Tell Me

By Kelly (aka allurablue4)

Copyright July 2012

General Disclaimer: Voltron and its characters are a trademark and copyright of World Event Productions, LTD, St. Louis, MO. All relative disclaimers apply.

Author's Notes: Sometimes, we find ourselves in a situation we never expected, and more than anything, the desire to know the truth of the matter becomes all consuming.

Comments, reviews, and private messages containing constructive criticism, positive and negative, welcome.

"Tell me!"

My lips feel dry and cracked and my tongue like lead as I issue my command. What I wouldn't give for a cool drink of water to restore the desert that has formed inside my mouth.

For several minutes now, there has been a steady stream of medical personnel urgently parading in and out of my room. A technician drawing blood. A surgeon checking dressings. An aide changing sheets. A physician ordering more medications and a bag of electrolytes. A psychiatrist questioning my mental faculties. They all buzz about me, but no one seems to be paying me any attention beyond my medicinal needs. When I speak, it's as if no one can hear. The sound of my voice creates no catalyst for the reaction I anticipate except solemn glances filled something I have yet to fully comprehend, but I have the foreboding feeling that it's nothing good.

Frustration wells up inside of me. What is the secret they are so carefully guarding? I remember the battle – intense as ever. Voltron fighting against not one but two robeasts. Metal mangled. Fire and Pain. Screams and Desperation. The rush of adrenaline, the only thing that pushed us onward, and the thunderous clash of weaponry which dissolved into a brilliant flash, signaling our victory. Arus safe, I succumbed, bone weary and flesh wounded, to blessed oblivion.

"Tell me!" I cry, awake once more, through the tears stinging my eyes and streaming down my face. At least that's what I think I say. I'm not really sure. The tube they've put down my esophagus to help me breathe and pump the drugs into my stomach has irritated my throat raw, making it difficult to speak beyond a garbled, hoarse whisper.

The nurse adjusting my IV medications just smiles at me with sympathy and tells me not to aggravate my condition.

Condition? I have a condition? What's that supposed to mean? Am I sick? Of course I'm sick! I wouldn't be here if I wasn't, right? But how bad is it? Is it something serious? What's wrong with me? Am I dying? I feel like dying.

Everything hurts from the pounding in my head to the deep ache that fills my belly and radiates from the epicenter of my abdomen to the tingling in my toes. How is it possible to be this miserable and still be alive? Surely death would be more welcome than this hell, but I don't want to die. I'm too young, and there's too much to be done, too much I haven't yet done and still dream of doing.

It's hard to estimate her age. War has a tendency to do that to people, age them beyond their years – look what it's done to me! - but her face is still pretty when she smiles, despite the jagged scar that runs from her left temple down to the bridge of her nose. Her eyes, brown in color, have little flecks of green and gold in them. Her hand is warm as it takes my wrist between its thumb and forefinger and finds my pulse, yet even that causes me to wince and flinch away, confirmation that I'm still here and, at least for the moment, very much alive.

Then she helps me to sit up by mechanically raising the head of the bed and placing her arm around my shoulders to ease me forward until my sore, bruised, and exhausted body is bent at a ninety degree angle. The movement, even at this cautious, controlled speed, is enough to dizzy me, my vision swimming with spots and fuzzy, blurring the outlines of the limited scenery in my infirmary room.

The membrane of the stethoscope she places against the milky-colored flesh of my chest, exposed now from the confines of my paper-thin gown, feels as cold as ice and makes me flinch as she instructs me to inhale deeply.

I am obstinate, refusing to cooperate without the information I desperately need, and once again utter, "Tell me!"

It's a demand, not a request. I may be the one confined to this infirmary bed, but I'm still the Princess of Arus. It's still my right to command such things of others, though in the past, I've tried never to lord my authority over them. This time, however, I'll forego politeness if it will garner me the answer I seek.

"Don't try to speak, Your Highness," she tells me with a pat on my arm as though I'm some small child to be cajoled. It's an excuse, a means to divert my attention. I see it written across her face and in the way she holds herself away from me as though she's afraid if she gets too close she'll hurt me more. But I am insistent.

My hand, the one that's free from the entanglement of the IV needle and subsequent tubing, the one that remains untethered to their machines, reaches out with all the strength I can summon and grabs hold of her sleeve. A look of momentary panic sweeps over her, and she visibly pales. I don't need to be a physician to see that something's not right here.

Please!

My throat hurts too much for me to actually speak the word, but everything about me is attempting to communicate this all important need. Nothing else matters to me at this juncture, nothing expect knowing. I have to know. Oh God, please; I have to know.

This uncertainty, this being here without any word, any mention – is it really that bad?

"I can see you have questions," she finally says when she notices how much my exigency has both visibly and audibly staggered my breath. "As soon as I'm finished here, I'll let Dr. Gorma know he should speak with you as soon as his schedule permits."

Something's not right here. I can feel it in my bones. Some part of me has been damaged by this last battle with Lotor, some part beyond the capability of modern technology and medicine to repair. I know. I sense it, this thing inside of me that's dying, decaying at a rate faster than anything I can currently comprehend.

But I'm stronger than they think. I've seen more than my fair share of death, bloodshed, and any number of horrors so unspeakable I dare not repeat them to last me a lifetime, to last several people several lifetimes. Whatever it is she won't say, surely it can't be as bad as all that. I know I can handle it. I always have, haven't I?

I'm the Princess. I'm expected to handle it. I've been trained to handle it, albeit more out of necessity than want. It's not something my tutors and instructors regimented as a part of my educational curriculum, but you don't grow up on a planet ravaged by war for the better part of your life without acquiring this survival skill. I'd never have made it this far if I hadn't.

"Just tell me." I am persistent, stubborn some would say, another trait I seem to have honed as a result of this war. You can be certain, however, that this is one characteristic of my nature those same people think I should do without. They tell me it's not very princess-like or becoming for a woman and lady of my station. Nanny, for instance, insists my stubbornness will never find me a suitable Prince Consort and husband, but then again, Nanny also refuses to hear the fact that I'm not interested in such things merely to secure the future of my planet. There's more to me than having to birth the next heir to the throne.

Oh to be sure, I'd like to have a child some day, maybe even as many as four, of whom at least one should have the same fetching dark hair and mesmerizing eyes as his or her father. I'll even be content if the baby inherits what others have termed his "stick-in-the-mud" disposition. I have to admit, I didn't like it myself at first. He always seemed so cold and stoic, as if it might actually be physically painful for him to smile, but I've learned there's ever so much more to that man than first impressions and physical appearances alone.

And speaking of Keith, why isn't he here? For that matter, why aren't any of them here? It's not like my friends to stay away and keep their distance at a time like this, not like them at all. I know we're not related, but they've become my family. Family is supposed to be there for one another. If it were any of them in here instead of me, I'd be the first one at the bedside. And I'm the Princess!

That's what they keep telling me, never once forgetting to remind me of that very fact day in and day out. Do they actually believe I need reminding? I'm the last of my line, the last and only heir to my father's legacy. Even if all else fails, I'm required, at all costs, to endure. I'm the one to whom they've all pledged their lives. I'm the one they protect and keep safe. I know they mean well, that their actions are noble and pure, but sometimes it's so stifling I can barely breathe, smothered by their good intentions and selfless deeds, let alone carry out the very duties they so desperately need me to see through.

"Tell me!"

The words literally explode from my mouth. Somebody has to let me know. I can't take much more of this!

She winces and backs out of the door, nearly tripping over Lance, who has suddenly appeared behind her. He steadies her with his hands, offers her a fraction of a smile for reassurance, and says, "Allow me."

Finally, some answers.

But the fact that he doesn't even try to hit on her makes me nervous, and my palms begin to sweat. This won't be good, but at least I can trust Lance to be honest with me.

The nurse having exited, Lance approaches my bed, and when he draws near, I can see that his youthful face is more haggard than I can ever recall.

We've been through some difficult times in the past, but Lance has always been the cheerleader of the team, the perpetual optimist. Whenever I've needed encouragement or advice, Lance has always provided it. I can always count on him, so whatever is wrong with me, I know he'll give it to me straight without trying to soften the truth. Lance isn't one to beat around the garden shrubbery, and I've always appreciated his candor and sincerity. Even when it hurts. And I know it's going to hurt. I don't need his sixth sense to tell me so. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach and in the dull ache of my heart. Something's terribly wrong.

"Hey, Princess," he manages weakly, giving his scruffy chin a long rub of his hand, the one that isn't bandaged. It would appear he sustained injuries as well, but I take the fact that he's not presently confined to a bed or hoverchair as a positive sign that it's nothing too serious for him. Still, the fact that he hasn't shaved in at least three days is enough to keep me from lowering my guard. Lance typically keeps himself impeccably well groomed, part of that suave, debonair appearance he maintains for the ladies. Such a handsome devil, he is! Were he not like a brother to me, I might be sorely tempted to fall for his charms.

"Lance."

It's not much of a greeting, but I know he won't object if we skip the small talk tonight. It seems so pointless at a time like this, and Lance knows me well enough by now to realize I've only employed it in the past to avoid talking about the real issues. Tonight, avoidance is the last thing on my mind.

"How you feeling?" His hazel eyes look everywhere but mine.

Apparently, it's on his. I force myself to remain calm and shrug my shoulders as if to say, "I don't know. That's the trouble," but the only words that issue forth are those lying at the heart of the matter. "Please! No one will tell me."

"Sorry, Sweetheart. We were warned not to tell you right away. They were afraid your body wasn't strong enough yet, and that any additional stress would only do you more harm than good," he offers quietly.

I try to discern if there is anything sympathy in his voice, but Lance seems to be devoid of emotions at the moment. This is not the Lance I know.

"You were fighting for your life," he furthers. "Dr. Gorma said it was pretty shaky for a time. However, you've been through the worst, and now you're stable again."

I swallow the lump that has arisen in my throat. I could have died? I suppose that truth has never been hidden from me. I knew the risks involved when I made the decision to learn to pilot the Blue Lion after we nearly lost Sven. We're fighting a war, and war doesn't come without its mortal consequences.

"So I'm not dying," I manage to croak when the world stops spinning from this revelation.

Lance shakes his head. "Physically, you're gonna be just fine, Sweetheart. The Doc's takin' real good care of you. Gonna take you some time to get back on your feet, but you will."

I begin to relax immediately, the weight of the universe sliding off my shoulders. I can breathe again.

He smiles . . . weakly.

I don't understand. Why the deep concern for me if nothing's wrong? Then again, now that I think about it, that's not what he said. He only said I was fine physically. So what does that leave? My mental, spiritual, and emotional health?

I don't seem to be suffering from any sort of memory loss, delusions, paranoia, depression, or the inability to logically reason. I know the exact date, my current location, and any number of facts, trivial or otherwise. I can even tell you what I had for breakfast the morning of the battle right down to the extra sweet roll I snuck when Nanny wasn't looking.

As for my spiritual well being, I consider myself to be a woman of faith. I believe in God, and Lord knows I pray several times a day. I know I'm not perfect, but I try to live a life of love and compassion. I think I rule my kingdom with a fair hand, and I always try to help whenever and wherever possible. I don't want to die, but I'm not afraid of death itself. I know it's not the end, merely another part of the journey.

I suppose that leaves the emotional part, and I confess, that's always been a struggle for me. Keith says that's because I always wear my heart upon my sleeve. He says that leaves me vulnerable, and more often than not, that causes me to react with my emotions rather than my brain and solid reason. I can't help it. That's just who I am. I can't help but "feel" the world around me. Is that such a bad thing? I don't want to simply speak of joy; I want to revel in it. I don't want to merely encounter sorrow passively; I want to know it intimately, that I might not dismiss it with a wave of my hand or an uninterested shake of my head. I don't want to only dream of love; I want to wrap myself up in it, that I might be filled to overflowing and be able to share it with all around me. And if I cry, I cry. I won't deny my tears or apologize for their presence. I feel passionately, and I wouldn't trade that part of me for anything. I refuse to be stoic and hide behind masks and false pretenses. My emotions make me, me.

And ultimately, my emotions shall bring about my undoing if I don't get some answers soon. But what is the problem here? For all intensive purposes, I'm fine. Lance wouldn't lie to me. He's simply not the type, so if it's not me, why all the secrecy? What is it they don't want me to know? And if I'm not ill, why is it that I still feel so awful?

That's when it happens. Gently taking me into his trembling embrace, Lance holds me close and is suddenly overcome with such a deep, aching anguish that he is soon sobbing like an inconsolable child.

For a brief moment, I entertain thoughts about how I might go about comforting him, and then I realize that comfort will not find either of us, perhaps not ever again.

A pain worse than any I've experienced in all my life grips me at my very core and blazes through me with a searing heat I doubt will ever abate, and I find myself standing on the precipice of a bleak eternity against which I have fervently prayed more times than I can count. I gasp for air as my chest tightens with unbearable pressure, and my heart shatters beyond repair. Lance's breath burns as it enters my ear, one word on his quivering lips.

"Keith . . . ."