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pomegranates-and-blood · 3 years

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νοσταλγία (Chapter 11)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: This is a retelling/romantization of the Greek myth of Persephone’s abduction with Ivar as Hades and you as Persephone. The Reader character is a Byzantine woman, follower of the Greek Pantheon/Religion, and a devoted follower of Persephone. This takes place after 5A, but the universe of this is a little changed in relation with the series, of course. Thank you for giving it a chance, hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: The usual

A/N: Hi, hope you like this! I don’t really have much to say here lol

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax @pieces-by-me

“Tell me about your Gods.” Ivar orders one night, moving with a slight wince of pain to settle better in his seat.

This is one of the first times he has tried to talk to you as if you are anything other than the foreign witch he has chained to his side in more ways than one, and you should take advantage of that, you know you should.

To your best interests, you should be lying to him, you should have been lying since the day you crossed Kattegat’s walls. You should have lied, from the very beginning.

You should have lied, you should have used lust, anger, curiosity to your favor. You should have taken advantage of the cautious hope in his eyes, of the hidden fear he has of being left alone.

A better woman might have. A better Anassa, a better Greek. A better witch.

But not you.

You narrow your eyes, and when you consider Ivar’s spoiled request you cannot keep the words from leaving your lips even if you tried.

“I am not a pet, eager to entertain my captor.” You point out.

“I am not your captor, because you are not a prisoner.” He argues without hesitation, certain in his madness.

“Am I free to leave this room then?” You taunt, surprising yourself.

You could swear somewhere, maybe even from her Folkvangr, Sieghild is yelling at you to shut your mouth and count your losses. You can almost hear the curses and threats on her part.

King Ivar stares at you in cold anger for a moment, and you see the telltale move of him gritting his teeth in annoyance before he motions for the chair, “If you entertain me, I will consider it.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” You push. Sieghild was right, you would have been killed so many years ago if you had been left alone without her. Gods above, you need to learn to shut up. If only the part of your mind that realizes you shouldn’t open your mouth were to speak before your own mouth does, that would be delightful. With your chin in your hand, you ask, “What do you wish to know?”

He asks about Hades, of course he does. And you tell him about the God’s might, how he came to rule over the Underworld, his gift with the dead and with fortune.

When he asks, you tell him about his dealings with mortals, and how he rarely leaves his Kingdom, but the Viking is not content with your answers, it seems.

“You are hiding something from me.” He points out, seriously and without hesitation. You frown, startled, but in your voice there’s the hint of a smile when you answer,

“What makes you think so?”

“You pick and choose at the tales of your Gods you tell, Priestess, don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“There’s many tales, many stories, about the Gods. Explaining them to an outsider is difficult.” You defend yourself even if you taste the half-truth in your tongue. Facing the stories of old, facing the legends told to you by your mother and father, it brings out a strange nostalgia in you, a strange dread that makes you think you have lost the war you started in Eleusis long before you called your fellow Greeks to arms.

“You are an outsider to me.” He points out, eyebrows lifted and gaze challenging. Whether that’s a rebuttal to your point by returning the same title, or a remark that he has chosen to ignore the obvious differences between the two of you, you don’t truly know.

“Tell me some tales of yours, then.” You offer, betraying a small smile.

Let’s be something other than outsiders.

You know how foolish you are being, walking into the trap even with your eyes wide open, but there’s a beat in your heart that speaks of madness, of thrill, of something when you face the Viking.

But Ivar shakes his head, startling you and making your stomach drop for a moment. The realization you were trusting enough to long for closeness to the monster that captured and imprisoned you makes you ashamed.

He motions to you before pressing his fingers to his mouth, “I want to speak your language first.”

You raise your eyebrows, “It takes years to master Greek, my King.”

“I’m a fast learner, and you have nowhere else to go.”

“Fine.” You sigh, getting comfortable in your chair. Thinking for a moment on what you could teach him first, you grab onto the pendant hanging from your neck and show him the inscription.

He doesn’t consider the letters though, rough fingers reaching up and almost touching your own as he turns the circular piece back around, looking at the engraving of the twelve Olympians and the Gods of the Underworld.

“What is this?”

His face is so close to yours that you can -and a part of you wants to- lose yourself in the specks of blue of his eyes. It unsettles you, more because you don’t want to move away when you know you should.

And it is the honesty, the open curiosity that shine in his blue eyes that disarms you, that makes you lose the tight hold you have on control. Your breath stutters its way past your parted lips, and you pray he doesn’t notice, eyes searching his as you beg your tongue to give an answer.

“An old gift, it represents the Gods.” You reply, not wanting to delve into it for fear of having nostalgia clog at your throat.

“From whom?”

Of course he would ask. You take a deep breath, betraying a small, sad smile on your lips.

“My father gifted this to my mother the day they were to be married,” You explain softly, and realize after a heartbeat that he knows of your mother’s story, because you told him. When you were just a Priestess and he was just a Viking, you told him of your mother’s plight, of her resistance and of her defeat. It gives you a certain calm, to know he knows what it means to you. Turning the pendant back around, you insist on the inscription, tracing over a word well-known for both your Gods and his, “Moirai, Fates.”

“Moirai.” Ivar tests it in his tongue, harsh and rough on his untrained lips. Still, the moment of curiosity, of willingness to learn, on his part makes your mouth start to curve into a small smile.

You furrow it before it has the chance to give away your naïve heart.

The moon has almost made her journey all across the skies when you are dismissed by the King who, true to his word, seems to be quick to pick up the easier parts of your tongue.

____

Strange, how even the oddest and most bizarre of scenarios become routines after enough time has passed.

As agreed when the King concluded to not treat you as a prisoner -even if he still does, arguing semantics with a man that almost routinely is covered in blood is not high in your list of priorities- you are called forth to sit by the King’s side each morning and each night.

It is a set of shackles to keep you controlled by the Viking, but you find yourself enjoying his company.

Even if every day that you find yourself laughing alongside the youngest son of Ragnar, or exchanging tales or memories or hopes with him, you find a piece of you burning at the shame of having betrayed the people you promised so much for so long; your foolish heart still finds itself weaving a place in it for Ivar. Just Ivar. Not the King, not the Viking berserker, not your captor, but the man who through scarce glimpses you get to know. Ivar, who the more you know the more you deem a man you could trust rather than the King you thought you’d grow to resent.

As before, he manages to make you despise him as easily as he makes you admire him, hate his forced presence in your day and find yourself missing his voice or his expressive eyes when he’s not there.

You are served a small platter of finger food by one of the thralls, a petite girl of long brown hair, and you pick at what looks like cow liver and heart as you discreetly look over the hall in search of the King.

You don’t have to look for him long, for you hear the people greeting him before you even see him. After a breath, you hear the by now familiar sound of his crutch finding the wooden floor behind you, and he greets you,

“Hiereiai.”

The smile on your lips is foolish but free, and you surprise yourself when don’t try to school it as you turn around on your seat to face him. Noting he used the plural form of your title, you shake your head.

“Hiereia,” You correct, “There’s only one of me.”

His eyebrows rise and mouth curves into a side smile, expression dripping mirth as he mumbles,

“Thank the Gods. I don’t know what I would do more than one of you.”

You scoff at him as he takes his seat, rolling your eyes.

“As if you could be so lucky,” You dismiss, earning a breath that once could have been a laugh. As it is your new and strange routine, you look over the table and find a dish that looks unfamiliar. Pointing to it, you ask, “This one?”

“Osyrat kornbröd.”

You grab a small piece of the odd-looking bread, tasting it before you repeat the words back to him. He nods in approval, but you have a feeling it is because a week ago, when he mocked your accent when speaking his tongue, you switched to Greek for the rest of the day and frustrated him to no end.

Routine, familiarity like this, you know it should frighten you. You know you should fight, you know you should feel the pressing and suffocating pressure of unwanted binds, but…maybe it was fate after all. Maybe it is as Galla said: the woman that would have been content as an Anassa, as a meek wife, that would be Greek and nothing else; she died when they burned you before that temple, and something else, something wilder, hungrier, was left behind.

Maybe Ivar is right, and it was fate that you ended up here.

You choose not to think of it for now, you choose to ignore the should be’s and just…be. So, a new normal settles in your life.

Sometimes, you dine in the great hall, laughing discreetly at the stories shared by the warriors, or talking with the younger Prince who seems to be the person who wants you dead the least, or -more commonly- seething silently in your seat as you wonder if you could get away with regicide as King Ivar dangles your powerlessness, his hold over you, his control, like who taunts a cat with a piece of string.

Other times, you meet in his quarters, imposing and cold as they are which you always find a way -silent or not- to complain about, or yours, which always brings the question by Ivar as to why you keep insisting on keeping a growing number of plants indoors.

You have to admit, even if your pride refuses to, that you prefer the nights and mornings you sit alone with the King over the ruckus of the main hall. Maybe you are selfish and don’t want to share his attention, maybe your foolish and naïve heart is intrigued by the stories he tells you, maybe.

And almost every night he continues to ask questions about your Gods and the stories you remember about heroes and legends. You know he sees them only as tales, and your situation as you sit beside King Ivar, dining and exchanging words as the night progresses makes you remember the tale of that woman you heard while in Persia, the one that wove tales for years on end to keep a tyrannical King from killing her.

Still, you relay the same words that have been spoken to you once, the naïve child waiting for her mother at Eleusis’ temple and asking all the questions that the world around her prompted.

There was a time when you believed the words leaving now your lips would be what your purpose was. Tend to the gardens of the temple, explain young girls the teachings of Persephone and Demeter, relay the ritual proceedings to ask for Hades’ blessing, bask in the music and the joy of Eleusis’ mysteries.

But that was before the blood, before the rust and the clashing of swords. That was before the Emperor’s whim dictated your Gods were no more, dictated your kingdom was his to play with. That was before you realized more than love and happiness, you wanted freedom and war.

You wouldn’t have ever thought you could stop an army from advancing from just standing still on the road. But it seems a heathen woman frightens these Christians more than anything.

“You are of noble blood, Constantinople welcomes your family name with open arms!” The Patriarch insists, “Come to the light of God and we will be merciful!”

“I have no interest in your mercy,” You bite out, eyes on the old man. “I want my freedom.”

“Your soul is prisoner, my child. Abandon these pagan ways an-…”

You interrupt him with a laugh, shaking your head, “‘These pagan ways’ built the empire you now live comfortably on. The Gods h-…”

The priest’s strike sends you stumbling to the ground, your cheek bleeding from his gold ring. Sharp pain spreads over the side of your face, and when you turn the old man you see the hand he backhanded you with curl into a fist.

“Do not speak of your false Gods to me, pagan.”

And even now, relaying the tales of your people to a King that knows nothing of your Gods, a weight in your chest seems to lighten, as if the stories gathered by your memory in all these years have been begging for air all this time.

Demeter’s suffering demands to be told again so that the world does not forget a mother’s love, Persephone’s resilience remains a safe haven in the storm of war and death, Hades’ courage and determination a testament to the ruthlessness of what a King ought to be.

And you allow yourself a small smile as you dine surrounded by foreign words and runes and customs. Sieghild was right all those years ago, when she found a crying child and made her a daughter: The Gods remain with you.

____

Before you know it the weeks Hvitserk promised it would take for their brother to arrive at the city has passed, and dragon-headed ships reach the docks.

After Prince Ubbe is welcomed with a feast in the main hall, while he is greeted with warm embraces, loud laughs and smiling faces; while Ivar seems to dwell for a few instants too long on the way his older brother is easily embraced by the people of Kattegat; he calls for his brothers to meet him in private.

You are asked to be there, and with a dead weight on your stomach you realize what this meeting is for.

And as you wait for someone to arrive, long after the warriors that escort you have left the room, you realize with deep shame how unsafe you feel without the vitriolic and unpredictable presence of the King.

“I thought I saw a familiar face in the crowd tonight,” The oldest Prince states as a greeting as pale eyes focus on you. You do not know why he chooses to speak to you in the tongue of the Saxons, maybe he thinks you don’t speak his tongue? “You are Greek. Far from home, aren’t you?”

“Yet I’m here.” You reply quietly, uncomfortable.

He sits across from you, grabbing a goblet and drinking mead, but without taking his piercing eyes off of you.

“My brother doesn’t share,” He states in a low voice, “So why are you here?”

You frown, “I’m sorry?”

“You’re not here for me to fuck, or kill,” He explains, elbows resting heavily on the table before you. “I saw you with Ivar tonight. Why?”

There’s a flash of anger, of ire, of protectiveness in his gaze; and you feel small and alone in the room with him. Your lips part, the familiar feeling of fear settling on your very bones.

“I-I…He wanted me there.”

“I know,” He insists, and when he speaks again his voice is a command, a threat, “Why?”

And the Gods might summon you home to the Underworld the day you let a man succeed at making you fear him. Your blood boils under your skin and you straighten yourself in your seat, finding the Prince’s gaze and narrowing your own eyes.

Whatever it is your lips try to say is quickly interrupted by the now familiar sound of a crutch finding methodically the wooden floor. Ivar and Hvitserk walk into the room discussing something between them, but the former, as if sensing your eyes on him, finds your gaze.

Strange, the new familiarity that has grown in this time spent at his side, that not only can he notice the change in you from your face and posture alone, but that in the slight narrow of his eyes you clearly see the question his voice doesn’t ask.

You offer a slight shake of your head, replying you are alright. He is still guarded and considers his brother in silence as he takes the seat next to you.

After a moment, he turns to you, a small smile on his lips. It feels true, it feels like your own lips want to return one in kind.

The thralls approach with food to set on the table, with all sorts of dishes that after weeks you are growing accustomed to, and small conversations start between the three brothers, leaving you to enjoy the strange peace.

You watch in silence as the oldest of the brothers uses a leg of lamb in his hand to motion as he talks,

“I’ve heard of ships from all over arrive at the docks,” He boasts, and smiles at Hvitserk, “Handling commerce suits you, brother.”

The other man nods, solemn, “I’ve been trying to secure some shipments to Dublin. It will be protected, I promise you.”

But it seems Prince Ubbe doesn’t want to hear about that, judging by the way is expression hardens, his eyes dim to a cold distrust. When they find you across the table, you realize it wasn’t that he didn’t want to hear about his brother’s plans, but rather didn’t want you to hear them.

“Should you talk about this in front of her?”

The question is directed at the King, and you turn rapt attention to him, a knot in the base of your stomach.

He shrugs, bringing a cup to his lips and drinking before answering.

“I don’t see why not, since she is to be Queen of Kattegat.”

Your lips part, a voice in your head screaming that’s not how you bring up an announcement like that, but you stay silent.

“What?” The older prince asks, voice low and raspy, eyes rapt on his brother.

“We are to be married soon,” He explains simply, turning to you and offering you a smirk, “Isn’t that right?”

You take a deep breath through your nose and face the dumbfounded princes.

“Yes,” The words catch in your throat, like a handful of coarse sand keeps them from reaching your tongue. You swallow and state, “I will be-…yes, we are.”

Prince Hvitserk looks between the two of you with a slowly growing smile on his face, but it is not as filled with poison as you thought it would be. It would make a less cautious woman think it is approval what shines in his brown eyes.

“Well…congratulations, brother.”

Ivar accepts the words with a slightly raised cup, but says nothing. You turn your gaze to the older prince. The simmering rage, the contained anger, they startle you and unsettle you way more than bare fury and vitriol ever could.

“Brother, you are not thinking straight,” Ubbe starts, hand gesturing to you. “Does she even know of the Gods? Does she even speak our tongue? You can’t just pick a Christian woman to marry and make a Queen, Ivar!”

“Call me what you will, my Prince, but never a Christian.” You hiss with narrowed eyes, drawing the fury of a man chosen by Father Zeus to you. Still, you hold his gaze.

Ivar chuckles softly, and you turn to him. As expected, he is already looking at you, sharing something in that moment when your eyes meet before he turns to his brother, his smile turning sardonic.

“A woman after my own heart.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips do start forming a small smile without your consent.

Only the younger Prince, Hvitserk, huffs a small laugh as he acquiesces with a small shrug. Ubbe keeps hard eyes on the youngest son of Ragnar.

“You’ll be marrying your enemy.”

“She’s not an enemy.” Ivar insists easily, leaning back on his seat. Still, being questioned about his decision is not something he is taking kindly to, judging by the tight set of his shoulders and the hard glare he directs to Prince Ubbe.

“Ivar…”

“I did not summon you here to ask for your blessing, Ubbe,” He interrupts, hand motioning to you, “She is to be Queen of Kattegat.”

The other man drinks from his cup in what you assume to be an attempt to quell his anger. After a breath, he quips, “The Gods may not be pleased knowing the woman you take as a wife worships false Gods.”

“The Gods may not be pleased with you offering peace in exchange for nothing,” Ivar replies, elbows resting on the table, and though both brothers are confused at what he means, you know exactly what he is talking about, “Before questioning my choices, brother, why don’t you make sure Stithulf has the lands you accepted as payment for surrender?”

Your eyes are wide as you take in the King’s profile, the surprise written all over your face. He speaks certainly, confidently, even though it is only your word he has as proof of Stithulf not being able to pay forth what he promised the Varangians.

He trusted you.

It makes something within you soften, makes your chest feel a strange warmth. But you push those feelings down and focus on the conversation, hoping the men confuse your surprise for something other than having had Ivar listen and heed your word.

As they discuss the possible truth behind Ivar’s taunt, a thrall refills your cup of mead, and it is the concealed fear in her eyes, the meek posture, the murmured words of respect, what makes you realize what the world is like now.

They treat you like…like Ivar’s consort. Like a…

You drink deeply from your cup, shaking off those words, those…titles.

But that’s what you’ll be, isn’t it? He has already told his brothers, and if there’s something you know about this man past his relentlessness, his ruthlessness, is how much he cares about how others see him, what others see him as. If he is willing to let his blood know of this, nothing short of the Gods themselves will make him change his mind.

Your fate is sealed.

It is hard to hear anything past the ringing in your ears, and for the rest of the night you go through the motions, replying when spoken to, wondering if death truly is worse than chains.

The Princes are dismissed, and you feel burning blue eyes set on you. You turn to face him silently, and he lets his eyes trace over your features before speaking,

“What’s with you, hm?”

You don’t offer an answer, instead asking, “When will you tell your people? About…about the marriage.”

“Why?”

“Your people may not take kindly to a foreign witch ruling over them.” You say quietly, tremulously. Ivar only shrugs.

“They have a cripple sitting on the throne, they won’t be too outraged.”

The same dry humor as well, lucky for you, they are probably all dead now, the same small and proud smile when he makes a quiet laugh leave your lips, the same stupid feeling in your heart as if you were still in Aneridge, just a Priestess and just a Viking.

You roll your eyes with reluctant fondness, a strange warmth spreading over your heart and making for a moment the weight of chains not as heavy. Still, you stand up,

“I think I will retire for the night, if…if it’s alright.”

You hate that you hesitate, you hate that you feel like having to ask for permission. Still, you say nothing else, waiting for his response.

He gestures with his hand, signaling a dismissal and a goodnight.

You ask the tall and white-haired man with the injured eye to take you to the apothecary instead of to your rooms, longing for familiarity. As you slip silently into the sleeping home, you find a lone lit candle by a window, and Freydis smiling and motioning for you to get closer.

____

So, seems the odds of her escaping the marriage are slimmer and slimmer, eh? Anyways, would love to hear what you think, and it means a lot that you read and like this story, truly. So, thank you, so so so much :)

Also, there’s a Freydis PoV thing I’ve had on my drafts for a while, and I’ll be posting it this Tuesday as the week’s extra spinoff chapter, so hopefully I’ll see you there ;)

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #vikings #νοσταλγία masterlist

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panda-noosh · 6 years

Text

Old Friends {Zarkon x Reader}{Request}

Words: 2931

Genre: Angst

Notes: oof I don't know how to write fluff for Zarkon, so I just went all out on the angst lol. I hope you like it!! x

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Being dragged in front of the Galra emperor was not how you had planned on spending your Sunday evening.

All had been going perfectly well – sure, you weren't meant to be in the Galra empire, but you thought for sure that your old friend Zarkon would be willing to make an exception just this one time. With the history the two of you had, surely seeing you wouldn't be such a bad thing?

You had woken up, risked a brisk walk around the streets of the empire. It had been just that, though – a risk, a stupid one now that you thought about it. To everyone within the Galra empire, you were nothing more than a fugitive, banished from your home country all because of some false claims that the emperor had made of you in an attempt to get rid of you, just so he wouldn't have to deal with the risk of you exposing him to everybody.

Zarkon had always been that foolish. You had grown up with the man, seen him during his rise as a Paladin all the way to his downfall as an oppressor of his own people. Although you disagreed with the majority of the things he insisted on doing, it didn't mean you were going to throw him under the bus for it all.

But your brisk walk had led to this – you being dragged into the foyer of the emperors ship, two Galra generals on either side of you and a chain dragging along the ground; it truly was a sight to see. You caught a glimpse of yourself in one of the metal shutters, winced at the mess of your hair that had only gotten that way due to the fight you insisted on putting up whenever the generals had made to grab for you. Your ankle was already swollen from you trying to pull the chain from it, and there were dots of blood lining your foot, dribbling down and trailing along the ground as you walked.

He did this. It was him. He was so worried about what you might do, about what information you might expose that he had insisted on putting you in chains. Chains. As if you were some kind of animal, some kind of beast that needed to be kept under lock and key.

You suppressed the urge to snarl at him as the doors to the foyer opened, and Zarkon was suddenly in front of you.

No words could be strung together to describe how you felt in this moment, because everything was conflicted. Your old friend, the man you once knew seated in front of you with a crown atop his head and an evil smirk adorning his face. You had once claimed to love him, had once given him your everything, and he was doing this to you.

You wanted to be mad at him. Wanted nothing more than to pry the chains off of your feet and leap for him, gouge his eyes out with your claws, but there was another side of you that felt the urge to buckle, collapse to the floor and let the emotions take over. Even after all these years, you couldn't rid your brain of the memories he had embedded in your mind, the years of working with the lions where he had given you his everything and you had given it all right back.

It shamed you to say you still recognised that man, even with the glint of evil that had now poisoned his very being.

His eyes never left yours as you were shoved to your knees in front of the throne he was seated upon. Your knees crashed onto the floor, causing you to grit your teeth at the harsh contact. You refused to make a noise, refused to give him the satisfaction of your pain.

“Thank you, guards,” he spoke up, nodding to the generals who had oh-so-kindly dragged you in here. “You can leave us now.”

“Are you positive, emperor Zarkon?” one of the generals asked.

“Why would he say it if he wasn't positive?” you barked, shooting the guard a glare. The guard glared right back at you, the one to your left sending a foot into your ribcage in an attempt to shut you up. You hissed, stumbling a little bit but catching yourself on the metal floor.

Zarkon chuckled darkly. “Yes, I am sure. I want to talk to Y/N in private. It seems like we have a lot of catching up to do.”

As the generals left the room, clearly not too keen on the idea of leaving you alone in the same room as their beloved emperor, you risked a glance at the Galra in front of you.

His metallic red suit glinted under the lights surrounding him, his violet eyes never leaving yours and making you feel as if you had done something wrong. You remembered a time when you would sit in front of him at dinner, the other Paladins surrounding the two of you, but it would never feel that way. It would always feel like it was just you and Zarkon, sending each other sly smirks across the table, silently having a conversation whilst everyone else spoke.

Those had been the good old days, but even now, it was as if he was speaking to you through nothing more than his gaze; old habits died hard.

“You're just going to execute me anyway,” you grumbled out after a moment of silence. “Get it over with. Come on. I don't want to cut into your precious time.”

Zarkon smirked. “Do you think so little of me to believe that I would execute one of my oldest companions?”

“I'm sure you wouldn't have thought twice about ending Alfor's life.”

“Alfor and I had a rocky relationship,” Zarkon replied. “You and I, however, have very strong history.”

You shivered. Hearing him bring up your past like that, with so much casualness, as if nothing had changed between the two of you, was chilling.

“You know, I never stopped thinking about you,” he continued, his voice as smooth as it had always been. “I was always wondering where you were, what you were getting up to. Always wondering what my little Y/N had made of herself.”

“Don't call me that.”

“Oh? We're no longer on a nickname basis?” He smiled to himself, leaned back on his grand throne with his hands folded in front of him. “A shame, but if it makes you uncomfortable, I'm willing to be quiet.”

You winced. “You have a son now, do you now?”

“Lotor, yes. A trouble maker at best.”

“Where is he, then? Does he know about your unfair exile of one of your oldest friends?”

Zarkon pursed his lips. “He knows about you. Knows how I feel about you. I haven't kept my feelings a secret, Y/N, but I have to put my empire first.”

Your blood boiled. You were finding it more and more difficult to bite back the harsh comments, to keep yourself calm. You knew he wanted you riled up, wanted to push a reaction out of you, and it was working. Against everything, it was working.

“You always claimed that you loved me, Zarkon, but you were so quickly to banish me whenever you saw me as a threat,” you growled through gritted teeth. “You knew I had information that could rip your entire little empire to the ground, and you put a price on my head. Tell me how that is love?”

A shadow flickered over the emperors expression. “You can question whatever facts you want to, but you knew I loved you. I never kept that a secret from you.”

You bristled, clenching your fists at your side. “No. No, you just hid the fact that you planned on having me exiled from my home. But at least I know you loved me.”

“Love you,” he corrected, and you were fairly certain your heart had stopped beating in your chest. There was a roaring in your ears from the blood pounding through you, but all went silent as soon as his confession rang out across the foyer.

It burned. It was a physical pain in your chest, a clamp pressing down on every emotion you had tried so hard to shove away for the past few years – after Alfor's death, you didn't even want to return to the Galra empire anyway. Not with Zarkon, not with anyone. You wanted to avenge your friends death, find Princess Allura and help her rebuild the planet that had been destroyed by your people.

And yet you had been dragged back. Your curiosity had gotten the better of you. This was your home, after all. These were your people.

“You have no right to say that to me,” you growled, ducking your head down. If he looked into your eyes now, you knew the game would be over; every single emotion you were suppressing would come to the surface, and Zarkon would know. He would see right through you, just as he had always been able to do.

“I know you feel the same way,” he purred. “Or at least, you once did. I must admit, my little Y/N, that you've definitely gotten a lot better as disguising your feelings. Even from me. The man who knows you better than anyone else on this planet.”

“You have no idea who I am now!” you roared, head shooting up, body lurching forward. The chains rattled, sending pain to dart up your leg and for you to crumble back against them. Your breath was coming out in sharp pants now, sweat lining your forehead, mingling with the tears as they trickled down the side of your head. “You exiled me, Zarkon! You got rid of me, just as you always wanted to! So do not sit upon that throne and tell me you know me when you haven't seen me in the past two years!”

For a second, you were fairly certain you had actually managed to shock the man. Eyes glazed over with something close to annoyance, a muscle twitching in his jaw just enough for it to be noticeable.

But then he was smiling again, that god forsaken grin that had your stomach reeling with a mix of desire and absolute disgust at your own emotions – he had exiled you. He was the man who had destroyed the peace your people once held, the man who had selfishly gotten rid of the girl he claimed to love all because he was scared of her knowing too much.

“You can't deny that we know each other well,” he said. “Even after such a long time apart, I know your secrets. I know your past. I listened to you, Y/N. Better than any of the others did – better than Alfor did. You still looked up to him like he was some kind of god.”

“He was a better man than you were,” you growled out.

“That's not what you thought whenever the team was all together.”

You closed your eyes, resisting the urge to spit in his face. He would send for his generals, have you dragged into the dungeons for good if you stepped out of line. Being in his presence was hurting you, but the last thing you wanted was to endure the torture of being locked behind Galra bars.

So you refrained, slumped down against the floor until your elbows were hitting against the cold metal. Zarkon watched you. You knew he was. You could feel his eyes burning into you as you gave up entirely, let the exhaustion coat your body and grab at your emotions all over again.

“You're right,” you ground out. “I didn't think you were a bad man whenever we were all together. Because back then, you had morals. You wanted to help the universe just as much as the rest of us did.” You glanced up at him then, a dark shadow cast over your expression. “But then the jealousy got the better of you.” He clenched his fists, jaw hardening. “I was never jealous of Alfor. I was never jealous of any of them.”

“There's no point in lying,” you scoffed. “Everyone could see it. You wanted all the power, wanted to take Voltron above and beyond what everyone else wanted – that was what drove you to be the horrible person you are now. That's what led you to drive your people into the ground, Zarkon.”

“My people are thriving!” he exclaimed. “Under my rule, no other race has even dared get close to us. They're terrified. My people are the safest in the universe.”

“You're people are throwing themselves into battles that do not need to be fought!” you yelled. “Innocent Galra are dying because you want to stir up a fight with some innocent planet that you have no right to even be near! You call that ruling? You call that keeping your people safe?”

“I call that dominance,” Zarkon growled. “I love you, Y/N, but I refuse to take scrutiny from someone who was willing to help human beings take down her own people.”

“You know it wasn't like that,” you hissed. “I was helping Voltron, because Voltron is where I belong. It's my home, whether you and Alfor are there or not. And truth be told, the new Paladins are much better than we ever were – they know what they're doing. They can agree on things!”

“They're trying to take down my empire! They've gone against your people time and time again, and you've sat back and watched them do it.”

“Go to hell!” you spat, chains rattling. “They've been doing the right thing this entire time – trying to keep planets from getting obliterated by you! All they want is peace, and you're the only person getting in the way of that.”

Zarkon scowled. “I've heard enough. I want you out of my sight.”

“Thank the Gods for that,” you hissed, just as the Galra generals came bursting through the door. You didn't fight them as they wound their arms through yours and dragged you back, Zarkon yelling for them to throw you into the dungeons to await a later trial.

You didn't look away from Zarkon as you were dragged backwards, didn't look away from the man you once loved more than anything in the world.

---

Zarkon couldn't hold your eyes. For the first time in his 10,000 year reign, he couldn't look someone in the eyes.

He had always prided himself on his stubbornness when it came to getting what he wanted. He was able to intimidate people in the easiest of ways, but the way you were looking at him now had his cheeks flushing and his head ducking down to look at his folded legs.

He had spoken a great deal, but from the moment he had seen you being dragged into the foyer – hell, from the moment he knew you were in the Galra empire – his entire world had crumbled around him, but at the same time, it was like his world was suddenly reborn.

He remembered you so well. Remembered you everyday, suffered through the pain and regret of ever letting you go. It had been him who had ordered your exile, him who had been too scared of the things you knew – because you had seen every single side to him. You had seen him cry, had been the one to hold him as tears ran down his face – tears he hadn't shed in years. Tears he wouldn't let himself shed any more.

But that was back when he was nothing more than a weasel pressed beneath the thumb of Alfor. It was Alfor this, Alfor that. It had gotten to the point where even you had started to look up to the Altean king more than you had ever looked up to Zarkon, and that had hurt. More than anything else, seeing you slowly lose interest in him had hurt most.

He hated himself for yelling at you, hated himself for exiling you to the dungeons, but his people would expect nothing less. His people looked at him, and they expected him to be dominant, to not let anything pass; he had to keep that persona up, even if it shredded apart his entire being, made you look at him with that hatred in your eyes.

Even though you had yelled and snarled and said hurtful things, Zarkon could see that there was still a glimmer of the old you locked within. He could see it in your eyes – sure, you had gotten better at hiding your feelings, but you loved him. You loved him, and he loved you, and he knew that. There was no hiding such an emotion whenever the feeling was so strongly reciprocated.

He leaned back in his throne after the doors of the foyer had slammed shut. His generals swarmed him, asking questions about your fate, but he ignored them all.

He just needed this moment. Just this single moment to catch his bearings, to remember you for the woman you once were. To remember himself for the man he once was – the man you had fallen in love with.

#voltron #zarkon x reader #voltron scenario #request

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