Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You don’t have to do this,” Hunk says.

They’re given time, a brief handful of minutes to regroup. Hunk and Shiro retreat back to the archway they’d entered the enormous hall from; the Galra remain at the other side with the throne. The Clirians cluster around the two Paladins, the aliens muttering to themselves as they shift weapons in their fine-boned hands. Some have left their group to perch along the tiers on either side of the hall, slowly populating the space in a way that sends a shiver of unease down Shiro’s spine, though he can’t spare the energy to figure out why. His attention is fixed on the tier directly behind the Galra throne, where the other three Paladins watch uncomfortably.

They’re too far away to get to.

“I have to,” Shiro says. Even if the Galra didn’t have the rest of his crew as leverage, backing out isn’t an option. There’s something uncomfortable in the way the ground had murmured beneath his feet when he’d blurted out the Challenge; Shiro’s not sure if he’d imagined it. There’d been nothing in Coran’s report about stronger gravity on this planet, yet the pressure in this hall is undeniable. Shiro’s felt it from the moment he and Hunk first stepped through the door. “Hunk, I need you to listen. I’m not trusting that Galra to keep his word. If you see any opportunity to get to the others, you take it. Do you understand?”

Hunk’s bayard is still formed, the cannon gripped tightly in his hand. “I got it, but I don’t like this. Do you see how big that guy is?”

Yes. Shiro glances back over his shoulder. The massive Galra’s still seated on the throne, speaking to some of his minions. His posture is unworried and languid as he gestures across the hall with one enormous hand. Shiro wonders what he’s saying. Maybe Keith or one of the others could hear, but without their helmets there’s no way for Shiro or Hunk to get a hold of them.

Shiro can’t lose this.

“We’re here for you,” Allura says, in his ear. “The Galra are pulling back from their aerial attacks.”

Hunk frowns. “That’s great, don’t get me wrong, but - why? I thought they had the numbers. Did they get scared?”

“Of course they got scared,” Coran says. “We were winning!”

Shiro’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. “You guys okay up there?”

“We’re fine. The sky’s clear.” Allura’s voice is tight with worry. “Shiro - do you want us to come?”

“No,” Shiro says, sharp. “The last thing we need is either of you to be caught up in this. It’s my challenge. He accepted that. I can do this.”

“Black Paladin,” the leader of the Clirians, High Priest Filorn, interrupts. He and his junior priests remain closest to Hunk and Shiro on the step, having pushed their way to the front of the group. Filorn’s knuckles are white where he grips his staff. “How did you know the ancient words? How did you know exactly what to say to force Bretak to accept?”

“Ancient words?” Hunk repeats.

“I didn’t,” Shiro says, blinking. In the heat of the moment he’d meant to say something entirely different. Surrounded by Galra, with Hunk and the Clirian attack team just behind him, with Pidge and Keith and Lance helpless and looking on, Shiro’d locked eyes with the Galra-King and said I Challenge you instead of absolutely everything else. Instead of Let them go, instead of we don’t surrender, instead of everything sensible and sane he’d said I Challenge you, for my people and for this land and for the stones under your feet. I Challenge you to single battle until one of us cedes or falls. By rite and ancient law you cannot refuse me.

The words had just….come.

Filorn huffs, unconvinced. His gaze upon Shiro is serious. “You must be very careful. Bretak has ruled our planet for decades. He’s rooted in it very, very deeply. I have no doubt he’ll try and use that against you. This will not be an easy fight to win.”

“Gee, thanks, that’s real encouraging,” Hunk mutters. A breeze shivers in through the open roof, tumbling ash-red pebbles between the two Paladins and the throne on the other side. Bretak still has not moved, his black cloak billowing feebly in the wind. He doesn’t so much as glance their way.

The mission was supposed to be simple. Voltron had landed with the original intent to liberate this planet from the Galra interlopers. The urgent needs laid out by the Clirians had been straightforward: reclaim the capital, kick out the Galra, take back the planet’s sacred grounds. Shiro had been on board with every part of the plan up until Pidge and her team missed a check-in. Up until Shiro and Hunk burst through the archway straight onto the sacred ground, only to be confronted with the remnants of the Galra army. Up until the gravity in this room tugged at him, up until Shiro had blurted something he’d never heard before, up until the Galra who clearly fancied himself a King accepted it, and now…

Now here they are.

“What do your people say, before you go off to battle?” Talorit, the junior priest, inquires politely. “Are there ritualistic words of encouragement that you speak before a sacrificial duel?”

“Before a what?” Hunk gapes.

“It’s fine,” Shiro says, quickly. “And - no. Not really. A ‘good luck’ would do, I guess, but we don’t really…do this.”

“Then I wish you ‘a good luck’,” Filorn says, and he and his people bow low over their staffs. Every Clirian clustered near their group does as well, a wave of thick-shouldered, long-limbed people. Shiro should be touched by it. Should be honored. His heart’s not in it.

Did you know? he can’t help but wonder, as Filorn straightens up. Why didn’t you tell me the only way to retake your hall was through a Challenge?

Either way, it’s too late now. The Clirian priests and their contingent retreat back to the archway, taking position along the wide, low step that graces their end of the hall. A half-wall of stone surrounds most of the level, providing a perfect viewing location. Odd.

Their retreat leaves Hunk and Shiro alone on the floor. Shiro reaches up to tap his helmet’s microphone off, gesturing for Hunk to do the same.

“Hunk,” he says, quietly. “There’s one more thing.”

“Name it,” Hunk says. Across the way the Galra King roars with laughter at something his minions said. The noise echoes around the hall.

Pressure bends down on Shiro’s shoulders, curls up at his temples like sweat. If Hunk feels it too he gives no sign.

“Hunk,” Shiro starts. “If I don’t make it out of here -”

“No way, man, no way,” Hunk interrupts, vicious and immediate. “You don’t get to -”

“Hunk, listen,” Shiro snaps. His tone cuts right through Hunk’s panic. “I mean it. If I don’t make it out of here, I need you to get the others out. Whatever it takes. Get to them, get them out, keep them safe.” He swallows. “And tell them I’m proud of them.”

Hunk shakes his head, eyes wide and shining. “No, Shiro. I can’t promise that.”

“Hunk -”

“I’m not promising because you’re going to be fine,” Hunk says, just as urgent, just as low. “You can do this, Shiro. I know you can. You’re going to win. You always do.”

“Hunk, I need you to,” Shiro says, and lays his hand firmly on Hunk’s shoulder. “I need to know you’ll do this for me, if this goes badly. Promise me.”

The anger drains from Hunk in the slightest slumping of his shoulders, the quiver in his chin as he clenches his jaw resolutely. He gives a short, sharp nod.

Shiro squeezes his shoulder. “Thanks, buddy. And for the record, I’m proud of you too.”

“I am, too,” Hunk says, clapping Shiro on the shoulder as well. His grip is firm, his eyes hard with determination. “All of us are. You can do this, Shiro. Don’t make me keep this promise, okay? Keith’d never forgive you. And -”

Keith. Shiro glances across the way again, towards the tier where Keith and Pidge and Lance are being held. He can’t get close enough to them. This is the only way.

Keith will understand.

“I’ll do my best,” he says.

“Do more than your best,” Hunk commands, and squeezes Shiro’s shoulder too before letting go. “Kick. his. ass.”

Shiro nods, because he doesn’t trust his voice. Without looking back, without looking around, and without turning his microphone back on, Shiro pulls away and walks towards the center of the hall.

The Hall’s long and deep; three of the Castle’s ballrooms would fit in here with plenty of room to spare. The walls curve around the sacred ground, tiered in deep platforms that widen the space significantly from near the floor all the way up and out. The tiers were empty when Shiro and Hunk first burst into the hall; now the Clirians have taken over some of them, holding position, keeping court. The remainder are filling with a chatter Shiro forces himself to ignore. He can do this. He will do this. He can’t afford distractions.

Shiro walks forwards on the rock-scattered, red-tinted pale soil. Nothing grows here. He can imagine vividly how dark this hall must have been until only an hour ago, clouded over with the purple energy barrier that guarded the capital city from all intruders before Voltron arrived. How the Clirians had been forced away from their sacred ground, thirty years ago. How the battle must have gone, the Clirian King standing in alarm from the throne as the Galra army advances through the door Shiro’s come from. A wicked grin on the face of the interloper as he throws the body of the then-priest to the ground. The smug victory dripping from the Galra’s voice as he says I Challenge you; you cannot refuse me -

Shiro blinks, hard. The vision clears. Where had that come from?

…he doesn’t have time for this. The sky through the open roof is pale, not washed in purple. Pidge had brought the barrier down. Clever Pidge; with Keith and Lance to guard her back, the team was supposed to be subtle and swift and meet them here.

They had, just not in the way any of them had planned.

Shiro walks. He’s going to get them all out of this.

Including himself.

“And so the Challenger arrives,” Bretak the Galra-King says, once Shiro’s close enough. The Galra is massive, seated in the stone throne made entirely of the same gray-red ash as the soil. He’s too big for it, fur and fat spilling out of the chair where he perches. Nothing marks him as a king other than his position in the seat Shiro promised the Clirians he’d overtake: no crown, no ornaments, nothing. The pitiful breeze twitches the hem of the Galra’s jet-black cloak. His yellow eyes gleam, sharp and glinting.

“Shiro!” Lance cries, from above. “Shiro, no!”

“Everything’s going to be fine, Lance,” Shiro calls. Lance, Keith, and Pidge stare down at him from up behind the Galra-King, trapped shoulder to shoulder. “You guys alright?”

“We’re fine,” Pidge calls back tightly. She’s unharmed, her eyes wide and scared behind her glasses. Lance is the only one visibly bleeding, crusted blood drying along the side of his temple. Shiro can’t tell if there’s more damage than that, but Lance is standing, alert, and that’s all Shiro can ask for. Keith -

Keith is frozen next to Pidge, unharmed too except for the flat, trapped terror and rage in his eyes.

I’m sorry, Shiro doesn’t say. Keith’s eyes widen. He leans forward across the stone rail, but one of the half-dozen Galra guards yanks him back.

“Shiro!” Keith yells, and it tears through him like a shot.

“Sit tight,” Shiro orders, and forces his gaze away from his team back to the interloper-King.

“Brave words,” Bretak says. “I admire that. I’ll give you one chance: back out now, and I’ll spare your crew. The five of you can leave this planet unharmed, if you leave now and take your challenge with you.”

The air presses down on him, urging.

“I can’t,” Shiro says. Where the confidence comes from he isn’t certain. It’s like he’s watching himself speak, the words flowing through him without permission. There’s a distance between him and what’s happening. “And neither can you. You accepted my challenge; you know the laws as well as I do. The only way either of us is leaving is if you cede your claim to that throne, and I spare your life. Take your Galra and go. This is your only warning.”

Laws?

Shiro blinks. What laws? Why had he said that, too?

The Galra just grins, yellow eyes gleaming. “Then the only way you’ll leave will be dead.”

“No!” Pidge cries.

“Be quiet,” the King orders. One of the Galra guards raises their electro-staff. Quick as lightning, Keith pushes Pidge aside by slamming his shoulder into hers, sending her sprawling into Lance as Keith takes the blow instead. He screams as the electricity courses through him, harsh and jerking.

“Don’t!” Shiro yells, over Lance and Pidge’s angry shouts. Pidge springs back up; the guards grab her and Lance, yanking them back from Keith. “Stop! Let them go!”

“You’re not in a position to make demands,” the Galra-King comments idly. “Do you even know what laws you’re playing with?”

“Shiro,” Keith gasps. Shiro stops short. Keith looks down at him; Keith’s angry, frustrated, trapped, but most of all he’s desperate. Shiro nearly flinches from the resolute terror in his best friend’s eyes. Keith’s begging. “Don’t do this. We’ll be fine, don’t do this -”

“Touching,” Bretak drawls, and waves his hand. The guard strikes. Keith cries out again.

“Stop it!” Shiro yells, “Leave them alone. Your fight is with me.”

Bretak gestures again. To Shiro’s relief the guards stop. Pidge rips away from the grip on her arms and rushes back to Keith. Shiro can’t hear what she says.

“Yes,” Bretak says, slowly. “Yes, it is.”

The Galra stands. As large as he was sitting down he’s even more massive standing up. He towers above Shiro, larger than Sendak was, taller and wider and fiercer. He unfastens his cloak. Thick red armor wraps around his torso and limbs, protective and strong.

Shiro’s heart sinks somewhere down to his feet.

“I’ve heard of you,” Bretak continues, casting the cloak aside. The fabric flutters to the ground, unaffected by the gravity pulling at Shiro’s bones. “The Champion, most favored in Zarkon’s arena. Undefeated. Escaped. What luck.”

A murmur rises from the Clirians gathered behind and around.

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Shiro says.

Bretak shrugs, a ripple of his wide shoulders. His armor’s well-plated even at the joints. Shiro will have to be careful. Bretak’s not exhibiting any signs of genetic modification like Sendak had, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing up his sleeve.

“Tell me, Champion,” Bretak says. Shiro’s reluctant title in the Galra’s mouth is an insult. “What is life like outside of this planet? Is it everything you thought it would be? I can’t imagine much has changed in three decades.”

“Cede and find out for yourself,” Shiro says. The gravity tugs at him, insistent. He’s done. “Last chance.”

“You’ll regret not doing the same.”

Shiro shifts his weight, preparing. “I’ve beaten your kind before.”

“So you have,” Bretak says, with a simple grin of sharp, feral teeth. He raises his hands. “Shall we make you more at home?”

The ground trembles, minutely at first, tiny ash-red pebbles bouncing at Shiro’s feet. The stones quiver, faster and faster as the shaking picks up speed. Visible power flows from Bretak’s fingers, tendrils of grey light reaching from the ground to his fingertips, dripping from his open palms, wrapping around his feet.

He’s rooted in it, Filorn’d said.

Oh, no.

That’s all the warning Shiro has. The floor bucks, a visible wave. Shiro barely manages to keep his footing. Something crashes to his left. A pillar of stone rises from the floor some several feet away, growing taller and stretching for the sky as Shiro stares, jaw agape. Something crashes to his right - a second pillar, just like the first. Two more join them: in total four pillars rise from the ground, shaking and groaning from the force of Bretak’s summoning. The four pillars hook at the top, jagged curves several stories high, and halt.

The stones settle. Shiro gapes.

“Is that better?” Bretak practically purrs.

He’s seen those pillars before.

How many times has he seen pillars like this before.

The four pillars mark corners of a perfect square in what used to be an uninterrupted floor space, trapping him, locking him in. The pillars are the wrong color but the jagged curves are distinctive. Shiro’d know that shape anywhere.

He’s taken a step back, staring wildly. The pillars are ash-red and white; they overlay with the purple and reflective columns Shiro’s seen countless times until he can’t distinguish between the two of them. The wall surrounding the floorspace is tall, too tall to climb. The stands are full of aliens frighteningly diverse, a raucous mix of bloodthirsty languages and screaming voices. He’s the challenger; he’s the defender. He’s coming through the challenger’s hall with the rest of the prisoners; he’s in the middle of the arena told to defend or die, he’s not here, he’s on Zarkon’s ship, he never left -

“More your natural habitat, I think,” Bretak says. “What will you do when I’ve sent you back there?”

His voice breaks through the flashback and Shiro tries to grasp it, tries to root himself back in the here and now. It’s not the same. He’s not back there. This isn’t an arena, this is -

Voices reach his ears, clamoring for his attention. Breathing fast, too fast, Shiro finally, finally turns to the rest of the tiers surrounding the curved walls. Before they were nearly empty, filled only with a steadily growing scattering of Clirians. Shiro had assumed the hum of noise was them.

It’s not. The tiers are full almost to bursting, bodies clustered on each level all the way up the walls. They’re not all Clirians.

Most of them are Galra.

Galra soldiers and officers blur together in a sea of dark purples and blacks too many to count. That’s why the city’d fallen silent. That’s why the airships had stopped their attacks on the castle. They’d all come here. They’d come on command after all, to fill up the tiers, to watch -

No.

Those aren’t tiers, either.

They’re seats.

They’re gradated seats for people to watch whatever happens down here on the floor. That’s why they have railings. That’s why either end of the hall has a long box for immediate family or team of the Challenger, of the Royalty - it’s all there on purpose. This is a sacred ground of rituals, sure, but the throne at the hall’s other end is there by position only, because.

Because.

Shiro can’t breathe.

This isn’t a hall.

This is an arena.

And he’s dead center in the middle of it.

“Vrepit sa,” someone shouts from the Galra conglomeration, a chant that picks up speed and volume as voice after voice takes it up. Bretak steps down from the throne, cracking his knuckles. His weight shakes the floor, a shock-cloud rippling from where he sets down each foot. Shiro can’t tell if that’s real or if it’s just his doubled imagination. “Vrepit sa, vrepit sa, vrepit sa!”

The noise of the crowd rings in Shiro’s ears. He staggers back; he’s frozen; he can’t get away from the screaming. The wall of sound wraps around him and tears him between two realities: purple stands, fluorescent lights. Ash-red floor, white sky. Dark armored bodies, screaming for blood; pillars stretching up in the enclosed space. No light, no light, a sword in his hand, a throbbing stump, the burning heavy weight of a new arm - not mine, not mine, voices yelling, hollering for blood and death and he can’t, Shiro can’t, he can’t tell -

A shrill whistle slices through the noise. It cuts straight into Shiro’s panic; he stumbles, physically thrown. The noise sounds again, so distinctly different that it slams Shiro viciously back into the here-and-now. He blinks. The arena’s colors settle back to ashen and stone. The light’s white. Shiro looks up.

Lance has raised both his bound hands to his mouth and lets out another wolf-whistle, loudly piercing through the Galra chant. He grins when he sees Shiro watching, waving his hands and shouting something Shiro can’t make out. Keith’s shouting too, actually, and Pidge is pointing -

Bretak’s charging across the arena floor straight for him. Shiro leaps to the side and Bretak’s punch smashes into one of the pillars instead. Shiro pops up a good distance away, lightly dusted with ash but unharmed thanks to his team’s quick thinking.

“VolTRON!” Lance shouts. Now Shiro can make it out. “Vol -”

“- tron!” Pidge yells. “Vol -”

“VOLTRON,” Keith hollers at her side.

“KICK HIS ASS, SHIRO,” Hunk bellows.

Bretak readjusts, turning. Power drips from his closed fist, grey-black and sickly. Shiro activates his Galra prosthetic with a quick flick-straighten of his fingers. It hums to life, glowing. If it’s an arena fight Bretak wants, it’s an arena fight he’ll get.

“That’s what the Druids saw fit to give you?” Bretak asks, crude skepticism in every syllable. “Thirty years, and that’s the best they could come up with? And for you?”

An arc of clear energy splits the air above, curving over their heads like a domed barrier from the throne to the challenger’s door. It seals them in, sizzling, fading to translucence, affecting neither sound nor light. The stands are still perfectly discernible. So are the cheers. The crowd’s roaring. His friends chanting, calling his name. The whisper of the ground, pulling down on both of them. Shiro’s not here to play.

Fight. Fight. Fight!

He’s here to win.

He has to.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Shiro says, and strikes.

Bretak’s fast and Bretak’s powerful. He uses his size to his advantage, pivoting out of Shiro’s hit and punching hard. Shiro dodges. Bretak’s fist slams into the ground, which trembles from the impact. Shiro keeps his footing, driving forwards. The problem’s not Bretak’s strength so much as it is that armor. As long as Bretak’s protected Shiro won’t be able to take him down.

He twists up and in, striking at the elbow where the armor might be weaker. Bretak jerks backwards so Shiro’s hand only grazes, doesn’t cut. So much for a first hit. Shiro flips head-over-heels out of the way. There’s no time to stand: Bretak can take one step for every three of Shiro’s. But Shiro’s smaller, and Shiro’s faster. He skids to the side. Bretak’s punch rings back into the pillar, cracking it again from the impact. Shiro’s already up and striking for the Galra’s back; Bretak turns but too late. Galra armor is not invincible to Druidic steel. Shiro scores a deep purple line into the armor from waist to shoulder.

First hit. The Clirians go wild.

“Voltron, Voltron, Voltron!”

The armor doesn’t connect at the shoulder; Bretak jerks free before Shiro can cut into the fabric. The Galra pivots to strike at the bug on his back. Shiro slides in the same direction, ducking under the Galra’s arm and all the way around. He rips his hand up and along the front of the armor, a sharp gash that again shines purple from the heat. Second hit.

“Voltron, Voltron, Voltron!”

Bretak swings; Shiro leaps out of the way, activating his jetpack for that last extra foot of space. Bretak’s fist collides with the ground instead, sending rock and bits of dirt flying.

“You miss the world outside?” Shiro taunts, landing clear. “Thirty years is a long time to be stuck in a crater.”

“It is an honor to serve the will of the Emperor,” Bretak snarls. Shiro’s hits have left two stark slashes in the armor, front and back cuts still glowing with the aftershock. Shiro can’t tell how deeply he cut. “He rewards me well for sending him this planet’s gifts. Imagine the riches when I have returned to him the Paladins of Voltron and their escaped rat of a leader.”

“You’re one to talk about rats,” Shiro comments, and they lunge back at it.

It’s hit after hit, dodge after dodge. Strike, fall back, repeat, yes. Shiro scores a third hit, not in the same locations as before but across Bretak’s chest. Deeper, but not through. Again he dances out of range with the jetpack, squeaking just clear of a kick.

But Bretak didn’t come to play, either.

“Enough,” the Galra-King growls, and slaps his massive palm down into the ground.

The ground screams. Soil shatters.

Debris flies everywhere, rocks and ash clouding the sky. Shiro’s helmet activates automatically so he can breathe, but he can’t see. The cloud’s too thick. Where -

A boulder hurtles towards him out of nowhere, easily twice the size of Shiro’s chest plate.

Shiro dodges. He leaps out of the way of a second rock, following immediately after from a different angle. But turning to avoid the third means Bretak gets in a lucky shot. The fourth enormous rock slams into Shiro’s back, sending him sprawling to the ground just as the dust cloud clears.

“SHIRO!”

“Vrepit sa!” chant the Galra, cheering. “Vrepit sa!”

Groaning, Shiro picks himself up. He’s not hurt; his armor took the brunt of the blow. His armor - oh no. Shiro twists. One of the thrusters on his jetpack sparks at him, an apologetic smash of wiring and smoke. Useless.

Oh well. He hadn’t had a jetpack in the arena. He doesn’t need one now. What he does need is a way to break through the rest of that armor.

“Shiro!” someone shouts, again. It’s Lance. Shiro’s landed on the side of the arena by the throne, nearly under where his team’s being held. If Shiro looked up he’d see their worry, their concern, their fear.

“I’m fine,” Shiro calls, already turning back. He can’t spare the time.

Bretak stands in the middle of a new crater, grey smoke rising from its surface. He’s frowning, a deep crease on his furry fat face. “That should have killed you.”

Shiro shrugs, spreading his hands wide. “Humans. You missed, basically.”

Bretak steps up from the crater. Shiro shifts slowly to the left; Bretak keeps pace, circling around the crater’s edge to the right. He’s close to it. Close enough to push? No. “Humans indeed. I can see why Zarkon was so fascinated with you. You must have put on quite the show.”

“Foolish to keep going, then.” Shiro picks his steps carefully, scanning the new additions to the floor. Giant hole. Large scattered boulders. Debris. There must be something -

His gaze lands on one of the pillars, damaged from the first hits.

Ah ha.

Not a moment too soon. Bretak slaps both palms to the soil. The arena sways violently as he tears open a larger crater, debris and ash flying into the air.

Shiro’s ready for it. The second the dust hits the air he abandons caution and sprints for the arena’s other side. He misjudges the distance and almost runs into the pillar, nearly cracking his nose against its hard surface. Shiro skids around the base, putting the pillar squarely between him and the threat. Just in time. The first of the boulders slams into the other side of the pillar, which shakes and cracks, but holds.

Perfect.

Bretak’s first punch cracked the surface. Shiro digs his fingers into it, jams his prosthetic into another hold, and yanks himself up.

The world overlaps briefly, purple on white, crowd on crowd as Shiro searches for handholds. The pillars in the arena weren’t this user-friendly; he’d managed to get up here once, but the surface was slick and Shiro definitely didn’t make it this far. He shakes his head. The pillar beneath his grip resolves again into ashen stone. He doesn’t have time for this.

When the debris cloud clears Shiro’s halfway up the pillar, using the Galra prosthetic to carve new holds whenever the reach is too far. He judges his distance from the ground - far enough - and waits.

The roar of the crowd is deafening. Shiro squeezes his eyes shut, just for a moment. Vrepit sa blends into Voltron blends into kill him, kill him, harsh syllables overlaying in brutal words. If someone’s shouting for him, just for Shiro, all the noise of the crowd and his own pounding heart drown it out.

He can do this. Shiro’s not one for giving up.

He’s certainly not going to start now.

Shiro leans out slightly, craning around the side of the pillar. Bretak lurks in the middle of the arena, stalking outside a new crater considerably larger than its predecessor. The Galra’s confused, searching the sides of the arena, a predator hunting for prey. It’s only a matter of time. The Galra in the stands are shouting indecipherably, pointing in Shiro’s direction. All too soon Bretak’s head whips up. His yellow eyes narrow.

Come on.

“Running, are we?” Bretak calls. “Is this how the famed Champion won in the arena? By running away? No wonder your escape was successful. You’ve clearly had a lot of practice.”

Shiro doesn’t answer. His hand grips into the pillar, Galra fingers crunching into the stone. The stone whines under his fingers; no. Shiro’s imagining that. He eases, but doesn’t let go. His other glove holds up, though his fingers sting. Altean cloth is really something.

“Is this what humans do?” Bretak is in no hurry. “Is cowardice a hallmark of your species? Come down and fight!”

Shiro’s not worried. Not yet. Bretak doesn’t have an extendable arm like Sendak. He can’t reach Shiro up here. Shiro just needs him to be closer-

Bretak stops a good five feet away.

What?

Grey-black drips from large fingers, almost thoughtful. Bretak grins. “Or should I make you?”

Shiro’s eyes widen. Oh, no -

The pillar bucks, the stone under his hands coming to fluid life as it wobbles like jelly. Shiro yelps and digs his Galra hand in deeper, clinging hard. His feet kick loose, dangling out over nothing. The pillar slingshots back and forth like a wave. Shiro grits his teeth, digs in deeper, hangs on. He can’t - almost - not yet -

- but the pillar’s swaying, falling, and even Bretak can’t control all the gravity. It’ll have to do.

As the pillar leans back in Bretak’s direction, Shiro uses its momentum and the arena’s stronger gravity and leaps.

Bretak sees but too late. Shiro’s falling with a yell, striking down at Bretak’s neck. The Galra twists and Shiro’s hand slices not through his spine but the back of his armor, so deep Shiro’s fingers catch. He yanks his hand, hard, activating his half-a-jetpack at the last second and jerking loose in a barely-controlled curve.

Shiro hits the ground, rolling free. So do the two pieces of Bretak’s chest plate, weakened by Shiro’s earlier attacks. The back portion of the armor falls away with a clank; with nothing to attach to at the shoulders the front piece does as well. Bretak’s left in the dark fabric of his undersuit and the armor still fastened around his arms and his legs.

That’s it.

Shiro’s done it.

He’s done it.

The Clirians go wild. Shiro can just barely make out Hunk’s proud yelling, Lance’s wolf-whistle piercing above everything else in mad celebration. Bretak turns, rage etched in every line of his face. “You little -”

“What were you saying about humans?” Shiro snarls, and attacks.

They strike, hit, dodge, weave. The battle’s been going for what, three minutes? Five? Shiro has to end this, and fast. He can’t afford to make even the smallest mistake.

An inch is all it takes.

Bretak pushes a little too wide and Shiro stumbles out of the way just a hair too far. The second crater’s much closer than it should be - before he can so much as blink Shiro’s overbalancing on the edge. He’s falling backwards, tipping head-over-heels in.

He never hits the ground. Bretak’s there, right there, he grabs Shiro’s leg and hauls him straight up into the air. Shiro dangles in his grip, upside-down.

Oh shit.

“Shiro!” someone screams; Shiro can’t tell who. Blood pounds in his ears. The crowd roars, a mix of syllables Shiro doesn’t have time to figure out. Bretak’s grip on his ankle is bone-gratingly tight. He drags the struggling Paladin up to eye level. Burning yellow meets upside-down grey.

“Now then,” Bretak says. “You and I -”

Shiro swings forward in a mid-air sit-up and stabs his Galra arm right into Bretak’s elbow.

Bretak drops him with a cry. Shiro’s arm slices through the weak joint of the armor as he falls. He lands hard, rolling again and again, and scrambles up. Bretak’s not chasing; he’s clutching at his arm, howling in pain. Blood drips between his purple fingers.

First blood.

“Cede to me,” Shiro orders, standing fully. His ankle’s tender but bears weight. The crowd hushes. “You and yours can leave. See the outside world again. I’ll even let you go back to Zarkon and tell him who beat you.”

“Don’t be so noble, Shiro!” Lance hollers. “He tried to kill you! Kill him dead!”

Bretak shakes his head. Fiery resolve paints his features, thunderously angry.

“Do it,” he orders, “Do it now!”

For a second Shiro thinks Bretak’s talking to him. Then every Galra in the front tiers pulls their blaster in one fluid motion, aiming them squarely into the arena.

At Shiro.

What - ?!

Shiro can’t even dodge, where would he - his feet are frozen -

“We’re done,” Bretak commands, and raises his hand.

“SHIRO!”

The Galra fire. Every shot zips straight into the arena, dead on him.

None of them hit.

The barrier shield blooms into stark visibility, a clear wave of energy immediately absorbing the blows. The blaster bolts hit it and bounce back into the stands. Aliens scream and duck for cover. The shield over the arena floor ripples and ripples. Not a single shot gets through.

“How dare you!” Hunk bellows, “Let me go - I’ll kill ‘im - let me go!”

Shiro’s too shaken to speak. Something else pulls at him, something indescribable and heavy. It insists.

Bretak growls in anger, turning to Shiro. “What kind of wizardry are you -”

Just like before the words spring from nowhere. They press up through panic, racing up from his feet through his tongue.

“You cannot interrupt,” Shiro says. Something beyond him urges the syllables free. He lets them. “The Challenge is between you and me. No one else. No one else may interfere until our Challenge is complete.”

He blinks. That’s…where had that come from?

Bretak stares, yellow eyes narrowed. Shiro’s heart is pounding, fit to burst out of his chest from the near miss. Something’s looking out for him. Something’s going on. Something…deeper…? A breeze blows between the two combatants, stronger than before.

“Fine,” Bretak snarls, and gestures his massive hand back to the throne. “Give me a weapon. I’ll end this myself.”

“That’s cheating!” Pidge yells, furious. Bretak stalks to the throne, the stone seat inside the shield with them. From behind it he picks up an enormous scythe - no, it’s a sickle, the curved blade glinting wickedly where it attaches to a long chain, balanced on the other end with a heavy globe of iron. Bretak hefts the chain in his hand, testing its weight. “That’s cheating!”

Pidge, calm down, Shiro should say, but he can’t. He can’t move. Bretak wraps the chain around his hand and turns back to face him.

He’s grinning.

“Good luck, Champion.”

Chapter Text

The chain sails through the air, the ball at its end whistling as it arches high and fast. Paralysis breaks and Shiro dives out of the way. The weighted globe crashes down where he’d been. Dirt flies. Bretak casts again; Shiro jerks aside, nearly tripping into one of the craters. Any advantage he had is utterly gone.

“C’mon, Shiro!”

Think. Think. This isn’t ideal. If Shiro misjudges again this could be disastrous. Can he even take a hit from that? With the momentum -

“Shiro, look out!”

Shiro throws himself to the side. The ball slams down. Bretak pushes forwards. Shiro gains his feet and races round the nearest pillar, scrambling for time. Think, Shiro! He must’ve fought against actual weapons before in the arena. He must’ve fought a battle where his opponents had one and he didn’t, beyond or before the prosthetic. Just because Shiro doesn’t remember them -

The whistle through the air’s all the warning he has. Shiro throws himself flat. The globe sails around the pillar, chain whistling as it embeds like a whip, coiled and stern. If Shiro’d been standing he’d be trapped with it, or worse.

Shit.

Shiro lurches to his feet, bolting out from behind his meager cover. The chain’s embedded in the pillar, stuck. Bretak yanks on it, but it doesn’t budge. Shiro charges forward; Bretak counters with the sickle-end of the weapon, bringing it down hard on Shiro’s Galra arm. Sparks fly, steel on steel. Shiro grits his teeth and jerks back, disengaging. The impact stings all the way up to his shoulder. This isn’t smart. This isn’t smart. Bretak shifts his grip on what’s left of the chain and lunges. The chain snaps taut, limiting his mobility; Shiro darts backwards, out of range. He needs a plan. He needs -

Bretak snarls his rage and heaves with all his strength. Black-grey floods from his fingertips. The pillar disintegrates in a crashing mass of rock and stone. He whips the chain free, ball swinging overhead.

Shiro leaps, smashing into the ground in his haste to evade. He skids from the impact, head over heels and nearly dizzy. He catches his shoulder on something as he flips, a painful twist of muscle. Bretak’s coming, he has to get up -

Oh.

His left hand rests on what tripped him up.

It’s the two pieces of Bretak’s armor.

Shiro grabs one of them, pulling it up to guard just as the heavy weight drops down.

The ball slams into the shield. Shiro grunts from the impact, but the armor holds. It’s the crudest of shields but it’s saved him. Shiro’s won with less.

There’s no time for contemplation. Bretak calls the chain back, readying another swing. Shiro lurches to his feet, grabs the second piece of armor, and heaves. The armor curves and flies like a discus across the arena. Caught unawares, Bretak ducks but he’s too large; the armor clips him in the shoulder, knocking him back. His fingers fumble and drop the weapon. Shiro’s right there, swinging with a great cry as he strikes at Bretak’s unprotected chest. The Galra jerks backwards; Shiro presses in, fast and furious. If Bretak picks up that chain -

Worse.

Bretak smashes his arm down on Shiro’s makeshift shield. He’s heavy. Shiro braces with both arms but his feet slip against the stone. Bretak pushes with all his considerable weight; Shiro’s heels slide inch by frustrating inch. He can’t - hold this for long -

With a roar Bretak heaves. Shiro’s sent flying, landing rough on his back and skidding so hard his impact makes a furrow in the ground. The shield flies from his shocked fingers. All the breath is knocked out of him.

A whistle through the air.

“SHIRO LOOK OUT!”

The shield’s out of reach. Shiro flings his metal arm up to take the hit.

The heavy ball slams into and through his arm.

Shiro screams.

Electricity bursts from the site of impact, sparking arcs inches high that burn and break with the tearing force. It’s a short-circuit in the kindest of words; electrocution in the worst. Wires tear, rods snap, parts fly. Searing heat shoots through metal veins up his arm to what’s left of his real bicep. It’s agony.

It’s not a straight throw, which is Shiro’s only saving grace. The ball doesn’t sail through his arm and straight into his nose. The angle of the toss means it clips the top of his prosthetic, digging out a chunk on its way to the ground mere centimeters past his ear. The chain actually does the most damage as it snags on something inside his arm and yanks through, following the weighted globe. Shiro’s flipped over with the force of it, his helmet smashing into rough dirt.

Something cracks in his armor; Shiro doesn’t have time. He scrabbles at the chain with his left hand, writhing. He’s in so much pain, his fingers keep slipping off with a shaking dearth of dexterity. The chain’s snagged on a broken metal rod, bearing down with unbelievable pressure. Wires spark, burning the glove on his left hand as he tries to unhook the chain. He has to, he’s screaming, there’s no time -

“Shiro! SHIRO!”

The chain tugs from the other end. Shiro’s yanked by his arm, the broken limb dragged up and overhead until gravity pulls the chain free for him. It and the weight sail back to their owner. Shiro crashes to the ground, crying out. Every nerve in his arm screams at him, burning, he’s being electrocuted from the ceaseless, terrible heat. Every movement jars the broken rods further, exposed ends scraping against the ground. A huge chunk of his forearm is missing, blown out in pieces on the stone. Though they’re intact he can’t move his fingers. It - he -

He has to. He has to. Shiro grits his teeth, tasting blood, and wills his arm to light up.

It flickers purple, sharp, and does.

All-encompassing pain sears up his arm, stabbing agony straight up his shoulder as the electricity arcs, uncontained. Shiro doubles over, choking on a cry. It hurts. It hurts. It’s gone, it’s crushed, he can’t feel his fingers. The bone’s broken; no, there’s no bone, the rods; everything’s mangled. Shiro can’t - it was an accident - he’d misjudged - purple pillars flash overhead, the walls are the wrong color, sand presses into his cheek. Everyone’s shouting. He has to get up. He has to get up. There’s no time -

Caught in twin worlds of pain and horror, Shiro can’t so much as twitch when Bretak lifts him, bodily hauling Shiro into the air by the cracked plate of the black paladin armor.

“Look at you,” Bretak says. The world’s still purple, horrifying, frozen. “Some Champion. Pitiful.”

Pitiful.

Someone’s shouting. Maybe it’s his name. Maybe it’s the chanting of aliens in the stands, wild. The Champion brought low at last due to a misstep and one lost limb. It’s the same. He hasn’t gotten anywhere after all.

“Don’t worry.” Bretak’s other hand trails along Shiro’s injured shoulder down to his wrist. He squeezes; Shiro cries out. “The Druids will fix this right up. Perhaps Haggar even has a new model to gift to you. That is, if she chooses to reward the pitiful human who tried so hard. Pitiful human who couldn’t even run away successfully.”

Pitiful, sneers the alien with six limbs, standing tall and barely scratched in front of him. Shiro’s arm is mangled, broken, dangling by skin only. The monster’s grabbed him, pulling -

The words all blend together. The walls bleed, purple and dark. Shiro’s eyes flicker up weakly, past Zarkon’s box, all the way up. The barrier ripples in place, pulsing like something’s pounding on it from the outside. They can’t get in. He can’t get out. The Galra will never let him leave. He’ll never see those clouds again from anywhere but in here.

Wait.

Clouds?

“Let this be a lesson to you,” Bretak announces. His voice carries across the arena easily as he pulls Shiro’s arm straight up, gripping tight, letting him hang by the arm alone. The rods grind. “A human will never stand against a Galra. Look. Is this your Champion? This is who you would send against the Galra Empire?”

Take a good look, the six-limbed monster sneers. Shiro’s trapped, caught in his grip. This is how the Champion ends.

“In the end, none can stand against Zarkon.”

Wait.

Wait.

It’s not a full memory, not really, but it’s enough.

This is how the Champion ends, the monster had said, the monster who ruined his arm. And Shiro’d said -

Shiro gasps.

The parallels are undeniable, but so are the differences. The fight. The people depending on him. An entire planet. His crew. His friends. Hunk, having to keep a terrible promise. Pidge, never able to find her brother. Lance, never seeing his home again. Keith.

Keith.

No.

Shiro, brave, desperate, broken and whole despite it, looks up at the clouds and finally understands.

He’s still here.

He’s still here, same situation, different sky, because in that horrible past battle Shiro had faced the unthinkable and Shiro had won.

“In the end none can stand against the Galra Empire,” Bretak finishes. Shiro dangles in his grip still, all his weight on his broken arm. Bretak’s grip is strong around the palm of Shiro’s sparking, twitching hand. Shiro can’t move his fingers. Not without electrocuting himself. “It’s over. This is how the Champion ends.”

“No,” Shiro snarls, and activates his Galra hand anyway.

The electrocution is agony but his hand lights up purple with heat and that’s all Shiro cares about. Fur and flesh burn, the acrid charred smell rising. Shiro yanks deep and down, straight into the hand gripping his. Four of Bretak’s fingers slice clean off. Hot blood sprays everywhere. Shiro’s arm is screaming, or maybe that’s him; Bretak drops him, roaring with pain. Shiro tucks and rolls, but his arm’s in so much pain he can’t balance. He crashes into the ground in an ungraceful heap.

Find cover. Find the shield. Find -

He barely makes it three steps. Bretak recovers fast and grabs Shiro from behind. With his now single hand Bretak lifts and flings Shiro across the arena like he’s nothing. Shiro slams into the ground shoulders first, skidding hard in a terrible furrow. His helmet cracks against a stone. Shiro cries out, trying to get a hold, but the momentum’s too great. When he finally stops he’s sprawled, gasping for breath, wind gone.

“Shiro! Shiro!”

Dazed, ears ringing, Shiro picks himself up. He’s back near the Challenger’s Door. Hunk stands on the other side of the still-visible ritual’s barrier, rippling where his fists pound against it. Shiro’s been thrown all the way across the arena. Hunk’s face is awash in terrified horror.

“SHIRO LOOK OUT!”

The chain whistles through the air; Shiro flings himself desperately to the side. He’s staggering, tripping over himself as Bretak recalls the chain, launches it again. Shiro’s got nothing. No weapons, no shield, his armor’s cracked, his arm -

But he’s not going to give up, he didn’t go through this much to lose everything again -

Distance. That’s what Shiro has, that’s what Shiro’s got to keep. Distance until he can come up with -

The ground groans, heaving. The entire arena shudders with the magnitude. Shiro stumbles, tossed like a toy boat on the waves as the stone bucks beneath his feet. He catches himself but it’s on his bad arm, can’t bear the weight, he crashes down, shit, get to your feet, get to your feet -

He doesn’t make it.

The chain collides with and curls around his mangled arm, snagging on the broken wires and rods with horrific, torturous pressure. Bretak pulls. With the chain wrapped taut around him Shiro doesn’t stand a chance. He’s yanked forwards, dragged like a child might throw a toy. Bretak pulls and Shiro flies.

Shiro smashes into one of the two pillars still standing. Stars burst behind his eyes. Hot pain explodes in his chest. Unable to stop his descent or even catch himself he lands, hard, on the arm still wrapped in chain. He’s out of breath for screaming. He can’t breathe. He has to get this off him - he can’t see -

Bretak snarls, “Try and survive this, you little rat.”

The pillar at his back wobbles like jelly. Shiro knows exactly what’s going to happen a split second before it does. He only has time to curl his damaged arm underneath him before the entire pillar comes crashing down.

Rocks and debris rain on him. His helmet activates the full face shield immediately - or would, but it’s cracked, sparking over his vision. Shiro chokes on dust and ash. The debris glances off his already broken armor. It’s a barrage, an avalanche that presses down on him and swallows him whole.

When it’s over, he’s curled in a tiny pocket of silence. There’s air. Miraculously the space around his head is clear, though he can’t move. It’s so dark he’s not even sure his eyes are open. His eyelashes drag against his cheeks. The weight of the soil bears down on his shoulders, his limbs - he’s trapped.

Panic claws at his chest, harsh and bitter. Dimly he can hear Bretak moving; no. Shiro can feel it. Each footstep the Galra takes resonates on the ground and through the very soil that has Shiro imprisoned. It echoes into his chest, low, coarse, and -

- quivering?

“I hope that didn’t actually kill you,” Bretak says, muffled through layers of debris. Shiro squeezes his eyes shut. “I can tell Emperor  Zarkon about my achievement, of course, but returning you to him alive would be so much more satisfying. Don’t you agree?”

No. No no no no no. Terror shoots through him, a tendril of dark fear finally leaping to life. He can’t fight it. He can’t go back. He can’t -

The ground shakes as Bretak advances. The soil around Shiro quivers, murmuring, stones whimpering beneath the pads of his fingers.

Wait.

Shiro’s eyes fly open. This isn’t the first time he’s - heard -

The ground groaning, heaved into another earthquake.

The stone whining beneath Shiro’s climbing fingers, when he’d gripped…too tight…?

The soil screaming as it shatters, as Bretak floods its own power back into it. Pulls pillars out of nowhere, creates craters, explosions -

Oh.

Oh.

Bretak can do all of that manipulation not because of any innate Galra magic, but because -

He’s rooted in it, the Clirian priest had said. Very, very deeply.

- because of the planet’s own power, bound to the throne that Bretak took and controls by force.

The pressure bearing down on him. The words filling his tongue. The gravity, the weight, the whispers - all of it makes an absolutely absurd sort of sense.

Shiro’s not trembling, this time. The ground is. These tremors are different than Bretak’s earthquakes; small, nearly minute. Quivers.

The planet’s afraid.

A crazy idea takes form, but it’s all Shiro’s got. He digs his flesh-and-blood fingers into the soil.

Please, Shiro thinks, desperate and deliberate. Please. If you can hear me - don’t be afraid. I know what it’s like. I know what it’s like to have to do things against your will. You won’t have to anymore. Not if you help me.

Talking to a planet. Is this what it’s come to?

Footsteps pause right outside the living tomb. “Shall we see what’s in there?” Bretak purrs.

Please, Shiro thinks harder. The dirt stings against his hand. Gravity’s pulling at him, bending like before, but this time nothing’s shoving words in his head. It’s just Shiro, pushing the other way. We can do this. I’ve been their prisoner too. I know what it’s like. You’ve been captive for far longer than I have. I can get us both out of this if you help, just please -  I know what it’s like -

The chain tugs, a cruel jerk against the wires of his damaged arm. Shiro can’t swallow his gasp of pain. His fingers curl into damp dirt, wet and soft. They’re out of time.

“So you are alive in there,” Bretak says smugly, and pulls.

Chapter Text

Rock shards fall from Shiro's back as Bretak crudely yanks him from the debris. Shiro struggles, but it’s no use. More of his Galra arm crushes beneath the pressure of the chain; every movement sends a fresh burn of pain up to his nerves, the wires fraught and overworked. How much of his arm will be left to save after this? The fingers, maybe. They twitch feebly, a triggered tick of failing mechanisms. If there is an ‘after this.’

Shiro can’t give up. He can’t. But the options are not looking good.

Bretak’s fingers hook in Shiro’s collar, dragging the broken paladin to his feet. “Do you yield?”

“Never,” Shiro croaks. Bretak slams him against what remains of the pillar. His fingers tighten around Shiro’s throat. Shiro scrabbles weakly, flesh-and-bone fingers smearing blood against quivering stone.

“Do you yield?” Bretak asks, again.

“Never,” Shiro repeats. His legs kick but can’t get purchase. He can’t get enough air. The red-white ash hums beneath his fingers. Someone’s screaming his name.

I’m sorry, Keith.

Spots dance at the edge of his vision. All Shiro’s energy is draining from him, like someone’s pulled the plug and is tugging, latching tentative tendrils at who he is. It’s all he can do to keep his eyes open, watching idly as blood drips from Bretak’s mangled hand onto the delicate green grass below. His last thought is that he hopes Hunk keeps his promise.

Wait.

green

grass?

An enormous roar shatters the silence pounding in Shiro’s ears. Bretak looks up, jaw agape.

The earth explodes.

A tree bursts from nowhere, shooting straight up from the ground in the inches between Shiro and Bretak. Its leaves are wide and dark blue. It rips through Bretak’s arm as it grows, strong and fast and up. Bretak lets go, staggering back in alarm; Shiro drops the four feet to the ground and lands hard, gasping for air. All around him the earth is moving, shifting, a child turning over in her mother’s womb. Trees and shrubs break through the white soil - two, three, half a dozen - their branches unfurling, reaching high and growing tall. One of them just brushes against the broken face shield of Shiro’s helmet. A leaf gently caresses his cheek before it’s gone, growing up.

What - ?

“Unbelievable,” Shiro breathes.

Eventually it slows, the birth of trees and vines winding down. Shiro grips the last branch as it grows past him, letting the momentum pull him to his feet. It’s not a big patch of greenery, but it’s enough.

Bretak is caged in the trees, new growth and thick trunks twined tightly around him. Vines have grabbed at his legs; branches trap his thrashing arms. It’s a pocket of growth in the middle of a still-dead wasteland. The wind blows the debris from the crashed pillar past their feet. This square of trees is only an oasis, a corner that shouldn’t be but somehow, impossibly, is.

“How?!” The trees sway with Bretak as he fights them, supple branches familiar with weathering storms. “You - you!”

“Cliriya is done with you,” Shiro says. His voice is hoarse but carries regardless. There’s not a sound in the rest of the arena. The world’s narrowed to him and this Galra, him and the end. Shiro picks up the sickle in his left hand. His right fizzles and sparks, useless at his side. The chain’s still wrapped around it. “It’s over. Do you cede?”

Bretak’s been drunk on power this entire time. Shiro can tell, now. That same power, previously terrified, teases at him. Tendrils of cautious hope tuck away at his fear, his desperation, lingering just on the edges of what Shiro’s done and what is real. It’s heady. It’s keeping him upright. He sways with it.

Freedom, the grass whispers to him. Tendrils of eagerness bloom at his feet, tentative and shy.

“This isn’t over,” Bretak hollers. He’s shouting, spittle flying. Shiro doesn’t flinch. “Someone - someone take him out! Shoot him! Shoot him!”

They can’t get through the energy field. Not until this is finished. Blood drips down Shiro’s arm. His chest burns. He doesn’t care. He’s strangely detached from all of it.

“Tell the Galra this planet is finished with them,” Shiro says. He steps forward, looking up into the full force of Bretak’s fury. “No more prisoners. Do you cede?”

Bretak spits in his face. The saliva splatters off Shiro’s face shield, dripping into cracks. “You won’t get away with this!”

“Pretty sure that’s my line,” Shiro says calmly. It’s like he’s in his body but not a part of it. The handle of the sickle twists beneath his fingers, the weight strong, the blade sharp. His body drags him down. Gravity lifts him back up. He is not in control, but he is.

Shiro leans in, close. “Do you know why they called me the Champion, Bretak?”

Bretak’s lips move soundlessly. His gaze is glued to the sickle in Shiro’s left hand.

Shiro grins.

“Because I never lost.”

He drives the blade home.

The backlash is incredible.

Black-grey energy drains out of every fiber of the defeated Galra, seeping out of fingers and fur as the planet Cliriya rips her allegiance away from the defeated and malignant caretaker of her throne. Bretak’s power bleeds out with his life, vanishing into nothing, pouring back into the ground. It changes color, grey bleaching into gold.

It reaches for Shiro, and Cliriya transfers her allegiance.

Power bursts out from them in a shockwave of brilliant gold. The barrier shield surrounding the arena falls; the wave slams into every Galra in the stands, bowling them over. The Clirians seize the advantage and leap with weapons drawn. A flood of Clirians pours in from the Challenger’s Door, from behind the throne, from everywhere. The battle rages, fierce, and Shiro can’t see any of it.

The sickle drops from numb fingers to the grass, growing greedily across what used to be naked stone. Shiro staggers. Gold swirls around him in his own personal energy barrier, a maelstrom of powerful dust. He’s overtaken with it, fast, swift, all-encompassing. The planet’s pure need consumes him. Raw power surges through and latches on and burns new pathways as the planet reaches, cleanses herself, and surges outwards to grow. It’s fire; it’s water; it’s rushing wind, lifting him up; it’s gravity, pulling him down; it’s flowing from his fingertips and Shiro can’t. stop.

What the trees do with Bretak’s body Shiro will never know. Everything is awash in light. His knees buckle, hitting what used to be stone but is now soft soil and greenery to catch him. He can’t catch himself. He’s a spectator; he’s a conduit. Gold is everywhere, washing over his vision, tugging at his arms, his corners, his very being. The planet takes and she takes and she takes and she takes.

Mine, Cliriya murmurs. I helped you, you help me. You are mine.

Her gravity pulls hard in this sacred center, a ritual completed and begun anew with a dripping blanket of shining gold, wrapping itself into everything that he is and forcing him into a new contract. The planet’s hurting so badly. Shiro sees it all. He sees dead fields, withered stalks needing restoration. He sees rivers dry and cracked, needing water. He sees earth torn asunder and drought that never should have happened, needing hope. A planet razed by thirty years of devastating abuse. So much destruction. So much doubt. Cliriya can’t not take and Shiro’s powerless to not give.

Help me, she whispers, raw. Shiro’s too overcome to so much as scream. Take my throne. Help me. Help me.

“Shiro!”

Hands touch him, firm and grounding against his back. Shiro can’t see for the gold, for the fields in the distance. His questing fingers are caught suddenly in larger ones, holding tight. Hunk.

“Shiro,” Hunk says urgently. “Can you hear me? Shiro!”

Barely. Barely.

“I don’t want this,” Shiro gasps. Hunk squeezes his hand. The planet doesn’t stop.

“Get him up,” says another voice, “Careful. Here -”

They help Shiro up, whoever they are, lifting him bodily to his feet when his legs refuse. Gold races through riverbeds, murmurs through dead leaves. Shiro’s caught up in trying to keep something of himself back, something, anything, but the planet’s so hungry she leaves him no choice. Someone carries the sickle for him. Hands help him forwards, up a step he stumbles over, and then -

“Sit, Shiro.”

Sit down.

Shiro collapses onto warm stone, hard under the backs of his knees. The second his body settles the world snaps into place. For one blessed, silent moment everything stops.

“Oh,” Shiro gasps. His eyes fly open - no. They’ve just cleared. Gold lingers at the corners, drifting dust at his peripherals. Hunk crouches in front of him, deep concern creased in his face. Filorn the high priest stands at his side, clutching his staff. The two of them block Shiro’s view of the rest of the arena and the tiers, save a group of Clirian priests who hover in a loose cluster nearby. The dim sounds of what might be a battle drift on the wind. Shiro can’t make sense of it. He’s pulled, down. He’s…

Oh.

Oh.

Yes, Cliriya hums.

Shiro’s seated on the throne in the hall.

The world spins. He sits in the throne, exhausted, the weapon of a previous king tied round his arm and loose in his lap. Gold slips into his vision again, a cloud of pure dust. Hunk’s speaking, urgent and low; Shiro tries to focus on him but it’s like swimming upstream. The planet whines in all his senses. She’s thirsty. He’s sick with the need, sick with the power drain humans were never supposed to handle. Is this how Allura felt, when the Balmera was hurting so badly? How could he say no?

Mine, the planet says, taking and taking and taking and taking. Shiro doubles over with a groan. You help me.

“What’s happening?” That’s Hunk, still. Shiro hates the worry in his friend’s voice, hates that he can’t do anything to assuage it. “Shiro, look at me. Shiro!”

“Is there another?” Allura demands from somewhere to his right. When did she get here? “Who was next in line before your planet was overtaken?”

“Calestria from the water tribe,” says a deeper voice. It’s Filorn, sounding doubtful. “But they’re long gone -”

“Their child, then,” Allura insists. “The next relative. Who is it? How do you not know your own lineage?”

“It’d be Kanarius, the younger,” the junior priest - Talorit? - supplies immediately. “But it will take time to -”

“Find them,” Allura orders. Cliriya pulls. The rushing energy drain leaves Shiro dizzy and he can’t see again. He whimpers, choked. Allura frowns, her voice steel. “Find them.”

If footsteps hurry away Shiro doesn’t hear. Hunk lets go of his hand, gripping Shiro’s knee instead. Allura’s fingers rest on his shoulder, light yet grounding. “Shiro. It’s going to be alright. You’ve done so well.”

“Keith,” Shiro groans.

“Right here.” A hand slips into his left; oh. That’s why Hunk let go.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says, weakly, “I’m -”

“Don’t you dare,” Keith growls. “Don’t you dare give up on me now, Takashi, do you hear? Just hang on.”

Shiro shakes his head, trying to explain. Stars burst behind his eyes. “The Balmera -”

“Yes, we know,” Allura says. Her voice is full of angry sorrow. Careful fingers remove his helmet for him, gently brush his hair back from his face. Her nails are smooth. “Shiro, you cannot save an entire planet. It is not on you to reverse thirty years of damage in one sitting. We’re going to get you out of this. Help is on the way.”

Her words make sense, but Shiro can’t hold on to them. There’s something else he’s forgetting. He can’t…

“Pidge,” he gets out at last, ashamed it took so long. “Lance?”

Someone grasps his shoulder. “We got you.”

“All here,” says a soft voice from his side. “We’re fine, thanks to you. It’s over.”

Shiro forces his eyes back open.

All four of his team stand by him, safe. Alive. It’s Lance’s hold on his shoulder, gripping firm. Pidge presses by Shiro’s right, small hand hovering over his bicep. Hunk’s at his knee; Keith’s hand is in his. Allura’s off to the side, fingers combing gently through Shiro’s sweaty hair and somehow avoiding every spot that throbs. Gold dust overlays all of them, even when he blinks. It shines in Allura’s curls, gathers on the bridge of Pidge’s glasses, and gleams off Lance’s forehead.

“Lance,” Shiro gasps, “Your face.”

“Finally realized how handsome I am?” Lance says. The dried blood at his temple doesn’t even faze him. “I’m fine. Nothing to speak of. Your face, on the other hand -”

“Shiro, keep breathing,” Hunk orders. Gold swirls around him, caught in the ribbon in Hunk’s hair. “Pidge and I are going to take a look at your arm for you, but we gotta get this chain off first. Okay?”

Shiro can’t answer. The planet’s stolen all his words. He’s Shiro, sitting in a stone chair in the dead middle of a planet, dragging itself back to life with reckless abandon. He’s Cliriya, full of hope and finally so much closer to free. He’s the planet’s need and the planet’s want. He’s hungry. He’s exhausted. He has nothing left to give. He cannot stop.

Help me.

And he’s something else.

Something else murmurs way in the back of his thoughts; no. Something else is unhappy. Something else wants him, too. It tugs; Shiro flinches from the strain, a pained noise breaking from his throat.

The presence in the back of his mind retreats immediately. Shiro sinks for a desperate, single moment before the presence is back, pressing forwards with an apology. He cries out despite himself. His friends say something, maybe; Shiro’s somewhere else, far away. All he can see is gold. Space. Shining and vast. A perfect, unbelievable silhouette.

The Black Lion stands between him and a rippling wave of solid light. Gold dust dances at the Lion’s paws, but cannot touch her. It shimmers around her backlit tail. She is strong. She is powerful. She is angry.

Mine first, the Black Lion snarls.

Cliriya recoils but recovers, determined. The ground bucks, wildly upset. She needs a king. Shiro’s seated on her throne.

Black roars, loud enough to shake the tiers. She cannot pull him free, though not for lack of trying. Her Paladin. Hers first. Hers first.

Stop, Shiro screams. Pidge jerks back from where she’s just touched his arm, the painful electricity still sparking. Stop, please, I can’t fight both of you -

His friends are calling him, voices shouting, hands gripping. Shiro can’t breathe.

Cliriya needs. She pulls his feet out from under him. There’s so much to regrow - so much work - so much damage. Help me. Help me. Of all the things Shiro can’t do, he cannot fight her.

Shiro falls.

No.

Something catches him, lifts him up. An endless hum of comfort rocks through his bones, deep and resonant and utterly, totally different.

Mine first, the Black Lion growls, a possessive purr, and this time instead of pulling she pushes.

Energy floods into him, warm and welcome as a sunbeam. Black feeds it to him freely and without reservation. Cliriya drinks it, using it for herself. Shiro breathes in; the Black Lion gives. He breathes out; Cliriya takes. He’s caught in the middle.

Breathe, his Lion murmurs.

“Breathe, Shiro,” Keith mutters, squeezing his hand. “We got you. Almost there, c’mon.”

Gasping, Shiro clings, and does.

Chapter Text

He doesn’t know how long they wait. It’s long enough for Pidge and Hunk to unwrap the coiled chain from within his arm; Lance casts it away in disgust. It’s long enough that the give-and-take between Lion and Planet fades to an ebb and flow, constant and ceaseless. It’s long enough that when the junior priest Talorit returns, running through what’s now become a minor forest, Shiro doesn’t even notice.

“Is that him?” Allura asks. Her words drift to him like she’s underwater.

“This is Kanarius, of the northern cliffs,” Talorit explains. “The last of the lineage, he has come to take the King’s place.”

“Shiro,” Keith urges. “Shiro, open your eyes.”

With a Herculean effort, Shiro does. Gold lines drag across his vision. A young man stands before him at the base of the throne, chin held high. He’s younger than Shiro is.

I can’t let you, Shiro should say. Black nudges the words away before they can reach his tongue.

“My family’s guarded the Throne for generations,” Kanarius is explaining, to some question Shiro didn’t catch. “My grandfather was the last. I was born after the Interloper arrived, but I know the ways. My mother trained me well. I would take this from you, if you will let me, Your Highness.”

“Take it,” Shiro says, struggling to his feet. He staggers; Keith catches him, bracing Shiro with one gloved hand. Cliriya complains at the interruption. The energy dances where Keith holds him up, gold sparks pressed between their suits of armor.

“One question,” Lance says. Shiro’s head is swimming. “How do we get the planet to recognize you instead?”

“You can have it,” Shiro groans without preamble.

Nothing happens.

Kanarius looks to the priests. Filorn swallows. “I’m afraid the Throne can only be transferred in battle.”

Fine. “Do it.”

“Shiro, no!”

“Trust me, it won’t take much.” Standing up is an effort Shiro has to make. He can. He grits his teeth and straightens up. “Just hit me once and it’s yours. I’m not meant to be King.”

Keith and Hunk help him stagger down the single step away from the throne. Already the soil’s changed completely. Grass tickles at the sides of his boots. It takes everything in him to stay up. He’s so tired. Two steps away from Keith and Hunk is all Shiro can manage. The ground murmurs where he walks, blades of grass shivering in ripples out from his feet. He doesn’t want this.

“I Challenge you, then,” Kanarius begins, the same ritual words that Shiro’d spoken just this morning. Shiro sways as Cliriya responds, gravity pulling deep down in confusion, binding them together for combat. It’s odd to be on this side of it. Cliriya rumbles, confused. She has a new ruler. She needs another, so soon?

“I accept your Challenge,” Shiro says, simply, and waits.

The energy barrier ripples over the arena again, clear and fast, sealing them in. Kanarius shifts his weight, stepping forward with a hesitant reverence. Confidence? It’s hard to tell. The wind blows. The trees talk. The draining pull, at last, has ceased in preparation.

Defend, Cliriya whispers.

He will, Shiro promises, and closes his eyes.

The blow comes. It doesn’t hurt, exactly, but Shiro’s tired enough that he lets the punch land square on his jaw, knocking him down, lets it, lets it. When Shiro opens his eyes he’s flat on his back in the grass. Kanarius stares down at him, a young man who would be King.

“I cede,” Shiro says, to the sky.

Freedom, Cliriya whispers. The clouds drift overhead, a promise they both can reach. The breeze brushes his cheek before she rushes away, allegiance shifting, power gone.

Freedom, Shiro agrees, and finally passes out.

They spend two more days on the planet Cliriya.

Shiro sleeps for most of it.

In those two days the arena grows immensely, a blooming forest lush and humid.  Leaves sway in the afternoon breeze; the silence sits in the sacred space. The air is thick with contentment and lazy growth.

A copse of the darkest trees stands out towards the edge. Already the leaves are tinted gold, ready to turn. Shiro pauses beneath their boughs, reaching out with his left hand to brush the deep blue bark.

“Thank you,” he says, softly. If the bark pulses beneath his fingers, he’ll never be sure. Sunlight dapples over his hand. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you needed.”

“She doesn’t mind.”

Shiro turns. Kanarius stands just past the copse, the throne behind him. No crown rests on his brow either, nothing to mark him as King save presence and the throne behind him. The silver energy twining in the air is nothing like the hungry cyclone Shiro’d endured. Cliriya is sated, lazy and full.

Shiro inclines his head respectfully. “Your Majesty.”

“Please don’t,” the young king says. Silver wraps around his hands. Grey dripped from Bretak; gold poured like a faucet from Shiro; around Kanarius the silver curls delicately, content and controlled. “After what you did, it is I who should be grateful to you. I cannot thank you enough.”

Shiro pulls his hand away from the tree. “I owe you as well. You’re much better at this than I was.”

“I’ve trained for it,” Kanarius says, simply. “I don’t know much about your species, but we Clirians are built for extended psychophysical communication. Cliriya is - demanding, but I am ready.” He nods at Shiro’s arm, the Galra prosthetic bound in a sling across Shiro’s chest. “How are you feeling?”

Shiro’s just tired, really. The cryopod healed the physical injuries, but Cliriya’s greed has still left him exhausted. As soon as the Castle takes off later this evening he intends to fall in bed and hopefully sleep for a week. The last remnant of the fight is his still-shattered arm, which between the cryopod and the duties of the other Paladins, there just hasn’t been time to address. It doesn’t hurt, exactly. It’s well-wrapped in bandages and the space-equivalent of electrical tape, and the sling’s largely to keep him from moving it. Pidge and Hunk promise they have all the pieces; Shiro trusts them, though he’s not looking forward to it.

“I’m fine,” he says.

“I’m glad,” Kanarius says, though there’s something in his eyes that Shiro doesn’t claim to understand. Deep gratitude. Relief. A heavy weight of sorrow. “We owe you an enormous debt. We can never repay you for what you did.”

The arena’s not all that’s grown in the last two days; the Clirians’ defensive system has, too. Pidge and Hunk have spent an enormous amount of time installing tech, surveillance and equipment to guard the sacred ground from further intruders. Lance is somewhere in the city helping rebuild; Keith’s been training the Clirians who volunteered as the King’s first guards. Coran’s organizing the Clirian militia to ‘stricter standards’; Allura’s negotiating. His team hasn’t been idle, choosing instead to channel their worry into outlets with tangible, positive results - and still manage to time it exactly right to all be there when he tumbled out of the cryopod a few short hours ago. Shiro couldn’t be prouder.

For many reasons, really.

“Build a fortress around this place,” Shiro says, simply. “And keep your defenses up. That’s the greatest thanks you could give me.”

“You didn’t have to, you know,” Kanarius says, as they walk under the dappled shade. “There aren’t many in our history who’ve done what you did. This kind of power is a temptation. You’ve felt it. You know.”

Shiro remembers gold, slipping in, drifting. The pull worse than any pain. It called; it never appealed. “I mean no disrespect to your lineage, Your Highness. It’s just not for me.”

Kanarius shakes his head. “Don’t call me that. And you misunderstand me. The legends speak of a loophole. Because you ceded willingly and without coercion, you could take it back. If I do a terrible job, or if something happens, or if she rejects me - she remembers, too. The door is still open for you.”

Cliriya whispers at the edge of his senses. The leaves whistle in the breeze. Shiro fights back a shiver.

“Do a good job, then,” he says instead. “I believe in you.”

“I intend to do nothing less,” Kanarius says.

“Answer me one last thing,” the new king asks, as they walk back to the throne and their waiting friends. “You would have made a great King. Duty aside: why give it up?’

Above them the evening clouds are rolling in, uncharted, undisturbed, enormous puffs of soft purple and beautiful rose. It’s this planet’s promise of expected rain. Kanarius fulfills this planet’s promises. He was built for her, trained for her. Shiro wasn’t. No power could ever make that right.

There are many things he could say. He’s not meant to stay in one place. He never wanted this. He’s not good enough.

No.

Deep inside his mind is a singular, persistent presence, as contented with Shiro as Cliriya is with her new and rightful king. One presence. All his, and he is hers: everything he’s been (captive; champion), everything he is (paladin; friend), and everything he’s going to be. It’s a give and take, sure, but one that Shiro’s equal to. One that Shiro’s built for.

“I had a prior commitment,” he says.

The Black Lion purrs, a pleased hum.

Shiro smiles.