AUTHOR'S NOTE
Too long to be a drabble, too short to be a full-ass chapter. Take it as what you will.
I do not own Voltron: Legendary Defenders.
When he was emperor and she was a Paladin and they'd both stopped reeling after the magnitude of the White Lion's acceptance and rejection, Lotor asked her—"if it were at all possible"—for them to revisit the magical Altean realm of Oriande once more.
She'd been wary at first, considering he'd been quiet on why their first trip had been a failure for him, but had eventually conceded since after Zarkon's death, life as a Paladin had become (slightly) tedious.
The first time since their initial calling had been no different from the monotony on the castleship—that it to say, it was incredibly uninteresting. She had no one but herself to blame, considering it was her who had offered him ancient Altean readings, which Lotor would pore through under one of the shimmering willow trees with such a ferocity as if the books had not lasted for ten thousand years and would refrain from lasting ten thousand more.
Allura would sit under the tree across from him, completely and utterly disinterested from the texts that she had read countless times—instead, carefully weaving flower crowns from the countless pink blossoms that adorned every plant in Oriande. She always wove two—one for her and one for Lotor, although he would never know it.
She yearned to put his crown on his head, just as she had, but the intensity in which he read sent guilty pangs in her stomach for wanting to bother him. Instead, she placed her own flower crown on her head and hooked the other one on a low branch of the willow under which she sat.
This would mark the first of their times in Oriande.