Chapter Fifty-Four:A Want Ired

Before, they met with Valion. Now, they meet with Lance, who has been hurt by them for too long.

It didn't matter what the team came to Caldara for. What they would get, was Lance's ire.


System: Medellin
Location: Caldara

His words echoed in the silence, the weight of them, and the weight of their meaning heavy upon all those who were gathered.

Zaos pulled her hand from the burn of his wrist, the heat of his anger tangible. She withdraws her touch but nothing more.
She remains to stand by his side, her support given in his mind, as if he can feel the string that ties her heart to his. It is starlight compared to the strength that grounds him to Eldar; soft and ethereal compared to the burning dragon-fire rage that holds him in this moment of defending everything he wants to protect.

And although graceful and benign is her presence, it cannot calm the raging storm that is Valion.

His body, stone-sure in the guard between himself and his lover, he does not regret what he bears. Weakness, Anadón would tell him, as he shows just how important his Arenphine is in the bared of fangs that stand as a threat and a promise and truth.

And yet, so obvious is Valion's anger that it bleeds into the open air, the Red soldier does not cower. Hesitate, perhaps, but he does not withdraw his threat: his blade, still raised, is not lowered.

"Husband?" he snarls, tasting the word on his tongue, letting its sound wash across his puckered lips like even daring to speak the word is poisonous.
To the others that surround Keith, bracketing him with their bodies in protection and defence, the word is echoed in question.
Disbelief. Uncertainty. Scorn.

They do not understand. Perhaps they do not want to, but that is for them to quarrel over; inside their minds and with one another. They can act as if their opinion matters, but it won't do anything to change the truth.

"My husband," Valion repeats, meeting the Red's challenge; instinct rising against the scent of a feral beast that can barely restrain his thirst for the fight: His gaze flickers between blue and blue, not caring for who to bite, but only the want to taste flesh, blood, pain between the sharp of his fangs.
"No," he says, but it is nothing but a gasp of air, Hunk and Shiro holding him, disallowing the choice of crossing the distance between them and using his sword to cut away what hurts him. Whether that is Eldar or Valion, it remains to be seen.

Valion anchors himself in front of Eldar, drawing strength through their bond. "He is my husband, and the Solnha are my family," he says.
Resolute in refusal to show anything more than the volcanic emotions that leaden his heart and sour the air. He knows his emotions hurt those of his family who are attuned to them, knows that he is strong enough to control them. But in the face of Voltron, his strength cannot be riven for the sake of silencing his guilt when he needs it to stand fast.

"Husband?" Shiro asks, Valion's eyes snapping to him, to the way his shock forgets the unruliness of his right hand; his only focus the opinion of considering Eldar anew, shone in another light now that they know of his importance. Of course, he is important.
He is Valion's everything.

"Lance, what are you saying—?"
"Arenphine," Eldar says. Interrupts.
He sounds perfectly calm, but Valion knows better. Knows he wars with anger and rage and the desire to gather Lance into his arms and take him back to their nest where they can pretend none of this has ever happened. The flick of his tail is ode to his disquietude, moving in such a way, with such ferocity, that Rayon has no choice but to gather distance, before his feet are taken out from under him.

Valion cannot focus on such, instead under the weight of piercing glares and eyes that think they can see much more than a familiar face.
Shiro cannot choose how to face him, it seems, the inflection of his emotions shifting rapid between every dance of his eyes; bitter and sour and everything cold – so foreign, so not-Shiro that Valion takes pause – shifting to an accepting sadness that couldn't be anyone but their self-righteous, self-damaging leader.

Not my leader.

Not anymore.

"Arenphine," Eldar says again, stronger this time.
And this time, Valion looks to him, meeting the cool-calm of his gaze needed for his lover to see, in hopes that his own mind will touch upon the peace and feel it too. If only enough to catch a breath and clear his mind.
In the face of the anger that stands before them, threatening; it is the most Eldar can do without forcibly undermining his lover, his leader and his husband.

Thankfully, Valion listens.

When he turns back to Voltron, his voice is steady. "As much as my personal life seems to interest you, we came together to discuss a treaty of peace between our two—"
"Fuck peace," Keith snarls, shaking off the grip that Hunk had on him. "You left us. Months ago. No word, no nothing. You just up and left. And now we're here, we found you— and what? You don't want to talk about it?"

"I don't," Valion agrees, his voice cold.
"I don't care for the past, nor do I care to discuss it with any of you. Whatever was done cannot be undone, and I don't particularly want to revisit those memories. I'm sure that you don't want me to, either."

What little control Lance had over his emotion begins to waver.
If Keith notices, he doesn't let on. He ignores Valion's warning.

"So what? That's it? You decided that you were done with us, and ran to the nearest ship, even if it was a bunch of fucking pirates—" Valion hissed low in his throat, but it went ignored "—that found you, and you what? Forgot about the war going on and your real family back on Earth so you could play pretendwhile we—"
"Fuck you," Valion snarled, baring his teeth in the way Gereen and Elder would when they argued.
"You have no right to say that, no right to say anything about what I did," he says, shifting in his stand as if the boy's words were physical things that could hurt the Solnha. His own rage rises up to meet Keith's, wishing for a weapon, wishing for his shiftblade—

"And don't you dare insult my family. None of you have the right to judge me, or Eldar, or any of us," Lance says, hating himself in the way that his voice trembles. "You gave up the right to care about me like that when you threw me away."
Keith snorts. "We didn't throw you away—"
"No?" Valion asks, the cold-burning laughter of his word like grinding bone beneath bruised skin. "Then how did we end up here?"

Here.

In this war chamber.

Here, where the air festers with the rancid promise of hate, boiling upon his skin, curling on his tongue as he fashions hate into the thought of hurtful slurs that he could use against them, seeking penance for their betrayal.

Yes. They betrayed him.

How could they not see that?

Valion knows what betrayal tastes like: ashen and bitter, rotten, sour and far too sweet. It is smothering and oppressing and suffocating.

And nothing but numbness all at once.

Valion knows what betrayal feels like: brushing up against his skin, the touch of numbness spreading like cold, but there is no feeling to be felt. It seeps into his skin like turpentine, washing out the colours of his world until everything is monochrome; fading between empty black, the wash of useless greys and the pale harsh of white; too bright, all too much that it hurts him.

And it doesn't, all at once.

Because betrayal doesn't burn him like the dying flame of a candle.
It is the smoke vapor that trails into the sky; the emptiness of a shallow grave before it is filled; the hollow, dark-static nothing of space that holds on and will never set him free.
It drowns him, pushes him under and deep to the point where light was nothing but a memory and he is alone in the abyss, detached from everything and all things; even life itself.

Distantly, Valion wonders if this is what the dead feel, beyond the realm of the living; grief in the fear that in this void, lost and alone like he, is his family and all those that devotedly followed him into war.

How cruel life could be, if this was his eternity, come the burning of oblivion.

How cruel life was, that this, here, now, was his reality, as he stands his ground.

And Valion does stand his ground.
Lion-pride is the colour of his armour but after so long against the storm, he can feel his hold numbing. Snowflake-fragile cracks grow under the weight of empty expectancy, tapped upon like the head of a nail to peel back his shell and see what lay beneath.

The shadow-demon awaits them, having feasted the long-night upon callous memories, sharpening its fangs upon bone-brittle misery infected with lies and infectious fantasies of an early sunrise. Inside him, it is him, but it is not by his own hand that the creature lurks as it always has done; wickedness revealed at the curl of a smirk.

They birthed this creature inside him, but it was Valion who embraced the hatred in his veins.

It sank deep inside his bone, knitting the cracks with blood, cementing strength into his marrow. Anger was the push, loathing the momentum that drove him forward, that filled his mind with the sight of them on their knees, begging for forgiveness, begging redemption, begging for a plea that would release them from his wrath.
But they had shown their hand and they could not change who they were, no matter the clothes they wore, no matter the masks they fashioned.

They would never change.

"You left us," Keith hissed, tears in his eyes as if the truth is something so abhorrent that it forces him to feel. "We looked for you! For months, we searched for you. We we're looking for you ever since you left—"
"You didn't look very far."

Valion knows. He had been watching them.
He had watched how they had flit about between planets around the location that Gereen and his crew picked him up, watching the holo-projections for weeks, trying to figure out what he would say to them when they eventually found him.
But they never did.

Maybe to him it was obvious where Lance could've gone, and what the broken pod entailed.
But Voltron, who had always been so quick to intercept the rogue pirates before, had never once come close after Lance had been accepted as one of them. He had speculated that, perhaps that was because they already knew where he was. They just didn't care.

Whatever the truth had been, all Lance knew for definite was that Voltron had not found him.
Until now.

They only stand together now due to unforeseen circumstances, what with the unnoticed crossing of their story threads when they ferried the Solnha four to their home without understanding who they were or who was there to welcome them back.
Voltron did not come to Caldara for Lance. They came, and remained, for the sake of peace.

Valion does not wish to give it. Not to them.
But if it will throw them from his halls, then the sooner the better.

"You were the one who ran away," Pidge bites, claiming their turn to speak. Acid sparks on their tongue now that they had freedom to place blame.
As if they had the freedom to place blame.

"You just ran. You didn't let us say anything. You just listened to what you wanted to and—"
"I never wanted to hear what the rest of you said behind my back," Valion says, meeting their words with his own; just as angry, just as cold.
His voice was slow and rough, like skin scraped on gravel. "I knew I was weaker than I should've been and I feared what it would cost me to stay, so I left. I had no other choice, after hearing what you said. I wasn't about to wait around and be treated like some damn prisoner or fucking killed so that I wouldn't—"

"We would never!" Pidge yelled, taking a step forward.
Valion fixed them with ice in his eyes. "No? Why not? It's not like it would've been the first time one of us tried to kill another," he spat, his mind casting him back to that cold-lit corridor beyond the boundary of the bridge where he stood, watching on, listening to them cast him aside without a second thought.

"How else would you have protected yourself from me?" he asks, throwing Pidge's words right back at them.
Of course he remembered what they had said. His nightmares wouldn't ever let him forget.

Pidge stutters into silence, sound barely audible over the heaving of their chests as they glare one another down.
But Lance isn't finished. He's been waiting for a chance like this for a long time.

"It wasn't like you could trust me anymore, was it? Too afraid that I'd finally stop carving myself up and turn on one of you?"

Valion's words unsettle the Solnha, some shifting in their seats to share worried looks. But many already know how much Lance sacrificed himself for the sake of his family. What they thought they understood to be the Human's self-destructive mentality was quickly becoming understood that their leader had always gone above and beyond his means.
For the sake of his family.

"I didn't have any importance anymore, did I? It didn't really matter what you decided; if you couldn't trust me, then there was no chance that we'd still be able to fight side by side. There would've been no Voltron, maybe even, no Blue Lion. No Blue Paladin.

"But that didn't matter, did it? You already had someone to take my place. You didn't need to worry about not having a Blue Paladin because you'd already found one long before I began to fall behind."

Valion cannot help but want for his shiftblade.
He longs to lessen the distance he shares with it and the safety of Gereen's hip, where his aide remains out of reach. Not truly, should the Solnha ask for it, or simply reach out; knowing that a weapon for the sake of protection would be given all-too willingly.
But it isn't for the sake of protection that he wants it.
No, not at all, he thinks, callous; adrift with the imaginings of those before him begging for his mercy when he burns ugly scars into their hearts, just like they have scarred his.

Some deserve it more than others.

Valion's eyes meet with Allura's. She looks to be on the verge of tears, but whether she truly feels remorse for taking Lance's place or simply seeks pity from those that she had come to trick into fighting for her, Valion cannot tell. Her scent is that of pain and fear, but all of it lay muted beneath her magic and the throat-burning potency of the Red's hell-fire emotions enough that he's not sure which are those that are hers and those that are of the Humans she stands with.

But what does it matter?

It doesn't change the past.
It doesn't change what she did to him, regardless of reasons or excuses.

"The armour looks good on you," Lance says.

Lies.

"Lance—"
"It's yours, so it should fit well. Maybe it's a little bulky when you need to fight in close quarters, but I'm sure you're used to that already," he shrugs casually, quick to cut her off before she has a chance to cast another spell.
"You must be proud to no longer be on the sidelines, fighting side by side with the team. It's much better than watching from afar, stuck in that age-old role of playing 'Princess' when you really wanted to be fighting on the frontlines since the very beginning."

She doesn't correct him.

She doesn't say anything.

"Because that's true, isn't it? You're fighting beside them? A crucial part of the team. They need you, don't they, to fight with them. Voltron is stronger for it. And now you're so much closer to winning the fight against the Empire."

Lance notices the other Paladins sharing looks with one another, unable to completely sit still as their Blue Paladin faces the spot light; but equally unable to interrupt Valion as he asks his questions.
But why should they be worried? It wasn't like Lance has accused Allura of anything.

Yet.

Keith, remarkably, has calmed enough that the volcanic ash of his rage is joined with a smug yet biting irritation that brushes against Lance; the scales of its skin gliding rather than grating. It is amusing, in a sour sort of way, to find that the Red Paladin shares the same distaste for his teammate as Lance does.

The Solnhan returns his attention to her. His eyes sweep across her chest for what feels like the thousandth time.
She watched him with wide eyes, her scent brittle. Lance latches on quicker than a shark who has tasted first blood.

"You are fighting alongside them… right?"

His head tilts, like a child asking a silly little question that should be so obvious to answer.
But, Allura didn't. Her face, red, turned from him, looking to her team for another to stand as her guard and protect her from the growing tempest that was Valion.
But he's talking and she can't escape him.

Words come up like vomit, violent and sour-sickly. They've been rotting inside Lance for months.
"Because, you are the Blue Paladin now. You are – what was it? – 'adept at flying the lions and should be quick to bond with Blue, as daughter of their creator.' Because you have bonded with Blue, haven't you? And you're far stronger than I ever was. It's what you've always wanted, wasn't it?"

Slowly, Valion leans forward, planting hands on the smooth of the moon-carved table, teeth bared in hate that drips from him like a salivating beast. He revels in the sight of her pain; the way they all flinch from him; the way they fear him and his anger; the way they stand unsuspecting and, should he want to punish them, Valion need only utter a word to ask for his sword. So close, so close, so close—

"Once," Allura says, rushed and loud, finally pushed beyond the brink of shocked silence. She stammers a partial apology, barely a word that showed the pretence of remorse before she abandons the notion and stands, wavering, as she faces the bitter-chill wind of Valion's long-burdened hurt.

"Once," he repeats, rolling the word on his tongue, tasting the ashen-dry nothing of what it gives him. "Once, in eight months."

They were yet to see his true anger.
They were yet to see the rotting, festering acid of his hate that still bubbled inside him. They knew that he hadn't shown them the scars they carved into him; knew he hadn't raised his voice enough to even begin to allude to the pain he felt. So, when Lance began to laugh, they all held their breath.

Yes, Lance laughed.
It was quiet and twisted and not a laugh at all, but Lance couldn't help it and laughed at the absurdity that Allura had given him. Once. Once! In all that time that he had been missing and she there to claim the mantle as her own.
Just… once.

"Then what was the point?"

Because there had to be a point— no, there was a point to him leaving.
It was so they could get stronger. It was so that Lance wouldn't be dragging them down anymore. So Voltron could get stronger.
It was so Allura, who was stronger, faster, better than him in every way, could take his place as Blue Paladin and make them all stronger.

"What was the point?" he repeated, still laughing; bitter in the way that he smiles, his lips stretching, face hurting, "of me leaving in the first place?"

He's not shouting. Not yet, but the dull, shocked amusement has left his voice and it is beginning to rise over his own foul, toxic-tar scent of betrayal that pours from once-healed wounds. But they had never really healed.
Hidden and forgotten. But never really healed.

"Aren't you stronger? Wasn't that the point for all of you to cast me aside? So that she could be the Blue Paladin and you would no longer have dead weight holding you back—"
"We never thought that," Hunk said, taking a step forward. Lance considered him for a moment, considered his dulled honey-soft scent that seemed to plea with a want inside of him; memories of the two of them back in the Garrison or pranking the team or chatting over a tray of piping hot space-cookies in the early hours of some forgotten morning.

He speaks the truth, Valion offers.
But Lance cannot accept that. Because that would mean… that would… mean—

"Lance, we never thought you were holding us back. In fact, you were the one keeping us going. You never complained once that we had to leave Earth, that you had to leave your Mamá and your family and we had to fight in an intergalactic war. For fuck's sake, we had to fight in an intergalactic war," Hunk said, his voice tearing.
Lance was startled by the curse, startled even more by the pure-pained emotion that filled the boy's voice as he spoke.

"We're just kids and yet you were there, keeping all of our heads up, helping us, looking out for us."

With every word, Hunk's voice grows thicker, his scent stronger.
A growl pulls Lance's mind from the heavy of guilt to the concern of Viridall, who watches those that could hurt his Sault. But he cannot do more but stand behind him and offer that of the notion that he will stand for Valion, no matter the foe. To this one, he may not be able to raise gun or gauntlet, but his guard still stands and that is enough for Lance to remember who he faces.

It is as if Hunk holds his own magic. Like Allura, like Zaos, he pours strength into his words that numbed Valion and spoke only to Lance, reminding him of home and a simpler time. Without space and without Voltron.
Without Eldar and without the Solnha.

"We need you Lance," Hunk says. "We need you. You are the strongest out of us all."

Lies.

Valion and Lance agree, the thought unanimous as much as the words that play from his saddened smile: "I thought I was needed too, but I've been wrong before."
I won't be wrong again.

The room chills at his words, at the blasé of how he offers them, but Valion pays no mind.

Hunk doesn't continue. He has said his peace and retreats.
Lance hurts to note that there was no apology in that which he had offered; having thought that out of all of them, he could've as least still trusted Hunk to try and mend this gap that divides them.

Lance fears asking. He fears showing a sign of wanting for such, for if he does, how does he know that if an apology is given, whether it is genuine or not.
If that was what he asked for, then there would be no doubt in his mind that their apologies would be nothing but words: empty, meaningless words. And they could throw them at his feet a thousand times, and each time hurt him; papercut slices, thin and shallow, over and over, but they would not close the divide.

Still, Lance cannot help but hope that Hunk will take this chance. To offer apologies and start them on the path to reconciliation.

But Valion knows nothing is simple and the boy's innocence will only hurt him again. They will hurt him again.
They'll try, of course, but Valion was born to protect Lance, and he would do just that.

No matter how easy an apology is to be given, Hunk locks his behind tight lips and refuses to acknowledge that he had not stood up for Lance when Lance needed him the most.

It's enough to want to make the boy to laugh again, but such is restrained and they once again bare themselves to the silence.

This time, it is Shiro who breaks it. His eyes haven't really left Eldar since Lance's outburst stating just how important the Pawther was to him, but now is not the time to divert.

"It was us who were wrong," he says— and Lance, still prey to the childish want of forgiving them, still caught in the idea that they would want to mend this divide, listens, doesn't think to keep up his guard that somehow still offers protection no matter how damaged it is—

"But you were the one who ran away!"

Of course Keith couldn't stay quiet.
He's been brimming for too long, watching, listening to everyone else's judgement and the very edge of Valion's anger knock them back down. But rather than apologies and understanding, Keith just wants to throw more accusations onto the pyre and watch everything go up in smoke.

Valion would be happy to oblige.

"My worth was taken away from me," he said, turning in an instant to parry the words with ease. "Being Blue Paladin was all I could be, so when that was taken away from me, I was left with nothing. There was no reason to stay, no reason to want and face my failure day after day after day," Valion says, his voice filling with venom now that he speaks the words that he has wanted to say for a long time.

"I left because I wasn't a Paladin anymore."

Like Keith thinks it is his place to speak, so too does Allura.
Her tone may have been softer, words bathed in warmth rather than the bitter sharp of cold, but it was all the more condescending when she tried once again to sing a song of Magic, imploring the Solnhan to listen to her, to listen, just listen—

"Lance, I didn't take anything away from y—"
"I was there!" Valion yelled, the words exploding with a suddenness that sees Rayon rise to his feet. All those that had been looking forward, turn to their leader with wide eyes.

"I was there when you jumped at the chance to take my place from me! I was there when all of you decided for me, behind my back, acting like one big happy fucking family. You were all content to talk amongst yourselves about me," he says, words fast and precise with all the power of fired bullets, each holding the imminent destruction of a grenade missing it's pin.

"You all decided, so fucking quickly, that I should just be put down like a rabid dog—"
"We didn't—"
"DON'T LIE!" Valion bellowed, the air heating around him, oblivious to the whimpering of his family that felt his pain as potent as he did; every twisting blade breaking skin, diving deep into the boy, scraping skin from bone, staining the earth with crimson as he hurt and hurt and hurt—

"Lance—"
"STOP LYING TO ME," he roared, rage unbound, his strength snatching Zaos's for a moment enough that his voice thunders in the room, echoes loud like storm clouds that threaten a flood.
Valion abandoned his notion of calm to silence them, words pouring with strength and fire and a bitterness of potent poison.

"I KNOW THE TRUTH! I WAS THERE!" he roars, loud enough that Hunk throws his hands to cover his ears, the She-Galra ducking away, Eldar leaning in beside him, voice pleading for Valion to calm, "calm my love," he says, over and over as the sudden wave of uncontainable hate washes in and washes away.
Not completely. But it is enough that Valion abandons Zaos's power and the growl low in his throat when he continues to speak.

"I. Was. There."

If his anger were a blade, every word would kill.

"You didn't think I was, but I was there. I overheard everything. How Pidge said I was the reason we weren't winning. How you guys couldn't trust me anymore. How Allura so eagerly offered up herself as a replacement," he snarled, letting his hate narrow eyes upon the silent tears she cries. "You can't say you didn't. Because I was there and I watched how you fucking danced about the room because you were so eager to be a Paladin."

She cries but Valion just ignored her. He turns to Shiro.

"I watched you too. How quick you were to replace me. You didn't say a damn word, you just fucking agreed and that was it," he snarled, all spit and spite and this burning-ice-pain rage that builds in his chest like woodsmoke. It drags tears from his eyes, his glare hard and wet and probably pathetic, but he doesn't think about that as he turned to them each in turn, voice quickly getting louder.

"Not one of you stood up for me! None of you said a damn thing, so why the hell is it so hard to understand that I didn't want to stay in a place that made me feel worthless."

Lance doesn't realise how he's leaning over the table, how his chest heaves with every deep breath in, every shaky breath out. Eldar stands beside him, a hand on his hip to steady him as he rides the wave of this tempest storm. Voltron weather it, as must those that can feel Lance's pain.

They're all silent.

But not for long.

"We… we didn't want you to find out like that," Shiro says, his head hung in shame; too deep in guilt to meet eyes of a boy that had looked up to him, revered him, held him in the highest respect and had his hero tear him down when he dared to be a Human and feel.
Valion doesn't feel an ounce of pity.

Lance might.
Deep, deep down, beneath the shuddering cold of ice that fills his lungs and freezes his tears, but it is Valion who protects the fragile of his heart and does not wish to once again bear Lance to the whip that has already lashed one too many times.

"Oh, so you were going to tell me?" the Solnhan barked, his laughter anything but happy as it echoes in the quiet. It was a jilted, scornful noise that fills the room, mocking Shiro's poor attempts to delude Lance and make amends. Altogether, the boy looks quite mad in the way that his lips are pulled back to bare his teeth while bloodless tears bleed steady streams from his eyes.

"When? Would it have been before or after you took Blue away from me?" His words were spun with mockery and a false sense of delight that actually makes Pidge steady their hand over their hip. He eyes the movement, tilting his head to bring light to it.
Fellfrir hisses in response, her mandibles clacking as much as her barbs and the poisonous sting that actually doesn't stand as much of a threat to a caffeine addicted Gremlin, but the show is enough to have the youngest Paladin think twice about where they rest their hand.
Valion ignores them.

"Or would it be after you decided to lock me up because you were all so worried that I might just actually try and kill one of you?"

His words are the stones that ripple the calm of his family that stand behind him, mixed emotions rising in snarls and hisses and their own instinctual defence mechanisms.
Even Uilt'xen, who has been in the company of Voltron for a month cannot help the way her skin blurs milky-pale at the notion that those that saved her would dare to cage her brother. She may not know the entire truth, none of them may know the entire truth, but still they stand behind their Leader.
They trust him to know that all will be shared in due time.

"You already tried," Pidge argues, having not been on the chopping block long enough.
It might be the fact that their body and their emotions are compressed into such a small stature, or the fact that so long in space has shortened their fuse that they can't seem to keep their mouth shut, unloading all their emotion any chance they see fit.

"You tried to kill Keith—"
"He did not," Rayon spat, defending his brother. "Lance would never do that! He loved you and you made him out to be the bad guy!"
"He attacked me," Keith yells; his voice just another that rises up to shake the unsteady air of the war room; the faux calm challenged as more felt their patience tug unruly.

"Lance crossed the line and he attacked me—"
"We were training!" Lance interrupts, feeling Zaos pressing close within his mind, not offering power but comfort. "I didn't hurt you beyond what anyone else would give you when we sparred."

Because he hadn't.

Lance had been the one to feel the drive of the blade between armour and flesh. Lance had been the one to bleed blood and tears when he clawed to remain as one of them. Lance had been the one to shift his Bayard into anything more than a first shift.
And still they sought to replace him.

He had only been trying to avoid that.

"We trained, every day," he says. "Together, alone, it didn't matter, but we were training and we were fighting but we weren't pushing hard enough."
Lance can feel the ice-cold touch of Valion's armour wavering as much as his voice does; thick with emotion that has spent too long confined within.

"We used to spar but it was a game we could tap out of – never a real fight. We're not sparring with the Galra, we're fighting with them. They wouldn't stop if one of us yelled 'uncle' so why should our training be on easy mode?"
"It was so you didn't burn yourselves out too fast," Coran says, but his logic cannot be applied to warfare. War isn't fair, or easy, so taking things slow was as good as sacrificing a few thousand others for the sake of a Sunday lie-in.

"Coran, we've been in space for over two years. Two years and the furthest that any of us had achieved was a slight variation on our original bayard mark and further distance when trying to commune with our lions. We had the means to change our fighting styles and get stronger but you never told us, as if you weren't even taking things seriously."

"We are," Allura interrupts, regaining the familiar curt tone of a royal Princess. "Then why was I the only one that unlocked a second mark? And why was I kicked off the team because of it?"
"We didn't kick—"
"I already told you to stop lying," Lance snarled, his voice edged with the sharpness of a sword, his anger and betrayal fashioned in such a way that silence held no power in the room.

They can't stop butting heads at the same point, going around and around in circles without outright claiming that; yes, they were in the wrong.
Yes, they were wrong and they were sorry.
Yes, Lance did not deserve it and they are sorry.

"There was nothing wrong with training by ourselves. And I did. I trained myself to get stronger because I had already made too many mistakes," Lance says. "What happened on the Favara could've been avoided if I was stronger. I wouldn't have been ambushed on Torous if I could fight as well without my bayard as I could with it."

Behind, Lance can smell the pale sickly green of shame, hear the way Gereen shifts in his standing as the second-order effect causes him to remember that before Camseil, he had often been at fault to endangering his Prime's heartmate. Unknown then, that the future would be what it was now, but Lance does not hold the Pawther responsible. He held himself as such, and still considers the same.

It is a constant that has driven him to be better ever since the wound split open his back and bared his weaknesses to the world.

"We needed to take training seriously and for it, you stopped trusting me."
"You took it too far—"
"WE'RE FIGHTING IN A DAMN WAR," the boy roared. He was fed up with having to fucking defend himself over and over and over again.

"WE'RE FIGHTING AGAINST THE GALRA, WHO WANT TO KILL US, AND WE USED TO TREAT TRAINING LIKE A FUCKING GAME!"

Why can't they just listen?
Why don't they get it?

"THIS. IS. WAR! IT'S NOT A GAME, IT'S REAL LIFE, AND IF YOU DON'T START TAKING THIS SERIOUSLY, THEN YOU'RE GOING TO GET PEOPLE KILLED!"

He almost made that mistake.
He almost got his family killed, because he underestimated those that wanted him dead.

"You might not have chosen to be Paladins, but you are. You need to play your part."

It wasn't like any of them were here by choice. The delusion of a choice maybe, but there was no memory of Lance choosing to remain as one of five of the universes' last hope. That was suicide. And yet he's still here, still fighting.
Fighting those that should know better by now.

"I want to win but not just for me; but for the sake of my family on Earth, the family I have now and for the family I want in the future. As Paladins of Voltron, Guardians of the Universe, or whatever pretentious title you want, you're meant to understand that you can't pull punches. There's no morality to war except your own vendetta so get your heads out of your asses and look at the bigger picture!"

Lance is yelling; words twisted with more than just rage and fire torn from his throat, vomiting his hurt with barely a breath between one curse and another.

"Whatever happened between us is in the past. You can't change what you did and I can't change that I left because I was fed up with being a worthless, seventh fucking wheel."

Oh god why is it hard to breathe? This is what Lance had wanted. To make them see. To make them bleed their when they see what their hurt had carved out of the boy he had been.
He wanted them to choke on their apologies.

But why is Lance the one choking?

He's crying now. He knows it.
Knows he can't stop talking.
Not now.

Not now.

"But I didn't give up. I was found by the Solnha and I was given a home. They accepted me. They wanted me to fight beside them.
"They didn't belittle me and berate me because I had emotions. They didn't ignore me when I was having bad days. They didn't criticise me when I used to wake up screaming because I had nightmares, but instead they helped me. They became my family. They didn't turn me away. They listened and they paid attention.

"And I fell in love."

Lance's words shake at the admission. His chest tightens at the poorly concealed glances to Eldar; the way Keith's scent spikes, sharp and painful, the jarred motion of his step shunted by Hunk and Shiro's grip on him; the way their scents drop in a way that reminds Lance of endless hopelessness.

Without thought, Lance anchors himself in front of Eldar once more, drawing strength through their bond, through the other bonds that prickle beside him. He can feel them now, when adrenaline spikes in his heart, his mind screaming danger at the sight of the six and he needs more than his own strength, more than the warm sunlight sunbeam of him and Eldar, their river of life that flow together, the shimmering starlight of Zaos, warm glows of emotions, family, all of them; weaving in and around him as he lets himself fall into the embrace, shoving away the weakness that is fear.

"I found those important to me. I found those that I would do anything to protect."

"But they were the ones that hurt you first," Hunk argued, having not truly made his peace. "They were the ones that stole you away—"
"They didn't—"
"They did, Lance. You would never have left if it wasn't for them and their poison."

Hunk's voice is quiet and pained; but in the silence, there is no one that does not hear him.

"What?"

"They poisoned you," Shiro says, finding his voice where Hunk falters under the burn of the Solnhan's glare. "They drugged you and they hurt you, and they stole you away."

Gereen hisses low in his throat. Eldar raises his hackles alongside Viridall and his heartmate, Fellfrir clacking her mandibles and Skrews looking like he wishes to be anywhere but here.

Many of the Solnha cast their eyes to Fara's empty chair, recalling the time when she had sought forgiveness from Valion, for the sake of three of her brood, yet they had acted under the order of Orvis and Gereen alike and Valion had not held the Trigamon in contempt. Even Gereen has been forgiven.
Still, the memory makes the boy take pause.

"How do you know?"

Because, even though he had been the one that made peace with the poison in his mind, Lance had not known Anadón was a by-product of the drug. Not until Tho' found trace elements still contaminating his bloodstream, identified as Pantheon descent, enough that Eldar had nearly killed Gereen when he learnt that it had been the Pawther Dull as the one responsible for drugging his heartmate.
Through Tho' and Eldar, Lance learnt Anadón's power was granted through the heavy doses, his grip loosening when the poison had been purged with time…

But how do they know?

Lance had never mentioned Anadón to any of the team. Om fact, he had barely exchanged a handful of words since his mind began to fracture, having finally understood his worth to them.
The Trigamon themselves wouldn't have been so foolish as to tell the Paladins they were drugging one of their own while they disguised themselves as victims, and it wasn't like anyone else had said anything. Kenmare, perhaps, or maybe Uilt'xen, but such was not in their nature to do so…

So how did they know?

"You knew?"
Coran cannot help but ask, undoubtedly confused that the boy had known and done nothing about it. He looks shocked, as much as the Black, the Yellow, the Blue, the Green. They cannot understand why Lance would forgive the Trigamon, when he had not even forgiven them.

"Lance—"
"How?" the Solnhan repeats, his fear disguised beneath unsteady impatience. The demand of his questions requires and answer, Shiro stepping up to the mark. "After you had gone, we searched for you," he says, moving to take the spotlight as Valion cast narrowed eyes across all of them, his mind drawing conclusions before they have even had the chance to explain.

"We used the holo-monitor programmes to retrace your steps after we found the cryo-pod empty. We saw footage of the Trigamon poisoning you, saw them do so continuously and learnt that they were on the ship that found the pod—"
"So, you knew the Solnha had found me?" Lance interrupts, incredulous in such a way he forgets to be angry. He had considered the possibility that they had known he was with the Solnha, but some naïve hope had snuffed the idea that they did, and that the reason that they still hadn't come for him was because they were still searching.

But to be told that the team did, in fact, know, all this time, even from the very beginning, and now they stand there and tell him that they had done everything in their power to chase after him—

"No, no, Lance, we didn't know. The Trigamon had left us long before you followed them. We thought it was us—"
"But you saw," Lance says, his anger returning, bleeding into a cold, chilling sensation that burns his toes and numbs his tongue, trying to understand why they knew, they knew and they never came.

They never came.

They never cared.

"You knew where I was and you didn't do anything about it, until now, just because you want a damn alliance—"
"I don't—!" Keith all but yells, but Lance won't hear it. "You're lying," he hissed, voice pulled from anger and hurt and the cold scraping of hunger that wells up inside him, the familiar want to devour these emotions until there is nothing left but emptiness; bleak grey emptiness so that he didn't have to feel another piercing blade of betrayal sever his soul.

He can feel Eldar's touch upon his back, yearning to lean into it, but somehow the boy knows if he moves the barest of an inch, his entire body will crumple. And he can't. He won't.
So, he continues.

"You just said you saw the Trigamon 'steal me away' and now you say you didn't know—"
"We didn't, if not we would've come—"
"You just said you saw them take me. You said you knew," Lance growls, wondering just how long his patience will truly hold out for.
The choking in his throat hasn't seem to relented, the fire that still burns hasn't burnt itself out and still his rage continues to grow, far stronger than he's ever felt before. His head hurts from the pressure, his vision blurring in the corners where his body is beginning to suffer the effects of feeling so much.

"Lance, we're sorry—"
"Oh, you're sorry."

Here it comes.

"Well at least you're all sorry. That makes it all better, doesn't it?"

Here it comes.

"I guess it's all water under the bridge now, because thank god you're sorry. You know, did it not occur to you to start with an apology? Or are you only giving one now because I've dragged to light how you actually treat those you fight alongside?"
"No," they try to argue, but Lance will listen to none of it, a hand raised to tell them no, he doesn't want to hear it.

And it is then, in that moment, before dragon-fire can spew from his lips in slurs and insults and everything abhorrent he could ever think to say, Lance realises he doesn't care much for their apologies.

He realises all he wanted to hear was them admitting that they were wrong. That they wronged him. That that they had hurt him for no good reason.
That they were wrong, thinking Allura would be a better Blue Paladin when the past eight months alone showed that that is not to be true. And in the past eight months, the entire team have barely fought the minimum to defend against the Galra while Lance and his people have near enough, achieved miracles.

And still, they could not accept him.

The anger weighed heavier as exhaustion than it ever had as hate or rage. Where betrayal burned, the acceptance that they would never truly see him for who he was slunk in, cold and heavy, draining Lance of his strength to stand, the fires at threat of being smothered, smoke choking him.

Lance hated them for what they made him feel, his hand once again twitching for something to hold that would stand as protection, his eyes flickering to Keith's bayard that still gleams in the Glo Sun's light, Hunk and Shiro's grips growing lax in the time that crawls on and Lance's heart pumps out too many emotions for a human to feel at once.

"If you want peace with the Solnha, then you've got it. Details aside, that is why you're here. We're not here to fight. We're too busy trying to win a damn war against an empire of power-hungry maniacs that have had the last god knows how many fucking years to destroy and enslave and murder their way across the galaxy."
His words held a dull exhaustion to its edge, like he had been over the same words, same excuses, the same damn speech too many times before.
"We don't have the luxury to squabble among ourselves, especially after you've done the bare minimum these past months," Valion growls, petty in the way he addresses one of their mistakes.
Who cares? They've done it to him countless times.

"If you're here to help us fight them, then good. But if you've come here just so that you can make yourselves feel better— so that you can say that 'you tried to explain why' or whatever other bullshit you want to throw at me, then there's the door!"

Valion throws an arm out, feeling the all-too familiar want to fill his hand and burn their scared looking faces from his sight. They're not allowed to be shocked at this. They had to have known this was coming.
They had to have known how much they hurt him.

"Lance—"
"Do you want peace or not?"
"Yes, but Lance—"
"Then peace it is and we shall return to Caldara's future and leave the past in the past—"

"So you can keep running away? No."

Valion raised his head to where Keith had spoken, somehow taken back anew at the refreshed taste of blood in the air, the way the scent is suddenly so strong, so powerful, it clings to the back of his throat. Eldar scents it too, the barest of steps taking him closer in guard, tail snaking back and forth as he waits, and fights with the notion of waiting because he doesn't want to be here.
He wants to be far away, either curled up in the nest, or back standing before a Galra soldier, who he knows in the enemy, there is no doubt that he is the enemy and Eldar can slaughter and smite without needing the nuances to think—

"You're running away again."
"I haven't gone anywhere," Lance challenges coolly. Something crawls up his spine; an unpleasant, unsettling feeling that tingles across his fingertips, his breath shallow, tongue dry like sandpaper—

"You're not Lance," Keith says, and really, Valion shouldn't laugh, but he can't help find amusement in the face of absurdity. The sound of his laughter is dead and weighted. "Maybe not. I was once," he says, playing the word between his teeth, a glance to Allura who sheds new tears, "but I'm not anymore. I am Valion."

Eldar can hear his lover baiting for another fight, childish in the way that he hasn't quite given enough pain, that if there is a chance to deal more, then he'll take it.
"Arenphine," he says softly, "you're almost done. Do not tease them into another argument and prolong this." Valion makes to argue, but Eldar's raised eye tells him he cannot lie. They know one another too well after all.

He stays close, so close that Lance can still feel his warmth at his back, the snaking of a tail around his ankle that makes the corner of his lip unconsciously twitch until he's leaning into Eldar's space, sharing it, sharing warmth, sharing the hope that sooner, this would all be over and they could put this behind them.
"You've done well, my love. Just a little longer," the Pawther says, leaning his head down to place lips near the boy's ear so that his words of comfort are kept between themselves. They're only for each other, so there is no need for anyone else to hear, no need that their privacy should be invaded.

And yet, to another, the shared moment means something else.

Valion barely has a chance to return an offering of comfort, eyes turned for far too long when suddenly emotions spike.
Pain pierces his heart, as much as noise pierces the subdued quiet; the sound of Shiro and Hunk yelling all that is needed to pull his eyes back across the room, where Keith has abandoned his team, vaulting onto the moon-carved table, blade out beside him, charging forwards, fast, barely no time—

"Keith no!"
"Keith, stop!"
"Get back!"

Eldar acts first, his mind having prepared him for such release anger, grabbing Lance around his waist, moving in to mould against him like a protective shell, taking the place that Valion held as he turns, his body now between Lance and the charging Paladin. Lance yells, wordless in shock, hearing the sound of Kali sticks being drawn and the resounding clash where Keith meets them, his sword having been stopped in motion, barely inches from Eldar's chest.

"IT'S YOUR FAULT!" he yells, his voice thunder, stampeding throughout the room as many Solnha retreat back away from bared fangs,
There are those that do not, standing forward, intercepting Voltron and the Blade who had reacted much like the Solnha in the face of Red's rage. The team does not understand why they are met with weapons raised, voices raised, screaming in the sudden confusion as to why the Red Paladin attacked, why he brings his sword up, his foot out, catching Eldar's jaw, knocking him back—

"NO!"

Something inside Lance cracks: so strong, so deep, so tangible that he practically hears it.

Red fills his vision.

Blood fills his mouth.

There's a flash of light, a scream of a storm as Lance launches all of himself into Keith, knocking him back onto the table, his own unbalanced body following.

All he can see, all he can think is Eldar, hear the way everyone in the room is screaming either his name or Keith's. He can't feel them, they're too far away, but the want of Gereen and Viridall to grab Valion tears at his mind like he can see it happening.
Before him, Keith is rising to his feet, and the want of his Generals are drowned in the fire-storm madness as Keith's eyes look to Lance and beyond, seeing Eldar, hating Eldar.

"YOU DID THIS TO HIM!" he yells, his screams pitched in a way that just isn't Keith, isn't Human, only Galra. His anger, anchored to Eldar without reason or logic finds him, with pinpoint precision that has Lance up on his knees, his feet, running in again to grab Keith before he can charge forward once more.

Instinct takes in when he sees the sword, some distant island of calm in this malevolent storm reminding him the blade isn't for him, but that it could hurt him nonetheless and it forces the Solnhan to take action.
Grip around the boy's wrist, leaning in closer to body-block him, foot hooking round ankle, shifting his way to pull them both down, crashing into the holo-pad, cracking its screen, fragments shattering, digging in like razor teeth where Lance doesn't where full armour but simply loose trousers and a cape that was for protection against the cold air rather than any reasonable armour in a fight.

Lance didn't think that he would be forced to fight.
The moment was so sudden, so quick of a turn that he hadn't seen it coming – but should've, there were so many signs, so many warnings – but Lance hadn't fought the boy to be so brash, and yet here he was and here they were.

"GET OFF ME! THEY'RE THE ONES THAT HURT YOU LANCE! THEY'RE THE ONES KEEPING YOU HERE!" Keith screams, anger released without thought to the consequences.
Lance cannot consider them either, warring with mind and heart and pure emotion that rises when he doesn't see a former teammate, doesn't see a Paladin of Voltron, doesn't see anyone more than a Galra half-breed that threatens Eldar and stands now to attack him.

"STOP!" Valion yells, scrambling back for safety and leverage, but his words are ignored as they always have been. Keith continues to fight, the Solnhan taking the hit of flailing limbs, as he shoves the Paladin back while trying to keep his feet.
The two of them sprawl across the table, a tangle of limbs, a mess of emotions as Keith accuses them of stealing Lance from him and Lance torn between restraining the bastard of killing him for daring to raise a hand against his heartmate.
A fist clocks him on the jaw, his cry of pain echoed in Pidge's voice, Hunk's voice, even the sound of Allura begging Keith to stop, "stop it Keith, what are you doing?!"

Beneath Lance's muted fear, he scents Eldar's; far more potent then he's felt before, feeling their bond hurt with how somatic his fear stands as to why all Paladin's hold their bayards, the fear that they all stand threat to his lover, losing mind to consider his lover is too close to the one who threatens both of them.

He's on his feet now, unarmed, facing down Keith who wears full armour and wielding his bayard in its sword-mark. Eldar's heart is in his throat, Valion's fists curling, tensing, senses working on overdrive to take in everything around him without losing mind to the fight that he's slowly descending into.
Gereen, Uilt'xen and Viridall stand behind him, forming a defensive line, their weapons raised but no single target stands at the end of them. Fellfrir, the Draora brothers, even Zaos looking ready to fight as they face down Voltron, who also hold their bayards charged to attack, still calling out to Keith.

Eldar presses on Lance's mind, but he is too far to touch; pushed back behind the three, and he hates it. Hates that he's too far from Lance as Keith releases a guttural scream and makes to charge forward for him, blinded the serpent of rage that has devoured his mind.

"Keith, stop! That's an order!"
"Keith no—"

"DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH HIM!"

Two swords sing as they meet in the air, both Valion and Keith thrown into the crackling glow of the Solnhan's light-sword. Without even a word, Valion had asked for it, the slightest inflection to his being calling for his shiftblade, Gereen barely having been given the chance to act as the module connects with Valion's electro-magnetic glove, the same movement finding the summon for his light sword until there, gleaming, it stands, levelled between the soldier of Voltron and the soldier of the Solnha.
His arms aches in that familiar pain that Gereen forced upon him, but such a hindrance cannot be his companion if he needs to fight.

"Stop!" Valion demands again, this time filling his voice with a power he had only felt when Eldar spoke and Gereen was forced to listen.
He imagines claws and fangs and fire raging in his eyes. It raged beneath his skin and deep in his heart, the sudden jarring of Keith's rage forcing him to stop and open his eyes.

"It's his fucking fault," Keith says, repeating himself, as if saying the words over and over will somehow give them worth. "It's not," Valion snarls back, sickened in a hurtful way that Keith could even think that turning the blame onto one of those who had supported him from the beginning was preferable to seeing his team were to blame.

"He's lying to you," he continues, oblivious to the hurt it deals. "You're not in your right mind Lance. They're still poisoning you."
"You're not in your right mind! You're the one making enemies out of strangers."

But Keith isn't listening.

"Come home, Lance. You have to come home."

"I am home."

Valion shoves the boy away, readjusting his stance, holding the sword out in front of him in the way that was comfortable to him, but strong in the understanding of manoeuvrability no matter which direction Keith swung his sword. He doesn't, but Valion will take no chances. One hand levels his sword, the other reaching to break the clasp that holds his mantle. Without the chain, the thin material drops from his shoulders, frees his arms from its weight.
Valion rolls his shoulders to loosen them, but also to show that he is willing to fight. Zaos presses closer, but a silent, mental shake of the head asks her to retreat.

If Lance is going to fight Keith, it will be with his own strength.

The Red seems to shake his anger – enough that he isn't blindly charging in. His scent still prickles when Eldar catches his sight, but for now Valion is the one who stands in the forefront of his mind, eyes drinking in the way he stands, the sight of his muscled, scarred body, the way his eyes are set in that familiar sharpness that he has seen on soldiers upon the battlefield.

But not Lance.
Lance never let the shadows of war to paint his face anything beyond a smirk, a smile or a witty remark that would have them all groaning at the bad puns, but ultimately lifting the weight that drags heavy on their hearts.

This time, Lance is the one crushing them.

Crushing Keith.

His head can't keep track.
It's easier to let his emotions blind him, but its to their ode that he stands here on the cracked glass of the holo-pad, sharing the fighting ring with a boy that should be familiar and not… not this. Not Valion. Not Solnhan.
Not standing opposite him with a sword instead of a smile, and a determination in his eyes that he had only given to an enemy before he filled them full of bullet holes.

"Lance—"
"That's not me," Lance snarled, biting the words in a way that Keith takes a step back.

It is.

Of course it is.

Lance can't just not be Lance. It doesn't matter that he changes his name. It hasn't changed who he was or who he is, now. His very being a Solnha stands ode to the truth that he was still fighting, because Lance wasn't a coward who ran or turned away from the fight.
But Lance wasn't an enemy to Voltron and, if he was of sane mind, he would not defend a bunch of fucking aliens that stole him away.

"You're Lance," Keith yells, anger vitriol, given a second wind the moment that his mind claws for reasoning, abandons the exhaustion that the feeling fills him with, vindictive in the way his emotions surge up again.

The former Blue Paladin is shaking, barely able to contain the emotions he feels, the emotions that shine in the same light as Keith's had when he felt them deep enough to abandon reason and seek an enemy to vent out his frustration that all their searching, all their hoping was ultimately useless.
And yet, rage may be the colours that Lance wraps himself in, but the storm that swells before him sings a song of voracious hunger.

The dawning understanding that Keith will be the first to feel the tempest's wrath confuses and hurts him in a way that his fighting instinct demands he fight his corner.
With him laments the same mournful song of frustration that has driven him across the span of stars to this moment, refusal and resolution against the idea that he is just another to blame and not the open arms Lance would return to after being found…

Found.
But never wanting to have been.

Instinct reminds Keith he faces an armed foe, his sword brought up.
Even the beginning of the moment triggers Lance to ready his blade, expert in the way he moves it to cut off Keith's movement should he attack. He doesn't want to, hasn't considered to in this moment of clarity that's been forced upon him when he met swords with Lance and continues to stand across from him.

They shouldn't be fighting.

They're meant to be brothers.

They're meant to be more than this.

"What's wrong with you?" he hissed, because that's it, isn't it. Somethings wrong with Lance. The Solnha are still poisoning him, still twisting his mind—
"Nothing's wrong with me. This is me! This is my family, and I'd die before I let you take that away from me."
"They're not your family Lance! They're not even human—"

"WHO THE FUCK CARES?!" Lance yelled, taking action where Keith delayed, He stepped in, stepped quick, blade raised that demanded Keith raise his to defend, blind siding himself to a follow-through kick that knocks him back. The lip of the holo-pad is his downfall, the ridge that trips him so that he falls.
Years of fighting experience has the boy twisting, arms down, knee down, up, already in a position to meet a second strike that isn't coming.

"They're my family and I would do anything for them," Lance yells, his rage so much stronger than Keith had realised. He's on his feet now, Lance knowing, Lance taking a step to the center that Keith mirrors. If he doesn't, he knows that the hum of the sabre will burn him. He's fighting, even if he doesn't want to, but fighting because he has to.

Why?

"Why—?"
"Because I love them! They're all I've had for god knows how long and you want to take them away from me too? I WON'T LET YOU!"

Their swords clash, once, twice, again and again, Keith no longer attacking but defending as each slam of the sword rocks him to his core. Lance is strong, he knows this, has always known this, but unfamiliar with the new fighting style that he never had the chance to spar against, and caught in the confusion of what his reality is, Keith can't lunge, can't retaliate, is barely keeping up—

Keith sees his opportunity, stepping in close to dodge the swing of the sabre, his elbow glancing off of Lance's chin, bayard defending against the sabre and in his other hand he withdraws the Galra blade. The movement is slower than usual, his mind catching on the replay of 'it's Lance' enough that it isn't' the sharp that connects with his bare chest, but instead the hilt and a curled fist.

Lance has the air knocked out of him; a distance demanded as he stumbles three steps back.

They're breathing hard, chests heaving, a weird creeping chill drawing Keith's lungs tight like the oxygen can't quite get into his lungs, like he's expecting himself to pass out because it's all too much, it's just all too much—

"What are you fighting for, Keith?"

Lance is the one to ask. Lance is the one to speak, in a voice far calmer than that of the emotion he portrayed.
And yet, watching him, watching the dragged way his chest rises, falls, shudders out every second breath, maybe it isn't something so hard to understand.

"What?
"What are you fighting for? Why are you so angry?"

Because Keith was angry.
Always angry.

It was like something had climbed inside of him and kept the fires stoked, kept his mind supplied with the same train of thoughts without an end to the circle as they tore up his mind, leaving scars that ran deeper and deeper. His fault, it was his fault, why didn't he do more, why hadn't he been there to save Lance, why had they fought, why hadn't he seen, back in the beginning, before Lance ran, before everything broke—
Over and over, round and round until he's dizzy and sick and so fucking angry.

Lance is angry too. Frustrated with this mess of a boy that stands before him, threatening to tear him from this peace he's found because he's too selfish to let go of the fantasies of returning to a time before all this mess was, wanting to return to the time when they were blissfully ignorant to his pain and Lance still another tool to be used.

"Why can't you accept that I have moved on? You need to move on, Keith. All of you."

Because they do.
They've lost what they've been fighting for. Long ago.

The Lance they want doesn't exist anymore.

"No," Keith says, because he doesn't want to believe. He hadn't wanted to believe it when they told him Lance left, didn't want to believe it when he had run away deliberately, didn't want to believe it when they said he didn't want to come back, hadn't wanted to come back, dead, dead, dead—

"No," Keith says, because he can't believe that this boy, this… Solnhan who stands before him is Lance and that what he's been chasing for all this time is no longer something he can gain. He can't believe, he refuses to believe, he can't, he can't…

A different kind of silence settles in the room, filling every nook and cranny. Even the light of the Glo-Sun grows cold upon the Paladin's skin; a prickling scratching at his skin, dread crawling down his throat to weigh heavy on his chest. His emotions have abandoned him now, bearing him to the chill of winter and he has no defence against it.

Lance is the one to break the silence.

"I think it's best if you leave," he says, his tone tempered steel struck against unyielding ice. His anger is hidden beneath indifference, the notion of hiding it a formality, perhaps, and another stumble for Keith's mind to trip on as his mind spirals and spins, twists and tangles because he can't, he can't—

"It is clear to me that you don't want peace, so there is no reason for you to stay here—"
"No," comes Shiro's voice, but Lance's stiff glare silences any argument. "Not you. Him," he says, turning back to face Keith, the spark of his temper still alight in his eyes, despite his drawling tone.
"You've threatened me and you've threatened my husband. Now get out before I decide to uphold the laws of the Solnha and have you punished for such."

He means it.

"Lance—"

"Get. Out."