Archive of Our Own ^beta

Their arrival will be a grand affair.

The city's people gather in large groups, pressed against the gates of the estate like they might bend the metal with their bare hands. There are some so dedicated that their tents have been posted for weeks, and it's only thanks to the Count's preoccupation with preparing the estate that the Guards have not yet been sent to throw them off the estate grounds and into the river.

The inside of the estate is bustling in a way it truly never has been before, the staff rushing to and fro with a frantic fervor. The Galran Empire has seen many things over the course of its long reign, and Count Sendak himself has hosted many allies inside the sprawling grounds of his estate over the course of his long life, but the Paladins of Altea are the types of legend. They are the strongest force in all of the lands, hand-picked for their exemplary skills, and set out to stop wars in their tracks and bring peace to all peoples. Their titles alone are enough to grant them access to even the darkest corners of a nation, permitting them to national secrets that no one short of the reigning Kings or Queens might know of.

The Prince knows that they have visited the Grand Castle of the Galran Empire at least twice before, but that was at the Grand Castle. This estate, while sprawling and magnificent in its own right, is better suited for Counts and Countesses and bastard sons. It is not the place for types of legend, and the mere matter that the Paladins of Altea are interested in visiting such a place assures him that they believe that Count Sendak has something of interest to them, be that a piece from his network of information or one of his many priceless artifacts.

The Prince has not been told whether or not the Count knows why the Paladins of Altea have directed their interest here of all places, and he does not presume to ask. He has enough work to complete before the end of the week as it is, and he sees little benefit in adding to that only to satisfy his pointless, driveling curiosity.

No matter why they are coming, they are coming, and he will have to be prepared for anything.

---

The Prince was prepared for the Paladins of Altea.

He hasn't had much time between finishing his work and scrubbing blood out of the courtyard stones, but he's managed to practice enough Altean customs that he's fairly certain he won't accidentally set off a war between himself and the Paladins within moments of meeting them, presuming he is permitted to meet them, nor will he send them running disgustedly from the dining table, presuming he is permitted to dine in their presence.

He's even found the time to brush up on his knowledge of the Altean language, especially as the Count tightens the restrictions across the estate and demands the Prince remain in his rooms, giving him considerably more time to pour over the few books he has. He's not knowledgeable enough to hold a conversation with anyone, by any means, but it's enough that he might be able to know when to speak up and when to bite his tongue. Eavesdropping is not a particularly dignified endeavor, but if it might ease some of the burden on the Paladins and improve his outcomes with both them and the Count, then the Prince is not above a little indignity.

Unfortunately, nothing in the Prince's life ever goes according to plan. The Prince was prepared for the Paladins of Altea. He was not, however, prepared for the Paladins of Earth.

---

Lotor should really remain in his room.

The Count will be furious if he knows the Prince is sneaking about in the shadows like some sort of criminal crawling through the Count's home. Lotor should remain in his room, and perhaps even on his knees by the door where he was left, until the Count sends for him. He knows this. And, ever still, Lotor is not in his room. Instead, he is ducking through the halls like a ghost, tucking into shadows as the Guards pass him by and trying to quell his furious desire to run down the halls like a child. His nails press into the soft flesh of his palms, the muted stinging drawing his attention away from his own desires and toward his present which requires much focus as he navigates the midnight halls.

He only has a narrow window of opportunity, truly, but allowing himself to be caught by the Guards and brought before the Count would perhaps be a fate worse than death. Lotor has already spent most of his day groveling at the Count's feet, and he has little interest in extending that into the moonlit hours. He remains vigilant as he moves further from the heart of the estate, the number of passing Guards dwindling with every step he takes until, soon enough, he shuts the door behind him and he is alone with the training dummies, the blade burning in his hands.

He hasn't had much experience being on the hilted end of a blade and he knows his form is sloppy and weak, but he does his best to mimic how the Guards have appeared the few times he's spotted them training. He slashes and stabs with poised control, feeling powerful and graceful even as the blade wavers and his shoulders shake. The training dummy tears itself open and straw breathes out of slashed cloth for only a moment before the enchantment twists the cloth back together, rendering the dummy whole once more.

Lotor cannot help the grin on his face any more than he can help the blood that pumps through his veins. There is a thrill that comes with this sort of temporary violence, one that is only beaten by the thrill of his claws sinking into the straw meat of the training dummy. He is quick to abandon his blade, the sting of his claws protracting quickly buried beneath the satisfaction of a killing blow. He swipes in time with the beating of his heart and slashes with every bated breath and trembling exhale, only stopping once his muscles are well and truly aching and his claws have finally had their fill of straw.

He lets himself sink to the floor, though decidedly not on his knees, and he breathes heavily, looking up at the rafters and shadows that line the training hall's ceiling. Sweat clings his hair to the base of his neck in much the same way a light rain might. His muscles groan and protest even as he lies still, his limbs made of lead and dragging him helplessly fatigued to the floor.

All that to say, Lotor is exhausted by the time the visitor finally makes himself known.

---

The fact that it isn't Sendak or one of his loyal Guards watching is enough that Lotor almost begins to pray to express his thanks, right then and there, for it surely is an act of divine intervention. Perhaps the Universe truly has begun to sympathize with him, he thinks as he sneaks through the halls and back to his rooms.

Perhaps…perhaps this is the mark of better things to come.

---

The Paladins arrived in the night, sometime between when Lotor was supposed to be asleep in his rooms and when he actually returned to them from the training hall.

He isn't entirely surprised, since the visitor from the night before was clearly not a member of the estate. There was always the chance that they were a citizen of the city who'd somehow manage to climb the gates of the estate, but Lotor hardly cared where they came from, so long as they remained quiet about what he was doing. He's sure now that they're a member of the Paladin's crew, likely a fighter or stealth operative if the prowess they demonstrated in the training hall is to say anything.

In the light of the day, the halls are graced with frantic staff and militant Guards, and Lotor is lucky that the Count even remembered to call for him this morning. He was worried as the sun continued to rise in the sky that perhaps he would be forgotten, kneeling at the door until nightfall. Fortunately, a Guard was sent to collect him soon enough, and he was brusquely informed that the Paladins were in the main hall and would be expecting his presence.

Now, Lotor walks behind the Guard, his footsteps only a beat behind the towering armored man's, and the sea of staff and other Guards part before them like the sea. As they make their way through the halls, Lotor wonders, briefly, what the Paladins will be like. For all that they are accepted, truthfully, it is a matter of necessity. To deny the Paladins of Altea would be to make oneself an enemy of the Paladins of Altea and all of their numerous, powerful allies. Lotor knows this, though he also knows that the matter of bending to their will has always been rather controversial, especially in such a rigid regime as the Galran Empire.

In truth, Lotor has never had much of an opinion on the matter. If he were to sit and study the evidence, scouring all of the related documents and recountings with the sort of tenacity he usually reserves for slipping around nobles in the side houses and keeping to the shadows in the main house, he's fairly sure he would side with the Paladins in most things.

He isn't certain, though, especially as he never had studied the Paladins beyond learning the customs of the impressive kingdom from which they were bestowed their titles. He'd meant to, he'd even set aside a sizeable portion of time to prepare for the administration's arrival, but he's barely had enough time for the studies he's required to complete and the information he needs to survive.

Lotor hopes, as much as he will allow himself to hope, that the knowledge he has will be enough.

---

The Paladins are much louder than he expected.

Lotor can hear them well before he can see them, their overlapping voices practically echoing down the halls. By the time he arrives, most of the nobles have taken their self-presumed places throughout the main hall, each looking at the Paladins with eager, almost hungry expressions.

"Oh, of course!" the Count-- or is he Viscount? --agrees with a booming voice and a cheerful smile, "We mustn't forget introductions! I am Duke Coran of Altea, and this is my ward, Princess Allura of Altea."

"Princess," Count Sendak greets with narrowed eyes, the everpresent scowl barely softening enough to pass for neutrality as the princess nods politely at him. Lotor stiffens, Sendak's anger practically thick enough to taste. Tonight, he knows, will certainly not be one he can take to the training room.

"And these are the Paladins of Altea!" Duke Coran says, his arms spread wide as he bends in a mockery of a bow. Lotor's eyes are locked onto Sendak's ever-angering form.

"Forgive me, Duke Coran," Sendak says with a razor-sharp smile, "but your Paladins don't appear to be Altean."

Lotor lets his gaze turn to the Paladins for only a moment. The Paladins are human, all of them, and unmistakably so, but it isn't their species that catches his attention. Lotor freezes, his heart caught in his throat and his spine stiffening. The visitor from the night before looks back at him curiously, the Red Paladin's crest threaded into his lapel.

"I suppose we could call them the Paladins of Earth, but I just don't think it has the same kick to it!" Duke Coran concedes, just as chipper and just as loud. "They're still the Paladins, after all!"

Right.

Lotor stares at his shoes and hopes that, when it comes time to mingle, he will be spared having to explain himself to either the Red Paladin of Altea or the Count.

---

Lotor is spared any need for explanation when the Red Paladin finds himself caught between several noble ladies at once. The Blue Paladin seems to find his companion's situation amusing, egging on the noble women about the Red Paladin's skills in battle and alluding more than once to his skills in…other areas. The women swoon, crowding the Red Paladin like a group of hungry sharks.

Lotor is spared, but of course, to be spared in the moment is only to be damned in time.

He probably would have done well to remember that.

---

Lotor of all people should not be the one on a first-name basis with the Paladins.

---

It's early morning at the training hall when the subject is finally broached. At least, a subject is broached, though it's certainly not the one Lotor was anticipating.

Keith asks, his lips curled down in a frown that's only a hairsbreadth from a full-on scowl, "Why did you tell me you were a Paladin?"

Lotor pauses and tries not to visibly react. "I didn't."

At no point had he so much as alluded to any title, in their brief but pleasant interactions. For all that the Count had ranted and raved on the Red Paladin's annoyance, Lotor honestly found him to be a sort of refreshing presence. Still, he hasn't alluded to a title, and he certainly wouldn't have alluded to being some sort of Paladin himself.

Keith considers him, his obvious irritation taking a moment's pause. "You said you were training."

"I was."

"But you're a Prince?" Keith says, as though the word means anything at all.

"Does your Princess not also train?" Lotor asks, his curiosity getting the better of him. He's certain he's seen Princess Allura practicing lethal blows on the training dummies with a well-balanced staff before, but perhaps she too keeps her training between herself and the sweat-soaked stone that lines the training courts.

"What? Of course she does," Keith says, his expression twisting, "I figured someone of your stature would be above that, though."

"My stature," Lotor repeats flatly, unsure if this is another of the Paladin's poorly received jokes. He makes quite a lot of those, though not nearly as many as the other Paladins tend to.

"Coran said Galran royalty don't fight," Keith says, and while it's true that no royal of Galra higher in status than a Baron would ever wield a blade, Lotor would hardly be considered Galran royalty.

The Emperor's bastard son born of an executed Altean witch was worth considerably less than the dirt beneath the Red Paladin's feet, and he should, all things considered, tell the man as such immediately. He needs to rectify this glaring mistake, this gross oversight someone has made that's led the Paladin to believe that Lotor is worthy of anything at all, let alone the status of royalty.

He should.

He doesn't.

---

Lotor is fucked.

Regardless of how it is put, he is entirely and irrevocably damned, and the worst thing is that he's done it to himself. This situation is entirely one of his own making, a foolishness that can be attributed to no one but himself. He hadn't even lied, technically speaking. No implications of untruth ever left his mouth, nor did any exaggerations or lies. He just...hadn't corrected the glaring misinterpretation of the truth that they had taken as the truth.

For, as much as he'd like to pretend otherwise, as desperate as he is for even an ounce of what the Count has, by Galran standards, Lotor isn't a Prince. No one is foolish enough to have believed that, knowing of the nature of his conception.

No one, that is, save the Paladins.

---

Count Sendak doesn't seem angry.

That, of all things, is the first tell that Lotor is not going to be walking back to his room on his own two feet.

---

"You embarrassed me tonight," the Count says, rolling the wine in his glass and letting his lifted boot fall back to the ground. Lotor strangles a scream in his throat as the Count's boot takes another heavy step onto the crooked swell of his fingers. After the next, Lotor is twisting, writhing on the ground, his hand pinned beneath the full weight of the man.

Lotor sobs, wishing furiously that his tears were enough to move the man to stop. Of course, they only seem to urge him to continue. How else is he to teach him, how else is Lotor to learn, unless refusing to learn is simply too painful to do?

"You could have ruined this, you know," Sendak says, freeing Lotor's hand and crouching low to the floor. The backs of his knuckles brush beneath Lotor's eyes gently, getting wet with tears, and he gently tucks a stray piece of hair behind Lotor's ear.

"That's what you do," Sendak says, not unkindly. He moves to his desk with heavy footfalls, lifting his ornately painted vase whose flowers have long since died and admiring it with the same sort of look he gives Lotor on better days. Then, he lets it fall from his fingers with an echoing crash. "You break things."

As much as Lotor would beg to deny it, as much as he wants to bleed the wretchedness out of his own veins, he knows it to be true. More than any other skill, he is surely adept at ruining, at breaking.

"And, now?" Sendak asks, suddenly closer than Lotor remembers. His breath is hot on Lotor's throat, and one hand grips his hair, pulling him up off the floor. "Now, I'm going to break you."

---

He does.

And, when the Count is done, he breaks him again.

And then again.

And then again.

And then-

---

It should be noted that it is, apparently, impossible to hide from the Paladins. It should also be noted that if one should try to do so, they will quickly find themselves corralled into a closet with half of the Paladins looming over them, and the other half playing distraction elsewhere in the estate.

Lotor is not particularly thrilled about this.

"Here," Keith says gruffly, seconds before a tasseled sack smacks into Lotor's chest. He scrambles to catch it, his stiff and uncoordinated fingers taking far too long to open the pouch. When he reaches inside, he's shocked to find his fingers coated in a fine, vibrantly pink dust. The skin of his hands tingles, the remnants of the healed fractures quickly stitching themselves to perfection beneath his skin.

"Is this..." Lotor's voice trails off, unwilling to even speak such absurdity into existence. It's entirely possible that the Paladins could have something like this, but to spend it on him is absurd. And to spend it on him when he's lied to them, when he's angered them? There's no world in which this makes any sort of sense.

"Healing dust," Keith says as though the entire situation is obvious, his ever-present scowl deepening. "Take it."

"I couldn't--"

"Take. It." Keith grits out, the words slipping between clenched teeth. Lotor flinches, though he means not to.

"I can't," Lotor says. Even if it weren't entirely inappropriate for a Paladin to gift someone of his status anything at all, the Count will no doubt be expecting to check his work later.

"What, are you too good for something like--" Lance elbows Keith in the side and Lotor winces, the muscles in his shoulders pulling tight.

"I can't," he snaps. He can't afford to take this, even if the Count weren't to enforce his learning. He wishes he could sink his hands into the healing powder, to stop the tremors that run down his arms, but there's only one way to rid himself of this wretchedness. No matter how he feels about it, there's nothing else to be done. He cannot take the coward's way out.

He takes a breath, carefully steadying himself and his tone. "I'm sorry, but I can't."

"Why?" Shiro asks, a gentle hand landing on Lotor's shoulder. Keith seems to be stewing in his ire, but Shiro at least seems to understand some of the intricacies of dealing with nobles.

"He'll want to see," Lotor admits, shame warming his face. His voice wavers slightly, but his hands are surprisingly steady as he forces the pouch of dust worth more than the entire estate to close. "Later, that is."

The very air in the room seems to still. "Will he?" Shiro asks, his face having fallen entirely flat and expressionless.

Lotor's shoulders hunch around his shoulders. He knows there is a need for truthfulness now, but the truth of his own failures twists in his gut. He forces himself to nod.

"And he wouldn't allow you to heal yourself?" Shiro asks, sounding very much like he already knows the answer.

"That's--rather--" Lotor swallows, his eyes boring holes into his knees. "It would defeat the point of the lesson, wouldn't it?"

---

Lotor was not prepared for the Palaidns of Earth.

Neither, it seems, was the Count.

On the floor, the man writhes, gasping as he clutches at his throat. Thick red wine spills from the wound and colors the floor, the taste lingering in the air. Lotor's claws flex, protracting and retracting again and again, yearning to have their fill. Across the room, Keith grins, just as wild, just as dangerous. Shiro would never have approved of this, this unfettered violence that does nothing good for anyone. There's a reason, then, that the other Paladins are distracting him and the Princess elsewhere. Lotor is tired of being good, and Keith is all too happy to oblige him in his quest to be as wretched as possible.

He yearns to move in like a hound, quick and furious, letting his claws and his teeth rip and tear as he lingers between the screams until there is nothing left of the man on the floor. There's also a reason, then, that the other Paladins don't distract Shiro or the Princess for too long. The Count should not die--for reasons political and moral alike--and he does not, the doors slamming open. Shiro's hands are gentle as they guide Lotor away from the blood and the violence. Lance drags Keith practically kicking and screaming from the scene, but not before taking an appreciative view of their work.

Lotor lets the Paladin guide him away from it all, only sparing one last look to the Count and the teeth marks in his throat. 

Lotor grins, blood in his teeth. He doubts the Count will be forgetting this lesson anytime soon.

---