And now, in Lance's point of view...
Chapter Fifty-Three:A Want Unleashed
He was ready to bare himself, heart and soul, to show what he had become without them. Lance didn't care if Voltron wanted to see the truth they created, but they're going to know every pain they ever dealt him.
System: Medellin
Location: Caldara
Valion was the first to begin.
He drew the line in the sand with his words, doing so without hesitation, before Voltron can presume too much and think that this 'peace meeting' is theirs to dictate. With stones in his gut and nails digging into his palms, he met the Black Paladin eye to eye.
Crushed the noxious taste between sharp teeth. Rolled his tongue to swallow his poison.
And spoke.
"Gornonyyn, Paladins of Voltron. I greet you, as Valion, Leader of the Solnha."
There is a reaction to his words, but Valion refuses to show he notices as such. Instead he turns away, raising the hand that isn't enclosed in Eldar's, to gesture to the Solnha that sit with him and the empty chairs that speak more than the silence could. Valion doesn't allow his eyes to linger.
"This is out of sorts to our usual conduct, but following our recent skirmish with the Galra I hope you understand why we meet you with so few of our own."
It didn't matter if Voltron cared or not. The proceedings were Valion's to ordain. Any childish quarrel raised against such wouldn't be accepted and he would walk away without a word.
Lance feels somewhat foolish to speak only in formal tongue, mind clawing at polite terms that shine the same colour as the boy they knew.
Before, he was simply blue. Soft summer skies of pale blue, the joking laugh that rippled upon the surface of tension's glass. Before he let himself look too deep, before he had seen too much, he had been the boy that could pass the meetings with hurried whispers with Hunk and Pidge, alleviating the pressure of reality in lazy abundance, his worried set adrift on the predictable tide.
Maybe even then Voltron hadn't seen the importance his nonchalance portrayed as he left the responsibility to the elders, to the Alteans and the forthright soldiers who wanted for victory over the Empire.
But now Lance stands on the other side of the chess board.
He bears the responsibility for his people and cannot disregard discussions but remain equable in temperament. Even if it is just another layer to the many masks he wears.
The Black Paladin nods to Valion's words. He plays along to the boy's rulings as he introduces himself by name. To his own comrades, his words draw confusion; Hunk's playing plainly upon his face. But despite it, the Yellow Paladin introduces himself when the turn falls to him to speak. As do they all.
Eldar is the first Solnha to introduce himself, quick to pass the torch to Rayon beside him and onwards, and then back down the line until everyone has given their name, some even offering up their position from which they support their Tae-Sault.
Everyone speaks, except for Zaos.
So far, she has kept to herself, form unwavering on Valion's immediate left where she can wrap delicate fingers around his wrist.
For her sake.
For his.
She sits with him in his thoughts, pulling him as far from his unease as she is able. She holds a slight jitter to her presence – the only uncertainty needed to be given to share her worry for encroaching upon the Paladin's minds, as if it was such a thing that should be feared.
Valion offers comfort where he can; a gift of warmth towards the bond he and his star-sister share. "You will not speak to them?" he asks; at liberty to divert his consideration whilst introductions continue. "Isn't that a little contradictable?" her playful tone skitters, like skipping pebbles. She doesn't mean it in any way beyond a play for humour, but Lance cannot help but dampen.
"I have my reasons, Zaos," he says, his thoughts not as free from dread as he hoped. The companionship in his mind is a distraction to the trials he cannot escape from. They both know this, and he knows that Zaos only seeks to aid him.
Shift forming, she takes comfort when she wears his shape.
And then softly, "their minds are heavy. The lights that shines are far harsher than yours."
"Lights?"
"Their own and another. Intimate and deeply woven with one another." Her voice is quiet and small, the presence inside his own mind distant in a way that worries him. She turns her face again.
The flash of twinkling stars light draws attention to the two Alteans and the way their eyes remain fixated on the star-child, expressions unreadable, their sole attention on Zaos and not at all upon the words that Shiro speaks.
In the quiet of his mind, Lance misses the chance to ask the lingering question of why Zaos remains in silence is stolen from him, the sound of Shiro speaking dragging his mind back to the present.
Zaos withdraws from the forefront of his mind, her touch vanishing from his wrist.
"We don't mean to impose on you, especially now in the face of… everything," the Black Paladin says.
Valion hears his sympathy, pain building behind his eyes as he tries to look beyond what is given. Shiro's mask has been stitched with— not with confidence, but a resolution much like the Solnha boy's own. They are both determined to see themselves through this moment of too-close and too-crowded; Shiro focused on the here and now.
Lance must do the same.
"We felt that speaking now would benefit us all, much more efficiently than if we were to leave and allow you to recover. It feels illogical, when Voltron and our allied coalition can help the Solnha build themselves back up."
Lance wants to sneer, but for the sake of the promises he's made to his Arenphine, swallows his bile and keeps himself silent.
The man's words have earned him esteem from the council; a slight murmuring agreement rising from the lips of those that are seated to Valion's left. Even Fellfrir has been lulled with the Black Paladin's excuse for 'peace talks'; unable to see beyond the illusioned promise that the team were there to help.
She cannot be blamed. Neither can the others.
Not when worry fills their minds as memory is cast to the might of the Galra, and how shaken their stronghold is after one attack. It is this reality that will not leave their minds, their own thoughts caught in the storm of reliving the war over and over, yet each outcome is worse until there is no Solnha to rise from the ashes.
It was an unexpected trial, but they came out victorious. And that should be enough to steady the confidence in themselves. They can accept Voltron's help, if it be offered, but there was no reason that they couldn't return to the path that they were on before all of this came about.
Valion longed for Roamer and her unwavering thoughts that focused on the future where Solnha not only survived, but thrived, and brought others into the fold of thriving too. Without her skilful deliberation, Valion worries that he will have few upon his side when it comes to not immediately jumping into step with the Paladin's propositions, whatever they maybe.
Shiro remains in the spotlight, all eyes on him.
He offers an explanation as to how it came to be that Voltron found Caldara, searching for the Solnha for the sake of returning their wards home, as well as to seek out the opportunity of an alliance. He speaks of a time before Genwar, rightfully avoiding to linger on the stained memory, instead choosing to focus upon the mention of a Galra fleet and the Marmora who were with them when they attacked.
Valion regards the Blades that hang in the shadows; a halted look upon the one nearest Pidge when she bares him a wide smile of sharp teeth and bright eyes. He scents no enmity from her, so thinks nothing of it.
He doesn't understand their presence here beyond that of Voltron calling for help; a show of power if Valion had ever seen one.
Cleverly disguised chicanery that would be overlooked by anyone that took the Paladins at face value.
Their tenacity towards manipulating others was not something to be scoffed at, certainly now that they seek an anchor within the Solnha. Perhaps they even think that the diverse community could be bent to their will; the people becoming just another resource to drain in the long war against the Empire.
If Voltron allowed themselves to believe such was possible, then they were more foolish than Lance had given them credit for.
And yet as foolish as they appeared, they knew how to play the game.
"Battleship fleet?" Fellfrir interrupts, drawing eyes to where she leans forward on bandaged arms, her pain forgotten beneath the threat of another imminent attack.
As one proactive in accounts of fighting the Galra, it was a common conclusion that the Fellmot's Sault would take an active role in the Solnha's defence: not just for Caldara and the Medellin system, but for the colony's ever-expanding territory.
Her fears were calmed, however, when the Yellow Paladin stepped in to assure them all that with the combined forces of Voltron and the Blades together, they had long since destroyed the fleet and any chances of the Galra learning of the Solnha residing upon the ice planet.
"A bold-faced lie, considering the battle that killed many of my family," Lance snarls, tongue unbitten; rage rising like a tempest, the ocean thrashing beneath the surface of his voice as memories swell from the depths.
The power of the storm barely was kept at bay behind cold eyes. His anger's strength stood as a challenge – even unto itself.
All eyes turn towards him.
The Yellow Paladin averted his eyes from Valion's, something similar to pain flashing across his face. It reminded Lance of the Garrison, of how he had protected Hunk from Iverson's scoldings, of how he would gladly take the fall for a boy he had once considered his brother.
Now, Lance was the one to hold the whip and bare his teeth; irritation prickling at a mistake that, if it had been he as the one to make it, then it would've seen him lectured and chewed out far more furiously than his own displayed anger.
Hunk bowed his head in silent apology.
An uncomfortable prickle of guilt anchored itself in Valion's gut. Unpleasant and unwanted.
He chose to ignore it.
"You're wasting words and time with pointless stories. Either speak peace or leave."
His words curled into a growl; his attempts to restrain the wild nature of his negative emotions for the sake of civility falling far too short for his tone to allude towards one of calm.
Movement from the corner of his eyes suggests the Solnha do not approve of his guard. But they do not know Voltron like Valion does.
"What peace can we ask for, that hasn't already been given?"
It is Matriarch who asks, calling for ears and an answer to the question they all posed yet none had voiced.
Neither did they offer answers.
Lance felt Eldar shift beside him.
Their hands are still firmly linked beneath the table, the quiet determination of strength grounding him. The calm solidity to his lover's being clears his mind, anger lulled in the memory of warmth, its strength waning to allow all those attuned to the boy's scent the freedom to breathe.
He takes his own deep breath, searching for an ease in the growing storm to collect his thoughts and speak.
"Our first and foremost problem remains with the Galra, as it always has. With confirmation from both the Daratrine and the Ongar delegations, there are already arrangements for supplies and manpower to support the Home Tree as we heal her." The inflection of Valion's voice asks a question, head turned to the council at which both present parties nod, affirming that, yes, their people were doing all they can for the Solnha in the aftermath with the Ongar continuing to ship in medicine and supplies and agricultural equipment that had been promised long before the invasion.
"Beyond injuries, the damage is mainly superficial," Nye added, elaborating on the relief that the internal structure was simply surface damage at best and there were no emergencies beyond healing the warriors who had not left the battlefield unscathed.
While the Solnha relayed their standings to Voltron, they inadvertently brought Lance up to speed, his own questions answered without having to be asked. Without showing Voltron that he hadn't known everything. And Lance was thankful.
He still feared showing any weakness to the Paladins, even one as simple as being kept out of the loop whilst recovering from an injury – an injury that could've easily been avoided— should've been avoided – which he deemed unacceptable in any way, shape or form.
But the truth was that he had been hurt; had let himself stumble, even if it was for a moment. He had fallen prey to and injury that bared his incompetence and confirmed their suspicions that Lance hadn't changed, even after all this time without them.
The thought shot a spike of hurt through his body, worry clouding his scent, dragging light away from the white-flame-burning of anger to the mellow-dull dreariness of constant rain, soaking into his body, limbs heavy, eyes heavier.
He showed none of this outwardly; his body remaining the perfect statue as the other's spoke, back and forth, parrying the idea of a stable truce that would benefit both.
{Unneeded.}
But we promised Eldar we would listen at least.
Listening alone wouldn't do anything. Lance could listen to a hundred excuses, a thousand distractions and a million reasons why the Paladins did what they did and why they're hear now, but it meant nothing at all. All he wanted was—
"Calm yourself, my love," comes the low timbre of Eldar's song, a gentle wash of colours in his dull and muted mind, pulling it from the edge of the precipice with gentle strength. They remain bound together, Eldar's touch the rock in the tempest, unwavering and unyielding to the rising tide that threatens to flood away the sun.
He doesn't turn away from the gale, but into it, searching for Lance beneath the waves.
Eldar isn't a stranger that stared down the storm, but a distant brother of saltwater and seafoam, who knew himself to be safe in the face of the tempest's fury.
He was no master of the tides, but he spoke to the sea in such a way the sea could want for nothing more than to listen, to sing in symphony to the baritone, rich in the colours of earth, age-old as the Rowan, as strong as the apple branch that bends low with fruit come the harvest.
"We are with you," he says, voice soft but rising, like the warm caress of the rising wind, playful upon the threshold of a storm.
"You are not alone."
No, he's not.
Not anymore.
While Valion had become distracted with his own thoughts, talks had focused themselves upon the Galra's current activities in the nearby quadrants.
Quick to hide the blunder of his diverted attention, the boy lent his ears to the discussion as they returned to the Solnha's unaddressed fears of the largest enemy ensemble remaining upon Genwar and in her surrounding orbit.
Matriarch had taken the floor, having risen from her chair; the center of everyone's attention as she continued to relay information gathered from Irian and Cersaelk's recent mission to the nearest planets within the Caesura star system.
They had returned to the Galra operated space, as close as they dared, yet their path barred when their ships came across the same blockade that had stood in the way of Gereen's ships when he had tried to reach the mining planet. The focus had not only been the recovery of the planet and purging the enemy from the neighbouring system, but also obtaining a mineable source of Hexhoth, which was as useful to the Solnha as much as it was to the Galra.
Not to mention, reclaiming Genwar wouldalso stunt the supply of Hexhoth for the enemy.
Yet the report was not just the activity of the known space-bound Galra, but that they were amassing with reinforcements from Talladega.
So far, their numbers were nothing as disastrous as those that attacked Caldara, but with the increase of firepower, and the Empire's inexhaustible horde of soldiers to supply to the inevitable second battle, it wouldn't be long until the war was once again on their doorstep.
And with the recent attack, there was no escaping the truth that the Galra knew the location of the Solnha's home planet.
Defending Caldara was a new problem Valion and his people had yet to explore.
Before, with the freedom of mobile ships and no single place that had to remain hidden, the Solnha had cared little for the tracks they laid, knowing that Roamer's plans and the sheer size of the fleet was enough to scramble the Empire's ships across seven star-systems and not leave themselves at risk of being overwhelmed.
Now however, they had amalgamated under one banner, and with the gift of the planet from the Ongar, new plans had to be put into place. New structures had to be followed to keep the colony safe, of that there was no doubt.
But even as talks towards the future began, there was already a divide growing in the room.
"We need to take the fight to them," Fellfrir said, quick to jump to battle and destroying the enemy before they could attack for a second time. On her feet, she took lead over Matriarch, her tone demanding and almost petulant in a way that harboured her ability to convey the importance of risk to be taken. Once again, Valion mourned Roamer's absence.
"We can't afford to fight the battle on our doorstep, so we take it to them. They aren't going to wait for us to pick ourselves up and put ourselves back together," Fellfrir said, vehement in tone and tongue, fists clenched, the barbs on her back twitching in tried emotion. She was not one for the delicacy of words. Valion had never known her to be one for formal discussion, ever since they first met noting her to be the one that preferred to blow away her problems with the simplest solution.
Yet simple was seldom easy.
"We need to hit them where it hurts before they can strike back."
Nye was ready to meet the Vhoadan's hunt for blood, rising to stand, voice rising as he faced her. "So why not strike at the heart? Why bother with Genwar at all, when we can strike the Empire at its core?"
The proposition is outrageous: it stutters everyone into dimmed quiet as they consider the Hycis who should all be for freeing his homeworld, who had every right to ask the Solnha that they take the fight to Genwar to free her.
And yet instead he considers Genwar insignificant and pushes for a preposterous plan to attack the Empire—
"But we're not strong enough to storm Everall," he says, speaking what many are thinking, once again caught up in the confusion as to what the Hycis means to say. "We're not ready to take on the Galra so soon. So, let us fortify our home. Regroup and gather together for a single strike that has more chance to victory rather than risking lives in small wars."
Viridall's scoff breaks the uneasy silence.
"So, you mean to do nothing to the threat on our doorstep and hope they leave us alone long enough to dig deeper into the mountain. Instead we should strike back before the Galra have time to organise themselves. Strike while the iron is hot."
"Our own iron is cracked and crumbling," Craul'xe challenges from her sitting, needing not to play into the theatrics to be heard as Viridall turns to accept the challenge.
And yet, Craul'xe of the Daratrine sees another flaw.
"We are not all warriors that can amass arms and throw ourselves into the fray. The Daratrine are of scientific mind, not soldiers.
"And I'm not saying we won't fight," she hurries, her voice losing neither strength or confidence as she turns to Valion. "We'll fight. For our lives. For Solnha and the future you have promised us. But there are smarter ways to utilise everyone's strengths. We, alongside the Trigamon engineers can bolster both attack and defence forces. But we need time."
"The Galra won't give us time," Viridall quarrelled, but so many begin to speak up that his voice is lost under the waves of argument as tensions continue to rise.
Valion turns away from Viridall as he challenges the Vhoadan and Draora, numb to the hand that tightens around his own as the room builds with flurries of emotions; auras sharp and visceral, nearly overwhelming and all too much as the boy turns from one raised voice to another, shouts demanding his ear, the clattering cast away of a chair like thunder in the growing storm.
Anger towards the Galra is prominent, the building storm clouds that dim the sun and draw the cold from the mountains; the boom of thunder heard in cries of desperation demanding attention as they're thrown to the pitch of a moonless night.
"I'm not waiting around to bury the rest of my family!"
"We have already lost too many to throw ourselves at the Galra again."
"Even the younglings were pulled into our war!"
"Fellfrir is right: we can't allow that Galra to come to us first. We have to finish what they started."
From the corner of his eye, Valion spies the Red Paladin watching him; narrowed eyes following his every move. A predator that stalks his prey.
Valion glares back openly, eyes stinging from the sheer intent of anger that is projected in the half-Galra's scent. Blood steeped the air – unknown to everyone else as they futilely fought, their emotions unchecked, whilst in the midst of it all the Red Paladin fought, not for the future of Voltron and the Solnha together, but instead Valion himself, as if daring him to prove that he was better.
But no, Valion never thought he was better. He never thought he was above them.
He just wanted to be unbound.
Unrestricted.
Free.
Uilt'xen slammed the blunt of her fist onto the table, turning many a head to the sparking of her inner fire. Valion's attention was pulled too, the boy doing little to fight the instinct to look her way. Uilt'xen held no threat to him, even if anger was the cloak she wore.
Her tongue cracks like split wood upon an open flame, the colour of her skin dark and burnt, blackened in rage beyond the sunrise of her usual hue, as if she has taken the tension and painted her scales with everyone's emotions.
She bares her own ire with the snap of her words.
"They killed your family and you want to sit around and wait for them to come back and kill the rest of us? You should be on our side!"
It is to Rayon that she throws words like projectiles.
The Draora meets her head on.
"You are acting on your emotions alone, Uilt'xen. I know what we suffered at their hand, but we cannot act without giving thought to the danger of returning to Genwar. We need to remain unbiased—"
"Unbiased?"
Even Valion fought the urge to scoff.
"They tortured us! They experimented on you!" the Draora cried, pleading beneath the bristling of her frustration, colour pulsating on her skin, only for it to return to the charred, burnt scars of damage; grey and ashen. "The five of us should have more want than any here to want to wipe those—those— Texuks more than anyone," she yells, the flick of her wrist gesturing to Valion and Leonel.
"Dahast! They would've killed us it if wasn't for Voltron."
"And we're grateful. You know this," Kenmare says in place of his brother, a calming hand set upon his girl's shoulder. "We would do anything to take our revenge. But the Solnha comes first, before any personal vendetta. We need to focus on protecting ourselves"
Uilt'xen yanked her arm away, turning her frustration on him. "Fighting the Galra is protecting the Solnha. Waiting for the Galra to return isn't."
But their argument wasn't only between themselves, and Valion watched as Hunk stepped in. He wasn't a victim to his emotions and kept his voice calm. "Securing your home isn't doing nothing. Now the Galra know you're here, they will attack, and you need to be ready."
"Not if we attack them first," another argues, and they're back to square one, raised voice rising over raised voice until they're all shouting.
The divide in the room is more even than Valion thought it would be.
Although, Valion had given very little thought to the peace talks themselves, far too caught up in his own weaknesses concerning his self-constructed enemy. And yet here Voltron stands, bearing themselves as friends, disputing with his family over the future of the Solnha, no word towards an actual alliance, as if such a thing had already been decided.
Valion pretended to show interest in their opinions, idly wondering how much of their words were true, and how much was said to save face. He found himself surprised when he came to learn that all but Pidge were against an attack on the Galra.
Yet the Green paladin didn't necessarily hold the same opinions as the Vhoadan.
They bring their own perspective to the table, saying, "fighting isn't always running in, all guns blazing. We can take the fight to them, but we don't have to knock down their front door to do it. Instead, we sneak in. Get behind their lines, disable their defences. Start taking them down from the inside then slam them with the rest of your guns."
Matriarch was one of many to agree. "If we play it safe, we don't need over-massing numbers to win. We wouldn't even need all of our ships if we favoured smarts over strength."
The She-Blade – halfway between perched on her own chair and clambering over the Green's – nods quickly, before abandoning her chair completely and standing. "You won't have to fight the Galra alone. The Marmora will help."
Her promise of support has many heads nodding, as had Pidge's proposed plan.
Relief scents the air where fear had festered before. It is the soft caress of cherry blossom petals drifting in on a slight breeze, the warmth of golden honey-light breaking through storm clouds; a merry sight to any weary on the long road.
But to Valion he cannot feel beyond his own growing anger; a curl of irritation barbed in his throat; painful and suffocating.
"They will only help if it is in their interests."
His words are a growl, low and disbelieving towards a promise offered so quickly and without thought, that it can hardly even be considered a promise at all: Just a fruitless attempt to allude the Solnha into believing that even the Blade's offer peace when all they wish for is another scapegoat when the fires begin to burn.
They are no different to Voltron.
Valion flicks narrowed eyes to the culm that spoke. "I won't be holding my breath for the Marmora to save the day."
The Blade raised her hackles. "The Marmora—"
"—have nothing to offer here. This talk is between Voltron and Solnha," Valion all but snarls.
The brusque of his manner calls once again for silence; given quickly from the Solnha, in respect to their Tae-Sault.
They settle themselves into their chairs, leaving only the Blade standing as she leans against the table, daring Valion to call her out on what side of the war she stands.
It isn't that which concerns Valion. Little concerns him beyond the conscious thought in his tired mind that she challenges him.
No Second Son had been allowed to slight him in his halls. Voltron neither.
And yet this Galra-half thinks she can stand against Valion without fear of the consequences.
"The Blades also stand against the Empire—"
"But they have made it clear they don't stand with the Solnha," Valion interrupts once again, the drawl of his voice the crack of a whip that demands she silence her tongue. It may not be her fault, nor may she deserve his bite. But he cannot discard his anger entirely, even when trying to turn from the blazing heat that burns his back.
"It isn't that we are enemies, but neither are we allies. Kolivan has known of the Solnha nigh since we turned our sights on the Empire. He has had plenty an opportunity to reach out to us. All-Mother knows how many of your patrols we've caught sight of and seen flee, rather than reaching out."
His voice continues to bleed with tried emotion, taut and tight; dripping with a distaste even as he dresses his tongue in the colours of indifference.
"So no, I don't believe that the Blades will hold true to the empty promise you have given us."
The girl was hesitant to withdraw her claim, the flash of her tail not given in threat, but an instinctual display of unease. Yet before she could find words and offer them, Shiro speaks. "The Marmora are allied—"
"Only to themselves," Valion finishes, hesitant to allow even Voltron a moment to challenge him on this. "Their leader has not approached us to agree upon a treaty so he, and all Blades, remain separate from us. If Kolivan wants to meet, to offer up his idea of an alliance then I will agree to meet him. But until then, the Marmora have nothing to offer here."
The Marmora had been a viable ally for far longer than the team, but with the repeated silence on Kolivan's behalf, it had become clear during discussions of the council that the Blades were only for themselves. In the panic of the recent attack, it seemed they had forgotten this.
"We came," the Blade says anyway, riled up at Valion's immediate dismissal. She still stands, her tail charged, swinging back and forth with vigour, ears pressed close to her head. "Lyla, watch yourself," Antok warns, but Lyla doesn't listen. "We came, without an agreement," she says, raising her voice as she reminds Valion that it was her and her squadron of Blades that helped the Solnha in the aftermath.
"Yet you came at Voltron's request, not the Solnha's."
It is this truth that cannot be disputed and this truth that stumbles the girl into silence once more. She sits herself, properly, in her own chair, ignoring the way Pidge reaches out to brush against her hand.
They may be allies.
But to Valion, they are not.
Silence returns, bilious and caustic, present in such a way that it almost challenges someone to break it.
None readily jump at the chance: the Solnha looking to one another, eyes and expressions the words they share, none free from fretful glances to their Leader; Voltron as much the same, all searching for answers from Shiro, the Green paladin throwing frustrated scowls at a face they thought they knew.
And the Red; trenchant gaze unyielding, serpentine in the way it got under Valion's skin despite his resolution not to show the resentment that chokes him, tight around his neck like a noose. Tightening. Tighter.
The pierce of his gaze grew increasingly strident, harder to ignore the more Valion allowed the Red Paladin to hold substance at the forefront of his mind.
And he knows he should ignore, shun, dismiss the eyes that narrow sharp and scathing, but somehow, he can't shake the feeling of eyes on him. It has nothing to do with his own attire. He's grown accustom to the loose cape and simple clothes in his time apart, not needing to dress in full armour to show off his power when it comes with his voice and the truth that he is the face they all turn to when they feel lost and uneasy.
They look to Valion now.
Waiting.
Valion waits too.
But what he waits for isn't the same for those around him.
He doesn't wait for some guidance of a direction to move in, some sunrise dawning to be his light in the darkness to lead them from this confusion.
No.
What Valion waits for, is something far simpler, and yet far more terrifying than raising arms and standing down the malignant horde. Even if he stood against them single-handedly.
Because Lance wanted an apology.
It sounded so simple, and so extremely stupid to want for such a thing, especially considering who he wanted the apology from. But that didn't mean Lance wanted for it any less. He deserved that much.
Didn't he?
From them?
After everything.
And yet, as antagonistic as it was, Valion didn't want anything of the sort.
He had been ready to cast them all out without a second though, and turn his back in them like they had done to him. But the small part inside him, the part that was still Human still hoped for the warmth he had felt once when among them. Comrades. Companions.
But even if they apologised, it wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't change the past. It wouldn't change what they had done to him, all that they had said, all that they had thought of him, all that they had now come to regret…
Even if they said sorry, it wouldn't heal the hurt that jaded his heart, that cut deeper and still cut him as he looked upon expecting faces.
Expecting faces expecting forgiveness, yet none of them have moved to lay the first stone, to pave the path back together.
He is still waiting.
Waiting for the first step to be taken. By them. Not him.
Why should he have to fill the gap, close the divide, ask for what he deserves to hear, regardless of accepting them or not? Why should he have to be the one that wants to fix this?
It's not like he has to be the one to fix this, it isn't his place to bridge this gap between— Fuck!
Why? Why does he want this? Why does he even care? Lance shouldn't care at all. They hurt him! Lied to him, laughed at him when his back was turned, kept him around just because it was easier to send him into battle with Blue than scouring the universe for another that could pilot her.
He wasn't their comrade. He was convenient.
He wasn't their brother. He was a burden.
He wasn't their Sharpshooter. He was a shortcoming that they cast out before he could drag them all down.
And still, Lance cannot shake the want that he thought he had extinguished. The childish, human-hope of wanting to return to the peace that they had before; when he was still ignorant to the truth and he could pretend to be their friends, to fight beside them and see himself as someone worthy to be a Paladin.
Because he had felt it once. In the beginning.
Sure, he had his doubts and sometimes he wasn't sure, but they were quickly cast aside when he could still fight beside them, still be trusted to watch Shiro's back, still laugh and joke with Pidge and Hunk, still prank Coran, still flirt with Allura, still tease Keith… Still feel like he was one of them.
But he had the Solnha now. He didn't need Voltron.
Just like they didn't need him.
Besides Valion, Zaos offers her spark; luminous warmth that dances across her skin and across his mind. The slight movement of her body ripples outwards, the gossamer veil of starlight cascading from her shoulders like hair that dances to the symphony of underwater currents.
Once again, she draws wide eyes of the Alteans who had remained watchful since the talks began, but Zaos pays the aliens no mind. It is to Valion she offers support, a guiding light to the illusion of calm needed despite its falsity.
Valion accepts the comfort offered. He raises himself in his chair; the subtle movement enough to garner focus. He took a breath and sighed it out.
Zaos found him the words he needed.
"We're here to speak peace, so let us speak peace."
He doesn't want to speak peace. He wants to cast them out and be done with all this nonsense.
{But you made a promise.}
But I made a promise.
"As simply as I can put it, we must decide on how to protect the Home Tree from another invasion. It isn't and either-or situation, but our overall efforts are divided between taking back Genwar and the Galra's foothold in Caesura, and fortifying planetary defences until they are unbreachable."
"Unless you run."
Heads turn to Hunk and his sudden call for retreat; obtuse in the way he offers a simple solution that is anything but simple.
In the face of continued silence, he has the nerve to project the façade of confusion. "It is a third option," he says, this time his words meek and apologetic as he begins to understand what he had unthinkingly proposed.
"We will not abandon Caldara," Gereen growls from his post almost instantly. Valion can feel the heat on his back, feel the shift in the air as Gereen prowls forward, vehement in tone and anger. "This is our home. We fought to protect her with everything we had, even lost family to defend our home. Don't think it will be so easily thrown away."
The intonation of his voice is almost threatening – his words the harshest any of the Solnha have thrown against Voltron. Valion feels a swell of pride rise for the Pawther who has sworn to protect him, but his spirits fail to lift when another scent strengthens alongside the guard's anger.
As he speaks, the prick of thistle thorns tightens around his throat; the stench of surgent fear tart upon Valion's tongue. He is not the only one to cast an eye to Kenmare, the sharp lines of his statuesque strength wound tight in preparation, much the same to his brother as they eye Gereen in caution.
No one else sees: too busy listening to the discourse Gereen shares as he vows Caldara will not be abandoned.
And yet, against Gereen's stubborn loyalty, another voice is raised.
"He has a point," it says, tinny and quiet, but all at once challenging.
Speaking earns Skrews the rooms attention, and yet the Ongar is caught quiet unawares when all turn in his direction. He squirms where he sits, his suit compact around him, in defence or comfort, or maybe both. His suit's systems whir and pop under scrutiny, his visor blinking in disquietude, but he did not turn away.
Maybe Skrews already offered his plan to the masses, but under all the noise of their arguing, the Ongar had not been heard.
But now the room was silent, and his words had strength to carry.
"The Solnha is not tied to Caldara. The planet was a gift to you, and it is your home, that is true. But Caldara is still just one in a million in this system alone. And it wasn't always your home. While the Galra plan to attack, we should take the opportunity to run. Find a new planet, strengthen ourselves there, where we'll have more time to regroup and more security with the Empire not knowing where we are."
And despite the anger at even thinking for even a moment—for even considering leaving… Valion can hear the sense in his words.
Caldara is simply just another moon in the sky of a thousand moons; many desolate and abandoned, not part of any planetary colony or territory to a civilisation. Planets and moons ripe for the picking for the Solnha to claim, should they choose to flee. To abandon everything they had built up, claimed and cultivated…
But that was it.
Caldara was their home.
Skrews finds his voice again, ignoring the pain his words bring. His eyes drop to the floor. "My people… they want to run. They think it will be safer, now that the Galra have found us. We're not fighters. We're not confrontational, even for the sake of defending our own lives. We've survived against the Galra by hiding from them and we can all do it again if only we—"
"I'm not running," Viridall snarls, his anger too much to contain, coming to stand beside Gereen. Fellfrir rises to her feet also; the smallest of steps taking her to stand beside her friend as the three of them revolted against the decision to run and abandon the home that Valion had found for them when the Galra had taken away their homeworld. Pantheon. Vons. Genwar.
Now Caldara faces a similar fate.
And once again, they are shouting, arguing, the dispute going nowhere and everywhere in the wrong directions.
Zaos gives Valion power to his voice, but he hasn't the words to quieten the war chamber. He himself remains anger to such a thought. And yet, conflicted, he cannot easily cast aside the truth Skrews offers – that it would be far easier, and far safer for his people to withdraw from this planet, to run, again, like they had done so, for so long—
{But that is a coward's freedom,} sings the familiar of a voice he long thought dead. {I thought that you wanted to be strong, that you were going to prove that you were capable without them.}
{I thought you were Valion.}
"It doesn't matter if you run, or if you fortify your home, or attack Genwar for the sake of reclaiming the system."
The Princess, so sure and so strong in her words, lets her voice carry through the din. It seems to thrum with an indescribable power that turns heads and stills tongues until all fall quiet and she can be heard clearly.
"It won't even matter if you win the battle and cast the Galraout from that system, and this system, and every surrounding star cluster from here to Talladega… You've beaten the Galra, and for them, that is one time too many. They see you as a threat now. Not just to their ships and their patrols and their factories, but like Voltron, you are a beacon of hope for the Empire's enemies. You are rallying more and more to your sides every day."
What she says sounds inspiring and close to the illusion of respect, but Valion can hear an inflection to her words.
"To them, you are a threat, or the beginnings of one. No matter what you do to stand against them, they will hunt you down and wipe you out."
It is not spoken to be heard as a threat, but that is all Valion can hear between the lulling cadence of her song: the threat of destruction, should they not follow Voltron's guidance. He can heard the truth. And understand it.
All this while, she had only pretended to care.
The Princess, who has been so clever to control them all like pawns in her game of war, had lost her touch.
She can no longer disguises her deceit.
Valion cannot release the tension from his body as thoughts clamour inside his mind, hurting him with the sharp of their truth. Beneath the chains that bind his fear, he feels the wild tempest grow in power once more, bucking against his control, his scent cracking like unspent lightning, the burn of electrified air enough to warn those attuned to him that, she is dangerous, don't listen, don't listen.
She is dangerous.
With her Magic she has poured power into words, the grace of her tone disguising that frost-bitten unforgiveness of metal that digs deep into the foundation of all he has built, planting the seeds of fear that flourish and flower as she begins to turn the tides in her favour.
She, the Blue Paladin, that believes herself to be as strong as the Ocean.
Like Lance.
But he was Blue Paladin far longer than her. He knows the power of water that Blue taught him when he was her cub and she was his lion. He knows the tide's song. He knows the ebb and flow of rhythm that thrums like lifeblood in all of their bodies. He knows that rivers that intertwin their lives with one another and the inevitable flow to the end of time.
Blue taught him that their power cannot be contained, and it seems, so does she as she continues to serenade them with her voice; not trying to turn the flow upon itself, but turn it in her favour.
She is trying to rally the Solnha behind her. Behind Voltron. To use his people and cast them aside when they are of no use, no more.
She is trying to steal his home from him. She is trying to steal his place from him, like she had done before.
He cannot lose everything again.
Eldar scents Lance's shifting emotions, the curl of fear rising inside him; the unmistakable drain of water that retreats from the beach, leaving the sand soggy and dulled, rushing faster and faster as it unearths smooth, wave-worn rocks, glittering shells and ocean treasures that lure the ignorant closer. They do not see the warning signs. They cannot think beyond the lidded beauty of the ocean, cannot think to the truth that that tide will turn, and the beach will flood…
Someone whispers his name, soft and warm, like that of a mother's lullaby. It is but an instant before the storm breaks, but moment enough that allows him to breathe, to build his wall higher and higher, no longer wood and knotted twine, but concrete and pure metal spires; the core of the Earth rising up in his defence, Caldara herself, carrying Lance to her peak as he looks out to the rolling ocean that threatens to flood the land.
"The Galra are not invincible. Our very victory attests to that," he says.
Lance.
Valion.
Against Voltron he stands, defying the Altean that thinks her words can carve the future into stone, that one path is all there is and she knows the trail that does not crumble into the sea.
She turns to him, blue eyes alluding to a sadness that reminds him of himself—no, no, it is just a trick. All of it, a trick.
He will not fall.
"The Galra can die. But the Empire have countless drones to flood your walls and drown the skies. Whatever you decide for your future needs to be damaging enough that they cannot retaliate."
With her words, she thinks she can scare him into surrender.
Valion fixes the Altean with curiosity, thinly veiling his fury that yet another stands to challenge him. Perhaps he feeds off of the Red's undying rage, but whatever it is, Valion doesn't feel the fear Lance does when facing down the Blue Paladin of Voltron.
"So, what is it that you suggest?"
And oh, he can see her delight behind the stern of her lips, the way she straightens herself up in that all-important manner she loves to shirk when the spotlight shines upon her.
She thinks she's got him. She thinks she's caught him in her snare; that control of the Solnha is hers, ripe for the picking.
"You are strong. Standing against the Galra has proven that. With us and the Marmora working together we can leave lasting damage."
Valion cannot hide the smirk. "It's that simple is it?"
She doesn't register the ire of his smile. "Figuratively, yes. But the necessary magnitude of the attack cannot be thrown together as quick as we can share words. And as your advisors have said, the Galra are not going to wait around until you take the fight to them."
Advisors. Of course, she assumes them less than him. She sees him separate to the Solnha, perhaps doesn't think him Solnha at all.
But more importantly, she thinks that the only one she has to convince is Valion. She thinks he holds all the reins and the council are servants to do his bidding. Not friends. Not family. Not soldiers or fighters with their own voices. Not scientists or engineers that have their own ideas, their own thoughts, their own wants for the future.
Valion swallows his poison, anger shaking his words.
Eldar's hand curls tighter.
Zaos's presence swirls, but her stars are pale and Valion doesn't turn from his target.
"So, what do you suggest?" he asks, leaning back, drinking in the sight of how all eyes are fixed to him. Wide. Worried. Watchful and waiting, because they know what's coming.
"Caldara is no longer safe for you to remain—"
And before she has finished, Valion lashed out.
"I am not abandoning the home my family died to protect," he snarls, ardent with anger; the grip on his emotions dangerously slack, the buck of his wrath wild at the thought of tossing away everything that his family had fought for.
Or' had died doing her part to defend Caldara. Ygrainne had died, fighting for Caldara. So many had lost their lives for the sake of protecting the home they had claimed after losing their own.
And Caldara was Valion's home too.
He wouldn't leave her to burn if he had a say against it.
And he had a say against it.
Yet, before Valion can begin to vent his anger, Eldar shifts beside him.
"This meeting was agreed upon by both parties," he says, the words striking dissonance with their meaning that leans little towards the warming dispute between Valion and the Blue Paladin. He turns to look to his lover, confusion furrowing his brow, mind lingering on the words but all thought to them drop when he sees unfamiliar anger in murky medallion eyes.
It isn't to the Princess Eldar steadies the steel of his glare. Instead, he only has eyes 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."
An unpleasant chill climbs Lance's spine at the darkness resonating in Eldar's voice; simply a fraction of the boy's anger but somehow far more terrifying with the deep of his growl that pours into the room like fog. Their hands, joined, the soft of his fur no longer a comfort, the warmth of his palm clammy as he stares down Keith and his dragon-fire rage that burns into reality so fast, so vivid that Valion is not the only one compelled to stare in agitation.
In his mind, Valion doesn't feel the retreat of his star-sister; his mind too focused on the Red Paladin opposite him. His form seems to flicker with his rage, the intense of his gaze breaking the realms of reality; his scent pungent and noxious and so overpowering Lance couldn't understand how he had been able to turn away from him at all.
It is the same charged, malignant hostility that soaked the tunnelling mines of Genwar, the same rancorous detested stench that clings to their Galra's coats as they charge into battle.
The paladin bore the same hate. It wasn't hard to see; the tension in his body mirrored by those opposite, the tension bleeding into the air, suffocating.
Behind Valion, he can feel Gereen pressing closer, a growl resembling his Prime's, deep in his throat. Viridall joins their song, leaning into a defensive stance, his tail dancing back and forth as if daring the Paladin to make the first move.
When Eldar stands, Valion chases him to his feet without a second thought. The anchor of his touch had been cast aside in the flaring of his anger, Lance's own fear bucking to the 'why' of Eldar's actions, plunging his heart into the void. He reaches out to reconnect their hands, gripping tight to the Pawther's closest arm, his wrist; his hand refusing to unfurl from the fist it has made.
In the face of this sudden show of defence, Lance forgets his own anger. "El, what—"
"I'm not the one that interrupted, and stopped your discussions of peace," Keith snarls, discarding his chair as he rose to meet Eldar head on. His glare is sharp as flint rocks; blood-rusted arrowheads, notched and ready to fly and draw blood from pointed blame.
In his haste to accept the challenge, Keith's chair was knocked backwards, the scraping screech of stone not wanting to give way.
On his side, Shiro stands. Hunk too.
But Lance pays them no mind when eyes fall upon Keith and the pure rage that heats the air and burns his skin as if he stands before the onslaught of a sandstorm; fast winds, humid and hot don't allow him to breathe, the constant stinging of sand that tears his flesh and blinds him to everything around.
Lance's anger was replaced by dread, the anchor upon Eldar's arm tightening instinctively. To anchor himself in this storm. To anchor Eldar to this moment before he can let himself fall into anger's embrace.
"El, stop," he says, his voice pulling on pleading, but it was lost beneath the growling of the predators that saw threat to their Prime and didn't hesitate to stand against it.
"Keith meant no disrespect," Shiro says, words flickering with fear and desperation. Of course, they cannot allude the Solnha if they threaten them. But Lance isn't thinking about that. All he can feel is… is too much.
Fear-hurt-dread bone-brittle sickness, foul, murky-yellow sickness burning his throat, sandstorm heat burning his face, tearing his eyes—
"We're not here to fight—"
"If that is true, then why does he threaten Valion," Gereen snaps.
Me?
No, no, Keith isn't threatening me, he's threatening…
Eldar.
He's threatening Eldar.
Suddenly, everything became red.
Lance's vision blurred as a flame curled deep in the pits of his stomach. His mind, before – empty and the bleak-grey of a sunless sky, no stir of air the dances the burnt charcoal of winter branches, no life to fall from dead leaves to the cold crisp of the earth – now burns with a blizzard-cold-chill far colder, and far emptier than the barren ice fields that bare themselves to the snowstorm.
The cold froze his mind as it picked apart every moment of pain he had ever felt at the hands of the team. The memories weighed down on Lance, their pain threatening to break him apart eve more. But instead, the coldness inside him gave him strength, exhaustion giving way to the new-found power that electrified his veins, burnt like wood-smoke in his lungs, clawed its way up his throat.
Voices still speak, words still given in hopes to quell the fire before it catches, spreads, burns.
But they are too late.
Valion can feel it, deep in his gut. Churning like a snake, writhing in the darkness, feeding on the fear and the ice-cold dread that do nothing to dim the flames or steal heat as it pools and grows and builds and rises.
Waves of fury rolled off of him, blood rising to colour his cheeks and coat his tongue. His fingers coiled into fists, crushing his own bone into a weapon of defence, should anyone take rise against his love. The hurt of strained muscles screamed in his mind, but Valion barely paid attention to it.
White noise screams in his ears but he cannot hear it, cannot focus, doesn't even try. It's unimportant. It means nothing. Everything means nothing as he stands there, feeling the fire-ice-tempest-snowstorm-hurricane of everything consume him, the fury of hate and hurt and everything he's ever felt growing stronger.
Valion does not fight it.
He will let himself fall into the heat.
It does not burn him.
It will not hurt him.
It—
"There is no Valion!"
Keith stabs a finger towards Valion, red-faced, eyes shining pale lemon where rage draws Galra heritage from his depths. Lance has seen it before, in dreams and nightmares. But with Valion in control they do not buckle under the sight. They stand firm to his hatred, the flood of his rage crashing into his walls that stand firm, stand tall, stand unbreakable.
"He is not Valion. His name is Lance and he is the Blue Paladin of Voltron!" the half screams, over and over, as if saying it enough time will suddenly spring words into truth.
But Eldar pushes back, fangs bared, claws extended and ready to cut down this culm that threatens his heartmate.
"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!"
The only ones that don't know who he is is Voltron.
"He is Valion—"
"He is Lance—"
"You know nothing—" they scream, more voices thrown to the cacophony as it begins to reach its crescendo, all falling prey to the tension, joining the fight, defending Paladin, defending their Tae-Sault.
Zaos offers her power before Valion has even asked. But before he can deliberate quiet, the Red Paladin makes his move.
He has shaken off the restraint of those that stand either side of him, and in one fluent movement, draws his bayard. It is to Eldar he brandishes his blade, one leg upon the table, legs bent, poised, ready to pounce forward like a beast that hunts. His fangs are bared, ready to hurt him, to cut him, bleed him, kill—
"ENOUGH!"
With Zaos standing by his side, he doesn't need to shout, and yet he does; desperation another emotion the fuels him to raise his voice above all else, desperate to protect his lover and protect his home.
It is the Red soldier that stands as a threat, and it is the Red soldier that Valion faces, the simplest of movements taking himself to stand between him and his Arenphine.
"I am Valion," he said, letting his voice drip with venom. "Tae-Sault to the Solnha."
Leader of the Solnha, Galra's Bane, Brother to the allied. Guardian of Caldara and her children.
But he is more than that.
He is Lance, blessed by the Star-Child, Heartmate to Eldar, Arenphine to the one with whom he shares his heart.
And Lance will do everything to protect him.
With his strength, Lance draws power into his voice, determined to turn back this threat before it can destroy what he would give his life to protect.
"You will not threaten my husband."
