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I have so many bodies in me-if you look close enough,
you could almost mistake me for a massacre.
— George Abraham
It happens to me frequently.
You disappear?
Yes and then come back. Moments of death I call them.
— Anne Carson
Patience, you’re taught, is not natural.
The lesson seems vital, pivotal to the mission you’ve been born into. You aren’t sure of its significance, or why you know this feeling so intensely, but you do notice how thickly it coats every word of His.
You rise from their pool and you are bathed in whispers of a Little Sister. Hands drape you in piercing white robes, the hem of the hood slightly obstructs your level of sight. A hint of a voice in your mind tells you they are your Brothers. They are tall, they are cold, and you hesitate to call any of this yours or do not wish them to call you theirs. But you are made in their image and you know better than to point out the differences. A hand tilts your face up and you’re given an assignment.
The memories He has allowed to linger in the cracks help you understand the words enough. They stand at the ready, as disciplined as your ability to halt until another hand releases your hold on the trigger. The impact of them, the fallout, is what you’re wanting to examine. But you wait.
A day comes when you are retrieved from your quarters. Your Brothers do not show much behind their neutrality but there’s enough of a change that you know there’s something urgent happening. Urgent and dire enough that you are needed, rushed to a certain corridor of the ship.
You are calm despite your wondering. Your Brothers guide you until a voice cracks the sterile silence and finally, your questions are answered.
You remember her because He needs you to. The pain associated with knowing her has faded, peeled like a tendon from a bone, but you must know her. Of course you must be the one to face her.
You now think of her as a story. She-Ra, the lasting glory of the Tyrants, lost to the darkness of the rebels. She is flesh hardly protected from the weapon she carries but you–the vessel, the mission, hardened steel in the place of what you once were. You are to bring her into the Light. You are destined to bring her home.
You wait. You wait.
You make no attempt to look She-Ra in the eye as you’re called to his side. Your forehead rests against the back of your hands as you bow at his feet. You’re perplexed at the heat that kisses your skin from the breaths you take.
You are asked to fight and you ache to shake her by the shoulders. To push her beneath the sickly green water and ask her to take a breath.
Once you look her way, all of her focus lies in maintaining your attention. Pleading with you in a way that’s no longer familiar. This woman in front of you is a story but you follow the instinct to call her Adora. At that, she seems to sag into the Brothers that restrain her.
“You broke my heart,” you say and you let yourself touch her face. A thumb twitches as a tear rolls down. “But He has made it whole again.”
You remember the hatred you hold for heroes. She-Ra’s insistence on fighting against His demands, the pointlessness that comes with constant suffering in the darkness. The delusion in gathering those you love together, despite knowing what lies ahead.
You look at her tears, her burning gaze towards the one who sees all, and you remember that hatred. You are composed but you are angry, and that is useful. You must use it.
He rests a hand atop your head and you anticipate what needs to be done. He leaves you alone with She-Ra and you want to relish in the flinch that consumes her as your claws surface.
She-Ra makes a point out of escaping each of your strikes without striking you in return. The technique is shoddy, half-hearted, an insult to what both of you have become. You raise a hand with unsheathed claws and the fear from your first battle together remains in her eyes. You can almost feel the impact of the blow, the heat from her blood ready to shroud your wrists, but a hand grips your arm, holding it in place–
“Catra, listen to me, I know you’re still in there–”
Catra, Catra, Catra, the melody of it floods her with a warmth she doesn’t deserve. All she has ever been is the unyielding and pried-open wound that comes with wanting. She reaches towards the inferno, waiting for the stars to eat her marrow–
Your joints and cartilage shift, twisting within her grip, flinching from its warmth. You want to laugh at the horror in She-Ra’s gasp, at the tearing of flesh under the swipe that you take when she’s distracted.
You try to coddle her, hold her close as you urge her to understand Prime’s will. A being as false as She-Ra is still worthy enough to be brought into his Light.
She-Ra grips you by the back of your robes, hauling you over her shoulder and throwing you until you sprawl at the foot of His throne. There’s a twinge in your neck but it holds no importance at the moment.
She-Ra cautiously approaches you but the urgency in her tone is harsh and grating. “Snap out of it, Catra. I don't want to hurt you.”
You smile but you don’t think she’s ever seen it as gentle. “You already have hurt me. Prime has set me free of that pain.” You feel a heavy stare against your back as you walk up those few steps. “The pain that you caused.”
The crumbling of She-Ra’s features at the reminder with a weight so human it can only be called grief. It itches at your skin. You can’t bear the insincerity of it. You can’t bear the possibility of it being genuine.
You lunge, a closed hand grazes your face. An image flickers, green melting into purple lightning–
We have everything we ever wanted.
You destroyed the world.
You made your choice.
Now live with it.
Your cheek remembers what it’s like to burn. Your smile tastes of copper but does not waver, a stain.
Live with it, live with it, live with it , but He has ensured you do not have to. He has taken this hindrance from you because that is what peace is. You wonder what hinders She-Ra. You will wait until Prime has her in his grasp to see.
She continues to speak, begs you with a name that she forces upon you and surely she must know it’s pointless?
Her cheeks are splotched with relentless tears and you know better than to weep for her. With her.
You do not give her time to think. You are a blur of limbs, knives and stitched together steel that covers skin. She tries, and she tries, the hold on your wrists tightens–You are not who she knows anymore, You are not who she thinks she’s touching–
Your foot makes contact with her side and her gurgling inhale overwhelms her. A rib cracks under the impact. Maybe two, considering how pained She-Ra’s gasps become. You walk around her form that’s been crumpled and spat at the edge of His throne. You crouch down and though she curls her injury away from view, she crawls closer to you. She looks at you and you do not gasp at how refreshing blue is compared to the green that’s brought you here.
Your fingers skim the surface of her skin, shifting from a cradling of the face to an iron-strong clasp against her mouth.
“I never wanted to,” the words barely slip through from how tightly your fingers rest on her jaw. Blood pricks from where your claws sink, trickles from the corner of her mouth. You do not pity the way she nestles into the touch, desperate for a sign that she can save you.
It’s a plea. A prayer. She’s given up on apologies and that is something you’re surprisingly disappointed in. You rip it from her mouth and hold it in your palm. A sharp giggle bubbles from your throat at the sight.
She raises a hand to cover yours, utilizing whatever remains of her strength to pry her mouth free. She stumbles to her feet, swaying from the immeasurable pain you inflicted. Her forehead is damp with sweat. A hand clutches at her side but still, she watches you. You wish she wouldn’t.
An overcorrected sway to the side turns into a charge and the force of it propels you backwards. Your leg dangles along the gorge, so light and empty in contrast to the foot that remains on the platform, to the grip that She-Ra has on your arms as she pulls you into her embrace. The act of it burns.
So naive is her sigh of relief and muffled grunt once your claws meet her skin. The center of your palm is struck with heat and your nails catch on loose skin. Your knee burrows into her heaving side and her scream– has she forgotten how to cry?– mixes with a further splitting of her rib.
Despite it all, she claims she will not give up on you. You wish you found her determination practical.
She slams you against His podium, clear glass fracturing into a kaleidoscope surface. You resist, you writhe, your neck sparks under the impact–
Her head can’t bear the burden of its own weight but she looks up to see a concern that’s only been directed at her by one person. The sheet of green is flayed from her eyes and it’s bright, so bright that she wants to run from it.
“Catra?” is the shape her mouth forms and Catra–yes, that’s who she still is, that’s who she wants to be again–melts. She is–
“A fool. You cannot stop Horde Prime. He will reign supreme over all the universe.”
Lights flare across She-Ra’s face, marking and reflecting the conflict she has resigned herself to resting in. You feel the jolts and crackling of electricity behind you but you do not move, for his Light has always been your salvation.
She-Ra grabs you as glass detonates in your ear, you sink into her–why do you sink–
Catra stirs against the warm arms holding her together and she could weep from the absence of vigilance.
Adora holds her, resists from pulling her closer and forgets to stifle her panic at the state Catra must be in. Each movement she makes against the cold floor gnaws at her disintegrating spine, causing a pain so sudden and feral that her vision darkens at the edges.
She should be angry, should resent how all Adora will ever seem to know is how to ignore what’s best, but it’s hollow. She’s tired, she curls into Adora’s embrace, and prepares to disappear again once she’s soaked the feeling in.
“You matter to me,” Adora promises and Catra doesn’t have it in her to deny herself this. Adora’s tired, in as much pain as she is, but her hand is warm and deliberately gentle. Catra reaches for her, coughs from the blood pooling in her mouth–
A shame to indulge in this weakness, Little Sister. There is no good that comes with surrendering to their darkness.
“--ome on, Catra! You’ve never listened to anyone in your life. Are you really going to start now?”
Catra shakes her head, her hands form fists. She smiles and it’s something she wants to share. “You’re such an idiot.”
“Yeah,” It’s bright and sharp, echoed with inhales that are growing more difficult to keep steady. Adora cries for her, not because of her, and this euphoria is all Catra wants to see. “I know.”
Catra laughs with her and they’re children running in hallways too large for them, they’re teenagers glancing at each other through worn-out wooden staffs, they’re eighteen with a key to a stolen skiff, gliding them through the sky to shift Catra’s bad day into something manageable.
Your blind devotion in Her will lead to your own destruction.
“I’m going to take you home,” Adora cries. It’s a desperation that has escaped a logic that Adora’s always deemed important. She does not provide Catra with the details to her plan, doesn’t repeat the argument that has previously deepened the chasm that’s been set for them.
But Adora is here, she is desperate, and Catra wants to understand her again.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Catra’s grown so used to the feeling of dying, of disappointment, of disappearing. She falls so easily off the platform and closes her eyes as though to evade the approaching blow.
The realization that something new has settled over the group occurs to Catra during a sleepless night.
The days (weeks? Everything feels the same on a ship, amongst the stars that all blur together) were first filled with a stretched-thin tension, the high from their rescue mission still lingering. No words were really exchanged but hugs lasted longer and they indulged in glances as though to confirm that the other was flesh and bone, not a mere illusion or hallucination.
Now, everyone practices what they call patience towards her but Catra can guess it’s due to their hesitation. Bow and Glimmer encourage her to roam the ship freely, to be reassured that she’s not being watched, but they seem out of their element. They know how to act around their friends that have lived a life like theirs, how to comfort someone that’s always been privileged enough to experience that feeling. Catra is a wonder to them and she reminds herself to ask Adora one day how they managed with her.
But they try. So Catra tries in return.
The low fluttering of the ship's engine and the creaks of metal aren’t loud or quiet enough to let Catra sleep. She knows that she needs to, regardless of how many years she’s scraped by on bursts of inadequate rest, but she feels the need to move.
She opens her door and nearly slams into Adora, who’s curled up on the ground with her back resting against the door. She looks up at Catra and she turns shy. For some reason, Catra feels the same.
“Hi,” she breathes.
“Hey,” Catra murmurs.
Adora pushes herself to her feet and wrings her hands together, but she doesn’t speak. Catra wants to snap under the pressure of this conversation, to know everything that’s on Adora’s mind but she makes herself observe. Her ponytail is askew and she doesn’t bother sweeping the loose pieces of hair away from her face. Adora swallows a lump in her throat, looks at Catra so openly that even if they were strangers, she would know what Adora is asking of her.
Something has settled over them because Catra looks at Adora and does not think of the sound of her shattering ribs.
Catra steps aside and gestures for Adora to come in. She waits until Adora gathers her thoughts, discomfort slipping from her body language the longer she stands there.
“Can I sleep here?” At Catra’s silence, Adora does what she thinks is required of her and justifies herself. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, or because I think you need it–”
Catra shakes her head but it's to reassure, to stop her from thinking her wants need to be phrased this way. “Adora–”
“But I think I do.” She takes another breath. "I think I need this."
The weight of the confession lifts from Adora’s shoulders. She wonders if this is how she looked when collapsed on the ground, asking Adora to stay. Catra sways to the sound of Adora’s heartbeat that peeks through the silence in the room. She nods and drowsiness finally hits her in the moment.
“Just don’t hog the blanket,” is what she settles on and the resulting smile Adora gives her is stamped onto the inside of her eyelids.
They’re silent as they prepare to go to bed and they’re silent as they slip under the sheets. It is Adora who inches closer once they settle, keeping her eyes on Catra as though asking for permission. She rests her head against Catra’s chest, tucking herself against her unsteady heartbeat. Her chest clenches at the shaky sigh Adora lets out, at the way Adora tightens her embrace around Catra’s waist.
A hand raises to cup the back of Adora’s head, eventually weaving through her hair that’s been taken down for the night. She likes that. She likes that no matter how subtle, Adora’s showing moments of growth.
The darkness in the room grows even blacker as she watches the shadow of her hand comb through tangled, neglected strands and it’s what sweeps Adora into sleep. Catra follows shortly after and she feels her chest rumble with the start of a purr.