After centuries of war, the Kingdom of Altea and the Galra Empire thought they had found peace when young Emperor Zarkon married Honerva, an Altean scholar and friend of King Alfor. However, when relationships become strained again, a new, firmer alliance must be struck. Zarkon's only child, his son Lotor, has married Princess Allura of Altea. They will rule Daibazaal in their turn. Kings Alfor and Coran have a son, Crown Prince Lancel, who will one day rule Altea. A child short, Zarkon turns to the young son of his estranged brother, an odd youth named Keith... Willing or not, they will be married. What happens after the fact is entirely in their hands...
Love After the Fact Chapter 84: This Tree will Die Without Leaves
Oh we all still die.
This episode brought to you by Willow Tree March by The Paper Kites because titles are my mortal nemesis. Also, I'm very sorry because this one will sting.
Trigger Warnings: Violence, Death, and Keith experiencing eMOtional DAmage :')
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The blaring of the alarms is about as loud and frantic as it can possibly get, but about two dobashes after the system detects the breach, the lights go black, and small lights in the wall fade into life, placed at random, shaped like the lights on Altean armor. If an Altean in armor were standing perfectly still, they’d be nearly invisible.
And Keith sticks out like an elk on a mesa. He’s not the only one who realizes this, as Adam’s particular presence encroaches on his personal space.
“They breached through the west end,” Griffin murmurs. “We can’t get visual.”
“Understood,” Keith growls, sword in hand. “We are prepared to fight to the death if necessary.”
“Give us that opportunity first, if you don’t mind,” Adam whispers.
Keith scoffs, wishes for Lance’s safety as he leans over the dimmed holotable display, seeking out heat signatures through the warrens and hallways of the castle. He can see clusters of civilians, the heat of the castle forges and laundry rooms, the warm glow of the greenhouses-
A moving puddle of heat, marching toward the situation room.
“They know where to go.” Keith’s jaw clenches, not so much against nausea as against rage. The puddle pauses at a corner, takes the correct turn. “Somewhat. They’re following someone’s directions.”
“There are only a few people on Daibazaal who would have that information.” Adam adjusts his grip on his weapon. “Three, to be exact. Two who are capable of giving it. And both are Alteans.”
“The question is why.” Keith straightens up. “Nevermind, for now. They will attack. We will kill them, and then, I guess, get to the comms room and see what we might be able to achieve there. From there, I will head toward Alfor’s laboratory with Adam. The rest of you will go to where the civilians are being held. Defend them with your lives, communicate with me as best you can. Collaboration is key to getting these shits off the planet.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?” one Altean asks. “You seem unwell…”
“I am well enough for this. Everyone, stand back.” Keith waits until the Alteans start moving and the puddle of heat becomes a platoon of Galra right down the hall, before driving his knife directly into the table’s hard drive, and Adam follows by shattering the crystal tabletop with the blade of his poleaxe. “Let them try and get anything from that!”
Keith scurries, presses himself into a corner adjacent to the door, Adam standing in front and slightly to the left of him, shielding him from whoever comes through the door first. He takes a deep breath, another, ears seeking the sound of running footsteps, drowned out by the pulse of his own hearts. He grips the handle of his blade tight, sword arm ready, a live wire from the shoulder down. A deep breath. He adjusts his stance, widens his feet a little more. A deep breath. We’ve got this. I’ve got this. He lifts his eyes to the ceiling, sends a quick prayer to Trija to preserve them.
One breath. Two breaths. Three breaths. Four-
The doors burst open, and the room descends into pandemonium.
Lance coughs, curling into a fetal position on the floor as he takes stock of all his new aches and pains. His visor is completely gone, nothing but a few shards remaining. There's a sting in his cheek that might be bits of crystal or just rock. Vision blurred, hazy, shifting- he closes his eyes tight, feeling grains of Daibazaal dust against his water lines. Every inhalation is agony- a few of his ribs must be cracked.
“Papa-” Lance coughs, dust choking his lungs. “Fuck- Keith. ”
Keith!
Lance’s body jerks sharply, and he coughs again, long and hard. He has to get up. His lungs are on fire, itching like a billion insects.
He needs to get up.
Everything hurts.
He needs to get up.
“Papa?”
Lance forces his eyes open again, still curled tight, trying to breathe. He can barely see anything. It’s so dark. His wrist without the vambrace is sending lancing pain up his arm. That hand is numb. His injured arm must have sustained more damage in the fall.
Another coughing fit wracking his frame, Lance curls back up, trying to get himself together, nothing around him but dark, and the barest outlines of stone illuminated by his suit. Desperate and alone, mind hazy, heart pounding in his ears and behind his scaled cheeks, Lance reaches out for his father, quintessence slogging its way through damaged stone, as sluggish as its wielder.
And he finds… nothing.
No Alfor.
Only a smear of alchemic residue.
Lance’s heart stops, breath frozen in his lungs. No. No no no. No no no no nonononononono. A horrible, strangled sound tears its way out of Lance’s dust-coated throat, hot, thick tears spilling from his eyes as he lays prone, injured and trapped in the blackness.
“Papa!” Lance screams, curls in on himself.
He did this. He did. It was him. It’s all his fault.
It’s all his fault.
It’s all his fault.
He killed his father.
It’s all his fault.
He sobs bitterly, as quietly as he can. Just in case. Every sob that rips through his lungs has him choking. He can’t breathe right. He can’t breathe-
Something moves in the grit just beyond the shadowy light of his suit. Blinking away his tears, Lance scrabbles for his bayard, doesn’t even react when it just reappears in his hand. Wiping snot and tears from his face with his glove, Lance activates his sword, hand trembling as he crawls deeper into the low-hanging tunnel. He wants his father. A selfish, frightened part of him also wants Keith, misses his ferocious husband watching his back.
Fuck. What he really wants right now is to be held while he cries, but he doesn’t have time or anyone he'd want to cry with.
“La-” A hoarse cough. “Lance? You there?”
Shit!
“Thace?” Lance croaks, crawling forward, elbows scraping through grit and rubble. “Thace, what-”
Thace’s breathing is ragged, his arm and half of his chest pinned under a large stone, other arm under his torso. “Lance, I need-”
“Okay.” Lance sniffles, draws his quintessence in close so he can’t feel that void so much anymore. “Okay, let me see if I can-” He coughs. He gropes around in the dim light, aided by his damaged flashlight. The stone isn’t load-bearing, a tiny, one-dot gap between it and the ceiling. He throws all his weight into it, and it lurches, rolls off Thace’s chest and arm in one tumble. Thace cries out, the shift of the heavy stone a crushing grind against his bones.
“You okay?” Lance croaks, helping the Galra sit up.
“Arm might be broken, but I still have ass to kick. I think I can still fight. You?”
“I’m-”
Lance coughs again, so hard he gags, spitting up bile. The heaving of his chest ends on a sob of pain and grief.
“Hey…” Thace doesn’t ask about Alfor, and Lance decides it’s probably pretty obvious, all things considered. “Does your chest hurt? Broken ribs? I don’t like that coughing.”
“It- It feels… tight. I can’t breathe quite right.”
Thace’s garnet eyes glitter with worry, shining with a golden hue in the dim dark. He pushes Lance down, sitting him on a rock while he examines him. “Your wrist is definitely broken. Not sure about your ribs, but you don’t look bloated.”
“Bloated?”
“Mnh. It would mean there’s internal bleeding. Let me know if your belly starts feeling tight. I know you said your chest does, but I think you might’ve just inhaled some dust. We can get that fixed if you don’t cough it up.”
“Okay.” Lance scrubs at his face, a big mistake as more dust gets in his eyes and he has to cry it out again.
“We’ll get you help as soon as we can. Hang in there, alright?”
“Alright,” Lance whispers, still sniffling. He’s grateful that Thace doesn’t comment.
“There’s only one way to go: up. Hopefully, we’ll find a way out of this tunnel, get to your sister, Romelle, and Lotor.” Thace pushes himself to his feet with a grunt, and Lance can’t help but notice the way the Galra’s hand comes up to his own chest. Thace is still nursing. He needs his kits. “You set our pace.”
Keith.
“We’d better get going,” Lance whispers, pushing himself up and dragging himself along the side of the tunnel, illuminated only by his armor, nothing but ringing silence in his comms. He coughs again, so hard it makes his head hurt, Thace’s hands on his shoulder and arm to keep him steady. Something is very wrong.
So much is very, very wrong.
Wrapping his arms around himself, hunching down over his belly, Keith’s thrown forward as the blast to the doors sends a shockwave through the metal wall at his back. The lock bursts, splinters, metal and stone sailing end over end, crashing into the remains of the holotable. The first Galra enter the room, heading straight for the center of the room. A crush of enemies floods in, and the Alteans engage. Metal scraping against metal, against stone. Keith keeps himself pressed against the wall until he spies an opening behind one of the Galra. Without a second thought (including whether Adam can keep up with him), Keith makes his presence known in his favorite fashion: murder.
The young Galra drives his blade into an insurgent’s chest with a snarl as they barrel toward him, and he leaps over their body as they fall into the shattered glass of the holotable, shards flying with the impact. Shoving his panic deep, deep down, Keith fights alongside the Alteans as the enemy swarms the narrow hallway. It’s not ideal, these close quarters. As scrappy and swift as he is, he’d prefer more open conditions.
He’d really prefer to not have to fight at all, but here he is.
Adam’s polearm swings in his peripheral vision, slicing straight through an opponent coming in from his left. Another Galra stumbles over their fallen comrade, and Keith sends his knife through their face. Keith’s past them before their body hits the floor, hood still back in case he needs to puke, but claws extended, one arm up in front of his face as he runs, ready to block a blow. He can lose and arm no problem. His brain? Not so much.
He flexes his fingers at the second joint, metal claws protracting from his armor-backed gloves. Keith will use his fucking teeth if he has to, if it means him and his kit live through this mess.
An insurgent nearly twice his size swings a massive sword at him, and Keith is forced to duck, scrambling backward as the enemy bears down on him.
“Keith!” Adam shouts, not even bothering with honorifics as he struggles his way through the carnage. Before the Altean can get to him, Keith dodges the sword and slips between the anonymous Galra’s legs, sends his sword up into a small gap in the back of the armor. Adam pulls up just past him, still watching his back.
“You know, I think I finally appreciate how fast you are,” the Altean pants. “Also, I’m almost useless in here. Too close.”
“I know.” Keith’s own chest heaves. He’s been too sedentary the last few movements. He should have known better. He should have done better-
He’s grabbed by the arm and thrown bodily down an adjacent hallway, Adam’s startled cry in his ears as he tumbles to a stop, prone on the floor. An enormous pair of feet marches toward him, and he lifts his head.
A deep, rumbling chuckle reaches Keith’s ears as he starts to push himself up. In a small slice of space, he can see Adam being engaged by four or so other foes, letting a Galra cut his polearm in half so he can dual-wield.
“The way you fight is a disgrace. Then again, you never were much of a Galra, were you Little One?”
Something in Keith’s chest frosts over. Little One. Only a few people call him that- the people who saved him, accepted him, loved him.
Love him.
“Shiro did his best, he always does, but sometimes you just have to admit that something’s a lost cause.” The Galra’s left arm is an enormous mechanism, glowing with violet light. “I should have killed you the moment you were made to be that Altean’s bitch.”
Keith whimpers, a raw, gaping wound opening up in his heart at the betrayal even as he stumbles to his feet, adopting a defensive battle stance against this enormous adversary.
“Oh, don’t be scared, Little One. I’ll kill him next for what he’s done to you. You won’t be apart for long at all.”
Sendak pulls his hood back, arm whirring as it transforms into a wicked, two-bladed weapon. His lips twist into a grin full of teeth. “I will enjoy this.”
Keith runs.
The air rasps in and out of Lance’s lungs, but the coughing does cease. Thace is still concerned, though he’s trying his best not to show it. It’s only near the top of the steeply sloping tunnel that he starts limping.
“You’re hurt.”
“Messed up my knee. I’ll be fine with time… Of course, we might not have much of that left.”
“Yes, we fucking will,” Lance grits out, leaning against the wall for a moment to focus on his breathing. “‘M not dying in this shithole.”
“Hey!”
“I meant the tunnel-”
“No, Hey! Over here!”
Turning his head, Lance spies a violet glow down the tunnel, first moving away and then stopped.
“The fuck are you doing?!” Lance hisses, adjusting his grip on his bayard.
“Well, they’re gonna see our armor anyway. Might as well try to be friendly.”
A long stretch of silence and then-
“Lance?”
A voice he’d know anywhere. A voice he’s been desperate to hear since he left Daibazaal. Voice catching in his throat, eyes stinging, Lance pushes himself off the wall to stand up straight.
“Allura?”
“Lance!”
Running footsteps in the dark toward them, and Lance has his sister in his arms. Her hair is in a braid down her back, and she smells like soap and also sweat, and her large belly reminds him of awful, awful fears still careening through his head, but he has his sister.
He has his sister.
Her fingers find the back of his neck, and her lips brush against his ear as she whispers, “It wasn’t your fault. He was ready.”
A sob slices its way through Lance’s lungs as he buries his face in his big sister’s shoulder, trembling. Another, large, slender hand finds Lance’s shoulder.
“We’re happy to see you, Lance.” Lotor’s hand squeezes tight. The two step back, reclaiming Romelle’s hands between them before she can drift away. Lifting his gaze just a dot, he sees Krolia and Shiro.
“Shiro!” Lance breathes, embracing the mountainous Galra soldier as well. “I’m so glad you’re okay!”
“Hey, Lance… How’s Keith?”
“He was leading defense when we left, but we haven’t been able to make contact with Daibazaal, so I haven’t heard from him-” Lance gulps, taking a step back. “He’s being careful, though.”
“Captain!” Thace stands to attention.
“Speak, Soldier!”
“Honerva has been apprehended. We have reason to believe she intended to destroy Altea.”
“Is she involved in this coup?”
“Undetermined.” Thace grimaces.
“I believe she might have,” Lotor whispers. “For what cause, I cannot determine without investigation, but it would not surprise me at all. Honerva’s mind works in mysterious ways. If she-”
“The water is coming for you,” Romelle whispers, staring deep and sharp-sudden into Lance's eyes. “The water is coming.”
Allura reaches out and takes Romelle’s hand in her other spare, worry creasing her brow. “It’s alright, darling. Everything will be alright.”
“We should keep moving,” Lance whispers.
“You must breathe without breathing.”
Lance coughs yet again, and wonders if maybe Romelle might be onto something. He waves away Lotor’s concern. “I inhaled some dirt or something. I’ll be fine. We can use the tunnels to get back to our craft. From there, you three can go to Arus. I’ll remain behind to help.”
“Are you sure?” Thace asks. “You could go with your sister. Leave us to clean this up.”
Lance shakes his head. “Keith is on Altea. He sent me here in his place. I won’t leave you to this mess, regardless of who made it.”
“We’re still a little foggy on that part,” Lotor mutters, running fingers through his long hair. “But nevermind that right now. You’re right. Allura and Romelle must get off planet. I’ll remain here with my people.” Lotor and Lance exchange a nod, and Lance can’t help but think of that conference they had so very long ago, where Lance offered his allegiance in exchange for the lives of his people. This is not how he’d planned to evade commiting treason.
None of this is how he’d planned.
As the others start discussing where to go from here, Lance can’t help but feel something is wrong. He doesn’t feel well, drained in an odd sort of way, almost like he has a fever. He’s exhausted, itchy under his flightsuit, but he doesn’t bother to even try to scratch. It’s fine. Everything is fine. He’s fine.
But as the others keep moving, he’s falling further and further behind, and that itching sensation travels from his wrists and ankles to his elbows and knees. As their squad keeps moving, Lance has only just made the decision to get Thace’s attention when a trembling of the ceiling, dust and bits or rock falling all around them, announcing their return to the near surface.
“Should be easier going now,” Shiro says. Allura’s leaning on him a bit, not exactly enjoying carrying the weight of her infant uphill all that way. Lotor has a hand on her back, leading Romelle by the hand.
“You won’t hear me complain for that,” the Princess mutters, rubbing her belly. “Had they caught me only a few phoebs earlier, I’d be up there giving them everything I've got, I swear.”
“Even then I’d prefer you didn’t,” Lotor mutters. Like he could stop her. Allura might have all the pretty ways and graces of her species, but she’s as stubborn as her blood. Lance used to wish he were more like her. Strong in the same way.
As they hurry down the tunnel, the floor trembles beneath them and dust and debris fall from the ceiling, feet covering ground at Allura’s slowed pace. They’re almost back to where Lance started when the walls widen, cracks appear in the ceiling, the floor shifts and buckles beneath them-
Love After the Fact Chapter 83: Yea, But for the Fall
Things get a little better... And a whole lot worse.
TW: Some violence, nausea, Alfor being a tolerable person
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Of all the things Lance thought he would get for his nineteenth birth quintant, running in an underground tunnel to bypass a siege on his husband’s home planet to rescue his sister and destroy a mysterious doom weapon was not one of them. The only thing more surreal is that his father is running next to him.
Lance is more than glad to have him though, as they burst through a hole in the floor at the end of the tunnel, tumbling into the midst of a squad of rebels. With no cover and nowhere to run, the only option is to fight.
Activating his sword, Lance darts under the closest foe, slashing at their legs, amputating at the knees, before swiveling around to shoot them in the face. He knows where to be, what to do, where his father is, what he’s doing. Where an enemy’s head is before, Lance's sword is after, driven through the glass visor of their helmet. His body is alive with alchemy. As red quintessence forms a halo around his body, Lance's soul threads into the walls and floor, into his foes, into his father, and the awareness fills his head with a filling sort of emptiness.
For the first time in his life, Lance feels like he’s finally living up to his potential. He just wishes it wasn’t like this. A white and blue blade slices through air, through armor, through muscle and bone, and the only thought his brain highlights is at least it's not that sword.
The sword in his room, hidden deep, locked into a dark recess of his wall, will never, not ever taste blood. That sword was meant for a conqueror or worlds, and Lance knows now better than ever that that legacy was never meant for him.
Lance spots Thace dart out from behind a pillar, sword a wicked glare of light and luxite, and his focus falters. Before he can recover himself, he feels the sting of a laser’s impact with the plate armor of his shoulder, missing his heart by inches. A vicious jolt, the sharp, static shock of an energy cell, leaves his muscles convulsing under his skin. Another impacts the side of his head, leaving him dazed, every heartbeat pulsing against his skull.. He groans, taking cover behind the rubble of a fallen pillar as he waits for his muscles to get their shit together and for his head to stop ringing.
SUIT INTEGRITY: 73 PERCENT
CRITICAL DAMAGE SUSTAINED
FLIGHT SUIT BREACHED
REMAIN WITHIN ATMOSPHERE
BEWARE AIRBORNE MALIGNANCIES
“Tha’ can’t be good,” Lance mutters, running a gloved finger over a crack in the side of his visor as his muscles finally start listening to him again. There’s a tiny, almost miniscule piece missing that he can feel with the sensory fabric in his gloves.
Alfor’s voice reaches his intercom. “Alright, son?”
“‘M fine. Suit’s damaged. We gotta go home on a ship, ‘kay?”
“Indeed you will. I promise.”
He’s still dazed after that double hit, but Lance thinks vaguely that something about that doesn’t quite sit right with him. But then the haze of Thace’s still-somehow-kind face is looking over him, garnet eyes tight with worry and anger.
“-ance… Lance, can you hear me?”
Lance nods his head, eyes struggling to focus. Alfor's typing something in on his vambrace, and instead of shouting through their helmets, Thace's voice is in his ear.
“Can you see me?”
“Kinda… ‘S blurry.” Lance blinks a few times, world coming back into focus on the right side of his vision. “‘S better. Blurry on the left.” He looks around. “Papa?”
“I’m here. Can you fight?”
“Need a minute. Got hit twice… Can we reach anybody on Altea?”
“Our comms are down,” Thace says, inspecting Lance as best he can, shining fallen chemlight in front of his eyes. "We haven’t been able to reach anyone since Krolia sent her correspondence. From what little I saw before the fighting started, there was a virus in her device set to activate if she tried to contact Altea. The rebels may try to weaponize that fact against her if they win.”
The thought of another family member being targeted has Lance sitting up a little straighter, looks around at the carnage. “How long before more of them show up?”
“Not sure. Could be any tick now.” Thace sets the chemlight down with care not to draw attention. "They just keep coming. We're not sure where from. The Blade has their own secret communication, but that's hard with us running all over. We've lost a fair few of who we had left… Met a fair few on the field."
“Right.” Lance struggles to his feet, taking a moment to check his balance. “What’s going on right now? Heard anything?”
“Their intentions, so far as we can gather, are to take control of both Daibazaal and Altea. They’re operating under the assumption that the military as it stands will be reduced to in-fighting, and that any inside opposition will take care of itself. All they have to do is take over The Compound and take out Lotor and Zarkon. Then they'll install their own Champion Elect and governing body.”
“The civilians,” Lance groans, pushing himself up further as feeling comes back to his sore arm. “They’ve rallied. Last I saw, they were starting to make some progress breaching the siege.
Some of that tightness in Thace’s expression shifts. He opens his mouth to say something, but an explosion hits the side of the building they’re in, and they have to duck for cover. Lance curls tight into a ball against his pillar, shielded by the more seasoned warriors. The far wall crumbles in, stone tumbling over the floor in a cloud of dust. The tile beneath him cracks wide and bloodred, and Alfor gently shifts his weight closer, away from the severe damage.
"Don't want you falling down any holes," the aged warrior murmurs.
As the rubble settles, the sounds of battle reach Lance’s ears, swords and blaster fire, metal scraping against stone.
“We have to keep moving,” he mutters as his father stands. The older man groans, grunts in agreement.
“We’ll start in the throne room.” Thace picks up his sword. “That’s where Krolia was headed when comms were cut.”
“Lead the way.” Lance activates his bayard again, drawing the string of his bow; his injured arm protests, stiff and aching, but promises to hold out for now. Thace gives the weapon an appraising look.
“If we survive this, I want one of those.”
“If we survive this, you can have whatever the fuck you want,” Alfor promises, falling in behind the Galra and his son.
“Right.” Lance takes a deep breath, relaxes his drawing arm, squares his shoulders, and tries not to wonder if Keith and his sister are alive. “Let’s move!”
It took all of ten dobashes for Altea to fall apart, and it was dragging its ass getting back under control. Keith issued commands, Griffin in his ear, carrying out his every order. He was going to give this man a promotion if they lived long enough. The adjustment to his formerly shitty-ass attitude was quite refreshing.
To make up for it, the attitude of the Galra cult they were fighting with was just as shitty as ever. Whoever they were, they had an intimate understanding of where Altea was stationing its troops and how those troops were trained.
“I don’t like this,” Griffin mutters. “They know where we go and what we do by the time we do it.”
“I don’t like it either,” Keith mutters. He straightens up, folds his hands behind his back. He feels like he’s vibrating, anxiety, adrenaline, and a lingering bit of nausea turning him into a live wire. “Fortunately, we have a solution.”
“Your Majesty?” Iverson grumbles. “We’re having some issues keeping these shits off the ground.”
“Understood. Listen to me very carefully. They expect us to fight like Alteans. They’re equipped to fight Alteans. And I trained you to fight like Galra, with all your natural-born grace and skill. I trained you to kill anything that raises a blade against you. Your species is just as vicious as mine, but they are not prepared for what I have made of you. Iverson, I want you to fall in under Rizavi. She knows what she’s doing, and you’ll catch on quick if you stick close to her platoon. Griffin, stay in the air.”
“I don’t understand,” Iverson whines.
“They’re equipped and prepared to fight Alteans, so we’re going to implement some mixed tactics I've taught my batallion. Your number one rule: Do not show mercy. Assume it’s your life or theirs.”
Keith takes his hand off the button as Pidge crawls out of the ceiling vent. “I can’t get it. I need a DNA sample.”
“What?” Keith blinks.
“I need Alfor’s DNA.”
“How much?”
“Just a tiny bit.”
“Adam, your handkerchief.” Keith holds out an expectant hand, taking the handkerchief from his Attendant. He extends his claws, taking the corner of the handkerchief under each hook where Lance’s skin cells remain, and tosses it to the Olkari kit.
They wrinkle their nose, holding it gingerly. “Gross.”
“Let’s just hope Lance’s DNA is good enough.” Keith turns back to his map in time to see one of the little ships flicker and go dark. “If it’s not… We might just be screwed- Griffin how’s defense holding up? How’s it looking out there?”
“Not great,” the officer grunts. “But we’re holding our own. We need support on the eastern side of the castle-” The Castle of Lions shudders violently, Adam gripping Keith’s arm to keep him from falling to the floor. “Your Majesty, the eastern tower just fell.”
Keith’s shoulders drop, and he stumbles back into a chair. “W-What?”
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. We couldn’t stop them in time.” Griffin sounds only the tiniest bit sorry, considering he just informed everyone that the princes’ quarters are gone.
“Nevermind,” Keith chokes out, settling a hand on Kosmo’s head where the part-grown pup still hovers. Bleep Bloop is clinging to his leg. “It’s just things in there.”
It’s not at all just things: it’s every gift Lance ever gave him, every puzzle, every random object, every blanket. The crumpled circlet Rosie made for him at the Frost Ball. The cloak Shiro gave him the day they met. The amber Lance gifted him for his birth quintant… So many moments. The room where they decided to get along, spoke about their future, promised better for each other. The room where only this morning- His stomach twists with nausea, jolting him out of his daze.
“I need orders,” Griffin whispers, uncertainty bleeding through Keith’s earpiece. "Please?"
Keith licks his lips, stares at the map. Defending the castle might be a lost cause. It’s not wholly necessary. “Shift defense efforts to critical areas only. Aside from the areas where our civilian residents and workers are sheltered, and where our stores of rations and other supplies are held, nevermind about the castle. Your current objective is to exterminate the enemy force.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the officer swears. “We are at your command.”
Keith doesn’t respond, drags a hand up and down his face, letting it clamp over his mouth as his stomach rolls again. Adam settles a hand on his shoulder, the pressure grounding as Keith struggles to maintain what control he can.
It’s so much.
There’s so much-
An alarm flares on screen: CASTLE BREACHED
Getting to the throne room was a bitch, made more of a bitch both by running into rebels battling it out with Blade members, but also by the crumbling of The Compound. Lance is only a pace behind Thace, vaulting over fallen pillars and darting out of the way of falling rubble and shrapnel from the airborne battle above. Body still buzzing with quintessence, Lance can feel his father just behind him, sense his steps on the floor, feel the shift in space every time he twists to check behind them.
He knows they’re protecting him, defending the next royal generation. It's distinctly disquieting, but there’s not much he can do about it, no right way to feel. All he feels is sick and afraid, and neither of those will help him save the people he loves.
When they do finally reach the throne room, bruised and worn, they find a scattering of rebel corpses and Zarkon’s body, prone in a pool of blood, his own Luxite sword buried in his back.
“Fuck!” Lance hisses, panting, leaning against the wall. The blood is bright red in color, a light coating of dust settled on its surface, pooling on top of the clay stone as old as the Empire itself. Something in Lance’ heart sinks like a rock.
“Oh, quiznak,” Alfor murmurs. “What have we wrought?”
Lance groans, gloved hand running over the top of his helmet as Thace seals the doors closed. “What now?”
“We find Lotor,” Thace says, and Lance doesn’t wonder where the indifference in his tone comes from. Thace, a man raised to breed himself until he had nothing left, who has carried multiple children, future fodder for the empire, negotiated a more agreeable term of mandatory service, whose mate is somewhere in this compound, possibly dead, because of milophoebs of mismanaged interplanetary relationships.
His gaze slides to the Emperor’s corpse, the shell of a man who sold his son and bargained away his child nephew, the man who said Lance owed him blood restitution, the man who would see Lance’s unborn child as an asset, something to be used…
And he feels nothing. Except maybe a hint of justice, sharp, icy teeth around his heart.
“Son?” Alfor murmurs.
“Let his people deal with him,” Lance says, voice low, chilled in his throat.
“Lance…”
“Don’t ask me to feel anything, Papa. It’s asking too much.”
His father doesn’t respond, inspects the body for clues or whatever.
Lance paces, tries to figure out what to do next, when a familiar silhouette catches his eye, and he darts over to it. Krolia drags him into an alcove, pins and needles shooting up and down his injured arm, her amethyst eyes cutting to where Alfor and Thace are examining Zarkon’s body, wasting time.
“Where. Is. My. Son?”
“On Altea, coordinating defense. What happened?”
Krolia bows her head. “I failed in my duty.”
“I’m sorry,” Lance whispers, and he means it. For Krolia. Not for Zarkon.
“We need to focus on finding the prince and princess.”
“There’s another thing, too.” Lance explains Honerva and the possible technology she’s created. Krolia’s eyebrows furrow further and further until they’re practically joined in the middle. It’s breathtaking how much of Keith is in her face.
“We need to move. Now,” the woman growls, seizing Lance's interface gauntlet and typing some stuff in. “I’ll lead you to her laboratory, and then head toward Lotor and Allura’s rooms. Get those two idiots and let’s go!”
“Papa! Thace! Leave him and let’s go!”
“Son-” Alfor’s face is understanding, but hesitant. He looks tired. So tired.
“Let’s go!” Lance turns back to Krolia, who takes off running, and Lance follows close behind, bayard still in his hand, not checking to see if Thace and Alfor are following behind. He can feel that they are, sense their bodies moving ever just behind him.
Krolia leads them down a series of halls, stairs, and even ramps so steep that Lance can just lean and slide, an arrow pulled back to his cheek. He can see the fletching poking through the damage in his visor.
Down here, the only light is that of their suits, blue and violet glowing dimly in the dark, reflecting off the red stone. It’s so deep and so ancient that the entryways into the tunnels are open. At one point, a handful of rebels leap out of them, three on either side, but unfortunately, these are not former Blade members, and the quartet make quick work of them, even if one manages to graze Thace’s side. He brushes off the alchemists’ offers.
“It’s only skin deep. Don’t waste your energy. We may need it yet.”
The temperature reading on Lance’s visor drops steadily, the air chilly and humid. Tubes and wires are threaded through the stone like veins, vibrating, humming, buzzing as they interact with Lance’s quintessence. Water begins to drip from the ceiling as the warren shifts into the beginning a cave system. A new warning flashes in his view:
FOREIGN CONTAMINATION: AIRBORN
LEAST CONCERN
Must be spores, Lance thinks, as a mushroom nearby erupts into a gray cloud as they pass. He thinks little of it; he’s spent phoebs here on Diabazaal with no problems except the minor nutritional deficit. He’ll be fine. All along the walls, underfoot, slick patches of mold and clumps of fungus cling to beaten stone. Mosses and lichens grow along the edges of the tunnel, hang like streamers from the ceiling. They bioluminesce in the dark- fluffy clumps, thin layers of sludge, caps and hoods, some with their gills dropping down in a lace-like structure.
Lance nearly stumbles as they’re abruptly spat out into a cavern, Honvera leaning over a dish containing a no-doubt very contaminated sample of something or other. Lance jerks his head back and Krolia leaves, hesitating a moment before making the trip back up the mountain. She must know an easier way back up, because she slithers into a side corridor just behind them.
"Honerva," Alfor barks. "What are you doing?"
"What you never had the guts for," the woman hisses, silver hair hanging limp and dead around her face as she pours something into the dish with gloved hands. Something falls from her face, and Lance wonders that it might be a tear. Then a few more fall, and that sick feeling in his gut rises into his chest, icy cold.
"I'm afraid, my friend, that you'll have to be more specific."
Lance licks his lips, shifting his weight from foot to foot as his father brushes past him. Honerva turns to meet him, two stares, sharp as flint, striking against one another, grating along jagged edges.
"I will do for my child what you would never do for yours. What your guileless seed would not sow in us," the woman grits. “Exactly as I was promised.”
Well that's kind of rude.
“Promised by whom, my dear-”
"My son will not choose between his mother or father race. He is anointed. Revered by the people. When our societies have been dismantled I will give him the scraps and he will rebuild."
So turns out, Honerva is just as damaged as Romelle is, with her prophesying and nonsense, though only just as dangerous. Go figure. Lance almost wants to laugh and wishes he had time to cry at how fucked it all is, how much of a mess he’s inherited. How little these royals understand their children’s motivations or struggles.
"Honerva, that's not how it works." Alfor seems to agree with his sentiments. "That's not how any of this works."
"That bitch you gave him has sullied what he is!" Honerva's voice grates like slate stone. She's doing something now, staring almost unseeing at a panel on the wall, fingers needling at the keypad. Pipes beneath her feet begin to glow. "My son will live forever, something pure, better than us."
"And how do you plan to do that?" Alfor murmurs, voice quiet and deep, an edge of command in it that Lance has rarely if ever heard before. For the first time, he looks at his father and sees a fragment of true nobility.
“I will salvage what is left, what you have failed to destroy. Your disgraceful son and my wretched nephew- Zarkon, swot that he was, just insisted on letting it live- None of you fools understand what it means. Decomposition. Recomposition. Life and death at the tips of your fingers. And now…
"I have seen what you will never know, through the eyes of a prophetess, through the boiling of my own blood as I beheld the universe in a single point of space."
Lance meets Thace's gaze out of the corner of his eye and the Galra's widen slightly in a 'this witch is unhinged and we should be running' look. But as Lance's anxiety starts to rise, he sees Alfor's entire body suddenly and completely relax.
"Ah. Forgive my intrusion. I did not understand." Veins of icy quintessence spread backward from the king's feet, sinking into the ground, mapping out a web of wires and tubes beneath their feet. Honerva sways where she stands, still fiddling with her panel. Quintessence begins to vibrate in the air all around them, spores shimmering like a galaxy of stars. Lance inhales sharply, and knows before she speaks:
"It is here, in the walls, in the ground, above you, below you, my blessed son, my own flesh, in the breaths of the animals. It is here, and it is ready!"
Honvera places her palm against the cavern wall; the ceiling above them begins to crumble inward in a shower of dust and pebbles; Alfor's hand is on his sword; the ground is alive from washed-out, sickly quintessence; Lance spies a great, important-looking knot of wires right beneath his feet.
The entire mountain shudders, and Lance's quintessence finds his father's, instantly met with a vast, unyielding determination and something dim and dark tucked just out of his reach. His body is sticky with sweat in his armor, chest drawing in ragged heaves of air, some sense of foreboding infecting his blood. Some panic, some instinctive, bloodred fear breeds in his veins like a virus. Violet light flares in his eyes, almost blinding, all but drowning out that unnatural icy-blue quintessence his father has sewn into the floor. He’s not sure if it’s the wires above him, or if it’s his own body as everything he is, was, and could be catches fire all at once in a wash of purple the same color as his beloved's eyes.
There's no time to dwell on it, even as something slithers in his conscience, a sickening sort of readiness his father’s soul wraps around his heart. Instead, he transforms his Bayard into a broadsword, and in a great, swooping arc with all the strength he possesses, quintessence singeing his nerves, blood pounding in his ears, he plunges it deep into that wire heart, severing copper and polymer like tendon and sinew. He throws the entire weight of his body upon the handle, driving it as deep into the stone as he possibly can until the air screams, and it feels like Lance’s body is being dissolved in acid; his very cells are boiling; his lungs are stuck halfway between one breath and the next-
Love After the Fact Chapter 82: As The Land Relinquished Her Ghost
Lance touches down on Daibazaal, and Iverson touches a nerve.
I'm not saying the title can lead you to foreshadowing but...
First Previous Next
When the ship lands on Daibazaal, Lance is first out of the craft. He can tell immediately where his loyalties should lie. The civilians are in chaos, frightened, running. He can hear children crying, wolves howling, elk shrieking. He can see that some of the citizens have weapons, but there are people in unfamiliar armor running around too.
“Okay.” Lance leans over the back of his father’s chair to get a better view. “Ally with the civilians, get inside the compound, rescue Allura, Lotor and possibly Zarkon and Honerva if they’re not the ones screwing us over and if we feel like it, destroy Honerva’s new toy, and get this shit under control. Sounds so easy, doesn’t it?”
A shot from a craft blows up a den in front of them, sending a family fleeing from their cellar.
“This is a damned mess,” Alfor grumbles.
“Agreed. Let’s see what we can do. The guys in armor are the enemy. Kill them.” Lance’s bayard morphs into a bow, an arrow already knocked and ready to go. He always preferred bows to firearms. It feels more controlled. More deliberate.
His actions are always his own.
“I’ll follow your lead, son.”
Lance takes off, trusting his father to follow, bow pointed at the ground. Ahead, he sees a dark-armored figure bearing down on a civilian, and fires his weapon. The arrow goes right through the enemy’s skull, diminishing in a ray of light. A new arrow is immediately knocked.
“Are you alright?” Lance asks, helping the civilian to their feet. He blinks, recognizing them as the Galra whose wolf died in their arms, the wolf Lance couldn’t save.
“I am fine. They are trying to get into the compound. We are making it difficult.”
“Good! We are here to help you!” Lance grins, wild and roguish. “My father will follow my orders; you needn’t worry about him.” The grin turns downward. “Is there any word of my sister? Prince Champion Elect Lotor?”
The hunter blinks at him, shakes their head. “None so far. Maybe someone closer to the Compound could tell you.”
Lance nods. “Find your companions, start sending people toward me. I will rally people in the square. We need to organize as best we can. The Blades are in the Compound, and they will help us.”
“How can you be certain?” the hunter asks.
“Because their leader is my mate’s littermate, and the Advisor is his mother. They know what will happen if they fail.”
The hunter nods, runs off to gather their companions. It occurs to Lance that he never bothered to learn their name. A thought for later if later comes.
“Right. Follow me!” Lance pulls his father in the direction of the square. All of the screens are down, more fighting here than on the side alley where they started. Lance shoots a few more rebels, beheads one of them with his sword. He has his father at his back, his voice in his ear.
Thank the Ancients he let Keith teach him how to fight because he would have died six times by now without it. He gets his shield up just in time to block a shot to the face from a ranged fighter across the square. Seven.
Keith. Keith and his child. Their child. Lance, Keith, and their unborn child.
The hunter wasn’t lying about making it difficult for the rebels. The few scattered teams of civilians were the closest to organization Lance had seen so far, and they were mostly holding their own.
All he can think of as he tries to find a way to sort through the chaos is that Keith could do better. This was Keith’s thing. Lance handles policy, Keith kicks all the asses-
Except when has Keith really gotten to do that? Here and there over the last decaphoeb? And obviously Lance knew that was a problem and has been ignoring it the whole time but he has a feeling that’s been munching on everyone’s asses this whole time-
“Everyone with a ranged weapon, take high ground or flanking cover! Long weapons to the front! Then swords and maces! People with small blades, do what you do best!” Lance points toward the compound. “We’re getting up there, and we’re going to rip them apart!”
-Where in the fuck had that come from? Glancing at his father for some approval, Alfor doesn’t look surprised by him at all as he helps the Galra fight their way into a formation. He does, however, send small weapon experts running to retrieve their scattered comrades. Lance nods whenever he catches someone looking at him for consent.
It’s a surreal thing, being looked to above, before, and after his father, but it also feels… natural. It feels like Lance has been given the room to grow for the first time, and he actually can fill the enormous space left for him.
Left for the heir of an empire.
Alfor himself is only somewhat surprised as his beautiful son in gilded armor takes charge of the situation with grace and tact, poised to support the citizens in their quest. The Galra only seem somewhat hesitant to follow him, probably more suspicious of Alfor than anything else.
His boy plants himself in the middle of the chaos, scaling one of the dens for a vantage point, down on one knee, bent low, bow angled sideways. Someone fires a shot at him, and he ducks, fires back.
The brief glint of satisfaction, a spark of vicious glee, then a downward twist of the boy's mouth, and quite suddenly all Alfor can think is that he himself does not belong. He is out of line, has no right to be here. Lance does have that right, has worked to build a place for himself among the people who live here, hates to be here, raising arms against his husband's race.
His unborn child's race.
As more Galra gather in the square and they begin to press forward toward the Imperial Compound, Lance keeps himself centered, communicating with those around him as best he can. And Alfor watches. And he kills.
And as awful as it is, he holds onto this moment: his second child, the most beautiful one, the bravest one, his final gift from his dearest friend, his pride, his joy-
The greatest thing he ever did becomes what Alfor never could.
After saying goodbye to Lance, Keith ran straight back to the situation room, trying to figure out how to stem the flow of Galran rebel battleships heading toward their planet. He's still there now, trying to get a handle on the situation while the floor shakes beneath his feet. The adrenaline pumping through his system is all that's keeping him from crumbling into a nauseous, exhausted, sobbing mess.
“Send in the drones. Form a blockade so we can keep the Galran force away from civilian areas,” Keith orders, eyes narrowed in concentration. Adam has a map up for him as he continues getting organized in the square. He’s keeping the majority of their men on standby. He’s keeping himself out of the way.
His subordinate team stares at him skeptically.
“I don’t expect our drones to handle the entire force coming at us, so we need to funnel them into the courtyard. Drive them down, and into a narrow path. There, our ships and grounded troops will be prepared to meet them. Once they realize what we’re doing, it’ll only be a matter of time before they start breaking through the blockade, but it’ll give us time until our reinforcements from Arus arrive. We just have to hold our own until then.”
“How long will that be?” Griffin asks, following the drones’ progress on their screens.
“Six vargas.” Keith grimaces. “We might be cutting it close. Ideally, the Blade of Marmora will send reinforcements first, but I don’t know if they can spare them. Communications with Daibazaal have been dark since initial correspondence. We should not expect assistance. Communication with Arus just collapsed.”
“This is quiznaking shit!” Iverson pounds his fist on the table, making the maps flicker. “The only reason you are here at all-” He jabs a helpful finger at Keith. “-is so this wouldn’t happen. And now look! You’ve brought us nothing but war!”
“Yeah and a laundry list of new, helpful policy, but fuck that shit, right?” Keith glares, ears pinned back, teeth bared. He presses a button on the console to send another flight of drones to flank left. When Iverson draws another breath, and the situation room shudders at the same time, Keith’s reserve snaps a little. “One more word out of your mouth and I’ll have you jailed until this is over. I am not in the mood.”
“Your Majesty-,” Adam murmurs.
“The next person who opens their mouth and wastes my time with something useless, offensive, or otherwise asinine will get their ass beat by yours truly. Understood?”
Everyone stares, unaccustomed to Keith’s temper, but Keith doesn’t particularly care. They’re in the beginning of battle, he’s out of patience, and if it weren’t for the adrenaline downing out his hormones, he'd be strangling Iverson with his own bare hands.
Instead of strangling Iverson, he tries once again to reach their contacts on Daibazaal. When he can’t reach anyone, not even Lance, he has to take a moment to compose himself. “It would seem the comms are out of commission. We’re on our own.”
“Can we reach Coran on Arus yet?” Adam asks.
Keith tries the code. Nothing. He narrows his eyes. “Our comms are the ones down. I need a technician to-”
“On it!” Pidge scurries into the room. “Also, we already have contingencies in place you should be looking at.”
“There’s literally nothing in here,” Griffin argues, gesturing to the bare bones files on screen. “This is all we’ve got.”
“Yeah, here . But Alfor has a secret war room, which is exactly where Keith should be.”
“The one attached to his alchemy chamber across the courtyard where the majority of the on-ground violence is taking place?” Adam deadpans.
“...Right. That could be a problem.”
“We’ve got lots of problems.” Keith draws his knife.
“True, but you dying is kind of a big one.” Griffin frowns. “It’s getting ugly down there. We could act as an entourage, but it also might be better if you go alone. You’re small, and fast. If you’re up for it, you could probably dart through all on your own.”
"That's out of the question." Adam adjusts his glasses. "His Majesty is-"
"Capable of making his own decisions," Keith states. He stares at the maps. Crossing the courtyard under any circumstances is unwise, and probably goes under the "unnecessary risks" column of decisions he could make. Probably near the top, actually.
He can't reach anyone, doesn't know when or if he'll be able to. He shouldn't leave this room…
"Pidge, how many projects do you think you can handle at once?"
"Multiple. Why?"
"Can you transfer Alfor's database here while you patch the comms?"
"Hm. It’s actually an isolated storage unit, but I can crawl through the vents and get it for you. Not sure about the comms. Comms are trickier because I can fix ours, but I can't fix theirs if theirs are also down. It's kind of a crap shoot, honestly."
"Right. Bring me the data first, then-" The room shudders around them. A crack appears in the floor. Keith takes a deep breath. "If you can, and if it's not more risk than it's worth for you, see if you can't patch my personal comms through to anyone on our approved contacts list for Daibazaal, and then to Coran on Altea."
"I'm on it!" The Olkari kit promises, latching onto the wall with their grippy fingers and bare toes.
"Hey." Keith waits for them to meet his gaze. "Be careful. I'd rather have you than have comms. I can do without."
The little kit nods, their feelers reaching toward him curiously, but already out of reach from their spot on the wall. "I'll be careful… You be careful too."
Keith nods, turns back to the table without a word. "Iverson, I want you in the courtyard. Assess the situation and act accordingly. At this time, I see no point in practicing restraint. These Galra fly no colors I know of, and their symbols are of an unfamiliar design, though problematic in origin.” He brings up an image from one of the droids. “‘The Fire of Purification’. No historical context, but it’s pretty lame and presumably inconvenient all on its own.”
“Yeah, it does sound a little on the nose,” Griffin mutters. “I think we can assume they’re here to exterminate, not conquer.”
“Agreed.” Keith straightens up. “But we’re not going to allow that to happen. Griffin, I need you out in front of this. Keep Iverson in line, and lead your battalion as you see fit. You have jurisdiction over them and Iverson knows it. Adam will remain here, with me.”
“Shouldn’t you be fighting too?” Iverson asks. “You’re constantly bragging about how capable you are. Let’s see you put your sword where your mouth is.”
“I will remain here,” Keith grits. “This is where I need to be right now.”
“Yes, here, where you’re well protected and out of the line of fire.”
“Exactly.” Keith levels the commander with a piercing stare. “And so are you, despite my orders. Get moving. Now. ”
Iverson glowers on his way out, Griffin nods like he understands exactly what’s happening. Keith seriously doubts that he does.
“I am at your command, '' the young officer says.
Or maybe he does understand.
Lance grits his teeth, crouches behind his shield again. He wants to get to the Compound, to his sister and maybe Lotor. Unfortunately, the rebels really don’t want him making it into the castle. Constantly in the way, and despite however many villagers and hunters he manages to pull, Lance and his allies are struggling to push their enemies back or make any progress toward their goal.
“LANCEL!!!” Alfor’s voice screams in his ear just as a beam of light from above collides with the base of the den he’s perched on.
Lance goes flying as the building implodes beneath him, sending him into an adjacent den, thrown harshly up against the side. A blurb of text appears on his visor screen:
Suit Integrity: 89 Percent
“Uncle Lance?”
Lance groans, blinks past the text to see- “Mashan?”
The girl shrinks away from him, and Lance realizes she doesn’t know if he’s here to hurt her or not. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m trying to help.”
She eyes him carefully, retreating further into her den, where Lance knows her siblings are hiding. “Where’s Uncle Keith?”
“He’s on Altea, defending us. They’re attacking us, too.”
“But why isn’t he here?!”
Lance licks his lips. He needs to get these kits somewhere safe. “Keith is pregnant. He’s going to have a kit. It’s not safe for him to be here.” He forces himself to be patient, to meet the girl at her level. “Listen to me, okay? Do you have somewhere safe you guys can go? Is Raj here, the little one?”
Mashan wavers, nods. “Underneath.”
“Under- Hey, Papa. Underneath?”
Mashan eyes Alfor with terror as he comes up.
“Lancel, are you alright?”
“My armor’s a bit damaged, but I’m fine. Mashan, what do you mean, ‘Underneath’?”
“The cellar has a tunnel. We can’t lift the stone.”
“A tun-” Lance gasps. “Where! Show me where!”
“Lance, what-” Alfor yelps as Lance drags him into the den.
“There are warrens of tunnels all under the mountain, leading to and away from the Compound. This is our way in!” Lance turns back to his father, suddenly hesitating. “We can trust the citizens to keep fighting without us, but go send the message of where we’re going.”
Alfor nods, leaves. Lance turns back to Mashan, who points to a slab in the floor. “Go get your littermates. I’ll lift it.”
Mashan scurries deeper into the den, and Lance transforms his bayard into a sword, wedging the blade into the slot in the stone and prising it up out of the floor. It’s way heavier than Keith’s, much bigger and thicker, and when he bends down to peer inside, feeling the vibrations of battle in his hands and knees, he sees the family’s stored goods piled against two walls, a very old ladder, and then darkness in two other directions. It’s a tunnel.
He drops down, peering into the darkness, spying carvings and glyphs in the old stone. At the patter of little feet, Lance looks up to see a little girl, a littermate in each hand and another holding onto her tail. Raj is strapped to her chest with a wide strip of cloth.
“Okay, kittens, listen to me. I’m going to help you down one at a time. You first Forenz.” Lance holds out his arms, and the young triplet leaps down into them. Lance catches them easily, ruffling their hair as he sets them down. They immediately huddle against Lance’s leg, chirping nervously. “I know, kitten, I know.”
He catches Bimesa next, and then Lorna, all of whom keep close to him.
“Your turn, Mashan.” The kit hesitates, holding her newborn littermate close to her chest. She’s so little, so visibly afraid. “Be brave for me, kitten. I’ve got you.” She shakes her head. Lance licks his lips. He can see the kit trembling.
“Mashan?” The kit's huge garnet eyes find his. “You’re the big sister. You have to watch over your littermates. I need you to, because I have to go into the Compound, find your dads, find the prince and princess, stop a big scary weapon from being used, and hurt some people before they hurt us. And I have to get you guys away from here.
“Please, kitten? Please can you come down?”
Shaking, one hand still on the newborn tied to her chest, Mashan kneels, lets her legs dangle over the edge of the hole.
“That’s my brave girl.” Lance presses the button on the side of his helmet, opening his visor so he’s not so scary. He holds out his arms. “Come here, kitten, I’ve got you.”
With a terrified squeak, Mashan leaps, and Lance catches her, scooping her out of the air and catching her bridal-style so Raj won’t get hurt. He spins her out of it, sets her down on her feet.
“Now.” Lance turns her to face him, taking a knee as the triplets surround their older sister. “The tunnel behind you goes down, and I want you to follow it until you reach the foothills. From there, stay hidden, and stay safe, understand?”
The kits nod. He turns his eyes to Mashan. “You be brave for us, okay? Promise?” He smiles, pushes Mashan’s bangs out of her forehead. “I know you can do this, sweet girl. I know it.”
Mashan takes a deep breath, whispers, “Okay.”
“Okay.” Lance turns her around, hands gentle on her shoulders. “Now, you’re going to go this way. Feel the floor beneath your feet and don’t stop until it starts to level out. Find an opening, and hide in the fields. Understand?”
“How will I get the hole open?”
“Ladders.” Lance takes her hand, points to an old ladder against the walls of the tunnel. “See how old it is? It’s been down here a long time. I bet there’s one by every exit.”
“Find the ladder. Open the hole, hide in the fields,” Mashan whispers.
“Yes! Good girl! You go find a safe place to hide; I’m going to go find your dads.” Lance removes one of his gauntlets, passing it to Forenz. He shows the kit how to activate the flashlight. Mashan gathers up her siblings, passing a waterskin to Lorna and a bag of food to Bimesa. Lance waves as they scurry off into the dark. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. Ancients help them.
Alfor drops down as soon as they’re gone. “You spent a lot of time on that.”
“I know. I hope it was worth it.” Lance sighs, pulling his father in the direction of the Compound. “Rushing her would have only made her more scared. I won’t be responsible for their deaths if I can help it.”
“You know them.”
“Yes. I know a lot of people here.” Lance stares deep into the tunnel, at the carvings at an intersection up ahead. “If you can read Galran, good. If not, don’t fall behind.”
“Don’t fall behind. Got it.”
Lance takes off at a sustainable run, his father on his heels. Every tick they’re here is borrowed, and the Ancients always collect what they are due.
Love After the Fact Chapter 81: On the Very First Quintant
A trip back to the beginning.
Sorry for the long break! I promise I haven't left! <3<3<3
First Previous Next
*One Decaphoeb Ago*
The moment the ship lands in the courtyard, Keith and Shiro are accosted by an entire platoon of guards. Shiro stands tall, and Keith can feel the way he braces for a fight. He shrinks behind his littermate, fails to swallow a nervous chirp.
It's bright, every corner well-lit. Nowhere to hide, nowhere to go, and the artificial lighting makes his eyes ache. It is warm, however, the sun blazing overheat, bouncing off the white stone beneath his feet.
“Hand over your weapons.”
Keith ignores that, focusing on blinking the light from his eyes. His blade is hidden at his back, under his shirt. Shiro hands his sword over without protest; he doesn’t really need it. The Altean leading the platoon turns to Keith.
“Yours, too.”
“I don’t have any.”
“You do. We already know.”
Keith watches gloved hands reach for sheathed weapons, realizes he doesn’t have a choice.
“When will I get it back?”
“Undetermined.”
“Will- Will you destroy it?”
“Undetermined.”
Gulping, Keith pulls his mother’s blade from under his shirt, hands it over with shaking fingers. The lead Altean snatches it away.
“Please be careful. It- It’s all I have-”
Another Altean, dressed not in armor, but in finery comes forward with a swing of his hips and an inscrutable expression, poking at the datapad in the crook of his arm. All Keith registers as he ducks back behind behind Shiro’s enormous frame is bright green scales glittering with gold iridescence and a pair of hazel eyes sharp as razors.
“Welcome, Lord Yorak,” he says, looking up at Shiro. The passive expression falters briefly, and Keith doesn’t blame him. If Shiro had looked at him so coldly… Yikes.
“I am not Lord Yorak,” Shiro growls.
“I-” The facade falters. “I beg your pardon?”
A deep breath, and Keith steps out from behind his tower of a brother.
“I am.”
Silence in the square, and Keith faces his first ever Altean that wasn’t Allura or Honerva. He’s not warm and burning like Allura, or cold and unreachable like Honerva. He’s looking Keith up and down, and there’s something like alarm, or perhaps even fury flashing in his eyes as he calculates his quarry. All the while, his face is cool, every pore carefully arranged.
It's unsettling.
“Forgive me, My Lord.” When Keith doesn’t respond, the man goes on to say, “I am Adam, Attendant to Crown Prince Lancel of Altea. The Crown Prince has tasked me with escorting you around the castle. If you would accompany me, we will begin in the medical ward, where you and your companion will be screened for various parasites and diseases, and receive a number of vaccinations. From there you will be escorted to the Seamsmaster, where you will put on your wedding clothes, and any needed alterations will be made. After that, all you have to do is wait.”
The Attendant hesitates. “Do you have any questions?”
Keith stares at the Altean, shakes his head. He has too many questions and none all at once.
“Very well.” Adam turns to the platoon behind him. “You may go.”
“Sir, these G-”
“Piss off, please and thank you.”
Keith almost smiles at that. The attendant meets every sulky glare as the soldiers leave, waving a casual goodbye as they disappear into the castle. Once they’re gone, Adam turns back to Keith and Shiro, very carefully avoiding Shiro’s gaze.
“Follow me.”
And they do, working their way down into depths of the castle, beneath the ground. Adam is typing furiously away at his datapad, muttering something under his breath in Altean.
“-increase security around the eastern tower.”
Keith’s not sure what that’s about, given that he’s nowhere near the eastern tower, or any tower, as they finally reach the medical ward. There, he finds another Altean with very dark skin and hair, eyes warm and brown. His scales are a very pale blue, almost white, with a yellow sheen to them.
“Ah, welcome, honored guests. Please, sit!” The Altean medic -presumably- gesture to a pair of chairs. “Now-”
“Tavo, a word.”
Adam pulls the Altean to the side, whispers urgently. Keith strains to hear and comprehend the hushed words.
“-not appropriate.”
“I know, but I am not comfortable with this.”
“Neither am I. but it is my job…” Tavo sighs. “I will do what I can, and determine whether a full exam is necessary. If it is necessary, I will have to proceed.”
“I understand.”
The two return. Tavo turns to Shiro. “Since you are not here for long, I am not concerned with your physical health. But I am concerned about the transfer of diseases between our planets. You will receive testing and several vaccines.”
“If I may, how is the testing conducted?” Shiro’s apprehensive.
“Bloods. Also a nasal swab.” Tavo smiles. “No fecals, this quintant. Though you may wish it, after the nasal.” The medic turns to Keith. “I will be running a physical on you. Typically, we have you strip naked and enter a chamber that analyzes your health and well-being.”
Oh, fuck no. Keith braces for a fight.
“However, I am going to see what I can do without so much invasion of your privacy.” Tavo’s smile goes just a little bit sad. “We’ll start with bloods and swabs, then vaccinations, and if you test positive for anything, treatment.”
And they do, sticking a swab so far up Keith’s nose he almost thinks it’ll get broken -that sucked- and then taking multiple vials of his blood. Shiro only gives one.
“Why do you need so much from me?” he asks, daring to speak.
“We need to run more tests on you,” Tavo explains, patient and kind. “You’re going to be here a fair bit longer than your friend, so I need to test you for more conditions. It will also serve to help check your health.”
Keith says nothing. He’s not about to offer this man anything he doesn’t find for himself.
“Right! Onto your vaccinations!” Tavo smiles. Adam hovers, eyes dark in the corner, an aura around him that makes Keith quite nervous. Like if murder was a temperature. “Now, you received some on Daibazaal three movements ago, yes?”
Keith doesn’t respond. Shiro nods.
"Excellent. These are booster vaccines, which will work as a short term extra-strength preventative of sorts. Lord Yorak, your cocktail will be slightly different, and will also enhance your immunity long-term."
Fun.
Shiro deactivates his currias and Keith removes his shirt so Tavo can stick them with a variety of syringes. It's painful, and some have the consistency of glue, but eventually they're both thoroughly inoculated. Keith can't imagine catching so much as a sniffle after some much vaccinating.
"Now, if your friend here would kindly leave-"
"Out of the question," Shiro growls.
"Please, sir. I will not do a physical examination except in absolute privacy."
"No fucking way-"
"Shiro it's fine." Keith sighs. "He has to do his job. Let's just get it over with." He levels the Altean medic with a hard stare. "After all, this man would not dare to damage me."
On the other side of the room, lurking in the shadows, Keith spies a green glimmer from Adam, the Crown Prince's pet. The Altean is staring at him, a keen glint in his eyes. When Shiro leaves, he makes no move to follow, remaining exactly where he is. Tavo makes no effort to remove him.
"Now." The Altean gestures to a platform in one corner of the room, a chair standing alone upon it. "Sit there for me, please."
Tavo slides his finger back across the top of his datapad, and the lights dim. Keith sighs in relief.
"Right, so an arm is going to come down from the ceiling and rotate your body a few times, to provide and internal scan of your body. I'm hoping that this, along with more comprehensive bloods, will work in lieu of having you undress and get in a pod."
Keith doesn't respond, shaking a little as he climbs into the chair. He's had many scans in his short time in civilization, but this feels like a violation. An invasion. He wants his privacy; he’ll never have that again. The medic manually reclines the chair back for him, the lack of warning making him jump, let out a started chirp.
“It’s all right. This won’t hurt. Just stay very still.” Tavo fiddles with his datapad, and a mechanical arm descends from the ceiling, making Keith jump again. It whirs as it circles his body, white metal, blue light flaring in his eyes. He does his best not to breathe, but the anxiety is getting to him, breaths coming quick and ragged.
“Steady now. We’re almost done.”
A few more rotations, and the arm returns into the ceiling. Keith forces himself to relax, stares expectantly at the Altean. The medic frowns, brows furrowed as he gazes down at his tablet.
“Lord, Yorak, how old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“You are… quite small. I would venture so far as to say your development is delayed and in some ways abnormal.”
“I know.”
“Hm.” Tavo continues perusing his datapad. “Well, aside from that, you are healthy, according to the scans and bloods. I think we can risk not doing a full health examination today.” Tavo glances behind him, to where Adam still lurks. “If you’ll excuse me.”
And he’s gone, just like that. Keith sighs, flops back in the chair, waits to be shuttled off to the next point on someone’s checklist. Instead, Adam pulls up a chair.
“Do you have any questions, before we go to your fitting?” His voice is cool, quiet in the large, echoing room.
Keith says nothing, stares at some small point in the distance.
“Think carefully. You likely won’t get another chance.” Adam waits for Keith to speak. When he doesn’t, the Altean continues. “Alright.”
And they sit there in silence for a while, Keith staring at his hands in his lap, Adam watching him. After a long moment, the Altean turns to his own datapad, scrolling through some document or another.
“What are you doing?” Keith eventually asks, eyes narrowed into slits.
“Giving you a break. All we have after this is your fitting and a wedding. Everyone is waiting for you.” Adam tilts his datapad to stand up straight on his fingertips. Letting his hand fall, the device hovers in front of him, and he begins typing furiously. There’s that expression again: the one that’s passive and unmoving, the one Keith doesn’t quite believe but also doesn’t know what might hide beneath.
The young Galra takes in a huge breath into the stifling silence, hates how much in shudders in and out of his lungs, betraying the fear he’s trying to swallow, the fear that seems to be forming an increasing lump in the bottom of his throat, preventing his lungs from filling with air- There’s not enough room left in his chest.
Everyone is waiting for you. What an awful thought. Swallowing a chirp, Keith tips his head back, eyes closed.
“You are the son of Akira of House Diabazaal and Krolia of House Kogane.”
Keith’s eyes open. “Yes.”
Adam’s hazel eyes are unsettling, calculating, exacting. “Your father was considered a radical, excommunicated by the Emperor-”
“He defected,” Keith bites.
“Defected,” Adam echoes, watching him with something like interest. “... You and His Majesty will get along, I should think.”
I seriously doubt that.
“Well, we’d best get you to your fitting. The sooner this mess is over, the sooner His Majesty can enter the next phase of his plans.” Adam collapses his Datapad into a small, metal rod, gets to his feet. He offers a hand to Keith, which Keith glances at, then ignores, standing on his own.
All he gets is the edge of an appraising look before Adam leads him out of the room, passing Tavo on a chilly breeze, neither inviting nor rejecting Shiro’s choice to accompany them as he leads Keith on yet another walk through the many halls of the castle. Hall after hall, door after door. At one point, a pair of great double doors, beyond which Keith can hear the hum of voices, and briefly, on the other side of the hall, just a flicker of movement where he can see the beginnings of a corner, an oddly placed intersection. The figures, one heavy-set, one tiny running past, followed by-
A brown-skinned, white-haired boy dressed in nothing but a tight shirt and leggings, face made up and jewels in his ears. He’s laughing, lean frame poised, tips of his toes dancing over the blue, yellow, and white tiles. Cheerful, laughing, beautiful. Playing with his friends.
“Stop! Stop!” Crown Prince Lancel squeals, as a small creature starts leading him along by a chain hanging from one of his ears, teasing him about enjoying being on a leash. There’s something bright about him, something free, effortless. The larger person ruffles the prince’s hair, toppling the circlet and leaving him disheveled.
The prince laughs, and there’s a sharp shock of something bitter and dark, a hooked yank deep in Keith’s gut. It’s not envy exactly, or hatred, but it’s in that lane, some unknown hurt rising up against this oblivious, silly fiend. He’s suddenly hyperaware of how much this prince grew up with that he himself did not. Keith feels a certain ache twisting inside as he looks upon a monster -his monster, soon- for the first time and realizes that monsters are people too, with friends and personalities and possibly even their own secret monster dreams.
And he’s terrified.
Then, the prince is gone, out of sight with his friends, and Keith is left to scurry and catch up to Adam, Shiro at his heels.
Adam stops outside another door. “Your companion will wait outside. Come.”
Inside, there are curtains of fabric in all sorts of colors hanging from enormous spools high up on the walls and ceiling. Racks of thread in various weights and colors, some vibrant shades, some metallic stand like candelabras down the center of what might be a room or just a very wide, modified hallway. Sewing machines and looms up against the walls, vanities between, daises in front of each for a person to stand on for alterations.
From behind a sheet of sheer, aubergine fabric emerges another Altean with turquoise hair and scales, a chalk pen behind their ear, a two-fingered leather glove on their hand. As the Altean approaches, Keith realizes that it’s a thimble apparatus, to protect their fingers.
They look him up and down, frowning. “I’ll be honest, when I received your measurements, I thought they were having me on.”
“I’m afraid not.” Keith stuffs his hands in his pants pockets.
“Good thing I followed the measurements then.” And the Altean smiles. “I am Vetroneius, the greatest Seamsmaster Altea has ever seen. I have designed a wardrobe for you, including your wedding clothes.”
Keith sighs. “I suppose I should thank you.”
“Indeed.” Vetroneius takes him by the arm with a surprisingly gentle grip, leads him deeper into the forest of fabrics. “There’s a dressing room right through there.” They gesture to a small alcove. “Go ahead and get changed.”
Keith does as he’s told, taking the time to explore the fabrics, heavy with gold threads, red and black and white floral embroidery. The black shirt and pants are tight, his fur sent the wrong way as he drags the sleeves along his arms. Then there’s the brocade vest, with short tails in the front, long tails in the back, skin tight all the way to his hips. A gold belt. It takes him ages to do up the all the buttons, his nerves making his claws extend. Gods forbid he ruins this ridiculous outfit.
Looking in the mirror, braid drawn over his shoulder, all Keith can think is how out of place he looks, a scared Galra kit in Altean royal finery.
But today is not about him.
Vetroneius snatches him ticks later, drags him over to a dais to being making alterations, making the sleeves and pants a bit shorter and tighter at the ankles. They’re the one who shows him how to put the loops at the ends of his sleeves around his fingers so fabric covers the backs of his hands. The brocade adorning his sleeves from wrist to finger shimmers in the light with unfamiliar vegetation, and a small creature with a tail and four short legs on the right cuff catching his eye.
“Hey, what’s this thing?”
“Oh, it’s a salamander,” Vetroneuis explains. “A small, amphibious creature. Different varieties are found on different planets. Those found here are rare, and any species may have as few as two hundred specimens. They freeze over during winter, and then thaw in the spring, carrying on like nothing happened. Crown Prince Lancel requested it, saying that they were resilient and beautiful.”
Keith’s ears flutter, and he deliberately chooses not to think about it.
“And on this sleeve,” Vetroneius murmurs, "is the face of a lion, a creature only spoken of in legend, the only great predator Altea has ever known, extinct for tens of thousands of decaphoebs, still revered, immortalized by history and religion. Legend says they were loyal, honorable, unconquerable except by time. His Majesty the Crown Prince thought you might appreciate the personal touch.”
Keith stares at the beast on his left sleeve, the tiny outline stitched in such exquisite detail it looks like it might bite him.
“Why would he do that?”
“I imagine he thought you might like it.”
“Oh.” Frowning confused, Keith stares at the two tiny animals included in the fabric. Resilient. Beautiful. Loyal. Honorable… Unconquerable. He smiles for the first time since he arrived. “Hm.”
"Are you sure you wouldn't like something prettier at least?" Vetroneius asks, quickly rebraiding Keith's hair.
"My father always wore his hair this way," Keith whispers, staring at the scissors on the Seamsmaster's table. "Neither of my parents are here." When he lifts his gaze back to the mirror at the coaxing of Vetroneius's finger, the Altean's turquoise eyes meet his. They're surprisingly open, nervous, and even a little sad.
"A braid it is, then," the Altean murmurs, trying their best for a smile. Keith looks away, already drained, knowing the worst is still yet to come.
Which is when Vetroneius grabs him by the wrist and slips gloves onto his hands.
“Woah, hey wait a second!” Keith snatches his hand away. “What are you doing?!”
“These are part of the ceremony. You-”
“Absolutely fucking not! They already took my sword,” Keith snarls. “Who the fuck do you think you are, making me-”
“Now listen here,” Vetroneius hisses. “My job is to make sure you’re dressed appropriately for an Altean wedding, not to make you comfortable. This is an important part of the ceremony and you will wear them.”
Keith narrows his eyes, spite rising to the surface. He’s had e-fucking-nough, patience snapping like stale bread. He silently holds out his hands, lets the Altean put them on for him.
“There. See? It’s not so-”
Keith extends his claws, tearing through the fine fabric like it’s paper, holding eye contact with the Seamsmaster.
“I. Said. No. Gloves.” He removes the torn fabric. “And that’s why.”
“How could you just-” Vetroneius turns helplessly to Adam, who’s apparently been lurking behind another sheet of fabric. “He just-”
The Attendant smirks. "Nothing you can do about it now."
"But-!"
“We’ll make do,” Adam murmurs, eyeing the scraps of fabric the other Altean is cradling in his hands. He still looks amused. “It's not like you can fix them.”
Vetroneius draws himself up straight and tall, throws down the ruined gloves, storms out. Keith folds his arms, glares at the remaining Altean. "Seems I struck a nerve."
“They're very proud of their work." Adam rubs his forehead right where tension headaches form. "He’s gone to complain to the kings.”
“Hm. Sucks.”
“Indeed.” Adam sighs, picks up a gossamer sheet of sheer, black fabric, attaches it to two clasps on Keith’s shoulders. “But you are ready, like it or not. Come with me.”
Adam leads the boy from the room, through another series of hallways, to a great room with columns decorated with floral garlands and glittering fabrics. Shiro is leaning against one of the columns, the picture of cooperation, a subtle readiness in his posture. Adam pauses a very respectful distance from the large Galra.
“You two can wait here for a bit,” he murmurs. “I understand that it is not comfortable, but it is quiet, and you will remain undisturbed for a time.” The attendant hesitates, knowing he is already toeing a line. “His Majesty the Crown Prince is quite eager to meet you, Lord Yorak. He sends his kind regards.”
The small future prince’s violet eyes glare at him even as they shine with fear. Adam observes the kit with new regard: pinned ears, sharp teeth just slightly bared, fingers flexing with protracted claws, a tail tense and swishing over the floor. Frightened, but ferocious. Willing and able to fight his way out of here at a moment’s notice.
Adam cocks his head to the side, reconsiders his original, less-than-impressed opinion. He takes a deep breath, takes a tiny step over that line.
“You will be just fine.”
And he believes it.
*Present Quintant*
Adam stares, awaits his orders, watching a young Galra prince dressed armor lean over the table in the situation room, sending directions to Altea’s limited planetside military. The familiar ferocity is blazing in his eyes, the same as on his first day here. He stands strong and unyielding. Everything Adam knew he could be and more, finally coming into his own, and he couldn't be more pleased about it.
He feels proud.
“We must assume that no help is coming,” Keith declares, taking a box from a servant. Inside is an ornate comb, which he slides into his coiled hair along with a pin to hold it in place at the back of his head. His blade is not in the scabbard at his back, but hanging from a loop on his belt, fully in sword form. There’s a salamander and a lion engraved into the pommel, circling one another.
"Make sure the towers are evacuated, and that everyone within the grounds is either organized to fight, of concentrated in these sections of the castle. They are most stable." Keith highlights several hallways on a schematic. Keen, collected, confident in his abilities.
“Adam, arm yourself and return quickly. I want you by my side.” The prince does not look up from his work.
Adam bows, honored and willing. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
As two empires threaten to fall, Lance and Keith part ways
Hot Take: the paladin armor actually kinda sucks and my children deserve better
First Previous Next
Despite his insistence that Keith act like, well, like someone who is pregnant, Lance is not at all surprised when the Galra pulls a Marmoran suit of armor out of the bottom of his old chest from Daibazaal. He doesn’t even protest. He’ll take anything at this point.
“Listen to me.” Lance comes up behind him as he finishes dressing, gently draws the gold and amber comb from Keith’s hair, replacing it with a set of black pins. BleepBloop watches from the ladder to the loft. “Whatever happens next, I love you, and I love your people, too.”
“What happens if we must choose between your people and mine?”
Lance inhales sharply, gripping Keith’s shoulders tight. “Raze the current rule to the ground and start our own allied regime?”
Keith works up a smile. “Yes, let’s. You can rule by my side. I’ll allow it.”
Lance doesn't manage a smile, but his eyes soften for a moment, that warrior's gaze faltering in a surge of fondness.
Keith eyes their profile in the mirror, watches Lance’s hands travel down to his fingertips, up to his waist as he lays his scaled cheek on his shoulder. It’s the first time they’ve seen each other in armor, the first time their sharpest edges are in bold.
Lance’s armor is as fine as anything, white metal inlaid with his token deep, bright blue. A breastplate, greaves and boots, bracers, all made of metal plates. Instead of a plackart, cuisses, and other minor plates, Lance has scale and fine mail, and Keith notices that the pauldrons are made of many small, reinforced plates to allow more flexibility in the shoulders. More than suitable for someone with a mixed fighting style. And, of course, beneath all that is a flight suit, air tight and climate controlled the moment Lance’ helmet locks into place.
The contrast, the incongruity between them has never been more apparent, Keith’s dark, minimalist armor casting a shadow over his mate's starbright form. Lance is armed like a hero, and Keith looks like a thief in the night. He’s okay with that, happy to be underestimated. A small man with a knife and a secret skillset is far more dangerous than a big man with a large sword. The growing wolf at his side only adds to their disparity.
He is Lance’s thorn, his last resort.
“Your Majesties.” Adam steps into the room, face grim. “King Alfor has summoned you to the Situation Room.”
Keith nods, clasps Lance’s hand, laces their fingers together. He will have to let go far too soon for his liking. The Altean prince snatches up his helmet, rushing after Adam, wolf at their heels.
The situation room is dark, lit only by a large, round holotable and the pale blue accent lights on peoples' armor. There are screens hovering over the table, lit up with interfaces, statistics, and control panels. Alfor is waiting for them. All of the lines in his face are chasms, his eyes glowing a dim, pale blue. It strikes Keith suddenly how washed out Alfor’s quintessence is, how little person is in the man. He wonders who the king might have been, had he been allowed.
“Boys. I know you expect to be sent away, lives preserved. But I offer you the option to stay, and act as leaders in my stead. Of all the things I have prepared for, I am not prepared for this.”
“Neither are we,” Lance confesses. Keith grips his hand tighter, trying to regulate himself. He can’t afford to lose it now. “But I will stay, and do what I can.”
Silence, only for a moment, before Keith realizes that they’re waiting for him. “My place is here, with our peoples. It always has been.”
Alfor nods. “Tell us what you know.”
Keith’s eyes finally register other faces, Iverson, glaring at him. Griffin, surprisingly not glaring at him. “We received a message from my mother. She says that the Imperial Compound is under attack, and that rebel forces are heading for Altea.”
“You don’t seem very surprised.” Iverson’s tone is more than a little accusing. Some of the other high-ranking military members seem to share his disposition. Keith ignored them. He's used to the prejudice by now, and there are more pressing concerns.
“We’ve been aware of unrest on Daibazaal for some time. Weight discrepancies in shipping containers, people going missing, a sudden increase in deserters. Emperor Zarkon dismissed said deserters, saying that it was to be expected following the unwelcome alliance with Altea. It’s unclear if he knows anything about the shipping containers.”
“So the emperor’s allegiances are unclear?” Griffin asks.
“Yes,” Lance sighs. “As are Honerva’s.”
Pidge’s face appears on screen. “Hey, I have something to contribute to that. Not that I’ve been eavesdropping or anything.”
“What do you have for us, Pidge?” Alfor leans on the holotable, gaze severe.
“So remember how Lotor helped me hack into his medical records for reasons?”
“Yeeees?” Lance frowns, not sure he wants to have this conversation with everyone else in the room. But it’s hardly the time for tiptoeing. “Why? What did you find?”
“Turns out Honerva’s been experimenting on Lotor his entire life. See, as a result of his hybrid status -at least, that’s what I’m assuming- Lotor can only absorb quintessence, not redistribute it. It looks like Honerva was trying to artificially recreate that power. She keeps referencing this… thing. The Komar Experiment-”
“Oh, that’s not good,” Keith mutters. Under everyone’s gaze, Keith takes a steadying breath. He’s starting to feel queasy, like adrenaline or simply time has cut through the antinausea medication. He strokes Wolf's head with his free hand. “The word ‘Komar’ doesn’t directly translate into Common or Altean, but it means, ‘large breath that takes’. It um, it’s like the first breath a baby takes, or like after you break the surface of water after near drowning. It’s Galran folklore that-” He swallows saliva, skin feeling hot. “-that when someone takes a lifegiving breath, another life ends.”
Adam slips something into his palm: a small pill. He dry swallows quickly, in the wake of what he’s just suggested.
“Are you implying,” Iverson growls. “That Honerva experimented on her son in order to invent some device that absorbs quintessence?”
Alfor falls into a chair, eyes glassy. “Honerva is perhaps the greatest inventor I have ever known. Lotor is thirty-two years old. She’s had more than enough time if this is what she’s been up to.”
"Her notes are... specific. Lotor has been surprisingly unattached to his parents, despite his Galra blood," Pidge murmurs. "I would not be surprised if it's a result of the invasive procedures he was subjected to in infancy. Trauma he doesn't even remember. Honerva would put him in situations with the intention to cause distress in order to activate him limited alchemical abilities so she could study him. She would neglect, frighten, and even harm him in order to get the desired reaction."
“And that's horrible. Truly. But we don’t know that’s what she’s up to right now,” Lance cuts in. “What we do know, is that the Imperial Compound is under attack, meaning that these attackers staging a coup. If they succeed, they’ll come for us next. According to our sources, ships are already on their way here.”
“So we have a planet to defend, a coup to stop, a prince, princess, and consort to rescue, and possibly a horrifying weapon of unknown size to find and destroy. One that could, for all we know, be capable of draining our entire planet and others,” Griffin summarized. “How the quiznak do we do this?”
Silence. Keith takes in a deep, slightly-less-nauseous breath. “We split up. Lance will go to Daibazaal, rally the citizens, and take Daibazaal back from the rebels. I will stay here, and lead the defense.”
“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” Griffin mutters.
“No, he’s right. Lance will go to Daibazaal, and I will go with him. We will determine who is in the right, and join their side. He and I will rally the civilians, form a small team, and find a way to infiltrate the Compound.” Alfor gets to his feet. “Keith, rally your men. Defend this planet, and its people. But if we should fall, you are to escape by any means necessary. Do you understand?”
Keith can feel the eyes of everyone in the room, soldiers, analysts, Adam, Lance. Waiting for his answer, putting two and two together, realizing exactly what’s at stake.
“I understand. My life, by any means necessary.”
“I will stay with him, and watch his back,” Adam declares.
Keith nods, turns to Griffin. “The battalion will meet in the courtyard. They have three dobashes to form up.”
“They already are,” the aubergine-scaled Altean says, dark blue eyes hard. “We are ready, and await your orders.”
Keith nods. “Have someone ready a ship. We’re putting King Alfor and Crown Prince Lancel on the ground in Daibazaal, just outside the Compound. Lance, rally the people, follow their lead. Trust them to know which side to be on. They want peace, just as we do.”
“I know, beloved.” Lance squeezes his hand. Keith hadn’t realized he was still holding it. The Altean heaves in a great breath, forces a smile. “Will you come see me off?”
“Nothing short of death would stop me,” Keith promises.
The royals and their entourage sprint through the halls toward the courtyard where a small craft shaped like an arrowhead is already waiting. Alfor climbs right in, datapad in hand. Lance lets go of Keith’s hand, ready to board. He pulls Adam into a brief, strong hug. “Take care of yourself, and him.”
“Always, your Majesty.”
Keith notices a dangerous shine in the attendant’s eye, a kind of terror he himself is feeling. He says nothing, not even as he watches Adam’s body tremble. Adam is fearful, but ready. No matter what lies ahead.
Keith is not ready. He snatches at Lance’s arm, fingers pressing into the armor of his suit. Those blue and pink eyes he loves so much find his immediately, strangely open, ready to see anything and everything all at once.
Lance’s face is not without fear, body humming with quintessence, red and blue hovering over his form, shimmering in his eyes. The prince smiles, paper-thin. He removes his circlet, hands it to Keith. “I won’t need this where I’m going.”
Keith tosses the circlet aside, where it skitters over the ground. He pulls Lance to him, kisses him soundly, fingers in white hair, sliding over the scale at Lance’s waist. A single twist of their tongues, all they have time for, and he pulls away, noses touching.
“No matter what, I am so, so proud of you. I am proud to be your mate… Please-” He gulps. “Please come home to me, if you can.”
“Beloved…” Lance presses their foreheads together, brushes thumbs over Keith’s cheekbones. “Not even death could keep me away.”
Keith takes in one last deep breath, rubs his cheek into the gloved palm of Lance’s hand, a very subtle way of letting the other Galra know this man is his. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Lance pulls away, eyes not leaving Keith’s face for a long moment. Then he leans up, whispers in Keith’s ear, “You, and little one. With all my heart.”
And maybe Keith knows that’s not true, that if it came down to him or Atlea, Lance would choose Altea. But Keith would make him, agree with him, even though he knows it would break Lance to do it.
The prince puts on a crooked smile, kisses Keith’s cheek one last time before he puts on his helmet and turns away, following his father into the craft.
Keith watches as they lift off, just until they’re out of sight, before he turns to Griffin. “You’re going to follow my orders, and you’re going to like it, or you’re going to get the fuck out of my way, understood?”
Griffin nods, letting his visor drop down over his face. Iverson just sighs. “What’s our move then?”
“Order the civilians to go into lockdown. Any former or current soldiers who have a weapon should stand by in case of attack. Send a runner into the lowlands. Then we assign pilots to the MFE crafts. I want a squadron, broken into four flights of six. Initiate land defense and mobilize drones-”
A screeching flare of light, and a tower at the corner of the courtyard explodes.
“Brace yourselves.” Keith’s eyes find a pinprick in the swath of blue sky. He pulls his hood up, mask sliding down to cover his face, sealing his suit. “This will not be an easy fight.”
“We stand with you,” Adam murmurs, taking a polearm from a passing soldier. Each end is armed with a wicked, barbed glaive.
Keith draws his knife, feeling the blade shift in his hand. He doesn’t know who these people are -hopefully- but he will rip apart every last one of them.
Whatever it takes.
Lance stares out the front window, despairing at the sight before him. An armada of Galra ships, painted with strange symbols.
“Can you read that?” Alfor murmurs, clearly putting a lot of faith in their cloaking technology.
“It says, ‘The Fire of Purification’.”
“Oh, wonderful. We’re dealing with elitist thugs. My absolute favorite,” the king growls. Lance licks his lips, apprehensive. “Here, I want you to have this.”
Lance stares at the strange weapon his father is offering him. White, black, and his own special shade of blue, the weapon seems like two halves of a hand guard with a handle in between. “What is it?”
“I call it a bayard. It will shift into whatever you need it to, whenever you need it, and is absorbed and stored in your armor just like your shield.” Alfor inhales, holds his breath until they’ve slipped past the armada. “It will serve you well. You won’t waste time juggling weapons.”
A stretch of silence, and Alfor murmurs, "I wanted to wish you happy birthday earlier. I have an actual gift for you, if we ever get the chance."
Lance nods, drops his sword, bow and quiver, knowing he might never see any of them again. “Did you- Have you called Dad?”
“I sent him a message… He sends his love.”
“Just a message?” Lance asks. “That’s- That’s all you need? That’s all you’re giving him?”
The king takes a deep breath. “Your dad… He’s been prepared for anything for a very long time. Whatever happens this quintant, he is ready for it.”
Lance finds himself a bit envious of that, that his parents have had centaphoebs together to reconcile with what it means to be part of a colonialist empire. Of what it means to be a warring planet. Even if they’d started the day they met, he and Keith would not have been prepared. They haven't even been married haven't known each other a full decaphoeb.
Down on the ground, Lance can see fire, people running, rubble in the streets. Whoever the aggressor is, it’s clear that they are his enemy. He gives his bayard blade a good swing, flips the blade in his hand, only for it to morph into a bow in his hand, and arrow made of light already knocked.
“Father? Are you ready for this?”
“I’m about to go to Daibazaal to rescue them from an apparently elitist regime and possibly kill my only surviving friend. I am not at all ready for this.” The ship enters the atmosphere in a blaze of heat, effectively giving them away as they look for a place to land. “Are you ready?”
Lance gulps. “No. I know these people. I broke bread with these people. I defended them from a monster, I’ve watched their children, cooked them food. And now, I might be about to kill them.”
“And somewhere down there,” Alfor murmurs, searching for a place to land, “is a Galra thinking the same thing about their kin, and possibly about you.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“It wasn’t meant to.” Their craft begins losing altitude. “It doesn’t matter what happens next, son. We all lose today.”
That much, Lance thinks as the craft settles just outside of town, is very true.
Love After the Fact Chapter 79: The Glass Floor Beneath Our Feet
I am sorry.
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Fingertips trail over skin, and lips follow. Lance inhales deeply, doesn’t open his eyes. It’s a nice feeling, those hands… Mmmh, the tug of claws against his scales...
“Good morning,” Keith murmurs, just before the sharp, delicious sting of pointed teeth plucking into Lance's bared throat. He jolts, stubbornly keeps his eyes closed. “Open your eyes for me?... Please?”
As if Lance could deny such a fond request, lashes fluttering open to reveal brilliant blue and pink gazing into glinting amethyst and gold. He’s on his back, Keith in his lap, leaning over him. It’s a dazzling image: lean, still-toned muscle rippling beneath purple-furred skin, long limbs, sheets of pitch black hair tumbling down. And those deep purple eyes, wide and shining, pupils narrowed to slits, playful as the accompanying smile.
“Hi,” Lance mumbles, still sleepy. “How are you feeling?”
“I feel great! Seems those pills worked. Little one and I will get to eat today. How are you?”
“Mmmh…” Lance sighs, gazing sleepy and dazed at his love.
“Happy birth quintant.” Keith leans down, kisses him again, hands on his cheeks, thumbs caressing his scales. His tail curls around Lance’s ankle.
“Hm.” Lance hums, working up to a smile as he kisses back. He mumbles, “You should wake me up like this every morning.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you.” Keith sits back in Lance’s lap, hands sliding down the Altean’s chest.
“I really, really would.” Lance’s hands find Keith’s bare hip, his arm, touch as fond as his gaze. His gaze roves over Keith’s form. “It’s been a while since I got a good look at you… You don’t seem much changed.”
“I know. But I have a scan tomorrow with Thace, so hopefully he’ll be able to provide me with some kind of timeline or rate of development. Unless there’s something wrong…”
“Hey.” Lance squeezes Keith’s forearm. “Little One is fine. There’s no reason at all to think otherwise.”
“...I love you,” Keith whispers, smiling. “And Little One loves you too.”
“Of course they do! I’m very loveable! Speaking of which…” Lance waggles his eyebrows. “If you wanted to, y’know-”
“Oh, shut up.” Keith leans down, kisses his mate soundly, fingers curling around to the back of Lance’s neck to sweeten the angle. He rasps over Lance’s smooth tongue as his fingers slide up into his starlight hair. As Lance’s hands find his hips, one of his own finds the headboard. Keith hums, pleased with himself as he positions himself in Lance’s lap-
And their door opens.
“Lancel, happy-”
Keith pulls away, turns to glare at Alfor, who’s staring at the scene before him. His ears pin back, tail twitching back and forth with irritation.
“Can we help you?” he asks, not bothering to hide their indecency despite his mate’s hands snapping up to cover his own, blushing face. Keith doesn’t even remove his hand from the headboard. He's much too annoyed to be embarrassed.
Alfor sighs, turns to leave, nothing but an “and we’re back to this shit” and an eye roll before he slams their bedroom door.
Keith snickers, laughs down at his mate. “Lance… Lance, come on.” The Altean removes his hands from his reddened face, lets Keith place them back on his hips. “Come on, your father’s seen you worse.”
“That was different! I wanted him to see!”
“Oh my gods, kiss me.”
Lance does just that, pushing himself up on his pillows. When his arm wraps around Keith’s waist, that’s when the Galra knows he’s got his mate exactly where he wants him.
-You’re right that I took little advantage of my time on Daibazaal. I saw nothing of your planet except what you forced so affectionately upon me. I would absolutely love to see more- all your favorite places, all the ones you think of when you think of home.
Still, I hope you will visit here again. There are places on Altea that are just as beautiful as your ocean. I want to share them with you, the same way you have shared your home with me. The respect we have cultivated is still fragile, newly born, and I would nurture it.
Regardless, I have hope we will be together again before long. I miss you.
All my love,
Adam
Personal Attendant to
Crown Prince Lancel of Altea
And Prince Yorak of House Kogane of Daibazaal and Altea
Shiro smiles, files the letter away on his datapad with all the other correspondence between himself and his beloved Altean. Adam was telling the truth when he’d said he was more articulate in writing. Every letter the attendant sent was almost exclusively things he would never say in person. The fact that Shiro receives script instead of typeface, that Adam writes to him by hand, affects him in a particular way with every letter.
It’s absolutely going to Shiro’s head, no doubt about it. An exclusive look at what actually goes on in Adam’s mind? Sign him the fuck up.
Shiro scans the empty training yard. This quintant is optional training, but usually he has at least a few men running about. Something doesn't feel right, hasn’t for a while. Now, it feels outright wrong.
He could call Adam, but if something is wrong, contacting Altea might be dangerous. Deciding he’d better investigate, Shiro rises from his spot on the ground, stretching wide, casual, inconspicuous.
As he lowers his arms, the mane on his back lifts on end, and he feels like someone is watching him. Turning, he sees nothing, smells nothing, hears nothing.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
“Hm.” Shiro cocks his head, heads in the direction of the mysterious presence until he arrives at Control. He hasn’t passed a single person, seen another Galra. The only sound is the patter of his feet on the stone floor. It’s like the compound has been abandoned.
At Control, Thace and Ulaz are watching various security feeds, frowns deep on their faces. Raj is missing.
“Gentlemen.”
“Captain. Where is everyone?”
“I don’t know,” Shiro murmurs. “There have been a lot of deserters lately…”
“Yes,” Ulaz agrees, “But it seems like half of our remaining numbers are missing. Like they vanished overnight. And the feeds stalled out last night. We can’t find the records.”
“Where are your kits?” Shiro queries, keeping himself calm, controlled. Just in case someone is watching. “Your little one?”
“Raj is with Mashan and the triplets for today. Is your Altean here?”
“No.” Shiro turns to his friends. Thace’s garnet eyes haven’t left the screens, even as they look thoughtful, evaluating the situation.
“Sir, I must send a message to Adam. Prince Yorak is due for a scan this quintant. I want it done immediately, and remotely. Just in case.”
“Agreed. We should position ourselves near the prince and princess.”
“Not the imperial couple?”
“No. The prince and princess are definitely not our enemy. I cannot say the same for Zarkon or Honerva.” Shiro grits his teeth. “Stay vigilant.”
“Yes sir.”
Adam is arguing with Vetroneius. Which is exactly what he didn’t want for his morning.
“He does not need new clothes. He’s happy with what he’s wearing-”
“It’s unprofessional, and he will have a wardrobe that befits his status.” Vetroneius’ eyes don’t waver. “You might be able to terrorize everyone else around here, but not me, attendant.”
Adam leans forward, feeling fiercely protective of the small Galra he’s grown so fond of.
“Is that the truth?” Adam’s eyes flash green, his quintessence piercing the other Altean’s skull like a lance, a needle’s poke through the gray matter. He leans back at their frightened squeak. “I thought not.”
Adam stares Vetroneius down. “Price Yorak will not be coming in for any measurements. He has made it very clear that he prefers his own clothes, and says making anything for him would be a waste. He does not wish for you to spend your efforts on something that will not be worn.
“However, should he require any alterations in the future, he will let you know. Good day, my friend.”
“I’m not your friend.”
“Everyone is my friend, even if only by necessity-” A ping from Adam’s datapad cuts his words short. It’s a message from Thace.
I cannot travel today. Tavo will conduct the scan while I observe remotely. Have the princes report immediately to Medical.
Ventroneius peers over Adam’s shoulder. “That… cannot be good.”
“No. That Galra is never in a hurry to do anything. I’d best get moving…” Adam hesitates. “I recommend you and your tailors leave now. Go home.”
“Most are wards of the castle. But I will send them to their quarters to await instructions if need be.” Vetroneius pauses. “You could have just told me he was pregnant. It would have saved us both a lot of trouble.”
“The princes informed me that they wish to keep it to themselves for now. I am merely following orders.”
“Hm. Well let him know that when he inevitably needs alterations made, I would be happy to help him.”
Adam nods, leaves without another word. When he arrives at the princes’ quarters, he knocks.
The door opens to a grinning, disheveled Lance. “Hey! Someone knows how to knock!”
Keith’s giggling as he pulls his shirt down over his head. Adam sighs. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”
“No. Alfor did, though. He busted right in here-”
“The point is!” Lance cuts in, blushing. “My father is not very polite.”
“We knew that already. Now.” Adam pushes up his glasses. “I received a message from Thace. For undisclosed reasons, he cannot make the trip to Altea, so he will be joining us remotely. He asked that we begin immediately, so I came to retrieve you.”
The princes frown, immediately concerned. Keith asks, “He wouldn’t say why?”
“No. He only gave instructions.”
“We should go now,” the Galra determines. Lance immediately takes his hand, and the three hurry down the halls.
Tavo is already prepared. “Hello, your Majesties. Do you know what the objective is today?”
Keith licks his lips, hesitant to be anything but anxious, but when Lance’s hand squeezes his, the word “heartbeat” exits his mouth on a smile.
“Yes.” Tavo smiles. “Are you ready, Thace?”
“Entirely!” The genial Galra’s face shows up on the screen. “I’ve got the feed from your machine, so I am all set. Keith, have you seen any difference in your physicality?” Thace seems very at ease, but Keith’s not sure if it’s a farce. It could be, or it could be that “happy-friendly” is the man’s only real mood. Either way, he finds himself lying in a chair.
“No, though I’ve noticed a subtle soreness in my hips. And my chest. No bump.” Keith climbs into the chair.
“All of that is expected in your case. We’ll run some bloods to check your folic acid to make sure that’s still where it should be and analyze your overall health, and then do a careful scan.”
Keith nods, pulls off his shirt, watching Tavo take a few vials of blood. Lance takes his hand in both of his, kissing each of his fingers, a welcome distraction from the needles he’s developed such an aversion to. He’s a grown-up. He can deal. He takes a deep breath, swallows his apprehensive nausea, focuses on Lance’s touch- And it’s over. He breathes a sigh of relief.
Tavo lays a thin, clear film over Keith’s lower abdomen, to “protect the little one.” Keith smiles his appreciation, nervous. Lance must pick up on it, because he squeezes Keith’s hand tight, kisses his ear while the medic positions the scanner above his abdomen.
And then… a little blob, in a circle of empty space. And the blob becomes a little… thing. With a tail, stubby arm lumps, a snout sort of thing, the bumps that will become a spine…
*be-beat* *be-beat* *be-beat* *be-beat*
Rapid fire, like someone in a flat out sprint. A little dark circle within that form, clenching, unclenching. A viable embryo.
“Counting…” Tavo murmurs. “Counting…” A long dobash. “One-seventy-seven beats per dobash. A little fast, but not out of normal range. Beautiful.”
Thace hums. “Not ectopic… relatively normal mammalian development… Much slower than a Galra, but we expected that... Not sure if the tail will stay, but overall I’m pleased.”
Keith barely hears. This tiny wad of cells could become a whole person. They could have his fur, Lance’s skin, his ears, Lance’s eyes- Please gods let them have their sire’s eyes.
It’s not a person. Not yet. But there’s all the potential in the universe.
“Look at that, beloved. Look how little they are.”
“That’s… how it works,” Keith breathes. “They start out tiny and-” He sighs, turns to nuzzle into Lance’s hands, still enveloping his own. Lance reaches out with one of them, brushes hair out of his face, rubs the base of his ear.
“Best birthday present ever,” Lance whispers, still stroking Keith’s hair. “I still can barely believe it.”
“Well- Well you better start,” Keith chokes. “I need you.”
“You’ve got me. Always.” Lance presses their foreheads together, leaning over his husband, never letting go of his hand. “Always-”
Thace’s feed buzzes with a moment of static.
“I’d better go see what that’s about. Tavo, prioritize getting those bloods to me, and saving a recording of that scan to Altea’s medical database. Then back it up on a portable device small enough to wear-” A shout in the distance cuts him off.
“Thace?” Keith pushes himself into a sitting position, Lance standing by his side, still holding his hand. “What’s wrong?”
The galra frowns, ears twitching, rotating this way and that. “I’m not sure. Stay-”
The feed cuts out.
“Thace? Thace!” Keith’s more than a little alarmed, letting Lance help him to his feet. The Altean’s eyes narrow. A brown hand finds the small of Keith’s back.
“We should return to our rooms,” he whispers. “And await word from our contacts on Daibazaal. Or from Father.”
“You don’t seriously think-”
“I don’t know. But your life has priority now, and we must keep you safe.”
Keith allows himself to be steered from the room, where Tavo remains studiously putting away his equipment like nothing is wrong.
“I don’t appreciate you attitude, Lance,” he grumbles, teeth grit and bared. His ears pin back against his head, tail sweeping across the floor.
“I know you don’t, and I love that about you, but this is about more than just you. Or us. You are the future of Altean civilization, and I beg you to act accordingly.” Lance is in full-on Crown Prince mode, poised and elegant, moving at a careful pace so as not to raise alarm, but also to cover ground quickly. “Just this once. For me, beloved.”
“I understand.”
And Keith does, really. He really, truly understands. He hates it, but he is currently carrying the potential heir to the throne, the perpetuation of Lance’s bloodline, and the cornerstone upon which Altea’s government is built.
Which is fucking stupid, but there it is.
He allows himself to be steered into their quarters, watches Lance bar the doors, alter the settings on their security system. The hidden doorway in their gardens he leaves unlocked, just in case. Keith sits on the edge of their bed with BleepBloop and Kosmo, watching Lance pace, write furiously on his datapad, try repeatedly to reach their contacts on Daibazaal.
When they get a message from Daibazaal via Krolia, it’s not what either of them were expecting.
Daibazaal Imperial Compound under siege by Galra ships. Imperials believed trapped inside. Forces mobilized. Rebels bound for Altea. Compound sending distress call shortly. Allegiances uncertain.
Knowledge or Death.
A tick and a half later, the lights in their rooms are reduced to the pale blue tracks a dash about the floor, and alarms are blaring. When Keith looks to his mate, Lance has opened a panel in the wall, strung his bow. With a grimace, the young prince, still vargas away from nineteen decaphoebs, has removed a gorgeous broadsword, the unsullied blade glinting sharply, white metal reflecting the dim glow of the room around them.
“Forgive me, beloved, what I may do this quintant.”
In that moment, Lance stands in sharp relief, lean and powerful, poised and confident, a beautiful young man with a crown on his brow and a blue flame in his eyes. He is everything a Crown Prince, a warrior, should be. Everything Keith expects him to be. If only it didn’t feel so wrong.
Lance straps the sword to his waist, and Keith looks away. His eyes find his chest from Daibazaal, and his mind finds the suit at the bottom. This feat will take both of them to pull off, and he’d best prepare to protect himself, their child, and their peoples with every bit of breath in his body.
A filler episode, because I felt like writing it. Enjoy!
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Keith sighs, stumbles into the kitchen. Chances are he’ll barf up whatever he decides to eat, but he also missed breakfast and his morning snack, so he needs to at least try to make up those calories. As he rummages around, trying to find something that he actually feels like eating, he just starts feeling queasy again. He seems to have developed an aversion to all his favorite foods. Yay.
“A little late for dinner, isn’t it?”
Keith jumps, turns to see Alfor watching him rifle through his special Galra-friendly refrigerator. He stares, watches the man drain the last of whatever’s in his cup.
“A little late for a drink isn’t it?”
“Coran isn’t here to tell me no.” Alfor stumbles over to the liquor bar, mixes himself another drink. “I’d offer you one, but I don’t think it would be a good idea.”
“Probably not,” Keith agrees.
Keith pulls a container of something from the fridge, sniffs it, starts eating it cold. It’s food, it doesn’t seem like it’ll make him feel sick, and judging by the number of calories written on the container, it’s just what he needs to meet his goal for the quintant.
“Lance says you haven’t been feeling well. You haven’t been to breakfast in a couple quintants.”
“...” Keith stares over his leftovers. “Yes. And?”
“You’re what? Eight movements along?”
Keith takes a deep breath, grateful that he’s got his emotions under control at the moment. “Yes. Give or take a few quintants.”
Alfor nods, pensive.
“You remember what I told you a while back right? That I’d fuck you up if you ever tried to sell my kits to someone?”
“Oh, yes. Vividly.” Alfor sips his drink. “You could have waited, you know. Many Alteans wait even a centaphoeb or two.”
“Maybe. But back home… Waiting would have appeared like some failure on my part. I’ve not been in battle. I’ve made no documented kills or had any military victories. My appointment as a lord was more to appease your people than anything else. We don’t even have that rank.”
“You used to. Did you know that?”
Keith frowns, shakes his head, forces down another bite of cold stew.
“All that you have now are military ranks, but you used to have a class system very similar to ours, based on other, non-militant merits and achievements. Like leadership, invention, that sort of thing. From what little I’ve managed to scrape together, the Galra weren’t always so militant.”
“I know,” Keith whispers. “I know we weren’t always this, but no one remembers what we used to be…” His voice is almost frantic as he says, “We couldn’t go back even if we wanted to.”
“No one can go back. Even now, the Alteans are still discovering things we lost during the Forgetting.” Alfor sighs, sips his drink. “We can’t go back, but we can move forward. Given appropriate leadership, the Galra can learn to value other qualities. We just have to wait until that day arrives.” Alfor smiles.
Keith nods, pokes his food with his spoon. He really needs to finish it.
“That might taste better if you heat it up.”
“Maybe.”
Alfor takes the bowl, dumps its contents into a small pot on a stove.
“Why are you being nice to me?” Keith asks, eyes suspicious.
“Can’t I just be nice?”
“No.”
“Fine. I’m being nice because you have made my son happy. And whatever else you are, I owe you a great deal for that.”
“Yeah, well… He makes me happy too. It’s mutual happiness.”
“I’m relieved it worked out that way. A monarch has little, if any joy in their life. I’ve found that family is perhaps the only one. To serve as king is thankless more often than not.”
“Some kings don’t deserve thanks,” Keith snipes. “Our peoples suffer for the whims of their leaders. And you’ve always been a part of that.”
Keith knows that’s not quite fair, that Alfor was indoctrinated just as much as his own people. But people grow, and any man worth his salt would ask questions.
“True.” The king sips from his cup, leaning a bit more heavily on the counter. “I’ve killed a lot of people, you know. Some of them even deserved it.”
“...I’ve killed people too. Chances are my kits will kill people as well. It’s foolish to think otherwise.”
“You think so?” Alfor pours the now-hot stew back into the bowl, hands it back to Keith.
“They may inherit a legacy of violence, just as Lance and I have. I think…” Keith sets his bowl in a sink. “We have a long way to go before we can actually say we’ve achieved peace. War doesn’t end with paperwork. In the hearts of many of my people, we are still at war. And the same goes for yours.”
Keith sighs. “Some of us feel cheated. They lost so much, sacrificed everything, suffered their entire lives, became objects used for breeding soldiers, forgot who they were- for any promise of victory to end with a kit being thrown at their enemy as a consolation prize, and a strange princess to take her place beside their Champion Elect. That isn’t peace, Alfor. It’s violence waiting to happen.”
“I know. I have already made plans for you and Lance to escape in the events of attack.” Alfor downs his drink, pours another. For a moment, the only sound is Keith's spoon scraping against his bowl. “I know you think us capricious and untrustworthy, and that you worry that one day, Lance’s gaze will wander, and his affections will follow, but you really needn’t.”
Keith watches the king stare into his glass.
“My son… He loves with his whole heart. I’ve no idea where he got that from… Ancients know he didn’t get it from me. And that I don’t deserve it.” Another sip. “Allura, my sweet girl, she was always more like me in the end. More like her mother, too.
“But my boy... My Lance... He was always so very gentle.” A wistful, regretful smile. “I didn’t know something that good could come from something like me. On his tenth birth quintant, I gifted him a sword, and promised him that he would bloody the blade before he turned twenty. I remember… fear in his eyes. He said he did not want it.”
Hollow silence, nothing but the hum of the coldboxes.
“I distanced myself. I did not want to ruin the best thing I ever made.”
“But you damaged him.”
“Yes. I did.”
“You neglected him.”
“...Yes.”
“You let him think you did not want him.”
Alfor stares at the floor. “Yes.”
"Or love him."
The king says nothing.
“How will you rectify that?” Keith asks, cocking his head. He well and truly despises this man, but he loves his mate with all his heart. He can’t regain his father, but maybe Lance can.
“I don’t know.” Alfor’s eyes are hollow when he smiles. “I’m not sure than I can. In the same way Lance would be hard pressed to lose your respect, I would be hard pressed to gain his. I think, perhaps, we may grow closer, but always feel like strangers.”
“I think you’re right.” Keith stares at the aging king. He can smell quintessence hovering around his body, made unstable by drink. It puts him even more ill at ease, that despondent smile on the king’s face proving unnerving.
“Maybe it’s for the best. You have already proven a far more capable guide that I could ever hope to be… My time is at an end, Keith. Everything that I am is obsolete. I cannot adapt. Instead, I shall watch, and bear witness to either our crumbling or our resurrection.”
Alfor sets his glass in the sink. “His birth quintant is tomorrow, did you know? Not a big affair: nineteen is hardly important, and he wants the castle kept quiet. And then, in a movement, it will be your anniversary, which he refuses to celebrate. I wonder that he only thinks of what has been done to you, and not what was done to him.”
Keith stands, ready to be finished with this. “He does only think of me, at least in this. But I think of him, and how he became an object for you so easily, and I am bitter for him.”
Leaving the king to his miserable stalling before going to bed alone, Keith wanders the halls, restless. He’s not sure what, exactly the fuck, is up with Alfor, but it probably has something to do with the increasing number of problems they’ve uncovered with Daibazaal. And the fact that Coran left the planet a few vargas ago.
He stops in on Pidge.
“How’s it going?” he asks, surveying the mess of a workroom. Pidge has taken full advantage of Lance’s permissive attitude toward their research. There are boxes and piles of parts strewn all over, bins full of tools, microscopes, a forge, and various other random objects scattered about, along with a glass tank full of garbage and brightly-colored space caterpillars. One is on the young kit’s shoulder.
“About as well as peeling Alfor off the Altean throne. You?”
“Get a spatula and scrape him off.” Keith steps into the room. “Been better. Nauseous most of the time, and sometimes I just fall over exhausted. Also all of my favorite foods taste like dirt. And sometimes I throw tantrums for no fucking reason.”
“Those are… normal pregnancy things, hate to break it to you.” Pidge smirks as Keith sits right next to them at their bench. “Still clingy?”
“Mhm.” Keith rests his cheek on the young Olkari’s shoulder. “Pidge?”
“Hm?”
“How are kits made on your planet?”
“We have a mating season, at which time we all go into a deep burrow under ground to lay eggs and release milt. Then, when the eggs hatch, we raise all our pups together.”
“So… You don’t know who your parents are? Or- or if you have littermates?”
“No, but-” Pidge’s eyes narrow thoughtfully. “It’s like all the pups born with me are my littermates and all the adult Olkari are my parents. When one of us dies, we feel their loss, but never feel alone. I like that.”
“Hm. It sounds nice.”
“I know you’re lying, but thank you.” Pidge smiles. “I don’t care much for your attachment to your own offspring or your need for a single mate, either.”
“It has its downsides,” Keith murmurs. “If Lance dies… It’s not something I’ll ever truly recover from.”
“There are a lot of Galra who feel that pain already, huh?” Pidge’s amber eyes turn away from their crystals to meet his.
“Yeah, there are.” Keith sighs. “So what are you working on?”
“Well, I’m trying to figure these crystals out. I know that, unlike wood, coral, bone, ceramic, metal, and other materials, these Balmeran crystals are biocompatible with Alteans, at least in theory. I also know that alchemists like Alfor and Allura can take quintessence from these crystals and give it back. I know that Balmeran crystals are how Alteans power their ships and other electronics, including datapads.
“What I don’t know is how to get these crystals to be compatible with Altean biology for prosthetics and such. Every bit of Altean goop that I try to bind to the crystals fights them as if they were a bacterium or virus, ultimately resulting in the sample’s necrosis at every point of contact.
“The technology to bind them together is… plausible, but still beyond my reach.”
“Seems we’re all doing less than great,” Keith murmurs, just before he’s overtaken with an enormous yawn. “Ugh. I spent all morning asleep.” Keith yawns again.
Pidge giggles, coaxing the sleepy Prince to his feet. “C’mon, preggers. I’ll take you back to your room.”
“Did- Did you just use that as a slur?” Keith mumbles as the Olkari pup takes his hand.
“I meant it as a teasing insult.” Pidge pats his arm in mock consolation. “I can just hand you off to Lance when we get there, right? I don’t have to babysit you or anything?”
“No. It’s for the best, anyway. I need to bully him into getting some sleep.”
“Just whine about how he hasn’t cuddled you enough. That should work.”
Keith chuckles. “Yeah. Usually does.”
“Seriously, though. You and Lance are going to be amazing parents. Second only to Shiro and Adam.”
“Shiro’s seen too much death and Adam has some self esteem issues that seriously need addressing.”
“True… I bet they’ll change their minds when they see your cute little monstrosity.”
“I don’t know,” Keith murmurs, working to keep the conversation moving so he doesn’t fall asleep on the way back to his quarters. “I think they might like just having each other. Shiro… He’s been an object, property since he was little. And Adam… He’s made himself an object. Being just them might be what would make them happiest.”
“And your brood to remind them of why they made that choice.”
Fuck you, my kits will be awesome.”
“Yeah. But… kits, y’know?”
Keith giggles, stopping outside his quarters. “Fair enough. Goodnight, Pidge. I hope you figure out your crystals.”
“‘Night, Keith. Have fun throwing up!” The young Olkari scurries off, leaving Keith to join his mate.
He’s sitting at their small table, one Lance had installed for when they chose to eat in privacy. Or when Keith ate at odd hours but wanted to avoid Alfor.
“Hey, beloved. I thought you were just getting some food?”
“Ended up having a very weird, depressing conversation with Alfor, and then I went to visit Pidge. Then I got sleepy again, so I had to come back.” Keith yawns, rubs his eyes. “Nauseous all morning, sleepy all day, and then this thing happens where I’ll just be minding my own business and then suddenly I’m about to pee myself... basically this sucks.”
“Aw, beloved. I’m sure it gets better.”
“It actually doesn’t.” Keith drags his own chair around, drops down right next to his mate, leaning on his shoulder. “It just gets different kinds of miserable… I don’t know why I still want this, honestly. I’m already sick of it.”
“You want this because I can’t do it for you,” Lance murmurs, signing a document with a stylish flourish. “Guess what I just signed.”
“An order that fetuses need to be nicer to their bearers?”
“Not quite. A decree that arranged marriages are prohibited unless the individuals involved are consenting adults, as per their own species’ laws. The engaged party will need to sign documentation consenting to the marriage at least five phoebs prior to the event, and again one movement before. Any and all evidence or claims of coercion are subject to investigation by the Crown, be it prior to or after the marriage. Proof of Coercion will result in annulment of the marriage, and possible legal consequences including but not limited to hefty fines paid to the victim or victims, possible jail time, and guaranteed community service. Community service will be assigned based on the specific circumstances, the goal of which will be for the convicted to make amends for the harm they have caused to the Altean community by way of their actions.”
“I like it,” Keith murmurs, rubbing his cheek into Lance’s nightshirt.
“It’s definitely a start.” Lance frowns, grinds his teeth together. “I remember, not long after you got here, you said that if I was really sorry about what happened to you, I would make sure it never happened to our children.”
“Lance…”
“I swore to you that I would. I intend to keep that oath.”
“My good man…” Keith smiles, trying to snuggle closer. “Cuddle me?”
“Yeah, it’s about that time, huh.” Lance pushes his datapad away. “I should sleep, and so should you.”
“Mhm, just a tick. Thace has some antinausea meds he wants me to try so I can eat.” Keith tips one of the new pills out of the bottle. “Side effects include… nausea. What the fuck…”
Lance hands him a glass of water, and he takes his pill. He waits a few seconds to see if his body rejects it immediately, or if it’s going to think about it first. When he doesn’t vomit, he leans against his very willing mate.
Lance sighs, wraps his arms around him, nibbles the thin flesh of his ears.
“Mph. Lance…” Keith flaps the offended ear. “Tired…”
The attentions cease, replaced instead by a forehead against his shoulder. It’s been a little while, Keith knows, and he feels bad. They’ve been neglecting each other, and each other’s needs. They haven’t really had much choice in the matter, but it still sucks for both of them.
“Let’s see how I’m feeling tomorrow morning, okay? I’m hoping these pills work.”
“Okay.” Lance presses a kiss to his cheek. “In the meantime, you need to rest, and so do I.”
Keith follows his mate without argument, tail curling first around Lance’s ankle, then around his waist as he cuddles up against him, nuzzling into his chest.
“How much longer do you think we’ll be able to cuddle like this?” he asks, realizing that their time just them is limited.
“Hmm… I guess another few phoebs, and then we might have to rearrange things for you, and then later have a baby with us.”
“Yeah.”
“But we’ll have nights just us, and we can cuddle like this,” Lance promises. He’s already thought about it, that their child will immediately begin competing with Keith for Lance’s affections. They’ll both need the same things. “Parenthood is not an identity, remember?”
“Mhm. I remember. We promised.” Keith inhales, breathes in Lance’s scent, concentrated in a collection of pores between his pectorals. It’s like Keith’s own scent glands, except he’s pretty sure the Altean doesn’t know they’re there. Lance smells like warmth, imminent sleep, a snap of desire that burns in his nose. If he weren’t so fucking sleepy…
FEATURING: Keith’s opinion of Alfor, but in a bitter, not-at-all funny way, because he has no obligation to feel anything for him but absolute loathing
In keeping with the theme of Alfor not minding his own business, have an inside look on how the castle kitchens operate!
Also I really liked this bit of writing and didn’t have anywhere to put it in-story
Alfor absolutely knew something was up. Of course, he knew that Keith and Lance were actually, factually married now, in every possible sense of the word.
He’s not an idiot. He sees the way they cling to each other’s presence, the quiet jokes they share, the silent, communicative glances- granted they kind of did that before, but it just felt different now. Like instead of two harmonious bodies, they’d become fused together into one organism with two interlocking parts.
If it really was only two. They haven’t said anything to the contrary, but Alfor has his suspicions. Keith’s lapsing meal attendance and Lance’s lack of begging for his participation were convincing evidence.
Which is why Alfor’s not surprised when he goes to the princes’ quarters looking for his son and finds the room dark, Keith sprawled across the bed, deeply asleep. Lance isn’t here at all, but there’s a plate of food and a pot of tea next to the fireplace.
Alfor creeps into the room, checks the food. It’s old, the meat a little dry, the vegetables a little wilted. Having nothing else he really feels like doing, the king decides to replace it. It’s almost lunch time anyway.
It’s only when he gets to the kitchen that Alfor realizes he has absolutely no idea where his son-in-law’s food is, or what he eats, or what goes together, or what a balanced Galra meal looks like.
“Um…” Alfor stands there, awkwardly holding a plate of food, as a small army of quietly working kitchen staff all look up at him at once. “I’d like to replace this.”
A quartet of Alteans come up, a small purple badge on the right breast of their purple and white uniforms. One of them takes the plate and immediately starts washing it. Another scrolls through a datapad, offering it to his remaining companions. The other two nod, raid one of the coldboxes, pulling out glass cases of different ingredients. The first cook sets the plate on the drying rack, then invades the cupboards beneath one of the preparation counters.
Alfor watches in awe as what’s apparently Keith’s personal team of chefs prepare him a fully fledged gourmet meal in about fifteen dobashes. When had that happened? Are they being paid more? Should they be paid more? What sort of training did they go through? Have they trained on Daibazaal at all? Should Alfor see about sending them to actually train on Daibazaal?
Well, not right now, obviously. But still.
One of the Alteans hands him a tray with a fresh plate of food and a bowl of stew from the stove. “Um… How long have you been cooking for Prince Yorak?”
“Chef Hunk began training us before the princes’ marriage. We learned a great deal, long-distance, from a chef on Daibazaal and from research we conducted with the help of Princess Allura.”
“I see.”
“Prince Yorak’s nutrition is of serious importance, and therefore so too is our job.”
“Right… Thank you for this. Um. I appreciate your work. Please have Chef Hunk inform me if you require anything from the Crown.”
The quartet bows in unison. Alfor inclines his head, leaves the kitchen wondering what else has been going on right under his fucking nose that he hasn’t heard about.
Back in the bedroom, Keith is gone from the bed, but he can hear water running. Alfor licks his lips, waffling over whether to go or wait for the prince to return. He's not usually welcome around the young Galra, so he sets the tray on the nightstand and leaves.
Ultimately, it doesn’t matter what Keith’s current condition is. What matters is that Alfor might be able to help.
He can sense that their lives are about to get much harder.
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