"I did what I had to do."

"Not afraid of some sparkles, are you?"

Indie, multi-para/novella, AU & crossover friendly Glimmer from She-Ra: Princesses Of Power.

Rules

It had been Adora’s fault for trusting her. For thinking she knew her. For thinking any concept of a truce was possible when one person was a prisoner. They’d gotten as far as the broad balcony above the gardens, all the while with Catra walking in steely silence and weathering the attempts of the Kingdom’s She-Ra to implore that the Horde commander listened to reason. It was getting annoying. Sanctimonious. Preachy.

Those were never things that Adora had been.

But there was an opening in sight. Sparkles was in a meeting. Arrow boy was somewhere (but he was hardly an obstacle anyway). Adora was the biggest threat, but the narrow marble railings and sloping rooftops were no easy place for She-Ra to take up pursuit. Plus, she had to change into the hulking warrior which would buy a few extra seconds.

It didn’t take long to lean into the tensions once they were at an opportune space. In a flurry of movement a nearby glass of drink was launched into Adora’s face and Catra sprang atop of the marble railings, working to put at much distance between them as possible. An infuriated cry sounded from the balcony and already the guards were beginning to rally as Catra heard her name rise in a shout from behind her.

Speed was the priority. That and using obstacles to slow those in pursuit down. With desperation tipping her movements into outright recklessness, Catra launched herself down into a particularly manicured courtyard, cushioned only by one of the large shrubs absorbing the majority of the force from her landing. Spitting at the unwelcome sea of leaves and branches, Catra pulled herself from the flowerbed before taking off. It was only as she tore past a tall, unmistakable figure that Catra felt her gaze whip back as though hoping it were little more than a trick of the mind.

But the tall figure had seen her too, and in her moment of distraction Catra felt something seize her ankle, bringing her to a sudden and forceful meeting with the ground. As the air voided her lungs, Catra felt herself beginning an attempt to scramble back to her feet.

Get away.

That was the priority.

As the footsteps approached, all manner of confirmation of Shadow Weaver’s presence bled into reality with the sound of her voice.  

“You  never  know when  to  stop, do  you?”

Shadow Weaver was in Bright Moon.

She’d taken what she needed and come to Adora.

It had been naïve to think otherwise.

A strangled cry built at the pit of Catra’s throat as her coiled fist struck out at the ground.

Disbelieving eyes flashed up towards the sorceress, scouring for some sort of painless logic behind such a sore betrayal. Nothing.

She used me.

“…This is where you came?” The words were little more than a hoarse sound from the dirt.

Besides, there wasn’t much she had to say to her former ward. It was through Catra’s actions that they were both here, and if the quality of their facilities differed, well, the girl had only herself to blame.

Evidently the security of the infamous guest room had not improved much, judging by the state of her daisies and the wild-maned figure hauling herself out of them. Shadow Weaver’s magic reserves were lower than she liked these days, but her reflexes were still ruthlessly quick; a shadowy tendril shot outwards to loop around Catra’s ankle and yank her to the ground.

It would not gain her any favours to stand by and permit this escape attempt, after all. And if there was vindictive satisfaction to be taken in sabotaging Catra’s efforts after she had dared to turn on Shadow Weaver and usurp her position, well, that was just the cherry on top.

The alarm had already been sounded; she could hear the guards in the distance, frantically searching the grounds. Her magic would not have to hold Catra for long. Slow, measured steps brought the sorceress over to her crumpled quarry. It was all too clear from the girl’s face that she had not expected to see Shadow Weaver here - there wasn flash of shock and raw disbelief before she pieced it together.

“…This is where you came?”

Shadow Weaver’s lips quirked in a small, bitter smile behind her mask - what, did you think I was just going to disappear and let you win? - but she remained silent and coldly impassive, looking down on Catra as she took her anger out on the dirt.

“I risked everything to help you- you have no idea what happened to me after you left!- and you’re helping them?!”

Pale hands flexed at her sides, fingers curling into claws. The magic coiled around Catra’s ankle tightened even more as additional tendrils burst forth to immobilise the rest of her, like hungry snakes constricting their prey.

“I warned you that your recklessness would have consequences, but you just never listen, do you? No, you had to try and rise above your station. And then you made a mess.” Her words were quietly vitriolic, and openly disdainful.

“Did you think I’d hold your hand and help you fix all your mistakes after what you cost me? You couldn’t even keep the coveted commander position after you took it from me - and now look at you. A complete failure. You made your bed, child - so now you get to lay in it.”

“I got in that mess for helping you!” Catra felt her voice rise into something bordering on disbelief as the magic began to coil and constrict its uncomfortable path around her legs. Following Hordak’s orders and sending Shadow Weaver to Beast Island never would have resulted in this. Sentiment had been just as much of an illusion as the flickering image left behind in the empty cell. Shadow Weaver didn’t have any. But it didn’t stop the smarting pain that accompanied the memory of the last time they had spoken in the cell. It didn’t take away how real it had all felt; like things were going to get better- that in the eye of the storm there was a place of safety. As though somehow, inexplicably, years of cruelty were being traded for a fragment of trust.

Clearly such a lapse in judgement had been a terrible mistake mistake.

From a distance Catra felt an ear twitch at the sound of guards, inciting an instinctive urge to fight the tendrils that ached and clung to her like a deadweight. Without any visible urgency, the sorceress drifted closer, seemingly unconcerned by the slowing attempts to claw and writhe out of the enchantment.

“Did you think I’d hold your hand and help you fix all your mistakes after what you cost me? You couldn’t even keep the coveted commander position after you took it from me - and now look at you. A complete failure. You made your bed, child - so now you get to lay in it.”

The words infected the air, voiding the sound of all else with their gravity. Catra felt as though there were an invisible foot upon her chest, crushing out any hope of mercy. Bicoloured eyes scoured the mask above, swimming with hostility and hurt.

A shout of guards sounded as the pair were sighted. Somewhere amidst them was a familiar voice commanding them to be careful. Catra wondered whether the warning had been meant to protect her or those racing to detain her.

A soft scoff slid over Catra’s lips as she surrendered to the magic. A sardonic air tugged at the corner of her lips. What was the use in acting like any of this was a surprise? She’d expected it somewhere deep beneath the dying childlike want to see something different. Shadow Weaver had known that. She’d used it and Catra had been played for a fool. A low, incendiary laugh grew at the back of Catra’s throat as she fixed Shadow Weaver with glare steeped in defiance.

“You’re right.” It was a grim confirmation of an entirely severed tie.

The audacity of the claim was just further fuel to Shadow Weaver’s flaring temper. She still harboured a deep-seated resentment over the manner in which she had been usurped from the position she had held for so many years - her pride had suffered enough of a blow in losing the fight, and being thrown into one of the Fright Zone holding cells like some common prisoner. That it was her ward and biggest disappointment who had turned on her so, however, was further salt in the wound.

She had underestimated Catra, and paid the price for it. The fact that her ward still seemed to seek some crumbs of validation from her even now, after taking everything Shadow Weaver had so painstakingly built for herself, evoked nothing but cold disgust.

“You have never been anything but a hindrance to me.” The sorceress hissed out the words, knuckles whitening and her controlling hand clenched tighter. Her magic responded accordingly, constricting Catra with cruel crackles of electricity.

“I was only in that cell because you were arrogant enough to think you could do my job better than me - and then you were too weak to even follow through.”

In the distance, there was a shout indicating that the incompetent guards had finally found them. Shadow Weaver stayed where she was, looming over her incapacitated ward. Perhaps the Queen would be inclined to take her security advice a bit more seriously now that she had effectively done the guards’ job for them and captured the escaped prisoner herself.

“You’re right. If I’d done the job properly you’d be rotting somewhere on Beast Island. It was stupid of me to think you deserved anything better than that.”

The antagonising display of disrespect had Shadow Weaver’s lips curling into a snarl behind her mask; she made a short slashing gesture with her hand, and the shadowy tendrils turned sharp, biting into Catra’s skin hard enough to draw blood.

Distantly, she was aware of Adora’s voice shouting at her to stop, of guards surrounding them with weapons drawn and pointed uneasily in their direction. With no small amount of effort, Shadow Weaver curbed herself; to continue any further would only be counterproductive, and it was important to be seen as cooperating with Bright Moon’s rules.

“I told you that the security was too lax,” She told Adora with a calm that belied the vicious contempt still seething in her veins. A wave of exhaustion hit her then, warning her that she had overextended her pitiful reserves of magic once more. It was frustrating to feel so frail, so weak. Not long ago, she had been one of the most powerful sorcerers in the world. But without a magic source to recharge from, she was now having to carefully conserve her strength.

Pointedly turning away from Catra, Shadow Weaver started to make her exit; the guards awkwardly stepped aside to let her go. There was the state of her daisies to deal with, first and foremost. Gardening would help her regain a sense of calm after that unpleasant business.

The magic that bound Catra promptly started to recede and rejoin the sorceress’ shadow. There was no longer any need to waste energy maintaining it when the prisoner had now effectively been handed over to Adora and the Bright Moon guards (who seemed keen to take care of matters from here themselves.)

To anyone who might have seen, it would have been easy to read the anguished twist of Catra’s features as a mere reaction to the insidious work of the magic around her. It was hard to fight against it now as the tendrils bound both arms and legs in an agonizing net of pain. The more resistance offered, the greater the pain became. It was a spell that Catra had learned the workings of as a child. The only way to ease the searing ache was to surrender to it. Stop fighting. Stop angering the caster.

Gasping involuntarily through her teeth, Catra fought the urge to channel her anger into any resistance. It was impossible to fight. Even when Catra had tried previously, it had only ever been a matter of time before she was rendered a quivering helpless heap on the ground. The magic and the swift toll it took on the body was enough to weaken Catra’s knees, forcing her to curl in over herself with a series of ragged, angry breaths.

“I was only in that cell because you were arrogant enough to think you could do my job better than me - and then you were too weak to even follow through.”

“Don’t act like that’s what you would have wanted!” Emotion tore through Catra’s words as her voice rose at the sheer hypocrisy of the statement. They both knew the old sorceress had every stubborn intention of clinging onto life. She was scared to die, anyone who had ever seen her co-dependent relationship with magic could work out such a thing. It was about control. And you didn’t have control when your position was taken by someone better. You didn’t have control in a horde prison cell. You certainly didn’t have it when you were waiting to lose your life at the hands of another.

A sardonic huff shook Catra’s shoulders.

I’ll never be good enough for you.

Barbed words stoked the temper before her- the only weapon Catra could manage at such a disadvantage. What more was there to lose? It didn’t really matter what anyone did to her now. Catra felt the anger bleed into the spell, drawing blood from each point the magic chose to burrow. It was impossible not to cry out at the pain, but not giving way to fear was the last advantage Catra possessed. With her head bowed against the dirt, sensing her body beginning to shake, she listened.

“Catra!” The name that had been laced with exasperation and anger dropped promptly into that of worry as Adora arrived, semi-breathless.

“I told you that the security was too lax,”

The magic drained away as Shadow Weaver’s voice backed off. The sharpness of the pain died, leaving little more than a throbbing reminder as Catra remained unmoving from the ground. Already, a series of guards had surrounded the corner of the courtyard. Catra felt a low growl build at the back of her throat as a guard hazarded an attempt at pulling her to her feet. Beads of crimson sank into her clothes, mottling soft fur with a dark hue. Catra allowed herself to wobble at the drastic move, a clawed hand clamping over Adora’s wrist in an attempt to steady herself. She felt her eyes swimming with tears, fixed hollowly on the retreating sorceress. As the window of opportunity narrowed, Catra shoved at the closest guard before lunging towards the back of Shadow Weaver’s neck.

It was pure reaction. There was no plan, only an awareness that the time to act was short. Perhaps Shadow Weaver had goaded her to such a degree because she didn’t truly think her capable. She never had.

Her mistake.

There was nothing more frighteningly capable than a person with nothing to lose.

A snarl ripped through the air as Catra snatched at the Sorcerer’s shoulder with one hand before tearing the mask from her face with the other. She was a monster. Why did nobody else in the goddamned castle see that?! Already, she could hear Adora and the guards descending upon them. Claws slashed towards the now-bare face before her in a flurry of blows that sought to fill up every fragment of time she had. Almost-winding her with force, Adora swept her arms behind Catra in an effort to haul her away.

“CATRA! It’s done!”

A final hard kick struck out towards Shadow Weaver’s knee as Catra felt herself get hoisted from the ground in a writhing sea of teeth and claws.

“You’re the one who’s weak!” Catra spat the word towards Shadow Weaver as the guards promptly shackled her from within Adora’s hold.

It happened too quickly to react. There was no chance to draw upon her magic as the attack came from behind, catching her completely off guard and momentarily stunning her with the force of the initial blow. Abruptly the armour of her mask was ripped away, leaving her scarred face bare to the world - and to Catra's viciously swift claws.

Then the adrenaline kicked in, and instinctively the sorcerer raised her arms to block the ensuing flurry of blows. It was much more difficult to focus on a spell when your attacker was tearing through your skin like tissue paper. With the range her magic had been capable of at her most powerful, Shadow Weaver had grown accustomed to the luxury of distance in fights. Brawling in the dirt had never been her forté, and now it seemed that was being used against her.

“CATRA! It’s done!”

As quickly as it had started, the assault was over. Shadow Weaver was left hunched over, breathing heavily with one hand clutched over her mutilated face. Blood dripped between her fingers in an indicator of the additional damage that would no doubt leave their own lasting marks. Wild, bloodshot eyes with misshapen pupils scoured the ground for her mask, only to spot it broken in half; a gutteral, anguished sound tore from her throat at the sight.

She could feel everyone staring at her face, at the thick twisting scars her hand could not fully conceal from view, at her eyes. There was a reason she never removed her mask in the company of others, why she had continued wearing it even after Catra had damaged it and broken its gemstone in their last fight. Without it now, she felt naked and vulnerable. Keeping her head bowed, she used the dishevelled curtain of her hair to grant her a little more shielding from the intrusive scrutiny.

Stop looking at me!

“You’re the one who’s weak!”

Sharp, mismatching pupils snapped up to pin Catra in their sights; a dark static began to fill the sorcerer's head, and magic began to crackle from her fingertips.

"Your life was just a series of mistakes, from magic, to the Horde, to Adora. To me. How were we supposed to get ANYTHING right when we only had YOU to teach us?!”

The words struck like blows of their own, but Shadow Weaver was too furious and shaken to come up with a scathing riposte. With Adora doing her best to singlehandedly subdue Catra, the guards had apparently decided their best course of action was to stand awkwardly around with their weapons pointed at both Catra and Shadow Weaver herself.

"Get her out of here!" The sorcerer hissed out the order with such venom that a couple of the guards actually jumped slightly. Her free hand was curled into a tight fist and shaking from the exertion of keeping herself under control. Her face felt wet. Blood was dripping down her arms, between her fingers, slowly staining her ripped robes and the blades of grass around where she stood.

No one suggested a medic. No one said or did anything, because they were all still too busy staring -

"I said, G̴̢͕̾E̷͎̤̪̰̳̩̘͂̉̈́͑̎̾̓́͠Ţ̶̛͓̟͖̤̟͌̂̋̃̅͋͆ ̶̺̭̥͆͛̕Ỏ̷͎͓̣͇͍̇̿͊̕ ̴̧̭̟̙̞̐̇̇̂͗̇̈́͝ͅÙ̵̡͇̟̯̘̝̓̑͝͝ ̵̢̨͚̥͕̞͔͎͇̂͋̓̕̚͝T̵̈́̄͌͐̈̈́͝."

Shadow Weaver didn’t look up from where she was hunched over from her latest spasmodic coughing fit, trying to catch her breath. It felt degrading to be seen in such a state of weakness - especially by Catra, who was so prone to gloating.

When she pulled her hand away from her mouth, it was stained with blood and black ichor.

It’s getting worse.

The thought filled her with dread and a horrible, resigned kind of fear, that she swiftly pushed down. Now was not the time to show any more weakness than she already had. It would do nothing to help her situation. Best to retain some shreds of her remaining dignity, and act like nothing had just happened.

Once she was sure the episode was over, the sorcerer wiped her hand clean on the grass, pushed her mask back into place, and shifted into a more comfortable sitting position. Standing was out of the question right now, let alone continuing to travel. At least they’d already made camp for the evening, and she could rest. It was doubtful that she’d get much sleep or feel much improved by morning, of course, but it was still a welcome reprieve for her blistered feet and aching lungs.

“…If you’re quite done staring,” she spoke up coolly at last, with no small amount of effort, “The fire needs more wood.”

The canteen of water was out of her reach. Shadow Weaver eyed it briefly, considered the odds of getting up without triggering another fit of coughing, and elected to go without for now. It wasn’t worth it.

“And you’re burning dinner,” she added after a considering sniff, before taking a discreet swig of the tiny vial she had taken to keeping on her person at all times. While it didn’t do anything to fix her failing body, it had at least helped to stave off the worst of the pain, and made breathing a bit easier at night.

A shame she didn’t have any more left.

Normally, the young commander would have been quick to press any reminder of imperfection back onto the sorceress.

You’re slowing us down.

We’d have made it to an actual town by now if we didn’t keep stopping.

We’re burning through our resources more quickly by making camp for extra days.

Not to mention the added risk that came with fending for two singlehandedly in the woods.

But the biting criticisms that would have come from Catra were swallowed back. She’d found the entire thing frustrating; until she’d heard the coughing. It was a guttural noise. It sounded as though the very life were being choked out of Shadow Weaver. Catra had fought to keep her gaze averted at first, but they both knew she’d heard. The inky pooling of darkness that radiated from the sorceress was enough to remind Catra to keep her distance, as though out of fear that the magical affliction might latch onto her also. But it wasn’t just the volatile dark pall of magic, the deep shuddering cough or the visible lethargy- it was the smell.

Shadow Weaver reeked of…something. Some kind of wrongness. Sickness. Blood. Something that Catra couldn’t quite attach an association to- but it was not the scent of the person she’d known for a lifetime.

The sudden bouts of spluttering and wheezing brought about intermittent pauses to their travel. It seemed pointless pressing on with how Shadow Weaver had been doing on this day, and so, Catra had tentatively taken to emulating the ritual of preparing food that she’d seen the sorceress do on previous days. After another attack of what seemed to be plaguing her, Catra could help but find herself watching, feeling a distinct wariness creeping into her eyes.

“…If you’re quite done staring, the fire needs more wood.”

The discerning voice managed after a while. It was as transparent an excuse as any to draw attention off herself. With a frown, Catra rose to her feet.

“And you’re burning dinner,”

Mismatched eyes begrudgingly flicked down to the rabbit she had procured earlier. Pursing her lips, Catra raised a stick to prod the meat to a different section of the flames. Once doing so, she began to pad around to the other side of the fire to where Shadow Weaver had slumped.

“What’s wrong with you?” Catra felt her tone dipping into something accusatory in preparation for an answer that would lack any degree of helpfulness. It was a bit of an open-ended question with regards to someone of Shadow Weaver’s calibre, but they both knew what it was referring to.

“You weren’t like this back in the Fright Zone.” She pried, leaning closer to leer at Shadow Weaver whilst fighting the urge to wrinkle her nose.

“What’s wrong with you? You weren’t like this back in the Fright Zone.”

This was, of course, strictly untrue - her condition had begun to deteriorate within 24 hours of her connection to the Black Garnet being severed. It had been simply been easier to conceal when she was sitting in a cell, with nothing else to do but rest and scheme. The exertion of traversing a war zone on foot, however, had definitely expedited the process. Without a magic source to feed from regularly, her parasitic dark magic was turning on her own life force - every time she cast a spell of any kind now, it was shortening her already dwindling amount of time left.

There was nothing to be gained from divulging this fatal weakness now, however, so Shadow Weaver remained pointedly silent.

“You’re not dying, are you?”

That hit a little close to home. The sorcerer narrowed her eyes at Catra, a tacit warning not to pursue the matter any further (that doubtless would go ignored.)

"Don't be ridiculous." Despite her exhaustion, her voice was crisp and sharp.

"You're not getting rid of me that easily."

Despite the warmth of the summer evening, Shadow Weaver felt a chill seeping into her bones. Between that and the annoying way Catra kept scrutinising her like a specimen pinned to a dissection board, she felt compelled to move. Rising with care, she moved to settle closer by the fire - taking controlled shallow breaths to avoid irritating her chest further - and made a point of checking on the cooking meat.

"We could do with more... nutrition," she remarked with no small amount of disdain at the primitive meal. "There are some wild growing plants that will round out our meals, and," she hesitated for just a moment before continuing in that same casual vein, "help with my little cough."

“What difference does it make?!” Anger surged into Catra’s voice at the pathetic ploy to draw the attention to Catra’s weaknesses rather than Shadow Weaver’s own from where she remained half-slumped on the ground. The sorceress hadn’t moved since yesterday. Every day with every visit no matter how short stoked a raw wound of vindictive satisfaction and hurt at watching the only person close to a parent fade and rot away before her.

Of course, Shadow Weaver had always been exceptionally cruel, even in Catra’s earliest memories her painful lessons had been branded in. It would be easier not to care. It wasn’t like Shadow Weaver was deserving of any pity, or dignity, in her final days. But even as each day melted into the next, the time set aside for tossing scraps just out of reach and jeering lacked any of the sense of victory Catra had hoped such a moment would.

The old woman was tired, hollow and seemingly resigned to her fate- despite all knowledge of what it was. That was something Catra couldn’t bring herself to understand. The being who prided herself on always being aloof- always having a plan that suited her- never being seen as weak, had fallen at the hand of the girl she’d always deemed as no good. The no-good reject of a daughter had surpassed her. And if Shadow Weaver saw no escape, Catra felt a grim sense of foreboding at the future that awaited her once Hordak saw that she too was expendable.

From behind her, Catra’s tail betrayed her building upset.

Did Shadow Weaver think Hordak’s distraction was unnoticed? That a princess had replaced her in the position of highest trust? Did Shadow Weaver think that drawing any such parallel was really going to save her, or was she just trying to secure a swifter end?

“You never cared about me, there’s no use starting now.” Catra felt her voice waver with the tell-tale weight of emotion as she bristled down at the prisoner.

“I can handle myself. I’m not the one waiting out my last hours in a cell!” Clawed hands balled to fists as Catra took a step closer (although still remaining out of arm’s reach), pressing for an answer.

“You can’t want this.” Her words lowered to something desperate, pleading.

Ah, the usual hot temper had flared up. For all that Catra got so angry and defensive, these visits had become a recurring thing. That alone spoke volumes. It was a scrap, of course, but Shadow Weaver could work with it. She’d worked with less before.

However, with such a poor hand of cards to play and her life on the line, it was vital that she selected her choice of play carefully. There would be no second chance if she predicted wrong, or if Catra decided to be even more willfully difficult than usual.

At the very least, she had been able to conserve her energy. Being silent helped to convey a countenance of tired defeat, which in turn was sowing the seeds she needed. This would not work if she could not lower Catra’s guard, and serving as a literal captive audience for the child’s emotional tirades was currently her most promising option.

“You never cared about me, there’s no use starting now.“

Shadow Weaver simply turned her head from where it rested against the cell wall, regarding Catra steadily. Not for the first time, she was immensely grateful that she still had her mask. Even damaged and without its runestone connection, it gave her the armour of inscrutability, which was was valuable when you needed to play a role you were unfamiliar with.

“It isn’t what you thought it would be, is it? Being me.” Her voice was slightly hoarse from lack of use, but no less shrewd.

Hordak didn’t care about anything except results. If anything went wrong, Catra would be the one to take the fall and be replaced, just as Shadow Weaver had. At the end of the day, they were both equally expendable to him. It seemed Catra was beginning to realise that.

“I can handle myself. I’m not the one waiting out my last hours in a cell!”

Yes, well. That could change all too quickly. Shadow Weaver turned her head back to face the wall again. On her opposite side, hidden from Catra’s view, her hand curled into a taut fist and slowly released again. Patience, patience, she reminded herself. Let the child keep talking.

“You can’t want this. Why haven’t you done anything?!”

Shadow Weaver’s lips twitched sardonically behind her mask. She shifted a little, turning back to face her ward.

“Of course I don’t. But sometimes what we want doesn’t matter,” she responds calmly, “And there is nothing to be done - except try to face what comes with a little dignity.”

Of course, Shadow Weaver had no intention of doing that, but it sounded nice in theory.

“Why so upset?” The sorceress enquired innocuously, head tilting to one side - sensing weakness, and with it the window of opportunity she’d been watching for.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You won.”

There it was again, that wretched sound of calm. Shadow Weaver by her mere nature wasn’t the type to take such treatment lying down. So why was she now? The thought infuriated Catra almost as much as it frightened her. There wasn’t time for semantics. If Hordak didn’t have a concrete argument as to why sending the sorceress to Beast Island was directly detrimental, it was over.

A niggling thought had also played on the young commander’s mind, that with her newfound privileges and Hordak’s distraction, there might be more options than their leader was laying out.

Something lost in Catra’s gaze answered Shadow Weaver’s question before she had the chance to guard herself against it. The tactical side was manageable, if not somewhat irritating. But the paperwork, the research and the rebuilding were monumental. It was hard, harder still when delegating became a mission-and-a-half due to not trusting or deeming anybody capable enough. And when nobody else could do a job to an acceptable standard, you just had to do it yourself. It had taken its toll, and the dark bags beneath Catra’s eyes spoke to such changes.

It was hard to dance around the topic now that the final days were racing by. Only now that Catra pressed the matter, did Shadow Weaver seem willing to address it, albeit without so much as a shred of anything helpful to offer.

“Of course I don’t. But sometimes what we want doesn’t matter. And there is nothing to be done - except try to face what comes with a little dignity.”

Lost for words, Catra stared down at the sorcerer. If she didn’t want the events that were unfurling to happen, why had she done nothing? Why did she sit in the same spot each day, hardly moving? Why didn’t she try something every time the cell opened and Catra walked in? Why hadn’t she even spoken about it? Catra couldn’t understand it. From her sides, she felt her hands curl into fists.

“Why so upset? This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You won.”

Feeling an unwelcome weight of emotion building in her chest, Catra shook her head.

She’d tried to convince herself of the fact. She’d tried to relish in the victory; in seeing Shadow Weaver broken and small, in having power over every little detail that concerned the sorcerer’s increasingly irrelevant presence in the Fright Zone. But winning didn’t repair or replace what had always been missing. There was a scary sense of finality in it all.

This tacit, vulnerable confession was significantly better than the defiant bluster Catra had previously been throwing about. She was more malleable, more inclined to listen. It was ironic that Shadow Weaver’s only remaining option for getting out of here was the very same one responsible for putting her in this prison in the first place. At least there was some small amount of vindication to be taken from Catra’s apparent feelings of doubt and regret.

“Then why do I feel like I don’t have a say?”

Now they were starting to get somewhere.

“Are you coming to me for advice, now?” Shadow Weaver let dry amusement bleed into her voice. Truly, there was a first time for everything. Still, this was the most high stakes part. If she wanted to get anything productive out of this interaction, the trick would be saying what Catra needed to hear.

After a calculative moment’s pause, she patted the ground next to her.

“Come here, then.”

In any other circumstances, taking advice from a prisoner would have been a laughable concept. But Shadow Weaver had to have something. She always had something. She’d always acted like the decisions she made were pragmatic, if not ruthless and cruel, but she’d always been acting. Nothing about the heartless shadow of a mother figure had ever been a quitter. Time spent standing in the sorcerer’s shoes had been eye-opening, both in ways Catra liked, but mostly in those that she did not.

The question had Catra pausing, feeling her own guarded mask drop to something childlike as she sought to appeal for an answer.

“It doesn’t have to be like this.” The words were fervent, as though Catra hoped through speaking them, the sentiment might be more believable.

Shadow Weaver was watching her now. It wasn’t much, but it was certainly better than indifferently staring at the wall. After a pause, the sorcerer’s hand touched the ground beside her.

“Come here, then.”

The invitation felt positively alien, but also as though the proximity held a solution. Faltering for a moment, Catra’s gaze dipped to the spot before returning to Shadow Weaver. It didn’t take more than a couple of seconds for her feet to move until she was sitting tentatively at the most peaceful proximity she could remember having to the sorcerer.

“…I’ve worked so hard to be here.” Resignation crept into Catra’s tone as she curled her tail across her feet. It was a familiar notion- one that she’d known in many a form across her entire life. Even with rank, the one constant never seemed to change.

But it is - because of you.

Shadow Weaver remained carefully stoic. For her plan to work, it had to seem like Catra’s idea - which meant the sorceress had to swallow down her own wounded pride and festering resentment.

She was making progress right now - real, tangible progress. This was the first time since her imprisonment that Catra had come this close, and certainly the longest they had spoken civilly. She could not afford to make a mistake now, and lose the most solid chance she’d had so far. There would not likely be another one. Her time was running out.

“…I’ve worked so hard to be here.”

Wisely, Shadow Weaver made no comment on this, simply sitting and listening.

“But it feels like no matter how many times I prove myself Hordak just doesn’t trust me.”

The sentiment was one Shadow Weaver was well familiar with; it was somewhat eerie to hear it echoed from the lips of her own ward. Still, she supposed, it would work well enough for her purposes.

“And he never will.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, with a sardonic edge. “Don’t take it personally - he never trusted me, either, and I was his second in command longer for over eighteen years.”

Shadow Weaver raised a pale hand with calculated care, brushing a few errant strands of hair back off Catra’s face.

“Do not make the same mistake I did,” she told her ward, taking on a more gentle tone. “Have an exit strategy. You can give everything to this place but it won’t keep you from getting discarded.”

The seeds had been sown. Now it was a matter of seeing how well they took root.

Shadow Weaver gave voice to the uncomfortable realisation that Catra had been keeping to herself. The Horde was doing better than ever- no thanks to all the hard work and sleepless nights she’d put into running it. But the closer they got to the end goal, the further Hordak seemed to drift away. He was divulging more to Entrapta than anyone. And with his new favourite in sight, every interaction no matter how necessary only felt like an interruption.

At the comment, Catra’s shoulders sank. Shadow Weaver always had a certain affinity for needling at any insecurity she could sniff out.

“Don’t take it personally - he never trusted me, either, and I was his second in command longer for over eighteen years.”

The thought was enough to make Catra grimace.

If she remained in the Horde after such a time, Catra was certain of only one thing; she wouldn’t be answering to anyone.

A steady touch began to tend to the visual evidence of the new commander’s unravelling. Something desperate and sad lingered in the bicoloured eyes that watched the broken mask.

“Do not make the same mistake I did. Have an exit strategy. You can give everything to this place but it won’t keep you from getting discarded.”

It was true: Hordak didn’t know an asset when he had one. He was too self-absorbed and all-consumed in his work to see the broader picture. But when deciding which priority was greater: rank and power in the Horde, or Adora, things grew difficult. It was an uncomfortable question that had been gnawing at Catra’s subconscious in the late hours. The Horde wasn’t exactly a necessary part of the plan, and even though it was going well, Hordak’s priorities were always going to be skewed past the Princess Alliance and Adora. What then?

It was boring. Bleak and restrictive, but higher ranks opened doors. Leaving wasn’t exactly a path to beating Adora. Leaving was more akin to handing Adora a victory, just like everything else she’d been given throughout her life.

Shadow Weaver’s advice carried the same sore reminder that Catra had felt from her earliest memories in the Horde: there will always be someone better than you.

“…I wanted to be enough for you.” The words were dejected, but well used to the fact.

“But it never seemed to matter how well I followed your orders.”

I wanted you to see that I could be just as good as Adora.” The notion felt silly to even admit out loud, especially to Shadow Weaver. As though anticipating some scathing retort, Catra broke the unreadable gaze watching her.

Behind her mask, Shadow Weaver bit her tongue to curb herself - the sharp sting of pain was the only discreet outlet left for the swell of visceral anger, with Catra so close.

So close.

She could wrap her hands around that neck before anyone could stop her. Still, that would not do anything to help her predicament now. She needed Catra, as much as she despised the fact. Now was not the time to get into just how bad at following orders her ward had proven to be.

"I wanted you to see that I could be just as good as Adora.”

Shadow Weaver stayed very quiet. If she said the wrong thing now, it would be over, and all her efforts would be in vain.

You will never be as good as Adora. But you can still make yourself useful.

Unfortunately, in order for this to work, it looked like she was going to have to acknowledge these... feelings, of Catra's, with a few well-placed crumbs of the validation her ward so clearly craved. It was demeaning to stoop so low, but, well. The end would justify the means, and Shadow Weaver was well accustomed to lying by now.

“But you never trusted me either.”

Shadow Weaver sighed, and rested her head back against the wall. Here went nothing.

"...Yes, well," she started dryly, "You didn't start to take things seriously until after Adora left us. I didn't realise how much you would thrive with some additional responsibility. Perhaps... that was another mistake of mine."

Eyes slanted in the direction of Catra, narrowed and appraising behind the armour of her mask.

"Adora is gone." She mused quietly, deliberately. Selecting and realigning puzzle pieces to create the picture she knew Catra was searching for. The sorcerer reached out to cup her ward's cheek, weaponizing the gentle touch to further sell the manipulation.

"But you are still here, even now. It seems I underestimated you."

“What difference does it make?!” Anger surged into Catra’s voice at the pathetic ploy to draw the attention to Catra’s weaknesses rather than Shadow Weaver’s own from where she remained half-slumped on the ground. The sorceress hadn’t moved since yesterday. Every day with every visit no matter how short stoked a raw wound of vindictive satisfaction and hurt at watching the only person close to a parent fade and rot away before her.

Of course, Shadow Weaver had always been exceptionally cruel, even in Catra’s earliest memories her painful lessons had been branded in. It would be easier not to care. It wasn’t like Shadow Weaver was deserving of any pity, or dignity, in her final days. But even as each day melted into the next, the time set aside for tossing scraps just out of reach and jeering lacked any of the sense of victory Catra had hoped such a moment would.

The old woman was tired, hollow and seemingly resigned to her fate- despite all knowledge of what it was. That was something Catra couldn’t bring herself to understand. The being who prided herself on always being aloof- always having a plan that suited her- never being seen as weak, had fallen at the hand of the girl she’d always deemed as no good. The no-good reject of a daughter had surpassed her. And if Shadow Weaver saw no escape, Catra felt a grim sense of foreboding at the future that awaited her once Hordak saw that she too was expendable.

From behind her, Catra’s tail betrayed her building upset.

Did Shadow Weaver think Hordak’s distraction was unnoticed? That a princess had replaced her in the position of highest trust? Did Shadow Weaver think that drawing any such parallel was really going to save her, or was she just trying to secure a swifter end?

“You never cared about me, there’s no use starting now.” Catra felt her voice waver with the tell-tale weight of emotion as she bristled down at the prisoner.

“I can handle myself. I’m not the one waiting out my last hours in a cell!” Clawed hands balled to fists as Catra took a step closer (although still remaining out of arm’s reach), pressing for an answer.

“You can’t want this.” Her words lowered to something desperate, pleading.

Ah, the usual hot temper had flared up. For all that Catra got so angry and defensive, these visits had become a recurring thing. That alone spoke volumes. It was a scrap, of course, but Shadow Weaver could work with it. She’d worked with less before.

However, with such a poor hand of cards to play and her life on the line, it was vital that she selected her choice of play carefully. There would be no second chance if she predicted wrong, or if Catra decided to be even more willfully difficult than usual.

At the very least, she had been able to conserve her energy. Being silent helped to convey a countenance of tired defeat, which in turn was sowing the seeds she needed. This would not work if she could not lower Catra’s guard, and serving as a literal captive audience for the child’s emotional tirades was currently her most promising option.

“You never cared about me, there’s no use starting now.“

Shadow Weaver simply turned her head from where it rested against the cell wall, regarding Catra steadily. Not for the first time, she was immensely grateful that she still had her mask. Even damaged and without its runestone connection, it gave her the armour of inscrutability, which was was valuable when you needed to play a role you were unfamiliar with.

“It isn’t what you thought it would be, is it? Being me.” Her voice was slightly hoarse from lack of use, but no less shrewd.

Hordak didn’t care about anything except results. If anything went wrong, Catra would be the one to take the fall and be replaced, just as Shadow Weaver had. At the end of the day, they were both equally expendable to him. It seemed Catra was beginning to realise that.

“I can handle myself. I’m not the one waiting out my last hours in a cell!”

Yes, well. That could change all too quickly. Shadow Weaver turned her head back to face the wall again. On her opposite side, hidden from Catra’s view, her hand curled into a taut fist and slowly released again. Patience, patience, she reminded herself. Let the child keep talking.

“You can’t want this. Why haven’t you done anything?!”

Shadow Weaver’s lips twitched sardonically behind her mask. She shifted a little, turning back to face her ward.

“Of course I don’t. But sometimes what we want doesn’t matter,” she responds calmly, “And there is nothing to be done - except try to face what comes with a little dignity.”

Of course, Shadow Weaver had no intention of doing that, but it sounded nice in theory.

“Why so upset?” The sorceress enquired innocuously, head tilting to one side - sensing weakness, and with it the window of opportunity she’d been watching for.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You won.”

There it was again, that wretched sound of calm. Shadow Weaver by her mere nature wasn’t the type to take such treatment lying down. So why was she now? The thought infuriated Catra almost as much as it frightened her. There wasn’t time for semantics. If Hordak didn’t have a concrete argument as to why sending the sorceress to Beast Island was directly detrimental, it was over.

A niggling thought had also played on the young commander’s mind, that with her newfound privileges and Hordak’s distraction, there might be more options than their leader was laying out.

Something lost in Catra’s gaze answered Shadow Weaver’s question before she had the chance to guard herself against it. The tactical side was manageable, if not somewhat irritating. But the paperwork, the research and the rebuilding were monumental. It was hard, harder still when delegating became a mission-and-a-half due to not trusting or deeming anybody capable enough. And when nobody else could do a job to an acceptable standard, you just had to do it yourself. It had taken its toll, and the dark bags beneath Catra’s eyes spoke to such changes.

It was hard to dance around the topic now that the final days were racing by. Only now that Catra pressed the matter, did Shadow Weaver seem willing to address it, albeit without so much as a shred of anything helpful to offer.

“Of course I don’t. But sometimes what we want doesn’t matter. And there is nothing to be done - except try to face what comes with a little dignity.”

Lost for words, Catra stared down at the sorcerer. If she didn’t want the events that were unfurling to happen, why had she done nothing? Why did she sit in the same spot each day, hardly moving? Why didn’t she try something every time the cell opened and Catra walked in? Why hadn’t she even spoken about it? Catra couldn’t understand it. From her sides, she felt her hands curl into fists.

“Why so upset? This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You won.”

Feeling an unwelcome weight of emotion building in her chest, Catra shook her head.

She’d tried to convince herself of the fact. She’d tried to relish in the victory; in seeing Shadow Weaver broken and small, in having power over every little detail that concerned the sorcerer’s increasingly irrelevant presence in the Fright Zone. But winning didn’t repair or replace what had always been missing. There was a scary sense of finality in it all.

This tacit, vulnerable confession was significantly better than the defiant bluster Catra had previously been throwing about. She was more malleable, more inclined to listen. It was ironic that Shadow Weaver’s only remaining option for getting out of here was the very same one responsible for putting her in this prison in the first place. At least there was some small amount of vindication to be taken from Catra’s apparent feelings of doubt and regret.

“Then why do I feel like I don’t have a say?”

Now they were starting to get somewhere.

“Are you coming to me for advice, now?” Shadow Weaver let dry amusement bleed into her voice. Truly, there was a first time for everything. Still, this was the most high stakes part. If she wanted to get anything productive out of this interaction, the trick would be saying what Catra needed to hear.

After a calculative moment’s pause, she patted the ground next to her.

“Come here, then.”

In any other circumstances, taking advice from a prisoner would have been a laughable concept. But Shadow Weaver had to have something. She always had something. She’d always acted like the decisions she made were pragmatic, if not ruthless and cruel, but she’d always been acting. Nothing about the heartless shadow of a mother figure had ever been a quitter. Time spent standing in the sorcerer’s shoes had been eye-opening, both in ways Catra liked, but mostly in those that she did not.

The question had Catra pausing, feeling her own guarded mask drop to something childlike as she sought to appeal for an answer.

“It doesn’t have to be like this.” The words were fervent, as though Catra hoped through speaking them, the sentiment might be more believable.

Shadow Weaver was watching her now. It wasn’t much, but it was certainly better than indifferently staring at the wall. After a pause, the sorcerer’s hand touched the ground beside her.

“Come here, then.”

The invitation felt positively alien, but also as though the proximity held a solution. Faltering for a moment, Catra’s gaze dipped to the spot before returning to Shadow Weaver. It didn’t take more than a couple of seconds for her feet to move until she was sitting tentatively at the most peaceful proximity she could remember having to the sorcerer.

“…I’ve worked so hard to be here.” Resignation crept into Catra’s tone as she curled her tail across her feet. It was a familiar notion- one that she’d known in many a form across her entire life. Even with rank, the one constant never seemed to change.

But it is - because of you.

Shadow Weaver remained carefully stoic. For her plan to work, it had to seem like Catra's idea - which meant the sorceress had to swallow down her own wounded pride and festering resentment.

She was making progress right now - real, tangible progress. This was the first time since her imprisonment that Catra had come this close, and certainly the longest they had spoken civilly. She could not afford to make a mistake now, and lose the most solid chance she’d had so far. There would not likely be another one. Her time was running out.

“…I’ve worked so hard to be here."

Wisely, Shadow Weaver made no comment on this, simply sitting and listening.

"But it feels like no matter how many times I prove myself Hordak just doesn’t trust me.”

The sentiment was one Shadow Weaver was well familiar with; it was somewhat eerie to hear it echoed from the lips of her own ward. Still, she supposed, it would work well enough for her purposes.

"And he never will." Her voice was matter-of-fact, with a sardonic edge. "Don't take it personally - he never trusted me, either, and I was his second in command for over eighteen years."

Shadow Weaver raised a pale hand with calculated care, brushing a few errant strands of hair back off Catra's face.

"Do not make the same mistake I did," she told her ward, taking on a more gentle tone. "Have an exit strategy. You can give everything to this place but it won't keep you from getting discarded."

The seeds had been sown. Now it was a matter of seeing how well they took root.

“What difference does it make?!” Anger surged into Catra’s voice at the pathetic ploy to draw the attention to Catra’s weaknesses rather than Shadow Weaver’s own from where she remained half-slumped on the ground. The sorceress hadn’t moved since yesterday. Every day with every visit no matter how short stoked a raw wound of vindictive satisfaction and hurt at watching the only person close to a parent fade and rot away before her.

Of course, Shadow Weaver had always been exceptionally cruel, even in Catra’s earliest memories her painful lessons had been branded in. It would be easier not to care. It wasn’t like Shadow Weaver was deserving of any pity, or dignity, in her final days. But even as each day melted into the next, the time set aside for tossing scraps just out of reach and jeering lacked any of the sense of victory Catra had hoped such a moment would.

The old woman was tired, hollow and seemingly resigned to her fate- despite all knowledge of what it was. That was something Catra couldn’t bring herself to understand. The being who prided herself on always being aloof- always having a plan that suited her- never being seen as weak, had fallen at the hand of the girl she’d always deemed as no good. The no-good reject of a daughter had surpassed her. And if Shadow Weaver saw no escape, Catra felt a grim sense of foreboding at the future that awaited her once Hordak saw that she too was expendable.

From behind her, Catra’s tail betrayed her building upset.

Did Shadow Weaver think Hordak’s distraction was unnoticed? That a princess had replaced her in the position of highest trust? Did Shadow Weaver think that drawing any such parallel was really going to save her, or was she just trying to secure a swifter end?

“You never cared about me, there’s no use starting now.” Catra felt her voice waver with the tell-tale weight of emotion as she bristled down at the prisoner.

“I can handle myself. I’m not the one waiting out my last hours in a cell!” Clawed hands balled to fists as Catra took a step closer (although still remaining out of arm’s reach), pressing for an answer.

“You can’t want this.” Her words lowered to something desperate, pleading.

Ah, the usual hot temper had flared up. For all that Catra got so angry and defensive, these visits had become a recurring thing. That alone spoke volumes. It was a scrap, of course, but Shadow Weaver could work with it. She’d worked with less before.

However, with such a poor hand of cards to play and her life on the line, it was vital that she selected her choice of play carefully. There would be no second chance if she predicted wrong, or if Catra decided to be even more willfully difficult than usual.

At the very least, she had been able to conserve her energy. Being silent helped to convey a countenance of tired defeat, which in turn was sowing the seeds she needed. This would not work if she could not lower Catra’s guard, and serving as a literal captive audience for the child’s emotional tirades was currently her most promising option.

“You never cared about me, there’s no use starting now.“

Shadow Weaver simply turned her head from where it rested against the cell wall, regarding Catra steadily. Not for the first time, she was immensely grateful that she still had her mask. Even damaged and without its runestone connection, it gave her the armour of inscrutability, which was was valuable when you needed to play a role you were unfamiliar with.

"It isn’t what you thought it would be, is it? Being me.” Her voice was slightly hoarse from lack of use, but no less shrewd.

Hordak didn’t care about anything except results. If anything went wrong, Catra would be the one to take the fall and be replaced, just as Shadow Weaver had. At the end of the day, they were both equally expendable to him. It seemed Catra was beginning to realise that.

“I can handle myself. I’m not the one waiting out my last hours in a cell!”

Yes, well. That could change all too quickly. Shadow Weaver turned her head back to face the wall again. On her opposite side, hidden from Catra’s view, her hand curled into a taut fist and slowly released again. Patience, patience, she reminded herself. Let the child keep talking.

“You can’t want this. Why haven’t you done anything?!”

Shadow Weaver’s lips twitched sardonically behind her mask. She shifted a little, turning back to face her ward.

“Of course I don’t. But sometimes what we want doesn’t matter,” she responds calmly, “And there is nothing to be done - except try to face what comes with a little dignity.”

Of course, Shadow Weaver had no intention of doing that, but it sounded nice in theory.

“Why so upset?” The sorceress enquired innocuously, head tilting to one side - sensing weakness, and with it the window of opportunity she’d been watching for.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You won.”

There it was again, that wretched sound of calm. Shadow Weaver by her mere nature wasn’t the type to take such treatment lying down. So why was she now? The thought infuriated Catra almost as much as it frightened her. There wasn’t time for semantics. If Hordak didn’t have a concrete argument as to why sending the sorceress to Beast Island was directly detrimental, it was over.

A niggling thought had also played on the young commander’s mind, that with her newfound privileges and Hordak’s distraction, there might be more options than their leader was laying out.

Something lost in Catra’s gaze answered Shadow Weaver’s question before she had the chance to guard herself against it. The tactical side was manageable, if not somewhat irritating. But the paperwork, the research and the rebuilding were monumental. It was hard, harder still when delegating became a mission-and-a-half due to not trusting or deeming anybody capable enough. And when nobody else could do a job to an acceptable standard, you just had to do it yourself. It had taken its toll, and the dark bags beneath Catra’s eyes spoke to such changes.

It was hard to dance around the topic now that the final days were racing by. Only now that Catra pressed the matter, did Shadow Weaver seem willing to address it, albeit without so much as a shred of anything helpful to offer.

“Of course I don’t. But sometimes what we want doesn’t matter. And there is nothing to be done - except try to face what comes with a little dignity.”

Lost for words, Catra stared down at the sorcerer. If she didn’t want the events that were unfurling to happen, why had she done nothing? Why did she sit in the same spot each day, hardly moving? Why didn’t she try something every time the cell opened and Catra walked in? Why hadn’t she even spoken about it? Catra couldn’t understand it. From her sides, she felt her hands curl into fists.

“Why so upset? This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You won.”

Feeling an unwelcome weight of emotion building in her chest, Catra shook her head.

She’d tried to convince herself of the fact. She’d tried to relish in the victory; in seeing Shadow Weaver broken and small, in having power over every little detail that concerned the sorcerer’s increasingly irrelevant presence in the Fright Zone. But winning didn’t repair or replace what had always been missing. There was a scary sense of finality in it all.

This tacit, vulnerable confession was significantly better than the defiant bluster Catra had previously been throwing about. She was more malleable, more inclined to listen. It was ironic that Shadow Weaver's only remaining option for getting out of here was the very same one responsible for putting her in this prison in the first place. At least there was some small amount of vindication to be taken from Catra's apparent feelings of doubt and regret.

“Then why do I feel like I don’t have a say?”

Now they were starting to get somewhere.

"Are you coming to me for advice, now?" Shadow Weaver let dry amusement bleed into her voice. Truly, there was a first time for everything. Still, this was the most high stakes part. If she wanted to get anything productive out of this interaction, the trick would be saying what Catra needed to hear.

After a calculative moment's pause, she patted the ground next to her.

"Come here, then."

“What difference does it make?!” Anger surged into Catra’s voice at the pathetic ploy to draw the attention to Catra’s weaknesses rather than Shadow Weaver’s own from where she remained half-slumped on the ground. The sorceress hadn’t moved since yesterday. Every day with every visit no matter how short stoked a raw wound of vindictive satisfaction and hurt at watching the only person close to a parent fade and rot away before her.

Of course, Shadow Weaver had always been exceptionally cruel, even in Catra’s earliest memories her painful lessons had been branded in. It would be easier not to care. It wasn’t like Shadow Weaver was deserving of any pity, or dignity, in her final days. But even as each day melted into the next, the time set aside for tossing scraps just out of reach and jeering lacked any of the sense of victory Catra had hoped such a moment would.

The old woman was tired, hollow and seemingly resigned to her fate- despite all knowledge of what it was. That was something Catra couldn’t bring herself to understand. The being who prided herself on always being aloof- always having a plan that suited her- never being seen as weak, had fallen at the hand of the girl she’d always deemed as no good. The no-good reject of a daughter had surpassed her. And if Shadow Weaver saw no escape, Catra felt a grim sense of foreboding at the future that awaited her once Hordak saw that she too was expendable.

From behind her, Catra’s tail betrayed her building upset.

Did Shadow Weaver think Hordak’s distraction was unnoticed? That a princess had replaced her in the position of highest trust? Did Shadow Weaver think that drawing any such parallel was really going to save her, or was she just trying to secure a swifter end?

“You never cared about me, there’s no use starting now.” Catra felt her voice waver with the tell-tale weight of emotion as she bristled down at the prisoner.

“I can handle myself. I’m not the one waiting out my last hours in a cell!” Clawed hands balled to fists as Catra took a step closer (although still remaining out of arm’s reach), pressing for an answer.

“You can’t want this.” Her words lowered to something desperate, pleading.

Ah, the usual hot temper had flared up. For all that Catra got so angry and defensive, these visits had become a recurring thing. That alone spoke volumes. It was a scrap, of course, but Shadow Weaver could work with it. She'd worked with less before.

However, with such a poor hand of cards to play and her life on the line, it was vital that she selected her choice of play carefully. There would be no second chance if she predicted wrong, or if Catra decided to be even more willfully difficult than usual.

At the very least, she had been able to conserve her energy. Being silent helped to convey a countenance of tired defeat, which in turn was sowing the seeds she needed. This would not work if she could not lower Catra's guard, and serving as a literal captive audience for the child's emotional tirades was currently her most promising option.

“You never cared about me, there’s no use starting now."

Shadow Weaver simply turned her head from where it rested against the cell wall, regarding Catra steadily. Not for the first time, she was immensely grateful that she still had her mask. Even damaged and without its runestone connection, it gave her the armour of inscrutability, which was was valuable when you needed to play a role you were unfamiliar with.

"It isn't what you thought it would be, is it? Being me." Her voice was slightly hoarse from lack of use, but no less shrewd.

Hordak didn't care about anything except results. If anything went wrong, Catra would be the one to take the fall and be replaced, just as Shadow Weaver had. At the end of the day, they were both equally expendable to him. It seemed Catra was beginning to realise that.

“I can handle myself. I’m not the one waiting out my last hours in a cell!”

Yes, well. That could change all too quickly. Shadow Weaver turned her head back to face the wall again. On her opposite side, hidden from Catra's view, her hand curled into a taut fist and slowly released again. Patience, patience, she reminded herself. Let the child keep talking.

“You can’t want this. Why haven’t you done anything?!”

Shadow Weaver's lips twitched sardonically behind her mask. She shifted a little, turning back to face her ward.

"Of course I don't. But sometimes what we want doesn't matter," she responds calmly, "And there is nothing to be done - except try to face what comes with a little dignity."

Of course, Shadow Weaver had no intention of doing that, but it sounded nice in theory.

"Why so upset?" The sorceress enquired innocuously, head tilting to one side - sensing weakness, and with it the window of opportunity she'd been watching for.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it? You won."