Pohatu liked the cold.
Pohatu liked the heat too, to some degree.
But he liked the cold better.
Pohatu didn't know if he liked him because he liked the cold, or if he liked the cold because he liked him.
It could have been both; he didn't know.
What Pohatu did know was that he very much did not like the dark.
It hadn't always been like that.
It hadn't always been that bad.
Pohatu could hardly remember much from before he had crashed on Okoto from the sky, but he was certain he hadn't always been so afraid of the dark. He was certain, at some point, to have liked it to some degree: to have gladly traversed it without fear or with greater purpose, and to have associated it at least in part with something friendly, someone nice.
But he could not remember that.
What he could remember was the pitch dark, and a trusted hand clamped around his own tight. Just Pohatu and him, in an endless abyss.
They had both been scared, of course. But they were together.
They would have made it through.
Then suddenly, after ages of wandering in the complete black, the hand had slipped away from Pohatu's grip, never to be found again; and he had cried out for him, over and over, telling him it wasn't the time for jokes like these, and that he thought he didn't like this kind of humor anyways. He had cried out a name he couldn't remember anymore until his voice had turned hoarse, and he had reached out everywhere in the darkness in the hopes of finding that cold palm again: nobody had ever answered.
When Pohatu had stopped calling for him, everything had been quiet.
Quiet, and not cold.
It had always been cold, while he was here.
Always a little bit cold, and it had comforted him.
But now it was only quiet.
Quiet, and not cold.
Pohatu had started being afraid that something, in the dark, had taken him.
Pohatu had started being afraid that something, in the dark, would have taken him too.
"What are you waiting for?" Tahu asked. Pohatu was standing at the entrance of the tunnel, turned towards the hole they'd fallen through instead of following Onua as he lumbered down their only way out. "Do you hear something? Someone following us?"
"Not yet. But I'm staying here," the Toa of Stone replied softly. "I'll cover your back. Keep threats from catching up to you."
"Alone?" his Earth brother's concerned question came from deeper into the darkness.
"You'd never make it like that," Gali argued: "We've managed to handle the obstacles in this city only by working together. Leaving you alone might turn into a death sentence."
"As it almost did for Lewa," Kopaka added. His piqued tone gained an indifferent shrug from the object of his disapproval.
Pohatu stood still: "I can handle it."
"You aren't scared of the dark, are you, now?" Lewa's voice creeped up on his shoulder like a Skull Spider; within it, he could hear a mischievous grin.
He turned around, growling: "Be quiet."
Had he had any less self control, the Toa of Jungle's laugh would have ended abruptly with a fist harder than stone against his teeth.
"He is!" the nimble fighter cackled, a palm over his mask's sockets as though he could not look at his brother without being overwhelmed by the hilarity of the situation: "He truly is scared! Gloomy, fearless Pohatu is scared! This is too much!"
Nowhere near as amused as him, Gali hit him over the head with the blunt end of her trident and almost sent him sprawling on the ground. When she turned towards the Toa of Stone, her eyes told him very clearly that she was not going to entertain any more arguments on whether or not he would be left to hold the defense on his own: "Come along now."
"I said-" Pohatu tried, calling upon every ounce of his stubborness.
"And I said," she stopped him immediately - eroding his futile attempt at imposing himself over her will like a raging river smooths the rocks of its bed into inoffensive pebbles - "That, just to avoid the unsavory possibility of a large swarm of who-knows-what catching you alone here and your heroic sacrifice to keep them at bay leaving us one Toa short, you'll come along now."
Her tone left no room for rebuttals.
With a sigh that sounded more like a growl, her brother turned and followed Onua into the bowels of his element.
"Don't worry," he heard the kind giant reassure him quietly: "We'll keep you safe."
Pohatu would have snarled something much more incredibly nasty at him despite being somewhat aware of his good intentions if he hadn't been so focused on how quickly the light behind them was disappearing the more they walked, and by the time he properly processed the mortifyingly gentle words they were too far along for him to think of any sort of retort amidst his building panic.
It was dark.
Very, very dark.
Almost as dark as back then.
Almost as dark as where he'd lost the hold on that hand.
Pohatu hoped he wasn't heaving loud enough for the others to hear.
If he had turned to look around he would have seen the weak lights of their eyes only barely, not even bright enough to make out anything past the sockets of their masks; but if he had, his own eyes would have given away that he'd moved his head to look somewhere that wasn't simply ahead, and the others would have had no doubts in regards to just how nervous and uneasy he felt at that moment, and he had already decided he had been humiliated enough today to last him the rest of his lifetime, however long that would have been.
So he stared forward, into the dark emptiness that could have stolen him away without a trace at any moment, trying not to breathe too hard, so tense he could have snapped in half.
He needed to think of something else.
Something, anything else.
He thought of him.
Maybe he was here.
Somewhere in the dark.
Maybe, if Pohatu remembered his name and called for him now, loud enough, he would have finally answered.
Maybe he would have rushed over and grabbed his hand, chastising him - where in the name of Jxqx Krf were you? Did you want to scare me like that time in Hl-Txef, while we were looking for your Exr? If you were trying to make me grieve you in front of Qroxdx Lkbtx again, I'm going to freeze you into a cube - taking him away from all of this, away, somewhere cold and comforting and familiar, and Pohatu would have laughed bitterly despite himself and would have screamed that he hadn't let go, you left me there, alone and scared and in the dark, and maybe he would have yelled that everything had been changing so fast and he'd been all he'd had left that was still at least a little solid to hang onto and when he'd left him there he'd been terrified, and if he had changed it had been to be more like him, because nothing used to seem to hurt him and if he'd been anything closer to how cold and steady and rigid he had been then he would have had to survive somehow, no matter what, and then they would have argued more because they had both been so scared and worried, and then they would have made up and they would have gone out in the sun and Pohatu would have seen his face again and remembered him properly.
Maybe something could have pretended to be him.
Maybek, like that, it could have lured him away into the dark.
A horrible choked sound echoed weakly through the tunnel.
By the time the Toa had grouped tighter together against the unseen threat, Pohatu realized it had come from his own mouth.
He did not mention that.
They waited a moment, each with their backs to those of the others; then somebody (he could not tell who, he was too mortified) said: "Let's go," and they all moved again, walking closer to each other. Just in case.
Maybe it was for the better, in the end, because Pohatu inexplicably felt a little more at ease.
It could not be because he was sorrounded by people who cared for his well-being: at least as far as he told himself, he would have rather they'd left him alone back there, because the thought of being coddled like this when he was meant to be a mighty warrior was shaming him all the way down to his bones.
No, he realized with genuine surprise as he wracked his brain to figure this mystery out. It was not the numbers, or the unity; it was the temperature.
It was... Cold.
A gentle cold.
Emitted like one might emit warmth.
From somewhere at his side, near his arm.
Unconsciously, he leaned further into the chill until he softly bumped into a shoulder.
He waited.
Nothing happened.
No cold palm grabbing his hand.
No cold voice chastising him for running off.
Pohatu kept walking, limb brushing against the cold arm at every step, eyes never turning towards it, breathing a little more normally, feeling a little less panicked.
Kopaka had no idea why the Toa of Stone was suddenly so close to him, and he wasn't sure if asking would have gotten himself snarled at or simply knocked out; but through their contact he felt the other's shoulders mellow slightly, heard his footsteps turn a little less stiff as he exhaled softly in what seemed to be relief; so, as he leaned slightly against him without being shoved off, he decided that if his brother needed this at the moment he would not have dreamed of taking it away from him.
His power was a shield, after all, was it not?
And a shield needs not to be asked: it simply protects.
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i dont know how to word this well but hopefully my point gets across. as ive gone through lots of manga/hwa/huas for the past few years, there's been a lot less hate for fat female characters, and when the author portrays negative traits in them, the comments are always up in arms to defend said character or point out that it was unnecessary and was adding onto a distasteful image of associating fat people = evil in media. that's good!
but i've realised that there's not as much defense or uproar when it's a fat male character? you know the one. they'll be drawn comically fat with tiny features to show that even the author thinks this character is a waste of time to put effort into giving them a design full of character details and an actual Story. they might even be bald in some cases to drive home the "lecherous old man preying on the helpless" image. they'll be bumbling, incompetent, the most inarticulate bastard in the story, and the author wants you to KNOW it. look at this guy. he's obviously meant to be hated. look how pathetic he is and how he pales in comparison with our hero, who is charming, pure snow-white in morality, Has Never Done Anything Wrong Ever.
the trouble is, unlike female fat characters that are often used as a sort of cynical, pessimistic evil whose entire identity is to prove that "sometimes you're ugly both inside and out", that isn't the case for fat male characters. in a way, fat female characters have a "way out", so to speak, because there IS a probable cause that's snowballed the problem until its become a mountain; particularly, the cord that binds how they're expected to perform in society (gender roles, sexism, internalised misogyny) and how they feel they aren't able to escape scrutiny anyways for being ugly, even if they're good. so why not go all the way? what's the use in being halfheartedly acknowledged for who you try to be, when you could be the worst version of yourself, and at least THEN they'll finally look at you proper? so a lot of fat female characters who turn evil are often in this line of thought, i think. despite how much they're trying to break free from the preconceived notions of what people want them to be, it still clashes with their innate desire to be seen, accepted, and loved by other people. so the answer to "redeem" them? simple. accept them. that's enough to write a satisfactory redemption arc to turn them "good" again.
but fat male characters... i've noticed that they're written with crimes much heavier and much more serious than their female counterparts. their appearance is never purely for the sake of psychological friction (stirring the pot, instigating distrust) in the story. we see them drawn with disgusting lustful expressions to show that they haven't moved past primitive desires (they're worse than children—they're children with an adult's ability to get what they want), touching people inappropriately, their minds always turning to the worst possible scenario, their dialogue always written with an undercurrent of narcissism, like the river of his own life was completely empty save for his own self-admiration. is that really all there is to them? how did they manage to get this far in life without ever experiencing or being convinced — or tried to be convinced — to change? has he, in all his years of living, never experienced a shred of empathy for others? has he never felt touched by the connection of another human being?
and then at the end of the story i know it was useless to ask these questions — he only existed as a plot device, as an antagonist for the final climax and resolution, the dragon to be slayed.
but he's not a dragon. he's a human, and despite his current problematic views on life or people, i'd like to try and imagine what it's like to "redeem" him.
but almost always, there IS no way. the author has cut off every possible escape route for him. he was always evil. he can't be helped. he can't change. he was always going to do this, so there's no point in imagining a world where he didn't.
but like. why? why do fat female characters get to be redeemed with the power of Love and Friendship but not him? why is it not enough for him to be bad, he must also be dangerous beyond recourse?
i don't really know the answer to this question, since i'm AFAB and i don't have insight on the matter beyond my own speculations. but the only thing i know is that it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth when i see him being toppled over as the final Evil, and everyone cheering in the comments with "i've always found him sus" "finally you disgusting pig" "i hope he never shows up ever again"
i have to say, i don't like the idea, especially in fiction, that people are irredeemable and unworthy of compassion. of course this isn't a plea to forgive them or to get them out of fictional jail or whatever, but i'd at least like to entertain the thought that i want to know the entirety of a person's character before writing them off, and you can do that in stories. i can't do that in real life. i would kill myself trying. sometimes people just hurt you and you have to accept that they hurt you to give yourself express permission to protect yourself.
but in fiction... are you really telling me that a world with dragons can exist but not the possibility of change for a character whose fate was set in stone the moment their shape was carved into existence?
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