Adora knew what flying was. Whenever Swift Wind wasn't "saving" fellow horses, he would spare an hour or so for Adora. Together, they'd silently traverse the break between blue skies and alabaster clouds. The feeling of going up, up, up was thrilling; the rush of wind that tangled her hair and cooled her skin woke Adora from the bittersweet stupors that seized her days. As Swift Wind and herself rose, Adora's stomach would flip, like a fire work flickering up in her belly, or a spark of lightening that crackled up her throat, turning into a raucous giggle that filled the pocket of her and Swift Wind and nothing else.

Inevitably, the time to land would always come, and Adora would be grounded. The elation would dissipate, her heart rate would settle, and life would resume. It wasn't feasible to fly forever; to live from high to high would be an ignorant attempt at refusing the laws that governed Etheria.

to live from high to high would be an ignorant attempt at refusing the laws that governed Etheria…

Ah. That tangible irony was back, a looming presence Adora understood too well. Adora knew it wasn't feasible, Adora knew it was impossible, Adora knew it would hurt to wish for it, and yet to be without it, without her?

It was unthinkable.

Adora looked for Catra even when she didn't, and whenever she saw a tuft of dark hair? Claws? Gleaming eyes? Fanged smiles?

Adora felt fireworks rise.

Adora lived and fought for those flashes, those whiplash moments of hope shortly followed by grief, and she hated it. Hated herself. It had seemed so normal in the Horde, just the two of them, a bubble of their own flying in makeshift skies, trembling barriers liable to fall at the first intruder's presence. And then, right before they'd broken, Catra had asked her something, a question posed with fear.

"It wasn't all that bad growing up in the Horde, right?"

Adora hadn't known, or perhaps she had, and the answer had simply hurt too much. They'd clung to one another like kites in a gale, and in the end, it had been Adora who let go of the rope. And Adora hated the memory, hated the loss of Catra, hated how easily it had happened, and yet, she was glad! She'd been so tired! Adora had gripped onto Catra because she loved Catra, and she would always love Catra, but love shouldn't have made her so exhausted! Love shouldn't have had to be hidden beneath bed sheets at midnight, or snuck in cabinets during breaks. Love shouldn't have been a lifeline slung back and forth in a gale, and while Adora wanted it back, she didn't want it back the way she'd had it. It was selfish, but Adora had her limits. It was giving up, but Adora couldn't give in to her desires.

Adora wanted to carry Catra up with her, wanted Catra to feel the freedom, feel the fireworks in her belly and the wind in her hair. Adora wanted Catra to see love for what it should be, not a secret hidden but a soft, strong, safe force.

If Adora was flying, Catra had been the kite that had fluttered away and fallen back to Etheria.

Light Hope had been wrong. Adora didn't need to "Let go". Adora needed to grasp back what had fluttered from her fingers, pull it back in to her heart, shield it with her arms whatever the cost, because Adora couldn't live from spike to spike, gut wrenching peaks of exhilarating flight bursting through her veins every time she caught a glimpse of the one person that meant everything.

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When it finally happened, it took everything Adora had to keep her distance, because she could not go back to that place, but shit, she wanted Catra to cross the line.

Catra and Adora watched each other from across the battlefield.

Catra seemed older, less playfully sprung and more warily stiff. She was bleeding too, Adora noticed (with a pang of regret, horror, sorrow), but then, who wasn't? This was a war.

Their blades met with an exulting ring of agony, and Adora wanted to be sick, because these fireworks were wrong, more fire than beauty, rising heat that scalded her insides and reminded her of what she didn't have.

Dust rose beneath their feet as they dodged and twirled in the sun, clockwork dancers who'd set aside grace for something less beautiful and more damaging.

"Catra!" Adora was on the defensive, and not because she was struggling. "Catra!"

Catra continued to ignore her calls, preferring to swing her baton, snarling as a missed swipe sent her sprawling. Adora took the initiative, grappling her Catra into the mud-

There was terror in Catra's eyes, terror that felt like falling for years and years and never finding stable ground.

She-Ra let go, and Adora held Catra tight.

"I don't need you to go fucking easy on me you piece of shit." Catra spat the insult, desperately tossing and turning in Adora's grip, and Adora grimaced because there was no right way to do this.

"Shut up, Catra, and actually listen to me! Please, it's just me! No She-Ra, no Rebellion and no Horde. It's me." Of course, this was a lie and they both knew it; sides and schisms had been their undoing.

"I don't know if you noticed, Princess" Catra brandished the noun and Adora flinched (instinct? upbringing? Guilt and hatred that she would never shed thanks to the Horde?) "We're kind of in the middle of a battle~"

The riptide of bullets and arrows, the howling of war cries, the crunch of land beneath boots…yes, it had registered to Adora, but she had to do this, and Adora would not risk losing the only chance she may have gotten.

"Fuck the battle, Catra." Adora let her eyes travel to Catra's, and her fingertips grazed the rope once more as she let Catra sit up.

"I came here for you."

Fireworks spattered across her cheek when Catra slapped her, and Adora sprawled onto her backside, cradling her reddened skin.

"You did, huh?" Catra let loose a kick, and Adora flew backwards, winded and gasping fragmented lashes of apologies and regrets.

"Well I didn't."

Catra walked away, and Adora felt her flutter from her hands for good.

Then it struck her, worse than any firework punching through her skies, and Adora's torso collapsed into the mud as darkness shrouded her skies.

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Catra was there to meet Adora on the ground, barely catching her in trembling arms.

It was a Horde Bullet, viciously barbed and blossoming with red petals that bloomed across Adora's abdomen.

This was…This was good. This was right. This was justice. This was the Horde's wish. This was…

Oh fuck

This was Adora.

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Adora couldn't open her eyes. They were too stiff, too heavy. She could hear though, she could feel the rattle of machinery passing her and the tremble of the ground.

She could feel the warmth of a figure clutching her, she could hear the shriek of their voice. Was it Glimmer? Bow?

"WHO THE FUCK SHOT HER? ANSWER ME, BASTARDS."

If Adora could have, she would have cried.

Catra had come back.

It took everything Adora had left to raise an arm, to let a hand rest upon Catra's.

It was cliché, like one of Bow's fairy tales. It was soft and stupid, but it was the truest thing Adora could think to do before she was unable to do anything ever again.

"I…" Adora coughed, felt a sliver of blood on her lips and the drip of something cold and salty follow it as a rough hand cradled her cheek, already sorry for the pain it had inflicted.

"l…love…"

Adora fell for the final time.

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Catra hadn't thought it was possible to fall any further than she already had. Surely, you could only tumble so far? Surely, it wasn't possible to sink like this?

And yet…

When Adora had fallen into her arms, Catra had felt herself tumble, felt herself spin away from herself, unwinding like thread from a bobbin and leaving only tangled string in her wake. For fucks sake, just a moment ago Catra had wanted Adora to disappear, to cease in her existence so that the memories of her stopped.

"I know you can do it, Shadow Weaver!" Catra grasped the Sorceress' lapel, flecks of spit sailing upon her mask. "I know you can take memories away, now just do it!"

Fuck, she'd tried everything to get rid of Adora, right down to asking that bastard for help. Shadow Weaver had refused; at the time she'd told Catra she was busy, but after seeing her weakened state, broken and dishevelled within the Horde's imprisonment camp? Catra had a fair idea of the true reason she'd been denied.

Catra wished she didn't have to remember Adora right now. Red blood stemmed from her, no matter how much she tried to staunch the wound, and Adora's skin had turned pasty and pale. Choking back a sharp sob, Catra began dragging Adora's weight as the rumble of a tank forewarned its threat. There was shelter about twenty paces left, a tilted stone wall and a leafy bush that was at the very least away from the fucking Horde.

The "fucking Horde", huh? Of course. Of bloody course.

Catra panted with the effort of Adora's body, cursing in frustration as thick roots and slick mud slowed her journey.

She'd tried to forget. She'd tried to turn around. Tried was the key word. Always had been with Adora. Trying to catch up. Trying to hold on. Trying to let go.

Trying not to break, trying to do this, trying to help her because, oh fuck, the panic swirling in her gut right now burnt, made Catra want to gag.

Yanking Adora with a final gasp into cover, Catra fell to her bloody knees. Her heartbeat thumped in her ears, through her body and all the way down her fingertips. Catra took deep breaths, slowing her racing heart. Lowering a hand to Adora's neck, Catra shakily felt for a pulse.

White clouds billowing from their lips in winter coated courtyards, running from end to end, red and sweat slicked, but Adora was still grinning, smiling even when Shadow Weaver made her "do it again", even when Shadow Weaver pushed her till her muscles quivered still in bed that night as Catra encircled her with her arms.

It was one thing to state that she'd grown up in the Horde. It was another to fully convey the meaning behind the words. Day after day after day, hours and minutes and tasks that filled in the slots and pain that distracted her, and long, long nights spent listening to the beat of Adora's heartbeat.

It hadn't been right, not the way she and Adora had only had each other, and not the way she'd been left, but Catra couldn't…she couldn't…

…she couldn't feel her heartbeat.

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A few soldiers noticed the red bundle that was Catra and Adora, the tear-stricken Captain clutching onto dirtied lapels, choking on her grief.

None other than Catra herself felt the quiver in the air, the gentle tug of a hand, and another, and another, blue eyes and blonde hair and tall warriors with the weight of the world on their shoulders and all the love of a life time in their hearts.

Catra looked up, fiercely grasping Adora, scanning her surroundings. Nobody was there, and yet…

A sword, her sword, glowing and pulsating, its blade almost arching like a spine desperate to raise itself from the ground, maybe fifty paces away and the only thing in Catra's sight.

Catra was used to being left behind, being left in the corner, being forgotten, being lost. Yet now, strong hands she couldn't see grasped at her, pulling her to her feet, dragging her towards the sword. Bullets and arrows bounced away from Catra as her legs began pumping up and down, her speed increasing with every step. Everything was wrong, everything went bad, but the fireworks that travelled up her feet as she sprinted, puckered and reverberating through her skull, crackling through her mind? Something, no, someone else was here, perhaps many. And there was hope, obscure and broken as it was. Adora was always her destination, no matter how far their paths diverged. Fuck, Catra was still mad and hurt but it could wait because whatever this was? Whatever magical Princess shit was helping her grab the sword, whoever was yanking her back to Adora, back to her side, forcing her to raise the blade above Adora's chest and thrust it there?

Some things were worth it.