Disclaimer!: Sadly, I don't own SPoP. The cover art was done by @Octopussy of Twitter
On with the show :P
She was running along the beach. The salty air sung across her skin and in her hair. Her feet sunk into the wet sand with every stride.
"Nym! Wait up!" Quinn called.
"Never!" she laughed and sped up. She leapt over fallen palms and rocks. Suddenly she heard a cry.
She skidded to a halt and whipped around. "Quinn!" she stumbled over to her crumpled sibling. "Are you alright?"
They didn't respond.
She knelt and shook them. "C'mon! Qui, you have to get up!"
She shook them harder; expecting them to pop up and laugh like they usually did.
"Qui, this no time for games! Da's going to kill us if we're late."
The water was spreading across the sand, droplets splattered on the rocks.
Wait. What? Water isn't black-
Shadow Weaver woke, halfway out of bed, her heartbeat thundering in her ears as she gasped for air.
Clawing at the sweat-soaked sheets Shadow Weaver detangled her legs and planted her feet on the floor. Tiles, not sand. Brightmoon, not the Beach.
The beach. Not the Beach. Brightmoon.
Hands fumbled in the half dark as she grasped the water at her bedside. Drinking greedily, she swallowed the lump in her throat, pushing down the emotions into the ever growing ball of ice that was her soul.
Water... drowning... No. No. Must not think of it. Must not think of them.
Shadow Weaver pushed herself up and shuffled to the bathroom. Her older scars stretched painfully as she pulled off her nightshirt and deposited it in the hamper.
The cold shower helped cool her heated skin. She steadied a hand on the wall. The tension eased from her shoulders. She sighed as the pain melted into a dull throbbing. After scrubbing the crawling sensation from her skin, she shut off the water and wrapped herself in a towel.
Her fangs made little scratches in the handle of her toothbrush as she scrubbed her wisdoms and gums. She rinsed and, satisfied she had removed all plaque from her teeth, wiped the remaining condensation from the mirror. The face she saw there was almost unrecognizable from the child of her nightmares. In the Fright Zone, she had done her best to avoid mirrors at all costs but in Brightmoon - where there was a mirror in practically every room - her reflection was unavoidable.
After losing her mask in the heart of Etheria, she had refused to replace it. The silly princesses had seen her face. Covering it now would show weakness. Not that any of them had the guts to look her in the eye. She wasn't blind, she saw their looks of disgust, their revulsion at her scars. She had seen the ways people winced as they glimpsed her face. Spineless, pathetic children that they were. They didn't have the strength to stand on their own. Always depending on others. Glimmer had guts though, she admitted. She had the power to rule. To survive. Just like Adora. And Catra... well, she was smarter than she looked.
Of all the people she had expected to be happy for her return, none were on the list. Castaspella had been shocked to say the least, Glimmer and Adora had said nothing, and Catra had immediately stomped out - followed by her alien/cat familiar. Though distant, Glimmer had softened at the sight of Shadow Weaver's injuries. Blistering red burns and gashes had mutated Shadow Weaver's arms and stomach, adding a new layer of pinched and papery skin. Now here she was, the personification of the consequences of dark magic. Or so Mystacor portrayed her.
She huffed. Fools. Despite what the majority of the population thought, there is no good or bad magic. Only intent. While demonic and angelic beings existed in the material world, their magic was simply basic spells cast at a higher level. The Spell of Obtainment was a tool used to summon a demon - she knew that now. Shoggoth simply happened to use draining spells as as a way of feeding on magic. It was not a spell itself, just an ancient being of advanced knowledge.
Shaking herself from her inner musings, she squeezed the remaining water from her hair and combed it. Patiently she ran through her shadowy locks, working through the snags. When she finished, it laid sleek across her shoulder. If there was one thing she had always prided herself on, it was her hair. It's length and thickness, its rich color and the way it seemed to meld into the shadows around her.
Shadow Weaver always imagined she got her hair from her Papa. She remembered her Da having lighter hair, but she barely recalls anything of her Papa, besides- no, she must not think of them.
Shadow Weaver growled in frustration and swiped at the doorframe, her claws leaving gashes in the wood. Why did she insist on being sentimental? Emotions did her no good. There was nothing to reminisce but broken scraps of memory. They were gone, simple as that.
She dressed in a simple white shirt and maroon pants with a black scarf and hard soled shoes. Glimmer had immediately ordered new clothes for her upon her return. She seemed to have decided to stick to Shadow Weaver's original color scheme, instead of Brightmoon's pinks and soft purples. This Shadow Weaver was grateful as she would rather have gone naked then look like an overgrown child.
Stalking out of her room, she was immediately followed by the guards outside her door. She suppressed a growl at her unwelcome, clanking company but she could nothing about it. Apparently her restrictions from her imprisonment had not been lifted. And she certainly wasn't going to crawl to Glimmer asking her to remove them. So for now, she was stuck with these two metal coated earsores for the foreseeable future.
The advantage of the noise warned people to stay away, the disadvantage was that it murdered her element of surprise. So when she walked into the greenhouse and saw Perfuma already looking at her, she gave an exasperated groan (in her head).
"Good morning, Shadow Weaver," Perfuma greeted cheerily.
"Good morning, your highness," Shadow Weaver drawled. Of all of the rebellion, the flower princess was the least... irritating of the group. Though Shadow Weaver could do without the touching. At least when it was unannounced.
"I hope you slept well."
"I did," Shadow Weaver lied easily.
They stood in silence, Perfuma obviously under the impression the older woman wanted to continue the conversation.
"So... have you had breakfast?" Perfuma asked, smiling.
"Yes, I have." Another lie, but necessary. Ever since the disastrous meal two weeks ago, Shadow Weaver took her meals in her room and studiously avoided the castle's other inhabitants.
The meal in question had taken place a few days after the medical ward had cleared the ex-criminal to go back to her "prison". For some reason, the queen had invited her to have breakfast with the rebellion. Knowing that they could throw her out whenever they wanted, Shadow Weaver had thought it best to accept with grace. Everyone had been making a point to glare at or downright ignore her existence. Catra and the sea princesses in particular had made a point of burning holes in her. If looks could kill she would not have survived. The meal was taken in relative quite, but slowly picked up conversation as everyone began to relax. Then came the tea.
Glimmer had explained that during the rebuilding process they had started to make contact with outside nations. One of these kingdoms happened to trade in a flower that was used for medicinal, culinary, traditional, and religious purposes. The flower's scent also happened to be tied to a vast majority of unpleasant memories for Shadow Weaver. The very scent, amplified by her keen scenes, made her stomach roll and her throat tighten in panic. She could've exited fine, if not extremely shaken, if Glimmer hadn't piped up and asked Shadow Weaver that dreaded question:
"What was it like? Dying."
The table went silent. All eyes flicked from the queen to the sorceress. The question was understandable, coming from Glimmer. She had lost both her father and her mother, the latter probably forever. Though what happened to Shadow Weaver wasn't truly coming back to life (more of a form of teleportation). She had, by Adora and Catra's accounts, committed suicide. To be fair, that was her intent but it obviously had not worked when she had found herself on Brightmoon's doorstep nearly a month after the incident.
Shadow Weaver dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, mulling over her answer.
"Not all people die the same, your majesty," she had answered smoothly.
Glimmer flushed slightly. "I know but... does it hurt at all?
Shadow Weaver paused, debating how best to answer or redirect the conversation. Yes. Yes, it had hurt. It was excruciating to feel your entire being turn to ash as your skin melted and your bones blackened. To feel every agonizing second as an eternity while your blood boiled and your lungs and nose filled with the stench of your own burning flesh. But such an answer would upset the queen and only quicken the end of her welcome.
"No," she lied. And before she could stop she added," Though it's most gratifying saving the world." Immediately she regretted her choice of words.
"That's it? You bump yourself off in the name of 'sacrificing' yourself for us and demand credit!" Catra shot at her. Shadow Weaver fixed her with a calculating look.
"I don't-"
"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. You just waltz in here and expect us to thank you after all the shit you put us through," Catra spat, rising from her seat. Adora rose with her, hand on Catra's shoulder.
Shadow Weaver stood as well - her expression unreadable as the mask she once wore.
"I expected nothing. Least of all from you, Catra." Shadow Weaver had little intention of insinuating an insult, but given her record no one at the table was willing to believe that. Catra clenched her fists, and her space cat's mane stood up in spikes and turned red.
"Catra," Adora whispered pleadingly. Catra huffed and backed down. Having enough of this quickly spiraling meal, Shadow Weaver made a move to leave. On instinct, Catra jumped in front of Adora. This sudden and unexpected movement coupled with her already mounting adrenaline was what finally sent Shadow Weaver over the edge.
Memories and sensations flowed unbidden through her mind. Horrible, agonizing memories of the incense of that accursed flower swept away her senses. In fear and instinct, Shadow Weaver caught Catra's wrist to prevent an imagined attack. Almost instantly, a spell hit her and she was thrown bodily from the room.
She dimly remembered Castaspella holding her there, against the hallway's wall, pinned by the throat. She vaguely remembered the words spat at her, too lost in her memories. Where Casta stood, she saw a much different person. Instead of the clean, manicured hands of the head sorceress of Mystacor, rough, dirty hands of a man pinned her; slowly squeezing the life from her.
Shadow Weaver hadn't been able to face Castaspella after that. The mear thought of the other sorceress caused her heartbeat to spike and her stomach to roll. She just locked herself in her room for the remainder of the week, refusing food, and just curled into a ball as she ignored the world around her.
She slowly started coming out more often as the days progressed. After about 10 days, she finally felt safe enough outside to begin attending to the greenhouse again. All her magical plants had been pulled up and what remained had overgrown in her absence. Glimmer hadn't specifically ordered her away from the garden and Perfuma seemed ecstatic see her "budding and blooming" back into her old hobby, so she spent her days weeding, planting, pruning, and watering her garden back to its former grandeur. Perfuma had even given her seeds to plant (including that cursed flower, which she made a point to crush and burn when Perfuma wasn't looking). She now had squash, corn, beans, cucumbers, carrots, lettuce, peppers, petunias, magnolias, roses, and (of course) daisies. It was too early for any of them to start flowering yet so she spent most of her time weeding and watering. Also, a lot of forced conversation with the flower princess. Like now for instance.
"Well, I'll leave you to it," Perfuma beamed and practically skipped from the room.
Glad to finally have her little haven to herself, she tied on an apron and set to work caring for it.
A/N: Not much to report. School is hell and teenage boys are irritating.