Chapter Text
“You’re a stupid old hat,” Keith said, “and you deserve to burn.” He paused, sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
The sun was giving him a headache. With another sigh, Keith set the half-finished hat down on his work table and glanced up and out the window that spanned the length of his room. The view was rather incredible, which was part of why he liked the space. Beyond the thick glass lay the rest of Market Chipping, clinging to the side of the river like some ancient, cobble-stone and red-shingled lichen. Then there was the river itself, and the Wastes, rising up and away in great stony hills that grew a coat of sparkling frost most mornings, if the weather was right. Though he had seen the view a hundred thousand times, Keith secretly loved it. It looked like home. And it seemed to promise something, as if the hills were beckoning to him, come on, come on, climb us, find out what’s on the other side…
But there was also an order of three dozen hats that had to be filled by the end of the week, and Keith was the only one working today.
“Keith!” A loud voice cut through the daydream. Keith sat back on his stool; the men would find him themselves. Sure enough, a gaggle of guys appeared in his door, laughing and boasting and puffing out their chests like proud birds. They were the ones that Keith would loosely call his friends, sort of, but just because they were Shiro’s friends and hung around the shop even when Shiro wasn’t here, which meant that Keith spent a lot of time near them. But they weren’t friends he wanted to talk to, if talking to people had been as easy for him as talking to things. Talking to people was something Keith didn’t understand in the first place. Talking to the guys about drinking and smoking and shooting and girls was something he understood even less. Sometimes, he felt cursed to never understand. Sometimes he felt just plain cursed.
“Keith!” one said again, grinning from underneath his mustache. “We’re going out to the recruitment booths! What do you say, want to come?”
Not really.
“Aw, leave off it, Dawson.” Another man behind the first laughed. “We all know that little Keith is too young to sign up.”
More laughter. The first guy grinned at Keith, fake apology in his eyes. “Sorry man, but Harry’s right. Guess you gotta stay and mind the shop.”
“That’s fine,” Keith said. “You guys go have fun.” And it was fine: he wasn’t keen on spending an afternoon day-drinking with the guys. He would have liked to walk down to the riverside and see the newly painted warships and the bright banners and write his name on Altea’s Royal Army Registry, but another afternoon in the shop suited him as well. The shop and the hats were something he knew. Something familiar that he couldn’t mess up or turn into an awkward situation.
“Alright, if you’re sure!” The men passed on from the workspace, moving off, departing thunderheads and gray clouds. Keith watched them go, and then turned back to the hats with a sigh. I should be in a barracks right now . Shouldn’t he? Wasn’t that his duty to Altea? His mouth tasted bitter. Normal people would love to go out laughing and drinking with the guys, but Keith felt better about a quiet night alone. Even so, he felt a part of him tugging towards the riverside. He had grown used to his responsibility in the shop, the dullness of it. He didn’t mind it. But a small part of him, some childish reserve of optimism, still pictured himself as a soldier, fighting grand battles for King Alfor and Altea. That childish part liked to think he was cursed to remain at the shop forever, and he only had to find a way to break that curse...
The needle in Keith’s hands slipped and pricked his finger.
Suddenly, the work room seemed too small to possibly fit all of him into it. Keith needed out. He threw brushed aside a hat that wasn’t in the way, stood, and started walking.
The air of Market Chipping greeted him like an old friend; it was a beautiful spring day and it seemed that everyone was out enjoying it. Slipping on his jacket, Keith edged his way into the crowd and let himself be caught up. Normally this many people would set him on edge. But today, he liked feeling small, anonymous. He was just a person, nothing strange to look at. Nobody knew anything about him; he was just another face in the crowd. Nobody knew him as Plain Keith, or Lonely Keith, or Keith Who Never Wanted To Go Anywhere That Wasn’t Home Because That Was What Was Expected Of Him.
“Look! Across the river!” Somebody cried out from the crowd. Dozens of faces turned as one, Keith included; and there it was. Way, way out in the Wastes, a shape walked over a stony ridge, spewing ash into the foggy air. From this far it was almost impossible to make out exactly what it was, but the people of Market Chipping knew: The Castle of Lions. Fabled and feared home of the Wizard Voltron, the Castle of Lions was a half mechanical, half magical construct, a monstrosity of iron and mystery. Keith watched the lion stalk across the ridge before disappearing into the fog. A thrill passed through him.
“Wizard Voltron,” a girl next to him breathed. “We should get inside.”
Another girl giggled. “What, you think Lance wants your heart? Please!”
Keith watched the empty spot for another moment, but the castle was gone. He wasn’t sure what he thought about the many rumors; that the Wizard Voltron lured young men and women into his castle and ate their hearts, that he used those hearts to power the castle, that he fed their hearts to a captive demon. Nobody was ever quite sure whose hearts Lance got ahold of, exactly, but everybody was friends with somebody who knew somebody who had fallen prey.
Shiro would love to worry at him about the Wizard. Keith knew it had been too long since he had gone to visit his brother. Maybe it would him some good. Emphasis on the “maybe”. But Shiro usually was good with talking, good enough to make up for Keith’s awkwardness. Besides, there was a chance he could score some free pastries out of the visit to the bakery where Shiro worked.
The crowds grew thicker the farther Keith pressed into town, but he managed to get on a steamcart just as it was beginning to crawl down the rails. Keith hung on the edge of the door to the cart, and watched as Market Chipping trundled by. The air smelled of soot. And also like fish, and the river, and everything that made home home. Colorful flags hung from signposts and doors. Splashy newspaper headlines announced some sort of crisis. King Alfor was all in a snit over some missing royal princess and was pointing fingers at the neighboring Galra Empire. Airships were mobilizing, flags were being raised.
War. The word stood gleaming in Keith’s head. In war, he would be free. Free from a life I don’t mind? Was that the worst thing in the world? To not mind one’s life?
But what if he wanted more than that?
What if he was content with not being touched, but dreamt with nervous excitement about holding hands? What if he wanted more than content?
Keith hopped off the cart and turned down an alley. For all of its charms, Market Chipping was haphazard, a maze of twisting roads and alleys that grew like tree roots. And Keith visited Shiro so seldom these days that he had almost forgotten the way. Add that to the fact that he had been paying absolutely no attention, and he found himself wandering a small road between some large buildings that he had never seen before.
Great. Keith sighed and craned his neck, but the shops around him were unfamiliar, the alleyways devoid of any signage. He also couldn’t see the sun in the narrow slits of sky the rooftops offered him, and the ground wasn’t sloping down towards the river. He was well and truly lost.
“Hello, little mouse.” Keith whipped around; blocking one end of the alleyway were two Altean street guards, all shining buttons and waxed mustaches and pompous grins. One was tall and stocky with a shock of red hair. The other, the one leaning against the side of a building with an easy grin on his face, was handsome in a sort of way that suggested he was well aware of his own attractiveness.
The handsome soldier spoke again. “Are you lost? Were you looking for the Registry? Fine young man like you should be in the Altean Army!”
“Hang on,” The taller soldier squinted at Keith, and Keith took a step backwards, feeling color rising to his cheeks. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? “Aren’t you Keith Kogane, the hatter’s boy? You are!” The soldier chuckled. “This little boy’s too young to join the Army. How unfortunate.”
“That’s not the only unfortunate thing I’ve heard about Kogane.” Shit, shit, double shit. There was a mischievous glint in the eye of Handsome, who was becoming less worthy of his nickname by the second. He advanced a step, then another, his swagger easy and mocking. “Want to spend the day with me, Keith? I can take you down and show you the ships. Maybe buy you some flowers.”
“Go away.” Keith tried to turn away, but the bigger, beefier soldier grabbed his arm.
“Hang on there, Kogane, what if I want a goodbye kiss? Your mullet is so pretty, I can’t resist!”
Keith tugged his arm, but Beefy was strong. His grip was like iron on Keith’s elbow. “I said, go away.” Something like panic sparked in his chest. These guys were just jerks, just idiots, but soldiers could get away with anything--
“Ah, there you are.” Keith was suddenly very aware of a presence at his back. A hand floated down to rest on his shoulder. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, darling. I’m sure these soldiers were just on their way.”
The soldier’s eyes traveled up, up, up. A hand, sibling to the one on his shoulder, extended from behind Keith and flicked a ringed finger. Instantly, the two soldiers straightened their backs like they had been yanked by a string attached to their heads. The hand flicked again, and the soldiers began to march stiffly away.
“Hey? What’s going on? What are you doing to us?” They struggled against the invisible force, voicing protests until they turned a corner. All at once, silence ruled the alleyway.
Keith stared. And stared some more. He felt the hand burning a hole in his shoulder until it lifted away.
“Are you alright?” Swallowing, Keith turned to get a look at his saviour.
Oh, wow.
The color burned in his cheeks.
The man was tall, but unlike Beefy, his frame was lean and powerful. Well-fitted pants and a jacket draped casually over wide shoulders led up to a pointed face, framed by dark brown hair that blew in an invisible breeze. Tiny freckles dotted light brown skin. Keith felt a stupid impulse to touch the freckles, connect each one in a line across their owner’s face.
His ears pricked with heat. The man was handsome, but more than that, he was...otherwordly. Ethereal.
Cute.
“Don’t look now, but we’re being followed.” The man bent to speak in Keith’s air. Where his breath met skin, goosebumps rose. “I would suggest walking. May I hold your hand?”
Words wouldn’t work in Keith’s mouth; all he could manage was a stiff nod.
The cute boy’s (because he really was that--just a boy, his age, not a man at all) hand threaded through Keith’s, and then they were briskly walking down the alleyway. The boy kept his eyes fixed on an invisible point in front of them, his mouth set in a confident smirk-smile combination.
They turned a corner, and Keith almost gasped. Shadows were detaching themselves from the sides of building, taking on weight and presence until they became black, moving goo forming into shapes vaguely resembling men. Ridiculously, they wore carny hats. Keith stumbled.
“What--” he started, but couldn’t find his question.
The boy tugged at his hand and they turned another corner. “The Witch’s henchmen,” he said, as if that explained it. He sounded so light, carefree, like they were out for a morning stroll and weren’t being chased by what was obviously dark magic. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to go a bit faster.”
Magic. Was that what was going on here? He had mentioned a witch. And now that Keith looked at his feet, he found that the ground was rushing along beneath far faster than their leisurely walking pace would suggest. Keith looked up again and found their way blocked by an oozing wall of the blob-men; over his shoulder, the creatures had filled the alley, too. They were trapped. They were moving too fast, they were going to crash, they were--
The smirk grew a little longer on the boy’s face. “Hang on!”
All at once, vertigo rose in Keith’s throat, and there was a rushing sensation, and then they were--
--they were flying! Holy shit. Holy shit, wow, what?
The boy took Keith’s other hand, raising his hands above his head. “Now, stretch out your legs, and walk,” he said, as if strolling through thin air was the most natural thing in the world.
Keith swallowed, and did as he was told. Amazingly, impossibly, his feet connected with a soft surface that didn’t exist , he was walking on air, he was walking on magic!
A little laugh bubbled out of him before he could help himself. Below his shoes, Market Chipping spread out in all its tiny glory; steamcarts wove their way through crowded streets where groups of dancers twirled with their partners. Masses of oblivious people went about their shopping days, clutching bags and parasols and children. The river sparkled, the sun gleamed, and they were flying .
Keith’s foot touched down on the spire of a cathedral, and he pushed off, and they were bounding into the air as if they weighed less than paper. The impossibility of it stunned him. His brain kept trying to work out how this was happening, and coming to the conclusion that it simply was. He had known magic existed, of course, but had known in the way that he knew that boyfriends existed but never expected to have one for himself.
“Where are we going?” Keith asked, and found that he didn’t have to yell above the wind, because there was none. Just the perfect still air, and the boy’s face very, very close to his own.
“You tell me.”
“The bakery,” Keith said, hyper-aware of the boy’s hands holding his. A boy. He was holding hands with a boy, walking in the air. Two impossible things happening at once. “Little Gigi’s. Do you know it?”
“I think I can find my way,” the boy said with a grin. And somehow, they were already there, because they were descending, each step that they took one on a downward staircase. Softly, ever so gently, Keith’s feet came to rest on the upper porch of the bakery building. He turned, and found the boy standing on the edge of the railing as if he wasn’t perched four stories up and in danger of falling to his death.
Keith’s heart beat like a bird’s. The boy extended his hand, fingers slipping from Keith’s in an elegant farewell. His startlingly blue eyes shone with mischief and delight.
“I’ll lead them away,” he said, coat flapping in new breeze. “But it’s probably best if you stay inside for a while.”
“T-thanks.” Keith smiled, awkwardly. Why wouldn’t his stupid mouth work? He should say something more than “thanks”, how stupid was that? Come on! Think!
But the boy was already stepping off the porch. With a flutter of bright cloth and a flash of sunlight, he launched into the air and then rocketed earthward. Keith ran to the porch railing and peered down, but only saw the shifting crowd. The boy had vanished.
**
“You what? ”
“I told you. I...I flew.” Keith buried his head in his arms, ignoring the probing gaze of his half-brother Shiro. He leaned back against the storage boxes: Shiro had managed to beg a break off of his boss, which really hadn’t been hard because everyone loved Shiro. Keith had seen the girls gather at the front counter when his brother was on register. Shiro practically had to beat the young women off with a stick.
His co-workers and bosses were only slightly less infatuated.
“Keith,” Shiro said, his voice filled with concern, “do you even know how much danger you were in? They’re saying the Witch of the Waste is back on the prowl, for goodness sake--”
Keith looked up from his arms and said drily, “Well, I don’t think he was a witch, Shiro.”
“Whatever.” Shiro threw up his arms. “A wizard, then. My point is, you need to be more careful! You could have gotten your heart eaten.”
He couldn’t help but snort. “Very funny, Shiro. As if any guy would want my heart.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.” Shiro didn’t know. That Keith wasn’t joking. And Keith did nothing to correct him.
“It doesn’t matter.” Keith pulled his knees close to his chest. Tried to make himself as small as possible. “I’ll just keep working in the shop. Might as well, since I can’t fight for Altea. I can’t even make myself get a girlfriend.”
Shiro frowned, and his voice was steel. “You’ll find somebody Keith, I know you will, and she’ll be everything you ever dreamed of. But I’m not asking you to get a girlfriend. All I’m asking is…” Suddenly, all the energy went out of Shiro, and he slumped down until he was on level with Keith. “You’re my little brother, Keith. I just want you to be happy. And careful. That could have been the Wizard Voltron, and he could have eaten your heart. I don’t know what I would do without my little bro.” A little smile crept up on Shiro’s face. “You’ll be eighteen sooner than you think, and then you can go out and protect the country all you want. There will still be wars to fight in in a year. Putting your name in the Registry will happen.”
“Says the guy whose name is already in it.”
“I also work at a bakery, and I work here because I chose to. Is that what this is about? If you don’t want to work at father’s shop, you don’t have to.”
“No, I’m happy to work at the shop, really--”
“Because we can find somebody else--”
“It’s fine. It’s just...not that simple.”
Shiro turned to look Keith full on in the eyes. “Why not? You can talk to me.”
Sure. Keith imagined the conversation, minus even the stickiness of the hat shop. Shiro, I’m never going to get a girlfriend, least of all because I’m only a decent person when I’m alone. Most of all because I don’t like girls. Yeah, right.
“I promise I’m okay.” Keith bumped his forehead against Shiro’s. They had used to do this all the time when they were littler, when Father had been too sick to put them to bed. Keith would pretend that touching their heads together would let them share each other’s strength.
Shiro pulled away. “I have to get back to work. Stay out of trouble for me, little bro.”
“I’ll try.”
Keith watched as Shiro pulled himself to his feet and headed for the door. He turned around one last time before disappearing. “And stay away from witches and wizards. The time to fight will come. When you do, I know you’ll make everybody proud.”
Keith didn’t reply as Shiro walked back to the bakery storefront. Instead, he leaned his head back against the crates and stared at the ceiling. The problem wasn’t that he couldn’t fight. It was that he was itching for it. Every part of his skin crawled with the need to slam his fist into something solid. And his thoughts just kept circling back to the same thing:
The boy. The wizard boy.
Out of all the promises Keith had just made to Shiro, he wasn’t sure which was going to be the hardest to keep.
**
Keith made sure to take a steamcart straight back to the shop, having had enough of walking through Market Chipping for one day. The sun was just beginning to kiss the edges of the Wastes as he locked up the front doors to the hat shop, the shoppers scuttling home with their prizes. The old grandfather clock in the back of the shop doled out 7 pm.
Keith didn’t really mind working in the shop. That much was true. His father had left it to him and Shiro in his will, but Shiro had already become an apprentice baker at that point, a contract that wasn’t easily broken. So, the ownership of the shop had passed down to Keith, the adopted son. The different son.
Because it didn’t matter what Shiro said. Keith knew he was different, and that that wasn’t something people celebrated. It was something he had come to live with, just like he had come to live with knowing that he would work in the hat shop until he was old: Keith would never fall in love, because love just didn’t happen for people like him.
Maybe fighting would fix that. Being in a real live war, throwing his life on the line to defeat the evil Galra Empire, even if they had been quiet for decades now. Keith wanted that glory, wanted to make his own destiny, a better one. But he had also grown used to being blind to it. Sometimes it all got caught up in a tangled loop in Keith’s head: did he want to stay in the hat shop because that was what was expected of him as the heir? Or was the work expected of him because he always took it? Sometimes, Keith felt vaguely that another life was pushing against his own, a strange almost-what-if-life. One where he went to seek his fortune, free of the shop, of his father’s will, of his age, of his seemingly cursed love life. To march in a blue and white Altean uniform, fighting in a grand war...that seemed like a life of adventure, at least to him.
Sometimes, Keith wished he could shed his own body and leave this life behind. If he were somebody else, he would be free of the shop. Free of ghostly expectations, never asked of him but expected nonetheless, free to make his fortune.
If he had a different body, maybe he would even be worthy of love.
The little bell above the front door chimed. Keith turned, a customer-greeting smile half forming on his face before he remembered the time of day.
“I’m sorry,” he said as a shape stepped through the door. “We’re closed…” The words died on his lips as the shape came into the light. It was that of an extremely thin woman, dressed in a shimmering purple-black dress with a neckline that plunged far too low for Keith’s comfort. Something crept up the back of Keith’s neck. Hadn’t he locked that front door?
The woman’s stick-like fingers dripped with jewels, as did her too-long neck and earlobes, as if her very pores exuded diamonds and emeralds. A massive, fluffy, wide-brimmed hat sat on the woman’s head, casting shadow over very painted lips and eyes. Something about her proportions looked...off. As if she had been set to dry to long in the sun and then stretched out. Keith felt the keys in his pocket. He had definitely locked that door.
“What a tacky little shop,” the woman said, ignoring Keith’s protest. She strode into the shop, casting her eyes this way and that. Flowing silver hair swished with the bird-like movements of her head. “I’ve never seen such a tacky little hats.”
Keith bristled: he had made nearly all these hats himself. “I’m sorry ma’am, but we’re closed. ” He marched over to the door and held it open.
“Oh?” The woman turned, seemingly noticing Keith for the first time. Her red lips parted in a toothy grin. “Standing up to the Witch of the Waste? That’s plucky.”
“The Witch of the…” Shit. Keith’s eyes widened. Was this really her? The Witch had been banished years ago but King Alfor, but there were always whisperings of her showing up in the kingdom anyway--
The Witch’s feral grin widened as she saw the shock probably written all over Keith’s face. And then she was flying at him, her arms spread wide like giant, bony wings, dress flapping behind her. Keith threw up his arms to protect himself and squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for impact.
A cold, cold wind passed through Keith’s body, as if winter had blown its chilliest breath into his bones. He stumbled, and turned; the Witch was at the door, climbing into a brightly-colored palanquin.
“The best part about that spell,” the Witch said, her voice dry as crackling autumn leaves, “is that you can’t tell anyone about it. Give my regards to Wizard Voltron.”
With that, she slammed the door to the palanquin shut, and two blobs of shadow rose from the ground: the same that had chased Keith earlier that day. Without any ceremony, the blob-men raced away into the darkness.
Keith stood for a moment, staring out the door as it swung shut. Suddenly, he felt tired. More than that, exhausted. The Witch of the Waste. Here, in Market Chipping. In his shop, of all places. The shock of it kept pounding at Keith’s mind, but his brain refused to let it sink in.
Slowly, slowly, he hobbled across the room. Why did his bones feel like they were grinding against sandpaper? And his back refused to straighten up. And his feet hurt, as well as his neck, his finger joints, his...well, most things in his body, actually.
The best thing about this spell ...something insidious swam in Keith’s thoughts. No. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t…what, possible? How many impossible things had he seen today?
On one side of the room was a massive three-mirror installation for customers to view their hats from all angles; Keith hurried over to it and threw open the heavy wooden covering.
When he caught sight of his face, Keith nearly fell over.
It was as if reality had short-circuited. His brain refused to understand what it was seeing. Like he had thrown a stone in water and instead of skipping, the stone itself had shattered. A simple rule of logic was being broken.
Because what the mirror was showing wasn’t him.
It was an old man.
Keith turned his head. The old man turned his head. He raised an eyebrow. So did the old man. He worried at his jaw, and the reflection did too.
“That’s really me, isn’t it?” He said to nobody in particular. “I’ve got to stay calm.” As if it would help, Keith hobbled over to the front desk, and then turned around. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe--
He looked in the mirror: the old man looked back.
“I’ve got to stay calm,” he told himself again, but refused to take his own advice. He was completely at a loss for what to do. He wandered outside, wandered back in. Turned around and went out, came back in.
Maybe he should just go to bed. Yeah, that was it. The spell would probably wear off by morning.
Seeing as he had no other ideas, Keith started up the stairs. He was old. He was old. He was cursed . The Witch of the Waste had cursed him.
This was entirely too much magic for one day. What would Shiro say if he was here? Probably something condescending. But what did Shiro know about dealing with witches? What did Keith know, at that rate? All of his ideas of magic were half-formed things, leftovers from stories told as a child. Keith wasn’t magical. He wasn’t part of that world.
Except for now he was.
No, Keith was just plain, ordinary Keith. Keith, who worked at a hat shop and would never fall in love. Things like this didn’t happen to him. Nobody met a witch and a wizard in one day, especially not him. Oh, great. That probably had been Wizard Voltron Keith had met earlier today; he certainly had been as dashing as the stories said.
Go to bed. He should just go to bed. He would know what to do in the morning.
Thoughts swirling, bones aching Keith began the long trek up the stairs. Though his mind was a hurricane, one thing kept repeating, loud and clear:
I am cursed. I am cursed. I am cursed I am cursed I a m c u r s e d . . .