Othori Academy and Fascism: The parallels between the tactics used by the academy and the real life authoritarian regimes.
First and foremost, what is Fascism?
"Fascism is characterized by support for a dictatorial leader, centralized autocracy, militarism, forcible suppression of opposition, belief in a natural social hierarchy, subordination of individual interests for the perceived interest of the nation or race, and strong regimentation of society and the economy."
Of course, Othori Academy does not represent a full country nor does it have some of the characteristics of a country under fascist regime.
But that does not change how we can draw paralles between Othori Academy and actual real life fascist regimes throughout history.
So let us see the similarities between Othori academy and fascist regimes. (Specifically Salazarism and Mussolini's fascism but other authoritarian regimes will be mentioned if indirectly.)
Cult of the leader.
Throughout fascist regimes, something we see in common with almost (if not all) is the cult of the leader.
The cult of the leader is the idealization and the worship of the leader, who is treated as a symbol of heroism, someone almost god-like, they are a beyond respectable idol to their nation and someone worshiped by their regime.
We can see this throughout some Fascist Regimes such as Portugal's, Italy's and of course, Germany's:
In these pieces of propaganda we see as the leaders of these fascist regimes were idealized and worshipped, portrayed as saviors, symbols of the nation, someone worthy to look up too. All to make their oppressive ideals some more righteous.
While you could say that in Revolutionary Girl Utena there isn't exactly a leader that is worshiped we do have a character that is consistently idealized, seen as a savior and a symbol of the system and that is none other than Price Dios.
Throughout the series, Prince Dios is seen as a symbol of Princehood, almost like a god, after all he is almost treated like one, is he not?
Prince Dios is the ideal, the very embodiment of Princehood, one of the embodiments of the system that the academy holds, this can even be seen through his character design, which mostly consists of white, the white symbolizing purity, idealism, what the system pretends and promises to give, yet we see internally, in his cape, the bright red, representing the reality of the system.
This parallels well to the reality when it came to these real life leaders, while they were idealized, portrayed to be heroic, god-like, saviors.. in reality they were all horrible people, who oppressed their people and caused so many to suffer just to uphold their inhumane regime.
Promotion of violence/militarism.
One of the most defining traits in fascist regimes was the promotion of violence, or more specifically, militarism.
Fascist regimes didn't have any sort of issue promoting violence to get what they want, as most of them often used violent tactics to silence anyone who opposed their system.
Militarism was used as yet again another form of propaganda in fascist regimes and a way to keep the people under control, the military was used as a fake "family" a way for people to belong, to achieve a greater goal that was defending their Nation.
In the anime, we see as some of the duelists are hesitant to fight at first, that was until they are manipulated into doing so.
This is best represented with Miki.
Miki expresses his dislike for the duels early on, claiming they are ridiculous and how he refuses to participate in them. With that Touga comes in, he manipulates Miki, convincing him to participate in the duels by claiming that it is the only way to defend the things he posseses otherwise people will take them from him.
This can also parallel with the youth organizations that would groom the young boys of these regimes into idealizing and upholding their oppressive regimes. (Hitler Youth, Mocidade Portuguesa, etc)
Touga convinced him that the only way to get his "shiny thing" was by participating in the duels, the duels that would grant him the very thing he had been yearning for.. which bring us to our next point.
Yearning for the "greater times."
Some fascist regimes rejected change, instead yearning for the "greater times." Arguing that going back to these good times, these "faraway days of glory" is what was needed to bring peace and happiness to their country. This is especially seen in Salazarism.
Salazar, a Portuguese dictatorship, was well known for his rejection of change and how he tried to keep his country stuck in the past, prioritizing rurality and tradition over modernity and improvement for his people.
In Revolutionary Girl Utena, a big theme is the time and how the characters all seem to yearn for a simpler time in the past, something in their past they can no longer have, this attachment to the past is what keeps them stuck in the system.
Miki and his yearning to hear his sister's piano playing skills once more, Juri's yearning for Shiori, or more specifically the Shiori she knew in middle school, Utena's yearning to become and to meet the prince of her childhood, Nanami's yearning for the more simple and close relationship her and Touga shared as children and of course, Anthy's childhood love for Dios.
All of these attachments to the past kept the characters stuck which parallels with real life.
This promise of going back to the greater times, clinging onto tradition and the nostalgia kept the people stuck in these oppressive systems, as well as isolating them, much like how we see with our cast of characters.
Infrastructure.
Infrastructure was also a form of propaganda in the fascist regimes. Often these regimes and countries would modernize buildings, build new roads, etc to distract the population.
Hiding the horrors that they would commit to innocent people behind the walls of fancy new looking buildings and beautiful infrastructure.
Much like with Othori academy, an almost dream like school, tall beautiful buildings, fancy places, almost like a dream like palace, a façade for the horrible things that happened behind the curtains.
The role of the woman.
The role of women during fascist regimes isn't unkown, women were expected to the housewives and fully submissive to their husband.
Anthy as the "Rose Bride" represents the ideal female role model that a lot of fascist regimes also promoted (fully submissive to her husband, husband's property, expected to take her husband pain etc...)
The Rose Bride is the female ideal. She's the one who gives the duelist she's engaged in her power, she does whatever her duelist wants her to do and in the end, she is supposed to take the swords of hatred for the duelist, fully encapsulating the female ideal.
Even Anthy's outfit shows this, the Rose Bride dress, a long red gown, that can represent a princess dress, a bridal one as well as a symbol of her "embracing" oppression under the system.
Red is associated with the ugly side of the academy, the violent and oppressive system and the Rose Bride dress if full of it. You could say it's almost cruel irony how the main victim of the system is forced into wearing a dress that represents the worse side of that very system.
Anyways that was all!
As you could tell this was a little more focused on Salazarim since I am Portuguese and I am a little more knowledgable on my country's fascist regime.
This was a little messy but I hope you all like it either ways, please excuse any spelling mistakes.
Could you maybe do some headcanons please for dating either shiv roy or camille preaker? 💜💜
Dating Camille Preaker Headcannons
Warnings: self-harm scars, the murders mentioned, alcohol addiction, mentions of sex problems
Word Count: 260
Camille has been through a lot, and so she was initially scared when you first asked her out.
She hadn't had a proper relationship almost ever and you knew that.
You both met at a bar when she came back from Wind Gap after her sister, Amma, was charged.
Camille was very closed off when you first started dating but she slowly opened up to you: about her mom, her sisters, her scars, Alice.
Sex is difficult for Camille, she was initially scared you'd run away from her scars, be physically disgusted, but you weren't.
Camille is very touch starved, but she doesn't want to beg for hugs, but when you get home from work you always make sure to hug her while putting on TV.
Sometimes when you got home, Camille would be laying on the couch, snoring from all the vodka she had drunk during the day.
When Camille decided to quit drinking, you did to, helping her every step of the way.
You would listen to music while cooking.
You two had a shared playlist of both your favourite music.
When you both had days off, you'd stay at home watching old 90s movies all day.
When Camille had to travel for her job, you would call her every day and make sure Frank Curry was treating her well.
Oh also, Curry loves you too like his own daughters. He'd definitely talk about you two to his wife.
Overall, Camille loves you and relies on you to keep her sane, and you’d do that for her, always.
mentions: dark content, romance, based on french version of beauty & the beast, wlw, mean sevika, angst, ambessa as gaston, reader is called beauty
summary : you scarfice yourself to live with a terrifying beast in order to save your father. overtime, you discover the beast is gentle and kind beneath her monstrous facade.
Once, there was a home filled with light.
It stood proudly on the edge of the sea, where salt met silk, and the scent of jasmine tangled with the wind. In this house lived a merchant—widowed, wearied, but not unkind—his shoulders heavy with age and grief. He had six children: three sons and three daughters, scattered like mismatched pearls across a velvet strand.
The youngest, the quietest, the one who wandered the gardens in bare feet and read novels by candlelight, was you.
And though the others had grown restless with ruin, you found solace in simplicity.
Your father, once the proud captain of ships, now walked with a limp and a heart softened by sorrow. Still, every evening, he would sit at your bedside and read aloud, voice dipping through pages of tales older than memory. Of girls with hair like night, of beasts with broken hearts, of love that bloomed like moonflowers in dark places.
It was never just fiction to you. It was a map. A key. A prayer whispered into the stars.
Then the sea turned cruel.
His last fleet sank in a storm of debts and salt. One by one, his holdings were stripped away, like leaves in autumn. And so, with nothing but a rusting cart and threadbare coats, your family fled the city’s grandeur and took root in the countryside—where the bones of trees rattled in the wind and the cottage was crooked with time.
Your eldest sisters—Mariette and Corinne—were furious.
"They expect us to live like peasants!" Mariette would hiss as she cleaned her fingernails with a broken comb.
Corinne cried when her satin gowns wouldn’t fit inside the single wooden chest she was allowed to bring. "This is barbaric," she declared. "Like being exiled."
The brothers, each in their own way, tried to help. Maxime, the oldest son, was brooding and bitter, speaking of debts he’d yet to repay. Tristan, clever but too soft-spoken, worked the soil with shaking hands. And Adrien, the youngest, tried to make everyone laugh, even when there was nothing funny left.
But you—you tended the herbs. You fetched water from the stream. You stitched old linen into curtains and sang softly to the geese. You did not complain.
"It suits you," your father said one morning, watching you gather wildflowers at the edge of the frost-laced orchard.
"What does?" you asked.
"This life. You look… peaceful here."
You smiled, placing a daisy behind his ear. "Peace isn't found. It's made."
He laughed then, eyes crinkling. And for a moment, he looked young again.
Then came the letter.
One of his ships, thought lost, had docked. There was a chance—slim, but real—that he might reclaim its cargo. Enough gold, perhaps, to pay off some debts. Perhaps even return to the city.
Your sisters burst into a flurry of demands.
"Bring back my sapphire earrings!" cried Corinne.
"And my silk from Persia," Mariette added.
"A music box," said Adrien.
"A hunting knife," muttered Maxime.
"New boots," said Tristan, though he glanced at you with guilt.
"And a pearl comb, if you find one," whispered Adrien again, hopeful.
Your father jotted the requests down with a heavy sigh. When he looked at you, he didn’t ask.
But you stepped forward anyway.
"A rose," you said gently.
His brow furrowed. "A rose?"
"Yes. The kind that only grows by the sea. The kind you used to bring Mama."
His breath caught for a second. Then he nodded. “If I find one, you shall have it.”
He kissed each of you goodbye at dawn, his cloak too thin for the cold. When he reached you, he lingered. You took his hands—calloused, trembling—and held them to your cheek.
"You don't have to do this," you whispered.
"I do," he replied. "But I promise I’ll return."
He did not know that fate was already moving.
That the rose would bloom.
That a curse would stir.
That you, the softest of them all, would ride into the teeth of something ancient and wild.
But when the sun rose behind the hills and his figure disappeared over the ridge, you stood alone in the snow, one hand clutching your scarf, the other already aching with the weight of a promise not yet made.
The letter never came.
Not in three days. Not in four. On the fifth day, your father returned—ashen, soaked through from the storm, and whispering things you could barely understand.
“There was a castle,” he rasped, collapsing before the fire. “A rose… I only picked a rose… and then she appeared—”
You helped him out of his coat. The others listened, confused and horrified, as he stammered through his tale. A great hall filled with gold and wine. A bed of velvet. A table laid with all the gifts his children had asked for. And in the garden—a rosebush. Blooming, vibrant, in the dead of winter.
“I picked one,” he said, his voice cracking. “For you.”
A shadow had fallen over him then. A voice, deep as thunder. She had appeared—not a woman, not quite a monster. Cloaked in darkness. Eyes like dying stars.
“She said,” he swallowed, “I had one day to return… or she would come for you all.”
The others began to protest, to scream.
But you were already moving.
You packed before the sun rose. A single trunk, a woolen cloak, your mother’s locket. Your father cried when he saw you saddling the mare.
“I should never have asked—”
“You didn’t,” you said, hugging him tightly. “You didn’t have to.”
You kissed his forehead, and rode out into the frostbitten morning, wind stinging your cheeks.
You rode until your fingers went numb. Until the trees grew thick and strange. Until the path twisted itself into something uncanny.
And then, like smoke rising from nothing—there it was.
The gates opened as you approached. No guard. No voice. Just silence and snow.
You stepped inside.
The walls breathed. The chandelier flickered to life. A fire sparked in the hearth though no hand touched it.
A feast waited for you—hot bread, roasted roots, sugared fruit. Your coat vanished from your shoulders. Velvet slippers slid across the floor, as if guided by ghosts.
But she did not show herself.
Not yet.
Not until the mirror.
You found it after dinner, in a hallway of endless doors. It was tall, cracked, and framed in twisting thorns. And when you stepped before it—you saw her.
A reflection that wasn’t yours.
A woman—taller, broader. Cloaked in fur and shadow. One arm made of iron, gleaming faintly. Her face was half-hidden, but her eyes… her eyes burned.
You gasped. And just like that, she vanished.
Only the wind answered.
And still, the castle held you close.
And somewhere, behind the mirrors, she watched.
Waiting.
The days that followed felt stitched from dreams—beautiful, unsettling, and somehow not quite real.
The castle obeyed your presence like a loyal hound, yet its silence was sharper than any growl. Doors opened with a thought, fires flared when your hands trembled from cold, and music drifted from unseen places. But her—the Beast—was nowhere to be found. Not in the halls of crystal, nor the gardens shrouded in hoarfrost. Only in the mirror, sometimes. Only when you weren’t quite sure if you were awake or dreaming.
Still, the castle gave you what it thought you wanted.
A wardrobe bloomed with velvet gowns—midnight blue threaded with silver, pale green the color of moss after rain, crimson cut like fire against your skin. Jewels gleamed in boxes that opened themselves. Perfumed baths awaited, steaming and still, with lavender and rose petals floating like memories on the water.
And books. Shelves and shelves of them.
You’d stumble across entire libraries nestled behind hidden panels. Leather-bound folios of ancient poetry. Scrolls with pressed flowers marking forgotten verses. Children’s stories, maps of forgotten worlds, illustrated fables from distant lands. Books that seemed to rearrange themselves at night, offering you different wonders each morning.
They became your only companions.
You began to speak to them, softly, while reading by the tall frosted windows.
“If you’re listening,” you murmured one afternoon, tracing the delicate golden letters on a book’s spine, “I don’t mean to be ungrateful. But you can’t hide forever.”
There was no reply.
Only the snow outside, falling like whispers from the sky.
That night, you dreamt.
The same dream that had haunted you since your arrival.
You stood in a sun-drenched orchard, golden apples gleaming in the trees. A man—not quite a man—moved through the branches. Dressed in hunting leathers, hair falling in careless waves. He smiled at someone hidden from view. A woman. A princess. Her eyes mournful, her hands clasped.
She begged him to stop. He promised to change. He kissed her brow and vanished into the woods again.
And then, a golden deer.
Always the deer.
It leapt through the clearing, radiant and unreal, and the dream ended with the echo of an arrow not yet loosed.
You woke with a gasp.
And this time, you knew you were not alone.
She stood in the doorway—half-shadow, half-shape. Broad shoulders draped in a fur-lined coat. One arm silver, the other gloved in leather. Her hair fell in coarse, curling waves, streaked with gray at the temples. Her mouth, hidden beneath a scarf, didn’t move.
But her eyes did.
Steel and sorrow.
“Why won’t you speak to me?” you asked.
She tilted her head, then turned away, disappearing into the hall.
“Wait—please.”
You followed, barefoot, trailing your nightdress through corridors of black marble. Down endless staircases. Past portraits that watched too closely. Into the garden where the roses slept beneath a blanket of snow.
“I deserve to know who you are,” you said. “What you are.”
Silence.
Your breath caught in your throat. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears.
“Please. Show me.”
She froze. Then, slowly—agonizingly slowly—reached up and tugged the scarf away from her face.
You took a step back.
Scars, jagged and brutal, cut across her cheek. Her nose had once been broken. One eye, the left, was a pale shade of stormcloud, half-blind. And beneath her coat, iron plating disappeared beneath her collarbone, trailing down like vines of machinery across muscle and skin.
She did not blink. Did not flinch.
And neither did you. Not until the fear, raw and ancient, stirred in your belly.
You turned.
And ran.
Through the gardens. Across the snow. Toward the frozen lake that glimmered under moonlight like a mirror shattered into stillness.
“Stop!” Her voice, deep and rough as stone, broke behind you.
But your legs were faster than reason. Faster than mercy.
The lake groaned beneath your feet.
Then cracked.
Then gave way.
The cold was instant. Violent. Your lungs seized. You kicked, flailed, reached toward a surface that blurred into sky. The world turned to silence and blue.
And then—
An iron hand gripped the back of your corset.
You were yanked upward, sputtering, choking, hair slick to your face. She dragged you from the water like a storm dragging ships from sea.
You collapsed on the bank, coughing, shivering. She crouched beside you, her eyes wild.
“Why?” you rasped. “Why save me?”
She said nothing. Only unfastened her coat and wrapped it around your shoulders.
And for a heartbeat, a single heartbeat, her hand brushed your cheek.
Not with iron. With skin. Warm, calloused, trembling.
Then she was gone again.
And the snow kept falling.
The morning after the lake had swallowed you whole, you woke to warmth—a fire crackling in the hearth and the scent of rosemary wafting through the thick curtains. Your clothes were dry, your body wrapped in thick, luxurious blankets, and your skin tingled where the chill had once cut through you like a blade. You could barely remember how you’d gotten back to your room, or the wild gaze that had burned in her eyes.
But there was no trace of her in the room now. No hint of the woman who had saved you, whose touch still lingered on your cheek like a secret.
You sat up slowly, trying to push the shivers from your limbs. The castle felt colder today—darker, even though the sun had risen and its light slanted through the ice-covered windows. The roses outside seemed even more lifeless, the frost heavier. The air in the halls was thick with something ancient, an unspoken tension.
That was when you heard it—a low hum. A strange vibration in the air, as though the walls themselves were whispering. It tugged at the edges of your consciousness, pulling you toward something you couldn’t name.
With hesitant steps, you left the warmth of your room. The corridors seemed endless, colder, and yet they whispered to you, like a promise half-fulfilled. The mirrors, once distant and silent, seemed to hum with life today, their reflections warped and flickering, like echoes of a life that no longer existed.
You wandered, following the sound, your heart beat quickening in your chest. Eventually, you found it—the music. It wasn’t coming from a room. It was coming from a door—a door you hadn’t noticed before.
This door, unlike the others, was old. Ancient. Covered in vines of iron, the metal twisting around the wood as if it were trying to break free. There was no handle, only a faint indentation of a symbol that you couldn’t place.
You reached for it without thinking.
The door swung open with a creak that echoed through the silence.
What you saw inside made your breath catch in your throat.
It was a room of mirrors.
Dozens of them, stretching across the stone walls like portals to another world. They were all different in shape and size, framed with intricate designs of leaves, vines, and thorns that seemed to move as your eyes flicked across them. But what struck you the most was the center of the room, where a large mirror stood taller than the rest, its frame carved from the blackest wood you had ever seen.
This mirror… felt alive. It pulsed, its surface flickering with an eerie light. And within it—there she was.
The Beast.
She stood motionless, her body barely visible in the reflection. The scars that marred her face were harsher, more pronounced. The iron arm gleamed with an unnatural shine, and her gaze—her stormy eyes—were locked on you, as if she could see through the mirror itself.
For a moment, you couldn’t breathe. Time seemed to stop, the silence between you stretching thin and tight.
Then, she moved.
The Beast stepped forward in the reflection, her figure distorting the surface of the glass like ripples on water. You couldn’t look away, even as a cold sweat began to gather on your neck.
“I thought you might come,” her voice echoed, deep and rich. But there was a sadness in it, a mournful sound that tugged at something inside you.
You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. Something about the way she stood, something about her presence, made you feel small and yet… strangely at peace.
“You’re not like the others,” she continued, her voice lower now, as if it were a secret shared only between you and her. “They wanted to leave. They all wanted to leave. But you… you stayed.”
You found your voice at last. “I didn’t know what else to do,” you whispered. “I don’t understand this place. I don’t understand you.”
Her lips curled into something like a smile, but it was more sorrow than joy. “No one ever does.”
The mirrors around you hummed louder now, the reflections of the Beast blurring, overlapping. You felt yourself being drawn into their depths, the world around you starting to slip away.
“Who are you?” you asked, your voice barely more than a breath.
A long pause stretched out between you. She stepped closer in the mirror, so close that you could almost feel her breath on your skin. “I was once a noble warrior,” she murmured, her eyes never leaving yours. “A woman cursed by her own cruelty, by her own vanity. I was a fool. A selfish fool.”
The words hung in the air like a heavy fog, and your heart twisted. You felt a sudden pang of empathy for her, even though you knew you should be afraid. The stories you had heard—stories of wicked beasts and wicked curses—did not match the depth of sorrow in her eyes.
She took another step forward in the mirror, and your heart skipped. You could almost feel her presence, as if she were standing right in front of you, her form made of shadows and light. “I was given a choice: to die or to be reborn. But in being reborn, I became something less than human, something that haunts the edges of this place.”
The words were like a spell, curling around you, binding you to her.
“Why are you showing me this?” you asked softly. “Why now?”
“Because,” she said, her voice softening, “you are the only one who has ever stayed. And I cannot change what I am until I am seen for what I truly am.” She looked down at her iron hand, flexing it slowly. “I have waited for someone to see me, truly see me. Not as a beast, but as a soul broken by time. Someone who isn’t afraid.”
You were silent for a long time, the weight of her confession settling on you like a heavy cloak. You wanted to reach out. You wanted to do something, say something to ease the burden she had carried for so long.
But before you could speak, the mirror shimmered again, her image fading back into the glass, leaving you alone in the room of endless reflections.
The room fell silent. The humming stopped. The mirrors turned cold again, their lifeless reflections only showing your own figure, standing alone in the darkness.
But the feeling lingered—the echo of her words, her presence, her pain.
And as you left the room, a single thought clung to your mind: Maybe, just maybe, the Beast wasn’t the monster after all.
The next days passed in a strange, haunted rhythm. You couldn’t escape the pull of the mirrors—their silent whispers haunting your every step. The Beast’s presence lingered in your mind like a shadow, both distant and impossibly close. You hadn’t spoken to her since that moment in the room of mirrors, but her words had become like a mantra in your head: You are the only one who has ever stayed.
You spent your days wandering the castle, tracing the arc of its strange halls, your feet gliding over the marble floors as if you were drifting through a dream. But it wasn’t the beauty of the castle that held your attention. It was the emptiness, the overwhelming silence that clung to the walls like cobwebs. There was something deeply lonely about this place—something that seemed to bleed into the very air you breathed.
The only thing that offered any comfort was the library.
The library, vast and ancient, seemed to stretch on forever. The shelves towered high above, filled with books that smelled of dust and magic. It was here, among the stories of distant lands and forgotten kings, that you felt a fleeting sense of peace. The books, once so ordinary, had become your refuge—a space where you could disappear into other worlds, away from the heavy gaze of the mirrors, away from the Beast.
But still, her presence lingered.
One evening, as dusk fell over the frozen grounds outside, you found yourself drawn back to the grand dining hall. The fire flickered in the hearth, casting long, dancing shadows over the room. It had been nearly a week since you last saw the Beast, and for reasons you couldn’t explain, you felt an overwhelming urge to seek her out.
You entered the hall quietly, your footsteps muffled by the thick velvet of the carpet. The room, though beautiful in its own right, felt cold—empty. The long table, set for one, stretched before you, glistening with untouched silverware and delicate glassware. There, at the far end, stood a single figure, her back to you.
The Beast.
Her silhouette was a strange blend of shadow and form, her iron arm gleaming faintly in the firelight. She didn’t turn when you entered, but you could feel her awareness settle over you like a heavy weight.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire. You stood there, watching her, and she—perhaps sensing your gaze—did not move.
Finally, you could bear it no longer.
“I came to find you,” you said softly, the words slipping from your lips before you could stop them.
The Beast stiffened, her shoulders tightening as though bracing for something. When she turned slowly to face you, there was an unreadable expression on her face—something you couldn’t quite place.
“Did you?” Her voice was a low rasp, rich with something you couldn’t understand.
You nodded, not knowing what you hoped to find or what you could even say. All the words in your mind seemed too small, too fragile to break the space between you.
A long, tense silence followed. Then, the Beast’s iron hand moved, brushing against the edge of the table. She seemed to be considering something, her eyes narrowing slightly, as though weighing your presence in the room.
“Why do you stay?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Everyone else leaves, but you…” She trailed off, her gaze flicking to the side as though she couldn’t quite look you in the eye.
“I don’t know,” you replied honestly. “I don’t have any reason to leave. And… I don’t know if I could leave, not without understanding what’s here.”
Her eyes flickered with something—recognition? Hope? But it was gone in an instant, swallowed by the shadows that clung to her form.
She took a step toward you then, her movement slow but purposeful. You held your ground, though your heart raced in your chest. She was near enough now that you could see the scars that marred her skin, the jagged lines where her human form had been twisted and broken, the strange, mournful sadness that clung to her eyes.
“You want to understand me?” she asked, her voice softer now, almost intimate. “Then you must see me. Truly see me.”
You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “I’ve tried. I don’t understand everything, but I see you. I see more than just the Beast.”
A flicker of something passed over her face. For a moment, you thought she might say something—might finally reveal the truth of her curse—but then she turned away, walking toward the large, ornate door that led out into the courtyard.
Without turning back, she spoke again. “Then come with me.”
You hesitated, uncertainty gripping you. But something inside you stirred—something deeper than fear, a pull you couldn’t resist. Slowly, you followed her, your feet moving of their own accord as you walked through the long, silent hallways.
The castle was a maze, its winding corridors twisting like the threads of fate itself. But the Beast seemed to know where she was going, and you followed in her wake, drawn by something you couldn’t name.
Finally, she stopped in front of a grand set of double doors. The wood was old, worn, the edges softened by time. She turned to face you then, her iron hand resting lightly on the door.
“This is where it all began,” she said softly, her voice almost lost in the silence. “This is where I was made.”
With a creak, she pushed the doors open, and the room inside took your breath away.
It was a ballroom, grander than anything you had seen in the castle, but it was in ruins—dust-covered chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, their crystals dull and broken. The floor, once polished to a mirror shine, was cracked and worn. But despite its decay, the room was still beautiful—haunting, even.
The Beast stepped forward, her iron-clad footfalls echoing in the vast emptiness. She walked to the center of the room, her back straight, her head held high.
“This is where I once danced,” she said, her voice filled with a strange, painful nostalgia. “Before the curse, before the monster I became.”
You approached slowly, your gaze scanning the room. The air felt thick here, laden with forgotten memories, lost time. It was as though the very room had been frozen in the past, suspended in some moment before the fall.
The Beast stood there for a long time, her eyes closed as though she were reliving a memory—one so painful that it caused her to tremble.
And then, to your surprise, she extended her hand toward you.
“I may be a monster,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “But I remember what it was like to be human. To feel. To dance.”
You stood there, unsure, as the invitation hung in the air between you. Could you? Could you trust her, take her hand, and step into the shadow of her past?
But something inside you whispered that this was the moment—the moment when everything could change.
Without thinking, you stepped forward, placing your hand in hers.
And as the music began to play—a soft, haunting melody—you danced with the Beast, the two of you moving together in a forgotten waltz, spinning through the echoes of time.
The shadows no longer seemed so dark. The loneliness that clung to the castle began to ease, replaced by something fragile, something delicate: hope.
And for the first time since you arrived, you felt like you weren’t alone.
The Beast had shown you a piece of herself—a sliver of the person she had once been. And in that moment, you realized something that both terrified and thrilled you: perhaps, just perhaps, she could be more than the monster she believed herself to be.
And maybe—just maybe—there was love hidden in the ruins, waiting to bloom once again.
Days turned to weeks, and though the air around the castle had lightened, there was still something heavy resting in your chest. The Beast—Sevika—had become your world, and yet, despite the warmth she had begun to offer, there was still a lingering emptiness. You couldn’t ignore the ache in your heart, the yearning for the life you had left behind. Your father, your family—how were they? Were they well? Had they missed you as you missed them?
Sevika must have noticed the weight of it in your eyes, the way your gaze would drift to the window at the first light of dawn, your thoughts clearly far away. One evening, as you sat together by the fire, her low voice broke the silence.
“You miss them, don’t you?” Sevika asked, her gaze unwavering as she studied the flames.
You hesitated. The truth was right there on the tip of your tongue, heavy in your chest. The longing for home, the ache of memories that hadn’t faded despite the years. You missed your father’s smile, his gentle presence; you missed the chaos of your siblings, the simple rhythm of life before everything changed.
“I do,” you admitted softly. “I miss them all. I miss how things were before…”
Before the curse, before the castle, before Sevika had become the center of your existence.
Sevika’s expression softened, a hint of sadness in her eyes. She had seen the depth of your love for your family, and though she never voiced it, you knew she understood what it meant to be torn between two worlds.
“Go,” she said, her voice a low murmur, almost as if she were granting you permission. “Go to them. Spend time with them. You deserve it.”
“But what about you?” you asked, feeling the weight of the words as they left your mouth. The thought of leaving Sevika, of walking away from this place that had slowly started to feel like home, unsettled you in a way you couldn’t quite explain.
“I will be here,” Sevika answered, her eyes dark but steady. “You don’t need to worry about me. Go, and when you're ready... come back.”
Her words stung more than they comforted. She was letting you go. No anger. No desperation. Just the quiet understanding of someone who had been alone for far too long and knew how much you needed this.
And so, with a heavy heart, you left the castle the following morning. The road that had once been so unfamiliar to you now felt like a pathway you could walk in your sleep. You traveled for days, the distance between you and the castle growing with each step. Every day, you reminded yourself why you were leaving. Your family needed you. You hadn’t seen them in so long. You had to make sure they were okay.
When you finally reached the familiar outskirts of your childhood home, it felt like a dream. The house stood tall in the distance, its worn walls and crooked roof the same as you remembered. You could hear the laughter of your siblings, the scent of your father’s cooking drifting in the air. The warmth that washed over you was a balm for your soul.
Your father, who had grown thinner since your departure, greeted you at the door with tears in his eyes. He enveloped you in a tight embrace, murmuring your name as though afraid you might disappear. Your sisters surrounded you, their laughter filling the space around you like sunlight breaking through the clouds. They teased you playfully about how much you’d changed, how different you seemed, but you didn’t mind. You were home. And for the first time in months, you felt at peace.
For a week, life seemed almost normal. The weight in your heart had lifted for a time, replaced with the joy of family dinners, shared stories, and the comforting familiarity of home. You slipped into your old life with ease, finding joy in the simple moments that had once felt so ordinary.
But as the days passed, the silence that lingered between you and your father, your siblings, grew louder. You missed the sound of Sevika’s voice in the still of the night, her presence in the rooms of the castle. You missed the way she had slowly become more than just the Beast in your eyes. You missed her strength, her vulnerability—everything she had become to you. And the more you allowed yourself to remember, the more you realized that your heart had never truly left the castle.
One evening, as you sat outside with your father, watching the stars twinkle in the sky, the conversation turned to old memories, to stories of his youth and the life he had once known. You listened, hanging on every word, until a sudden realization struck you like a wave.
“Father,” you said, voice trembling slightly, “I have to go back.”
He looked at you, confused. “Go back? Where?”
“To the castle,” you said softly. “To her.”
His expression faltered, his brow furrowing in concern. “But why, my child? I thought you were happy here. I thought this was where you belonged.”
Tears filled your eyes, but you blinked them away, determined to be strong. “I am happy here, Papa. But I am also happy there. And… and I love her. I can’t ignore that.”
He sighed, his weathered hand resting on yours. “Then go. Go to where your heart calls you.”
The road back to the castle felt longer than it had the first time. The air seemed heavier, filled with an unease that clung to the bones. The sky above you was muted, a pale gray that bled into the horizon, mirroring the heaviness in your chest. Every step felt like a distant echo, a reminder of the promises you had made to yourself, to her.
As you neared the gates, they creaked open on their own, as if the castle itself was beckoning you back. But the sight that greeted you was nothing like the castle you had left behind. The stone walls, once majestic, now stood cracked and weathered, covered in a thick blanket of moss. The ivy that had once adorned the castle like a beautiful gown now seemed to strangle it, twisting around the towers like a living thing.
The gardens, once full of life, were overrun with thorns. The rosebushes you had once admired were now wild, their petals wilting, their thorns sharp and unforgiving. The air was thick with a strange, stagnant smell—like something had died, but no one had the strength to bury it.
As you stepped inside, the warmth of the castle was gone. The hearths were cold, the great chandeliers that once shone with light were dim and brittle, their crystal shards hanging like dead stars. The halls were quiet, the silence oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of the old wood beneath your feet.
Roses—dozens of them—lined the halls. Their vines twisted up the walls, their thorns sharp and jagged. The petals, once vibrant, were now dull, some already falling to the floor, leaving trails of wilted blooms in their wake. The scent of the roses was suffocating, thick with the weight of decay.
You walked through the corridors, heart pounding, as if you could hear her, Sevika, somewhere in the dark corners of this crumbling place. You followed the path, feeling the weight of time pressing against your chest, and when you reached the heart of the castle—the room where you had first found the rose—the air felt colder still.
There, at the center of it all, was the glass vase. The rose inside it, once vibrant and full of life, was now barely clinging to the last of its petals. It was sickly, fragile, its edges turning black, as though it too had been drained of life.
And then you saw her.
Sevika lay in the corner of the room, her massive form hunched, her iron arm resting at her side like a broken wing. Her once-proud posture was now a shadow of itself, her body weak, her breathing shallow. The vibrant glow that had once surrounded her was gone, replaced by an ashen pallor, a coldness that seemed to seep into the very walls of the room.
“Sevika?” Your voice cracked as you rushed to her side. You kneeled beside her, your hands trembling as you cupped her face, feeling the coldness of her skin. Her once fierce eyes were now closed, her breath coming in ragged, weak gasps.
You shook her gently, your heart breaking with every second that passed. “Wake up. Please… Sevika. Please.”
The words caught in your throat, your mind racing with a thousand questions. What had happened? Why was she like this? What could you do?
You looked at the rose in the glass vase. Its last petal was hanging by a thread, its beauty now a pale shadow of what it once was. And in that moment, you understood.
It wasn’t just the curse that had drained her strength. It was the curse of the rose—the curse of love that could never fully bloom, of promises that could never be kept. The beast inside her, the part that had been cursed to remain forever in this form, was dying along with the rose. She couldn’t survive without it, just as the rose couldn’t survive without her.
Your hands shook as you took her hand in yours, pressing it against your chest. “Please, Sevika. You can’t leave me. You can’t.”
Tears blurred your vision, but you blinked them away, holding her face gently in your hands. “I—I love you. I love you more than I ever knew I could. I never wanted to leave you. I should never have left you.”
Her eyelids fluttered, her weak breath catching in her throat. A flicker of something—of recognition—passed across her face, though it was faint, distant.
“Sevika…” you whispered again, your voice trembling, “I don’t care if you’re the Beast. I love you. I love you in every form, every way, no matter what you’ve been made to be. Please don’t go. Please don’t leave me alone.”
Her eyes cracked open slowly, weakly, the dim light catching the glint of the iron in her gaze. A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips, though it was bittersweet, full of pain.
“I knew you would come back,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, barely audible. “I knew it, even when the darkness came… I knew you’d come for me.”
You held her tighter, desperate, your fingers clutching her arm like a lifeline. “I should have never left you. I should have been here. I’m so sorry, Sevika. Please…”
“Don’t apologize,” she murmured. “It was never your fault. It was always mine. I... was never meant to be loved. I was born from that curse, from that dark place. The beast I am… I’m just a shadow of what I could have been. The rose... it was all I had left.”
“But you have me,” you said, your voice breaking with emotion. “I’ll always be here. I’ll always love you, Sevika. Please, don’t die. Don’t leave me.”
The last petal of the rose in the vase fell, its delicate form floating to the ground, like a whisper in the wind. The rose was gone.
And with it, Sevika’s strength faded.
But as her body grew weaker in your arms, a glow began to emerge from within her, faint at first, like the dying embers of a fire, then slowly growing stronger. The thorns that once covered her body began to recede, like they were shedding their grip on her soul. The beastly form she had worn so long seemed to be unraveling, piece by piece, as though the curse itself was finally breaking apart.
“Sevika?” you whispered, your voice thick with tears.
And then, in a final, breathtaking moment, the transformation began.
Her iron arm, once a symbol of her curse, shifted and changed. Her body glowed with a soft, golden light, and the twisted vines and thorns that had once marked her skin melted away, leaving her bare and vulnerable. Her once-rough features softened, becoming something almost familiar, something that looked like the woman you had come to love.
Her eyes, now full of warmth, opened, meeting yours with a clarity that sent shivers through your soul.
“You came back,” she whispered, her voice still weak but full of love.
And in that moment, you knew that the curse had been broken—not just by the rose, but by the love that had bloomed between you both. The love that had been tested, torn apart, and rebuilt stronger than ever.
“I never left,” you whispered back, your lips trembling as you leaned down, your forehead resting against hers. Slowly, you closed the distance, your lips meeting hers in a kiss. It was gentle at first, hesitant, as if both of you were afraid to believe that this moment was real. But as the kiss deepened, a fire ignited between you, a burning passion that had been hidden for so long.
Your hands cupped her face, feeling the softness of her skin, the warmth of her breath against you. She responded in kind, her fingers trembling as they brushed through your hair, pulling you closer, as if she too couldn’t believe that the curse had finally been broken.
For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. There was no darkness, no curse, no fear. There was only the two of you, finally free to love each other without the weight of the past.
When you finally pulled away, your lips still tingling with the intensity of the kiss, you gazed into her eyes—eyes that were no longer filled with sorrow or regret, but with love. True love.
“I love you,” she whispered, her voice full of reverence, as if saying it out loud somehow made it more real.
“I always have,” you replied, your heart soaring. “And I always will.”
And as you kissed her again, you both knew that nothing, not even the darkness that had once held you captive, could ever tear you apart again.
It was said the castle never stopped blooming.
Even when snow blanketed the world in white, roses still bloomed on its windowsills, warm with the memory of a love that had defied the cold. Vines curled like lacework across marble balustrades, and petals drifted like silk through the air, eternal as breath.
In the heart of it all was you—and Sevika.
The ballroom where the curse had broken now held music every night. Not the mournful hush of enchanted halls, but lilting notes played on harps and flutes, accompanied by soft laughter and candlelight. The mirrors no longer reflected loneliness but joy, shared glances, and the golden flicker of love lived out loud.
You often walked the gardens in the twilight hours, hand in hers. Her iron arm, once feared, now shone with filigree and gold in the low light—etched with the vines of the rose you had once asked for. She had changed, yes. But not in the way stories warned of. She had bloomed, just as you had, and together you grew—a wild, wondrous tangle of what it means to be fully seen, and still, fully loved.
And every spring, beneath the grand arch of roses in the garden where the curse first cracked open to let love in, you renewed your vow.
“I love you,” you whispered, always the same way, forehead against hers, heart pressed to heart.
“I love you,” she answered, every time as if she were still astonished by the miracle of it.
And the castle listened.
The wind carried your laughter. The roses remembered your names. The stars always seemed to shine a little brighter over that place—where a girl who asked only for a rose gave her heart instead, and in return, found a soul that matched hers petal for petal, thorn for thorn.
And so, the tale lived on.
Told by firesides, inked into songbooks, whispered by lovers in gardens and alcoves.
A story of iron and softness. Of wild roses and velvet mornings. Of a girl who loved a Beast, and a Beast who learned to be loved.
andulkaphoto
germansingergirl
