysterics, “absolutely nothing about this conversation went as I had thought it might. There is,” he lifted his head again and looked her in the eye, submitting to his urge to reach out and caress away her stray lock of hair from her face, “something so ardently compelling about you.”

She smiled, and all remaining traces of jagged edges and spikes vanished into the floors and walls, sunlight breaking through the clouds and glinting off the pristine ice.

“I must confess the same of you. I would… like to get to know you better, Prince…?”

“Lotor,” he supplied, not even offended she’d forgotten his name.

“Prince Lotor, take me home.”

“Yes, Princess.”

He lifted her, her tattered dress and shoes like as not to be useless on the trek back down, and realized that, in the span of a single conversation, his lifelong goal had been abruptly changed.

No longer did he wish to marry her so he might one day become king.

Now he only wished to marry her.

[sonseulsoleil]

Ghosts don't sleep. They don't even really get tired. At least, not tired in the way sleep would fix. When Charles first dies, he attempts to sleep, but he never can manage it. No matter how many nights he tries. Eventually he gives up.

But he never gives up asking Edwin to read to him at night. Edwin's voice as he reads is warm and steady. Comforting, even. Charles may be dead at sixteen, but he isn't alone. He thinks his best chance at falling asleep is if Edwin is there to read him a bedtime story.

It's probably silly. But Edwin doesn't seem to mind.

Edwin reads him mostly detective stories at first. Sherlock Holmes, anything by Agatha Christie, Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys, of course—which is where they get the idea for the agency in the first place. But Edwin loves books of all sorts, so it isn't long before he's branching out into other genres.

Usually it's old books. Books from before Edwin was even alive. Books Charles would've avoid reading in school. Pride and Prejudice. Frankenstein. Jane Eyre. Oliver Twist. Somehow hearing them in Edwin's voice makes them much more tolerable.

And some are fun. Treasure Island is one Charles finds himself requesting over and over again. He always liked pirates. Lord of the Rings is another favorite, although maybe Charles is just excited that Edwin finally found a book that was published after he died.

Niko introduces Edwin to much newer literature. Teen romance novels with bright covers and cutesy, wordplay titles. Edwin even reads some of the books about boys kissing boys. An adorable, pink blush creeps across his cheeks every time still, but he's getting more comfortable.

Ghosts don't sleep, or even get tired. But Charles thinks he almost gets drowsy sometimes, late at night, when their living friends are sleeping, and he is curled safely and comfortably into Edwin, listening to him read.

[queenie-ofthe-void]

Confessions

Steddie || ~2.3k words || rating: T || tags: post vecna, references to stancy, angst and fluff, robin buckley just being herself

~~~

Eddie and Robin were just finishing filling the snack bowls and mixing drinks when they heard a knock at the door. It’s a Friday night– and not what Eddie would consider a late hour–but they weren’t expecting anyone to join their weekly movie night at Steve’s. 

He glances at Robin who shrugs, shaking her head. As he rounds the kitchen counter towards the foyer, Steve’s voice carries down the hallway.

“Nance?” He sounds surprised too.

“Steve, I’m sorry I know it’s late, but I’ve been meaning to talk to you and I can’t wait anymore,” she says. Eddie can’t see her, but she sounds anxious. 

“This can’t be good,” Robin huffs. He agrees, if the sinking pit in his stomach is any indicator.

“Look, Nance, now’s not really–”

“Steve,” she barrels over him, sounding desperate. “I’ve been an idiot trying to convince myself that I haven’t missed you since we broke up– and before you say it, this isn’t because Jonathan left after we closed the last gate. When we were stuck there with Robin and Eddie, the way you looked at me was how I’ve always hoped someone would love me. You looked at me like I was everything to you, like you could look at me forever and never get tired of it. I feel wanted, and loved, and safe when I’m around you.” She takes a deep, steadying breath before pressing on.

“Last time, when we were together, I took all of my grief and anger out on you. I blamed you for  what happened to Barb because I couldn’t face it myself and I knew you loved me enough to hold the weight, and I resented you for it. You wouldn’t stand up to me, and I resented you because you loved me anyway.” Eddie can hear Nancy sniffling, small sobs carrying down the hallway. “You loved me at my worst, and you didn’t deserve that. You’re amazing, and strong, and kind and everything I could ever ask for.

“Steve, what you said in the Winnebago, I just, I can’t stop thinking about you. About us”

The silence that follows is stifling and Eddie feels bile climbing up his throat. Arms wrap around his shoulders as Robin tucks her head into his neck. Only a small comfort while months of gentle moments with Steve flash behind his eyes: soft hands brushing his curls, stolen glances, lingering touches, and warm smiles. Now Eddie’s forced to stand vigil as it’s all washed away by Nancy's whispered pleas.

“Nance, please–”

A spark of hope after a late night confession weeks ago– swiftly blown away.

“Steve Harrington, I lo–”

“Nancy,” Steve interrupts, his tone firm yet soft around the edges, “I’m in love with someone else.”

Robin gasps into his neck. Her arms around his shoulders squeeze tight, anchoring him to reality in the wake of Steve’s confession. His chest is so full he can’t breathe. 

“Oh,” Nancy whispers before another, deeper sob leaves her breathless. He never thought he’d hear Nancy Wheeler cry. Even though they’re apparently both in love with the same man, he’s grown close with her too and can’t help the urge to comfort her. Eddie’s grown to love everyone in his new found family. But Nancy is right. 

“Yeah Nance, I’m sorry. And they’re kind of here right now, so,” he says gently.

Steve Harrington is everything. 

And they’re kind of here right now…

Hope flames in his chest, blooming with warmth. Eddie doesn’t hear the conversation end over the buzzing in his own head and Robin’s frantic giggling until they hear the click of the front door and Steve’s footsteps coming towards them.

“Oh.”

Steve’s standing in front of them, wide-eyed like a deer in headlights. Eddie’s realizing he and Robin maybe should’ve hid before Steve rounded the corner to find them eavesdropping. 

“So,” Steve stammers, a fierce rouge burning his ears, “how much of that did you hear, exactly?”

Robin quickly stands, clearing her throat before Eddie can think of an answer. “Is that the microwave? Did anyone else hear the microwave ding? I think the popcorn is done, so I can go check that right now. Yeah, right now. I’ll just, umm, be in the kitchen checking the popcorn. For the movie.”

She practically sprints down the hall, and although she wasn’t subtle, Eddie’s still thankful for the privacy. Steve’s shaking his head with a small smile on his face.

“Everything,” Eddie answers. “We heard everything.”

“Oh,” Steve says again. He sounds anxious and unsure, something Eddie’s compelled to fix, because all he wants in this world is for Steve Harrington to be happy.

“It’s ok.” He takes Steve’s hands in his own, tracing his thumb lightly over his knuckles. “We won’t say anything to her about it, and we won’t tell anyone what she said. Nancy’s in safe hands with us. Mum’s the word!” And as Eddie mimes zippering up his mouth, he hopes that Steve won’t take the easy way out. That he won’t use the life-raft Eddie’s just thrown in his direction to keep him from drowning. 

“Right,” Steve says. He runs a hand through his hair, biting his lip as he gazes at the floor between them. The silence as Eddie waits for Steve’s next words grows long and tense. He can’t hear any movement in the kitchen, making him more anxious now that he knows Robin’s listening. Which, he’d be a hypocrite to be mad about.

Maybe he has this all wrong. Maybe Steve just needed a way to get her to leave, so he lied about having a date over. Maybe he didn’t know what to say, and just said the first thing to pop into his head. Maybe it’s got nothing to do with Eddie at all. 

Eddie realizes he’s still holding Steve’s hands, his grip tightening the longer he spirals. If it hurts, Steve hasn’t said anything. But when Eddie looks at his face, he seems dazed and lost in thought. As fast as if he’d been burned, Eddie drops Steve’s hands and takes a step backward.

“So,” Eddie stammers, voice shaking, “I’m going to go help Birdie with the popcorn. You want to get another movie started?”

Hands still frozen in the air, Steve finally lets his clenched fists fall to his sides. Eddie can see the whites of his knuckles. He hears Steve sigh, exhausted and frustrated, but Steve’s nodding with furrowed brows and taking a step backward towards the living room– away from Eddie. Too far to reach out to.

Turning away, Eddie’s in the middle of forming an escape attempt when he opens the kitchen door to immediately be swept up in Robin’s arms. Of course she’d been listening. He’s grateful for it, now that he doesn’t have to explain himself. As he buries his face into her neck, he finds a wet patch and wonders what kind of accident she got into while prepping snacks. It’s not until she starts gently shushing him that he realizes he’s crying, tears soaking into her shirt. 

“It’s gonna be ok, teddy bear,” she says, running her hand through his curls, “he’ll get there, I promise. He’s working on it, you know that.”

He nods. He does know that. Steve’s been out to Robin for a few months, but only to Eddie for a few weeks. He deserves the space to figure it out, and the grace of those around him to do so at his own pace. Still, Eddie can’t help his growing impatience alongside the increasing severity of his crush. At least Robin’s here to support the both of them.

The two of them finish gathering the snacks in silence. She was full of awkward jokes to try to lighten the mood, but when it was clear Eddie was stuck in his head, she’d stopped. He feels bad about it. He’ll make it up to her later, plus he knows she’s not upset with him. Eddie suspects they’ll be getting together sometime tomorrow to rehash everything that’s happened– after she’s finished consoling Steve, of course.

When they leave the kitchen, Eddie’s surprised to find Steve exactly where he’d left him. He’s standing frozen in the hallway, lip pulled between his teeth and hands still clenched. But when he lifts his gaze to meet Eddie’s, there’s resolve behind his eyes.

“Eddie,” Steve says, “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

“Oh my god! Finally!”

Eddie jumps violently at Robin’s shouting, almost directly into his ear. She’s flushed red with embarrassment decorated with a manic grin so wide he wonders if it’ll just keep stretching like taffy. There’s popcorn poured out onto the floor from where she clearly threw her hands up in excited exasperation. He watches as her eyes grow wide, her smile morphing into shock, her lips forming a perfect ‘o’, as if to say ‘oh shit, I just interrupted the most important moment in my best friends’ lives because I’m so excited and impatient that these two dinguses finally figured their shit out’.

She kicks the scattered popcorn towards the wall, like that’ll somehow hide the mess, before awkwardly passing them both down the hall towards the living room.

Eddie loves her so much.

“Huh,” Eddie chuckles, “well that was–”

“I’ve known I’ve liked you since last summer when you let me help you into my pool onto Holly’s rubber duck floaty so you could finally go swimming after you finished physical therapy.” Steve sounds out of breath, words running into each other with misplaced breaths in between. Like if he stops, he knows he won’t start again. 

It’s the only time Eddie’s felt the urge to keep quiet– when he’s not fighting for his life.

“You were so nervous,” Steve plows on, “but you said you felt safe with me, that you wanted only me to be there. You said you trusted me to help without laughing or judging you. Fuck, Eddie, you were so goddamn cute once we got you settled in with a Coke with a crazy straw in it. We were listening to ABBA and you didn’t even complain and you were so sunburnt the next day. It was the happiest I’d ever seen you.”

The memory leaves Eddie shocked. He did trust Steve to help, didn’t even consider asking anyone else because Steve just felt like the most obvious answer. He’d been there through the worst of Eddie’s post-PT work to make sure he ‘kept form’ on his exercises. They’d lounged in the sun all day, and it was the first time Eddie watched Steve relax since his final Upside-Down battle. 

Eddie feels his lip quiver, eyes burning, knowing they’d felt the same that day. Judging by Steve’s watery eyes, he guesses they feel the same now, too. 

“But love,” Steve whispers. He swallows as he takes a step closer, reaching out to grasp his hands. “Eddie Munson, I knew I was in love with you yesterday.”

His shoulders tighten as he recalls yesterday, surprised because they hadn’t seen each other at all, one of the rare days where their schedules didn’t line up. It was the first time in months they’d gone longer than thirty-six hours without seeing each other. Sure, they’d talked on the phone while Steve worked, but it’s not the same.

“I know,” Steve laughs, clocking Eddie’s confusion. “I thought about you all day. Couldn’t stop, no matter how hard I tried. Robin had to work with the customers because all I kept thinking about was tonight. If you’d get here before Robin, so we could sit out by the pool and smoke. Where we’d sit for the movie and if we’d get to share the popcorn bucket. If you’d pick a movie I hadn’t seen, so you’d lean in close and tell me a million random facts, even when you know I don’t really get it. But I just like when you’re close, next to me, and–” he hesitates– “I think that’s why you do it.”

Steve lifts their joined hands, wiping a tear from his eye using the back of Eddie’s knuckles. He returns the gesture, wiping what Eddie’s guessing is a mix of tears and snot off of his own face with Steve’s sleeve. 

“I think you lean in because you want to be close to me, too, and you don’t actually care about the movie either. Eddie, I think you ask for my help because you trust me in a way only Robin does. You give me cute nicknames like ‘sweetheart’ and ‘pretty boy’ because you’re teasing me, but I think it’s mostly because you really mean it.” Steve’s stepped closer now, and Eddie can feel the warmth of shared air between their gasping breaths. 

“I think you tease me and lean into me because you want my attention,” Steve whispers, brushing his nose alongside Eddie’s as their foreheads touch. “But Eddie, you’ve always had my attention.”

Eddie surges forward, capturing Steve’s tear-soaked lips between his own in what has to be the snotiest kiss either of them has ever had. But he doesn’t care. How could he? Eddie’s kissing the man he’s been in love with for almost eight months. 

Steve drops Eddie’s hands in favor of running one through his dark curls, while the other grips tightly at his waist. He can’t help but cup Steve’s cheeks, running a gentle thumb along his cheekbones. 

It’s soft and messy and everything he’s ever hoped for, because Steve Harrington is his everything, and he’ll do anything to keep him. Right now, he doesn’t have to worry about what they’ll tell their friends, or how they’ll explain this to Nancy, or even if Robin’s listening behind the door– he’s sure she is. No, right now, he lets himself bask in the glow of Steve’s love and soak in the comfort that Steve feels loved in return.

[mikakuna]

anyone ever notice that mainly the only way that bruce and jason mend their relationship, both in canon and fics, is by jason realizing bruce actually feels bad for everything he did or is shouldering too much and it guilt trips jason into trying to fix his relationship with bruce? this isn't all cases but it definitely is the case with most popular fics. bruce apologizes sometimes yeah but it's usually just someone telling jason or him realizing just how heartbroken and depressed bruce is. jason then internalizes out of guilt that he needs to lay off bruce and realize that maybe bruce is trying his best

in fact most relationships jason has with the bats in fanon is like this. jason calls tim replacement until oh nooo the poor baby is so sleepy and running on coffee and awww he's just a little boy i need to stop being a menace, meanwhile tim or alfred never apologized for every nasty thing they said or imagined about jason when he was robin. enemy to caretaker makes me barf. do not make my boy who has been a caretaker to adults since birth take care of this rich boy who's been taken care of extraordinarily since day one. tim having this supposed childhood trauma fans talk about doesn't take away from the fact that he was taken care of as a child

[bonefall]

⭕️Hey Bones! Is it ok if you explain and/or elaborate how Crowfeather is abusive to Breezepelt if please?⭕️

I do KNOW that crowfeather is indeed, abusive to Breezepelt, due to the fact that he emotionally and/or physically neglected him - with child neglect being known to BE a form of child abuse - and I also heard that he slashed and/or hit him within one of the books, which I believe is in the book Outcast, in chapter 16.

But I also wish people would talk and be informed about it more within the fandom, because in the parts of the fandom I’ve known portrayed Crowfeather’s neglect on Breezepelt as negative and bad, but not in a way that made me think and/or feel: “Wow, that’s pretty bad. That’s…actually abusive.” I suppose? So I hope more people will talk about it more in that type of way.

Also, please be aware that I have NOT read PoT, OoTS, etc. or barely any warrior cats books, since the majority of the information I got from the series is from the wiki and the fandom, so that probably explains why I didn’t know this part of Crowfeather’s character is as bad as it actually is until now. Also, feel free to talk about Crowfeather’s abuse on Breezepelt I haven’t mentioned and/or don’t know right now as well if you want.

I’m SO sorry that if this ask is unintentionally quite long, and feel free to make sure to take all the time you need to answer it. Thank you!

OH LET'S GOOOO

Breezepelt is both physically and emotionally abused by Crowfeather. I'm not talking about only child neglect; he is screamed at, belittled, and even once hit on-screen.

The fact that Crowfeather both neglected and abused him is very important to the canonical story of Breezepaw. There's actually a lot more to this character than people remember! Even from his first appearances he displays good qualities, a strained relationship with his father and adult clanmates, and is clearly shown to be troubled before we understand why.

As many problems as I have with the direction of Breezepelt's arc (especially Crowfeather's Trial), his setup is legitimately a praiseworthy bit of writing from Po3 which carries over into OotS. To say that Breezepelt was not abused is to completely miss two arcs worth of books SCREAMING it.

BIG POST. Glossary;

INTRO TO BREEZEPELT: The Sight and Dark River

ABUSE: Outcast, Social Alienation, the Tribe Journey.

DARK FOREST: How these factors push him towards radicalization.

For "brevity," I'm not getting into anything post-OotS. I'm just showing that Breezepelt was abused, the narrative wants you to know that he was abused, and that his status as a victim of child abuse is CENTRAL to understanding why he is training in the Dark Forest.

INTRO TO BREEZEPELT: The Sight and Dark River

Our very first introduction to Breeze is when Jaypaw walks off a cliff in the first book of Po3 and is rescued by a WindClan patrol. He's making snarky remarks, and Whitetail and Crowfeather are not happy about it. Whitetail snaps for Crow to teach his son some manners, and Crow growls for Breezepaw to be quiet.

But our proper introduction to him is at his announcement gathering, when Heatherpaw playfully introduces him as a friend,

From the offset something's not entirely right here between Breezepaw and his father. He's cut off by Heatherpaw here, but he's touchy whenever his father is involved, and we're not entirely sure why.

Throughout Book 1, he's just rude, with a notable xenophobic streak. He's a bit of a mean rival character for Lionpaw, as they're both interested in the affections of Heatherpaw and make bids to get her attention, but nothing particularly violent yet.

He participates in the beloved Kitty Olympics and gets buried in liquid dirt with Lionpaw, basically a rite of passage for any arc.

(And Nightcloud has a cute moment where she watches over them until they fall asleep)

As the books progress, the relationship between Crow and Breeze visibly deteriorates. They start from being simply tense with each other in The Sight, to the open shouting and hitting we see in Outcast.

In the very first chapter of Dark River, we learn where his behavioral issues are really coming from;

Crowfeather.

Breezepelt is getting xenophobia from his father. Occasionally he says something bigoted and his dad will agree and chime in, and those are the only positive moments they have together.

(Note: In contrast, Nightcloud explicitly pushes back against xenophobia, chiding Breezepelt for his rudeness to Lionpaw in back in The Sight, Chapter 21. The Sight is the book where a lot of "evidence" that the Evil Overbearing Woman is actually responsible for the rift between father and son but. No. She's not. Though she can be overprotective; Crow and Breeze have a bad relationship when she's not even around in Breeze's first appearance and even his Crowfeather's Trial Epiphany refutes it. Anyway this post isn't about Nightcloud.)

So he starts acting on his bigotry, accusing cats in other Clans of stealing, running really close to the border. What's interesting though, is that this is not entirely his doing. The first time we get physical trouble from Breezepaw, DUSTPELT aggressed it. Breezepaw and Harepaw were just chasing a squirrel and hadn't yet gone over the border at all.

We learn that WindClan is teaching its apprentices how to hunt in woodland, and tensions between the two Clans is starting to escalate as ThunderClan isn't entirely trusting of their intentions.

The second time, fighting breaks out over him and Harepaw actually crossing the border and catching a squirrel. WindClan is adamant that because it came from their land, it's their squirrel. So it's as if Breezepaw is modelling the aggression around him, learning how to behave from the older warriors and his father.

When he joins Heatherpaw and The Three to go find Gorsetail's kits in the tunnels, he's grouchy towards the ThunderClan cats, but very gentle with the kittens. Notably so. When Thistlekit is dangerously cold, he cuddles up next to her, and even assures Swallowkit when she's scared,

Through this entire excursion, he's the one in the comforting roles for the kittens. Breezepaw is the one who is taking time to tell the kits they'll be okay, that he'll protect them, and physically supporting them when they're weak, even when he's terrified.

And it's always contrasted to Heatherpaw who's way more 'disciplined,' as a side note. It's a detail I'm just fond of.

All this to point out,

Breezepelt displays his best qualities when he's away from the older warriors of WindClan, and he's at his worst whenever he's near Crowfeather. Even while he's essentially just a bully character for The Three to deal with. He's gruff but cooperative when it's just him and Heatherpaw interacting with The Three, but mean when there is an adult to please.

We're getting to the on-screen abuse now, but Po3 actually sets up Breezepaw's troubles and dynamics well before it's finally confirmed that he is a victim of child abuse.

ABUSE: Outcast, the Tribe Journey.

In Outcast, Breezepaw's problems have escalated into open aggression towards cats of other Clans, and is now a legitimate concern for his own safety. Yet, he's spoken over by older warriors, and reprimanded at nearly every opportunity, right in front of the warrior of another Clan.

Squilf just asked the poor kid how his training was going, and then Whitetail JUMPS to talk over him so she can complain, RIGHT in front of his face.

They can't even wait until they're alone to grumble something rude about Breezepaw, who is still just a teenager here;

They taught him already that a bit of prey that runs off their own territory still belongs to WindClan, encourage him to blow past borders in pursuit, and started a battle with ThunderClan over this. And then they're pissed off at him for being aggressive, thinking it's deserved to scold him in public.

When Onestar announces that he wants Breezepaw to go on the Tribe Journey, he's devastated by it...

Because he thinks WindClan doesn't like him, and he's right. He's gossiped about, torn into in front of a ThunderClan warrior, and even his own dad doesn't want to be around him. It's clear that Breezepaw's impulsive "codebreaking" behaviors are a desire to prove himself, and once you realize that, the way that he's being alienated is heartbreaking.

But Wait!! Hold on a minute! Where did he get a "patrol of apprentices" from to confront the dogs with, exactly?

Simple. Breezepaw CAN make friends! He actually values them a lot! So much that it's the first thing Crowfeather snaps at him over, out of frustration that his son is also being forced on this journey with him. It's an angry response to his child having emotional and physical needs, resentment that will continue all journey long.

Note that it's plural, friends. Breezepelt has multiple friends, at least one who is not Heatherpaw, and she promises to say goodbye to them.

Up next, they state over and over, Crowfeather and Breezepaw do not like each other. Crowfeather resents being around him and dealing with his rudeness, embarrassed and angry, and Breezepaw is absolutely miserable being sent on a journey to the mountains with a man who hates his guts.

The whole while, Crowfeather is brooding longingly about Feathertail, already thinking about her as soon as he kitty-kisses Nightcloud goodbye, his eyes looking somewhere distant. He makes a jab about loyalty when Breezepaw doesn't understand why they're helping the Tribe.

Breezepaw gets smacked after he's "shoved" at Purdy and acts rude to him, while the other three manage to be polite (while still having internal dialogue about how stinky he is).

Without so much as a, "cut that out," Crowfeather raises his paw and hits him. Breeze is quiet after that.

I don't give a shit how rude your teenager is being. Do not hit kids. Being throttled on the head is not okay.

In spite of the Three not liking Breezepaw, or even Crowfeather, they're constantly noting that their arguments are not normal, and that Crow is a cold, unsupportive father who digs into his kid constantly, and the only time he ever DOES "discipline" his child it's through immediately smacking him.

At one point, the apprentices get hungry, and decide to foolishly hunt in a barn that they know has dogs in it against Purdy's warnings. Once again, JUST like the first two books, Breezepaw is more friendly when Crowfeather is not around.

EVERY time he is alone with cats his own age, he's grumpy but cooperative. Even enthusiastic at times! The minute Crowfeather is in the picture, he's nasty.

Naturally, the dogs show up, but Purdy rescues them. Though Brambleclaw also chews his kids out (and i have strong opinions about bramble's parenting style for another time), Hollypaw is taken aback by the contrast of what a scolding from Brambleclaw looks like vs how Crowfeather reacts.

The narrative is desperately trying to tell you that the way Crowfeather treats his son is not normal.

And then Crowfeather is pissed off that Breezepaw is exhausted from running for his life from hungry dogs,

And he's constantly losing his shit whenever Breezepaw says something as innocuous as "dad im hungry"

Then, Breezepaw is made to watch his dad pine over the grave of a woman who died long before Crowfeather was even considering his mother for a mate. What he feels is jealousy, because he knows his own father doesn't love him anywhere near as much as he loves the memory of Feathertail.

This really goes on and on and on. The ENTIRE trip is like this, with Crowfeather treating Breezepelt poorly, giving him a smack before even verbally warning him, pushing him past his limits and blowing up on him when he asks simple questions about eating or resting.

It all comes to a head in this one exchange, towards the end. Hollypaw ends up snapping at Breezepaw for his rudeness, before having an epiphany.

It's explicit. Crowfeather's emotional abuse, his "scorn" for Breezepelt, is what is driving a wedge between him and all of his older Clanmates. Between EVERYONE in Breezepelt's life who wasn't already his friend. This awful treatment is only making him worse and worse.

Realizing this, she has more sympathy for him, but it's too late. He continues to be rude to her because he feels insulted, and her patience completely runs out. She's just a kid. They're both just kids. She's not responsible for fixing him when he's pushing everyone away at this point.

That's the end of Breezepelt in Outcast. It can't be helped anymore. Any spark of friendship they had together in the barn, or in the tunnels, is gone.

As the series progresses, Crowfeather continues to refuse any personal responsibility for the mistreatment of his son, even pinning all of Breezepelt's behavioral problems on Nightcloud. He is a cold, selfish father who only ever thinks about his own pain and reputation.

DARK FOREST: How these factors push him towards radicalization.

Everyone talks about the Attack on Poppyfrost, which happens in the first book of OotS, in oversimplified terms. YES he is going after a nun and a pregnant woman. I've never said that's not Bad.

But no one talks about "WHY", and that reason is NOT just that he desires power like so many other WC villains. Breezepelt makes his motivation very clear on the page.

Escalating to violence was about making Jayfeather feel the way that he does.

When Breezepelt says that he wants Jay to be surrounded by "lies, hatred, and things that should never have happened," he's talking about the way HE grew up, knowing his father never wanted him, and that his Clan HATES him as a result. Killing Poppyfrost is about trying to frame Jayfeather for her murder, so ThunderClan won't trust him anymore.

When Jayfeather points out the simple truth that what Breezepelt is saying doesn't make any goddamn sense, his hatred "falters." He's blaming his half-clan half-brother for his own treatment because of the reveal, but totally failed to consider that JAYFEATHER'S ALREADY GOING THROUGH IT... so his response is just this pitiful, "s-shut up, man."

Then the ghost of Brokenstar and Breezepelt bounce him back and forth between them like a beach ball for a bit until Honeyfern's spirit shows up.

Breezepelt's childhood abuse and social alienation was a hook that the Dark Forest latched onto, to reel him in. His anger at his half-brother is so obviously misplaced that its absurdity was something Jayfeather pointed out.

We soon learn that it's the Dark Forest who's planting that ridiculous idea in his head;

The narration is SCREAMING, "The Dark Forest is validating the anger he feels towards his father, and redirecting it towards The Three." He's described as 'kitlike,' Tigerstar's eyes are compared to a hypnotizing snake.

This prose could not make it more obvious if it drove to your house, beat you with it, and then spoon fed you the point while you were hospitalized.

At the end of this scene, Tigerstar sends Hawkfrost to recruit Ivypaw. This scene where Breezepelt is being lovebombed, and the command to start grooming Ivypaw, ARE LINKED. That was a choice.

A VERY GOOD choice! Again, as many issues as I have with OotS, its handling of indoctrination is unironically fantastic, and it owes a good amount of that to the outstanding setup of Breezepelt that was done back in Po3. And that setup doesn't work if Crowfeather was merely distant.

Breezepelt was abused by his father, both verbally and physically. It drove him to be more aggressive to prove himself, modeling the battle culture around him. The adults of WindClan judged him based off Crowfeather's responses, shunning and belittling the 'problem' teenager, which eventually drove Breezepelt to the only group that he felt "understood" him.

In a book series that is RIFE with abuse apologia, this is one of the few times that there's any behavioral consequences for abuse and the narrative holds the perpetrator accountable for it.

But people hear Crowfeather's deflective excuse in The Last Hope where he says he never hated him, blames Nightcloud for everything, and just lick it up uncritically.

Gee whiz, I wonder why the guy who never blames himself for any of his problems would suddenly say it was his ex-wife's fault. Real headscratcher!

(Crowfeather's Trial then goes onto, for all my own problems with it, also hold Crow accountable as the reason why Breezepelt turned out like he did. But that's a topic for another day.)

[tiredbread]

sweet sixteen

[littlebambiboy]

Thinking about dad teasing me with his cock, rubbing it back and forth through my folds until I'm begging and whining for him to fuck me and he's laughing at me because I'm so needy for my dad of all people.

“You're dads good little slut, huh?” he asks as he pushes in. I whine out in confirmation, he laughs again as he fucks me. He's rocking my whole body with the force of it, making me make punched out little noises. His cock fills me so well, making my pussy cream over it as I moan for him to cum in me.

[luck-of-the-drawings]

OOH YEAH BABY ITS THE SURGERY EPISODE BABY!!! ME AND THE HOMIES NEED SOME NEW FACES FOR OUR NEW PLAN, AND WHO BETTER TO GET THE JOB DONE THAN THE TWO MOST EVIL PEOPLE WE'VE EVER HAD THE MISFORTUNE OF HAVING OUR LIVES VIOLATED BY? I MEAN IT WOULD BE FUNNY. IT WOULD BE FUNNY.

[leporinelou]

billy’s mom waking him up while it’s still dark, whispering even though neil’s working the night shift. it’s a couple days before his tenth birthday and she’s telling him they’re going to have their very own adventure, just like the ones in billy’s books. she grabs an already packed suitcase from under billy’s bed and kisses him on the nose, tells him to get dressed quick. the two of them leave in an old beat up yellow bug that she managed to get for a third of the asking price and keep parked around the corner until now. they stay with friends and jump from place to place so neil can’t track them down. billy gets used to surfing couches and staying in motels.

he spends his tenth birthday in a diner, his mom gets him a big stack of pancakes and a milkshake with extra cherries. gets a candle out her pocket along with her silver lighter. sings happy birthday and pulls a face when the waitress frowns at them, just to make billy laugh. she sips at her coffee while billy tucks in. smiles when he holds some out with a “c’mon mama, share with me.”

billy thinks it’s neat. thinks it’s the best birthday he’s ever had.

they eventually end up with a place in california, a little bungalow near the coast and billy grows up with his mom. billy gets pretty shirts from the thrift store ‘cause his mama lets him do stuff like that. doesn’t call him a queer, doesn’t force a baseball bat into his hands whilst yelling at him for crying, for being a pussy. his mom lets him read and keep a journal and press flowers between the pages of the neverending story, she plays hendrix and dusty springfield and laughs when billy comes home from his friends’ house with his first piercing at thirteen. she doesn’t tear down his posters or yell when she finds him using her eyeliner.

and everything’s perfect. sort of.

they have bad days- billy’s mom has bad days. billy calls them gray days ‘cause that’s how the world looks when she’s like this. all her color gone. no singing-dancing in the kitchen or baking five different kinds of cake because she couldn’t decide which one was best, no last minute trips to the beach or sitting outside at night and telling billy about the stars. instead she’ll stay in bed, won’t go to work. she’ll stare at the wall blankly and look right through billy when he tries to talk to her. she won’t take the pills the doc gave her and billy doesn’t know what to do. never knows what to do. just chews at his lip until it bleeds, bites at his thumb until it’s red raw. he’ll get in the bed with her. lay beside her and just talk like she used to do with him when he had a nightmare. hum a song to her.

billy’s still pissed at the world just slightly less so. still has that anger and anxiousness simmering just below the surface and shows his teeth when cornered. he’s still hardened in a way that a kid shouldn’t be but. it’s different. there’s no neil. the only bloody noses he gets are at school, when he fights with the kids who call him a fag and a fairy, call his mom a basket case. he uses fists when they laugh and ask if she’s all there with a finger pointing at their heads, ask if billy will “catch the crazy.”

those are billy’s bad days. sitting in the principals office, icing his knuckles.

when he’s fifteen, billy manages to bag a job at the local auto repair by turning up every day and telling howie how good he’d be, that he knows cars and it’s all he wants to do and please please please. eyebrows pulled together, eyes puppy dog wide and hands clasped in front of him until howie grumbles, throws an oily rag at billy. says fine but billy’s gotta pay for anything he damages. someone brings in a chevy camaro and billy asks howie to let him help fix it up. does the begging again until howie laughs. says get a hold of yourself, kid, voice fond as he ruffles billy’s hair.

billy’s four months away from turning seventeen when the doorbell goes. he’s eating a sandwich and watching knight rider. he’s wearing the necklace his mom got him for his last birthday and- he answers the door. doesn’t think twice. freezes when he sees neil standing there. he looks different. hair a little shorter and more wrinkles. where billy’s gained weight, gained muscle, neil’s lost it. his eyes are a little sunken and he’s still got his wedding band on. he reeks of booze. billy has to remind himself to speak, just says “yeah?” his voice comes out small and neil smiles at him. smiles and billy feels this weird twist in his stomach ‘cause .. that’s his dad and he hasn’t seen him in years and it twists and twists and-

turns out. not much has changed. billy realises a little too late that neil will always be neil. they run again. have to leave everything behind. billy doesn’t get to say bye to his friends, to howie, to the car. they leave a lot of stuff behind and head in any direction away from neil. they both try to keep the mood light, take turns driving and play the tapes billy grabbed. they end up in indiana- hawkins. they stay at a motel until billy’s mom finds a place for dirt cheap. it has two bedrooms and a dingy bathroom, a living room slash kitchen and one hell of a damp problem. it’s dirt cheap for a reason.

it’s above a shop in town and- it’s fine. their landlord is an asshole but they’re together and they’ve got a roof over their heads. billy’s enrolled at hawkins high and his mom gets a job at the laundromat. he tells her that he doesn’t need to go to school, that he could just work and help pay the bills but his mom won’t have any of it. says that she wishes she had finished school and that billy’s too clever to waste it. that he has potential.

billy knows the reason she dropped out of school was because she had him. he just nods, rests his head on her shoulder.

it’s billy’s first day at school and his mom drives him to make sure he actually goes. he gets out the car and tries to shake the nerves off. straightens up and puts on his act. plasters a fake smile on his face and it’s working, he’s got most of the girls swooning and the boys at least seem curious. billy looks around and his eyes land on a guy leaning up against a bmw. his hair’s coiffed to high heaven and he’s wearing a polo, preppy as fuck but- pretty. it’s one of the first things billy realises about him, all doe eyes and moles dotted just about everywhere. he’s got a smirk on his face. not aimed at billy but the guy beside him.

pretty-boy walks over to him and billy raises an eyebrow, plays it cool. he introduces himself as steve and billy gets the idea that he’s top dog at hawkins high, is immediately proved right when they step into the building. king steve, freckles calls him. billy laughs- catches steve looking at him when he does and feels his face get hot. steve just smiles wider, calls billy california and tells him to sit with them at lunch. billy tries to ignore the way steve’s smile makes him feel like the rug’s been pulled out from under his feet.

he nods and steve grins. tugs at one of billy’s curls.

says “i think you’re gonna like it here, california.”

[heffrondriving]

❝ And KENDALL needs to stop talking back to me after everything I say! ❞

[alukaforyou]

sometimes i think about this txt cover of invitation and... that long haired guy is just choso with his hair down TO ME

[shadedheart138]

I'll Be Here Until You're Okay

Legend was fine when they landed in Skyloft. It'd been ages since Sky had seen Groose or Sun, and he quite literally cried when he saw them again. Sky deserved to see his partners, deserved to see his Loftwing, his home. It was a blissful few days of rest, before they had to leave due to hearing of a group of black blooded monsters nearby.

Legend was fine when they landed in Outset, even with the memories of the waves, the sand, a girl and a dream. Wind had missed his grandma and sister so much, and he'd screamed as soon as they hit the sand. He ran faster than Legend had ever seen him run. Wind had smiled more than he had in a while too, and Legend got really sunburnt and quite miserable.

Legend was fine when they landed in Four's world. It was good to see Four's Grandpa again, to trade stories and fix some of Wild's broken weapons. Four had been excited to see the Minish again, and get a chance to talk to Dot.

They were fine when they landed in Time's. The ranch was quiet and felt almost like home. Malon was kind as always, and they had good places to sleep. Fighting was easier, almost, with the knowledge they'd have an actual bath and mattresses to sleep on when they were done.

Fine in Wild's. Flora had been ecstatic to see her partner again, and Wild relaxed a good bit around her. Seeing Farosh had been a rare treat, and the hot springs Wild had brought them all to were heavenly.

Fine in Twilight's. Ordon was just as quiet as the ranch had been.

Hyrule's. Good to see Hyrule acting confident for once.

Warriors'. The bars were good.

But they were most decidedly not fine once they landed in Wild's again, after only a couple of months away from it. ***

Legend stepped forward out of the portal, Hyrule right behind them. They blinked in the bright sunlight, expecting to see a familiar landmark, the house they shared with Ravio...

When none of that was seen and instead they were greeted by an open field, Legend froze. Why Wild's Hyrule again? Why? Hylia must really hate them if she won't even let them go home. Legend hated her just as much, she never let them rest, not even after all the adventures. No matter how many times Legend did her bidding, she was never satisfied. Legend clenched a fist, angry. They wanted to go home.

Home.

Oh, Ravio.

Legend's eyes watered. They let their hand unclench, suddenly gripping the side of their skirt instead. It'd been almost five months since Legend had seen Ravio. Legend bit their lip and didn't notice their name had been called until the entire Chain was watching them with worried expressions. Legend took their hands from their skirt and clasped them together instead, with a sort of finality. "Wild. This is yours, right?" Fuck, Legend's voice broke. Legend took a shuddering breath, watching Wild. Wild nodded, expression sad. Legend nodded stiffly right back, before turning around and beginning to walk, shaking. They didn't care where they went, not right now. If the road didn't lead to home then Legend didn't care.

"Legend-?"

Legend ignored Warriors, continuing to walk. The longer their mind dwelled on home, on Ravio, the worse they felt. Legend was quite tired of feeling sad already.

Ravio. Legend missed him so much. The space between his teeth, his scarf. Sheerow. His laugh. The feeling of his hands against Legend's. The gentle curve of the back of his neck against Legend's hand. The stumble when they danced together.

Legend hadn't even received a letter from their husband in what, three, four weeks? Almost a month? (Married for tax purposes, Legend always insists. Lies.) What if Ravio was hurt? Worse, what if Ravio was dead? Fuck. The thought alone... Legend choked, giving a soft whine. They brought a hand over their mouth, trying to stifle it. Tried not to cry, don't cry, don't cry, don't-

A soft hand came down on Legend's shoulder, encouraging them to turn. Legend turned, eyes squeezed shut, biting their lip hard to try and make the pain there worse than the pain in their heart. Legend was gently pulled forwards into someone's chest- Time, only Time had that height -and Time's hand came up behind Legend's head to cradle it close. Ravio had always held them the exact same as Legend was being held by Time right now. It hurt.

"I'm sure the next portal we go through will be yours, Legend." Time said quietly. Legend gave a soft sob- the way they were being held, how much they missed Ravio, the soft tone, it was all too much- and that was all it took for them to lose the tiny bit of control they had over their emotions. Legend shakily put their arms around Time, fisting the back of the man's shirt tightly.

"I miss Ravio." Legend whispered, crying harder as soon as Ravio's name was out of their mouth.

"I know, Legend. You'll see him again soon." Time soothed, hugging Legend for an undetermined amount of time. By the time they were done, the rest had set up camp most of the way and Wild was making lunch. Legend sat down next to the fire, close to no one.

Warriors offered Legend whatever Wild had made for lunch. Legend refused, staring into the fire. An apple was put into their hand.

Legend looked at it, and reluctantly took a bite. It wasn't long before Hyrule was pressed to Legend's left side, trying to comfort. The soft tingle of magic against Legend was soothing, even if only a little. Wind quietly came to rest against Legend's other side, small hands fiddling with a seashell. Legend tiredly watched the fire, tuning everything out.

Ravio, Ravio, Ravio. Every heartbeat pressed Ravio's name into Legend's head. If they closed their eyes they could see their home. The place they put their shoes. Where they packed up their gear. The rocking chair. A table with a cup Legend had carved out of wood, when their hands didn't shake. A blanket that Ravio had crocheted, at the end of their shared bed.

Legend hugged themself, bringing a shaky hand to an earring in their ear. Enchanted with both a minor protection charm and a resistance to lightning. Ravio had given them to Legend for an anniversary. Legend took a shuddering breath. Their anniversary had already passed, and Legend didn't even get to spend it with their husband.

That night, Legend slept away from everyone, and poorly. They were grouchy all the way to the nearest stable, and then some. Warriors didn't jab at them even once the entire trip.

xxx

A week passed in Wild's world. A week and a half.

Two.

Every day, Legend was worse and worse. Everyone was quiet around them, lest they shatter whatever fragile state Legend was in. They cried, and frequently. No further words from Ravio, no reassurance that he was okay.

Three weeks.

Four.

xxx

They spent a month and a half in Wild's world. When the next portal appeared, everyone cheered. No matter how pretty Wild's world was, blood moons were no fun and neither were the guardians. Legend stepped through the portal first, and even chanced a prayer to Hylia. Another one to Lolia for good measure.

Please, let this one be mine. Let me be home.

They landed in an apple orchard. Legend rubbed their eyes and turned around to help Sky through, then Wind. When everyone was through, Legend put a hand on one of the trees, thumbing an engraving on it. L + R.

Link and Ravio. They'd engraved their initials in every one of these trees, after an escapade with a good bottle of wine.

Legend was home.

Legend started stripping themself of their gear, much to the Chain's surprise. They got their boots off, ignoring the questions, and started pulling on the Pegasus Boots. They started cursing up a storm when they had to untie the left one. As soon as they were on enough to stand, Legend clicked their heels and fucking bolted.

It didn't matter that they ran into a tree on the way there. All that mattered was the man in the purple button up, sleeves rolled up and hands in the garden soil. What mattered was the way he hummed and the way his fingers moved and the wedding band on a cloth beside him. Legend wrenched the boots off their feet as soon as Ravio was in their sight, and yelled for him.

"Rav! Ravio, I'm home!" Legend had tears in their eyes, scrambling to get to Ravio.

"Link?" Ravio's head whipped around, and he dropped whatever he had been trying to plant. He'd barely risen to his feet before Legend barreled into him, hugging almost tight enough to bruise.

"Link-? Oh, honey." Ravio whispered, as Legend started crying hard.

"I missed you, I missed you so much, Rav. I love you. I was so worried when you didn't send any letters, I thought you could've been dead and-" Legend whispered, the rest of the words lost against Ravio's skin, holding so tight as if Ravio would disappear like the girl on the island. Legend wouldn't be able to take it if that happened again.

"Breathe, dear. I missed you too, and I love you just as much. If not more. I was equally worried, since I haven't heard word from you in months." Ravio said softly, and even though his hands were covered in dirt, he brought one of them to cradle the back of Legend's head very firmly. Even though Time had held them like this more than a month ago, it hadn't felt the same.

This was home, and it smelled like lavender and apple soap. The other hand landed on Legend's back. They were still swaying lightly together when the rest of the Chain caught up. Sky flopped down onto the grass, wheezing. After a few moments, both Hyrule and Four joined him.

Legend whined very audibly when Ravio tried pulling away, tightening their grip.

"Link, we've got visitors."

"Don't care. Please, stay, please. Just a little bit longer, Rav. It's been so long. I was so scared." Legend's voice was soft, barely heard, whispered against skin.

Ravio sighed, and kissed Legend on the forehead.

"A little bit longer, then." Ravio sniffled, tightening his hold.

Link's wedding band glittered on their right hand, the only ring that Legend had brought themselves to wear for a while. They'd polished and fiddled with it a little obsessively. Sheerow twittered about, pulling at Legend's hair, nipping at his ear tips, his own little way of saying, "Hello, welcome home, missed you."- no matter how irritating. Sheerow was gently told something by Ravio, and after a moment, Ravio's right hand had the same ring resting on the designated finger.

"You're alright, honeybun. I'm here." Soft, whispered against Legend's cheekbone.

"I'm real."

Legend sobbed, squeezing tight.

Ravio was here, and he was very, very real.

fin.

[lale-txt]

fic research has me texting my brother oddly specific questions about motorcycles and biker etiquette and having him mildly concerned why i'm asking all of these

[b4kuch1n]

sunstroll

[lipstickchainsaw]

The Pristine Blade

I've played a whole lot more of Slay the Princess, and it is excellent, but I've been wondering, why the 'Pristine Blade'?

Obviously it represents the power you have over the Princess in the dynamic, and how that dynamic develops over the chapters depending on your relationship to that power (see the achievement you get for handing the Blade to the Witch: Past Life Gambit, Hand your power to a suspicious character), but why a Pristine Blade?

Most of the voices are happy to call it a knife, or a dagger, or whatever else, or even ask for different weapons, but the Narrator is insistent on calling it the Pristine Blade, every time, which does make sense. It is one of the few constants in these scenarios, next to you, the Hero, the Princess, the Woods (most of the time), and the Cabin. As with those others, it was made fit for purpose by the Creator, perhaps with some details filled in by the Long Quiet's conceptions of reality (one aspect sure is, but we'll get to that).

What is the Pristine Blade?

For this, I'm going back to my Otherverse roots (hi, StP fans, read Pact and Pale), and analysing this as an Implement, which is what the Narrator explicitly refers to it as.

First off, it is a knife. Knives have purposes beyond enacting violence, but this particular one is a knife made for killing, there can be no doubt about that. You can still use it for other purposes, of course (like cutting the Thorn free), but showing up with it still marks you as a killer (and the Princess responds as such).

Secondly, it's small, which means it can, in fact, be hidden. The Opportunist is the only voice to consider this, but it is an important aspect, since it has its effects on you even if not showing it visibly.

Thirdly, it's small. This means that, to do its job, you need to get close and personal. You cannot keep your distance (which is why several voices wish you had something better) and, while it's suggested, in the Nightmare route, that you can throw it, in practice, the Paranoid can only do so much to keep your body functioning, and that kind of dexterity isn't part of it.

This makes it an intimate weapon, which sure is fitting for the dynamic between you and the Princess. Every time you use it, or choose not to, you are saying something about this relationship, and influencing how you both develop in the wake of the cycle of violence and revenge it enables.

But that doesn't explain the insistent terminology.

Why 'Pristine'?

The Pristine Blade is something implanted into the Construct by the Creator, it exists in every reality, and every iteration of the Narrator expects it to be in the Cabin even when it isn't, and every time, it is Pristine.

It is always perfect, almost the platonic ideal of a dagger, cutting through anything except the Razor (including bone!) with ease and it, too, is temporaly 'sticky'.

When you move from one chapter to the next, the scenario the Construct is running resets, except for you and the Hero (and whatever other voice you've picked up), the Princess (and the changes wrought upon her), and the Pristine Blade. And the Pristine Blade, too, remembers what happened, where it's supposed to be:

If you died with it in hand, or having it forcibly taken from you, it will be right where the Narrator expects it to be in the chapter after, but if you gave it to the Princess, either by actually giving it to her, like in the Witch route, or having it fulfill its purpose by stabbing her heart (and boy, there's a metaphor), it will be with her in the chapter after.

But even if the scenario itself states ages have past, the Pristine Blade is still that, Pristine.

Because it is unchanging. It will never be anything other than Pristine. It is, in some sense, stagnant, a constant. In short, it is the Long Quiet's weapon.

The Long Quiet's Weapon

The Long Quiet was created to slay the Shifting Mound, to end death, by putting a stop to change, transformation in all sense, and thereby ridding the world of doom, of the cycle of life and death.

And the weapon to do this is the platonic ideal of intimate violence. A constant, never changing, in this relationship.

Yes, in part this is because the Shifting Mound and the Long Quiet were once one, and their split wasn't perfect, so each carries a kernel of the other within themselves, but how delightfully ironic for stagnant violence to be the thing intended to destroy change in order to kill death. What a perfect encapsulation of the futility of the Creator's mission.

In the final confrontation, the Shifting Mound tries to convince you to join her by pointing out how you are both so familiar with the cycle of violence and revenge, and clearly this means she's speaking your language, and maybe she is.

But she doesn't have to be, because at almost every juncture, you could choose to leave the Pristine Blade behind, or wield it not to be violent. And every time you choose to leave the cycle of violence and revenge behind, to choose not to have power over the Princess, or at least use it with respect to her, it changes things, and it changes them for the better.

[insomnya777]

okay he is straight up ASKING ME to write a wicked fic