Disclaimer: I don't own She-Ra!

Title: You Decided Purple Just Wasn't For You

Summary: Catra finds a dead body.

Warnings: Character death.


Catra eventually seeks She-Ra out. It's just one of those facts of life. Water is wet. The sky is blue. If there's a battle with Catra and She-Ra both in the field, they will slam into each other at least once. When she doesn't come, Catra knows something is wrong.

Something is very, very wrong.

The tangle of vines and bark made movement hard in this portion of the territory, but she presses on, clawing and slashing through them. The smell of decay and blood is strong as she approaches what is best described as a ditch. Muddy water slushes nearby, trailing off into distances unknown. The very tip of fingers is in the flow. The rest of Adora is next to it.

Not She-Ra, Adora.

Catra knows what a dead body looks like by now.

She opens her mouth, only to be swamped with the sickly-sweet stench of death. There's no denying it. No pretending she's just unconcious. She's face down in the mud, white shirt dyed red with her own blood, and it wasn't even Catra. She didn't even get the basic right of knowing who did it. How unfair.

How could she do this to herself?

How could she do this to her?

Catra sinks to her knees. The grass is cool on her skin, and she hates it, hates that the grass gets to be cool and she gets to be angry and alive and Adora is dead, she's dead, and it wasn't even classy, it wasn't the kind of heroic death the uptight bitch felt she deserved- oh, stars, did she deserve it- and before she knows it she's ripping it up by the clawful, flinging it wildly behind her.

In the distance, the battle rages. Do they even know She-Ra is dead? It seems stupid to fight if they do. Better to retreat, regroup, figure out how to divvy their resources now that they've lost a powerhouse.

It occurs to Catra, distantly, in that part of her brain that sounds a bit like Hordak and Shadow Weaver had an evil, evil little baby, that the person who did this might not have even known who they had hurt. It might have even been a confused rebellion soldier. It's the only explanation, really; the only realistic reason Catra had to find out this way.

"I told you this would kill you," she tells the lump that used to be her best friend. Who used to be something she hated and loved. Who used to be Adora, and it doesn't feel right to see said lump flat and stiff. Catra reaches out to touch a cold wrist. "You've always been a people pleaser. The rebels weren't like us, Adora; they used nice words to make you feel good, pretty little lies to get you to listen. You've always been a sucker for that stuff." She choked on a sob. "And now you're dead."

Blood roared in her ears. It was horrible that she had blood to rush when Adora's was useless and gone. Catra recalls, vividly, the days when they were young and untouchable, promising to stay close on the battlefield. They planned to rise above it. They planned to end the war.

All that planning, and it's as dead as Adora.

Between shaking, shuddering cries, Catra hears footsteps. Hears gasps. Hears a weapon being drawn. She sucks in a deep breath and raises her chin. She's Catra, Second-in-Command, and if Adora couldn't die with dignity, she would have to do it for both of them.

"Catra," says Bow, seeing the truth written in her eyes. "Give Adora to Glimmer 'n me. We can- we can help."

"There's nothing you can do," Catra rasped. "There's nothing anyone can do."

Then came Glimmer, someone Catra knew even less about. "We could make a grave."

Catra turns away from them. Let them kill her. What does she care now? She's won the war. She's lost everything else. "I'll do it myself."

They leave her alone.

Author's Note: What can I say? I got into the Angst Mood and here we are.