Chapter Text
──・❥・
Catra has always been a sharp thing.
She knew far before she was small that every hair in her unkempt mess of a mane, every tendril in her heart that weighed too akin to a knife by a throat were things not meant to be held; Shadow Weaver affirmed that plenty through her childhood. Her fur was rough to the touch, and her words wounded more deeply than the bite of her fangs could ever fathom. Her claws didn't retract under safety nor comfort; she always bore them close, reliant.
Yet for some reason, now, Catra feels soft.
She glances ahead in the mirror to face a reflection of herself she can no longer recognize, the lotus flowers in her hair pricking her scalp more than she'd like to admit. She twitches her ear and briefly closes her eyes to suppress a sneeze as Scorpia finishes tightening her dress.
"All good, Wildcat." She affirms from behind her, releasing the knotted bow from the back and giving her just enough space to spin around and loosen the fitting.
"Thanks," Catra replies plainly, her tone threatening to betray the hostility in her movements. She gives a quick but sharp turn, fulfilling her friend's expectations, and stiffens her foot. She sighs to herself just quietly enough to remain oblivious to Scorpia's hearing.
Catra has never really been quite fond of dresses. As a rambunctious child, Shadow Weaver went through great lengths of struggle to get her into one for a formal training once, only to witness her rip it to shreds moments later. She'd always been like that, violent and quick to agitate. She hated the way the fabric clung to her sides, the itch of the mesh texture around her waist far too clustered for comfort amongst the weight of the skirt and the clasp of the back zipper– it felt all too much for herself as a kitten. Now, she was older, but it still felt all the same. Maybe she'd always be violent.
Scorpia leads her to another room, likely to prepare for the start of the ceremony, only Catra cannot stop thinking about the dress. In all honesty, it wouldn't have been her first choice to wear a dress at all. Only, when Adora proposed the idea to her just two short weeks ago under the moonlight of a distant night, she seemed so eager, her smile reaching the edge of her eyes so highly it threatened to rival the brightness of the sun itself. The tilt of her head and subtle lift of her brow made declining the offer near impossible to an awestruck Catra who stilled as her fiancée tucked a wild strand behind her ear and held her closely, to another version of herself too impossible to ignore. She was in love, and she loved seeing Adora happy. So, when Adora inquired about the idea of wearing a dress to the ceremony, she agreed.
It was almost tenderly complacent, the way Catra still found ways to be so aggravated on her wedding day. In the Horde, marriage was a foreign concept, as were relationships and love in itself. The idea of prioritizing a partner over one's own safety or allegiance to the only army each cadet had ever known was seen as tabboo– yet the love remained in smaller ways, in the silent touches shared between two young girls in the wake of their mentor's scolding, in the teasing laughter amongst squadrons after training exercises, in Adora's breath close against her nape when Catra slept at the foot of her bunk; even in the shreds of what remained of it afterwards. Love became scarce, but it wasn't fleeting– not until the day Adora left and took the foreign concepts of everything lovely with her.
Now, love was overzealous, abundantly everywhere in Etheria and in Bright Moon especially. It seemed everyone fell victim to the warmth of being near one another, of collapsing into unions and spouse titles left and right– Bow and Glimmer, Scorpia and Perfuma, even nonconformists Entrapta and Hordak embraced the idea of getting married; it was only a matter of time before Adora figured they should do the same.
Before then, Catra hadn't really considered marriage. For all it's worth, the idea in itself seemed pointless. It was a grand gesture of commitment, yet Adora already made a billion broken promises to her that she'd overcome and rejuvenated tenfold. They were staying together regardless; what did a pair of rings matter to that?
For what little of marriage was discussed in the Horde, Catra knew a lot about weddings. She'd read endless stolen books as a child on how they ran, what colors the peonies were in every bouquet, how the bride dressed and acted as if this were the happiest day in her entire life. And of course, she was happy now– today was her own wedding day, where Catra would walk the aisle to embrace her affections in a kiss amongst hundreds of people: strangers and people who used to hate her, who maybe still do.
Before the ceremony itself, there was the preparation; she could handle that. Most brides had a whole company of bridesmaids to assist them with the trivial things: her hair and makeup, assembling decorations and helping with plans. Catra had no such company; she lacked the amount of friends needed to possess such a company. Though, she did have Scorpia and Entrapta, who in the least persistent way tried to handle all the technical details of the ceremony without stressing her further. And Glimmer helped with her hair. If only things could've stayed that simple.
Of course, then there were the vows, how could Catra forget? She knew the standard list that echoed constantly at the back of her mind since the proposal. She'd state her name, pledge to hold Adora through better and for worse; only if worse truly came, would she be able to withstand it? She'd spent a long time reflecting on everything that had happened since the time they last separated, in the moments they spent consumed by hatred instead of love. What would she do if it happened again, if Adora left, or poorer yet, if she had? What if she couldn't take it this time?
Then there was for good, oh, for good. How was she supposed to promise to stay for something like that when she wasn't even good herself? It didn't feel right, no, it wasn't right. Adora was soft and light and heroic and warm– all the things Catra was not, all the things she would never be. Good was better than herself, good meant permanent. Could they ever be permanent? The thought of staying so stagnant for such an extended period of time made Catra want to claw at her own insides, more than the prickling feeling of the dress against her stomach. How long was forever supposed to be?
All these thoughts swarm through Catra's head now as she approaches the ceremony, the carefully placed delphiniums and camellias scattered across the ground growing closer into view while she steps into the aisle. All eyes turn to face her, the first to witness the foolishness of her attire when she places one foot after the other, almost tripping on her own tail. She's swimming in her own train despite Scorpia's best efforts to keep it off the ground; for a moment, she swears the silhouette in the grass behind her path is Shadow Weaver's instead of hers. The fabric around her waist is too constricting; she threatens to move it only before halting at the tightness of the seams threatening to twee before her next step, the continuous feeling of eyes waiting for her collapse making the world feel too warm, too fast. She feels a bead of sweat roll down to her collar to agonizingly sluggish to stop. The sun was blistering far too hot for this time of morning. The ring on her finger tightens the pulse in her veins up to her neck; she was suffocating, slowly.
She was going to make it, she had to, just a few more steps. She waits at the altar patiently, staying calm when Adora arrives, remaining static as she tries to keep her eyes on Adora's blue ones instead of the crowd's, instead of the brightening skies that threaten to blind her vision. She binds her hands forward and listens to the vows, blurred.
"I do," Adora says all too suddenly before Catra can register the first set has already commenced, speaking warmly; too warm, too adjacent to the feeling of the sun above their heads. Catra scowls.
"And do you, Catra, take Adora to be your lawfully wedded spouse, to have and to hold from this day forward, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?"
A bile rises in her throat. A clenching of palms, the blistering heat, all eyes on her, the dress is too tight–
"...Adora..."
A catch in her voice, then a clasp forward.
"I'm sorry."
Her feet suddenly carry her away, opposite the directions of gasps and rising murmurs from faceless people with faceless names, people who deserve to be good. Catra runs faster and farther than the wind can take her, away from the ceremony, into the woods.
She runs from the look of terror in Adora's eyes threatening to rival her own, the guilt replacing the itchiness in her stomach too terrible to bear.
The trees enclose her, and she's gone.
──・❥・