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Betrayal never comes from an enemy—but it always comes from a friend.
Catra tries to formulate entirely why Adora left—she tries, she tries so hard to process why, to sympathize, put herself in her shoes—no matter what she does, she can't form a satisfactory answer.
She knows one factor—The Horde is evil, and Adora had been ignorant to that fact. She had been raised in a world filled with hazy propaganda that was programmed into her mind as soon as she was taken in by The Horde. She had been blind, as the world that resided on the outside had alluded her for almost her entire life. Adora was a right fighter, she always has been, so when so found out the virtues The Horde had taught her turned out to be sins, she must've felt horrible.
She knows it, but she can't accept it.
Catra and Adora had been together their entire lives—through thick and thin, they always came out closer—but now, Catra was only left with herself. Catra had never been on her own, Adora was always there. Adora was her light, her hope, her friend—her everything.
Whenever her fellow trainees would ridicule her, Adora stood up for her. Whenever Shadow Weaver punished her, Adora was there to dry her tears. Whenever a Horde guard caught her in an area she was forbidden to be, Adora covered for her. Whenever she felt hopeless, Adora was her cheerleader.
She knew to loose Adora would mean the loss of a part of herself.
And she had lost Adora.
She didn't even know the princesses that converted her all that well, either. They had kidnapped her for a few days, they shouldn't have be able to get close. To get as close as Catra was to her. To get closer than Catra was to her. It was insane! It made absolutely no sense!
And yet, she had lost Adora.
Adora had offered her to come with her, too. To leave The Horde. Adora didn't understand—The Horde was their home, The Horde was their empire that they would eventually conquer. They would have been the best two officers in The Horde. The queens of the Frightzone—like how life had intended—not following some magical, posh princess destiny. It didn't matter what The Horde was doing to the world that resided outside—that world wasn't supposed to matter more than Catra did.
She had to watch as her friend become the embodiment of what Catra had always despised--a princess. Her own very two eyes witnessed her transformation into something of an unearthly nature, almost as if Adora herself had been stored away, as if Catra had never existed to her, as if Catra had just been a stepping stone on the way to a prophetic destiny. It made her blood boil. It made her feel useless—something Adora would always deny her being.
The worse part of all was the pain—the pain she felt in heart.
Adora had been half of her heart, and now, with her gone, it was like her heart had been split with a knife. It was as if a part of her soul had been lost to the wind. It was painful, it was oh so painful.
Her world was falling apart before her very eyes, without Adora with her side, was there really any point to her time in The Horde? No one else cared about her here. Not Lonnie. Not Rogelio. Not Shadow Weaver. All they ever cared about was Adora. All anyone ever cared about was Adora.
But Catra cared the most.
Lonnie hadn't been there when Adora fell on her bruised her arm, nor did Lonnie comfort her when she cried. Rogelio wasn't there to listen to her when she had nightmares. Shadow Weaver was never there when Adora felt like there was too much being piled onto her at once. None of them cared like Catra did. None of them cared like Catra. All they ever cared about was impressing the most talented solider in The Horde, none of them knew how Adora was doing, how Adora was feeling, who Adora really was—only Catra did. Catra knew almost every in and out of Adora's mind—at the most subtle gesture, she could pinpoint Adora's mood. Adora could do the same for her—it had almost felt like they had been in sync.
Without Adora, who was to care about her now?
Who would be there for her?
Would she even last?
She watches herself as she digs her claws into their bed—Adora's bed. Tears are surging down her cheeks as she stares at herself, barely able to suck in a breath. She hears herself croak, before gripping the sheets and ripping them from the mattress, not bothering to watch them flutter towards the stone-cold floor that lay below. She tears, and she tears, and she tears.
Adora had to come back. She couldn't just leave Catra so senselessly. She would come back. She had to. Those princesses must have just brainwashed her like The Horde had done so many years ago—she knew Adora was gullible. It was a possibility. It could be fact. It had to be fact.
She'd bring Adora back...Adora had to come back. Adora was her bestfriend, her spar partner, her heart and soul. It was even laughable to think she'd leave so easy, right? Those princesses couldn't have something that Catra didn't, right? They probably were prissy snobs who shut Adora up in their tall towers, with Adora crying out, awaiting Catra to climb the tower and save her from their high class horror-land.
''Catra,'' she heard a voice say—an unwelcome voice—''where is Adora?''
She turns to the haunting figure—Shadow Weaver—who's expression does not dare to change at the sight of her reddened eyes and tear-stained face—
—''shes gone,'' she says, her voice strained, ''she left with some princesses on the battlefield.''
''Shes gone?'' Shadow Weaver repeats, her tone sharp like daggers, a hoard of darkness slithering around her. ''Adora would never leave.''
''Well, she did,'' Catra spits half-heartedly, ''and theres no way to change it!" The last bit to her is a lie, and she knows it, but she can't help but let it escape her mouth, the urge to make Shadow Weaver feel the pain she feels overtaking her.
Its a bittersweet joy, watching Shadow Weaver suffer, she feels joyous, as if shes been avenged, seeing her break down like Catra once had over the things she had done to her, but, a pang guilt creeps up her stomach and into her throat, muttering to her—nagging her—telling her that Shadow Weaver loves her, and that she shouldn't be so ungrateful for all the things she had done for her.
The darkness creeps around Catra—engulfing her until its as if her and Shadow Weaver are the only two beings left in the world. She watches Shadow Weaver stare her down, her white eyes narrow into a glare— a angry glare—a look she's seen too many times before.
''Catra,'' she seethes, slowly gliding towards her, ''why did you let her get away?''
''I tried to—''
''Tried isn't good enough, Catra.''
''She didn't—''
''Adora wouldn't just up and leave,'' the looming figure snaps harshly, ''Adora isn't as foolish as you.''
Her words always sting, Catra notes, they always cause bile to rise in her throat, causing her to feel sick. To feel weak.
Catra doesn't respond, swallowing, trying to push down the sickness, trying to be strong—she can't let Shadow Weaver see weakness, or else she'll pounce. She always does.
Shadow Weaver paces before her for a few moments—a few painful moments—before slowly turning back towards her, her eyes keen. A tentacle-like shadow makes it way from the darkness as Shadow Weaver languidly moves her hand, slithering down the side of Catra's cheek slowly.
''Catra,'' Shadow Weaver says in a falsely gentle voice, ''I know you can get Adora back to me—back to us.''
Catra feels herself gulp, ''I will, Shadow Weaver.''
Shadow Weaver's shadowy limb retreats back into the cluster of black, Catra watches as the cluster begins to dissolve around them, the returning scenery bringing her comfort. Her white eyes give her a slow, judging stare before she approaches, her sharp hand stroking Catra's head for a short moment. When she pulls back, the loving façade crumbles, Shadow Weaver's eyes firmly placed upon her. ''Do not blow it,'' she says grimly, slowly turning and creeping off into her small room of horrors.
Catra watches her go, and waits until shes gone to finally breathe again. Her claws cling to the side of Adora's sheets as she stands there, the tears she had been holding back managing to escape from her, sliding down onto the floor. She chokes on them, letting out small croaks as she falls to her knees, dragging her claws from the mattress at a painfully slow pace, watching her wrist fall onto her lap.
Adora will come back, she vows between the sobs, Adora is coming back.