A Want To Be Wanted

by Dragonire

Following a nearly fatal mission, Lance can't shake the fear that he's not as important as he thought he was. He wants to belong, and have the team trust him, but Lance isn't sure they should. It's worse when the voice in his head suddenly comes to life. This wasn't the adventure he wanted. And when Lance overhears the crew talking about him…. The things they say may be too much.

59. A Want Worth Fighting For

Chapter Fifty-Nine:A Want Worth Fighting For

No matter how hard Lance fought against Ovule, and fought his own black-feathered monster that lurked deep inside him; the one clawing at his chest, spilling blood tar-thick and toxic, ripping screams from his lungs, choking him until can't breathe, can't breathe—

"Get off of me!"

The boy had known his order would fall upon deaf ears, and yet still he spat the words torn by a flurry of emotions; each snowflake of feeling caught in the torrent winds; his scent bitter-cold, space-empty, void of hope and warmth, filled instead by the slithering thoughts of acceptance:

I am going to die here.

---

System: Medellin
Location: Caldara

It can't be real.

It can't be.

Lance feels himself stumble, like a strong tide has pulled him off the strand and suddenly he can't feel the bottom. His ears ring, his tongue thick and heavy, like nettles in his mouth.
It can't be real, he thinks, because it's all he can think, staring beyond the defence of Keith, to the monster that should no longer exist beyond the scope of his nightmares.

A thick, clawed hand is wrapped tight around Rayon's throat, effortlessly holding him at arms-length where his toes scrape at the rock to find purchase that would give him back his air. But anger takes precedence over surviving as the Draora spits every profanity he can think of; tears streaming down his face; the clipped sound of Kenmare's name bubbling up between threats of death.

Kenmare lies where he had fallen; unmoving, taking short, shallow breaths in attempts to suck in air beneath the biting pain of being gored.
Blue-black slugs of blood drips from his mouth, from his nose and from the wound that the serrated blade had torn through the armour of his skin, staining him and the dusted ground upon which he lies. He hasn't the strength to try and move; his eyes, wide in terror, staring in wet-fear as the monster lifts his brother higher, holding the same serrated tri-blade against tender flesh—

"Stop it!"

Lance's voice shakes with emotion, the desperation of his plea bleeding into his words; eyes darting between his family and the monster that holds their lives in his hands.
If he could've rushed closer, he would've, but Keith's hand bars him from running to his family, barring his hands from behind useless. Instead they shake; useless and weak, curling inwards upon themselves rose thorns prickling beneath the sharp of his nails, petals blooming beneath pointed pain. He wears no gloves, holds no blade in his hand, nor does his shiftblade wait patiently upon his hip, waiting for Lance to draw the strength he would need to stand against the creature that had been left to rot in his nightmares.

But Ovule was not a mere nightmare. He was alive.

Somehow, some way, Ovule was alive. He had found the Solnha; found Lance, found his way here, to Caldara where they were all meant to be safe.
And now the monster stands, wielding an accursed blade, wearing the same condescending sneer twisted across the familiar scarred maw where Lance's own teeth had buried themselves beyond scale and flesh to free himself from the confines of a living nightmare long since buried.
Ovule's presence breathes the memory new life.
It makes him want to gag.

"Valion, run—," Rayon says, the word twisting-tumbling full of warning. He can barely choke the word between blue lips before Ovule tests his strength around the Draora's throat, bringing him closer, still keeping him from the ground and a full breath of air from his lungs. "He's not going anywhere, seless. And neither are you."
The Arroyo shifts his weight, the edge of his blade pushing past skin – but no more when Rayon bucks in a sudden spasm of movement with the intent to distance himself. He is dropped, his body already ready, a kick of his legs spring-boarding him out of reach. Hesitation jars Rayon's movement when eyes find Kenmare, but Ovule lashing out to grab him once more steals any decision he could make when it is that his instinct to reserve has him withdraw until he is far from even the reach of the sword.

"Fast little culm, aren't you," Ovule snarls, but he makes no move to chase. His tails snaps and his fingers tighten around his blade, but he does not follow, and that offers Rayon enough to rise to his feet. He stands abreast to Keith; one hand held out to guard, whilst the other held firm against his gut. Ovule's sword had nicked him, but it was nothing more than a scratch that barely bleeds.
He has more pressing worries.

"Valion, get back," Rayon says, breathing hard. Breathing just as hard as his brother who lays on the floor, suppressing the pain he feels in this moment of existing and Kenmare hasn't even tried to move yet. Lance's heart breaks even more, his chest heaving with fear and hurt and the burning acrid laughter of Anadón's taunts tickling against his ear. {They're all going to die, Lance.}
"No—"
{They're all going to die and you're the one to blame.}

Kenmare's broken sounds of distress are like a beacon, Lance's overcrowded mind forgetting danger when his only thought is for his brother, pushing against the arms that bar him to step closer—

"Valion, get back."
Rayon, close enough to shove, does.
But his hand is weak and his balance unsteady; the hand that he wanted to use to shove becomes grab and the Draora sways in a sickening way. Lance grabs him in return, his finger hovering where words fail. "I'm fine," the other bites between gritted teeth, but there is no hiding the pallor of his skin; the sweat shimmering lightly as grey paints the canvas blue; the way Rayon's face hardens with every inhale as Kenmare does.
But Ovule couldn't have hit him that hard.

"Ray—"
"Get back," Rayon spits, his worry still on the threat before them.
But the sound of his voice is wrong. Distorted.

Ovule's barking laughter is given new life, but Rayon ignores him. Keith ignores him.
Lance only wishes he can ignore him and the choking, toxic of malevolent hate so much darker than Keith's, so much more violent and bloody.
But the sound of the monster's amusement is nothing to be ignored. It is powerful as the nails driven through unforgiving ice; suffocating as the ash clouds that rain down and smother all within its reach; as damaging as the strength of teeth that crush stone—

"Who are you?" Keith demands, as if knowing who this intruder was would make any difference to the fact that he was their enemy and that they were to fight him.
But maybe, it isn't that Keith is looking for answers so much as he is simply stalling for time.
From where he stands, shoved behind both the Draora and Red Paladin, Lance can still see the barest movements as Keith attempts to get Ovule to talk; the glance of his eyes that shift between his opponent and Kenmare, still on the ground; the way his eyes flicker to Rayon standing beside him, who readies himself for the fight.

And they will have to fight.
Lance will join them. He will crush his fear, crush the smothering in his lungs and force his body to listen to him even if it is that he has no weapon to aid him. Rayon has the spiked gauntlets that bolster his punches; Keith's bayard already poised for flight.
And a small Marmoran blade idle in a sheath that sits strapped to his back.

Keith does not make a sign to acknowledge the touch suddenly pressing against his back, still caught in parry with Ovule's attention. Instead, he raises his voice ever so slightly, and leans back as the blade is pulled from its sheath, as if in agreement to the plan unfolding: they will fight together.

In the place that the Solnha wished to hold his own shiftblade, now lies Keith's dagger: another weapon that can change its form, but this time the shifting ability is locked with blood the boy does not possess.
Still, ten inches is enough reach to offer strength.

The dagger was heavier than Lance thought it would be – having grown accustomed to the light of Bumi's ingenious creation that the expectation caught him off guard for a moment – but the weight is grounding and its balance almost impeccable; the heft of the ebony handle snug in the palm of his hand, but biting in a way that brings anticipation to draw blood.
Below the handle is a blade crafted from one of the strongest and rarest metals known to sentience; sharp enough to break skin with the weight of the dagger alone. Any push more, and it will carve through muscle, deep enough to chip marrow.

Lance had never really considered the Marmoran Blade to be anything more than an extension of Keith's identity, and whilst it was that the Red Paladin had always held preference in hand-to-hand combat rather than using blasters and snipers, Lance had rarely a chance to witness the alien sword being used for its intended purpose. Now it was his turn to step up and show his own prowess behind the handle of a blade.
While skilled in his own right, the dagger was at home in Keith's hand.
Lance just wished he could borrow a fraction of their combined strength until he sees his nightmare slain.

Ovule has not moved.
He has not made to engage with Keith in conversation, nor has his attention returned to Kenmare who is still well within the Arroyo's reach and the power he wields that could so easily end his life even as it dangles over the precipice of no more.
The Arroyo eyes the hunted prey of the Solnha king and no one else; the curling smile twisting to shine sharpened fangs; uncharacteristically patient when it is that his prize stands across from him. So close.
So close.

It is his own madness, his own thirst for sadistic pleasure that has driven him forward so far, just as Valion's fear, pain, regret had pushed the boy from who he had been into who he is today. Although, when he is faced with himself, quivering with bare feet and bare palms, he cannot help but fear he has not come far enough. He is still weak, still vulnerable, still terrified when it is only another battle to face, and Lance – Valion – has already faced a thousand before.

But can he win this one?

Ovule smiles at the drop in the boy's scent, salivating for the pain and suffering of the boy that is just within his grasp: forced to face the reality that he is nothing more than prey; to run, to hide without anywhere to flee to when Ovule chases the beating of his heart – scenting blood in the air and chasing Lance deep into the warren of tunnels as he had before and would do again, once the Draora and Paladin were dead.
But still the Arroyo waits, as if he was waiting for something—

Rayon stumbled.

It was only the slightest of movements, barely a drop in his stature before he pushes himself upright again, hand once again pressed tight to his gut. But the damage had already been done.
The lines of his body are taut and jagged; scree fields of loose jumbled stone set rigid into crags and peaks that wouldn't bend to the shaking of roots; like the winding of a spindle, the threat pulled tight, tighter still.

"Rayon?"

And then, it all begins to unravel: his form beginning to crumple like scrunched paper giving way to rain, his form loosening, all sharp-angled lines softening, smoothing, knees buckling as the roots, rotten and uncoiling, abandon the sturdy trunk of oak, bared to the desert's sun.

"Rayon!"

Lance's fingers rake against rough skin, searching for a grip.
Dagger forgotten, he shoves his own shoulder under his brother's arm, pulling the weight onto himself in effort to keep him from dropping further. But the armoured Draora is no match to a Human's strength and Lance can do little more than control Rayon's decent as he falls, crumples, gasps for air like he had forgotten how to breath.

Questions bubble in confusion. Ovule simply laughs.
"You shouldn't blame me," he says to the glaring of eyes that find him, twisting his blade in his hand, taunting them further when his heel presses into Kenmare's spine. He gasps from the pain, Rayon cursing, Keith, cursing, but Ovule's mirth drowns them all. "It was your Vhoadan pet that gave me the poison. Or should I say, I took it from him." He turns the sword again, showing the dark ink-like veins that coat it's edges.
Lance prays to any god willing that the fucker would just stab himself. But it is a thought he can barely hold onto in the torrent of bubbling, boiling fear that cloys his mind as it latches, instead, onto the sea-salt electric fear.

Poison.

Leonel's poison: stolen from his flesh when he was enslaved inside the labyrinth of purple walls, carved from greed and misery; poison stolen from him and turned upon his brothers and sisters.
It is Leonel's blood that shallows Rayon's breaths and drags Kenmare closer to the precipice while setting his bones, blood ablaze; leaving it to burn, flame, brandish agony throughout their entire bodies with only the hope that Death would kiss the agony away.

"Kenmare, Rayon, no," Lance says feeling his brother slip further from him. His fingers rake uselessly over armoured skin for a touch of comfort, whether it is that he hopes to comfort them, or take comfort for himself. And Lance can't turn away that selfish thought that it is for his own sake. He seeks the Draora's strength, seeks some miracle that Ovule is lying simply to taunt them and this reality is nothing but an illusion Anadón has created in his rebirth.
But the punchline never comes and the nightmare that haunted Lance before reunited with his family is given new life once more.
They are dying before his eyes, and he can do nothing to stop it.

"Val—need to—run—"

There was no time.

Ovule charged without warning.
He comes, beast-like, his sword held aside like that of a bird's broken wing, swung with the strength of mountains that knocked aside Rayon, knocked aside Keith as if he were nothing more than a dummy made of wood and straw.

Lance felt the air in his lungs rise, his eyes widening in the minutest of movements that did not lend themselves to the fleeing of feet, nor the defence of his hands beyond curling around Keith's dagger – pitiful when it is a monster that faces him.
He heard the cry of pain, his own hiss of breath rising up in shout as a grip dragged him up, backwards, scarred spine meeting wall with a steel-fist blow to the soft of his skin. There was less pain than there should've been; Fila' Ion's light shining beside his own, it's power joining him in the moment of fighting.

But how could he fight with any hope of winning when Ovule was that one who he faced?

Lance could not ignore the confidence within his opponent; within the smile that blossomed in colour at the sight of another's fear, the same shine in his eyes that held shadows of darker things to come.
Lance was a victim to it; trembling before bloodied claws that promised more pain and more hurt.

Ovule was a fighter; it was his very nature to turn on everyone and everything, testing the strength he held in every fibre of his being, as if he had been born into the world and was forced to fight, to prove he deserved the right to perceived the world his enemy, saw life an enemy too. And he remained, in declaration to spite those that granted him existence until they would regret ever bringing him into this world.

Pain took seed beneath another curled fist. Fila' Ion echoed, pulsating in a chastising glow, demanding that Valion join this fight.

But how?
How could he face Ovule when his only future was to fall?

Instinct took over where minds drowned.

Hands up, arms up, he defends against one fist. A second. The dagger is knocked from his hands but that does not mean he has to give up.
There is a grip on his robes, his throat, the world stolen beneath his feet as he is flung bodily into the folds of his nest. There is no chance of moving, no chance to breathe before Ovule is on top of him once more. And Lance – pinned by the monstrous body of silver-sheen scales, petaled armour that turned his nails as if they were nothing more than water – could do little in protest when the might of a fist flashed, stole the air from his lungs, stole what remained with another.

He couldn't help but cower behind raised arms, feeling Valion's hate turned inwards because he is cowering behind raised arms; but it is all the boy can do as he takes blow after blow, his armour taking most of the energy, but not all, and it isn't long until pain rocks him deep in his chest.
Scent spiralling, layering, fear rising, Ovule gives a shout of laughter and his volleys start anew. His demand for blood only strengthens his thirst as crimson blooms from burst skin as Lance's arms begin to weaken; his shoulders aching, bone aching, cracking, becoming nothing more than dust—

His voice isn't the only one to cry out; Keith, Rayon, Kenmare; calling out against the unfairness of it all. As if 'fair' was a word to be spoken when it was Death breathing down their necks.
'Fair' was a word given, perhaps to judge the happenings of a spar, where one stands armoured and the other does not; where one stands armed and the other does not.
But a spar or a duel is a fight accepted on both sides.

This was a battle forced upon them, a fight for their lives against a monster born of fear and malice; blood-thirsty in his excitement, exercising the strength he was born with, using it to tear at Lance's armour, to get to the racing of his heart that hid beneath.
It called to him, to the nature of beasts beneath sentient mind; the instinct of predator stealing Ovule's mind just as prey steals Lance and flings him back into the twisted-torn corridor of his nightmares.

Reality fractured, flaked; peeled away like snowflakes falling from rainless-clouds, the panic of being trapped beneath Ovule's body as terrifying now as it was back then: weapon-less, constrained, wanting to fight but having no strength to shift the weight that crushes him.
Vulgar excitement cloys the air, the scent thick with want, lusting for blood and the cries Lance stifles behind clamped teeth, in hopes to keep that which Ovule wants from him. It all builds behind bitten, bloody lips, escaping in pearling tears that don't do enough to steal what he can see of his attacker.

No matter how hard Lance fought against Ovule, and fought his own black-feathered monster that lurked deep inside him; the one clawing at his chest, spilling blood tar-thick and toxic, ripping screams from his lungs, choking him until can't breathe, can't breathe—

"Get off of me!"

The boy had known his order would fall upon deaf ears, and yet still he spat the words torn by a flurry of emotions; each snowflake of feeling caught in the torrent winds; his scent bitter-cold, space-empty, void of hope and warmth, filled instead by the slithering thoughts of acceptance:

I am going to die here.

Realisation stole his mind. Panic stole his strength. Lance knew, if not for Fila' Ion, he would've long since been killed.
But it is instead that he must live through this torment of prey; screaming his frustration, fear, outrage to his own Human weakness that laughs at him, just as Ovule does; Valion, hateful to the weakness he has yet to overcome with mortal ties when it should be that he was stronger than before.

And he should be stronger.

The time spent between now and his last battle against this fucking monster wasn't spent idle and relaxed.
He had offered up hours upon hours in the training room, earning himself bone-deep bruises from his brothers, leant to use the flexibility of his body as Ygrainne showed him, come to study and adapt when fighting different opponents with the simple experience gained from facing the diversity of his Godolphin family.

So why isn't he stronger? Why is he still afraid?

Because Lance is still afraid.

And whilst it is that he battles with Ovule, so does he battle against his own damning fears: Fear of losing this battle, fear of this monster, fear of the darkness that swarmed inside him, telling him that he would never be enough, never be strong enough.
Ovule was proof of his failures – alive, teeth inches from his neck.

"No—don't—!"~
Because instinct tells Lance to fight for his life.
To beg for it, if he has to.

He wants for his shiftblade. He wants for Keith's dagger.~
But the boy's hands are empty beyond stained with his own blood.

"Stop!"

The pleas do not deter, but excite.

Lance can scent it in the air, feel it on his skin when the fists stop their volleys and turn to heavy-hand touches, to smooth-scaled fingers pressing over the modesty of Lance's armour that will not yield to the raking claws, even as Ovule laughs at the writhing below him, the throaty laugh just as terrifying as his words:
"You remember it, don't you?" he sings, rolling his tongue across Lance's cheek to taste the brine of his fear; snow-sharp, throat-tight, paralysing. "You remember how close I came to destroying you. I was so close that I could smell your blood, that I could hear your body breaking beneath me—"
"No, no—"
"I won't let you get away a second time."

The Arroyo had no love for banter; only screams.
Without warning he leant forward, sinking his fangs into the familiar of Lance's neck where he had bitten before. Fila' Ion allows him no further, bars him from blood and flesh but that does not mean his strength cannot crush bone, sinew, flesh: Lance's screams a cacophony of noise, rising higher as his body sank beneath the pain, searching for a way to alleviate the ocean of everything he felt with nothing but pounding fists and his throat razor-raw from vocal torment.

Why is he not stronger?

Lance couldn't move. It was like something had crawled inside his body, wearing him like a skin suit and controlling him from the inside. Even though Ovule was pinning him with his own body, scratching at the armour with large, curved claws that would shred him into ribbons at the slightest chance, it is something else that holds Lance's screams in his throat, freezing the air in his lungs as if he is drowning, sinking, plummeting into the oceans depths while his mind remained in the moment of breaking and he, Lance, somewhere far beneath the tide in a muted world of ocean blue and winter grey.

The determination to stand strong has abandoned him, or maybe it was that Lance's grip wasn't strong enough. Valion is nowhere to be found in his drowning mind, no Eldar to come to his rescue, no one—

"GET AWAY FROM HIM!"

Suddenly there's no weight, no monster pinning him, no ocean drowning him. Lance can breathe.
The cloth beneath him shifts, as if something has grabbed it and Lance is dragged onto the floor where Ovule fights the hands around his throat as they pull him backwards. Keith roars in anger, his bayard pressed to the monster's leathery skin, blood filling the air.
There is no shout of triumph though, when Lance sees beyond his spiral-haze that the blood comes from fingers and palms that hold the dagger from his throat, claws stabbing through the thick-weave of Keith's gloves, demanding the price of crimson to paint more than just Ovule's scales.

The Arroyo bucks wildly, fighting the culm that has climbed his back and found safety in a place that Ovule could not reach. Together they fought; Keith's attention divided as he yelled for Lance to run, no care to his tongue should the wild of the monster's movements cause him to bite.
Lance is up. Something moves him, although it is not himself – Lance is lost in a labyrinth of thought and confusion to control his body with any sense of coordination – and suddenly the boy is right beside the other two, not aware of what he's doing when he slams his palms where Ovule's ears would be. Flat, open, one on each side, at the same time.
A rogue tail caught Lance in the stomach, tossing him backwards, Keith following where he was thrown as Ovule staggers, unbalanced by the ringing in his ears that make the room teeter.

Lance was quick to his feet, knowing not what it is he plans to do next, only knowing that his body is moving and he is simply along for the ride. He springs forward, limber toes rising in an arch of power that kicks Ovule square in the gut. He meets the resilience of scales, saw himself spin on his own axis, propelled by the twist Ovule gave on his aching foot.
The Arroyo was still disoriented, but that didn't halt him when he launched forward once more, only to be knocked back by two that threw their weight into his body and brought him down; Valion's fist swinging, Keith's elbow meeting jaw, demanding fang bite tongue, bite lips, bite itself and shatter into a thousand pieces. He steals the poisoned sword and tosses it to the open balcony, but lends nothing more to the distraction and returns to pummelling blows, over and over, over and over.

There was no forgiveness, no relenting, no moment to pause or breathe or even think as Valion's body moved. His fists ached, arms ached, shoulders ached and still he dealt blow after blow, each stronger than the last.
And there, by his side, is Keith, his bayard drawn and swinging in the open space Valion leaves behind. Ovule's raised fist opens a blind spot for the Solnhan to target and then, without even speaking to one another, the boys attack together and not, setting Ovule up to fall into another closed-fist kiss, crimson sparking across breast and arms alike.

And, within an instant, all temporary hatred and pain that they felt towards the other vanished, like smoke in the wind. Their hurt-fuelled, hate-filled words were forgotten, their insignificance laughable in this moment when they can, when the dance of battle fills their bones and demands their feet keep time.
In, back, right and feint. Again and again until this monster fell.

But Ovule had strength to withstand; weathering punches and parrying would-be shallow cuts with a devious smile, despite the blood that slithered over pearlescent skin, laughing at the feeble efforts of his lesser.

Hagdovuk.
Ovule was enjoying it. The fucking bastard was actually enjoying it!

Even though with his fear-twisted-anger, even with everything Valion threw into his punches, Keith's weight thrown into his swings, Ovule would not break beneath them. The Arroyo was clearly amused; perhaps stunned with the grace and timing of two who had not fought side by side in so long, dancing in time with one another in perfect harmony, as if never a distance had been carved between them.

But they were making no grounds.

Where adrenaline has swarmed, a lull thrummed in the boy's mind; a beehive of worry buzzing beneath Lance's incoherent thoughts – punch, dodge, feint, punch, — growing louder and louder. He wasn't alone in his mind; something else snarling in the depths of twisted tunnels he no longer dared to tread; the growl of a beast warming his throat when claws flashed and Valion barely had time to dodge backwards to avoid Ovule's first retaliation.
Yet, he didn't make to carry out another strike though, simply throwing up a loose guard to catch the baited jabs of Keith's bayard, glancing dully off armour and scale alike. There was tiredness in his form, answered to a gash across his skin and the blue-black-red of Rayon's blood, Ovule's poison and Keith's hatred dripping from a gashed cheek, fear blooming in wide eyes when it isn't the Paladin whom Ovule strikes for, but the hesitance where Lance has forgotten himself in the moment of watching, with nothing but his forearms to protect himself from the powerful swipe of a tail.

He is thrown across the room once more, slamming into the ground with enough force to wind him, his gasps untimed and colliding, making it hard to breathe, harder still when panic claws his throat as a grasp tightens around his wrist—
It's Rayon, slumped awkwardly into the sun-warmed rock of the chamber floor, begging with moon-blind eyes and a hold that had every right to be weak, but isn't, pulling Valion closer to force something cold, cool, calming into his waiting hand.

The Marmora blade.

"Kill him."

A sudden cry of pain pulls Lance, pulls Valion into the moment of fighting, already on his knees, turning, rage bubbling up in violent thunderstorms as he sees Keith held helpless in the brute's grasp; four clawed fingers around his throat, the tops of his talons digging into the boy's bare flesh where the weave of his under suit doesn't quite cover his neck, leaving an open invitation for Ovule to draw blood or snap the weakness beneath the brute of his strength.
Lance's heart pounds at the thought, his stomach twisting as he sees just how effortlessly Ovule holds Keith, sees the way the boy's eyes are wide in fear, unable to fight the hand that holds him.

But how could Lance fight? He was unarmed, his armour in complete and Ovule, gifted stone-strong scales that glitter across his entire body, teeth and claws at his demand even if it should be that Lance somehow managed to break his defences, pick up his poison-stained sword and drive it through his gullet.
How could he hope to fight when his panic breaks its bounds, paints his scent in the sickening sweet of over ripe fruit, gold-plated greed of gaudiness that draws in Ovule's want like a hound dog caught in the ties of its fleeing prey.

"Still scared?" he sneers mockingly, taking a step closer. Keith, still his prisoner, sways by the neck, lips blue, mouthing soundlessly as he claws for air.

"Stop it!"

Voice shaking, weak. The dagger heavy in his unsteady hands. Useless.
Lance. Useless.

{Useless.}

"You came to kill me, didn't you? You don't need to kill him."
"I don't," Ovule agrees thoughtfully, turning his eyes back to the Red Paladin as he loosens his grip; Keith inhaling the air in great big gulps to the chorus of his trapper's laughter. "But it would hurt you, wouldn't it? Even if you hate him—"
"I don't hate him."

Lance's admission is a surprise, even to himself. But it is true.
As much as he and Keith have fought, as much as they will fight, never has it been that the boy in his own mind has wanted the boy dead. He has wanted to beat him in combat, yes, but that was for the sake of being seen – for his own confidence to be boosted. Not because he wanted to take prize in the death of a boy that he saw as his brother, and once, more than that.

Ovule laughs. "Of course. Because compassion is your weakness. You care about him."
Keith's struggling lessens when his eyes find Lance's; questions burning behind his irises.

Ovule's forked tongue slithers between his sharpened teeth, tasting the air, tasting Keith's sweat slow so that he can savour the richness of want that had permeated the air mere moments before the traitor's interruption. "You might care for him," he says. "But not in the way he cares about you. Not like he lusts after you." The words are an insult. Lance can feel them, like ants, crawling under his skin, trying to get a reaction, trying to find yet another weakness the Arroyo can sink its teeth into.

"It has rotten you," he says, leaning closer, inhaling deeply that turns Lance's stomach at the memory, igniting volcanic ash fury that Ovule would dare touch Keith in this way when he knew the chains of fear that came with it. The same chains that still bound his feet where they stand, unable to retaliate or raise some hell of his own as Ovule tastes and taunts.
"It has rotten you, just as it had rot the four-armed culm and my sister's puppet.

"They all wanted him, you know," the bastard grins. Lance feels his stomach plummet, palms sweaty, fingers burning around the tightness of the grip as he crushes the Marmoran blade. Ovule's eyes flash at the weighted scent, cloying, drinking it in as he drinks in the dandelion confusion, nettle-sting sharp of Keith's frustration where he still claws and hisses but can't free himself, can't get through to Lance who stands, shell-shocked, fear-frozen, listening to the gurgling of Anadón's laughter.

{Tick, tock, tick, tock. Time is running out.}

"That weakling Prime. My sister and her pet. Even I was ensnared by him," Ovule croons, pressing his nose closer to Keith's neck every time his scent jumps, like guitar strings plucked wrong; chords dissonant. "You fell for him too, didn't you? What was it? Was it something he said?"
"Fuck—You—"
"He deceived you, didn't he? Made you believe him, trust him, made you think you loved him."
"Shut up," Lance snaps, but he is ignored.

"Or maybe you loved his strength. Because Valion is strong," Ovule mocks, ignoring Keith's renewed thrashing. "Stronger than all of us. Strong enough that he got the blessing of a Glexiath, strong enough that a simple tussle with that neirf-culm that thought himself sault was enough to gather the Solnha around him."
"Fuck—"

"But he wasn't strong enough to save himself from me."

Lance fails to supress that prickling on his neck. His strength wanes, a cry of warning and worry echoing in the deep of his mind, but he will not let it show. His focus shimmers like a reflection on the ocean's surface, ink pooling beneath the surface with every whisper from Anadón, every word from Ovule as he recounts how he chased Lance through the corridors of the Godolphin, shred clothes and skin and sanity; taken hold by the scent of prey so luscious, so fresh—

"Stop it," Lance yells, begs, feeling his fear clash with Valion's anger like iron swords; their internal battle for dominance nothing but a rehearsal spar in the wings while Ovule remains center-stage: the true threat to both. But they cannot hope to win when they are at odds, vying for control – Valion to fight, Lance to run – caught in the tangled confusion of thought and feeling too much, all at once, so much that his own scent is suffocating, the fear of Keith, the pain of Rayon, the muted light of Kenmare growing dimmer— all of it overpowered by Ovule's greed.
Oily, greasy, tar-heavy sadistic laughter like ash clouds that billow and smoke and block out the sun. A hand still wrapped around the Red Paladin's throat with the simply threat of squeezing, crushing, killing—

How was Lance to fight when he his constant thought was to flee?

How was Valion to survive when even he began to doubt the earthly restraints of his strength?

{Wait too long and Keith will be dead,} Anadón sings softly, his laughter echoing mutely beneath the thunder of the white-scaled monster. He has yet to appear again, but then it is that Lance is far too occupied with imminent death to readily search for the companion that had once turned on him.
{Make the wrong move, and he will die anyway—}
Shut up, Lance snarled, feeling his emotions fold, carved into a spear of anger that wilts pathetically when aimed to his true target. Instead it aims inwards, levelled at the throat of his own demon who should stand on the side of survival, not wanting its own downfall which would be secured with Ovule's victory.

But he was no more a man with a mask over his face, but it was Valion who had fashioned it, crowned him and forgot that it was he who bestowed such power.
He forgot the simple sneer that lay beneath.

The creature that stood before him was nothing more than a manifestation of his fears; crafted with the blunt side of a knife into something that Valion had perceived as monstrous. Nightmarish.
In the dark of night, when the veil so quickly took his mind, it was easy to forget his strength. Only in nightmares did his sword weigh heavier than all the stars in the sky, when his lungs forgot their nature and froze in his chest, when his heart would race and his mind would scream for him to move, to act, only to find his puppet strings had been cut.

But this was not a nightmare.
Ovule was only dressed as one.

Help me.
{Oh?}
You helped me before. Help me again.

Anadón doesn't bother to hide his amusement; his grin obvious without it even needed to be seen. The feeling of feathers brush against Lance's skin, the clacking of claws grounding in a way that unnerves and settles him in the same moment.

Just as the memory of Ovule's attack flooded in, so too does another: of sweaty palms and bone-deep aches, of ever-present exhaustion but the stubbornness to face another gladiator, another robot, another non-believer, he was still fighting.
He remembered being caught training, caught trying to catch up and although Lance had surpassed his own downfalls through repeated drills, pushing himself again and again, ignoring the new bruises, new pains, new aches of bones near their breaking point.

The memory was so vivid, so sharp in clarity, that Lance could feel the throbbing of his shin from a gladiator's bunt, feel the insults sitting pretty on his tongue as the Red Paladin readies himself before him, the weight of the team glaring, the echoing of Anadón's claws on smooth metal floors as he prowls the sparring ring.

Tap tap tap.

He remembered anger like fire in his throat, remembered his voice clipped in a way that he controlled his hatred and showed little care in controlling it. Not for their sakes. Not for them.

Tap tap tap.

He remembered hatred.
He remembered hating.

He remembered wanting to kill—

Ovule noticed the change in an instant. The mirth of his laughter cut short in an instant, eyes narrowing, teeth bared in warning.

Valion drank the anger in greedy mouthfuls, abandoning his fear that paralysed in favour of wrath and hatred and all things fire burning inside him. Anadón steals the cold-empty-void, steals any thought that extends beyond the charging battle, leaving Valion to embrace the familiarity that he understands. And as familiar to him as much as his fear, fire is far more welcoming than the bitter-chill winds that ache his bones, freeze his blood, freeze mind and thought until he is nothing more than a shadow left to be devoured but the sun.

Fear abandoned, fire consuming, Valion steps forward, faster, again, a wicked grin lighting him when Ovule takes a step back at the suddenness of change before him:

Lance and Valion.
Side by side. Soul by soul.

With the Marmora Blade in his left hand, Valion darted in with renewed speed and grace. Ovule was ready, or he thought, when a split-second decision saw Valion evading, dodging the reach of the outstretched hand as Valion swings his ten-inch blade. It meets the weathered armour under Ovule's arm, simply sparking where it finds no give of flesh or otherwise.
Frustration bellowed, and Valion, blind to Ovule's tail, had no chance to steady himself before it caught him across his chest once more, knocking him aside while Keith still swings by his neck. A second glance shows he has brought up his legs, hooked them at the ankles over the creature's arm like it is nothing more than a tree bough and his collar had been tangled in branches. He's not choking anymore, but any relief Valion would feel is devoured where Anadón doesn't allow anything to deter him from attacking.
He doesn't have to beat Ovule in a match of strength.

Valion simply has to kill him.

He tosses the blade to his right arm, circling around for a better angle, tail avoided, knowing Ovule won't allow him to linger in his blind-spot for too long. Valion is right, prepared when Ovule's fist comes flying but hand up, arm up, knife angled—

Pain slams into him like a charging horde of Galra sentries. Valion's scream echoes, shrill and loud, dying as fast as it flies free from open lips, the demand of Anadón accepted where he ignored the crushed bone-flesh-sinew of Ovule's bite. A flash of teeth, the swing of red, white, black, gold—

"LET HIM GO!"

Resemblance of anger sparked in his memory – annoyance to Keith's ignorant fantasies that everything would be as it once was now that they were reunited – but Valion would never forgive himself if he let Keith come to any harm. And although Anadón feasts on worry, he cannot swallow Valion's compassion – far too sweet, far too sickly for him.
Because despite the boy's careless words, despite his unruly anger, Keith was still a part of Valion's family, and he would protect him with all the might he could muster.
Just as he had stood on the snow fields against the Galra horde to protect his Solnhan family, Valion would stand now against this culm that threatened his Paladin brother.

There is no time for compassion. No time for pain, for acid in his veins, no time when Ovule's anger turns secondary and Keith only has a moment to inhale before his throat is squeezed.

"NO!"

Take my pain, Valion tells his nightmare beast, diving in once more; the dagger still in his right where he favours it. It hurts, but not as much as it should, and with his weight driving the sharpness with precise accuracy, Valion lodges the blade between the space of two ribs, imbedding it into a secondary layer of shell-shaped bone that cocooned Ovule's heart.
But the entry wound was sizeable and Valion's hands, before they pulled back, were soon slick with blood.

"Balc," Ovule roars in insult, rage, pain, grabbing for the blade before Valion can arm himself once more. But he is too slow, encumbered by Keith's winding legs that have begun to kick in distraction and desperation to free himself, and no longer be the threat that the alien could hold over Lance's head.
"I'll kill you," he rages, too slow to see Valion darting in, closer than he should've been, closer than his fear should allow him to tread—

Valion drives his dagger upwards, aiming for the tender of his throat, glancing, grazing, blood—

Ovule's roar paints the sky in red, stumbling backwards to gather distance from the burning of a blade that carved his jaw, upwards, to his cheek, splitting his eye in the same fluid motion. In his panic he releases Keith – using his body as a weapon to toss him at his attacker, catching, falling, pinned.
Around them, thunder booms, the world shakes, dust unsettled from the walls and ceiling, raining down in curtains that demand Valion cover his eyes and cover his mouth as he pushes Keith off him, knowing that Ovule is not dead, that he still lives, still breathes, still hates.

"What—what was that?"
"Don't know. But it can't be good."
Keith retches violently, dragging his body upwards just as Valion does, once more on his feet, bloodied dagger, grip reversed; edge out and waiting. Hungry, it drips with nectar. Valion too, has a taste for Ovule's blood, and suddenly, he's starving.

Ovule snarls wordlessly.
Valion raises the Marmora blade between them in invitation, wanting to taunt him with a sneer, warming himself with the knowledge that he had managed to free Keith from deaths' grasp and, once again, the pair of them were prepare to fight, ready to defend the Draora brothers and the Solnha beneath their feet until it was that the monster was dead.
Valion wouldn't let this culm get away a second time. There is no more fear inside him, no more terror in the face of death, if that is still to be his future.
But if he falls, then Ovule will fall with him.

I'm sorry Eldar.

A lingering sadness sharpens Valion's scent – sharp and electric, the swallowing darkness of regret, bone-brittle ice that freezes and burns and shatters his thoughts into a thousand needles, stabbing, prickling, blinding— delicious and mouth-watering to the Arroyo that can scent, frenzied by enticement and anger and the metallic of his own blood that drips off his tongue.

"I will kill you Valion. But first, I shall destroy you just as planned to when first I found you. Eldar may have saved you then, and a Human may stand with you now, but I won't be stopped this time."
Fury fills him, sharpens his words as much as his returning joy to the sudden shift in Lance – Anadón gorging where he can, but a flood can barely be drained by one.

"I'll make Eldar listen to your screams. I'll carve my mark on your body and leave you broken at his feet. I'll make you watch as I kill him, as I kill all of them, one by one. Your only comfort will be that I will kill you too."

He means every word. Lance can smell it. But anger is not the only emotion in the air.
Beside him, Keith's worry bleeds, the wrestling of his fear threatening contagion, the panic anchoring to the twins threatening to weigh him down.
But above all that, Lance can smell his pity.

It is overripe and ruling; glaring in purple bruises against the red-burnt-charcoal of his anger, the bitter-acrid-lemon of pain that curls around his throat, as heavy as the hand that had threatened to crush neck, windpipe, spine. Words sit heavy on his tongue, warring with the want to act, the weakness of compassion and the want that the secrets Ovule has told is simply another taunt to worm its way under his skin just as his threats are thrown to worm their way under his skin—under both their skins.
To weaken them, destroy their resolve, shatter their wills upon the cliffs and watch as everything trickles away like broken waves on the shore.

Tell me he's lying.

"Lance—"
"Pity me later. First, we kill him."

What he says is true.
But no matter. We won't let him win.

"Kill me? You can't kill me."
"Everyone can be killed."

They rush in together, no word between them, nothing but their want to kill this monster that had intruded upon their peace.
Keith, with his sword much longer than the borrowed blade takes point, parrying Ovule's claws that are just as sharp as his poison-sword; a distraction and a danger the Arroyo can't pull away from, even when Valion draws close, pulls his blade closer as he rocks on his toes and kicks into the lunging charge to any weakness glaring in Glo Sun's light.

Their battle is no more a dance than it is a brawl; and ever-flowing river twisted between pressing their opponent and dodging his attacks. They tangle themselves between offense and defence, the effort of keeping up with Ovule's strength, stamina and speed infuriating.
For Lance, it takes more effort than he would like to admit, just to move his body as he should; every swing, jab, parry against the brute sending precise filament-thin pains threading through his body; every snapping recoil threatening the grip of his fingers around the sweat-slick, blood-slick hilt.
Blistering pain heats his palms, but there is no time for it, no time to think, to feel, to hesitate—

Valion slams his weapon into Ovule's scaled resistance, beating against the wall his natural armour creates with no consideration at all for form, or grace, or anything he had learnt under the guide of Shiro and the Garrison instructors: This isn't a fight he can allow such liberties to allow his mind to become riven with distractions. But even now, Lance finds himself thinking of things that do not relate to his fight.

Keith's sword arcing, Ovule snarling—
Anadón, help me.

Mind blissfully blank once more, Valion welcomes the relief of nothing, just as he welcomes the light shocks of pain ricocheting through his bones. He captures it, restrains it, harnesses it as his own energy to be unleashed.

The blade glances off Ovule's scales, the edge or the flat or even the hilt, on a few ill-considered attacks that leave paper-thin slices that barely bleed; but Valion keeps going, feeling his breathing sticking in his chest, his palms blistering where leather rubs. It is nothing to the crumbling of his bones, and so the irritance goes ignored.
Still, he continues. Tightens his fingers, circles around Keith until they've traded places, swinging again, even as his muscles strain in protest, even as his shoulders scream, his legs beginning to tremble where Fila' Ion and Anadón struggle to pull his pain.

But there's something about this fight that sparks pride, sparks a warmth in his gut that has nothing to do with the volcanic-ash-anger that spews lava waterfalls of hatred from his mouth. There is a give in Ovule's defence, a weakness that they have found through their strength of beating at the same wall that feels good, feels satisfying.
It renews Valion's strength as he throws himself forward again, lunging, parrying, darting back and in once more, not to slice, but to stab, finding weakness at the bend of Ovule's knee, who roars at the feeling of something foreign breaking through his guard.

Then the weight of a forgotten tail slams into Valion's stomach – an attack he has been victim off too many times and still unable to block.
There is a snap, a loud crack like lightening carving through the air and Valion's entire back ignites in flames; the weakness of his body breaking under the might of the solid chamber wall.

"VALION!"

Lance blinks back his awareness; pain, hurt, fire stealing air and thought faster than he can grab at it. He seems to float for a moment, dream-like, lost, drifting in a field of starlight until suddenly there is weight once more – an anchor in his gut that hooks, reels, drags him back with light leading him like gentle hands. "Valion?"
"Zaos!"

Lance can't help but laugh as the familiar star-light-soft warmth of relief wrapped itself around his mind, cradling him in her hold as he pushes away what remained of his agony, terror, panic, the darkness inside feasting—
"Valion, what—?"
"It's Ovule. He's here. He's poisoned Rayon and Kenmare."
"We're coming."

An influx of warmth and comfort and soothing-sweet comes flooding from Zaos, confusion billowing at the encounter of light and darkness, opposite but alike, bruising with curiosity. Dark amusement fills Anadón's smile, but a simple flick of Zaos's hand and the beast is banished, her light warmer, stronger.
More.

She takes Valion's pain, reassures him that his body is not broken as he believed it to be, choosing to ignore the waver in her voice. She returns to him his consciousness, grants him back understanding when his eyes fall upon Keith's twisted face crying his Human name, brushing back blood-matted hair, hands cradling, breaths quick and fast and heavy.
Behind him, Valion can see the flurry of green and silver; see Gereen parrying claws with the might of his sabre, his tail whipping as Ovule's whips. He has the upper-hand that joining the fight mid-way grants him, his speed and agility keeping him three steps ahead of Ovule's attacks, but the lack of strength is a handicap faced with the Arroyo's near-impenetrable wall.

"V-Val…-on."

The stuttering breaths of another break his thought, turning for a brother who had to have been forgotten for the sake of focus. "Rayon? Rayon, hold on," Lance tells him, even as he holds on, as Keith holds on, lifts, tries to drag the Solnha towards the other two that lay where they have fallen. His neck glows in blistering red, hair wet with his exhaustion, eyes slightly unfocused as he pushes through the pain of blows that have broken his stance, of claws that have cracked his Paladin armour and revealed skin beneath.

"He will hold them back," Keith says as he moves, words slurred as blood coats his tongue. "We won't have long. We need to get you out of here."
"I'm not leaving." Not now. Not ever.
Lance might be exhausted and his body battered, but Ovule had brought war to Caldara and killed countless Solnha. Valion would have his death, and he would have it with his own hands.

"That's suicide and you know it," Keith hisses, his hands less-gentle when they grab again, not dragging but anchoring as the other pushes Rayon's hand from where they hold the graze of his stomach. Wrinkled skin edges the wound, green-grey vines of illness threaded outwards where poison creeps like pus-filled worms, tentacles of rotten flesh still alive and crawling deeper.
"Shit. Shit, this is bad," Keith mutters, instilling hope in all those that heard him. Zaos, beneath her trepidation, alights a giggle in Lance's mind, but the surrounding them tension will not let it pass his throat.

"Where is everyone?" Lance asks. Keith raises his eyes in worry but goes ignored.
"Coming. There was a shaking earlier. Tunnels surrounding the peak have collapsed but there were no tremors in the core to set it off. The tunnel supports were specifically targeted. Ovule isn't the only one here."
"Galra?"
"No Galra. None that the Ettako could detect."

Lance tells the others that it's not the Galra, and although that holds comfort, it isn't enough to calm them when they can hear Gereen and Ovule howling at one another near the nest. Their wounds grow in number as their words drift into animalistic snarls and grunts. While it is that Ovule has been fighting for longer, his energy still remains. Lance can only hope that Gereen gains the momentum of the fight soon.

"Zaos, I need you to find Tho'. Tell him Rayon and Kenmare were poisoned. He needs to get here—"
"I can't, Valion. I can't reach his mind like I can with yours."
"Then the team, Find Hunk, or Shiro—"
"I can't Valion. They share their minds with a light I cannot look upon."

Lance feels his heart plummet. If they don't bring Tho' here soon…
But, if the tunnels are collapsed then that means Tho' can't get here anyway, and neither can anyone else. That means they're trapped inside with Ovule. They haven't got the choice of running away.

"Zaos says the tunnels are caved in," he tells Keith, squeezing his wrist to pull attention from Rayon's hissing wound. "We can't run. We can't take the twins with us even if we wanted to, because there's nowhere to go."
"No. There must be a way out."
"There's not—"

A cry – shrill and sharp – cuts Lance's words before he can fully express them. He turns to the fighting, feeling Zaos's panic steel his throat, an eye blind where she takes his sight to see for herself.

Suddenly, everything is moving in slow motion.

Lance can do nothing but watch as Gereen stumbles to the side, angling away in a slow descent before his legs give out beneath him, knees buckling, bone bending in a way that sickens him. His sabre clatters to the ground as he clutches at his right shoulder, at the way that his arm hangs unnatural, his body dropping with a final swipe of sharpened claws.
Lance stares at the Pawther, watches the stain of blood the seeps from fragmented cuts that matt his fur and pain him when pressed into the dust-covered floor of the Solnhan's chambers: thoughts shattered by the noise of incongruous laughter, his attention jerked violently with all the speed of startled adrenaline behind it.

Ovule is amused with his victory, gloating as his shadow lays upon Gereen's exhausted body where he still tries to rise, biting on furious pain when bone grates bone at the barest of movements. His arm is broken in two places.
"You were always weak," he says, picking up the sabre with an expression of ill-amuse, as if he thinks the weapon sub-par – not even worthy to be called a weapon. He turns it over in his hands, testing its balance as he talks: "never any good when we fought either. I was always holding back because of your sense of pride, and Orvis always said you treasured your prize."
Beside Lance, Keith and Rayon stiffen at the Arroyen's name.

Ovule doesn't notice.
Lazy and arrogant, he turns the sabre into the ground, leaning on its hilt in a sense of boredom his whole body tipping forward into a slouch as graceful as the flick of his tail whilst all the gathered glare with the hatred of a thousand souls.
He continues his boasting, grin widening as he uses a clothed heel to push Gereen onto his back, setting the weight of his leg on the Pawther's heaving chest. "I should've killed you years ago but Orvis wanted to play her games. Have to say, it was nice not having to do all the heavy lifting for once. Even for a pathetic kuvorsk, you had your uses—" he says, pressing down with his heel, laughing when Gereen gasps beneath him, "—But look at you now: about to die for a weakling like Valion."

"He's not weak," the Pawther spits in defiance. Ovule tilts his head. Grins. Pushes the weight of his heel into the snapped-bone-broken arm, laughing louder than Gereen can scream: "Maybe not to you. Afterall, he was the one that beat you. Made you his slave."
Keith stiffens again, but this time, his eyes are focused on Lance.

The Solnha doesn't respond. He's trying to get up. He's trying to make his body listen to him, so he can get up, so he can protect Gereen, protect all of them, but his body won't move.
It's Zaos; it's her presence in him, stealing his left eye and the ability to move because she's grounded in this moment of fear and terror – all of which Valion and Lance had faced, conquered, forgotten—

"You'll die. Just as he will die."
"No!"

Lance may not have full use of his body, but he has his tongue and it sparks unruly, if simply to drag Ovule's attention for a moment. It works, and the Arroyo narrows his eyes towards his prey, narrowing as they stare at the starlight shining in his left eye. "So you haven't run away."
"There's no point. Somehow, you've caused a cave-in," Lance challenges. But upon realising staring down his foe with only his mouth is as good as tying the noose, he knows he must regain control.

He gives a mental shove again, fingers curling around Zaos's clasping light and urging her to let go. Her light is heavy, powerful and all-consuming, but it is nothing compares to the stone-heaviness-nothing that has become a familiarity just as much as unjust anger.
Valion joins Lance in the moment of tug-of-war, their mental hold natural where Zaos is only a visitor. And she wasn't the first.
Lance had battled with Blue in his mind when first they met, learning to accommodate her ocean of power. Then came Anadón and his endless hunger; devouring, ravenous, esurient and unrelenting.

Together they rise, standing on shaking feet, still fighting to keep their balance where the left arm hangs unnaturally numb.

Ovule eyes the limpness, but he enjoys gloating too much to focus. "It's not like I can take all the credit," he says. "Garecht, pathetic as he is, follows orders without question. Of course, when I threaten to kill him, it helps."
Garecht? But he was meant to be dead.

Valion steadies himself. "You killed Garecht before you fled to Genwar."
"Not so," Ovule sneered. He enjoyed gloating too much. If Valion could get him to monologue, then maybe it would earn him an advantage. "Garecht stayed hidden away aboard the Kokochet like I told him to. Then when you settled here, he hid in the deep caves."
"He was the one that betrayed us," Lance says, all thoughts of advantages forgotten; his voice soft at the understanding that Garecht had been the one to relay the Solnha's location to Ovule, and in turn, the Galra.
They were the reason that the war had come to the ice planet. They were the reason behind so many needless deaths.

"Why?"

Ovule laughed.
"Why not?"

"Then this is what you wanted?" Lance snarled, feeling wet behind his eyes – emotion returning without Anadón within his mind to feast upon it. "All you want is the death and destruction the Galra bring? They would destroy everything. They do not seek to build the universe anew; they want for nothing more than total annihilation for everything and everyone that is not truly Galra. You are not Galra, Ovule. What lie do you believe in that stays your execution?"
"I know that Galra are small minded," Ovule snaps, his anger to being challenged rising as does his amusement to the sharp winter-chill pain that builds inside the Solnha boy. "They may think their schemes grand with their talk of Empires and Emperors, but the Galra are simply another tool to be used, just as all creatures are tools to be used."

He was mad.
Raving mad.

"And you're using them?"
"Of course I used them!" Ovule snarls, throwing Gereen's sabre to the ground to punctuate. The weight clatters against the carven stone, loud and obtrusive, but Valion does not waver; if anything it grounds him, gives him strength to push Zaos into a quiet corner of his mind. She can still see – her desperation enough want that Valion doesn't blind her from this fight – and accepts the moment of waiting as the Human takes another step: weightless where she takes every anchor that ties him to his humanity, leaving nothing but a weapon to kill the threat.

Ovule is still boasting. "They're stupid, self-important fools. And I. Used. Them."
He sounds so proud of himself, so sure that he had indeed used the Galra, and although it may be true, he too was used. If the battle on the snow fields had been successful, Lance didn't doubt that the Galra would turn their guns on him in a minute.
And this fool thought he had used them.

"They brought their war to this planet, brought death to those you consider your people, brought destruction to this place you believe your sanctuary. They have given me the path to you. After the battle, I found Garecht cowering in the caves. You were all too busy worrying for your precious tree that you didn't even realise we were here." Ovule stops. Smirks.
"Well. One found us. Maybe not in the deep caves, but as I came here to find you, I stumbled into an old friend. I did him the service of slitting his throat. He is with his dead mate and child now."

Lance felt his blood run cold. Jo'fir….
He feels sick.

"You're mindless, Ovule. How can you take pride in killing innocent people—"
"Don't think you're any different, O' mighty Valion." Ovule spits the name like bile, face twisting as if it disgusts him just to speak that word.

"You are just like me; just as cruel, if not more so than the Empire. You lie with a smile upon your face and tell those culm beneath us that there is hope for a tomorrow. You use them, and you yourself are used, just as I have used the Galra. You gather the weak around yourself to be your defence because you are not strong. You might believe your own lies that you're doing it to save them, but you have only done what you saw fit to save yourself.

"You're no Valion. You only have the power you hold because someone else put the crown upon your head. You believed them. You were the one that tied the noose around your own throat."

And with that, Ovule charges.

"Zaos?"
"I am with you."

Ovule steals the space between them in three large strides; his charge fast and direct.
Valion sweeps around, light on feeling-less toes, rolling, his hand finding the sabre to fill the space of lost-dagger, bringing it up in the same moment Ovule swings downwards. He parries his claws, ignores the buzzing of shoulder blades at the weight pressing his arms, filling his lungs with the heat of exertion like it is relief, bringing his weapon around hard, harder, using Zaos's strength to push back, pushing Ovule back.

Back towards the balcony and the warmth of the Glo Sun that weighs against them; prickling sweat across Valion's shoulder blades, making his old scars itch beneath the cooling touch of Fila' Ion. Five claws scrape down his arm when he raised it on instinct, and cry of worry bubbling into a cheer when the Red Paladin realises that there is no harm done. Cheered again when Valion jumped off one leg and kicked Ovule in the snout with the other.
He staggered backwards, trying to regain his footing. Spat the blood from a bitten tongue and flexed his arms.

"You would've done better had you kept your sword," Lance goads, Valion rushing in for another strike. Misses. Pulls back. Swings again.
The sabre is parried, retaliated with a swing of his tail that Valion blocks.
But his feet don't keep their grip on the earth and Valion is flung bodily into the railings of the balcony, overlooking the hearth and a thousand faces that scream as the better-eyed of the Solnha recognise both their leader and the threat that bares down upon him.

Pain, fear, terror like Valion had never felt before surges through him; a tempest of power that thunders with a panic, untying and dismantling in such a way that Valion feels his bones unknitting, his puppet strings cut all at once, the drive to keep fighting abandoned as he turns his head, searching for his Arenphine—
Beneath him, stood upon the Home Tree's crown, Eldar stares, helpless, panicking, rageful at Ovule who dares threaten his love.

"LANCE!"

But Valion can spare no more thought to his Arenphine in the midst of battle.

Zaos's warning was the only thing that saved him from his head being caved in as Ovule's fists slammed down on the railing where it had been a second prior, crumbling it into dust and rocks that fall the hundred storeys of the main hall. He is beyond taunting; only animalistic snarls leaving his mouth as Valion rolls to the side before Ovule's extended claws could pierce his neck.
Eldar's panic ignites inside him. Flares when he is forced to withdraw from the Pawther's line of sight just to keep his head on his shoulders. He hears Eldar's roar, hear him call Foci's name, hear the cracking of rock as the giant scales the Home Tree to reach their Prime—

"Touch him," comes the star-child's voice.
She has a plan.

Valion makes to grab with his spare hand – the reach threatening and unassuming all at once that Ovule ignores it, bats that hand away rather than catching it in his grasp to squeeze, crush, break. The left side of Lance's face contorts into a grimace, and this time when Valion reaches, it is only the shoulder, the arm that he moves – the numb of his hand not limp as it feels, but moving, reaching, fingers outstretched, nails finding rivets between scales to cling.

"What are you doing," Ovule snarls, although he has little care to the answer as he bats the hand away once more, gnashing his teeth when Valion's shows him annoyance.
Not fear. Not pain.

Ovule's temper gives way as instant as silk parts to the drag of a knife. He growls in the depths of his chest, spitting unformed fury past his lips. His feet carrying him forward again, his body leaning, lunging in his impatience, but for all the speed, strength and stamina of his birth, Valion keeps himself one step ahead.
If he abandoned the sabre, he would be faster.

There's a flickering thought to the danger, of the damage the monster could do with his claws and no way to block or parry them; but the push from Zaos urges Valion that once he touches the Arroyo, it wouldn't matter.
Still…

He swings the sabre back, steadying himself for blow at full strength; to land hard against the line of Ovule's ribs; to shatter his laughter as well as his bones. Ovule sees the swing coming, and where many would step away, this one steps in, his calloused hands grabbing the blade. Whether the sharpened edge cuts or not, Ovule does not show it, hand curling, claws sparking along the tempered metal until his grip is firm.
He gives a sharp tug, Valion unrelenting is tugged too, into the sharp of Ovule's grasp.

Silver-scaled fingers wrap around his throat.
There's no hesitance, no taunt beyond the strength of digits that enclose—

"Lance!"

From the corner of his eye, Valion can see Keith, caught between wanting to help and wanting to stay with Rayon, who is gasping, loud and quick as the poison spreads through his system. He is on his knees, desperation rolling off of him in waves, Gereen beside him wearing the same fear—
"Protect them," Valion orders with the remaining air in his lungs, putting strength into his words, feeling Zaos warm his throat with the same power she granted him on Uris; the words loud and intrusive as they echo as loud as thunder. Ovule startles – only for a moment, but he startles – and Valion uses it to take another breath, feel his mouth moving, feel three speak at once:

"Grab him! Now!"

The sabre is useless, so it is abandoned.

With a roar Valion stretched his left hand, grabbed Ovule's bottom jaw, felt the emptiness as Zaos surges through him like water rushing uphill, his left eye's vision returning. Her strength pulsates throughout his entire body as he pushes with one hand, pulls with the other, intent on breaking the fucker's jaw. The jagged teeth cut his palms, but Valion doesn't stop, doesn't allow himself to stop, keeps pushing, roars just as Ovule roars, hands grabbing the Solnhan's arms—

"No," Ovule gasps as he feels the second presence in his mind, bridged between Human and Arroyo; Lance's mind catching in the moment where he is staring at himself, staring at the blood, dirt, sweat, utter hatred that lights a fire behind his eyes – too fierce to be human, too feral to be recognised on his own face—

"What are you— Get out of my head!"
Ovule bucks, but Valion holds on. He tightens his grip; chokes, as if hands enclose around his own throat. Ovule's own claw at his face, his skull, pulling on the feathers of his spine as if he could reach into his mind and pull Zaos from it. "No!" he gasps, and Lance feels himself toss the word in the confusion-pain-fear of four minds interlinked, tangled—

"NO!"

A flurry of blue severs the bond in an instant; Zaos's light vanishing.
Two arms grab Valion, cradle him, drag him back. Two more level short swords in the space he had been forced to abandon, the spear of their heads aimed at the bruised throat of an intruder he had hoped long-since dead and gone. But Ovule was resilient, and here he is, ready and waiting for Eldar's swords.

"Prime," Ovule croons throatily, his tongue lapping at Valion's blood that coats his teeth. "I was looking forward to hunting you down."
Eldar hisses in response, his ears flattened to his head, tail swinging back and forth to ready himself as his rage, fury, hatred pours from him in clipped-grunts that devolve the longer the two predators face one another.
Ovule shrugs, unperturbed. "No matter. You're here now, so I might as well kill you."

Suddenly a hand reaches – giantess and blood-red – Foci's anger grabbing for Ovule to crush his entire body in their grip like the bug he was. But Foci is slow compared to the lizard, and although his claws do little but prick at the Rabbi's tough skin, his agility drags him into the confines of the nest where Foci cannot follow. They try, but the opening is at such at an angle that they would have to tear away rock, support columns and the chamber itself just to reach.
Eldar has to order them to retreat when even he, holding Lance close, has to jump out the way of a rocks that fall loose from the ceiling. "Let me at him," Foci screams, pounding a fist on the hearth wall which resonates throughout the mountain rock, bringing curtains of dust down upon them.
"Guess your brainless brute can't save you now," Ovule sneers, as if he thought Eldar would hide behind Foci's might. Eldar snarls in kind, his tail snapping from side to side in such brutality that Lance presses closer in his lover's arms, just so that he is not hit by the violence of it.

In the suddenness of everything changing, he can feel confusion overwhelming him. He can feel his shoulders drawing tight under his silk armour, can feel the returning tension rising up his spine like the tide coming in over a coastline.

Lance feels a new kind of fear tighten in his chest; fear of this anger never before seen in his lover; fear for his light when it is Ovule who stands to goad him into battle. "Eldar—"
"Stay back Lance. It's my turn."

And as if that was the invitation for the battle to resume, it does: Ovule on top of Eldar before he fully had a chance to shove Lance away, no time to turn when the boy stumbles gracelessly over his own feet, Eldar defending, standing over him as Ovule powers against the defence of marble-stone, mountain-strong and unrelenting when it is his own heart that Eldar protects.

Where Gereen had fought with agility; where Keith and Lance fought with their teamwork; where Valion had fought with the star-child and his own one-mindedness, Ovule had kept up with them all with his stamina and strength.
But when Eldar takes the pedestal, Ovule needs more than brute force to topple the resistance that faces him. The Arroyo's speed quickens; attempting to break Eldar's defences, but he is met with a wall; claws and swords clashing in the air like lightening snapping through the air in brittle rhythm.

When Ovule lunges, Eldar has already stepped back, one hand leant to touching Lance to guide him backwards as he watches with an intensity the boy has never seen before.
And slowly, a truth begins to dawn that, although no matter how many times the two had sparred with one another in the sparring ring, Eldar had rarely boasted of his own skill, even in the many victories he claimed.
His eyes, cat-like, see Ovule as a whole, to see and understand what his enemy's intentions are; looking into pale-mist anger to see the truth behind each swing of his arms. It was years of training that stood behind Eldar's confidence – not undeservingly held when it is that he has been fighting all his life, just as Ovule had; but where the Arroyo had fought for the sake of fighting, Eldar had been raised with the future of being a King upon Pantheon.

The gaze with which he watches was something he had learned in his time as a pup, juvenile and growing. Over the years, before war had stolen his world, during and after, Eldar had refined every lesson with new battles, new fights, new opponents much mightier than Ovule. He had the skill to tell if his attacker's moves were a feint of not, reading his answers in the smallest of movements, from the flicker of Ovule's eyes to the pull of his toes on the cold, unforgiving ground.

Frustration grates at the Arroyo's patience as much as it grates at his energy. He may be strong, but his power is not endless.
He will tire soon.

A startle of movement sees Ovule stagger, but Eldar's frown sings a song of frustration rather than victory; Lance understanding why when Ovule's stagger offers him a path to his dropped sword.
"It's poisoned!" Lance yells in warning, his heart leaping, scent souring in a way that ignites Ovule's grin. But the notion falling flat when he eyes Eldar's lack of interest to the promise of pain dripping like dragon's blood from his tri-blade: he had known what Ovule wanted, but as to why he let him—

Eldar's touch that remains on Lance gives him the answer to that question. Unarmed and with only his armour to defend him, Lance is Eldar's crutch; unwilling to stray too far from his side, where he can be better protected.
Gereen's sabre still lays under the rubble of Foci's anger. Keith's dagger lies somewhere unseen and without glove or shiftblade, Lance can't do anything but wait for an opening to—to where? He can't duck out of this fight and leave Eldar to battle his nightmares, can't take himself a weapon when he doesn't know where one waits.

Eldar makes the decision for him; a hard shove to push him away, stepping closer to Ovule to block his path.
A swing of his blade makes to swing downwards, but when he sees the Arroyo's tri-blade flick up to deflect it, he quickly changed it into a double-bladed sideswipe. The attack splits near contact; one blade lifting to slice a cut above Ovule's ribs, the other angled so that the flat of it smacks with all of Eldar's strength.

But being a short-sword and nothing like Gereen's sabre, or a large two-handed sword that Viridall prefers, all it did was make Ovule grunt in pain and deepen his anger.

He moves quickly with a few swings to attempt to break down Eldar's defence once more. But Eldar blocked each attack with ease, flicking one sword, two swords over to where his opponent moved his own, tension tightening the muscles in his forearm, hand, fingers when the blade was only a moment away from striking. Four swords flashed and hit in quick succession, whap whap whap whap, before a spin and a strike from his impatient tail.

Lance grins when he recognised the move his husband had favoured in their spars, appreciating even in the moment of fighting how graceful Eldar was; how strong and powerful each blow was that Ovule struggled to keep his feet with every repeated action.
By the third time that Eldar favoured his four-sword attack, Ovule lunged in the waiting space of a second, on the right side when the left arms lift, ribs exposed, defenceless. Eldar just manages to dodge, his snarl beckoning to Ovule's greed; advancing, pressing, renewed in the way that his speed increases even more.
He swept in sideways towards Eldar's right side again, but he spies another target far more appealing, pivoting on his heel, the sneer of his smile igniting when his tri-blade is easily deflected, the blade sailing past, aiming for a boy who had been so observant of the fighters that he forgot to take note of his standing—

"NO—!"

"Not today, you fucker!"

The tri-blade sparks against the sword that catches it, turns it; the one that wields the bayard stepping to land the heft of his kick in Ovule's gut strong enough that he stumbles back.
Eldar catches him in a flurry of swipes he is forced to defend against, Eldar's anger the driving force the pushes him further from his Heartmate.

Keith snarls beneath his sweat-damp hair, another sent to Lance whose shock stills him; staring with wide eyes. He glances to where he had thought the boy tending to the twins, to see that Gereen has taken his place, his good hand pressed into Kenmare's wound to staunch the bleeding. Rayon is beside him too, cradling Kenmare's head but his focus is divided between his blood-brother and the one that stands too close to the fighting to his liking.

Keith drags Lance back into the moment: his anger warm and familiar as he spits: "are you trying to get yourself killed?"
There's no wait for a reply when his sharpened eyes snap to the continuing fight, then back to the idiot whose armour may be powerful, but it does not grant immortality.

The paladin tosses something small, Lance catching it on instinct, the familiar V of a bayard fitting firmly in his hand before he has fully raised it to inspect. "Seeing as you keep throwing away my dagger you might as well use that. But if you lose drop it, I amgoing to be the one to kill you.

"Now c'mon Valion. We can't let the fight finish without us."

Valion.

Lance feels familiarity warming his face, something warm in his chest that is neither uncomfortable nor unwelcomed. He spins the red bayard in his hand, thoughts focused on something similar to the balance of his shiftblade, the weight of his gar.
And as easy as breathing, a flash of light rewards him with a gleaming white broadsword, perfectly balanced and the perfect size that gives him an extra metre from pommel to point. Like electricity beneath his fingers, whether it was the familiarity of a bayard, or Eldar fighting, or an echoing warmth creeping at the subconscious of his mind, Valion feels his worry washing away with such certainty, as if it had never existed in the first place.

"Don't think you can kill me so easily," Ovule snarls.
But there is an edge of panic to his voice; an uncertainty that had been Lance's companion before, but now his contagion had been passed and it was the culm that quivered where he saw his victory flickering like the dying flame of a candle's light.

Valion and Keith flank Eldar – a smile and the sword flashed to his husband – the Pawther's scent warming in fondness at the childish grin his lover wears, shining through the tiredness that the fighting has brought.
And there hasn't been all that much of it, Lance realises; at least not enough to overwhelm him, Keith and Eldar as they begin a dance of timed attacks to taunt Ovule's crumbling defences, tease him into surging forward only to allow another to dart into the blindside behind them and crash their sword against him, breaking armour, skin, will.

Adrenaline pumping, heart pounding, Lance couldn't help the laughter that spilled from him – unnerving Ovule as much as it unnerved himself - as he darted in with the weight of his sword and took it across the lizard's thigh. He sliced through scale like it was made of paper, darting out of reach of retaliation, only to dart back in again when it was either Eldar or Keith who demanded he protect themselves from their swords.
But Lance wouldn't let himself be ignored for long, spinning, slashing, twirling far too fancily than what a fight should allow.

The boy couldn't help it.
It was like a balloon was rising inside him – so different from the heavy weight of anger-rage-fear that Lance didn't fight it, didn't despair it when it made his bones feel lighter, when thoughts were precise and exact, when his body listened and did what he wanted without the discomfort from the heat, sweat, exhaustion of having fought for so long—

Ovule roars a curse as his sword-less fist smacks down hard against Keith's head, the boy stumbling back, eyes closed, feet unable to keep him upright when he stumbles on the furs of the nest that lay across the floor. Time hangs in the air for a second too long, Keith seeming to float for a moment, Lance's smile feeling false in the same instant, Eldar moving in to distract, to allow Keith time to recover…

There are parts of his armour missing, his thick-weave torn and threaded beneath, heavy with crimson more than that of what his suit is adorned with.

Pin prick pain itches Lance's fingertips, like he's holding his sword wrong. But it's not his sword at all, it's Keith's sword, Keith's bayard, Keith's…

He's on his back.

He's not on his feet, he's on his back, his armour pinning him down, the weight of the blow to his head disorientating, keeping him down, too close to Ovule, too close to his poison-blade and claws and fangs—

Lance's head is turned for too long.

His focus is turned for too long.

"ARENPHINE!"

---

The scream filled the air like thunder clouds filled the sky.
It was primal. Raw. Powerful and powerless all at once.

Allura stared upwards, stilled in a torrent of shock-fear-panic that stole the breath in her lungs and froze the thoughts in her mind; the scream seeping agony into her skin, far too familiar and all at once unrecognisable against who she had known as a boy of laughter; who had filled the castle halls with such joy and hope; whose presence brought with him hope and all things calm and comforting.

But this…

This was terror beyond living. This was pain beyond imagining.
It was darkness beyond light, death beyond life.

From out upon the snow fields, Blue's roar bellows unchecked, her heart bound in immeasurable grief that pulls at Allura's own. The Lion's torture fills her, and spills from her, where she cannot contain the shared anguish.
And she screams at the feeling of her heart breaking.