I am waiting for my love.

Here on the balcony for one hour each day: one half hour before second sunset and one half hour after.

I wait, watching the sunset and counting the stars where he could be and where he has gone.

They have stopped trying to get me to stop doing this – all this time, everyday – they don't understand why I continue, they don't understand.

It keeps me grounded; it keeps me sane.

He loves to watch the second sunset on Arus. We would watch it together, before, me in his arms. We'd talk about everything, and sometimes nothing at all.

So I watch for the both of us now.

I have this silly dream that he comes to me at sunset – that he comes home. He will be piloting Black Lion, of course. That's why he's gone – why he left me here to wait. I don't like being left behind, but it was the only way. We couldn't both go – Arus needs me, but I'd give anything to be by his side now.

He writes to me sometimes, out there, on the run. He writes about his mission: to find Black, to get Intel, to let us know where the allies and our enemies are. He always leaves a message for me as well. In the beginning, he sent me long letters – messages attached to the data stream. He told me his hopes, his fears, how much he loves me and misses me. I don't get as many personal letters anymore.

He feels guilty about this – I can hear it in the short messages he sends me, at great personal risk to his safety. I try to tell him not to be. I understand why. It's the same reason I don't send as many letters, either.

It becomes too hard, sometimes. Seeing his words, hearing his voice in my head – the pain of missing him becomes too overwhelming. I know that I would cease to function after awhile. He can't afford to miss me too much, but I have to let him know that I'm okay.

That I'm safe.

I have to know that he's safe too. I have to have faith that he will find Black soon and we will be together again.

He feels that he has to stay strong for me, and maybe he does – it would crush me to know that he was suffering. It would crush him to know that I suffered as well, so I don't let on. I compartmentalize my misery into tiny points of time. I block it off from everyone but myself – it is my burden alone and I will not share. For him I will endure, and it makes me stronger.

I write to him about inconsequential things. I tell him about the antics of my thirteen year old "niece", Larmina. She is actually Aunt Orla's granddaughter, the only child of her beloved late son, killed in the war with the Drules. Aunt Orla has been raising her, but she is like me in many ways – too spirited, too curious, too questioning of her place in the world. Her father was like a brother to me, so it was no burden to take the young teen away from her exhausted grandmother, and have her here, where her passions can be explored.

I have not told him that she is my heir. It is the one concession I have made to the council, since I will marry no other. If he doesn't return, my line will end with me and Larmina will be Queen. He would understand – it is a logical thing to do, but I don't want him to think that I am making alternate plans. That I have lost faith. I will not accept him not returning, and nothing anyone tells me will convince me he's gone.

If he is gone, then I am gone – in spirit if not in body.

Some of them have already started to forget about him – about us. Sometimes I'm glad because the less people remember about him, the safer he will be. I don't remind them either. I don't like or want the pity.

It is our anniversary today. It was five years ago today that he and the other men walked into my life and turned my world around, quite literally. It was also one year ago, ironically, that he and the men quietly walked out, and left my world a better place for their time here. Arus celebrates the end of the war. I celebrate the return of Voltron. The return of hope. The beginning of love.

My boys feel the same way as me. I have spoken to each of them today at various times, whenever they can call me unobserved. Their mission is no less important than his, but they sleep in warm beds at night, and they have each other, so I worry about them less. They know to come here if things get too hot on Earth. I will grant them asylum on Arus, the consequences be damned, but they are careful, and the time is not yet right.

I sent him a letter a week ago to a trusted drop point. I will read the one he sent, tonight. Perhaps I will allow myself to be weak tonight and wallow in our separation. Perhaps he will join me in it, just for the night – but not at sunset. Sunset is only for love and happiness; for remembrances of things past and hopes for things to come. It is not for this time – it is not for now.

I will read his letter in the chapel. If it is good news, I will say a prayer of thanksgiving. If it is not, I will look to the gods – Arusian ones or the Terran one, I don't care – for strength and help for my love. It is there that my tears can fall and my heart can break a little, for a while, and there is no one to berate me.

Then I can pick myself up, dry my eyes and go to my balcony for sunset.

By day, I do my duty. I work, I rule, I laugh, smile and argue. I mediate, consider, and pass judgement. I plan, plot, and deceive the ones who would make us weak at the cost of their honour. I do all the things that I am expected to do.

I am present.

I am here – except for one half hour before second sunset, and one half hour after. Then I belong to him. One hour per day, I am there, wherever he is. I will be looking at the stars where he could be and where he has gone, and wishing him, my Keith, a happy anniversary.

I am waiting for you, love.