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2.
The hag was dead, but the dark magic of Zarkon lingered.
His only goal was escape, to flee from the the cave in which he had been trapped for-
Days? Weeks? Years?
Time flowed differently in the darkness where the curse pulsed continuously, where his mind and body had been desecrated and studied like a lizard in the sun.
His right arm felt like slivers of ice were stabbing it continuously. The rest of his body was in agony, unnaturally and imperfectly healed.
But he dared not stop.
There was no light in the cavern trail, but somehow he could see. He could hear the echoing of his steps, and if he focused, the sounds of insects burrowing into the soil, his blood dripping on the wet stone.
Spirits, he’s a monster .
But he continued, because if he was to die, he wanted to die with the sun blessing his face.
As he stumbled along, the passage became wider, larger, as though it was close to the mouth of a cave. He could also smell the sea, salt and brine, the air wet with moisture.
It was a shock, since his region was far from the ocean. But why should distance matter to a witch? Who knew where he had been taken after Kuro had foolishly made his deal.
Kuro - what would he say to this father when… if he returned? How could he explain the corruption that befell him?
In the distance, there was finally a glimmer of light. Hope renewed, he mustered the last of his strength. The scent of salt rose, the calls of seagulls grew. When he finally took the final step into the light, he was blinded by the strength of the sunrays. It was painful, and he wondered if he was cursed to fester in the darkness, rejected by the light. He fell to his hands and knees, curling his head down to protect his eyes.
With a groan, he blinked rapidly to try and reorient himself. From the shade created by his body, his eyes grew accustomed to the light at last. He was on a rocky surface, though a little beyond, he could see sand, looking soft and welcoming. Now that he could see, he should try and explore, find his way back.
Instead, he crawled forward until his palms hit sand grains. When he was on more forgiving soil, he turned on his back and laid there.
There was not a cloud in the sky, a beautiful blue horizon. He thought he would never see this sight again. But the sun was directly above, painful to look closely, so he tilted his head to the left, avoiding the sight of his blighted right arm.
The sand was hot on his skin, but he still felt cold, as if a part of his soul was stuck in the cavern he had been imprisoned in. He watched as a small hermit crab tottled along the sand, its shell too big for its body. He imagined that’s how he’d be, if he ever returned home and had to fill the space Kuro left behind. Gulls flew overhead and he watched them before one swooped down and grabbed the hermit crab he had been examining and crushed it with its beak.
Well, then. Perhaps it had been a bad idea to identify with that specific hermit crab.
Intrinsically, he knew that he had to move. But his body and spirit refused the command, exhausted from simply being.
As the sun moved across the sky, all he did was lay there, letting the sun bake him. His skin turned red from the heat but he was still cold.
There was something wrong with him.
At some point, he heard the sound of a horse in the distance. He debated calling out, but couldn’t muster the energy to do so. With his monstrous hearing, it was certain that whoever the rider was, they would be too far to hear Shiro.
He closed his eyes, exhausted and sunsick.
His eyes snapped open when he heard someone walk across the rocky grounds, kicking pebbles as they came closer. It had felt like only a moment, but it had to have been a few hours since he closed his eyes, as the sky was a deep red, signaling dusk.
Whoever was coming was getting closer to him.
Shiro turned his head towards the sound, sliding his right arm down to his side to avoid even having a glimpse of it.
It was a boy, tall and broad for his age, but soft and plush - not just with youth, though baby fat lingered on his cheeks, but healthy with a layer of fat, denoting his nobility. His skin was the soft warm tone of hazelnut shells, and he wore just a white shift, likely due to the blazing heat. His dark hair was tied back with a ribbon dyed with madder, blending the fabric with the incoming sunset.
“Um… Sir,” a boy called out, his steps softer now that he had reached the sandy part of the beach. His voice had not yet deepened. “You haven’t moved all day. The tide is coming in soon.”
Judging the boy as benign, Shiro turned back to stare at the sky.
“Hey!” the boy shouted, though his tone was coloured with uncertainty. “I’m serious! The tides’ going to come in!”
The sound of shifting sand marched closer and closer until the boy was directly above him, an expression of childish annoyance on his face. This close, he could see the boy’s dark eyes were soft, framed by dark, thick lashes. If he was someone with romance in his heart like Matt, he would even call them doe-eyed.
Cute. No doubt his parents had difficulty refusing such a face.
The boy’s expression turned from angry to anxious, his hands pressed to his chest. “Oh no! I’m sorry! I’m so stupid! I should have realized you were injured!” he exclaimed, sitting on his knees next to him. “I saw you laying there as I was bringing in rations but I assumed you were just enjoying the sun! I should have checked on you right away!”
The boy reached over to his arm, the maligned one. “Here, I can help you, but you’re going to-”
“Stop! Don’t touch me!” he snarled, yanking his right arm as far away from the boy as he could, flinging it over his own stomach. He hissed in pain as the area his arm touched pierced his stomach with ice.
How long was the arm going to be like this?
“I’m sorry!” the boy said with another anxious huff. “Did I hurt you? I’m really sorry sir, but we need to move. Can you get up?”
“Just leave me be,” he replied, sliding the arm back onto the sand.
The boy’s lips pressed together into a pout. “Well unless you are here waiting to die, I’m not going to leave until we’re both safe.”
Stubborn thing.
He couldn’t lie and state he wanted death. He had wanted to live, so ardently, that he forced himself to endure what he had to overpower the witch. He had walked to the light and thought he could accept death, but now that he was here… Dying was harder to embrace.
“See?” the boy commented, shuffled over to his left side. “I’ll help you get up, but you’re too big, I can’t carry you.”
They stared at one another.
“I’ll hurt you-”
“Why do you say that?” the boy asked, cutting him off with the ease that only children could achieve.
He gestured to himself, and then to his right arm.
“So, you’re touched by magic,” the boy stated. “That’s no crime. It doesn’t make you any less of a human. Who decided that you were less once magic touched you?”
He turned to stare at the boy, his eyes widening when he saw fat tears roll down his cheeks.
“Everyone is so cruel, what changed about you?” the boy continued through his weeping. “Magic didn’t change who you are.”
The child curled down and hugged him tightly, his head on his chest and his arms around his neck. The boy’s tender skin was a balm on his scarred mottled flesh, and the weight of the boy reminded him that he was alive.
He lifted his arms but kept them just above, still scared of hurting the boy. But he wanted to hold him, to feel skinship after so long.
“It’s ok,” the boy said, tightening his hold, and pressing his face closer. He felt the rough fabric of his shirt get wet with tears. “You’ve survived. That’s something to be thankful for.”
He pressed his arms down, holding the boy tight against his chest, reveling in the first gentle contact he’s had in a long time.
He heard a soft gasp of pain but when he moved to release his grip, there was a shake of the boy’s head on his chest.
“It’s fine,” the child said, still holding him tight. “It’s fine. You must have missed it, being with others, being among friends.”
He felt his breath hitch.
“It’ll be alright.”
And the escaped prisoner, the man who was once a prince, felt himself weep like he hadn’t done since he was a child.
The man once called Takashi spent his first night as a freed man bawling in the arms of a child, at the first kind touch of another being.
—
5.
The Rygnirath had been expanding at an alarming rate, their young king razing mead halls across the land and claiming them under his own banner. Shiro had let him be for some time, busy managing his own affairs, but at last, the upstart had begun touching the outskirts of the Voltron region, threatening Shiro’s power and esteem within his kingdom.
But Shiro hadn’t been a king for this long without some charm. He called on his allies and the warriors under his command, presented speeches needed to light a fire of passion in their hearts, and organized his council to bring the warriors from all corners of his rule together.
For weeks they trained, honing their skills, practicing battle formations. Shiro had watched their growth with a critical eye, assured victory by their numbers but not arrogant enough to think the size of the army was all it would take.
They could not train forever - the key to victory against the Rygnirath would be an element of surprise. At Shiro’s command, the army marched at dusk, making the trek south towards the seas. The army arrived at least a few hours before dawn, when the rest of the world remained sleeping.
The army scattered, hiding in the lush forest that surrounded the Rygnirath’s mead hall, Willow.
Shiro, touched by magic as he was, needed little sleep, so along with some of his sentries, he watched the Rygniraths go through their day while the rest of the army slept, recuperating for the battle to come. No fires were lit to keep themselves hidden, but the men had slept rougher before.
At midnight, with nothing but soft moonlight guiding their way, Shiro ordered his army into formation around the mead hall. They surrounded the Willow, Shiro at the head, with soldiers trailing behind him as far as the eye could see. Beside him stood Keith, nephew of Kolivan of the Mamoras, and his ward.
Shiro called out, faint magic tinting his words as his voice boomed for all to hear. “Gyrgan, lord of the Rygniraths, come and greet your guests!”
There was no movement for a breath, and beside him, Keith shuffled from foot to foot, restless for a fight. Shiro, as the king, showed more restraint, and stood as still as a stone, watching the mead hall for any signs of movement.
The doors creaked open, and the young lord stepped out, towering the four retainers that trailed behind him. Despite his youth, he was a giant of a man, adorned with heavy gold bands around his muscular arms. His warmed-toned face was marked with green ink under his eyes, and across his forehead. Gyrgan hid his shock well- a mild, vague smile on his face as he scanned the horizon, Voltron’s army in every facet of his vision.
Gyrgan had no chance; he knew it, Shiro knew it, everyone knew it. Perhaps, the beasts that prowled the forests were the only ones who didn’t know.
Shiro waited for Gyrgan to reply. He had the upper hand, and there was no point in wasting words when by the end of the night Rygnirath would be but a barren field drenched in blood. There was a creak of wood as an ancient man tottered down the steps of Willow, standing by the king and whispering in his ear.
Shiro and his men remained silent, allowing them to convene.
The old man said something, Gyrgan answered, his mouth barely moving. The four retainers joined in the conversation, their tone low enough that no word could be clearly distinguished. After several cycles of this, the council came to a close, and Gyrgan took a deep breath before facing Shiro head on. He walked the handful of steps that separated them.
Shiro watched with calm eyes, raising a hand to silence the rumble of his army. Gyrgan stopped when he was two arms’ length away, too far to start a battle. Even so, it was close enough to see that it was obvious that the Rygnirath dwarfed him in every way - but there was no fear in Shiro’s heart; it took more than brawn to take him down.
Taking another deep breath, Gyrgan pulled his sword out, deliberately slow and without urgency. He did this with his left hand - a sign of a truce - and dropped it at Shiro’s feet, a clear surrender.
Gyrgan’s voice was deeper than Shiro expected, considering his youth. “We will give you gifts,” he offered. “Resplendent tributes. All in our great respect for the powerful and honorable Voltron.”
His tone and smile was gracious, but his eyes held about as much loyalty as one held for a rotting fish.
Shiro shook his head, his silver hair swaying at the motion. “There is no tribute that you can give that will appease me. If I spare you today and you buy yourself a little time, there is nothing stopping you from gathering your men and your arms, and coming down to our halls in the dead of night to release your fury, as we have done tonight.”
The younger king looked as if he had expected this argument, keeping his arms loose by his side. After a pause, he met Shiro’s eyes. “We can give you piles of treasure,” Gyrgan replied. “Such treasure that I will have nothing left to pay my allies with. If I cannot raise an army, you would be safe.”
Shiro scratched his chin with his left thumb before chuckling. “A shrewd king can easily mount a great army on promises alone. Besides, with the treasure you’d take from destroying my home, you could easily make every one of your swordsmen rich.”
When Gyrgan opened his mouth to speak, Shiro raised his right hand, cutting him off. “Enough of this, lord of Rygnirath,” he stated with a bland smile, tired of making small talk. “Take up your weapons, call your men. We will give you ground, give you a fighting chance.”
Shiro quirked his lips, a mean glint in his eyes. “After all, my army didn’t come all this way to kill you like foxes in a hole.”
The young king made no move to pick up the sword at Shiro’s feet. He still had a smile on his face, though it had tightened from before. It was clear he did not wish to make this final offer, though something must have made him and his councilors certain that whatever this gift was would make Shiro change his mind.
Shiro doubted it.
“I will show you a prize that will change your mind, great Shiro, legendary Champion,” Gyrgan said, his voice flat and quiet. He turned to one of his men and made a sign.
With a nod, the man turned and went into the mead hall.
From the depths of the hall there was a scream, of such horror and desolation that Shiro saw some of the soldiers flinch and make a sign to ward off evil.
Shiro smirked at the other king. “My, it seems someone is not in agreement with your plans.”
The king of the Rygnirath did not rise to the bait. “Fear not. You will be amenable to the gift.”
They stood in silence for a long time. There was some clanging of swords as the army shifted around, but Shiro, long used to standing in place, simply enjoyed the cool night breeze.
At last, the attendant returned. He carried nothing with him, which gave Shiro some surprise. The attendant called out and clapped his hands and the doors of the Willow opened wide, flooding the hillside with light from within the hall.
Keith huffed in annoyance at the theatrics, and Shiro was inclined to agree, though he didn’t show it.
At last, movement from within. A young boy, a bearer no doubt, slid out from the hall. He moved slowly, as if he was wading in water with every step, stymied by the heavy weight of his dress. Tall and thin, he was dressed in finery, clothed in a robe of woad blue with silver threaded throughout. A circlet studded with sapphires rested on his head. As he came closer to Shiro, he could see that the boy’s blue eyes were red and swollen from tears. And he noted with his keen eyes the callouses on the boy’s fingers - telltale signs of a well-trained archer. The boy wasn’t just a pretty face.
He was a beauty, for certain, delicately dressed in an attempt to charm the conqueror. He heard Keith’s quiet gasp of awe, his ward enamoured at first glance. With his fair skin, there was no doubt Keith was flushing red with affection.
But Shiro had no interest. In his heart there was only Tsuyoshi, who had been the first person to give him a gentle touch after his escape, who had held him with warmth even as Shiro’s cursed arm likely pained him from the icy cold it exuded at the time.
He was brought out of his reverie when Gyrgan presented the boy. “I offer you my brother, Lance,” the young king said. “Who I hold in the highest esteem. His beauty rivals the ocean on a clear summer day. May our houses be united, even as the Rygnirath offers the tributes Voltron deserves.”
Shiro was skeptical, there was little resemblance between the two. The boy could not meet his eyes, fearful of him. Instead he focused his gaze on his chin. “My lord,” Lance said.
“It’s hard to imagine your relation,” Shiro commented, ignoring the king to question the boy. “Explain it to me, Lance.”
When Gyrgan made to answer, Shiro shook his head. “The boy will speak.”
Lance’s eyes darted over to the Rygnirath’s king for a second, before his eyes slid down demurely once more. “Our father’s blood runs through our veins, uniting our lines,” he explained. “The king is gracious and has welcomed me to his home.”
Ah, a bastard. He should have expected such a thing, with how easily the last king of Rygnirath fell into bed with a pretty thing.
Shiro glanced over to the other king. Gyrgan’s face showed nothing, the same gracious smile still etched to his face. His retinue, however, showed their confusion at the situation at hand.
Shiro kept his face neutral, but smiled inside. There was something about the boy that they had expected him to be easily swayed. Certainly not his beauty, as lovely as it was.
He curled a finger, a silent order for Lance to step closer. The boy turned to his brother and whatever he had read on that face made the princeling obey. He took a single step, then another when Shiro did not drop his curled hand. Eventually Lance stood in front of him, close enough for Shiro to study the boy in every detail. The long, dark lashes that framed a comely face, the smooth brown hair curling at the ends. He still did not meet Shiro’s eyes, averted firmly on his chest. Lance shivered.
“Look at me,” Shiro ordered. “Let me see your eyes.”
Taking a shuddering breath, Lance finally lifted his head, meeting Shiro’s glowing silver eyes.
Unnatural .
Like recognized like. With his right hand, still blackened by the aftermath of the hag’s cursed magic, Shiro snapped forward to curl his fingers around the boy’s jaw and tilted his head up to study the boy more clearly.
Lance’s blue eyes glowed faintly before returning to a normal hue. Shiro felt his mouth dry - he recognized this flare of magic, felt it long ago. But instead the words that came out of his mouth was, “He’s been touched by magic.”
“That is no crime,” Gyrgan pointed out. “You yourself had magic touch your soul, great King of Voltron.”
Shiro watched the boy for signs of recognition. The Sanctuary of Daga had housed them both once upon a time. But all he saw was fear in the child’s eyes, that whatever charm Lance had exuded was not enough to quell the battle.
Shiro released the boy, watching as the prince stumbled to the safety of his family. He held back the grin that threatened to overtake his face.
All those years wasted - and at last, the gods have finally smiled down on him.
The King of Voltron pointed to Lance but his gaze was firmly on Gyrgan. “He has a brother,” he stated plainly, with no room for argument. “Young Lance. I suspect he is your brother as well.”
“We have many brothers,” Gyrgan admitted but his tone turned persuasive. “But none possess Lance’s beauty and grace. I vow to you that he is the fairest of all in my line.”
Shiro smiled graciously, mimicking Gyrgan’s expression. “The brother that stayed with Lance when he was in the Sanctuary of Daga. That is the one I desire,” he ordered. “If you wish for our lines to unify, he is the only one I will accept.”
Lance gasped out a soft ‘no,’ but his plea was ignored.
The mild expression Gyrgan had sported this entire time finally crumbled, his brows furrowing into one of confusion. Rygnirath’s leader pressed his lips together, trying to discern what it was Shiro was thinking. But it would be impossible for Gyrgan to know- how could he comprehend the ways young Tsuyoshi had liberated Shiro’s soul.
Gyrgan pressed his lips to a thin line, knowing the dire situation at hand. Shiro held all the power. The Rygnirath had only one option - it had been an offer he himself had made. The king’s massive hands tightened into fists, before the anger in his heart shattered to despair, grip loosening. He turned to the original attendant that had clapped his hands, and nodded a single time. “Bring him.”
Lance wept, pressing his hands to cover his face; one would think that being freed from having to marry the enemy would be a joyous occasion for the boy.
Even in this, he was beautiful, Shiro’s soldiers murmuring in sympathy. Even Keith pressed his lips together before he crossed his arms tightly in front of him, as if to avoid reaching out to the tearful boy. Shiro was not moved, but perhaps he could bring the lovely thing with them for Keith.
A short time later, another boy stood at the doorway, the mead hall having remained open since Lance’s initial descent down the steps. He was tall and broad, like Gyrgan, but with a softness that the older brother did not have. His hair was loose and mussed and he wore nothing but a thin linen robe, as if he had been sleeping until this moment, his decency preserved only by the large pelt of fur that he wrapped around himself.
He was Tsuyoshi - taller and older but the same in all the ways that mattered. His dark eyes were still softened by the shine that glimmered in them, and his body was soft and luscious, a layer of plush beneath muscle.
Shiro’s mouth felt dry with expectation.
Tsuyoshi walked with purpose, each step confident but not heavy. He made no attempt to make himself desirable - he simply was, at least to Shiro. His smile was sincere as he faced the army, not the bland mask that his brother wore.
Lance turned towards the other boy and ran to him, no concern for the fabric that tangled his legs. From the other side, a gaggle of children ran down from the steps, weeping, snatching at Tsuyoshi’s hands and his robe.
“No! Hunk, no!”
“Hunk-no! Don’t go!”
Was Hunk the name that was given after? Shiro would get the details soon.
Reaching Tsuyoshi at last, Lance leaned against his chest, as if he was a puppet whose thread had cut off; his cries filled the hillside. Even Gyrgan looked pained at the loss of his beloved brother.
Shiro’s prince did not look at the children, simply touching their heads to silence their cries. “Be still,” he said, little more than a whisper, but words carrying across the crowd.
The children stilled and obeyed, sniffling quietly as their mothers rushed down and grabbed their bairns. Lance, too, stopped his tears.
“There’s no need to weep,” Tsuyoshi- no, Hunk- continued, smiling at the children, at Lance, at the invading army. “It is a beautiful night. The moon is high in the sky and her lights are blessing a union. Tonight we are celebrating. Instead of bloodshed and sorrow of death, we celebrate our new kin, new friends, and peace!”
Hunk’s speech silenced any complaints, moved by the hope in his words. Shiro’s heart swelled.
He then whispered something to the other boy, prompting Lance to nod against Hunk’s chest, and stepping aside to let him pass. With a last pat on Lance’s shoulder, Hunk made his way unencumbered to Gyrgan and his retinue, bowing his head. The young king squeezed his brother’s hand before presenting him to Shiro, not realizing the history between them.
“My beloved brother, Hunk,” he said, tone calm once more. “His golden heart, full of compassion and grace, led him to sequester himself with Lance and care for him at the Sanctuary of Daga many years ago.”
Hunk pressed a kiss on Gyrgan’s cheek, a final farewell, and slid out of his grasp. He walked towards Shiro until he stood within easy reach. Hunk bowed again, and met Shiro’s eyes without fear.
“Your hair,” Hunk said with a small gasp.
Keith tensed beside him, as everyone knew that Shiro hated mention of his prematurely grey hair. The Voltron’s soldiers all tensed. Even Shiro felt himself brace for what he would say.
Hunk put a hand out like he wanted to touch it, but stopped himself, pulling back. “It’s like starlight!” he commented with a smile. “Pretty!”
Hunk spoke so plainly, as if the words didn’t turn Shiro’s heart ablaze. He curled his hands around Hunk’s and pulled him gently until they were only a hand width apart. Shiro then turned his prince’s hands palms up, and leaning down, he pressed his lips on the thin, delicate skin on the inside of Hunk’s wrists.
The solemn silence broke as Voltron cheered at the gesture. It was done.
Hunk was his now.
Neither Hunk nor Shiro spoke of the past, despite their recognition - not when they were out in the open like this.
There would be time later to reminisce - of when Shiro was a desperate man named Takashi and Hunk was a soft-hearted boy called Tsuyoshi.
—
1.
Kuro was the elder twin, the one to inherit it all. Takashi had known this his whole life, had never begrudged that he would support his brother in the shadows while Kuro got all the glory.
And yet - why?
Takashi watched in horror, bound by a rope of poison like the rest of the group that had ventured out to look for the crown prince, as Kuro called on the bog-witch Haggar and the demon Zarkon. Kuro’s body was covered in the blood of their kinsmen, as he systematically killed everyone else but Takashi.
“What are you doing?” Takashi screamed. “Kuro?! Have you gone mad?”
Kuro stared down at him, his eyes blazing with greed. “No, my brother,” he replied. “I’ve simply seen the truth.”
“What?”
“Why should I settle for ruling just a backwater land?” Kuro sneered, stretching his arms wide. “When my destiny is the world? I can command every land, every hall!”
Takashi shook his head. “No single man can rule all, brother,” he replied, trying to reach his twin. “Please, we can fix this.”
Kuro ignored him, muttering demonic words as he marched in a specific pattern around the corpses of his allies.
The stench of rot rose, and Takashi retched as cursed magic lingered in the air, tainting the clearing with its noxious sorcery.
“Kuro… please…”
Kuro’s smile was demented as he stared down at him. “Good bye, little brother,” he whispered, as a purple light surrounded them.
Takashi screamed, feeling ice fill his veins.
—
4.
Another mead hall fell to Voltron’s might, lost territory returned to them once more. Their king, reborn and returned from a witch’s prison triumphant, smiled graciously as the men cheered in victory.
“King Shirogane! King Shirogane!”
“Champion of Voltron!”
Only a year after his return from Haggar’s torture, Shiro had managed to create a coalition of allies, with himself at the head. It was no easy task, the kingdom had fractured after the disappearance of both princes, and the return of the younger twin alone had caused disruption in the clan council. Each day was a new battle, shoring up defenses and picking out the true allies compared to the backstabbers lying in wait.
Shiro missed Tsuyoshi desperately, and many nights regretted his choice to leave him in the safety of the temple.
But the unpleasant nature of battle, of dealing with traitors in his midst, made him recognize that Tsuyoshi was better off in the safety of his brother’s graces. At least until Shiro stabilized his court.
The battles were not always so black and white.
The king of Olkari, Lubos, was brought to him, his sleazy expression tightening when he recognized Shiro. He was sweating profusely, in fear, no doubt.
“King Shirogane!” Lubos crowed, bowing low. “An honour! An honour! Was our last tribute not to your standards?”
Shiro’s expression remained calm, but the burning rage threatened to manifest. “Let’s not lie in the face of your looming doom,” he stated flatly. “I know of your plot. Your alliance with Branko.”
Sweat began to drip further down Lubos’ face, and the soon to be deposed king’s reddened with fury or humiliation. “How dare!” he shouted, looking around for someone to blame. “I am guiltless, great king! I am loyal to Voltron! To the coalition! It’s a ploy! A plot against me!”
Shiro allowed the show of theatrics, recognizing the expression of disappointment and disgust on the Olkarians’ faces at their king’s conduct.
“It’s her! Ryner! She has turned you against me!” Lubos screamed, pointing a finger at the high priestess and his cousin. “She has always wanted to wrestle the throne from me!”
Abruptly, Shiro snapped his right arm forward and grabbed Lubos’ face, tightening his grip. “Do you think me a fool?”
“Ahh!! My face! It burns!” Lubos screamed, the cold penetrating to the point of mimicking a burn. “Please, Lord Shiro!”
Shiro continued, ignoring the screeching. “I had already found enough evidence of your treachery, Ryner simply provided the final nail to your coffin. I know you’ve been sending your own people to their deaths, to be tortured and studied by Branko and his ilk.”
Later on, watching the execution of the king that had weakened his own people for his own greed, Shiro studied his right hand, the hand that had turned so cold that it could burn his enemies. He laughed at the memory of Tsuyoshi smiling at him, cheering at his cold body temperature, and the benign uses for it.
No one else, neither allies nor enemies, have ever spoken positively about the stardust in his veins, the cold infinity of the heavens. But Tsuyoshi had said it so plainly, had turned the effect to something beneficial.
Shiro had felt normal.
He missed feeling that way.
—
7.
Hunk’s was so supple, so pliable, that every part of him was lovable. Shiro loved the gentle swell of his chest, the way his nipples hardened under his tongue. The ample hips that Shiro could grab as he pressed his cock deep inside the warmth of Hunk’s body.
And such a lewd form, a vessel of lust that welcomed Shiro with every shuddering moan.
“Ah! Shiro!” Hunk yelped as Shiro dug his teeth into the meat of his shoulder. He gripped the king’s silver hair, but made no move to try and pull him off.
He wasn’t sure if it was the wild magic infecting his blood or if he was always the kind of man to mark his mate like this. He gnawed on the wound as he released inside Hunk’s passage, claiming his bride again. His seed overflowed, dripping out of Hunk’s fluttering hole and onto the bedding below.
“Hunk,” Shiro purred, licking at the small punctures. “My Hunk.”
Hunk smiled down at him, curling his hand on Shiro’s cheek. “Yes.”
Like a man possessed by a siren’s song, Shiro leaned up to catch the other’s lips, wanting to taste everything, to claim every part of his bride. Years in the making, finally came to fruition. His cock stayed firmly inside, wanting to stay as close as he could to Hunk.
They continued to exchange kisses, Shiro covering the younger man’s body with his own. Shiro appreciated the differences between them. Shiro’s muscular, scar-covered body against Hunk’s plush, smooth form. Even more so, he loved the fact that he never had to worry about crushing Hunk with his body. Shiro knew he was heavy, tall and broad, but Hunk had strength beneath his pillowy exterior, and he still breathed easily when Shiro laid his body upon him.
Between slick presses of lips, Hunk began to try to squirm away. “Hmm, my lord,” Hunk murmured, blushing bright and looking restless.
“No, Hunk,” he said, sliding the hand up to cup Hunk’s breast and thumb at a dusky nipple. “I am simply Shiro. I’m just Shiro when we are alone.”
“Hmm - Shiro. You’re still… umm… inside.”
Shiro studied the young man as he put a hand on Hunk’s stomach, watching as his bride bit his lips in discomfort as he pressed down on the stomach to feel his cock beneath. “Yes.”
Hunk sighed, leaning his head against the numerous feathered pillows that the king’s bed had. After a pause, he twitched again. “Umm, Shiro, could you?”
“Could I?”
“Could you? Pull out?” Hunk flushed, embarrassed. “You- you’ve claimed me in every way that a man could claim his bride,” he stated with a huff. “Surely, you are sated?”
Shiro smiled before kissing him, curling a lock of dark hair behind his ear. “Oh Hunk,” he said, lovelorn. “Not at all.”
At Hunk’s confused stare, Shiro slid his cock out slowly before slamming back inside.
“Oh!”
“I can still continue,” he said, staring down at his bride, so full of love that he thought his heart would burst. “And the night is still young.”
—
3.
The sanctuary of Daga was large enough to house both him and Tsuyoshi’s brother, though they had to stay on opposite sides of the building and stay within their set of rooms to not set each other off. He learned later that he was staying in Tsuyoshi’s chambers, the boy giving it up so that he could stay comfortable while Tsuyoshi went between the two chambers.
He had no interest in the brother, outside the fact that the brother’s magic manifested in the day, and his activated mostly at night, making their operative hours different. It worked out well since this meant that they could monopolize Tsuyoshi when they were active without having to battle or to compromise.
It must have been difficult for Tsuyoshi, exhausting even, but he never made any complaints, dutifully coming to see him each night with a meal, sometimes with herb infused water to clean his wounds and enhance his healing. Whenever Tsuyoshi came to him, dressed for bed in his linen gown that trailed behind him, he smelled faintly of the sea tainted magic that his brother was infected with, but he would overwrite it with his own magic and smiled at the thought of making his claim clear. They never did much, usually speaking through the night or curling up together in bed, Tsuyoshi’s warm body heating his own frigid one. The boy would shiver at first but soon would grow used to the cold touch of his body. Some nights Tsuyoshi fell asleep earlier than expected, and Takashi would spend his night watching him, studying the boy’s soft lips and dark lashes.
Weekly, a single rider would come to the temple, carrying rations, bearing food and whatever else Tsuyoshi would ask for. He would never enter, but would call to Tsuyoshi from outside the sanctuary walls, and the boy would walk out to meet the rider. On those days, Tsuyoshi would make sure that there were topaz beads in his hair, the various golden hued stones sparkling in the light. When he had asked, Tsuyoshi admitted that it was to appease his eldest brother, who was supporting this endeavor. The gems had been a gift from him, and he knew that the rider would report whether or not Tsuyoshi wore the hair pieces to the prince.
The first week after his arrival, Tsuyoshi requested more food and some herbs, telling the rider that he was caring for an injured man he found. The week after it was for fabric, so that he could make something for the man to wear, and some boots so that he could leave once he was healed. Both requests were done, through the will of the heir to the throne, but the soldier that had come with the requested items had also come with a message from the prince, chiding him for his soft heart and to expect retribution from their father upon his return.
Tsuyoshi never mentioned the grave warnings he received, but Takashi had heard them only due to his acute abilities. The fact that the boy was trying to shield him warmed his heart.
He improved, slowly, but still faster than the rate a normal man would heal in his state. His overt inhumanity alarmed him, but Tsuyoshi smiled brightly each night he bore witness to his improving health, so he couldn’t find himself complaining.
The penetrating coldness that covered his right arm gradually lessened, though it still ran colder than the rest of his body and his body itself was transformed into something cold and heat stealing. The arm remained blackened, with flashes of silver that shot up from time to time. Tsuyoshi praised him as his magic stabilized, commenting how the coolness of his skin was no longer overwhelming.
“Almost pleasantly cool!” he said with a smile as he cuddled close one night. “You would be a very popular bedmate in the summer months! I would be the first to join you, haha!”
Tsuyoshi hadn’t meant it in a carnal way, but in the way he shared a bedroll with his brothers. But Takashi still flushed at the thought of Tsuyoshi’s bare skin against his own.
When his magic was tamed enough, Tsuyoshi fell asleep more often than not and he would remain asleep until the morning, and what had started as studying the boy’s face and cheeks turned to more.
It was inappropriate, but he would push Tsuyoshi’s sleep robe up, just to his thick, soft thighs, never further, and run his hands down the boy’s smooth, scar-free skin and contrast it to his battle-hardened body. He never went further, recognizing that even this was too much, was violating the trust Tsuyoshi had in him, but some nights he couldn’t resist the desire to be closer, to hold a piece of Tsuyoshi that no other being had before.
During the three moon cycles he remained to recuperate, he began to reveal parts of himself that he had kept hidden for so long, like petals of a flower finally unfurling. He revealed how he had been born under the wolf star, which had enabled him to survive the witch’s curse and Zarkon’s magic. How the small difference in time between his older twin’s birth to his led to Kuro’s demise but his own tortured survival. His difficult childhood trying to manage his wild brother’s many outbursts.
In turn, Tsuyoshi revealed the story eventually, of how he came to be in the sanctuary, so far from civilization.
His brother was a bastard, one of many born of his father’s liaisons with some noblewoman. But his father favoured him, and Tsuyoshi loved him like his own, and they were best of friends. Tsuyoshi admitted that his brother was very different from him, loud and vibrant while he was plain and boring, never making a mark.
He disagreed, Tsuyoshi was neither plain nor boring, a bright star upon his world.
Tsuyoshi’s brother was beautiful and grew even more so with each passing year. One day, a nobleman from another tribe had tried to steal him away, and when that hadn’t worked had tried to call forth Daga’s magic and channel it. Instead, it had touched his brother and infected him with the sea goddess’ gifts.
All of a sudden, it hadn’t mattered that his father’s favourite was Tsuyoshi’s brother, their father had wished to send the boy away as far as possible for having been cursed.
He had ordered Tsuyoshi’s brother here, to Daga’s sanctuary to meditate and learn to control the magic. But his brother was one who could not survive without another person near them. He would wither away if he was left alone, succumbing to the loneliness and pain and everyone knew this.
It was an execution, no matter the way it had been framed.
It had horrified Tsuyoshi, the way his brother was maligned, dehumanized, the moment magic touched him. Even though his brother had not changed at the core of him.
Tsuyoshi had begged and pleaded with his father, going against his wishes directly for the first time in his life. His father was unmoved, but his eldest brother, the heir to their clan, had intervened. Tsuyoshi had been promised punishment for his slight against their father, but in the end, he had been allowed to accompany his brother.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” Takashi had asked one night, resting his head against Tsuyoshi’s stomach. “That you must suffer for your brother’s mistake?”
Tsuyoshi poked his shoulder. “It is no fault of my brother’s that he has been touched by magic,” he replied. “No more than it is your fault that you were touched by magic. And I don’t particularly think I am suffering, It’s no hardship to spend time with you or with my brother.”
Tsuyoshi smiled down at him. “I like spending time with you, Takashi.”
The boy admitted this softly, while combing through his hair, like he had been requested. It should be cut soon, but he still could not allow anyone with a metal implement that close to his head. He rubbed at the large scar across his nose.
Tsuyoshi continued with another smile. “You never make me feel… less, just because of how I am.”
Who made you feel this way? He wanted to question, wanting to hunt down the beasts that had hurt Tsuyoshi so. But, that sounded insane, even to him, so instead he asked for the boy to clarify.
“Well, look at me,” Tsuyoshi explained, gesturing to his whole body. “I’m big and strong, so at the very least I should be good at battle. But I don’t like hunting, or sparring, and I don’t like getting hurt. So, my father is always disappointed in me.”
“You use your strength for something different,” he replied, remembering the passion of Tsuyoshi’s words when he spoke happily about building tools and repairing the mead hall with his clan.
“Yeah, but still,” the boy said. “And I’m a bearer, so at least I should be of some benefit for the clan, but I’m not charming enough or pretty enough to catch the eye of someone powerful.”
When I’m king, I will come for you. Takashi thought to himself, but couldn’t let himself dream that far ahead. His return was murky, and even if he managed to return, he would face years of battle before he could regain some stability in his kingdom.
“You are perfect as you are,” he stated instead, curling his left arm around the boy’s waist. “Never feel forced to change yourself.”
“My brother says the same thing,” Tsuyoshi admitted with a laugh. “But it sounds different coming from someone else, someone I’m not related to.”
With this exchange, they grew even closer, Tsuyoshi showing sides to himself he kept hidden before, to try and keep a positive impression on him. His stubbornness, his childish manners, his pride in his cooking. But each facet that was uncovered only endeared Tsuyoshi more to him.
But the peace could not last forever; Takashi knew that he needed to return to his people, to uncover the crimes Kuro committed and to prepare themselves for the battle ahead. On his last night at the sanctuary of Daga, Tsuyoshi carefully cut the overlong hair that covered his face, standing over his seated form. Takashi could tell that the boy was unfamiliar with the style he had requested, and Tsuyoshi admitted that his people kept their hair long as a general rule.
But he was careful as he made the cuts, avoiding getting too close and accidently hurting him. Once he had managed to cut the cropped style Takashi requested, he lightly pulled at the snowy white lock of hair at the front of his head. Having trimmed it but not fully shorn.
“What should I do with this?” Tsuyoshi asked.
“Cut it off.”
Tsuyoshi pouted, his big eyes blinking. “But it’s so cute,” he said. “It’s like a small starburst across the night sky.”
Takashi glanced at him. “You like this?” he gestured at the obvious flaw visible on his forehead.
The boy nodded. “Yup!” he chirped. “It makes you look distinguished.”
He felt heat rising to his cheeks. “Well, if you say so. I guess we can leave it for now.”
“Yes! All done then!” Tsuyoshi cheered, before his smile turned bittersweet. “I guess it’ll be the last night we’ll get to spend together like this.”
Turning away abruptly, Tsuyoshi sniffed softly before he picked up the satchel and a small package and passed it to him with another smile. “It’s not much,” he said with a scratch of his head. “But I prepared a travel bag for you. And a cloak for your journey.”
Takashi grabbed the satchel and set it aside, smelling dried meat, fruits and nuts, as well as a vessel of water. He turned his focus on the package, opening it carefully and gasping at the cloak. It was wool, but lined with soft rabbit fur, each delicately stitched in place to ensure that it was both functional and beautiful.
“I’m sorry it took so long. I’m a little slow with my stitching.”
Takashi pressed the cloak to his face, rubbing his cheeks against the cloud soft fur and breathing in Tsuyoshi’s scent embedded in the fabric.
“Thank you,” he said softly, putting the cloak down to wrap his arms around Tsuyoshi’s waist and pulling him close enough for him to lay his head against the younger boy’s stomach.
Tsuyoshi patted his head gently, running his hands on the short, fuzzy hair on the bottom of his head. “I’ll pray for your success,” he promised. “That you will be able to lead your people to glory.”
“Stay with me,” Takashi pleaded, abruptly. “For my final night as Takashi, please stay with me.”
“I-I always spend the nights with you?”
Takashi shook his head. “No, don’t sleep. Talk with me, be with me,” he replied, begged. “Then spend the day asleep with me. I will be gone before the next dusk and when I leave this place, I will no longer be Takashi. I don’t know who I will become but the man I am now will disappear like a flickering candle in a storm.”
Tsuyoshi bit his lips, conflicted. After a pause, he pushed at Takashi’s shoulders, which prompted the man to hold even tighter. “I will stay with you! I promise I will. But I need to tell my brother or he’ll worry come morning,” he said, trying to escape Takashi’s hold. “Let me speak with him. He’s probably not asleep yet. Then I can do what you wish without having to worry about my brother.”
Takashi stared up at his boy, meeting his eyes. “You will return?”
“I will,” he answered firmly, his eyes clear with sincerity.
With great reluctance, he let Tsuyoshi go, releasing the grip he had around the boy. Tsuyoshi slipped out with another reassuring smile, whispering a promise to return.
Though he usually refrained, this time Takashi put his focus on honing his hearing, to listen in on what Tsuyoshi said to his brother.
“I don’t understand! ” the brother whined, his words dulled with sleep. “Why must you waste your day with him?”
“It’s his last night here. He will be gone by sunset tomorrow. ” Tsuyoshi explained. There was rustling of fabric like the two of them were hugging. “He’s my friend. I’d like to send him off in the way he wishes.”
“You’ve already done more than enough for him. Why should I need to give up my time with you?”
“Please. Just for one day.”
“You have no idea! How he drenches you with his magic. You should stay away from him! He’s a creep!”
“Just for tomorrow, please. He will be gone after that. He’s my friend. Please, Lance.”
There was a huff, from the brother. “So after this, it will be just the two of us again?”
“Yes! Well, until we figure out how to contain your magic. Then we can return home.”
There was a shuffle of blankets. “Fine. Tomorrow, I will keep myself entertained alone, all by my lonesome! But you better be right here when the sun sets!”
“You’re the best Lance! I love you!”
“I love you too, Tsuyo!”
Takashi felt like barging over and demanding that Tsuyoshi take back his words. He couldn’t love that brat! Only he could have Tsuyoshi! But he held himself back, because even having spent so much time away from civilization, Takashi knew that there was nothing right about doing something like that.
Instead, he put the satchel and the cloak on the small table, and took off the new tunic that Tsuyoshi had made for his travel, baring his chest. Takashi slid into bed and tried to make himself look unassuming, like he hadn’t been listening in like a spy in the night.
Tsuyoshi returned, holding a wooden box, shiny with lacquer. “Sorry about the wait,” he apologized. “My brother, he’s a bit of a worrier.”
“It’s no issue. I’m just glad he did not fight you on it,” he answered before nodding towards the container. “What’s in the box?”
“Oh! It’s my hair pins,” Tsuyoshi said with a smile, shaking the box lightly. “I usually try to wear them a day or two before the rider comes, since sometimes he comes earlier than expected and it takes some time to put them on. Since I’ll be spending the day tomorrow sleeping, I was hoping to put them in my hair tonight. If it’s alright with you?”
“It’s alright with me,” Takashi gasped out, eyes glowing with the thought of playing with Tsuyoshi’s hair. “Can I help?”
The boy looked surprised but pleased at the question. “Sure!” he chirped. “It’s pretty simple once you get the hang of it! And more hands make lighter work.”
Takashi thought the topaz were beads, but once he looked inside, they were numerous pins, each one embedded with one to three topaz pieces at the tip.
“Won’t these be uncomfortable?” he asked, pulling one of the pins and holding it towards the candle light.
Tsuyoshi shook his head. “No, if they’re placed right, it’s fine to sleep in,” he answered. “I usually take a few strands and loop it before using the pin so it stays in place.”
Takashi watched, hypnotized as Tsuyoshi curled a small bunch of hair between his fingers. With practiced ease, he looped the strands before sliding a pin in the loop, locking it in place. He watched the boy do it a handful of times, before he felt confident enough to try himself. Takashi was a lot of things, and a quick study was one of them; pinning the topaz gem in place in the way Tsuyoshi showed. He took extra time to run his fingers through the dark, silky, waterfall of hair. He had never had the courage to touch it before.
Tsuyoshi focused on the front and sides of his hair while Takashi took care of the back part, and soon the small pile of topaz pins in the box dwindled to nothing.
Tsuyoshi turned and smiled at him, his long hair tamed to soft curls, interspersed with golden gems that sparkled in the candlelight. “That was a lot faster with you helping! Thank you!”
Takashi smiled back, touching one of the gems. “Now your hair shimmers like starlight,” he commented with a warm smile. “Pretty Tsuyoshi.”
The boy blushed at the term, laughing awkwardly. “I’ll try my best to stay awake,” he said after a pause. “But you’ll have to keep me entertained or I’ll fall asleep.”
They spent the night swapping stories, legends of their tribes. Legends from Tsuyoshi’s clan tended to focus on the power of the sea and the mysteries of the ocean; Takashi’s tales connected mostly to the heavens and the world beyond the stars.
Tsuyoshi also taught him a game called penta litha, where five pieces of carved sheep’s knuckle-bones were used in a game of dexterity. They played for a few rounds, but Tsuyoshi eventually grew annoyed at his shaky hands, trembling from exhaustion.
They soon moved to Takashi’s bed, curling together as they swapped stories again. Takashi took the opportunity to get as much skin to skin contact with the boy, sliding his hands up Tsuyoshi’s shirt to feel the curvaceous stomach. The boy tensed for a moment but relaxed after, trusting Takashi. Tsuyoshi kept his word, staying awake the whole night, despite yawning through most of it. As dawn arrived, the sun slowly rising in the east, he turned to Takashi with a little grin.
“Made it!” he cheered, tilting his head up to smile at him. “Was it good for you?”
Takashi curled his arms tighter around the boy. “Yes, I just wanted to spend my last night with you.”
I wanted to see if you would choose me over your brother. Takashi didn’t say.
“Good,” Tsuyoshi replied, not hiding his yawn. “But, I really need to sleep now. You should sleep too, rest before your journey.”
Takashi pressed his lips on the boy’s forehead. “When you awake, I’ll be gone,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t think I could stomach leaving you when you are awake.”
Tsuyoshi nodded. “Farewells are the worst,” he replied sleepily, burrowing his head against Takashi’s neck. “Thank you for being my friend.”
The boy pressed his lips on Takashi’s cheek, a platonic kiss between friends or siblings. “I’m glad I was able to make your last day as Takashi a happy time for you.”
He pressed Tsuyoshi’s head down, careful of the gems in his hair. “Sleep now,” he said. “I’ll keep you safe until then.”
Tsuyoshi fell asleep easily, comfortable in his arms after so long and exhausted by the sudden change in his sleep schedule. Takashi had every intention of joining him, but found himself studying the boy’s features, to lock it in his memory.
He traced his left thumb down the boy’s full cheek, and then along the plush fullness of his lips. Takashi imagined Tsuyoshi’s first kiss, likely given away sooner rather than later to some worthless buffoon his father picked for him.
All while Takashi would be forced away, fighting for his clan in a bloody battlefield.
It was so unfair - he felt his grip tighten. He only loosened his hold when Tsuyoshi let out a pained whimper, still in the depth of sleep.
“Sorry,” he whispered to the sleeping boy, kissing the top of his head. He cut his thoughts short and forced himself to sleep, to join Tsuyoshi in the land of dreams.
He awoke mid-day, still hours away from sunset. Tsuyoshi still slept soundly, curled up on his side like a plump little kitten. The topaz remained firmly in his hair, little gems shining in the faint light that filtered through the window of his room. He fingered one of the gems, the largest of the lot, about the size of his thumbnail. Takashi knew that the pins were a gift from his brother, but he could only see a connection to Tsuyoshi. With a breath, he pulled the specific pin out, and put it in his satchel, wanting this piece of Tsuyoshi to remember him by.
He slid out of bed and began changing into the clothes set aside for him. Loose wool pants, a plain undershirt and a dark tunic, all painstakingly sewn by Tsuyoshi - his brother had refused to help, jealous of the attention that Tsuyoshi had given him. The satchel was slung across his shoulder, and the cloak was pinned in place with a simple brooch.
Takashi thought about the future ahead, when his name would be cast off and he would be born anew.
With steady hands, he curled his hands around Tsuyoshi’s, slowly turning the boy’s palms up. The oath would only be for himself, Tsuyoshi would never know the significance. With a soft sigh of devotion, Takashi pressed his lips on the inside of each of Tsuyoshi’s wrists, right on the vein.
“Hmm - Takashi?” Tsuyoshi blinked up at him, eyes glazed with sleep. “What are you doing?”
He kissed the same spot again, re-affirming the promise of devotion. The sign of trust to offer vulnerable flesh to their mate. But of course, it wasn’t the same - since Takashi took this from the boy without his knowledge.
“Do you understand? The meaning of this?” Takashi asked, his voice almost a whisper.
Tsuyoshi shook his head, half-asleep. “No, but it is important to you,” he replied with a smile. “I trust you.”
With a shuddering gasp, he kissed the boy’s wrists again. “Never change,” he commanded. “Stay as good and loyal, and as kind as you are now.”
Tsuyoshi laughed, sleep-laced and a little loopy. “We’re always going to change,” he said. “Like you, when I leave the sanctuary, I will be stripped from my name. That is my father’s decree, his punishment to me.”
The boy turned his hands, to hold Takashi’s hands in his. “Don’t look so sad, Takashi,” he said with a smile. “I don’t care, I would make the same choices knowing what would occur. I know that whatever comes, I will embrace my new name, even if it’s one for a slave. But unlike me, I know that your new name will be as bold, and honourable as you are.”
“Tsuyoshi-”
“Brave and bold! Like a white knight,” the boy mumbled on with a sleepy smile. “This will be the last time I can say goodbye to Takashi, right?”
Takashi smiled back, cupping the boy’s cheek. “And this will be the last time I can say farewell to Tsuyoshi.”
“Good bye Takashi,” Tsuyoshi said softly, his eyes drooping back into slumber. “I know you will do great things.”
As Tsuyoshi lulled back into slumber, he leaned close and pressed a kiss on the boy’s cheek. Takashi, calling himself this name for the last time, sent a prayer to someone, anyone, for their destinies to be intertwined, and that they would be reunited again.
–
6.
If he had his way, Shiro would have thrown Hunk down right there on the clearing and claimed him for all to see. But he could not, would not, treat Hunk callously, like he was a bed slave and Shiro some barbaric conqueror.
After Shiro’s symbolic claim, his men laid down their arms. A runner was sent ahead to prepare his hall for the wedding while things wrapped up with Rygnirath. The next two days and nights were filled with festivities at the Willow - feasts, music, and speeches. The skald composed and performed a song describing the way their king sued for peace and united two powerful bloodlines. It wasn’t to Shiro’s taste, but he was sure that his own would write something more suitable once they were back in Voltron.
Unfortunately, all the talks prevented Shiro from spending private time with his young bride. Every Rygnirath seemed desperate to soak up their dwindling time with Hunk while they still could. Children brought flowers and small rocks to the prince as mementos. Every craftsman had a wedding gift. Hunk stood out like a beacon wherever he went, dressed in richly dyed yellow, and topaz still woven through his hair. He was the sun, and the people were helplessly captivated by his warmth.
They departed Rygnirath with Shiro’s bride on a clear day, with some treasures to count as their initial tribute, and several young folk that were Hunk’s personal servants. Lance, much to Shiro’s surprise, had demanded to leave with them, and stuck by Hunk’s side.
Hunk kept a reassuring smile during the celebrations and the negotiations, and had made no negative remarks about the marriage, praising the Voltrons and his brother for the bloodless resolution, but on their trek to Voltron, Shiro heard soft weeping from the carriage supplied by the young king, and his heart felt brittle. The cries were quiet, muffled by his hand or by cloth. It would not be heard by anyone other than someone like Shiro, whose hearing was augmented by the magic in his veins.
Shiro reassured himself, Hunk would be happy in Voltron. It was always bitter to bid farewell to the past. To accept the future that was at hand.
Takashi would know .
Shiro would make sure that Hunk’s future was bright, that he would devote his heart and his life to making Hunk happy.
After all, he was born under the wolf star.
And wolves mate for life.
–
8.
Hunk woke in the middle of the night, Shiro’s arms firmly around his waist, the king’s head resting on his chest, their legs tangled together. A thin cover of silk, an export from the far east, was the only thing that covered them. The humid air of summer barely registered, as Shiro’s unnaturally cold body kept the heat away.
It was unusual for Hunk to wake in the night while Shiro still slept. Usually, the king would take pleasure from his body until Hunk fainted from exhaustion, and then he would usually be awoken again right before dawn to the king pressing his cock inside, a morning romp before he began morning training with his men. Shiro was insatiable, it was almost unbelievable to him that he was desired that much by a powerful figure like Shiro.
Hunk relaxed his body slowly, to avoid startling the king awake; he was very attune with his surroundings, so any sudden movements from Hunk would disturb him to wakefulness. Shiro already slept so little, and Hunk worried about the impact it had on the king, despite reassurances that he needed little rest to function, a beneficial effect of his magic.
Hunk glanced down to study the man who conquered the lands and took him as a prize. Asleep, he looked at peace, the burden of the crown that always seemed to shadow Shiro gone. A little bit of colour was on Shiro’s cheeks, which only occurred when he received enough of Hunk’s body heat throughout the night. Usually, Shiro was pale like the moonlight, and even heavy exertion rarely resulted in any flushing.
It frightened Hunk a bit, how much his presence made a difference in Shiro’s welfare. The king was stoic as a general rule, though he was prone to gentle smiles towards Hunk, but when he was away from the hall for prolonged periods, he would return with an expression like a statue, his eyes a shade darker and colder than they should be, an almost purple hue embedded in the grey. Keith would stare at Hunk with a beseeching gaze, and he would come forward and grasp the king’s hands, welcoming the conquering hero with a kiss. Hunk would watch as warmth returned in his eyes, as Shiro turned from cold stone to flesh and blood again, smiling down at him with affection.
It reminded Hunk of a ballad he heard from a traveling minstrel once, when he was still young and in his father’s home. An ancient king had once ruled the land, and was famed as a wise and just ruler. But even great legends aged, and when he became an old man, the king needed the body heat of a youthful bedmate to keep warm through the night, as blankets could not keep the king warm.
He imagined the immense pressure she must have felt, to be solely responsible to keep the king warm enough to live another night. To realize that if she did not provide enough of her youth and heat to the king that he would be cold and dead come morning.
Hunk shuddered, petting Shiro’s hair in the way the king liked, to distract himself from that line of thought. But he couldn’t help but draw parallels. The way Hunk felt like he had to always be open, always available for Shiro to take. Shiro always bit him, on his chest, his thighs, his neck - trying to make a physical mark of claim; it hurt, and Hunk had never been someone that enjoyed pain, but he could never say anything, since it gave Shiro so much joy to do so. His whole life was structured now to please his king, to provide some comfort to him so that he could continue to keep Voltron strong and secure.
To keep his humanity intact.
And Hunk didn’t think Shiro’s sexual appetite was normal either. All his siblings that married older men said that their older partners usually did not pursue relations daily. But if anything, Hunk was the one who faltered. If Shiro had his way, they would be in bed every free moment during the day and night.
Not that Shiro was old! Well - he was old, but not that old! He was younger than his father would be if he was still alive, maybe only a few years older than Grygan. He was still handsome, and fit too! Lots of people, visiting royalty, random citizens, were quick to point out how lucky Hunk was to have a devoted, wealthy, and powerful husband like Shiro.
Hunk groaned quietly. “What am I doing?” he muttered before pressing a hand to his mouth and darting his eyes down to his husband, fearful that he woke him. But Shiro still slept soundly, his face nestled against Hunk’s chest.
Maybe it wasn’t the sex itself that bothered him, but the lack of control. Hunk was overwhelmed every night, with embarrassment at his state, with the pleasure that eventually would border on pain, with his inability to do or say anything as Shiro used his body as a vessel to receive his lust.
It was like being devoured, night after night. Every time they laid together, Shiro would go on and on, until Hunk lost his ability to speak, to think, until all he could do was scream to the gods his pleasure.
Shiro was so single-minded in his love. His devotion never wavered. Hunk knew he was… a peculiar specimen of a bearer, tall and strong and pleasantly plump, while Shiro was the epitome of a virile warrior that anyone would wish for a sire. But Shiro’s eyes never wandered, and he looked at would-be paramours with such disdain, that it was hard to believe that he was the same man as Hunk’s husband who would shower him with affection. Once, a particularly bold princess had attempted to undermine Hunk, and had flounced to his place next to the king during a festival before Hunk had completed his rounds. The king had glared at the woman with such disgust and had grabbed her jaw tightly before pushing her towards her father, a lesser king within Voltron’s sphere of influence. While the princess had screamed in pain at the cold burn, Shiro had ordered the man to control his wench of a daughter and that he would not be so merciful should she show her face again.
It was at that moment, Hunk realized how much effort Shiro put into controlling his powers when he was with him. Not even once in their marriage did Hunk feel the full extent of Shiro’s magic - he had never felt the penetrating, so-cold-it-felt-like-burning, frigid magic on his own skin. He felt cold, sometimes, but never that painfully.
It was heavy, the pressure of Shiro’s love, the weight of his devotion.
There was a cool touch under his eye. “What’s wrong, Hunk?” Shiro asked, thumbing away a tear. His voice was hoarse, but his gaze was clear as ever.
Hunk hadn’t realized that he had begun to cry, though he wasn’t surprised. He had always been prone to tears, especially when stressed or emotional. “I’m sorry, Shiro,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
The king leaned up and kissed him softly, almost chaste. “It’s of no issue,” he replied. “I would rather you wake me when you are having a crisis. Besides, the dawn is several hours still. We can get more rest.”
“It was nothing,” he reassured. “I was just overthinking things again.”
Shiro stared down at him, trying to read him. “You don’t need to keep it to yourself. I am here for you, love.”
Hunk opened his mouth to give him another reassurance. “I’m scared ,” he found himself saying instead. “I’m scared I’m not enough.”
He was scared that soon Shiro would take everything, would siphon every drop of heat Hunk produced. He was scared that Shiro would bite down one day and not let go and would scrape out everything that made him Hunk, just to keep him closer to his heart.
Hunk stared up at his husband, hoping that Shiro understood. The king’s soft gaze made it obvious that he hadn’t. He heard the surface words and read what he wanted from Hunk’s expression.
Shiro was a little bit like that with him; seeing only what he wanted to see of Hunk.
“Oh Hunk,” Shiro whispered before pressing their bodies chest to chest, curling Hunk’s head to rest on the crook of his neck. “Never think that. Never. You’re everything.”
Oh Shiro, can you not see it is your single-minded gaze that frightens me? Hunk wanted to ask. That I’m scared of the person I will become if we continue this path?
Hunk couldn’t say anything like that. He wished he could spill the words in his heart, but instead he wrapped his arms around Shiro’s back and held him as tight as he could, hoping that it was enough to satisfy the king.