From the Sagas of Culann.

Translated by Reuel the Inkling, humble servant of Queen Angela (long may she reign.)

Hearken to me and hear the song of a warrior great and a heart even greater, a true son of Culann; that lineage of noble warriors whose reign was short but everlasting in glory, those lords and ladies whose raids and campaigns saw the reach of Brightmoon spread from the Growling Sea to the Wild Hunts of Þæjamor, children of the Horned God. Herein lies the account of Orþos, son of King Phænor, son of Freja Stoutheart, daughter of brave Sétanta, dubbed Truespear.

In the waning days of the house of Culann, young Prince Orþos of Brightmoon set forth from his lands in pilgrimage to the silver dolmens of the Auldings, called also the First Ones, journeying through the Weald of Whispers. His sword he took not, for to bring weapons to the holy places is to court the ire of the seelie ghosts that keep watch over them. All upon him was his lyre, a gilded instrument from which he wrought great songcraft perhaps even more famed than his keen blade and dauntless courage.

Twas' then that he was waylaid by a host of warriors. No mere bandits, their armour of blackened synth and holo-banners of bleeding red making apparent their allegiance as knights and yeomen from Shadowsun. Spake Orþos in his own defense;

"Gramercy noble lords, I have no quarrel with you. I am but a pious errant and my designs are naught but peaceful."

Beholding the coat upon the breast of Orþos Phænorsson, the swan-feather hunting dog upon a field of knoll-green, the leader of the band returned;

"Your deceit is in vain, for I know your arms, Hound of Culann. Well known are you to the clans of the Shadowfolk. Come now with us or your life is forfeit."

What villainy this aggression, for sacred law forbade conflict upon the hallowed ground. Many times, though, had King Phænor wronged the lords of shadow, and so for the sins of the father, young Orþos was taken captive.

Deep in the dungeons of Brightmoon Castle, all was still. Little prevailed against the silence save the occasional drip of water or the soft crackling of torchlight. Adora walked down the stone halls, nerves clenching her body more tightly with every step. Though she felt this was something that had to be done, she dreaded it immensely. How long had it been since they'd sincerely spoken with one another beyond mid-combat bravado? How many battles had their feud stoked? Despite all the time she'd been given to grow accustomed to it, to settle the matter, it still hurt whenever the two of them had to engage one another across the battlefield. How strange that seemed even now; to oppose each other in an arena they always assumed they'd march into as one. There wasn't anyone on either side of this conflict who would understand the full scope of this tragedy.

Turning a final corner, she reached her destination, a cell guarded by two of the helmed sentries of Brightmoon in their pastel armour, each unmoving as the inert stone that surrounded them. She knew that she technically outranked these two, but still felt a measure of trepidation in addressing the tall, stoic soldiers before her. After a quick salute she cleared her throat to speak.

"Guards, leave us."

One replied, the man's speech gruff and gravely.

"Are you certain? We were given strict orders to secure the prisoner and given her high-value status and priority-"

"I understand, but I need to do this on my own."

The other guard spoke, a woman with a slight yet unwavering voice.

"Be cautious, this is no ordinary soldier. Are you sure you will not require reinforcements?"

"I am, and believe me, there isn't a single person who understands better that she's anything but ordinary."

While that statement was undeniably true, there were a dozen ways it could be interpreted. Which one she meant was unclear, even to her.

Without another word, the sentries departed to report to their superiors for new assignments, leaving Adora alone with the prisoner. The cell before her was in stark contrast to the lavish decor of the upper palace floors, greenery and sculpture replaced here by bare stone and meager furnishings. Ironically, even these spartan surroundings were decadent in comparison to the standard lodgings of a Horde soldier like the kind they had been raised in.

"Catra?"

She heard soft footsteps on the cobbled floor and saw luminescent eyes glare at her from the shadows. Normally one would expect nothing save contempt in the gaze of an enemy captive, but Adora could see an entire spectrum of emotion in those eyes. Hatred, loathing, disgust, yet also pain, betrayal, fear, doubt; all warring with one another and vying to be the sole projection to the outside world.

"Hey… Adora."

It seemed venom and bile were the victorious sentiments. Adora sighed, she knew this was going to be difficult, but knowing and being prepared were two very different things, and here at the moment of truth, any semblance of that preparation dissolved. She'd practiced and rehearsed a hundred different versions of this conversation, yet somehow she still had no idea what to say.

"Well, here we are."

"Yep."

"How long has it been now?"

"A year, I think. Give or take."

"Feels so much longer…"

"Skip the small talk and get to your point."

"I would if I even knew where to begin."

"How about we start with what exactly do you think you're doing down here? Come to gloat, or did they sent you here to interrogate me?"

"I'm not here on anyone's orders."

"But you're still here to get me to talk though, aren't you? Let me guess, you're going to appeal to my better nature and save my soul, or are you hoping I'll flutter and faint just because mighty She-Ra asks it of me? Grow up, Adora."

"You're having this entire conversation with yourself."

"Just saving you the trouble, your Highness. I live to serve." she said, punctuating it with a sarcastic curtsy.

"Will you shut up and take this seriously?"

"Why should I? You're about as intimidating as a fuzzy slipper."

"That's not why I'm here."

"Then enlighten me."

"I… I guess you could say I'm looking for a friend."

"Which, the archer or the one that sparkles? I imagine they're both top-side."

"I'm trying to find you, you massive idiot!"

"Well, gold stars for everyone, you found me. Not like I'm difficult to find at the moment."

"I'm looking for the Catra I know and love. I want to know what you've done with her."

"She's gone and good riddance! The new me is far stronger and better, so you can forget ever going back to how it all was."

"Catra, please don't do this."

"Funny, I remember saying pretty much exactly that."

"I just want to talk."

"Well I don't, so leave! It's what you're good at."

Adora slowly walked away from the cell, her defeated heart feeling like lead in her chest, a lodestone of nauseous fear that she wasn't up to this task, or worse; that it was too late.

Catra simply smirked as she watched, confident that she'd been victor in this exchange. Yet if so… where was the sense of triumph she was expecting? Why was the only thing she felt this nondescript ache in the pit of her stomach?

A pair of regards to curious readers who wish to know more.

Regarding adherence to canon, I originally drafted and started writing this story after I finished watching Season 1, and had planned to finish it before 2... that didn't happen but I changed very little of it. Some of it does not align with how the show progresses, but reworking it would have required so much editing that it wouldn't be the same story anymore. With that said, I hope you enjoyed this for what it is, and that you look forward to the future chapters. Be sure to check out my other pieces here if you like romance, mythology, and even invented languages.

Regarding pronunciation, the þ & Þ characters are pronounced as the "th" in "thimble," and the æ & Æ is pronounced like the "ay" in "play." Also note that the "j" in these sections is pronounced not as in "jelly" but rather as the "y" in "young. I used these archaic orthographies (or spelling conventions) in order to lend to a more ancient and mythical feel, as though the story of the House of Culann were written in the manner of a Norse saga. This includes letters that do not show themselves in Modern English, but were common in Dark Ages tongues like Ænglisc and Dǫnsk.