A Blacksmith and Her Prince // Technoblade x Reader

How Do You Get To Wonderland?

[Hi, I missed you guys. I hope everyone had an amazing holidays and happy new year, may your best wishes come true <3. I had a lot of fun writing this part, so please enjoy!~] ~Emily

"This is a nightmare."

You were standing in the middle of one of the many palaces' grand bathrooms, it was absolutely covered with cracked marble as gold trails lined the walls from head to toe. The bathroom is vast in a way it was designed as a mirage, thanks to the wall to wall length plane mirrors, illuminating more of the gilt marble. A curious child would trace their finger tip along the cracks, fascinated by the beauty of expensive stone, even a blacksmith with no knowledge of a wealthy living, would take her time to gander at such artistic pleasures. If only she weren't detangling a strand of hair at a time from a bird's nest of a head.

The lengthy mirrors were enchanting on their own, but it made you protrude in a way that felt vexatious. No matter where you looked, the spotlight shimmer of the glossed over mirror had its sight set on you. Causing a little too much light to show subtle scars from welding or uneven pigmentation from the burning heat of a furnace. You used to be self conscious of such insecurities- but with age, you learnt to love and to be excited for the next scar or bump, maybe even a bruise. Each telling a story or a time of freeing ingenuity, a way of expression. Something to distract you from the true troubles of the world, troubles that were minor before arriving here, in this inescapable death trap. Such a weird thing to reminisce on, work. Hard labour would have most tremble to their knees, yet here you are, wishing to be sweating in a hot back room, cursing customers under your breath. It was melancholy, it was misery, but you aren't a child, you aren't gonna stand here and be sad over messy hair.

You are strong and independent, beautiful is boring, being a hard ass sounds much more fun.

"FUCK." Being perfect isn't everything, but holy shit were these knots pissing you off. "Stupid dumb tin can looking ass, fuck, fuck, fuck." Each strand pricked your head in small amounts of pain, not so much to cause utter agony, but enough to crawl under your skin.

You tried to admire the golden sinks and brass toilets, only to be pulled back to reality by your own fingers. Eventually the strands evened out, each falling into place. Creating a very, uh- well...

"Jesus, I look like a puff ball." Your hair was either always tied back, or just let to fall as straight as string. Which was a rarity, since an annoying strand can cause many problems when working. But, even if it causes mental anguish and really intrusive thoughts, it was practically a lion's mane, no hair tie could save you now.

Anguish may be a dramatic term, it's just hair after all.

Hair that was styled the same way as a figure of great strength and never ending love.

Hair that was fierce as burning fire, fire that burnt angrily more powerful than a combusting furnace.

Hair that shaped the face of toothy smiles and heartwarming eyes that would just envelope you in the most safe way, cover you with a blanket of security, so warm, so fuzzy.

You were always compared to her, your mother. She was the light in so many eyes including your own, people probably needed you during that horrible time, needed something to just remind them of her, but you weren't her. You could never be her, no one can.

You hated your hair, you hated it because of who it reminded you of. It would be easier to just chop it all off or shave it completely, but the guilt that would follow would only leave more holes in your heart.

Your dream- your only dream, is to find something to fill those holes.

You were relieved to finally leave the bathroom, the obnoxious light almost starting to take effect on your brain. Dizziness on top of a caffeine filled head sounded like an agonising start to a day, most of all you needed to be on your A game, you had plans. Which you may or may not have pondered on all night, causing regretful bags to tug underneath your eyes. It's not like it could have been avoided, it was gonna happen eventually, the talk.