CW: some depictions of violence and mentions of torture. Nothing too graphic but just a heads up.
It took Catra being six years old to have curiosity and motor function align enough to find herself toddling into the Black Garnet Chamber. Cold tile burned her small feet with every step she ventured, but she turned her gaze to the stone in the center. Massive, glowing a faint crimson, a heartbeat thrumming quietly.
To Catra, whose life until now was nothing but dark corners and steely surfaces, it was enthralling. She reached out tentative, tiny fingers as she drew closer.
"What do you think you're doing?"
The voice sent frost spiking up her spine as she turned to see shadow cast over the light otherwise spilling over the doorway.
"Miss Weaver, I-"
Her trembling squeaks were drowned out. Weaver suddenly loomed over her, bony fingers digging painfully into her thin shoulders.
"One rule," wisps of Weaver's breath sifted through her mask to fan over Catra's face. "I had one rule, and you've managed to tromp your filthy little claws all over it."
Catra knew this wasn't true, could think of a dozen different rules Weaver had droned on about, but she didn't dare refute her.
"Are you so insolent, so ungrateful that you cannot heed simple instructions? Is it ignorance that steeps you in such disgrace?"
"Please, Miss Weaver, I just-"
Catra choked as Weaver clamped a hand around her neck. Spots danced in front of her eyes.
"You were nothing when I found you. Years spent raising you, affording you borrowed time you don't deserve. Ask yourself if anyone else would have had the grace or patience to deal with such a nuisance."
Black began encroaching the corners of Catra's vision.
"I am the reason you're alive instead of being rotted by the roadside as another clump of gutter trash not a soul would care about. If you ever do something like this again, I will not hesitate to snuff. That. Life. Out."
Weaver ignored her feeble, stunted breaths.
"Do you understand?"
Catra nodded weakly.
Weaver released her, and she scrambled for the doorway, wheezing and gulping in great lungfuls of air, her feet pattering incessantly against the freezing floor.
Tears blinded her as she stumbled over loose plating. Her body was wracked with heaving, shuddering gasps, but she didn't stop until she arrived at her room, sporting a few new bruises as she collided with its doorframe.
She heard the muffled chatter of the other children she bunked with coming from within, so she bit back her sobs and pushed the door open.
Lonnie, who was closest, shrieked when she turned and saw Catra collapsed at her feet.
It took Catra being fourteen to have become practiced enough at closing the walls around her heart that she could appear unaffected.
She stood before the podium, eyes gilded, eyes titanium, as the clone fastened the badge securely to her front.
Whispers drifted about her like ghosts. Of the youngest cadet to have ever made Force Captain. Of she to whom death was second nature.
"Impressive," the clone's lips parted in a smile. Prime's smile.
Catra stared at the occupied body before her, then at the badge pressed firmly against her chest.
Where she thought she'd feel triumph was a pit. But she saluted and told herself it only meant that she wasn't finished. It meant she had to keep going.
After the ceremony, someone was waiting for her out in the hall.
"Out of my way," she said coldly.
"Now, Catra," tutted Weaver. "I only want to congratulate you."
"Yeah, I'll bet."
Weaver sighed.
"I know I've been hard on you. The world is a harsh place."
Weaver floated closer and placed a hand tenderly on Catra's cheek. Her gentle strokes had Catra leaning unconsciously into her touch.
"I only ever wanted to prepare you for it. And look at what you've accomplished."
Catra's eyes closed. Inside her was roiling thunder, was fragmented ice dispersed like something desperate, and she reached a trembling hand up to clasp Weaver's.
"You are still so young," Weaver's murmur was shade under a tree.
"Earning Prime's favor is an honorable but difficult ambition. You will need someone in your corner. Someone who is used to the trappings of power."
Catra opened her eyes.
"And I suppose that someone is you?"
Something in Catra was fragile and Weaver's smile was a wheel without spokes.
It took Catra being seventeen for someone to call her a friend.
Scorpia had been a Force Captain for a month but Catra thought her promotion might have come purely off the merit of her physicality. It sure wasn't because of any ruthlessness of command.
"Heya! We were assigned together. Catra, right? Boy, the place's really been buzzing about you lately."
"Where's your squad?" Catra spared Scorpia a glance but otherwise coldly walked further into the lobby.
"Oh, y'know. Things've been tough, I'm sure you know that better than most! So I thought I'd give them the day off."
Well, that got Catra's attention. She slowly craned her neck, incredulity lining the deep set of her furrowed brows, looking at Scorpia like she'd told Catra to go dangle herself over lit flame.
"Day off?"
"Yeah! We're run so ragged, and I've gotta get some notes on recent territories done myself, thought might as well have everyone-"
"Go get your squad," Catra began slowly. "And meet me in the courtyard."
"But I told them-"
"Get. Them. There."
Of course, Catra's tone brooked no argument. Here was where most would salute grimly, enthusiasm dried up so abruptly that resentment already had the time to move in.
"Aw, dang," Scorpia groaned. "Guess I'll go tell 'em. What're we up to when we're all gathered?"
It was a feat, teetering Catra so off her usual balance not once, but twice in the span of moments. Disbelief had curled her features almost comically, and Catra blinked, noticing how Scorpia's smile hadn't disappeared.
"…Drills."
"Huh?"
Scorpia's hulking frame angled itself innocently in question as her brow quirked in confusion.
"You…do run drills with your squad, don't you? Like, positioning exercises, rote memorizing formations…"
"Ohhhhh. I mean, I was only put in charge of 'em a month ago and, well, you know how it is. Hectic times, hectic times! It's gotten away from me a bit – between you and me and don't be shocked now, but I can be a bit of a klutz – and sometimes my squad ends up being the one who teaches me if you'd believe it!"
Catra's eye twitched.
"Just go fetch them," Catra sighed.
"Aye aye!" Scorpia saluted cheerfully. "Oh man, they might be bummed at first, but two friends, bonding over drills, just shootin' the breeze! This'll be great."
"We're not-"
Her words were swallowed by the crowd as Scorpia pushed through it, humming as she did so.
And Catra could only stand there, eyes wide in a way they haven't been in years.
It took Catra still being seventeen to have no way to explain Entrapta.
"Entrapta, was it? From R&D? As I've recently been promoted to Regional Commander, both you and Force Captain Scorpia have been placed under my command. As such, I expect you to-"
"Is it general stress that keeps the lines under your eyes so pronounced, or specifically the lack of sleep?"
"Wha-What did you-"
"I ask because recently I've taken an interest in physiology. It's nothing so beautiful as machinery of course, but especially neural pathways and behavioral patterns have a surprising level of overlap with how we understand software, it's fascinating really-"
"You can't talk to me like that."
"Oh. Why not?"
"Are you serious? The chain of command. I am your direct supervising officer and I expect you to refer to me with the respect afforded by my position."
"But it's so much easier if I can ask you questions when something doesn't make sense."
Catra growled, making to step closer, but paused.
She scratched at her temple, teeth grit, fingers clenched, an imperceptible coil in her gait like she wanted to pounce, wanted to bounce and she was spring-loaded.
"You are out of line," she said finally. "But not exactly wrong. Don't take this to mean I'm gonna go easy on you. Quite the opposite."
"Okay!" Entrapta beamed.
Well, that was that. And Entrapta was Entrapta.
It took Catra being twenty-four to have the last of herself extinguished.
"She's just a kid."
Her voice rang through the hollow walkways of the dungeon, its mundanity scraped across rusted grates and damp surfaces.
In front of her, fingers squeezed around the bars of the jail cell so firmly they blanched white, was a girl.
Hair disheveled, rounded cheeks daubed with filth, eyes burning charcoal like the back of an eclipse.
She looked no older than fifteen, and something inside Catra clenched uncomfortably.
"I'm not a kid," she seethed. "I'm a princess, and when my kingdom gets wind of where I am you'll pay for what you've done, Horde trash!"
"Newsflash," Catra scoffed. "Your kingdom's not your kingdom anymore. You've got me to thank for that."
"Liar!" she screamed, though tears were beginning to gather in her corners. "You're lying. They're coming for me, I know they are."
An arm draped itself over Catra's shoulder like shadow. She winced.
"You've done well, Catra," Weaver's voice caressed her.
"Is this really necessary? There has to be another way."
Weaver sighed, the air around them settling like a swamp. Catra thought she saw a lantern flicker.
"Lord Prime was quite clear, Catra. You know as well as I how integral these princesses are to the rebellion. What better chance than now have we to pluck one such foundation by the root?"
"But-"
Catra gazed at the little princess' fury. Her trembling knees. Eyes flashing a dismal blue from the poorly concealed attempts towards establishing connection to a runestone no longer hers.
"This can't be right," Catra mumbled. "We already won, didn't we? There's no need to…to-"
And it was unspeakable, what had risen in Catra. Something that curled like tree roots, like long thread, like fingers, until it had lodged in her throat. Years and years of doing this and she had forced it back like bile because it was all she knew, and no one was better at it than she, but now-
Now she saw a terrified child in a cage. At the back of her mind were the wispy phantoms that spoke of who she was, and for once they were loud.
Shadow Weaver's mask bobbed slightly as she seemed to appraise Catra.
"If you feel that strongly about it, then you had better hurry."
"What?" Catra whispered.
"I will stand watch at the entrance to the dungeons, but your window of opportunity is closing as we speak. Whatever you're going to do, now would be the time."
Weaver slinked away, the folds of her robe somehow not touching the floor.
Catra processed their conversation for mere moments before steeling herself.
She crouched slightly so that through the bars, she was eye level with the princess.
"Look, squirt-"
"My name is Frosta!" she spat.
"…Frosta, we've got about maybe two or three minutes before they come to get you. I'm going to unlock the cell, but you have to follow me. There's no chance of escaping on your own."
Frosta glowered at her, fingers sliding down the bars slightly as she slackened her grip.
"How stupid do you think I am? Like hell I'd ever trust a word that comes out of your-"
"They're going to kill you."
Her eyes widened. The tears in their periphery that she'd so stubbornly tried to keep at bay became more pronounced.
"We don't have much time. Curse my name all you want once you're out of here, but we have to go now, or you won't live to see tomorrow."
Frosta looked down at her feet, arms now fully limp at her sides. She seemed even smaller, suddenly slumped as she was, the fight exhausted from her like dust to a vacuum. Finally, she nodded.
Catra fumbled with the keys but a moment later, the hinges swung open. She grabbed Frosta's hand and made to go deeper into the winding passageways, ignoring the girl's protests.
"I know it seems weird," rows of unlit torches rushed by in vague smears as she sped them up to a sprint. "But this is the only path that isn't crawling with gua-"
Her insides were suddenly tar. A grip, skeletal white, seizing her. Frosta's desperate screech as she too must have been grabbed, cut off a moment later to a choking sound, buzzing like white noise in the periphery as blood pumped through Catra and her ears rung.
They'd not even made it past the basement.
"But…" Catra gasped as clones clapped manacles along her wrists. "How did-"
And behind the throng of them was Weaver.
Catra's breaths quickened. Eyes dilated, bloodshot. Nails bloody as she tore at her restraints, something in her snapping like worn wire.
Later, they were sat before Prime. Catra could only stare at the marbled floor vacantly. Her one fleeting thought was that at least Prime had the decency to look on them as himself this time.
"Weaver, you have proved your worth."
His voice was silk. Every curve of the tongue a strand, every syllable a web spun.
"A single poisoned stem compromises the garden. It is important to quickly and decisively subdue any rising murmurs of discord within the ranks, no matter how trivial."
"Your eminence speaks too highly of me," Weaver bowed low. "It gave me no pleasure to apprehend Commander Catra, but to witness her wavering loyalty – aiding and abetting a princess, no less – was to give me no choice in the matter."
The ringing in Catra's ears was dull, muted. Yet it swelled like a wretched orchestra, putting a fog to all but her own breaths. No longer so short or quick. Long, languid draws from the lung, steeped like pond water, like toxins swimming in the depths.
"You…rotten…" her lips hardly moved.
"Catra," Weaver affected pity, a withered hand to her robed chest. "I did not wish to do this. But Lord Prime can restore in you the just path. I believe in you, and your strength to right yourself."
Catra saw through the fog. In front of her, paralyzed with fear, was the princess. They didn't bother to shackle her. Perhaps thinking the child was no threat.
Catra stood as if she was in a dream. She was in motion in such a way as if smoke dispersed where she moved, as she struck one of her guards with her head, as she hefted her manacles like a pendulum into the skull of another.
She dashed to where Frosta was held, pure unadulterated shock being what solely rooted her captors.
She shouldered one, flinging them over polished marble with a sickening crack, kneed the second so they doubled over to her eye level before she hunched over and tore out their throat with her teeth.
The fog was frozen time around them, as Frosta teetered back a step, shaking uncontrollably at the sight of blood running freely down Catra's lips, chin, a river of it pooling beneath them.
"Run, Frosta." Her thoughts were long behind her. She spoke in terms of the fog. Of low fires that bloomed into vapor.
"Catra, I-"
"Through the double doors," Catra inclined her head, droplets of blood flung behind her. "Into the lobby. It's right there. As fast as you can and don't look back. They'll be too surprised to stop you as long as you keep running."
"But-"
"Go."
And so Frosta ran.
It took Catra being twenty four and three months, twenty four and four months, and twenty four and five months to lose what was left.
The discussion in the throne room's aftermath felt to Catra less like words strung together and more a cauldron of snakes, slithering along her skull.
"My Lord, death is too forgiving a means to address such treachery."
"Get to your point, Weaver."
"Allow me to handle her punishment. She is an appropriate subject for my experiments with the Garnet."
"Fine. She is yours until I see fit."
For ninety days Catra didn't know what was up, what was down. What counted as daylight or if dusk had fallen.
What she did know was the smell of burnt skin. Cold was strapped to her wrists as she hung from a wall and bolts of crimson arced through her every nerve ending. In her delirium, she thought maybe they'd taken on the same shade as her own blood.
In the end, she welcomed death. Had not the energy to plead for it, though she wished she could.
Prime couldn't even grant her that. She was too valuable an asset, he'd said, as never before had there been a strategist like Catra.
And she was allowed back on duty like nothing ever happened.
"Hey, bud," Scorpia's voice was tentative, at her doorway. "Um, I'm really glad to see you back and okay. Breakfast…Breakfast is in ten. Tuna sandwiches, your favorite!"
Catra didn't look at her. Scorpia frowned, but quickly plastered her smile on.
"Ah yeah, probably gotta get acclimated back to the swing of things, huh? I totally gotcha. You take all the time you need."
The door closed behind Scorpia, and Catra finally lifted her head to look at where she'd left.
She stood as if she was in a dream. She left her room.
Behind her: plumes of smoke vanishing into the open window, or perhaps she only imagined it.
The door closed, and Catra might have never been in the room at all.
From behind her, smoky residue unfurled like storm clouds. Her ears rung, the fog of her mind likewise thickening.
Where Catra stood near the gates, no bombs had gone off.
Her neck felt splintered as she turned blisteringly around to watch, and even through the fog, she heard the distinct click of barrels shifting into place.
She had no time to scan whether her squads had survived. She barely grasped how one tank had toppled amidst something bright and mottled before her every instinct was a crackling bonfire, every synapse pushing itself along her threads a bloodcurdling scream that bounced between her walls until she was already moving without conscious direction.
When Octavia had bellowed for turrets to be mounted and cannons to be shouldered, Catra had already scaled the nearest snow bank.
Laserfire left charred ground in her wake, singed her fur as she forced her only thought to be Go.
She ran pages through the annals of her mind in the span of moments. Contingencies and regional topographies, formations and possibilities skirted her hallways in the space between the space between seconds.
Without looking back – she dared herself to hope someone was alive, needed to hope with what little of herself she could spare, because strategies alone could only help her compartmentalize so much without herself collapsing where she clung – she hollered.
"Retreat to the forest line! Think NOTHING except of how to stay alive!."
And still without a backwards glance, she scrambled through the snow like it was sand. She was shadow but she was thunder, slinking among the neighboring canyon of white like a bolt of cloth, of electricity.
Even muffled by the snow as they were, she heard her pursuers easily. She gleaned from how footsteps curved away from one another that they had fanned out in hopes of covering more ground.
The first to catch up with her – a clone – tried to fire at her, but she had already skirted behind a ponderous boulder to let the laser glance harmlessly off its flank, before vaulting overhead, eclipsing what little sun there was.
She landed behind the clone, quietly stabbing his spine where death would be instant.
He hadn't yet hit the ground before Catra was already off.
Stealth was her only choice, but the white, gleaming sheets sprawled before her did not offer much.
At the turn of a frozen pond, she caught something in her shoulder. A scream ripped from her throat as she tumbled.
There was a sickening crunch as cracked ice splintered from where it met her now bleeding temple.
From the far side came a faint whirring as the woman who had scored the hit took aim yet again. Catra's belt glinted as she plunged her hand into it.
Before she could register what had happened, the knife was lodged in the woman's heart and wisps of brown splayed over her surprised visage as she fell into the snow.
Catra clutched her wound, a scorched smell wafting from where her hand gripped. Cold petals drifted gently onto raw, reddened skin as she hissed, involuntarily squeezing, claws poking fresh dots of crimson along her arm.
The cold had caught up with her by now, her cloak doing little to stave it off. Every drawn breath was needles in her lungs, every step taken icy knives against her feet.
She knew she'd die out here eventually, but if she stopped to think about it, she would die right now.
One of her pursuers - a man of some bulk, hood tugged low against the frost – barreled towards her across the pond.
Her speed was such that she'd thrown up fine mist in her wake as she ran. Yet, the forest in the distance seemed to grow no closer, was blurred at the edges, as if shadows skittering through her head whispered that it was a mirage, that it was as illusory as any thin hope she had of surviving.
And, perhaps much like the splintering of the trees she might have imagined, the ice beneath her caved and her leg was submerged.
She didn't have the voice to scream. Frozen flames, licking at her ankle, the water like a hundred scalpels skewering her thigh.
Her face contorted in the ponderous, strained effort she took to finally pulling her leg out, smattered drops of pond scum over her waist, goosebumps pinpricking her where they landed.
She was rewarded with the man closing their distance and brandishing the weapon.
Even as Catra tried swerving out from under him, her soaked leg lagged behind and he snagged it, volts of sickening green funneled into her ankle.
She roared, tears springing to her eyes, turning them a glassy blue and gold.
The staff, churning like bile, its sheen palpitating angrily, was poised to strike again when Catra shot up on instinct.
Vision still blurred, leg uselessly crumpled beneath her, Catra planted her claws on his face, scrabbling for purchase as he stumbled. She dragged them down the length of it, compelling from him a shriek that steadily rose in hysteria as he dropped his weapon and tried grabbing her arm.
And it was no avail, as Catra, akin to so many times before, would say to this what she would to the galaxies of poison and sawdust that had shaped her to who she was in this moment: I will survive.
Her grip was steel. Was rampant immovable star matter as she found his eyes and curled her fingers.
The shriek swelled to a fever pitch, a fount of blood spurting from where she'd gouged him. He fell back, but she carried herself with him and did not relent, knees pressed to his shoulders against the ice.
She held it there until his movements grew faint and sluggish. He'd faded entirely by the time she stood. Burying her hands in her cloak, she staggered to an unsteady gait, one leg trailing behind. Haggard, shuddering breaths were her norm as the fog drew to a close around her.
It took hours to traverse what should have taken only half of one, hiding as she constantly did, enemies still dogging her trail at every turn.
By the time she found herself surrounded by pines, she'd half slumped over, eyes half-lidded and cloak settling over her small form.
But she couldn't stop here.
Whether from cold or a lance through her heart it didn't matter, but it would be her end.
It reminded her of being back in Weaver's chamber.
Night that stretched into day that stretched into the next. She couldn't keep count. Didn't know how much time had passed, her consciousness dipping in and out of focus like a waning moon.
It was sleepless, for it was never rest, but instead moments of spotty black, back and forth across her vision like someone was playing with a dial. Blood on her leg had long dried into tiny chunks, on her shoulder had long browned into the cloak, near indistinguishable from its thread.
Death's door swung open on its hinge, but it was familiar so she kept hobbling deeper into the forest.
And the deeper she went, the more she couldn't tell anything over the canopy of darkness, of shrouded pine needles and smothering snow overhead.
She should have long since collapsed – perhaps even peacefully – into the soft cold, but she was Catra, wasn't she?
How long had it been since she told her squad to run? A week? A year? Minutes to the second, ticking down like sand, like flower petals, like snowflakes in her hair-
"Catra?"
The image before her was bleary. Blonde, tall and stalwart, something grainy and soft.
Catra was a house subsisting on needles, a skeleton held up by spider thread, but when Adora appeared before her, she was still standing.
"Oh my god," and through Catra's fog of hearing she could still understand the relief in Adora's voice. "Oh my god. Catra. Here, come on, let's-"
But Catra with strength she did not have, leapt back and snarled. Hoarse, raggedy and lined with the husk of a parched throat, but a snarl nonetheless.
"Don't come closer," she rasped.
"Catra, you look-" Adora trembled. "I don't even know how you're still conscious. It's okay, I can take you to where we've found safety-"
"Don't."
Her hand was weak against the tree, barely managing to hold herself upright.
Moments passed, and Adora looked as if she was about to drag Catra bodily from the tree if she had to.
"Why are you even here?"
"'Why?'" Adora could not sound any more bewildered if she tried. "Why do you- Catra, I've been looking for you for days, I…the others weren't even sure if you were alive."
"Should've let me rot, huh?" Catra's chuckle was dark. "Should've let me waste away up here, then all your problems are solved."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Well, why not?" Catra demanded. "Why the fuck not, when even my own people want me dead."
"Catra-"
"They tried to kill me, Adora. Kill me. All my life, it's been this. Maybe I should just listen and keel over."
"Don't say that. Don't."
"And why is it any different from what you want?" Catra tried sneering, but she'd slumped almost fully against the tree at this point. "I know you hate me, too."
"I don't hate you, Catra."
"You should. It's cause of me the people you love are dead. Like Brightmoon's former queen. I'm the big scary creature under the bed everyone's gotta take down."
"Catra, you're not thinking straight. I don't want you dead, of course not."
"Liar," She hissed. "I've seen how you look at me. How they all do, even my own friends, but especially you. You're just- just sticking around because there's no better opportunity to end me. Waiting around until the moment to strike, then your alliance is home free. It ends like a fairytale, doesn't that sound just peachy? Nothing to get in the way, like every piece of lint in the corner is swept away, every fly in the ointment dumped out."
Adora frowned, opening her mouth but saying nothing.
"You've said it yourself," Catra continued. "I'm no better than Prime, no better than dirt under your fingernails. And who could blame you."
Adora took a step towards her.
"I was being an idiot. You know that."
Catra shook her head, grimacing.
"All I do is kill and maim and hurt. That's what I know. It's what you know, too. You've seen it in me."
"I've seen more than that."
Adora took another step.
"You hardly know me. It's been weeks, at most."
"Yeah. That's true."
Adora was close now. If she so moved, she could be touching Catra. It's not like Catra was in any condition to stop her.
"I've done fucked up shit, Adora!" she was seething, gasping for air. "You don't know the half of it. You don't know shit! I've nearly killed my own men just because! Told Scorpia to fuck off, that she was useless, to go crawl into the sewer where she must've come from, and then just went about my day like I hadn't been the shittiest friend to ever exist! I sent Entrapta to Beast Island in my fucking paranoia because I can't trust for shit! We've only ever had blood between us Adora, what's a few weeks? Why not just get rid of me now? Why not."
Adora paused. For moments, all they could clear was Catra's labored panting.
"Give me one good reason," Catra tried to be dark, but it came out almost pleading. "That I should believe you at all. Just one."
And Adora was pressed up close, head snug under Catra's bad shoulder, arm wound around Catra's waist, and it was warm, and she was too frail to fight it off-
"Okay," Adora said, nodding. "Because I want to go back and take you horse-riding again."
"Wha-"
"Because I want to feed you when you're being totally stubborn and overworking yourself. Because I want to annoy you with presents and furniture and nice things 'cause I've seen you try not to break into that horribly awkward smile of yours when I did and I kinda want to see it again - fuck, was that out loud?"
Adora blinked.
"Sorry, that was a lot more than one, I guess. Seriously, though. Have you seen where you work? Yeah, more furniture. You know better than to try and stop me."
Catra stared at her. And stared.
She fainted right there on Adora's shoulder, what was perhaps a sob halfway up her throat as wisps still lingered in her hallways, as the shadows weren't close to clearing and the fog hadn't dissipated in slightest.
But, she thought dimly as Adora scooped her up fully in her arms, at least it wasn't as cold as before.
Adora carried her all the way, through vined thickets and clumps of jagged ice and mottled darkness, until she gently woke Catra up.
"We're here."
It was an enclave, of sorts. A copse of gnarled trees surrounded the small group huddled by a fire.
Catra opened her eyes. She took in how at least Lonnie's squad had survived and were mostly leaning on each other for warmth.
There were several unfamiliar faces, all of them wrapped in parkas and seeming much more used to their surroundings, considering the ease with which they were milling about.
The grove was tightly knit, the circumference of forest seeming almost a wall, but it was a clearing wide enough for tents to have been erected. Strewn about the camp were stations, set up for provisions.
Lips dry, limbs limp and malnourished, Catra still tried to stand on her own. In the end, she settled for leaning on Adora's elbow.
"Hey, Horde trash. Looks like you're alive."
Ah, Frosta.
Ever the little shit.
Author's Note: I had to drag this one out of me by the roots.
Sorry it took so long, I've been kinda swamped lately and also had a lot of trouble getting things to fit how I wanted. Still not really happy with it, but I can't obsess over it forever. I kinda don't even wanna look at some of the action scenes, it feels so stilted how I went about them but I'm not gonna re-do them now or we'll be here till our universal heat death.
The kingdom of snows storyline definitely got out of hand. Rest assured, Adora has not fixed Catra's anything. Not even for the very near foreseeable future, I can tell you that much, heheh
I'd love to know what you thought of it! Comments are love.
