Story [Voltron] "The Erebrean Period", Zarkon/Haggar & Lotor, Vignette up 11/27

“The Erebrean Period”

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Family, General
Rating: PG
Time Frame: Pre-Canon, 3x07 expansion
Characters: Zarkon/Honerva | Haggar, Lotor

Summary: The Erebrean Period: A span of the cosmic timescale stretching from the formation of the proto-sun, to the emission of its first light.

Or: A glimpse of a family, as it once was, long ago.


Notes: So . . . surprise! My muse has found a new fandom to play in. Netflix has constantly pushed this show to the top of my must-watch list for months now, so I finally gave it a try . . . and now here I am after binge watching all four seasons. From the beginning, Zarkon and Haggar's delightfully evil, work-married Melkor/Sauron-esque relationship was a guilty pleasure for me. But then for 3x07 to reveal a real marriage, and memory loss, and a broken bromance with dear, dear Alfor . . . well, that ticked off all my favourite tropes, and I couldn't not write something in answer. I have a couple of other ideas churning for this fandom if there's any interest, but for the moment I have a heaping dose of family feels and underlying doom and gloom foreshadowing written for the NSWFF prompts Noisome and Gold to share. Eventually, I'm going to try and catch up on all the prompts I've missed . . . eventually.


Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, but for the words.

Enjoy!

---

“The Erebrean Period”​

by Mira_Jade​

It was nearing the third quarter of Daibazaal's night cycle; a time when even the most devout of the Galran court realized the wisdom of retiring to sleep. Best was it to allow one's mind and body time to adequately rest and recuperate the way nature intended, and then carry on again the following day. The empire deserved nothing less than their fullest attention, after all.

Once, such sensibility was shared by both the emperor of the Galra and his wife. Yet, the skies over the capitol city of Dahzur had completely lost their flush of scarlet some time ago; too long ago. Honerva kept longer and longer hours as of late, and while - quietly, privately - Zarkon knew concern, it was not yet late enough to justify his visiting her lab to remind her of the time. He had ever been, and would ever continue to be, patient where his wife was concerned. He could wait.

Neither the stars or the welcoming wash of light from the nearby Basst nebula were visible that night. Instead, stormclouds stretched their dark hands across the sky, violent in both shape and intensity. The ground beneath their feet rumbled from the fervor of the churning heavens above, and the strong foundations of the palace trembled in answer to the tectonic vibrations. The atmosphere seethed as it did much further south of the planetary cap, unleashing intense winds down from the clouds to batter the land below. Through the swirl of red dust and vaporous gases, he could not see beyond, to where the light of the crater site was normally a beacon on the horizon; the fury of the planet was too great that night.

A whispering voice, deep within him, muttered that the season for storms should have been tempering; these events should have been lessening in both occurrence and intensity. The planet had grown more and more capricious over the last few decapheebs, and they were growing more and more unable to predict her whims. The structural integrity of Daibazaal had balanced on a knife-point since the time of creation - surviving, and thriving, on their hard and oftentimes inhospitable planet was a mark of pride for the Galra people, after all – yet, there were now those who whispered . . .

- but Zarkon cast those thoughts aside, and resolved to pay them no further heed. Not that night. Instead, he closed his eyes to the ferocity of the storm and tried to find what rest he could, while he could. Another varga, and he would check on Honerva's progress. He would be patient until then.

Thus decided, he allowed his mind to drift. Though he never sank into the realm of dreams, not truly, his thoughts were relaxed. As the gales lashed at the palace compound he remembered the first time he'd shown his wife-to-be the advent of rain falling from the sky, on one of their colony worlds. Caught in the memory, he followed the paths the droplets of water made over her dusky skin with his mind's eye. Awed, she'd lifted her hands as if to catch the rain within her cupped palms. He remembered the full shape of her smile then . . . the way her eyes had glittered with such a simple, easy joy, before -

- there was a soft, whispering sound against the polished volcanic stone of the floor. He was no longer alone in the dark.

Zarkon's ears twitched, a reflex born and reinforced by a thousand battlefields keeping him silent and still even as he pinpointed the intruder's exact location in the shadows. However, he tasted no malice on the air; he could feel no threat vibrate against his skin. There were only two the bioscanners would allow admittance into so personal a space as his bedchamber, and only those two would creep up on the emperor of the Galra without their blood-beat betraying the anticipation of their actions.

So.

“Does Kovrok know where you are, my son?”

He did not open his eyes to rumble into the dark; there was no need. That tellingly soft step – so careful, but ultimately short of its goal, whispered to a halt. He heard a sharp exhalation of breath – the clear sound of a child's thwarted sigh, sure enough, confirming his suspicions.

A heartbeat passed. He did not have to wait longer for obedience from the boy. “ . . . maybe,” was the slow, unwitting answer he received in reply.

Zarkon did open his eyes then, and allowed the barest of frowns to furrow his brow. He simply stared into the shadows, and waited.

“Well . . . if he does not know, he will likely soon guess,” Lotor amended his words. A childish petulance colored his tone of voice, and Zarkon huffed out a breath in reply. Cheeky boy; the answer was too much a sign of Honerva's mark within his blood.

Lotor knew of his error, but he did not bow his head and back down from his statement. Zarkon drew in a breath, prepared to voice a reprimand before he next picked up on the way the child's heartbeat thundered against his ribcage. Lotor's shoulders were squared and his head was held up proud and high to his father's sight, but he'd sought out his parents' rooms for a reason. He was miserable as he stood there, Zarkon understood; anxious and ill at ease. Something troubled him that night - troubled him to the point of inspiring fear, even.

It did not matter what had inspired such in his son, it only mattered that he felt so. Lotor was still young enough that all Zarkon needed to do was hold an arm open and silently welcome the child forward.

He did not have to utter his invitation aloud. One moment, Lotor stood a respectable distance away and the next the boy's slight, soft weight joined him on the bed, curling up trustingly against him. Lotor had only just left his toddling pheebs behind him, and he was small, so small to Zarkon's senses. This close, he could hear the way his heartbeat thundered; he could hear the quick, rushing pulse of his blood – a normally clear sign of weakness and opportunity when facing an enemy in battle; a promise of a victory soon to come. Yet there was no battlefield to walk here; no advantage to seek and take. There was only peace to grant, and share. Giving a deep, soothing rumble in his chest seemed to be a universal method of comfort across species, no matter that his son was not wholly a Galran cub. Careful of the tips of his claws, he brushed his fingers through his son's hair - the soft, pale strands were once an oddity to his senses, but now they were a familiarity. A comfort, even. Lotor nuzzled against his chest, a contented, almost purring noise whispering from his own throat as the ticks passed.

Zarkon did not bother with speech until Lotor's heartbeat at last slowed, and his blood-beat pulsed with peace and burgeoning contentment. Then: “You will apologize to Kovrok in the morning,” his words remained hushed, but there was nothing of a suggestion about them. “You are a prince of the Galra; you must act with decorum if you expect to earn the respect and trust of your people in return.”

“Yes, pa'a,” Lotor agreed. Any attempt at defiance had long since left his voice, and his acquiescence was touched with a note of bashful shame - if not regret. Never that.

That matter settled, Zarkon next inquired, “Now, why are you not sleeping? It is almost the third movement.”

“You are not sleeping either, and it's almost the third movement,” Lotor pointed out, whip-fast with his rejoinder.

A low growl from Zarkon was enough to answer that. Instantly, Lotor's ears flattened against his skull, and he tilted his head to the side in an unconscious show of apology.

Zarkon would not ask his question twice. Instead, his fingers stilled in the boy's hair, and he waited.

It took only a moment longer for Lotor to concede; the stiff cast of his bones turned pliant once more. “It is very . . . loud out tonight,” he revealed. His voice was small, miserable even to reveal so. He was at a tender age, walking the fine line of wanting to appear strong in his father's eyes and yet still instinctively seeking his sire to comfort his ailments. Zarkon tried to remember such a time with his own father, but thoughts of Sef, of Zerxus, had no place in that moment. He pushed his memories aside.

The storms, he understood with a frown. They were . . . intense that night - especially in the eyes of a child, he granted.

“The gold-dreams are worse on nights like these,” Lotor continued, whispering softly. “Ma'a helps, but she . . . she's . . .”

She was not there, Zarkon understood; as was true all too often as of late.

“Your mother will work this night through, most like,” Zarkon revealed, admitting the truth aloud to Lotor as much as he did to himself.

He could feel Lotor's disappointment as the boy sagged against him. “Oh,” was all he said, and at the almost acrid scent of his sadness, Zarkon huffed out a breath.

“How inspiring: the faith my son knows for me.” His claws pricked against the boy's scalp – a more playful reprimand than any serious chastisement. “Though I may not be your mother, do you not think your father stronger than your fears?”

Lotor's next heartbeat came quick and pulsing with surprise, and Zarkon had to fight to keep from smiling. “Oh, yes of course. Always,” the boy tilted up wide, horrified eyes to meet his own – clearly distressed for thinking he'd suggested anything else.

That was better. “Come, then,” Zarkon sat up from the nest of pillows, and made to rise. At the small whine of noise Lotor was not quick enough to swallow, Zarkon did not think twice before scooping the boy up, rather than making him walk on his own. Relieved, Lotor's arms slipped around his neck, and he burrowed his face against his chest. Zarkon made a short rumbling sound in answer, trying his best to sooth the clearly spooked child.

He was still such a tiny thing, Zarkon marveled as he crossed the chamber to the balcony beyond. Lotor was yet too young to be anything else, perhaps, but his Altean blood made him even more so in Zarkon's eyes. He was fragile, for the time being, and thus his parents' responsibility to nurture and protect. Galran lines of succession were often . . . met with violence, from both within and without the familial clan, to speak mildly, and it was an ancient custom for the royal line to shield their offspring from the public eye until they were old enough to have a chance at standing on their own two feet. It gave them their best chance of survival.

For so many decapheebs, none had commented on the lack of an heir between the emperor and his empress, mostly because the Galra assumed that, even if there was a child, they would not learn of his or her existence until their parents felt it a safe time to do so. They'd never known that there was once a reason to fear for the future of the dynasty; the line of Daibaazal the First was ever assumed secure in the minds of his people.

And, yet . . . keeping the knowledge of Lotor's existence only to those entrusted with his safety was an excuse, thin and flimsy, whenever Zarkon tried to find the words to tell his old friend of his son – even deep within the privacy of his own thoughts. So many times had he wanted to tell Alfor of his great joy, but every time, his words were trapped within his mouth. He could not yet grant them a breath. Even when bound by the might of Voltron, he could not wholly open his thoughts to his fellow paladins; not anymore; not with this.

At long last, Honerva's work had granted them this impossibility, this blessing, and he would never allow himself to second guess that. No matter what Alfor would say.

Feeling Lotor's arms tighten around his neck, content and trusting, only reinforced that resolution tenfold.

The sensors picked up on his approach, and the doors whispered open to allow them through. The balcony was particle shielded; it only gave the illusion of being open to the elements. Kept from the worse of the writhing winds and the lashing of the dust clouds, they were nevertheless close enough to feel the vehemence of the storm. They could see and hear and know the violence of nature that night.

Beyond them on the horizon, the glow from the interdimensional rift outshone even the storm light forking through the heavens, visible whenever the veils of swirling red dust parted to let them see. Zarkon focused his eyes there for a heartbeat, before turning to his son.

. . . his son, who all the while had his eyes scrunched closed and clearly refused to look beyond the circle of his father's arms. Unwittingly, Zarkon felt the corner of his mouth quirk upwards in a smile.

“You may open your eyes, Lotor. Nothing will harm you here.”

Yet Lotor's eyes remained stubbornly closed; Zarkon could feel his blunt, round nails dig in to the skin of his neck. He tightened his grip around the child as a comfort, and waited.

Slowly, one eye peeked open. And then another. Even so, Lotor's heartbeat did not slow. His grip remained tight, almost desperately so.

“The planet could not survive without this,” Zarkon set his voice as a low reverberation of sound, wanting his son to feel his words as much as hear them. “It may seem treacherous, and it could very well be deadly to those caught out of shelter, it is true. But the lightning cleans the air; the dust clouds ensure that a rich top layer of soil will soon be ready for when the rains come; there would be no life on our planet without these storms. Can you not feel that too?”

He watched as Lotor drew in a deep breath and, at last, he rose above his fears long enough to let himself look – truly look on the raging of the tempest around them. His brow furrowed as he peered beyond the noise and the frenetic movement of the clouds to grasp what his father saw. He looked to see, and, perhaps then, to understand.

“It reminds me of the star clouds,” Lotor finally said, as if surprised by his own revelation. “When Ma'a took me to the Basst star station. It's . . .” but his words failed him. He did not yet have the ability to give so large a thought a voice. His eyes were wide; the rich indigo blue of his irises were completely surrounded by gold.

Yet, Zarkon understood. Some things did not need a voice. “Much about the natural world could be dubbed dangerous – yet, we'd never begrudge a nebula the pains that birth stars. We respect the things in this universe that are stronger than us . . . but we need never give in to fear of those forces.”

Any of those forces, he thought as he spied the light of the rift instillation again. Not when there was so much to gain in return.

“But it still feels . . . angry,” Lotor could not wholly let his fears go. His small brow furrowed in thought as he tried to explain, “The planet, the way the storm moves . . . the nebula, it felt right. This . . . I woke up, and felt like something was screaming at me. It was screaming at me to listen . . . yet I could not understand what it wanted.”

Daibazaal screaming in the thoughts of his son, the idea was an unsettling one. (Daibazaal angry. Pleading, even.)

Zarkon heard a whisper of Alfor's well-meaning concern, and pushed the voice of his friend away with the ease of long practice.

“It is a feeling only,” Zarkon comforted, dismissing the idea. “You are assigning meaning to the fears of childhood.”

Slowly, Lotor nodded. Yet Zarkon would have him believe.

“You know that I would never let anything happen to you, do you not?”

Lotor did not have to think to answer, “Of course.” His voice was so easy with a child's belief, and something within Zarkon's heart swelled in answer. “You're stronger than any storm.”

“As shall you be, in time,” Zarkon was unable to hide the pride in his voice. Not then. “For you are my son. Someday, you will rule in my place, and you will do the line of your forefathers proud.”

At his words, Lotor tilted up his head, clearly pleased by the rare moment of praise. The soft yellow-gold of his eyes seemed to glow then, taking on a bright light as Zarkon turned away from the storm, paying the natural cacophony no more thought than that. The storm held no more power to inspire fear that night.

Lotor's grip was loose about him by the time they returned inside. Even so, he glanced to the door and back again. He bit his lip. “Do I have to go back to my rooms, pa'a?” he asked. “Could I stay here?”

With a blinking, Zarkon made his decision. “It's late; you may stay here.” The flush of pleased delight he felt from Lotor pleased him in return, and that was more than enough to justify his decision as they settled in for sleep again. His son had already grown in such leaps and bounds. All too soon, Lotor would not look for – or need – such comfort and validation from his parents. Yet, until then . . .

Perhaps Zarkon was greedy, in his own way. He would take every moment he could, and reach out to claim every moment more, until there were none left available to him.

But he had no wish to dwell on the future then - not that night, not when he still held the thrum of the distant thunder in his ears, and the slow, steady heartbeat of his son next to his own. It took Lotor no time at all to slip into a true, deep sleep - his body was clearly exhausted from the late hour, and he needed his rest.

Thus lulled, Zarkon had no idea how long he too dozed before he felt a light hand whisper across his shoulder. At the familiar touch, awareness rushed back on him, and he opened his eyes to see his wife peering down at him.

“Honerva,” pleased surprise managed to manifest in his voice, even clouded by sleep as it was. “I did not think you would retire this night.”

A look of distaste flickered across Honerva's face. “The storms caused interference with our sensors,” she sighed to reveal. “It seems that our modifications from last season need to be recalibrated . . . again.”

They had to take more and more precautions with every season, it seemed. Another troublesome thought, for another time.

Yet, no matter the reason for her putting her research aside for the night . . . “I am glad,” he admitted honestly. “You work yourself beyond exhaustion, Honerva.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Her eyes flashed; in that moment they were more a piercing, xanthous shade than the familiar raw amber he'd so long known. “Zarkon, you know the importance of my work. I cannot stop now, and if I dare to slow - ”

“ - hush, love,” he soothed, not wanting to rehash a very old, very familiar debate that night. Not then. “You know there is no one who respects the work of Honerva the Alchemist more; I will support her above all others. But as for Honerva my wife . . . I only worry for you.”

She gave him a long, hard look, before her expression slowly softened. Time passed, with only the storm sounding its voice between them. The Altean markings beneath her eyes flushed a darker shade of coral as she admitted, “Perhaps I have been overzealous as of late . . . slightly so.” This she amended with a pointed look.

“Only just,” Zarkon schooled his features into careful neutrality, but he knew his eyes betrayed him. With her, they always did.

For that, her expression did soften – truly so, and he watched as she wilted. The tense, almost harsh set of her shoulders slumped, and she seemed to grow smaller before his eyes. She was tired, he knew – tired in body, at least, for her mind he doubted knew stillness even in her sleep. There was just too much: the universe was too vast, too endless, to ever let her mind quiet from divining its secrets. Such drive, such awe for the world around them, was one of the things that had first drawn him to her, and he would not condemn that same quality in her now. He'd give that same universe to her if he could; his devotion was an unspoken promise, resounding deep from the core of his being.

That sense of devotion did not mean that he was not, however, higher than striking with a low blow. “Lotor missed you this night,” he whispered, so as to not awaken the child in question. “He's had more of his gold-dreams.”

Zarkon watched her eyes narrow, with the alchemist in her viewing the matter from a clinical level and already working on theories for how to aid her child. For too many years, the idea of an heir between them had seemed an impossibility - Galran blood mixed easily with that of other races, a fact which made them potentially dangerous conquerors - but Alteans had too long altered and improved on their own genetics to the point where natural birth was uncommon, and sometimes completely impossible between even full blooded couples. A single child was usually all there was to be expected by an Altean pair, and that gift was a cherished, coveted one. For so long, all their attempts for an heir, both through natural and artificial means, had been for naught. (And memories of the tiny, formless masses of their early efforts - those children who never had a chance at life - had no room in the softness of that night.) Such had oftentimes been a point of contention between them – with Honerva practically accepting that the Galran Empire needed an heir, and if she could not provide that for him . . .

. . . well, Zarkon was greedy, and prideful in his own way. It may have been sensible for Alteans to take more than one consort as needed, but he would not. Could not. His innermost being recoiled from the very idea.

Yet, with the advances in so many fields of science as a result of Honerva's research then applied to them, personally . . .

. . . sometimes, Zarkon wanted nothing more than to shout in joy for the news of his son, this blessed child who had been so long in coming. Other times, he could already imagine the look in Alfor's eyes when he realized the levels of quintessence needed to fill in the genetic holes in Lotor's make-up . . . and he knew what his fellow paladin would say.

(Dangerous. Reckless. Unstable. Hybrid.)

Some things, Zarkon would not suffer to hear; not even from the mouth of his most beloved ally . . . from his friend. So he suffocated that confrontation before it ever had a moment to breathe. Alfor knew he was keeping something from him, but he did not pry - no more than was his wont, at least. You know you can talk to me, Alfor routinely insisted, his eyes earnest even as Zarkon felt himself closing off, all the more often as of late. It was a slippery slope, this growing chasm between them, and one he little cared for, at that; but he had no desire to burden his friend . . . to disappoint his friend, even. It was a rift he yet knew not how to fix, only that he had to fix it.

But Honerva did not comment on whatever improvements she had in mind for their son's health. She would keep her hypotheses to herself until the morning. Instead, she sighed and said, “I will make it up to him. I promise.”

She sat on the edge of their bed with a careful motion, and ran a slow, gentle hand through Lotor's hair. The child was still sleeping too deeply to awaken fully, but he instinctively registered his mother's presence and turned towards the comfort of her touch. Honerva's eyes softened, taking on a soft, private glow reserved for her family and family alone.

“The Basst star station,” Zarkon suggested after a moment. “Lotor enjoyed visiting the stellar nursery with you. Perhaps we should all go. It will be good for him.” For us too, he thought but did not say.

A long moment passed as Honerva considered her answer. “Perhaps,” she finally conceded, “a small leave from my research will help refresh my mind.”

“As if you would ever stop thinking,” Zarkon could not help but tease. Affection was thick in his voice. “I don't believe you'll ever be able to truly take leave of your work. Not in full.”

A slow, half-smile stretched from her mouth; her eyes glittered. But Honerva did not bother refuting him.

“I will have Kovrok arrange the security details, then,” Zarkon approved, the plan settled between them. “You need only name the day.”

“I will consult my schedule and let you know,” Honerva nodded smartly, and that was that. Her gaze remained fixed on their son, but she spared a glance for the stiff, severe lines of her wardrobe and frowned in distaste. With a few economical movements, she relieved the pressure clasps at her neck and waist, and slipped out of her outer tunic. Her boots were the next to go. She freed her hair from its pins, and quickly plaited it in a loose braid, huffing at the familiar battle that was her taming the silvery mass into some semblance of order. Thus set for the night, she crawled into bed with a small, almost imperceptible sigh. Lotor's face was still buried against Zarkon's chest, with the little boy quite contentedly burrowed against his father's warmth. So Honerva laid down behind Lotor, bracketing him with her body so that he was completely surrounded by his parents. Though Lotor gave no outward sign of registering his mother's presence, Zarkon could hear as his heartbeat slowed with contentment. His blood-beat pulsed with a deep, easy serenity – a feeling which his father understood, and shared in full, even.

It took longer for such an ease to come to Honerva, but she was tired, Zarkon could feel. His arms were broad enough that he could still reach over Lotor and still hold his wife close. He ran a gentle hand over body, back and forth from the curve of her shoulder and down her arm to the dip of her waist. Soft, feathery strands of hair fell loose from her braid, and he tucked the wayward locks behind the long tip of her ear with a tender gesture. Her silver lashes veiled her eyes in contentment, half obscuring the tawny shade beneath. At long last, her own blood-beat lost its rigid pulse, and she slowly, but eventually allowed herself to be lulled by the night. Perhaps unconsciously, a faint humming noise sounded in the back of her throat – a sound that soothed their son as much as it set his own heart at ease. She had lived amongst the Galra for too long to not have absorbed a few of their traits, after all.

“My little proto-sun,” she dropped a kiss into Lotor's hair. Her eyes glanced up and held his one last time for the night; her Altean markings gave a faint glow in the dark, still holding a memory of the light. “Goodnight, husband,” Honerva whispered, holding his gaze for a moment longer before closing her eyes, at last giving in to the tug of sleep on her body.

“Goodnight, beloved,” Zarkon echoed her to say. He was slow to close his own eyes again, however. Instead he breathed in the mingled scents of his family, and took a long moment to memorize the sound of their breathing in gentle synchrony. Beyond them, the winds continued to batter the palace structure. The red dust thrashed against the particle enforced transteel, and lightning forked ominously across the sky.

The emperor of the Galra held his small family close, and at last surrendered to dreams. (While, too long ignored by all, Daibazaal continued to mourn . . . and scream.)



~MJ