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As the youngest son to a family of Altean nobles, Lance is very well aware of the reality that not everyone likes them. He's grown up with bodyguards by his side and security measures calculating his every move. It was difficult holding sleepovers when all of his friends had to be searched before being granted entry. And there have been scary moments as well, where a family member had been the target of an attack. Being the youngest, Lance was rarely one of those targets.
Which is why he wants to go on record as having the absolute worst soulmark in the history of Altea.
“Any last words before I end your life?”
Ever since he was young, Lance was given the guarantee of at least one assassination attempt on his life. He was given the guarantee that the perpetrator would ostensibly be his soulmate.
What he wasn't given? The guarantee that the assassination would succeed or fail.
It was destiny’s big “fuck you” to Lance. The fates wove in the thread of a soulmate into his future, but for all he knows he'll end up dead as soon as he hears those words anyway. What was the point of even having a soulmate if they were trying to kill him? What was the point, when as soon as his parents read it they demanded extra security and guards on him more than ever before?
Lance moped for a few years. He watched his friends and family meet their fated ones while he was left behind. The concept of a soulmate became a mockery to him. He grew up a romantic at heart, eagerly waiting for his mark to develop upon his wrist, and what was he given? A death warrant.
After that period of angst, Lance became angry. Spiteful, rather. Filled with determination. He formulated a plan that involved keeping all guards outside of his chambers, leaving his windows unlocked, and commissioning an elaborate trap of ancient magic from the court’s high priestess, controlled by a crystal around his neck.
Let the assassin come. Lance will just have to be the one to strike first.
*
“Ughhhh,” Lance groans, dropping his head on the desk. His tablet stylus rolls away with the thump, and he makes no move to grab it. “Can we end the lecture early today? I'm really not hanging onto any of this at all.”
“Afraid not, my boy!” chirps Coran Smythe, royal advisor to the court and part-time private tutor of the court’s youth. “You only have the rest of the spicolian movement to memorize the information before you leave for the harvest! It's the perfect time to squeeze all you can into your little brain cage!”
“Riiiiight.” Picking himself back up, Lance leans back in his chair. “And whose bright idea was it to make hurling yourself into a giant space worm an integral part of Altean culture?”
“King Grogery the Infirm. We covered that last movement! Weren't you paying attention?”
Man, Lance is really starting to hate that guy. Seriously, who looked at a planet-eating weblum and thought, ‘You know what would make the perfect rite of passage into adulthood? Getting vored by a worm and stealing the shit that powers its deadly laser projectile vomit. Nice.’
Yeah, so. When an Altean reaches of age, it's a tradition to send them off on an excursion to harvest the versatile mineral. Alone.
Because as the universe knows, no one does Extreme like the Alteans.
And Lance is supposed to go on his in a few days, but he's been… distracted, lately.
Remember that briefly mentioned ancient magic trap? It's been seeing a lot of action this past phoeb. Much more than he's had ever since he commissioned it years ago and began his ‘Operation: Capture My Soulmate Before They Gut Me’ plan. He's had five trespassers sneaking into his chambers within the last several movements, and all ended in disappointment.
Oh, and apparently someone out there really, really wants him dead.
But more importantly, none of them recited the line on Lance’s wrist. He waited patiently every night, having learned to be a light sleeper in anticipation, and let each burglar approach him in his bed. But then they would say something like, “prepare to meet your maker!” or, “sorry, nothing personal,” or one time, “ALFOR’S BALLS,” because they tripped over his floating Olkari cube collection, all of which immediately revealed them as definitely not Lance’s soulmate. Frustrated, Lance would growl out, “Urgh, not it. Guards!” and grab for the blue crystal he wears on a necklace, activating the magic glyph on the floor to quickly paralyze each intruder as his bodyguards burst into the room. They were hauled out, and Lance never saw any of them again.
He's never been a frequent target of attacks before, but every dud leaves him feeling increasingly down.
Lance stares at his soulmark forlornly, Coran’s rambling going through one sharp-pointed ear and out the other.
He just wants to be loved and not murdered. Is that too much to ask?
*
It happens again that night. Lance leaves the windows to his bedchambers unlocked and vulnerable, as usual, and shoos all his guards to stand patrol outside the doors. Night time is really the only part of the day Lance truly has privacy, and he wishes he could value it more, but for the time being it's used only to give his future soulmate a way in.
The last attempt was recent, though, and they are usually spread out between several quintants. Lance will admit he let his guard down that night. Instead of looping the crystal necklace around his neck, he plops it by his pillow, and rolls over to fall asleep on his stomach instead of facing the windows. He's drawn into a deep, deep slumber, so far gone to the world that he doesn't catch the soft noises of the intruder.
But then a pair of strong hands shove him over onto his back and cover his mouth before Lance can scream. He wakes up immediately with a gasp, eyes wide, staring up into a set of sharp indigo eyes, the rest of their face concealed by a mask. The assassin pins Lance down with his body weight, and draws out a blade to hold against his throat.
Shit.
Struggling, Lance gropes for the crystal, his heart sinking when he hears the dull thud of it falling to the floor. He can't call out to his guards and his only other defense is literally out of reach. Staring up into the assassin’s eyes, Lance waits.
The assassin leans closer, and says quietly with a voice like velvet, “Any last words before I end your life?”
Lance stops struggling.
Ah.
So that's how it's going to be, huh? The one time Lance finally gets his soulmate, and he's caught vulnerable. He can't even see his soulmate’s face.
Man, fate can really go fuck itself now.
He's kind of angry again.
The assassin leans back to give him a little room, but before Lance has enough air to shout out for his guard, the man says, “Don't think about using those words to call for help, either. I've already taken care of them. Don't waste your final thoughts on a futile cry.”
And slips his hand from Lance’s mouth.
Lance just lies there, dumbstruck. The assassin still has his blade at the ready, the cool metal sharp against his throat, and he swallows.
He can't think. This is his soulmate, and he wants to kill him. It's just the two of them, now. No guards. No magic. Just a set of words that could end this all right now, if he says them right.
Because as it is, whatever Lance says, will be inscribed on this man’s skin. Has been inscribed for years already. It's destiny. He needs to choose wisely. Something unique, something unforgettable, something that will make the assassin stop in his tracks before he has the chance to--
“Nothing?” the assassin asks when Lance is quiet for too long. “All right, then.” He shrugs, and rears his arm back to strike the deadly blow.
Wait, shit.
“THE WEBLUM IS AN ENORMOUS CREATURE THAT LIVES IN THE FAR REACHES OF DEEP SPACE AND IS AN INTEGRAL PART OF KEEPING THE UNIVERSE FUNCTIONING IT SURVIVES OFF THE RESIDUAL QUINTESSENCE LEFT OVER FROM DEAD PLANETS AND RECONVERTS THE QUINTESSENCE REMNANTS BY BECOMING THE BUILDING BLOCKS OF SOLAR SYSTEMS IT PRODUCES A NUMBER OF SOUGHT-AFTER MATERIALS THE MOST FAMOUS OF WHICH IS SCAULTRITE--”
“Shut up!” the assassin roars, slapping his hand over Lance’s mouth again. His eyes are wild, breaths heavy. “Just--just shut the hell up!”
Lance blinks owlishly, waiting for the assassin to move.
He… he panicked, okay?
The assassin takes deep breaths, hand shaking over the hilt of his knife as he appears to be going through an internal crisis. Then, he roars again, grabbing Lance by the front of his night clothes. “That was you?!” he shouts in Lance’s face. “You're the one who did this?! Who put--” He leans back to rip off the sleeve of his right arm, and shoves it back in Lance’s face, and. Yup.
His entire forearm is covered, from wrist to inner elbow, with Lance’s weblum rant. All capitals. No punctuation.
“Who put this on me?!”
Lance bursts out laughing.
All his life his soulmark has been one big fucking joke, but now he finally gets to laugh.
“I'm sorry!” he wheezes. “But in my defense my soulmark has been wanting to kill me! What was I supposed to say?!”
“Literally! Anything! Else!” the assassin shouts. “I have the worst soulmark ever! I had to keep my arm covered every time I went outside! I thought my soulmate was going to be some idiot--!” He stops himself then, eyes widening. “Wait. You're my soulmate.”
Lance watches as it all finally seems to dawn on him, dropping his arms in his lap and letting go of the knife. He stares off, unseeing. “You're my soulmate,” he says quietly. “You are an idiot, but you're my soulmate.”
“You're my soulmate, and you want to kill me,” Lance counters gently.
The assassin winces at that, and reaches up to pull his mask off. “That's not…” Shucking the cloth off, the assassin reveals himself as a galra hybrid. Skin a light lavender, furry ears folded in shame, soft black hair framing his face. He's beautiful.
“That's not… actually true,” he continues. “I was… I accepted the hit because I was in a tight corner and owed a debt, but I don't… it's a long story.” He sighs.
“We can talk about that later,” Lance says, pushing himself up into a sitting position and scooting closer. “But first, I think we skipped a few steps and should try fixing that. Hi, I'm Lance.”
The assassin stares at him.
“And that was me subtly asking for your name.”
“After everything I did?”
“We’ll work it out.” Lance shrugs. “But right now, I just want to know your name. Let's start off with that.”
The assassin doesn't say anything for a long time, just looking into Lance's eyes. "You're my soulmate, and I almost killed you," he whispers.
"Yes I am well aware of that thank you, now we could always keep hammering that point in and I have you arrested and executed for treason, orrrr," Lance says, offering a smile, "we can forget that part for a while and introduce ourselves."
The assassin shifts in his seat, still looking a bit unsure. But after a moment of deliberation he acquiesces, with less hesitation in his voice.
“Keith.”
*
They talk. They sort out Keith’s debts and he stops being an assassin to become Lance’s consort. Lance successfully harvests scaultrite from a weblum and earns his rite of passage. Keith applies for Altean citizenship and nails the essay question on weblums. The untouched plotline of someone wanting to kill Lance is eventually resolved.
Everyone is happy, and everything is good.