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Chapter Text

His chest ached dully, and so did his head. His thoughts were sluggish, crawling slowly through the haze of discomfort. At first, Zarkon couldn't recall a reason for the way he was feeling, or manage to guess where he was. At home, in bed? Definitely not. The unfamiliar weight and texture of the cloth surrounding him, and the faintly chemical tang in the air didn't support that theory. He couldn't perceive his wife with any of his senses. She must have been elsewhere.

His wife. Where was she?

It took Zarkon much longer than it should have taken to open his eyes, but they finally did open. He was lying on a bed. That much was in line with his initial guess. The room was unfamiliar to him. The walls were a gentle white, and the light was soft and pale. There were no windows, and there was a single door: closed. A thin, straight line of glowing blue ran around the walls, parallel to the floor. A quick assessment was enough to tell him that the design was Altean—their distinctive style.

He sat up, a movement that instantly worsened the ache in his head. Pain throbbed behind his eyes. He didn't lie down again, but he made no move to leave the bed. He didn't like to yield to weakness in word or deed, but he sensed a likelihood that he'd collapse if he tried to stand. Even he could make some concessions to physical limitations. He hated the thought of falling, that helplessness. A Galra warrior shouldn't tumble to the floor. It was undignified.

He was at least in a better position from which to examine himself. He was dressed in an unremarkable sleeping robe of fine gray cloth. The blanket that had fallen away when he'd sat up, now bunched on this lap, was pristine, as pale as the walls. He saw no visible injuries on his exposed skin, yet he sensed in the tightness around his chest that he was bandaged. He was injured, but he'd been treated. That explained the pain.

He noticed that the band of light circling the walls had started to pulse. An alert? Yes. It was likely he wouldn't be alone long. This was clearly an Altean sick bay. The rooms themselves monitored the patients and alerted physicians to changes in their conditions. It had probably been programmed to go off when he awakened.

Zarkon tried to salvage as many of his recent memories as he could before his company arrived. The rhythmic dimming and brightening of the blue light brought back the image of other, harsher lights, which had flashed more quickly and desperately, triggering his third eyelid to slide out protectively. The sharp smell of ozone and the choking haze of smoke. An attack. He'd been betrayed. He'd taken action as soon as he'd discovered the treachery, but in spite of his best efforts to escape, he'd wound up in a strange place. Alone.

However temporarily alone. "Good morning, Zarkon." The door slid open smoothly, then slid shut behind the Altean who stepped through. Zarkon looked him over through narrowing eyes. He knew him. Of course. This was no doctor—not in the traditional sense, although he was well educated in the medical sciences. "I'm glad to see you're awake."

"Alfor," said Zarkon flatly. "What do you want?"

Alfor remained by the door, with his back to it. "I don't want anything from you. I came in to check on your condition."

"My condition? Unless I'm very mistaken, my condition is your fault."

"No, you're not exactly mistaken, but it wasn't my intention to harm you. I want you to know that."

"An odd way of not harming someone." Zarkon glanced down at himself pointedly. He was controlling himself, but with an effort. He was furious with Alfor. He would have tried to attack him, but his awareness of his own physical condition held him back, for now. Even Alfor could defeat him in his current state.

"Yes, you were hurt in the process," Alfor admitted. "I believe my subsequent actions prove my intentions. I retrieved you and had you healed as soon as possible. You're well on your way to a full recovery. I'd hoped you would be fully recovered by now, but there was trouble getting you into the healing unit. You're not easy to move when you don't want to be moved. Then the unit itself needed to be adjusted to heal a Galra—"

"You attacked me," interrupted Zarkon, not allowing himself to be distracted from the most important point by this list of details.

"I had planned to bring you with me peacefully."

"You can't abduct someone peacefully," Zarkon snapped.

"Not when he's such a difficult person to capture," said Alfor, a remark Zarkon considered an ill-advised attempt to lighten the mood, or an even more ill-advised appeal to their old camaraderie.

Whichever it was, Zarkon had no time for either. "I'm not interested in your explanations and excuses!"

"I'm not making an excuse. I did abduct you, yes. I admit that. But it was necessary."

"It was necessary? What is that, if not a poor excuse?" asked Zarkon.

"I'll admit, it does resemble an excuse, but—"

"Where's Honerva?" Zarkon had lost patience with Alfor's excuses for his excuses. Honerva hadn't been with him when he'd been kidnapped by the King of Altea, but she was his first concern, her safety more important than his own. She should have been the first thing he'd asked about. If not for his slight confusion and his significant anger with Alfor, she would have been. "Is she here?" Zarkon assumed that the king had acted against both of them at once, to prevent them from saving each other. Without allowing Alfor a moment to answer his question, he demanded, "Let me see her."

"Not yet," said Alfor, still hedging in that annoying way of his.

"Why not? Is she hurt?"

"She isn't in the least injured," said Alfor. "She's perfectly safe and secure where she is."

"Meaning you're keeping her prisoner, too." He was tired of Alfor's euphemisms and polite way of speaking. Why wouldn't he be direct and say what he meant? Zarkon would have to make up for his shortcomings.

"Zarkon—" Alfor began, uselessly naming him again.

Zarkon ignored the way Alfor spoke his name and the way various memories tugged naggingly at the corners of his mind. "You can't do that to her. You have no right. She's the leader of a sovereign state."

"So she is, but I consider her a guest. You're both my guests."

"If we're guests," countered Zarkon, "let me rejoin my wife." He'd feel better if he were with her. He'd be more sure of the situation. She was calm and brilliant, excellent in a crisis. He could depend on her.

"I'm sorry," said Alfor, and for all that Zarkon considered him insincere, he did look sorry, a gleam in his blue eyes like unshed tears. "But I can't do that." Neither his words nor his expression placated Zarkon.

"You can." Zarkon bared his teeth, in a gesture without the friendly intent of an Altean smile. A Galran who knew very little of Altean culture might have assumed Alteans were aggressive when first meeting them, considering how they so often raised their lips to flash their teeth. Zarkon and Alfor, however, understood each other's customs well enough to be able to read each other's expressions. They understood each other—or they once had. "But you won't," said Zarkon.

Alfor frowned. "This is for your own good. You and Honerva haven't been behaving rationally. I felt that your actions would lead both you and others to harm. So I had to step in, in the interest of both our peoples. I saw it as my duty, as king."

"I am the ruler of the Galra, and I am the one who decides what is best for my people."

"Yes," said Alfor. "I know you are. I took that into consideration, too."

"Then you know you can't keep me here."

Alfor lowered his gaze to the floor, discomfited, his stance shifting. He was so much older than so many other Alfors that Zarkon remembered, his thin Altean skin lined with the years. In those years, they had eventually grown both older and apart, even as they had kept in contact with each other. "I recognize that you are a sovereign ruler," said Alfor. "I don't view this as a permanent situation. I simply want to be sure of a few things before I release you. So I beg you, be patient with me."

"Sure of what things?"

"For instance, your overall health and your ultimate intentions."

"Is this conquest, Alfor? Is my power what you want?"

"Conquest? No!" Alfor's protest was quick, and Zarkon couldn't tell if it was too quick. "I'm not taking over. I want to know what your intentions toward Altea are. And what do you mean to do with yourself?"

Zarkon snorted. While he could guess what Alfor was thinking, Alfor was wrong. He was standing in the way of progress. The Rift was a vital discovery. It would revolutionize civilization and permanently alter the universe, even the nature of life itself. Why couldn't Alfor see that? He was willfully ignoring the possibilities. They could live forever and rule forever, all of them, Alfor included. They could continue their golden age indefinitely. "Let me see Honerva, at least," said Zarkon, returning again to that important point. "She hasn't been well."

"No, she hasn't. Neither of you have been. You've been very unwell."

"Just let me see her!" Zarkon tried to rise, but the pain in his chest flared to a burn, and he was appalled to feel himself wince, a faint hiss of air escaping through his teeth.

"Please, calm yourself, Zarkon," said Alfor. "You'll make it worse."

"Don't tell me to be calm! Not when you've done this to me!"

"Old friend..." Then Alfor looked as if he were about to shed tears in earnest, but Zarkon didn't want to witness that.

"If you won't let me see her, I don't want to see you. Get out!" Zarkon didn't try to rise again, but he used all his strength to raise his voice.

"I'll leave you now, then," said Alfor. "It was never my intent to distress you."

"Which is why you abducted me?"

Alfor shook his head, still maddeningly indirect and unsatisfactory. "Please, rest. We'll talk again when you're feeling better."

"I don't want to talk to you." Zarkon's voice was hoarse, and the words sounded like a growl to him. Good. He was furious, and his voice should reflect it. Let Alfor hear it. "I can still fight like this." It would hurt him to do so, but he would try.

"No, you can't, but I won't ask you to prove that," said Alfor. "I'll do as you wish." The door behind him slid open, and he took a step to pass through it, without once looking away from Zarkon, until the door closed and came between them.

Another barrier had already come between them, some time before. That rift had formed slowly, almost without Zarkon noticing it, a crack through the nature of their relationship. Now that it was fully realized, its presence felt both inevitable and permanent. It couldn't have been prevented. They had been heading ceaselessly toward this point for some time.

Trapped in his bed by his infirmity, Zarkon fumed. He briefly entertained the suspicion that Alfor had left him weakened purposely, but Altean technology had been known to struggle with Galran physiology. Alfor might not have had time to make the necessary adjustments. Zarkon was angry with Alfor, but he knew how much Alfor prided himself on his compassion and mercy, even when he was completely wrong about everything. Alteans could be so self-important that way.

It didn't matter how kind Alfor believed he was being. Zarkon wasn't going to allow himself to remain his prisoner indefinitely. If he'd been able, he would have leapt up now to attack the door. He didn't have the strength for that, but he also knew that getting the better of Alfor would take more than brute force. Alfor might not have been as strong as Zarkon, or as skilled in battle, but he was fiendishly clever.

That was why Zarkon needed Honerva. That, and the additional, deep ache he experienced, that one that passed beyond mere physical pain. The desire to be with one's mate was a natural Galran urge, and he had to answer to it. He would reach her side, no matter what obstacles Alfor placed in his way. Alfor himself was an obstacle, but he didn't fear Alfor. No, fear wasn't the problem, was it? It was another natural urge that weakened Zarkon. What could give him the will to harm Alfor? He hated to admit it, as he hated to admit that he couldn't stand, but he might lack the resolve required to kill him, if it became necessary to do so. Before he could carry out such a final act, he would need to be less of the person he used to be.

Alfor—yes, it was difficult to believe how close they had once been, considering all that lay between them now. Yet Zarkon was aware that although they had become enemies, Alfor was primarily his weakness because he was his friend.

Chapter Text

It was the hardest choice Alfor had ever had to make. When he'd visited Daibazaal, Zarkon and Honerva's worsening conditions had shaken him. He'd been struck by the changes in them both. Honerva had been so weak and so ill, he'd been unsure how long she'd be able to remain on her feet. She'd been prematurely aged, but it wasn't only that. Something had been profoundly altered within her. Her movements, her words, and her appearance were so changed, she was almost unrecognizable. As for Zarkon—his ranting had been alarming and uncharacteristic. Or it didn't line up with what he believed about Zarkon's character: his fellow paladin and friend. Zarkon was generous and principled, a protector of the universe—not a controlling tyrant. Wasn't he?

When had they changed? It couldn't have been overnight. Yet he'd failed to notice?

After speaking to them, he'd gone outside, to breathe, to think. Gazing out at Daibazaal's red earth, he saw how much more dry it had become, the air hot and harsh against the bare skin of his face. He reached up to brush the dust from his beard and his cheeks. He knew Daibazaal almost as well as he knew Altea. He'd visited Zarkon here so many times, since they'd been young together, first getting to know each other as a part of their parents' pained diplomatic maneuvering, efforts which had eventually led to peace in their time.

The weather was all wrong for this time of year. The colors seemed more dull, the sky coated with a sickly haze.

It was impossible for Alfor to deny the truth that he'd realized that day: They're ill. They're seriously ill. Their world had also fallen ill, grown more brittle and faded than he had ever seen it. He should have seen it sooner. He blamed himself for that, but now that he could see things as they were, he saw that he hadn't wanted to believe the worst of these people, because he loved them. He could only blame himself so much for love. Now he had to ask himself, what would be the most loving action to take?

Alfor breathed in deeply, in spite of the dust that shortly made him cough. He faced the unavoidable. He was standing, not only on Daibazaal, but at a crossroads. He could leave his friend behind, to make his own decisions—his own mistakes, as Alfor saw them—or he could step in and attempt to stop him. To save him.

What sort of mad idea was he considering? To leave his friend to his own devices would be difficult enough, but to intervene would be outright dangerous. Zarkon ruled Daibazaal, and its laws were his. Altea and Daibazaal respected each other's sovereignty. There were treaties in effect. For an Altean king to press his will upon the Galra monarch would be a violation of both Altean and Galra traditions and ethics. He would risk plunging both planets into war.

Such a course of action would be incredibly drastic, and Alfor was a diplomat, an alliance builder, not a tyrant or a conqueror. He had his people to think of, and his family. Not to mention his friendship with Zarkon. They had grown up together. Alfor had shared more with him than with almost anyone else he knew, outside of his immediate family. Their friendship stretched back centuries, now.

Reason dictated that he do nothing, because it was neither his planet nor his place. Turning and leaving would have been not only the most rational choice, but the most straightforward. Zarkon and Honerva may have seen reason, in time. He had always known them to be intelligent, sensible individuals. They cared deeply for each other. They would want the best for each other and for the empire.

Yet—

Yet Alfor allowed himself to envision what would happen if this current situation was allowed to escalate, unchecked. For all Honerva's brilliance, her current behavior was erratic. They still knew too little about the Rift. Considering Zarkon's irrational plans, Honerva's questionable research, and this wind that tasted so bitter, flowing over the cracked earth, Alfor had to ask himself: what would happen if he left? If he left them? Would the plans grow more irrational, the research more questionable, and the wind more bitter? He had to be as objective as possible, in predicting the outcome. At best, all he would have was a good guess.

A guess was flimsy ground to stand on. He knew that, yet it was the tone of Zarkon's voice that he couldn't seem to dispel. It lingered in his mind: the rapacity and intensity he had heard as Zarkon spoke about ruling the universe. There had been an enthusiasm there beyond reason. It was the voice of someone possessed. In the end, Alfor's decision came down to something very simple, both beyond and beneath reason: the stark difference between the voice he'd heard emerge from Zarkon's lips today and the familiar voice of his dear friend.

Alfor had made his choice. He couldn't undo it now.

His attack had been quick—well, he liked to think of it as an operation, rather than an attack. The last thing he'd wanted had been casualties of any kind. First, he had orchestrated a separation between Zarkon and Honerva by inviting Zarkon to Altea for a diplomatic visit. In his request, Alfor had included a brief mention of his desire to revisit the subject of their recent conversation. He had done his best to sound enthusiastic about Zarkon's terrible ideas, knowing that that would intrigue Zarkon. All the reasons for the visit were politically understandable, so the invitation shouldn't have struck Zarkon as odd. It didn't. Zarkon had no reason to suspect Alfor, because Alfor had never betrayed him. He'd never betrayed anyone before.

As Zarkon was preparing to leave Daibazaal, Alfor was giving his operatives orders to secure Zarkon and Honerva and transport them each to a secure location. Alfor had half-expected his people to balk at the orders. They were orders that struck even him as questionable, and he was the one giving them out. His soldiers did not so much as share an uncertain glance between themselves. They didn't hesitate. Yes, Your Majesty! How strange. He'd never before given an order that he'd seriously considered might be a bad order. He would have thought that would make some difference to those he was ordering, but it didn't. His people trusted in their king, and they agreed to do as he asked. Was this what power meant, a will unchecked by right or wrong? Had it taken him this long to learn that?

The operation had gone smoothly, at first. Zarkon had left for Altea, apparently without harboring any suspicions. Alfor's people, following their king's orders, had waited until Zarkon had arrived at his destination. At that point, Zarkon was far from Daibazaal and from anyone who might successfully intervene. Zarkon enjoyed piloting himself, and he personally guided his royal shuttle from his ship down to the surface of Altea. Alfor was there to meet him when he disembarked. Alfor knew that rushing the operation could have extremely unpleasant consequences, so he waited patiently. He suggested a private conversation between the two of them, since the matter they were to discuss was a controversial one. In the midst of that conversation, Alfor's guards entered the room. It was at that moment that Zarkon had realized something was wrong.

Being Zarkon, he was almost able to avoid capture, though he was already within the Altean palace. As Alfor had been unable to think of a convincing reason for the emperor to abandon all his weapons, Zarkon had had a blade with him, as he usually did. Using only this one weapon, he'd fought his way through the guards, down the palace hallways, and won his way back to his shuttle. It was while Alfor's operatives were frantically preventing their quarry's escape that the shuttle was accidentally damaged, and Zarkon was seriously injured. Many of Alfor's own people were also injured in the process.

Following this near-disaster, Alfor had carried out the part of his plan that felt like the worst betrayal of all. He had used his Altean abilities to impersonate the emperor. It was not easy, but he had always been considered something of a prodigy when it came to shapeshifting. He managed to assume Zarkon's form, if only temporarily. He told Zarkon's servants and guards that an important matter had arisen, which demanded the attention and action of all the paladins. It was rare for Zarkon to leave his staff and servitors behind—unless he was fulfilling the duties of the Black Paladin, rather than of the Galra Emperor.

As Alfor was abducting his dearest friend, yet more operatives, masquerading as peaceful merchants and performers, made their play to kidnap the empress. Travel and trade between Altea and Daibazaal was frequent and easy, and Alfor took advantage of that fact, giving these particular Alteans clearance to do business on royal lands, a right he had as a close friend of the emperor. No one yet had any reason to distrust him.

Honerva, as formidable as her husband, realized what was happening in midst of her abduction. Like a serpent, she struck. The energy that gathered at her fingertips, then lashed out at the operatives was a kind of power that no Altean had ever seen or heard of before. Alfor prided himself on his vast knowledge of alchemy, but he was as surprised as anyone else by the description of the attack she'd used. It must have been derived from the experiments she'd been performing using the energy of the Rift. Two of the operatives were struck down and sickened. They had been taken back to Altea for treatment immediately.

One operative was given the most difficult duty of all: to remain behind on Daibazaal and use her shapeshifting abilities to impersonate the empress, so that no one would realize she had been taken. Such a change did not require the effort that impersonating Zarkon did, since Honerva was also an Altean. This additional deceit left Alfor feeling decidedly unsavory. He didn't like to use Altean abilities in such an underhanded way, but it was necessary. Abducting Zarkon and Honerva would do him no good if the alarm were raised, inspiring the Galra military to immediately take action to liberate the emperor and his wife.

There had been no deaths, but each injury one of his people had suffered weighed heavily on Alfor. Each one was entirely his fault. Overall, his mission could technically be deemed a "success", as the monarchs were now in his custody, but no other success had ever made him so unhappy.

He was standing, now, with the Red Lion, in its den in the castle. Mobile and well-armed, the Castle of Lions had struck him as the best location in which to quarter Zarkon. The Black Lion wasn't present. It had been left behind on Daibazaal, where Zarkon had built a hangar for it. It wasn't unthinkable that Zarkon would be able to call the lion to himself, but that hadn't happened yet.

Alfor frequently came to see his lion when he needed time to think, or to talk out some problem. He had equipment set up in here: a miniature workshop in which he could work on some of his smaller projects. The lion didn't respond to him in words, but it responded—usually. Today, Alfor had received only a few brief flashes of communication from the robot, when he'd first entered. Red's eyes had lit up briefly, but had quickly gone dark again. Alfor had the distinct impression that his lion was displeased with him. He was displeased with himself, so he could understand. When some time had passed with no communication from the robot, Alfor reached out to settle a hand on its muzzle. "I'm sorry, Red. I was doing what I thought was best." The eyes flashed again, at this, but there was no other reaction, and Alfor sighed.

"Your Majesty?" The hesitant voice behind him could have belonged to only one of the small handful of people who had clearance to enter this chamber.

Alfor didn't turn around, keeping his hand pressed to the smooth surface of his lion. Nonetheless, his lips almost moved into a smile. "Coran. I'd expected you before now."

"You've been in here a while, but I thought you might want some time to yourself."

"So I did."

"But I'm worried, because you haven't eaten. So—I brought you a snack!"

Now Alfor did turn, to find Coran carrying a plate laden high with Altean treats. "There are quilberry tarps, pinyat ruffins, kuileu sticks—"

Alfor patiently listened to the listed menu, and then he did smile. Many of his childhood favorites were included, unsurprisingly. "Thank you, Coran. I'm afraid I'm not very hungry right now."

"You really should eat something, Your Majesty. Even if you don't feel like it. Good for the body and the mind."

"If my advisor says so, then I will." Alfor nodded toward his mobile workbench. "Put it down there, please. I promise you I'll have some soon."

"Yes, of course, Your Majesty!" On the surface, Coran was his usual cheerful and helpful self, but Alfor wasn't fooled. As usual, Coran did as Alfor requested, but instead of leaving afterward, he returned to Alfor's side. Alfor didn't object. He withdrew his hand from Red, ending his physical contact with the lion, as their mental contact showed no signs of resuming. The lion's eyes remained dark.

"If I may speak freely with you...," began Coran, tugging at his mustache in a way that Alfor knew meant he was concerned.

"You may. As always, my friend." Coran may have been his advisor, but it served neither of them to keep a wall of formality between them.

"I do wish you'd consulted with me before—" Coran paused, as if unsure how to sum up the complexity of recent events. "—all this," he concluded. A brief, but effective summary, since Alfor knew exactly what he meant by all this.

"Yes," said Alfor. "Perhaps I should have. But I didn't. I confess, that's because I knew already what you would say."

Coran nodded, as if encouraged by this answer, but Alfor hadn't exactly meant to be encouraging. "Of course you did! Sometimes it's hard advising a king who knows so much already, but I try my best. My family has advised your family for many centuries, and I'm proud to carry on that legacy."

"You do an excellent job. Your ancestors must be proud."

"You probably know what I'm about to say now, too."

"I have a few ideas."

"Your Majesty—I don't mean to criticize, but I do think you've made a mistake."

Alfor knew that it must be hard for Coran to say this to him, so he didn't object. "Go on." He was willing to hear him out. It was the least he could do, after what he had done.

"We absolutely can't go around kidnapping rulers. It's against everything Altea stands for! We respect the rights and independence of other governing entities, without exception."

Coran had said nothing that Alfor could fault him for. "We do, yes."

"There's still time to make things right! We'll hop about and put everyone back where they belong and say that we're very, very sorry, explain that you were only trying to help, but got carried away. You've always been such good friends. I know you can fix it, even if there are a few diplomatic difficulties to work out—" Coran broke off as he very obviously contemplated the severity of those difficulties. "Ah, some very serious difficulties, considering that—you kingnapped him." He frowned, but went on, apparently deciding not to dwell on the negative. "You're the only one who can put it right." Coran nodded enthusiastically. Coran had always believed that he could do almost anything.

"No," said Alfor.

"No?" Coran's eyebrows went down, then rose again.

He didn't intend any rudeness with this blunt answer. He'd listened patiently, but he'd already decided what he was going to do. "I can see where you're coming from. I considered that option. I've been giving it a great deal of thought, and there isn't time to make things right, not in the way you mean."

It must have puzzled Coran, who had such firm faith in Alfor's reasonability, to hear this answer. "Your majesty—?"

This question, the question of what to do next was what had driven Alfor into his lion's den, and what had kept him there for hours, following his conversation with Zarkon. "Zarkon isn't the person he once was. I did what I did to save him from himself. If we release him now, I fear he will declare war on Altea."

"War?" Coran pulled on both ends of his mustache, at once.

"He will say that we were the ones to strike first, and he won't be wrong. So he will blame us for starting it, but he will nonetheless be the one to escalate our disagreement into full on warfare." Zarkon's attitude during their encounter hadn't left him in much doubt about that. Zarkon hadn't spoken to him like an old friend who retained some willingness to work out their differences. He was furious. He had a right to be, yes, but that fury wasn't at a level that could be talked down into a more manageable emotion. Not now, not yet.

"Perhaps I should have discussed it with you first and let you convince me not to act," said Alfor, in response to Coran's distressed silence. "But that isn't what I did." No, he had turned directly to the military. In the past few hours, he'd retraced the course of his thoughts and actions a number of times. He was very clear on what he had done and why he had done it. As to whether he'd been right, did that matter so much when he had no choice but to carry on in his current course? "So I must now deal with the consequences of my actions."

"But Daibazaal needs a ruler, Alfor."

"So it does."

"What do you propose to do about the Galran people?"

"They need a leader to guide them," said Alfor. Again, Coran wasn't raising any questions he hadn't already considered. However, the fact that he was already aware of the various factors involved wasn't the reason he hadn't asked his trusted and valued advisor for his advice. No, it was because he'd had no intention of following the advice he'd known Coran would give. Not because he was a conqueror, but because he was willing to do whatever was necessary to save Zarkon, even if he destroyed their friendship in the process. How odd: before that moment on Daibazaal, when he'd chosen his course of action, he hadn't realized the full strength and violence of his connection to Zarkon. There was something very Galra about it.

"Yes," said Coran slowly. "They do. The regime has been stable for a long time, but if there's a sudden power vacuum, there'll be chaos." He and Coran both understood the political situation on Daibazaal, better than some Galra did. There was no clear successor for Zarkon. He had no heir. If they were given to understand that they had lost their leader, they would take two steps: they would retaliate, if possible. They would also hold a Kral Zera, to choose a new leader from among the higher ranks, to guide them in their time of need. Alfor couldn't allow either of these steps to be carried out.

Alfor wanted to avoid war with the Galra, and he didn't want Zarkon to lose his empire. He still had faith that he could find a way to help his friend. It was possible he was wrong. He could have been wrong about all this, but he was going to make his best attempt. He had a plan. Was it foolish? Possibly. Was he going to carry it out anyway? Definitely.

"They need a leader, and I am a king," said Alfor. He looked to Red, but Red's eyes did not so much as flicker in response.

Chapter Text

Zarkon allowed the Alteans to do their work. They were physicians, and Alfor's madness wasn't their fault. When they entered with their adjusted equipment to repair his Galra body, he lay still and offered them no resistance, no violence. He didn't like the way they hovered over him nervously and too politely, but he wasn't a monster, no matter what Alfor thought of him now. They wouldn't be able to tell their king that Emperor Zarkon was anything less than an ideal patient.

He was no longer confined to his bed. His hurts had vanished. They'd departed along with the Altean doctors. His anger, in contrast, remained where it was. It simmered, and at times it boiled over. When it did that, he attacked the door. He did this in more than one way. When he was clear-headed, he utilized all his technical skill to find a way to make it open for him mechanically. When he was less calm, he struck it with his fists and tried to open it by brute strength alone.

His chance of success was slim. He was up against the Altean King, who was also a famed Altean Alchemist, with power to rival Honerva's own. Zarkon was without his bayard and his lion—but how much good would they have been here, in a battle against their creator? He was at a disadvantage, but he had tried again and again to call his lion to him, to save him. It had not come. Either it was too far away to respond to his call, or Alfor had taken precautions to prevent it from coming to his aid. So far, it appeared there would be no help from that quarter. His generals might assist him, but he had no way of communicating his plight to them. To defeat Alfor, it would have helped him to think like Alfor, but Alfor could be infuriatingly unpredictable and irritatingly rash. This entire incident proved that.

For what must have been the hundredth time in one day, Zarkon paused in his pacing to sit on the edge of the bed. "Honerva," he said. He couldn't say how likely it was that she had heard him, but they did have a profound connection, deeper than a bond of marriage. Honerva herself was responsible for that, in part. They were linked by love, affection, intellect, Galran and Altean instincts—and quintessence itself. Zarkon had always been eager to learn more about her experiments, and he allowed her scientific freedom. He would have been a fool to restrain or stifle her genius in any way. Freedom was necessary for true progress, a truth Alfor had forgotten.

Zarkon believed that, wherever she might be, Honerva could sense him. Possibly, she could hear him, or even see through his eyes. They had experimented together with that level of communication, but those experiments had been limited. He couldn't guess how closely she could watch him from wherever she was now. He didn't know how limited her movements and actions were, where she was confined. Alfor must have been wary of her and her power. She had surpassed him, thanks to the Rift.

"I'll find you," Zarkon said, "no matter what I have to do." The ache of their forced separation was one pain that hadn't faded. He had often been obligated to leave her while carrying out his duties, both as the leader of the Galra and as the Black Paladin of Voltron, but to be separated from a partner against one's will was a far heavier burden to bear.

"This is partly my fault." If she could hear him, he owed her an apology. "I know. I was too open with Alfor. I said too much. We needed him, but I should have remembered how stubborn he can be. He's always been that way. I should have convinced him to help some other way—for his own good."

In time, Alfor would have come to see that Zarkon's ideas—Zarkon and Honerva's ideas—were ideal. They currently protected as many people as they could with the power of Voltron, but their influence was limited by time and their own weaknesses. Their mortality. How much more magnificent would their reign be with a greater power that put all the universe under their control? With eternal life, they could rule it forever, wisely and justly. Side by side. Alfor's reaction had been to make them enemies, to divide Voltron. What greater goal did that serve?

"I wish I could hear you, too," said Zarkon. "Can you speak to me?" He closed his eyes, hoping that Honerva's voice might reach him through the sheer force of their wills. No matter how intense his concentration, he heard nothing. No matter how he longed to hear his wife's voice, he could not. "Wait for me," he said, opening his eyes. "I'll join you soon."

He rose to his feet again, restless. Confinement didn't suit him. He was devoted to action. Idleness was infuriating. Having only a single room to move through, no matter how generous in size, was another trial. He was confined; he was longing for Honerva, and he wanted to fight. There was no one here to fight but his inanimate enemy: the door.

Zarkon drew his arm back and slammed his fist against that door again. It was a movement that might have seemed futile or childish, but the door had come to represent so much—his confinement and his anger with Alfor. Considering Alfor's talents, he had no reason to believe his efforts would be any more successful this time, but this was a quick, concise, definite action he could take. That was what he needed, to expel his excess energy.

"Good morning, Zarkon. I'm glad to see you're keeping busy."

Zarkon spun to face the wall behind him. Its pale, plain surface had shifted to a visual display of Alfor, standing in his laboratory. Zarkon hadn't been aware that that wall was capable of visual transmissions. Had Alfor been watching him all along? He would have been glad for Honerva to do that, but when it was Alfor's doing, the concept infuriated him. "Don't mock me."

"I wasn't intending mockery, only a little levity."

"No levity, then."

So Alfor wanted to watch him in secret? Zarkon found some comfort in assuming that Honerva, in turn, might be watching Alfor through his eyes without Alfor's knowledge. Why shouldn't she see everything he did? If only he could know for certain that she was with him in that way.

"No levity," agreed Alfor.

"I'm being detained against my will, if you've forgotten. It's not a joking matter."

"I haven't forgotten."

"Why don't you face me in person?" Zarkon demanded.

"I will, in time. I didn't want to drop in unannounced."

"Was that another joke?"

"No, I meant it!"

Alfor was set upon speaking to him as if they were still friends, which grated on Zarkon's nerves. Zarkon preferred to cut through these niceties. "What do you have to say to me?"

Alfor must have caught on, because his reply this time was much more straightforward. "I've run some tests on tissue samples we collected from you."

"Now you're experimenting on me?"

"No, not at all. I'm talking about standard medical tests. Zarkon, there's no need to see everything in the worst possible light. I'm worried about your health."

"The finest physicians of Daibazaal see to my health. I don't need Altean interference." If Honerva wanted him to participate in her studies, he was glad to do it. He was her voluntary subject. Alfor had no such permission.

"I understand what you're saying," said Alfor, and Zarkon could tell from his tone that he didn't understand in the least. "But the tests are done, and I can't undo them."

"I thought the great Altean Alchemist could do anything he wished."

"The great Altean Alchemist, although he appreciates the title, cannot."

"Jokes," snapped Zarkon.

"That was hardly a joke."

"Even if it was a poor joke, it was one nonetheless."

"Progressing without humor, then: the results of my tests are troubling. Comparing the new samples to those taken decades ago—"

"You're saving my tissue samples?"

"Archiving medical records! It's perfectly normal to keep such records of the paladins. It isn't part of a nefarious scheme. Honestly, Zarkon."

Zarkon didn't care if Alfor was frustrated with him. He couldn't be feeling even the smallest fraction of the frustration Zarkon was experiencing. "I don't care about your tests. How do I know they're accurate?"

"I've found significant damage on a cellular level."

"I told you, I'm not interested in what you have to say."

"Zarkon, preliminary results indicate extensive alterations to your genetic makeup."

"Alterations—there may have been a change, but that doesn't mean it's a harmful one. What if my genes have been improved?"

"Zarkon, it doesn't exactly work that way."

"This is energy from another reality. We don't know how it works! You say damage, but what if it's progression? What if I'm being strengthened, improved?"

"That isn't at all in line what I found."

"I don't trust your work. I trust Honerva's."

"Honerva has suffered the same level of cellular damage—"

Zarkon moved with great speed, lunging and slamming his fists into the wall display transmitting from Alfor's laboratory. The transmission was a layer of light laid upon the actual wall, and his hand struck that hard surface. The impact brought pain, but he barely registered it. "What have you done to her?"

"I haven't done anything to her. Why would I want to harm her? As I've said, I had some simple medical tests run on both of you."

"You didn't mention her before. I want to see her. I won't believe you until I can see her."

"You both might benefit from a little time apart."

"I don't want that. You know how hard that is." Zarkon was growing emotional, and he hated being emotional. It was a display of weakness. Alfor had driven him to this. Zarkon punched the wall again, and it didn't yield, but neither did his fist. He struck a third time.

"I understand how difficult it is for you," said Alfor, maddeningly patient, not reacting to his attacks on the wall. "In the long run, you'll thank me. Have a little faith in me."

"I'm meant to have faith in someone who can't face me? Where is your faith in me?" Zarkon's head was throbbing. The skin of his knuckles had split with the last blow, but that hardly concerned him. He raked the wall with his claws as he glared at the image of Alfor displayed before him. "No, you'll only speak to me like this. Are you afraid of me, now that I'm stronger?"

"I'm the one who saw to it that you were healed."

"You expect me to believe in things I haven't seen and trust in someone who only appears on a screen."

Alfor blinked at him, then offered, "That's almost poetic."

Zarkon glared.

"I know," said Alfor. "Joke. I take it back."

Zarkon snorted. If you did take a joke back, it would be the first time. The thought came into his mind with a surprising trace of amusement. In the midst of his skepticism, for a moment, he felt a flicker of their old friendship. His lack of patience with Alfor's jokes had been a feature of their friendship for as long as he could remember. The flicker was brief. He reminded himself, sternly, of what Alfor had done to him, and to Honerva.

"I'll send you all the medical reports," Alfor said. "You can look through them. I can produce a terminal in your room, with limited access." He hesitated before adding, "Please try not to punch it. And that wasn't a joke, it was a request."

Zarkon believed it might actually have been a joke, but he was tired of calling Alfor out for that. "You could have falsified the reports, but I'll look at them."

"Thank you, Zarkon."

Zarkon detected weariness in Alfor's voice, and his own momentary pang of nostalgia had irritated him. "And will you come here? In person, by yourself?"

"Are you challenging me to combat? Because I refuse."

"If I challenge you to combat, you can't refuse."

"I can, as I'm not a Galra."

"But I didn't challenge you."

"Well, that's a relief."

Zarkon sighed, suspecting he was being dragged toward humor against his will. Zarkon wasn't going to make it easy for Alfor. They were at odds. Why did Alfor continue to insist on acting as if they were still friends? "I—" He bared his teeth, angry for more reasons than he could name. "I don't want to be left alone here like this, treated like a criminal when I've committed no crime." How could he commit a crime, when he was the origin of the empire's laws? He had not violated the laws of their intergalactic alliance of planets. He had decided to keep the Rift open, but that had been his choice. It was on his planet and under his jurisdiction. True, he had had other ideas for future actions to take, undefined but tantalizing, but he had not acted on them, and under the laws of the alliance, he could not be lawfully tried or imprisoned for acts he had not yet committed.

Yet Alfor had done just that, so it was Alfor who was in defiance of the law.

He could have pointed that out. He should have, but he was all too sure that Alfor had already assembled a list of his own transgressions. There was an issue that was more important to Zarkon, and he spoke of that, instead. "Let me see her," he insisted again.

"No," said Alfor, firmly and hatefully.

"You must know," said Zarkon. Finally, the topic he was trying to suppress spilled from him. "If you've done tests on her, then—"

A flicker in Alfor's eyes indicated a moment of weakness. "Yes, I know," said Alfor. "However, it doesn't change my mind in the least."

"And the child—?"

Alfor said nothing. His stubbornness was monstrous, and Zarkon's longing for Honerva, which rose up in the face of this refusal, was even more of a monster. It sank its claws in, and at Alfor's bidding. Before Zarkon could protest again, he added, "I will meet with you face to face to discuss that, instead of through a screen like this. You deserve that."

"Now?" Zarkon asked. He was tired of Alfor's prevaricating, and he had no intention of giving Alfor the time to reconsider, or think up more excuses to tell.

"Right now?" Alfor asked.

"Yes, why not? What's the cause for delay? We're both here in the castle, aren't we?" It had not been difficult for Zarkon to figure out where he was being held, but then, Alfor hadn't taken any steps to hide it from him.

"I wasn't prepared to do so immediately."

"Then prepare yourself," said Zarkon.

Alfor stared at him. A long pause developed between them, and Zarkon was pleased to witness Alfor's discomfort. He would see how true Alfor was to his word. Either way, he would win—if Alfor agreed, Zarkon would have forced a confrontation. If Alfor refused, he would prove that he was not so forthright as he liked to pretend he was.

"Very well, Zarkon," said Alfor at last. "I'll be there shortly."

Good. He would have a chance. Alfor was sentimental, and Zarkon could use that to his advantage. No matter the cost, he would best him. He would reunite with his wife and return to the Rift. The Rift... Honerva was so certain it was the answer to their problems, that it would heal her as it had healed Kova. She didn't need to be ill, and she didn't have to die. She could be healed and live forever, and so would the child. Yes, their son. He was part of the reason that Zarkon was so frantic to rejoin Honerva and learn more news of her condition. He hadn't wanted to share the news that Honerva had conceived, considering his current feelings of enmity for Alfor, but that couldn't be helped. If Alfor continued in his current course of keeping him separated from his family and preventing Honerva from reaching the Rift, he would be guilty of murder.

What had led Alfor to this madness? It wasn't like him. He'd accused Zarkon and Honerva of being poisoned by the Rift and acting erratically, but he was the one who was behaving strangely, even criminally.

Zarkon was pacing again. Alfor had said he would face him here, in this room, but what would happen when they were together, with no walls or screens between them? Zarkon was no longer infirm, and there was a sharpness augmenting his senses. He was more aware and more awake, and his adrenaline was rising—this was the Galra battle response he knew so well from his many years of experience in combat.

Was he going to fight Alfor? He wanted to, though a physical fight between them would never be fair. Alfor wasn't weak, but he was no Galra. Zarkon was, and among his own people, he was known as an exceptional warrior. He would have to be, to lead them as their emperor.

Yet if he fought and defeated Alfor, and if he managed to muster sufficient resolve to kill him, that wouldn't resolve his difficulty. He'd still be held here, and he would have robbed the Alteans of their king. He could claim to have been provoked, but such an act would have lasting effects on both the Alteans and the Galra Empire—on the entire known universe. What would become of their alliances then? He had to focus and think clearly. And quickly. Alfor would be here soon. He should have devised a more definite plan before pushing Alfor to this. He had neglected his strategy in favor of rashness. Now, that was thinking like Alfor, but not in a useful way.

Battle readiness should have honed his thoughts, but instead, Zarkon was more uncertain than before. What was Alfor's motivation here? While his lack of discipline was a weakness, his resulting unpredictability was a strength, in a way, although it shouldn't have been. Zarkon's pulse was elevated. His breathing had grown irregular. These were not promising signs. Were these physical symptoms a lingering result of his injury, or had they been caused by the stress from his captivity? Pacing. He couldn't stop. At any moment, the door would open—

When it did, Alfor stepped through without hesitation. The door slid shut behind him immediately, too swift for Zarkon to escape through it. Alfor's hands were open and empty, and his arms were spread apart, as if to display that fact. He was unarmed, but Zarkon knew better than to underestimate him, even if Zarkon was the better fighter.

He started toward Alfor, as Alfor braced himself. Alfor didn't trust him. They no longer trusted each other. Zarkon bared his teeth. He was acutely aware of Alfor's presence: the sound of his breath, each fraction of a movement, and his scent, in which Zarkon could detect distress, although little of that showed in Alfor's expression or his stance. Alfor's appearance was at odds with his feelings, but he always had had a duplicitous streak.

"I've done as you asked. Is it easier for you to talk to me this way?" Alfor spoke slowly, with care, and Zarkon resented that, as he had resented so much of Alfor's recent behavior. He didn't want to be spoken to like a child. "I know you don't believe me," Alfor continued, but you're not being held prisoner. I want you to see that, that I'm not just locking you away. I'm concerned for your welfare."

"If you were concerned for my welfare, I wouldn't be here."

"We disagree on that point."

"It's not a point, Alfor, it's a matter of my freedom!" Addressing Alfor in person wasn't any better, because he wasn't listening.

"I did what had to be done, for your good and the good of your people."

It was that, the assumption that Alfor knew what was best for his people, that created the last measure of anger that made him lose his control. He lunged forward. Alfor tensed, but didn't attempt to dodge, as Zarkon knocked him back against the door. The door remained shut while Alfor was being slammed into it. It was clearly programmed to respond only to Alfor's command. Nothing Zarkon had done had made any impact on it. Much like Alfor himself.

"Tell the door to open," Zarkon hissed.

"I'm not going to do that. It's no good."

"You're at my mercy now."

"Am I?"

Impossible to tell what Alfor was thinking, with that inscrutable look on his face, his eyebrows rising and his eyes bright. It was almost as impossible for Zarkon to tell what he himself was thinking, his thoughts were so addled by Alfor's nearness and his own aggression.

Zarkon did have the advantage, of both position and height. In every conceivable way of looking at their confrontation, from a military standpoint. With a quick swipe of his arm, he struck Alfor's shoulder, his claws cutting through cloth and skin. Alfor flinched, but he stood firm. He didn't try to escape or fight back, and the scent of his blood was on the air now, further clouding Zarkon's mind. Zarkon grabbed Alfor by both shoulders. Alfor gasped as Zarkon's hand closed on his injured shoulder, but he had no time to react, as Zarkon quickly flipped him around, then slammed him into the door again, this time chest-first.

He heard the breath leave Alfor's lungs. It was within his power to kill Alfor. It would take one strike and no more. He would be without a captor, and the Alteans would be without a king. Alfor's hair was pulled up, and as Zarkon bore down on him, he saw that the back of his neck was exposed.

Zarkon didn't stop to analyze his actions. His head moved forward, and he bit into the bare skin at the nape of Alfor's neck. Blood rushed into Zarkon's mouth, and the taste of it was sweet as it slid down Zarkon's throat. He was suddenly overcome with—not rage and aggression, but a jarring sense of calm and satisfaction, completely at odds with the tense situation and everything that was now true about himself and Alfor.

"Ah—that always did hurt more than I expected it would," Alfor murmured. "I'd forgotten about that."

Zarkon recoiled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He was startled by his own actions. "No—that isn't supposed to happen. Not again."

Released, Alfor was able to turn in his grasp and face him. As Alfor gazed up at him, Zarkon wanted to look away, but instead, he held Alfor's gaze. Zarkon willed his aggression to return, and it did, but not at anything near the level at which it had been.

"I didn't expect it to," said Alfor, "But it did." Alfor must have been in pain, bleeding from his neck and shoulder. His shirt was stained. Yet he reached out to place a hand on Zarkon's upper arm. He tightened his grip briefly.

"No, I don't wish to." Zarkon pulled away. He had lost his advantage, all at once. "When I was young, I was foolish. I should never have allowed this to begin." When they'd met, he had been so much younger and more rash, and the Altean prince, with his own youth and rashness—and talent and charm besides—had appealed to him. Too much. He had been weak, weak enough to defy tradition and form an inappropriate liaison with the prince of a foreign power. Their bond had been more passionate than formal, marked by actions like that bite—childish, instinctive behaviors. That youthful indiscretion had been uncharacteristic of him, and he regretted it now: an act unworthy of a Galra prince. He had tried to leave it in the past, but it had come back to him.

"I still care about you," Alfor said.

Zarkon willed himself to deny that he felt the same, but the bond, although it had been formed years ago, couldn't be destroyed. It had fallen into disrepair, but it hadn't been completely undone. Zarkon felt the keen urge to return to Alfor's neck and lick at it, to attend to the wound he had caused. He wanted to taste more blood, but he restrained himself. "Is this how you mean to control me?"

Alfor flinched. "No, Zarkon, it isn't like that. Don't see it in the worst light possible. I had no idea that was going to happen."

Zarkon could envision Alfor in his youth, standing among the stones of Daibazaal or the meadows of Altea. There, in the past, Alfor was laughing, his whole manner as colorful as his hair was white, that unbound hair playing on the breeze. The Altean standing before him now was much older and more grave, but that youth was still within him, and calling out to what remained of Zarkon's own younger self. He hadn't realized he could still feel this. Hair blowing in the wind? The Galra Emperor shouldn't be having such ludicrous thoughts. There were so many matters that were so much more important now.

Zarkon couldn't kill him. He would have to become someone else before he could do so, and now he was no longer seriously considering the possibility that Alfor would die at his hands. "Leave me," he demanded.

"This was what you wanted," Alfor said.

"It wasn't. Not this."

"We need to talk about—"

"Leave me!" Zarkon repeated his demand with more force. He had miscalculated. While he had wanted to meet Alfor face to face, it had become almost unbearable to be confronted with his presence, his scent, and the infuriating sound of his voice. All so familiar, but so overwhelming. He had lost much of his advantage already. He had been outmaneuvered, and in such an undignified way—yet he hadn't given up the fight.

"The child is well," said Alfor, ignoring him. "He is strong. He will be fine. We will see to it that he receives the best care possible, no matter what happens."

"Leave me," said Zarkon a third time, but much more quietly. He felt tired, but his son was safe. That was good.

This time, Alfor listened to him. "I will. If that's what you want," said Alfor. "I do need medical attention, after all." He glanced down at his shoulder. For someone who had been bitten, his manner was very casual. If that was another of Alfor's attempts at adding lightheartedness to their entirely serious conversation, Zarkon was going to steadfastly ignore it.

Chapter Text

"It's isn't fair. I should be allowed to witness the talks. Not only are they historic, but I'm next in line for the throne." Leaning back against the trunk of his favorite tree in the gardens, Alfor let out a long, frustrated sigh, a deep sigh of protest at the great injustice that had been done to him. Usually, his beloved tree, companion of his childhood—the site of many happy climbings, flower sniffings, and fruit pickings—put him in a peaceful mood, but today, even its leafy green nostalgic powers were limited by Alfor's agitation.

"Now, now, your majesty—Your parents agreed to very precise terms. You know it wasn't their decision to exclude you." Coran was being maddeningly reasonable and nodding sagely as he played the role of responsible adult. Alfor didn't buy it, but if Coran believed he was a responsible adult, then he was going to be doing his best to act like one, unfortunately.

"I should at least be able to meet the Galra! It would be the first time I'd have the opportunity to encounter one of them outside of battle. But I can't even talk to them. I don't see why they have to be sealed away." An entire wing of the royal palace had been devoted to the housing of the Galra royals, and security had been tightened to an absurd degree. It was a wonder anyone was permitted to breathe in the vicinity of the Galra. "They're entirely too isolationist as it is. That's part of the problem."

"Well—" Coran's hesitation told Alfor than Coran was secretly on his side, but he knew better than to expect that Coran would rebel against his parents' wishes. "That's as may be, Prince Alfor, but we're lucky to have convinced them to attend these treaty talks in the first place. Your parents had no choice but to agree to their housing demands."

Alfor supposed that that was true, but it didn't make it any less monstrously unfair. If he were to be the next king, then he should be involved in some way, instead of completely excluded, as if he were a meddlesome child. "Just think," said Alfor, "Right over that wall—that's where all the Galra are." He gazed at the white wall past the border hedge, the dividing line between this garden, which was his, and the one connected to the palace's hospitality wing. That wing was large enough to house a small village, but the entirety of it had been given over to the Galra delegation. There was no hope of seeing over that wall, as it was a secured guardian wall, towering and charged with defensive energy.

"Yes, it is exciting, isn't it? Just think, we could be well on the way to ending the war."

Coran was right, and he was focusing on the most important issue, but Alfor was not entirely satisfied. "You would think they would at least let me meet with the prince. Neither of us are allowed into the talks, so we should be permitted to speak to each other. We're the future rulers, after all."

Coran made a thoughtful noise, drawing Alfor's attention away from the wall and towards him. Coran pursed his lips, then blew a puff of air thoughtfully through his mustache. "That's not a bad idea, Prince Alfor, but I don't believe the Galra see things that way. The Emperor and her wife were very, very specific in their conditions. You remember that list we all received. It even had menus!"

"The menus might as well have been the word meat repeated fifty-five times," said Alfor, who certainly did remember the menus.

"The Galra are a carnivorous species."

Alfor frowned, focusing his gaze on that guardian wall again. "I know, Coran, but if the Galra are truly going to accept us, if they're going to want to work with us instead of against us, then they need to get to know us—our people, our food, our culture. They need to start accepting us as individuals rather than enemies, and we must do the same, for them. That's the only way we'll achieve true peace."

Coran made an odd, snorting noise. Alfor glanced at him sharply, in time to see him wipe away a tear. "Your majesty—that's—a beautiful sentiment. Oh, you're right. It would be a much better universe if more people thought that way!"

"Then you do agree with me."

"I do—" Coran began, before quickly breaking off. He took a deep breath. "But we don't have any choice in the matter. Not yet."

"No, of course not," said Alfor, deciding that he could not count Coran as his ally in the plan he was already formulating. "Not yet."

"I know it seems unfair, Prince Alfor, but sometimes change can be slow to come. Of course, you and I are ready for it to happen now, but not everyone is as forward thinking as we are."

"No, they certainly aren't," said Alfor, sighing again. "Sometimes forward thinking people are all on our own." Like him. He was completely on his own. He ran his fingertips contemplatively over the rough bark of his tree. Coran would be no help in this, and there were few other people on Altea he could appeal to, considering that this was a matter of intergalactic security. Briefly, Alfor considered asking Honerva to join him in his endeavor, but the fact that the stakes were so high made him hesitate. If he were to be caught, he would be in a great deal of trouble, possibly far more than he had been in before—and he had often been in trouble. He didn't want to drag his good friend into something like that, no matter how game she might have been. No, he would do this alone.

Alfor knew what people thought of him. The crown prince was rash, impulsive, reckless, unpredictable—and other words to that effect. It wasn't that he was disliked or distrusted, but as he understood the popular opinion, it was generally believed that he had a lot of maturing ahead of him. Once he grew up, they said (sometimes to him, and sometimes when they thought he couldn't hear them), he would settle down. Alfor wasn't sure if that was the case. He couldn't explain it, but he had always been this way. Impulses would seize him suddenly, and then he'd have to carry them out, as if driven by a strong inner force. It was like his own personal kind of gravity. He was constantly being drawn toward—something.

Maybe this inclination was related to his alchemical powers, or maybe it had to do with his personality. Whatever the case, Alfor was experiencing it again: the irresistible urge to act in a way no one could have approved of. Alfor wanted to see the Galra. More specifically, he wanted to see the prince.

Alfor knew very little about the prince in question. The Galra were notoriously secretive and unfriendly to outsiders. They saw any information regarding their culture, biology, or individual citizens as intelligence which could be used against them in battle. Alfor knew that the prince was likely around his age, he knew that his name was Zarkon, and he knew that Zarkon had come to Altea with his parents, but that was the sum total of his knowledge. Surely there was much more to know, and if the two princes were to become friendly, that could only mean that better days were ahead for both their peoples. The next generation would move closer to peace and understanding.

Possibly Alfor was being naive, and probably he was an optimist. He had been called both things before, but he didn't see what was wrong with optimism. Without optimism, you wouldn't try to achieve something incredible. If you didn't try, you couldn't succeed, and he was going to make his best attempt. He had a plan—more of a grand, broad idea than a drawn out, detailed list of steps to go through. He'd found that allowing himself room to improvise worked better for him than having a rigid structure he'd have to uphold. He was a flexible planner, so much so that some had accused him of never planning at all—but such people simply didn't understand his vision. He tried not to hold it against them.

What Alfor was planning to do was infiltrate the closed wing where the Galra delegation was staying, find the emperor's son, and speak to him, prince to prince. As for what would happen after that—that, he didn't know, but what was important was that he make that personal connection. He would have his own private treaty negotiation, since he had been left out of the official one.

The security on the wing that the Galra had taken over was extreme, all to the specifications of the Galra delegation. The only entrances were under heavy guard and installed with bio-scanners. There was no way for unauthorized people to pass through them. Anyone else would have been defeated at the start. Fortunately, Alfor was not anyone else, and he knew the palace very well, including its many secrets.

Alfor liked secrets. He enjoyed collecting them, because they were fun to have, and because knowing something that no one else knew could be useful, on occasion. For instance, everyone knew that the current palace had been built upon the previous palace, and that that palace had been built on the site of the one before that, and so on and so on back to the dawn of Altean civilization. It was a sacred site, and its history had been well documented by historians and archaeologists alike. However, no one but Alfor had used alchemy to discover certain of the old passageways. No one else had explored so much of what remained of the previous palaces. As a prince, Alfor had far more extensive access to the palace than any archaeologist, and as an alchemist, he was very skilled at finding things that were hidden or lost.

He had gathered quite a collection of secrets that way, for fun, and not for malice, although he was about to use one of them in a way that some might have considered disobedient or even dangerous. Almost anyone would have advised him to abandon his idea, but again, Alfor was not anyone else, and he was also not consulting anyone.

It was evening. Alfor had sat through a long dinner with his family before he returned to the garden and his tree. It was an exceptionally fine tree, and exceptionally old, with thick, gnarled roots and sturdy limbs that were perfect for young princes to climb. This tree had been growing here before the current palace had been built. Altean construction projects tended to incorporate trees rather than cut them down, whenever possible. Alfor leaned forward, resting his forehead against the tree's bark.

The evening's negotiations with the Galra were beginning on the other side of the palace, within the great hall. Since Galra were nocturnal by nature, the schedule of the treaty talks had diplomatically been designed to suit them. The king and queen of Altea had gone out of their way to accommodate the Emperor and her wife, since convincing the Galra to engage in any form of discussion had taken deca-phoebs of conflict. So many lives had been lost in the war. Alfor was weary of it. He could barely remember a time before the fighting. A mere cessation of hostilities would only be temporary. It wouldn't be enough. What he wanted—and needed—was true peace.

The tree remembered a time of true peace. When Alfor had been but a boy rising up into its tallest branches, Altea had been at peace. Alfor felt a light tingling all over his skin. He didn't need to look to know that he was glowing a faint blue, as he reached out to make contact with the tree, connecting his mind with the tree's awareness and its very being. The tree was alive, as he was. It was an old friend. That was why, for him, when he asked politely, its roots started to tremble and then shifted, revealing an opening beneath. Alfor patted the bark and expressed his thanks.

The passageway between the roots was just wide enough for Alfor to squeeze through, if he used his shape-shifting abilities to narrow his hips and shoulders. In a moment, his feet hit the ground—in the hallway of a structure that predated his own home. The tiles on the floor here were well-preserved. They gleamed faintly blue in the dark, still infused with ancient alchemy. In part, it was that alchemy that had preserved this section of the old palace so well, in combination with the the roots of the trees from the garden. Those trees had grown in soil that was rich in alchemical energy. This particular ruin was not a remnant of the palace that had stood on this site directly before the current one. No, it was an even older palace, as Alfor's garden was an ancient green grove that no one had wanted to build over in the course of the most recent construction, many generations past.

As far as Alfor had been able to determine, this was the only portion of this particular version of the royal palace that had been preserved. Beneath his garden, there was a small complex of rooms, which must have been used for alchemical purposes, judging by the way the energy lingered, and by the number of secrets that Alfor had learned here, in his own special, hidden suite. He'd first discovered it as a child, when his friend the tree had decided to share it with him. Ever since, whenever he'd needed to be truly alone—to think, or to hide after pulling a stunt that his parents did not find agreeable—he'd come here. He guessed it was the workshop of some ancient alchemist ancestor, although he hadn't been able to determine theiridentity. He liked to think they were linked to him somehow, perhaps overlooking his own work from whatever plane they had moved on to, in death.

Whatever the case, for a young Altean such as himself, few things could have been more enchanting and exciting than having an ancient, underground alchemical lab to play in. What made it even better was the fact that many hallways branched off from it, a number of which were also preserved, at least in part, giving him a way of sneaking beneath some portions of the palace grounds undetected. Which was exactly what he needed to do now.

If his own garden hadn't been so close to the hospitality wing the Galra had had set aside for them, Alfor's plan wouldn't have worked. It was either fate or good fortune that had arranged it so that Alfor—and only Alfor—had a way under the guardian wall.

A guardian wall was not so easily fooled that you could simply tunnel under it to get past it, but Altean security being what it was, the technology did take into account the trees' root systems, which had to pass beneath the wall. Alfor had a particular, protected route in mind. One of the old hallways ended in a tangle of roots, but these roots were friendly to Alfor, and Alfor knew from experience that they would do him a bit of a favor if he asked.

His hand glowing blue, Alfor rested it on one swirl of root, offering a greeting and an explanation. It wasn't exactly magic he was doing, as some might have classed it. He considered it an advanced form of communication, not only cross-species, but from his animal mind to the distinct plant consciousness. The trees were aware of his presence, but not in the same way an Altean would be. They also probably had trouble understanding why he would need to move from one particular spot to another at such rapid speed, but fortunately, trees were good about not asking a lot of unnecessary questions. They had an understanding with Alfor, so they were happy to do as he asked.

Again, the roots shifted just enough for him to pass, with some moderate self-alterations. He didn't want to put them to too much trouble, and he didn't mind squeezing into a narrow space. He'd spent so much time in tight places in his youth, literally and metaphorically, that he wasn't troubled by claustrophobia. He knew that this particular passageway, crumbling and overgrown as it was, led to a point that was roughly where he wanted to be: right beneath the next garden over.

There was still a chance that the guardian wall would detect him, but as he was now a narrow creature sliding through the roots, he considered it was a slight risk. Altean technology also was designed to avoid injuring wildlife, so the fact that he was an animal and present wouldn't mean he would necessarily set it off. To be completely safe, he cast a charm on himself that would minimize any damage, but he need not have worried. The roots and perhaps his own boldness protected him, and he passed through unharmed, if very, very dirty.

The exit to his passageway was among the roots of another sympathetic tree. As he emerged from his tunnel, Alfor straightened and brushed dirt from his clothes and hair. He didn't mind dirt, but it was best to look presentable when carrying out his royal duties, even the illicit ones.

When he heard a faint noise, he stiffened and turned. Ah. There was a Galra standing there, in the shadows beneath the trees. Sword in hand, he regarded Alfor in surprise. He looked as if he had been caught in the midst of training, or perhaps had been doing his rounds. He was very tall, and clad in red armor—like most Galra warriors Alfor had seen. From beneath the brow ridge of his helmet, a stern, reptilian face glared at Alfor with crimson eyes. Alfor hadn't thought as far ahead as he might have. This was a reoccurring problem with his plans. While he had achieved his initial goal of getting past the wall and into the Galrans' garden, he had absolutely no idea what to do, now that he'd been discovered here. He also had another, entirely unexpected concern to deal with.

Oh no, thought Alfor, as he studied the Galra, he's beautiful. His appearance was striking. His eyes glowed faintly in the dark. His scales looked positively lustrous. Alfor felt his heartbeat quicken, but that might have been because he was facing an armed Galra empty-handed.

Not wanting to be suspected of being an assassin, Alfor hadn't armed himself, so his only real way of defending himself, if attacked, was evasion. He tensed, ready to leap to elude an inevitable strike—because he couldn't imagine that a Galra wouldn't attack him in this situation.

Moments passed, many more of them than he'd anticipated. Alfor remained tensed, yet—nothing happened. The Galra remained motionless, continuing to stare at him, as he continued to stare at the Galra. This—was odd. Finally, Alfor had to say something to break the tension. There weren't many appropriate openers in this situation; it wasn't the kind of circumstance they covered in etiquette class. "It's not what it looks like."

This broke the spell. The Galra blinked. "What does it look like?" he shot back immediately, as if he'd only been waiting for Alfor to speak before saying something himself. Maybe he was giving Alfor a chance to explain himself before attacking? That was very polite of him.

Alfor hadn't expected to be asked that particular question, but he had an answer to give. "It looks underhanded, but I'm actually the prince of Altea. You may recognize me from official imagery, such as royal coinage or royal portraits. But you probably wouldn't expect a prince to crawl in via root system."

"No, I wouldn't." This Galra didn't sound like he had much of a sense of humor, but he still hadn't attacked Alfor, which was a point in his favor. "And why did you do that?"

"You see, I'm looking for Prince Zarkon."

"For what purpose?"

"I wanted to pay him a visit, have a chat, prince to prince—you could say it's a social call."

"A social call." The words might well have been unintelligible, for all that the Galra seemed to comprehend them as he said them.

"If we're discussing a treaty between our peoples, then we should become familiar with each other, shouldn't we?" Alfor decided not to use the speech he'd used on Coran earlier. This Galra probably wouldn't be as susceptible to it. "I'm sure it was an oversight that we weren't included."

The Galra continued to glare at him. Alfor wondered if they were going to get into another staring match. Technically, he'd won the previous one, but he wasn't going to try to explain that. "I could have killed you," the Galra snapped, at last. Alfor was pleased to see him lower his sword: a good sign.

"But you didn't."

"That's not the point! You're not supposed to be here." Was he scolding him? Alfor definitely felt scolded. He wasn't sure if it was annoying or amusing, but as someone who had snuck in, in defiance of both the rules and common sense, he felt he had no right to object. "No one is supposed to enter the area set aside for us without our explicit permission. Our demands were very specific and very clear."

Our demands. This Galra had an authoritative—and even imperious—air. Although that may have been a trait of Galra in general, Alfor asked, "You wouldn't happen to be Prince Zarkon, would you?" The Empire was so secretive in their classification of all information as military information that Alfor had no idea what the prince looked like. It was worth asking.

Another few ticks passed. The Galra sighed, deeply. "Your plan had no merits and should not be allowed to succeed."

"But—did it?"

The Galra frowned. "I'm sorry you inform you that it did."

He'd known his plan would work out somehow. He wasn't sure how he'd known, but he'd been proven right once again. "Oh, that's wonderful. Well, I'm not sorry at all." Alfor beamed, and then bowed. "In fact, it's a pleasure to meet you, Prince Zarkon."