Chapter Text
It started with the queen.
She lasted for a week after her fingertips turned black. The disease took her mind first, eating away at her sanity and presence until she was a shell of herself. It took her body second, slower, her blood running thick and black in her veins until the oxygen stopped flowing. They hadn’t let Lance see her while it was happening, her physician insisting a sickbed was no place for a child. He hadn’t been able to tell them that he was sick with worry, that he couldn’t sleep because the last thing she’d said to him was “Goodnight my heart, I’ll see you in the morning.” He had been eight, and foolish; he’d pretended he hadn’t heard her.
At first, his father had insisted they keep it a secret. Lance had only heard snippets of the conversations - “No need to incite panic among the masses” or “We don’t know that this wasn’t a random occurrence...” But when more cases started showing up, dotting the country with cases of what had begun to be referred to as The Burn for the way victims took on a flaky and charred appearance upon their death, his father had decided to make an official announcement.
It was a hot day - the green scent of summer sticking thickly to the inside of Lance’s nostrils as he gazed over the gathered crowd lining the Square. Hundreds of faces gazing up to his father, desperate for their leader, for some sign of respite from the nightmare that they had found themselves in. Lance had been wearing his favorite tunic, a sapphire colored velveteen material, with a rich silver embroidery creating an intricate pattern of swirls across his shoulders. The matching silver circlet above his brow was too big for him still, a reminder of how helpless he had been, continued to be. He knew what was happening, sort of. His mom - the Queen - was gone.
“My people,” the King’s voice was like boulders crumbling, “it is a dark day for our kingdom… Our Queen is dead, stolen by this... blight infecting our country. For too long we have allowed them to take advantage of our generosity, robbing us of our prosperity. And now they have poisoned our heart , our people… I cannot allow this to continue.”
The world had slowed down then, the breeze coming to a standstill, as if mother nature herself was holding her breath in rapt attention, desperate to hear the end of his proclamations. Lance did his best to remain aloof, as his father had requested. As the Crown Prince it was important for him to remain the example for the people. If he appeared concerned, so would they; if he appeared calm, so would they. But as his father continued speaking, he couldn’t keep the frown from tugging down at the corners of his lips.
“Magic,” the King boomed, “has brought this plague upon us - only by eradicating them shall we save ourselves from total destruction. Henceforth, should anyone be caught using magic, your life will be forfeit to the crown. Should anyone be caught harboring a magic user, your life will be forfeit to the crown. Sympathy for your neighbors will not save us from ruin.”
His voice carried far, further explanation of the severity of the crimes and their punishments echoing off of the walls of the castle and the city surrounding it. Lance had been horrified. The terror gripping his throat - was it true? How many people had Lance met in his life that were gifted - no, cursed ? How many of them had he considered friends? Were they really the reason his mother had died?
“As for the sickness,” his father held his hands up in a placating gesture after the Square had filled with urgent and concerned whispers, “for the time being - those falling ill should be quarantined and considered highly contagious…” And just like he hadn’t delivered world-shattering news, his father turned on his heels, his long cloak swinging around him, as he stormed back through the open double doors leading from the balcony they’d been standing on. Lance remained where he was, limbs frozen as he looked down at the crowd.
There were angry voices floating up to where he stood, although he couldn’t make out more than a few words here and there. Accusations, disgust, the general consensus that - yeah, I always thought there was something wrong with them . More than anything, he heard the fear, traveling like a serpent through the crowd. Fear over this newfound cause for their illness. Fear for the safety of their family, their friends. Fear for the people they’d known for lifetimes - who were suddenly no longer allowed to exist. He saw tears running down faces, women hugging children, whispering soothing words in their ears. Unable to stomach any more, he returned to his room and stayed there for the rest of the night.
If his father had wanted to avoid inciting panic - he had failed spectacularly. Word of these new laws spread quickly, and unfortunately, when people are afraid, they get angry. Farms were set ablaze, whole villages turned to rubble, people stolen in the night and spirited away to safety or death. Suddenly the kingdom was split in two - those who didn’t have magic, and those who wanted to protect the ones who did. The conflict escalated slowly, over months, years. Reports of what had seemed like border raids turned into downright violence where the Kings Guard were sent personally to de-escalate. Though, from most of their recounts, de-escalation seemed more synonymous to antagonizing violence than helping end it.
By the time Lance turned nineteen, he was only sure of two things: 1) the world was going to end soon and 2) he was irrevocably despised by his father.
The second thing was not so difficult for him to accept - these days his father despised everything; it was more like a bee sting, or a cat scratch. Uncomfortable and sharp, would probably leave a scar, but the pain wouldn’t be forever. Since his mother had died, the dynamic between them had changed. Shifting for the worst. While grief had made his daily life difficult, his father seemed to become a completely different person, his anger only diluted by sleep and wine. There was no curbing his hatred of those who could use magic - whatever had happened to Lance’s mother had convinced him they truly were a stain the world needed to be rid of.
In his youth, Lance had been ignorant of the truth - kept from knowing the extent of the torture his mother had been subjected to. But as he grew up, spent his time with his people, he’d learned. The insanity, the delusions, the way her body had given out. He’d seen it firsthand; heard the screaming, the crying.
Sitting in his room now, one leg pulled to his chest, Lance gazed out at the mauve clouds covering what remained of the sun as it sank to the horizon. The evening air retained the bite of winter, while the breeze carried with it the scent of freshly bloomed orange blossoms. The piazza below was steadily emptying, merchants and workers making their way home at the end of another long day. It lacked the vivacity that belonged to places where people mingled constantly. It made Lance’s frown deepen.
Time changes things, certainly. Physically, sure, but also in a deeper way. As people grow and mature their perception of reality shifts to match the things that they’ve faced, their souls absorbing more of the very essence that makes up a life. The same could be said for places - taking shape around the events experienced there. It was at once both glorious and horrible.
This was something else, though - something that was exacerbated by the actions of a single man. The King had sentenced hundreds of people to death. But there was a pile of bodies hiding behind his shadow, painting his soul guilty long before the first body fell. Closing his eyes, Lance let the fresh air help clear the muddled mess of his thoughts.
It had been a few days since he’d woken up in the garden, the heavy scent of soil pressing against his face as dew soaked into his clothes. It was cold, but he’d been drenched in sweat anyways, his breaths getting caught in his throat. As his eyes opened, he threw himself up, dirt falling away from the exposed skin of his neck. Paranoia over how he’d ended up out here sending his heart tumbling against his ribs in a frantic attempt at escape.
Lance had been dreaming - a rare enough occurrence that was made more alarming because of what he’d dreamt of.
He’d arrived in a dark room, a single candle the only source of light, casting sinister shadows against the wood of the table it sat on and the walls behind it. Two chairs were nestled beside it, stiff and uninviting in the palpable gloom filling the space. In one of them was a man. Lance had to squint to make sure he hadn’t been tricked by the flickering light.
Ginger hair was pushed away from a handsome mustached face, heavy brows furrowed in concentration as he reached toward a mug of tea. He was roughly the size of a marionette, and thus was struggling to close what would have been an easy distance for any other man. Sitting across from him, watching with barely hidden amusement, was the largest woman Lance had ever seen. She easily dwarfed the table and chair, making them look as if they’d been made for children instead of adults. Silver hair as fine as spun sugar hung in the air around her, suspended as if caught in the soft current of the sea. Her smile was warm and teasing, and it at once made Lance feel at ease.
When they realized they had a visitor among them, they grew quiet, their attention caught on the Prince who was starting to feel less like a man and more like the boy who had lost his mom. The man gazed at him curiously, his tea all but forgotten before him. The woman’s eyes were more invasive, seeming to tear through every layer of him before finding something she liked. “Lance,” her voice was accented, rich; it sent a thrill down his spine, “we’re meeting, at last.”
Growing up, Lance had heard many stories about old gods long forgotten, and the new ones who’d taken their place. Strong men and women who wielded swords and hammers and faced their adversaries bravely, ready to lay their lives on the line to protect that which they held dear and the monstrous creatures whose scorn and anger lashed out like a venomous snake, ready to corrupt those who went against their will. After the Queen’s death the stories had changed, subtly. The creatures started taking on more familiar forms - instead of animals and hybrids they were humans cursed with gifts beyond this realm.
Though the stories had changed, there could be no mistaking that the two people before him were not people at all. The goddess Allura nodded her head once the cloud of recognition began washing over him; Coran, the Protector gave a chirping snort of approval. Falling to his knees, Lance lowered his head in obeisance, desperate to show these gods that he had more sense than to blatantly disrespect gods that had so graciously revealed themselves to him. Crown Prince or not - there was a certain deference one must show to an immortal. “Rise, dear boy, we have much we must speak of.”
Lifting his head slightly, Lance looked curiously at the two who seemed to be sharing a meaningful look. Neither said a word as they waited for him to sit up fully, though. Unsure, uncomfortable, Lance sat back on his heels. He looked at both of them, unable to satiate his curiosity. It didn’t seem like they were phantoms. They seemed to be made of flesh and blood. Living, breathing, real . Alive. Allura’s blue eyes were gazing at him intently, Coran peering at him expectantly.
Unsure of what was expected of him, he swallowed the lump in his throat before saying, “You were anticipating my arrival?”
“Yes!” Allura and Coran said simultaneously, the latter chopping a hand against his palm to punctuate the meaning of the single word. Allura brushed a stray strand of her hair away from her face. She said, “We have been… arranging this meeting for a very long time. There is darkness covering your kingdom, a hurricane wreaking havoc on your people.”
“The plague.” Lance said, simply.
Allura shook her head, “The illness is the consequence of the evil that has festered in the shadows unchecked for too long. Divine retribution.”
“But why ?” Lance blurted, suddenly frustrated. Here were two gods, apparently part of the reason the world had fallen so deeply into despair. The formalities felt redundant. His respect had earned him nothing. “Holding the people accountable for the sins of - who? What good were you expecting to come from this?”
Allura and Coran didn’t flinch in the face of his anger, their expressions unfazed. Allura said, “It is beyond time for the true King to return. Balance must be restored if you want to keep your world from total destruction.” Lance didn’t understand what she meant, but he didn’t interrupt again, instead hoping things might be made clearer should he just listen. She continued, “It is up to you to do this, Lance. Restore the world to its natural state.”
“How?” The word was a blade slicing up his throat, hoarse and only barely recognizable as his own voice.
“Travel to the mountains, you will find what you seek there.”
Incredulous, he furrowed his brows, “What do I seek? Is there some… potion to return my father to his right mind?”
Allura didn’t respond, instead turning her head to stare at the dark wall behind her. She stood abruptly, her whole body tensing up. Across from her Coran had also gone rigid, his eyes nearly bulging from his eyes. Lance made to stand up, ready to offer assistance, until Allura’s head whipped back around. Her eyes had lost their pupils, their irises. In their stead were the whites, blank and staring out. She held her hand out, “Don’t.” A simple command. He wanted to move anyways, his muscles groaning against their stubborn paralysis, until a bright light flashed, and he’d found himself in the garden.
The dream had been troubling, to say the very least. Leaving him sick to his stomach, unable to sleep, and unsure of what to do next. Heed the warning or write the experience off as a random occurrence that was unrelated to him… No, the latter wasn’t an option. He could ignore the pleas of a goddess as easily as he could ignore the suffering of his people.
What he needed was a plan. He had the end goal in sight - get to the Mountains alive to find the cure to whatever the issue was. Growing up he’d been instructed in combat - he could wield a blade with ease. He’d fought men twice his size and bested them with finesse that only came with the confidence gained through years of hard work and practice. Hunting, however, had been a rare occurrence. Often the hunting parties would depart without the Prince, or, if he had managed to tag along, he would be left in the dust with the staff to retrieve whatever game had been conquered in the battle of wills between dignitary and king. Tracking would be a problem.
Standing from his seat, Lance took a long moment to stretch his weary limbs. He would need to pack basic supplies as well as a sizable pouch of gold. He could always pick up more along the way. He’d also need to find some sort of ranger or guide, someone who could get him where he needed to go that knows terrain and the dangers that exist with it.
Lance looked over his shoulder, taking in the scenery one last time. When he returned next the world would be different - he didn’t know if he’d have the chance to appreciate the beauty of his home again. Blinking hard against the ache in his chest, he returned to his room to prepare for the journey.