Adora's barely present as Catra and Melog whisk her outside -- she doesn't even have it in her to protest, dizzy with the ringing and the voices that echo inside her head still. She feels sick, and guilty, a thousand-year mass of black stone that weighs on her chest so heavily that she can barely stay upright. The memory of Mara that lives on in her, in the sword, gets tangled up in the whirlpool of her thoughts until it's swallowed up in it completely, and all Adora can hear is:

It's your fault. They needed you. You couldn't protect them. It's your fault.

Over and over and over again.

She blindly clings to Melog, silent all the way, until she feels them come to a stop. And when Catra turns to her, the look in those shining, unevenly-colored eyes brings a clarity that allows Adora to raise her head above water, if only for the moment.

"Oh," she murmurs, wiping at her cheeks. "Are we walking now?"