Allura is a Mercy, a member of an ancient female sect that deals in death. It's a morbid profession, providing mercy-kills to those who are needlessly suffering, and makes it the most undesirable. It is a job that makes grown men flinch, one that drives even the bravest of warriors to upset. Allura doesn't like it, but she recognizes its necessity, its service; she takes a solemn pride in it. She is certain about what she does. And that certainty remains even as she is forced to have mercy on her only love.

(Voltron X Boneless Mercies (book) crossover)

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He's burning up.

Allura frowns deeper as worry etches itself into her visage and overtakes her. Her hand shakes as she pulls it away from his forehead, slick with his sweat and hers. Peace, she thinks, peace; she mumbles it under her breath to him. It's always had a way of calming him down. She suspects it's something his mother used to do for him as her father did for her-- being from the same people as they were-- but he'd sooner go under than admit it.

The humorless joke brings a tightness to her throat that is hard to swallow. It makes Allura more desperate, more willing to forget the other crows outside their dwellings. More desperate to ignore the blade at her hip. More willing to do just about anything.

Keeping careful control of her emotions, Allura quickly retrieves a cloth and basin. She fills the latter with cold water, then comes to his bedside. She puts the cloth in the cold water, wrings it out, and places it on his forehead. A low murmur, somewhat of a moan of relief-- however small-- escapes him, and Allura can find it within herself to feel hopeful. She tries to smile.

After cooling the wet cloth with more water and placing it back on his head, Allura thinks to leave him for a few moments more to prepare a brew for him; as soon as she'd gotten word of his condition, she had headed back unchallenged, gathering ingredients for a remedy on the way through western country. She needs now to stomach leaving his side for just a few moments in order to save him, lest her extended journey be for naught.

She turns away, scared to death of how he'll be when she gets back--

"Allura,"

A surprise: he shouldn't be able to talk. It's a weak, breathy little thing of speech but it's something. Allura turns back towards him with her heart in her throat, and kneels at bedside where his head lay. She runs her fingers over his cheek, then through his hair. It takes a lot of effort, too much time, to respond to him.

"Lotor," her voice shakes. It's hard to get his name to leave her mouth as anything more than a whisper and anything less than a prayer. She hopes that he has heard her in his bleary and feverish state, she's not sure how long it'll be before she can say it again.

He turns his head towards her, brows furrowed and the skin on his forehead taut with stress. His eyes flutter. Allura feels her heart stutter as his foggy cobalt eyes find her.

"Allura," sounds his breath of relief.

She tries to smile for him. She runs her fingers through his beautiful hair, whiter than snow and the clouds in the sky. She marvels at the lovely contrast between it an his mahogany skin, jealous despite having that same contrast herself; there is something about it on him. She barely manages a reply to him. "Don't talk," she says much stronger than she ever thought she could, "save your strength."

Lotor seems to relax a little. His grimace evens out into a neutral expression and he almost looks peaceful. Almost. There is a dark softness to his eyes that tells her many things his weakened voice cannot, and she knows it well. One of his hands reaches for her.

Allura stands then, an apology within her very breath; she wants to stay but can't fall victim to yearning, he needs her to be strong for him, to step away so that a remedy can be made. She turns towards the kitchen. He grunts behind her, upset with her actions, and she puts a hand to his head to placate him. "Peace. I won't be long. I promise." She forces herself to walk away.

The time she takes making the brew is agony. She can't help but wonder-- but fear if he'll be dead when she walks back into their bedroom. She tells herself peace, to try and calm down and focus on the task at hand or else his fate is inevitable and sealed by her no less. Her hands move as if detached from her, on their own. She's numb to the warm air of the room and yet paying close attention to every single ministration her hands complete. It's too long before the medicine is ready to be given to him. She rushes back to their bedroom.

"Come on," she urges, breathless, with a hand to his back. She gently coerces him upright. Lotor winces, body laboring and lungs failing, his neck thick with tension. Allura's heart throbs at the obvious pain she's brought him. She sits behind him, letting him rest against her. She brings the cup of warm medicine to his lips with one hand and pushes his hair from his face with the other.

"I'm sorry," she says for the pain, "but I need you to drink."

Lotor nods. Dutiful, he is, and well-focused-- things she loves about him; even as sick as he is he remains able and aware. Allura is thankful for that-- for him. It's saved her several times and saved him even more, sparing them much grief. She thinks about this as he drinks; it's her turn to save him now.

Lotor does not stop until the brew is gone. Then he sighs deeply, as if his soul, engulfed in fire, is leaving his body. Allura holds him to her. She can feel him shivering. She wraps both her arms around him to assuage his sudden change in condition. She asks if he wants his shirt back now that the fever cycle is starting back up. He tells her no. Allura hugs him tighter.

"Peace," she mumbles into his hair, "peace."

She can't help but look around as she holds him to her chest, to her heart. This home they built together, it hasn't endured many misgivings-- it hasn't had to. There was never a doubt about anything. They were comfortable, assured, mutual, willing. It hurts to have doubts in this house. She doesn't want them. But she also can't ignore his increasing illness and the admittedly questionable reliability of the medicine she'd given him; it is known to work, but only occassionally; there is little bartering with the Lypsan Flu.

Her heart stills as Lotor shifts against her shoulder. She fights the urge to whimper when his boiling nose puffs arid breath on her neck; he's getting worse.

"Allura," he shudders, "love. It won't work in time."

"It will," she says as she looks into his deep eyes. She sees finality in them, meets it with her own, her eyes welling with desperation. "It must."

"You know. . . that I would suffer for you. I--" he groans, face balling from the pain, and she tries to hush him, to alleviate some of the pain, but he continues, "I would endure fire. . for a hundred years. But there's. . .--" another wave of pain, worse than the last, and she begs him to stop. He persists. His voice is gravelly and strained, his hot body tense with agony against her. "There is no more. . time. This sickness would have me. I won't let it. You mustn't let it."

Unshed tears sting Allura's eyes. Her throat closes up and she knows-- she knows. She knows him. She knows what he wants. She loves him for it. But she's so angry with him too, to ask this of her. But she knows that it's only because he respects her and loves her as much as she respects and loves him that he does. She shakes her head and tries to dissaude him anyway.

"Lotor--"

"If I leave," he growls with conviction, cobalt gaze hardened with love and honor, "I leave by your hand."

Gods, she loves him. He is far from a coward. A strong, steadfast, and reliable man. Worthy. More worthy than she ever was of him. She doesn't ever want to lose him, what he is to her; she couldn't possibly imagine life without him. She wants more time. She wants to try something else.

But he will have it no other way.

When she finally lets go of him, her whole body is shaking. Allura gently lays Lotor on his back, his cloudy eyes trained on the ceiling, chest heaving. His every breath hurts them both. Allura considers a quick end, but she doesn't want the last thing he feels to be pain. And the longer she can have him, the better; she knows he feels the same.

She lays herself over him on the bed, takes his head into her hands. He's losing his focus, she can see it in the way his eyes look through the ceiling. But she puts her countenance in his way and his misty, misty eyes find her again-- without fail, like she knew they would-- and his heavy, agonizing breath shallows.

"Allura," he says her name with reverence, better than she deserves, and she closes her eyes and savors the sound of it because she knows it's the last time she'll hear anything like it. A hot hand comes to her cheek and she opens her eyes. She sees his quivering face and knows the time is now; he'll never forgive her if she takes any longer, if she lets the sickness deal him an inhonorable death.

Allura brushes his hair from his face before finally bringing her lips to his. His mouth is so hot and wet, and it burns her own. She holds back her sobs as they kiss. She has to be strong for him, give him a death better than illness because he deserves so much more. He deserves so much more than feverish last moments, confined to a bed, weak, betrayed by his own body. He deserves no pain. He deserves peace. Allura feels the weight of his palms on her waist, and she doesn't care that both the front of her shirt and her lower back are damp with sweat. She gingerly moves a hand from his high cheek and brings it to his nose. With her lips inevitably frowning against his, her eyes screwed shut, she squeezes and blocks his airway. Lotor seems to become more alive immediately after for the next few seconds, but perhaps it's just desperation, and need for a climax before the falling action. A want to savor her as much as she wants to savor him. She gives it to him. She gives him everything she can.

Peace. . . peace.

Their kiss loses its fervor with time. It's not enough time. Allura chokes on her breath as she feels his heart stutter, his chest palpitate. Her heart burns as he grips her strongly, with weathered, caring fingers, before going limp. He doesn't move again.

It's done.

When Allura finally opens her eyes, she sees his are open. It's a painful sight. Painfully blue, painfully gorgeous, painfully dull, painfully focused. Focused on her. She is the last vision he swallowed before meeting the Ancestors-- and how very much like him to desire it that way. To her he gave unending kindness and love, worshipped her vision as if she were a goddess. He said that he wanted to see her strong always. And he did, she did that for him, he left seeing her strong, she was strong until the very end for him. As it should be. As it should be. But now he's gone.

He's gone. . .

Allura closes his eyes with gentle fingers so that he cannot see her as she weeps.