I ended up doing a major overhaul of the story this past week so I rewrote Darrow's first chapter. I'm sticking with the theme from Hic Sunt Leones of using the corresponding chapter titles from the books when a chapter is just retelling something from canon. Anyway, enjoy Darrow's self-reflection before I get into Shiro's chapter.

2/18/18: Minor edits to fix grammar mistakes and account for revisions to the previous chapter

Part I: Thorns

Per Aspera Ad Astra

Chapter 1: Only the Dark:

Agea

Mars

March 16th, 2841:

Darrow's only comfort was the warmth of the rising sun as Roque carried him through the streets of Agea. Imprisoned in his own body, the Reaper of Mars couldn't stand. He couldn't stretch, or speak, or curl up into a ball and weep for the people he'd lost. His arms and legs dangled lifelessly from his friend's shoulders, leaving alone with the darkness of his thoughts and frantic beating of his own heart. With the Jackal's paralytic toxin coursing through his veins, he could do nothing to combat the maddening urge to scratch his nose. To reach out to his friends and give them tactical advice to get them out of Agea.

But he was alone. Condemned to watch as his allies fought and died to keep him alive when he would no longer communicate with the outside world. He was a prisoner in his own flesh, forced to watch everything around him until either he died of old age, or his friends put him out of his misery. Or until he went mad, his subconscious reminded him treacherously.

No, he thought, desperately trying to block out the fear. But his inner demons continued to persist. It's only the dark, he reassured himself, trying to distance himself from the voice that gave rise to his fears and regrets. Death would have been a kinder fate than this. Man is no island, he thought to himself. We need those who love us. We need those who hate us. We need others to tether us to life, to give us a reason to live, to feel. While he could still see his friends, the inability to interact with them made it feel as if all he had was his own inner darkness. He wanted to scream. He wanted to laugh. To weep, to hum, to whistle… Anything to purge the poison from his system, burn up the energy building inside him, and allow his body to shiver into sleep.

He listened to the voices around him as Roque, Victra, Shiro and Quinn carried him through the war-torn streets of Agea, fighting to make it off the surface of Mars alive. While the paralytic effects of the poison muffled their voices, he could still make out what they were saying. But while he couldn't act or communicate, he was imprisoned in solitude. His subconscious burned with the desire to lash out at his enemies and destroy everything around them. To drop all subterfuge and burn everything Gold had built to the ground. Darrow begged and bargained with any deity he could think of, desperate for a release from this prison of isolation. He made silent prayers to Eo, happy that she had been spared a fate like this. But deep down, he no longer believed that she was listening.

With nothing to do in the solitude of his own mind, Darrow sang childhood ballads and recited works of classical literature from Old Earth. First, in Greek and Latin. Then, in the dead languages of Arabic, English, Chinese, and German, recalling memories of dataDrops Mateo had given him at the Sons of Ares safehouse in Yorkton when he had been no more than a boy, seeking strength from the wayward Argive who only wished to find his way home. But then, like a snake whispering poison in his ear, his subconscious reminded him that after Odysseus had heroically broken the walls of try with his wooden horse the way Darrow had broken the Bellona armies in his Iron Rain on Mars, Odysseus' soldiers entered Troy, then proceeded to rape, pillage and burn everything in their way.

All deeds that last are painted in blood, Darrow thought to himself as the voices and images of his subconscious echoed in the back of his mind, forcing himself to admit that he had lost his way. Visions of the past danced before his eyes in a grief-fueled haze. Again, and again, he jerked Eo's fragile little ankles. Broke Julian's face. Heard Pax and Quinn and Tactus and Lorn breathe their last. He had caused so much pain in such a short time. And for what? To fail his wife. To fail his people. And fail Ares. Fail his friends. Aside from the four now frantically attempting to evacuate him from the Martian capital, Darrow wondered how many of his friends were even left. Sevro? Ragnar? The Howlers? Mustang? Another wave of intrusive thoughts swept over him, gnawing at him with a deep, primal fear.

No! he snapped mentally. It's only the dark playing tricks on my mind. As his body jostled from Roque's sudden movement, Darrow could feel the rapid beating of his heart, reminding himself that he was a man. A Red of Lykos. A Helldiver. Despite the reassurance, self-doubt echoed in his mind. Despite her good intentions, Eo had abandoned him to face the world alone, taking their unborn child with her. Now he was afraid that Mustang had left him to die. He had been too proud, too stupid, too wicked throughout his infiltration of Gold. And now his subconscious whispered that he had been forgotten. Or was he? Darrow asked himself that question, only to decide that no, he wasn't, when Victra put a hand on his shoulder and whispered in his ear not to give up because Mustang was waiting for him.

He knew that by all rights, he should be dead. He heard what the Jackal's plans for him had been after Lorn was killed in the garden. He was to be given over to Octavia, so that her Carvers could dissect him and discover the secrets of how a Red became Gold. So they could learn if there were others like him. But Shiro's intervention and Mustang's paranoia of her brother allowed him to live another day. But despite his gratitude for the rescue, he feared that his friends had only delayed the inevitable. It would be better, he felt, for him to die here and now rather than be tortured alive by the Sovereign.

Roque had once told him that when all was lost, honor demanded death. His friend believed it to be a noble end, but what would a rich poet know of death? The poor knew death. Slaves knew death. But even as Darrow yearned for death, he feared it. Because the more he saw of this cruel world, the less he believed that it ended in some pleasant fiction. The Vale was not real. It was a lie told by mothers and fathers to give their starving children a reason for the horror. But there was no reason. Eo was gone. She never watched him fight for her dream. She didn't care what fate awaited him at the Institute or that he loved Mustang, because the day she died, she became nothing. There was nothing but this world. It was the beginning and the end. Humanity's one chance at joy before the darkness of death.

Roque shifted his body so that Darrow was being carried bridal style, and as he lay in his friend's arms, he began to ask himself what price he would be willing to pay to move again. Or what price the Sovereign might demand of his loyalty in the unlikely event that she decided to let him live. He could easily imagine either her or the Jackal offering to end his suffering by admitting defeat, at the cost of those he loved. Would his family and friends want him to live if the price was their own lives? Would such darkness be right? Darrow knew he was important. Eo had said so. Ares had chosen him. Darrow, of all the Reds. He could break the chains. He could live for more. It would not be selfish for him to focus on the big picture. In the grand scheme of things, it would be selfless, really.

Darrow knew that his mother would beg him to make that sacrifice. His brother and sister would understand. He could save his people. Eo's dream had to be made real, no matter the cost. It was Darrow's responsibility to persevere. It was his right. Do it, the voice of his inner demons snarled as Darrow wished for the ability to bang his head against something and silence the voices and scream at the metaphorical darkness to go away. It could not trick him. It could not break him. He would rather smash his head against a rock until he died than be forced to betray who he was. He wanted to be home, to be gone from this hellish warzone. But if the only path forward was a mercy killing, whether from his friends or self-inflicted, then he would take it. If there was no pleasant end to this world, then nothingness would suffice.

But he would not have to take that path. Shiro's very presence was a wildcard. A spanner in the works that had thrown the Jackal's carefully ordered massacre into chaos. The Paladin of Voltron had changed so much simply by being there. By saving Quinn's life, Shiro gave Darrow the chance, to sway Roque to this side. Because Roque was alive, he hadn't turned against him. Because Mustang set up the Black Paladin's credentials, she figured out Darrow's secret by herself, she could process everything on her own and warn her friends to prepare for the Jackal's treachery. And because of that, almost two dozen of the Jackal's intended victims were free. They just needed to hold out long enough for the Telemanuses to send a rescue ship from orbit. It was not over. That would not be how this ended.

I completely overhauled the story outline, so I ended up bringing Darrow's chapter of self-reflection forward to make room for other story developments. This is basically the opening chapter of Morning Star modified and reworked to fit the new direction this fic is taking the story in. I basically condensed Darrow's early-Morning Star character development into a single chapter to give everyone an idea of Darrow's mindset once he gets the antidote to the poison.