A/N: For my partner in crime on the Snarktron Force. She knows who she is.
Before the Voltron Force, before Special Forces, Sven Holgersson had been the child of diplomats. He had learned their craft with his letters, and it had given him a unique insight into people. So, less than a day after he brought Romelle home to Pollux, he knew he was disliked and gossiped about.
Romelle was Crown Princess. She had a duty to marry well, to produce the next generation of Polluxian royalty. And she would rule Pollux, if only as the power behind Bandor's throne. She needed a strong, worthy partner.
And an escaped Doom slave, a washed-up failure of a pilot, was most emphatically not that partner, as far as the Polluxian nobility was concerned. And that was just with what little they knew about him. Sven shivered and punched his pillow up. If they learned that their princess had brought a drug addict, no matter how recovered, into their midst, they would depose her and lynch him.
He groaned and turned over, aching back and active mind denying him sleep. Romelle, had she been there, could have eased his pain with a massage in a matter of moments. But they had agreed not to share quarters until after they announced their engagement, and so he was alone in a guest room.
Sven threw back the covers and dressed, then headed outside to pace the gardens. It was clear now, here on Pollux, that his relationship with Romelle was a mistake. Romelle was a princess, with duties and obligations to her people. He had been a fool to think that he could play any role in that. Best thing he could do for her. . . he sighed. Leaving her would all but destroy him. But to stay. . .to stay would destroy Romelle's standing with her people. Sven swallowed hard. No matter how much it hurt him, he had to do the best thing for his elskede. Decision made, he sat in a gazebo, arms wrapped around his knees, and watched the sunrise. Tears streamed down his cheeks unheeded, and the pain from his back vanished into the ache of his heart.
Romelle knew something was wrong. Sven hadn't touched her or said a word to her in two days that wasn't proper and polite. And no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get him alone to talk' she suspected he was using his Special Forces training to avoid her. "Try and do that tonight, Viking boy," she smirked to her reflection. Bandor was throwing a ball to welcome her home, and Sven had promised to escort her. Smoothing the blue silk bustier and garter belt she wore, she turned from the mirror to pick up her dress. Unlike the floofy dresses she used to wear—and her cousin Allura still wore—this dress was formfitting to her hips, then flared to her ankles. Deep rose in color, it was strapless with a lace bodice and satin skirt. She stepped into it and turned for her maid to button it up, then stepped into the matching stilettos. Her feet would kill her before the night was over, but she wanted to be able to look into Sven's eyes as they danced.
As Clara put the final touches on her hair, a knock sounded at her bedroom door. Romelle nodded to Clara to answer it, then picked up her perfume and spritzed herself carefully. "Commander Holgersson, Highness," came the announcement. Romelle turned from the mirror, but whatever she was going to say died on her lips as she got a look at Sven. Gone was the wild, self-proclaimed "crazy man" from the caves of Doom. Commander Sven Holgersson was ramrod straight, every hair in place. His Garrison dress whites were pristine, and the right side of his chest was covered with medals. "Good evening, Princess," he said with a slight bow. "Are you ready to go?"
The last two days had been torture for Sven. Watching Romelle, forcing himself not to touch her, to be as proper with her as he would have been with a stranger, had taken every bit of his formidable willpower and discipline. And now, walking into her bedroom and seeing her. . .a vision of blonde curls and rose lace, her perfume seducing his senses. . .it was all he could do not to tumble her to the bed right then and there. Instead, he offered her his arm and escorted her down to the ballroom, every inch the officer and gentleman he had been raised and trained to be. Just a few more days, he thought desperately. Garrison will have my new assignment and I can leave the Denubian forever. He paused on the top step leading into the ballroom as Romelle was announced, "with escort" (Should've expected that, he thought to himself), then led her down to the floor to begin the first dance. As they waltzed around the ballroom, he looked into her eyes, drinking her in, saving up the memory for when he would no longer have her.
Romelle reveled in the feel of Sven's arms around her, even though he was being careful to keep to a proper dance posture. The slight to him when they made their entrance had her fuming; she had left instructions for him to be introduced as her intended, Commander Sven Holgersson. That he hadn't been could only be a deliberate slight, and she resolved to have someone's head for it. In the meantime, she became aware of some of the glowers her courtiers were directing at Sven's back, and the pieces began to fall into place. As the music ended, she curtsied to Sven, then put her hand on his arm. "I need some air; will you walk in the garden with me?"
"Of course, my Princess." He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and guided her out onto the terrace, then out into the garden. When they were out of sight and earshot of the ball, she stopped and turned to face him.
"Sven Holgersson, what is going on with you? You've been strange and distant since we came home; don't. . ." her voice broke and she turned away from him. "Don't you love me anymore?"
The words pierced Sven like the Robeast's claw all over again, and he put his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him. "Oh, min elskede. . .I will ALWAYS love you; never doubt that. You are my heart and soul, my world!"
"Then WHY?" she cried out in agony. "Why have you pushed me away? What did I do wrong?"
Sven shook his head. "It is not you. I. . .Romelle, elske, I am not worthy of you. You need a strong partner, who can rule at your side. A prince, not a failure of a pilot." He turned away to hide the tears in his eyes.
Romelle's eyes narrowed. "And just where did you come up with that?" She made a dismissive gesture. "Never mind; I can guess. I saw the looks you were getting in there, and I did NOT miss that you weren't introduced with me." She moved to face him again, lifting a hand to cup his face and wipe his tears. "Sven, don't you get it yet? You are the strongest person I have ever known. You had to be, to survive the Pit of Skulls. You saved my life, and I love you. I don't want some prince; I want my Viking at my side. And if the nobles of Pollux cannot accept that. . . they can accept not having a princess."
Sven looked down at her, overwhelmed at the fierce love that shone from the beloved blue eyes. Romelle met his gaze, then wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down into a passionate kiss that left him dazed and gasping for air. "Now, as for the court," she said in a low voice. "It was on their advice that Father gave Avok to Zarkon for a Robeast, and me to Lotor for a bedroom toy. I could not possibly care less what they think of me. But they WILL give you the respect you deserve. Come on." She pulled on his hand, heading for the ballroom, and he had to follow her or go sprawling.
In the ballroom, Romelle pushed through the crowd to the stage, Sven in tow. The musicians stopped playing as she stepped in front of them and faced the crowd, which became silent and waited for her to speak. "Thank you all for coming," she said quietly. "I appreciate your welcome." Her voice hardened. "What I do NOT appreciate is the welcome—if you would call it that—you have given to the man I love. Sven is the kindest, most honorable man I have ever known. He has endured horrors beyond your imagining, and it was his care and attention that saved me when Lotor. . .tired of me. He loves me for who I am, as I love him, and I intend to marry him. With or without your approval."
"You cannot do that!" one of the senior courtiers thundered. "Your marriage is for US to decide. And it will not be to some no-name drifter you dragged off planet Doom!"
"You and the council lost the right to dictate my marriage when you advised my father to hand me over to Lotor," Romelle countered coldly. "As for Commander Holgersson; he is a member of the Voltron Force, and a highly decorated officer of the Galaxy Garrison; hardly the no-name drifter you call him. I WILL marry Sven, and if you do not like it. . . you will find yourselves without a princess."
"I will NOT allow this, Romelle!" the senior courtier charged onto the stage, intending to grab her by the arm and drag her away from Sven. But just as his hand closed on her arm, he felt a steel trap pin his own arm. Shocked, he looked down to find the commander's right hand locked around his arm, just short of a crushing grip.
"Romelle has made her choice; she is a woman grown," Sven said, deadly calm. "She is not a child for you to dictate to. Touch her again, and you will answer to ME. Am I clear?" He thrust the older man away from him and put his arm around Romelle.
Romelle slid her arm around Sven and let him lead her from the ballroom, ignoring the sputtering and gasping courtiers. Neither of them said a word until Sven locked his bedroom door behind them. "I am so sorry," he said softly, hands going to her shoulders. "I thought I was doing what was best for you. I never should have listened to all that gossip."
Romelle pulled his hands down around her waist and walked into his arms, leaning against his chest. "Shhh. . .It's all right," she whispered. "Just hold me. I've missed your touch."
Sven tightened his arms, resting his head against hers. "As I have missed yours." He chuckled darkly. "It took all I had to walk out of your bedroom with you tonight. You look amazing." He pulled back a bit and kissed her gently.
Romelle returned the kiss, deepening it for several moments. "So do you," she whispered huskily when they finally came up for air. "That uniform does wonderful things for you."
"You do wonderful things for me," he corrected, sliding his hands up her back. "I was a fool to think I could live without you." He kissed her again, then stepped back and went to one knee. "I never again want to be without you. Romelle Amarrissa Divenis, Du er mitt hjerte og sjel, mitt livs kjærlighet. Will you be my wife?"
Romelle's eyes flew wide, tears welling in them. All she could do was nod as Sven slipped his Academy ring from his right hand and placed it on her left. "Until I can get you your own," he whispered, kissing her hand as he got to his feet. "I love you, Romelle. Always."
She threw her arms around him and kissed him. "I love you too, honey. Always."
A/N: Du er mitt hjerte og sjel, mitt livs kjærlighet means "You are my heart and soul, the love of my life", in Norwegian.