#and he still vanishes for two years w/ his new legendary friend to go and find himself

[castleclysm]

hey remember when I talked about the possibility of AUs with N being raised in other villain teams?

what if I just.....

#♚;; verse: magma #♚;; verse: aqua #look okay it WORKS for him; idc idc. details to come obviously; but there's no way younger N doesn't have the capacity to go ecoterrorist #aqua N with a mega gyarados he raised from a magikarp. magma N with a sceptile he raised from a treecko. he still has zoroark too ofc #the legendary he befriends (instead of zekrom) is latios/latias; depending on the AU and what one is available in-game #and he still vanishes for two years w/ his new legendary friend to go and find himself

[inkweaver22-blr]

Phew! This one gave me a bit of trouble to get out! Here we have our second big reveal of the story! Let’s see what happens.

AO3 Link

<Previous | First | Next>

Scattered Cicadas - Chapter Five: Timely Assumptions

Tang gets more than he expects at the start of one cycle. This leads to a few startling realizations.

----------

Tang looked up into the frightened expressions of the much younger Sun Wukong and Macaque as his body continued to disappear.

“I-” Being erased scared him. Would he wake up in a new cycle or simply cease to be?

Tang weakly lifted his hand, desperate to do something, grab something to ground him. Anything. Anyone!

“I don't w-want to go-”

He faded out of existence, not hearing anything else they might have said after. The last thing he saw were their horrified faces.

----------

The cave. The voices. The light.

----------

Tang woke with a gasp, his heart racing.

He had died before, but accidentally erasing yourself using a time-traveling peanut cactus was a new and terrifying experience.

The scholar took a few deep breaths, grounding himself with the fact that he was still here and hadn’t been deleted entirely. He had never been so relieved to be stuck jumping between timelines before now.

Tang winced as he remembered the anguish on the faces of the two monkeys he had befriended. He hoped his vanishing hadn’t traumatized them too much. If they were lucky they wouldn’t even remember anything now that the version of himself that had gone back in time had never existed in the first place.

God, time travel was confusing.

He glanced around his room and noticed a book on his nightstand. Picking it up, he was slightly disappointed to find it wasn’t the one on constellations he had used to teach the younger Macaque how to read.

With a sigh, Tang got up and prepared for the day. There was no point dwelling too much on what couldn’t be changed. Once dressed he stood in front of the mirror and began his little remembering ritual.

He first checked the date on his phone. It was still a few days before MK would get the staff so nothing of real consequence should be too different yet.

Taking a deep breath the scholar began reciting what he remembered about himself this time.

“I am the immortal monk Tang Sanzang-”

Tang choked as he doubled over in pain.

Hundreds of years of memories flooded through him. He collapsed to the ground and clutched at his head as it pounded in agony from the onslaught of innumerable experiences.

Tang crawled over to his bed and leaned back against it, his eyes shut tight and hands over his ears in a vain attempt to block out the rushing thoughts.

Living humbly as a monk. Being chosen by Guanyin. The journey. Sun Wukong. Bai Long Ma. Zhu Bajie. Sha Wujing. The many, many demons they encountered.

(How had he ever been so naive?)

Completing the journey. Becoming immortal. He, Bajie, and Wujing choosing to live on Earth instead of in Heaven.

(Pigsy was Zhu Bajie and Sandy was Sha Wujing!)

Wukong sealing away the Demon Bull King and vanishing. The three of them searching for him tirelessly. Never finding him. Giving up and living the next five hundred years without him.

(He should have never given up. He should have kept looking until he found his beloved disciple.)

It was all too much to handle. Tang needed time to process everything.

He called in sick to work, which with his short breath and trembling voice wasn’t questioned too closely. After sending a text to Pigsy (Zhu Bajie!) so he wouldn’t wonder about his absence at the shop, Tang pulled himself onto the bed and pressed his face into the pillows.

The headache and whirling memories prevented him from falling asleep, so he tried to focus on one thing at a time.

In this cycle he was the immortal monk Tang Sanzang, sometimes also referred to as Tripitaka.

There was still just so much to unpack in that single thought it made him a bit dizzy.

Tang had never been anyone other than himself in all the timelines he’d been in. His roles may sometimes be a bit different but he had always been Tang. He had theorized once that it had something to do with how every soul was unique so he literally couldn’t be anyone else.

His breath caught as he realized the implication that brought.

Tang’s soul was unique and thus he couldn’t be anyone other than himself in the various timelines.

In this timeline, he was the monk Sanzang.

In order for him to be both himself and the famous monk simultaneously, their souls had to be exactly the same.

That meant he wasn’t the monk in just this timeline, but in all of them, including his original time.

Oh Heavens, he was the reincarnation of Tang Sanzang.

Tang gulped in several breaths of air as his mind blanked out. He needed to focus. One thing at a time.

Pigsy was Zhu Bajie and Sandy was Sha Wujing in this timeline.

After the previous revelation, this one was much less earth-shattering.

He had always known that his group of friends mirrored the original journey’s group closely. Pigsy and Sandy also being reincarnations of their historical counterparts in his own time wasn’t much of a stretch.

Tang’s breath slowed as he began to calm. What was next?

Wukong disappeared and the trio searched for him. They never found him and gave up, assuming the monkey to be dead.

This was upsetting in an entirely different way. Tang knew Wukong was still alive thanks to the events of the original timeline, and that made the guilt of giving up even worse. He’d have to fix that.

Tang sighed in relief as his thoughts finally slowed and the pain ebbed. He still had a lot to work through, but that could wait for later. Going back to sleep sounded heavenly at the moment.

He had just started to doze off when an errant fact suddenly popped into his head.

Wasn’t Tang Sanzang already a reincarnation of one of the Buddha’s original disciples, the Golden Cicada?

With a groan Tang shoved a pillow over his head and attempted to beat back the thoughts from whatever that implied about him.

He didn’t sleep very well.

----------

“So what’s this all about Tang,” Pigsy asked grumpily as he accepted a mug of tea from Sandy. It was late at night, a few days after the release of the Demon Bull King, and the three of them were meeting privately at Sandy’s ship on the scholar’s request.

Tang took a sip from his own mug as he studied the two other immortals. Had it not been for his own memories on the matter, he would have never guessed that they were two of the five companions of the legendary Journey to the West.

Zhu Bajie had been, no pun intended, pigheaded, crass, and ornery. He seemed to be contrarian whenever he felt like it and relished in trying to get one over on Sun Wukong. Tang couldn’t deny the pig demon’s ability to rise to the occasion when the chips were down however. For as much trouble Zhu Bajie seemed to cause, he’d been invaluable a fair number of times as well.

Sha Wujing lived to fight. His rage and battle-lust had definitely caused their own share of problems. Other than that, the large river demon tended to be the quiet one of the group and didn’t open up until the latter half of their journey.

Tang wasn’t blind to his own faults though.

Tripitaka, (after some meditation, Tang had decided to refer to his past self as such to avoid confusion with the name Tang Sanzang), had not been ready for such a perilous adventure. He had been too trusting of strangers, too proud to believe Wukong’s warnings. It was his own incredible naivety and insistence that he knew better that had led to the vast majority of the dangers they had found themselves in.

It was hard to reconcile who the three of them had been with who they were today, but Tang supposed five hundred years would change most people.

Pigsy still had a gruff exterior, but his desire to start trouble had long since faded. His discovery of a love for cooking had unlocked a surprising work ethic within the pig demon as well as a silent form of affection that he treated any he cared for with.

Sandy had sought out a therapist and took anger management classes. His love for battle long since extinguished, the river demon now spent his time taking care of his cats, making tea, and being supportive of his friends.

Tang was certainly not naive to the ways of the world any longer. He still did his best to treat any strangers he met with kindness and respect, but he never fully believed anyone new to be trustworthy until they showed themselves to be. He always listened to the advice of his friends as well, knowing that he didn’t know everything and those around him might have insights he did not.

Tang placed his mug down and steepled his fingers together.

“We need to tell MK, Mei, and Wukong who we really are.”

“What?!” Pigsy's angry reaction hadn’t been unexpected. They had made an agreement some time back to not reveal themselves to anyone. It was less to do with having to deal with annoying fans and more with avoiding the painful memories their identities brought with them.

If it wasn’t for the fact he had been hopping through timelines and saw first hand how hiding things from people hurt them, Tang was certain he wouldn’t have been making this decision.

“I said we-”

“I heard what you said,” Pigsy interrupted. “No way! Nuh-uh! Not happening!”

“Now hold on brother,” Sandy soothed, placing a comforting hand on the chef’s shoulder. “Let’s hear him out first.”

“This better be good,” Pigsy grumbled and slouched back into his chair.

“Which do you think will go over better? Us being honest with them about our pasts, or them discovering the truth on their own?”

“They won’t find out if we’re careful about it,” Pigsy countered.

“They will find out,” Tang stated with absolute certainty. “Whether it’s the kids putting the pieces together themselves or Wukong recognizing us, there is no doubt that this isn’t going to stay a secret for long.”

Sandy seemed thoughtful but the pig demon simply huffed and crossed his arms stubbornly.

Tang stared directly into Pigsy’s defiant eyes. Looks like he’d have to pull out the big guns.

“How do you think MK will react once he finds out that we, that you, have been keeping something this important from him?”

With a sharp intake of air Pigsy froze, his expression changing from defiance to horror. He leaned over, placing his face in his hands and groaned.

“Oh god. He’d- he’d feel like I didn’t trust him. Like I didn’t care about him enough to tell him.” The chef seemed miserable at the thought as he looked up. “Okay, we can tell the kid. Mei too, I guess.”

Tang shared a glance with Sandy. Neither had missed the exclusion of Wukong from Pigsy’s concession.

(When did he stop being the Monkey King to Tang?)

“So, uh, will we tell big brother before or after we tell MK and Mei,” Sandy asked, eyeing the pig demon warily.

Like a switch had been flipped, Pigsy’s anger returned in full force, his face twisting into a hateful scowl.

“We ain’t telling that bastard nothing,” he snarled.

“Pigsy,” Tang scolded, shocked at the amount of venom in his voice.

“No! He doesn't deserve it! Not after letting us think he was dead-” Pigsy’s voice broke slightly as he continued his rant. “Not after avoiding us for five hundred years!”

Tang took a steadying breath and pushed down the irrational emotions and hurt that wanted to agree with Pigsy’s stance. He needed to be calm if he was to convince one of his oldest friends to go through with this.

“Assumptions, my dear friend, are very dangerous things,” Tang said.

“Huh?” Pigsy looked confused at the seeming change in subject. Good, that meant he was paying attention.

“We never found Wukong after he disappeared, so we assumed he was dead. We continued to assume such for five hundred years,” Tang began, speaking clearly and with emphasis to be sure he was understood. “We now know our assumptions were wrong. Now you are falling back into the same mistake.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“You are assuming that Wukong knew we were looking for him. You are assuming he hid from us intentionally. You are assuming that he knows we’re still alive.”

“Wait, what,” Sandy exclaimed. He had seemed to be following along with the conversation up until that point and now looked alarmed.

“How do we know Wukong didn’t fall into the same trap we have,” Tang explained. “That he didn’t just assume we were gone, either through death or reincarnation? With that assumption in mind, why would he ever think to go looking for us?”

There was a tense silence as Tang let his point sink in before finishing his argument.

“We can no longer assume things. That only leads to misunderstanding and hurt feelings. If we are to learn the truth we must actively look for it. To do that we must be honest with Wukong.”

Pigsy stared at him for a few moments before sagging and plopping down into his chair.

“I’m not drunk enough for this.”

Tang breathed a sigh of relief as Sandy chided their friend about drowning your feelings in alcohol. That was the first hurdle down.

Now for the hard part.

----------

In the end they decided to tell all three of them at the same time. Just to rip the whole band-aid off in one go so to speak.

It hadn't been too hard to convince MK to get Wukong to invite them to his island. He hadn’t welcomed them into his sanctum however, so they had a picnic on the shore near the waterfall curtain instead.

The food had been quickly forgotten once they began their explanation.

MK was upset at first at having the truth withheld from him, but some heartfelt reassurances and a teary hug from Pigsy had earned them his forgiveness. He bounced back rather quickly and immediately began launching questions excitedly at the trio.

Mei had simply accepted the revelation with great enthusiasm. She had pulled her phone and began live streaming a “Q&A WITH THE JOURNEY TO THE WEST CREW!!!”. So much for anonymity.

Tang gave an amused chuckle as the young adults pestered Pigsy and Sandy as he glanced at the uncharacteristically silent Wukong.

The Monkey King could have been carved from stone with how still he was, his expression frighteningly blank.

“Wukong?” Tang swallowed nervously as his first disciple turned to him with that empty look. “Do you want to say something?”

That had apparently been the wrong thing to ask.

“Do I want to say something? Do I want to say something?!” The empty stillness was immediately replaced with restless agitation as Wukong leapt to his feet and began to pace back and forth angrily. “Oh there are a lot of somethings I want to say to you three!”

“Hey Mei? Stop streaming for a bit,” MK said quietly as he pulled her a little ways away from the group. Tang would have been extremely proud of the emotional maturity the kid was showing, but he currently had a very pissed off monkey taking up most of his attention.

“How could you do this to me?! How could you even think of leaving me to be alone for five hundred years,” Wukong shouted at them, confusion and anger and hurt pouring from every word.

“Big brother, we-” Sandy tried.

“Don’t you ‘Big Brother’ me, Sha Wujing!” The way he spat out the name like a curse made the river demon flinch. “You all abandoned me! I thought I was never going to see any of you again! Yet here you all are!” Wukong clenched his fists as he glared at the three immortals. “WHERE WERE YOU?!”

“Where were we? Where were you,” Pigsy threw the question right back angrily. “We looked for you! For a century we searched! That’s more than what you can say!”

“And then when you got tired of it you gave up! You gave up on me!”

“WE THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!”

“I MIGHT AS WELL HAVE BEEN!”

The anger bled out from the air at that confession and Wukong seemed to crumble into himself. Pigsy looked stunned, Sandy was nervously wringing his hands, and Tang’s stomach was twisting itself into a painful knot.

“I was alone, Bajie. My brothers were gone and I was left by myself,” Wukong trembled as he hugged himself. Tang had never seen the proud warrior look so small before. “For centuries I had nothing but my memories and grief. Sometimes I wanted to be dead. Maybe then I’d see you again.” Wukong fell to his knees as he looked up at them with tears running down his face. “I missed you all so much.”

Tang felt his own tears falling as he rushed over to embrace Wukong who began to openly sob. Sandy and Pigsy soon joined in and the four of them simply held each other as they let their pain free.

“We’re so, so sorry Wukong,” Tang said. “I promise you we would have never hurt you like this intentionally.”

“I- I know,” Wukong hiccuped, clutching to the three of them tightly.

“We won’t ever leave you alone again big brother,” Sandy vowed.

“We’re stuck with each other from now on, no matter how much we may get on each other's nerves.” Pigsy’s joke earned a choked laugh from Wukong.

Two more pairs of arms entered into their group hug as MK and Mei joined them on the ground.

“Please don’t be sad Monkey King,” MK said. “You have Mei and I now too. You aren’t alone anymore.”

Wukong just began to cry a little harder and held on a bit tighter at that.

The six of them stayed like that for some time, holding each other up in silent support and comfort.

As they sat there, Tang was a little overwhelmed by how right it felt to be holding onto the others. Love burned in his chest as he enjoyed the warmth of being this close to his family.

Oh.

Oh.

They were his family, weren’t they?

That wasn’t just another assumption. These five, across any timeline, were family to him, and he would always care for them as such.

Any lingering doubts about being Tripitaka melted away. It didn’t really matter who he was or had been in the past. All that mattered was the real love he felt for these people that were precious to him.

As long as he had that, he could overcome anything else that came his way.

----------

You didn’t think I would write a Tang-centric fic and NOT have him be Tripitaka did you? It was inevitable honestly.

I'm not sure if I characterized Sha Wujing correctly here, but Sandy canonically went to anger management so I made some (hehe) assumptions.

Speaking of! Count how many assumptions are made in this chapter! There might be more than you think~

The story referenced in this chapter is Tang’s Time Adventure by Poddlebud. It’s a fun little romp with a unique ship. It’s a shame we didn’t get to see the conclusion played out here…

Until next time!

#Ink Writes #Monkie Kid #Scattered Cicadas #Tang #Tang Monkie KId #Tang Sanzang #Tripitaka #Pigsy #Zhu Bajie #Sandy #Sha Wujing #Sun Wukong #MK #Mei #Macaque #LEGO Monkie Kid

[bills-pokedex]

Crown Tundra: Part III

{Reminder: If you’re just here for headcanons, please blacklist powerverse!}

{For the rest of the story, be sure to check this blog’s crown tundra tag!}

Just before dawn, a blast of cold air jolted Bill awake. He sat up and stared into the darkness for a second, then looked to the only square of light in the room: the wide-open door. His heart jumped, and he reached down onto the bed next to him, only to find a very empty, very cold space where Lanette was supposed to be.

He was dressed in his snowsuit and out the same door barely five minutes later, with Foxglove by his side.

“Foxglove, scan the air for Lanette’s aura. Whatever happened, she can’t be far.”

He twisted around, scanning the town for any sign of his partner while biting off Old Johtonian curses. Nothing at his feet. No fresh footprints in the new snow. No bright flash of red hair in the graying dawn. How could that be? Was it—

At his side, he could feel the air shift, and in his head, he felt the pressure of Fox exerting his power. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the golden streak of Fox’s body whip through the air and head directly for the forest beyond the fence and statue. Bill bit back another Johtonian curse and gave chase into the trees.

It didn’t take long after that. The two of them came to a clearing, and there, Bill’s heart settled, both literally … and figuratively.

Lanette rested beneath a tree on the opposite side of the clearing. Her eyes were closed, and her glasses were missing, so she must have been taken. But at least whoever took her had the foresight to give her a coat and boots. Could’ve used enough foresight to give her pants beyond the flannel ones she had. Still, she was there and not broken and in a pool of blood, so … small blessings for the time being, Bill knew. He started forward, intending on swooping down to check on her, make sure she was okay, then gently carry her back to the cabin. But before he could cross the clearing, a force threw him back across the clearing, and he landed hard on his seat.

To be fair, he was never really all that great at immediate foresight.

Picking himself back up with a groan, Bill gazed straight ahead to see Fox already engaged in a battle of psychic blasts with a strange pokémon. He blinked, taking in the creature’s silhouette. Small. Thin limbs. Deer-like face. Large crown.

“The legendary!” he gasped. “Fox! Shadow Ball!”

Foxglove whipped his free hand back, and an orb of pure, inky darkness formed in his claws. He threw it forward, swinging it towards the head of the other pokémon, but it extended an arm beneath Fox’s and touched its chest with a green glow. Fox seized and writhed at the creature’s touch as a green light engulfed them both, and the Shadow Ball dissipated from its claws harmlessly.

“Fox,” Bill breathed. “Hold on!”

He leapt forward, first on his feet, and then with his wings as he slid from one form to the other. His claws burst into violet flame, and he swung, severing the connection between the pokémon and Fox. Forcing himself between them, he struck out with one Dragon Claw after another, driving the legendary back until they had space, and then, he reared back, fangs flashing with white light, before snapping down on the creature’s crown with a Crunch.

Barely a second later, the thing threw him across the clearing again with one more Psychic. He caught himself at the last second, righted his flygon body, and landed harmlessly on the snow with Fox flashing into existence by his side. The pokémon hung in the air across the clearing from them, rainbow embers of psychic energy flicking off its slender body. Bill and Fox waited for it, waited for something to happen.

And something did.

“Impressive.”

Bill looked to Lanette, who was standing at the edge of their makeshift battlefield, but he knew right away something wasn’t right. After all, it was hard not to notice, what with the blue aura surrounding her and the blue glow in her eyes. She pushed off the ground and floated forward, coming to a rest again next to the pokémon.

“I can understand you just fine without a medium,” Bill said. “Let her go. I don’t want to fight you.”

“I would rather not fight you either,” the creature said, through Lanette’s mouth. “My name is Calyrex, King of Bountiful Harvests. I saw what you did yesterday. Thank you for restoring my statue. No human has ever been so kind to or curious about me.”

Bill eased out of his fighting stance and glared at Calyrex in exasperation. “Are you ignoring me?”

“Not at all,” it replied. “I know you asked me to let your friend go. And I will. But first, I need to ask of you one more favor.”

“If you’re going to keep this up, maybe I should catch you and sort all this out later,” Bill muttered.

He closed his eyes and focused on pulling the dragonfire back, on reforming his body back to what it should have been … but neither moved. His eyes snapped open, and he looked down at his hands, willing them to change shape. Nothing.

“What?”

“Human,” Calyrex sighed. “Among my many powers is the ability to influence minds, as you can see with your friend. Though my power is greatly diminished, it is not so difficult a task to make you temporarily forget how to change form.”

A chill passed over Bill, both figurative … and literal this time. Slowly, he raised his head, then swallowed hard.

“Ah … w-what?” he stammered.

“Please. I beg of you.” Lanette’s body shifted forward, clasping her hands together. “Please help me.”

Bill shuddered as he stared deep into Lanette’s face. Then, he looked past her to the legendary.

“If I help you, you’ll let Lanette go? And let me change back?” he asked.

“Of course.”

Bill straightened. “Well … all right. I don’t know what I can do for a legendary of all things, but…” He trailed off right at the moment that it hit him that he was helping a legendary pokémon.

Oh blazes. What was he even doing? Oh, sure, working directly for a legendary was more than an honor. No one got chosen by a legendary but heroes, or those pure of heart, or exceptionally strong trainers, and here he was, actually about to accept a task from a legendary! But oh. Oh blazes no. What could it possibly be? Calyrex surely wouldn’t overestimate his power, right? Sure, he held his own in a battle against a legendary, but that was one legendary! He’d gotten lucky; he couldn’t possibly battle another.

Lanette’s face smiled, and through her voice, Calyrex said, “Long, long ago, the people of this tundra worshipped me as a god. They gave me offerings, and in return, I blessed their lands with my immense power. But as the years wore on, the offerings the people gave me grew leaner and leaner, until they’d stopped altogether—and with it, my power grew dimmer and dimmer too. Now, you see the last vestiges of my abilities: the control over one human … and the control over one set of memories. Thus, this is why I need you.”

Bill tensed. Here it was. He was about to be tasked with some monumental, sisyphean thing, a task he could never hope to accomplish. Maybe he would need to retrieve an offering fit for a god. Maybe he would need to restore a god’s power itself. Maybe he would—

“I need you to find out what the townspeople think of me.”

Bill blinked. “That’s … that’s it?”

Calyrex nodded. “Yes. Is there something wrong?”

“No! I just…” Bill rose to his full height again, this time with relief. “You couldn’t have come to a better person. I’m a researcher; finding things out about pokémon is what I do. Trust me—you’ll have everything you’ve ever wanted to know from their perspective by noon.”

Calyrex had Lanette’s expression light up, and she clapped her hands with joy, and Bill’s heart didn’t know whether to melt at the sight of Lanette’s happiness or to turn because he knew that wasn’t Lanette.

“Wonderful!” Calyrex exclaimed. “Then I will meet you here again when the sun reaches the top of the sky.”

And with that, Calyrex vanished, along with Lanette, leaving Bill and Fox standing in the clearing. One second ticked by. Then two. Then finally, Bill felt a presence in the back of his mind, followed by a voice he knew was Fox’s.

So how did you plan on questioning the townspeople when you’re stuck as a flygon?

Another second went by, and then Bill bit off one more Old Johtonian curse.

#crown tundra #askless #powerverse #pokefic #{I know somebody wanted to meet Bill #and at this point we could make it work #though fair warning: slow af still :')}

[sofya-fanfics]

Traveling

For Borusara Week 2019 Day 2 with the prompt : Traveling.

I’m sorry for the mistakes, English is not my mother tongue. I hope you like it.

@borusarafics

Disclaimer : Naruto and Boruto : Naruto Next Generations belong to Masashi Kishimoto, Ukyo Kodachi and Mikio Ikemoto.

Boruto looked at the landscape flashed past. The train had just left Konoha and accelerated towards Suna. The five Kage summit took place in a few days and he was accompanying Sarada, who was the new Hokage. He had kept his promise, he was with her and he would do anything to protect her. But he would have wanted that Sarada become Hokage in other circumstances. The war had ended a few months earlier and peace was still fragile. During this war, they had lost people they loved. Naruto had died in battle, protecting the village and trying to save the world. Boruto clenched his fist. He had not can save his father. He had not been strong enough and he had not been fast enough. He blamed himself because he could not do anything. He still had his mother, who was the shadow of her former self, and Himawari, who was inconsolable. He had to be strong for them.

He glanced at Sarada, who was focused on her paperwork. She had lost her parents during this war. Sasuke and Sakura had died in battle with Naruto. The legendary team 7 had fought until the last moment.

‘I'm alone in the world,’ Sarada had told him with sobs in her voice at her parents' funeral.

They had remained in each other's arms, trying to get some comfort. But Sarada was wrong. She was not alone. Even if she did not realize it, he was there and he would stay with her forever.

A few days after the end of the war, Sarada was named Hokage. This was not surprising, she had been Naruto's student and had been preparing for years. Since that day, she buried herself in her work, as if it was the only way for her not to sink. Konoha was in reconstruction. It was not easy, but thanks to Sarada’s work, the village gradually got its former glory back.

The regular movements of the train and the silence that prevailed in the car were almost relaxing. Boruto felt the tiredness overcome him. He tried to resist, but his eyes closed slowly until he fell asleep.

******

It was always the same nightmare. He was on the battlefield, the same day he saw his father die from the enemy hands. He went over this memories again and again and he could not do anything to save his father. In the distance he heard Sarada’s cries of despair, when she discovered her parents’ corpses.

‘Boruto.’

He turned around. Sarada was next to him and gently shook his arm.

‘Boruto, we have arrived.’

Boruto suddenly opened his eyes. He looked around and realized that he was not on the battlefield, but in the train. He got his breath back. Sarada was sitting next to him and was gently touching his arm. This simple gesture appeased Boruto.

‘You're okay ?’ Sarada asked.

Boruto smiled and nodded. It was useless to worry her because of his nightmares. They got off the train and were greeted by Kankuro who escorted them to the Kazekage office.

******

It was the end of the day. They still had another two days before returning to Konoha, Boruto thought as he lay on his bed. It was not his first time in Suna but he always struggled with the dry heat days and the cold and damp nights. Boruto was exhausted, but he did not want to fall asleep. He could not stand the same nightmare night after night. He did not want to see his father die anymore and he did not want to hear Sarada screamed anymore. He fell into a doze, but he tried to resist to not fall asleep. After a moment, he heard someone knock softly on his door. He wondered who it could be at this time of the night. He got up and opened the door. It saw Sarada, she looked undecided and was about to leave.

‘Sarada, are you okay ?’

‘I could not sleep and ...’

She looked away, ashamed.

‘I'm sorry, I should not have bothered you. I will go back to my room.’

‘No wait.’

He took her hand to prevent her from leaving.

‘You don’t bother me. You can come in if you want.’

Sarada nodded and Boruto let her in. He invited her to sit on his bed and he sat next to her. An awkward silence set in. Sarada burst out laughing, breaking the silence.

‘I feel stupid.’

Boruto laughed too. He felt exactly the same thing.

‘I understand. I also have sleep problems lately.’

Suddenly, the embarrassment they felt, vanished. It was as if they went back in time, before the war and its horrors, when they were still happy. They talked and laughed for hours. They did not realize they had fallen asleep.

******

Boruto slowly opened his eyes. He had not had any nightmares. It was the first time in months that he had slept so well. He turned to look at Sarada asleep in his arms. She seemed so peaceful. Boruto smiled. He felt good and did not want it to stop. He hugged her and went back to sleep. He awoke a few hours later and saw that Sarada was gone. He felt like a void inside of him.

******

The next two nights were the same. Sarada knocked at Boruto's door, who let her in, and they spent the night laughing and talking until they fell asleep. Little by little, Sarada and Boruto were smiling again. But when Sarada left, Boruto felt that void again. Their stay in Suna ended and they took the train back to Konoha. The atmosphere was different, relaxed and appeased.

A few days later, Boruto left the Hokage office to come home. It was very late at night, but he did not want to leave Sarada. She had to force him to go home so he could rest. Since they had returned to Konoha and Sarada was no longer sleeping next to him, the nightmares came back. Apparently, only Sarada could appease him.

‘Boruto ! What are you doing here at this time ?’

Boruto turned around and saw Shikadai.

‘I could ask you the same thing.’

‘I have just returned from a mission.’

Seeing Boruto's emotion, Shikadai told him to follow him. They both went to the statue of Naruto. Since the statues had been rebuilt, Boruto loved to go there. He had a feeling that his father was with him. Boruto sat down, while Shikadai laid down to look at the stars.

‘So,’ Shikadai said. ‘Are you going to tell me what's wrong ?’

‘Nothing important.’

Shikadai looked at Boruto.

‘Do you still have nightmares?’

‘Not really. It's just that...’

Boruto sighed loudly.

‘Something happened in Suna and ...’

He stopped talking. He could not explain what he felt. He did not understand it himself. What he was certain of, was that he wanted to be with Sarada.

‘It's about Sarada,’ Shikadai said.

Boruto looked at him, surprised.

‘It made sense,’ Shikadai added.

‘That's not what you think,’ Boruto said. ‘We only slept. But it’s only with her that I feel good and the nightmares stop.’

Boruto ruffled his hair nervously.

‘I don’t understand what's happening to me.’

Shikadai burst out laughing, which annoyed Boruto.

‘You're an idiot. No, in fact, you are two idiots. It's been years since everyone had noticed the feelings you have for each other. Except you and Sarada.’

‘It's ridiculous. We have known each other since forever. Sarada and I are just friends. I never had feelings for her.’

‘Are you sure ? Think about it.’

Boruto thought back to all the moments he had spent with Sarada. All these little moments shared. Good and bad. The fact that he needed her and she was the only one to make him smile. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he had always had feelings for Sarada. She was more than a friend. He loved her. But did she feel the same ? According to Shikadai, she did. Boruto stood up abruptly and ran toward the Hokage office. Shikadai smiled.

‘He finally understood.’

He returned to star gazing. Things were now in Boruto's hands.

******

Boruto ran as fast as possible, passing through the roofs to be even faster. He finally arrived at Sarada’s door. He knew she would be here, she almost lived in her office. He raised his hand to knock, but stopped. He could not get into her office like that and tell her he loved her. It was crazy. He did not have time to think more about it because the door opened and Sarada appeared in front of him.

‘Boruto, what's going on ?’

‘I need to talk to you.’

Sarada frowned at his serious look and let him in.

‘What do you want to talk to me about?’

‘It’s about what happened when we were in Suna.’

Sarada looked away, embarrassed. She hitched up her glasses, which slipped from her nose.

‘We only slept, that's all,’ she said.

‘I know. But now I see things differently. And I'm sure you do too.’

Sarada blushed and hitched up her glasses once again. She’s too stubborn, Boruto thought. She was not going to make things easy. But he had never let himself be discouraged, and it was not going to start now.

‘These past few months have not been easy,’ Boruto said. ‘For neither of us. It was the worst time of my life. But in Suna, when we were together, I was happy. It had been so long since I had felt that way. I realized that I only feel that with you. Always.’

Boruto stopped talking for a few seconds. He could not turn back the clock. He had to tell her.

‘I love you. I have always loved you.’

Sarada stared at him wide-eyed.

‘Boruto, I ... we can not.’

‘Why not ? I know you feel the same as me.’

Sarada closed her eyes and had to keep herself with all her strength for not to cry.

‘I lost the people I loved,’ she said. ‘If I lose you too, I will not be able to get over.’

‘So, for not suffering anymore, you prefer to make the both of us unhappy. It's selfish.’

This sentence had the effect to make Sarada react. She looked up at him, furiously.

‘How can you say that ! If you really know how I feel, then why don’t you want to understand !’

Boruto approached her and took her hands. Sarada tried to take them out, but finally let herself go. Boruto pulled her towards him and put her hands on his heart. Sarada could feel his heartbeat quicken.

‘I know it's scary,’ he said. ‘Believe me, at this moment, I am much more afraid than in any battle.’

Sarada smiled. Boruto smiled too. She was ready to open her heart.

‘When I'm not with you that I feel like I go out of my depth. And I don’t want to live without you.’

Boruto moved his lips close to hers and they kissed him. He expected her to push him away, but she did nothing and kissed him back. Boruto blamed himself for being so late to realize his feelings for her. But he would not make the same mistake again. He loved Sarada and he would spend the rest of his life with her.

The end

#borusaraweek19 #bsaweek19 #borusara #borusara fanfiction #boruto uzumaki #sarada uchiha #boruto: naruto next generation #fanfiction #naruto #My writing

[paladin-andric]

Breaking Point

This story’s a sequel to Joy and Ashes! Here, Jack and Zaphontilku, trapped in the cave, begin to feel a strain between them...

“Sing me another song.”

Zaphontilku lay on the ground, body curled around the human soldier. The white dragon’s head was resting on the floor, staring ahead into the magical barrier preventing their escape.

Jack meanwhile, sat with his back against the dragon, looking off to the side. He had discarded most of his equipment for the moment, seeing as he didn’t need it and wanted to remain comfortable. His jacket, vest, backpack, flashlight, firearms and helmet were on the ground near the barrier. He wore only his boots, pants and a white t-shirt.

It had been a few weeks since the human arrived. One Jack Lincoln, a private in the Geralthin National Guard. He had been on patrol when he noticed a magical barrier at the mouth of a cavern fade away. Not a moment after he stepped inside did the barrier come back, trapping him inside. This alone would have been cause for alarm.

The fact that he entered deeper into the cave and found a dragon awaiting him, however…

He was sure he was dead, or had been captured for nefarious ends. When the dragon spoke however, he found even the beast of legend had no idea what had happened, and did not manipulate the barrier to draw him inside.

The pair theorized that the magic that had been used to raise the barrier centuries ago was fading, and so the barrier, for a moment, failed.

It would be quite a while longer before the barrier fell apart, however.

In the year 1815, exactly two hundred years ago, dragons waged war on humanity. They were through with being ordered about, told where they could go and what they were allowed to do. They wanted a return to the ancient pre-human Geralthin, where dragons soared through the skies, allowed to journey through the lands at their discretion, and beholden to no law.

The advent of artillery, accurate, powerful firearms and professional, organized military structures and systems however meant this war turned out much differently than it would have before the industrial revolution.

The dragons were brought to the brink of annihilation, and those that weren’t destroyed either retreated across the border to other nations, hid in the deepest depths of the wilds, or capitulated to Geralthin, obeying whatever demands were placed on them for survival.

Zaphontilku’s father had prepared this cave, warded with the most power magic either the human or dragon had seen, to protect his son from the humans. He had placed a ward not only upon the entrance, but the walls and ground in the cave.

He knew Zaphontilku would grow bored and try to leave, and that the humans outside would destroy him when he did...so he made sure his son would be trapped inside. For his own safety.

It was done out of love, but Zaphontilku grew miserable during his stay. An empty, silent cave of nothingness for centuries...the dragon began to crave death, and nearly went mad.

That changed when the human arrived.

At first the dragon was furious. Even here, in a hole of endless misery, no trouble to the outside world, they STILL never stopped hunting them after an eternity, the dragons not allowed to live even in prisons?!

When it became clear this was an accident, the dragon’s mood softened...and then flipped completely when the soldier mentioned the army would likely start searching for him, and then break him out when they found him.

For once in his life since he arrived to the cave, Zaphontilku felt hope. His torment was nearly over. Soon, he would be outside. Soon, he would feel the breeze of the Geralthin winds, see the verdant greens of the grass and trees, and bathe in the glorious sun under the blue skies.

In the meantime, his stay here was so much more bearable. Instead of being trapped in a bubble, nothing to offer any reprieve from the endless boredom and misery, he now had a companion. The soldier told him everything he had missed, all of the history that had unfolded while he wasted away in the cave. He explained all the new technology and how it worked, using his kevlar body armor, assault rifle and flashlight as examples.

He told the dragon of his home, his family. His time in the army, and all that he had learned. Most of all however, he sang.

The dragon seemed to have an inordinate fascination with music, and demanded to hear every song the soldier could remember. From rock music from the soldier’s favorite albums to army marching songs, he lusted after them all. Perhaps after an eternity of oppressive silence, the sound of sweet melodies soothed the wounded beast?

“Sure. What do you want to hear?”

“Hmm...something new.”

“I’m afraid I’m out.”

The dragon’s face scrunched up. “Out? What do you mean out?”

“I mean...I’ve already sang all the songs I know.”

“What?!”

“Mhm.”

The soldier was sitting down, leaning against the scaled side of the dragon curled around him. An unnatural light shone from above. Zaphontilku, being well versed in magic, conjured artificial light so that the human could see in the pitch black cave, allowing him to save the batteries in his flashlight, which really wouldn’t have lasted as long as he had stayed so far.

“That cannot be true...you must know something, anything…”

“No…”

“Aha!” Zaphontilku cried, “You are lying!”

“No I’m not! What are you talking about?!”

“I can tell from the quiver in your voice. You are hiding something.”

He was right. Jack did know another song.

“Well?” the dragon continued, “Go on. Tell me the truth.”

Jack frowned. “I...I don’t think I should sing it.”

“What?! I want to hear it! Sing to me, break this deafening silence for me, you said you would!”

“I will, and I have,” the soldier said defensively, “But...this song...I don’t think you’d like it.”

“I do not CARE what you think!” Zaphontilku cried, “Begin singing!”

“I’m warning you…”

“And I am warning YOU!” the dragon returned aggressively, “Now BEGIN!”

The soldier’s eyes narrowed. This was lose-lose, but if he wanted it so badly…

“Fine. I warned you. This is a song from the army...from the war. THAT war.”

The white dragon’s eyes widened, but before he could backpedal on his demands, the soldier began.

“To save our motherland from any monstrous attack,

From vicious giant dragons who have once again come back,

We’ll unleash all our forces, we won’t cut them any slack,

The GDF deploys!”

Zaphontilku swallowed hard, concern written on his face. “You may stop now…”

“Our soldiers are prepared for any draconic threat,

The people volunteer, the army pays their debt,

Even the half-kind joined us, this we never will forget,

The GDF deploys!”

The dragon looked hurt now. “Stop…”

“The dragons have now dwindled and they fall back to regroup,

Our forces have multiplied and formed a massive group,

It’s time to beat these beasts, let’s crush them all in one fell swoop,

The GDF deploys!”

Zaphontilku looked mortified. What could he do? He demanded this, and now…

“Our friends were all killed yesterday as were our families,

At Lannis they did butcher and commit atrocities,

That’s why we’ll never stop the fight, despite our casualties,

The GDF deploys!

Last week my brother died, next day my mother fell,

If you’re defenseless they’ll not pause, on that we must now dwell,

We’ll never stop fighting until they all burn in hell,

The GDF deploys!”

Zaphontilku whispered quietly. “Please...no more…”

Jack glared as he continued.

“A legendary hero soon will lead us to glory,

A thousand years ago she saved us all, that’s history,

Tomorrow we will follow fair Gira to victory,

The GDF deploys!

The GDF deploys!”

There was a lengthy, awkward silence before the soldier looked up and spoke.

“Did you like it?”

Zaphontilku whimpered in response.

The pair had grown closer to each other during their stay, but Zaphontilku had continuously belittled and insulted the human. He had grown tired of it, even though he had the suspicion it was just for show.

The dragon’s eyes were wide as he turned his head towards the soldier. “...why? Why did you…?”

“When I tell you something’s a bad idea, I’m telling you for a reason. We could have avoided all of this, if only you took me seriously.”

“But...I only…”

“You’ve been calling me frail, pathetic, stupid, infantile, uncouth, barbaric and dull since I arrived! I’m sick of it. Either you get it together or I spend the rest of this stay way down there, and we never speak again.”

The soldier pointed away from the barrier, down to the deeper section of the cave where the dragon had spend the last two centuries.

Zaphontilku looked conflicted. “I do not mean...I only speak the truth. I am powerful. I am mighty. I am a dragon...but I am also benevolent guardian. I offer my protection to the lesser races…”

Jack scoffed. “We’re the ones ruling the world, and you’re the ones hiding in caves...remind me who’s lesser, again?”

Zaphontilku’s expression fell between that of sorrow and fury. “H-how...DARE you! I...am the great Zaphontilku! I have so graciously offered you refuge in MY domain, fed you, and assisted you whenever you asked...and this is how you repay my mercy and kindness?!”

The soldier looked ready to snap. “What is it, you wanna kill me?! You want that?!”

“W-what?! No!”

“Than WHAT do you want, damn you?!”

“I...I only…” Zaphontilku looked away, feeling a palpable degree of shame. “...wish for some respect.”

“If you want to get respect, you need to give it.”

“I have suffered misery yet unknown by any other for an eternity...have I not given enough?”

“You’re alive.”

Zaphontilku narrowed his eyes. “No...this is untrue.”

Jack’s brows raised. “Huh?”

Zaphontilku moved his body, whirling around to face the human.

“I have been dead for two hundred years.”

The soldier groaned. “God, Zap, get it together! You’re about to be free, and all you can do is complain! Stop crying!”

“How do you even know?! What if they never find us here?! What if you are trapped with me for the rest of your life?!”

“Well then...I’ll just shoot myself, I guess.”

Jack’s snarl vanished, replaced a forlorn look of grim acceptance. He turned away.

“At least I’d be out of your hair then, right?”

The dragon’s head whipped about in a wild shake. “No...no, I do not wish for your death. I do not think you a nuisance…”

“Could've fooled me.”

The dragon’s confidence seemed to surge again, if only for a moment.

“I do not need you...I do not need anyone...I welcomed you in my infinite benevolence...I offered you my company in my unending kindness...I am the great Zaphontilku…”

“And the ‘Great Zaphontilku’ has spent his life wasting away in a hole, forgotten by all living things. He can continue to do so, if he so wishes...”

The dragon growled, claws scraping at the stone beneath him. “You...WILL APOLOGIZE FOR YOUR CRIMES AGAINST ME!”

The cavern shook with the force of his roared demand. Jack shook his head.

“Do your worst. You’ll doom yourself to a fate far beyond what can happen to me.”

“I can trap you here too!”

“For fifty years or so, till I die. You, though...ha! Two hundred years! Zap, if I don’t get you out of here...that’ll just be a warmup. Thousands of years, Zap. Millennia of an empty cave of nothingness, wasting away in madness and despair until you finally whither up and die, without anyone in the world even knowing you existed.”

The dragon seemed to freeze up. His eyes shot open wide, and he took a sharp, deep breath.

Thankfully, it seemed he forgot about the weakening barrier…

“If I die, you die a hundred times over. Is that what you want?”

“I never said I wanted you to be hurt…”

“I told you already. I can walk away. The search parties will never find me. I can do it.”

The white dragon trembled before roaring out in frustration.

“Jack...JACK! I thought…I thought we were...friends.”

The soldier crossed his arms. “So did I...but friends respect each other, don’t they? When you said it wasn’t my mom’s fault she was a ‘human imbecile’...Zap, I told you already. No one talks about about my family like that.”

“I did not mean it in that way…”

“Well, that’s the way I took it. You need to start treating me like an equal.”

The dragon’s head reeled back in shock. “What?! B-but you are...a human!”

“And why does that matter?!”

“Hmph! You are small and frail things! You are foolish if you think yourselves equals to our kind! I may respect that you are above other humans, but you still lack the might of the great and powerful dragons! It is my duty to guide and protect you, as the superior!”

“I’m not your damn pet, jackass!” the soldier screamed, “I’m the one who gets to decide whether you go free or not! So do me a favor. Take a nice, hard think over what you say next...and decide how you want this to go down.”

Zaphontilku’s face dropped. “You...you would not do such a thing...surely this is a bluff…”

“Try me.”

The dragon’s teeth bared as he cringed away from the man. “I thought I was...helping...I thought you would appreciate my assistance and guidance...why…? Why do you...hate me so? I have absolved you of the sins your people have committed against me, of all I had to endure because of you, and now...you say you are the one who is being wronged?”

“I don’t hate you, Zap. I just think you’re a bonehead. Even when someone who doesn’t really have a reason to help you outside of just being nice offers to rescue you, when someone holds the fate of your life in their hands...you call them stupid, beneath you, lesser. I don’t need this. I don’t have to do any of this. I’m helping you because you said you were my friend...so why don’t you start acting like one?”

The dragon shook his head. This was crazy! He’d been nothing but kind and accommodating for this silly little thing, and he had the nerve to think the two of them were equals?! This was the same arrogance of those humans that thought they had any rights over dragonkind and their activities!

That being said...Jack wasn’t lying. He DID hold the keys to freedom. He DID have the fate of Zaphontilku in his hands. He COULD refuse to cooperate and hide away from the barrier, dooming both of them to a lifetime of misery...and Zaphontilku had the sneaking suspicion the human was actually crazy enough to go through with it.

Freedom, joy, and life...at any cost.

The white dragon lowered his head, eyes cast to the ground. “I apologize...you are correct. You have been correct since you arrived. All you have done is bring me hope and joy in the past weeks. All you have offered is your aid to my quandary. I beg your forgiveness, Jack...my friend.”

For a moment, there was silence. The howling winds were all the two could picked up as they stared at one another. Slowly, Jack smiled.

“Ah, Zap, I-”

“Hey!”

A third voice made both of them freeze in place. The voice was that of another man, a human.

But that was impossible.

“This is the army! Is anyone there?!”

They were here! Jack quickly turned to Zaphontilku, voice a whisper.

“Hide!”

“What?! Why?!” the dragon retorted in his own low whisper.

“Just do it! And snuff out the magic lights!”

“Who’s there?! Answer me!”

Jack looked to the barrier and then back to the dragon. “Just trust me! Please!”

Zaphontilku was silent for a moment before he slowly backed away, moving around the bend in the cave and out of sight from the barrier. As he did so, the glowing orbs in the air fade.

Jack let out a sigh of relief before he called out. “Hey! Over here!”

“Identify yourself!” someone called back, voice stern.

“Private Lincoln, National Guard!”

Heavy bootstomps rang out from around the corner until they reached the barrier at last, and when they did…

A group of six soldiers ran up to the barrier. They were all wearing similar uniforms to Jack, but they wore digital camouflage instead of the woodland pattern Jack did. In addition, they had their shirts, vests, helmets and belt gear on, while Jack had left those lying near the barrier.

He noted that four of the soldiers were human, while one was a koutu and another was a dacuni.

They aimed their rifles ahead, which had flashlights taped onto them. The shining lights nearly blinded the man, and he reflexively winced and held a hand in front of his eyes.

“You’re Jack?” one of the human soldiers asked, peering through the waving magical fog.

“Yeah.”

The group looked at one another before turning back to him.

“What the hell is this? What happened?”

Jack shrugged, remaining in his sitting position. “Not a damn clue. I was on patrol when I found this cave. Saw the barrier and got curious. It disappeared when I got close so I took a peek inside...then it went back up behind me. I’ve been trapped since.”

“God...how the hell are you still alive?”

“Drank out of a few puddles of water, ate moss, mushrooms...the usual.”

“Well, you’re damn lucky we found you,” the dacuni wolfman said, “Who knows when the next search party would have checked this place out?”

One of the humans put his hand to his chest, flicking at his radio. “TOC, this is Lancer Team. We found Jack Lincoln. He’s alive and well, over.”

The radio came to life with a burst of static. “Copy, Lancer Team. Good work. Bring him in.”

The man operating the radio pause. “...not possible, TOC. He’s, uhh...there’s been a complication.”

“...can you elaborate, Lancer Team?”

…

“Copy that. Forwarding the situation to Command now.”

The radio man sighed as he clicked a button and shook his head. “Nothing’s ever simple.”

“Whatever,” the koutu said with a shrug, “It’s out of our hands now. Let the magic boys deal with this.”

“Alright Jack, just sit tight and wait for the rescue, alright?”

He laughed. “Not much else I can do, is there?”

“Yup. At least everything’s gonna be alright. You lucked out, man. Between the busted radio and us wandering by…”

“Yeah, thanks. I owe you. If we meet again once I’m out of here, I’ll buy you all a round of drinks, how’s that?”

“It’s a deal!” the wolfman cried, a few of them breaking into laughter. As the laughter died down however, one of the soldiers turned to Jack, face warping into one of suspicion.

“By the way, Lincoln...when we were approaching, we heard talking.”

The trapped soldier’s smile quickly turned into a frown.

“...what was that all about, huh?”

Jack quickly found a lie to run with. “Err, well...I haven’t been using my flashlight. Just been feeling around in the dark, saving it for an emergency, you know? I tripped ‘cause I couldn’t see. Fucked up my ankle pretty bad. Started cursing.”

The soldiers were quiet before the other man nodded. “Ah. That sucks. Don’t worry, Lincoln, just sit back and rest up. Help’s on the way.”

The soldiers left to report their findings in person, Jack promising them that everything was fine at the moment, and even if they wanted to stay, they couldn’t do anything with the barrier there anyway.

A few minutes after they walked off, Zaphontilku stomped around the corner, magical orbs flashing back into existence and lighting up the cavern again.

“I see now why you wished for me to go into hiding. Clever, human…”

“No telling if they would have let me to rot if they knew they’d be busting out a dragon too.”

“I wonder...what is the next step? What will our approach be when they break us free?”

The soldier shrugged. “Dunno. Came up with this on the fly. I doubt you’ll be able to sneak out, though, they’ll probably sweep the cave. I think...we’ll just need to explain then and there.”

The dragon rumbled deeply as he thought that over. What if they tried to kill him? With freedom and joy just behind them, striking him down before he could finally live a happy life again…

“...we shall see. If you wish to know the truth, however, I am...worried.”

“I’ve got your back. I won’t let em’ do anything stupid.”

The dragon slowly smiled. “...thank you.”

“Hey, Zap...let’s forget about that little spat earlier, yeah? Friends?”

The white dragon frowned, eyes boring into the soldier. “...no.”

Jack was about to protest when the behemoth continued.

“...let us NOT forget. You were correct. I shall...try to keep your feelings in mind in the future.”

Jack looked genuinely surprised at that. His expression changed into one of relief as the dragon grinned and leaned forward.

“...friends.”

Tag list: @thereisnothingwrongwithbeingmad, @lady-redshield-writes, @paper-shield-and-wooden-sword, @sheralynnramsey, @tawnywrites, @writer-on-time, @oceanwriter, @zwergis-spilledink, @fluffpiggy, @elliewritesfantasy, @homesteadhorner,  @laurenwastestimewriting, @elaynab-writing, @the-ichor-of-ruination, @candy687, @fierywords, @shewrites-sometimes 

[terresdebrumestories]

With what we have

✗ TECHNICAL DETAILS

FANDOM: Voltron: Legendary defenders RATING: Teen & Up WORDCOUNT: 14 823 words PAIRING(S): - CHARACTER(S): Takashi Shirogane, Keith Kogane, Lance McClain, Hunk Garett, Pidge Gunderson/Katie Holt, Allura, Coran, Ulaz. GENRE: Character exploration. TRIGGER WARNING(S): Canon level discussions of genocide, war and violence. Shiro comes close to a panic attack at one point, but the rest is more hinted at than outright described. SUMMARY: In which Ulaz doesn’t die, and some conversations happen sooner than they would have as a result. NOTE: I This fic takes place right after the end of Shiro’s escape. Everything up to that point happened the same as in canon, except for the bit where the Blade of Marmora uses code names because really, it’s basic spy stuff.

“He’s...gone.”

The words ring hollow in Shiro’s chest, purple void tugging at his ribs a little harder with every heartbeat, and it takes effort to stay upright even as the reality of the loss strikes him at the knees. Doc wasn’t much: he didn’t have all the answers or a ready-made solution for the team’s troubles, but he was something. If nothing else, he was a spark of hope, and that alone is hard to lose.

Behind him, Shiro hears Keith’s jacket creak as he shuffles from one foot to the other, and the wish to turn around and reassure the kid burns like fire against his spine. Shiro wants to smile and say he’ll be fine, to go back to his team and be the leader they need. He wants to tell them all he trusts Coran and Allura’s judgment and mean it.

Then again, he also wants his right arm back and his hair black and his face scar free.

“I’m sorry we doubted him,” Keith manages at last, the catch in his voice almost unbearable in its vulnerability, “he saved all our lives.”

The hole in the xanthorium cluster is still here. It floats by at a lazy pace, tearing into Shiro’s hopes like a knife in paper and bringing the red and purple light of Galra ships into the edge of his vision. Even the Galra hand hangs at his side, limp, heavy and useless. There are shards of glass in his throat when he swallows.

“I still have so many questions….”

Galra machinery is too precise to click as the fingers curl into a fist. He pretends he can hear it anyway, the sound easier to deal with than a pained yelp, a gasp, and the hiss of terror in his own voice as he tries to get one last word in, fingers digging into his shoulders—

“Do you think Zarkon is really tracking us?”

Shiro blinks the world back into focus just as the translator on his left ear beeps to announce one of the Alteans is about to speak.

“We cannot know for sure,” Allura says as she walks up to her spot at the helm of the ship, “only ‘Doc’ knew our whereabouts.”

Shiro turns too fast to remember moving. His left palm hurts.

“You don’t really think he gave us up? After he sacrificed himself?”

“Yeah,” Keith adds, “Maybe Zarkon found this place on his own. He’s probably been searching for the Blade of Marmora.”

Shiro glances at the set of Keith’s shoulders, the rigidity of his stance where he planted himself between him and Allura, and he wishes he could feel grateful for it. Instead of that, he’s almost swept off his feet by the urge to leave, lock himself in his room and forget everyone exists for a moment...just the one. Just a minute where there are no Lions of Voltron, no Paladins, no friends of his going through who knows what kind of horrors in the darkest recesses of the universe.

That would help, maybe, and he’s on the verge of giving up on this argument and call it quits when Allura steps into her pod, face set, and says:

“It’s clear the loss of this ‘Doc’ has caused you great concern but—”

“He’s still alive!” Pidge’s voice bursts through the emergency speakers.

Somewhere, very far in the back of his mind, Shiro thinks he hears Coran protest against tinkering with the emergency communication lines. There’s an air of shocked surprise around him, too, but he’s in the corridors before he can process it in full, helmet slipping in place with the ease of practice.

“I’m on my way to the Black Lion,” he announces, echoes of his voice bouncing back at him through the empty halls, “send me what you’ve got.”

“You got it,” Pidge says with a familiar shiver in her tone, “he must have found a way to delay the space pocket and evacuated his ship—his readings are really weak, Shiro.”

“Just make sure there’s a recovery tank and a stretcher ready when I come back, I’ll take care of the rest.”

Getting Doc back in the castle takes a thousand years and no time at all. One second Shiro’s in the elevator to get Black, the next he’s watching the recovery tank close over Doc’s prone form and trying not to remember the sound of a body folding metal.

After that, there’s nothing left to do but wait.

***

For three days, Shiro moves from one place to the other with no memory of walking. He must keep up with his chores, somehow, because no one complains about late laundry and there’s no trace of settling dust over the Black Lion, but there’s no memory to it, no real sensation of having done any of it. Chores vanish into thin air with a faint smell of detergent and meals pass by in the blink of an eye, leaving a vague aftertaste of goo and not much else.

The rest of it leaves his memory without a trace, the same way his year in the Galra empire left him with nothing but phantom pains in his right arm and a purple haze to light the shapeless terrors of his nights. There are flashes, sometimes. Pidge, sitting next to him, talking...about her family, maybe. Coran fretting over the tank, Hunk with a plate of food. Keith, quiet and worried somewhere nearby. Lance, as far as Shiro can retain the memory, stays silent.

Allura remains in Command and the associated level.

Shiro, he’s fairly sure, doesn’t look for her.

***

Shiro’s translator beeps off and back on again with grating regularity, struggling to keep up with Pidge and Coran’s rapid-fire debate over the recovery tank, like the two of them are so in sync they don’t even need to rely on actual language anymore. It’s probably a good thing, in itself, because the translators may have done a wonderful job of picking up English in the past few months but there are still times when they’re not quite up to par with actually learning a language.

There are times when Shiro’s fizzles out entirely, stumbling over a word no one’s used in English yet, and he has to ask for clarifications until he can make an educated guess on the missing item. Those are the easy gaps. Other times, it’s a problem in concept: an object or an unspoken space rule science-fiction didn’t prepare the Terrans for, and then they have to sit around the table and talk around if for hours on end before they can decide which English words to mash together and wrestle into something entirely new.

(Shiro suspects Coran and Allura have the same difficulties, sometimes, but at least there’s only two of them. The debates are probably less heated in their linguistic corner.)

And of course, there’s no preventing those moments when both party hear the same words but don’t quite give them the same meaning. It’s not an exclusive feature of Altean-Terran communication, really, the difficulties they’ve all had in getting used to one another’s habits is proof enough of that, but the difference in language doesn’t help any of it, and they’ve had more than one close call where Shiro found himself smoothing down far more feathers than he’d ever have anticipated.

All of that in a group explicitly made of friend and allies. What’s it going to be like once Doc walks among them? It’s not like Shiro will be in much of a state to help anyone wind down, after all, and at least one member of Team Voltron is pretty dead set in hating the man no matter what. If he can’t find a way to keep things down somehow….

“You know it’s gonna be fine, right?”

Shiro doesn’t jump at Hunk’s words, but it’s a close call. For someone his size, the kid can certainly move unnoticed which, really, should teach Shiro a lesson about his expectations of fat people and their physical abilities. Right now though, he tries to focus on Hunk’s sympathetic smile over the sound of Coran’s clicking Altean and the occasional burst of Pidge’s colorful Italian vocabulary.

“I know,” he tells Hunk, even though it’s more of a hope than a certitude, “but I’d like to try and avoid the bumps in the road, and I don’t know if that’s going to be possible.”

Hunk taps at his translator with a definite air of commiseration, and Shiro swallows around the worried grimace he wishes he could share with someone. He doesn’t have a problem with the team per se. They’re all driven, well-meaning, and disciplined enough to rally together when the time calls for it...it’s just that, with Coran’s exception, they’re also all teenagers, with Allura’s nineteen years making her the oldest one.

Sometimes it’s hard not to miss the company of Terran adults, especially when the ones Shiro needs to see the most are currently painfully unavailable.

“If it makes anything better,” Hunk offers with a contrite expression, “you know you’ve got at least three of us on your side.”

“Three?”

Pidge and Keith will definitely try and welcome Doc into the ranks, Shiro has no doubt of that. He’s their best lead to Matt and Samuel’s whereabouts, and Keith has already said he regretted doubting the man. Shiro isn’t nearly modest enough to pretend it has nothing to do with Keith’s intense brand of loyalty, but it still means he’ll make effort and that, in itself, is a relief.

Hunk’s support, while appreciated, is more of a surprise.

“Allura hates his guts,” Hunk elaborates with an uncomfortable shrug, “I get why but I’m not sure it’ll help making the cohabitation easier. I’m not promising to be like, buddy-buddies with him, but I’ll be polite, at least. I just hope the translators have enough vocabulary to understand things that aren’t mostly war-related.”

“Oh, don’t you worry your little mind, Number Four!” Coran pipes up as the healing tank beeps to announce the end of a cycle, “if it comes down to it, words won’t be necessary to get informations out of him.”

“Hey, are you talking about sticking him in a pod to steal his memories?” Lance asks from where he’s sitting nearby. “‘Cause the last time we tried that I almost got vented out the airlock!”

“An inconvenient development,” Coran concedes with a nod, “but Number Five and I have since rearranged the pods in a closed circuits, we’ll just have to scan for viruses and—”

“No one is getting in a memory pod,” Shiro interrupts through the roar of blood in his ears and the rushing of his heart, “Doc cooperated with us up until now. If there’s a misunderstanding we’ll solve it.”

They should never have done it in the first place. There are many things to say about tearing information directly out of somebody’s brain and none of them are pretty. Matt, if he’d been here, would have had a lot of Italian for them when they suggested the idea, and Matt’s Italian generally doesn’t come out for nice things.

Plus, if Shiro never sees anyone sent out to a slow, suffocating death because he was too weak not to freak out again, it’ll be too soon. No pod is most definitely a better idea.

“Alright,” Coran agrees, surprising the rest of them with his easy shrug.

He’s about to say something else, Shiro thinks, when the healing tank finally swishes open. The Galra hand’s fingertips click against its palm when they move too fast and, to Shiro’s right, a quiet shuffle of boots signals Allura’s presence with more impact than a shout would.

He doesn’t feel guilty enough about feeding the distance in their rank not to put himself between her and a slowly blinking Galra, just in case.

Doc’s confused frown doesn’t even last a second, if that, but it’s more than enough for Shiro’s heart rate to pick up and a sheen of sweat break out all over his body. Shiro steels his spine against the urge to flee and makes himself look the man in the eyes, greet him with as even a voice as he can possibly manage.

“I must confess,” Doc breathes out as he takes his tank-appropriate garments in, “I did not actually expect to wake up.”

The silk soft tones of Galra drift through the air and into Shiro’s ear, weaving themselves in the more familiar mechanics of the translator’s artificial words. It brushes against his soul like spider net in the middle of the woods, catches him by surprise and makes Shiro wish he could just stuff his ears and be done with it, but he can’t.

He and Pidge are the only ones who actively want Doc in the ranks, and it wouldn’t do for a leader to leave at that delicate a time anyway. Besides, as bad as it may sound, he doesn’t really trust Coran to herd a group of teenagers on the right path...meaning he’s stuck here, making conversation.

Oh well. It’s hardly the first time he does something he’d rather not be doing.

He waits until Doc accepts a spare translator from Pidge and fits it over his left ear with a dubious expression before he says:

“In all honesty, we weren’t sure you’d wake up either, but Pidge and Coran can work miracles with the tanks.”

“Well, I’d give my life for our cause any day, but I can’t say I am disappointed to live longer.”

Behind him, Shiro feels Allura tense at the words, and he thanks the princess’ diplomatic training for her silence even as he hurries to steer Doc toward the room their prepared for him.

It’s under surveillance, it’s true. Allura insisted on it and Coran, as usual, took her side without question. Aside from that, though, it’s mostly the same as the Paladins’: a bed and a wardrobe to the left, a desk and a wide bookshelf to the right. Shiro has no idea who got the three parchment rolls out of the library, but he’s glad for it. At least someone made a bit of an effort.

“My room’s next door,” he tells Doc once the man’s had time to take the space in, “in case you need anything. Or you can ask the others, of course, we’re all—”

“Not to sound ungrateful,” Doc interrupts with a small smirk, “but it seems to me like ‘all’ isn’t quite the right word here.”

Shiro’s lips pinch together out of reflex more than anything else, but Doc doesn’t seem to mind too much. It’s a good thing, too, because Shiro may disapprove of Allura’s attitude but she’s his teammate and his leader. If he’s forced to chose between her and Doc, he know where his loyalties lie.

There’s a short pause, and then Doc asks:

“Does my voice bother you?”

Shiro blinks, flinches in a way that doesn’t have enough to do with surprise for his taste, and stands there without quite knowing what to say.

“It seems to me like it does.”

It takes effort not to step back when Doc steps forward with an appraising gaze, the Galra hand twitching into a defensive posture before Shiro realizes what’s going on. To the left, his own arm seems mostly lifeless, and there are razor blade in his throat when he manages:

“It’s not you, it’s—the words.”

They glide out of Doc’s mouth like water, trickling down Shiro’s spine no matter how hard he tries not to hear them. They’re softer than any language he knows, full of vowels and wind-like whispers, and they settle over his heart like poison, always a beat ahead of the translators’ droning tones.

Of all the things he’s forgotten in the past year-and-some, this is is the part he dreads the most.

“Of course,” Doc replies, lowering his voice like it’s going to help with Shiro’s problem, “I assumed your crew had removed it, but I suppose they don’t know enough about your anatomy to operate safely.”

Somehow, Shiro manages to blink through the ice in his veins.

“What do you mean? What’s there to remove?”

Doc frowns again, the movement enough to make the Galra hand twitch, but it’s gone just as soon and he doesn’t sound disturbed at all when he says:

“Zarkon’s empire cares little for those who do not speak Daibazeel, and new slaves are generally fitted with neuronal implants that allows them to bypass the learning phase. You had no difficulty using the language when we first met.”

There must be some kind of airlock in Shiro’s lungs, a trap of some kind that’s stuck open because between one second and the next it’s like he can’t get enough oxygen inside, blood withdrawing from his fingers until they tingle, and it takes Doc’s hand between his shoulder blades for him to realize he’s bent over and seconds away from feeling sick.

“Deep breathing,” Doc reminds him, “it’ll come back, just keep breathing.”

There’s nothing to do but comply here, and at least the early attention makes it easier for Shiro to get back into a normal breathing, but the attack still leaves him as worn out as an intense marathon session, with far more questions floating in his head than before. Zarkon’s doctors took his arm and tinkered with his brain, what else did they do? It’s not like ethics stop them—what if Shiro lost even more of himself than he thought? What if he’s condemned to spend the rest of his life finding new things to miss, new reasons to mourn and—

“Shiro, you are panicking again,” Doc warns.

Shiro squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to remember the breathing exercises he learned from Sam. ‘Just because you don’t see the problem about flying in a sardine box doesn’t mean they can’t be useful to you one day’ he said when he first suggested sharing his knowledge. Ha. If they’d only known.

“I’m fine,” he says once he’s done and back in control of his own body. Then, because Doc doesn’t seem convinced: “I’m functional. Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it. I wasn’t too happy about the implant either, and the Blade had warned me about it.”

“Wait,” Shiro starts, latching on the new topic like his life depends on it, “you mean you were in contact with the Blade of Marmora before you joined Zarkon’s army?”

“Of course. Nothing else could have gotten me to work for that man otherwise.”

A moment passes where Shiro tries to reconcile what he just learned with his image of Galras...it’s not an easy feat. Allura is more open and aggressive about her issues than he is, but he’s still aware enough to realize he’s not very fond of Galras in general. Heaven knows the sight of purple fur is enough to get his heart racing, and if he’s really honest with himself he can admit that, up until now, he’s mostly pictured the Galras as unanimously falling in line with their leader until a small minority of them realized the error of their ways and started fighting back.

It’s stupid, really, to think this way when faced with a ten thousand years old empire that spans about ninety-five percent of the known universe, but then it’s not like human brains are incapable of irrationality.

“Sorry,” Shiro says when it becomes clear Doc guessed where his surprised came from, “I—”

“Oh, you’re hardly the only one,” Doc replies with a shrug, “and you do a very acceptable job of moving past that...but perhaps this is a conversation best postponed until we can calibrate your translators to accommodate my birth language and spare you the sounds of Daibazeel.”

***

“What am I looking for again?” Pidge asks, fingers flying over the keyboard with incredible speed.

Between the glasses and the haircut, she looks almost exactly like Matt, although knowing him he’d probably make a point of highlighting their height difference. Still, if it weren’t for the voice, Shiro could almost confuse them, and the sight of Pidge in that state of intense concentration hollows something in his chest...or reveals it, rather. Like a manhole you forget and fail to notice until the beam of your flashlight brushes over it and suddenly the void is all you can think about.

Shiro looks away before Matt’s voice can crawl back into his ears.

“A translator calibration form,” Doc repeats from a few feet away, just far enough to let Hunk see he’s not trying to spy, “I’m not sure what shape it’ll take, given how ancient the technology around here is—”

“Hey, that castle got us out of more than one scrap with Zarkon!” Hunk protests, a protective hand resting on the wall next to him, “Don’t trash-talk it!”

“I was not trying to ‘trash talk’,” Doc says, hesitating on the English words, “this castle is as old as Zarkon’s empire. It is a miracle you haven’t been defeated yet.”

“Let’s not fight about that,” Shiro intervenes when it looks like Hunk is going to try and keep defending the castle’s honor, “we’re trying to accomplish something here.”

“Right,” Doc agrees while Hunk flushes crimson and mumbles apologies, “if the forms look like what we use on Naquod, they should be interactive files with text in High Daibazeel and support audio recordings.”

Shiro watches Pidge squint at the screen and mutter indistinct words of Italian under her breath as she searches for something that’d match Doc’s description. If she’s anything like her brother, it’s probably just as well they can’t translate what she’s saying. It’d make Hunk’s look of surprise even worse, and Shiro would probably end up laughing in the poor guy’s face.

“Do you do that often?” Hunk asks after a moment, his own project set aside as he looks Doc up and down in open curiosity, “Calibrating translators, I mean?”

“Not recently, but I used to work with refugees before the Blade of Marmora assigned me to my post in Zarkon’s fleet. I mostly gave out signs-to-words devices, but the principles are the same.”

“Guys, I think I’ve got something,” Pidge says as she pulls a file onto her screen.

It’s Galra alphabet alright. Shiro hasn’t seen much of it since he woke up on Earth, but he must have gotten more than familiar enough with it during his captivity because the mere sight of it is enough to clamp his stomach tight. Doc looks the document over and nods in approval, prompting Pidge to ask:

“What happens now?”

“Well, all the languages we want to use are words-based so the process is rather straightforward,” Doc explains, Hunk leaning over his work to try and catch a glimpse of the form. “The form is a list of the most used words in High Daibazeel. I’ll read them out loud individually, then translate a number of prompted sentences and let the software work out the grammar rules from there. After that it’ll only be a matter of waiting for everything to load in the processors. We’re lucky these things still have a free slot or two. I doubt I would have been able to erase a language from their system.”

To Shiro’s surprise, it’s Hunk that asks about the slots rather than Pidge. Doc is in the process of explaining the ear translators ‘of old’ only had room for about half a dozen of languages each when Shiro’s endurance gives out and he barely bothers trying to look calm when he flees the room.

He almost runs into Keith when he reaches the corridor, heart skipping a beat at the unexpected encounter. It’s far too intense a reaction for something that happens a million times in a life, he knows. Then again, with the week he’s had, he feels like he’s kind of entitled to a little bit of a freak out, thank you very much.

“Are you all right?” Keith asks, concern carved into a line between his eyebrows.

Shiro hasn’t been anything even approaching all right for well over a year now. He was taken from one side of the universe to the other, enslaved, forced to harm one of his closest friends, amputated, shoved at the head of a team of teenagers with as much cohesion as a pile of dry sand, and told to save the universe because no one else was there to do it. And that’s putting it nicely. At this point, ‘all right’ is so far beyond his grasp he’s starting to question whether he’ll ever even be okay again.

He could, possibly, tell Keith all of that. It’s not like the kid ever asked for a sugar coated version of the story, after all, quicker to look at a problem and try to figure out a solution than offer reassurance...but the thing is, he’s just a kid. Yes, okay, he’s an eighteen year old soldier-in-training with more stubbornness in his little toe than the average human possesses in their entire body and yes, he would most definitely figure out a way to grab the moon if he felt it was required.

He still looks at Shiro like a little boy, though. Wide eyes and deep frown, and the shine of something pleading at the corner of his eyes, because he needs to know there’s at least one person in this solar system he can lean on. It’s fading lately, the budding team spirit of their group rubbing away at it in steady bits but it’s still there.

Keith wants the truth and so do Lance, Hunk, Pidge and Allura, but all still need Shiro to be okay, too. They need to know their commanding officer, or the closest approximation of it they could find, will be the good man in a storm and hold his stuff together long enough for them to get over their own terror and get back on track.

Shiro would do his best to meet those needs even if it weren’t the only thing holding him vaguely upright these days.

“I’m tired,” he admits anyway. There’s no hiding that much, not this close to dinner time, and it’ll make the next sentence more believable: “I’ll be okay though. Don’t worry.”

“Are you sure?” Keith insists with a twitch of his right arm and a hint of doubt at the crease of his mouth, “with Allura….”

“She’ll come around,” Shiro tells him with a little more conviction than he actually feels, “don’t worry too much about it.”

“She’ll have to,” Keith says, more of a promise than a statement, “you were right about him. She has to see that.”

Shiro allows himself to give Keith a grateful smile before he makes his way down to the training room.

***

Dinner is a tense, if not entirely stiff affair. Shiro has to divide his time and attention between Doc and Allura, occasionally getting sympathetic-slash-apologetic glance from Coran. It’s not even a surprise, it’s been clear from the beginning that Coran is here for the the princess more than the kids, and he’s been on Allura’s side more than theirs from day one. Given Allura’s current position, it’s a good thing that she has that kind of unwavering support.

It’s just that in situations like these, it’d be great for Shiro if he could have a little help in trying to make her see things from a different angle.

Fortunately, the most notable effects of that frankly unsuccessful dinner are that everyone goes back to their own thing instead of hanging out together like Shiro’s tried to get them to do about once a week, and it takes Pidge three times to catch his attention when he rounds the corridor.

She looks worried when he finally turns back to her, her gaze searching his face a little longer than he’s comfortable with before she looks at the ground and fiddles with her glasses.

“Doc kind of let slip why he wanted to calibrate the translators for Naquodi,” she says, one foot scratching at the ground, “and I just—I’m sorry I didn’t realize. What Daibazeel did to you, I mean. If I’d known I—”

“You’d have politely asked Zarkon to keep his minions quiet?”

The Galra arm hides behind the rest of him when Shiro gives Pidge a reassuring smile. Okay, so maybe it’s a little bit of an embarrassed smile because Matt’s comfort techniques aren’t the ones he’s naturally comfortable with. Time to get back to the things he actually know how to do.

“I’m sorry,” he says, reaching out to bump Pidge’s shoulder with his hand, “that was ridiculous. My point stands though. You couldn’t have done anything about it on your own. Not before you learned to read Coran and Allura’s alphabet, anyway.”

Besides, how could Pidge even have thought of that? Shiro’s year in Zarkon’s custody is still a complete mystery. Who would have guessed he’d come out of it with issues about a language he couldn’t remember? He certainly didn’t.

Pidge looks small, though, smaller than she normally does, and much too young. She’s blinking an awful lot, too, so Shiro catches both her shoulders and waits until she’s looking at him before he promises he’ll be okay.

“Besides, this thing with the translators will help. More than you know. See? You’re already doing everything you can. There’s nothing to feel guilty about.”

Pidge nods, trying to mask a sniffle by scratching her sneakers together, and Shiro sort of wants to scream. She’s just fifteen, for heaven’s sake, fifteen! She’s practically a child, still, what was the Garrison thinking? What was Allura thinking for that matter?

Well, alright, Allura was mainly thinking about an intergalactic war she had no one to fight with and a giant enemy ship en route to annihilating planet Aurus and the seven of them along the way. It’s not like Allura herself is much older than the rest of Shiro’s teammates anyway, and unless there’s a much wider cultural gap between Altean royals and Earth, she probably did the best she could with a truly dismal situation.

That doesn’t make anything any less terrible though and, not for the first time, Shiro promises himself that if there is a God somewhere, he’s definitely getting punched at one point or another.

“Sorry,” Pidge mutters again before rubbing at her eyes, “it’s just—sometimes I forget there’s a war out there. There’s all this cool tech and all these things to learn and Lance always talks like it’s a movie and I just—I forget, okay? But then someone gets hurt or we’re attacked or I think about my family and I—”

She cuts herself off with a hoarse, frustrated shout, and Shiro’s heart breaks when he realizes she’s already beyond saving. It’s not even a surprise, really, but it doesn’t hurt any less, because Pidge’s childhood is over.

It’d be too dramatic to say Katie Holt is dead, especially when it’s so easy to find her behind that strange Matt costume she built for herself, but she’ll never be the same again. Even if everything stopped now, if they could go back to Earth and forget Zarkon, forget Voltron, forget space altogether and never look at the sky again, the war would follow her home.

There’s nothing Shiro can do about that but try and do some damage control where he can.

“I’m fine,” Pidge protests when Shiro tries to pull her into a hug, “I mean, obviously I’m not, but I can handle it on my own.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Shiro promises with utmost sincerity, “but the good part about being on a team is that you don’t have to.”

He’s relieved when Pidge accepts a hug the second time around, and not just because he needed one too.

***

“I’m not the only one who thinks it’s kind of sad,” Lance whispers, almost too low to be heard over the quiet swish of a closing door, “right?”

Shiro doesn’t quite get it, at first, but then he takes a look around the room and finally spots Allura on the opposite corner of the recreation room, with ridiculously large headphones and a thick tome of Altean literature in her hands. She’s curled up into a tight ball, every line of her body tense and displaying a very clear ‘don’t talk to me’ vibe, and the sight of it shakes something loose in Shiro’s stomach.

“Pidge said the translators won’t be reading until lunch, at best,” Lance continues, still trying to pretend he’s not staring at Allura out of the corner of his eyes, “I don’t know what I’ll do if she keeps looking like a clam all day. It’s getting ridiculous.”

Ridiculous isn’t exactly the word Shiro would use. They’re roughly halfway through the first half of the day cycle, which means they’d usually be gathered in the rec room to talk about their mornings and the things they’ve been up to until now. Occasionally, Pidge gets a cat nap in those moments, but they’re generally a time filled with innocent conversations and too many voices trying to talk at the same time.

With the translators gone, however….

“D’you think it’ll still be that awkward when the translators come back?”

Shiro blushes a little when Lance catches him staring, but honestly he’s too surprised to care. Out of all the words he’d use to describe Lance, perceptive isn’t exactly at the top of the list. Probably wouldn’t even make it to the top ten, actually. He wouldn’t have thought Lance capable of thinking that far ahead, or at the very least not willing to.

Apparently he was wrong with that. Worse, judging by his lack of reaction, Lance expected him to be.

“I know I’m stupid,” he says with a stiff little shrug, “but even I can tell this is probably not about the book.”

“Probably not,” Shiro agrees.

They used to speak Russian between themselves in the beginning. Mastering the language is a requirement to enter the Garrison, a tradition that dates back to the very first days of humankind in space, and there are things that are easier to say in Russian, or at least more of a reflex, for some...not to mention that, in space, Keith wouldn’t have been allowed to use English at all. It’s easy enough for them to switch from one language to the other between one sentence and the next, and they didn’t think anything of it until the Lions told them they were messing with the translator software.

Now, they can either speak English or leave Coran and Allura in the dust, the only two speakers of their language left in the universe. No one else understands the rise and fall of Altean, the clicking sound of its consonants that sound like a fight in Shiro’s ears, or the shortness of its vowels that might as well not be there. Lance is right: this is probably not about the book.

Which goes to prove….

“You’re not stupid, though,” he tells Lance. Then, before the kid can protest: “You have terrible timing, and you need to sort through your priorities, alright? But someone stupid wouldn’t have noticed that.”

“I—don’t think Pidge would agree with you on that,” Lance manages at last, face red and eyes carefully kept away from Shiro’s.

Well, that one, at least, will be easy to deal with.

“Pidge’s brother was selected for a history-making mission at the tender age of twenty two and she called him an idiot all the time.”

It was all siblings’ teasing, and Shiro really hopes Lance will know better than to try and discuss that with Pidge right now, but he’s still heard Matt complain about it enough to last him for a lifetime, thank you very much. Besides, it’s not good for anyone to use the Holt family as a base for how smart they should be. It’s really just setting oneself up for disappointment.

“Was he?” Lance asks, “Before he—I mean—”

“Yes,” Shiro replies, even though the word hurts a little, stings at his throat and eyes in a way he has yet to get used to, “he is. It’s completely possible to be an idiot and a genius at the same time.”

Lance’s grin is the kind that announces a bad joke in the very near future, but the proverbial bell comes to Shiro’s rescue in the form of Coran, who all but dances into the room and over to Allura, barely waiting until she looks at him before he presents her a translator like it’s a royal crown. He’s babbling about something or another and looking disturbingly serious about it when Lance decides to repeat the words he just said.

Coran and Allura stare at him like he’s just grown a second head for a second, before Coran asks a question with a suspicious raise of his eyebrow. Lance parrots that, too,throwing an imitation of Coran’s stance into the mix, and grinning harder when it only prompts Coran to look even more flustered. By the third time this happens, Coran is about ready to pop a vein, and Shiro would tell Lance to stop if Allura weren’t trying to hide her giggle into her hand.

Pleasantly surprised at the turn of events, Shiro makes a note to praise Lance for it later on, and to pay more attention to the boy’s talents. It’s easy to feel inadequate compared to people like Hunk and Pidge who really know their stuff, and it won’t do to have one or their team members develop an inferiority complex. Besides, apparently Shiro himself could stand to learn not to judge people on one single criteria.

***

“It’s a good thing you finished calibrating the translator this fast, Pidge,” Allura comments while the teams settles down at the lunch table, “we never know what’s going to happen, and being unable to communicate for too long is strategically unsound.”

“Yeah, it’s a good thing Doc knows his way around these things,” Pidge agrees, “it’d have been a lot longer otherwise.”

Shiro, separated from Allura by Coran’s silhouette on his right, can’t clearly see her features, but the pinched silence that follows Pidge’s statement can hardly be interpreted as anything positive. Shiro bites on a sigh and, when the door opens to let the last guest in, he gestures for Doc to sit on the opposite side of the table, one seat removed from Pidge so he won’t take Hunk’s chair. It’s not that he wants to emulate old fashioned ideas about who sits where, precisely. No one realized that’s what was happening until Coran marveled that they’d finally learned to take their proper places at the table.

With the present situation, though, taking that kind of detail into consideration can’t hurt.

“Honestly,” Lance says when it’s clear no one else is going to break the awkward silence, “I think we should do that more often. Coran and I had a super interesting conversation in Altean earlier—”

“You are learning Altean?”

“Oh, yeah,” Lance replies, only glancing at Doc before he turns back to the Alteans of the team: “isn’t that right? It’s like Coran says: ‘Stop being so obnoxious!’”

Shiro’s translator beeps off, the electronic voice an odd addition to Lance’s words, and for a moment everyone looks kind of at a loss for words. Ironically enough, the joke worked much better without the translators, which is a first...Shiro is kind of considering where to go from there, when Pidge says:

“I’m impressed you pronounced that well enough for the machine to get it.”

“And I only heard it once, too,” Lance replies with a noticeable puff of his chest, “I guess I’m a language genius or something.”

“Probably,” Pidge agrees with a little too much enthusiasm to be sincere, “can you say ‘sono un ragazzo infantile’?”

Shiro, who has enough experience with Matt’s use of Italian to dread the worst, half expects Lance to trap himself by trying to keep the joke going. Instead, the kid’s face goes from boastful to offended as he yells:

“¡Hey! ¡No soy infantil!”

“Ma sei un ragazzo?” Pidge replies with the cheekiest grin Shiro has ever seen on anyone.

“Do you understand that?” Coran fake-whispers.

Shiro shakes his head while Pidge and Lance continue their slightly-stilted argument.

“I didn’t know Lance spoke Italian.”

“It’s not Italian, it’s Spanish!” Both Lance and Pidge protest in accidental but somewhat amusing unison.

Hunk comes comes bearing food before anything more can be said, but at least when Shiro glances toward Allura, he finds her a little less tense than before, which he’s willing to take as progress. He goes as far as giving Lance a discreet thumb up, guilt blossoming in his chest when the kid all but glows in response.

The peace, fragile as it may be, lasts until Hunk is done serving everyone and Doc winces as soon as his spoon enters his mouth, all put spitting the thing back into his plate.

“Is the food that bad?” Hunk asks with a puzzled look down at the serving dish, “No one’s complained about the taste so far….”

“Not at all,” Doc explains after a long drag of water, face scrunched up in distaste as he gestures at his spoon: “metal tastes extremely unpleasant to my species, but I assume you do not face the same problem.”

“No, we don’t,” Keith answers with a frown, knuckles oddly white around his own cutlery, “what do you generally use, then?”

“At home, I eat with my fingers, like everyone else. Zarkon uses stone cutlery.”

“Well we’re sorry we don’t have Zarkon’s silverware.”

Allura keeps her voice low enough that Shiro almost misses the words, and by the time he turns to try and catch her gaze she’s already flushing and looking down at the table, Coran’s eyebrows drawn together while he looks at her. It’s a relief to realize neither Doc nor the rest of the Paladins seem to have heard any of that.

It’s still enough to make the Galra arm twitch with the urge to punch the table and tell everyone to start behaving like reasonable adults, thank you very much.

“For a second there I thought I’d poisoned you,” Hunk’s saying by the time Shiro goes back to the conversation, but it makes Doc chuckle:

“Not at all. I’ve always been fond of Altean cuisine.”

“How would you know Altean cuisine?”

This time Allura doesn’t disguise her voice and. Well.

She has plenty of reasons to act the way she does. She’s young, stuck in a terrible situation with little to no adequate support system. She’s lost her family, her planet and any chance at what she’d probably consider a normal life in what felt like the blink of an eye, and she’s been at war with Zarkon’s empire ever since.

She’s seen Zarkon’s soldiers hurt countless of people, kidnap her, injure Lance and Shiro to the point where their survival was not a guarantee. And then, between all of this, she’s also had to listen to countless stories of the Galra army’s cruelty. It’s no wonder she has a hard time moving on...heck, for that matter, so does Shiro!

Really, it’s almost over the top when you look at it: he’s never going to be able to look at anything purple the same way again, his opinions on facial hair have drastically evolved since he was last on earth, and even the language makes him want to run out of the room and crawl into bed...and that’s before you even get to the piece of Galra tech he never wanted but probably wouldn’t have survived without. If there’s anyone on this team other than Coran and Allura who knows what the Galra can do, it’s definitely Shiro.

He’s trying to move past it though! It’s tiring and grueling and sometimes it leaves him shaky and on the edge of collapse but he keeps going because that’s what must be done! And yes, okay, maybe it’ selfish to want others to do the same. Maybe he should just do his job quietly without expecting literal kids to reason like the trained adult he is. He’s probably being unbearably entitled just for thinking this.

He still sort of wants to grab Allura by the shoulders and shake her until she stops thinking with her wounds.

“I was born on Naquod,” Doc explains with a stiff shrug, one claw tapping at the edge of his plate, “it’s hasn’t been economically significant for a long time now, but it is quite close to both Daibazaal and Altea’s former positions. When those two planets were destroyed, the Naquol welcomed Galra and Altean refugees alike.”

It makes sense, really. Whenever there’s a huge displacement of population, there’s always at least one party willing to provide a place to stay, but knowing that doesn’t leave Shiro any less surprised.

Judging by her face, Allura wasn’t expecting that, either.

“You mean we—there are other Alteans alive?”

“I...don’t think it would be fair of me to say yes, Princess,” Doc replies, picking his words with undisguised caution, “it has been several thousands of years since the Migration, and things have had quite the time to change. There are Naquodi of Altean heritage, but your people as you know it is well and truly lost.”

“Why would Naquod take refugees from both planets?” Lance asks with a frown, “Wouldn’t it put them at risk of a civil war?”

The rest of the table stares at him.

“What? I’m Cuban! You think we don’t learn what civil wars are like in school?”

Shiro mostly thinks the lot of them need to stop underestimating Lance, but that’s neither here nor there.

“I don’t think that would have been the refugees’ first idea,” he points out, “no matter what destroyed Daibazaal, the Galra who landed on Naquod would have just lost their planet, their roots, their homes—”

“There was that,” Doc agrees, “all the histories I’ve heard say the mourning ceremonies lasted for at least ten years...and besides, the Naquol hid the Alteans. Our two people didn’t make unsupervised contact until about three thousand years ago, when the Altean Naquodi started venturing to the surface more often.”

“You mean the Naquol kept these people hidden for seven thousand years? Why?”

“Zarkon, of course,” Doc shrugs. “My knowledge of other planets’ is widely informed by his school and therefore untrustworthy, but there are numerous accounts of Daibazeel assaults on Naquodi settlements, especially in the early centuries. They were looking for Alteans.”

“What for?” Hunk asks, but it kind of looks like he’s already figured the answer out.

“Extermination. I don’t know why the Alteans didn’t fight back—”

“There were outnumbered,” Allura scoffs, fists so tight Shiro can almost pretend he sees the blood recede from her fingertips, “Zarkon had just destroyed their planet.”

“Yes, our histories agree with you there. They do also state that an Altean fleet destroyed Daibazaal first, though.”

“That was different!”

The silence that follows presses against Shiro’s ears until they start whistling, heavy and harsh against his ribs. Across the table, Pidge, Hunk and Lance stare between Coran and Allura with identical gaping mouth, and Keith’s fingers cling to Shiro’s wrist tight enough to hurt.

None of that holds a candle to the burning shine of Allura’s eyes as she glares daggers at Doc, half raised out of her chair as if to jump at the Galra’s throat. She’s shivering too, and Shiro can see her shoulders rise and fall with each of her heavy breaths, but before he can make a move to try and deescalate the situation, Coran says:

“From your father’s perspective, maybe. I am not sure the Galras would have been quite so ready to agree.”

Allura, when she falls back into her seat, looks like a distressed rag doll. The room has fallen silent enough that Shiro wouldn’t even be surprised to hear a pin drop, and even Doc looks kind of uncomfortable with the sudden shift of events.

To Shiro’s right, Coran stares straight though Lance at something long gone. There are lines around his mouth Shiro never noticed before, and when he blinks back to the present and tilts his head forward, the usual extravagance of his demeanor vanishes under the weight of age.

“I believe it is time we had a conversation about this war and how it started,” Coran says. He follows it with a sigh and concludes: “We should have talked about this a long time ago, but I was not ready to face that particular disaster, and I used your inexperience as an excuse to indulge my sensitivity and pride...for that, I am sorry.”

Shiro kicks Keith in the ankle before he can voice what looks like a rather annoyed recrimination. They can argue about the past later, if they ever have that kind of time and energy to waste. Right now, though, Shiro agrees with Coran. It’s high time they learned how this mess started.

Before he can start talking, though, Allura turns to Doc and tells him:

“I think we would rather have this conversation in private.”

“No.”

Coran pauses to make sure no one moves but honestly, it’s entirely superfluous. He’s discussed some of Allura’s orders in the past, yes, but he’s never disobeyed them, let alone encourage someone to do the same. It’s more than enough to keep the Paladins riveted to their seats and their mouths shut.

“Doc trusted us with the existence of Altean survivors which, considering Zarkon’s genocidal intentions, would put them and any who allies with them in great danger. It seems natural to trust him with this...Zarkon knows what happened then better than I do, anyway.”

Allura’s wide, wide eyes turn to Shiro as if to ask for help understanding what’s going on, and he can’t do anything but offer a helpless shrug. He’d love to help here, yes, but he’s not responsible for Coran’s abrupt change in attitude, and he does want to know what’s going on. Besides, if Zarkon was at the heart of it from the beginning, there really is no reason to keep any of what they know a secret from a spy who’s been working against him for longer than he’s been in his army.

“Zarkon was the first Black Paladin of Voltron,” Coran tells Doc with a somber air.

The Galra takes the news with more stoicism than Shiro and the rest of the team first displayed, but then again he did spend who knows how long surrounded by faithful followers of Zarkon. He’s got some practice in controlling his face.

“He was already king of Daibazaal when Prince Alfor visited him as an envoy for his mother, Queen Aleen. I hadn’t entered royal service yet, and King Alfor never shared the details of their acquaintance with me, but I do know that it did not take long before their relationship progressed beyond professional necessity. Together, they forged solid bonds of diplomatic collaboration between Daibazaal and Altea before they moved on to negotiating treaties with other neighboring planets...three rulers in particular proved to be most cooperative, and rapidly became King Alfor and Zarkon’s friends.”

“Who were these people?”

Pidge’s leaning forward on the table, eyebrows drawn together like she’s afraid Coran will stop talking if they stop paying sufficient attention. That would be disastrous, both from a strategical standpoint and with regard to their still-tenuous team spirit, but Shiro almost wishes he would. After all, they already know the end of the story.

They know nothing good is coming.

“Gyrgan, Grand Councilman of Rygnirath,” Coran recites, eyes closing as he speaks, “Elected Princess Trigel of the Dalterion Belt, and—”

“Blaytz the Giant.”

Doc flinches a little when they all turn to look at him, but Shiro suspects him of doing that on purpose, to put them at ease.

“He’s a prominent part of our pantheon,” he explains with the slightest shrug. “According to our founding myth, the Galras were stolen from the mother planet by a fleet of creatures dressed in white. Blaytz saw this and gathered them all in sea foam. He brought them to Nalquod, plucked asteroids from the sky to make them habitable lands, and told them they were were free to stay on the planet until it adopted them. That’s what Naquodi means: the adopted people.”

“Well, ‘giant’ isn’t exactly the word I’d use to describe Blaytz, although he was rather tall even for a Naquol,” Coran says with a nostalgic chuckle, “but Naquol ships relied on magic more than achievable science to make their way through space, and one of their more remarkable features was the spherical, transparent force fields that made them look like giant bubbles. And of course, knowing him, he would have enjoyed the idea of being mistaken for a trickster god immensely.”

Coran, Shiro’s sure, doesn’t mean for them to see the wistful smile that settles on his face at the memory, but it’s impossible to miss nonetheless. It’s a sharp reminder that they know almost nothing about him, except that he is deeply devoted to Allura.

The rest of his life up until the Paladins eventually woke him up in the Castle of Lions is a complete mystery.

“Did you know him well?” Hunk asks, then blinks when Coran chuckles.

“I did, yes. I dare say I knew him better than I ever had time to know King Alfor. Blaytz got me a post in the palace, but I didn’t enter the King’s personal service for several years after that. Ah, the things that can happen when the right people think you’re funny.”

Coran’s face in that moment kind of reminds Shiro of his older instructors at the Garrison, the ones who’ve been doing this job long enough that they’ve lost all reserve about sharing their most outrageous pranks with the cadets. There’s always a certain sense of nostalgia hovering somewhere around their lips when they do.

Generally speaking, it does to them the same thing it’s currently doing for Coran: it makes them look more human. Or, well. More like a real person.

“Anyway, enough about me.”

“Yeah, let’s get talking about Voltron!” Lance exclaims, and grunts when Pidge knocks him in the ribs.

“It didn’t start with Voltron,” Coran corrects, “it started with a comet. It crashed on Daibazaal a couple of years before Princess Allura’s birth. No one had ever seen the metal that composed it, so when Zarkon declared his scientists too busy trying to save an already dying Daibazaal to study this new phenomenon, King Alfor reacted in true alchemist fashion and more or less begged Zarkon to let him dispatch a team to Daibazaal.”

“My father didn’t beg,” Allura protests—softly, yes, but with no less feeling for it.

“These are the words your father used when he told shared this story with me, Princess,” Coran tells her in a gentle voice, “‘A metal no one’s ever seen before and a dimensional disruption in one place!’ he said, ‘of course I begged Zarkon to let me study it’.”

“Alright, let’s pause,” Lance interrupts with furrowed eyebrows, “what’s a dimensional disruption?”

“I must admit an explanation would be useful to me, too,” Doc adds.

Truthfully, Shiro could use one as well. He’s fairly sure Matt’s explained something like that before, but it’s been a while and a lot of things happened since then. A little refreshing can’t hurt.

“We have a similar theory on Earth,” Pidge says before Coran can reply, “though we haven’t managed to confirm it for ourselves yet. Anyway, the idea is that the reality we live in isn’t the only one; that there is an infinity of realities coexisting next to one another without ever meeting.”

“What, you mean like parallel universes?”

“Yes, Lance, exactly like that.”

Sometimes, when Pidge starts explaining science to the others, she sounds so much like her brother Shiro wonders how anyone at the Garrison could possibly miss the relation. Evidently, Earth needs to strengthen its defenses if it wants to stand a chance against aliens.

“Isn’t the keyword in this theory ‘parallel’ though?” Keith asks from his spot next to Shiro. “How does a comet crashing punch a hole between two of them? Because if all we gotta do is dig, the universe had better start worrying.”

“Things aren’t quite that simple,” Allura says, rubbing at her temples with the tip of her fingers, “from what Pidge told me, your earth scientists discount magic in their research, right?”

“Discount magic?” Doc says with an air of deep puzzlement, “How does anyone discount magic?”

For the first time since they met the Galra, Coran and Allura seem to share a certain feeling of commiseration with him. Shiro isn’t sure how he should take the fact that they’re bonding over what seems to be a sizable amount of disappointment with Earth’s techniques.

“It is a rather foolish endeavor,” Coran agrees, “but most civilizations go through that phase in their primitive stages. To be fair,” he adds when he realizes the Terrans in the room aren’t too pleased with his assessment of their planet, “magic couldn’t fully explain what the comet was or how exactly it created the Rift. It did, however, allow King Alfor’s lead scientist, Honerva, to come up with a new source of fuel which King Alfor later used to power the vessels he’d built with the comet’s metal.”

“The Lions.”

“Yes, Hunk,” Coran confirms, “the Lions were, indeed, built with the metal found in that comet, and powered with the quintessence Head Researcher Honerva found in the Rift.”

Allura, when Shiro looks at her, looks small and wide-eyed, like a child in a crisis too big for them to grasp. She knew that Zarkon was Black’s first Paladin, she made that clear enough, but if her reaction is anything to go by, she wasn’t privy to all the details until now.

Shiro, selfishly enough, is kind of glad he isn’t in her shoes.

“Alright, so there was a big dimensional hole in the middle of Daibazaal, and Alfor made a bunch of kinda magic robots,” Hunk sums up with slightly more efficiency than eloquence, “I still don’t see how that equals conquering the entire universe and trying to wipe an entire planet’s worth of species out of existence.”

“You heard Coran,” Pidge says with a displeased twist to her mouth, “Daibazaal was already dying before the comet crashed there. The impact itself won’t have helped the planet’s structural integrity—”

“But the gravity variations surrounding a dimensional distortions would only have accelerated the process,” Hunk realizes with a gasp of horror.

“So, wait,” Shiro asks, “is this what caused Daibazaal’s destruction? The Rift compromised the integrity of that planet so much it couldn’t hold it?”

“But then it wouldn’t make sense for Zarkon to go to war over it,” Lance points out. “The planet was already dying, anyway. And even if the Rift made it faster, he couldn’t blame Alfor for the comet falling there, right?”

“But that reasoning is only valid if the Rift really was the reason Daibazaal exploded,” Doc remarks. “Altean Naquodi tell stories about a great Abyss poised to engulf the galaxy, and a fleet of heroes setting out to close it.”

“You know Altean legends?” Allura asks, visibly too exhausted to put much energy into the question, “How?”

“My great grandfather was one of them.”

The room erupts in a cacophony of protests, ranging from from ‘your species were from different planets’ to ‘do you really expect us to believe that’, and for a second there Shiro has to resist the urge to just get up and leave the room. He doesn’t of course, that would be completely irresponsible, but he does think about it, and wishes Matt were here to share a Look with him over all of this.

In the end, the responsible thing to do wins out, and he ends up getting to his feet to shout at everyone to stop.

“We all need to know what went down, and we need to hear it now, not in three weeks,” he reminds the crew with the sternest voice he can muster, “so everyone sit on your debates and let Coran finish.”

For a moment there, he’s afraid people are just going to keep staring at him and forget the important thing again. Fortunately, Coran is quick to recover once Shiro sits down, and he ventures:

“There’s… actually not much left to tell? The Naquodi stories, while they obviously took on some legendary qualities as time went on, align with what King Alfor told me. According to him, something did come out of the Rift, but Zarkon and Honerva refused to close it, even when the planet’s integrity was compromised beyond repair. Even after the creatures came back, Zarkon tried to trick the other Paladins into keeping the Rift open. In the end, he and Honerva fell in and perished. King Alfor ordered an emergency evacuation of Daibazaal, which the population was neither prepared for nor warned about. According to Princess Trigel, some of them had to be dragged out of their home by force.”

“Well that certainly explains why Doc’s people think the Galra were stolen from their planet,” Keith mutters, “what was Zarkon thinking?”

“Evidently, nothing good,” Allura states, steadier than she’s been so far but harder, too.

It’s not necessarily a reassuring sight, but Shiro can’t exactly find it in himself to disagree, not when Doc himself doesn’t have anything to say against it. It’s hard to form a definite judgment, of course: Coran’s story isn’t nearly complete or exhaustive enough to allow for that, but it does give the beginning of an explanation as to why the Galras agreed to follow Zarkon’s quest for Altean blood.

Earth, after all, has seen genocides that started for reasons far smaller than the seemingly-arbitrary destruction of a planet.

“As for his death, as you can imagine, it was only faked. My father and the other Paladins organized official funerals for Zarkon and Honerva, but when Councilman Gyrgan’s retinue went to retrieve their bodies, they were gone.”

“And yet,” Coran says in a subdued tone, the fingers of his left hand twirling at his mustache, “your father personally confirmed their deaths, and with magic to boot. If they faked their demise, they used magic techniques I’d never heard of before...if anything, if that was all part of their plans to go on and destroy Altea, they missed a great opportunity by leaving before their funerals.”

“Oooh, yeah!” Lance exclaims with a hearty chuckle, “can you imagine that? Suddenly, the king’s back from the dead! He could have just pretended to be a god or something and wham, people would have just flocked to his side to do his bidding.”

“This is no laughing matter, Lance!” Allura protests, “Zarkon attacked Altea three days after his supposed death—our people barely had time to flee! Do you have any idea how horrified we all were?”

Lance blanches, then flushes, and he stammers around apologies he doesn’t quite seem to know how to form. He didn’t mean anything by it, Shiro is sure, but he does need to learn how to think before he speaks. He can’t just go around putting his foot in his mouth like that all the time.

“Okay, Lance is a dunce,” Keith sighs in a familiar ‘duh’ tone, “but he’s got a point. Pretending to come back to life during his funerals would have been a great way to get people to do what he said and believe in him.”

“You are not seriously suggesting we assume he was genuinely killed then resurrected?” Doc asks, medical indignation written in all the lines of his body, “not even magic can do that. There has to be a rational explanation.”

“Well,” Shiro says, shrugging to soften the blow, “we do have a thing on Earth called Lazarus syndrome. I don’t remember the medical reasons behind it, but the main thing about it is that the victims of it appear dead even after extended testing, and then they ‘come back’ after a while. Zarkon and Honerva could have gone through the Galra equivalent of that.”

“Besides,” Pidge points out with a pained-looking cringe, “Zarkon has apparently managed to survive for ten thousands of Altean years. Unless you tell me that’s a normal life cycle for a Galra, it makes resurrection a lot more plausible than it normally would.”

For once, Shiro doesn’t have any reservation about joining in the collective groan of despair. As if their situation wasn’t bad enough! First they were a ragtag team faced with an army powerful enough to get the universe on lock down, then it turned out the enemy was the former Black Paladin, and now the guy is immortal as well as eternal? What the heck is wrong with their collective luck, seriously?

Really, though, having hope until now was hard enough as it was. It’s been an uphill battle for the start for Shiro. Yeah, okay, the kids have been doing pretty good, all things considered, but they’re just that: kids. They may not all have had the easiest life, but while losing family members hurts like nothing else, it’s still not adequate preparation for war, let alone in these conditions!

The weight of realization sinks into Shiro’s shoulders faster than he thought possible, drags him down toward the table, and the only thing preventing him from face planting right into the metal is the Galra hand that slots itself under his forehead, the metal surprisingly cool against his skin.

Around him, the room falls silent. He glances at the other side of the table under the fingers. At Pidge and the subtle shiver of her lips. At Hunk and the way he sways from one side to the other. At Lance, and the open mouthed gap of shock on his face.

Right, no. He can’t collapse. Not here, not now. If he needs to sit down and have a good cry, he’s going to have to wait until he’s alone for that because right now, his team is counting on its commanding officer to lead the way, and he’s not about to drag them down to the ground with him.

“Well, this is wasn’t nearly as encouraging as I’d hoped,” he says, knowing better than to try and pretend he’s alright after that poorly thought-out display of weakness, “and I really hope we get better news next time, but at least now we’re better prepared.”

“Really?” Hunk squeaks, “Because from where I’m standing all of this just sounded like one terrible piece of news after another.”

“We know how the war started. We know Zarkon was obsessed with the Dimensional Rift, and that it’s where he got the formula for his fuel from.” Shiro releases a breath for a while, relieved to realize exactly how useful Coran’s story might prove to be in the long run, “We know the Lions have only been in effective use for, what, nineteen, twenty years?”

“Twenty-one,” Coran supplies, his relief and hopefulness mirrored on the others’ faces.

“Twenty one years,” Shiro repeats. “It’s nothing. Completely insignificant compared to how long they’ve existed, and they’re magical semi-sentient robots. They may have evolved in all that time. Even if they haven’t, they may well have powers Zarkon isn’t aware of.”

“And if he doesn’t know about them, he won’t know how to counter them!” Keith grins beside him.

“Which means we’ll have an advantage over him!” Lance continues.

“We also know Honerva might still be alive,” Pidge adds with a wide grin, “maybe she can help us—”

“Honerva was Zarkon’s wife,” Coran cautions, “If she’s still alive, she might very well still be helping him.”

“If that’s the case, we know we can cripple Zarkon’s machine by taking her out,” Shiro counters, “that’s not something to be forgotten about.”

“We might also have the beginning of an explanation for Zarkon’s lifespan.”

Shiro, like the others, turns to stare at Doc like he’s grown a second head, but he barely even has to run a hand over his mostly-shaved skull before he takes it all in stride. If Shiro’s being honest, he’s more than a little envious about that.

“I told you earlier that I had Altean blood,” Doc explains with a little frown, “I understand your instinctive denial. It makes little sense for species coming from different planet to be reproductively compatible, especially when Altean Naquodi have adapted to their life underwater, but it is no less a reality, and more and more of our children have mixed ancestry with every cycle that passes. In fact, in my experience, Galras can reproduce with just about anything.”

“What do you mean, anything?” Shiro asks, trying to give himself time to process the news more than anything else, “How broad a range of species does that encompass?”

“Any species whose babies could conceivably fit inside a Galra’s body. So long as the mother is Galra, everything takes...and by everything I mean I once helped a Galra soldier give birth to a green octopus.”

“I’d never heard Galras were capable of that,” Coran remarks.

Judging by her expression, neither had Allura, but then that might just be a consequence of Alteans’ approach to sex and reproduction. It’s not like Shiro knows about these things, after all.

“Well that’s the thing,” Doc replies, one claw tapping at the edge of his plate, “I do not believe it to be a normal evolutionary quality. As you pointed out, it makes no scientific sense for a species to be somehow able to produce offspring with any and all occupant of the universe, let alone for said offspring to be just as capable of reproduction….”

“So you think it’s magic,” Hunk deduces, far calmer than Shiro would have expected him to be, “right?”

“Yes. I’m not a druid,” Doc continues with a tight pinch to his lips, “which is why I could never fully confirm this theory on my own, but if what Coran said about Daibazaal’s Rift is exact, and if it is indeed the source of Zarkon’s life span, then it is possible that its presence on the planet may have affected the Galras in deeper ways than anyone realized.”

“Okay but no one’s got proof for that, do they?” Lance points out, “I mean, isn’t proof supposed to be the basis of science or something?”

“Yeah but you gotta have a theory first, before you can prove it,” Hunk replies with a shrug, “so now we think that’s what might have happened, we can try and look for proof.”

“Where?” Allura cuts in with a sharp tone, “None of this sounds...entirely implausible...but we can’t exactly ask Zarkon about it can we?”

“But Zarkon isn’t the only Galra in the universe,” Shiro mutters, more to himself than anything else, “Coran, do you know where the rest of Daibazaal’s refugees were taken? Maybe they’ll have some kind of record we could get our hands on, see if they reveal anything interesting.”

Keith stiffens on Shiro’s left, a palpable aura of tension shrouding him in a way that makes Shiro’s hair stand up at the back of his neck. He makes a note to ask Keith about this at some point, see if he can understand where this sudden sensitivity to the Galras came from, but for now he pretends he hasn’t noticed. They’ve all got their hang ups, but they can’t afford to let them interfere with their mission, not matter what.

No matter how much it may cost them.

“As far as I know the refugees were taken in by the Paladins at first,” Coran states, vivacity coming back to him and making him look like the slightly bizarre man Shiro’s grown used to. “I have no doubt there will still be a number of Galra colonies in the Deltarion Belt... Rygnirath, on the other hand, may have sought to dispatch their charges to other systems, and there’s no telling what would happen to them or their records after that.”

“At least now we know to look for them,” Pidge says with a strained smile, “on top of all the other things we need to do and look for.”

Shiro, fully aware that she’s most likely thinking about Matt right now, sends her a sympathetic look. She doesn’t look like she buys it, exactly, but how could Shiro blame her? Just because he has to put his personal quests aside to make sure the team’s needs are still met doesn’t mean she’s forced to do the same.

It’s not like Shiro himself doesn’t wish he could just drop everything and go looking for Sam and Matt, after all.

“It’ll be slow work,” Coran tells them after a beat, “we don’t want to clue Zarkon in on our intentions, and if the Blade of Marmora is as efficient as Doc seems to believe we’ll have to rely on them to take any sort of of decisive action...but I do believe we may have the beginning of a plan to defeat him and dismantle his empire.”

“And we all know what that means, right?” Lance exclaims with a wide grin and something that comes pretty close to a clap, “right?”

“Lance—”

“IT’S PARTY TIME!” Lance yells before Hunk can finish his sentence, grabbing at the other kid’s arm and tugging him to his feet, “Come on, we’ve only got ‘til dinner to get it all ready, get a’cooking man!”

“You’ve still got chores to do!” Keith protests, but Coran’s laughter cuts him off before he can really get launched on his tirade.

“Let them be, Number Four, we may have figured out how to take Zarkon’s empire down. It is a cause for celebration.”

“But we still don’t know how to get rid of Zarkon himself!”

“We’ll have to do both anyway, won’t we?”

Pidge’s eyes are on the table when Shiro looks at her, but she doesn’t sound scared so much as weary in advance, and he finds himself echoing the sentiment with surprising intensity. They’re going to try and dismantle an empire that spans the entire known universe with eight people and more bravado than anything else...who wouldn’t be tired just thinking of it?

“I’ve felt it coming for a while,” Pidge continues, “I mean...it makes sense, right? It’s not like Galra soldiers are going to drop down on the spot when we kill Zarkon.”

“Pidge is right,” Doc agrees with a look at Coran, “you encourage them to celebrate, but they do not seem to realize the enormity of the task they have ahead of them. They react like children, and you do not discipline them for it.”

“That,” Coran says with a tired, sad smile, “would be because they are children. Puzzling things in any species, I agree, but there is something to be said about letting them act their age once in a while.”

“...The fate of the entire universe rests on the shoulders of a bunch of untrained children?”

Well. To Doc’s credit, he’s taking it with a lot more composure than Shiro would be able to muster in his position.

“We’re not children,” Keith tells the Galra, but there’s no heat behind it, “and we’ll learn. Unless you’ve got someone better to suggest as Paladins….”

No one takes him up on the challenge, but Shiro doesn’t miss the way Coran seems to jolt a little at the words, or Doc’s sharp glance at Allura. He’s pretty sure what that glance means, too. He’s been wondering about the selection process for Paladins ever since Allura assigned him to the Black Lion, and finding out about Zarkon’s history with the giant bot didn’t exactly help either.

There’s nothing to do about that right now though. If they meet someone who’s clearly better suited than them as a Paladin, they’ll do what they have to do. In the meantime, asking too many questions can be just as bad as asking too few, and Shiro has no desire to get on that path.

“In any case,” Coran concludes, a little too low to be sure he meant for Shiro and the others to hear, “none of them will be children by the time all of this is finished.”

He visibly shakes himself before declaring it time for a break, and Shiro has to agree. The past week has been even more exhausting than usual anyway, and today’s conversation may have been long overdue but that didn’t make it any less of a grueling process, intellectually and emotionally. Even Coran wasn’t left unaffected: he sits up straight, still, but his face is drawn and his shoulders sag, like he’s forgotten how to lift them up somehow.

Shiro himself would kill for a nap right about now but, barring that, he does need the war talk to stop for a while. It’s not like they can go hop around Galra colonies before they figure out how Zarkon tracked them to Doc’s base anyway, and even then it’s certainly not going to be a one day trip. Might as well rest get some rest while it’s still possible.

The others must have reached the same, independent conclusion, because Doc rises to his feet with a sigh and asks for directions to the library.

“The scrolls on thermoreactive Nidhesti camouflage were interesting,” he says with a slight smirk, “but I’m curious to see if the Altean texts will yield anything about medicine.”

He leaves the room at a sedate pace and, after a few seconds and some noise about wanting to use the training room, Keith follows him out of the door. For a moment there, Pidge looks like she’s going to stick around and try to continue the discussion, but her mouth falls shut with a little click, and she sighs.

“Well, there’s nothing much we can do just now,” she says with the tone of someone who’s trying to convince herself more than others, “I think I’m gonna go fiddle with the computers.”

It’s probably code for going over what little they have on Matt’s whereabouts once again, and Shiro wishes she could find something else to busy her mind with, but he doesn’t dissuade her. Anything’s better than aimless brooding, after all.

Coran is the next one to get up, back ramrod straight despite the clear signs of fatigue in his expression. Shiro expects him to just go do whatever it is he does in this free time, but instead the man gives him a solemn look, clicks his heels in front of Shiro, and bows deep enough to show off the top of his head.

“Please accept my renewed apologies for failing to discuss this matter with you any sooner,” Coran tells Shiro with stiff resignation. “We have no way to measure the time my neglect cost us, but—”

“Coran, please,” Allura cuts in, more anguish on her face than Shiro remembers seeing before, “stop. You kept quiet on my orders.”

A look of deep unease passes over Coran’s features, something sad weighed at the corner of his eyes, but he doesn’t protest. He turns to Allura instead, letting her know he’ll be in command central running a couple of routine maintenance protocols before he leaves without any of his usual flourishes.

Shiro resists the urge to ask for all of a few seconds before he caves in.

“You told him to keep all of that from us?”

“I was hoping to protect you from this mess,” Allura says, the tone of her voice indicating she’s fully aware she’s already used that argument. “How naive of me, wasn't it? I’ll send children to war but I won’t tell them friendships can break. What a magnificent leader I make.”

“It’s okay, Allura, you—”

“How can you tell me it’s okay?” Allura protests, pushing away from the table in a painful scrape of chair against the floor. “I’m the one who chose you! I threw you at the Lions, I pushed you all through entirely inappropriate training exercises…I’ve asked you all to put your lives on the line again and again without consideration for your ages, your lack of experience, or your legitimate wishes to get back to your planet and your families! Again and again, I ask you to sacrifice everything for a cause that wasn’t even yours—”

“Zarkon conquered most of the known universe,” Shiro points out, using Allura’s words from that fateful first day right back at her, “sooner or later he’d have stumbled on Earth and we’d have been involved in all this whether you were with us or not. Fighting with Voltron is hardly a walk in the park, but I assure you we’re far safer here than we would be if Galra forces suddenly invaded our homes.”

“Even so,” Allura counters, clearly unconvinced, “if not for me, you would all be with your families.”

“Not me,” Shiro point out, getting to his feet so he can stand in front of Allura and get his point across more easily, “If it hadn’t been for the Blue Lion and your help I’d be back on a Galra ship right now. I don’t remember a lot from my first time there but it’s enough to know I’m better off here. Pidge would be no closer to finding Matt and Sam.”

Shiro has to bite on a sigh when Allura looks up at him like she’s five and hurt and hoping for a magic band-aid. She may be worried about the children she sent to war, but she’s not that much older herself, and it’s not like she’s spared her own efforts.

“Look, I’m not going to pretend the situation isn’t terrible,” Shiro tells her with the serious, honest tone he’s found works best when he’s trying to comfort someone, “and it’s true you messed up in the beginning, but that happens to everybody. You had no resources, no support, no way of knowing what was going to happen and not only did you get all the Lions back, you got us out of there alive and with enough team spirit to form Voltron. You did great.”

“They’re too young to fight a war,” Allura sighs after a beat of silence.

Shiro smiles and squeezes her shoulder, relieved to see it eases something in her expression. She’s not settled by any stretch of the imagination, not yet at least, but she’s definitely calmer than she was a minute ago. At this point, Shiro is literally ready to accept any kind of progress.

“You’re too young to be a commander in a war,” he tells the princess, “none of this is fair for anyone, least of all you, but you’re still doing great.”

“I’m just doing my best,” Allura mutters, cheeks darkening with a flush.

Shiro’s laughter catches him by surprise, but he’s certainly not about to complain about it.

“If it makes you feel better, this is exactly what I’m doing. We’re all doing the best we can with what we have.”

Allura’s eyes close and hear breathing hitches a little, but then her shoulder unwinds under Shiro’s fingers, and the smile she gives him is wobbly but sincere.

“Thank you for your support.”

“It’s only normal,” Shiro replies with a little shrug, “what kind of captain would I be if my team couldn’t rely on me?”

“You’re right,” Allura agrees, though the beat that passes before she speaks leaves Shiro a little perplexed, “but I wasn’t only talking about just now. I know you disapprove of my attitude toward the Galra spy.”

She gives a bitter smile while Shiro tries to figure out what to do with his face. On the one hand he doesn’t want to use the same blank face he’s served to the handful of truly insufferable officers in the Garrison. On the other, he’s not sure he wants to let his feelings on the matter be too obvious just now.

“I know you want us to get along,” Allura adds, sitting back down with a sigh, “but I fear you may never have your wish. His people destroyed my planet.”

“His ancestors did that.”

“Where’s the difference?” Allura asks, without heat this time.

In fact, she mostly just sounds as tired as Shiro feels, and he’s not as graceful as he could be when he sits down in the chair next to her and asks:

“Did you have countries on Altea?”

“Countries?” Allura repeats, the English word a little clipped in her mouth, “the translator isn’t working.”

“They’re like...a surface of land with a certain name where people live. Sometimes they’ve got different languages and flags. Sometimes they go to war with one another.”

“Oh—yes. Yes, we had those. Why do you ask?”

“A little over three centuries ago, Keith’s country and mine were at war. Keith’s country sent bombs to mine—the most powerful weapon the Earth had ever seen. It scared people so much, no one’s used it again since. They killed many of my ancestors that day. At the same time, Keith’s country also rounded up some of its citizens and kept them in prisoners camps because they or their families had once come from my country. Do you think I should blame Keith for that?”

“I—why would anyone do that?” Allura asks, obviously disturbed by the very idea, but Shiro doesn’t allow himself to fall for the change of topic.

“Do you think I should blame Keith for what his ancestors did?”

Allura lowers her eyes. There’s no doubt she knows exactly what Shiro is getting at, but anger and fear and resentment are hard things to let go of, especially when one’s used them as reasons to keep going for a while now. Shiro doesn’t want to presume too much of Allura’s motives, but then he does notice she doesn’t answer his question.

“Around the same time period,” he adds, softening his voice to show he’s trying to educate rather than blame, “my country invaded several of its neighbors. People were massacred, kept under my ancestors’ domination, and mistreated for any sign of dissent. Do you think I should be blamed for that?”

He nearly misses it when Allura shakes her head, but what matters is the gesture, not its scope.

Honestly, Shiro doesn’t even blame her. Maybe he’s just biased, but he can’t bring himself to resent someone who was most likely trying to make sense of the world in a way that allowed her to move forward… and things always seem to make more sense when they’re clear cut.

Besides, it’s not even like Shiro doesn’t wish things truly were that simple, sometimes. His life would certainly give him less migraines if he could just know to shoot every Galra he comes across and know he’d made the right choice, at any rate. It’s never been how life worked, though, and trying to pretend it is only leads to people getting hurt for no good reason.

“I get it,” he tells Allura, because there’s really no denying that, “I really do. But people are complicated, and unpredictable. If we start assuming we know them based on what species they are, we’re no better than Zarkon. So you and I, we need to learn to look a Galra in the eye and see who they are beyond the shadow of those who hurt us.”

Allura sighs and runs her hands over her face before he manages a shaky:

“You’re right. If I’m going to advocate for unity and freedom, I cannot turn around and point fingers at an entire species...or at the very least, I cannot do that and refuse to be judged by the same token.”

“What do you mean?”

“Honerva.”

Ah. Yes, that makes sense. They have no indication that she’s still alive, let alone where she is if that’s the case, but she did marry Zarkon and appear to follow him in the beginning of his crusade. If she’s still by his side, that makes her complicit not only in the attempted eradication of the Altean species, but also in the oppression of a solid nine tenths of the known universe, the destruction of at least one planet, and mass incarceration and slave trade on a scale too vast for the human brain to process. Should Allura be judged on that basis, she wouldn’t last five minute in any corner of space.

“Well, the good news is, if she’s helping Zarkon, you definitely have the moral high ground.”

Allura’s giggle is out of the ordinary, but it is no less welcome for the way it devolves into nervous, perhaps slightly hysterical laughter. Their position still isn’t ideal by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s mostly okay.

They’ll just have to do their best.

#Voltron #VLD Fic #Takashi Shirogane #Shiro #vld shiro #Fanfiction

[abakersquest]

CHAPTER TWO - WALLY’S DESTINY

Wally considered himself a very well rounded wallaby, many others would say quite learned for his current occupation. In his time living in Animana, he’d seen some very interesting sights. None, mind you, match the sight of two very large and heavily armored members of the royal guard, standing horribly hunched over in his tiny kitchen, struggling to pull a mystical sword out of an oven, and failing miserably with every attempt.

“My, but this is delicious!” Cinera said between mouthfuls of the donut Wally had given her. “Mmm, what’s on this anyway?”

Still fixated on the sight of both guards clasping their mighty and well trained hands around the grip and pulling with all they have, Wally absently replied, “It’s a glaze recipe from Insicai. I didn’t have access to the flower nectars it called for so I had to- I’m sorry but what is happening right now?”

“Sounds to me like you were about to give away a baking secret,” She giggled.

“What? No not- I mean that!” Wally pointed to the guards just as one began patting the other on the shoulder, consoling him. “Why couldn’t they lift it out?”

“If I had to guess, because it’s yours, not theirs,” she said before she finished off the last bits of donut and licked the remaining glaze off her fingers. “I hope you have more of those, I’m wholly addicted.”

“… I’ll get you a half-dozen box if you explain what you mean by ‘it’s mine,’ because that makes no sense.”

“Ooh, bribing a royal official, you ARE a cheeky one!” She laughed softly patting him on the head with her staff just as he was set to deliver some panic driven response. “Did you forget the soul reading I gave you already?”

Wally looked at the staff’s gleaming gem then back to her. “Is that what that was?”

“Mmm? Oh! I forgot to tell you? My mistake.” She daintily wiped the corners of her mouth with a handkerchief before continuing. “But yes, the soul reading clearly indicates you and the Flare are tied. Well, I say ‘tied,’ but it’s really more of an iron chain. In fact, I’m quite interested to see what would happen if you tried leave here without it. But I don’t think your shop would do well with another large hole in it.”

Wally sighed as he remembered exactly how much destruction the sword had already done. He cautiously looked it over after the guards had made their way back outside. His? A legendary artifact wielded by someone who’s a hero to everyone living today? What cosmic humorist thought to drop something so unbelievably powerful and influential into the hands of a River’s End Street baker? Before he knew it he was staring again. Except he realized it didn’t feel like staring, instead it felt more like an engaging conversation held by two old friends in a café with lovely spring weather outside. This was, however, an absolutely ridiculous thought because Wally didn’t have any friends he’d do that with, and the Stellar Flare was a magic sword. Still, he felt the unrepentant urge to reach out and take hold of it.

As his hand clasped the grip, a brilliant flash of light filled the room, and the air shook with the chime of a metaphysical bell. From the exposed portion of the blade, ethereal flames spread and danced across every surface of the kitchen before quickly retreating to their origin. The whole of the Stellar Flare glowed like the midday sun as Wally placed a second hand on the grip and finally pulled it from the oven. In his hands, the blade seemed to change size until it no longer dwarfed its new wielder entirely. Upon reaching this size it ceased to glow and Wally finally had the room to think about what just happened.

He now stood in a small ring of fire that wasn’t fire. In his hands the Stellar Flare had a comfortable weight to it, nowhere near what he imagined such a weapon would weigh even given its reduced size. As he thought on the warmth of it once more, it really did feel alive to him; a living and breathing thing made of metal, which may have been a ridiculous notion to him before, but now, it suddenly had been catapulted into the realm of possibility.

“Mister Walter.”

Wally instantly snapped out of his silent existential crisis and turned to face Cinera. As he did the flames around him vanished, and the Stellar Flare’s glow dimmed to a much more tolerable shine.

“Do you happen to have another apron?”

Absolutely dumbfounded by the question, it took Wally almost a full minute to finally reply, “... Yes?”

“Good, we’re going to need it.”

“W-… I’m sorry what are we going to need a second apron for, much less the first?”

“Well Wally, I know The Outers have been improving in recent years, but is it really a place you want to be seen carrying an impossibly valuable artifact out in public?”

Wally’s ears shot straight up at the realization, and with surprising dexterity he removed his own apron and began to wrap it around the blade.

“Ooh but you are a sharp one; I’ll be outside in the carriage with the big armored fellows on it when you’re ready.” With that, she bowed her head to him and made her way outside.

Whenever he was given a solid task to perform, Wally’s thinking became steadier. It was as if a chore or duty acted as an anchor point to his mind. He could perform whatever task and find in the time it took to complete it, a solution to almost any greater existential problem. Of course, up until this moment, most of his existential problems involved things anyone would face in the day to day of living. Managing finances, remembering the groceries you need, figuring out where you left your favorite cup. So, as he retrieved the spare red apron from the small closet at the rear of the kitchen, Wally found himself scrambling to make sense of what was happening. A magic sword that helped to end a decade long war had chosen him, a baker, to be its new owner, and now, Royal Seer Cinera was sitting outside in a carriage waiting to take him to…

It was here that Wally’s mind did a startlingly accurate impression of a rubber band snapping. “THE CASTLE?!” He slapped a suddenly free hand over his mouth, almost dropping the sword. He fumbled to get it back into his hands and finish wrapping it in the red and green aprons. Finally satisfied that the long shape of a sword was indiscernible from that of an oddly wrapped plank of wood, Wally quickly made for the carriage outside and was about to step through it’s open door before he hopped back down, locked the door of his shop and then returned toward the carriage.

Before entering however, Wally noticed that a number of children have gathered around it, staring in wonder and interest at the Greater Dynas that was tied to its front. A powerful six legged creature with golden forewings adorning its back and a finely bejeweled steel harness affixed to its great horn, truly a creature well suited to pulling a carriage of regal bearing. The parents of these children would however consider the Dynas’ decorations a needless bit of bragging, as only people in Castle Town could begin to afford even Lesser Dynas, and you only ever saw those if someone from Castle Town brought one with them. No, folks in The Outers had to make do with whatever breed of Cucujo you were lucky enough to afford. They were much smaller and weaker than their regally embraced cousins, but still rather well suited to heavy work and, some claim, were slightly more clever and friendly.

Climbing in at last, Wally felt immediately out of place in the plush and lustrous surroundings of the royal carriage. He was struck by the clear talent that had gone into the woodwork, the finish, and the metal additions that made everything pop.

“It’s a bit much, innit?”

He turned away from studying the interior to meet Cinera’s eyes.

She tucked her arms into the sleeves of her robes and crossed them over her chest. “You don’t have to say anything, I already know. It wouldn’t do for servants of the royal family to ride in something less ostentatious than this, right?”

“It’s… Well it’s very well made, that’s for sure.”

Cinera subtly cocked her head to the side. “You weren’t thinking how the cost of this could’ve fed a family of four for a month?”

A soft and genuine smile formed on Wally’s face as he looked back over to the wall of the carriage nearest him and ran a finger over it appreciatively. “A craftsman worked tirelessly on this, I know that much. You don’t work this hard and not earn what you deserve for it.”

The seemingly permanent smile on Cinera’s face grew wider. “Optimist are we?”

“I’d like to think so. Although, I’m having trouble seeing the bright side of all… This…” He lifted the wrapped sword slightly to emphasize it.

“Because if the sword is here and looking for someone to use it, it must mean there’s something to use it on, right?”

Wally nodded, his drooping ears betraying his trepidation.

“… And yet you still picked it up, got into this carriage, and now going off to see the king and queen about it. That’s not something someone who’s totally scared would do, eh?”

He looked down at the disguised Flare, unable to commit to any response. In fact, Wally didn’t look up from it at all until he heard the sound beneath the carriage change from cobblestone to something else. He couldn’t place it at first until he looked around and realized they’d gone through the inner gate and were headed through Castle Town. Lovely houses and shops lined the streets, clean mason work and well kept trees to accent them, with clean gas lamps and well dressed well-to-do as far as he could see. Wally grasped the front of his simple white cotton work shirt and felt like an enormous embarrassment was waiting like a storm on the horizon. There was nothing he could do about it really, he very much doubted he could ask them to stop so he could rush home and put on the slightly threadbare hand-me-down that was his father’s wedding suit.

So there he’d be, in front of the king and queen, in a white shirt and dirt brown pants, the ultimate visage of peasantry on display. Wally would’ve kept ruing on this if not for the sight of Anmeister Castle in the distance. Instantly, all his worry and doubt were replaced with the warmth of memory and imagination. He was just a boy the first time he’d seen it, a massive and elegant building made of white gleaming stones that shone in the daylight, giving it the look that it’d been expertly carved from a single piece of flawless marble. “The last time I saw Anmeister Castle…” He began. “I was very young, and I asked my mother if it was made from sugar cubes.”

“Sugar cubes?” Cinera tittered.

“Yes I know… Guess that explains the whole baker thing, now doesn’t it?”

“Look at you now, sharing like we’re old friends.” Cinera playfully chided.

Wally recoiled. “Oh! I… I’m sorry! I was being overly familiar just then, wasn’t I?”

“No, I just like seeing you panic.” Cinera then burst out laughing. It was an infectious sound, and Wally couldn’t help but join in at his own expense. “There see?” She finally said when the moment had calmed. “You’re all worked up over the part of this that doesn’t mean anything.”

He tilted his head curiously, “Huh?”

“This is formality, Wally. You’re just introducing yourself to two people who happen to be a bit important.”

“More than a bit, I should say.”

“No.”

Wally was taken aback by the suddenly stern tone of her voice.

“You’re more important than they are right now, don’t forget that. What you’re holding in your hands has the power to reshape not just the world, but its history. Your choices and your actions will no doubt have enormous repercussions for ages to come. The last time the Flare appeared its wielder helped to crush an army that threatened to plunge the world into untold darkness.”

Wally went rigid with fear. “M-m-m-me? B-but I’m not-“

Cinera reached over and placed her hand on Wally’s. “No. Don’t focus on who you aren’t. There’s no good that can come of that. Who you are is what matters, and what you decide to do. Let no one dictate, mandate, command, or deride. Your choice is the final say and no one else’s. You’re Wally, a baker, and someone, somewhere, decided you should guide the turn of history, and the rest of us are along for the ride.”

Wally stared at her as the weight of such a task became immeasurably heavy on his back. It was impossible responsibility for any one person of any standing to bear, much less a wallaby whose greatest achievements include ‘making really good cookies.’ He felt something in him hollow out and his body began to slowly collapse like a deflating soufflé as he barely managed to say, “I… Can’t…”

“If you can’t, then don’t,” Cinera settled back into her seat. “That’s my point. Say ‘no’ if that’s what you really want. Doing nothing is still a choice, after all.”

Wally sank into his seat and back into a non-responsive state. His thoughts turned over the events of the morning in the hopes of finding his feet; ‘I woke up, went downstairs, started making scones and then I suddenly became the world’s lynchpin? Aren’t there a few steps missing in-between? Certainly some sword training should’ve been involved.’

The carriage finally came to a halt before the main entry’s stairs. Wally moved while keeping his eyes on his own feet, essentially sleepwalking his way past guards, advisors, various nobles, and the like. If any of them happened to speak, Wally hadn’t heard a single word. He was lost in a muddle of thoughts so thick, he couldn’t pick one to hold onto and focus with.

“Mister Walter?”

The voice was kind, yet there was clear strength behind it. It cut through the noise of his own mind and right to the center of his attention, and for some reason it reminded him of his mother. Slowly he looked up and before him sat King Jacob and Queen Vivian, and just beside them stood the captain of the guard, Grand Knight of the Kingdom, Sir Hector the First.

Before he was king, Jacob Cervas, as he was called then, served as a general in the United Front Army before marrying into the Anmeister family shortly after the war’s end. A powerful soldier in his own time, there are many who claimed he’d killed a dozen of the seemingly invincible Black Rock Knights on his own.

Vivian Anmeister, while still a young princess, maintained the kingdom after the initial attack of the Sauroian Army had taken the lives of the former king and queen. Her leadership, courage, and conviction throughout the war earned her the epithet, ‘The Dauntless Empress.’

In addition to their regal standing and personal histories, Animana’s king and queen were also red deer, affording them a level of size and strength one would consider appropriate to their positions. There were few who they did not tower over.

Sir Hector, first and only son of Sir Hammond, was a dog like his father before him. Some even say he’s his father’s mirror image. He joined the city guard when he was only 15, demanded no special treatment, and worked hard to earn his position and title. He is both idol and icon to the myriad across Animana and is by many considered its mightiest defender.

And there before them stood Wally B. Walter, a humble baker, who couldn’t look more intimidated if he tried. He fumbled over a few half muttered syllables, found his mouth dryer than it had ever been, and that his legs were at the ready for the maddest dash of his life. His eyes darted around the room, afraid he’d be struck down for looking directly at any of the three people standing before him for more than a moment. Finally his eyes found something that didn’t strike every panic switch he had. Beside him stood Cinera, her face almost aglow with the most sincere expression of understanding he’d seen on any face that wasn’t owned by a member of his own family. It was, somehow, enough for him to find a calm center in the storm of emotions and anxiety inside himself. He then bowed as gracefully as anyone could while hugging a sword hastily wrapped in aprons.

“Wally B. Walter, at your highness’ service.” His voice rang clearer than it had all day.

“Mister Walter,” the queen began. “Yesterday, Seer Cinera foresaw the coming of the Stellar Flare, a blade that once cleaved a path to victory amidst the chaos of the Grand War. We do not know where it has been or why it has chosen to return. Do you?”

“D-… Me? I mean! N-no your majesty, I haven’t the foggiest- I MEAN, I don’t know why-” Wally huffed air out of his lungs to stop himself from jabbering on. He took a deep calming breath. “As far as I know it crashed into my kitchen and destroyed my new oven… NOT that I’m asking for financial compensation of any kind your majesty, I’m simply stating the facts of the matter.”

The king and queen exchanged glances for a moment before the King spoke. “Seer Cinera, what say you?”

“My vision of the events has not changed your majesty.” Cinera’s staff began to glow, its soft blue light painted the images she described onto the air. “I saw the Flare falling from the heavens and into The Outers, then Mister Walter standing here before you, and finally an indescribably great darkness on the horizon; a sign that something terrible is gaining strength somewhere in the world.”

“What is your recommendation then?” The queen asked.

The light retreated to the staff and Cinera shrugged her shoulders. “Well… That’s not really up to me now, is it? If I had to recommend anything, it’s that you listen to what Mister Walter has to say on the matter.”

Wally almost bounced on the spot when the conversation turned back to him. He mumbled slightly as he struggled to find something to say before the light of inspiration struck. “SIR HECTOR! Sir Hector, the Flare was wielded by your father so… It’s maybe your birthright, yes? So I… I think he should have it then. I mean it might just be some matter of chance it fell into my bakery, or maybe I was just supposed to bring it to him. That certainly makes more sense. Don’t you think?”

He looked at the sea of doubtful faces before him and did his best to hold his tiny flicker of hope.

“Well! I’d say it’s at least worth a shot,” Sir Hector said before approaching Wally.

A very slim smile crept onto Wally’s face as he unwrapped the Stellar Flare. As best he could, he held it up to present it to Hector who took hold of the grip and pulled.

The sword didn’t move, not one inch, as if it were glued to Wally’s palms. Of course it was held there by the magic of the sword, because if Wally had actually glued it to himself, Sir Hector would’ve flung him across the room by now with the effort he’d exerted.  

Hector released the grip of the sword and smiled conciliatorily. “Sorry lad, looks like it’s yours after all.”

Wally began to shake as if the world was exclusively quaking under his feet. “But that doesn’t make any sense, I-I-I’m just a baker! I don’t know the first thing about sword fighting! Or, or, or any kind of fighting for that matter! It’s Just-…” It was suddenly harder for him to breathe. Wally had never spoken so much and been so scared at the same time, so he hadn’t properly rationed the air in his lungs. He gulped another bit of air and very quietly said, “It’s just… It’s too much.”

There was silence in the throne room that grew heavier with every passing moment; its weight smothered any words anyone thought to say. The owners of the strongest voices in the room now faced their personal truth in the form of a terrified wallaby. The King, The Queen, and The Knight were all people who stood on battlefields willingly so that people like Wally never had to. They, who were ready and able to sacrifice themselves for the many in any battle, now faced the task of asking this innocent baker to do the same.

“Wally,” Cinera was the first to break the silence. “I told you. You don’t have to do this at all if you don’t want to.”

He stared at her suddenly and in his panic forgot manner and his place and shouted, “But that’s just it! I can’t say no!” His grip on the blade tightened almost audibly as the most honest words he’d ever spoken came out as strongly as he could speak them. “How… How could I possibly turn my back on this?! The Stellar Flare is here to help save the world isn’t it?! That’s what it’s for and it decided I’m the person to help that happen!” He closed his eyes, unable to meet the gaze of any of them as his voice slowly began to soften. “If I don’t, who knows what could happen? How many people could be hurt or outright killed… How could I possibly live with myself if I just said ‘no?’”

In the silence he’d created with his emotional outburst, he finally managed to look down at the sword in his hands and saw his face reflected in it. He saw the worry and doubt playing around his eyes and the undeniable fear that lay in them. He was terrified and unsure, but honestly believed what he’d said. There wasn’t a choice, he couldn’t possible turn his back on the whole world to save himself the trouble. “I’ve…” He paused, startled by the sound of his own voice in the quite throne room. “I’ve no idea what I’m supposed to do exactly… But I absolutely will do it.”

Suddenly he felt a weight on his shoulder, no, a grip, he tracked the shine of armor up to Sir Hector’s face and found there a friendly smile. In a voice only Wally could hear, he said, “Damn fine answer if you ask me.” Hector then moved to a place just beside Wally and respectfully half bowed to the king and queen. “By your leave your majesties, I shall accompany Sir Walter wherever this quest takes him. The lad will need a proper tutor in swordsmanship after all.”

The befuddled wallaby looked up at the knight. “S-Sir wh-what?”

The kindly and warmhearted grin of the knight gave Wally a sudden feeling of comfort, despite the fangs therein. “Oh come now,” he said amicably. “You’re obviously going to be knighted before you leave. If for nothing else than that declaration you just made.”

His gaze rocketed toward the king and queen who both nodded in tandem.

They then stood and approached Wally, who rapidly fell into a proper kneel, resting the sword on the ground. Hector handed King Jacob his sword and then stood back. “Typically,” King Jacob began. “There’d be more ceremony and celebration for this sort of thing… If you don’t mind Walter, I should hope we do this properly upon your return.”

Wally’s tongue had knotted itself in his mouth, he could only nod.

The king smiled and held the sword aloft. “May I know your full name then?”

Wally cleared his throat. “Wally Bartholomew Walter, sire.”

“Wait,” Queen Vivian couldn’t help but interject with a sudden realization. “You are a wallaby… Named ‘Wally B?’”

“M-my parents believed a name like that would make me more approachable, your highness. Very non-threatening, good ice breaker at parties, and so on.”

“… Did it work?”

“Absolutely not,” Wally replied rather grimly.

“Well. I feel it suits you regardless. Knights of our kingdom should be approachable by anyone they happen to meet.”

King Jacob cleared his throat. “May I continue?”

The queen smiled apologetically to her husband and nodded.

“Now,” The king rested the point of the sword on Wally’s head, “Wally Bartholomew Walter, for the people of Animana and by the royal decree of Anmeister. I, King Jacob Anmeister, proclaim you protector of this kingdom and its people, a knight of the royal court.” He pulled the sword away and handed it back to Hector. “Now arise, Sir Walter of the Flare!”

Wally stood, holding the sword in hand again, and doing his best to match up with what he thought was appropriately regal posture. Really it was just him standing on his toes slightly to make himself seem a little taller.

“Your majesties,” Cinera began, “It will take me at least a day to discern where Sir Hector and Sir Wally must first journey. I suppose that will be enough time for the two of them to prepare whatever supplies they will carry.”

“Very well then,” King Jacob said. “Best that the two of you dress casually, if need be, say that you are traveling mercenaries to explain your weapons and skills. Whenever possible, keep your presence hidden.”

“I shall escort Sir Wally to a carriage so he can prepare for the journey ahead.” Cinera motioned for Wally to walk with her.

As the two left the throne room, Wally noticed that the hall was cleared and the only sound to be heard was their own footfalls. He wondered where all the people he’d ignored on his way in had gone until Cinera began to speak. “My abilities as a Seer first came when I was a child, you know. This was a few years before the start of the war. My power of foresight and natural gift for magic made me an outcast amid other children and even fellow townsfolk. In time it was decided by the former king and queen that I’d become a royal advisor, so they sent me out into the world and to many teachers. My life was lived for me by the whims of royalty, scholars, and tutors.”

The light of understanding slowed Wally’s feet. “… So that’s why…”

She didn’t acknowledge his change of pace at first, continuing her explanation. “I didn’t want them, no, anyone to take your freedom, Wally. It’s not fair that you should be made to do this. Or rather, that’s what I thought.”

Quickly catching up, Wally asked, “What changed your mind?”

“You did. I could already tell you were kind… But what you said in there was more than just simple kindness and compassion. You may not believe it, but there are still people who’d look at the responsibilities you just took on and still say ‘no.’” She turned to face him and rested her hand on his shoulder. “That was truly brave of you Wally. Never forget that.”

He was taken aback by that, he honestly hadn’t thought it a brave choice, or even a choice to begin with. It was simply the right thing to do to him. Hearing that he still could’ve said no, and that that was the furthest thing from his mind, filled him with a warm sense of pride.

“Oh, one thing before you go,” Cinera reached into her sleeves and produced the two aprons they’d brought to hide the Stellar Flare. “You dropped these in the throne room.”

Wally produced a mildly crazed little laugh and shook his head. “Right, in all the terrifying doubt I completely forgot. I’ll get to wrapping right away.”

“Mm, no. I have a better idea. Hold out the sword, please.”

Wally did as she asked without pause, watching as she carefully draped the aprons over the sword and lifted her staff. The air began to shake unnaturally as unintelligible words left her throat. A blue glow spread out over the surface of the aprons and began to move them. They warped and stretched, wrapped into themselves and around the blade. With a brilliant and sudden flash of blue light, they were gone, replaced instead with a fine lacquered sheath in their colors.

“My, but you certainly had owned those for a long time. There was plenty of memory and sentiment to work with.”

Wally spoke as he turned the Flare over in his hands and beheld her handiwork. “You turned them into a sheath with… Memory and sentiment? Is that how magic works?”

“Some magic, yes. Strong emotions and the like imprint on objects over time, and you can use them like lamp oil to fuel a reaction. Now it’ll be easier to carry.”

“Not by a lot,” Wally silently muttered. “But most certainly better than nothing.” He donned his most honest smile and nodded gratefully. “Thank you, Cinera.”

Appreciative of the wallaby’s honesty; she returned the smile in kind. “So, shall I have the carriage take you back to your bakery?”

“No.” Wally said with some pause. “I should go home first.”

<[Chapter 01]–[Index]–[Chapter 03]>

#A Baker's Quest #Writing