He comes through the throne room doors at last, and it's all he can do not to immediately fall to his knees at the sight of her. She's radiant, a true symbol of power and beauty upon her throne. Exactly where she's supposed to be. And he remains where he's supposed to be: at the end of room, as far from her as possible, with proper posture-- until the Queen orders the doors closed and shoos away all the guard. His shoulders fall promptly, his knees bending slightly in their stiff weakness and his back arching as he leans forward. It hurts to stand straight, even moreso when it makes him stand higher than the innocent around him.
Than the Queen.
Lotor dares not look at her. He stays where he is at the far end of the room.
Allura is shocked to see him in flesh and bone. Her eyes feel decieved for the shortest of moments, her aloof gaze brightening with shock and intrigue once he is allowed in. But she isn't so shocked that she misses the way that her people looked upon him with reverence as he was escorted to her, and she feels as if she's taken a shot of vitriol when she remembers what he'd done.
With the doors closed and everyone gone, he is silent. His head is bowed and his eyes are closed. He seems to be awaiting something-- a scream, a shout, a curse, a hit, an act of absolute outrage. And he seems accepting of it. Allura is tense on her throne as she watches him. As she lets him wait, anticipate a lashing that will not come. It is a silent torment, a perfect, merciful one she deals as she ponders what to do with him.
Lotor is a blight in her halls, she can't help but notice; he's a big spot of darkness on Altea's bright aqua and silver throne room embellished with gold. His armor is damaged from battle, not grungy or very dirty, but scuffed and in shambles upon his large frame. It contrasts with the immaculate of everything around him. Allura almost frowns; Lotor coming to her unpolished? undignified? There is something about it that is simply surreal. Even if he knows that such an act to a royal of Altea is considered humbling and a show of great trust, Lotor, ever with his conscientious mindset, would never have dared to come so disheveled before.
Allura's expression gives away nothing, but she's still wrapping her head around this-- around him here. Even the space around him seems more like a backdrop, his dark presence more pronounced on Altea. Her hands fist on the armrests of her throne as she scowls with frustration; what is she supposed to do with him?
Abruptly, Lotor's legs give. He falls to his knees before her with all the grace of a dead man. His hands plant themselves firmly against the soft aqua carpet that leads to the throne, his shaking arms the only thing keeping him from falling all the way onto the floor. Lotor can hardly feel his fingertips. His face is slack as his tired cobalt eyes stare at the floor and the rush of his hot blood sounds loud in his ears. He takes deep breaths, becomes a bit detatched for a moment, feels only his aching sternum and pathetic armor and spinning head. Too soon he is back outside with the Altean people.
My Lord, they said. Good Lord! You've returned to us at last! they cried. And they shed tears for him, smiled upon his looming figure with their kind, kind hearts. They reached out reverently, smally, to touch him. As if laying a hand on his body were an honor, as if they were undeserving. The Altean people rejoiced for him, for the bastard son of the tyrant of the universe who'd taken precious lives for a futile effort. For the half-breed who was only trying to save himself a piece of what he'd lost.
Lotor breaks once more on the inside, seeing their elated faces in his mind's eye, heart shattered to pieces at what he'd done.
He lowers his forehead to the ground feeling defeated-- exhausted and corrupted and in despair-- and shuts his eyes. He dares to speak.
"Your Majesty,"
His voice seems to be the only thing in him that is not damaged. Thicker than it was, a bit coarse, but not damaged. Allura hates that the sound of it is still beautiful. And she hates that his hair, fully exposed to her as it is, is still as light and lush as she remembers it. Even as a dead man alive, he manages to be sightly.
"Forgive me for coming unannounced. I was not aware before a quintant ago that I would even be living. But your Grace, I have come for good reason."
His voices echoes slightly in the empty hall, the thickness of it filling in some of the open spaces. There are extended pauses at the end of each of his sentences that are contemplative, careful. It's evidence that he truly hadn't prepared before coming to see her. Allura doesn't know how to feel about it.
"I am guilty of an unspeakable crime against Altea. In my quest of purest intentions, I have killed hundreds of my own people. As the universe is in need of me no longer, I am ready to pay the price for my actions."
Accepting the last part out loud forms a black hole in his heart. It expands rapidly, steals his breath and numbs his body from the inside out. He feels cold-- so insufferably cold. It's the end for him at last, but a bitter end; ten thousand decaphoebs of fighting for peace only to fall asleep and wake up with peace made and maintained for decaphoebs without him. He isn't needed anymore. In his despair, Lotor considers that he never was.
But then he considers where he is kneeling, and he remembers the people outside, and he says to himself no; there are things you don't regret. Many things. There are societies and planets that are still alive because of you. There are treaties forged under your name. You mattered. For ten thousand decaphoebs, while Voltron was scattered, you played your part.
And now, by Altea's hand, you will end.
"Please excuse my audacity to beg of you a mercy that I do not deserve." he says, and awaits his demise.
Lotor speaks to her with distance. Looked for, there is only the faintest hint of familiarity in his address. Allura appreciates the distance, it makes her heart hurt less at the sound and sight of him, at the one she'd loved. She feels colder. Better prepared to give him the end he needs.
It is silent for a long time as she considers.
Lotor is patient. He doesn't speak again, nor does he raise his head from the castle floor. Instead he peers down at the cerulean colored carpet through cracked eyelids, appreciates what his preservation of the Altean people has brought. He spies little flecks of gold woven into the royal walkway. Floors of silver are caught in his periphery, in the spaces between his elbows and thighs. The expanse winks at him with warm Altean sunlight. The carpet's gilded lining shimmers.
Lotor closes his eyes and breathes Altea. Unlike before when he had been breathing deeply to steady himself, he breathes to cherish the sweet aroma of Altea's atmosphere. In the castle, the air is thick and cool. It goes straight to his stomach and fills him before he exhales. It's laden with scents he can't name, Altean, foreign scents he's only dreamt of. Sweet and lulling things. He remembers the warm air of outside and how it carried the famous smell of juniperry flowers on every breeze. On his way to the castle, the Alteans had reached to place these beloved flowers on his shoulders, raised their own children to give them the pleasure. They were wonderful gifts. He had been too breathless to say thank you. Lotor wishes the wind had not blown the flowers from him.
Everything about Altea is. . . sweet and lulling. Peaceful. Beautiful.
Too good for him.
"Come up,"
The command is soft in volume but not at all kind. Lotor feels a hand on his shoulder urging him up. He stiffens under the touch at first, not expecting it. He becomes aware of the feeling of her presence and of the weight of her essence before him next; she's blinding, not unlike a supernova, and she burns just as much. Her hand is lithe but heavy with a strength and familiarity that threatens to break him. Lotor snaps out of his shock to quickly do as she asks before he is thrown upright.
Lotor's back straightens as far as it can, but he stays on his knees. He doesn't dare to look up at the Queen once he's erect, but he doesn't have a choice. She takes his chin into her hand and tips his head upward. His cobalt eyes, despite himself, look alive at the sight of her.
She's more beautiful than he remembers, if possible. More regal. More true. More wise and knowing. More careful and controlling. Her new crown shines brilliantly as Altea's sun shines on her. Her hair is washed in the light of a dying star. And her eyes. . .
Oh, Allura. . .
Allura turns his head this way and that, scrutinizing him. She has an idea of what she's going to do with him, of what he can do to reimburse Altea. She's not about to kill him; she's never believed in taking away life. But he will pay the price he wants to pay so badly, and more.
His skin is unblemished. His teeth are pearly and clean. His hair is untainted. His ears, perfect. His eyes are clear. And the quintessence still leaking from his being bares his Altean marks to her-- she wonders if he knows. Allura lets the thought linger as she takes one of his hands, then the other. His hands are calloused and muscled, a bit dirty, but not unworthy. She can imagine how the rest of him fares.
She knows him intimately enough.
"On your feet."
Lotor rises. He is slow and unsteady in his ascent-- weak-- but he makes it. He comes to his full height, and each are starkly reminded of how much taller than the Queen he is. The decaphoebs have changed nothing.
Allura releases his hands. Her expression doesn't reveal anything to him, and Lotor doesn't know whether to be concerned or impressed. She briefly looks him over once more before turning her back to him and walking towards the Western Hall.
"Follow," she commands.
He does. He follows her like a slave.
She leads him down the Western Hall at a pace that suits his condition. Lotor takes this time to peer almost feebly at the high ceiling and the large, arched windows high on the walls. Sunlight spills like a waterfall into the building through crystal panes that make up diamond-shaped parts of the roof. Everything is so quiet. There are ornate designs carved into the platinum walls that look similar to the designs in Oriande. Long banners hang from the partitioning columns of archways, displaying the Altean Coat of Arms which represents the current Queen. It is a picture of strength and juniperries and honor; Lotor can see that she is a Queen hailed as a goddess of their people. It is only to be expected when the great Altean alchemy of olde has been lost to time and persecution, and she is the only living Altean with the gift.
Knights line the hall on both sides. They stand tall and respectful, gazes ever forward, but Lotor knows their eyes follow him and the Queen with rapt curiosity. It must be a wonder, Lotor thinks, for these Alteans to be in the presence of their Goddess and their God at the same time. Despite their innocence, his heart hurts unbearably at the awed looks they cannot hide, at the soft smiles upon their faces; he is unworthy of their praise, of their worship. He's never once desired to be seen as anything more than a brother to them.
But even as he stands with soot-covered armor that is in pieces on his body and limps behind the Queen's tail like a wounded pet, they are in awe of him.
Allura eventually leaves the central hall of the West Wing by turning north into a slimmer hallway. Fewer Knights stand along these walls, and the ceiling is lower with no windows to the outside. There are many pentarch-shaped doors, each uniform and without any markers but a vertical golden bar on the front. Lotor recalls his research and remembers that the bars signify whether or not the room is occupied. If the bar is vertical, no one is using the room, and if it is horizontal, the room is being used. Most of the rooms they pass have vertical bars.
Allura turns down yet another hall, one to the northeast. It arcs wide and has more of those large, clear windows that touch almost ceiling to floor on its outer wall. Lotor glances out briefly. He's selfish enough to wish for another breath of Altea's sweet mid-quintant air.
By the time it seems that they've made it to their destination, Lotor's right knee aches. It's nothing he can't handle, but it's also undeniably bothersome. Lotor begins to wonder if the lengthy walk around the castle grounds was meant to act as a sort of torture for him, given his current state. He does not put it beyond the Queen.
There are two Knights standing sentry in front of the door they come up to. Allura sends them away with a wave of her hand, and they bow low before doing as she says, their understandably curious eyes lingering on Lotor as they go. The door, with its vertical bar in front, slides open as the Queen steps forward. Lotor follows her in.
He hears a soft clck as the door slides closed behind him; no doubt the gold bar is horizontal now. Lotor quickly assesses his new surroundings. The bed and vanity make it painfully obvious that this is a bedroom despite the other large furnishings present like the divan and the low table. It's very spacious, with gilded, lush things and a raised platform for the bed at the far end of the room. The room is clean, immaculately so. Like everything else in Altea's castle.
It's royal quarters.
And it's so obviously hers with the fragrant smell of her beloved juniperry flowers in the air, accented by something warm and lovely that Lotor could never describe but knows is Allura; it's her scent, hers only. Something sacred. The smell of it is torture to him. Lotor wonders if she knows how badly he still wants her.
Perhaps sensing his wandering thoughts, Allura beckons him further. "This way," she commands. Lotor's gaze returns to her and he follows her through another door.
The next room is almost as big as the first. A large mirror takes up the top half of the left wall, and a long, shallow marble basin sits just beneath it. Cupboards support the elongated sink. There are more platinum storages against the far wall, next to an ovular open seat. The floors are an enchanting cerulean and silver Altean marble-stone, same as the sink, with pure light-generators in the ceiling. The entire right wall is hollowed out into a chamber with a rack holding towels on the partition at its immediate left. Lotor realizes, utterly dubious, that they are in the lavatory.
He doesn't question her. When his eyes return to her from wandering, she is going through one of the cupboards at the far wall. He barely manages to catch her next order.
"Take off your things,"
Lotor does so slowly. The Queen passes him by while he's in the middle of releasing his chest plate and places a woven hamper at his side as she does. She returns to the bedroom, though Lotor doubts her goal is to give him privacy. She doesn't say whether or not she will be back, but he suspects she will.
The process of undressing is mundane but welcome. It helps keep his mind off of things he cannot have, and it brings some feeling back to his skin. He discards his vambraces and other pieces of armor in the woven hamper provided for him. His flight suit comes off without any hassle and follows his armor into the bin.
Just as he finishes, Allura returns.
In spite of himself, Lotor's eyes follow her as she crosses the room to the right wall. She's skin bare, just as he is. Her hair falls around her like a shroud of purity, full and beautiful. If she notices his staring, she doesn't mention it.
He watches as she reaches into the chamber formed in the wall and finds a sliding dial. She presses down on the rectangular slide-piece with two fingers before sliding it towards the far right. Instantly, water begins to fall from the chamber ceiling.
Allura beckons him toward her, toward the crystal rain. He goes willingly and wonders fleetingly if he's already dead.
"Your timing is almost frighteningly perfect," she says as he stands with her under the falling water. The water is, intriguingly, a temperature so perfect that he can hardly feel it touch his flesh. Enchanted, Lotor looks up at the ceiling to catch sight of the tiny holes dotted along the length of the chamber ceiling in perfect rows. "Just as you came before me, I was ready to retire and redress. Move on to other things. This is. . convenient."
He doesn't respond, he doesn't think that she wants him to. Lotor simply looks down at the floor of the marble chamber and watches with awe as the water coming from above their heads disappears into the metal. The design of the bathing apparatus seems awfully familiar to him, it's something he couldn't have forgotten easy. It's somewhat of a surprise to realize that it's an Altean invention he can hardly recall.
Without warning, Allura places her hands on his shoulders. Lotor tenses slightly, but the back-and-forth motion of her hands combined with the cleaning agent on them eases his worries. He stands wordless as the Queen rubs the aromatic chemicals into every inch of his skin, shy of nothing. Lotor isn't at all bothered.
He knows her intimately enough.
Once Allura is done rubbing the cleansing oils into his skin, she retrieves a small brush from the chamber wall and scrubs him with it. She is deliberate, harshly so. It makes Lotor wonder what he is here for. She certainly isn't catering to him, such is a ludicrous thought, but what else would warrant such intense care? He can't think of it.
Then Allura takes his hand and scrubs it so meticulously, he thinks his skin might come off. It is then he realizes that she is preparing his body, like the true Ancients used to do. She would have him cleansed before doing anything else with him; make him proper for death and, if she deemed him worthy of it, burial.
When Lotor is finally clean, his lilac skin flushing magenta with a renewed, raw sensation, it is his turn to wash the Queen. It is impersonal. Lotor mimics the procedure she had used to bathe him, just as detailed though not nearly as harshly. This, too, becomes a silent torture, and Lotor understands that it is meant to be.
Their gazes meet only once, only briefly, but he sees the cold warning in her eyes, the increasing distance. This is far from amicable.
This is torture.
How much she has changed.
Their hair is cleaned, and then the Queen slides the dial on the wall back to the far left. The water stops, and they stand wet for a moment. Then suddenly, a thick blast of warm air comes up from beneath them. Lotor turns his widened eyes to the metal floor which has miraculously transformed into a copy of the ceiling with many little pores lined up in organized rows. The air floods his face and Lotor is forced to look up. He catches sight of his hair billowing out above him, whipping to and fro at the tips like the tail of a white yorlax. It and the feeling of water droplets crawling up his skin only to dissipate into nothing are as surreal as the entirety of his punishment.
Lotor, despite all that he knows, finds himself further enamored; it is remarkable that Alteans could ever install such complex facilities into buildings without major complications. They are true geniuses of ingenuity.
After they are dry and the air stops, Allura leads him out of the bathing chamber and into her bedroom. At the far end, she stops in front of an open room Lotor immediately recognizes as a closet. She motions for him to wait as she enters it, her shroud of purity following eagerly behind.
It taunts him, that shroud. With many things.
Allura returns fully robed in an ensemble that resembles a Knight's uniform. She has a plated chest and shoulders, and golden vambraces on her arms, with a golden skirt that stops at her knees in the front and stops mid-calf in the back. Underneath it all she wears a full suit of white. A short white cape hangs from her shoulders, clasped at the corners over her collar with a magnificent crystal broach. Her belt is accented with pink and so are her ankles. Her crown shines upon her brows as the sun shines on Altea.
She comes to him with an armful of silver-lined white fabric. She dresses him in the length of the fabric swiftly, looping it around his shoulder and chest and then around his hips. The process is somewhat superfluous in steps, but it makes for a lovely and sightly orientation. The dress is light and airy, like the rest of Altea. It shows much more flesh than he is used to, covering only the diagonal of his chest from shoulder to hip and stopping with pointed ends just under his knees, and he feels exposed in it, bared to the world, vulnerable. But somehow, as Allura leads him to her vanity to comb his hair with a silver torki, he finds it comforting.
Lotor cannot resist marvelling at himself in the mirror over the vanity. He can hardly recognize himself (are his eyes deceiving him, or have his Altean marks returned?), can hardly believe that the spitting image of Altea is real behind him. He can hardly believe that the Queen of Altea is dressing him in fine garments and braiding his hair. He can hardly believe that he's living it, even if only to die.
The Queen's fingers are quick and nimble. She makes the small braids on the edges of his temples with practiced grace. They are tucked behind his ears and tied at the ends once finished. The hair above the braids is tied off low, at the place between his shoulder blades. The hair below them is pulled back and allowed to remain free, reaching his mid back. It's an odd, unfamiliar sensation for Lotor to feel his locks brush against his skin.
Finally, surreally, the Queen places a great platinum circlet atop the crown of his head and fits two broad silver cuffs on his wrists. He raises a brow at the thin metal cuffs, all jewelry and decor, and is surprised that he isn't chained or restrained; in fact, the metal embellishings are quite comfortable, secure.
Allura is silent as she tends to his looks, just as she was silent before. But there is something slightly different about her silence now that Lotor cannot place. It's not as regular, not as fitting.
It's thick.
Because Allura, despite herself-- despite how long it's been, despite how far she's come-- cannot not see the king she could have in him-- should have in him. Like this, on Altea, looking absolutely brilliant, smelling of juniperries and silver lillies, he is the man he should be, the one she dreamt of. The one she wants to spend this future with. The one she had believed in. The one.
Like this, he is the one she loves.
And it hurts.
Because one way or another, he'd taken the wrong path, and now he must learn to walk the right way.
Allura leads him from her chambers and into the pristine halls, trying not to think too much about it, tired of despairing over it; she's spent enough time coping with who she lost. All she wants to do now is get this over with, fix the broken pieces.
As they walk, despite herself, she can't help looking at Lotor a bit longingly while his beautiful brightened eyes eagerly scan the open halls, trying to at least appreciate the side of him that has always been good. He's precious like this, she thinks, exploring the half of himself he's never truly gotten to know. Allura is enamored with him all over again at the sight. But she immediately looks away when she realizes it, her gaze turning bitter; she can't risk him seeing her affection. With Oriande gone, the only way to teach him is to play the callous ruler, to teach him the only way he seems to know how to learn.
With pain; a page from their governess' books.
Worse before it's better.
They come to a stop in the southern end of the central east hall. Allura places a gentle hand against the large door that stands here, different from all the other doors in the new castle. She mumbles something under her breath and the doors slide open, allowing them entry. Lotor watches her and gazes inside curiously.
He takes a look around as she approaches the center of the room, eyes wide with astonishment. The ceiling is high and the windows are grand and the columns sculpted into the walls are extravagantly elegent. They are enrapturing qualities of the room, but Allura knows his wonder is directed elsewhere. She faintly hears him murmur, a thought that is likely to himself, "Princess. . ."
Her response is automatic, quick. She doesn't much think about it. "I am Majesty," she says firmly.
Lotor blinks, not realizing that he had spoken out loud. His eyes never leave the statue in the center of the room. "Of course," he says softly, "Please forgive me. . ."
He trails off, voice quiet and small. Allura almost turns to look at him and make sure that he truly is who he appears to be; does he have humility? enough. But Lotor is not small. He does not have timidity.
Instead, the Queen keeps walking. She makes it to the statue that has caught his attention and makes a point of standing by it. Lotor speaks up soon enough.
"Are you. . . not going to kill me?" he asks with his eyes still looking up.
"No,"
He finally looks at her. "Then. . . the cleansing. . ."
"The Altean people worship you as a god, Lotor. You must look like one."
That is clear, Lotor thinks as he looks back up at the fifteen-stac platinum statue of himself with unadulterated disdain. His heart doesn't know whether to swell or shrivel up at the sight of it. He begins to protest. "With all due respect, your Majesty, I--"
"Erti." the Queen commands him silent. Lotor instantly becomes perfectly so. "I do not like how the Alteans worship you, but I would like even less to rob them of their saviour or to hurt them; they are devout in their allegiance to you. And Altea has never before had such a great deity. I was not sure if I should expect insurrection in your name should I declare you a heathen, with evidence or without it, as I was absent in the key momemts of New Altea's revival. So, believing you to be dead, I saw no harm in allowing my people to keep their faith. It is a good thing,"
Allura turns fully to him then, her face an unreadable mix of several emotions. "In the construction of the new Castle of Altea, this room was dedicated to you. I brought you here so that you will understand what I intend to do with you."
Lotor swallows thickly and has the sudden urge to bang his head against the wall; he had been a fool. He should have seen the relief in his heart and scrutinized it, not allow it to take hold. His life has never been the giving kind, only the taking. Cursed, unfortunate.
Torture.
He is standing in his own shrine for Gorlok's sake, a shrine the brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers of the people he'd killed for a broken dream had built.
And to top it off, Allura's eyes are steely and cold with unmistakable hatred as she comes to him, bearing one of the many gifts that was left at his statue's feet. "If you regret your offense as much as you say," she tells him while securing the necklace around his throat, and it feels like she's shackling him, "then you will wish I had killed you,"
Lotor hurts.
His heart flares with pain.
And such cruelty--
He is ashamed to have not expected it.
The Princess may have been merciful and naive and full of hope and unwavering morals, but the Queen is not. Whatever happened during the war, whatever happened after peace, whatever happened while they were apart, it changed her. He had been frozen in time, in agony, stuck in what had transpired.
She had moved on.
"Now, the oils I rubbed into your skin are a rejuvination tonic I developed, so your body should be feeling better about now," she informs him as they walk, leaving the dreadful place of his worship behind. Just as she says so, Lotor's spine smooths, straightens, and he begins to feel lighter. He is once again impressed, and unsurprised that he has the headspace to be. "Straighten up," Allura says, "Our people wait eagerly for you," She is open about her bitterness as she turns around to face him, having arrived at the main doors (already? why so quickly?). Their eyes meet again, but Lotor can't hold her gaze for long with it full of love he must desperately be imagining and hate he can't bear. "Go out and see them." she finishes.
His eyes find the great central doors of the castle, the only thing between him and those people he adores so much, and for the first time since arriving, he feels hesitance.
Foreboding.
What awaits him out there? Allura had assured him on their way that the people were curious about him and would be waiting to hear from her. Surely they will rejoice, be merry. If he is indeed their god. But that is the problem.
Lotor is frozen with indecision, unsure if he should be more afraid of their ire or of their adoration.
Allura, seeing that his punishment has already begun, understands that Lotor will not be taking the first step on his own. She goes to open the doors herself. As the great entrance yields under the force of her hands, she forces herself to focus on the weight of the metal to forget how much this decision weighs on her heart. Inside, her resolve is fraying.
It won't last long anyway, she tells herself. Not really.
At least, she hopes not.
Altea is so unlike Daibazaal. It's bright and colorful without walls and a ceiling, so bright and colorful that it actually pains his eyes to look too close to the horizon line where the solar star sits fat and heavy. He's forced to look his kin in the eyes. Blessedly, they avert their eyes from his and spare him the torture of seeing their emotion. But the relief is short-lived.
"Brothers and sisters," Allura says as she steps forward to address her subjects. Her voice is great, it carries across the land all the way to the sun. Lotor sees her give a smile that, to him, is obviously strained, and he imagines it must sear her face to give. "We have been blessed with Lotor's return!"
Altea is so unlike Daibazaal. There is no great, deafening roar that shakes the ground, no raised arms, no tustle in the crowd. Everyone is simply radiant, overjoyed in energy. There are enough shining faces to blind him, and the murmurs that have erupted are easily-- almost too easily-- hushed.
When everyone is quiet, Allura mumbles something under her breath, hauntingly similar to what she'd uttered before, at the doors of his shrine. Her eyes close almost serenely as she turns and shallowly dips her head towards him. The Alteans follow her example. They bow their heads low and utter in one great murmur, "Al otrī."
Al otrī.
Great saviour.
Altea is so unlike Daibazaal. They stay where they are, stock still, unmoving and silent as the dead as he gazes over them. Lotor somehow makes his brain work, catches sight of Allura's narrowed eyes, and manages to give an affirmation. His voice is pitifully quiet by Galra standards, hardly his regular voice, but the people are so quiet and he's so scared that his voice sounds loud and full.
"Treclin austiï. Mij-kin, jui drexil."
Then and only then, at the edge of his word, do they raise their heads and let their happiness be known. Only after he speaks do they raise their voices. In his name. The experience is so utterly, purely different from the regular course of his life that Lotor doesn't know what to do with himself.
In all his ten thousand years of living, he's never once been praised.
"Go,"
Lotor blinks rapidly, his breaths coming shallow and his heart hammering in his chest. No one seems to notice his distress but her.
"As of now, you are to serve the Altean people as their god. Guide them, do what you can. Oriande's grace has had mercy on you,"
Oriande's grace has had mercy on you.
Actually, it hasn't.
"So go."
Lotor glances at Allura, really latches his eyes onto her image this time. She's glowing like always, but she's staring at him with her emotions plain on her face now, unlike before. He wonders what has changed, wonders if he's seeing things.
"Go?" he almost whispers. His voice is a ghost.
"Alteans are not shy about compassion," the Queen says with soft, pitying eyes, and Lotor finds himself afraid of her now, "and you walked among them, yes? I have no doubt that they wish to embrace you."
"Embrace me. . ."
Lotor's voice is gruff with emotion. He can't bear looking at Allura anymore, so he directs his gaze to the Altean people. They're still loud and merry. And if Lotor didn't know any better, he'd say they are eager. Eager.
"And I'm. . alive. . ."
He is living it. Living this dream, this torture. This vibrant and lovely suffering.
A subtle hand suddenly settles on his elbow, and Lotor quickly finds its owner. Allura. Of course it's Allura.
Her expression softens even more, if possible.
"Go." she says again.
And this time it clicks.
Go.
Lotor doesn't know what to say to her. He's definitely not going to tell her that he feels like he's on a pyre of a pedestal, guilty and shy. So he doesn't say anything, just blinks at her, turns away, and smiles.
He descends the stairs to the entrance of the castle and forces himself to leave Allura's sudden sympathy behind him. It was a tryst, a moment of weakness; he tells himself that it will not happen again. He must believe it.
Because he's terrified to reach ground level, to be within arm's reach of his people-- his people-- he's frightened by the idea that they will embrace him and sing his praises, give him gifts, and show him love. But his fear of the Queen is greater still; loving her after all this time is tearing him apart.
He can't afford to hold on when she has already let go.
Lotor goes from one torture to another with his heart cold as stone, letting the warm butterfly touches of the Alteans burn away the feel of Allura's hands on his skin. His forced levity sears him the same way hers had.
Allura watches him go. And not for a tick does she stop thinking about what Lotor has said.
"Treclin austiï. Mij-kin jui drexil."
Perhaps because he hadn't the time to acclimate and learn the modern Altean language, Lotor spoke as the royals of her time would have. At times, she still does as well. It's how she knows what the other Alteans don't; how she knows how much this hurts.
To the Alteans now, it would sound as if he were saying "Think nothing of me. Friends, I feel this heavily."
But to the Alteans then, they would understand, "No gratitude (unto me). My kin, I am heavy (with guilt)."
Allura bows her head as he walks away from her and into the hands of her people, murmurs of a prayer to their ancestors for wisdom, hoping she is doing this right, on her lips.