Alfor took a deep breath, pressing his face against the cool metal of the door. He felt his hand drift toward the hidden activation panel to his left, inputing the code without glancing at the keys. He had done this many times. The door slid open with a hiss and a puff of cool air, reminding Alfor, painfully, of a healing pod. He massaged his shoulder absent-mindedly. The wound had been completely repaired long ago. The one time he'd ever used a healing pod. He'd resented them from that day on.

For what they could not repair.

Alfor shook his head, dashing the painful memories away and walked briskly toward a large machine in the center of the room. Large wires were spun together, dull copper and trullcite sparking in the dim room. The only light emanated from a tall glass cylinder, bright blue tendrils spiraling weakly from within.

Alfor sat cross-legged on the floor and put a hand to the glass.

"Hello, father."

—

Alfor grinned brightly at his reflection, turning to pose in his new armor. He struck quite a dashing figure, he thought, complete with cape and heeled boots. Prince Charming, indeed. This was sure to impress 'Miri.

If not, surely his exploits in battle would win her heart. Alfor flexed his bicep and pulled his most menacing face.

"Ah-hem."

Alfor started at the sudden noise, making a most dignified yelp. The heel of his boot caught on his cape causing him to stumble and land flat on his face. Spitting out a wad of dirt, he glanced up to meet the stern eyes of King Alfric. Alfor gulped.

"Hello, father."

Alfric's eyes softened and he chuckled good naturedly, extending a hand to help his son up from the dirt. Alfor smiled sheepishly as his father brushed dirt from his armor.

"This, my boy, is why I often refrain from wearing capes."

Alfor's cheeks reddened softly.

Alfric knit his eyebrows and his eyes pained as he avoided his son's gaze, staring rather intently at Alfor's collar as he straightened it.

"War is not a game, Alfor. It is harsh, and it is bitter. And you are still so young. Perhaps—"

"I am sixteen, father! And I am well trained. Besides…you need soldiers."

Alfric squeezed his eyes shut. The war had taken its toll on the people of Altea. A large faction of Galra had allied themselves with the druids of old, forcing the inhabitants of twelve peaceful planets into their ranks. The Alteans and their allies were vastly outnumbered. Alfor was right. They needed as many soldiers as they could muster.

"I know son. Just…be careful."

"You too, father."

Alfric nodded. The king knew his life was insured in the battle to come. He would be protected by his most loyal commander, Zarkon.

—

Alfor heard a soft hum as the Galra blade sung past his ear, narrowly avoiding taking off the tip. The Galra soldier had left her right flank undefended. Alfor surged forward with a roar, sinking his own blade in the alien's side.

She let out a hissing wail, dropping the blade and swiping at Alfor with serrated claws. Alfor dodged her flailing assault as she gasped for breath. She was growing weaker, dark indigo blood seeping from the wound and staining the clawed fingers she pressed desperately to her side. Spitting Galra curses, she launched herself forward, surprising Alfor, and causing him to stumble backwards. He felt his feet catch on something, and he fell.

Stupid cape.

The Galra woman slowed her approach, kicking his blade out of reach. She grinned and blood dribbled down her chin. She may be dying, but she would savor his death.

Alfor paled and his breath quickened.

"I'm sorry, father."

The sounds of battle died away as death herself came forth to claim him. A deep death rattle sounded in her throat. It grew louder as she moved forward.

Closer.

Closer.

She bent down before him, her face inches from his own. He could feel her hot, moist breath upon his face, pungent with the iron tang of blood. She leaned in towards his ear.

"Vrepit Sa."

She drew back, raising her arm to deliver the fatal blow.

Alfor squeezed his eyes shut with a whimper.

An arrow sprouted in the soldier's neck. She choked for a moment, yellow eyes widening, before she fell forward onto Alfor, nearly crushing him. The dead Galra's claws dug into his ribs painfully. He gasped, pushing up on the dead weight of the body, trying to alleviate pressure so he could breathe. His arms wobbled and his hands grew slick with cooling blood. After a few moments, his grip slipped and the body fell atop him once more. Alfor wheezed painfully. He could not draw breath to cry for help. Tears began to burn in his eyes.

He gasped as the pressure was lifted and the body was pulled away with a sharp tug.

A small Altean soldier held the body by the wrist, dragging it away from the prince as he coughed. Looking up through watery eyes, he saw the soldier remove his mask. His jaw dropped.

"'Miri?"

The young Altean woman turned to him, blue eyes hardened like glass.

"What the quiznak were you doing, Alfie?! That quiznaking Duflax of a Galra could have killed you!"

The bow in her hand, nearly splintering under her grip, curved downward in the same shape as her scowl. Her normally soft, white hair was tangled in her quiver, Galran blood matting it together. A long cut ran along her forehead, deep red blood smearing in her hairline.

She looked beautiful.

"I…I-I….Wh-what?"

'Miri rolled her eyes and pulled him to his feet. Alfor stared at her. Her eyes narrowed.

"What?"

"N-nothing."

She pursed her lips. "I think we should stick together. Did you hit your head?"

Alfor mumbled inherently. Smooth, he thought. Real smooth.

"Miri's lips quirked for just a second, before an enslaved Balmeran launched himself at them.

They fought back to back, each trusting the other to protect them. They worked in synch, one changing tactics and the other moving to accommodate. For a time they seemed to be a single force.

Alfor was fighting off a druid, keeping his blows with his staff away from 'Miri. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a Galra soldier hurl a lance in their direction. 'Miri was too preoccupied with an Olkari warrior to notice. It's current trajectory would hit her. Alfor shouted a warning, changing his stance to shield her from the projectile.

The lance embedded itself in his shoulder. Alfor's world was reduced to white-hot pain. He distantly heard screaming. He thought it might have been him.

His knees impacted hard against the stone ground. His vision began to flicker and blur, but he thought he saw 'Miri tackle the druid he had been fighting. He smiled slightly. That was his 'Miri.

He closed his eyes.

The last thing he knew was 'Miri screaming his name before the darkness consumed him.

—

"My Lord!"

Alfric turned to see Zarkon scrambling up the hill, out of breath.

"Zarkon?"

"It's your son, my Lord! Alfor. He was down on the plain fighting and he—he."

Alfric pushed past Zarkon, panic rising in his voice.

"Take me to him."

"Yes, my Lord."

Zarkon led the King down a steep, narrow passage flanked on one side by a wall of rock. The other fell away into open air, down onto the plains. In his haste, Alfric did not see the shadows move. Zarkon turned a corner onto a large ledge. A dead end.

The Galra crept from the rocks, hissing and snapping, their shadows dancing and prowling like feral beasts. Alfor drew his sword.

"Zarkon!

His commander kept his back to him.

"Zarkon, help me!"

The Galra man turned, sword in hand, and crept forward.

Alfric stepped back, unconsciously. He felt his heels hit the edge.

Zarkon stood so close now, he could see the hate in his eyes as he whispered.

"Long live the King."

Alfric's eyes widened as the sword was driven into his gut. The last he saw was Zarkon's manic grin as his body was dropped, unceremoniously, over the cliff face.

—

Cold. He felt the cold first. His body was mostly numb, but he could feel his breath frosting around his face. Then he felt the pain.

His shoulder throbbed uncomfortably, but he had a distant memory of it being much worse. Even now, the throbbing became a weak pulse. More miserable was the hunger. The gnawing, aching, hollow sort of hunger he could only remember feeling once before. He'd been very ill. He hadn't been able to stomach anything for an entire spicolian movement.

A sharp hissing filled his ears and he was aware of a bright light behind his eyelids. He vaguely wondered if he was dead. Oh quiznak, his head. He felt his knees give out. Small, strong arms caught him.

"Alfor?"

"Gnnngghh." He opened blurry eyes. "You an angel?"

"YOU QUIZNAKING BASTARD!"

Yep, that was his angel.

"You scared the wazblay out of me, Alfor! Never, ever sacrifice yourself to save me again! You stupid, selfish—"

Alfor's lips locked softly onto hers, cool against warm. After a moment of shock, she returned the kiss, eventually breaking away to sob lightly and punch him in the stomach.

"That's for worrying me."

He wheezed. "Understood."

A door off to their right opened. Commander Zarkon entered.

Bowing to the pair he said, "My lady, if I may have a word with the prince?"

'Miri nodded slowly, a frown creasing her face, before exiting. She threw a glance over her shoulder at Alfor. He smiled encouragingly as the door closed.

Alfor turned to the Commander. He sat on a low bench before the healing pod, staring at the chamber thoughtfully.

"It's amazing isn't it? The healing pod. A cure for all ailments…save death." Zarkon glanced up to Alfor. "Your father is dead."

Alfor reeled as Zarkon sniffed, rubbing tears from his pale yellow eyes. "We were ambushed. I-I tried to save him but there were too many. The insurgents overpowered us. He told me to flee, but I refused. Together, we defeated their forces, but Alfric—Alfric was dealt a mortal blow."

Alfor's knees shook and he sank to the ground. His breath came in short pants.

"There there, son. Tears will not bring him back." A clawed hand patted his back. Alfor curled away from him. Zarkon withdrew with a huff. "You know, as he lay dying, your father's only wish was that you were there. I think he wanted to say goodbye. In my opinion, if you had been there you might even have saved him."

Alfor began to sob in earnest.

"Now now, boy. Your father may be gone but I will be here for you in this trying time. You can always trust me.

—

They had found his body at the bottom of a cliff, so broken and bloodied it was hardly recognizable. Only a small amount of Alfric's quintessence remained. His soul was intact and preserved, but it was not strong enough to take any corporeal form. The only sign of sentience was the rise and fall of energy levels when asked a question. Most 'conversations' Alfric had were with his son, as only a select few knew of his preservation.

With his hand against the glass, Alfor felt the glass grow warm around his fingers in greeting.

"I have come to a decision father. I hope you will accept."

The glass grew cool. Curiosity and worry.

"Father you were a great leader. You had a great mind for tactical strategy. Your people loved and respected you."

He paused.

"Father, I would like you to be the spirit of the Black Lion."

The glass heated. Surprise.

"I know. Your soul is not the most…stable. But father, our old enemies have returned. We are at war with the Galra factions. We—we need Voltron. Father, we need you."

Soft warmth. Acceptance.

"And Commander Zarkon shall be your paladin. You already had a bond in life, which should make a bond easier now."

The glass heated blisteringly hot. Alfor wasn't sure what that meant. Greater acceptance?

Alfor grinned. "Thank you, father. And good luck."

Alfor turned, oblivious to the wildly fluctuating energy signatures.

Outside, 'Miri waited for him with a sad smile, a hand resting on her rounding stomach.

Alfor smiled.