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queenlucythevaliant · 4 months

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Tell Your Dad You Love Him

A retelling of "Meat Loves Salt"/"Cap O'Rushes" for the @inklings-challenge Four Loves event

An old king had three daughters. When his health began to fail, he summoned them, and they came.

Gordonia and Rowan were already waiting in the hallway when Coriander arrived. They were leaned up against the wall opposite the king’s office with an air of affected casualness. “I wonder what the old war horse wants today?” Rowan was saying. “More about next year’s political appointments, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“The older he gets, the more he micromanages,” Gordonia groused fondly. “A thousand dollars says this meeting could’ve been an email.”

They filed in single-file like they’d so often done as children: Gordonia first, then Rowan, and Coriander last of all. The king had placed three chairs in front of his desk all in a row. His daughters murmured their greetings, and one by one they sat down.

“I have divided everything I have in three,” the king said. “I am old now, and it’s time. Today, I will pass my kingdom on to you, my daughters.”

A short gasp came from Gordonia. None of them could have imagined that their father would give up running his kingdom while he still lived.

The king went on. “I know you will deal wisely with that which I leave in your care. But before we begin, I have one request.”

“Yes father?” said Rowan.

“Tell me how much you love me.”

An awkward silence fell. Although there was no shortage of love between the king and his daughters, theirs was not a family which spoke of such things. They were rich and blue-blooded: a soldier and the daughters of a soldier, a king and his three court-reared princesses. The royal family had always shown their affection through double meanings and hot cups of coffee.

Gordonia recovered herself first. She leaned forward over the desk and clasped her father’s hands in her own. “Father,” she said, “I love you more than I can say.” A pause. “I don’t think there’s ever been a family so happy in love as we have been. You’re a good dad.”

The old king smiled and patted her hand. “Thank you, Gordonia. We have been very happy, haven’t we? Here is your inheritance. Cherish it, as I cherish you.”

Rowan spoke next; the words came tumbling out. “Father! There’s not a thing in my life which you didn’t give me, and all the joy in the world beside. Come now, Gordonia, there’s no need to understate the matter. I love you more than—why, more than life itself!”

The king laughed, and rose to embrace his second daughter. “How you delight me, Rowan. All of this will be yours.”

Only Coriander remained. As her sisters had spoken, she’d wrung her hands in her lap, unsure of what to say. Did her father really mean for flattery to be the price of her inheritance? That just wasn’t like him. For all that he was a politician, he’d been a soldier first. He liked it when people told the truth.

When the king’s eyes came to rest on her, Coriander raised her own to meet them. “Do you really want to hear what you already know?”

“I do.”

She searched for a metaphor that could carry the weight of her love without unnecessary adornment. At last she found one, and nodded, satisfied. “Dad, you’re like—like salt in my food.”

“Like salt?”

“Well—yes.”

The king’s broad shoulders seemed to droop. For a moment, Coriander almost took back her words. Her father was the strongest man in the world, even now, at eighty. She’d watched him argue with foreign rulers and wage wars all her life. Nothing could hurt him. Could he really be upset?

But no. Coriander held her father’s gaze. She had spoken true. What harm could be in that?

“I don’t know why you’re even here, Cor,” her father said.

Now, Coriander shifted slightly in her seat, unnerved. “What? Father—”

“It would be best if—you should go,” said the old king.

“Father, you can’t really mean–”

“Leave us, Coriander.”

So she left the king’s court that very hour.

It had been a long time since she’d gone anywhere without a chauffeur to drive her, but Coriander’s thoughts were flying apart too fast for her to be afraid. She didn’t know where she would go, but she would make do, and maybe someday her father would puzzle out her metaphor and call her home to him. Coriander had to hope for that, at least. The loss of her inheritance didn’t feel real yet, but her father—how could he not know that she loved him? She’d said it every day.

She’d played in the hall outside that same office as a child. She’d told him her secrets and her fears and sent him pictures on random Tuesdays when they were in different cities just because. She had watched him triumph in conference rooms and on the battlefield and she’d wanted so badly to be like him.

If her father doubted her love, then maybe he’d never noticed any of it. Maybe the love had been an unnoticed phantasm, a shadow, a song sung to a deaf man. Maybe all that love had been nothing at all.

A storm was on the horizon, and it reached her just as she made it onto the highway. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled. Rain poured down and flooded the road. Before long, Coriander was hydroplaning. Frantically, she tried to remember what you were supposed to do when that happened. Pump the brakes? She tried. No use. Wasn’t there something different you did if the car had antilock brakes? Or was that for snow? What else, what else–

With a sickening crunch, her car hit the guardrail. No matter. Coriander’s thoughts were all frenzied and distant. She climbed out of the car and just started walking.

Coriander wandered beneath an angry sky on the great white plains of her father’s kingdom. The rain beat down hard, and within seconds she was soaked to the skin. The storm buffeted her long hair around her head. It tangled together into long, matted cords that hung limp down her back. Mud soiled her fine dress and splattered onto her face and hands. There was water in her lungs and it hurt to breathe. Oh, let me die here, Coriander thought. There’s nothing left for me, nothing at all. She kept walking.

When she opened her eyes, Coriander found herself in a dank gray loft. She was lying on a strange feather mattress.

She remained there a while, looking up at the rafters and wondering where she could be. She thought and felt, as it seemed, through a heavy and impenetrable mist; she was aware only of hunger and weakness and a dreadful chill (though she was all wrapped in blankets). She knew that a long time must have passed since she was fully aware, though she had a confused memory of wandering beside the highway in a thunderstorm, slowly going mad because—because— oh, there’d been something terrible in her dreams. Her father, shoulders drooping at his desk, and her sisters happily come into their inheritance, and she cast into exile—

She shuddered and sat up dizzily. “Oh, mercy,” she murmured. She hadn’t been dreaming.

She stumbled out of the loft down a narrow flight of stairs and came into a strange little room with a single window and a few shabby chairs. Still clinging to the rail, she heard a ruckus from nearby and then footsteps. A plump woman came running to her from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron and softly clucking at the state of her guest’s matted, tangled hair.

“Dear, dear,” said the woman. “Here’s my hand, if you’re still unsteady. That’s good, good. Don’t be afraid, child. I’m Katherine, and my husband is Folke. He found you collapsed by the goose-pond night before last. I’m she who dressed you—your fine gown was ruined, I’m afraid. Would you like some breakfast? There’s coffee on the counter, and we’ll have porridge in a minute if you’re patient.”

“Thank you,” Coriander rasped.

“Will you tell me your name, my dear?”

“I have no name. There’s nothing to tell.”

Katherine clicked her tongue. “That’s alright, no need to worry. Folke and I’ve been calling you Rush on account of your poor hair. I don’t know if you’ve seen yourself, but it looks a lot like river rushes. No, don’t get up. Here’s your breakfast, dear.”

There was indeed porridge, as Katherine had promised, served with cream and berries from the garden. Coriander ate hungrily and tasted very little. Then, when she was finished, the goodwife ushered her over to a sofa by the window and put a pillow beneath her head. Coriander thanked her, and promptly fell asleep.

She woke again around noon, with the pounding in her head much subsided. She woke feeling herself again, to visions of her father inches away and the sound of his voice cracking across her name.

Katherine was outside in the garden; Coriander could see her through the clouded window above her. She rose and, upon finding herself still in a borrowed nightgown, wrapped herself in a blanket to venture outside.

“Feeling better?” Katherine was kneeling in a patch of lavender, but she half rose when she heard the cottage door open.

“Much. Thank you, ma’am.

“No thanks necessary. Folke and I are ministers, of a kind. We keep this cottage for lost and wandering souls. You’re free to remain here with us for as long as you need.”

“Oh,” was all Coriander could think to say.

“You’ve been through a tempest, haven’t you? Are you well enough to tell me where you came from?”

Coriander shifted uncomfortably. “I’m from nowhere,” she said. “I have nothing.”

“You don’t owe me your story, child. I should like to hear it, but it will keep till you’re ready. Now, why don’t you put on some proper clothes and come help me with this weeding.”

Coriander remained at the cottage with Katherine and her husband Folke for a week, then a fortnight. She slept in the loft and rose with the sun to help Folke herd the geese to the pond. After, Coriander would return and see what needed doing around the cottage. She liked helping Katherine in the garden.

The grass turned gold and the geese’s thick winter down began to come in. Coriander’s river-rush hair proved itself unsalvageable. She spent hours trying to untangle it, first with a hairbrush, then with a fine-tooth comb and a bottle of conditioner, and eventually even with honey and olive oil (a home remedy that Folke said his mother used to use). So, at last, Coriander surrendered to the inevitable and gave Katherine permission to cut it off. One night, by the yellow light of the bare bulb that hung over the kitchen table, Katherine draped a towel over Coriander’s shoulders and tufts of gold went falling to the floor all round her.

“I’m here because I failed at love,” she managed to tell the couple at last, when her sorrows began to feel more distant. “I loved my father, and he knew it not.”

Folke and Katherine still called her Rush. She didn’t correct them. Coriander was the name her parents gave her. It was the name her father had called her when she was six and racing down the stairs to meet him when he came home from Europe, and at ten when she showed him the new song she’d learned to play on the harp. She’d been Cor when she brought her first boyfriend home and Cori the first time she shadowed him at court. Coriander, Coriander, when she came home from college the first time and he’d hugged her with bruising strength. Her strong, powerful father.

As she seasoned a pot of soup for supper, she wondered if he understood yet what she’d meant when she called him salt in her food.

Coriander had been living with Katherine and Folke for two years, and it was a morning just like any other. She was in the kitchen brewing a pot of coffee when Folke tossed the newspaper on the table and started rummaging in the fridge for his orange juice. “Looks like the old king’s sick again,” he commented casually. Coriander froze.

She raced to the table and seized hold of the paper. There, above the fold, big black letters said, KING ADMITTED TO HOSPITAL FOR EMERGENCY TREATMENT. There was a picture of her father, looking older than she’d ever seen him. Her knees went wobbly and then suddenly the room was sideways.

Strong arms caught her and hauled her upright. “What’s wrong, Rush?”

“What if he dies,” she choked out. “What if he dies and I never got to tell him?”

She looked up into Folke’s puzzled face, and then the whole sorry story came tumbling out.

When she was through, Katherine (who had come downstairs sometime between salt and the storm) took hold of her hand and kissed it. “Bless you, dear,” she said. “I never would have guessed. Maybe it’s best that you’ve both had some time to think things over.”

Katherine shook her head. “But don’t you think…?”

“Yes?”

“Well, don’t you think he should have known that I loved him? I shouldn’t have needed to say it. He’s my father. He’s the king.”

Katherine replied briskly, as though the answer should have been obvious. “He’s only human, child, for all that he might wear a crown; he’s not omniscient. Why didn’t you tell your father what he wanted to hear?”

“I didn’t want to flatter him,” said Coriander. “That was all. I wanted to be right in what I said.”

The goodwife clucked softly. “Oh dear. Don’t you know that sometimes, it’s more important to be kind than to be right?”

In her leave-taking, Coriander tried to tell Katherine and Folke how grateful she was to them, but they wouldn’t let her. They bought her a bus ticket and sent her on her way towards King’s City with plenty of provisions. Two days later, Coriander stood on the back steps of one of the palace outbuildings with her little carpetbag clutched in her hands.

Stuffing down the fear of being recognized, Coriander squared her shoulders and hoped they looked as strong as her father’s. She rapped on the door, and presently a maid came and opened it. The maid glanced Coriander up and down, but after a moment it was clear that her disguise held. With all her long hair shorn off, she must have looked like any other girl come in off the street.

“I’m here about a job,” said Coriander. “My name’s Rush.”

The king's chambers were half-lit when Coriander brought him his supper, dressed in her servants’ apparel. He grunted when she knocked and gestured with a cane towards his bedside table. His hair was snow-white and he was sitting in bed with his work spread across a lap-desk. His motions were very slow.

Coriander wanted to cry, seeing her father like that. Yet somehow, she managed to school her face. Like he would, she kept telling herself. Stoically, she put down the supper tray, then stepped back out into the hallway.

It was several minutes more before the king was ready to eat. Coriander heard papers being shuffled, probably filed in those same manilla folders her father had always used. In the hall, Coriander felt the seconds lengthen. She steeled herself for the moment she knew was coming, when the king would call out in irritation, “Girl! What's the matter with my food? Why hasn’t it got any taste?”

When that moment came, all would be made right. Coriander would go into the room and taste his food. “Why,” she would say, with a look of complete innocence, “It seems the kitchen forgot to salt it!” She imagined how her father’s face would change when he finally understood. My daughter always loved me, he would say.

Soon, soon. It would happen soon. Any second now.

The moment never came. Instead, the floor creaked, followed by the rough sound of a cane striking the floor. The door opened, and then the king was there, his mighty shoulders shaking. “Coriander,” he whispered.

“Dad. You know me?”

“Of course.”

“Then you understand now?”

The king’s wrinkled brow knit. “Understand about the salt? Of course, I do. It wasn't such a clever riddle. There was surely no need to ruin my supper with a demonstration.”

Coriander gaped at him. She'd expected questions, explanations, maybe apologies for sending her away. She'd never imagined this.

She wanted very badly to seize her father and demand answers, but then she looked, really looked, at the way he was leaning on his cane. The king was barely upright; his white head was bent low. Her questions would hold until she'd helped her father back into his room.

“If you knew what I meant–by saying you were like salt in my food– then why did you tell me to go?” she asked once they were situated back in the royal quarters.

Idly, the king picked at his unseasoned food. “I shouldn’t have done that. Forgive me, Coriander. My anger and hurt got the better of me, and it has brought me much grief. I never expected you to stay away for so long.”

Coriander nodded slowly. Her father's words had always carried such fierce authority. She'd never thought to question if he really meant what he’d said to her.

“As for the salt,” continued the king, "Is it so wrong that an old man should want to hear his daughters say ‘I love you' before he dies?”

Coriander rolled the words around in her head, trying to make sense of them. Then, with a sudden mewling sound from her throat, she managed to say, “That's really all you wanted?”

“That's all. I am old, Cor, and we've spoken too little of love in our house.” He took another bite of his unsalted supper. His hand shook. “That was my failing, I suppose. Perhaps if I’d said it, you girls would have thought to say it back.”

“But father!” gasped Coriander, “That’s not right. We've always known we loved one another! We've shown it a thousand ways. Why, I've spent the last year cataloging them in my head, and I've still not even scratched the surface!”

The king sighed. “Perhaps you will understand when your time comes. I knew, and yet I didn't. What can you really call a thing you’ve never named? How do you know it exists? Perhaps all the love I thought I knew was only a figment.”

“But that’s what I’ve been afraid of all this time,” Coriander bit back. “How could you doubt? If it was real at all– how could you doubt?”

The king’s weathered face grew still. His eyes fell shut and he squeezed them. “Death is close to me, child. A small measure of reassurance is not so very much to ask.”

Coriander slept in her old rooms that night. None of it had changed. When she woke the next morning, for a moment she remembered nothing of the last two years.

She breakfasted in the garden with her father, who came down the steps in a chair-lift. “Coriander,” he murmured. “I half-thought I dreamed you last night.”

“I’m here, Dad,” she replied. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Slowly, the king reached out with one withered hand and caressed Coriander's cheek. Then, his fingers drifted up to what remained of her hair. He ruffled it, then gently tugged on a tuft the way he'd used to playfully tug her long braid when she was a girl.

“I love you,” he said.

“That was always an I love you, wasn’t it?” replied Coriander. “My hair.”

The king nodded. “Yes, I think it was.”

So Coriander reached out and gently tugged the white hairs of his beard. “You too,” she whispered.

“Why salt?” The king was sitting by the fire in his rooms wrapped in two blankets. Coriander was with him, enduring the sweltering heat of the room without complaint.

She frowned. “You like honesty. We have that in common. I was trying to be honest–accurate–to avoid false flattery.”

The king tugged at the outer blanket, saying nothing. His lips thinned and his eyes dropped to his lap. Coriander wished they wouldn’t. She wished they would hold to hers, steely and ready for combat as they always used to be.

“Would it really have been false?” the king said at last. “Was there no other honest way to say it? Only salt?”

Coriander wanted to deny it, to give speech to the depth and breadth of her love, but once again words failed her. “It was my fault,” she said. “I didn’t know how to heave my heart into my throat.” She still didn’t, for all she wanted to.

When the doctor left, the king was almost too tired to talk. His words came slowly, slurred at the edges and disconnected, like drops of water from a leaky faucet.

Still, Coriander could tell that he had something to say. She waited patiently as his lips and tongue struggled to form the words. “Love you… so… much… You… and… your sisters… Don’t… worry… if you… can’t…say…how…much. I… know.”

It was all effort. The king sat back when he was finished. Something was still spasming in his throat, and Coriander wanted to cry.

“I’m glad you know,” she said. “I’m glad. But I still want to tell you.”

Love was effort. If her father wanted words, she would give him words. True words. Kind words. She would try…

“I love you like salt in my food. You're desperately important to me, and you've always been there, and I don't know what I'll do without you. I don’t want to lose you. And I love you like the soil in a garden. Like rain in the spring. Like a hero. You have the strongest shoulders of anyone I know, and all I ever wanted was to be like you…”

A warm smile spread across the old king’s face. His eyes drifted shut.

#inklingschallenge #theme: storge #story: complete #inklings challenge #leah stories #OKAY. SO #i spend so much time thinking about king lear. i think i've said before that it's my favorite shakespeare play. it is not close #and one of the hills i will die on is that cordelia was not in the right when she refused to flatter her dad #like. obviously he's definitely not in the right either. the love test was a screwed up way to make sure his kids loved him #he shouldn't have tied their inheritances into it. he DEFINITELY shouldn't have kicked cordelia out when she refused to play #but like. Cordelia. there is no good reason not to tell your elderly dad how much you love him #and okay obviously lear is my starting point but the same applies to the meat loves salt princess #your dad wants you to tell him you love him. there is no good reason to turn it into a riddle. you had other options #and honestly it kinda bothers me when people read cordelia/the princess as though she's perfectly virtuous #she's very human and definitely beats out the cruel sisters but she's definitely not aspirational. she's not to be emulated #at the end of the day both the fairytale and the play are about failures in storge #at happens when it's there and you can't tell. when it's not and you think it is. when you think you know someone's heart and you just don'#hey! that's a thing that happens all the time between parents and children. especially loving past each other and speaking different langua #so the challenge i set myself with this story was: can i retell the fairytale in such a way that the princess is unambiguously in the wrong #and in service of that the king has to get softened so his errors don't overshadow hers #anyway. thank you for coming to my TED talk #i've been thinking about this story since the challenge was announced but i wrote the whole thing last night after the super bowl #got it in under the wire! yay!#also! the whole 'modern setting that conflicts with the fairytale language' is supposed to be in the style of modern shakespeare adaptation #no idea if it worked but i had a lot of fun with it #pontifications and creations

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cerise-on-top · 4 months

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I just saw your Graves with a tall reader, which I loved, so funny at times. So you know I gotta do it, can I request Graves with a short reader? Gotta boost that man's ego 💜

Glad to hear the Graves simps are enjoying my writing and want him to be doing well mentally! And I agree, sometimes you just need to make Graves happy since he, too, will notice your efforts and try to make you happy as well, even if he does it the Graves way!

Graves with a Shorter!Reader

Graves will have hit the jackpot with someone shorter than him in all honesty. As mentioned already, it’s in his blood to be bigger and stronger and scarier than his partner, which means he gets to protect them at all times. I can see him actually going for shorter people as well. While, if asked about it, he would always tell you that it’s because you have an easier time seeing just how reliable he is, in reality he just wants to feed his ego. He used to be taller than everyone else until he stopped growing, he really just wants to feel good about himself in all honesty. Every time he looks at you, he becomes aware of the height difference and sometimes the sly bastard even starts smiling about it. The bigger the height difference the better.

If he can literally tower over you, maybe trap you between him and the wall while he looks down at you, then all is good in his life. The shorter you are the better the angle at which you view him. He can toss his hair back and it will look as though he was in some series or movie with an attractive lead, in his eyes. Besides, he also gets to tilt your face so you’ll look at him when he’s talking. In all honesty, he genuinely believes he can fluster you more easily when he’s the taller one, and he genuinely just wants you to be speechless at least once in a while. Will sweet talk you while putting his fingers under your chin.

He’s also more prone to letting you be the big spoon, or lets you hold him more often in general. You being his backpack is funny to him, as mentioned before, so he will take his sweet time enjoying the feel of you being tiny. Again, if it was up to him, you’d be roughly 1,50, or something around that. That way there would, at the very least, still be 15cm between the two of you. Graves is a very touchy person in general, so don’t be surprised if he walks up to you and puts his head on top of yours, maybe even trying to put some weight of his on you as well so you can feel just how powerful he is. You’re more than welcome to try and shake him off, though. He will feign hurt, but it amuses him anyway.

Remember how I said Graves would be even more butthurt if you crack a few too many jokes about his height when you’re taller? He’d have his fun with someone who is sensitive about their height. You will constantly hear him refer to you as his little something, whether that be little sweetie, little honeypie or even his little pile of sugar. As long as he gets to emphasize you being the shorter one he’ll be happy. If you’re dysphoric about your height, then he’ll stop, but if you’re only mad because of a relatively harmless reason, you’ll never hear the end of it. Might even crack a joke such as pointing at a skittle on the ground and saying it’s almost as small as you are. The bigger your reaction, the better. Force him to sleep on the couch and he might stop for a day or two, but you can never get him to permanently stop.

Loves picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder. You can struggle all you want, this man can carry his own Shadows over his shoulder while they’re struggling, so you don’t really stand a chance against him. He gets all the more smug if you do struggle since he knows you won’t be able to escape him. It’s things like that where he wants to show you that he can easily overpower you, but he can easily protect you as well. Just be his lovely little partner, don’t grow too much and you have a loyal guy at your service until the end of eternity. Also, he will hold you over his head and comment on your cuteness. Graves doesn’t get cuteness aggression, but he could pretend he does and squish your cheeks whenever he feels like it.

Will pick you up and sit you down on his lap as well. Yes, he will wrap his arms around you as well and render any attempt at escaping futile. Besides, getting to hold you does reassure him quite a lot. His world is in his arms, safe and sound, and he gets to pretend he’s still a cool man. He genuinely believes you think him to be a badass, even with all the teasing and whatnot. Graves has a somewhat high opinion of himself on a good day, but you can still reassure him that he is pretty epic. You can comment on how strong he is and he’ll likely flex for you, offering you to touch his bicep. But at the end of the day, barely any of this matters, what’s important is that you wanna stay with him and feel like there’s a future ahead for you. Give him a kiss and tell him you admire him and he’ll be over the moon, regardless of whether you’re shorter or taller than him.

#cod #cod x reader #phillip graves #phillip graves x reader #I used to hate Graves before I got into CoD properly and knew who he really was but he grew on me #but that is largely because I saw so many HCs about him being the best boss one could ever have #I don't know where to fit my OC into the CoD lore in the slightest but sometimes I did have them work for Graves as a Shadow #I liked thinking about that whenever I was sad since those were usually fun things to imagine #silly Shadows with a wannabe badass boss who is actually so nice #I also always loved seeing other people's Shadow OCs since they were always so interesting #Shadow Company and stinky Graves grew on me over time #he was quite the dick in the campaign but watching the missions where you play as a Shadow were always my favorites #besides I do think I would thrive in an environment where someone would praise me the way Graves praises his workers #I've been getting more Graves requests as of late I've noticed! Lovely keep them coming! I do love and hate him!

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tothefiniteyou · 6 days

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Something that's been in my head a while concerning the brothers and their "roles", so to speak. This is meant to be about the original Mirage comics, but applies to 2003 and IDW as well. Potentially 2012, maybe more. I don't remember the exact issues, but this WILL contain spoilers for IDW and the original comics.

Raph is the one that takes on the responsibilities no one else does/wants to. He very often has to play the part of the bad guy because his convictions are more rebellious in comparison to what Splinter teaches them, core beliefs and rules that Leo in particular takes to heart. Raph keeps his family in line through his anger, for better and worse, being the one of tough love. In volume 1 of Mirage when they retreated from New York after Leo was almost killed, he calls his brother a coward for not "finishing the job" and goes off to face the Shredder alone. He almost got killed because of his impulsiveness, yes, but Leo's always been about saving his family. So really, he had the courage to face Shredder again because it was for someone else's sake. Their whole fight was kind of gruesome and full of harsh words, but at the end of it all, Leo thanks Raph for it. It's very interesting to me. It shows that Leo, even if he was originally mad, understands that his brother was only doing it because he was scared of his family being hurt again. He sees that it was for his own good, so he expresses gratitude.

Alongside that, I've said before that it's not that Raph wants to be the leader because of the title itself, but rather that he wants freedom, and for others to listen to him. He resents Leo for holding him back, not fully understanding his brother's reasoning. He focuses more on action and less on the consequences of said actions and choices.

In essence, Raph is often the one that has to do the dirty work. His parentification in Rise is even similar to this, having to parent his brothers and be the one to tell them "no", even when it isn't his responsibility. But if no one else is going to do it, then he has to be the bad guy, even if his brothers resent him for it. At his core, he always has his family in mind, even if the execution is flawed.

Raph being thought of as the shield has always felt right to me, as shields can still be used to hurt.

On to Leo - Leo is a very existential person, and that also makes him the most spiritual. Kind of a yin and yang ordeal, with him seeing how there's a balance to things. (I would also say that he needs to assign a purpose to everything, if only to rationalize bad things. It's sort of why he has a bit of a crisis in several iterations when Splinter isn't there to guide him). He's the most "warrior-like" because of the way he values life and honors things like bushido. He'll kill to protect, but that doesn't make him callous, just "strong" (putting this in quotes for multiple reasons). I think IDW tackled this quite lovely, especially when he goes on to have a greenhouse just full of life.

However, I can't say all of this without mentioning the fact that Splinter's teachings are often flawed. I've said before that a lot of Leo's major "arcs" and "growing up" is about becoming his own person and leader, and that's still very much true. Blind Sight is my favorite story to have come from the original comics, and I think it really puts into perspective how Leo struggles to see himself as anything but a weapon. It's that bad habit of his where he must assign purpose to everything, struggling when proven wrong or having to recontextualize things. There's so much more I want to say about him and his role, but a lot of it would be reiterating my points from this post. I struggle to call Leo the sword of the team considering his words to Mikey about how, if he were to throw his katana off the roof, would that be the same as throwing himself. But in Blind Sight, he does learn that he's more than just some sword for his father to wield, and that a sword not only hurts, but protects.

People infantilize Mikey wayyyy too much in this fandom for just being the youngest, which makes me have to pick and choose my words very carefully for fear of the wrong impression. He's definitely the goofball that tends to not take things as seriously, but I think something that The Last Ronin meant to emphasize is that his "raw talent" is from a place of love. It's not that he's not the best of them all just because he lacks focus, it's that he's never seen a reason for him to have to be a warrior like that. Surrounded by his brothers, he doesn't have to try so hard. He'll watch their backs and they'll watch his. He's got the same warrior's spirit as the others, it's just that he rejects some of those teachings in his own way? Raph is often seen as the contrast to Leo, and that's typically true, but I think Mikey can be as well... In a way, Mikey has the most ties to humanity, and that's why I think he's similar to Leo in some ways. Not to say the brothers don't have humanity, but... It's so hard to word what I mean, bear with me.

Being a better warrior kind of means losing his fun-loving and go with the flow nature. He would be less like Mikey. Not to say that being good at fighting exactly equates to being deadly, but that's always a possibility, you know? IDW Mikey is such a good balance and blend of his little shit characterization and his more empathetic side. When he's the first to leave and reject Splinter's ways in IDW, this shows what I mean with him being more strong than Leo's way of being considered strong. He might not be "the best", and he might not tap into his raw talent that several characters mention, but I don't think that's what he necessarily wants. Splinter's idea of strong isn't necessarily the best.... Hopefully this section makes sense and my point gets across that Mikey is both the heart and armor of the team.

And as for Donnie... Oh boy! He has to use a gun in the original comics and actually be the one to kill (since only Raph and Leo really did that from what I can remember), and it shakes him up SO BADLY... And volume 1 just ends with him not choosing to go back to the sewers with his brothers, but to stay on the farm with Splinter for a bit. This is quite a finishing scene after ending a whole war within the city...

Donnie doesn't love his brothers any less, it just goes to show that he's never wanted to be the one to have to kill, and maybe wasn't prepared for it. While Mikey is definitely a pacifist, you can argue that Donnie is more of one. Him wielding the bo even supports this idea, as it can still be deadly, but not as lethal as his brothers' weapons. He's a very soft-hearted person that prefers to invent and give life to machines.

I hate when people think he's any less skilled in fighting than his brothers, because that's wrong! He just doesn't like violence and, dare I say it, I don't think he ever wanted to be a warrior in the same way. His intellect is a mightier and more useful weapon to him, because he can use it to keep others safe and make machines that can do all sorts of things. He'll fight to protect, same as the others, but disarming is more of his goal in the end. This makes Donnie, at least to me, both the brains and armor for the group. He's more than that, but... something something, things falling apart when Donnie is missing in SAINW.

At the end of it all, something you have to remember about all of them is that, even when they grow older, they started out as nothing more than child soldiers cultivated for the sake of revenge. Killing was always in the books, but they all have a different role on the team, and killing wasn't meant to be Donnie's. He helps with plan-making and would probably rather be support than a tank, if that makes sense.

They're heroes but but but. They're just kids, too...........Gripping my head

#tmnt #tmnt 1984 #tmnt mirage #tmnt idw #tmnt 2003 #tmnt 2012 #all of them #leo may be my favorite but i don't play about any of them #their core characteristics are so important to me #character analysis #rottmnt #since i mention it a few times #i didn't add this in mostly because i wasn't sure how to word it but #there was that really good thread on here about rise leo and his relationship with death and i think it heightens my point #i think i could've mentioned how this affects things in the 2007 movie but #well #anyways #i have many thoughts about these guys all the time anytime

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