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Ümyt’mar Kezar – that was its scientific name in the Altean language. A name that not many knew by heart. It was no wonder seeing as its other, much more sensational designations, were far easier to remember. Sweet Death. Last Pleasure. Altean Deathbringer.
Coran could still hear himself asking his grandfather about that last one. And despite the time and his lack of presence, he could almost pretend to hear the throaty chuckle as the man paused his work, staring at his grandson with barely hidden seriousness.
“It smells like Nunvil. It tastes like Nunvil. But don’t be fooled little Miürl, one sip is enough to kill a grown Altean.”
Coran knew his child-self had gasped in horror. He might have even clapped his tiny hands over his gaping mouth for dramatic effect. No wonder! After all, he had believed that once the liquid ran past ones lips they would drop dead. It was only later that he would find out that not to be the case.
Sweet Death was a very misleading name. It concealed all of the ugly and very messy symptoms that would precede the slow march towards death after its consumption, the rich taste of it notwithstanding.
It was a slow, agonizing way of dying and of such an insipid and elusive nature that for a long time, none could tell what had caused it.
The first quintant would be uneventful, whatever Altean unlucky or foolish enough to drink it not noticing that slowly, their body was breaking down.
By the second quintant, there would be pains racking through ones extremities, pins and pricks and needles strong and painful enough to make even the strongest Alteans cry out for their mothers.
On the third quintant would come shortness of breath not aided by the searing pain paralyzing one’s limbs completely.
On the fourth, he body would uselessly try to remedy the situation, the healing and breaking down of cell’s taking place so fast that it would not only cause agonizing pain and loss of one’s bodily functions but also for the body’s core temperature to rise.
And if, by the fifth quintant, no antidote was administered, whatever poor soul had been so cruelly punished by fate would be doomed to fight this useless fight until their body and soul gave out or someone was merciful enough to put them out of their misery.
Coran had seen the medical recordings as part of his training as a royal advisor, to ensure he could recognize the symptoms and give the appropriate treatment. The direct, graphic confrontation with that horror had been awful when he had been but a young man and he had thanked the Ancients that never in his long career did he have to apply this knowledge to the royal family.
But never would he have thought that one day he would have to willingly to poison himself with one of the substances most deadly to his species.
The Ilar people did not know, could not know after ten millennia of the Alteans gone.
And Coran could not deny the cup offered to him unless he wished to put this whole diplomatic mission in jeopardy. There was no way he could have foreseen this substance to become an integral part of these people’s culture – venerated as a cleansing and purifying beverage fit for their spiritual leaders and, as it now seemed, powerful allies in the fight against the Galra.
Coran knew the risks and knew he had to take them.
He was alone on this mission, a mission Allura had considered a top priority and whose window of opportunity narrowed with every quintant as the times of change for the Ilar people’s way of life drew close to its end.
And with Voltron receiving a distress signal at the very last moment, Allura and Coran had come to the conclusion that they only could gain a considerably powerful ally, if he were to remain and further negotiate.
It was ironic that under the notion of ‘mission accomplished’ fell the ingestion of a poison that promised death.
But all Coran could think about as he let the fruity taste settle in his mouth, was that he was thankful and relieved the princess had not been there to see this mission through.
The leader’s head inclined, the wooden beads and twinkling mineral ornaments following the motion. Coran copied them, his insides feeling knotted and twisted already, despite him knowing it was just anxiety.
The leader’s voice burbled as the single orifice on its head opened: “To a long and prosperous partnership.”
“Yes, to a long and prosperous partnership.”
-
Coran had retreated to the chambers provided for him by the Ilar. It was all he could do to prevent the first signs of his own anxiety and worry showing as his hand strayed back to his breast pocket where his communication device was hidden.
Once again he pressed the button.
“This is Coran speaking. The mission has been a success. If you can hear me: I require immediate extraction from Planet K’far.”
He waited patiently, impatiently, but there came no answer.
Coran took a shaky breath, his chest constricting, making it impossible to draw all of the air he needed. Finally, he allowed himself to sit down when he noticed himself shaking too hard to remain safely standing.
It had been merely six vargas and already he felt unease coloring his every action and word. He wished he could brush it off easily but it revealed itself to be impossible.
One of the most fatal poisons known to his kind was coursing through his veins and without the team reporting back it was impossible to tell when he would be able to take the antidote that currently could only be found on the Castleship. Or at least, that was the only place Coran knew with certainty he could get the antidote from.
He had already tried to inquire about the components needed to brew the counteragent but it soon became clear that more than half of the ingredients were not to be found on this planet.
He could only hope and pray that nothing had happened to the princess and the Paladins. More than anything, he wished to spare them to have to see him in agony he knew he could not escape or trivialize – not with the dosage he had been forced to take.
After waiting for another varga, Coran resigned himself and called for the young Ilar entrusted with the task of providing him with everything he might need during his stay.
He was thankful that no questions and judgements came with the growing list of items Coran requested.
Hopefully, the others would be back by the third quintant, otherwise no amount of medicinal herb would be able to conceal the severity of his current condition.
-
It had been almost thirty vargas and precisely three hailings later that Coran was beginning to despair.
The first symptoms were leaving ghost sensations on his skin, agitating him, bothering him. For now, the fumes from the herbs he had lit on a small dish were numbing his senses and making it slightly more bearable, keeping the pain at bay. Yet, Coran was reluctant to add more. As much of a relief as it was, this drug also slowed down his mind and he could not allow that. He had to remain lucid, lest his princess notice anything was wrong upon his return.
If Allura came to the conclusion that her advisor had been poisoned out of malicious intent instead of ignorance as was the case, Coran knew that any treaty would become nonessential, no matter how vital or hard earned.
And besides, these young people were already burdened enough by their duties, adding to their worries was the last thing Coran wanted.
He took another deep breath as he sat with his eyes closed when he picked up the beep of his communicator.
It took two tries for his hand to grasp the small object while making himself more presentable, slicking back strands of hair and righting his collar.
The princess’ face was drawn into a tight expression both from fatigue and the battle they had obviously just fought but the smile and satisfied glint in her eyes were enough to spare him any worries for her or the Paladins’ wellbeing.
“Coran. I heard the mission was a success?”
As she spoke, Coran watched as his princess as a whole perked up, standing straighter, more confident and he knew that no matter how miserable he might be feeling, he would anything to ensure that such a relieved expression would grace her face for as long as possible.
“Of course, Princess.” He pulled at his collar, throwing his head back a little in an exaggerated but good humored show of affront. Anything to cover up how warm and suffocated he was beginning to feel. “But I’m afraid that I might have eaten something that upset my stomach, so I would be glad if you could come and pick me up. I’d… rather not leave a mess.”
At least not more of a mess he had already made but that was something no one needed to be made aware of.
His chest clamped when she looked at him critically through the screen.
“Are you alright? You do look a little pale.”
“I promise, nothing to worry yourself about.”
Allura hummed, looking unconvinced. Much to Coran’s relief, she dropped the subject, both in favor of complying to his wish and because of the Paladins having entered the bridge, their loud chatter announcing their arrival.
“Is it Coran?” The shout was followed by feet running towards the screen and soon enough all of the Paladins were smiling at him. They were disheveled and out of breath but it was good to see them all unscathed and in such good spirits.
He couldn’t have fought his own smile even if he had wanted to.
“I see that you were victorious in battle.”
“Yeah, forming Voltron is a real piece of cake.”
It was heartening to see the Yellow Paladin so enthusiastic about his duty when not so long ago, Coran remembered him to be the most reluctant to accept this mission.
“Oh Hunk, stop talking about food! I’m starving.”
Coran laughed as the other Paladins chimed in with Lance’s complaint – it was clear that they’d had a long quintant. But so had he.
“We will come and pick you up within a varga.”
The words could have brought a lesser man to tears but Coran had decided that if he could he would spare them to see him falter.
-
He was nowhere near as subtle as he had believed himself to be.
The first ones to notice were, unsurprisingly enough, the princess and the Blue Paladin, inquiring about his wellbeing. It had somewhat surprised him when the Red Paladin put in his two GACs.
“Your hands are shaking.”
It had made all of them turn to the young man slouching in his seat, his dark eyes taking him in critically.
Coran clasped his hands together in his lap for good measure, doing his hardest at smiling amicably and without a hint of the nervousness that had come to crash into him like a Thregorian Snuffhorn.
“I have to admit that, while not as tiring as yours, this mission has left me in need of a good night’s rest. Something I am sure all of you require.”
He jumped to his feet and promptly found himself plopping back down into his seat as vertigo made it hard to distinguish between up and down.
Instantly, he was flanked from all sides, worried voices and concerned faces swarming him, almost overwhelming and sudden panic gripped at his chest: this was what he had wished to prevent. He could not, and he would not, let a small bout of dizziness ruin his carefully crafted lie.
“Whoops, guess that ceremonial tea really was a bit too strong for me.”
Lance’s eyebrow rose critically as he shared a look with his friends and finally with the Princess.
“Does tea do that to Alteans?”
There was a fine line appearing on Allura’s brow, her eyes narrowed in obvious consternation and concern.
“Not.. not usually.” Her voice was so hesitant. She turned to him, sitting close enough that Coran she might feel the heat coming off of him, the heat that was unbearable by now and that he was fairly certain he could not explain away without outright lying into her face.
It was sad that, in this moment, he was truly considering that option just to spare, o spare them all.
“Coran,” and oh, how it hurt to see her so full of worry, when it was his duty to take those off of her young shoulders. What would Alfor say? What his grandfather?
Allura’s voice, quiet but ever insistent, brought him back to the present. He had to be careful, he could not let himself drift like this.
“Yes, Princess?”
She was searching his face, his eyes. “Coran, tell me, did something happen on that planet?”
Never had he been more relieved about the fact that his uniform comprised thick gloves, as Allura took one of his hands into both of hers.
He shook his head, regretting the action as his field of vision did not instantly adjust, leaving him woozy and disoriented but from the last reserves of strength he dredged up a smile for her, for all of the Paladins that looked so scared and pale.
“I assure you, I am just tired.” He answered, addressing not just the princess but the Paladins as well, “If you’d allow me, I would like to return to my quarters for the night to rest up. I assure you that by tomorrow I will as good as new.”
He was thankful when his smile was returned and Allura finally let go, all of the youngsters letting the tension fall away from their weary frames.
Coran was sure to take short sips from his tea, shooing every single one of them out and wishing them a good night as they retreated to their respective rooms.
It proved to have been the right plan when it took him a total of three tries to get to his feet, two of which had him ending up a shivering mess on the floor.
He could not let them see him like this.
-
The walk to the ship’s medical facility was an agonizingly slow process. A process requiring Coran stop every few steps to catch his breath, regain his footing and bite back cries of pain as the symptoms of the second stage threatened to overwhelm his senses.
Even with the support gained from the railing and the walls, the stumbling walk to his destination became more of a dangerous and tricky endeavor than he had initially anticipated.
It was foolish to take the stairs in his state but he did not wish to take any chances of encountering one of the Paladins. He knew Shiro roamed the corridors most nights and usually used the elevators to get to the training deck.
The moment his hand landed on the panel opening the door to the storage for the medical supplies, he almost cried in relief.
Retrieving the antidote was not the most taxing part – something he realized to his ever-growing dismay when his hands would not stop shaking violently, when he could not grasp the delicate pipette to administer the exact amount of antidote he needed, his fingers cramping and spasming.
He let out a frustrated huff, dropping the equipment in favor of balling his hands into fists but refrained from any further action he might regret. He had to remain calm.
But he did not know how.
He could feel with every tick slipping by that the effects of the herbs were abating, leaving him to feel the severity of his current condition. His chest seized up with sudden terror that, before, had been dulled by the fumes in that room on K’far.
He unclenched his aching fingers to instead support himself on the table where the supplies still lay for him to simply grasp and use.
But he just couldn’t. He was shaking too hard with pain and sudden dread he could not control, could not even comprehend the origin of.
He closed his eyes, commanding himself to take deep and measured breaths, counting each and every single tick, so that it took the same amount of time to take one breath in, hold it and let out, and repeat that process for as long as necessary. As long as it took him to be rational and functioning again.
He had no idea, no way of truly measuring how long he stood, frozen in place, in the dark, to ground himself again.
And even afterwards he was still in pain, he was still trembling and miserable.
But at least he managed to steady his hands. At least he managed to fill the small glass with the perfect amount of milky, flaked liquid that he needed. At least he had enough presence of mind to put everything back in its designated place, erasing all traces of what he had truly been up to.
But try as he might, what he couldn’t do was get his feet to cooperate to take him back to his room.
He cast a contemplative look at the bare, uninviting cot to his left before deciding that maybe just a few vargas of rest might suffice for him to regain his strength and his bearings.
He laid down, his limbs protesting and aching, shivering in the coldness of the room and from the lack of a blanket and fell into a restless sleep.
-
He knew he was dreaming because these fields of flowers would never bloom again. That was not to say that Coran would not enjoy it while it lasted, breathing in deeply, drinking in the sweet fragrance of Juniberrys in full bloom.
He allowed himself to just lie there, unperturbed, at ease, weightless.
The light of day warmed his skin comfortably -a reprieve from the cold that had encompassed him while his body struggled against the effects of the poison.
He closed his eyes, at peace for the moment, and did not even open them at the sensation of gentle fingers carding through his hair.
It could have been Alfor, it could have been Szep… It did not matter. Not now at least.
Not ever again, sadly.
The thought of it did not stop him from falling back into the void of sweet and dreamless sleep.
-
When Coran woke, it was a slow and tedious process, the first thing on his mind the question how many vargas it had been.
It was hard to tell. His body felt compelled to make him believe it was far from enough, his mind all the while insistent on arguing that it must have been far too long.
With a sigh he decided to see for himself, blinking open his eyes, the ceiling blurring into focus slowly.
He could feel his brows scrunching up when he recognized the ceiling as the one of his personal quarters.
Strange… very strange indeed.
He had no recollection of having awoken and returning to his chambers.
He seized up at the sound of rustling clothes, his head snapping to the side, his eyes widening at the sight of the Princess and Paladins before darkness consumed his vision.
Fighting his hand out of the many layers of blankets he found himself trapped under, he was surprised for the offending item to reveal itself to be a drenched cloth.
For that matter, he was astonished to find he was no longer wearing his gloves, confirming his suspicion that someone must have changed him out of his uniform while he had been unconscious.
Blinking, he put the cloth next to his pillow, flinching when tiny squeaks immediately followed the action. If his awakening in his quarters already came as a surprise, then the discovery of the mice having rested next to his head did even more so.
The sound of the small rodents alerted the other occupants of the room and Coran found it fascinating to watch as six different, disheveled-looking heads popped into his field of vision, bleary eyes and scrunched up faces instantly focusing on him.
“Coran!”
He was not prepared for the outbursts, for the cries of joy and unbridled relief, for the sudden hugs and smiles and distantly Coran realized that he was somewhat overwhelmed, although in a good way. In the best most certainly.
They were quick to retreat, to give him space when Allura sat herself on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly with her added weight.
Her smile was no less relieved than the others’ but owed to the many years Coran had spent caring for and looking after her he could see the disquiet tugging at the edges of her mouth and he felt regret and shame flooding his insides.
All of his efforts and yet he done nothing but cause them grief and trouble.
Despite protest from all sides, he sat up, the blankets falling away to reveal he was in a wide shirt he did not recognize one of his own.
Interesting.
Interesting was also the fact just how winded that simply action left him. Maybe the poison had caused more damage than he had estimated. It had been a worrying amount he had consumed.
Putting that matter aside for now, he gave everyone a bright smile he hoped would be well-received.
“Thank you.”
What he had not counted for though, was how obliterated his voice sounded; making everyone wince and his hand fly to his throat in pure shock. There was no damage he could feel from the outside, so it had to be the poison.
“Yes,” Allura said, shoulders hunched in sympathy and smile strained, “I imagine that for the time being it would be wise to rest your voice. The last quintant was… unkind on you.”
He could feel his eyebrows shoot up. A quintant. He had slept through a whole quintant?
His expression must have been an open book to read, for Allura regarded him pensively before asking: “Coran, do you remember what happened?”
He cleared his throat: “I am sorry to say no, Princess. Although I am probably right in assuming that your bringing me to my chambers was a group effort?”
Number 2, Hunk, harrumphed; throwing him a critical and very unamused look.
“Yeah, actually, nope that was all me.” Before Coran even came close to voicing his thanks, the young man went on, shaking his head. “Do you know how scary it is to get into a medbay, to get something to settle your stomach, and it’s dark and supposed to be deserted only to hear moans? Spoilers: it’s way too scary for one person.”
He had a little trouble processing the undoubtedly Earthen slang but Coran had no problems understanding what Hunk was implying. He felt ashamed.
“I’m sorry, dear boy-“
“Ah-papapupuh!” Lance was quick to shush him, doing that strange thing with his hand Coran had already witnessed him doing with Keith. His face spoke volumes, disapproval written across his forehead. “None of that. It’s a good thing Hunk fond you, you know.”
It was so strange how swiftly his voice could turn from loud and stern to quiet and small. And the worst was that it was because Coran had been careless.
“You had a really high fever.” He glanced at their number 5, Pidge, who was adjusting her glasses, brown eyes not once leaving his. What exactly it was they were trying to find, was impossible for him to piece together.
The poison had, without a doubt, taken a far greater toll on him than he would have wanted to admit, if the exhaustion tugging at his limbs was any indication. The weariness underlining smiles and bags under drooping eyes also told a story Coran knew by heart.
It was what made his moustache quiver a little but he was not yet far gone enough to cause them further distress, inclining his head in a gesture of gratitude.
“Thank you for your consideration and care. I admit that I did not feel was well as I wished myself to believe but rest assured I took all the necessary precautions. I am sure you must be exhausted. You can go now. I am sure that after a few hours I shall be able to attend to my duties.”
He did his best to come across as alert and lively, in hopes of calming and reassuring them. He was rather taken aback by the blank looks thrown at him before the Paladins turned to Allura almost as one.
“You were right. He is too stubborn for his own good.”
Despite his loud protest, it was almost impossible to resent Shiro for his comment when it elicited a genuine smile from the Princess and soon enough laughter from all of the other young people.
He looked back at those dark eyes, filled more understanding than suited such a young face, and warmth spread through his every limb as every single one of these incredible youngsters proclaimed to want to stay just a little longer, Hunk assuring he could arrange having lunch ready soon in the kitchenette.
It was a little frightening but heart-warming how thoroughly these people, who had been naught but strangers to him and Allura, were slowly but surely worming their way into Coran’s heart.
They were not the Paladins of old, the individuals he had befriended and grown up with or grown close to over time. Not the independent warriors and leaders of different worlds.
They were young and inexperienced. Reckless and cheekier than a pack of Kwirltels. They were in need of guidance and care.
But as he rested against the headboard, watching them chatter and smile, talking to him and Allura, playing with the mice, and discussing what best way to reproduce some sort of traditional dish from Earth for him…
Maybe, just maybe, he could allow them to take care of him. Only until he was back on his feet.
And then he could stand tall again and be their pillar of strength.