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i. all uncharted
Pain is weakness. That is the first lesson Catra learns from Shadow Weaver. Only the strong survive in this world. Never the frail. Never the helpless.
Catra has been in the heart of the Fright Zone long enough that she is used to the preliminary training. How to face her fears. How to quickly rise up when you’ve just been knocked down. Simple things like that, easy enough that no one is supposed to have a hard time internalizing the material.
Even when you’re only eight years old and small for your age, like Catra is.
So usually, she doesn’t have any issues following Shadow Weaver’s commands; the easy ones are the most frequent. Orders to hit targets at point-blank range. Correctly identifying all the important components of artillery. Learning which parts of the body hurt most, learning how to strike hard and fast before your opponent has any idea of what you are about to do.
Some days, though, following gets a little tougher; there are some fears one cannot vanquish in just an instant. Scaling iron-studded ramparts, Catra would be happy to do. Dissecting an active mecha-bot in under half an hour, no problem.
But venturing out in the dark?
“What’s wrong with this child?” Shadow Weaver sighs down at Catra, grip tight around her arm, midnight black hair spreading behind her like a spill of ink. “Look at her, trembling like a flower about to be mown down. This is by far the most pathetic performance I’ve seen in comparison with the other students, and believe me when I say I’ve witnessed true atrocities.”
“Apologies,” Catra’s instructor says in a cool, even tone, one hand lazily tugging on the holster slung across her hips. There’s a hint of fear in her tone. A flicker of annoyance in her eyes—surely directed at Catra, of course. “Guess the kid’s just scared of the dark. Frightened outta her mind.”
To think Catra actually believed for a time that they were on friendly enough terms. Good enough that she wouldn’t out Catra at the first sign of trouble, that she would instead work with Catra to figure out where she stood. Work out the kinks in her armour, stuff Catra knows instructors are supposed to be doing instead of this, throwing her out to the wolves without a second thought.
Shadow Weaver’s hold slackens by just an infinitesimal account. Catra’s eyes are on her own feet—brown against the sickly white tiles—and even though she is not looking, there she feels it, drilling holes into her skull: Shadow Weaver’s ominous, assessing gaze.
Later on, Catra won’t be able to remember much about the series of events that led up to the punishment for her failure. Three nights spent in a windowless, lightless room. Alone.
But it is alright, Catra thinks, as Shadow Weaver slides the latch shut on the first night. She’ll be able to overcome this easily. Her stupid fear of the dark. And then she’ll come out all the more strong for her efforts, and Shadow Weaver will surely forgive her for being weak.
It is fine, Catra tells herself firmly, ignoring the hysteria bubbling in her chest as the darkness swells, starts pushing on her from all four sides. It is fine, she tries repeating it to herself, as the silence turns deafening, sharpened fear coursing white-hot through her veins—
It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine —
(It is not.)
Time feels foreign to the mind when slumber refuses to set in.
The room is small, too cold—or maybe it’s just Catra who is cold. The second night, Catra thought she’d have gotten at least a little bit used to it—to the darkness, to the odd, muffled sounds that occasionally filter through the gap in the door. They say fears turn lesser when one faces them head-on, but here in Catra’s head, they’ve turned nightmarish.
Grown bigger.
And Catra suffocates with the knowledge, that maybe she won’t be getting out until she turns stronger.
(She is so, so scared.)
Night three, a miracle occurs.
Catra does not know how or why it happens. One moment Shadow Weaver is sending her back to the room after lessons, back to the agony of the dark, and the next Catra is watching pinpricks of light bloom in front of her face, as brilliant as newborn stars. They circle her head like a halo, twirl like galaxies in a sky Catra has only ever seen in picture books.
Tentatively, Catra reaches out to touch one. She half-expects it to wink out, disappear in a flurry of sparks. But it never does, continuing to orbit her as though she were the sun.
Sometimes a moment is so wonderful, so momentous that it immortalizes a space for itself in the fabric of time. Stays there while things pass it by, immovable as stone. This is one such moment; Catra knows it is a memory she’ll keep in her heart forever.
(Every night after that, the stars keep her company in her dreams—even during wakefulness, sometimes—and Catra never feels quite as lonely or afraid anymore.)
Shadow Weaver sits there on her throne, looking idly at Catra.
(“Have you learned your lesson?” she asks, touching Catra’s chin with a gentle hand, and Catra bows her head as she murmurs out a yes.)
Soulmates. The concept is strange, foreign. Nebulous to the tongue. Catra learns it from an enemy.
She has been in combatant training long enough to recognize all sorts of enemies that lurk beyond the Fright Zone. Princesses. Archers. Warriors. Magic-users. At eleven years old, Catra has learned enough to know they’re things that should pass off as common knowledge.
People within the Fright Zone don muted colours and steamcore-powered gadgetry. And those outside it, outfits that glimmer magic-bright and powers harnessed directly from Etheria’s essence. Water. Light. Wind. Fire.
Maybe it’s wrong, harbouring such fascination on a life, on a world Catra has never known. But like she’d ever find out; information regarding the matter is mostly kept under lock and key—forbidden fruit kept well out of reach by instructors, by Shadow Weaver, by Hordak, by everyone.
So naturally, there’s a bit of temptation involved. Nothing wrong with a single, simple bite.
Of course, it does not happen. In the way she thought it would go, at least.
So she is in a simulator zone, fighting multiple hordes of enemies with the tactical unit she’s been assigned to. They seem to be winning, at first. The bots all around—they’re going down fast, like bottles knocked over with a ball. Catra’s been put in the front lines, because she has been told she has earned the right. And they’re succeeding, they’ve got a solid pattern down—advance, retreat, then advance again.
Their vanguard is holding up strong. So is the flank, and the rear. Their technique is great. This round will be over without a hitch. And then—
Her foot catches on debris, and before she knows it she is falling, crashing.
And then there’s blankness.
Nothingness.
Pressing on her from all four corners.
Catra wakes up hours later with a terrible headache. A wound along her side. The pain is nothing like she’s ever felt - one hurt stacked up on top of another, like she’s hosting a kind of torment meant for two bodies. Somehow, as she writhes there on the bed, a blurry face starts emerging from the haze—and also phantom hands clutching at her ribcage, where most of the damage is concentrated.
Make it stop, Catra finds herself pleading the air, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. It hurts. It burns. It feels like something sharp and hot is twisting at her hipbone. She fell off a rafter once, and failed to stick a landing, and at the time she thought it was the worst kind of pain, a broken limb splayed beneath her, but it was nothing, nothing compared to this.
Darkness. It has started to eat away at the corners of her vision. Bile—oh no, it’s started clawing up her throat, acidic. Catra’s mouth floods with sugar, and—blood, blood from a bitten-down tongue.
And then. And then, the pain just—stops. Halts entirely, miraculously, the effect like smoke clearing out of a room.
Warmth starts coursing through her system, her skin and wound feeling as though they’ve reworked themselves into smooth, healthy flesh, good as new. Gingerly, Catra lifts her shirt, and then she sees it: her chest glowing with a light, golden flush.
Big wonders. She got healed. Actually.
Dizziness washes over Catra, at what has just happened. Such a strange thing. It was like magic, almost. Events like this, she has seen them before. In different forms, but nevertheless the same when it comes to the bottom-line. Whenever Catra gets hurt to the point where she can’t claim indifference to her own suffering, there’s always a mechanism that seems to operate backstage, one that ensures she won’t have to endure it any longer than she can handle.
Whatever force hidden to the naked eye is working, it has saved Catra’s hide more times than she can count with a single hand. But that is not all. There’s also those little things, like the stars that come out during slumber, during her brightest dreams. Those constellations, mini galaxies, spinning for her and only her.
Catra used to be afraid of the dark. But the memory of that fear has long since cooled into barely-breathing embers, eclipsed by starlight.
Some minutes pass. Catra is not counting. And because Catra is a girl of little patience, she slips out of bed, padding across the quiet infirmary to ask someone if she can leave, now that she feels much better, when she hears a muffled noise.
A distant rattle of chains. And then, a low cough.
Catra’s ears prick up. It is not an uncommon sound, that cough, but those chains. That sharp, cold clinking of metal. It has to be coming from some place nearby. But where?
The answer presents itself after an intense round of snooping around, of wandering through a criss-crossing maze of corridors, and then Catra is finding herself in a dimly lit room, metal-bound lights made to resemble torches hung across the walls. There are odd contraptions strewn on the tables pushed up against the centre—all faintly glittering, humming low and weak.
Holding cells shaped like glass cages line the sides. A core resembling a sharp-toothed sun dangles from the ceiling. Mortium, the word drifts to mind. Magic-stifling material, mined deep from the planet’s deepest trenches. Effective to some degree, but not wholly; if that were the case, the war would’ve ended years ago.
The image constructs itself in her head: units upon units of mortium-wielding soldiers. They stand in straight lines and strike with ruthless efficiency.
The familiar rattle returns. This time Catra is successful in identifying the source: the chains wrapped around a person half-hidden by one of the pillars supporting the upper level.
Catra’s breathing steadies, stills.
The person. He’s someone clearly not from around here, if those looks are any indication—the elegant, elfin features. The blue tint to his skin. The hair hanging to his chin in a fall of seafoam-green curls. And then the most telling, the gilded insignia displayed on his outfit—
A warrior, Catra realizes with a start, recognizing the wrought-gold spokes. An enemy of the Horde.
“Child,” the warrior’s voice pierces the static of her thoughts, the syllables rough, weak. “What brings you here? Surely not to taunt at my own demise.”
And then he lifts up his head. Eyes of crushing silver meet Catra’s own gaze. So bright, they’re like liquid moonlight. Below them, there’s a bruise that spreads vicious on the curve of his cheekbones.
This man—he does not look well. He looks weak, sick. Battered all over.
Catra’s stomach curdles. Something hot and oily spills into her gut, twists thick and tight, even though this is common knowledge. This is what the Horde does to enemies infiltrating their borders. This is what the Horde does to enemies they’ve captured outside them.
Catra just didn’t acknowledge their true extent. Until now.
“You’re hurt,” Catra croaks out weakly, and against her better instincts she reaches out to touch the bars of his prison. The chill immediately bites at her fingers. Foolish child, she can practically hear Shadow Weaver hissing into her ear.
Show no mercy, feel no pain. Empathy is weakness. It is the first thing people seek to take advantage of. No better way to get killed than lowered defences.
And yet.
“So it would seem,” the man says with a cough, stirring slightly—and there, Catra sees it: a soft, golden flush blooming on his skin. It spreads slow, like dye diffusing through water, inky tendrils unfurling, twining.
And then it slows, stops once the bruise has gone. Just like that. A type of magic in its own right. Catra’s fingers latch onto her own chest. This can’t be a sheer coincidence.
At Catra’s wide-eyed stare, the man cracks the barest hint of a smile, as though as he has seen right through her. “A soulmate bond,” the man explains, a curl brushing past the healed area. “It is a type of connection that transcends the confines of space itself. Very few are lucky to have been blessed with such a gift, of two fates linked by a single string. For as long as one’s heart beats, the other will be able to listen. To heal if need be. This love is a force that cannot be denied.”
To listen. To heal. So that wondrous warmth ...the stars in her dreams ...
“You,” the man says, tone softer, quieter. “I see it in your eyes. I feel it in the air. You have felt such a bond, as tenuous as it may be. Fear not, child, your secret is safe with me, but it is almost guaranteed there are others who will not look down upon it kindly. Especially around here, where matters such as this are so little understood. Trouble follows the blind even to fair plains, as the saying goes.”
Shadow Weaver. That’s right. She’d never understand. None of them would, the realization surer than day.
For a moment, the two of them stay there: girl-soldier and fallen warrior, both born of two different worlds.
And then, there’s the sound of footsteps. Carrying down one of the hallways.
Catra has to leave.
The man lifts up his chin. It is a regal movement. Laced with determination. His eyes on Catra don’t waver even for a second. “May we meet again, I suppose,” are his final words.
I’m sorry, Catra almost says as she retreats into the shadows.
It’s stupid, Catra knows. But she does it anyway. And unsurprisingly, the man is not there anymore.
Only a thin, steel-forged sword, the ornate hilt blue, the blade’s curve resembling the smile of a crescent moon. Mounted on the wall.
Battle spoils.
ii. long last we meet
The Horde hurts innocent people. That isn’t a secret. It is a fact Catra has been accustomed to from a very young age.
A fact that Adora has yet to grasp, at thirteen.
Bright, brilliant, Adora. Golden child, and top soldier. First-in-line for Force Captain. Of course she wouldn’t understand. When you’ve never borne the brunt of overly harsh scrutiny, perhaps such line of thinking is excusable. As Lord Hordak’s prime candidate, the spotlight has afforded her safer waters than most.
Lucky then, that she has avoided the sting of inferiority. Of exclusion. Shadow Weaver has ensured that.
It is not that Catra is jealous. Honestly. Okay, maybe just a tiny bit, but the point is this: Adora is Adora. Someone who always sees the good in people, whose optimism goes by the gallons. And that’s what makes her kind. Strong. Stronger than anyone Catra knows. It’s an unfailing virtue that has led her to greener pastures time and time again, that constant need to perceive commands as having some kind of altruism being their driving force, that there must be morally justified reasons for every order issued.
Adora fights for what she believes is good. Not for the fame, accolades, glory. But for honour. And honour is a quality you cannot bully out of someone.
But that empathy is also what makes her weak. Vulnerable. Exactly the sort of person Shadow Weaver frowns down upon. And Catra has noticed it, the way the crueler kids perceive it in the exact same way Shadow Weaver would Kids can be cruel. With enough conditioning, soft edges can easily be sanded sharp, rough.
And the people in this room—it wasn’t a choice they made themselves.
Horde kids, through and through.
Adora can take care of herself. That isn’t the problem. The thing is, she has always tried to look out for Catra, in all the years they’ve known each other—four and counting—and it never usually works out to Catra’s favour anyway.
Some say Catra is just bringing her down. That isn’t true. More like Catra’s always trying to reach up to her level. And maybe that’s how the whole picture could be misconstrued.
Angles and all.
Catra is in trouble.
First, the comms aren’t working, the signals too weak she cannot even re-establish a connection. Second, she is limping—ankle twisted underneath her weight. And third, she is stranded in some foreign, alien territory, where the terrain is harsh, and the nights are reputed for their unforgiving nature.
Figures that the connection of Kyle’s frequency tuner would be as bad as those bootleg datalink systems people use to tap into illicit sources. So into the ground it goes.
It’s deep twilight in the region they’ve come to know as the Waste Zone, a survival ground they throw kids into when they want to prepare them for next level combat stuff. As the name implies, the land is mostly barren but the utterly conducive for a wide manner of hostile creatures to breed and multiply.
It helps, that the atmosphere’s toxicity levels are just barely tolerable to the human (or hybrid, in Catra’s case) immune system.
“Ugh,” Catra groans, as she drags herself underneath a bowed tree, bordered by an insufficient outcropping of rock—when those creepy-crawlies come out in full force, no way it’ll serve as an effective barrier. Sure, it might slow then down. But that’s just about where that line ends. If they go hunting for dinner, the outcome will be same, regardless: Catra as dead meat.
Focus, Catra tells herself, taking deep breaths.. It’s okay, she’s fine, she isn’t hurt badly enough that she’s about to near-pass out from sheer agony. She can deal with this. That’s what she’s been trained to do. Soldiers of the Fright Zone—they’re built for resilience. How to withstand pain as manageable as this.
Anyway, if worst comes to worst, there’s always that chance of the soul bond thing coming to the rescue.
It’s been five years since her encounter with that man, and curiosity has turned her into a knowledge-hungry soul. It wasn’t enough, that she knew what this was, what she had. No—she simply had to learn more. Why it came to be.
And naturally, all her efforts bore very little fruit. Just the barest mention in the Book of Curses—stupid, dumb book—an obscure throwaway line. Clearly, Hordak had seen to it. Or maybe it was a concept even he did not recognize, too magic-born to comprehend, too rare for a verifiable record.
The sun has gone down, the sky turned black streaked green, when true panic sets in. It’s so painfully reminiscent of the times when Catra was a kid, that she can even feel her old fears beginning to resurface.
Her dread of the shadows, of the dark. Of absolute solitude, of being left alone.
They’re coming back in full circle. It’s a damn good thing there’s that object that they were supposed to retrieve right by her side. Some actual proof she isn’t in a warped, twisted nightmare.
If her unit comes back, at least she’ll have something to show for it. The mineral stellorion, extracted from a long-dead comet. Planet-sailors of old used them for astral navigation, she remembers vaguely from lessons. As they orbited planet to planet. Star-system to star-system. Those days are gone, though.
Focus.
Catra is getting dizzier. She needs to find a way to regroup with her team. Fast.
She looks up at the sky, starts running numbers in her head. In her present condition, she is not fit to bridge lengthy distances. A hundred paces alone would be enough to put her out of commission. Forever, if she wasn’t careful.
Stories. She needs a distraction. Any would do.
Adora. Yeah, Catra can work with her. That.
So, the stars faintly glimmering up above. Adora loves stars. Sometimes, when the moon is high and sky clear, they’ll sneak out on a skiff to watch them glow. Just her and Adora, alone. Somewhere past the smog of the city, where the corrupted air can’t taint the atmosphere.
Coldness. Catra has cold hands by default. Adora says the rest of her is warm, though. But maybe it’s because Adora is warmth personified. She gives good hugs. They’re about as great as the way she fights. Which is a big deal. A huge compliment. Adora should be pleased. A new notch under her belt for things she excels at.
Catra keeps a tally. Some days, they’re just about even—absolutely no bias from Catra whatsoever. But tonight, she’ll give this one to Adora.
Adora. Adora. Catra hopes Adora will realize what’s transpired soon enough. And then the intercomm system will reboot. They’ll be able to re-establish communication. And then they’ll surely find Catra.
Soulmate. They must’ve felt it; the stars—her stars—are coming out again. Briefly Catra wonders if it has ever truly gone both ways.
A few times, maybe. When her pain and theirs aligned. Problem is, Catra hadn’t known how to reciprocate. She still isn’t good at it, even now. Catra thinks: she had dreamt them a warm space. Hopefully it helped. Though she can’t be too sure.
She wishes she knew who they were. If only they knew she never meant to keep hurting them.
The lights start drifting around her hands. I’m not afraid, Catra wants to whisper, but does not. She has had enough of lies.
And then, just as she is about to segue into unconsciousness, the lights wink out, stop. And then there’s a voice calling out to her from the dark, high and clear, filled with worry—
Catra would know that voice that anywhere.
There are now hands cradling Catra’s face. “Catra!” a voice says, and Catra doesn’t understands why she isn’t all that surprised to see Adora, brave Adora, clever, beautiful Adora, whose features are worked up into a relieved expression. There are clumps of dirt in her hair. A discoloured smudge on her jaw. Trickles of blood dripping from her chin.
Someone’s been out fighting.
“Thank goodness you aren’t dead,” Adora says, and Catra has just enough energy to snort at this. And think about how easily she was found, when the comms are completely bust, the signals too weak to even summon a brief crackle of static. Then, without warning, Catra is being hoisted off the ground, Adora’s arms nice, and tight, and warm around her body.
Any other scenario, she’d have objected to this arrangement. Any person carrying her—simply not okay. But for this, Catra will have to make an exception, because number one, it’s Adora, and secondly, there isn’t any fight left in her willing to make the pronouncement.
And thirdly, Catra kind of really doesn’t mind. It’s nice. Adora’s arms are nice. Adora has a nice figure in general.
“Hey. How’d you even find me?” Catra murmurs, already on the verge of drifting off. “Because my communication kit—it wasn’t even working.” Her fingers are still wrapped around the stellorion chunk. Her grip tightens. A charm to keep the tides at bay.
Adora’s pace does not slow, so that they can make it in good time, to whatever base camp Adora embarked from. And her voice is warm, warm to Catra’s ears. “You know I’d find you no matter what,” she says lightly.
Not an answer. Catra wants more. “That sounds stupid.”
There is a pause. Like Adora is contemplating a proper response. Fine, whatever, Catra is willing to let this slide. But then, Adora murmurs, tone low, “I just—felt it, I guess. Where you were.”
Puzzles. Catra hates solving puzzles—especially when they’re in small pieces—but loves the high that comes after all the parts have finally clicked into place. This is one such puzzle; only, Catra wasn’t aware she thought of it as a puzzle in the first place.
Dizziness. Numbness. They clash within her. Catra starts a collection.
Of emotions. Of memories.
One. They’re eight years old, and it’s Catra’s first time taking up bladework. As expected, she fails the first few tries, managing to earn herself quite the collection of scrapes. Lots of the other kids in her class are older and bigger. They’re mean, and they get away with making fun of her stances, her shoddy footwork.
It’s only a matter of seconds before the waterworks begin. It starts as an ache, lumped up in her throat. And then a girl steps in—a girl around her age. She tells the bullies to back off. She steers Catra far away. That’s the first concrete memory Catra has of Adora. Bright, brilliant Adora.
Two. Stuff is hard when you don’t have the talent. Catra gets pushed around a lot. Words taste foul, acerbic when you’re on the verge of retaliation. As has become the norm, Adora’s there to back her up. Catra hates it. And loves her simultaneously.
Catra cries one night. And there’s Adora’s arms, holding her close and fast.
Three. Catra has grown. No longer that soft, snivelling brat—hard of heart and strong of mind. Or so she thinks: Adora remains her one weakness.
Her smile. Her eyes. Her laugh. Her voice. Ever-present in a world of grey.
And—oh, oh.
Maybe Catra’s soulmate has been here this entire time.
Adora has always protected her. Catra’s never taken that for granted. But she resented it, once upon a time. And she was wrong for it then, like she is wrong now.
She still resents it to some degree—Adora trying to save her.
Especially since Catra has more or less figured out just exactly where Adora stands in her life.
They are supposed to be looking out for each other. This is supposed to be a mutual, equal reciprocation. But Adora has never needed saving the way Catra does; she’s always held the advantage. She’s always held the scales in her favour.
And it makes Catra feel helpless, like she isn’t even good enough for this, like she hasn’t been for any skill of hers that’s being constantly compared to Adora’s, like she’s as insufferably devious and high maintenance and insouciant as Shadow Weaver often makes her out to be. Like Catra’s still that lost kid who never toughened up, a perpetual protocol-breaker and failure, someone who could never measure up to even the standards she’s set for herself.
Funny how life works this way: Catra’s greatest friend, greatest rival, turning out to be her soulmate.
It adds up in the end.
“You knew all this time,” Catra says, her words half-accusation, half-statement. “And never bothered to tell me.”
They’re staring at each other as they sit side-by-side. They’ve taken a skiff out beyond the borders. Tonight is a night for truths. And here they are alone, no one to bother them.
“I … guess I just kinda assumed you were aware of it, too, on some level,” Adora says quietly, honestly, and Catra wonders, incredulous: how did it go on like this for so long? “And something told me that there would come a time when the pieces would fall exactly where they were supposed to go. I couldn’t tell you early on; you were hurting on the inside. Because of me. Like, sure, I didn’t do it on purpose, didn’t even how I was doing it, but the point still stood: you already felt belittled enough as it was. I felt that the reveal would just throw everything off-balance. Make it seem as if you couldn’t be strong without my help. Like I always had to be around for you.”
“No, stop,” Catra breathes out, miserable. What a dumb situation they’ve gotten themselves into. “That’s all on me, Adora.” Now that the dirty laundry has been aired, the thoughts Catra’s been holding seems childish, in retrospect. Stupid. “It’s just—you’re so brave, and smart, and talented, that I feel like I can never measure up to you, sometimes. That try as I might, I’d never be able to catch up. That I’d always end up watching you from a faraway distance.”
Catra takes in a shuddering breath. “Truth is, I’m kinda scared,” she continues, and she feels small, smaller than she has ever been—colder, too. “Yeah, we’re friends, best buds and all, but I just can’t help thinking about what if you leave me one day? Realize that maybe I just wasn’t worth it. That you’d happen upon some noble cause, chase after it , like Shadow Weaver says you’re destined to do. And the thing is, I wouldn’t hold you back. But that doesn’t mean I’d be okay with you leaving.” The isolation would break me, is what Catra doesn’t add, but Adora must garner implicitly.
Adora shifts around. “ Catra, ” she says, those blue eyes wavering. “So this is how you feel?”
The night passes like that. The two of them working this out—recognizing some fundamental misjudgements of character they have both made. And that is what’s important. That they aren’t putting this off until it is too late.
“...and then I knew I had to help you out. So I dreamt you the lights. The stars. And healed your wounds when I felt you complain, ” Adora is saying once they’ve moved onto the topic of the weird bond thing itself.
Which they’re clueless about, regarding the specifics. The mechanics.
It’s guesswork from here on out. Catra hasn’t got much to go by—save for the words from the man once long ago, and that useless mention ...
“How did you do them?” she asks now, curious. “Like, how come I never clearly saw you? How come the most I was able to do was think that I dreamt you something? And feel what you felt at that time only momentarily. If this is magic, I guess I could kind of understand the whole not-abiding-by-a-clearly-defined-system-of-rules, but still. Don’t you think it’s kind of unfair? Way to go, power imbalance.”
Adora snorts. Then lets out a laugh. “Then I suppose we’ll just to have to figure it out together.”
Adora throws an arm around her shoulders. And Catra leans into her touch, the choreography of it as ingrained into her muscle memory as the respiratory system is to breathing.
Catra moves in closer, and the breaking dawn floods the forest a soft rose-gold.