Chapter Text
When dawn breaks on the 327th day of the war, Allura rises with her lion, dresses in her rose-stained armor, and rides out, broadsword strapped to her back, ready to kill.
She is Altea's princess, but first and foremost, she is a Rider, born with fire in her veins and a heart to match the lions her country prizes so much.
The soldiers guarding camp press their hands over their chests as she passes, murmuring, "Princess," as she looks to them, giving a brief nod in response.
Younger, she may have found her own reaction lacking, cold.
But that girl had been left in the Castle of Lions, crouched in a pool of blood, fingers combing through white hair as she sobbed and sobbed, clutching the body to her chest—
Blue growls in warning, and Allura brushes the memory away like cobwebs, feeling as though they cling to her skin, trailing from her fingertips.
She knows cannot avoid them forever.
But now, with her country's fate hanging in the balance, she doesn't have the luxury of breaking either.
She has only distance, and a form of apathy that keeps her moving, if not living.
The rose-colored slashes beneath her eyes seem to burn as Blue presses against the edges of her thoughts, a gentle purr its form of encouragement.
Running a hand affectionately through the lion's ruff, Allura takes in a deep breath, forcing the memories from her mind and locking them away, pulse steadying and emotions slowly numbing.
"Ready?" she asks her lion quietly, and reaches up, pulling a pale pink mask over her features, swirls of white curling like flowers around her eyes and out to the edges curved like a lion's ears.
Her armor's purpose is simple: protect from and soften blows.
Her mask's is simpler still.
Make her remembered, and make her feared.
And from the rumors she's heard of a reaper in the hues of sunset, the color to mourn the deaths of those that have fallen to her and soon will, she knows it serves its purpose.
Lingering at the edge of the camp, crouched low over her lion's back, Allura looks out across the valley, to where smoke rising from the Galra camp can be seen above over a sparse, gray-green forest. Connected with her lion's senses, she can almost sense the sentries hidden in the trees around it, black-and-violet armor traded for soft, earthy fabric in favor of stealth.
It makes no difference to Allura. With her heightened senses, she can detect them before they do any damage to her or Blue.
The only thing that changes is how easily they will bleed.
A growl rumbles through Blue's body as a familiar figure appears at the edge of the trees, sword in hand and the shadows of his generals hanging close. The space between the camps in the dip of the valley has long lost any vegetation, the plants being ground into the dirt by heavy combat boots and burned away to ash by fire mages on both sides. It is a wasteland, barren, broken, and entirely uncrossable for either side.
Not even a Rider could make it across the long stretch alive, though stars know she's tried.
But something tells her the Galra prince, with his night-sky skin and too-clever smile may just be the exception.
Raising one hand dismissively, his generals melt into the shadows, waiting for their chance to pounce as he strolls away from the tree line, yellow eyes flickering past Allura once, twice, before seizing on where she crouches along the edge of the valley, mask on and sword in hand
.
Even from the distance, she can see the way his lips curl back in a smile that reveals too-sharp canines, the way that the shadows around his hand begin to thicken.
And again, the game has begun.
---
The first time Lotor faced Allura, he had thought her a spirit, a whirlwind of steel and fire, blade flashing and lion snarling as she had leapt across the field towards him.
Only instinct and quick reflexes had made him roll to the side, sword swinging up to counter her attack as the lion rounded on him, snapping at a Galra soldier that moved to help his prince.
With blood staining her armor and blue light crackling over her skin, she was not beautiful in the way the fairytales he had read would say.
But she was fierce, fiery, and alive, alive, alive.
The feeling spread from her to her soldiers, bolstering their courage, giving them the strength to rush the enemy lines, to strive harder, fight for their country body and soul alike. She was life to those that needed it, a fire burning bright.
To win the war, to crush the troops' morale, Lotor knew she had to die.
And it would be done by his blade.
But though Lotor was clever, so was the princess; they would feint, parry, counter, dodge, all in sync, the steps of some strange, graceful dance. Even on the back of a lion, the prince matched Allura's speed, giving the creature a nasty slash along its slide as she launched herself up, bringing down her sword in a punishing arc that he only just sidestepped.
They were opponents, enemies, rivals, opposites.
But above all, they were equals.
Always striving to see the other fall.
Always forced to part when one side drew back, and the other found itself too broken to follow.
Fire and ice, sun and moon, life and death.
---
Perhaps, Allura thinks as she shifts her weight forward, lion slinking down the edge of the valley, she shouldn't anticipate their battles the way she does—her life is at risk, any one mistake certain to be the end of her. Its disturbing that she awaits it keenly, the rush of adrenaline and focus on an equal opponent the one thing that truly drives everything from her mind.
For then, in one perfect moment, she feels nothing but burning desire and determination, a need to press on, improve, win.
For one perfect moment, she can forget the ghosts that haunt her, forget the memories so vividly impressed in her mind.
For one moment, she can almost be whole.
---
Lotor watches as the princess prowls forward on her blue-gray lion, and smiles, sauntering casually down the edge of the valley.
His generals wait in the forest behind him, armed to the teeth and awaiting his signal. The princess won't allow herself to be drawn in range of arrows, he has long since learned, and has given up on much of his scheming—his generals are here only to force the lion from its master's side, and intervene if he falls.
Truly, he would be dead before they could reach him if he falters and the princess does not, but has little interest in increasing the generals' paranoia—it's odd enough that they've accepted this confrontation as a ritual, taking it in stride as though this is just another part of him.
And perhaps, in a way, it is.
The girl pauses halfway across the valley, lion snarling, as she waits for him, holding herself with poise against the lion's back. Even here, before the fight, he can feel the energy crackling from her in waves, shivering across his skin as he takes leisurely steps towards her.
This, he supposes, is why he continues their strange arrangement—his life is a collection of suppressed emotions, of enduring silent scorn and hateful glances. He is not the prince the Galra want, not a prince that they'll accept.
But here, as he moves closer and closer to where the princess waits, he can feel something pounding in each heartbeat, rushing through his veins, drowning out the voices that would question his worth, all for the sake of Altean blood.
Because the girl is life itself—he can feel it, pulsing around her, an intangible energy that gives to all that stand beside her.
And even if for a moment, he wishes to be near that sort of light, drawing close like a moth to a flame. It's magnetic, hypnotizing.
And he hates that he will be the one to kill it.