Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Love is what we have, against time and death, against all the powers ranged to crush us down.

-  Amal El-Mohtar, from This Is How You Lose The Time War

(THE FIFTH GATE) 

A brightly lit room, a sky full of stars:

C’yra Driluth sits in the starboard conference room of the Ekleipsis, the roof arching high above her head. The conference table is a long oval of steel surrounded by ambassadors from all corners of the Empire, the holodeck in the center emitting a soft blue light as it projects a map of the solar system.

The ambassador from Asterion Hold is speaking now, a monologue about the state of the export industry in Zone Four. C’yra doesn’t care about this; both the ambassador and their planet are far from her concern, so she lets her attention wander freely. 

This is only her second time serving as Ambassador Nineteen, Halfmoon’s representative at the intersolar conferences onboard the neutral ground satellite station - the Ekleipsis - that is the Capital of the Republic, and although she’s prepared for all the veiled battles and cutthroat politics that are standard fare at these events, she’s still not quite used to the splendor of the station itself. 

The pen in her hands, provided at the door along with an elegant pad of legal-ruled manila scroll, is solid gold and encrusted with small white diamonds. The table at which they’re sitting is pure platinum. To C’yra’s right, beyond the crystalplex window, the starfield glimmers with the gold and silver lights of a thousand sparks, an entire celestial kingdom spread out in that sea of darkness. 

It’s all so vast . It fills C’yra with an indescribable kind of ache, a restless reaching for something more. Back on Halfmoon, her world dwindles to a singular point, a manageable sphere of existence; here on the Ekleipsis, no such limitation exists. It sits in the center of the solar system, the beating heart of an empire, bigger than all it contains. 

It takes C’yra’s breath away every time, but she has to take care to hide that fact. The other ambassadors are for the most part jaded and aged, concerned with nothing other than politics; if they knew she still felt like an awestruck child everytime she boarded the Ekleipsis , she’d be fucked within minutes - which, she reminds herself, will happen anyway if I don’t at least pretend to pay attention right now.

Reluctantly, she focuses her mind once again on the discussion at hand. 

“No,” the Asterion Hold ambassador is saying. C’yra racks her brain for his title - Ambassador Six, heir to the throne of Asterion Hold, but still a politician for all that. “We cannot allow you to place a tariff on inorganic exports through the Sector Six stargate. Do you take me for a fool? That is blatant highway robbery, and it will run our coffers dry. If you insist upon this further, Asterion Hold will have no choice but to take recriminatory action as we see fit.” 

“Well,” the ambassador from Salineas drawls - Ambassador Three, Catra reminds herself - “if Asterion Hold is so poor that a twenty credit tariff is going to bankrupt it, then I’m kind of not worried about your so-called recriminatory action, you know?” 

Ambassador Six turns red with rage, but the Salinean ambassador just waves her hand in reply. C’yra watches in mild interest, with a grudging admiration for Ambassador Three.

“This debate seems to need a moderator,” says the Plumerian representative - Ambassador Nine, who is so soft spoken that C’yra wonders how she ever got to be sitting in this room. “If I may allow - ” 

“You may not ,” Ambassador Six insists, his expression outraged. He’s clearly never mastered the mask of indifference that C’yra has employed since the beginning of her career as a diplomat. “Asterion Hold is bleeding . Don’t sit there and tell me that you can’t see my side of the issue! We have people to feed, we have an economy to revitalize, we have - ” 

The hiss of the pneumatic hyperdoors drowns out the rest of his sentence, leaving C’yra to wonder what word he would have emphasized next. The servant standing by the doors raises their arms in standard Capital courtesy, then announces: “Presenting the delegation from Eternia, Ambassador Thirteen.” 

Ambassador Thirteen steps into the room, taking the empty seat next to Ambassador Ten that sits diagonally opposite from C’yra. 

“Apologies for the delay in my arrival,” Ambassador Thirteen says. “We had to stop by Zone Four to help the colony of Salix with an invasion of stareaters.” She picks a bit of something unidentifiable from the edge of her shirt, flicking it away with a look of embarrassment. “Uh. As you were. Carry on.” 

“As I was saying ,” Ambassador Six says, no doubt continuing his lengthy diatribe, but C’yra is no longer listening. 

Ambassador Thirteen turns to the light, and C’yra’s world explodes like a dying star.

Ambassador Thirteen is, without question, the prettiest person C’yra has ever seen. Her hair falls in gentle waves, shining with a luminescent gold that the twin moons of Halfmoon would beg to rival. Her eyes are the stormy grey of a starshine nebula; when she blinks, it’s as if the entire galaxy blinks along with her. She’s the brightest thing in the room.

C’yra realizes, dimly, that she’s staring. She doesn't stop, can’t stop. Every molecule of her being feels like it’s reaching for Ambassador Thirteen, gravity pulling planets into orbit, driven by a force she can’t yet name. She’s never seen the woman before in her life, but something in her recognizes something in Ambassador Thirteen on a fundamental level. Watching her is like crossing the threshold of one’s childhood home, C’yra thinks: familiar and yet distant, all at once. 

She forgets about debates, about politics, about her diplomatic mission. She forgets about everything other than Ambassador Thirteen. Sight becomes a tunnel, sound an ocean surrounding her; she’s unaware of anything in the room besides the set of Ambassador Thirteen’s mouth and the spark in her eyes and the gold of her hair.

“I would like to address the request put in two moons ago,” Ambassador Thirteen says, and the sound of her voice is a clarion call, a tuning fork struck and held to the center of C’yra’s chest. “Eternia previously requested, on the condition of a temporary grant, control over Etheria Station in Zone Nine.” 

C’yra is so entranced by the sound of her voice that she barely hears the actual words, but slowly their meanings start to register, and then - 

“Hell no,” C’yra mutters to herself. 

“Well,” says Ambassador Two, the representative of Bright Moon. “That request has been pending for an intermediary period, but I believe that it may be granted upon your terms; however, if Eternia uses it for military acts rather than resource harvesting, then the consequences will be dire.” 

“Understood and agreed,” Ambassador Thirteen says, the corner of her mouth pulling up in a satisfied smirk that drives C’yra mad to look at. “I’ll pass that on to the court when I return.” 

“It’s settled, then,” Ambassador Two says, and C’yra can’t contain herself anymore. 

“Nothing’s settled ,” she says, her tone carefully controlled. “Halfmoon also laid claim to Etheria Station - three months ago, I might remind you - and you’re telling me that you’re willing to hand it over to Eternia without a second thought? 

Ambassador Thirteen turns to look at her, and their eyes meet like stars colliding. C’yra is blown away beneath the sheer brilliance of blue-edged grey, an interstellar shift occurring in the space between them, but she refuses to let it derail her.  

“I challenge your claim to Etheria Station,” she continues. “And I assure you that Halfmoon is more than capable - and willing - to fight for the station with more than just contradictory words, if necessary.” 

“Etheria Station is closer to Eternia, you know,” Ambassador Thirteen says, her eyes sparking now. 

“Immaterial,” C’yra counters. “The distance is negligible. It’s what, two kliks northwest by nineteen degrees? Hardly an extra ten minutes of sub-light travel.” 

“Still, it’s closer to us,” Ambassador Thirteen insists. “As well, before we make any momentous decisions on this matter, I would like to remind the other ambassadors of the events that occurred last solstice. Surely it would be better for Eternia to have use of Etheria Station, in case of future incidents of that nature?” 

C’yra grits her teeth. Ambassador Thirteen is indirectly reminding the Council that half or more of them owe her their lives in the aftermath of the alien threat ten moons ago. Leverage has always been a tricky thing, but Ambassador Thirteen has her hand on the fulcrum of this room. Murmuring breaks out between the other ambassadors.

Commander Astrid raises a hand, and the room falls silent. As the military leader of the Ekleipsis, she usually doesn’t get involved with interkingdom politics unless they affect the entire solar system, but when she does, her word carries more weight than anyone else in the Republic. 

“Both ambassadors have laid a material claim to the station,” she says, her voice pure authority sung in alto stanzas. “I recommend that we break for today and reconvene tomorrow, where we will review the validity of each claim.” 

The other ambassadors nod and gather their things, starting to leave. C’yra remains where she is, one eye on the door and the other on Ambassador Thirteen, who’s still at the table.

“You,” C’yra says furiously, the second that they’re alone in the room. 

Ambassador Thirteen looks up at her, surprised. “Ambassador Nineteen.” 

“Don’t give me the slick political crap,” C’yra says, and she’s jeopardizing her diplomatic reputation here, but she doesn't care - she’s too mad at Ambassador Thirteen; mad that she’s trying to swipe Etheria Station from under Halfmoon’s nose, mad that she’s infuriatingly smug about it, mad that she’s so damn attractive. “Claiming the station? You know that we put in a claim before you did.” 

“I didn’t, actually,” Ambassador Thirteen says. “I haven’t been here for the last few conferences; I had missions on the outer reaches. Hey, are you new? I don’t remember seeing you before.” 

“No, I’m not!” C’yra splutters. “For your information, this is my second time here, and I know exactly what’s going on, so don’t think you can go screwing me over just because I’m from Halfmoon and not one of your precious diplomat princesses.” 

Ambassador Thirteen smirks again, and C’yra wants to punch her, wants to kiss it right off her mouth - 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ambassador Thirteen says.

C’yra narrows her eyes. “You may be dangerous, but if you keep pushing Halfmoon, you’ll find that I am too.” 

Ambassador Thirteen stands up now, and she’s so tall it’s a matter of impracticality - C’yra is forced to tilt her head back to look at her properly. 

“You think I’m dangerous,” Ambassador Thirteen says softly, her face barely inches from C’yra’s. The air grows heavy between them. C’ra feels her heartbeat speed up, flickering hotly in her chest, a double-time, quicksilver rhythm. “Do you want to find out just how right you are?” 

“How?” C’yra asks, fighting to keep her tone neutral even as her body betrays her: she’s leaning forward, bending to Ambassador Thirteen like a flower to the sun. 

“Get dinner with me,” Ambassador Thirteen says, and then: “Um. If you want to, that is.” She grins sheepishly. It’s such a change from the ruthless politician facade of seconds earlier that it sends C’yra’s head spinning, and oh - she’d wanted to disarm her, but this - 

“Okay,” C’yra says, and it’s a terrible idea. Red lights flash at the edges of her vision, but she blinks right through them; Ambassador Thirteen smiles at her crookedly, and it’s more than worth it. 

“Nine at the Artemis?” she asks. “I’ll pick you up. See you then.” 

“Wait,” C’yra says. “I don’t even know your name.” 

Ambassador Thirteen arches an eyebrow. “What’s your name?” 

“C’yra.” She’s losing their game, but she doesn’t care anymore. 

“C’yra,” Ambassador Thirteen repeats thoughtfully, rolling the name around like it doesn’t quite fit right in her mouth. “Nice to meet you. I’m Adora.” 

She shoots C’yra one last grin and then slips out the door, leaving C’yra standing there dazedly. Adora, she thinks, and can’t help smiling to herself. 

She allows herself one more moment of stupid happiness, and then she heads to her room. She’s got a date to dress for.

--

At eight forty-five, C’yra finds herself sitting in the sun temple on the upper level of the Ekleipsis. Unlike the Capital, Halfmoon follows the crescent moon, and C’yra barely practices religion anyway, but something drew her here tonight for reasons she can’t explain. 

The altar looms above her, filigree gold hammered into the spear-sharp shape of the sun. The only light in the room comes from the permanently lit candles ringing the steps of the rostrum and the circular starpane above her head, which allows a thin beam of starlight to fall directly onto the altar. 

C’yra kneels on the sandstone-tiled floor and stares up at the altar, absorbing the glittering rays of gold. She’s never really understood the Capital’s obsession with the sun before, but now she does.

The altar curves like the corner of Adora’s smile, and C’yra can’t think about anything else; it’s an offer of dinner, a first night that could also be the last, but there’s something here that runs deeper. She knows she’s acting irrational, but she can’t help it: something about Adora brings her to her knees, instilling a devotion deeper than one meeting in one lifetime. It’s as if they’ve met before, as if today was only a single chapter in a story as old as love itself. 

“Hey,” says a voice from behind her. “Told you I’d find you.” 

C’yra turns to see Adora there, leaning against the frame of the door, wearing a simple black blazer with a gold dress shirt and a white tie hanging loose around her neck. Her hair is pulled up and tied back, but a few strands are falling free on one side. 

“Well look who decided to show up,” C’yra replies, getting to her feet. She quickly straightens the collar of her own shirt; she’d opted for a black tuxedo over a silver shirt, no tie. She thinks Adora will like it. She hopes Adora will like it. 

Adora eyes her appreciatively. “We’re standing in a temple,” she says, “and you’re still the only thing in the room worth worshipping.” 

“I bet you say that to all the diplomats,” C’yra scoffs, pretending that her heart isn’t fluttering like a bird trapped between her ribs. 

“Only the pretty ones,” Adora says, her smile crooked. Then, softer: “No. Only you.” 

C’yra grins despite herself. “Awfully forward for the first date, don’t you think?” 

“Not if I’m sure there’s going to be more,” Adora answers. She turns towards the altar, one hand pressed to her chest, and bows slightly in a formal gesture of respect. That done, she holds one hand out to C’yra. “Shall we?” 

“I guess so,” C’yra says, trying for a tone of indifference and missing by a starfield mile. “But this is not because I like you.” 

Adora just laughs. C’yra takes her hand. 

“You know,” Adora says as they leave the temple, “I’m kind of surprised that you were here. I thought that Halfmoon followed the moon, but I guess I was wrong. Do you follow the sun, then?” 

C’yra glances over at her: the soft curves of her profile, the sharp line of her jaw, the starfire intensity of her eyes. She thinks of the strange familiarity that she feels between them, a soft but unyielding magnetic pull of a force, her compass point drawn to Adora’s north star. 

“Yeah,” she says. “Sometimes it feels like I’ve followed it my whole life.” 

--

The Artemis is the most upscale restaurant on the Ekleipsis, but Adora gets them a table next to the window like it’s nothing at all. C’yra leans back in her chair, taps a knife against the diamond champagne flute sitting at her place; Adora braces her forearms on the edge of the table, smiling at her. Outside, the vast reaches of the starfield send soft light slanting through the crystalglass.

“So,” C’yra says finally, setting down her knife. “What do you do when you’re not trying to steal other kingdoms’ territory?” 

“I’m not trying to steal -”  

“Yeah, alright,” C’yra sighs. “No politics tonight, then. Answer the rest of the question.” 

Adora raises one shoulder in a shrug. “I like traveling a lot, but just for fun, not for diplomatic missions. I like combat training. I do a lot of that with Adam - he’s my twin brother.” The line of her mouth creases downwards, a well-worn tic, and C’yra catalogues the movement. 

“Let me guess,” she says. “He was born first.” 

“How did you know?” 

C’yra laughs. Adora scowls. 

“Whatever, like six minutes even make a difference,” she mumbles. “Anyways - I like flying. Spacecraft, but planet skimmers too. I do mechanical work for the Etherian fleet when I have time, although if you ask my mother, that’s not a proper interest for a princess to have. What about you?” 

“I have a lot of hobbies,” C’yra says, smirking at her. “They include being hot, kicking people’s asses, and making fun of uptight diplomats.” 

Adora’s eyes flicker with amusement, and something else - something darker. She leans across the table. 

“I am not uptight,” she says. “But I won’t argue with you on the first point.” 

C’yra blushes, and is acutely aware of it: the rush of heat beneath her skin, the hot twist of anticipation low in her stomach. Adora settles back in her chair, her smile lopsided and self-satisfied.

A waiter comes by, discreetly placing a pair of menus on the table. C’yra picks one up, scans it: confits, lemongrasses, tartares, petals in sauce, all for exorbitant prices. 

“What’s your favorite food?” she asks curiously. 

Adora looks up from her menu. “Here?” 

C’yra shakes her head. “From home.” 

A wistful expression spreads over Adora’s face, and for just a moment, C’yra aches to reach for her, not for anything sexual or romantic, but for the simple act of physical connection. 

“Well,” Adora says. “There’s this old lady named Razz who lives outside our palace, and she makes the best pies you’ve ever tasted. She calls me by the wrong name half the time, but I try to visit her every month to help her pick berries for the filling. And - yeah, her pies are probably my favorite food.” 

“Oh,” C’yra says, and feels herself smiling. “That’s sweet. You’re a good person when you’re not being a soulless cutthroat politician.” 

Adora sighs. “You’re not going to let go of that, are you?” She closes her menu. “Seriously, if you - if Halfmoon needs the station that bad, I’ll let you have it.”

C’yra pauses. “What?” 

“It’ll probably get me murdered when I go home, but…” The corner of Adora’s mouth quirks. “Well. For you…” 

C’yra stares at her, searching for insincerity and finding none; there’s nothing but affection in Adora’s eyes. It’s so much, so soon. It sweeps C’yra off her feet. 

“I like stargazing,” she says, in lieu of a proper answer. “That’s what I did for my entire childhood. What I do still. For years and years, my favorite thing to do was sit on the rooftop and watch the stars, telling myself that someday I’d sail among them. And now - ” She gestures out the window. “Now I do.”

Adora watches her: chin resting on her hand, lips slightly parted. C’yra’s gaze catches on the curve of her bottom lip. 

“We’ve never met before, right?” Adora says finally. “Like, you’re sure of that?” 

“I’m sure,” C’yra says. She lets her voice fall lower. “I guess we’ll have to make up for lost time.” 

Adora closes her menu, places it deliberately back on the table. “Is there anything here you actually want?” 

“Yes,” C’yra answers, keeping her eyes locked on Adora’s mouth, “but not from the restaurant.” 

Adora’s smile returns, the crooked curl sharper now, but somehow still gentle. C’yra knows somehow, instinctively, that Adora is a blade in the right hands, but here in front of her, she’s a blossom without thorns.

“Wanna get out of here?” Adora asks. 

She holds out her hand. Once again, C’yra takes it.

--

They find their way back to Adora’s room somehow, drunk off lingering touches and wandering hands. Adora pulls them over the threshold, shuts the door behind them; her jacket drops to the floor, closely followed by Adora’s. 

“Hey,” C’yra says, glancing towards the window as she slides one hand beneath Adora’s shirt, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Adora’s neck and scraping her teeth along the skin. “That’s not fair - they gave you a better room than me. I only have a starpane, not a real window.” 

Adora’s breaths are coming fast, her eyes dark with desire. “Is that really what you want to talk about right now?” she asks, and C’yra has to admit that she has a point. 

Adora pulls C’yra’s shirt over her head and then takes off her own, and C’yra takes a moment to appreciate the view; Adora is all hard edges and curves, her skin pale gold in the wash of starlight. C’yra runs her hand over Adora’s hip, pulling her closer, and brings their mouths together in a kiss that’s so easy, so instinctive, it feels like they’ve been doing this for years. 

“Bed,” Adora manages to say, breaking away long enough to inhale sharply. “Now.” 

C’yra flashes her a smile, all teeth in the dim light. “You’re not in charge here, princess.” 

Adora’s reply is lost in another kiss. They fall back onto the bed, shedding their remaining clothes until there’s nothing left between them but skin; C’yra flips them over, pushing Adora back into the mattress as the evening covers them like a blanket. 

“This is okay, right?” Adora asks softly, even though she’s not in control, and C’yra’s heart aches. There’s something so raw, so infinitely tender about the affirmation.

“Of course it is, dumbass,” she answers fondly. “Enough talking.” She presses her lips to Adora’s again, slides her hand along the inside of Adora’s thigh and lets her fingers drift higher. The universe collapses around them, fitting itself into the corners of the room until they’re the only two people within it. 

Outside, the stars shine more brightly than C’yra’s ever seen them before.

--

C’yra wakes slowly, pulled back to consciousness by the absence of warmth. Her fingers reach to the other side of the bed for Adora, but find only creased sheets. She opens her eyes, disoriented. 

It’s still nighttime, the sky too pale for anything other than starlight to be illuminating it. Adora is standing at the window, staring out into the night. C’yra notices that she’s wearing a shirt now.

“Adora?” 

“Oh, hey,” Adora says, turning. “Sorry. I couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t want to bother you by staying in bed because I couldn’t lie still anymore.” 

C’yra slips out of bed, pulling her own shirt back on, and pads across the room to join her. They sit in companionable silence, shoulders pressed together, and it’s not awkward even though it should be. In front of them, the starfield shines with the brilliance of eternity. Adora glances at her, smiling softly. 

“Was this what it felt like when you were a kid?” Adora asks finally. 

C’yra looks out at the stars, charting their spill across the sky, the infinite possibility that paints itself in pinpricks of bright light against the darkness. She thinks of her childhood, staring up at the constellations and wondering what it would like to hold them. Adora’s fingers brush against hers, interlacing at the tips, and in this moment, C’yra swears she could gather the planets in her cupped hands. 

“Yeah,” she says. “This is what it felt like.” 

Adora leans into her, head against the space between her neck and shoulder. “Tell me something else about your childhood.” 

C’yra thinks back to her earliest days in Halfmoon, trying to find a story that will make Adora laugh, but then she frowns in confusion. There’s nothing there, no distinct memories; everything is hazy and muted, shadowed beneath something she can’t shift away. 

“That’s weird,” she says slowly. “I don’t remember.” 

Adora’s voice is harsher now, almost angry. “You don’t?” 

C’yra blinks, presses a hand to her head; a spike of pain shoots from her temples, curling in her brain. She should remember, she should - 

There’s a brittle sound of breaking, and C’yra watches in horror as a spider web of cracks appears on the surface of the window. She scrambles back, pushing Adora behind her. 

“We have to get out,” she says desperately, and now the cracks are growing wider, the window shattering into a million shards of crystalplex as the stars grow brighter and brighter, all the air sucked out of the room like a relentless inhale - 

The light reaches into the room, shining until C’yra is forced to look away from the blinding force of it; it surrounds Adora, pulling her backwards through the fragmented remains of the window, flinging her out into space. She falls backwards slowly, her hand reaching out hopelessly towards C’yra. 

Adora, C’yra wants to scream, but there’s no more breath in her lungs. She stretches out until her arm burns with the pain of it, her fingers slipping short of Adora’s. Blackness encroaches on the edges of her vision, dancing in the corners of her eyes. 

With her last moment of awareness, C’yra pushes through the open window and out into the void. All around her, the stars rush forward to catch her.

:::

(THE SIXTH GATE) 

A softly lit hall, a palace full of music: 

Catra stands at the door of a ballroom, wondering how exactly she got here. 

She’s wearing a flowing white shirt with large sleeves, edged with gold thread, and a pair of leather pants; her boots are made from sturdy black leather. There’s a cape draped around her, crimson with golden trim, and a sword is slung across her back, the hilt rising above her right shoulder. 

The ballroom looks vaguely familiar: it’s a long dance hall filled with crystal chandeliers and candles flickering yellow, the walls made from elaborately carved marble. A tapestry hangs on the far wall, the fabric a rich cerulean blue against an elaborate pattern of black and gold. Some kind of crest, Catra thinks; it looks familiar, but she can’t quite place it. 

The music is slow and peaceful, a many-string serenade of a melody that drifts around the room like it has wings. Behind the musicians, beyond the raised platform on which they sit with their instruments, a row of floor-to-ceiling windows are thrown open to let in a warm summer breeze. People fill the hall, all dressed in elegant evening wear: some are dancing to the orchestra, some are talking quietly at the refreshments table. None of them have spotted her yet. 

Catra looks around slowly, trying to place herself somewhere in this tableau. She knows that belongs here for some reason, but she can’t quite remember why. She thinks back to the past few weeks, months, years, but finds nothing more than two days of lying in a bed, surrounded by people whose faces slip from her remembrance - two days and nothing more, nothing past that. 

She reaches over her shoulder for her sword, wrapping her fingers around the wire-twisted handgrip. That much, she can deal with; the hilt is solid and familiar, fitting into her grasp like the hand of a lover. She holds it tighter, until the wires begin to dig into her palm, and tries not to panic over the evasive nature of her memory.

“Knight Catra,” someone says. 

Catra turns. There’s a boy standing next to her in a gold-trimmed palace uniform that looks slightly too big for him; his cap is falling over his eyes, and his tunic is almost as long as his body. He’s only half her height, and he’s looking up at her with respect - no, reverence - in his eyes. 

“Yes?” Catra says, confused. 

“Come with me, please,” the boy says. “The princess instructed me to bring you to the royal table as soon as you arrived.” 

Catra follows him through the crowd until they reach a table that Catra hadn’t noticed before, tucked in the back of the hall in front of a tall pair of stained glass windows. Sitting at the table are a few councilor-looking types dressed in green and gold robes, and among them, sitting on a simple throne of silver, is a girl with golden hair.

“Princess Adora,” says the boy, grabbing Catra’s sleeve and pushing her slightly forward. “I brought you Knight Catra, like you said.” 

The girl looks up, meeting Catra’s eyes: startling grey, the color of storm clouds before rain. Catra stares back. There’s so much sadness in the girl’s eyes that a sudden ache spreads through Catra’s chest as she looks at her. She wonders, briefly and uselessly, if she’s the cause of this sadness. 

Adora, she thinks to herself. Princess Adora. The name, the title; they hold an indeterminate weight for her, as if spoken in a language she once knew. Catra shakes her head, trying to focus: she sees a quick flash of something playing across her vision, green and black and red - a battlefield, a glowing golden light snuffed out by darkness - 

She blinks, and it’s gone. 

“Thank you,” Princess Adora says, nodding to the boy, who squeaks out something like a Your Highness and runs away. She fixes her gaze on Catra again, as if studying an unmapped terrain. “Knight,” she says, and there’s something else flickering in her eyes now: a raw, broken hope that slips between despair and sorrow. “You remembered the ball.” 

“Yes,” Catra says, and then frowns. She did remember, didn’t she? She’s here, after all. “I think so. I mean, here I am.” 

“I wasn’t sure you’d make it,” Princess Adora murmurs, more to herself than to Catra. “You only came back....you only woke up a couple of days ago.” 

Catra stretches a little, relieving the tension in her shoulders, and now she feels it: her muscles ache as if they haven’t been used in a long time, a phantom soreness lingering in the crooks of her body like she’s been lying alone on hard ground. Princess Adora is watching her carefully, and so sadly, and Catra thinks her heart might break if she has to see this for one more second. Her body hurts, but Adora’s pain hurts her more. 

“I’m fine,” Catra says hastily. “Really, Princess Adora. I promise you. I’m fine.” 

Princess Adora winces like Catra’s struck her. “Please,” she says - quietly enough that it blends with the hum of the music, quietly enough that no one else can hear. “Not Princess . Just Adora.” 

It feels like they’ve had this conversation before. Catra swallows hard. 

“Adora,” she says softly, the familiarity warm and bittersweet, stinging like blood in her mouth. “What happened to me? Why can’t I remember...anything?” 

Adora rises from her throne, and Catra notices that her dress is made of white silk with gold accents. Something about the combination of colors catches at her attention, a vague recollection scratching at the back of her skull. 

“Come with me,” Adora says. “We should talk about this somewhere else.” 

--

Adora leads her out onto the terrace outside the ballroom, where a garden flourishes at the edge of the smooth terracotta tiles. Catra sits with her back beneath a cherry tree, running her hands through the small pink blossoms. Adora sits next to her, within reach but not close enough to touch. 

For a minute, they’re quiet. The strains of the orchestra are fainter out here, and the air feels warm and dry against her skin. Adora is beautiful in the dim light of the garden, and this moment would be perfect, except it’s all wrong because Catra can’t remember. 

“What happened to me?” she asks, when it seems like the silence will stretch on until the sunrise. 

Adora picks up a cherry blossom, twisting the petals between her fingers and letting them drop one by one. A memory surfaces vaguely in Catra’s mind as she watches, a blurry recollection: a fistful of flowers, Adora’s arm around her shoulder, petals falling from their hands - she loves me, she loves me not - 

“We were fighting someone,” Adora answers. Her voice wavers, but her eyes don’t stray from Catra’s. “Prime. The embodiment of evil. He was trying to bring ten thousand years of darkness to Etheria, and we had to stop him. We defeated him - well, we pushed him back, at least. But there was a price.” 

Catra tries to take all of this in. The name Prime is vaguely familiar, evoking something in her: the same flashes from earlier, green light and darkness and the crimson spill of blood. A fear of teeth, a childish nightmare, a sleep plagued by visions of a death that was never quite permanent. 

“What did it cost?” she asks. 

“Too much,” Adora says, and then: “Everything.” 

The last petal drops from her flower, and a breeze sweeps forward to carry it off into the night. Catra watches as it drifts higher and higher and then finally vanishes from sight. From where she’s sitting, it looks like it melts into the stars themselves. 

“You were asleep for a hundred years,” Adora says shakily. “I - I thought you were dead . I didn’t think you’d ever come back.” 

Catra doesn’t know how to answer that. She doesn’t even know if she has come back. It feels like there’s still a piece of her missing, something that only recollection can replace: a rough-edged vacancy in the center of her mind, the loss of her memory like the destruction of a kingdom in all of its calamitous ruin. 

There are still a million questions running through her head, but she doesn’t ask them. She reaches for Adora instead, because it seems to be the easiest thing, the truest thing she can think to do - she reaches for her without fear, their hands joining between them like a bridge. 

“I’m here now,” she says.

Adora moves closer to her, tentatively at first, like she’s not sure it’s allowed. Catra pulls her closer, and the dam breaks all at once; Adora climbs into her lap, wraps her into a hug until they’re intertwined so closely that Catra can’t tell where she ends and Adora begins. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into Adora’s hair. “I’m sorry for everything.” 

Adora laughs brokenly, her lips pressed against Catra’s neck. “You used to say you’d never apologize to anyone - do you remember that? You said you didn’t want the world to see you like that.” 

“I’ll let you see me like that,” Catra answers, and tries not to think about the fact that she no longer sees any difference between those two things. 

Inside the ballroom, the music changes: it shifts from an allemande to a waltz, the irregular rhythm slow and steady, like a heart caught between beats. Adora tips her head back, listening. “Waltz #2,” she says. “It’s the last dance of the night.” 

There’s a petal caught in her hair,  blushing pink against the waves of gold. Catra leans forward to gently pick it out. 

“Do you want to go back in?” Catra asks. “If it’s the last dance, you should probably be there.” 

Adora smiles for the first time - it’s a barely-there quirk at the corner of her mouth, like a glimpse of the sun between the clouds. Even through the unshed tears in her eyes, it carries a smoldering ember of warmth, a spark of happiness. 

“I guess I might as well, now that you’re here,” she answers. “I was saving it for you.” 

--

The floor of the ballroom is filled with dancing couples, but they part for Adora and Catra like waves beneath the prow of a ship. Adora leads Catra into the center of the room, below a chandelier filled with candles. Catra glances up at the crystal lattice dubiously, watching the way that the structure sways back and forth in the breeze. 

“You’re sure this is safe, right? Like, that thing isn’t going to collapse on us and set us on fire?” 

Adora laughs, and the sound rings bright in Catra’s chest. She’d endure a thousand chandeliers falling on her head if it meant she’d hear that laugh again.

“God, I forgot how dumb you are sometimes,” Adora says, her voice soft with affection. “No, it won’t fall on us. Come here.” 

She takes Catra’s left hand in hers, putting her free hand on Catra’s shoulder; Catra places her right hand at the small of Adora’s back, her fingers finding the slight curved hollow at the base of her spine and pressing into it like they’ve done this a hundred times before. They move to the music, small steps that keep them close together: Adora leading, Catra following. 

Catra finds herself struggling to keep herself waltzing with the rhythm, her knees curiously weak as she moves; she missteps and trips, falling forward, but Adora catches her easily with an arm around her waist.

“Easy there,” Adora says, her voice light but carrying concern beneath the levity. “It’ll probably take a little while longer for you to fully regain your strength. You’re kind of weak right now.”

Catra jokingly gives her an indignant look. “Rude.” 

“No,” Adora protests, but she’s smiling again, and the sight of it burns in Catra’s chest. “I mean, you were lying on a stone slab for a hundred years. That would make anyone’s body a bit weak.” 

“Yeah,” Catra says, her heart dropping again at the reminder. She can’t remember a single one of those hundred years. Can’t remember anything from before them, either. Adora looks down at her, worry written into the lines of her face, and Catra wants to place her thumb at the corner of her mouth and smooth it away - god, how could she have been gone that long? How could she have survived that long without Adora? 

She doesn’t know, and she doesn’t think she wants to. The thought of a hundred-year night without Adora to light the darkness makes her feel like her lungs are filling with seawater, every breath a lesson in drowning. 

“I have more questions,” she says. “About when I was gone. About everything.” 

Adora nods. “I know.” 

“But not yet,” Catra says. She leans into Adora, presses her head to Adora’s chest. Adora’s heart beats steadily, in perfect time with Catra’s own. “For now, we can just dance.” 

They fall silent, touch replacing speech, nothing left between them but music. The strings of the orchestra fade out slowly, quarter notes drifting away into the night, until the waltz is finished and the other couples have left. 

They’re the only two dancers still out on the floor. Catra holds Adora tightly, not wanting to let go even though the song is over. 

“That was the last dance,” Adora says softly. “It’s over now.” 

“I know,” Catra replies, just as soft - a sunlight ray, a flower petal of an answer. 

The music is gone, and the night envelops them in quiet, and still neither of them pull away. Catra wraps her arms around Adora. 

I won’t let go, she thinks. Not even if you do.

Adora doesn’t. They stay where they are, conversing in ways that words could never hope to replicate: Adora’s fingers cradling the back of Catra’s head, Catra’s arms wound tight around Adora’s waist. It’s enough, Catra thinks. It’s enough just to touch Adora, to know that she’s alive and to reassure her of the same. 

“You should get some sleep,” Adora says finally, her mouth pressed to the top of Catra’s forehead in a way that could almost be mistaken for a kiss. 

Catra shakes her head. “Don’t need it.” She’s been sleeping for a hundred years - the only thing she needs now is to stay by Adora’s side until they’ve made up for lost time, until time means nothing to them. 

“Catra,” Adora says, her tone gentle but firm. “You’re not fully recovered. You need to sleep.”

Catra opens her mouth to argue, but a yawn overtakes her words. Adora looks at her pointedly. 

“Fine,” Catra agrees reluctantly. “I’ll sleep. But I’ll walk you back to your room first.” 

--

They walk through the corridors quietly, not wanting to disturb anyone who’s already gone to sleep. The bright lights of the palace have burned themselves out by now, and the hallways are lit only by the muted glow of candles in the wall sconces, the shadows of their flames dancing against the stone.

Catra feels better as they walk: there’s a slight lessening of the ache at her temples, the pain of forgetting. She still draws a blank when she reaches for memories of the past, but the palace itself is no mystery; it slowly opens itself to her, hallways and doorways revealing their thresholds, the layout a clouded mirror slowly wiped clean. She remembers this: the warm yellow stone of the walls, the red and golden threads of the carpets, the twists and turns of staircase and corridor. She remembers the path to the armory, the courtyard, the throne room, the kitchen.  

She remembers the pathway to here, the tall oak door that Adora stops in front of. She remembers the white roses that grow across the lintel, the intricate rose that’s carved into the surface of the polished wood. 

Adora’s looking at her now with a question in her eyes. Catra nods in response. 

“This is your room,” she says. “I remember that.”

“Is that all you remember?” Adora says, and there’s a flash of something in her eyes, gone too quickly for Catra to identify. It might have been disappointment, or it might have been sadness. 

“Yeah,” Catra says, uncertain. “Is there something else I’m supposed to remember about it?” 

Adora shakes her head quickly. “No,” she murmurs. “It’s fine.” She steps forward, as if to hug Catra, and then steps backward just as quickly. Boundaries, then; they’re finding them again, drawing lines they’ll end up crossing anyways. They’ve fallen into this pattern before, Catra thinks. 

“Goodnight, Catra,” Adora says, opening the door to her room but not quite entering. 

Catra wants to reach for her - wants to follow her into the room, wants to fall asleep in her arms. This urge supersedes desire; it feels more like a visceral need, like one of her deepest instincts, but she knows just as instinctively that it’s not allowed.

“Goodnight, Adora,” she says instead. Before she can stay another minute, she turns and walks away. 

--

Catra lies in her own bed later that night, shifting uncomfortably between the sheets. They’re smoother than silk and smell faintly of lavender. Although she knows nothing about fabric, she can tell that this is one of the fanciest beds in the entire palace.

She hates it.

The mattress is too soft, yielding beneath her like grass in a meadow. The scent of lavender fills her senses, threatening to choke her. It doesn’t smell subtle, or natural, or -

It doesn’t smell like Adora. 

Catra rolls over onto her side, her ribs aching with the movement. The bed feels too large, and the sheets feel too soft, and everything is too much. She feels unmoored, set adrift in a strange sea. She longs for an anchor. 

After another five minutes of tossing and turning, she gets up from her bed and makes her way into the corridor, following the familiar path without conscious thought. If she remembers anything from her past, it’s that Adora is her gravity: keeping her grounded, keeping her alive. Catra knows it’s probably selfish to wake her this late, but she doesn’t know what else to do. 

She reaches Adora’s door and knocks three times, softly; it flies open almost immediately and Adora appears in the doorway, wearing a simple white shirt that falls to her knees. 

“Catra,” she says. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Catra rushes to say. “I just - I can’t sleep. I know that sounds stupid, but...”  

Adora’s expression softens. She doesn’t say anything; instead, she just steps back to allow Catra into the room. 

Inside, illuminated by the soft light of a single candle, Adora’s room is a study in white and gold. The bed is wide enough for four people, the sheets a pristine white and the duvet a pale golden fabric that looks like it’s woven out of strands of the precious metal. The windows are slightly ajar, letting in the breeze. The walls are bare except for one painting above the mahogany desk: a starscape, sun and moon framed against a backdrop of constellations, the colors a wild surrealist swirl of blue and gold. 

At the foot of Adora’s bed, there’s a large cot that lies perpendicular to it, made up with sturdy cotton sheets. Catra looks at it longingly; she’s sure that it would be more comfortable than her own bed. 

“You can sleep there,” Adora says, following her gaze. “That - that’s where you used to sleep. Before. It used to…” She pauses, and Catra can see a faint blush painting across her cheeks. “It used to be our room.” 

First person plural. Possessive. Catra’s heart leaps in her chest, climbing into her throat. She gets into the cot, propping herself up on one elbow to watch Adora slide into her own bed, and it’s perfect; the mattress is firm beneath her, and Adora is within a breath’s length from her, and Catra no longer feels like the world is collapsing around her. 

Adora blows out the candle, and they’re left in the dark. 

“Thank you,” Catra says, barely above a whisper. 

“Of course,” Adora answers, her voice like a banked fire against the darkness: warm, gentle, comforting. “I’m always going to be here for you.” 

Catra’s throat thickens with emotion, because she can’t say the same; she left Adora for a hundred years, left her alone and defenseless. She wants to apologize again, but she doesn’t think she’ll ever find enough words. 

“Goodnight,” Adora says now, her voice soft and tired, and Catra murmurs a “goodnight” in response. She falls asleep to the sound of Adora’s breathing, quiet and steady like ocean waves against the shore.

--

Green light, black dirt, a mouthful of blood; Catra’s hands around the hilt of her sword, her shirt in tatters. Adora’s eyes, wide and full of fear. A flash of gold, a deep-voiced laugh, a wave of red sweeping across her vision - 

Catra jerks awake, sitting bolt upright in her narrow bed. She’s breathing in harsh gasps, her body sore and covered in sweat. 

The room gradually comes into focus around her, calming her; white and gold, a warm wash of sunlight pouring in through the window. It’s early morning still: Catra can hear the singing of the birds. 

“Catra?” Adora says, and Catra whips around to face her, driven by pure reflex. As soon as she realizes her mistake, Catra burns with shame. She tangles her arms in the sheets, curling into herself. 

Adora holds out her palm, lowered like a white flag, and slides to the end of her bed until they’re within an arm’s length from each other. “It's okay,” she says. “You’re safe. Can I touch you?” 

Catra nods. Adora reaches out slowly, placing a hand on top of Catra’s own, and Catra lets herself lean into the grounding force of the touch.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, shamefaced. “Nightmare.” 

“It’s okay,” Adora repeats. “I get them, too. After what we’ve been through, it’s normal.” 

Catra blows out a long breath, trying to recover herself. If she blinks, she can still see the afterimages of green light etched into the backs of her eyelids. All of a sudden, the room feels stiflingly small. 

“Can we go for a walk?” she asks. “I know it’s still early, but I - I need fresh air.” 

“Of course,” Adora says, and now there’s a spark dancing in her eyes. “Are you sure you want to walk, though?” 

--

Twenty minutes later, Catra and Adora are riding through the woods on a pair of horses. Catra’s is a brown pinto mare, Adora’s a pure white stallion with an oddly red mane. 

Catra clutches to the reins tightly, eyeing her horse with distaste. It seems placid enough so far, but she doesn’t trust it. Whatever else might have happened in the past, she’s pretty sure that she’s never liked riding.

“You’re not going to fall,” Adora says, and Catra scoffs. 

“How do you know?” she asks. “Did the horse tell you itself? Cause if not, I’m not going to take your word for it.” 

Adora laughs, the sound swallowed by the thick foliage surrounding them. Catra relaxes slightly; despite the untrustworthy horse, the morning is a good one. The sky is a clear blue, the sun hot on her back, the leaves a perfect emerald green; when she inhales, the air carries a sweet promise of summertime peace. She glances over at Adora, who’s smiling as she pushes her horse into a trot, and shakes off the remainder of her nightmare like it’s just one more memory her mind can’t hold onto. 

“Are you feeling better?” Adora asks, glancing over at her now, a hint of concern creeping into her voice. 

“Yes,” Catra says, and she means it. 

The set of Adora’s shoulders softens visibly, and Catra blushes; Adora seems to really care about her, in an unfamiliar way that makes Catra’s chest fill with warmth. 

“Want to have a race, then?” Adora says, one eyebrow arching upwards, the gleam back in her eyes now.

Catra grins back at her. Without another word, she kicks her horse gently in the sides. It begins to gallop, leaving Adora behind in the dust. 

“Hey!” Adora calls out. “Cheater!” 

Her horse breaks into a gallop too, quickly catching up to Catra; they race neck and neck down the narrow path until they burst into a clearing. Catra’s horse beats Adora’s by a step, edging past her into the grass. 

“I won,” she says smugly, smirking at Adora.

“You won by cheating,” Adora huffs, but she’s laughing. A strand of hair falls loose over her forehead, and without thinking, Catra reaches out and smoothes it back, letting her hand rest against Adora’s temple for a moment longer. A dull pink flush creeps across the tops of Adora’s cheekbones, but she doesn’t pull away. 

“Oh,” she says a moment later, seeming to realize where they are. 

Catra looks around, taking in their surroundings. The clearing is large, a perfect sphere of space carved out in the midst of the trees: bare dirt edged with grass, half-ringed with standing stones on the left side. 

Adora dismounts from her horse and walks slowly into the center of the clearing, her expression sobering. Catra dismounts too, following her. 

“It’s weird that we ended up here,” Adora murmurs. “I didn’t even realize.” 

Catra tips her head to one side, listening. The birdsong has gone quiet, and the breeze has stopped blowing. The clearing is the picture of idyll, but there’s something sinister lurking beneath the surface, something that speaks of battle and bloodshed. She gets the feeling that she’s stood in this very spot before, bent beneath the weight of impossible odds. 

“Where are we?” she asks. 

“The Glade of Serenity,” Adora says. Her voice is hushed, as if speaking too loudly will summon an unseen enemy. “We fought Prime here - among other places. I guess you could call this the scene of our last stand.” 

Catra still can’t remember the fight, but she remembers the feeling; the menacing stillness of the glade works its way beneath her skin, making her shiver. 

Adora gazes into the distance, her expression troubled. Catra reaches for her hand, the touch a reminder that she’s still here. 

“Sorry,” Adora says, turning to face her now, the corner of her mouth a soft crease. “I know I’m dwelling on the past. I just can’t help feeling like there’s something left of Prime here.” 

“I know what you mean,” Catra says, her gaze flicking around the clearing in futile search of a threat. She sees nothing, but still the sense of danger lingers in the air around them. 

Adora lets their hands drop, their fingers still interlaced, and takes a step closer to Catra, pressing their foreheads together. Catra forgets about the clearing, forgets about the danger, forgets about anything other than Adora.

“I didn’t know how to breathe without you,” Adora whispers. “I don’t want to ever lose you again.” 

“You won’t,” Catra says, and the words fall from her lips with the weight of a promise. 

A tear brims in the corner of Adora’s eye, and Catra brushes it away with her thumb. She leans up and presses a kiss to Adora’s forehead, no longer concerned with crossing lines; she knows now that they transcend boundaries. They always have. 

Driven by an inexplicable force, Catra drops to one knee, then draws her sword and places it flat on her palms, the keen edge of the blade resting against her skin. She holds it up to Adora: an offering, an oath.  

“I won’t leave you again,” Catra says. “Even if Prime himself rises again and tries to tear us apart.” 

Adora takes the sword from her, holding it easily, her grip on the hilt perfect. “You did this for me once before,” she says. “You promised we would win the battle. Do you remember?” 

Catra bows her head. “No,” she answers. “I don’t.” She tries to reach for the memory, but it’s not there; she reaches farther, and her head is overwhelmed with an agonizing ache, pain sweeping through her mind relentlessly, a tidal wave of hurt obliterating her half-formed thoughts -  

The wind picks up suddenly, howling around them. Across the clearing, the standing stones begin to glow with a harsh white light. The sky goes dark, green lightning arcing across the splintered heavens. 

Adora’s eyes are glowing green now, trails of viridescent emerald spreading through her veins. She shakes her head violently, as if trying to dislodge something. Catra looks up at her, and it’s as if someone else is staring back at her from Adora’s eyes. For the first time ever, when she looks at Adora, Catra is afraid of what she sees. 

“No,” Adora screams, pressing one hand to her forehead. “No, please, please - ” Her eyes shift from green to grey, until it’s just Adora, scared and desperate. 

“Adora,” Catra says, her words half-lost in the shrieking howl of the wind. “Try to hang on, you can fight this - ” 

Adora’s eyes turn green once more, her teeth bared in a grimace, blood spreading over the corner of her mouth. She grips Catra’s sword tighter, her knuckles white against the hilt.

 “You don’t remember,” Adora says, her voice low and dangerous and filled with agony. “Why don’t you remember?” 

“I’m sorry,” Catra cries out. “I’m sorry!” 

“Me too,” Adora says, and she lifts the sword and drives it straight into Catra’s chest. 

Catra clutches uselessly at the wound, her entire body an explosion of pain. She bleeds out on the field of a battle she doesn’t remember fighting, and as the last seconds of her life drain away between her bloodied fingers, she sees Adora standing over her with an expression of violent devotion written across her face. There’s a darkness filling her vision now, an endless pitch black ocean of a sky, her mouth filling with salt water - 

The tide washes over Catra’s head, pulling her under. She slips beneath the waves without a fight. 

:::

(THE SEVENTH GATE) 

A sunlit beach, a faded walkway: 

Catra sits at the edge of the boardwalk, her back resting against the age-worn driftwood planks, her bare feet half buried under the warm, sugar-white sand. Above her, the sun blazes down hotly, drenching the beach in a hazy warmth that turns the water a brilliant turquoise, the tips of the gentle waves crested with a sparkling gleam. The beach bakes in the heat, a slow and welcome burn that feels like a caress from summer itself. 

Past the dusty parking lot, the coast spreads itself out in a long, winding curve of green and sandy brown. Catra can see the red roofs of a town in the distance, following the curl of a hill, and behind that, the tops of skyscrapers reaching upwards into the endless blue: a small coastal city. She lives there, she thinks; oddly, she can’t quite remember. 

She concentrates for a moment, sliding her sunglasses down to block out the glare so she can focus. The name pops into her head: Etheria. She’s at the beach just outside Etheria City, where she lives, and it’s early in the morning on a Wednesday afternoon in late July. 

Catra has no idea why this took her so long to remember this. She grudgingly admits to herself that maybe she had a few too many margaritas the previous night. 

She adjusts her sunglasses and looks around again. 

Farther down the beach, she can see the multicolored canopies of umbrellas rising above the sand. A few small groups of people sit clustered along the beach: mothers in sundresses trading gossip, young children chasing each other in and out of the water, three tired-looking teenagers sunbathing on shared towels. 

The only person who seems to be here alone is Catra herself. 

“Hey,” says a voice from behind her. 

Catra turns to see a tall woman standing there, her blonde hair damp with salt, her eyes a lively shade of grey that shine as brightly as the sun’s reflection on the waves. She’s wearing a black bikini top and a pair of red lifeguard shorts with a pair of cheap plastic sunglasses hanging from one of the pockets, and she’s carrying a shortboard under one arm. 

She’s absolutely gorgeous, and it knocks the breath right out of Catra’s lungs. 

“Uh,” Catra says eloquently, wishing that she could think of something more intelligent to say, wishing that the sleeveless shirt with the faded band logo and the ragged pair of cutoffs she’s wearing weren’t the same clothes from last night. “Hi.” 

“What are you doing here?” the woman asks, and Catra’s brain scrambles; she doesn’t understand what kind of existential bullshit question is that, doesn’t understand what right does this woman have to ask her this, doesn’t understand why she can’t remember what exactly she’s doing here - 

Doesn’t understand why the response that immediately springs to her lips, the reflex as natural as breathing, is waiting for you.

“Oh, sorry,” the woman adds. “That came out kinda wrong. I didn’t mean to like, interrogate you or anything. I was just wondering, because the boardwalk isn’t open yet.” 

She waves a hand towards the crowded mess of shops that line the back of the boardwalk, painted in bright shades of pink and yellow, and Catra realizes that she’s right: none of them are open yet, except for one small building that has an OPEN sign in the window. The writing above the door reads: Paradise Diner. 

“Wrong,” Catra says, looking up at her smugly. “The diner’s open.” 

The woman glances in the direction that Catra’s pointing. “Oh, yeah. Forgot about that.” She shuffles her feet in the sand, a restless gesture. “Sorry, I know this is weird. I just saw you sitting over here and thought wow, she’s pretty, I need to talk to her, but I’m kind of bad at small talk. And I’m realizing that I kind of sound insane right now.” She laughs awkwardly, running a hand through her hair.

“You kind of do,” Catra agrees. And then, because she’s not a total jerk and this woman is unmistakably the hottest person she’s ever met, she adds: “Want to make it up to me over waffles?” 

A smile breaks out on the woman’s face, bright and curving. Catra’s heart stumbles over itself at the sight, the beats coming fast and irregular. 

“Sounds good,” the woman says. “My name is Adora, by the way.” 

Adora, Catra thinks. Adora. She turns the name over in her mouth, parsing it for something she doesn’t understand. Her mind feels heavy, her thoughts sluggish: heat-drunk, liquor-hazed. She shakes her head to clear out the cobwebs.

“I’m Catra,” she says. “Nice to meet you.” 

Adora holds out a hand, and Catra lets herself be pulled to her feet. Their fingers remain joined for a second too long, and Catra thinks she can almost feel the ghost of something filling the space around them: an echo, an imprint. 

“Okay,” Adora says, dropping her hand and taking something from the ridiculously large pockets of her shorts - a white t-shirt, which she puts on. “Let’s go.” Her voice hitches a little, and Catra briefly wonders if she feels it too: this thing between them, this strange familiarity. 

“Lead the way,” she answers, carefully keeping her voice steady. 

--

They sit in the window booth of the diner overlooking the boardwalk, and past that, the ocean. The table is sticky beneath their elbows, and the pale yellow walls are covered in faded postcards from places all over the world; the floor is made from smooth wooden planks and liberally scattered with sand. The diner feels worn at the edges, softened by time and love, comfortable as a Sunday morning. 

“Have you ever been here?” Adora asks, and Catra regretfully shakes her head. 

Adora grins. “Oh, you’re in for a treat. I come here almost every morning. The owner said they might as well build me a room in the back.” She hands Catra a menu, flipping her own open at the same time. “I usually have the waffles and hash browns, but the western omelette is amazing too.” 

“Western omelette?” Catra arches an eyebrow at her. “What are you, a horse girl?” 

Adora glances away, pointedly avoiding her gaze. A laugh spills from Catra’s throat, louder than she intended. “Oh my god. You are a horse girl, aren’t you.” 

“No!” Adora says. “I used to ride when I was in middle school, that’s all.” 

Catra smirks. “Whatever you say, horse girl.” 

“Shut up,” Adora mumbles, hiding behind her menu. “Just order your waffles and stop teasing me.” 

“No can do, princess,” Catra replies. “Teasing you is my civic duty.” 

Adora drops her menu again, revealing that her face is now pink. “Shut up ,” she repeats, blushing prettily, one hand stretching across the table to smack Catra softly on the wrist; Catra takes the hit like it’s nothing, like they’ve been bantering over breakfast at the diner for a lifetime’s worth of summer mornings. Like it’s exactly where they belong. 

They order waffles and hash browns and orange juice, and Adora builds a house out of sugar packets while they wait. Catra watches her in amusement. 

“You know that thing is going to fall over at any moment, right?” 

Adora stacks another packet on. “Shut up, it’s fine.” 

“I can literally see it tipping as we speak.” 

“It’s not going to tip - ”  

Catra narrows her eyes, glaring at the flimsy structure. As if in response, the sugar packets crumble into a pile next to Adora’s hand. 

“Told you.” 

“Asshole,” Adora says, the corner of her mouth curling upwards despite herself. She tosses a cream cup at Catra, who easily ducks. 

The waitress approaches their table, her expression grim. “Sorry,” she says, “but we can’t actually serve you any food, because the idiot new kid we hired forgot to close the fridges last night and now everything’s spoiled.” She glares over her shoulder at a scrawny blond boy, who cowers behind the counter. “You’ll have to find breakfast somewhere else. I’m so sorry.” 

“Ah, it’s okay,” Adora says, getting to her feet. “We’ll get along just fine. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.” 

“I know you will,” the waitress says, giving her a quick smile. “Can’t say the same about him, though.” 

The waitress waves as they leave, and Catra follows Adora down the boardwalk until they reach the beach parking lot. Adora heads straight for a rundown jeep, and Catra scoffs. Of course she has a jeep. 

“So,” Adora says, throwing her shortboard into the back of the car. “I guess I didn’t get you any waffles after all. Sorry about that.” 

Catra shrugs. “It’s fine. It’s not your fault that shrimpy blond kid fucked everything up.” 

“I guess,” Adora says. “Anyway, I should probably get going.” She pauses, clears her throat, fiddles with her key lanyard. “Um. Unless you want to come with?” 

Catra knows she shouldn’t say yes. She knows that half an hour on opposite sides of a diner table isn’t nearly long enough to judge someone’s character; she knows that getting into a stranger’s car, even a stranger as hot as Adora, is a terrible idea that could end in any number of graphically tragic ways. But she’s twenty-one and it’s July, and the endless possibility of summer is blooming around her like a flower unfurling, and the crooked curve of Adora’s mouth makes Catra’s heart beat right out of her chest. 

“Okay,” she says, imagining a roll of the dice. Adora smiles at her - double sixes, all the luck in the world. “Yeah. I’ll come with you.” 

Adora opens the passenger side door for her, and Catra vaults up into the jeep with a neat jump. The seat is warm and soft beneath her, frayed fabric half-bleached out from days in the sun. 

Adora gets in on the other side and starts the engine, fiddling with the dial of the ancient radio; there’s a blur of static, a crackling hum of white noise, and then a country song spills out of the speakers, the twang of the notes like the sticky sweetness of honeyed tea. 

Catra groans. “Seriously? Country? You’re taking the horse girl thing too far.” 

Adora just winks at her and starts backing out of the parking lot. “I’m sure I don't know what you’re talkin’ about, partner,” she drawls, tipping an imaginary hat. It’s stupidly endearing; against her will, Catra is charmed by it.

“So where are we going, anyway?” she asks as they pull onto the main road. 

Adora glances over at her, smiling lopsidedly, and the imperfect beauty of it stuns Catra into silence. Wind whips through the open windows, ruffling their hair, carrying the smell of sea salt. The open road lies before them, curving along the coastline, an entire universe drawn along those two yellow lines. 

“Where are we going?” Adora says. “Anywhere.” 

--

Anywhere turns out to be a large thrift store tucked in the middle of a sprawling strip mall just outside the edge of the city. The parking lot is hot, the asphalt slick beneath their feet as they get out of the car, and the fronds of the palm trees scattered throughout the lot wave limply against the heat. 

“ Nirvana Vintage,” Catra says, tipping her head back to read the sign above the door. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t really take you for the thrifting kind.” 

Adora looks offended. “Because you think I’m the kind of person to buy all my clothes new?” 

“Because I think you’re not cool enough to wear vintage stuff.” 

Adora rolls her eyes, pulls open the door. Catra slides past her into the welcome cool of the shop. An elderly woman behind the counter lowers a magazine long enough to smile at them and offer them help, then returns to reading. 

“Okay, fine,” Adora says, once they’re halfway down the jacket aisle. “Usually I don’t go to thrift stores a lot, but today I need to because there’s this big midsummer formal dinner I have to go to for work and I don’t have a dress for it.” 

“I won’t be much help here, you know,” Catra says, flipping through a rack of belts. “The last time I wore a dress was in middle school, and that was only because I was forced to.” 

Adora starts grabbing armfuls of dresses from the formal wear section. “I’m going to go start trying things on. Just tell me if anything looks good.” 

Catra follows her to the back of the store. Adora heads for the changing rooms, and Catra settles down to wait; she wanders over to the shelves full of miscellaneous objects, sorting through them absentmindedly. The sign over her head has $5 for 5 Items scrawled in bright red ink. 

There’s a wide array of things on the shelves: baseball cards, toy cars, carved wooden napkin rings, toy animal figurines, a tattered copy of Romeo and Juliet, a box of assorted erasers, and a tangle of grubby friendship bracelets, all covered in a thin layer of dust. 

Catra picks up Romeo and Juliet, flipping through the pages idly. To her surprise, something falls out, drifting down to the floor. She bends over to pick it up.

It’s a set of two tarot cards, stuck together at the edges. Catra pulls them apart gently and holds them up to the light. 

When she sees their designs, something tightens in her chest. 

THE WARRIOR, one of them says: it depicts a tall blonde woman in white and gold battle armor, her face mostly obscured by a protective headpiece that matches the design of the other woman’s mask. She’s raising a sword, and even though her features are indistinct, Catra feels a strange sense of recognition curling around the base of her spine. 

THE LOVER, the other one says: it has a shorter woman on it, a woman with a red mask. She’s surrounded by shadows, reaching for a single golden star above her.

Catra stares at the cards, her heart hammering painfully, a sickly feeling working its way through her head. She knows that there’s something important about this, something that rings a vague and distant bell - 

“Hey,” Adora says, and Catra flinches, spinning around to face her. “What do you think of this one?” 

Catra looks her up and down, taking in the dress that she’s wearing - a bold crimson with hints of lighter red - and for a moment, she forgets all about the cards. Adora’s hair is falling in messy golden waves, and the dress clings to her curves in a way that makes Catra’s pulse stutter in her chest, her wrists, her throat. 

“I, uh,” Catra says, all too aware that she’s stammering. “Yeah. That one. Looks good.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” 

Adora’s mouth curls with amusement. “Watch out,” she says. “A reaction like that...I might get the impression that you like me.” 

Catra scoffs. “What? I don’t like you.” 

“Keep telling yourself that,” Adora grins. She leans over, looking curiously at the cards in Catra’s hand. “What have you got there?” 

“Oh, I found these old tarot cards,” Catra says, passing them to her. “There’s something weird about them, don’t you think? I don’t know why, but they make me feel kind of...I don’t even know how to describe it, it’s just - ” 

Adora studies the cards for a moment, then shrugs. “I don’t know, I think these are pretty standard for a tarot deck, right? I mean, it’s just the sun and the moon.” 

Catra frowns in confusion, taking the cards back. “No, it’s - ” 

She stops dead in the middle of her sentence, staring at the cards in disbelief. They now read THE SUN and THE MOON, showing a golden sun and a silver crescent moon against starlit skies. 

An ache begins to bloom at the corner of Catra’s temple. The cards were different, she knows that - but now she can’t remember what they were before.

“Yeah,” she says, shrugging it off. “Whatever. They’re just dumb cards. Ready to go?” 

By the time they slide back into Adora’s car, the seats burning beneath them and the pavement shimmering in the heat as they pull out of the lot, Catra’s almost forgotten about the sense of unease that the cards gave her. Any lingering concern disappears when Adora turns to her, hair a windblown mess and eyes bright with happiness. 

“Do you have somewhere else to be?” Adora asks. “There’s one more place I’d like to take you.” 

Catra raises an eyebrow. “One more place you’d like to take me? Careful there, princess. You’re almost making this sound like a date.” 

Adora blushes. “I didn’t mean - ” 

“I know what you meant,” Catra says, tipping her seat back. “I have nowhere else to be. I’m down.” 

The only place I have to be , she thinks, watching Adora sing along to the song on the radio, is by your side. 

--

Adora pulls the car to a stop, and Catra stares out the window at the cluster of buildings before them: brick and glass and steel, and the pure white limestone that Bright Moon University is known for.

“Breaking and entering at the local college,” Catra says appreciatively. “Pretty good for a first date, I have to say.” 

“We’re not breaking,” Adora says. “We’re just entering. I have a key.” 

“Boring. I say we break in anyway, just for fun.” Catra glances around. “What are we here for, anyway?” 

Adora just smiles. “You’ll see.” 

They set out on a tile path that cuts through the heart of campus, passing administration buildings and lecture halls and the green swathe of the quad. Adora leads her to an area behind the soccer fields, where a tall building with opaque walls sits next to a residence hall. 

“One of my friends is a botany major,” Adora explains as she unlocks the door of the greenhouse, “and she’s on the Agriculture Committee, so greenhouse care is part of her responsibilities, but she gave me the spare key just in case she ever needs me to water the plants or something.” 

Catra steps forward into the greenhouse. For a minute, all she can do is stare. 

The greenhouse is warm and humid, the air filled with the sweet scent of a hundred different flowers. Plants are everywhere : on tables, on benches, in rows on the floor. In one corner, ivy climbs a lattice of trellises; in another, massive leaves shaped like elephant ears rise halfway to the ceiling. Flowers bloom across every available surface, turning the room into a riot of colors in every shade imaginable. 

Adora nudges her. “What do you think? Pretty good, right?” 

Catra blinks. “Yeah. I’m not some hippie plant lover, but...wow. This is awesome.” 

“There’s a table,” Adora says, pointing towards the back of the room. “Sit down if you want, open one of the windows. I’m going to bring you something.” 

Catra sits down at the small gardener’s table, pushing open the small window next to it and inhaling the fresh breeze that comes rushing through. Adora disappears behind a thicket of sunflowers, humming to herself. 

“Do you go here?” Catra calls over to her. “BMU, I mean.” 

“Yeah, I’m in the College of Arts and Humanities. Communications. You?” 

“I’m in pre-law,” Catra answers, leaning back against the wall. “Weird that we’ve never met before, isn't it? The campus isn’t that big.” 

“I don’t know,” Adora says. “Maybe we were just meant to meet today.” 

Catra wants to laugh this off as ridiculous, but something about it rings true. It doesn’t quite feel like she was supposed to meet Adora today - instead, it feels like they’ve known each other for years. It feels like today is a reunion instead of a first meeting, like all the time she’d lived through before finding Adora was a mere comma between two parts of a half-written sentence. 

And Catra, who disdains romantic comedies, who thinks that soulmates are stupid, who scorns the idea of fate, says: “Maybe we were.” 

“I’m coming back,” Adora says, and there’s a rustling noise. “Close your eyes.” 

Catra closes her eyes, feeling something brush against her hand. When she opens them again, Adora is sitting across from her, and Catra’s hands are full of flowers. 

An entire bouquet blossoms between her fingers in shades of pink and gold and orange and lavender. The air smells like honey and vanilla, sweet and delicate. It’s all so beautiful, and Adora’s just smiling like it was nothing. 

“Adora,” Catra says, lost for words. “This is - ” 

“The pale purple ones are hyacinths,” Adora says. “The pink ones are carnations, the orange ones are yarrow, the yellow ones are heliotropes.” She grins. “I’ve picked up a little botany over the past few months.” 

Catra inhales deeply, imagines the flowers in her hands blooming within her: between her ribs, inside her lungs. Adora smiles at her, and Catra’s heart feels like a sunflower turning towards the light. 

“What are the purple ones?”

“Forget-me-nots,” Adora answers. “That’s strange. I didn’t pick any of those. They must have gotten caught up in the carnations.” 

“Well,” Catra says, teasing. “I’ll let it slide this one time.” 

“Oh!” Adora says, getting to her feet again. “How could I forget? Hold on.” 

She reaches over to a tree in a blue pot, and for the first time, Catra notices the large red fruits hanging from the branches. Adora picks one of them carefully, bringing it back to the table and producing a knife from one of the drawers. 

“Pomegranates,” she explains. “They just started growing them this year.” 

Catra watches as Adora deftly cuts the pomegranate into halves. Red juice drips over the table, staining the wood, and Adora glances at it guiltily. 

“Guess I’ll have to bleach this out later,” she says, and then: “Damn. They’re not quite ripe.” 

She tips a pomegranate half towards Catra, showing her the pale red color of the seeds. Catra turns over the other half to see that there are six deep crimson seeds nestled in the center of the paler ones, big and perfect. 

“There’s some good ones here,” she says. “I’ll take three if you take three?” 

“Sounds good,” Adora says. She pries the seeds out carefully and drops three of them into Catra’s palm, where they glitter like rubies. “Bottoms up.” 

Catra laughs. “You’re so dumb,” she says, and then pops the seeds into her mouth. 

Flavor bursts in her mouth, a sour taste spreading over her tongue, the tartness of the juice like an explosion between her teeth. It tastes like pomegranate, but so much more: it tastes like a field of wildflowers, the turn of the seasons, a decade at war, a meadow full of sunlight, a sky full of stars. It tastes like winters filled with loneliness, and summers full of love. It tastes like forty nights spent waiting at the garden gates. It tastes like life and death itself, and before Catra can even begin to process how this is possible, it vanishes as she swallows. 

“Whoa,” Adora says, her eyes wide as she finishes eating. “Those are intense.”

“Yeah,” Catra murmurs, her head hazy. It feels like the past is wrapped around them, years of history binding them together with unbreakable bonds. For some reason, she almost wants to cry. “Do you feel that?” 

“I think so,” Adora says, tilting her head quizzically. She presses a hand to the corner of her mouth, wincing. “Ow. I definitely feel that.” 

Catra leans forward, concerned. “What happened?” 

“Bit myself by accident. It’s fine.” 

Blood trickles from the edge of Adora’s lip, mingling with the pomegranate juice. Catra reaches out to gently run her fingers along the wound; Adora sighs, leaning into the touch. There’s panic fluttering between Catra’s ribs at the sight of Adora’s injury, a sharp-edged concern that runs far deeper than a simple cut. 

“You’re such an idiot,” Catra says. “You should be more careful. Look out for yourself, or I’ll do it for you.” 

Adora smiles at her, crooked and beautiful. “Is that a threat or a promise?” 

“Both.” 

“How about this,” Adora says, catching Catra’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “I’ll look out for you if you look out for me.”  

“You promise?” Catra asks, and it’s like the world stops spinning; the universe pauses, waits at the edge of their breaths. They’re the only two people alive right now, and she knows it like she knows her own name. Like she knows Adora’s face. 

Adora’s eyes meet Catra’s, blue and yellow against grey: the sea. the sun, the stars. Their hands are still joined.  

“I promise,” Adora says softly. 

Catra inhales sharply, her mind suddenly flooded with memories. She tries to hold on, to ground herself in this moment, but she’s swept away. 

Narrow beds, cold halls, a rooftop - 

Adora’s voice: “Catra?” 

A hand in hers, bruises and battles, nightmares and daydreams - 

“Catra - ” 

A red mask, a winged crest, a white shirt with red markings - 

The wind picking up, the plants rustling - 

A skiff, a sword, a hand falling from hers - 

The window slamming closed -   

A bright white light, a shattered world, a bitter fight - 

The glass shattering - 

A world of green, an ocean of pain, a pair of grey eyes meeting hers - 

“Catra!” 

A crumbling room, a broken heart, a terrible silence - 

The sky is dark now, the greenhouse roof torn away, but all Catra can concentrate on is Adora. She grips her hand tighter, presses hard against skin and bone; it’s solid, it’s real, it’s her. 

 “I remember,” Catra says, staring directly into Adora’s eyes. The wind is whipping around them like a tornado, like it did before: on the bridge, in the field. “I remember you.”  

Lightning rips through the sky, striking between them as thunder crashes like tidal waves. The earth shakes beneath their feet, dragging them back, pulling them down until they’re brought to their knees. 

Catra clutches Adora’s hand tighter, until she can feel the hot burn of blood dripping between their fingers. 

“I won’t let go,” Catra shouts, and she’s not sure if she’s talking to Adora or to the underworld itself.

“I won’t either,” Adora yells back, and it’s enough - it’s finally enough, she’s finally going to stay - 

Catra closes her eyes, every siren of the storm suddenly silent around her. She’s standing in a meadow, sunlight spilling across the field of flowers, and Adora is standing next to her, their foreheads pressed together. 

“Catra,” Adora says softly: a question, a promise. 

“Adora,” Catra answers, her voice a dying whisper, and the universe explodes around them, tearing the sky and earth apart, scattering them like shrapnel from space. 

Catra’s consciousness fades, her heart faltering in her chest, her descent blazing across the sky like the path of a fallen star. The last sensation she’s aware of is a hand in hers and a stinging pain in her palm, a crescent-sharp slice against the curve of her heartline.

--

Catra opens her eyes and instantly regrets it. 

She’s lying on a rocky stretch of land, pebbles digging into her back. Every bone in her body aches, and her muscles feel torn and ragged. Her head rings, and stars dance across her vision when she blinks. 

Memories start to return to her: the Hall of Judgement, the Fates, the ice cave, the bridges, the spaceship, the kingdom, the beach. Adora’s mouth, pressed against hers in the light of a starfield. Adora’s hand, on the hilt of a sword thrust through Catra’s chest.

Catra’s left hand throbs, and it’s only then that she realizes she’s holding something so tightly it’s bleeding her knuckles dry; she turns her head to see Adora lying next to her, their hands locked tightly together. Adora’s forehead is littered with bleeding cuts, her hair a tangled mess of golden knots, and her eyes are closed tightly. 

“Adora,” Catra says, fear rising in her throat. “Adora, wake up.” She pulls her hand from Adora’s, shakes it to get the blood circulating again. Then she places it on Adora’s shoulder and starts shaking her. “Adora, I swear to fucking god, if you die on me - if you die on me again - ” 

Adora’s eyes flutter open slowly, and Catra almost chokes on a breath of relief. She pulls Adora to her chest in a tight hug, disregarding the way that her body aches with the movement. 

“Ow,” Adora mutters, pulling back. “Shit. Where are we?” 

“It’s you, right?” Catra says, staring anxiously into her eyes. “You’re really here?” 

Adora’s gaze softens for a moment. “Yeah,” she says. “I’m really here.” She glances around. “Although I wish I wasn’t. Where are we?” 

Catra looks around for the first time, and her stomach clenches like a fist. 

They’re at the bottom of a valley. Mountains range around them on two sides, ominous peaks that carve at the sky like teeth. Far in the distance, the hills that rise in front of them are made of a dark and pitted stone, sharp and unforgiving; behind them, a river of black, poisonous-looking water flows past the foothills and into the distance. Trees grow around the valley, scattered between rocks and stumps, their branches gnarled, their leaves covered in parasitic growths and thorny brambles. Above them, strange winged creatures call to each other in harsh screeches, drifting back and forth on the updrafts. 

Craters cover the surface of the valley, filled with something that looks like lava. As Catra watches, the nearest one bursts open, spitting something out onto the ground: a winged creature, a miniature version of the ones in the sky. Before they can do anything, the thing spits in their direction and crawls off into the trees. 

“This is not good,” Adora says. “It’s weird here. It feels wrong. It’s nothing like where I was before.” 

“Where were you before?” 

Adora shrugs hopelessly. “I don’t know, exactly. But it was warm and bright, and I don’t think I was alone...I wasn’t happy, exactly, but I knew that I was somewhere safe.” 

“Well, sorry for dragging you away from paradise,” Catra snaps, guilt and anger surging in her chest. She replays Adora’s words, and a spike of pain rips through her as she realizes what Adora is saying. “You don’t - you don’t remember space? Or the kingdom, or - ” 

Adora shakes her head slowly. “I’m sorry. I don’t. What happened?” 

Catra’s heart folds in on itself, curling into darkness along with her last hope of a better life with Adora. 

“Nothing,” she says, forcing her voice to remain steady. “Whatever. Let’s find a way out of here.” 

Adora stares towards the hills in the distance, charting the rise and fall of their shapes. She points to a pinprick of light atop a knoll, barely visible in the poor light.

“There,” she says. “That tower. That’s where we need to go.” 

Catra squints and catches a split-second glimpse: a tall obelisk, a golden flash against the leaden line of the sky. 

“Okay, then,” she says. “Let’s move.” 

--

They walk for what feels like hours, an uneasy silence settling between them. Catra can barely keep her eyes off Adora; she glances over every few seconds, reassuring herself that she’s still here, but looks away the second Adora tries to make eye contact. 

It’s not that Catra doesn’t want conversation. She wants to talk to Adora; she wants it so badly that her mouth is bleeding from biting the words back so many times. But she can’t bring herself to speak, because she doesn’t know how to vocalize any of the things she wants to say. Every half-finished sentence that springs to mind is a futile contrivance, a lesson in failure. 

She wants to say I’m glad you’re here. She wants to say I hate you for dying. She wants to say I hate you for forgetting. She wants to say I love you.

She says none of it. She walks with her back straight and her shoulders taut with tension, and she doesn’t reach for Adora even though she’s longing to.

The knoll draws closer, the obelisk growing bigger in their line of sight, until they’re only a hillside away and it’s rising above them, casting them in shadow. Catra studies the towering line of the monument, eyes fixed firmly to the shining sides of stone. 

Finally, Adora breaks the silence. 

“I can’t believe you came here for me,” she says, and her tone isn’t amazed or affectionate or even grateful; it’s dull and flat, heavy with an emotion that Catra can’t decipher.

“Why are you saying it like that?” Catra asks, angry. “Stop acting like it’s just another horrible thing I’ve done. I’m trying to save you.” 

“It was too dangerous,” Adora retorts, and there’s a flash in her eyes: a storm, building before it breaks. “You aren’t meant to survive down here - you could have been hurt, you could have died.” 

“Like you did, you mean?” Catra says, and Adora flinches. “What, so you can die for Etheria but I’m not good enough to die for you?” 

“That’s not what I meant, Catra. I was already dead.” 

Catra halts in her tracks, bringing them both to a stop. She puts a hand to Adora’s chest, slowly, deliberately, fingers pressed to the flutter of life at the base of her throat. The touch shivers through both of them. 

“You’re not dead,” Catra says.

Adora pulls away from her. “I should be. I died at the Heart, okay? That’s how it was supposed to go. I died, and Etheria was saved. Nobody else was supposed to end up in danger after that. Especially - ” She pauses. “Especially not you.” 

Catra laughs bitterly, the sound scraping up the back of her throat like a wound. The same old path, the same old trap. It’s like they’re running around in circles. 

“You don’t have to die for everyone,” she says tiredly. The first time they’d had this conversation, she’d been outraged; now, she’s just exhausted. “The world might have needed saving this time, but you’d already put your life on the line long before then. Aren’t you tired of dying for love, Adora? You don’t have to make yourself a martyr all the time.” 

She expects Adora to be angry, to shout at her. Instead, Adora just shakes her head. 

“What if that’s all I know how to do?” she asks, her voice a painful whisper. 

“Of course it’s not,” someone says. 

Catra freezes, every instinct in her body screaming to run. Suddenly she’s a little kid again, hiding in a crawl space, hiding within herself, begging for the pain to stop. She manages to catch Adora’s gaze, and seeing the horror in Adora’s eyes is like looking into a mirror. 

Shadow Weaver stands on the hill between them and the obelisk, blocking their way. Her mask is gone, revealing an unnerving grin on her damaged face. 

“Adora,” she says, extending a hand like she’s reaching for a weapon. “You’ve found me at last. Join me, and together we will rule this place.” 

--

The three of them stand still for a minute, staring at each other: Adora and Catra in shock, Shadow Weaver in delight. Catra wants to grab Adora’s hand, but there’s still a part of her that curls up in paralyzing fear at the thought of showing outright affection in front of Shadow Weaver. 

She tries to push it down. They’re not in the Fright Zone anymore, and Shadow Weaver is dead. 

Not dead enough, though. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Catra demands. “You died. We watched you die.” 

“So I did,” Shadow Weaver says with a shrug. She turns to Adora. “But you did too, didn’t you? And here you are.” 

Adora’s eyes are wide. “Shadow Weaver - what’s happening? Why are you here?” 

“I thought it was obvious. I’m here to free you from the clutches of this distracting nuisance and take you to a place where we can be all-powerful.” Shadow Weaver waves a hand around at the bleak landscape. “I already control all of this. Soon, with your help, we can take over the entire underworld.” 

“You’re insane,” Catra spits at her. “If you think either of us would help us after everything you’ve done - ” 

“After I died for you, you mean?” 

It hits home, even though Catra wishes it didn’t; she sees Adora wince, and knows she feels it too. 

“Look, Adora,” Shadow Weaver says. “You died for a noble cause. Don’t you want to live for another one? We could take over this place. We could fix it. No more pain, no more suffering. Just a kingdom of peace and rest for departed souls. We could save so many people, and it would be all because of you.”

Adora hesitates. Catra wants to scream don’t trust her, but her voice is caught in her throat like a bird trapped in a cage. 

“You want me to leave Catra behind,” Adora says. A statement, not a question. 

“Yes. What has she ever done for you? You’ve always been held back by her.” Shadow Weaver’s eyes gleam red. “She’s been a distraction. A failure. A useless burden. She’s always been your weakness, Adora. Without her, you could be so much more.” 

Adora inhales deeply, and for the space of a broken heartbeat, Catra thinks she’s going to leave. Then her expression hardens into resolve. 

“No,” she says. “I’m not going to leave her ever again. And I’m definitely not going to trust you.” 

“Adora,” Catra murmurs. “You - ” 

Shadow Weaver glares at her. “You ungrateful fool. I’ve offered you the chance of a lifetime, and you’re spurning it all for some ragged disaster of an unwanted stray. I should’ve drowned her years ago.” There’s malice glittering red in her eyes, searching for weakness. “You both ate the pomegranate seeds, didn’t you? You’ll lose three years of your life for that, you know, if you go back.”

Catra inhales sharply. She should’ve known better, should’ve remembered Micah’s warning. The loss of three years seems almost unbearable, but she looks at Adora - still brave, still defiant - and she is not afraid. 

“I don’t want the chance of a lifetime,” Adora says, her voice high and clear. “I just want a lifetime, however long it may be.” She raises a hand, and even without the Sword of Protection, the gesture carries an authoritative threat. “Now get out of our way.” 

“Fine,” Shadow Weaver says, menacing. “I tried to play nice, but I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way.” She eyes Adora coldly. “Just remember - when she suffers, it will be on your head.” 

Shadow Weaver raises her arms. From all around the valley, darkness comes rushing towards them; shadows and shades, curling around the ends of her hands, slowly morphing into human shapes until they’re solid matter: wood and stone, iron and bone. 

“Remember,” Shadow Weaver says. “This is what you wanted.” 

She flicks her hands, and the army of shadows starts towards them, flowing effortlessly across the jagged ground. 

Catra turns to Adora. There’s no more fear left in her; instead, there’s a blinding rush of defiance that burns like a wildfire in her chest. 

“It’s been a while since we fought together, right?” she says. “About time we got around to doing it again.” 

Adora’s eyes are shining now, the same sparkle that used to fill her eyes whenever they raced or wrestled or stole rations from the mess hall. She grins at Catra - crooked and cocky, but somehow still soft - and Catra’s heart ties itself into a knot, strands of fate and love weaving together like golden thread. Adora’s face is pure confidence, pure bravery, and oh, Catra loves her so much she thinks she might die for this feeling.

No - she thinks she might live for it.

“Let’s do this,” she says, matching Adora’s grin. 

Together, they rush forward to meet the shadows.

--

They hit the shadow army like a hurricane, tearing through the first row like they’re made of nothing but smoke. Catra lashes out with all four limbs, fists punching holes in clay, claws shredding bone. Next to her, Adora is like a lightning strike in a forest. She still can’t transform, but she was Etheria’s best hand-to-hand combat fighter long before a sword and a tiara made her a hero, and she’s showing it now. 

Catra stands in the center of the battle and presses her back against Adora’s, and they become unstoppable; they move through the shadows, ripping them to pieces until the ground around their feet is littered with shards of iron and rock. They might not have fought together in years, but they fall back into the old ways as if nothing ever changed. It’s all instinct, all memory: Adora’s blows curving high, Catra’s kicks scything low, their punches quicksilver blows that alternate directions like the change of the wind. It’s something like a dance, and they’ve known the steps all their lives. 

Shadow Weaver screams, high-pitched, enraged. She raises her arms again, and more shadow warriors appear; they join the fight, piling onto the dead bodies of their comrades without a second’s pause. 

“You won’t escape this time,” she screams. “It was a mistake for me to ever waste my time on you.” 

Catra tries to shout back, can’t catch her breath. Her foot slips on a bone, and she begins to fall, but Adora catches her before she’s halfway to the ground. 

“We don’t have to kill them all,” Adora says. “We just have to get to the obelisk.” 

Catra nods, and then a shadow warrior cleaves a slice of skin from her arm and they’re back on the defensive. Adora whirls away from her, turns on a tall shadow; Catra balls her fists, springs back to a fighting stance. 

Time wears on, minutes passing like drops of blood. They gradually press forward, but every inch is a hard-won victory. Catra’s face becomes scratched, her hands bruised. Her arms ache, her legs shake, her lungs reach for air that they can’t hold onto. She feels Adora’s movements against the curve of her spine and knows that she’s just as tired. 

More shadows loom over them, blotting out the light, casting them in pitch-black misery, and still they fight on. The obelisk feels like it’s miles away, and Catra’s knuckles have never been so bloody, and somewhere outside the darkness, Shadow Weaver is laughing in demonic amusement. 

Adora stumbles and falls, and she doesn’t get up. 

Catra drops to her knees, grabbing Adora by the shoulder. There’s a towering pile of bone and clay next to them, giving them shelter from the shadows; it’s a temporary respite, but Catra grabs it with both hands.

“Adora,” Catra says. “Get up. We have to keep going.” She drags Adora to her feet until they’re both standing again, but Adora slumps against her shoulder as if unwilling to bear her own weight.

“It’s useless, Catra,” Adora says. “I can’t transform, and they just keep coming, and I’m so tired.” There’s defeat written in the lines of her face, and a strangling panic shoots through Catra. She’s never seen Adora look like this before. 

“No,” she says fiercely, shaking Adora. “You can’t give up, Adora. You don’t give up. That’s who you are.” 

“Maybe it used to be,” Adora mumbles. “I don’t know who I am anymore.” 

Catra presses a hand to Adora’s jawline, turns her head until they’re face to face. “You’re Adora ,” she says. “You’re the worst enemy I’ve ever had, and the best friend, and you don’t give up. You never have. So don’t you dare start now.” She licks her lips, tastes blood. “Remember when we got the failsafe, when I asked you what you wanted? Don’t you want a chance to find out? If anyone deserves that, it’s you, Adora.” 

Adora blinks, surprised. There’s something flickering in her eyes: a spark returning, becoming fire. “Yes,” she says. “I want that.” She reaches over and cradles Catra’s face in her hands. “Okay. Alright. If this is my last chance - ” 

“What - ” Catra starts to say.

Adora kisses her. 

It’s hot and hurried - Adora’s mouth warm against Catra’s, both of them tasting of blood and pomegranate juice, the crush of their lips like an apocalypse: the end of one world, the start of another. Catra feels it in every part of her soul, feels her heart crashing, burning, exploding into light as time falls away; Adora kisses her like they’re rewriting history, like they’ll never have the chance again, like they’re gods and the universe is newly made. 

A radiant glow surrounds them, a brilliant shimmer of light pushing outwards. At first Catra thinks it’s a figment of her imagination, but she soon realizes it’s not; the shadows are falling back, withering away, until Catra and Adora are left in the center of an open space free of darkness, like nothing can touch them. 

Adora pulls away from Catra, smiling at her almost reverently. Her entire body is outlined in golden light. “Wow,” she breathes. 

Catra smiles back, no chance of stopping it. “Don’t ruin it.” 

The obelisk shines, beckoning like a lighthouse. Catra and Adora turn toward it, ready.

“You insolent scum,” Shadow Weaver shrieks. “You’ll never leave this place alive.” 

More shadows gather, swathing the valley in black, blotting out the glow of the obelisk. Adora smirks, raises a hand, yells the words that Catra knows so well: “For the honor of Greyskull!” 

The Sword of Protection appears in her hand as she transforms, becoming She-Ra once again; she grabs Catra’s hand and slashes through the shadows, the two of them running through the shrouds of darkness as the ground begins to roil beneath their feet and the mountains to their left begin to crumble. 

The obelisk. The golden stone. The side looms above Catra, luminous gold as she puts out a hand to touch it. 

“No,” Shadow Weaver screams. “No!” 

She lunges for them, seizing Catra by the ankle, catching her one last time. Adora’s sword moves with deadly speed, slicing through Shadow Weaver like she’s just another shade. The entire valley shakes, disintegrating around them as Catra reaches the obelisk and presses her fingers to the smooth stone.

Everything begins to spin around them, light and dark flashing, day and night merging; time wraps around them, a lifeline around their limbs, a noose around their necks, ships wrecked on stormy seas, planets breaking out of orbit - it’s a thousand years of history, a tale older than time, a starving future come to swallow them whole - 

Catra grips Adora’s hand as tight as she can. The darkness sweeps them away and they’re falling through the center of the cosmos, bruised and bleeding and broken-boned, but finally together. 

:::

(THE SKY)

“...bio signatures are extremely weak…” 

“...should we move them?” 

“...can’t imagine how they’re still holding on to each other…”

Catra’s awareness returns slowly, in slivers of light, in shards of sound. Familiar voices echo in the distance, filtering through a vast sheet of silence to reach her, but she can only understand a few of their words. 

She slowly cracks one eye open, almost blinded by the brightness that comes rushing into her field of vision. She vaguely recognizes the room around her as the interior of Adora’s spaceship. With a great effort, she manages to turn her head far enough to see Adora lying next to her on the floor. 

As the seconds of consciousness pass, pain floods Catra’s body; it sweeps through her, a relentless wave of ceaseless hurt that settles in her bones like it’s coming home. Her palm throbs, and she dimly realizes that her right hand still is wrapped in Adora’s, their fingers woven tighter than the roots of a willow tree.

Adora’s eyes are closed, but she’s breathing. Catra watches the faint rise and fall of her chest, the rhythm of her breaths like a waltz: slow and irregular, but undeniable. 

Adora’s here, Catra realizes. She’s alive.

Catra’s body relaxes, fear bleeding into relief. She allows herself to fall back into oblivion. 

--

When Catra’s eyes open again, she’s lying in a bed surrounded by familiar walls: grey-green metal, precise rivet welds. She sits up, poised to run, but then she pauses. There’s something different about this room - it’s brighter, warmer, lacking the unforgiving coldness that followed her through the years of her childhood like a shadow. There are windows where walls once were, and morning light is pouring through to bathe the bed in a warm wash of light. 

She’s in the Fright Zone, but that name doesn't apply anymore. 

A shaft of light falls across Catra’s sheets, catching on her hands, and she realizes that there’s something shining on her palm of her right hand. She looks at it curiously, realizing that there’s a blue patch of something that feels like heated metal covering it. 

Faint streaks of blood trace around the patch, not quite washed away. Curious, Catra begins to work her claws underneath the edges. 

“You probably shouldn’t take that off yet.”

Catra looks up. Scorpia is standing in the door, her eyes shining with tears, her lips curved into a watery smile. 

“Scorpia?” Catra says, and Scorpia begins sobbing loudly. 

“Sorry,” she says, wiping at her face. “Sorry, I just didn’t know if you’d ever come back, and you looked so hurt when they brought you in - oh, wildcat, I thought - ”  

“Yeah, alright,” Catra says, embarrassed. “It’s okay, Scorpia. I’m still alive, as you can see.” She slides out of bed to prove her point, but her legs betray her; they bend beneath her weight, pain lancing through her knees. 

Scorpia is there in a flash, catching her, wrapping her into a hug that, for once, Catra doesn’t try to pull away from immediately. She hugs back, hoping that her apologies are transmitted by touch alone. She doesn’t have it in her to vocalize them. 

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Scorpia says, her voice choked with emotion, her arms a little too tight around Catra’s bruised ribs. 

Catra coughs, disentangling herself. “I’m glad to see you, Scorpia. I really am.” 

Scorpia cries even more. Catra waits until the worst of it subsides, and then she asks the question that’s been weighing on her mind ever since she awoke.

“Where’s Adora?” 

“She’s still asleep,” Scorpia says, beckoning for Catra to follow her. “But I can show you where she is, if you want.” 

--

The room where Adora is sleeping is the old medbay, next to the mess hall. Scorpia quietly slides the door open and steps back to let Catra see. 

“I’ll let you stay with her for a little while,” Scorpia says quietly. “We’ll be in the mess hall when you’re ready.” 

It’s just the two of them now: one awake, one asleep, both disarmed. Catra leans against the doorframe, watches Adora breathe, counts the seconds between inhale and exhale. She’s sleeping peacefully for once, sprawled motionless across the bed, the blankets tangled in a heap across her legs. Even from here, Catra can see the many cuts and bruises painted across the golden canvas of her skin; they match her own, the story of their journey written across their bodies in blood and blemishes. 

Catra wants to lie on Adora’s floor until she wakes. She wants to crawl into bed next to Adora and curl into her side like they’re kids again. She wants and she wants, but she doesn’t take. She’s taken too much already in her lifetime. 

Adora wouldn’t mind, says a voice in the back of her mind. She kissed you, remember? She wants this just as much as you do.

And Catra wants to believe this, but she knows it can’t be true. One kiss shared in the face of death is nothing but a weak foundation, and she’s never known how to build something from the ground up. She’s half convinced that their recent battle was just another cruel trick played by the underworld, because how could it ever be true? Catra has always wanted, and Adora has never reciprocated, and that’s how it will always be. She doesn’t know any other version of their story. 

Catra takes one last look at Adora, then closes the door soundlessly and walks away down the hall. 

--

Glimmer, Bow, Micah, Scorpia, Perfuma, and Entrapta are sitting in the mess hall, talking about something that Catra can’t quite catch, and the incongruence of Rebellion leaders in the heart of the Horde makes Catra’s head spin a little. Flowers bloom in the corners of the room, spreading around the doorways, filling the boxes below the newly built windows. Perfuma’s work, probably. 

Catra takes a seat at the end of the table, next to Perfuma. She reminds herself that it’s not the Fright Zone anymore. 

“Uh,” she says, cutting through their conversation. “Hi.”

“Catra,” Glimmer breathes out, and then she’s overturning her chair and sprinting around the table, Bow hot on her heels. The two of them fling themselves onto Catra, crushing her into a hug that pushes the breath out of her lungs. 

“Ow,” Catra groans, gasping for air. “Glimmer - Bow - ow .” 

“Sorry,” Bow says, releasing her. There are tears in his eyes, but his smile is so wide that it’s taking over his entire face. “We’re so happy to have you back. We were so worried. Glimmer especially.” 

“Was not,” Glimmer scoffs. “But I’m glad to see you again, Horde scum.” As Catra watches, Glimmer scrubs roughly at her eyes for a second. 

Catra smirks, even though it pulls painfully at the split in her lip. “Are you crying , Sparkles?” 

Glimmer glares at her. “No.” 

“Aw, look at you crying over Horde scum.” 

“I’m not crying, asshole!” 

“Sure you’re not.” 

Perfuma leans across the table, placing a hand lightly on Catra’s arm and smiling in that way she does, like she’s lived a life untouched by sorrow. “I am so glad to see you again, Catra.”

“Yes,” Entrapta adds. “I am extremely pleased that you are still alive, and Adora too. Especially since I had postulated that you had approximately a 0.0022% chance of survival in the underworld, and in the event that you managed to survive, a 0.000319% chance of mission success.” 

Catra accepts this for what it is, knowing that there’s sentiment behind the numbers. “Thanks, Entrapta.” 

“I do have a little bit of bad news, though,” Entrapta says. “While we managed to catch you during your ascent from the underworld, Darla’s thrusters and starboard navigation coil were moderately damaged. We will have to stay here in the Scorpion Kingdom for a couple days while I take care of repairs.” 

“That’s more than fine,” Scorpia says cheerfully. “I’d love to have you all. We’ve got plenty of room.” 

The Scorpion Kingdom. Catra rolls the name around, testing it out. It’s truly not the Fright Zone anymore: not by name, not by nature. 

“Catra,” Micah says, sitting forward in his seat at the head of the table. “You’re safe, and so is Adora. I know we haven’t known each other long, but having you back is one of the best things that’s ever happened to me.” 

Catra swallows hard, a lump of emotion suddenly rising in her throat. Micah is smiling at her gently, and the kindness is almost unbearable. She doesn’t know how to accept it. 

She tries anyway. She’s tired of living within the lines of cruelty. 

“Thank you,” she says. 

Micah nods. Catra’s eyes catch on the color of his shirt: a pale lavender, like sunset over the Crystal Falls. She remembers a pit, a pair of wings, a promise.

“Micah,” she says. “Glimmer. Bow. I have to tell you something.” 

Micah looks at her expectantly. Bow and Glimmer, hearing the undertone of sadness in Catra’s voice, watch her carefully.

“I met Angella,” Catra says softly. “Down in the underworld. She helped me. And she said - she said to tell you she loves you.” 

“Oh,” Micah says, his eyes bright with tears but shining with love. 

Glimmer and Bow are both crying: Bow openly, Glimmer trying to hide it. The two of them press closer to Micah, the movement almost unconscious, and Catra feels an ache in her heart as she watches the three of them. They might be missing one person, but they look like a true family. 

“Thank you,” Glimmer says to her, the simple phrase carrying the weight of absolution. 

Catra nods. Glimmer breaks away from Bow and Micah to hug her again, and it’s rough and awkward, but Catra sinks into it.  

--

Adora doesn’t emerge from her room all day, and her absence is a gnawing fear that clings to Catra, sliding between her ribs like a blade. She knows that Adora is still recovering, and she knows that what they’ve been through would cause anyone to oversleep, and she knows that she herself is not quite recovered either - her knees are still weak, and her breaths come in shallow gasps of pain when she stands for too long - but she worries anyway. 

She checks on Adora hourly, until Glimmer pulls her away and suggests, in a gentle but uncompromising tone, that Catra should focus on regaining her own strength instead of working herself up over nothing. Her logic is infuriatingly rational, and Catra wants to argue, but she doesn’t; instead, she goes outside to help Entrapta with ship repairs. 

When Catra arrives, Entrapta has Darla’s gangplank down, and there’s an open panel on the hull that’s sparking uncontrollably. Catra assumes by the sound of mumbled calculations coming from the center of the smoke that Entrapta has everything under control, so she sits down on a box to wait. 

She looks around, cataloguing the new appearance of the buildings she’s known for so long. Instead of their former sickly grey-green, the roofs and walls are now a warm shade of seafoam. Plants grow along the paths, trees spreading their branches out past the rooftops. The fog that used to hang low over the Fright Zone has vanished, replaced by clear air and a sky full of light. It’s all bright and welcoming, so far from the cold and punishing military compound that it used to be.

Catra should feel relieved about this. Victorious, even. The place that tormented her for years has become something else entirely, burying layers of terror beneath new growth. And she is relieved - she is - but there’s an edge to it; an unexpected sting, a sense of loss that tastes like metal in her mouth.  

I can never return home, she thinks, and then: It doesn’t matter. This was never my home anyway.

The smoke stops billowing from the hull, and Catra jumps as a shower of sparks fly out. 

“Hi there,” Entrapta says, catching sight of her. “What are you here for?” 

Catra shrugs. “I thought maybe I could help, or something.” 

Entrapta tips her head to one side, considering. “I wouldn’t recommend it. I’m attempting a few experimental additions along with repairs, and the combustions that might occur as a result would probably be dangerous to inflict upon someone of your current health status.” 

“That’s fine,” Catra says. “I’ll just sit and watch, if that’s okay.” 

“Oh. Sure.” Entrapta reaches for a wrench.  

Catra inspects the hull damage. There’s panels missing, as well as a deep gouge in the metal, and a jumbled mess of colored wires is spilling out. 

“What happened?” she asks. “To the ship, I mean.” 

“Well,” Entrapta says, muffled by the spandriver now held between her teeth, “while you were in the underworld, we flew around Etheria waiting for you to surface. I knew that the egress point could be anywhere, so I set up a tracking program on Darla that would allow her to hone in on your signatures as soon as they reappeared and fly to that location within seconds.” 

She takes the spandriver out, turns a few bolts. “You were falling out of the sky just beyond the Fright Zone, and we managed to catch you, but there was a...kind of disturbance that came along with you, like a rift between dimensions. Similar to the portal, but black instead of white. It closed up after you fell out, but not before carving out part of Darla’s hull. Poor girl.” She pats said hull affectionately. 

There’s something welling up in Catra’s chest as she listens to Entrapta speak: it’s a sick, painful kind of gratitude. She’s never been in the habit of repaying debts, and she doesn’t know how she’ll ever manage to settle this one. 

“Thanks,” she says. “And Entrapta - I’m sorry. About Beast Island. About the portal.” 

This is an apology she has to verbalize, and she knows it, but the words fall out heavily, awkwardly. They’ll never be enough. Catra braces herself for Entrapta’s anger, for the rejection of her insufficient apologies. 

Entrapta sets down her tools, facing Catra with an uncharacteristic seriousness in her eyes. “I’ve never been great at making friends,” she says, quiet. “I don’t understand relationships very well. I’m more at home with machines than people. But I’m learning, I think. I’m learning that if you meet the right people, if you really care about them, then they’ll forgive you even when you make mistakes.” She pauses, her expression gentle. “I forgive you, Catra. I won’t forget it, but I will forgive you.” 

“Okay,” Catra says, shifting around awkwardly, once again trying to hold the unwieldy shape of unexpected forgiveness. 

“Now,” Entrapta says, reverting back to her normal enthusiastic self like the conversation never happened, “I need to run some more tests.” She lets out an ear-splitting whistle. “Darla! Fire up the hyperdrive thrusters at seventy percent capacity!” 

Catra smiles slightly, watching as Entrapta loses herself in her work. She thinks about going back inside, but decides against it. Even despite the hum of machinery and the clatter of metal, there’s something calming about watching Entrapta fiddle with the ship’s engines. 

It’s not a complete distraction from thinking about Adora, but it’s closer than anything else she’s likely to get around here. 

--

The day wears on, and Catra’s eyes begin to close; she leans back against the wall, drifting into sleep. Hours slip away as she drowses, warm in the patch of light that falls over her like a veil. It’s only when Glimmer comes outside, banging the door closed behind her, that Catra wakes up again. 

“Hey,” Glimmer says, and Catra realizes that it’s nighttime now; the last of the light is fading, yielding to the indigo spill of night. “It’s time for dinner.” 

“Okay,” Catra says, still half asleep. There’s a pinched expression on Glimmer’s face; in her languid state, Catra can’t parse it right away.  “Is there something wrong?” 

“Don’t freak out.” 

Catra surges to her feet, all traces of sleep banished immediately. “You realize that saying don’t freak out is the best way to make someone freak out, right? What’s wrong? Is it Adora?” 

“There’s nothing wrong with her,” Glimmer says. “It’s just that when I went to tell her about dinner, she wasn’t in her room. And now I can’t find her anywhere.” She frowns in agitation. “I checked like, every room in the building.” 

“Oh,” Catra says, allowing herself to breathe again. “That’s all?” 

Glimmer glares at her. “That’s all ? She could have been kidnapped! She could have gone missing!” 

“Overdramatics as usual, Sparkles,” Catra says. She pushes past Glimmer, into the hallway. “I know exactly where she is.” 

Glimmer follows her down the hall, looking irate. “What do you mean? How do you know where she is?” 

“Because,” Catra says. She thinks of her days in the Horde, thinks of the one place they’d always go to find sanctuary. In her mind, it’s still the same as it ever was: unstable railings, corroded metal, a fix that had only ever been temporary. “We’re in the Fright Zone. There’s only one place she’d be.” 

--

The rooftop, like everything else in the Fright Zone, has changed. The once unsteady platform now looks sturdy and inviting; the railings shine of copper and silver instead of the rusted iron they used to be. Light green vines of ivy weave around the tower, their small white blossoms a burst of brightness in the falling dusk. 

There’s one thing that hasn’t changed, though. As Catra reaches the roof, she sees a silhouette against the sky: a person seated by the edge of the rooftop, hands braced against the railing, golden hair tied back neatly. 

Nostalgia sweeps through Catra, an almost pleasant pang of regret. For one fleeting second, it’s as if the war never happened. This could be any one of a million nights on the roof; before the war, before the separation, before the underworld. 

Adora turns, and the illusion is blown away. This isn’t the beginning; it’s the aftermath, and all they can do now is live with it. 

“Hey,” Catra says, because she doesn’t know what else to say. She doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t know where to put her hands. She settles for sitting next to Adora, leaving six inches between them. 

Adora slides away subtly. The movement tears through Catra’s heart like a lightning bolt. 

“You found me,” Adora says at last, stating the obvious. 

Catra scoffs. “You weren’t hiding very well.” 

“I wasn’t hiding,” Adora says. “I was just - ” She plucks a flower from one of the ivy vines, her sentence lingering unfinished in the air between them. 

Catra studies her carefully, drinking her in like water. Adora is wearing her old red jacket, now torn and tattered from their battle; her face is scraped, with a bruise smearing purple along the curve of her cheekbone, and her left hand bears a blue medpatch identical to the one on Catra’s right hand. Her hair is tied up like it always is, although messier than usual, and there’s something glinting in it, platinum in the moonlight. Catra looks more closely, her stomach twisting as she realizes that it’s a streak of grey.

“Adora,” she says. “What happened to your hair?” 

Adora frowns, pulls the strand free, looks at it. “It turned grey,” she says. “From the underworld, I guess.” Her gaze flickers over Catra, catching on the left side of her head. “You’ve got one, too.” 

“Oh,” Catra mumbles. Something inside her revolts at this, dismayed at the idea of a permanent reminder of her journey. Something else rises against this, strangely pleased at the thought of sharing this with Adora. 

They sit together, the night spread out before them like the sea. There are stars now, stars where there never were before; the sky is lit with thousands of tiny sparks, an endless spill of white light across the infinite expanse of darkness. The moon hangs above them, haloed in a soft pearlescent glow that shines pink in the night, a quarter-waning blush of rose.  

Catra stretches. Adora shifts. They’re still not talking, and Catra doesn’t understand how they can't find a word to say to each other even after all of this.  

Finally, she can’t take it anymore. 

“Why are you avoiding me?” 

Adora winces as if Catra has hit her, and she might as well have; she lets the question fall like a knife, cutting through the heart of the silence. 

“I’m not,” Adora says, more a question than a statement. 

Catra bites her lip hard enough that the split starts bleeding again. “Tell me the truth, Adora.” Then, quieter: “Please.” 

Adora sighs shakily, pressing her hands against the tops of her thighs. Catra watches as the color slowly bleeds from her fingertips. 

“I remember,” Adora says at last. “I don’t know if it’s because we’re not in the underworld or what, but...I remember. Everything.” 

It falls between them like a sword, that murmured exhalation of everything splitting them apart like a canyon. Catra feels it in her chest, a slow and steady pulse of heartache, and beneath that -

Beneath that, a simmering burn of anger that smolders like a fire stifled in earth.  

“Are you serious?” Catra asks, every word a sharp and jagged edge in her mouth. “You’re seriously saying this, Adora?” She laughs bitterly, no humor in it at all. “You don’t like what you saw, fine. Pretend it never happened, if you want. But avoiding me after I literally dragged your soul back from the underworld? That’s low.” 

“Catra - ” 

“Don’t, Adora,” Catra says, shaking her head. She’s exhausted suddenly, weary down to her bones. “Just don’t. I’m not trying to guilt you over this. I still would have saved you if I’d known that you’d end up hating me for it. If I’m being honest, I would have saved you even if it cost my own life to do it. I don’t expect anything from you, okay? None of those other realities were true, even if I wish they had been. You’re never going to want me the way I want you, and I’ll tell myself I’m fine with that every day until it becomes true. But if you’re so disgusted by the idea of being with me that you can’t even stand to be around me, the real me, just because the underworld decided to fuck with our heads and make us dream that we were together like that - ” 

“What are you talking about?” Adora asks, her eyes wide. “That’s not why I’m avoiding you!” 

“Don’t lie to me!” Catra spits out. “What else could it possibly be?” 

“Catra, I killed you!” 

Catra is stunned into silence. Adora pushes her hands through her hair, fingers knotted in golden waves. There’s a desperate kind of anguish written across her face, and Catra suddenly longs to take it from her, to wrap her arms around Adora and hold her until the pain disappears. 

“I killed you,” Adora repeats, staring at her own hands as if imagining them covered in blood. “In that clearing. I took your sword and stabbed you through the heart.” 

“No,” Catra says. “No, Adora, that wasn’t you. You were possessed or something, I saw your eyes - ” 

“But I knew I was doing it!” Adora bursts out. “I could see myself lifting the sword, and I wanted to stop, but it was like I wasn’t in control of my own body. There was someone else making me move, making me think, and all I did was let it happen. How can I trust myself to be around you after that?” 

Catra reaches over and takes Adora’s hand. Adora flinches, but doesn’t pull away.

“I trust you,” Catra says. “I trust you, okay? You won’t hurt me again.” 

“You don’t know that,” Adora says. 

“Yes,” Catra says, quiet. "I do."

Something haunted flickers across Adora’s face, dark and pained. “I killed her, too.”  

She doesn’t have to explain. They both know who she’s talking about. 

“She was already dead,” Catra says. “And even if she wasn’t, she deserved it, okay? Fuck. She deserved it.” 

“I know,” Adora mumbles. “I get that now. But I still feel - ” 

“I do too,” Catra says. “But we’ll get past it. We’re finally free of her, and it’s about time.” 

“Yeah,” Adora says. The set of her shoulders relaxes. “We are, aren’t we? We’re free.” She swallows hard. "Catra, I'm so sorry for not doing more to protect you from her back then. I should've saved you."

The apology rushes over Catra like spring, the last of the winter fading away. She's been waiting so long for this apology, but now that she's got it, there's none of the self righteous satisfaction that she thought it would have; only a sense of peace.

"You and your damn hero complex," is all she says. "I forgive you. We both had to save ourselves, anyway. She was the villain, not either of us." 

Adora sighs, and then she slowly leans towards Catra until their shoulders brush. Catra softens beneath her touch, the two of them collapsing into each other until they’re as close as they used to be every time they sat on this rooftop. 

“Do you remember the time we sat up here and I told you about the stars?” Adora asks. 

“And I said you sounded like an idiot? Yeah, I remember.” Catra rests her head on Adora’s shoulder. “I thought you sounded like an idiot, but I guess you were right.” 

Adora smiles; it’s a small crease at the corner of her mouth, nothing like the full brightness of her usual crooked grin, but it’s a smile nonetheless. “Want to repeat that?” 

“Fuck off,” Catra says. “You were right. Happy now?” 

“Honestly?” Adora says softly. “I think I am.” She taps Catra’s thigh gently. “You know what you said earlier? About pretending that those other realities didn’t happen?” 

Catra’s heart sinks like a stone, free-falling to the bottom of the ocean. “Yeah. I get it, okay? It was all a trick of the underworld anyway.” She forces a laugh that slips out awkwardly, flat and discordant. “It’s fine.” 

“No,” Adora says. “That’s not what I want.” She takes a deep breath, catches Catra’s eye. “Catra, I - I love you.” 

Catra stares at her, disbelieving. Her heart is beating wildly, threatening to climb out of her chest and sew itself to her sleeve; her blood feels like electricity, fire flowing through her veins and burning beneath her skin. There are stars exploding in her throat and comets colliding between her ribs, an entire world bursting into creation in her mouth, timelines and tidelines bending to the rhythm of her heart - surely she’s misheard, surely she’s dreaming - 

“What?” she manages to say, a lifetime of hope hanging on the edge of the word.  

“I love you,” Adora says again, and the reaffirmation rushes through Catra all over again; she breathes it in like oxygen, lightheaded and euphoric. “Unless you weren’t saying that you want me and I was reading this entire thing wrong, which would change things. I mean, it wouldn’t change how I feel about you, because I love you either way, but it would be embarrassing if it wasn’t - ” 

Catra presses her hands to Adora’s jawline, cradling her face. Adora promptly stops talking. 

“You’re such an idiot,” Catra says, the sentence colored bright with happiness. She feels like she’s falling, like she’s flying. She feels like she’s exploding out of her body, becoming a star, becoming heat and light, the whole of her being a chorus of elation. 

She leans in and kisses Adora, and it feels like an eclipse. 

--

“So,” Catra says at the breakfast table the next morning, looking around accusingly at her friends, “was anyone going to tell me that my hair is literally going grey, or did I just have to figure that out myself?” 

--

They return to Bright Moon a day later, leaving Perfuma and Scorpia back in what is now the Scorpion Kingdom. The trip takes longer than it should, and they’re still tired and wounded, but all of Catra’s exhaustion falls away when Bright Moon comes into view. 

She stands on the bridge of the ship with Adora and Bow and Glimmer and Micah, and the five of them watch as the palace comes into view in the distance, all shining stone and gleaming towers. Catra looks at the castle and thinks of the future, and for the first time since she can remember, it looks like something bright and infinite. 

Adora, standing next to her, finds Catra’s hand and laces their fingers together. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” Catra says, looking directly at her. “It is.” 

--

Later that night, after a meal shared with Micah and Glimmer and Bow, after a midnight kitchen raid spent sitting on the floor and eating cake straight from the pan, Catra and Adora find their way to Adora’s room. There’s a proper bed there now, courtesy of Bow: it’s big enough for the two of them, with an unyielding mattress to compensate for Adora’s dislike of the typical Bright Moon featherbeds. 

In the corner of the room, the quiet rush of the waterfall echoes like the waves of the ocean. Moonlight spills through the window, bathing them in silver luminescence. Their bed is a river that no one has ever drowned in, and their ceiling is the late night sky. 

Catra takes Adora’s left hand, turning it over to reveal the scar on her palm: a round patch of scar tissue that forms a perfect circle. Its silvery white shine is the exact match of the crescent-shaped scar on Catra’s right hand. 

“Entrapta said she could probably fix them, if we wanted,” Adora says, tracing a finger over Catra’s scar. “What do you think?” 

Catra shrugs. “I don’t know. I think they’re kind of cool.” 

“Like a reminder,” Adora murmurs, and Catra knows what she’s thinking. In the Horde, scars had been a certain kind of reminder: a record of mistakes. A permanent mark to show where you went wrong, a warning not to do it again. 

“Not that kind of reminder,” Catra says. “It’s a reminder of us .” She kisses Adora’s palm, quick and gentle. “A reminder of what we went through, and how we survived.” 

“Okay,” Adora murmurs. “Yeah. That sounds good.” She looks relaxed, settled, and Catra finally gives voice to the fear that’s been lingering in the back of her throat. 

“Do you think she was right?” she asks. “When she said that we’d lose three years?” 

Adora shakes her head slowly. “I don’t know, but I don’t care even if she was. I’d rather have a limited amount of time with you than eternity without you.” 

“Oh,” Catra says, lightheaded with relief. “Good. Me too.” Three years, six months, forty days, a lifetime; it’s all the same, in the end. It’s time with Adora, and that’s all Catra’s ever wanted.

Adora smiles now, and Catra can barely breathe past the happiness rising in her chest. They’ve made it through the war and the underworld; they’ve made it through the dark and the cold. Now they’re in a bedroom full of peace, and they’re alive, and they’re together. 

“I love you,” Adora says softly, pressing a kiss to Catra’s forehead. 

Catra smiles. “I love you too,” she says, and they’re the truest words she’s ever spoken. 

Adora leans back against the headboard, pulling Catra closer; Catra presses her head to Adora’s chest and listens to the steady beat of her heart, thinking of waltzes, thinking of springtime, thinking of unbroken promises. She tilts her head to look at Adora, reaches up to kiss the smile at the corner of her mouth, and lets herself become tender. 

They’ve died for this love, but now they’ll get to live for it, and Catra can’t think of anything better.