Phillipe has a minion!

Camille the Bonnie

phillipe is a classic fairy tale prince – or at least, that's what others would like him to be. true, he lives in a large, marvelous palace filled to the brim with shining treasures and fancy furniture, but the real phillipe is hidden underneath all the frivolous frippery. his mother is dead, and he is the sole heir to the throne of aldora.

growing up, phillipe was never one for violence or cruelty. his father, king mason, would frequently ask him to train with some of the more experienced soldiers in order to work on his swordsmanship. with his small size and rather delicate frame, it wasn't difficult for phillipe to easily dodge blows aimed at him, but his attempts at attacking another were halfhearted and rough, to say the least.

king mason told his son that he had to try his best during training. after all, fairy tale princes had to be strong in order to defeat dragons and overcome enchantments that surrounded princesses in distress. phillipe did try his best, but it was never quite enough to please his father.

his father soon realized that phillipe was not who he wanted him to be, and his disappointment in his son grew stronger. king mason would occasionally give lectures to phillipe about who he ought to be, but most of the time, the king was cold and distant. he couldn't bear to look his own son in the eyes, yet he had no trouble bossing him about.

but what the king didn't realize was that phillipe was dying. perhaps not in the literal sense, but in a more metaphorical one – the castle and its company were suffocating phillipe until he couldn't breathe, couldn't think for fear of what others might conclude about him. perhaps the king couldn't bear to look into his son's eyes because they had become lackluster and dull. empty. inside phillipe was a soul that was dying, but nobody cared enough to see.

phillipe never wanted to be the strong one, the one who could save princesses left and right and have women lined up at his door. he wanted to be the one that was rescued – phillipe has been waiting to be found for his entire life. but he must learn how to save himself before he can begin attempting to save others. ultimately, phillipe wants to leave aldora upon his horse and roam far away lands filled with new sights and sounds.

and perhaps one day, phillipe will find his own fairy tale ending.

the face peering back at me is my own, but i do not recognize it.

the mirror is of poor craftsmanship, and a hairline crack down its clouded surface divides it into two halves. two halves make up a whole, and perhaps i too am composed of different arias fused together in a dissonant embrace. but no matter how shattered the looking glass may be, the fragments still serve their purpose, and maybe that is how they see me – damaged and defective, shoddily made, but not demolished enough to be brushed aside like the last few strands of a spider's web.

i am composed of crystalline mermaid tears, a siren's song wrapped in silk and pearls, a gentle breeze on a soft summer day. that is all that i have ever been, all that i ever want to be, but my father presses me, saying i must be tough – i am to be made of bristly bull horns, an old oak's strength manifested in its winding limbs, a diamond shining bright and clear and powerful. strong. i am charged with the burden of others' expectations, a milky haze branching out and gasping, grasping at me until my thoughts are lost among musings that are not my own. but all the same, i am intoxicated with the meager hope of my eventual departure, the idea that one day i will be able to travel the world until my feet are sore from the dust of different lands and my eyes are heavy with their brilliance.

their whispers will follow me, but perhaps i won't heed their words, the demons that they use to break me until i am simply their docile pet, bearing a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. i have no desire to be someone else's savior, for all my life i have only coveted the thought of finding my own. it is a contentious dream, but it is my dream, and maybe it is just as proper and right as any of theirs.

the surface of the mirror is filmy, turned slightly cloudy by grit and other substances i can't quite put a name to. at least i know that i have made an impression on one thing in this bleak life. a tear falls slowly down my face, signaling the beginning of the river styx because i am a lackluster puppet devoid of emotion, dead to all those who know that appearances are flimsy at best. geppetto is not my father and i am not pinocchio, for i am not a real boy – only the semblance of one. what a poor player i make. my lashes blink in time with the heartbeat of a hummingbird, for i must repress the unwanted tears that are looming on the horizon, threatening to pour with every beat of my body. i cannot let myself cry. i will not. tears are a sign of weakness, he says.

and my fingers tremble from the weight of worry's whispers, but still i reach for the crown and place it gently upon my unruly head, my hair a rat's nest of unkempt and unkept promises, murmurs of things that stretch farther than the rolling castle grounds.

and as always, i will paste a smile on my face and rise to greet the day.

♥️ - Spirited
♥️ - ROOSTER
♥️ - ass
♥️ - Fijiguide
♥️ - Hitherto
♥️ - sien
♥️ - User not found: tusk
♥️ - Henzypoots
♥️ - Shiny

thanks to ver for letting me adopt!