Chapter Text
Lance steps out of the wormhole with shaking footsteps and a much too rapid heart rate. He doesn’t know if he can get used to this, the diplomacy, the constant traveling. He figures it is what he is best at, what he needs to do to be useful to Allura and their people, so he traverses the galaxies and does his best and hopes that it, hopes that he, is enough.
(he doesn’t think he is)
The atmosphere of Altea is different from here, and, if not for his ability to shift so well—shifting is a slight discomfort to which he’s grown accustomed, the tug of his body and insides becoming someone he’s not but ultimately someone better—he might have found difficulty breathing. He adjusts quickly and easily, lets the new air fill his lungs (lets the new persona of Prince Lance the Diplomat take over), then surveys the area.
Daibazaal does not look like Altea. Lance doesn’t expect them to look the same, and, from what he knows of their cultures, they don’t have too much in common. Still, he isn’t expecting such a large visual contrast. Where Altea is bright colors, sleek white buildings, glass and flowers and constant glowing moonlight, Daibazaal is more metallic, buildings towering over the people, metals and gems and stones glistening in the pale yellow moon. It’s beautiful in a different way, he supposes. He’s never travelled to this planet before now, and he would have liked to see it when it wasn’t in trouble, in ruin.
Allura’s wormhole leaves him in a clearing. This will have to be where she’ll land her ship’s pod, as Daibazaal is populated with buildings and people (assuming those people are still alive, Lance thinks, fighting the wave of nausea), and the pod is unnecessarily large.
“Unnecessary, but so worth it,” Lance says to himself, because it’s so quiet in Daibazaal and he doesn’t like the silence. Little stones crunch under his feet, hopefully not dirtying the stark white of his boots. “Where else would I keep my beauty supplies?”
No one hears him, though, so he lets the facade drop, at least temporarily. There's no point.
Lance closes his eyes and mentally tugs at the threads of quintessence in the air around him. They gleam brightly, wrapping around his hands in comfort as he lets their warmth guide him. He finds a thread of quintessence that glows the prettiest, the brightest and warmest of them all (to him anyway, it is somewhat familiar), and he tugs it with the gentleness he reserves for handling something as volatile as quintessence.
As an Altean he knows better than to treat quintessence as anything but the strong yet delicate energy that it is, and as a prince, he has the ability to treat it properly. Today, this quintessence will be his guide.
His cape billows around him. His clothes are comfortable on Altea, where the atmosphere is lighter, but here on Daibazaal, his thigh-high boots and the belt at his waist are constricting. The air feels heavy. His clothes stand out so brightly compared to his surroundings, and Lance wishes he had to foresight to bring a change of clothes to better match this world physically and socially.
But, Lance thinks bitterly, he isn’t good at thinking ahead like that.
“Nothing new,” he mutters to himself, grabbing a portion of his cape and tossing it back so it flutters. At least he looks stylish. Perhaps Allura will bring him something more comfortable when she brings their supplies later.
As he walks, following the bright thread that he assumes will lead him to the Galran palace, the quintessence threads around him begin to dim. The air smells stale and dead, bitter with blood and gore, sticky with the weight of murder and monstrosity. Daibazaal is already darker than Altea because of its pale singular moon, but with the dark purple blood staining the stones lining his path, it’s a lot worse than he imagined. Around him, what were once tall buildings are collapsed and decaying, the devastation of a city once tall and proud.
There are no bodies, thankfully, curiously, but Lance can picture them splayed about, ruined as their city now is.
Homes are destroyed and people are dead, and the sound and smell and sight of death is encompassing.
Part of him is tempted to read the quintessence he is following, to figure out exactly what has happened here and try to figure out how to stop it. He knows, though, that doing so leaves him weakened and pained, and he needs to prepare beforehand to prevent anything from going wrong.
(he hates that he needs to prepare so much; what’s the point of his power, then?)
It isn’t too far of a walk to the palace, judging by the length of thread he needs to follow. Lance surveys the area as he travels, noting the fraying threads of quintessence, the wreckage of a major city, the strong sense of loss and death.
The destruction lessens as he nears the palace, he notes, filing the thought to the back of his mind. He supposes it must be a sign of hope, that the monsters have managed to avoid the capital. If he is expected to speak (or if he can offer Allura advice, as she tends to do whatever she wants when they travel the planets), this hope is worth mentioning.
As he walks, no Galra come to greet him. He must look odd, as Alteans are much smaller than the Galra, and he is striding to their capital in white Altean clothing, tugging on an invisible yet powerful force only the Alteans can physically see. He senses the quintessence of these people, though, so he knows there are still Galrans alive and in the city, quintessence strong but dim, fading and fraying.
The quintessence he follows continues to shine, leading him directly to the front wall surrounding the palace. The wall is like a fortress, tall and imposing, hiding the royalty from the people around them, shielding the Galra people from their royalty. Their cultures are so different.
“Woah,” Lance whispers. The wall is crumbling in areas, stained with blood and chipped and cracked in others, but it still stands strong, daunting, powerful. The Altean palace also towers tall over the people, but the doors are always open, and Lance is always sneaking out to spend time with his non-royal friends.
“Prince Lanciel of Altea.” The voice is scratchy and rough, and the language is Altean. Lance startles in surprise, quite accustomed to the silence, his own thoughts.
“Lance,” he corrects out of habit, always uncomfortable when his peers address him so formally.
The woman who greets him is around his height, hunched over and hooded in a dark cloak. “I see.” He can’t read her quintessence, though it coils around her viciously. It’s shielded, somehow, in a manner he has never before seen. He can’t understand her. “Thank you for coming.”
She gestures for him to follow, lowering a portion of the wall with her magic so Lance is able to pass. She gives him not even a tick’s reprieve before raising the wall again, walking so briskly Lance has to speed up his pace.
The palace is grand, made of the same dark stone as the structures in the wreckage outside, adorned with gems and metals to keep it stronger and more beautiful than the other parts of Daibazaal. He has little time to admire as the woman walks. She directs him past a dark hallway, and the quintessence tugs on his hand, beckoning him in that direction.
Lance stops walking, stares. The quintessence leads here.
The hallway is not inviting in its darkness (but then, nothing about Daibazaal that he’s seen so far has been inviting), but the bright quintessence he’s been following leads to someone down there, and Lance stares as though he can figure out who is there just by observation. His heart tells him to follow.
The woman senses his hesitation but says nothing. She simply smirks at him and continues walking. Deciding that the quintessence can wait and that the Daibazaal crisis is of more importance, Lance jogs to catch up with her. The decision feels empty.
“So what exactly’s been happening here?” Lance asks, unable to stand the silence.
The woman spares him a glance, her lips twisting into an almost cruel smile as she stays silent. He can’t find another thread of quintessence to follow or read, oddly enough. This woman is shielding her own quintessence, somehow, and it doesn’t appear that there are other Galrans in the palace. He theorizes about why, makes plans to investigate with Allura later.
She leads him past several hallways and doors, finally leading to a large throne room.
After seeing so much death outside the palace, the throne room is a nice change. It is wide and open, purple draperies hanging on the walls, large jeweled chandeliers shaped from metals and shining slate glistening from the ceiling. Behind the throne are large windows that overlook the gardens behind the palace and beneath Lance’s feet is a stone floor, precious stones lining the path to the raised throne seat. At the center of the room, there are stairs leading to a lowered floor, as whoever speaks to the royalty needs to stand lower than them in Daibazaal. He doesn’t like the openness of the floorplan, leaving him or whoever speaks to the Emperor vulnerable. The woman leads him to this lowered area of the floor, backing away in silence as she makes her way to the throne.
Rather than Zarkon, who Lance is expecting, the prince sits on the throne. The prince’s quintessence isn’t as bright as Lance is expecting (the bright quintessence belongs to Zarkon, perhaps, or maybe another member of the royal family), though it has the same feeling as the woman’s, stifled and shielded from him. The prince sits on the throne like it is a mere chair, leaning comfortably on one of the arms of his seat, legs crossed. Despite his comfort, he is dignified and very obviously a prince, a manner of presence and confidence that Lance feels he still needs to achieve.
“Prince Lanciel of Altea,” greets the Galran prince in near-perfect Altean. His voice is deep, and, well, Lance can admit that the prince is attractive, with long limbs and flowing hair (reminiscent of Allura’s, he’ll have to ask this prince about his hair products) and eyes bright like crystals in yellow sclera. His own hair is nothing compared to Lotor’s. He feels so small and unattractive next to this prince, despite being a prince himself.
Lotor doesn’t look like the other Galra.
“The pleasure is all mine, believe me.” Lance’s heart flutters a little and he smiles, raises and lowers his eyebrows, portraying a confidence he needs to feel. “You can call me Lance.”
“Lance,” says the prince, a softness to his voice that leaves Lance breathless. “I am Prince Lotor of Daibazaal.” The prince’s quintessence is warm despite being drawn back. Alteans are masters at manipulating quintessence, and he finds it interesting that these Galra have perfected hiding their quintessence like this. What purpose is there, to hide quintessence in such a way?
Unless this is something they cannot control.
“The princess will be joining us within the next quintant,” Lance says diplomatically. “Until her arrival we can prepare.”
“Excellent!” The prince’s smiles leave Lance’s face warm. “We appreciate you coming all this way. I trust your travels were safe?”
“Daibazaal isn’t too far from Altea,” Lance admits, scratching the back of his head. Allura summoned a wormhole and he stepped through it. The whole process took a few doboshes at most, and he trusts Allura with his life, so he was more than safe.
“Ah, but you still came in a quintant because our people are in need.”
Daibazaal sent a distress signal to Altea just one quintant prior. The castle’s occupants watched the broadcast in horror, unable to tear their eyes away as a large beast terrorized the people behind the man asking for their help. In his dreams that night, Lance could hear the screaming, the sound of squelching blood and organs, the cracks of bones and bodies.
“I did what anyone would do.”
“You’re not just anyone, though,” Lotor insists. “We’ve heard about your magic, it’s very impressive. To be able to read the quintessence linking our time to the past and future is the most unique ability I’ve ever heard in an Altean.”
Lance knows his face is burning bright blue to match his face markings. His skill with quintessence is unusual, and he knows that it has its uses. But what good is reading the past or an ever-changing future when there are more essential quintessence abilities, like summoning wormholes and physically channeling quintessence? People can hide their quintessence, too, and it makes reading time a difficult task with too many variabilities.
And, perhaps most importantly, it’s embarrassing to admit how weak he is after using his power. Reading quintessence leaves him vulnerable, so it isn’t a skill he uses too often, something he regrets.
He clears his throat, tries to sway the conversation to something easier for him to handle. “I suppose, but that isn’t of importance right now.” It is rarely of importance, Lance figures. “How have you been coping? The wreckage outside looks horrible. I’m sorry we won’t be able to stop that.”
Lotor shakes his head. “I’ve only just returned after the beast arrived for the third time. It. . . It wounded my father, and I had to step in.”
Lance’s heart goes out to Lotor. He can relate all too well, having lost his own father rather recently. “I’m sorry,” he says, and the ache in his voice is apparent, even to his own ears. The bright quintessence from earlier wraps around his fingers to provide a comforting warmth, and he uses his other hand to fiddle with the thread, letting the warmth calm his rapidly beating heart.
He needs to work on hiding some of his feelings. He and Allura haven’t fully recovered, and with Allura as acting Queen (though she is still a princess, as he lovingly reminds her), they haven’t had the chance to even talk about what happened. Lance doesn’t even know how he would breach the subject.
“I appreciate that.” Lotor looks at Lance, then he brings his gaze downward to Lance’s hands. He stands there awkwardly as Lotor stares for longer than politically polite (but then, Lotor is more than welcome to stare at Lance, he’s perfectly fine with that so long as he’s allowed to stare back). Lotor brings his gaze to Lance’s eyes again, eyes flashing with something unreadable. His lips are drawn into a smile. “You’re a very interesting person, Lance of Altea.”
“That I am,” Lance agrees, though he can’t follow the progression of Lotor’s thoughts at all. “You’re pretty interesting yourself,” he adds with a wink.
“Haggar.” The woman moves almost imperceptibly toward Lotor, nodding as he whispers something to her. She is silent as she leaves the room, leaving only Lance and Lotor. The atmosphere is both comfortable and uncomfortable, and Lance shifts on his feet.
Lotor smiles, and Lance continues, “What exactly are you looking for Allura to do?” The question has been burning on his mind since they’re received the initial call. He doesn’t know why he’s here, when Allura is the one with the better skillset for a horror like what this planet has experienced.
Lotor considers Lance’s question, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I need both of you, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Lance’s heart quickens its pace. He doesn’t know what Lotor knows about him, but it isn’t the best feeling, knowing someone else might know your darker thoughts. “No, no, I mean. Do you have a specific plan?”
Lotor is silent for a moment’s pause, and Lance drinks in the other prince’s features, the tired but calculating look in his eyes, the smirk on his lips. The prince is not a full Galran, and Lance isn’t sure what to make of this information. “I’d like you to look at the quintessence weaving through the future, if you can.” Lotor interrupts Lance’s thoughts as though he knows where they are going. “What happens to Daibazaal? What is the best way to defeat this beast?”
Lance nods. It’s a smart role to play, he supposes, though he doesn’t quite see his own usefulness when Allura could just defeat the beasts without Lance wasting everyone’s time.
“It’s something only you can do for us,” Lotor adds, “as it gives us something solid to work toward and tell our people.”
Lance is struck, then, by just how intelligent Lotor is. Politics and charisma are some of Lance’s stronger points, so much so that he recognizes when there’s someone even more gifted, someone whose talents he could never hope to reach. (Again, almost bitterly, he wonders why he bothers with his own skills, knowing that achieving anywhere close to this level is impossible if it is not a natural skill in his blood, and Lance has very few natural talents.) Lotor knows what to say to his people, knows what to say to Lance to get what he needs.
He isn’t sure if Lotor realizes what he’s asking (or if he does). Not a lot of people realize that using his power is rather debilitating, and if Lance does look into the past or future, he’d be unable to help Allura for a few vargas at the very least. He would never admit to this weakness, though, so perhaps Lotor is unaware. . .
Before Lance can reply, the doors to the throne room open once more. Lance feels a burst of warm, bright quintessence, a tug on his wrist (a tug on his heart), and he spins around to find the cause.
The woman, Haggar, has dragged someone into the throne room. Lance isn’t sure what he’s looking at, exactly.
The boy looks like an Altean in some features, but he doesn’t have the correct markings, doesn’t have the matching quintessence. His face and his skin are splotchy, patches of Galra purple and pale peach, furless, possibly the same texture as Lance’s own skin though the color is more fair. He has dark black hair and his ears are purple, and the contrast doesn’t appear to be a common match for the Galra people. Most striking, though, are his eyes. His right eye is the Galra gold, wide and bright and suspicious. His left eye shines a dark violet in white sclera. It looks almost blue, almost gray. It’s a mix of colors that Lance has never seen.
The boy is definitely a hybrid, a mix of features oddly mashed together (in contrast to Lotor’s mix, which appears smooth and beautiful), but Lance cannot distinguish the second portion of his heritage.
His quintessence, though, is almost painfully bright. Lance immediately recognizes it as the thread that pulled him here, providing stability and warmth during his short journey. He swallows in discomfort, glancing at the prince for explanation.
Lotor smiles, gestures at the hybrid as the woman returns to stand next to him. “This is. . . Keith.” The name sounds foreign on his tongue. It isn’t a common name, not for Alteans or for Galrans, apparently.
“Keith,” Lance repeats, the name like candy on his tongue, sweet and fitting and familiar. Keith’s quintessence shines, bright and warm, the thread wrapping around Lance’s pinky finger and beckoning him closer. Lance ignores the call of the quintessence, trying his best to focus on the task at hand, to stare at the prince who already knows so much about him.
“Keith can show you to your quarters, and he’ll explain more about the situation.” Lotor leans back in his seat, smiles at Lance. “We can reconvene when the Princess Allura arrives.”
It’s a dismissal if Lance has ever heard one, and he’s a little irritated that this hybrid’s sudden presence ended the conversation with Lotor. Haggar all but throws Keith at Lance, though Keith steadies himself easily if not a bit shakily, crossing his arms as soon as he’s free of the woman’s grip. The quintessence feels much more pleasant now that they’re nearer to each other, and Lance can’t help his contented sigh.
Keith gives him an odd look. “What’s your name?” he says, voice rough with disuse but still soft and a little higher pitched than Lance was expecting.
Keith speaks in the Galran tongue, though until now Lance has been speaking Altean and Lotor has been more than accommodating (with his barely accented, smooth voice).
Lance raises an eyebrow, glancing back at Lotor, who’s watching them both curiously, the smallest of smirks on his lips. Lance isn’t sure what to make of this, what Lotor is expecting, so he files the thought away for later.
“Lanciel of Altea,” he says, his Galran accented, the language unused until this very moment, “but shouldn’t you know that?” Altea and Daibazaal are within the same galaxy system, so it’s expected to know the major planetary political figures. And the Alteans, Lance is always proud to say, are the most prominent of them all, known for their power and their peace, the best at politics and diplomacy. “You can call me Lance,” he adds with a smirk.
Keith looks unaffected by Lance’s look, glancing at the prince with distaste, then back at Lance. “Why did he bring you here?”
Lance looks at Lotor helplessly, though it seems that Lotor is chuckling into his hand at Lance’s expense. Lance is irritated at what Keith has said, the tone in which he has said it, but he refrains from snapping back as he is still in the throne room. He starts to walk up the stairs and out of the lowered portion of the room, letting his cape billow out behind him.
He feels the quintessence tug at his wrist this time, and he turns and stares at Keith expectantly, until Keith jogs up the stairs as well.
Lotor’s and Haggar’s gazes are on him as he leaves the room, Keith walking slowly behind him. When the throne room doors shut behind them, the stifling atmosphere feels a lot lighter. The quintessence around him is no longer shielded, and he feels the full burst of energy wrapping around him.
“So what are you, exactly?” Lance spins around so he’s making eye contact with Keith. He’s admittedly a little rusty at the Galran language, so he hopes his message carries across correctly.
Whatever species constitutes Keith’s other half makes him shorter than his fellow Galra, so he is around Lance’s height, possibly a finger’s width shorter. The height difference pleases him more than it should. Oddly enough, Haggar and Lotor both appear to be of Altean height as well, similar to Keith. Perhaps the castle people run smaller than the other Galran citizens.
Keith stares at Lance, his gaze discomfiting. “My. . . species?” he asks, carefully.
The outfit he wears contrasts from Lance’s so much, he knows they make an odd pair. Where Lance is nearly all in white, accents of pastel blues and lilacs and golds, Keith is in a rough purple shirt that covers only half of his torso. The remainder of his outfit is a form-fitting black suit, hugging the curves of his arms and legs (really well, Lance admits to himself, eyeing his companion again, licking his lips). He wears fingerless black gloves, which stand out compared to his pale peach-and-purple skin. There’s a metal bracelet clamped on his left wrist.
“Your job,” Lance corrects, mentally scanning his Galran repertoire of words.
Keith shrugs. “They keep me around the palace because I’m a”—he says something that was never taught in Lance’s language classes, and Lance smiles a little hopelessly—“but what are you?”
“My species?” Lance repeats with a laugh, trying to lighten the environment between them. Keith doesn’t even smile, just looks confused.
“No? Your job?” He frowns, tilts his head to the side. He fiddles with the bracelet on his wrist. Lance says nothing, so Keith repeats himself, annunciating a little more. Then, irritated with Lance’s smirk, he continues, “Then what species are you?”
Lance snorts, then clasps a hand over his nose and mouth. Snorting was something he really only did when he and Allura were joking around with Coran and none of the other members of the royal court. It isn’t one of his more attractive laughs, compared to the ones he’s perfected for political situations or flirting. “Do you live in a cave or something?”
Keith scowls. “I just said I lived in the palace—”
Is Keith doing this on purpose? He enjoys teasing people, but it loses its fun when the recipient is purposely playing dumb. Lance massages his temples. “I’m from Altea. I guess my job is. . .” He wonders what Keith would do if he said he was the prince, then shakes off the thought. Keith is choosing to pretend because he knows it irritates Lance, and since he knows Lance is the prince he’s probably asking what Lance is doing here. “I manipulate quintessence.”
“Quint. . .” Keith struggles with the word, but there’s a fierceness in his eyes that’s rather enchanting. Lance bites his lip to prevent the smile from tugging at his lips. “And you control it?” Lance nods. “What’s it for?”
Lance tries to think of the best way to describe quintessence.
It’s the magic that weaves together time and space, that constitutes a person’s spirit. It’s like an element, but a volatile one, which needs handling and attention. Every Altean has some semblance of this skill, even if it’s as simple as recognizing the presence of quintessence in the air. The Altean royals hold their title because of their strength in understanding the quintessence. Lance’s quintessence-manipulation ability allows him to mentally transverse the fabric of time so he can see the past and the future based on a specific quintessence, following that person’s thread as it exists in time in a particular reality.
“It’s like a thread that connects people and lives and time. It. . .” Lance pauses, considers, “It helps us exist.”
“That’s a powerful skill,” Keith offers with an awkward half smile. It’s clear on his face that he does not understand (but then, it could be the language barrier), but he seems to appreciate that Lance has this power. “That explains a lot, actually.”
Lance smiles. He rarely runs into people who don’t already understand the strength of the skills Alteans possess, and it’s encouraging, in a way, to suddenly be the most powerful person someone has met. Until Keith meets Allura, anyway.
Excited, Lance grabs Keith’s hand. He feels a burst of warmth at the touch. “I’ll show you”—
“So where is that guy anyway?” you say casually, trying to ignore the palpable atmosphere. Everyone looks uncomfortable, and no one’s making eye contact with you, their gazes pointedly turned away. They’re all worn-down, like they’ve seen too much. (And they have, you all have.) Their uniforms are torn and bloodied, their injuries manageable but still horrible to look at, broken limbs, bruises and blood and open wounds.
You hate seeing your friends this way. A part of you is itching to take care of them, to start treating their wounds and healing their minds. But one of your friends isn’t here, and he should definitely be here if everyone has just returned.
The worry builds and builds. You search their faces—honestly, acting like this is making you think the worst, expect the worst, where is he?—and someone clears their throat.
“Lance. . .”
“Where is he?” Your voice breaks, your hands trembling as you wring them together. Hunk, your best friend in this time, just reaches out to hug you. You feels the painful sting of tears in your eyes and you don’t know why, when did you start crying? Why are you crying? You stand there, unmoving.
“Where is he?” you repeat, almost helplessly.
Someone should please answer you, someone stop you from thinking what you’re thinking (from realizing, slowly, the truth).
You had argued before this, sure, but, but. . . You left to help them, you were giving them all the perfect chance. They didn’t and don’t need you, they have something better.
“Lance. . .”
He isn’t. . . He can’t be. . .
(dead dead dead dead)
—Lance throws Keith’s hand away from him so forcefully he almost hears the smack of air pushed aside. Keith’s quintessence lingers, tugs on his hand, pulls him toward the memories. It’s tempting, almost, but the vision he’d just seen was very sad, the memory an aching one.
Why has Keith’s quintessence done this to him? Did they know each other in a past life?
“What is wrong with you?” Keith asks, rubbing his wrist. He looks irritated, and he lets out a heavy breath that makes his bangs flutter.
Lance has never been connected to anyone like this before. He’s seen a few threads of quintessence connecting people, but never anything to this extent. Usually past lives don’t cross again, unless something horrible had happened before and something horrible was going to happen again.
It doesn’t sound too promising, and Lance doesn’t have time to deal with this.
Scowling and simultaneously trying to ignore his racing heartbeat, Lance manages a casual, “Well, maybe if your quintessence wasn’t so”—he can’t think of the word he can’t think of the word what is he trying to say—“disgusting. . .”
He regrets the word choice as soon as he says it, but he almost feels like it would have been worse to say that he’d seen a shared memory of their past. They’ve only just met each other, and Lance isn’t sure how to feel about this Galra hybrid.
And maybe he can’t think of the right word to say in Galran, since he’s never had to say the word in Altean, but it’ll look even worse (to him at least) if he has to admit that he can’t properly be a diplomat with his language skills.
It takes Keith a moment to process what Lance has said, and then he makes an unattractive face. Lance can’t read his Galra eye very well, but the Altean-looking one looks hurt by Lance’s words before he breaks eye contact. He pulls his expression into a cooler one. “What,” Keith sneers, “you’re too weak to handle it, then?”
(nothing good can come out of this, why does Lance always bring about this kind of terror)
“I’d like to see your half-Galra ass even try!” Lance snaps, rising to the bait.
Keith’s thread of quintessence caresses his hand soothingly, further reminding Lance that there’s some kind of history (some kind of connection) between them, and Lance wants nothing more than to fling it aside.
He might question the usefulness of his own power sometimes, but to imply weakness without even possessing the ability to read the quintessence in the atmosphere just pisses Lance off. He doesn’t need some half-Galran commoner looking down on him when he already has enough to think about. He doesn’t need to connect them any more than this thread of quintessence already has.
Keith replies in words too fast (too foreign) for Lance to understand, waving his arms, and it leaves Lance even more frustrated. How can he not know what Keith is saying, even with such readable body language?
Lance sticks his tongue out at Keith, crossing his arms and looking away.
“Figure it out yourself, then!” Keith stomps off, though Lance can’t tell where he could possibly be headed. He can feel the quintessence around his hand tugging him back in Keith’s direction, but he refuses to be swayed.
“I’ll find the room without you,” Lance decides, determined to prove himself. He doesn’t need Keith. He can find the guest quarters by himself, can determine the story behind Daibazaal’s situation himself. He can read the quintessence in the air easily, especially without Keith’s own quintessence distracting him. This is better, since he won’t have to worry about someone seeing him in a weakened state.
He can take care of himself.
The more time he spends wandering the Galran palace, though, the calmer he becomes, the more clearly his thoughts organize. There wasn’t really a need for their fight, no real reason behind their separation.
He has no plans to be the first to apologize. Diplomat, prince, Altean, he will not be the first to give in.
Kyrmia is several galaxies away, and Lance and Allura are both eagerly standing by Coran, watching as the twin queens seat themselves on their thrones and prepare for guidance from their Altean allies.
Alteans are the finest of diplomats, and because Lance is several decaphoebs younger than Allura, this is his first time on a mission like this, his first opportunity (to attempt) to help others using his quintessence abilities. Though he’s used his skills before, it has always been unintentional or in extremely controlled environments, where his tutors have been watching and recording his every move, preventing him from practicing to his full capacity. For once, he’ll have to do something on his own.
Alfor has expressed his worry about Lance’s gift (and the potential darkness that could arise from using it too much), but he also can’t help the fondness he has for his younger child and he can’t restrain Lance’s desire to help others.
Thus, Lance is able to accompany Allura to Kyrmia.
“Welcome, Princess and Prince of Altea!” Their voices are high pitched and their Altean is rough, but their eagerness spreads and Lance is overwhelmed with their emotions, pleased at their excitement.
“Hello,” he greets, voice smooth. He raises his eyebrows flirtatiously—it’s a habit he can’t seem to break, and it always lightens the atmosphere and makes his companions (and himself) feel more comfortable—laughing at the pleased twittering of the twin queens.
“Will you help us, Prince Lanciel?”
“Call me Lance,” he offers easily, smiling until they, too, smile at him. They have beaks that don’t move when they speak but fold when they smile, so it is a little difficult to read them, at first.
“We’ll do everything in our power to help,” Allura promises, though she is looking at Lance in concern.
“When we heard about the assassination attempts we came right away!” Coran declares, and Lance and Allura nod in agreement.
The Kyrmians live in what they call a communal nest, a perfect blend of nature and technology to create an environment for everyone. The twin queens were elected after an insurrection of their previous kings, and all had seemed well in Kyrmia until recently. They reached out to Altea for advice upon hearing about the prince’s skills with quintessence, unaware that Lance is out of practice.
Supposedly there had been attempts on the queens’ lives, and such actions would throw their society into imbalance and alter their role set by the Intergalactic Treaties, which are additional reasons to help.
“Thank you,” says one queen gratefully.
“We appreciate your help,” agrees the other.
After a few more doboshes of discussion, the twin queens dismiss all but their most trusted guards. Lance follows everyone into the queens’ private discussion rooms, taking in the orange decorations rich in floral designs and the beautiful plants lining the corridors. It doesn’t take long to set up once they’re in the room. The queens sit down in front of Lance, and Lance stands in front of them, hands extended to reach for their threads of quintessence, his eyes closed.
You can do this, he tells himself. Just like you’ve practiced.
The pleasant warmth of quintessence always soothes his worries and anxiousness about his skill, and he lets the waves of quintessence roll over him as he looks to the future, plucking at the brightest and most likely option, the frayed end of the thread with the golden glow.
What. . .
He is battered with image after image, feels the pain of the poison tearing through his throat, the betrayal of a brother feeling scorned, the emptiness of loss and death, the sibling left standing after a fierce destruction.
Looking to the future has always been something controlled, so he wouldn’t lose his way. Now, with the freedom to finally see what he wants to see, it’s too much.
His head pounds and pounds, and his body feels weightless, like the threads of quintessence can carry him away.
(and maybe they should)
He wakes up in Allura’s arms, choking for breath, Coran grasping his hand, the faces of the twin queens peeking out behind the Alteans. There is worry and fear in everyone’s eyes.
Something awful churns in his stomach, and he feels the sting of acid at his throat, the unpleasant taste of bile. Your brother, he wants to say, but the words are caught in his throat. Coran notices his struggle and pats his hand gently, shaking his head.
“Another time, young one,” he interrupts softly.
The twin queens are understanding as Lance is carried back to the ship (he wants to stand on his own but his legs feel like food goo and his head is pounding and he’s so lightheaded), but the guilt continues to build inside him. He is supposed to help them. He came here to help them. What good is he if all he’s doing is wasting time and making everyone take care of him?
He wants to tell her about the brother of the twin queens, the possible betrayal, the upcoming destruction, but he’s much too tired, eyelids heavy and body weak.
On the ship, Allura runs her fingers through his hair and explains, tired and sad and sounding much older than she is, “Your quintessence has changed. It’s so much darker now.”
He doesn’t feel any different, but everyone views him in a new light.
(he knows what they’re thinking and it makes him feel so small)
Lance ends up terribly lost.
It’s only been a handful of doboshes, maybe a varga that has passed, but he has no idea where he is anymore. He didn’t plan on getting lost, but it turns out that when a majority of the palace servants in Daibazaal are robot sentries with no quintessence to follow, it’s pretty easy to lose your way. And Lance is pointedly ignoring the warm tugging thread of Keith’s quintessence around his hand, so he’s low on options. He supposes he can locate Lotor—he has no intention of tracking down Haggar, who makes him a little uncomfortable with her smirking silence and quick slinking through hallways—but that would be admitting defeat.
“I’m not going to lose!” Lance decides, running his fingers through his hair.
There had been something odd about the reasoning behind Keith’s arrival, and Lance isn’t sure what to make of it. Haggar had brought Keith to be his guide for a specific reason, and though it is a little suspicious for it to be related to their possibly shared past, Lance can’t think of any other reason to have brought Keith and no one else. But that would imply that Haggar could read quintessence in the same way that Lance could, which is impossible considering the unique aspects of quintessence and the different intricacies of each Altean’s gift.
A Galran woman could never hope to wield quintessence in such a way.
The quintessence around Lance’s hand gets warmer.
“Do you always talk to yourself?”
“Quiznack!” Lance tries not to let his surprise show on his face. He mumbles a few more curses in Altean, trying to give his heart time to calm down.
“You’ve wandered past here four times,” Keith says, crossing his arms. He doesn’t say anything else, but Lance wonders if he’s expecting Lance to ask for help. He won’t.
“And what, you just stood and watched me?” he snaps back.
Keith blinks at him, eyes wide (and they’re pretty, very pretty when they’re angry but more so when they’re not, and suddenly Lance doesn’t really mind looking at them). “Huh?”
Lance sighs, irritated when he realizes that he responded in Altean. He hopes he won’t mess up his languages next time, though it’s annoying that he’s made this mistake in the first place, and in front of this Galran hybrid. He repeats himself in slow, accented Galran. It had been miscommunication that separated them in the first place, so he shouldn’t let it happen again.
Keith smirks in reply. “Yeah? It was funny.” Lance makes a face that causes Keith’s smirk to soften. He uncrosses his arms and shrugs a little. “They let me out for you, so you must be important.”
Let you out? What the quiznack? Lance forces himself to put a haughty look on his face. “Of course I’m important, Keith.”
“Not important enough for a better tour guide, though,” Keith offers. His voice is void of emotion and flat during the delivery, but there’s an unsure look in his eyes that softens Lance’s heart. He’s trying to joke around? Is this his attempt at an apology?
Lance gives him a half-smile, an unspoken apology shared between them. Keith’s entire body seems to relax at Lance’s smile. When he’s not as tense, he isn’t that bad to look at, isn’t that bad to talk to. He seems a lot nicer, this way. The quintessence connecting them seems to glow brighter, and Lance sighs. He needs to avoid reading anything of Keith’s past or future. Maybe avoid touching him so he isn’t thrown back into a memory.
“Lead the way, Sir Hybrid!” he declares.
Keith looks uncomfortable as he turns to face Lance, features scrunched together as though he’s tasted something bad. It’s a stark contrast from the previous look that made Lance’s heartbeat flutter. “Can you. . . talk a little slower?”
A witty comeback forms on his tongue and he quickly reconsiders and snuffs it out. It doesn’t benefit either of them to argue, and Lance has already lost a varga of opportunity to read quintessence. How many lives are at risk because he hadn’t initially gotten along with Keith? Lance raises an eyebrow, tries to smirk, “Why?”
Keith doesn’t seem to want to admit what’s bothering him, but Lance replays their previous conversations in his head and thinks he has an idea.
“Then you talk slower, too!” Lance decides. He tries not to let his relief at the idea show. He has a hard time understanding Keith, too, and if they both just talk a little slower then they wouldn’t have to worry about their previous miscommunications. He’s a little annoyed that he isn’t the one to suggest it, but he’s also glad he isn’t the one to have to ask. “I don’t want to look like I’m the dumb one between us when it's clearly you.”
Keith nods quickly, face clearly relieved. Then he smirks. “Me talking slower won’t make you look any less dumb.”
Lance makes a somewhat undignified squawking sound, ready to shove Keith for his words. “Rude!” He refrains from touching Keith, though, not ready to touch any of those memories.
Keith laughs, and it’s dry and somehow pretty, and Lance can’t help his small smile.
(Lotor is much prettier to look at and much easier to talk to compared to Keith, but there’s something oddly pleasing about getting these little laughs and expressions he’s teasing out of this hybrid.)
Keith gestures toward a hallway Lance hadn’t noticed at all in the supposed four times he’d wandered through this area. The Altean castle is terrible to navigate as well, but he’s grown accustomed to it, and the lighting in this palace is dim and violet and not conducive for Altean vision and navigation.
They start toward one of the doors, Keith leading, and then Keith stops suddenly. Lance hears a weird crackling sound as he runs into Keith’s back, jolting at the touch.
“Watch where you’re going!” Keith sounds breathless more than he sounds angry.
“What?” Lance scowls. Keith was the one who randomly decided to change direction. “It’s not my fault you don’t even know your way around this maze of a palace!”
Keith shrugs, fiddling with the bracelet on his wrist. “Let’s just go this way.”
They change direction.
“So what do you do around here?” Lance says conversationally. They turn a corner and follow a seemingly hidden hallway to another staircase.
“When?”
“What?”
Keith pauses and Lance replays the conversation in his head, trying to figure out where it went. “I’m not sure what happens in the palace usually, but everyone’s been busy lately.” Lance follows him up several flights of stairs. “That must be why they called you.”
Lance shrugs, though Keith isn’t looking at him. “They called for my sister,” he says lightly, though there’s a twinge at his heart when he says it.
They’re both quiet for a few ticks. “Does she have the same power as you?” Keith wonders.
“I mean, I’m pretty unique,” Lance says with an air of nonchalance, stretching his arms and flashing Keith a dazzling smile.
Keith’s face splotches several shades of dark red and purple, an unattractively attractive blush that makes Lance smile and makes his face warm, too. "Yeah." Lance lets his smile fade and considers if flirting is the best method to talk to Keith.
(he likes the reactions he draws from people, the feeling that he, alone, can make someone happy)
“Her power might be more useful for something like what Daibazaal is dealing with,” Lance admits, fiddling with his cape and refusing to meet Keith’s eyes.
“That doesn’t mean your power isn’t needed, though,” Keith interrupts earnestly, a bit too quickly for Lance to understand. It is silent for several ticks, as Lance replays the words in his head. “I-I mean. . .”
Keith doesn’t give Lance any time to consider his words (or any time for him to correct himself, either, and judging by the dark flush on his face, he definitely wants to) before he gestures for him to follow up a staircase much narrower than the others, winding up and up to the top of the tallest tower of the Galra palace.
“Weren’t you supposed to take me to my room?” Lance jokes, smoothing out his outfit. “You trying for some alone time?” he adds with a smirk, shaking his head when Keith raises a questioning eyebrow at him.
“I’m explaining what’s going on,” Keith says, cheeks darkening, “since this is more important.”
“Relaxing in the Galran palace is also pretty important,” Lance argues, though he silently agrees with the choice to focus on this first. They’ve already wasted enough time, and Lance would rather do what he can now and rest until Allura arrives rather than do nothing until it’s too late. He wishes his power could do more, that he could actually impact the lives of the Daibazaal citizens. As it stands, he is barely playing a supporting role.
He’s always torn between playing the role of the slacking little brother (so their expectations are low and he can’t let them down if they don’t expect much from him) or the charming and hardworking prince (who just can’t reach Allura’s level, whose hard work never gets him anywhere). He doesn’t know who to be.
Keith narrows his eyes but says nothing. The room they’re in is small, covered in books and loose parchment and odd little vials of mysterious glowing substances. It’s definitely a chamber meant for a druid’s studies, but Lance supposes they are here for the view. The walls are covered in papers as well, but there is a large and wide window overlooking the capital city.
It would be beautiful, if not for all the ruin he sees when he looks outside. It twists his heart in an unpleasant way, seeing the fading quintessence outside, the blood, the collapse.
He needs to help them.
“They started appearing maybe a movement ago,” Keith says, when Lance finally turns his head away from the window. “Based on your description of quintessence, I think it might have something to do with that.”
Lance doesn’t like the sound of that. “Has anyone investigated? What has everyone in the palace been up to?”
“I'd like to investigate. . .” Keith clenches his hands into fists, looking frustrated. Lance cannot understand why. “From what I’ve heard and pieced together, the beasts are going after Galrans for something and killing them for it. Quintessence seems like a valuable something, I just don’t know why.”
“That’s probably why they reached out to Altea,” Lance figures, biting his lip. “If the monsters are going after quintessence, this brings a different dimension to the attacks.”
Keith’s eyes seem to light up. “Yes! They’re being sent from somewhere by someone, but we’d need to figure out the motive. Daibazaal doesn’t have a lot of resources, so there isn’t—”
Lance can’t help his laugh, and he covers his nose and mouth with his hand when he realizes he might snort in laughter. “Did they send you to talk to me because you’re a”—he can’t think of the word again, and he settles on saying it in Altean—“conspiracy theorist?”
“A. . . what?” Keith looks so confused with the small pout on his lips and his raised eyebrow.
“You know.” Lance tries to think of a good way to describe it. “One of those people who thinks the government is lying about everything.”
“They are,” Keith agrees with a sage nod.
Lance’s laugh quiets, and he turns back to look out the window again. “There aren’t many strong threads of quintessence out there right now,” Lance admits, shifting the subject back, “but I’ll see what I can follow.”
He isn’t sure how weak he’ll be after this, and he would rather not pass out in front of a stranger (even if they have a history, he isn’t sure if Keith is trustworthy), but he can’t risk putting innocent people’s lives in danger. There has already been so much destruction on Daibazaal, and he can’t bear to bring about more.
It’s been maybe a decaphoeb since he last used his power, so it might not weaken him as much as it has in the past. He can handle it.
He sucks in a breath, letting the feelings consume him.
He looks down outside of the palace, surveying the land beyond the wall, the broken buildings, the abandoned city, the fallen society. He can’t find one singular thread of quintessence as he had earlier when following Keith’s quintessence, but there are some fading wisps to track.
When he looks at quintessence, he focuses on the air long enough that it shifts away and he’s left seeing the magical meshwork that creates their world. The specific bonds between living things generates an energy represented by quintessence, which he sees manifested as a glowing golden thread, though quintessence itself is all-encompassing and takes up the atmosphere entirely.
Altean royals have the ability to manipulate the strands of quintessence, but doing so could wreak havoc, as it destroys the bonds between lives. It’s something Lance has never tried and has no intention of doing.
He extends a hand out the window, beckoning the fading light of this living creature’s quintessence to reach him. He feels its weakened pull and he lets it sit on his palm, offering its warmth and light and healing. This is not a Galra’s quintessence, not anymore.
Closing his eyes, he lets his mind follow the quintessence—
The beast stands tall over you, a dark burgundy shell with glowing yellow markings trailing up and down its arms and legs. Its face is the most horrifying feature, a skull with a robotic brain protruding out, a glowing mechanical eye scanning your city, your home.
Is this beast made by someone? Did someone send it here to hurt you?
But why? You haven't done anything, you've been living your life and you've been happy. . .
You stumble backward, breathless, unable to tear your eyes away as the beast turns its head away to snatch up another one of your friends. You know you need to do something but you can’t. You’re paralyzed in fear and shock and you just can't breathe or think or move, not when this being is so close to you and so large and formidable and horrible.
It lets out a piercing wail and swipes one of its long arms at a nearby building. The crunch of the stone crumbling under the monster’s touch, the sounds of screaming and crying, broken bones and crushed spirits, the destruction is just too much. The sounds hurt to hear, but so does the smell. The air fills with dust and smoke and Galrans are all around you, backing away from this monster before it can get to them.
You attempt to stand and run with them, but you can’t tear your eyes away from this horror.
The beast makes a rumbling sound, like it is laughing, and then the air is bright and stifling, and it feels electric, like something is coursing through you and ripping you apart from the inside and your very being is torn out of you and away away away—
His eyes snap open.
Keith is holding him awkwardly, one arm wrapped around Lance’s body as the other tries to keep them both standing. Had he fallen this time? Had he passed out? Keith’s hold is more than uncomfortable as Lance tries to stumble out of his grasp, unable to keep his balance. His mind is somewhere, not here, his head aching.
He doesn’t have enough energy to read Keith’s quintessence through touch again, thankfully. His mind knows its limits (even if he doesn’t know them himself sometimes).
His whole body is sore, as it usually is after he reads the quintessence of time, and he feels winded, like he was the one running from the beast, like he was the one who just had his quintessence yanked out of him.
His heartbeat is too fast and his body is too warm and he can’t breathe when Keith is this close he just needs space and time and what the quiznack is going on?
The monsters have been manufactured in some way, created for this purpose of stealing quintessence. The beast from his vision was robotic, unnatural. It was specifically searching for quintessence, collecting it and tossing aside the Galran people like garbage. Lance wants to vomit.
“Are you. . . okay?” Keith’s voice is rough yet soft, but it grates on his ears like he’s shouting, and Lance can’t help cringing at the sound of Keith’s words.
His head pounds heavily, and he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to take deep and calming breaths. He still needs to follow that quintessence forward in time, he still needs to figure out how to defeat these monsters. How useless is he if he’s going to pass out after one quintessence reading? How can he consider himself a prince if he can’t even properly use his power?
It’s been long enough since he used his power last that he should have been fine!
He pulls himself free of Keith’s hold (he thought he’d done it already, where has his mind gone), stumbling and falling forward.
Keith’s arms are around his waist again, keeping him from hitting the floor, and he swallows back the acid burning his throat.
“Let’s go back to your room,” Keith whispers, scratchy and unsure.
Lance does not (cannot) reply.