#in which cathala makes a bad decision that makes her feel worse than before and learns nothing from it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

deathbydarkelves · 3 years

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Guys, look! Another one shot except I put real effort into it this time so it’s actually good! Conception of the idea to completion took me a month

My dad played Culling Voices by TOOL in the car a few weeks ago and I was all 👀👀👀 The vibe of this song just stuck with me (the way it builds, ugh) and I had to do something about it so I turned it into a one shot about Cathala. It’s about 2,000 words, which google says takes the average person around seven to eight minutes to read. Also heads up I guess for description of dealing with PTSD, in case anyone is super sensitive and can’t handle reading about someone else dealing with it. But it's not super super deep into it because it's like... fantasy. And there's fluff at the end to balance it out because gay :)

And I am absolutely titling it Imagined Interplay because even though most of the lyrics don’t really match my idea (Cathala doesn’t hear voices ncdjsn), THAT lyric definitely does.

Putting it below the cut for decency.

Cathala finished wrapping her hands and looked up at the punching bag hanging before her. Suspended from the ceiling’s center, it was the focal point of the dimly lit training room. Second only to Tarinne—who she heard shuffling downstairs—it was her favorite training partner, and it had the scars to show. Its dull leather, once a uniform blue, bore scatterings of mismatched canvas patches.

Most noteworthy was the crude portrait of the banshee queen Cathala had drunkenly carved into it some months before. The leather surrounding it was especially worn, and it heavily resembled the work of a child, with crossed out eyes and a cartoonish frown. She could have done better, but at the same time… she liked it the way it was.

A sea breeze drifted through the open window across from her, rustling the leaves of the various potted plants scattered around the room: futile attempts at combating the human architecture of their Stormwind home. Filling her lungs, she rolled her shoulders and began stretching her arms.

“We meet again, punching bag.”

At the sound of her voice Sing Sing looked up from where he rested on a high shelf. His scaly nose twitched.

“I’m not talking to you,” Cathala laughed. The little cloud serpent stared blankly at her before laying his head back down. She stepped towards the bag and threw an experimental punch. It barely moved.

“Oh, so Tarinne topped you off, huh? Let’s see how long that lasts.” She hit it again. The bag began to sway.

“Yeah, there we go.”

She shifted her weight to her back foot, dug her toes into the tatami mat, brought her hands up to her face, and let loose a few more punches before settling into a rhythm.

She had no specific routine in mind, nor did she really need this training at all. Today was usually her rest day in fact. But as much as she enjoyed helping Tarinne with her conservator’s work, if she had to spend one more minute making copies of that dry-ass compendium on the geology of ancient Northrend, she would go insane. The Stormwind library could certainly wait a bit longer before getting their copies.

She continued with her sets, changing her lead foot at regular intervals and feinting here and there to confuse her imaginary foe. The bag spun and swayed. Sing Sing watched it with curiosity, red-furred tail swaying in turn.

After a few sets she shifted her stance, shook out her wrists, and prepared for another. She raised her fists again.

And suddenly she was back on the streets of Darnassus, pleading into the smoking sky for her goddess’ mercy, or a hippogryph rider to take notice of her. Buildings collapsed in clouds of embers around her. The heat of the fire pressed on her skin. The-

She dug her fangs into her tongue, yanking her mind back to the present. “Not now, please,” she whispered through gritted teeth. She stepped back.

Why does it come back when I don’t even… The thought trailed off.

Exhaling through her mouth, she interlocked her fingers and stretched her arms again. She stared through the window, counting roof tiles, clouds, seagulls—anything—as the punching bag slowly came to rest. She was midway through identifying the smells of the city (a less than pleasant soup of ocean brine, food markets, and horse manure) when someone shouted on the street below. Her ears rose of their own accord as she listened in.

Something about a shipment of kale? Or ale? Wait, no, something about squid. The squid were demilitarizing? No, that wasn’t right-

Sing Sing chirped, confused, bringing her attention back to the room.

“I’m okay, buddy,” she said quietly. She focused again on the bag, then on a point in space behind it, and set a scene for herself. Acting out fights in her head kept solo training interesting as a novice at Tian Monastery, and decades later it still helped get her mind off things. Usually.

Worth a shot.

On a beach, or a grassy hilltop, in a dew-soaked forest grove, or perhaps on a barren mountainside—all were familiar battlegrounds—she stood facing a hooded figure, their face cast in the shadows of twin moons. An orc, perhaps? No. Something smaller, to fit the punching bag. Quel’dorei or human maybe. Not that it mattered who; they wanted her dead, and the feeling was mutual.

Cathala readied herself once more. The bag spun lazily, her gaze fixed on her imaginary opponent behind it. They lunged forward, and she struck… squarely on Sylvanas’ crudely rendered jaw.

The anxiety left sitting in her chest from the sudden flashback flared into anger.

Maybe it did matter who.

One, two, three, four more blows to the banshee’s neck and torso. The bag veered wildly to the side. Cathala countered with a roundhouse. Sylvanas stumbled, her effigy dutifully taking the punishment. She circled the bag as it wheeled away from her, always aiming for the portrait. An elbow strike for flavor, the odd feint to throw her enemy off-balance.

It had been a year since Sylvanas fled the mak’gora outside Orgrimmar, and longer still since Tyrande disappeared with the powers of the Night Warrior coursing through her. Still no news on either. ‘The war’s over! The war’s over!’ she remembered hearing in Stormwind’s streets. Were the humans really so quick to forget? To dismiss the innocent dead and move on?

The heavy thuds of her fists against leather steadily quickened.

Of course they would be. Of course their child king would be unwilling to risk the lives of his people to avenge ours. Of course-

She was torn out of her thoughts when her fist unexpectedly struck air, the momentum carrying her forward. She spun to face the punching bag as it swung in chaotic circles. Fury surged through her.

She threw her weight behind a redeeming blow and rolled under the bag as it smashed into the ceiling, rattling the walls. Sing Sing yelped in fear and dove off the shelf to scurry behind a pot.

I should have killed you myself on Broken Shore. I should have known.

She followed a back kick with another roundhouse.

And I should have told everyone to leave when… I should have…

She remembered the glow of the fire, the embers in her throat, the smoke in her eyes. But tried as she had, she could never remember how she got the coiling scar on her face and neck, nor when she was finally rescued.

She weaved to the side, deftly avoiding Sylvanas’ wicked blades as the bag swung past.

She was sure she and her sister Alarien had been walking through Darnassus when they felt the catapult impacts. But then again, maybe they were both at their parents’ house.

The ceiling creaked in protest of her pummeling blows.

How did she and Alarien get separated? What did they talk about in the hours before?

Her fists began sparking, greenish electricity leaping across her knuckles as she searched for even the memory of how her mother had done her hair, what her sister had worn, what song her father hummed while preparing their food that night. Or just what the city looked like before that corpse came.

Every frenzied strike charred the leather. The smell of ozone, carbon, and sweat filled her nostrils.

What was the last thing minn’da said to me?

A right hook to the jaw, a side kick to send her backwards.

Did you have to take the memory too?

Lightning surged through her arms. Jade hair clung to her sweat-drenched forehead. The bag, smoking, careened wildly around her. Her breath was ragged.

Why can’t I remember?

Her footwork grew unsteady as her mind became increasingly entangled in its own anguished web. The portrait was blackened beyond recognition. And still, hard leather was no substitute for the bones she longed to break, the creaking ceiling a poor imitation of the screams she dreamed of tearing from that wretched throat.

WHY CAN’T I REMEMBER?

Blinded by her thoughts, she swung wide and the bag slammed into her shoulder, spinning her around and nearly throwing her to the floor. She stumbled, muscled shoulders heaving and her breath frenzied. The bag swayed behind her.

Fangs bared as she turned, her voice was a deep, savage growl. “And why…” She slowly stepped back, each footfall that of a predator.

“WHY WON’T YOU JUST FUCKING DIE?!”

She leapt forward and unleashed a whirlwind of kicks that splintered leather and tore seams. Lightning smeared the edges of her vision. Sand sprayed across the floor. And with a final kick squarely in the bag’s center, its steel anchor tore free of the ceiling and it flew backwards, crashing into the opposite wall and dropping to the floor as sand and long-forgotten scraps of clothing spilled through a massive tear across its middle. Plants tumbled off shelves, clay pots shattering on the floorboards. Sing Sing shrieked from his hiding place and sprinted out of the room.

“Cathala?!” Tarinne’s voice rose from downstairs.

She stood panting, mind empty yet racing. The adrenaline, the hatred, the grief—all still rushed through her, but with nowhere to go they settled in her hands and left them shaking. She dropped to her knees.

As Tarinne rushed up the stairs, she stared at her bloodied knuckles, split despite her thick calluses. The pain had yet to register. Of the anxiety in her chest, however, she was well aware. It ground away at her ribs, reminding her this was no victory.

“Are you okay?” Tarinne said from the doorway behind her.

She nodded feebly.

She walked over and knelt down, resting a hand on her shoulder. Her voice soft with worry, “What happened?”

Cathala pressed her cheek to her hand. The warmth, the softness of her skin… tears caught in her throat as it nearly overwhelmed her.

“I was… I don’t know, it just… it just came back-“ Her voice broke and she cleared her throat to cover it.

Tarinne sighed quietly. Sitting down, she pulled her into a side hug and they sat in silence for a few minutes. Dust motes drifted in the orange sunlight slanting through the window, the plants on the sill quivering in the evening air. A cart rolled past. Sand continued to dribble out of the punching bag.

“Well…” Tarinne carefully broke the silence. “I can go make tea if you’d like.”

Sing Sing padded back into the room and began lapping at Cathala’s raw knuckles. Nudging him aside, she dropped onto her back and draped an arm over her eyes. “Sure.”

Tarinne didn’t move. Cathala waited, feeling her gentle gaze.

“Are you-“ She was cut off as Tarinne quickly kissed her exposed belly, and she couldn’t help but smile.

Tarinne sat back up. Her voice, filled with relief at her lightening mood, tugged at playfulness. “Hey, if it helps, the fact you can even do that is really hot.”

“Heh.”

The bells of the harbor sounded in the distance.

“But, uh… we should probably fix that before the landlady sees.”

Cathala lifted her head. Tarinne was pointing at the jagged hole in the ceiling, still dripping dust. She groaned and covered her eyes again.

“That’s on me, I’ll take care of it.”

She gripped Cathala’s hand where it laid on the floorboards. “No, you need to rest. Take the rest of the night off.”

She uncovered her face once more and met Tarinne’s eyes. A tender smile curved the jagged tattoos on her cheeks, and her lavender hair was currently rebelling against the ponytail to which she had so cruelly restrained it.

“Make me,” Cathala teased. The smile came even easier this time.

Tarinne raised an eyebrow and placed her other hand on Cathala’s thigh. “Those are dangerous words, babe.”

She chuckled and sat up. “But I suppose you’re right,” she said, rubbing her brow. It did nothing to ease her pounding head. But the aching in her chest was fading, if only for now.

“Can you stand?”

“Yes.”

“Come on,” she said, squeezing Cathala’s shoulder. “You’re very picky about your tea and I don’t wanna get in trouble for getting it wrong again.” She playfully smacked the side of her head and walked towards the door.

Cathala followed close behind, stopping in the doorway to look back at the split punching bag. Her lips and brow hardened.

“Cathala.” Tarinne’s hand was on her shoulder. “Tea.”

She turned and half-smiled. “Right.”

#in which cathala makes a bad decision that makes her feel worse than before and learns nothing from it #also in which i characterize sing sing as a cat dog ferret thingy because he is literally so animal #part of why i wrote this was to practice just writing with cathala's ptsd because i mean hey man it's gonna keep coming up #but anyway now i kinda know what it's like to be in her head which will make it easier to write her from here on out!#anywayi swear i can write light-hearted happy stuff but blizz brushed over teldrassil so goddamn hard #and i feel incredibly unsatisfied #also now i feel incredibly proud of myself and my fic will be a definite banger once its done #cathala #tarinne #warcraft #world of warcraft #night elf #one shot #writing #fanfic #black rain

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