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Krolia hates these trials.
Normally, in such circumstances, they’d be handed over to the Coalition for a round table of justice. But since this is a crime committed by a Galra citizen on Daibazaal soil, jurisdiction is here.
Specifically, committed against the Emperor. Her son.
On the throne, Keith is the picture of untouchable: a contrast from the fierce flickering in his eyes and a haphazardly ripped sleeve when he reported an attack in the middle of the afternoon, stewed for months from a ragtag team of former warlords. Loyalists of every different cause are out there, and for many, securing a place on Daibazaal’s throne would further their cause, including Kridrus, head raised high despite being bound and forced to kneel in front of the council, not one tear shed for the loss of his comrades. He thinks himself a martyr—though not by many, but it’s still the vocal minority her son must look out for.
As a representative of the Galactic Coalition, Krolia’s duty is to monitor, a check on all political power. Still, she looks at Shiro, seated at Keith’s right hand and dressed in dark robes, including a cloak edged with silvery fur Keith gifted to him for his birthday, and tries not to feel the crushing dread of almost. They almost lost someone they love to another power-hungry tyrant, to a cause that's laughable but deadly in its violence. She's taken this position to be closer to her son, to make up for the years she's been missing from his life, and will guard it more preciously than all the luxite in the universe.
“You have committed treason against Daibazaal,” one of the council members, Lahn, concludes. Krolia remembers him; Keith considers him in good faith and a rare defector from the Empire, something skillful to have in these times. “Your punishment is death.”
“Then I demand my right to die as a warrior,” Kridrus says, voice carrying out to the ends of the room.
There are some gasps, and it takes every ounce of training for Krolia not to join them.
It’s clear Shiro has to restrain himself, too, his gaze flickering to Keith's quickly-impassive face.
But she knows tradition allows the practice, as much as Keith has tried to dismiss it. He cannot do so overnight, as it’s been a sacred institution long before Zarkon, and its full, immediate end would cause unnecessary upheaval.
Keith's fully banned entertainment matches, though. It had been part of his coronation speech, said on top of the hill of the Kral Zera flame: It is unfeasible, and morally wrong, to allow good men to die for the amusement of their fellow citizens. To continue such a thing to continue echoes the ten-thousand-year tyranny where lives are easily thrown away, uncherished and forgotten, and we must not forget that, like peace, lives are fragile.
It was one of those speeches, Krolia knows, that had more than a hint of Shiro in them. She pictures them, side-by-side, at Keith’s carved desk, passing a tablet back and forth like Earthen schoolchildren, faces furrowed in concentration, trying to get the exact combination of words right, a recipe for ceasefire.
Some, if they knew, may have objected—Shiro has no Galra blood and traditionally has no reason being near the throne or serving in any capacity other than support. But that woe to those who hold the former Black Paladin and Captain of the Atlas such a thing, and more to those who dared to voice their objection to the Emperor himself.
Still, the right to die as a warrior has been gradually phased out, with careful rules: No intoxicated participants. A mandatory twenty-four varga cooling-off period. A fair trial beforehand. Witnesses.
And at any point, it may be called off.
Much of the younger generation, grown up in an era of peace—albeit tentative—prefer the new ways, where a hotheaded challenge doesn’t automatically mean saying goodbye to their loved ones.
But a warrior’s pride remains in Daibazaal. It always has.
“Very well,” Lahn says calmly. “I assume the Champion would stand for the Emperor.”
Shiro’s always been good at controlling his emotions, but this time, there’s a noticeable flinch. She prays that no one sees fear, anything that can be a flicker of doubt, though she knows his bond to Keith is stronger than any treaty.
“Shiro is not my executioner,” Keith says sharply, “nor will he ever be. I will stand for myself, for Daibazaal.”
Murmurs of appreciation and apprehension sweep through the hall. He looks very inch the emperor now, with a flowing cloak and polished armor and elaborately braided hair, the scar on his cheek a bold symbol that he’s a seasoned warrior.
It’s a distraction, and a keen one, taking whispers off of a consort that refuses to fight, even for the defense of his Emperor. Keith stands, a signal that the discussion is over, and marches out of the throne room.
It’s not the same arena, something that was long destroyed in the war. For one, it’s outside, for death and justice should be seen under the eyes of the gods—worship is slowly fading back into the existence, despite Zarkon’s suppression of things that interfered with all-encompassing obedience to the Empire—and there’s an air of solemnity that was missing from many a death match.
Still, there’s a crackle of eagerness, excitement, especially from the old-school generals that Keith keeps in his council for appeasement. If Keith were among the audience today, he’d be scanning the room, mentally tallying each expression, spine tight with caution, filing everything away for the next legislative council session.
Everyone is a good distance away, on raised platforms—there’s a sacred rule of not attacking bystanders, though some have dishonorably broken that in the past—so Keith and Shiro have the privacy to say their goodbyes in a close-by alcove in the palace.
They do not kiss—an Earthen tradition that the Galra still find off-putting. Having a mouthful of sharp teeth, after all, is dangerous in any intimate situation, and she herself has ripped out throats when all weapons were lost. She and Keith’s father reserved themselves to kisses on the cheek, but nowhere near the neck or on the lips; she and Kolivan simply link hands and scent one another. Keith and Shiro doing such a thing raises alarm—and shocked admiration—whenever their rare, affectionate moments are public.
Instead, Shiro holds Keith’s hands in his, and squeezes. He looks as if he wants to beg or confess or cry, skin pale and eyelids heavy with sleep, even though they’d retreated early to bed last night; she herself had guarded their door, ensuring some hours of respite.
“Vrepit sa,” he only says, very dryly.
Keith gives him a ghost of a smile, the squeezes back. “Vrepit sa,” he echoes, and touches Shiro’s cheek. Automatically, Shiro nuzzles into the touch, mimicking the touch with his flesh hand, their gazes so intense that Krolia turns away, although she’s seen more physically ardent displays, especially during the war.
And with a reluctant pause, Keith slips away, each footfall echoing down the stone steps.
Soon, he and Kridrus are facing the raised platform, the Empire’s sigil flapping in the breeze, a scarce few lengths from each other. Keith looks as calm as ever, hair braided back and blade in his right hand. His expression is serious and unreadable, save for the tightness of his lips, though by all rights, as a Paladin and Emperor, he could rightfully be standing tall with a confident smile.
It isn’t her son’s skill she worries about, but the mere luck, the mere misstep of battle that could obliterate a future. But he’s always been ready for the worst outcome, she’s been told, and that’s made him braver than any soldier.
Kridrus carries a sword shorter but wider and heavier than Keith’s, face still with concentration. She's told he passed the night in his cell muttering to himself, practicing, eyes fixed on an empty point on the wall. Intelligence says he has no friends in the audience or the council, but there's extra guards around, along with a veritable number of escape pods.
Normally, the Emperor would be the one to order the first blow. But now, it stands to Shiro, face bloodless, his voice carrying over the crowd, Galran words strange on his tongue: In single combat, there is but one rule of justice: victory or death!
Kridrus is first to move—rushing forward with a violent swing. Keith steps nimbly out of the way, head thrown back, boots barely scraping the ground as he deflects, dodges, jabs.
Krolia remembers training with her son on the space whale, a long time ago, in preparation for a fight Keith dreaded more than anything. But still, he wanted to be ready, demanded no mercy. Train me as you would any Blade, he demanded. No holding back.
And she complied.
Keith, despite having heightened senses for a human, would seemingly be no match for a fully-trained Galra soldier. He misses scent changes, subtle noises of claws shifting in the dirt, vibrations through whiskers or ears. But he’s fast and stronger than he looks, with an endurance that surprised Krolia the first time they sparred.
Here, Keith uses his speed, acrobatically ducking and running, while his opponent slashes and cuts and lumbers. If this was a street brawl, some would be booing at Keith, who looks as if he’s trying to escape, but this is a solemn occasion, where every blow may determine death.
Shiro’s eyes are locked onto the fighters as if there’s nothing else in the world.
She cannot tell whether he’s back in the arena; she’s been there as a guest and watched a few of the fights, long before Voltron returned. Commander Sendak had been the one to welcome her, showing off his choice fighters, who’d been taught to perform for the audience by drawing out death as thinly as possible. Despite her experience in the battlefield, Krolia's stomach turned, but she’d managed not to show her disgust, so commendably that she'd been rewarded with a deep undercover mission when she returned to the Blades.
And now, there’s a rise of gasps, as a blade just skates knuckles, enough for bright red beads to form amid purple flesh.
There’s no guarantee that first blood guarantees victory, but Krolia, despite herself, lets out a breath.
Shiro looks far from relieved, lips shaping around her son’s name.
But Keith has no time for triumph, as his opponent is greatly angered. The sword cleaves through the air, power behind the strike ten times stronger than Keith’s human physiology, enough to cut her son from chin to navel—
If Keith had not been fast enough.
But her son jerks back, the sword overswinging, bringing Kridrus forward, enough for Keith to kick him off-balance, swipe, allowing a piece of armor to clatter to the ground.
Yet Kridrus’s blade bites deep into Keith’s shin, deep enough to reveal sponge-like tissue, and Krolia fights to not allow fear spread across her face. Shiro looks as if he wants to close his eyes, but still watches, leaning forward, fingers digging so harshly into the armrests so she hopes she doesn’t have to break his fingers, if it comes to an escape.
Keith’s eyes flash yellow, and he dashes forward, slams his forehead into Kridrus’s nose. Kridrus stumbles, blood spilling over his lips, as Keith grabs for his blade, pointed end aimed for under the arm and through the ribs.
It would be said later that Keith, although honorably allowing his opponent a fair fight, does not toy. He kills, mercifully and quickly, without ceremony or a smile.
Beside her, Shiro stares ahead, eyes far away, but fingers unclenched, breathing as heavily as if he were down there himself.
Keith, in a decisive motion, swipes his blade across the hem of his cloak and holds it up, a signal of victory. Bright red against dark purple splashes across the screens, broadcasting to the witnesses and to the cameras feeding into the archives that will be shared with the Coalition.
He does not need to say anything.
In the privacy of their chambers, Shiro fills the tub to maximum capacity and streams water over Keith’s head. His leg hangs loosely over the lip of the tub, treated and bandaged, something Keith had initially dismissed as “a scratch, nothing worse than I’ve had before.”
“Don’t argue with me,” Shiro had scolded. “It’s my duty to look after Daibazaal, and that includes Daibazaal’s sacred body.”
Keith rolled his eyes, looking more like a scrawny cadet than the leader of one of the largest ruling entities. “You’ve been reading too much of those historical texts, Shiro. But I’ll oblige.”
Oblige Keith did, and Shiro busies himself in running a comb through Keith’s hair, floating lazily in the scented water. To have one’s hair unbound around another is a sign of the utmost intimacy in Galran culture, and there’s nothing more in the world that Shiro enjoys than having Keith’s head on his lap, dark locks strewn across his legs while he thumbs through a proposal or watches the latest holoscreen broadcast.
“I can call for a dinner tray to be brought up,” Shiro suggests softly.
“Not right now, please,” Keith says. “My stomach…” He grimaces, closes his eyes.
That’s understandable, and Shiro swallows back what he’s seen. It had been one of his recurring nightmares, of Keith being forced into the arena if they were ever captured, and the fear doesn’t leave him. Perhaps there will be another sleepless night, but for now, he concentrates on taking care of Keith, untangling each knot with as much precision and concentration as repairing a damaged shuttle.
“You shouldn’t have fought,” Shiro says now. He knew better than to challenge Keith in the throne room or in front of his council; as much as Keith’s promised open dialogue and free critiques during his reign, he knows as well as any other seasoned politician that openly questioning one’s superior without a good reason is an open invitation to mutiny. “As the Emperor, if you were to—”
“Then elections would be held again,” Keith says. This is an old argument, something they kept from even Krolia, though they’re both sure she knew Shiro would not be happy with the outcome. “I have arranged plans should this happen. Altea and Earth, as well as several other planets, have offered you extradition in the case of—”
“I don’t care about me, and you know that.”
“I’d be a fool not to,” Keith says firmly. “No matter how stable a realm is, the death of a leader is always a danger, especially here. And there’s no one I would trust more with your safety than my mother.”
It’s an argument, Shiro senses, will repeat many times, as it has before. Contingencies are critical of any politician, any public figure, and he has to say that Keith’s preparedness is perhaps his fault: being declared dead three times without a failsafe would be the most irresponsible thing he’s done.
“I would have fought Kridrus,” he says instead.
Keith sits up in the tub, water streaming down his back and chest and forehead. He looks very, very tired, far beyond his years, and not for the first time, Shiro wonders if he'll see Keith reach the end of his lifespan. He's always known he'd outlive Keith, but never counted on alien genetics or quintessence.
“I don’t feel right having someone else do it: killing someone—because that’s what it is, at the end of the day,” Keith says softly. “To be a leader means taking full responsibility, and if I’m to dispel justice, I’m to carry it out.” It sounds like he’s quoting someone—Kolivan, one of the council members, Allura—but his tone is entirely truthful, unrecycled. “And I don’t want… I don’t want you to be a pawn. For another Galra emperor.”
“You are not Zarkon. You can never be him,” Shiro says firmly. “And I will fight for you, not out of desperation or survival or fear, but because you are…” He searches for the words in every language he knows, in every vow he’s heard, yet there’s nothing that can quite encompass what he feels for Keith.
“I’m yours,” Keith interrupts. His voice is as strong as a royal decree, as binding as a seal, eyes as fierce as in any battle.
He then reaches forward with calloused hands, water dripping into Shiro's shirt, and they both give themselves over to the relief, no matter how temporary.