#background sheith

Lotor, seated beside her, had taken significantly more coaxing to get him out of his armor and into Earth attire. It was only after repeated assurances from Allura, Shiro, Hunk, and even Keith that there was No Need For It that he'd finally relented. And she had to say: Lotor looked good in casualwear. He had a low V shaped neckline on a plain cotton shirt, a thick leather jacket in a rich, dark shade of brown (a worker's coat, she knew, but one with heavy enough leather it satisfied his need for armor), and an orange-and-black striped scarf that hung rather artfully off of him. His boots were furred as well, pants tucked into them, and she noted with some amusement that somebody had cajoled him into tucking a sprig of vibrantly colored leaves behind one ear.

"I don't know how much of this I can stomach," Lotor mused over a sip of his drink. The sugar and caffeine content wouldn't agree with a Galran system, to be fair, their natural inclinations leaving them wired enough as is. Keith had, in his own time on Earth, never developed a taste for highly caffeinated or sugary treats. "It's very good, just, quite a lot," he reassured, not wanting to give Hunk the wrong idea.

"I'll finish it for you if you like," Allura offered, making decent headway on her own drink already. She had never possessed any species-based adversity to sugar.

Lotor quirked a smile her way, as though sharing a joke with her, and Allura smiled back. They'd swapped spit in significantly more substantial ways than this, after all, but it seemed neither of them were above feeling playful over an indirect kiss.

"Careful with the knives," Keith cautioned, examining the one he'd just selected. "They're sharp."

Shiro chuckled, slinging his prosthetic arm around Keith's shoulders, enjoying his own drink, while Pidge and Keith took up a familiar banter of "yeah, Keith, knives are supposed to be sharp," and "you know that's not what I meant."

Allura waited to see what everyone else was carving, finishing off both her and Lotor's lattes before selecting a gourd for herself. Upon it, she carved a "traditional" jack-o-lantern face, figuring she may as well go for the basics if this was to be her first stab at it. Lotor had selected one of the thin, superfine knives with tiny serrated edges to construct a veritable artwork out of the ridged orange surface, depicting a mythological figure from Zaalian legend that was meant to frighten evil, which was, apparently, the origin for this pumpkin carving ritual their humans had.

"This was lovely!" Allura stated once all the pumpkins were carved and candles were lit inside them, cheerfully glowing in the autumn early-evening.

"It was," Shiro agreed, having carved a rocket ship into his, rather than a face. "We'll be excited to see your Altean harvest festival, tomorrow."

And Allura was excited to share it with them.

It took less cajoling, the following morning, to convince Lotor to don traditional Altean garb. She'd tease him for his soft spot for Altean culture, but she knew it was partially born of a terrible loneliness, and today was not the day to unearth such feelings. Instead, she went up on her tiptoes to tweak a lock of hair invisibly back into place, smiling at him.

"You look good in a tabard," she said, skimming her fingers gently down the front of the embroidered cloth, light pink and dark blue, in traditional Altean autumnal colors. That orange and red were considered autumnal on Earth had been festive and new for her, but she couldn't help her preference for the evocative coldness of her home planet's colors. Her own dress was of simple make, a sleeveless dress that held itself up by being bound around her bosom, with a long double-circle skirt that would flare nicely during the traditional dances. Overtop was a long sleeved jacket that fastened by tying a knot in the lengthy front bit, and was short around the rest of the torso. She also had ribbons in her hair, one of which Lotor curled a finger around to stroke playfully, lifting a lock of hair along with it to bring to his lips.

"And you look good in this, princess," he purred, making her grin and flush.

"You would say that if I were in naught but a paper sack."

"Is that something I can one day witness?"

"Lotor!" Allura chided gleefully, laughing with a weightlessness she'd not felt–-well, since before her father passed. It was happening more and more often now, though.

The two strode out into New Altea arm in arm, pretty much instantly accosted with a veritable crowd of well wishers, many of them with laurels in hand hoping they'd be the ones to crown their prince and princess in the bounty of fall.

Allura, of course, subjected herself to the crown of an Altean child, looking no older than 30 at the most. It was a cheerful wreathe of pale pink, small leaves and rich blue, much larger ones. Lotor, for his part, accepted a crown of dark green leaves just starting to turn blue at their bases, interspersed with tiny flowers so pale they hardly even seemed pink anymore, basically white. Together, they put on a stately image, rather looking like the fey royalty of myth, if Allura was not too boastful in thinking such.

Her paladins were already dressed and exploring the festivities, Hunk talking shop with the many cooks that put together such an event, Pidge hanging near their mother as she discussed agricultural sciences with Altean farmers, Lance flirting predictably with a number of young Altean women who seemed delighted to have his momentary attention, Coran conversing with the mistress of ceremonies about new practices and old traditions, and Keith and Shiro were where Allura planned on dragging Lotor next.

"You are familiar with this?" Allura asked, getting a knowing smile from her friends as she pulled her sweetheart to the booth.

"In theory," Lotor said with a nod so serious she wanted to kiss that contemplative look straight off of him. As though reading her intent on her expression, he quirked a smile and seemed to visibly force his shoulders to relax. "I've not had the chance to gain any real experience."

"Then I shall teach you."

As a princess, she'd naturally been expected to keep herself chaste, but that didn't mean she was a stranger to romantic affairs. She'd taken her fair share of boyfriends, and even a couple girlfriends, to the harvest festival before, and was well familiar with the ever-unchanging—even now, after ten thousand years—braid pattern that wove a couple's bracelet. It was a five strand braid, with a vast array of colors laid out on the table before them to choose from. For Lotor, Allura selected a royal purple, a happy lilac, a passionate red, a somber pink, and a wizened cyan. For her, she noted that he picked a royal purple, passionate red, a somber pink, a wizened cyan, and a hopeful gold.

"You and I seem to be of a mind for one another," she noted mirthfully.

"Only that you are my beacon of hope," Lotor agreed, a small purr in his tone.

"And you, my font of joy."

Standing together at the booth amidst other pairs of lovebirds, Allura showed Lotor the five strand braid that had survived ten thousand years before her time and would survive another ten thousand after she was gone, his chest pressed close against her back as he observed her movements over her shoulder. He was a quick study, his sharp mind one of the many things she admired and appreciated in him, so he likely stood over her, breath in her hair, the twigs of their autumn crowns catching on one another, longer than he strictly needed to in order to memorize the braid. Then again, it wasn't like she minded.

Despite her headstart, his clever fingers and her much smaller wrist had him finishing his braid for her scant moments after she finished her braid for him, and they fastened the cords around each other's wrists with all the cheerful gravitas of a pair of sweethearts at the harvest festival. She extended her arm forward to admire the sight of the cord against it, and he seemed to be doing much the same, if subtler than she was, his wrist held close to his chest.

From there, it was chatting with friends and strangers alike over good food and strong drink, dancing to live music amplified by nothing but the air around them, and sitting about the bonfire companionably cursing that no matter what planet they went to, there was always some kind of small, biting insect that would flit about such ample opportunities as these to make a nuisance of itself.

"Come, my love," Lotor purred in Allura's ear, about three cups of very good Altean mead and a rousing bout of campfire stories later. "We've a Galran autumn to celebrate tomorrow, and should be well rested for such festivities."

"Mmm, only if you carry me," Allura acquiesced, trying to pout but probably not managing it very well. The sight of him simply made her too happy. The sight of all these Alteans, most of them strangers to her but Coran and Merla out in the crowd somewhere, safe and happy and celebrating just as their ancestors had. The sight of her paladins, leaning on one another's shoulders and soused on a better drink than nunville (though one that wasn't nearly as lasting in the vacuum of space, unfortunately). The sight of—well, of a future she'd never thought she'd actually get, now somehow settled into an impossible present.

Lotor chuckled, and his strong arms lifted beneath her knees and shoulders, cradling her as a knight would carry a princess, or as a groom might carry his bride.

I should really find a good time to propose to him… Allura thought to herself, nuzzling in against his jaw with a contented little sigh to herself.

She was, thankfully, not nearly as hungover as she could've been the following morning, in part likely due to her lover's prudence at calling it a reasonably-timed evening, and found Lotor already up, armored, and grinning.

Not long later, she was in her paladin armor, and hiding a discreet smile as Lance complained, "I don't think you understand what we mean when we say 'cozy' autumn vibes, Lotor."

"This is cozy!" Lotor said cheerfully, genuine pride in his warlike culture bleeding through with a youthful joy he kept closely checked, but managed to peek out in times such as these. "Or it shall be, once we're done. One cannot relax in celebration of a job well done until one has completed the job, after all."

"I'm honestly just excited about stabbing something," Pidge said, flipping a Galran spear around before placing it back amongst the others, probably (wisely) deciding not to go with a weapon that was taller than they were.

"Uh, I'm not, are we like, sure about this? What if some of us hang back here and the rest of you go on the boar hunt that sounds like a better idea to me," Hunk said nervously. "And isn't boar hunting, like, super dangerous? I didn't really pay that much attention during those parts of history class but wasn't one of the big deals about going on a boar hunt how crazy dangerous it was? I mean we already saved the universe as Voltron I don't see why we have to keep endangering ourselves when that isn't even necessary."

"Not at all, Hunk," Lotor said with good cheer. "Certainly, these hunts used to be quite dangerous, but since leaving Daibazaal we have changed to hunting much smaller game. The wild boars of this planet are practically harmless; it is why we use these outings to help train and test our youths as they prepare to transition into the dangers of adulthood."

"See? It'll be fine!" Pidge said, cheerfully thumping a hand down on Hunk's back.

"Man, only the Galra would think tromping around in a forest and stabbing something is 'cozy,'" Lance groused.

Shiro was quietly contemplating a spear, which he ultimately brought with him, and Keith had his bayard at his hip and his Blade in hand, flanking Shiro as a knight with his commander. Allura took her place at Lotor's flank, who naturally helmed their expedition, Coran at his other side, and their group left to go, as Lance put it, "tromp around" in the woods in search of prey.

It was a brisk, overcast day, wind biting at their armor and Allura glad she'd brought her helmet, sunlight peeking through occasional gaps in the clouds to dapple the forest floor in brief flashes before disappearing again. Lotor led their hunt with expertise Allura found quite overtly attractive, and she spent more of the hunt admiring how he looked with sharp eyes, crouched to examine trails and clues, far more than she spent admiring the forest around them. It was a lovely forest! Just hardly of any interest to her when her sweetheart was grinning with unchecked confidence, entirely at ease with his people's autumnal custom.

When they did eventually find a boar, there was much screeching to be heard. Mostly and firstly from the boar, that reared and charged, but then also from Hunk and Lance, who remarked quite shrilly that this was not small game. Allura wasn't sure what they were on about. The boars of even Altea were much larger than this, which was about the size of Kaltenecker, and Allura knew from historical accounts that the boars native to Daibazaal were far more bestial than even Altean boars.

Ultimately, it did not matter that Hunk and Lance were of no especial help on the hunt. Between Pidge's innate bloodlust, Shiro's calm and lethal accuracy, Keith's Galran instincts, Lotor's Galran upbringing, and Allura's skill with a spear, the boar was downed swiftly and with as little pain for the animal as was reasonably possible.

"Let's never do this again," Hunk heaved, breathing hard despite how little he'd done.

"Agreed!" Lance groused.

"Oh, stop it you two, this was a lovely outing," Allura said, tying a knot around the boar's hind legs and throwing the rope over a nearby branch, hoisting it up to field dress so they didn't have to bring back the dross. Lotor, in his own display of physical strength, offered to carry the carcass single-handedly back to the lodge they were staying at, and Allura passed it over to him with a flirtatious brush of fingers against his hand.

Once there, they permitted Hunk to do what he pleased with the meat, and gathered with strong Galran wine, a beverage that translated literally as "red juice" and left one's tongue a vibrant scarlet when imbibed. Traditionally, the boar would be roasted with wild leeks and small, hard, dense yellow onions that had survived even after the destruction of Daibazaal, but Hunk added his own array of vegetation in as well. Nobody complained about the breach in tradition, as all of them knew it would inevitably taste much better, if they allowed Hunk to do as he liked.

This was not half as public as the Altean harvest festival, closer in scope to Earth's pumpkin carving. Just a group of friends and loved ones, sharing good food and rich drink, chatting and telling stories of previous "conquests" (they did not stay especially on topic, which Lotor did not begrudge them) while wiping grease from their chins and nudging logs onto the fire. Like this, the tradition was, in fact, quite cozy indeed.

Though Allura was, she could admit, rather biased. After all, she made such an observation from where she was tucked up close against her lover's side, a large furred pelt from one such previous conquest draped around their mutual shoulders, feeling the warmth that radiated off Lotor's larger form with his hand at her waist, his cheek resting atop her silver hair and the quiet, barely-there rumble of a purr in his chest.

"Allura!" Hunk called, sounding strained and frightened. Trapped. No no no no no, she couldn't let harm come to him, she stumbled over the uneven footing that her mass of vines coated the floor with and yanked on a thorny rope of fiber, teeth grit and eyes still glowing.

"Hunk! Hang on, I, I'll get you out," she promised, twirling her finger in another spell circle to bid these plants to leave. Instead of doing as she intended, another thorning vine shot up, making her screech and flail back.

"I—" Allura gasped, getting back up onto shaking knees, then staggering to her feet. She needed to help Hunk. She needed to fix this. "I can do this. I can do this! I can do this, I can do this I can do this," she began to mutter, propelling herself, forcing herself forward. But for every vine she pulled physically away, another three magically grew, engulfing them all.

"I, I can't do this," she wept, sinking to her knees. "I can't control my own magic, I cannot help my companions, why did I think that I could be somebody different?"

Distantly, she could feel her vines curling up and around her, but couldn't bring herself to care.

"I really am just… nothing more than a failure."

There was a bright flash of indigo and sudden motion, and Allura found herself encased not in her own thorny magic, but Lotor's arms.

"Don't call yourself that," he gasped, clutching her tightly, fingers buried in her hair and his own tears pressed into the fabric of your shoulder. "You have never made anything worse, you've done nothing wrong!" He pulled back to face her, tears still stinging at his eyes as she scrubbed vainly at hers. "Allura, you mean the world to me, and you do not need to bear all your burdens alone."

Allura sniffed, hard, and Hunk's voice called from the cocoon of vines, "Allura! Reliable people need to rely on their friends too! You can let it out, me 'n Lotor will be fine!"

Allura choked, her chin wobbling despite all her efforts to still it, and then she burst, "I miss my father!"

Around them, her magic howled.

"I try so hard to keep it together for the sake of everyone, but I miss my father, I miss my home, I'm tired and angry and sad," she wailed, clutching at her arms. Lotor's arms surrounded her once again, lifting her into a princess carry, and they both glowed indigo as he flashed, again, to grasp Hunk by the sole-remaining visible hand sticking out of the mass of vines, and flash again, up, again, and again, Allura clinging to him and weeping and feeling so much like a child.

The motion and flashing stopped, but Allura could not pry herself away. Only felt Hunk press against her back, hugging her, swallowing her so she had a dear and cherished companion on both side of her. Her boys held her until her weeping stopped, and she sniffled, feeling very gross and more than just a little embarrassed, but… better. Despite the congestion, her head felt clearer, now, and when she looked up at Lotor, he smiled at her.

Around them, the woods looked nondescript as ever. Hunk and Lotor helped her to her feet, and all of a sudden the hairs on the back of her neck stood up and—

Lotor reacted without hesitation nor thought, grabbing Allura and Hunk and flashing them as far as his magic stretched, barely evading the massive pulse of purple-black energy that took out the surrounding area.

"Sorry!" Shiro's voice called, "Still getting used to this!"

"Oh," Hunk said, stunned but still sounding pleased, "Shiro got his staff! He's been needing that."

Keith whistled sharply, drawing Shiro's attention back to the threat that pursued them, and everyone watched as KikiMorvok shambled through the trees in his oversized mechsuit.

"And there's the rest of them!" he crowed arrogantly. "No more hide and seek."

Allura, who was, quite frankly, already having a fairly terrible day, was not in the mood to deal with this insufferable man. This wasn't even all of them! He couldn't even count! Thoroughly fed up, and feeling much more in control of her powers on the heels of a good cry, she cast a spell circle, and was gratified to find the plants doing as she bid once again.

Shiro and Keith rushed over while KikiMorvok was occupied with a sudden onslaught of plants.

"What did we miss?" Shiro asked as Keith drew fire circles.

A stray beam from KikiMorvok's mech nearly hit Allura, but Lotor flashed her out of the way once again, and she did not mind that it resulted in him princess carrying her for the second time that day. From his blush, but his reluctance to set her down again, she assumed he felt the same.

"We missed a lot!"

But Shiro's curiosity on their relationship could wait, as they had a small and annoying threat piloting the controls of a much larger (though far less annoying) abomination.

"I don't need you wretched witches to start my own empire," KikiMorvok crowed, his damned abomination mech making him a disproportionately difficult foe. "And I'll start, by doing what even Zarkon couldn't! Killing the Witches of Voltron!"

But then the wiring on the abomination mech began to fizz and spark, and yet another welcome voice called out, "Not today you won't!"

"Pidge!" they all called, elated.

"Miss me?" they asked with a broad grin and cheeky wink.

"Rebellion!" Matt called from their side, raising high a hand and drawing a second technopathy spell circle in the air, "Keep him busy! Let the Witches of Voltron get moving!"

Allura locked eyes with Matt only briefly, and nodded. They were needed elsewhere.

"They've got this," Keith said, grasping Shiro by the hand not holding his newly formed staff, "Let's get to the skull!"

Pidge and Lance broke off from the ranks of the rest of the rebellion, which swarmed on KikiMorvok and his aggravating mech. Allura, for her part, could have just as easily run alongside the others, but was rendered unable to for the fact that Lotor was still carrying her. And, well, if he didn't want to put her down just yet…

"Wait, I know a faster way," Shiro said, skidding to a halt. Keith released his hand so he could begin to draw a complicated spell circle in the dirt, the rest of them helping where they could, but Shiro was the one with the key.

"Alright, this should work!" he said, reviewing hastily before lifting his staff high, and bringing the butt down on the nearest light glyph of the truly massive teleportation spell.

"No! I will have my victory!" KikiMorvok called from where he fended off rebel fighters, lifting his arm cannon to fire off one last beam that—

Didn't reach them in time. Allura's heart was fluttering at how close that had come to landing on them, and Lotor, in the stillness of the skull, was finally convinced to set her gently down.

"We… DID IT!" Hunk cheered, scooping Pidge up and whirling them around, making them laugh uproariously.

"We did it!" Lance echoed, joining in.

"We did it," Shiro breathed as the younger trio flailed in festivities.

"We did it," Keith confirmed, setting a reassuring hand down on Shiro's shoulder.

"We did it," Lotor said, casting a smile in Allura's direction, mostly just to participate, she thought privately to herself.

"We did it," she returned to him warmly, leaning in against his side. "Hey," she said, as she hooked her pinky finger around his. "Thank you, for your support, back there. You mean the world to me as well."

The curse had been cast long ago, and no one now remembered why. Only that the land suffered without its ruler, the people struggling under the yoke of supernatural misfortune, and that only a hero could rescue her.

Lotor was not a hero. Lotor was, he suspected, about as far from a hero as any man could be. He was a liar, and prone to underhanded tricks to ensure his victory, ready and willing to use any means if he could justify them with the ends. He meant well, but. Well. Every man out for himself, first and foremost, after all.

But no life could be made with the land under curse, he knew that well enough. No matter how he tricked or connived or manipulated or bested or scraped, the best life he could make for himself would still be a miserable one until the blight on the lands was lifted. And that meant rescuing the princess, so.

Surely a selfish motivation could be overlooked, if the deed itself was still a good one, right? What would the history books care if his intentions were noble if all they'd ever hear of was his actions.

So with his short sword at his hip, a bag of rice at his back, and his heartbeat gnawing at his throat, he stepped into the cursed forest.

Nothing assailed him until he reached the glade, where he encountered the first of the princess's "guards." A pair of lovers who were the most recent to have tried to free her, now bound in eternal servitude to the curse and to this castle. A centaur with black hair and a white shock in the front right where a forelock might have been, on an actual horse, and a bolt black coat over the horse part of his body, and a cervitaur with a red deer's lower half and antlers protruding from his long black hair.

Lotor had known these men. They were from the same township he was from. He'd watched them depart, when he was a boy, some fifteen years ago, and they had not aged a day since the one he last saw them. Their sight made him stagger, but only briefly.

"Combat or riddle?" the two said in unison, without preamble. They did not acknowledge nor seem to remember him.

"Riddle," Lotor answered them without hesitation. If he failed the riddle, he'd draw his sword and then see if he could best them with it after, if they attempted to seize him. Unless, of course, his failure meant the magic seized him immediately, in which case he would likely become guard of the surrounding forest, cursed into some bestial form himself.

"One bridge over the moat will lead you to the castle, and the other will lead to your doom. One of us will always lie, the other tell the truth. You can ask us one question," they said again in unison, their tails flicking away imaginary flies behind them, for not even insects drew near the potent curse at this castle's center.

Lotor gave himself time to puzzle over that, then nodded to himself.

"If I were to ask the other one which bridge I would take to reach safety, which bridge would he direct me to?"

The guards glanced at each other, and though the curse kept their faces a blank mask, Lotor swore he saw their eyes both crinkle, slightly. The closest thing to a smile they were likely allowed. It gave him some assurance that he'd picked right.

"He would tell you the northern bridge," said the cervitaur.

"He would tell you the northern bridge," said the centaur.

To the southern bridge, Lotor went.

As he passed them by, he could swear he heard one of them whisper, "Good luck," so strained as though it took all his effort to utter even that. But when he turned they weren't even looking at him, once again patrolling the wide circle of the glade.

He was halfway across the bridge when a giant splash revealed the princess's next "guard." A young man Lotor had only heard of, gone before his time. He had long, slender limbs, tanned and supple and beautiful, befitting of a dancer. He also had the torso and head of a fish.

"Combat or riddle?"

Lotor pretended to cough to buy himself time to stay his laugh at the ridiculous sight of him. "Riddle," he then answered.

"Why couldn't the pony sing in the choir?"

Lotor squinted. Why couldn't the… This certainly didn't seem like a riddle, it seemed more like a—oh for fuck's sake. This was a joke.

Lotor sighed. If he got this wrong this would be the stupidest way for him to get cursed into eternal servitude ever.

"…Because it was a little horse?"

"Eyyyyyyy!" the fishman said, snapping his fingers and pointing at Lotor before diving back into the moat.

Of all the—whatever. Lotor had done it. He proceeded to the castle, and became abruptly aware that this was no ordinary castle. Well, yes, obviously, it was a cursed castle, but more than that: it was a maze. Each door led not to stillrooms and bedrooms and dining halls and cellars and sitting rooms, but instead to more and more corridors, defying the laws of physics and space, endless, ever stretching, ever twisting. Lotor, upon realizing this, made a very swift return to the front door of the castle, so he would not loose its exit, and wished he'd brought a ball of thread. Had he known there would be a maze—but he hadn't, and he was here now, and it was time to figure it out.

He took from his back the bag with rice, and dropped small amounts behind him, marking his path as he went deeper in. Even if he failed, and had to return again another day; at least this way he could leave.

Or that was the idea, until, perhaps an hour later, he turned at the sound of wings, and found the trail behind him picked away by the feathered hands of a harpy. They'd predated him enough he hadn't heard of them in anything more than abstract, a fairly young individual with brunette hair and large, round spectacles.

Lotor sighed.

They looked up at him, and grinned. "Combat or riddle?"

"You couldn't have told me that before I wasted all this rice?"

The harpy shrugged unrepentantly. "Combat or riddle?"

"Riddle."

"If I add 5 to 9, I get 2. I am correct, so what am I?"

Okay, this sounded like an actual riddle. Lotor mulled it over. Five and nine to two. It was a math riddle, and he did like math. Maybe a graph? No… Negatives? No. Five and nine to two, five and nine to two.

"Ah, a clock!" he exclaimed with a snap of his fingers, and the harpy grinned wide and winked at him.

They then spread their wings and took flight with a, "Thanks for the rice!" But they were flying slow enough, and Lotor—took off in a sprint. Wherever this harpy was going, he was willing to bet his life on the fact that it would be better than the endless, stretching halls of the castle.

He was sweating and breathing hard when finally the harpy turned down a hall that ended in bright light, swooping out into the sun and fresh air, and he staggered to a slow as he, too, emerged into the garden. It was lush and bright, near every inch of it flourishing with edible plants, the walls coated in cheerful ivy.

"Welcome friends," a warm voice greeted, the harpy circling once before landing upon the new man's back. He was a warm, broad man, shaped like a centaur but with a capybara for his lower half, reclining on a warm stone and a bubbling cauldron before him.

"Hello," Lotor greeted cautiously.

"Come, sit, you've had a long day," the capybara man ushered him forward, the harpy preening themself on his back and neither seeming to see anything amiss with their situation. "I'd make you choose combat or riddle, but I'm not much for combat, if we're being honest. So you get a riddle, then, but not until you've eaten, come! Sit, sit, let me ladle you out a bowl."

"I am grateful for your hospitality," Lotor said with punctilious manners, unsure if this would be part of the riddle, seating himself next to the two of them carefully.

"Of course, you could always draw that short sword of yours, and I'd not have much choice," the man said with a knowing gleam in his eye, "But still, I'd feed you first. Forgive the thinness of the meal, I grow only vegetables in this garden, though it would benefit from aught else."

Hm. Well, if the game was to be well mannered.

"Here, sir, I have brought rice, and though it is plain to boil on its own, I am certain it would benefit well from your soup, just as well as your soup might benefit from my rice."

"Now there's something," the man said happily, taking Lotor's offering and pouring the remains of the rice one and all into the pot. "And now we may converse while that cooks!" he said as he covered the cauldron. "I am sure you have many questions."

"And if I would be permitted to ask them, my first is why you seem more in possession of your faculties than the others?" Lotor couldn't help but glance at the harpy, whose face was expressive, and who had spoken to him briefly, but did not converse as this man did.

"It's a matter of age. I was the first 'hero' to try and rescue the princess, and every time someone bests us we get just a little more of our senses back."

Ah, so that was why.

"You'd be better off giving up," the man said gently, "more 'heroes' have died in their attempts than getting cursed like we have. The princess does not offer riddles, only combat, and she will kill you as she has killed everyone else who has made it past me."

"I understand," Lotor said with a serious nod. "Even so, I must attempt it."

"Even so," the man said, tinged with pity, or maybe simple sorrow.

"Might I know your name, sir?"

"I am Hunk," he said with a small laugh, "though I think you'd be hard pressed to find anyone who remembers the name."

"Not at all, sir!" Lotor said incredulously. "Hunk, of the golden aegis?"

"Ah, so I am remembered! And from your tone, not even as a coward."

"A coward? No! You were–you are a hero famed far and wide, known for your care, benevolent as a saint, he who would let no evil past his shield. This is where you met your end?"

And that was… discouraging. That even one of the most famous, most renowned, accomplished, good men could not even break this curse. What chance, then, did Lotor have?

"This is where," Hunk said with a nod and small smile. "My reputation seems to have been exaggerated. I was never so impressive." He lifted the lid to stir the soup, "But I meant well, and I tried my best, and I couldn't ignore a curse like this. Now here we are."

"Sir," Lotor said, shifting where he sat with restless energy, "What can you tell me of the princess? Of the curse? What should I expect when I leave this garden?"

"She has been here longest of all," he said carefully, like he was testing what could or could not be said. Hm. So even lucid, the curse would prevent him from disclosing certain information. "She is larger than you think she'll be, and swift. I told you, traveler, she will not offer you choice of combat or riddle," he looked at Lotor with strange intensity on those words, as did his harpy friend, "Instead, she will attack you outright, and give you no chance to gather your wits or your bearings. She will kill you if you give her the slightest chance, and," Hunk looked askance, "she will grieve over your corpse. She is compelled by the curse, as we all are."

"I see," Lotor mused as Hunk began to ladle it out into three bowls. Lotor took his with a word of gratitude, and sipped from it before remembering that it was currently quite hot. He set it in his lap to cool. "How were you cursed?"

"Failing the riddles means joining her guards."

"Are you five the only guards?"

"For now. There have been many others, but when a would-be hero chooses combat, it is to the death. And so the number fluctuates. 'S why I don't make an offer of it, and unless the combatants bring arrows, a harpy tends to win any fight that gets picked, so the two of us have been here the longest."

Lotor sipped again from the soup and found it drinkable now. The harpy certainly was enjoying their soup with gusto, and Lotor nodded at them, "May I be known to your companion, sir hero?"

"Oh please, call me by my name, and this is Pidge."

Pidge grinned at him before downing the rest of their soup.

"And the princess?"

Hunk and Pidge both went suddenly very still.

"And the princess?" Hunk echoed, not looking at Lotor.

"Her name?"

Hunk and Pidge looked at each other, but not at Lotor.

"No one knows it," Hunk said before drinking deeply from his bowl.

Lotor squinted. Their reactions were more than odd, but if the game was manners he'd not push further. He drank from his bowl and remarked that it tasted quite wonderful, and he'd barely swallowed the last before Hunk slapped a hand down and leaned forward.

"So! You'll be wanting your riddle then. Last chance to leave with your life and your senses and head back the way you came."

"No, sir, even if I could find the way back through that maze, my goal is forward. I'll not take the coward's exit."

"It isn't cowardice to value your own life," Hunk said, eyes softened in something like sympathy or pity. "But very well, your riddle then."

Hunk leaned forward, the heft of his belly falling over his capybara half, hands planted on his sides, eyes intense as he stared at Lotor. Lotor straightened, readying himself.

"Answer honestly: Are you willing to die for this?"

Lotor blinked, then chuckled, a strange melancholy rising in him as well.

"I think you misunderstand what a riddle is, sir hero."

"Just Hunk is fine."

"Hunk," Lotor said, and nodded gravely. When he spoke, he focused hard on the truth of his words, his intent, "I am certain. I risk my life knowingly and with purpose. I must see this curse broken."

"Then she is behind that door," Hunk said, and extended his hand to Lotor. Lotor shook it, and rose. "Your body and mind are as fortified as I am able to see them. Best of luck to you, traveler."

And it occurred to Lotor, as he drew his sword and crossed to the princess's chamber, that Hunk had never asked him his name.

He was dislodged from that line of thought quite rapidly, as the moment he opened the door, he was assailed by the princess and only narrowly dodged being skewered on her thin, piercing leg.

Ah. Of course. All her guards were half beast, it only made sense she too would be thus changed. A spider's lower half was… not Lotor's favorite, though, nor were the mandibles protruding from her mouth, her eight eyes pure-black and seemingly filled with naught but wild rage.

Though his sword was already drawn, Lotor found little opportunity to use it. Instead, all his focus laid purely on keeping his own life intact, avoiding the webbing she'd laced all through her chamber while simultaneously dodging the unfairly swift strikes of her long, thin legs. Lotor was in no mood to get speared, and cut away the webs whenever he had a half-moment to do so.

Frantically, Lotor tried to think of a way to victory here. She was high up, lashing out with her legs but keeping her body far from his sword's length. And even if he could kill her, killing the princess didn't seem the most effective way to break the curse on her—

Hey wait hang on. Yeah, wait, Hunk had mentioned all fights were to the death. If victory in combat meant killing the princess, then the curse would hang unbreakable forevermore, this couldn't be right.

He'd not offered Lotor the choice of combat or riddle, but remarked that Lotor might well draw his sword and force a fight anyway. Then, that meant, the corollary was that the princess would offer no riddle, but if Lotor provided its answer first—and of course, to fail the riddle was to be cursed alongside her.

And Hunk had been the first. He'd tried to break the curse by solving the princess's riddle, but he'd answered wrong, and gotten cursed for it. Of course! If she killed all in combat with her, and Hunk was still alive.

Oh, Lotor wish he'd puzzled through this in the garden and not while she was trying to kill him. Shit, shit shit okay, okay. Riddle, answer, what answer could he give that wouldn't just be wrong and curse him?

He cut away another swath of web, and saw through the darkness of this chamber another door, opposite the one he'd entered through. It seemed like it would be too small for her to squeeze through, or at least small enough it would hinder her pursuit, and Lotor decided it was as good a chance as any. He carved his way there slowly, still having to dance away from her strikes, but finally shouldered the door open and slammed it shut behind him, heaving from exertion and barricading it shut with a piece of furniture so old and dusty he didn't really identify it in the dark.

And it was dark here, as even the maze was not. And there were no doors or endless corridors, only a single spiral staircase.

The princess's legs screeched against the door behind him, and he decided if there would be any clues in all this castle on how to answer her unasked riddle or break this curse, it would be in whatever room was at the top of these stairs.

With shaking thighs and heaving breath, he drew himself at last to the summit, and found himself in, quite fittingly, the highest room of the tallest tower. Damn these predictable curse-casters and their need for pageantry. He would've been just as heroic finding an answer at the bottom!

It was a young woman's room. Books, so dusty he couldn't make out their covers, sat lined along their shelves. Dresses long forgotten hung in the wardrobe. The bed was curtained in a draping canopy. A beautiful mirror, expensively huge, stood proudly against a wall, dusty as the rest of the room.

Okay. A moment's reprieve. Think Lotor. The riddles, Hunk's conversation, if Hunk was the first to fail her riddle than he must know what the riddle is. And that kind man must've tried to tell Lotor of it, even if the curse bound his tongue against it directly.

There had been times he and Pidge had acted strangely. About the choice of combat or riddle, yes, alright, but also—

Names. They'd never asked Lotor his name. They didn't know the princess's name. He kept insisting that Lotor call him by his name, not his title.

Oh Lotor was so stupid of course! There was great power in a name. And he was in the princess's childhood bedroom now, no better place to search.

The light of the sunset filtered through the room as Lotor explored it, getting dust on just about every inch of him as he searched for clues to the princess's identity. It was just as the moon started rising that Lotor lifted the mattress and found a diary stuffed beneath it.

Well, that was as promising a lead as anything he'd found so far. He sat on the princess's window seat, moonlight spilling across the page with deceptive vibrancy, almost as though the very night itself wished for Lotor to have enough light to read by.

First, he skimmed through the pages, seeking a solution swiftly, but the only names his eyes caught were those of family or friends or rivals or travelers, so Lotor started from the beginning, and read slowly through it again, now parsing every word.

She was not consistent, this princess. She did not write every day. As such, the diary did not fill within a year's writing. Instead, Lotor got little glimpses of her as she grew, and more as she matured. A single entry with an uneven, learning hand about how excited she was to receive the diary. Another dated two years later that she was going to journal more, because nobody in all the world understood her and she was absolutely languishing in her unique and adolescent sorrows. Lotor chuckled at that.

He leaned against the cool stone of the window as he read further, watching the princess as she grew from girl to woman, heart aching at the ageless mundanity of her woes, lips quirked into a smile at her times of joy and success. The further he read, the more he began to feel as though he knew her.

He knew she was "indelicate" at art, and quick to anger, but just as quick to forgive and deeply compassionate. He knew she liked shiny trinkets and cherished any gifts she received, for the reminder of who had given them to her. He knew that sometimes, she was so desperately lonely the ache of it lifted off the page and squeezed Lotor's heart in its clawed hand. He knew she was brave, and stubborn, and headstrong.

By the time the moon set and the first hints of dawn colored rosy the horizon, Lotor felt as though he knew the cursed woman downstairs as well as though they'd been friends for all their lives. And then, on the final page, which had not been there before, he saw her bid this diary farewell, for she had filled it. And her signature, revealing her name.

"Allura," Lotor murmured, brushing his fingers over the long dried ink. Just as old and faded as the rest of the book, but hidden away by magic until Lotor had read the rest.

He shut the diary and left it upon the top of the princess's old bed. Should he fail here, it would serve as valuable clue to any who next made it this far. But he knew the answer to the princess's unspoken riddle, now. Fates be kind, all he had to do was provide her the answer.

The stairs were easier on the way down than they were heading up, go figure. He unbarricaded the door and then drew his short sword again, unsure if he'd need it, and took a deep breath. Moment of truth.

She tried to kill him the moment he set foot inside her chamber once again. He dodged, expecting that, and called out to her, "Allura!"

Magic seared through the room, choking him briefly. She also stilled, and Lotor grinned. That was easy—

He only narrowly avoided getting killed by her next blow.

"Allura?" he gasped, but in his haste to dodge the unexpected strike he backed straight into one of her webs.

"Shit!" he hissed, trying and failing to yank himself free. The magic, at his oath, snapped like a broken string, and the princess renewed her assault.

Oh. Oh! Rule of threes! Fuck, okay! He used his short sword to block a strike from a thin, powerful leg with the blade drawing dangerously close to his person.

"Allura! Allura! ALLURA!" he shouted desperately, now pinned against the webbing so only his forearms and hands were still free. Mentally, he was running what he'd do if she struck her next blow somewhere he couldn't block with his newly limited mobility, but it turned out to be thankfully unnecessary, as when he called her name the third time, the magic that swelled briefly blinded them both.

And then, he was laying on his back on naught but a plain, stone floor, without a web in sight. He sat up quickly, and rose so fast he felt a brief flash of vertigo.

Oh. There was Allura.

The princess was much transformed, no longer bearing the parts of a spidery beast, but simple and human and in a white dress that put Lotor in a mind of old columns and statues. Her eyes were two in number, and only the pupils black, the rest returned to blue irises and white sclera. She was blinking, seeming stunned and a little confused.

"Princess Allura?" Lotor asked, because if any magic yet lingered, he'd lay his bets on the power held in names.

"I—oh. Oh! Oh, thank, you, you broke the curse, I—"

"Take a moment to gather yourself, princess," Lotor said with a smile, sheathing his sword. "I imagine it is disorienting to suddenly wake from a curse." And he knew, from her diary, that she was slow to wake outside of wild emergencies, oft complaining of how early her mother would hold court and how her maids herded her upright in the mornings.

"Thank you, I, yes." She rubbed at her face, a charmingly un-princess-like motion that had Lotor's lips tugging at the corners.

But then she rallied her composure, stood upright, and looked Lotor dead in the eye. "I owe you my life, good hero. My gratitude cannot be expressed."

"I am hardly a hero," Lotor said, flustered beneath the intensity of such a gaze. "I had my own motivations for this—"

"Nonsense, a curse you have broken and thus a hero you are. My hero, at the very least," she said, her tone brooking no argument. As she crossed the space of what was once her cursed chamber, she smiled up at him, and proffered her hand. "And may I know the name of the man who saved me?"

Lotor's lips parted, then smiled as he took her hand in his own.

Another rush of magic and Lotor found himself at the mouth of the small cave that hid the entrance to the druid’s lair. He grit his teeth and stood, shaking as though to dislodge the remnants of the purple magic.

Seven years.

More than he’d bargained for, but less than he was willing to pay for his goals. He already grew his hair long, and he was not one to frequently stay in one place for too long. That was doable.

The claws and bathing situation would be the most intolerable, he did not doubt.

Seven years.

He could do this.

In the first year: he could do this. He was centuries old and, if theories on how he aged were to be considered correct, he would have centuries more. Seven years would be nothing. A drop in a bucket. He used it to prepare, especially the first few months, when he smelled more or less tolerable. Any time it rained he spent as much time as he could in the water, knowing that washing in a river or stream would count. Magic was always fickle, and always skewed in favor of the worst. While he could still passably show his face in civilization, he stockpiled supplies enough to last him seven years, or near enough to it he could supplement when the time came.

In the second year: he had to leave Daibazaal. His country of origin was hardly a home, and hadn’t been since he was young and innocent and still so painfully naive. But he did know it, and he knew that all the many flora that thirsted for his blood and fauna that would chew on his bones could smell him for miles in each direction. He knew it intellectually, and he knew it viscerally, blood steaming across the pelt he wore and sliding down the blade he wrested free from the fresh carcass of a beast that wished to eat him. Oh, how he wished for a bath.

In the third year: he couldn’t do this. He could not bear this. He was not even halfway through and his own stench and fatigue were driving him insane. Being so constantly exposed to the elements was killing him, though the pelt was so thick and heavy it kept him plenty warm. And he was lonely. In the third year, Narti finally found him, Kova hissing and prowling just outside the edges of Lotor’s reach, recognizing him but also not. She wanted to help him, as best she could, but he explained the curse to her, the druid putting no binding on his tongue at least. She then offered to go kill the druid for him, and he insisted that she not, not until the witch’s power was his. She stated she would stay with him, despite her nose being even sharper than Lotor’s, and he reminded her that it could be for no more than three quintents, or the magic would kill him (and he doubted it would be instant, or painless).

She left with the promise to tell the others, and to bring back supplies for him. Just to drop off and then leave again. She promised she wouldn’t stay.

In the third year: Ezor found him, always best at finding things, and with her she brought Zethrid and Acxa. It was the best three days of these miserable three years, even with his companions wrinkling their noses at his scent the whole time.

In the fourth year: he left the billowing wilds that existed between Daibazaal, harsh and dangerous but inhabitable, and into Altea, the lush and verdant valleys beneath the billowing wilds’ mountains. Not to say that Altea did not come with its own dangers, no, just that they were more like the mountain creatures, not quite so capable of killing a lone wanderer as Daibazaal’s would have been.

In the fourth year:

Allura tied up her hair and shifted her hands, magic tickling as it turned her palms into suction cups. She descended from her room as only wayward princesses could, and hopped down onto the vibrantly green grass of the lawn with a little thrill of success.

With the tensions between Daibazaal and Altea on the rise once again, and all citizens from both countries feeling like a resumed war was all but a forgone conclusion, her parents had been increasingly strict with her. On a certain level, she understood, she was a princess after all, it was her job to understand.

On the other hand: she’d gone to the little brook with the little waterfall dozens upon dozens upon dozens of times, without any harm nor threat to her person. It was right next to the palace grounds, and she only ever managed to squeeze in an hour or two before her knights quit canoodling and came to find her anyway. She would be fine, just as she’d been fine every time before.

There was nowhere in all of Altea, in Allura’s opinion, that was a better place for magic than that little waterfall. Something about the place seemed almost to glow with magic, every drop of water and blade of grass and rustling leaf full to overflowing with rich mana. It drew her in, excited and comforted her, enthralled her and cleared her mind. Magic poured from her fingers like the water she lifted, guiding it to dance about her in a spiraling river floating suspended around her person, twirling slowly as she dragged the water about in lazy loops.

Even the sunlight here felt different, warm and yellow but not beating down on her, even in summer heat. It sparkled and twisted around her like the water did, slowly spinning and dancing across the shimmering surface, Allura’s skirts shallowly twirling around her calves, and she smiled and let her mind sink into the magic present here, imbuing everything.

It was that magic, present even in the twigs of a bush and the berries crushed underfoot, that alerted her that she was not alone.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t dare try to fight against near a dozen heavy boots. One moment she was smiling serenely, surrounded by glistening spirals of water, the next she was running so fast the water didn’t even have time to hit the ground before she burst through it. Shouts behind her, unmistakably Galra, and heavy footfall followed, but she didn’t dare look. She was fast.

But Galra were faster.

A giant, purple hand clamped over her mouth, a scream wrested from her too late and muffled by the flesh, and she hit the ground with a cry of pain, knees and palms skidding in the dirt.

“Grab her!”

She fought back, because of course she did. Princess trained in the art of diplomacy and regal bearing though she was, Allura was no weak fighter, and she was not one to cow in the face of unfair odds.

But they were unfair. She knocked two briefly unconscious, but she hadn’t brought her staff, not believing she’d need it, and these Galra were armored and armed, one opening a deep gash across the back of her leg, another finally getting his dagger pointed at her throat and compelling her to behave.

“You won’t kill me,” she spat, even as her preservation instincts forced her to obey.

“No. But you don’t need both eyes.”

She screamed a protest—she was submitting!—as he raised the dagger to plunge it into her eye, but then a dagger protruded from his own, sinking much deeper than just the eye. He toppled off her, dead, and the Galra turned on their new aggressor.

A beast, wilder than all imagining, lept from the foliage, its pelt hideous and bloodstained, matted with mud and dried viscera, its claws long as knives and yellow and flaking, silvery lengths of something dragging behind it as it fell upon its victims. The Galra shouted, united now against this beast, and Allura staggered to her feet, or tried to. The gash in her leg made fleeing nearly impossible, and she leaned against the tree as she watched the beast dispatch of the Galra, one by one by one, until there were none left alive to contest it.

Its yellow gaze fell upon her next, and she realized belatedly that she looked at no monster at all.

“You’re Altean!” she gasped, the man before her so deeply dirtied with various filth that she could not see even an inch of skin beneath the horrible mess, but his face was, poking out from the disgusting fur, unmistakably that of, well, a man. An Altean’s proud cheekbones and narrow jaw, eyes yellow as a Galra but silver hair (it was hair!) long and ripe with magic.

The man chuckled at her. “I suppose it only fair that you confused me for a beast.”

“Good sir, anyone would.” Sounds of armor—familiar, Altean—and rushed footfall came from the direction of the palace grounds. “Please, you are my savior, come into my home and be bathed and rewarded for your service.”

“I cannot bathe, princess,” he said, with every reverence of her subjects, “nor did I do this for a reward. I will leave.”

“You saved my life!” Allura insisted as Keith and Shiro burst into the clearing, swords drawn and lips flushed and kiss-bitten, confusion on their brows as they took stock of the dead Galra on the ground and the beast man their charge now argued with. “You would do me a great dishonor by not allowing me to repay you!”

The man seemed visibly to hesitate at that, and then acquiesced. “If for your honor only, princess. But I cannot remain.”

“At least stay the night,” she insisted, now half-frantic to have this strange man remain for any time at all, curiosity burning through her as fervently as the magic had only recently flowed.

“The night,” he agreed, bowing low, the mess of fur and hair and viscera and fresh blood shambling with his motion, “but no longer.”

The man spoke of precious little, despite Allura’s best attempts at interrogation. She learned not even his name. He would not allow any of her staff to bathe or groom him, though she noted that while his hair was dirty, it was remarkably untangled. He was certainly Altean, but his nails were more akin to claws. And of course, the yellow eyes.

At dinner, her parents hosted the man who’d saved their daughter’s life, because of course they did.

“Traditionally,” Queen Melenor remarked, though she was severe and stately in the way Allura knew she held herself when she discussed things she’d rather not, “the reward for saving a princess’s fool life from a band of murderous kidnappers would be that princess’s hand in marriage.”

Allura heard the man’s breath hitch, and for a brief moment, open want lined his filth-obscured features, before he shuttered again to something vaguely polite and unreadable.

“I could never ask for such a thing, being as I am.”

“Being as you are?” Allura said, sounding more accusatory than she’d meant. “A kind stranger who saved my life?”

“You have no proof of any kindness,” the man said, with a low chuckle that made her feel strange and hot.

“Only my life and well-being.”

“You speak as though you would wish to wed me.”

Allura’s mouth opened, then shut.

“Exactly.”

“Perhaps I would!” she said, drawing herself to full height while seated and glowering at the man, challenge in her tone.

“Allura,” her father scolded quietly, as he always did when her temper and stubbornness sent her headlong down paths her good sense would otherwise steer her clear from.

“...Allow me three years, then, princess,” the beast man said slowly, gaze never leaving hers. “I have matters I must attend, and am unable to remain here, nor take you with me. If, in three years, when I return, you still wish to wed me, we might discuss it then.”

Queen Melenor sighed, and Allura winced only briefly at the tone of her mother’s breath. Oh the lecture she’d receive once this man departed would be mighty. “You have more good sense than my daughter, it would seem. Please be made comfortable in our home, and if there is anything you wish for, merely ask it.”

“A grimoire, Your Majesty, if I may be bold enough to request it.”

“You’ve magic?” Allura asked, reaching out to touch the man’s face, where his Altean marks should be beneath the dirt, and rescinding her hand when he flinched from her.

“Call it a future investment.”

“Grimoires we have aplenty,” her father stated, “I’ll have one copied for you by the morrow.”

“My thanks.”

Allura, kept up late by her own desperately curious, gnawing thoughts, had to drag herself, bleary and miserable, from her bed to prevent from missing the stranger’s departure. She witnessed her father hand him a grimoire, and he bowed, first to the sovereign queen, then to the king, and then, lower, slower, with something like heat in his eyes, finally to the princess.

“Damn,” she mumbled when the stranger was gone, but comforted herself that at least, for the next three years, she’d have an easy dismissal of all talk of suitors.

In the fifth year: Lotor was nearly killed by a huntsman mistaking him for a beast.

In the sixth year: Lotor was nearly killed by a team of monster hunters, who he had to persuade with Narti’s coin to leave him be, paying higher than the village who’d hired them. He wandered elsewhere with faster purpose, after that, and committed himself to greater stealth. Narti was unbearably smug when next she delivered supplies, forcing more coin into the hands of a man who had no reliable use for it.

In the seventh year: Nearly killed again, by huntsmen and monster hunters both. But he was on his way out of Altea. On his way through the billowing wilds, climbing and descending that mountain. He’d memorized the grimoire, but kept hold of it, a baffling yet precious memory now tied to its cover and pages.

At the end of the seventh year: he returned to the small cave where he’d first found the druid. His time was up, or near enough to it, and the moment the magic was his he would take vengeance for the seven years of misery he’d suffered. There he found Narti, there he found Ezor, there he found Zethrid, there he found Acxa, still loyal to him after seven years of absence, and he counted such loyalty more precious than all the gold in all the world.

“First, we kill the druid,” he ordered, feeling the curse sizzle along his skin as it warped into a blessing. “Then I take a quiznacking bath.”

At the end of the third year of waiting:

Allura was forced by circumstance to put her curiosity for her betrothed-to-be on hold, as political upheaval shook the land.

Her father’s old ally finally declared war upon her mother’s country, and Altea raised its arms for bloodshed. But as they prepared their weapons and rallied their armies, another missive came: Emperor Zarkon was dead, long live the Emperor.

Lotor, former prince, son of Zarkon who Allura had never met, shame to his family line and whose mother was Altean, had bested his father in ritual combat, according to Galra custom and law, and had seized the throne. Altea continued to rally, not sure if the bastard son would hold the same temperament as his father, but the tension that had built between their lands hung now, most definitely confused in perplexed balance.

Then an official letter from the Emperor, validated by report after report from their scouts: Lotor was coming, not with an army, but with a diplomatic envoy, to speak to the royals of Altea face to face.

Her mother was stern and stately, poised and graceful and elegant, the sovereign of Altea, bearer of the Altean royal line, pride and jewel of their nation, its Queen.

Her father was tense and stiff, militant and grave, leader of their armies and father of the nation, sire of Altea’s heir and husband to their sovereign.

Allura wasn’t quite sure what she was. But she drew herself up, a shadow of her mother’s grace, stiffened her lip and brow, a mimic of her father’s gravity, and lifted her chin, a prideful stubbornness that was all hers.

Whatever the Emperor Lotor came here for, he would find it on Altea’s terms, or he would leave without it. Or, if it might make for a swifter path for peace, she would slaughter him in this very reception hall. She had her staff with her today.

The Galran procession arrived in waves, wargs and beastmasters first, towering Galra broad each as a mountain and bearing heavy shields second, four mismatched women each bearing the new royal crest and colors third, and in their center: Emperor Lotor.

He was the singularly most beautiful man she’d ever seen. Long, plaited, silver hair that nearly dragged the ground, Altean bones and Galran eyes, soft velvety purple fur so short it could pass for skin, pointed ears pierced with glinting gems in silver casings, and on his cheeks, two marks that glowed with powerful magic.

She shivered, feeling less certain of her ability to slaughter him where he stood, should he pose threat. His magic was enough, indeed, to rival her own, and she was famed throughout Altea for her prowess, her own marks pink and luminous.

“My thanks for hosting on such short notice,” the emperor began, seeming perfectly at ease surrounded by distinctly uneasy Altean guardsmen.

“Our thanks for your peaceful arrival. Are we too optimistic in hoping it may bode for a peaceful future between our nations?” Queen Melenor of Altea answered, staring down at him with regal coolness from the dias they three stood on.

“Not at all,” he assured with a smile. “I am as hopeful for such as you are.” A sigh escaped the whole room, tension palpably leaving. Allura was not exempt, tension loosening from her shoulders.

“Though I would start by returning what was borrowed. I know you gave it to me as a gift, but I would return it as a show of good faith.”

That piqued Allura’s curiosity. As far as she knew, her parents had never met the then-prince Lotor any more than she had. But as the emperor of Daibazaal approached, Allura’s breath caught in her throat.

He extended, to Alfor, a grimoire. The same grimoire her father had given her intended three years ago.

“You!” she gasped, rushing forward and grabbing him by the wrist, making his generals tense but ignoring them, staring instead at his yellow eyes.

“Me,” he agreed with a smile, staring at her with that same reverence he’d held three years ago. “I hope my appearance is more agreeable to you, now, than it was then, as I have little desire to return to such a state.”

“More than,” she said with a wild grin. “Please, come in and be hosted by us, I would have my betrothed explain to me how I may find him in such different states as this!”

“Well,” she heard her father murmur to her mother as she beckoned their guests inside, “I suppose a wedding is one way to end all this.”

And so it would be.