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“Bow!” the voice commands.
Keith doesn’t move. Hands chained behind him, and feet fettered by the same bonds, he’s helpless to defend himself or escape.
But he doesn’t yield.
Instead, he hisses, “Fuck off.”
The blow comes so quickly he doesn’t see it.
One tick he’s on his feet, glowering at the “peaceful” ruler of planet Lyndterr’s country of Teryld and the angry palace guard at his side, and the next he’s rolling across the ground.
Stunned, he lies there for a moment and tries to get his bearings at he stares at the high, intricate stone ceiling.
Then he turns his head and spits out a tooth.
The guard who punched him in the jaw nudges him in the ribs with his booted toe.
“Bow to King Ter, you disgusting runt,” he snarls, and he punctuates the statement by kicking Keith in the stomach.
Keith can’t stop the involuntary cry of pain that escapes him as he tries to curl around the injury, and the guard wastes no time grabbing him by the hair and forcing him to kneel.
His foot comes to rest on Keith’s spine.
“You can be made to bow, half-breed,” he threatens as he applies pressure to Keith’s back.
In rebuttal, Keith’s body spasms, and he vomits blood across the pristine floors.
It’s red and bright and it splatters around him like an abstract painting.
Growling, the guard chooses this moment to force Keith’s head forward until it comes to rest in his own sick.
With his hands tethered, he can’t catch himself, and his nose takes the brunt of the impact.
Crunch.
The sound makes his stomach turn.
More blood leaks onto the pale floor, and Keith struggles to breathe around the flow.
Still unsatisfied with Keith’s castigation, the guard places his knee on Keith’s back so he can lean over the small teen and rub his face in the mess.
“You do not deserve to breathe the same air as our noble countrymen,” he grunts while he paints Keith’s cheek red. He scoffs, “Galra oppress the weak with their unfair war practices, but they break easily in a fair fight.”
He rests more of his weight on the knee digging into Keith’s ribs and removes his hand from Keith’s skull. It ghosts up the skin of Keith’s arm before it grasps his wrist. Only then does he continue, “And their unwanted mutts are all the more fragile.”
He squeezes and Keith chokes on a garbled scream as the bones in his wrist crack.
Confident that Keith won’t be trying anything any time soon, the guard finally removes his knee in favor of placing his boot against Keith’s head to press it to the floor.
The pressure causes sharp spikes of pain, and his jaw protests the rough treatment with a livid throb.
He coughs, gurgling, and more blood sprays across the floor.
“Remember your place, miscreant,” the guard advised. “You have no right to stand in this throne room before King Ter.”
A rustle of fabric is the only warning he gets before the king moves into his line of sight.
Keith had only managed to get one good look at the king before he was manhandled into submission, but it was enough. He is a tall, yellow creature with four gray eyes and sharp teeth. An intricate crown rests upon his hairless head, and he was keeping Keith’s bayard on the table at his side.
Movement brings his attention back to the present.
White, gauzy robes inset with glittering particles settle before him, and if Keith strains, he can see the ruler now in his peripheral.
“You will talk now, I trust,” the king comments.
Keith has a scathing retort on his tongue, but his captor senses it and applies more force in warning.
The king paces away as if he’s in thought, and then he turns to face Keith again and demands, “What means of trickery did you use to secure a place amongst Voltron’s paladins? How did you deceive the Red Lion?”
Keith clears his throat and grates, “I didn’t deceive anyone.”
His eyes are flint.
Nonetheless, the king waves his response off, “You will not fool me, contemptible thing. I am wary of Galra tactics. How did you convince the paladins of Voltron and the surviving Alteans that you were not of Galra descent? The witch? The druids? Quintessence?” The king’s voice firms in resolution, “I must know.”
King Ter nods to the guard, who takes one of Keith’s fingers into his grip in preparation.
“Your very presence endangers the universe, you understand,” he adds as an afterthought. “Tell me what I want to know, and we can make your death painless. You need not suffer.”
But Keith has no answer for this bigoted ruler.
The unsuccessful interrogation lasts around a varga before the king becomes frustrated, and Keith is tossed into a dirty cell with three newly broken fingers.
Laboriously, he tries to get himself into a less vulnerable position, but it’s a challenge.
When he finally succeeds, he lets his head thunk against the wall in exhaustion.
Fuck, he thinks, as he catalogues his injuries.
Aside from his abused hand, his wrist and nose are both broken, he’s missing a tooth, his jaw might be dislocated, and he imagines the blood he puked up probably signifies internal bleeding.
He’s been worse, he acknowledges, but he’s also been better.
This, Keith thinks, is why he hates diplomacy missions.
When they’d first contacted Lyndterr about joining the coalition, they seemed hesitant but interested.
They telecommunicated for a few weeks before they requested Keith come to meet with them in person and solidify their allegiance.
“Our research has turned up a number of the red paladin’s impressive feats,” the advisor said. “We are even under the belief that he flew the black lion at some point in time? We would be honored if he’d join us at our palace. In fact, you are all welcome to Lyndterr.”
Allura handled the details, but they ultimately requested Keith’s presence on a quintant that there was already another coalition meeting going on, so he was the only paladin who could be spared.
He now knows that this was a very calculated move on their part, as they had somehow come across information about his heritage and were clearly unhappy with it.
Moreover, they were also convinced that the rest of the team didn’t know about Keith’s Galra ancestry, and that he was some sort of spy for the Empire.
Of course, he wasn’t aware of this when he arrived. When he landed, he was greeted by cheerful populace and was then ushered into a small pod to travel to the palace, which was quickly filled with a gas that has a sedative effect on Galra.
He’d woken up in chains and was ordered to bow before the king.
Now he was here.
Fuck.
He isn’t sure how long it will take the others to look into his absence, but he’s not taking a chance on the possibility of improved hospitality any time soon.
So he inhales and thinks and plans and musters all the strength and coordination that he can.
Moving his right wrist and hand hurts more than he wants to think about, but it’s worth it to have more viable means for escape.
Grateful for his agility and flexibility, he manages to wiggle around in the chains until the cuffs are in his lap rather than behind his back.
He’ll have to thank Lance for the yoga lessons next time he’s feeling nice.
Afterward, he looks around the empty cell for anything that could be used to break the chains or unlock the cuffs.
The solution is so painfully obvious and human that he has to resist some twisted urge to laugh.
Shaking his head from side-to-side, he loosens a bobby pin that he had used to keep his bangs in place that morning.
With a little more effort, he gets his left hand around it and proceeds to pick the lock around his ankles.
It takes a bit longer than an Earthen lock, and it dredges up a handful of memories Keith would rather forget it.
—————“You better fucking hurry, Kogane.”
“You’re taking the fall if the cops show up.”
“Fuck. Can’t you go any faster?”
A soft click echoes through the night, and a few minutes later the engine roars to life.
As they drive through the desert under the cover of night, he’s elbowed roughly in jest and praised, “Well, maybe you’re not so useless after all, new kid.”——————
And they stretch further into the past.
—————“Keith? Where are you?”
“Dad!” he calls. His chest heaves and his voice trembles.
A second later the closet door opens, and Keith throws himself into his father’s arms and sobs, “Moira said I was bad and she locked me in the closet and then she left.” He hiccups, “Please don’t make me stay here anymore. Please.”
His dad wipes his tears and gently ruffles his hair, but he tells Keith that he has to stay with Moira sometimes.
Regardless, he then pulls something from his pocket, and he shows Keith how to twist it and listen and... ————-
The lock releases with a muted tch.
Truthfully, he feels a little offended that they thought these would be enough to hold him.
He rubs at his chafed ankles for a moment, but he immediately regrets the indulgence.
He’s already out of time.
A door slams in the corridor, and someone approaches.
He slides further into the shadows of the damp, underground cell and tries to obscure his hands in the darkness.
The yellow face of a Lyndterr peers through the transparent forcefield with a hungry, leering expression that Keith doesn’t like at all.
“So it’s true,” he cackles. “We have a Galra in our prison.”
He presses his face to the smooth glass and sneers, “I fucking hate Galra.”
He drags his nails down the glass and admits, “I’ve never seen one in person.”
The splayed palm closes into a fist that he uses to punch the glass, “But I’ve heard of the atrocities.”
He pulls away with his grey eyes alight, and he murmurs, “I will enjoy this very much.”
Keith doesn’t know if this Lyndterr was sent by the king or guards, or if he wandered down here of his own volition and without permission, but he’s not going to stick around and find out.
His visitor reveals some kind of key, and when he scans it, the plane of glass shudders and flickers away.
The Lyndterr darts into the cell to tackle Keith, but the red paladin is already on his feet and using his attacker’s surprise to his advantage.
Whipping the chain around using his bound wrists, he hooks his opponent by the ankle and sends him toppling to the ground.
He jumps onto the Lyndterr’s back and wraps the chain around his throat, and he pulls with his good hand.
The Lyndterr twitches and squirms, but he eventually goes limp in Keith’s hold.
Keith frees the chain, grabs the key, and locks the forcefield back into place before he flees down the hallway.
He pauses at corners to survey his surroundings and tries ignore the lightheadedness that tugs at his consciousness and urges him to rest.
Blood loss is as unpleasant as he remembers.
They’d stripped him of his armor and bayard, and he refuses to leave without the latter.
The others could get his armor later. He needed his sword to survive this mission.
After ascending several flights of stairs, he’s forced to duck into an alcove of as a couple of Lyndterr’s aristocrats casually stroll down the hall and gossip.
He’s the topic of conversation, but no one seems concerned about him.
He decides to take this as a good sign.
While he waits for them to pass out of sight, he realizes that he recognizes the ornate doors before him.
He’s outside of the throne room.
He doesn’t know of any other way to get into the room, so he decides to use the most obvious entrance and go in with his guns figuratively blazing.
But it’s unnecessary.
The door is so well-maintained that it makes nary a noise when Keith pushes it open.
He gathers the chain to prevent any rattling, and he slips through the narrowest gap he can manage.
Two guards stand on either side of the empty throne, and he discovers that his bayard is still in the exact same place.
The door sits just behind the throne, so if he plays it right, he can take them both out and get out undiscovered.
Injured, lost, and on his own, he could use every advantage he could get his broken hand on.
He’ll have to be fast.
Keith surges forward and leaps onto the throne, and he slams his elbow into the closest alien’s temple.
While the Lyndterr is dazed, he snatches up his bayard in his left hand and it springs to life.
It’s more of a challenge to swing his sword with one good hand, a length of chain, and his wrists bound, but he manages to get enough force behind it to knock the other guard off her feet.
He uses the hilt to knock her unconscious, and he rolls away just as her companion is about to strike.
Pain shoots up his arm, his stomach complains, and a wave of dizziness rises up to meet him, but he pushes through it all and raises his sword to fend off an incoming blow.
He distracts the guard with his bayard, and then he swings the chain around to wrap around his ankles.
Keith knocks him out as well.
Getting back to his feet is harder now, but he stumbles out of the throne room with his bayard, and no one is the wiser.
Unfortunately, now he’s running blind. He has no concept of the castle’s layout.
His luck turns around when he wanders onto an observation deck.
It looks over the expanse of the royal courtyard, which showcases elaborate statues and fountains as well as the husky yellow plant that is common on the planet.
But it’s the glint of red that catches his attention.
Red.
The relief is such a rush that he nearly trips, but he rights himself and sets a course for his girl.
She’s got her particle barrier up, and she remains proud and unmoved while the planet’s inhabitants gawk at her.
The last leg of his journey is the hardest.
He has to sprint, but his feet don’t want to cooperate.
Most of the crowd is made up of civilians, but when the handful of soldiers catch sight of him in their midst, they take action.
Keith wraps the chain around his collar loosely to keep it out of the way, and he relies on his bayard and instinct to get him through the throng.
Then he’s sidelined by a guard, and his vision whites out when he lands.
The air is punched out of his lungs, and he gasps, which gives the soldier an opening to get on top of him and draw back his fist.
Keith sees stars.
His jaw and nose feel shattered, but his cheek absorbs most of the blow.
Move, his gut tells him. Fight.
He trusts it when it speaks to him. It’s saved his life more times than he can count.
So he listens and he fights.
He cants his hips to pitch his attacker off balance, and then he brings his sword down as they roll.
His foe cries out, but Keith is already back on his feet and closing the distance that separates him from Red.
She’s growling.
The particle barrier dissolves just long enough for him to get into her range.
And then he’s sitting in the pilot’s seat.
“Let’s...let’s go home, Red,” he pants. “Fuck this planet.”
She roars her agreement, and they take off in a hurry.
Once they’ve left the Lyndterr’s atmosphere, her concern becomes palpable.
“M’fine,” he slurs.
Fuck.
The adrenalin fades, and he’s left with the strange feeling that he’s been hollowed and scraped down to the bone.
His eyes droop.
The last thing he sees is the blinking red of his distress beacon as it activists without his instruction.
“Mierda,” Lance swears. “Keith. Querido ¿Que pasó?”
Everything snaps into focus.
He reels.
Keith furrows his brow before cracking open his eyes and hoarsely whispering, “L’nse?”
“Fuck,” Lance curses in English this time. “Yeah, it’s me.”
He reaches out like he wants to touch Keith, but stops himself. His eyes are conflicted.
Keith can see fury, concern, and pain too.
Glancing away, Lance opens a comm line and blurts, “I...I need... I’m afraid to touch him. He’s... he’s really hurt.” He swallows and his voice shakes, “Do we have, like, a stretcher? I don’t... I don’t want to hurt him...more.”
Lance’s voice cracks, and Keith can hear someone confirm that there are several in the medbay.
Allura volunteers to run one over.
“Hurry,” Lance begs.
Allura says something that sounds soothing, but Keith doesn’t care because Lance is looking at him with so much emotion he doesn’t have time for anything else.
Keith figures he must be a sight.
He can feel the places where the blood dried and crusted over on his face, and he knows his front incisor is now just an empty socket. Any visible skin is probably mottled with bruises, and his right arm and hand are swollen and blackening.
The chains are still around his wrists.
Allura arrives a moment later, and her bright eyes darken when she sees the restraints. She snaps the cuffs in half like they’re made of plastic. Then she crushes them to dust in her fists.
Carefully, she and Lance arrange his limbs on the stretcher while Keith attempts to reassure them, “M’fine.”
Lance’s response is just the word joder.
He must pass out again on their way to the infirmary because suddenly he’s wearing the strange fabric of a pod suit, and Lance is propping him upright in a cryochamber.
He looks like he might cry.
Keith tries to comfort him, “Hey. M’fine. Okay?”
Lance bites his lip and shakes his head, “No, you’re not fine.”
Then he kisses Keith gently on the cheek and promises, “But you will be.”
The sedative begins to take effect, but he tries to focus on Lance’s watery blue eyes as long as he can.
He mouths I love you.
And then there is nothing.
And then there is the warmth.
When the healing pod’s doors sink away, Lance’s arms are around him.
He knows it without looking.
And then he blinks.
Smiling, watery blue eyes are the first thing he sees.