"Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer's day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time." --John Lubbock
Lotor kneels upon the ground, his eyes narrowing. “How curious,” he murmurs. With an odd gentleness, he plucks a fallen red leaf and raises it between his clawed fingers for inspection. “Allura, it appears the trees of Earth are dying, and doing so all at once. Is this typical for the climate?”
Instead of an agreeing noise of concern, he receives silence, and he looks up with a worried furrow in his brow—he is not yet used to the peacefulness of Earth—his body tensing in anticipation of attack. “Allura?” he calls again.
There, farther back in the courtyard, is the princess, bent over a strange bin along with the Paladins of Voltron. The murmur of voices reaches him, and his elfin ears twitch in want for the words.
But then the princess pops up with a happy bob of her white bun and her scarf, and she zooms past in a blur of laughter, flanked by several Paladins, raising an odd, long stick with metal prongs at the end. “At last!” she declares, voice halted as she runs. “The days of the autumn are upon us, friends! Let us rejoice by making the ceremonial piles!”
“Aw, yeah!” Hunk calls, twirling a similar odd stick.
Pidge’s chest puffs as she raises a pronged stick of her own, eyes blown wide as if running off to war. “To the woods!”
A bit slower behind them comes Lance, flailing with something akin to a shovel. “Guys, you took all the rakes—literally, what the cheese am I supposed to do with this?”
Allura prances around, face lit with such a happiness that her little pink Altean markings glow. She teases, “You’re a Paladin, Lance, I’m sure you can make do.”
It is then that Lotor tentatively lowers the leaf, more confused than before. He tilts his head, his long, white hair bunching against his armor. “What strange ritual is this?” he murmurs to himself before standing up to his full height.
Before him, at the crown of the woods, Allura and the Paladins begin their odd task of collecting leaves with their sticks.
He walks forward, inhaling the crisp scent of increasing plant death with an ever-increasing puzzle upon his face. He appears beside Allura and hesitates before asking, “Princess, what is this ritual?”
She turns to him then, a maple leaf already jutting from her white hair, her eyes wide and innocent.
Her actions have left her untowardly close to him.
“Oh,” she says, her breath warm against the cool air. Her cheeks heat. “Please forgive me, Lotor. The instant I—I saw the leaves, I forgot myself.”
He swallows hard, his body heating.
His clawed fingers tick against his side.
"There is no matter to forgive,” he murmurs to her, searching her eyes. “But I would like to know how tree leaves have usurped you from me.”
Allura makes a strangled squeak of a noise, the heat upon her face deepening enough for Lotor to feel it. She steps back then to regain her composure. “Well, you see, the leaves fall once a year here. And they get all crunchy, even if they are not quite like the flaming rocks that would fall upon Altea.” She raises the odd gardening tool with the metal prongs blessedly pointed away from him. “This is a rake, which humans use to gather all the fallen leaves into large piles.” She lights up again. “And then they jump into the leaves, and it is much fun.”
Face still flushed, Lotor inspects the rake, then turns to the other paladins.
As Allura says, Pidge and Hunk diligently work on gathering piles—with Lance attempting to worm into Hunk’s pile.
Lotor scratches his chin. “What is the joy of jumping into dead foliage?”
With that, Allura returns to her pile, voice rising with passion. “Oh, I will show you! Here, just a tick.” She zooms around him with a humming sound. “I’ve forgotten that you’ve spent so much time on ships, you’ve not really lived.”
He huffs at her, crossing his powerful arms. “Now you tease me,” he complains softly, quirking an eyebrow. “I would have you know, I once oversaw a colony planet rife with greenery, such as the eye has never seen.”
“Yes, but did the leaves change colors and fall?”
“…No.”
“Precisely, then.” She pulls up the rake and waves at her large pile of red and gold leaves. “Is it a ritual unique to Earth and its solar rotation.” And then she tosses aside the rake and turns around, giving him a merry salute. “Bon voyage!”
And she falls backward, flailing out her arms.
On instinct, Lotor’s body twitches, as if desiring to catch her, but she falls with a delighted squeal into the leaves, and a flurry of red and gold puffs around her as the leaves crunch.
“Just like that!” she calls breathlessly with a giggle, patting the leaves beside her. “Come on, Lotor, do not be a wet blanket. Fall with me and feel it for yourself!”
His face faults. “I am not a wet blanket.”
Allura scoots a bit on the leaf pile to nudge his ankle with her boot. “Yes, you are,” she calls. “Standing there all stately and not partaking in the festivities of autumn. Come now, fall with me.”
Lotor hesitates, at ease enough with her touch. “Galran culture does not encourage falling backwards in any way.”
“It’s crunchy,” she tempts him, as there is something in both Altean and Galran blood that desires good crunching sounds. “It is very pleasant upon the ears, and it tickles a bit, but it is soft as well.”
In the background, Pidge cannon-balls into a leaf pile taller than her, then explodes through the side, cackling with a halo of gold leaves in her hair.
“Do try it,” Allura pleads with him, then gives him wide puppy dog eyes, clasping her hands together. “For science, at least, please.”
He breathes out, his shoulders lowering. “Oh, very well.” And then he turns around, and with a second of hesitance, allows himself to fall backwards into Allura’s leaf pile. He declares with a deadpan, crossing his arms over his chest, “For science.”
The blue of the Earth sky spins above him, and his stomach zings—and then he lands in the crunchy pile with a great puff of leaves, his long legs hanging over the edge.
The zing of adrenaline in him bursts into a dozen butterflies, and he turns his cheek to face Allura, a brightness in his eyes, his white hair a blanketing halo.
A bell-like laugh escapes him as he dares to grin.
There is something childlike and innocent about falling into leaves, such that he forgets his many years of war and the extensive paperwork back at his Galaxy Garrison quarters.
“The leaves caught me as promised,” he declares, eyes crinkling with delight. “And like this, after the whooshing of the organs and the thrill of the fall, it is most comfortable to remain like this.”
“Isn’t it?” Allura agrees.
His cheeks heat at the increment distance between them, and his eyes lower to her full lips. “Very much so."
She waggles her sleek, white eyebrows and asks, “Would you like to fall with me again?”
His elfin ear twitches as a maple leaf falls upon him. “I will always fall for you,” he murmurs.
Those pink Altean marks upon her glow bright, and she makes a delighted, strangled noise, sitting up to toss leaves upon him. “What strange words. You always speak with many meanings.”
His nose crinkles as he laughs and raises his hands to catch some of the leaves she sprinkles upon him. “And yet, all the meanings are true, princess. I would not lie to you."
Allura lowers her next handful of leaves, eyes bright as she swallows hard. For one brief tick, her fingers clench into the foliage before she admits slowly, “That is well. In truth, I have been waiting for someone to fall with, for a long, long time.”
He reaches up without fear, daring to stroke her hot cheek. Despite his sharp claws and great strength, he is soft with her. “But you have only known of Earth and its leaves for a few years.”
The princess leans into his touch, and then she teases, gaze bright, “You’re not the only one who can speak with many meanings.”
