As you know, I am not against pursuing power in and of itself; it is a morally neutral aspect of one's identity. A tool, if you will.
...
Micah sat with Angella in her office; his fianceé paced the room nervously. "I don't like this," she said, her voice carrying an agitated note. "Shadow Weaver may not be able to find the power herself, but if the Horde was able to use those tunnels...they could transport anywhere in Bright Moon. Perhaps even to the borders, to attack our allies." She sighed. "Was Shadow Weaver able to navigate the Whispering Woods?"
Micah nodded. "I thought they were enchanted – Horde squadrons have trouble making it through."
"That's one legend," Angella said, sitting down. "But the First Ones took that secret with them. Did Light Spinner tell you about their stories?"
Micah shook his head, racking his brain for anything his teacher had said about the First Ones. "She had a mural of the She-Ra in her classroom, and I asked her about it. She scoffed – said it was a myth."
"Interesting," Angella said, her wings shimmering. Her brow furrowed. "The First Ones were said to have access to deep magic within Etheria. They had the power of sorcerers, except they could use it for indefinite periods of time. The Pull didn't exist till they left."
The Pull – the force that siphoned magic to Etheria's core, the reason for magic strain – had a beginning? "Do you think Shadow Weaver's trying to reach the deep magic?" Micah asked.
Angella paused. "I don't know. There's a chance." Almost to herself, she murmured, "And why would the grass die around her feet? It doesn't make sense – I've never seen a dark sorcerer accomplish such things."
They may as well have been stumbling in the dark. Normally, Micah would get his enemy to talk. That tactic revealed much more than simple sparring, even if they didn't outright state their exact plans. But how did one coax a mute into displaying her true goal, when they couldn't communicate?
The other question remained. Why is a mute person leading the Horde's army?
"We need to send a spy," Micah said suddenly. Angella frowned, but he continued. "It's our best bet. If she's going to keep showing up in the Woods, we need to know why."
"Who could we send?" Angella said. "We're already fairly low on soldiers, and we need someone whose face won't be recognized. We can't send our resources into a slaughterhouse."
Micah nodded. "That's fair. But maybe we could find someone who won't be recognized. Someone whose face isn't familiar to Shadow Weaver, or anyone."
"And where would we..." Angella trailed off as Zeka appeared in the doorway, holding a cream-pop and taking a long sip of the fizzy drink.
When she noticed them, she smiled, her tanned face flawless and model-pretty. "Oh, my dears!" she said, leaning against the doorway. "Are we discussing your wedding, perchance? You two are simply adorable!"
Micah and Angella exchanged a knowing look. Then Micah turned to the shifter. "Actually, Zeka...we could use your help with an important mission."
...
Shadow Weaver staggered into the Fright Zone that evening. She'd drained all her magic in her fight with Micah, and she'd had to walk miles before she found a mirror close enough to take her home.
Her body shook as she walked along the halls of the Fright Zone's main complex, and faint chills had begun to set in. The dichotomy of the Spell of Obtainment was real – if madness didn't kill you, withdrawals would. Shadow Weaver wasn't certain which death she preferred yet.
She entered the Black Garnet chamber, walking up and pressing her hands to the stone. As the red electricity crackled along Shadow Weaver's arms – a power that the most advanced technicians were only beginning to realize – she let out a soft sound of pleasure. Something about the flow of magic into her body was deeply wonderful, filling her with a gentle, warm feeling.
Carmen left just before Shadow Weaver arrived, waving as she went to secure the Fright Zone for the evening. As soon as Shadow Weaver entered the room, she rushed over to her daughter's crib and swooped her baby up in her arms.
"Oh, Adora..." Shadow Weaver cried. Her baby, now two months old, opened enormous blue eyes. Adora had been little more than a newborn when Hordak found her in a field of long blue grass just outside the desert. He'd told her he'd wanted to go out to collect data on his experiments, but he found the sweet infant instead.
Now, Shadow Weaver had a bundle of pure joy in her life. She was a mother at long last.
Adora cooed, giving a wet smile as spittle ran down her chubby chin, and Shadow Weaver wiped the baby's face with a napkin. Tonight she would relax with her child on one of the few days she could; she never saw Adora enough nowadays.
Shadow Weaver curled up in her bed, holding her child softly. Comparing her to one of her students seemed shallow – except, perhaps, Micah. Adora's power pulsed beneath her mother's hand; Shadow Weaver wondered if she had been a princess in the previous kingdom she'd lived in, wherever that was.
She and Hordak had postulated long ago that Adora was some sort of alien, seeing as how there was no race with her skin tone and hair type on Etheria. But even Hordak was unsure he had ever seen a human like her in all his travels among the stars.
Adora was a miracle child, that much was clear – so special, so unique. And someday, Shadow Weaver's baby would walk and talk; she wondered what Adora's personality would be like. Would she be graceful, delicate, wise? Would she be rough-and-tumble, a great warrior for the Horde? Gazing at the pudgy creature in her arms, Shadow Weaver couldn't guess. But she was excited to find out.
"This is why I'm away, my love," she whispered to her daughter. "To care for you. To keep you safe." But she couldn't deny her true intentions, not anymore.
She had to ensure Adora succeeded. For if her daughter failed to meet Hordak's standards one day, the child wasn't the only one who would pay the price.
...
Magic can be used for incredible good...or unspeakable evil. Evil itself is something you may not think I believe in, but you would be wrong. I simply believe that people mislabel me. For my situation is more complicated than they would feel comfortable believing.
...
As she traveled in an armored vehicle across the desert, Zeka decided she hated this mode of transport. The cargo hold was positively cramped, smashing her against the wall near a bundle of expensive war equipment.
General Micah had taken her to the eastern border of the Whispering Woods a week ago – told her to wait for a supply crew to take her to the Horde. If this was what he meant, Zeka hoped the poor man never found out what she'd gone through getting here. With a grunt, she shifted her new disguise slightly so she wasn't quite as beefy; she could reverse that once she arrived.
Zeka rehearsed her cover story. My name is Beck. I'm joining the Horde because the Valley of the Lost was overrun by gangs after the Horde toppled the Tropicil kingdom. I'm thirty-one, used to be a cloth weaver, and don't have a family.
Most of the backstory was true – Lariel, her parent, had perished when Clerbélia was sacked. The only lie was that Zeka had been a cloth weaver. She could only wish she'd taken that job, instead of dealing with constant betrayal from her friends in the Rebellion.
She'd had to memorize new speech patterns for her stay in the Horde. People from the Waste talked with gruff, short sentences and simple Southern-Ramish vocabulary. Zeka's accent, verbiage, and tone were all based on aristocratic Scorpion dialects, which she'd carried over when she learned Meyan in the Rebellion. It was fun to talk like a queen.
Now, she wished she'd never learned Meyan. That she'd never understood Nell's request.
The armored vehicle jolted to a stop; Beck shot up and reformed her muscles. The door opened, and she squinted, expecting blinding moonlight. Instead, smog tinted the moons orange instead of their natural pale pink, and the sky was a dark crimson – almost like blood.
She inhaled. My name's Beck. I am a Horde recruit. I will work my way up the ranks – it is my duty.
The Force-Captain at the helm hummed softly, rocking back and forth on her heels. She was a felinetta, a small woman with the tanned skin of her race and short, feathery brown hair. Flipping out a comm, she spoke in a foreign language to someone on the other end.
The felinetta put the comm away and addressed Beck. "You speak Meyan?"
"Uh...yes." Beck struggled to adjust her speech patterns to something less refined. "I'm from the Crimson Waste. The name's Beck."
"Beck, daughter of...?"
"Luz," Beck said quickly; it would do, for Luz Fría had been her home city in Tropicilas before she'd fled for the Waste. "Of Tropicilas."
"Uh-huh. The name's Carmen," the felinetta drawled, giving her a sweet smile. "I take orders from Hordak's enforcer, Shads."
"Shads?" Beck giggled. One heck of a nickname, that's for sure.
"Well, it ain't her real name," Carmen said, touching the back of her head sheepishly. "Just what I call her."
"Gotcha," Beck said. "So, where do I go to begin my training?"
"I'll take ya," Carmen said, giving a wide grin. She had dimples; how adorable. "I've only been here 'bout five years'r so. Same time I've been servin' under my lady."
"Oh?" Beck said, her interest piqued. "Five years?"
"Yeah, five years," Carmen said with a shrug.
"You like it here?"
Carmen paused. "I dunno," she answered bluntly. "It don't matter, really – I serve my lady. So long as I'm in service to her, I'll be happy."
But her gestures betrayed her; Carmen walked a good distance away from her, arms folded over her small bosom. Beck knew all too well that gait, unfortunately. The steps of someone who'd been hurt before.
...
At a Vernish restaurant, Nell and Micah waited for their meals. Nell ran a hand through his hair. "So, what happened to you while I was away in Thaymor?"
Micah sighed. "A lot. I can't explain all of it in public."
Nell frowned; that was ominous. "What can you explain?" he inquired.
"Well," Micah said, "I met a Horde commander in the Whispering Woods. She goes by the name Shadow Weaver, and uses dark magic." He tapped a finger on the table. "But...she helped me. Twice."
Nell tilted his head, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Do you think she's a spy from the Tropicil forces?"
Micah shook his head. "Unless you think Angie would let a Fulminate into the Rebellion. The Lady's...strange. And you want to know the weirdest part?"
"Could it get any more odd?" Nell chuckled a bit.
"Yeah." Micah lowered his eyes. "She's the same masked woman we saw at that dinner party a few months ago."
Nell frowned, sitting back. That was strange. Why would Shadow Weaver show her face as a Horde commander? Well, I suppose it's not her actual face, he thought. If the Horde's second had a secret alias, she could always do her hair and take off her mask, and it would be easy to walk around undisturbed in rebel territory.
Micah sighed. "We did something about it, but I can't say what. Not here."
Ah, Nell thought. A spy. He nodded as the waitress brought over pasta and vegetable soup. "Thank you, my lady," Micah said kindly to her; she blushed a bit at the gesture from the queen's fiancé.
Nell sighed. "How are you faring, what with the dark magic?" he ventured as he took a sip of the soup. Too hot; he wiped his burning lips on a napkin.
Micah held a strange sparkle in his eyes that mimicked that of his teacher, Light Spinner. Nell's dear, sweet Alura. "It's...not pleasant," Micah admitted, taking an absent bite of the pasta as the glitter dulled.
"Care to explain?" Nell didn't necessarily want to hear about Micah's experience with dark magic. Five years had passed, and he was only just beginning to process his ex-fianceé's swan song. Nell's hand tightened around his spoon, his stomach churning with sharp pain like he'd swallowed thorns.
But instead of responding, Micah gave a halfhearted shrug. "It's nothing. I want to focus on what we're going to do about Ruta. We're going to need some strategies going in. And..." he blushed. "I kind of want to bring Angie with me."
"Why's that?" Nell asked, tilting his head. But instead of answering, Micah's face flamed so red Nell might have mistaken him for a poppy. Ah...she showed off her charm.
Micah laughed sheepishly, then leaned back and slouched in his chair. "I can't think of a time I've gotten less sleep," he admitted. "I'm just...so exhausted."
"I understand," Nell said gently. "I won't press you on anything, but you need to rest."
Micah shook his head. "I can't. Not now – Shadow Weaver's planning something big, and I have to be there to stop her. Haven't you seen the casualties? She's...I mean..." He trailed off, clenching his fists before slumping back again.
Nell knit his brows together. "I understand," he said gently. "We do need to stop her, and figure out what the Horde's planning. But you don't have to do it all by yourself. Trust me – that never works out well."
The words burned like poison on his tongue, and he bit down hard on it as he stirred his food again. "I know something about what you're feeling...sort of. Being a field medic is never fun - you have to make sure that no one dies beneath your care." The image of Arlina's soft, sad eyes flashed in his mind, and he gripped his spoon tighter. "And sometimes, you don't succeed even then."
Micah's eyes were downcast. "Looking for support here, Nell," he joked halfheartedly. "But I need some tips. How do I avoid embarrassing myself in front of Ruta?"
"I'll come with you," Nell said. "Mum and I visited her a lot growing up – she knows me." Please, don't ask about the rest of my family, he added in a desperate thought. Micah didn't need to know. No one could know...
But Micah just smiled softly. "Could've used that information earlier. Can you come with me to Dryl? I'm going soon to negotiate with King Xenio, because Ruta said she wouldn't consider our offer unless he joined the Rebellion."
Nell placed his chin in a hand, lowering his voice. "Mike, the Rebellion's intel is picking up some evidence that an attack on Delvala might be taking place. I don't want to alarm you, but I may have to stay behind."
Micah cursed under his breath and ran a hand through his unruly black hair. "Seriously?"
"You were there," Nell said, knitting his brows together. Pity for his friend sprouted in his chest - it wasn't Micah's fault he had the attention span of a goldfish. "It's okay. We'll face the threat together, and then we'll get through to Ruta. We're going to succeed."
Micah's mouth twitched into a sad half-smile. "Thanks, bud. You're a good friend, y'know."
Nell frowned, looking down. "Thanks," he said. If only that were true. Because he was too much of a coward to tell Micah the truth about all he was.
...
Did you know...
- I don't see Nell as autistic, but I think he still struggles with eye contact and is socially awkward. I did this to show that autistic people and neurotypicals aren't as different as some people may think.
- I picture Light Spinner to enjoy vintage things, especially calligraphy sets. I'm not sure why.
Tell me what you think...
- Why do you think Nell is so shy and withdrawn?