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The notion of time was something that very easily slipped between Sven’s fingertips, the sand in the hourglass showing palpable signs of passage in its rising levels but no footsteps whatsoever. He existed, he could think, he had needs and desires and fears, and shed a tear or two when he stubbed his toe like any healthy human being.
But time in space was a complicated matter, too slow or too fast or around dinner time, and in the enormous galactic scale, what was another loaded gun pointed at an Altean? The sense of purpose was diminished into a crushing nothingness in a reality where time was as ephemeral as life itself, a rush to get home earlier on a friday evening but the highway is never ending and the sun isn’t quite setting and you ignore the warnings about the ice on the sides of the road, keep your heavy boot on the accelerator and the road comes to an early end and you keep begging “It’s too soon, so soon, there’s so much to do--”
Now that he thought of guns, he realized, a frown darkening his Northern features - not like space had a credible “North” with associated general traits, he had to fix his vocabulary -; he never missed a shot unless he meant to, but he missed her head for more than a few inches, like, it wasn’t even close. It haunted Sven for nights in a row, but not the shot, the hell with the missed green light shot, it was her who tormented his mind. Gorgeous blanched gold in her hair and eyes of an amethyst freshly pulled from the depths of hollow agates in volcanic caves, skin pale but rosy on the cheeks and the tip of the perky nose. She was beautiful and perfect and the walking epitome of sugar, spice and everything nice but then…
Her marks .
Little crescent moons laying on top of her cheekbones, a gentle turquoise to go with her righteous attitude, determination worthy of a warrior in the eyes of a princess, delicacy and passion, simple attraction and downright want , a contradiction when Sven fought against everything her mere existence stood for.
An Altean. A sinfully, painfully, deliciously beautiful Altean.
Sven wasn’t sure of the nature of the contents the alien bartender had spilled into his glass, but whatever that lilac liquid was, it had traveled right down and hit him in a nasty spot; if he knew his intolerance well, which he did, the alcohol would be traveling right back up his throat soon enough. Nunvill more like Dumb-ville , Sven Holgersson’s hometown. Total population: one (1), en , uno , just this dimwitted nerd right here, with the buzzing neon arrow shaped sign above his head that read “THIS IS THE SOLE CITIZEN OF DUMBVILLE, THE IDIOT WHO ASKED AN ALTEAN, WHOM HE WAS SUPPOSED TO KILL, OUT ON A DATE”.
His forehead met the flat surface of the black counter at the intergalactic bar with a thud muted by the loud music that drowned the whole environment in this hazy cloud of induced comfort.
But time , yes, he had a point earlier. Time was an issue, much more so in space. Time zones were confusing enough back home on Earth, but with several quadrants and a multitude of gravitational pulls and people who simply did not carry a watch or share the same calendar, the blond Altean was late . Or so Sven thought. Maybe he was the one who was there too early; or maybe she wouldn’t come at all. Perhaps she was laughing with her assigned platoon, mocking the rebel fighter who had the nerve to forget his place, his ethics and morals and soldier training, for the selfish request of a pretty lady accompanying him for dinner.
Time was consuming and Sven was nursing it further away with a bad drink and broken hopes.
A pair of mutant gorillas regulated the entrance, determining if certain attendants were allowed inside - that seemed like a pretty useless or poorly done job since Sven had walked right in without being asked anything at all, the two guards excitedly discussing something in their native language. The bartender had several arms poking out of his sides, similarly to his friend Slav, only he was not nearly as chatty, thank the Lord. He offered no more than a nod at the orders and brought them back without as much as a smile, and that was as much as the customers were allowed to ask of him. That worked just fine for Sven. His exploring gaze evaluated the whole glass structure, the bubble shape of the aquarium in the center of the circular bar showcasing a pretty mermaid-like creature, her golden trinkets glistening in the faint blue glow as she danced with virtually rehearsed moves to a nearly mute rhythm, eyes like lifeless marbles. Was she even alive? Hard to tell. Almost as hard was to hear the ambiance music; unless he closed his eyes, it would be impossible to feel the theta binaural pulses, sound waves with a frequency that resonated in the theta range. It numbed the weight of his mind like some sort of auditive drug. Where was this lo-fi vibe coming from? Had he drank enough already, he would believe it was coming from inside his body rather than the embedded speakers in the limits of the area.
Why had he chosen this place anyway? The rush of the assault to an Altean commoner base allowed little time to chat with the enemy, and a pamphlet for this lousy establishment in an otherwise vacant moon was the closest thing he could grab and hold towards the girl with the excuse of an invitation.
Oh, how embarrassing it had been; were it physically possible to merge with the counter and hide his shame any further, he would, at the memory of his dumbstruck face pointing at the damn paper and then handling it to the girl with a collection of grunts because what were words when he practically brain farted in the presence of the most beautiful girl in the Universe? He hadn’t even gathered enough balls to open his mouth to speak; he didn’t ask her name nor offered his own. He simply pointed at the paper advertising the anniversary special with live music performances and and hoped she would pick up what he meant. She nodded so he assumed as much...?
You’re making an idiot of yourself, Holgersson.
Sven considered getting up to leave more than once - if he didn’t look anyone in the eye on his way out he might sell the lie that he had planned on going by himself all along and not been shamefully stood up - but when he glanced at the hooded figure who approached him, he immediately changed his mind.
In fact, his mind fuses went short-circuit and stopped working all together mid-action, as he was awkwardly half-standing up half-about-to-sit-back-down on the bar stool. It was her. She had come. He stuttered; after so long waiting, he hadn’t even thought of what to do should she actually join him.
Her dark blue cloak covered most of her face, nervous eyes glancing from side to side. He couldn’t help but to notice the bandages that covered the highest point of her cheekbones. Her marks were occult, skin reddened enough to make her beautiful eyes teary. Was she hurt?
“F-Forgive my lateness…” She whispered, as if it were a secret. As if they were a secret, but then it hit him that they really had to be. Were an Altean general to show up alone in a public bar, chances were she’d be glared to death, her presence terrifying those who were there. Certainly, she wasn’t allowed to leave her post as she pleased. Her absence could be reported to the Empress. Sven was aware that Empress Allura was nothing short of relentless when it came to underlings straying from their duties. This gorgeous Altean was taking a huge risk just for standing here, fraternizing with the enemy.
Was that why her marks were hidden?
Oh, she was breathtaking.
“I meant to appear sooner, but... There’s been a little incident.” Her face grew flustered as she fidgeted, her gestures frantic in a lack of words to explain. Sven wanted to say it was okay, that he was glad for the simple fact that he got to see her again - heck, he could die happy right about now - but his mouth hung agape, no words daring to spill through his parted lips. Her hand curled around his wrist and he was tugged towards the back of the establishment, a corridor leading to the bathrooms.
There were several outcomes to escaping to the darkest corner of a night bar; it was either the elected spot for a heated makeout session or the perfect crime scene. His body wouldn’t be found unless someone decided to take a piss, or when the closing hours approached and the establishment owner would come to check the bathrooms to make sure the clients had all left.
Whatever the sequel to this scape, Sven was enthralled enough to accept.
Good God, she was stunning.
“D-Don’t laugh.” She made him promise as soon as they were away from prying eyes, with an adorably prominent pout - which he did, immediately, with a series of nods - before she pulled her hood off, having it rest around her shoulders. Indeed there were bandages covering the upper cheeks of her face, a bunch of tiny outbreaks of swollen, pale red bumps.
“I wanted to hide my heritage marks… should anyone recognize me… I didn’t want to cause you trouble for being seen with me! My friend lent me her cosmetic kit but then my skin became swollen and it stung a lot and it burned and now it’s like this!” She explained rapidly, the words overlapping each other in the rush, only ceasing when Sven rose his hand to touch her face, inspecting the allergy from up close, the rash confined to the area where the cosmetic had been applied. “You’re probably regretting even asking me to come… I’m sorry, I look hideous!”
No. God, no, that was not it.
He had no way with words, being the stoic-faced introvert his friends always accused him of being; thus, resorting to a more physical language, his lips came in contact with the surface of the bandages, a soft kiss placed on each, ceasing the tears that had been absorbed by the gauze. She became redder, to be quite honest, but Sven didn’t pay much of a mind to it, keeping her cute face framed by his big hands, thumbs caressing her jaw with affection.
“Never say that. You’re beautiful.”
As a young kid, Sven had this little night lamp to help him overcome the fear of the dark (it wasn't cool for boys to be afraid, Ma said at the time); and it did help him, that device made him fall in love with darkness because the cutout stars and dots on the surface of the lampshade created a small universe in the confinements of the bedroom, making it so much more immense and deep and fantastic and full of mysteries beyond the cracks on the walls or the stains on the sheets. It made him dream of being up there, bouncing from star to star, riding on a meteor or sliding on the rings of Saturn.
His dream did come true, however in a more practical sense. There was no sliding off rings - if anything he'd fall through them -, he didn't ride meteors unless he had a crisp to death wish - he was close to, at times -, and the concept of bouncing off stars was less of a theme park kind of thing and more of an everyday task that involved vargas of voyage between astronomical bodies and the bounce effect was felt with gunshots, screams and scrapes in his armor.
It wasn't until Sven reached the vastness of space that he realized he had never really lost his phobia; he had simply... Accepted it.
He lay back down in the rented bed of a lodging in a distant Solar System, sweat making the sheets stick to the end of his back. He thought of Earth, he thought of home, and then realized the magnitude of the distance between that little mountain house in Norway and his training in the Galaxy Garrison. He thought of Voltron and how they failed to answer the call of the Universe, petty humans who blundered the only chance, how his friends had died for nothing and his former partner strayed from good to side with his Altean heritage.
Truth was so dark, so raw, so sad. A jarring stab wound that drained the blood out of a nearly dead corpse. The Universe fell enslaved to a race of crazed mind-controllers, driven by the fake belief that peace had to be implemented in people’s minds rather than achieved through fair negotiation and common-sense. Enough blood had been spilled, ten thousand years of turmoil, death, fear, a peace-through-strength kind of permanent panic. When would the Alteans come for the two lovers who defied their rule?
Sleeping Romelle shifted in bed next to him, cuddling closer to his side, her delicate little hand resting over his abs, her cheek pressed against his bare chest. He traced a finger near her eyes, calloused fingers hovering the soft skin; the signs of allergy around her markings had disappeared so long ago - it had been close to a year since they began their occasional encounters, their I love you’s hushed by the opposing sides of the war they stood for.
In this rented bed, there was no war. No slavery. No death. Just them and their unscrupulous love, handwritten by Shakespeare with the inevitable imminence of tragedy. She had snorted at the funny name when Sven first mentioned it, her accent making it hard for the playwright’s name to roll around her tongue. He developed his point further in that conversation; they were both risking so much for the little they had, but in the universal scale of their flaming hearts it was so worth it. Love was worth withstanding anything that was sent their way.
She represented the cutout stars in the darkness, the spark of light in a world swarmed by danger, consternation and the permanent fear of being caught.
Sven had come to terms with his childish fear of the dark, but only for as long as he had the stars in Romelle’s eyes.