A/N:
Point of view or time changes are marked by "0 0 0".
This story takes place in the same universe as Mysteries and Misimpressions, so it diverges from canon after Season 1, though it contains certain elements and characters from Seasons 2 and 3. Parts were written before canon ages were revealed, so Shiro is 19 and Pidge is 16 when they first form Voltron, and Matt is also 19 at that time. It is primarily about Lotor, Matt, Sam, Thace, and the Blade of Marmora, but includes the Paladins, as well as a number of other familiar characters, and spans two years, from the capture of Shiro, Matt and Sam on Kerberos, through Shiro's escape to Earth and the formation of the Paladins and Voltron, through the end of the War, and the aftermath and repercussions, which threaten the Earth with annihilation.
Disclaimer:
The Voltron: Legendary Defendercharacters are under copyright or license by Toei Animation, World Events Productions, Netflix, Dreamworks Animation, Studio Mir and/or others. This is a work of fanfiction, for no monetary gain. The first work was simultaneously being posted on .
Chapter 1 – Smoke and Blood
Prince Lotor stood in the furthest shadows of the Imperial Box of the Arena, his body and face concealed in the hooded cloak of a Druid. He would not have dared risk either wearing the robes, though they were his, or standing here, had the Witch been anywhere near, but she was busy in her laboratory. He never thought of her by the name the others used or seldom even by the title of their biological relation. Names held power, which is why they always deprived their slaves of their names when they stole their freedom, so the power they held over them was absolute.
"The new prisoners are to fight tonight. Let us hope they don't prove as disappointing as the last batch," his father stated, his voice containing only the usual level of threat and censure, nothing particularly deadly.
"If I were allowed even a few days to train them, Excellency, I am certain they would be more entertaining," Vornax's obsequious voice foolishly promised.
"If they live, you may train them," his father promised magnanimously, empty words from an empty heart and soul.
Even with training, it was doubtful any of the pathetically small and weak new slaves would last more than a few ticks against the Myzax, the current Champion. Lotor had no desire to watch yet another night of slaughter in an endless series of them. Thankfully however, he had successfully kept his presence hidden. Lotor slipped away from the Imperial Box, past the elite warriors who guarded his father without their notice, cloaked mostly in shadow and silence, but in a whisper of Druid magic.
He intended to head back to his quarters, but instead found himself heading down to the slave pits, to the very bowels of the arena. Here too, he traveled was unnoticed, which suited his purpose: he wished to satiate his restlessness and curiosity without being observed. He had yet to see the latest batch of slaves, and he understood they were from a newly discovered species. Perhaps they might somehow prove useful to him.
There was the sound of a scuffle up ahead, a crazed cry, "I want blood!", and the shouts of the guards and terrified whimpers of the slaves.
In a twist of smoke, Lotor teleported to the altercation. If there was a mad slave who had somehow overpowered his guards and actually escaped, there was no telling how many slaves and Galrans could be injured or killed.
But fast as he was, the slave was faster. Lotor never even saw him, but from the guards' excited babbling, the blood crazed slave had apparently entered the arena, so insanely eager to race to his doom and face the Champion that he had attacked and left a bloody child in his wake.
"Did you see that! That one's ruthless and vicious enough that it might actually last more than a few ticks. I wish I was up top where I could bet on it, instead of down here with these vermin. Look at this one. It hasn't even entered the arena yet, and it's already dying," one of the guards complained, his voice dripping with disgust and derision. "Although such a small, weak, young, worthless slave wouldn't have lasted two ticks in the arena in any case."
"Small, weak, young, worthless."
Lotor stilled, momentarily ceasing to breathe. How many times had he heard those very same words from his father, seen those same thoughts echoed in the faces around him, of those who dared not criticize him as openly? Flawed as he was, as belittled by his father as he might be, none would risk Emperor Zarkon's wrath. It was one thing for the Emperor to despise and criticize his own son. For others to do so invoked words like "treason".
"Why waste another days rations on it? We should just kill it now. It will die soon anyway, now that it's wounded," the other guard suggested, lazily raising his sword over the fallen slave.
"Wait! I'm valuable, a scientist, technician, mechanic!" the previously cowering creature spoke, not a child after all but a young man, apparently, though he spoke shrilly as well as rapidly. He was still on the floor, still quaking in pain and terror, but now his right arm was raised defensively in front of his face and torso, and there was desperate fire in his eyes as well as the intelligence his words had implied. Sadly, in another moment, he'd lose both his arm and his life.
"Hold!" Lotor commanded, gliding between the slave and the guard, before he had time to rationally consider what he was doing, the wildness of both his father's and mother's blood once again drowning out his calculating intellect and threatening to bring him to ruin. He silently cursed his parentage even as the guard who had been threatening the young alien and the other guards near him jerked back in fear at the sight of his Druidic robes.
"As you have no use for this slave, you will give him to us," Lotor ordered, using the imperial "us", indicating himself, not the Druids, though the guards would naturally assume otherwise, as his face was yet cloaked, his sibilant voice purposefully misleading and concealing.
The guard drew back further, lowering his sword, but not sheathing it, his grip tightening on the hilt in his fear.
"Rise," Lotor commanded the slave.
The young male scrambled shakily to his feet, staggering and almost falling again, but recovering and standing, though swaying.
"Walk," Lotor commanded, pointing a razor nailed finger down the corridor.
The slave visibly swallowed, and worried his lower lip with his teeth, but then he began to move, though he was more lurching than walking.
Lotor glided behind him, soundlessly. They were nearly at the end of the corridor when Lotor heard one of the guards prematurely exhale in relief. "Foolish child. It would have been better off dead."
From the sudden inhalation at his side, Lotor was certain the slave had heard as well, and not for the first time cursed the translating technology in the imbedded communications systems of the corridors. It enabled them to understand the potentially rebellious words of their slaves, but likewise enabled the slaves to understand them as well, useful when voicing commands, but just as often counterproductive.
Lotor pretended not to hear the implied insult to the Druids. He would not tarnish saving a life by taking others, though were his mother to hear, she would certainly have struck down not only the guard who spoke, but any non-Druid within earshot of such blasphemy, slave or guard alike.
"If you can remain conscious, upright and moving long enough to reach my sanctuary, your life will be spared and your injury healed," Lotor bargained, whispering his promise so softly that only the slave might hear.
"Yes sir," the young man replied, stiffening, his movement improving, if only minutely.
So, this slave had some knowledge of obedience to commands, likely a parent's, as it was extremely doubtful he had any sort of military training, given his obvious frailty, though perhaps that was a result of his captivity. It certainly would be too much to hope for that he might have some concept of a Life Debt, though he was about to learn.
0 0 0
Matt had no idea why the cloaked figure had rescued him from imminent death at the hands of the guard. His rescue seemed as surreal as their capture, as being torn away from his father and made a slave, as Shiro… he bit back a sob. Shiro had attacked him, wounded him, he'd gone mad and… except he hadn't. At the last moment, there had been desperation, regret, and apology in his eyes, and he'd told him to take care of his father. Could he have done what he did to protect me somehow, both of us?
Whatever Shiro's intentions, he'd miscalculated, or slipped maybe. Could that have been from his head injury? Unlike him and his dad, they'd clubbed Shiro unconscious, not once, but twice.
What if he has a concussion? They can make your personality change and affect your balance and coordination. It wasn't his fault he hurt me so badly, I'm sure it wasn't. We've been best friends for five years. The only one he's closer to is Keith, and he's more like Shiro's brother.
Thinking about Shiro instead of his own exhaustion and weakness had at least gotten him down a few of the corridors. But now his focus was back on himself and his own injury, the pain in his chest was making it hard to breathe, let alone move. But the alien in the robe needed him to walk; he'd promised to heal him if he did. Matt didn't know whether or not he could believe him, but he needed to be healed in order to find and save his father, so he couldn't risk alienating his rescuer. Alienating the alien.
Matt almost giggled and realized he was either becoming hysterical, losing his mind, or the blood loss was worse than he realized and he was becoming giddy from it. He was certainly starting to feel more and more disconnected from reality, as he stumbled and staggered along the endless branching corridors.
Damn it. I should have tried to remember where we turned, how to get back to the slave pens, in case my father is there somewhere.
He took another step, but it was as if an abyss had opened under his feet, or the world had tilted, he was falling, helpless to right himself, stop himself. No, no, no! I'm close, I must be. He'll heal me! Move, you stupid body!
Claws scratched the back of his neck, the unexpected bite of pain bringing momentary focus, enough to realize the bulk of his weight was now being held by the bunched fabric of his slave clothes, like a kitten being held by the scruff of its neck. He distantly heard what was clearly a curse, from the way it was uttered, and the swish of an opening door, and then he was pushed forwards, into what had moments ago looked like a solid wall.
The door closed behind them, just as Matt's legs gave out entirely. He expected to fall hard, but something caught him before he hit the floor.
"Technically you made it to the door, so our bargain stands, even if you cannot. I will heal you," the cloaked figure promised, only now his voice was no longer hissing and sinister, but strong, if cold and forbidding.
"And then, you will bathe, we will burn these parasite infested rags, and I will teach you what it means to serve me," the alien intoned solemnly and intimidatingly.
"Yes, master," Matt mumbled, half seriously, half sarcastically, to combat the fear that he had just gone from the frying pan and into the fire, and he was about to get incinerated. Then terrifyingly, thankfully, all light and thought winked out.
