Chapter Text
King Alfor stands with the rest of her family, waving her goodbye and good luck. Her grandmother has a wide grin, assuring her that she’ll do well and that she should enjoy this opportunity. Uncle Klendfor stands slightly off to the side, scowling as another lives through his forgotten dreams. Her mother is the only one with a strained expression. Her eyes seem forlorn and swirling with emotions, so much so that she can hardly bear to glance in Allura’s direction. She wears pink, the colour of mourning. But her mother has always incorporated an element of pink into her outfit. When Allura was young, she had asked why. Her mother gazed off into the distance, down another corridor, sorrow in her eyes as she murmured something about her parents and how the man she once knew changed so drastically that she hardly recognised him.
Romelle watches with the other servants from the windows, almost fighting for space so she can wave one last goodbye. Allura wishes that Romelle could come with her, or at least escort her to the ship but Coran had just returned from an expedition and as her father’s friend, he would guide her.
“Looking as spiffy as ever, princess.” Coran twirls his orange moustache as he walks over to her.
“Hello, Coran.”
“Nervous, are we?” he tuts, “no use in being nervous, princess. Just go with the flow.” He starts moving his body in a way that is meant to be flowing like water.
“Where did you learn that?” she asks, disgust evident in her eyes.
“There’s a race far away that are called humans. They often do this as they say what I said, ‘go with the flow’. I think it works quite splendidly.” He repeats the action again, much to Allura’s chagrin.
“Are you ready to go?” Alfor stands to the side, the only sign of him being worried is the tension in his brow. Allura rolls her eyes and explains her arduous packing process once more. Hardly any tension leaves his frame and her irritation slowly rises.
“Don’t worry Alfor. I made sure that the princess had packed the necessary equipment for her trip.” Coran takes his hands away from the moustache and puts them behind his back, his posture straight. At that, her father relaxes minutely. She’s about to pick up one of her bags of luggage when a servant takes it away. Coran and her father explain that they don’t want her to worry about something so trivial, to focus on the impending trials. There’s an awful sinking feeling: how was she supposed to be a Paladin of Voltron when she wasn’t even allowed to handle her own luggage?
Her father had always said that she was too quick to anger, that much of what she did was imbued with passion so fierce that it could burn those around her. A noble family had once visited and tried to set her up with their eldest son. They played the game that all nobles must play. Their small talk never went beyond the expected parameters of how they were doing (in not too much detail), how the weather was and a brief insight into politics, in order to gauge whether their beliefs aligned. Allura had gotten a bit too passionate when discussing a particular law, how it had more negatives than positives and the domino effects from it. He had been a bit dissuaded by her comments, his mother staring at her over her cup with disapproval. Her mother coughed awkwardly, looked off to a random family portrait and fiddled with the cutlery. Her father wasn’t there.
Yet she couldn’t help but feel that she wasn’t as passionate as he thought she was. At least, not around him and the family. She often felt subdued, like a mouse. Trying not to cause strife by going against the traditions, the roles she would have to fulfil and a destiny set in stone. She doesn’t (at least tries not to) take a step out of place or say the wrong thing. She doesn’t speak of the burden that weighs her down on her shoulders, not when her grandmother looks so happy and if she passes this, if she joins Voltron, then her father will be proud of her. At least, Coran and Romelle had pretty good shoulders to cry on.
A flurry of fuchsia pink petals swirls in the air, startling her as she cups her hands to catch a few. Soft and kind.
“Oh my! The selleesiya has bloomed Alfor! The Heavens are blessing you Allura, they are giving you good luck!” her grandmother shouted, clutching her hands together. Her mother didn’t look any better and she scowled at falling petals. Some whispers went around. It hadn’t happened for her father, so was she to surpass him and his legacy? Maybe she would discover something new that the lions could do. One of her particularly dramatic aunts thought that this would be a sign that she would become the Black Paladin or assume a leadership role. For some reason.
The last thing she had to do was give hugs and say goodbye. The people she loved would be saved for last. Excluding Romelle, as she couldn’t come down and her mother would say that it was most improper if she were seen fraternising with a servant like that. Their goodbyes had been done the day before, away from prying eyes, with only Altea’s two moons as witnesses. Their words whispered with a soft intimacy and their gestures tainted by a gentleness and longing that could only be described as forbidden and a sin. Even now, she looks up at the windows where the servants crowd to see Romelle giving her a sad smile. She turns away.
At first, the goodbyes were mindless, some were superficial. She knew that some of her cousins didn’t think of her to be worthy. But she wouldn’t have to see them anymore. Her grandmother gave a hearty grin and an exaggerated speech about the selleesiya and how she was a smart girl who could do anything she put her mind to. There was also a mention of surpassing her father and proving to him that she was worthy. She couldn’t see herself in such a position.
Surprisingly, her father hugs her tight, almost bone-crushing. His eyes are glossy as he releases his grip slightly to look down at her. He tells her how proud he is of her, he wishes her the best and he can’t wait to see what paladin or helper she will be. Even during such delicate times of both sorrow and joy, the expectations are still big. They are still there, weighing down on her. A gentle reminder. To not fail. Any tenderness and sadness goes out the window. Her back grows rigid, her mouth moving to a thin line.
Her father notices, of course, he does, he was once the Red Paladin of Voltron. He holds her more firmly and tells her not to be nervous over it. It doesn’t help.
The final person to say goodbye to is her mother. She’s dressed in pink as usual and her expression is pained. Her grip is loose. She does not even look in Allura’s direction. Just whispers in her ear. “Be careful, please. If not for your own sake then for me and your father.”
She nods and repeats the words in her head, frowning.
“No need to look so sombre on a day like this Allura! Now off you go! Voltron is waiting!” a few of her family members chuckle, some of her cousins make shoo motions (some to be funny, others are less joking) and others shout final wishes of farewell. Coran smiles and gestures for her to follow him.
~
They sit on a high-end spaceship, the walls and lights the same as that of the palace: sterile white walls and cool blue lights. Before she could dwell on the artificial feelings it produced, Coran starts to talk about all he’s learnt about a race called humans from an alien who was selling human merch.
“Say, Coran,” she starts, interrupting him from his talk about cow milk (whatever that was), “you participated in the Trials, didn’t you? You were a Helper for Father.”
“That I did, princess. Those were fine times they were.” he twirls his moustache sadly.
“So…you know what the Trials are like?”
“…Did your father not tell you about it?”
“He dodged the question whenever I asked. Said that there are lots of people who are going in blind like he did, so…I should do the same.”
Coran sighs, “You should take any advantage you can princess.”
She fidgets and nods resolutely.
“What are the Trials like?”
“Well, from what we did in my day, we got there, we got settled and then the next day we did a test.”
“A test?”
“Yes, on all sorts of things. Maths to science to analysis. General knowledge things essentially. But the things you ought to look out for are the scenario questions. They’re quite particular. I remember one from my test: ‘Your team has encountered a group that is stranded on a planet. Some of them are hostiles and one of them is acting suspiciously around the Lions. The non-hostile members of the group seem trustworthy and one of them has formed a close bond with a Paladin, who then doesn’t believe the hostiles to be a threat. What do you do?’” he twirls his moustache thoughtfully, likely delving into the memories surrounding the Trials.
“Can you fail the test?”
“Fail? I wouldn’t say fail exactly…we had a couple who had to leave but that was due to them not being fit for the job. One of them was a bit too murdery for the Voltron committee’s tastes and the other had tyrant vibes.”
Allura wants to die. “Who taught you vibes?”
“Ah, Romelle did! Apparently, all the kids on the street are saying it!” he grins and goes a bit off track, talking about how he is now more easily able to converse with the younger ones. At this point, she shouldn’t even be surprised: this is a perfectly Romelle thing to do. And now Allura is suffering alone with Coran’s enthusiasm for using teenagers’ slang.
“What happens after that?” Allura grits out.
“In terms of the Trial? From that test, they’re able to put you into groups like the Paladins. For a few months, you’re trained in most things. Mainly fighting, strategy, diplomacy and team bonding. But you can’t forget the Lions’ bonding for the maybe paladins. Over this time there are small tests to see how things are going, to see if their assessments were right, to move people to different groups if needed and to see if they can work in a team. That’s the most important objective. I saw many talented lads, I feared that I wouldn’t be able to become a member of Voltron with those kinds of people around. However, they failed because they lacked the ability to work in a team and showed no form of progress or a change in attitudes.”
Could Allura work in a group? She hadn’t had to so far. Coran mentioned a change in attitude or progress, so maybe it wasn’t necessarily that they had to work well together, just work enough to show progress. She could do that. But Romelle does like to remind her that she is an absolutely horrible bullshitter.
“Is that all there is to the Trials?”
“Well, I didn’t get to talk about the big tests. Usually going up against a fearsome beast or having whole fleets after you. Although at least one is more diplomatic, to see how well the team fares against cultures with lots of traditions. That’s where the maybe paladins are tested in all that they’ve learnt so far, their fighting ability, their strategies, their teamwork and their ability to use the Lions. For maybe helpers, it’s all about how you provide support, how you adapt to the situations, how you use your prior knowledge and how you handle any situations, whether they’re battlefield or ballroom. These big tests happened at least six or seven times for us. Surprisingly enough we only switched one member.”
“And who was that?” she asks in an attempt to distract herself from the dread steadily growing in her stomach.
“Funnily enough, it was Zarkon.”
“Emperor Zarkon?! Really?”
“Indeed princess. It’s hard for me to believe and I was a part of it. That Emperor Zarkon was the final member of Voltron…but we did work a lot smoother after he joined.”
“I have another question, Coran.”
“Ask away princess.” Coran is now facing the windows where the stars and other planets could be seen. Far away is a galaxy filled with many twinkling stars, creating such beautiful imagery. One of the planets they pass seems to be entirely frozen and she has to stop herself from gawking at the window like a child who had never seen the universe from a spaceship. The stars blink at her, conveying a message she doesn’t understand. They look expectantly.
Her voice feels small when she asks it.
“Coran…do people die during the Trials?”
He freezes and looks at her reflection in the window, the only way to meet her eyes. An overwhelming melancholy fills his frame.
“…They do unfortunately princess.”
~
His room is quiet. It’s never quiet. There’s always a conversation going on. Sometimes he brings Pidge so they can rant about robots or coding or whatever they talk about. Sometimes it’s just Lance and Hunk chatting (or in Lance’s case, complaining) about their day. Other times they bicker about their performance during grills with Commander Iverson. Lance has said some nasty things in the heat of it. Things he doesn’t mean. He always manages to make it up to him but words leave long healing wounds.
There’s nothing now but Lance’s rustling, his steps, his humming and the turn of his textbook pages. It is such a lonely feeling. Only three people from Earth’s Galaxy Garrison were chosen: Hunk, Pidge and James. He was now out of a communication officer and an engineer for drills. Luckily (if it could be called that), with James gone, they were missing a pilot.
They weren’t the same as their team. Whilst the members were a bit more competent and didn’t have travel sickness, they were quite cold with him and ignored his advances in getting to know them. His awful piloting skills seemed to be part of the reason. Maybe it was because he wasn’t James Griffin and he would never be able to replace him. Not with someone who was meant to be a cargo pilot. Everything in their eyes made it seem as though they agreed with Iverson when he would get shouted at for his poor piloting and teamwork skills.
He'd never felt more lonely.
He decides to take a break from studying, maybe take up Hunk’s suggestion of going on that desert trail. Just recently, he’d read that taking a walk in between studying could help when it came to recalling it. He’d told Hunk that he would do it on the day off. But Lance couldn’t bring himself to do that and instead just buried himself in studying and homework.
He’s made sure to pack the essentials of water and suncream with a few tasty snacks. He heads off to the desert with the roughly drawn map that Hunk had given him. It seemed like an easy trail that he would be able to enjoy and distract him from the more…complicated stuff.
His mind turns to Hunk and Pidge. How were they doing? How are the Trials going? Most likely acing them, both of them were super geniuses. He couldn’t help but let out a self-deprecating chuckle. They had been gone for a few days now and everything felt…vacant. He briefly wonders if Hunk misses him. He certainly misses him and his brownies.
He reaches the start of the trail. The desert is quite barren and the sun bears down on him lazily. A few plants are here and there but there isn’t anything to give shade. The sign for the trail is old and rickety and it sways weakly in the non-existent breeze, creating a creaking sound at every little movement.
~
He’s halfway through now. He thinks, anyways. He lost the trail signs quite a while ago and Hunk’s map hasn’t seemed to help. He sighs and stuffs his hands into his pockets. He feels the outline of one of the snacks he brought and realises that it’s partially made of chocolate and cringes at how much of a mess it’s going to make. He’s already drank through most of his water and now there’s no end in sight.
What is he going to do? There was no signal in the desert, nobody knew he was in the desert. A big, big mess. The sun shines down at him, staring. Even the sun is thinking about how crap I am. Hunk had told him not to think so negatively about such things. He’s never been able to follow through on the advice he’s been given. He’s losing all hope, how was he going to survive in a desert?! Get fresh food and water?!
But just then, a shack could be seen in the distance. Lance uses every ounce of remaining strength to bolt towards the shack, even with the sun’s harsh rays against his back and the uncomfortable feeling of sweat. Looking at it closer, it seemed less abandoned, a good sign for sure! Maybe there’ll be a signal or they’ll have a map or they would be able to show him the way back and maybe a cute girl lives in it-
There’s a bit more foliage around the shack, a healthy tree growing beside it and once upon a time there was a fence but it was now random broken sticks. The shack itself is small with a little patio with a barebones chair on it and the one main floor and an attic. A garage is beside it with a red hovercraft sitting outside it. He reaches the patio and takes a breather, he gulps down the rest of his water and takes a peak inside.
It doesn’t seem like a cute girl lived there, but Lance is holding out hope. Maybe she’s a little weird, he reasons, part of her charm. He nods to himself. It would explain why there’s a single white sheet as a curtain, a bunch of old-school equipment dotted around the room and a conspiracy board. It has pinned pictures with strings wrapped around them, arrows pointing and circling, writing what? next to them and all the bigger arrows point to a sheet in the middle. He can’t make much out. Something that gives a little sliver of hope is the aircraft poster on one of the walls, perhaps they have a shared interest. Some books are scattered about and he manages to make out one of the titles, A Christmas Carol. He once wrote a book report about it a few years ago. If the chick in the shack likes it, well then that is another thing to talk with her about and woo her with it. Certainly not what the author, Charlie Dick intended for his book but he’s thankful that he wrote it.
He dusts himself down and tries to will the sweat away. He puts on his best smile and readies his finger guns as knocks on the door. Nothing is heard for a moment and he freezes, thinking what if she’s out or something? Am I stranded until she comes back? What the hell do I do-
There’s some shuffling and Lance hurries to get rid of the little bit of panic from his face. He leans against the doorway as the door creaks open.
“Hey there, beautiful, you wouldn’t happen to be—WHAT THE?! KEITH!!??”