This is my first Voltron fic, and with Keith being my favorite character, expect quite a lot of hurt and whump for our boy.
Also, this here is the link that gave me the inspiration for this fic and for how Keith will look in the story (by catne on deviantart): art/Galra-Keith-634324500
Prologue
The woman hated the old photos she found in her drawers. Old photos that shone with the happiness of the moment they were taken, and rekindled her desire to go back in time to create them. Old photos that wormed their way into her heart, and made her conscious of her age, of how much time had passed - and of what kind of life she'd led.
She moved slowly to the window where she spent the most of her time, careful of her fatigue, and sat down; her frail body still showing signs of the grace she beheld in her youth. The woman set her feverish palm against the cool glass with a sigh. The scene she looked out upon was a familiar one: a mid morning sun stretched out against the stark white of the first winter snows. The gleaming white softly blanketed the grounds of her country, and her beloved son as he rolled about in it.
She could not help the fond smile that grew on her face as she watched her son play wildly in the by himself. His dark hair flashed like a beacon in the snow, and the creamy tan of his skin stood, blotchy, with its true, violet, color.
Her son: the one and only successor to the Kogane throne- the lone child she could have before the disease claimed her body: a fate that didn't seem too far away.
Adalena looked down at the old photo in her hand and smiled, unaware of the tears making their way down the ragged planes of her face, and sticking to her unruly hair.
Do good for me, my son. Do good for all of us.
And as her breathing slowed to a stop, she stared with sightless eyes out the window of her youth, towards her husband in the east, and her greatest treasure beneath her: playing in the snow.
Do good for me, Keith.
A small boy stuck to the shadows of the thick castle walls, unwilling to be seen. He moved forward with quiet footsteps to a door left ajar; ears straining to make out the words spoken in the conference room. Fuzzy purple ears perked as golden eyes flashed at the sight in front of him.
His father sat down at the head of a large stone table, the only non-Galra at the table. His council of advisors all sat down around him: Zarkon, his closest second, whispering in his ear. A jury of the finest Galrans. Heads of the Galran army, naval force, and government mingled in with the noblemen: sons and daughters of the wealthy-born
Keith looked upon the faces of the council men and women, cataloging the faces of his father's peers, and enemies. He looked upon the tongues that spoke of wealth and whispered of war. The king sat in the midst of it, listening. Or at least he used to.
He would be happy at the sight of his father, a man who he'd only see every few days at most, if it wasn't for the sharp bite of angrily spoken words spat from his mouth.
"The child will not rule my kingdom! He is but evidence of the late queen's… misdeeds. I have already chosen a successor."
A woman with shaggy purple hair and pointed teeth stood suddenly; pointing an accusing finger at the king. She seemed to shake with the anger she harbored inside of her.
"My sister hung on and fought to birth the child- no, to birth your son and now you will throw away her final wish?" The woman- his aunt- shook her head sadly a the lack of emotion in his father's (?) eyes.. "You disgust me."
"-Haern!"
Keith's eyes widened as she sprung out of her chair furiously, baring her teeth to anyone who attempted to stop her speedy exit of the council room. He tried, in vain, to make his way to the wide shadow of the door before she burst out… only to be exposed to every eye in the room.
Those who had been watching the Galran council member's quick exit immediately bore their accusing eyes into him: the object of their distaste. The boy met his father's gaze with wide eyes, and his father: exasperation. And no matter how long he looked, searching for a change in his father face; a smile, a wink, a whisper, something! He found nothing. The boy's eyes filled with tears that threatened to spill over before he found himself being lifted up, and enveloped into his Aunt's arms. Hands flattened his ears gently, and wiped the spilt tears from his blotchy face; dark patches of purple surfacing more in his distress.
"Don't look, child. Don't listen to any of them."
Keith froze momentarily before melting into her arms. Short claws scrabbled at her blouse, and clung to the only person he had left.
Keith knew about the change. Haern refused to tell him what it was, or why they had to move to the small cottage outside of castle grounds, but eventually he found out.
And it hurt like hell.
The boy was both taller and older than him. All bulky muscle and broad shoulders- a real Galran; nothing like his bony shoulders and skinny arms. The boy who had replaced him as his father's heir. Sendak, was his name. Sendak. So much better than Keith.
Sendak's skin was a pure indigo, clear and untainted; a polar opposite from Keith's mottled skin and speckled complexion. Not a halfie, not a mixed breed: not a mutt.
Keith could never match up.
Coup d'état. The new word on the street.
Keith only heard whispers of this new word, passed like produce from merchants to customers, and treasured like Galran coins from the slaves who worked in the mines.
Coup d'état.
Keith rolled the word around in his mouth like a fine wine. Tasting and experimenting with the sound of words so strong they made Aunt Haern flinch and make him promise to never say them again. And he did with fingers crossed behind his back; but it was his little secret.
He would whisper the words to his threadbare teddy and sing them to the faded stars painted onto the walls of his room.
Coup d'état.
The words that promised a revolution.
Keith prepared himself for the looming battle, stretching his left leg far out to the side of him, carefully testing the sprain he got from his last fight against another Champion.
He could feel the rumbling roar of the crowd from where he stretched inside his cell. He hadn't fought in a week. Seven days was enough time to lick his wounds from his previous fight; a luxury that only the best fighters in the Dome were allowed. The others were either left to die, or thrown into another fight soon after to save time. And though Keith really had no concrete way of telling the days as they passed, he knew the rotation of Champion fighters, and Bayen had stepped into the Dome just yesterday.
The cell door in front of him opened noisily, revealing a Galran soldier behind it. The man didn't even try to block the door with his body. Keith had practically grown up in the cells surrounding the Dome- he had no reason to run. Especially when running meant certain death.
"Up." The guard gestured with his gun for Keith to stand, even though Keith was in the process of standing even before the door of his cell swung open. It was routine; a clockwork system that had not changed for the entire time Keith was held captive in the Dome: fight, eat, sleep, wait. And if you died somewhere in the middle of that routine, then oh well.
Keith held out his arms to be cuffed, and robotically let himself be led down familiar corridors, and closer to the growing roar of the crowd. The Dome looked just as it always did: high, vaulted ceilings that reached up to the heavens, yet were blocked off, leaving only a small hexagon of light to seep through the dark purple tile around it- confirming to Keith that it was in fact the correct time of day for tonight's blood bath. There were cracks filled with a bright pink light that seemed to weave their way in and out of the tiles on the ceiling, and covering the room with a pink hue. The Dome was roughly the size of a football stadium, but smaller, with stands stretching out in every direction, and a single viewing box that stood high above the rest: the box of Emperor Zarkon and his son Sendak.
Zarkon only attended the fights that starred either his best Champions, or his druid Haggar's latest experiments. And since those two requirements usually met in the same fight, Zarkon came around more often than not. Keith averted his eyes as they met with the cold eyes of the Galran Emperor. Zarkon reminded Keith too much of what he lost, and he needed all of his focus on the fight ahead of him, not all that he used to have: emotions placed second to living.
Keith grabbed the knife that was offered to him. The knife was more of a dagger: wide at the bottom and coming to a wicked point a the top, barbed and deadly. He rolled it around in his hand, adjusting himself to the weight, and length of the weapon- Keith was much more acquainted to the longer swords that he was allowed to use every once and awhile. But they never allowed for a fighter to get too comfortable with a weapon. The Dome fights were never amusing without some element of surprise for the audience- Keith never minded giving them a show; it was, after all, what they kept him alive for. The fact did not bother him.
"Head on in." his handler nudged him harshly towards the entrance to the Dome: a long runway that was the same length on both sides of the ring, surrounded by a pitch-black abyss of negative space. Seeing the two opponents walk down the runway, only to meet in the middle for a battle to the death? Really upped the ante. Keith however, didn't give two fucks about the suspense of the situation (though he almost always gave the crowd the fight they wanted)- as long as he was the one walking out of the ring alive, he could easily end the fight in a few short minutes, and leave the audience wanting more, or draw things out, slicing at his opponent with carefully measured cuts until they eventually folded, and he would finish them off cleanly. It was then that the crowds would become thunderous in their roars: some elated to have bet on the right Champion, and some enraged, but all in want of bloodshed.
Keith had always found that horrifyingly funny.
As Keith made his way to his side of the ring, the other end lit up, and the crowd went silent; awaiting the arrival of his opponent. Keith also tensed, keeping his blade at his side until he could fully size up his opponent, but the preparation was unnecessary as a small galran boy was spat out onto the runway, and into the Dome. He was roughly 5'5, placing at about two or three inches shorter than Keith, and thin as a rail (as all prisoners were). Keith wouldn't put it past Zarkon to send a 14 year old boy into the Dome, especially since that was the scene that was playing out in front of him.
He looked up accusingly at the viewing box where Zarkon sat. The emperor only looked down at him, a telltale smirk on his face. The audience was split between watching the standoff between the bastard and the emperor, and wanting to get their money's worth on this match. After a few tense moments, Keith tore his glare away from Zarkon, and walked towards the center of the ring slowly, feeling the eyes of everyone on him- especially the emperor's. Keith looked at the boy from where he stood in the ring, noting that the boy took a step back for every step forward Keith took, until his back was flush with the now-closed door at the end of the runway. Revealing the dagger he hid at his side, Keith dropped the dagger at his feet, hearing every annoyed gasp and whisper in the dead-silent stadium as he kicked his only weapon to his opponent. The boy looked at the blade for a second in disbelief, before snatching it up. Keith knew that he would be the only one leaving the Dome alive, but whatever untainted conscience Keith still had left was begging for a fair fight. Keith would allow for the boy to get a few swings at him before he finally ended the match, anything to make him see this a mercy-kill, and not a savage execution. Or at least that was what Keith was planning to do, before the boy plunged the dagger into his own neck. Keith was frozen in place, entranced by the way the boys blood spurted out of his neck in high arcs that flew up higher than the boys own head, and splattered onto the runway floor: painting the door behind him black.
It was the vicious laughter of the barbaric onlookers that woke him from his shock.
Keith ran to the boy, gripping him tightly before he could crumple to the floor. He quickly tore off his own shirt, and pressed it harshly to the child's neck. But the blood refused to stop, and continued pulsing out of the boy with a wet squelch. Keith could not help the frustrated sigh that tore out of him as the boy was drained of life beneath him. He was overwhelmed in the hate of his thoughts. He hated how Zakon always seemed to know what Keith would do before he did it. How, no matter how shocking an action Keith attempted, Zarkon would just smile like he knew all along, and it was sad how Keith just kept playing into his hands. But that hate quickly turned to self-loathing. Why did he continue to try fate? Why couldn't he just swallow his pride, and stop fighting Zarkon? He was above him, and had always been above him from birth, so Keith needed to just give up and accept his role as another prisoner: their Champion...or he could plunge a blade in his neck too, and wait for everything to just stop. Maybe that would be better, to just slee-
-the boy was trying to speak.
"H-h… hurts," His words were split with a rough gasping fit that spat blood out onto Keith. The child's hands felt their way desperately up Keith's face "...Daddy? Daddy it hurts. It hurts, it hurts so bad… please make it stop… please?" Keith attempted to look away, but the child's eyes bore into him: glossy, wide eyes full of delirium and hope- so much damn hope it hurt even Keith. So he closed the child's eyes, wrapped his hands around the child's neck, and tightened his grip until the boy went still.
The match was now truly over, and the doors at both sides of the runway opened up, the uproarious laughter morphed into cheers, and some even began to chant "Champion" as Keith was dragged away by his handlers. One of the men dragging him back to his cell thumped him on the back of his head once the sound of the Dome faded away into a distant rumble.
"Hey Champion," he started, voice thick with sarcasm. "Is this going to be your new move? Getting your opponents to take their own lives so you don't have to? Ha! Some Champion!" He and his partner laughed rowdily, throwing Keith into his cell as if he weighed nothing (which, in some way was true), and went back to their posts, their voices echoing in the hollow caverns.
Keith was left in silence, and other than the occasional sniffle or cry from other prisoners, he was well and truly alone, left with nothing but another nameless face added to the collection of morbid and very literal "skeletons" in his closet. Still, he curled up on the thin straw cot on the floor, and attempted to sleep, like he did after every realization that he was to live another day.
TBC...
so this is still a huge WIP so if that turns you off I just gotta let you know. also, I do readily accept constructive criticism, and thoughts on how you guys want to see the story go. I still cant decide if I want bromance or slash, so comment :))) thanks for reading -nolabel