He sat on the edge of the bed that occupied most of the space in the otherwise barren prison cell, elbows on knees and hands barely touching, staring at a spot between his feet.
Tentatively, he rolled his shoulders. There was the usual cracking of joints, to be expected after such a prolonged period of physical inactivity, but the sharp spasms of hot, white pain from his little gymnastics act seemed to be gone for good. And with the Voltron force never having been the wiser.
Lotor snorted derisively.
He had come to them for asylum – with additional motives of his own, of course, but those notwithstanding – and they had thrown him in a cell. Saviors of the universe, indeed.
Rubbing one gloved thumb over the other, he briefly wondered if they treated all of their 'protectees' the same, or if this was special treatment reserved for him. He suspected the latter, but, then again, he had been surprised – not an easy feat after ten thousand years, he'd grant them that – to witness the level of aggression these so-called peacemakers exhibited. Along with the fact that they were amassing an ever-increasing following of planets under their banner, he rather thought the Coalition had more in common with the Empire than it would like to admit. An opinion he would take utmost care to keep to himself; there was no telling what tantrum the paladins' childishness would prompt, were they to find out this assessment of his.
Because that was what he was dealing with, he kept having to remind himself: children. He was not one to begrudge others for their physical age; if anything, he envied them for it, for not being doomed to claw at survival for a seemingly endless lifespan. But, with the exception of the older Altean man (the princess's advisor? Flightmaster? His role was still unclear), the rest had the emotional maturity and tactical awareness of children. Well, perhaps not so their leader; that leader, however, could not even enforce his decisions on his own team. In fact, the very leadership of this team was debatable – the princess and the Black Paladin seemed to share an equal amount of authority. How had their group survived so long, without clear structure?
And they had left the lights on in his prison chamber at full brightness ever since he had been shut in here, several movements ago. Anyone else he would have credited with carefully tailored cruelty, but they probably did not even realize it was a highly effective form of torture.
The half-Galra wanted nothing more than to groan in frustration and fling himself back on the mattress; or to exercise, even in this extremely limited space, to keep his body and reflexes from growing dull. He could not afford to do either – they were observing him around the clock, he was certain, and he refused to give the paladins of Voltron either the satisfaction of watching his composure break down or the excuse to think he was up to something nefarious by keeping himself active.
So, Lotor sat, hour after excruciating hour, quietly, on the edge of the bed, and waited.
The elevator eventually whirred to life.
One arched white eyebrow lifted in surprise.
Oh? They had only been in here yesterday. Another visit, so soon?
Keeping his eyes downcast so as not to seem too interested – too starved for information, for not knowing what was going on out there, for something to do after a lifetime of always doing, always moving – Lotor sighted his visitor making his way down the walkway with his peripheral vision.
The Black Paladin. Alone.
Interesting.
The man strode up to the force-field barrier of his holding cell and crossed his arms over his chest, a stern expression on his face.
"Paladin," the half-Galra acknowledged briefly.
The earthling looked him in the eye. "He's going to kill you."
Lotor – Prince, former Emperor Pro-Tem, and current fugitive of the Galra Empire – blinked.
He had told them as much, very clearly. He had stated that handing him off to his father as part of a prisoner exchange meant, in no uncertain terms, not only his execution but the demise of the only real threat ever posed to Zarkon and, therefore, the loss of their best chance at defeating him. They had decided to throw him to the wolves anyway. The exchange was set for tomorrow, or so he had been told. And now this?
What is he playing at?
"A fact I am remarkably aware of," the prince replied, trying – and somewhat failing – to keep poison out of his voice. "Your teammates, however, seem to have difficulty grasping the concept. Or, perhaps, they simply do not care."
The paladin winced slightly in response, having the decency to look abashed. He let out a long sigh. "Look, between the princess's personal history with Zarkon, Pidge's love for her father, and Lance's suspicions of the Galra, it's… understandable. That a different option would be a little difficult to consider."
Lotor maintained his flat expression, wholly unimpressed. "And what of the yellow one?"
"Hunk?" The man scratched his head, and shrugged. "He has a good heart, but even if he backed me up again, we'd still be outvoted."
The prince quirked his head to the side in thought, his white hair falling over his shoulder. "It is an interesting style of leadership you practice, leaving all decisions up to group vote. Tell me, is it your personal preference, or is this how things are done where you are from?" His curiosity was genuine; but, if the man's ears also detected a healthy dose of reproach in his statement, that was just fine too.
"Yes. I mean, no. I mean– " Another sigh. The man ran a hand over his face.
Lotor waited for him to collect his thoughts, eyes landing on the scar across his face. A nasty reminder of what must have been a fairly brutal injury. Not for the first time, he wondered if the paladin, formerly known among the Galra as 'the Champion,' had acquired it in the Arena. The prince, still in his exile, had heard rumors of the human that had survived the gladiatorial pits; his interest had been piqued, having run that particular gauntlet himself, but at the time couldn't afford him more than a passing thought. Having now met the man in question, Lotor found he was having trouble reconciling the two. Nothing of what he had seen so far had been indicative of the fire needed to have fought in the Arena and lived.
"Our garrison follows traditional chain of command," the paladin explained, choosing to humor his question. "I had just thought that – when we ended up stranded in space together – this was the best way to do things."
The half-Galra hummed in response.
Ah. Inexperience.
A sudden tug, somewhere deep and forgotten and wholly unexpected, had Lotor crashing back to training days at the Academy and flight partners, his first command and his first colony and–
He quashed it.
Looking back up, he found the earthling frowning at him, slightly, but the man clearly knew better than to ask.
"So, what do I owe this visit to, paladin?" Lotor prompted smoothly. "I thought you had all already decided my fate for me. Or did you only come to confirm for me the bleakness that my future holds?"
The paladin's face hardened, the well-etched frown lines of his brow growing deeper. "Giving Zarkon what he wants doesn't sit well with me. And I know he's going to double-cross us." He paused, as though mulling something over one last time, and then looked back at Lotor with renewed determination. "I looked in our armory, but none of the weapons we have are small enough to conceal. Keith's blade might have worked, but he's galaxies away. But this," he said, reaching around to his back and holding out a black and white object, "this you could hide in your palms."
Lotor froze.
Out of all the infinite possibilities that he was constantly calculating and adjusting for, this had not been one of them.
Finally standing up from the bed, slowly, carefully, he walked over to the barrier and hovered just inside of it, fingertips almost grazing the force-field. His eyes never left the proffered weapon.
"Your bayard?" Lotor said, as though testing the words in his mouth. He still could not quite believe his eyes. "Are you absolutely certain you want to give me that?"
"I'm not giving it, you're borrowing it. Once," the man said, holding up an index finger for emphasis. "And yes, I'm sure. Besides, it's pretty fitting given the circumstances."
Yes, Lotor considered, heart racing and thoughts racing faster. Given the likelihood of what escaping Zarkon's hands post-exchange would mean, the irony would not be lost on the Galra Emperor. Nor be appreciated.
And yet, the prince hesitated. He had survived everything from persecution to exile to being labeled public enemy of the Empire, and trust did not come easy; in fact, trust rarely came at all.
"My life is currently in danger, not only from my father but from your team," he argued. "How do you know I won't simply charge you, take the bayard, and escape with the black lion instead?"
He was answered with a chuckle, of all things.
"Yeah, you're welcome to try that," the Black Paladin grinned. He pulled up a screen on his vambrace and started entering numbers. "Forcing orders on her. Let me know how that goes."
Lotor opened his mouth, but his question concerning the lion's sentience was replaced by another, as the force-field barrier dissipated around him. "What are you doing?"
"We need to make sure you can use it," the earthling stated, holding out his bayard for the half-Galra to take. "Not everyone can activate them. Sometimes, we even have trouble with our own. Better to find out now than during the exchange, right?" Seeing the prince still skeptical, he pressed his hand forward again. "I've set the cameras on loop."
Well, that answers that question.
So his fellow paladins were not aware. That put Lotor more at ease. There would be hell to pay later, of course; the prince had no doubt that the Black Paladin would be subjected to copious amounts of righteous indignation from multiple parties who would perceive offense at his actions. But, first strike first, as Dayak used to say. There was a very decent chance that none of them would survive this.
"I'm honored by your trust. And, I admit, very surprised." Lotor stepped outside of his cell and reached for the weapon. He turned it reverently in his fingers, in awe of the small yet powerful creation. "How do I activate it?"
"Uh…" The paladin's face went blank. He scrambled for words. "I don't really know how to explain it. You just– " He made several swiping motions with his hands, mimicking how he engaged with the bayard. "Intent?"
Lotor frowned, and looked down at the black and white piece in his hands. He grasped it by its middle, and swung it down to his side, the way he would flick a sword.
Even as his hand approached his hip, he prepared himself for disappointment. He was no stranger to it. Despite how he knew he appeared to others – well spoken, diplomatic, a natural with the blade and one of the best pilots the Empire had ever turned out – he also knew the truth of how hard he had worked to be accomplished in each. Nothing had ever come easy. Why would this?
A bright flash of white and purple lit up the room.
The bayard had transformed into some type of large blade.
A small smile broke out on the earthling's face. "Give it a swing," he encouraged, stepping all the way back onto the bridge to give the half-Galra enough room.
Equal parts bewildered, conflicted, and pleased, Lotor raised his arm to bring down the sword.
The blade stretched and broke off into segments, striking out like a whip in a long arc before retracting and clanging back into place.
Taking a deep breath and letting his shoulders drop, Lotor turned the sword over in his hand to get a better feel for it.
Another flash pulsed, and the bayard changed into a longsword, the blade purple and half-transparent and decisively Galra in flavor.
"Two forms? Impressive."
Lotor barely heard the paladin speaking. He brought up the sword close to his face and inspected it at length, gingerly touching the flat of the blade and turning it over and over again, losing himself in admiration of its craftsmanship.
It was breathtaking. The quality was impeccable, the capabilities of the bayard itself were inspired. He found himself wondering what form it had taken in his father's hands, and wondering what it meant that, he too, was able to wield it. Was he enough like his father, then, after all? Were there certain criteria that a user had to fulfill to be deemed worthy? The paladin had spoken of his lion like a sentient creature, confirming what Lotor had pieced together from his research regarding Voltron and King Alfor's alchemy. Perhaps she too wished for an end to her former pilot, and was willing to place her power in the hands of whoever could get the job done…
Eventually, he heard a small cough.
"My apologies," Lotor said, deactivating the bayard and returning it to its owner's outstretched hand. "It is fascinating technology."
The man smiled at him, and replaced the weapon on his suit. "I wish I could give you more time to familiarize yourself with it, but… "
The prince shook his head. "Not at all. I greatly appreciate that you have given me even this much."
"I'll be the one to come and prepare you for the exchange," the paladin said, falling into hard-drilled soldier habits, as he brought up the screen for the prison cell barrier. "I'll come alone and I'll bind your hands in front of you, leaving the handcuffs closed but unlocked so you can break free. After the exchange begins, I'll trust your judgment and wait for your signal to act. Any questions?"
Lotor paused, half-way back into his holding cell. "Yes. Why are you helping me?"
The paladin frowned. "Like I said– "
"No." The prince cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Why are you really helping me?"
The earthling considered him for a moment.
"The others…" he began, haltingly, trailing off under the piercing yellow gaze of his companion.
Uncertain of speaking ill of his teammates, perhaps? Or uncertain of how much to say?
The man closed his eyes, his upheld arm dropping to his side and the screen switching itself off. "They haven't been held captives at Zarkon's and Haggar's hands; I have." He looked at Lotor, and a dark shadow – of things too dark to ever be spoken of properly, yet needing no words among those who had shared in the same terrors – clouded his features. He suddenly looked much older, and about as tired as Lotor felt.
This one, the prince thought, narrowing his eyes. This one is not like the others.
A rare occurrence, to be sure – for one did not survive ten thousand years on the run without, by necessity, becoming an excellent judge of character – but perhaps, he conceded, he had been mistaken in his initial estimation of the Black Paladin.
After a few ticks, Lotor allowed a kindred darkness to cross his own face.
The paladin visibly relaxed, and brought up the screen once more, entering the barrier code. "Plus, your information's been solid. We couldn't have made the progress we did without you."
"And what if I am only using you to further my own interests, only for as long as it is convenient for me?" the half-Galra baited, more for the sake of continuing the conversation than anything else. Somewhere between handing the bayard back and the paladin raising the barrier again, the realization that he craved some company had hit him like a whiplash.
He had somehow not realized, all these decaphoebs, how comfortable he had let himself grow in the presence of his generals. Even if he had kept himself carefully distant and his true motives and thoughts always obscured, their idle chatter and arguments had filled the space around him, until he had almost forgotten all the thousands of years he had spent by himself.
And now he was on his own. Alone. Again.
"Isn't that what all alliances are?"
The reply was spoken with sincerity, and a hint of amusement.
Yes, Lotor determined, as he sat back down on the bed and gave the man with the white tuft of hair and the scar across his face an amused look of his own. Decidedly mistaken.
"Anything else?" the Black Paladin – Shiro – asked.
"Could you see if they would, perhaps, dim the lights in this chamber? Just every so often?"
Shiro looked startled and, once realizing the implications of the statement, appropriately sheepish; the man most likely blamed himself for the oversight.
He nodded. "I'll see what I can do."
Turning, he walked back across the bridge towards the elevator, fiddling with the screen at his wrist.
No doubt turning the cameras back on, Lotor mused.
He let himself fall back on the bed, hair splayed out behind him, uncaring.
He closed his eyes. For the first time in over a phoeb ('for the first time since Narti,' his mind whispered, but he shut it out with practiced ease before it could sink its relentless teeth into him), he felt as though things might work out after all. He was not nearly young and naive enough to allow himself to actually entertain any hope, but he decided he could afford himself the luxury of finally letting up on the tension in his body and sinking back into the mattress.
Some time later, through still-closed eyelids, he felt the lights dim down to a soft glow.
For the life of him, Lotor could not remember the last time he had spoken these words and truly meant them; but, he did now.
"Thank you."
A/N: Just a scene that I really wish we had gotten to see in the series, even as a flashback or something. It's complete, but I might write additional chapters with other missing Lotor scenes, if I get inspiration :) (Also this is meant to be platonic, not shippy :P)