Chapter Fifty-Two:A Want, Bared

It's time to talk. No more running. No more hiding. He'll bare himself to them, one last time, for the sake of the Solnha, if for no one else. Eldar wants him to find common ground, but lingering hate towards Voltron isn't so easily cast aside.


System: Medellin
Location: Caldara

They walked together, side by side in simple pacing, their hands joined for support and stability.
The wound in his side did little to hinder Valion's ability to walk alone, but he wouldn't readily turn away Eldar's hand when it was offered. It wasn't for the sake of his physical wellbeing that he needed his heartmate close.

The two of them walked without hurry, as if today was a day for meandering. They walked as if the venture from their room was little more than the wandering towards breakfast, or to the ice fields where they would spend the morn watching the wraith calves play in the snow.
With Valion allowing himself to think that, and of nothing more, it helped stay the disquiet that churned deep in his gut. His hands did not shake and his steps continue to fall one after the other. Another step forward.

But with all the bravery that he wore, there was never a change to Valion's scent: clouded and damp, clinging to him like a second skin. It drags at him, making his limbs heavier with every step closer, calls to him like a wailing mother lost in mourning.
He is told to turn back against this foolishness. He is told that there is no sense in facing Voltron.

But Valion cannot turn back.
Be it for himself, be it for Solnha or even to secure their future from here onwards… he cannot turn back.

Anger burns anew in his gut. It is a heat, the flickering flames of a newly sparked fire that burns him from the inside. A cold fire, double-edged; burning him and hurting him, should he allow his mind to linger on the flames for too long.

But Valion needs the hurting inside of him.

With Eldar still by his side, their hands still tied together, he can feel the hurt pushing him. It spurs his steps down the stone stairwell, along the carven halls and railed passages that look out upon the Hearth and the roaring bonfire that burned beneath the light of the Glo-Sun. There wasn't time to waste with watching, no time to take a breath and ground himself before Valion was forced to pull away, following the twisting branch leading into a private, secluded corridor.
It wasn't as empty as Valion had hoped it would be.

Gereen and Rayon are the only other two occupants of the corridor, a little ways into the long stretching shadows, cast by Glo-Sun's light. They stand in front of the war room's doors, barring the entrance as they stand with their heads bent low, turned into one another in rushed conversation. By the hard-set looks upon their faces, it is clear to understand that the pair of them are arguing.

The Pawther is the first to spy Valion and Prime, raising his head, a hand quickly raised in salute. Rayon is quick to follow the other's lead, his salute rushed but strong. Yet he cannot pull his eyes away from Gereen, the scowl of their words still shadowing his brow.

"What's wrong?" Eldar asks, the first to speak. Valion tried, but the dryness of his throat was the net that caught his words and will not release them.
"Nothing." Yet Rayon's rushed answer is clear that something isn't well. Eldar's eyes travel to Gereen, but with the Pawther remaining silent, the question is dropped.

Rayon gestures to the war room. "Voltron are assembled inside. Many of the usual council have joined us also."
His voice remains low, as if unconsciously he tries to keep himself from being heard by those in the war chamber. They glance to the doors, wary, but no noise echoes from within. Valion can't help but hope they're lying to him, that the room is empty and Voltron have left Caldara, believing peace talks to be fruitless.

"You say many. Who is not present?" Eldar asks. He doesn't bare the same weight of fear as his lover, catching details Valion missed beneath his tide of emotional turmoil as he fights the desire to run, to run and never look back—

"Tho' is still with Roamer in the infirmary," Rayon says, his words cut short by Valion's sudden question of, "how is she?"
He had heard little beyond the folds of his next, Eldar protective of him knowing that too much all at once could overwhelm him. True, of course, but knowing that Roamer was safe and on the road to full recovery was something that could aid him, not ail him.

At the mention of the Hyaline's name, the same fearful chill that haunted Valion's steps pull at his insides. He thought himself free from them, if only in the moment of distraction, yet they return to turn his stomach and freeze the breath in his lungs. Eldar places a hand on the small of his back, the grip of their hands tightening, but it feels foreign, as if Valion is separated from reality by the same gossamer veil that steals him night after night and bears him to unescapable nightmares.
With a face of stone, he allowed no outward display of the guilt he felt towards Roamer's wounds, the same guilt he felt towards all those whom had fallen upon the battlefield, to all those hurt by the Galra because he had not been strong enough to protect them, will never be strong enough to protect them—

"She is well. Awake, and energetic," Rayon says, interrupting Valion's thoughts before they could take root and break what little strength he has gathered. The growing smile on his brother's face is a gift, his words even more so: "Tho'xemae is already exhausted, but she'll give him no time to rest with her determination to come see you. She's worried. She wants to be here for you as much as for peace with your—er , with Voltron. We all do, although you'll find very few who will openly admit that."

"And news of her wounds?"

Eldar was just as eager to hear good news, but there was little Rayon could provide. "I don't know exact details," Rayon begins with a bow of his head. "But she is healing. There was talk of having Bumi help her walk, but I don't know anything specific beyond her injuries are extensive, yet no longer life threatening."
He looked rather ashamed of himself, having wanted to offer more comfort in the face of everything. But not knowing hampered him, and embarrassed him more than he would say.

"She is healing. She is no longer in danger. That is good enough for me," Valion says, reaching out to grasp his brother by the shoulder. Unlike Kenmare and the others, Valion and Rayon have never really been one for words. They rarely had a use for them beyond playful banter and mid-fight teasing.
So, when Rayon raises his head, Valion knows the genuine of his smile says more than words could alone.

Eldar takes comfort from this too; the worried grip of his hold on the boy's hand easing, but never disappearing. Not while they stood to face another foe, far more unpredictable than the last.

Beside them Gereen still stands, stoic and uniform. There is a fidget to his being that asks the unspoken question in his stead.
Valion allowed himself to forget his trepidation, casting a smile in answer to that unvoiced. Perhaps it is not as sure as the one gifted to Rayon, but it's enough when he considers the Pawther who had once wanted his head. Now he is a loyal companion, sympathetic at the scent of unease that drowns Valion beyond the crispness of lingering hope.

But like Eldar is helpless in the sake of his Arenphine, Gereen can do nothing for his Leader. He may have his sabre, but there are no enemies to strike down. He may have his strength, but there are no foes to face, that need the might of fist and ferocity.

All there is, is Voltron.

There is no other path to take; no escape, no retreat, no way out as they stand there, in front of the war room doors that beckon to them like the gates of Hell.

There is no other way forward: Valion knows this.
He knows, yet still he thought to allow himself to hope, that something would change between his nest and these doors. Instead he could not escape the festering of fear that, once he steps through the threshold, he'll be returned to nothing, returned to Lance once more, trapped in a nightmare that he had once fought so hard to escape.

There is no other path except for the one before him.

With no other option, and no time to delay the inevitable, Valion turns to the doors of the war room. He does so, fighting the dread that bleeds him, fighting the stiffness of his muscles, fighting the screaming that drowns out every logical thought, every self-conjured comfort.
He wants to run. He wants to listen to the voice in his head and run so far that this becomes nothing but a dream, nothing but an illusion conjured by the veil—

"We are with you Arenphine."

The suddenness of the pledge turns his eyes from the door, turning to Eldar and the shining of medallion gold in the dimmed light. He is smiling, the light of his scent surrounding him.

"We are with you. No matter what happens. No matter their words. We stand by you."

He says, words light yet strong. The resound with an unshakable truth, and Valion believes him. Always has, always will, but there is something in his voice that takes root deep in the boy's chest, unburnable to the rage that still hurts him, deep in his heart.
The seed is sown, and from it blossoms a tree, silver bark that basks in the glow of the fire, will not bend to it, will not allow itself to be burnt by the poisonous flames.

Valion looked to Gereen and Rayon in turn, their faces solemn, the stiff nods of their heads the same promise they shared.
"We stand by you. Always."

They trust him. They will believe in him, regardless of his own fears, knowing him, trusting him more so than they have ever trusted Voltron. Even Rayon, who has spent weeks by their side, who has been saved by them where Valion failed….

"We are with you," Eldar repeats, the squeeze of his grip given in confidence. His smile shares a thousand words, already spoken time and time again in defiance to Lance's own worries, be it in their nest or in the waking hours when self-doubt is the heavy burden he bears.

Without words, Eldar reminds Lance he is strong, as he has reminded him time and time again:

As Lance, long before he was named Valion, he brought the Solnha together to unify them under one banner.

As Lance, long before Valion's name ever left Gereen's lips, he fought the last remaining obstacle towards the future the Solnha have achieved today.

As Lance, long before Valion was ever a thought, long before the Solnha ever found him adrift, the boy had mustered the courage and the strength to turn away from the only shelter he ever knew, to seek out somewhere where he could do more than trail after better soldiers, better warriors, better Paladins.

Long before Valion, Lance was strong.
And he could be strong now, as he turns to face Voltron.

"Let's get this over with."


The doors swing wide, and they swing loud.

Barely a thread of light filters between them and already, every head in the war room turns to the steps cascading from the threshold, atop the doors yawn wide, between which enters Valion and his companions, stone-faced and unyielding of emotion. The boy has no choice but to hide behind his tolerance if he is going to weather through this meeting of leaders.

But even there, stood at the top of the steps, Valion can feel the screaming of his bones at the sight of six that cast him to the void and never looked back. The sourness that soaks his scent, damp, water-logged, is so much more potent now he can see them all, waiting to ambush him. Some even have the nerve to smile.

Voltron and the Solnha are not the only ones gathered. Four Blades, those of whom who have helped in the aftermath of battle remain. Three crowd the shadows in the corner of the room, bearing witness but offering no voice. Only one has allowed herself closer, perched on the edge of a seat near the shortest Paladin, tail flicking back and forth, her eyes fixed upon Valion, as are all.
The Blade's presence means nothing, and are ignored.

Festering acid, spitting-sludge-toxic-rot bubbles in his throat when his eyes swim across the familiar faces of his Solnha brothers and sisters; the darkness that still dwelled deep inside him – unbanishable – entertains the thought that they are in on this too. That this is their trap.
That they are here to listen to the words of Voltron, cast their judgement and cast him aside too, now they have seen the truth of the boy behind Valion's mask.

A foolish thought, logic says.

And, somehow, it prevails.

The Solnha do not stand against him. They are here to stand with him.
To stand beside him. Behind him.

But Voltron remains; perhaps not an enemy, but a threat nonetheless. And it is this truth the feeds his fear and feeds his anger, harsh, steady steps carrying him from the threshold of the war room, down into its embrace.
The others follow.

And behind, the doors are firmly shut.

No way out. No escape.
He must carry on forward.

In his ears beats the sound of six heartbeats; a seventh that races too loud, too harsh, deafening him to his own thoughts, dissonant inside his own mind. His breath, shallow in his lungs; a noose tight around his neck, the light of the Glo-Sun blinding him so that he cannot see the faces of his executioners. And yet, in his mind, he can see them as clear as the days are long.

The closest, the oldest, who came to him without the weight of his guilt to hold him back bears an unsure smile. Lance remembers this, yet the memory is faint and fractured like he watches a stranger fill his shoes from beyond the panes of shattered glass. There is the gentle quirk of his lips, but lines of sadness colour them pale and weak; a thousand apologies poised on the tip of his tongue.
Maybe. Maybe not.
He makes no move to give them.

At his elbow sits his ward, his princess and his daughter. She does not wear shame like the man before her, daring to stand in Valion's presence in the colours she stole from him, both befitting and inapposite in such a way that Lance cannot easily turn his cheek. If his fear was not so deep-seated, perhaps he would've thrown her from the room through sheer anger alone.
Some part of him wished he could.
But some part of him knew the armour wasn't his anymore.

He had revoked his claim when he fled.

Besides her, with barely a breath of distance between them, is the cool and calm Black Paladin. His mask of is indifference is loose and poorly crafted, and yet there it sits upon his face, as if the man has any right to act unaffected to the boy's presence. He still feels whatever he felt, when they first came to greet one another on the battlefield. Yet now he tries to hide it.
And hides from it. Running away from the emotion that will lead to every single apology that Lance has wished to hear one thousand-fold. Running away from facing the consequence of his harsh words and blatant disregard.

Beyond the Black Paladin is the Red. He is the only one besides Valion and the last arrivals to remain standing from the greeting, and the only one that portrays the desperation of Voltron's need to be seen by him.
And Keith sees him. Finally, finally sees him.

After so long of hoping that the distance between them would shrink, hoping that the divide was nothing but a line in the sand, easily ignored when they stood on the same side, stood side by side.

But Keith never thought Lance to stand abreast to him. He saw him as a fellow soldier maybe, but left him chasing his shadow, left Lance to train and train, to be the only one trying to bridge the distance that separated them.

Valion can't help but feel a burst of pride that it is now him who is the one to be chased. And yet, Keith's desperation is not the true emotion he feels. Lance had known the boy long enough to know emotion was simply a weakness to the half-Galran, knew enough that the boy wouldn't readily open himself to others unless they pried his heart out of his cold, dead body.

The mask of pain is nothing more than a trap.

So Valion ignores it.

Hunk and Pidge are silent, like everyone else gathered. Still-seated. Silent.
Waiting for someone else to take the limelight so they don't have to face their friend who they were so quick to leave behind. The friend they so easily abandoned, past years of camaraderie be damned. They had each other. That was enough for them.

Lance can still hear Pidge's words that sentenced him to exile.
He can still hear Hunk's barest defence for the sake of the boy who hadn't even been given the chance to save himself from the pyre.

Lance was just a boy, tied to the stake and left to burn, left to choke upon the smoke.

Anger curls around his throat, spitfire accusations tangled with the leaden questions of "why? Why me?" and yet he cannot speak, his tongue numb, his body cold, growing colder despite the inferno of rage swelling in his chest. A wish for Anadón filled his mind, hoping for his feathered beast to return and devour all the emotion inside of him until he was bleak, empty grey once again.
At least then he could approach Voltron without needing to hold back the tide of hurt that thundered inside of him.

They are the reason for Lance's pain, for his anger, for the darkness that curls in his chest and steals the warmth from his soul. They are the weights that drag him beneath the water, the fear of them what fills his lungs and freezes him in place, at their mercy.

Valion tries to swallow, but it does not free his throat.

The noose tightens.
Tighter.
He cannot pull air into his lungs; his breath frozen in his chest, growing cold.

Growing stale.

The cold rock around them is stationary, but all the same, it moves. Valion can force his glare on the walls and they shy away and do not move, but that leaves movement for the shadowing behind him, suddenly too close, the ceiling too low, the war room too small all at once. And yet nothing had changed.

Nothing had changed, but he cannot move and he cannot breathe.
He cannot breathe—

"Valion?"

Gereen's voice cuts through the confusion in an instant, his tone unsure, but edged with a subtle warning reminiscent of the snarling threats that used to be his to throw where he saw fit. Back before Dasyure and the endless confusion.

The familiarity was enough to silence the boy's rampant thoughts as he turns behind him, Voltron forgotten when he meets the Pawther's gaze.

The soldier looks unsure, strikingly different to the tone of his words. Even then, the idea that Gereen is unsure stands as a foreign thought in itself when compared to his usual attitude. But the explanation is given in the flicker of his eyes; just the barest movement that Valionnotices, feeling more eyes follow the path that Gereen's do, from Valion's face, to the boy's hand.
It is wrapped around the shaft of his switchblade, his arm tensed and – as if pulling attention to it was the very provocation needed — beginning to hurt with the strain of tension that tightens his muscles as if his strength alone will crush the thing into oblivion.

Valion can't help but blink in surprise of his own actions.
They have barely offered one another a greeting, and yet Valion is already preparing himself to fight them.

Laughable.
If the thought didn't sit sour on his tongue.

Valion tugs a little harder on the switchblade; the shaft giving to his strength rather than the electro-magnetic pull that keeps it in place upon his hip. In one swift movement, he tosses it to the Pawther, who catches it flawlessly, his face morphing from concern into one of confusion. Another unfamiliar mask.

"Hold onto it for me," Valion says, internally cringing at the unnaturalness of his own voice. He plays for humour: "But don't break it. God knows Bumi will be pissed if he has to make me another one."

Gereen nods his head, salutes, and stashes the shaft away on his person without another word.
He steps back from the spotlight towards the wall behind the Solnha. He didn't want to be a part of the discussions, perhaps didn't feel as if he was allowed to involve himself. But debt-bound to Valion, he will continue to stand behind him. To support him. The thought is as odd as it has been every time Valion considers it. But as much as it is confusing, it is comforting, and the quirk of his lips is enough for his heartmate to smile from the corner of his eyes.
The quietest, "after you," spurs them into settling themselves into their respective chairs, once again entwined their hands together, coming to rest on Valion's knee.

The room is more crowded than Valion had previously assumed. The usual faces offer greetings as he passes; representatives of the different races that make up the Solnha who have been in attending to many a peace meeting, long since the Solnha first began to band together to form the civilisation they are today.

The empty chair beside Eldar does not escape the boy's notice. He knew Roamer wouldn't be here, but without her, facing Voltron seemed all the more daunting.
But surrounded by those he calls his family, Valion knows he is not alone.

Together, Eldar has promised.

They would do this together.


The very air is foul and rotten.

Eldar cannot but feel repulsed to the heavy scents permeating the room, the heart-hurting pain that drowns Lance, weighing at his soul as he bares himself, acrid and acidic, sharp-lightning anger burning through the blood between bitten lips, the words of greeting drip-drip-dripping in a hate that isn't heard, but seen and smelt and felt like salt-soaked lashes upon his skin.

Beside him, behind him, Viridall cannot weather the storm, turning face from something that is too close, and chokes him. Gereen, just as attuned to Valion's scent, steels himself against the tide, but even he isn't strong enough to silence the whimper tight in his throat when the Black Paladin speaks and Lance's scent drops.
His eyes burn bright, copper-whiskey dancing like fire as he stares, unblinking, lips unsmiling, his face unspeakably plain and so far from the warmth of precious memories that Eldar doesn't realise his hackles are raised until they are.
An instinctual growl remains locked behind clenched teeth, and it is all Eldar can do to stop himself from gathering Lance in his arms and hide him somewhere safe, somewhere far away.

A whine is all it takes for a flicker of his Arenphine's eyes, his scent lifting into grey, pale fog, the sharp of painful stone on sharp mountain paths, the prickling of blood under broken skin.
Guilt. Shame. Hurt.

Eldar feels Lance's pain like it is his own; feels it burn him and brand him, feels it choke his throat and crush his chest.
Under it all, pride blooms, expands like hot air. It is the warmth of the sun breaking through the winter clouds, the hidden beauty found after a snowstorm. It is Eldar's to admire, even as he hurts.
Because Lance, so strong, so brave, endures. He does, not just for the sake of the Solnha, but for his own sake too. He is facing demons he has long-since buried deep in his heart.

It is known that Lance had never wished to speak about his family. He always made it clear, with diversion and distraction and that talk of his previous life was better ignored. He had his own reasons, Eldar knew that.
Knew running was easier.
Knew ignorance was easier.

But knowing Voltron was harder.

Before him sat six of whom he knew very little of.
He had heard little through circling rumours, much like he first came to know of his Husband, long before their eventful first meeting. The surprises of them are a lesson learnt in presumptions. Eldar knew not to overlook the comparisons in height, knowing that even the one cloaked in Green was as strong as Lance, and would not be a Paladin of Voltron if the truth was anything otherwise.

More had been learnt from Rayon himself, when the stress of the finished battle had dulled significantly, the act of gathering the injured to the safety of impromptu medical wards steadying to a manageable rate, handled easily by the numbers that hadn't suffered a battle wound.
It was little after dark when the day truly met an end; sleep quietening the long winding tunnels and the soft ebb of the Glo-Moon giving peace where it could.

Tired, and undoubtedly exhausted from the hard-fought battle and the emotion of countless reunions, Rayon had found an ease in it all that allowed him to take stock and withdraw. But instead of seeking a quite nook and well-deserved rest like the others, the Draora had dragged his tired body up the circling corridors, losing himself in the labyrinth-like Home Tree, to the unfamiliar nest near the still-smoking peak.
Eldar was there to greet him, watching over his lover, as Valion dozed in attempts to rest.

"Uilt'xen told me," the boy had said, in a way of greeting and explanation all at once, needing no formalities to approach the dim of the room.
It is colder than usual, due to damage to the internal regulators and a lot of structural damage resulting from the aftershocks of the Galra's spire drop-shafts, as well as the children's own mining that had opened up hundreds of smaller tunnels that led to the surface. During the battle, they allowed the ferrying of the injured into the Home Tree. Now, they are draft-intakes, pulling the cold of Caldara's snowstorm into her core. The cold is uncomfortable, in a strange satisfying way for many that are thankful they are alive to feel as such.
Rayon doesn't consider this, not having any previous thoughts to compare it to. Because this was the first time he has been inside Caldara's Peak.

It had been a weird thought to consider, and although the Draora has been missing for weeks, even mourned during the Carving of the Hearth, it almost felt like the boy hadn't been gone at all.
But in no way did that mean Eldar hadn't missed his comrade. He had mourned his friend too, when his name had been carved into stone.

"I couldn't let myself… not come… to see him. To check that he wasn't still hurting," Rayon had said, his voice quiet and, oh, how young he had appeared when he first approached; fingers curled in his hands, the soft of his palm dragged at pale skin, scarred and imperfect. They are scars he has earned in his defiance against the Galra, scars taken from Genwar's core that haunt him and haunt him still, even as they sit in the War Chamber.
He sits to Eldar's immediate right, phlegmatic and iron-willed as he faces familiars that, to all degrees of an outsider's perspective, are his brother's adversaries. And to Eldar and many others in this room this is true.
But for Rayon, the Paladins of Voltron are not strangers. They have fought together, sought out the Solnha together, broke bread and shared the same table in their journey from their first meeting until now.

Torn, Rayon will not—No. Cannot let his wavering be shown, should it be seen he stands on middle ground. He has every right to, of course. To sit himself separate to mediate the uncertainty, for both and perhaps against where his voice needs to be heard.
And yet he chooses to take Valion's lead and bares an expression of indifference.

But before, back in the quiet safety of the nest, he hadn't.

Couldn't.

"I couldn't help but worry for him. After thinking he was dead… After thinking it back on G— and have to learn to accept it and then—then finding out we were wrong, and he… we… we hadn't protected him,"he had whispered, voice cracking like dry rocks that crumbled to dust in his fist.

"We hadn't protected him and we lost him…"

Rayon swallowed, his scent thick. He had tried to hide it, had forgotten Eldar's calibre when it came to reading another and knowing their emotion.
The boy was fighting a losing battle, voice heavy with the rising fear that soaked his memories, ink staining everything until he couldn't see clearly and all he was faced with was mistake after mistake after mistake after mis—

"I couldn't help but let myself worry. But I couldn't regain control of my feelings either. After everything, I can't— I can't seem to let go… I had to see… for myself. I couldn't stand the thought, that maybe—that not knowing…"
Words had not come easy for him. It was unfamiliar when compared to the boy's known confidence. But now, after everything he has been forced to face, it is understandable that he has changed. The lingering of exhaustion had been too much to bear any façade.
It wouldn't matter anyway. Eldar knew what he was trying to say. The thoughts that crowded him were similar to his own that would cloud his own mind, making it hard to see the truth.

"He is in no danger. Valion has weathered far worse than this," Eldar had said, ignoring the cold-ocean spray of hurt wavering within his words, despite the truth spoken.
Because it was the truth: Valion has been through far worse than the small knife that jarred his stomach. Made worse than what it needed to be with the boy's own stubbornness to care for everyone before himself, even if it meant burying himself in an early grave. But not this time. Lance simply needed time on his side, and with the chance to rest and heal, he would come through stronger.

That's what Humans do.
They get knocked down and then they get back up again; stronger, even more determined to keep on fighting. They'll get back up as many times as they needed to, until they win.

After a moment to catch his breath, Valion would get back up.
Just as determined to defeat the Galra.
Just as determined to defend the Solnha.

He'll keep fighting, until he could not stand again.

"I keep forgetting he's not dead. I mourned for him, we all mourned for him, for… for weeks," Rayon says, vehement in the way that irritation discolours his words, as if he feels at fault to allow himself a moment of peace for Valion's death.

"I shouldn't have—"
"You didn't know he was alive. There is nothing wrong with what you did when you didn't know otherwise," Eldar had said, his words just as strong, and perhaps a little louder than he had intended them to be. "He mourned for you. When we thought you were all dead, Lance didn't give up. But after so long, even he had to accept what we thought was the truth. And he mourned for you like you mourned for him."

Rayon could only nod in quite admission. "I never want to have to feel that again."

The two Solnha had watched Valion in shared silence, taking peace where they could in the moment that the boy was sleeping. It was then, in that moment, that he was free from his own thoughts, and the weight of self-appointed blame. Where the ramifications of the battle were considered.
In that moment Lance wasn't hurting.

But all too soon the time had come and gone and Lance had woken to the anger of his Arenphine and the fear of Voltron, banging at the door, demanding to speak with him…

"They're not who I thought they would be," Rayon had said. His voice broke the silence before it could fully settle, the peace of the moment shattered.
His words had meant nothing and yet they meant everything; their meaning like the rippling rings of waves which move, ever outwards from the center of the disturbance. They are the first few drops of rain that come as a warning that the winds blow in a storm.

Rayon's admission was the warning that told Eldar, who he thought Voltron were, was not who they are.

Without knowing, Lance's fears had become his own.

"Will they hurt him?" Eldar asked, having heard the tension and raising his guard upon instinct. He hadn't cared whether or not if it was necessary, his mind a turmoil of thoughts as he tried to understand all what Lance has, and hasn't told him.
Eldar knew more now, having being told after the boy had woke that he had turned his sword, his words and himself against them in retaliation to their actions against him. Revisited again by the same question, Eldar cannot help but wonder that, perhaps they had come, not for reconciliation, but payment for the wrongs that Lance had done them.

Eldar was beginning to understand why his lover's fear ran so deep.

He had always been adamant in his conclusion that Voltron's coming meant nothing good, always sure to turn attention from them where he could until he had no other choice. And yet, upon the battlefield, faced with them, finally, after phoebes of time apart…
Lance had treated them separate to one might think anyone would react to an enemy.
Although, Voltron had proved themselves to be otherwise, fighting side by side with the Solnha, defending their homeworld from the invading Galra.

They had been there, not to stand against Lance, but to stand with him.

And yet, Lance had met them as Valion.
And again, now in the War Room.

Despite Eldar's words that Valion was simply a title to honour him and his strength, to Lance, Valion was something more. He was someone separate from himself, like a suit of armour that once worn, showed him to be someone else.
Lance used Valion as a shield, hiding himself and his fears behind the mask.

Eldar remembered the black, empty-obsidian, toxic-tar-sludge-oil, slick against his skin when he pushed through Lance's mind to find him when they stood beyond the threshold of victory. On the battlefield, surrounded by the jubilation of the Solnha, themselves touched with the same warmth moments ago. Only to lose it all, in an instant.
The chill of the coming snowstorm held nothing to the chill of standing in the Lions' shadows.

Eldar had heard many a magnificent tale of the beasts tearing into Galra warships. He had even witnessed their strength himself when the ancient war-machines swooped in from the stars and laid waste to the Galra horde, their might unquestionable. And yes, he had celebrated their coming as the rest of the Solnha had, thanked them for giving them back their home and returning his future back to him.

But Lance had not shared the same comfort. Beside him he had stood, unable to breathe properly, frozen in fear, frozen inside his mind, needing Eldar just to pull him from the precipice of panic.
Eldar couldn't pull him far enough from the edge to allow himself to let go, and he had stayed, holding on. Torn between the relief of the battle won and the jarring irregularity to his Arenphine, who had just stood there.
Staring.

It wasn't the reaction friends would be given, even if there was dissonance between them. Even Gereen was considered with more warmth than that of which Lance regarded his former comrades.

Eldar hadn't considered this. He hadn't stopped to think at all, still caught up in celebration and relief and everything but the boy's pain.

And it had been Eldar who was the one to push his Arenphine into the waiting abyss of the Lion's maw, hoping he came back unscathed.

The fool.

Even now, as they sat in the War Chamber, Eldar hates himself for his own weaknesses. The want to protect his husband is fresh under his skin, the desire strong enough to crack the calm he projects, eyes shifting over the faces both familiar and not so much. The incessant scratching of Uilt'xen's nails grate at his patience more than he wishes to admit; his eyes drifting to Roamer's empty chair catching him off guard on too many occasions.
Yet most of all, he cannot shift his attention away from the fluctuating emotions of the Red.
All around them springs to life discord and dissonance, but the Red himself has control. He is deliberate in his rage, deliberate in to whom the flames will chase, deliberate and free as his allies remain distracted with heated discussions towards their future: be it hand in hand or as amiable conversancy.

Eldar cannot say for certain if the Human's deliberation is the sole cause to Lance's own spike of anger and affliction, but he know enough that they play to affect. His being is disorientated, his own words slow and unsure beneath his projections, the flick of his eyes sent to the Red as if his attention was being pulled by him; magnetic and demanding.

Valion's scent burns cold in the spotlight.

Eldar doesn't want to crowd his lover with protection; wanting to show that he trusts him and believes in his strength as he always has done.
And yet, he doesn't want to leave him either. Their hands, still joined, hidden beneath the smooth of the table are the only comfort he gives when he readjusts his grip. Just a hair, his fingers move and then suddenly stop when Lance holds on. Desperate.
Eldar tries to convey comfort through a tight grip, but cannot push beyond the looming-fear, swallowing-dark trepidation that shadows his every word.

"Lance, you're fine. You're safe. I am here. I am with you."
But Lance cannot hear. He cannot allow his mind to take Eldar's words and wrap them around himself like armour. He must show that he is strong as Valion, for a sake that only he can understand as he remains under the scrutiny of his old comrades.

Eldar curls his hand tighter regardless.
He cannot shake the prickling hurt to know the fear Voltron's presence holds over his lover.

"They won't hurt him. Not intentionally," Rayon had said, in hopes to offer comfort where comfort was needed. "And yet, they have already hurt him."
He dragged a heavy hand across his face as if that would be enough to latch onto the exhaustion that plagued him, let him grab it and toss it into the void.

"Prime. They don't know him anymore."

His voice quietened, but it was not soft, but instead the grumble of distant storm clouds. Irritation prickled his tongue, the gnawing of dry lips cracking like desert rocks in the midday heat.

"The Lance that they spoke of wasn't the Lance I knew. When he was their Blue Paladin, he was much the way he was when we first met him. Before 'Valion' and responsibilities, when he was more carefree and energetic." Words brought back memories. Rayon couldn't' help himself when he rubbed at his wrist where Lance favoured hitting him come many countless spars.

But his expression soured all too soon, his voice dimmed with an edge of defence in favour of his favourite Human. "But he was distant too. For us, it wasn't long before we saw the real him. But they there was faults to what we have come to love. The real Lance who we followed. They said that was something favourable. Because fighting in a war was a serious affair and they said… they said—"

Emotion gave rise to his volume but the boy does not notice.

"They said he was a joker. They said he never took things seriously, never was one who would take responsibility, always treating everything like a joke. They never said anything about his devotion to getting stronger, how he was always supporting us, showing us how to improve, not only training alongside us but pushing us so we could be better…"

He had bitten his lips to silence himself, unspoken words falling in silent tears. The scent of copper bloomed, but there was no one to pull to mind the dark crimson petals fluttering to the floor.

And still Rayon continued.

"But when we told them he was Valion… When we told him who he was to us, who he was to the Solnha, what he had done and all that he had achieved—"

Rayon's sudden spitfire-anger had been loud enough to turn Valion in his sleep. Not wanting to disturb him, the pair pulled themselves from beside the nest where he slept in the warm embrace of furs. The Altean medicine would disturb him soon enough. They wanted to give him all the time for rest that they could.

Before waking.

Before Voltron.

With the privacy of a spacious alcove that doubled as Valion's workplace, it was free from prying eyes, giving space that allow the two to continue their somewhat heated conversation.
And yet, Rayon was unwilling to continue; not wanting to bare himself to the disbelief that has become familiar to him, having remained in defence to Lance's achievements as Valion and Tae-Sault of the entire Solnha Civilisation.

Instead, he had dropped his body into a chair, bone-deep exhaustion pulling at his muscles, his skin cracking, armour shifting and shunting until the give wouldn't give and he dropped like an android that had run out of charge.

"They've missed him. They showed us that, told us that, right from the beginning. Right from when we woke up. I know it, even if my memory is a little hazy."

Rayon is apologetic in his tone, Eldar knowing the Draora needs this time to speak and clear his mind from all the turns and twists that have wrought his journey upon separation. He hasn't had the freedom to speak openly, having Voltron upon one shoulder and others that have hurt just like him on the other.
There was no use making them relive their pain.

"I wasn't the first to wake up. Orv— She… She had hurt us. All of us, but I wasn't the first to wake. And when I had, she was… she was there, and Valion was dead and Uilt'xen was hurt and Leonel and—"

He hadn't seen them since the moment they were caught, beaten and bound so that escape had been impossible. Broken limbs hadn't let him fight back, but that wasn't enough for the Galra when they beat him more.
Then, chained and barred in small, cramp cells, left to listen to their screaming, screaming himself when his armour was ripped from him, screaming to drown out Uilt'xen's pain when she was beaten, when her arms were broken. Screaming when Leonel was dragged from his cell in chains, barbs missing, the white of his skin hidden under layers and layers of blood that had hardened like scales over his body, but offered no protection from the torture that She continued to crush them with.

Cruel and calculated, enough that Rayon was overwhelmed with the memories and he fought the weakness to remain sitting, adrenaline bubbling in his blood that demands he fights the imaginary enemy.
Eldar barred him for a moment, guiding him to at least sit up fight, hand on his shoulder, hand on his chest to keep him from slouching and the slow, steady beat of his voice remind him, "it's okay, just breathe, just breathe Rayon."

"I'm sorry, it's sometimes just… just too much," he says, dry, raspy. "But I'm okay, I'm… I'm okay."

And he is, beneath the lightning, ice-white burn of fear, the desolate dawning isolation of the barren snowfields, Rayon is stronger than the momentary stab of horror. To prove it to himself, he stands once again.
His scent is still shadowed, body still taut from the strike of lightening deep in his veins, but he is okay.

Yet Orvis still holds power inside his mind. He cannot so easily shake her control.

"They saved us from her. Twice. She had tricked them, telling them she was Solnha, and they thought they had saved her too." He spits the words from his mouth, not wishing to let them linger, to let the bitterness of their vile infect his tongue.

"The Red one killed her: Keith."

Speaking the Red Paladin's name brought a frown to both faces: Rayon, in hidden emotion; Eldar, in quiet recognition.

He has heard the name before, but only now does he realise its meaning. It had been spoken by Lance, on one of those long, lonely nights he would spend besides Delphi's pond, his feet trailing the water's surface when Anadón would keep him company before their fight. Keith's was a name bitten behind bloody lips when his voice bubbled with the heat of dormant volcanoes.
The understanding brought the prickling of ice to his fingertips.

"They care for him, but somehow I didn't... I don't know if I didn't want to believe, or if I was biased but… But it felt wrong.

"The Red one, he was always… always angry, or quiet, or breaking things in their training hall. Like Lance, when he used to beat himself up for a mission gone wrong and all he could do to get out his anger was destroying things. In the end, we did the same thing."

The memories continue; the words carrying with them a different weight to that words bring back memory after memory, Rayon hurrying his words before his mind can steal his focus and he is left to reminisce.

"The boy mourned when he could, grew angry everywhere else. There was something about it that felt… off. Like his emotions were too strong, his pain too strong, like he hadn't lost a brother but…"
The look he had given Eldar was enough to fill the silence. But it was a word that stained black upon his heart, eyes having sought Lance who still remained blissful in sleep. Ugly thoughts had poked at him; thorns of the unthinkable growing under his skin when he tried to dispute the thoughts as to why Lance never wanted to speak of his family.
He isn't prey to them any longer, but still, Eldar cannot help but break free from his thoughts.

He looks to the human that sits in the War Chamber, taking the space on the right side of the Black Paladin. The air around him prickles with anger, red-hot hatred, dragon-fire burning beneath his skin, the swirling darkness of despair bitter and acrid, the potency enough to steal the Pawther's breath if he allowed it.
The fluidity is as if the boy cannot decide upon his feelings; the flickering of his aura as free as a dancing flame, burning with anger-regret-guilt-shame-sadness-anger-hate-hurt—

All at once.

The bone-white brittle hold upon his emotions is fragile at best, not strong enough to keep back the tide. Eldar stares, the fur on his neck rising with disquietude, the growing apprehension pulling at his nerves until they are wound and taut like anchoring ropes weighing heavy on his chest.

The boy bears the scent of prey, cornered and trapped, ready to defend himself should the hunter get too close. And yet, beneath the damp-soil, charcoal-smoke, stagnate water of his hurt, he is as feral as the thing he fears, not running from the hunter, but luring him in.

Beside him, Eldar knows Lance can feel it too. Attuned to the scents and auras of those around him, and with the Red's emotions so strong there is no way that he cannot see. It is a gift of their soul bond.
But perhaps, in this moment, it is a curse; the Red's charged emotions another adversary he has to face in order to keep his façade and remain unmoved by their words. It is unnecessary, and rectifiable.

So Eldar acts.

"This meeting was agreed upon by both parties," he says, little thought given to they of whom he interrupts, eyes only for the one in Red. "We are here to speak of peace, but all you dare to show is an anger that continues to grow, in contempt of the very reason why we're gathered."

Lance squeezes his hand, hidden beneath the table. But now eyes are on him and so is the intense vitriol, acrid-burning-brine, wood-smoke, blood and engine fuel focus of something far darker than hatred, far more intense than loathing. The earlier anger was tepid in comparison to the growing heat that bled into the air, sharp enough that Viridall and Gereen are growling low in their throats, tails snaking back and forth in awakening feral instinct.
Even Zaos shows a sign of tense discomfort; the star-child's body moving and morphing besides Valion as she grew in size, the twilight of her form darkening the room.

But it is Eldar who stands and Eldar who holds everyone's focus. Better the anger be directed to him than to his lover, who reached for the hand that has let his go, himself rising to his feet if only to calm the growing fury in the Pawther himself. It is foolish to let Voltron affect them as they have, but that is forgotten at the wailing cry of scraped stone.

The Red Paladin had risen to his feet, fast enough that the Human had knocked aside his chair. He allows himself to glare openly now, the heat he wears as potent as that previously displayed to Valion.

"I'm not the one that interrupted, and stopped your discussions of peace," he snarls, his thoughts clearly shown at the twist of his tongue. His attempts at turning pointed blame are silenced when the Black Paladin stands also. Like Lance, he reaches out to hold on; an anchor, a hope of shift in focus that is easily shaken off and ignored.

Two Blades make to move, but the tallest between them raises a hand and they step back. She who perches beside the Green has pulled the shorter into her embrace, her sent of midnight longing a familiarity that doesn't pose a threat. Eldar can ignore them without fear of repercussions. His attention is taken regardless, the Black Paladin elaborate in his movements to garner eyes rather than the volatile of his soldier.

"Keith meant no disrespect. We're not here to fight—"
"If that is true, then why does he threaten Valion," Gereen snapped from behind. He has moved closer, Viridall beside him as they flank Prime and his heartmate; once more the Soldiers of Pantheon, prepared to fight any enemy of those to whom they have sworn fealty.

"He doesn't," Voltron's leader pleads, desperate, the shake of his voice doing little to inspire confidence that the Red Soldier will not act upon his emotions and attack.

The Yellow has stood also, arms gripping the right of the Red's as he hurries to calm him, fighting the deliberate movement that sees his hand reach for this thigh.
There is no weapon holstered – no chance any of the Solnha would allow such knowing Valion's feelings towards his old comrades – and yet the movement continues and Eldar cannot but fear Voltron are armed, and this was a trap—

"There is no Valion," the Red Paladin roars, all snarls and spikes and spit.
He stabs a finger towards Valion, rage the colours he wears, scent thick with unbridled hatred. "He is not Valion, his name is Lance and he is the Blue Paladin of Voltron! He's not some stupid pretend-prince of whatever fucking planet."

His tongue is a finely crafted spear, the sharp of his words striking deep, deeper than anyone could imagine.
Eldar felt himself recoil under their weight, the piercing ache Lance felt driven deep into his gut. But Eldar pushes back, ready to defend, ready to fight for his Arenphine and show this child that he is wrong.

"He is our Leader, our Valion—"
"Valion doesn't exist! You're just idiots who cannot see the truth. You don't even know who he is!"

"He is Valion—"

Eldar is silenced as the boy moves again; his movement swift and deliberated, unchallenged by the Yellow Paladin. Without warning, suddenly there, gleaming in his hand, is a broadsword; a shiftblade at his disposal, the beast's fang poised for Eldar's throat, the divide between them closing—

"ENOUGH!"

Lance's order echoed in the small room, the sheer power of his voice the demand of attention that saw everyone turning to him. Around his wrist the star-child has wrapped her fingers, her own strength filling his voice.
Eldar halted himself from where he had made to move, to stand in front of his lover, fighting the urge to cower under the coldness that filled his eyes.

Yet Lance does not scold him.

He turns to the boy of red.

"I am Valion. I am Tae-Sault to the Solnha. And you will not threaten my husband."