A/N: I totally forgot to post this fic here, and I am SO sorry. Anyway. This is a big bang fic, and there is art for it, but I can't post it on ff.n. You can find it on AO3. My username there is maychorian. Or on my tumblr, same name, with the tag Bury the Sun. My artist for this fic is fascher, and the art is great, so I definitely recommend looking for it.

Warning: This fic has a lot of offscreen torture. A lot. This is definitely one of the top five darkest things I've ever written. Maybe top three. None of it is graphically described, but the effects are. When I say heavy angst in the tags, I mean HEAVY. There is a point where someone expresses a wish to die, though calling it suicidal is not quite right. The fic is just really dark and heavy, okay. If this kind of content might trigger you psychologically, I strongly suggest skipping this fic, since probably seventy-five percent of it references or describes the horrible things that sentient creatures do to other sentient creatures.

That said, the focus is not on the hurt itself, but on the comfort and support that the prisoners are able to offer each other, because that's how I roll. When I write dark fic, it's because I want to highlight the good that still exists, not revel in the evil. Thus the title, Bury the Sun. The sun is still there. It just gets hidden for a while.

Thank you for reading!

Sam had heard rumors for a couple of days now that the Galra had captured someone important. Someone they were bringing here, to Berav'iv. One thing Sam had learned early in his imprisonment was that rumors could not be trusted. Despite the soul-crushing conditions, the filth and squalor and poor food, prison was just...well...boring. Prisoners had a habit of seizing upon any sense of news of the outside world and passing it around like something precious that everyone needed to look at.

A good rumor could fuel speculation for weeks, even months. And this rumor was particularly juicy and interesting. Who could the new prisoner be? Why were they important? Why were the guards talking about it? Usually new prisoners just showed with no warning, but this time it was interesting enough that even Galra were passing rumors amongst themselves.

Sam was not as entranced by the idea as most of the other prisoners. But then, he hadn't been here that long. Sometimes he almost missed the labor colony. The work had been degrading and exhausting, but it hadn't been boring. He had been able to dream of escape, to study the patterns of the guards and the layout of the factory where he worked and try to think of viable routes out of there. They had all fallen to nothing in the end when he had been suddenly transferred to Berav'iv, but at least he'd had hope.

Now, there was nothing to do but wait. This prison was on an old, old Galra planet, not a newly colonized world like the labor colony. It was buried deep in the mountains of the central continent, and Sam and the other prisoners were separated from the outside world by miles and miles of rock and snow and small, confined tunnels. On the way in, he had tried to watch for an escape route, but it quickly became clear that escape from this prison was impossible, just as the guards boasted. Only one outside door led into the mountain, large and thick and heavily guarded, and the circuitous path to the cells went through another dozen doors, all locked and watched. This was the place where prisoners were abandoned to be forgotten. Left to rot and die.

Sam didn't know what he'd done to merit being sent here. On talking to the other prisoners, he had discovered mostly former political leaders, queens and governors and princes of their planets. After the Galra had conquered their homes, they had been sent here so that their people had no figurehead to rally around, no hope of retrieving their rightful rulers. Some were activists and dissidents from within the existing Galra Empire who had dared to speak up, dared to resist, dared to offer an opposing point of view. Some of them were Galra themselves, plucked out of their homes by their own government and sent here to be abandoned and forgotten with the rest.

Sam was no political leader, and he hadn't had a chance to foment any kind of rebellion in the factory, though the thought had crossed his mind. The only hint he'd had for the reason of his transfer for here was some muttering amongst the Galra who transported him. Something about "Voltron" and "Altea," both words that meant nothing to him.

His arrival had been a great shock. They had talked about him for weeks, to the point that he tired of hearing his own name. And the people here had certainly heard of Voltron and Altea. Sam was regaled with many, many old stories about a great robot or warrior or king or prince that had once defended the universe from all harm. Many of the stories contradicted each other, but all agreed that Voltron was the most powerful being (or weapon, or creature, or group of creatures) in the universe. Emperor Zarkon had tried to take control of it, but Voltron had been hidden away.

Still no explanation for what that had to do with Sam, though. The puzzlement of this had kept the conversation going far longer than usual. No one could come up with a satisfactory theory, though Sam heard many ideas. Maybe Voltron wanted Sam for some reason. Maybe his planet was important. Maybe he was the descendant of an ancient line that could find Voltron, or bring it together. Maybe Altea hadn't truly been destroyed, but was hiding. Maybe Sam unwittingly had some sort of key to Altea. Nothing came of it, though at first Sam had listened to all of the stories and speculation with great interest.

All that ever changed down here was the shift of the guards. They brought them food at regular intervals, laughed when any of the prisoners dared to beg for something more, and stood outside the bars and talked amongst themselves. Always two Galra, bored and discontent, asking why it had to be them, why robot sentries couldn't be used for this dull task. This particular set of prisoners was considered important enough to merit flesh-and-blood Galra guards, but it was a ceremonial position at best. The guards were just as bored as the rest of them.

So the guards didn't care what rumors they set off among the prisoners with their idle talk. Sometimes they mocked them, talking about how the people of this or that important prisoner were trying to ransom them, how a rebellion had been quelled, how many hundred thousand had been killed. They relished their ability to abuse their captive audience with their words, though they rarely had cause to lay hands on anyone. Sam learned quickly not to listen to the guards when they spoke directly to the prisoners.

But when they were talking just to each other, that information was a bit more trustworthy. The rumor about a new arrival wasn't quite enough to catch Sam's interest, but he didn't begrudge the other prisoners something to talk about, however useless it seemed to him.

Then came a new tidbit of information, dropped without thought from a guard's lips. The new prisoner, arriving now within a few hours, was a human. Like Sam.

And that...that did get Sam's attention.

The speculation and discussions started up immediately, of course. The prisoners began murmuring amongst themselves, all of the old theories about Sam being dragged back into the light with fresh fuel to the fire. Maybe there really was something going on with the humans. Maybe Earth and Altea were connected somehow. Maybe the new prisoner had something to do with Voltron. People were starting to get dangerously hopeful.

Sam said nothing. Even when the others spoke to him, asking for his opinion, he stared blankly at them and shook his head. He sat with his back to the cold, rocky wall, stunned.

Which was it? His son? Or Shiro?

It had to be one of those two. It was the only thing that made sense. He and Matt had been sent to different labor colonies, and whenever new prisoners arrived at the factory where he worked he asked them if they had seen a human like him, smaller, with longer hair, or if they had heard of someone like that. No one ever had.

But Shiro... The rumors about him had been rampant. He had been forced to fight in the arena, but somehow he had survived. He became known as Champion, undefeated in the ring. Guards and prisoners alike talked about him, some with awe and some with fear. Then, suddenly, the talk all but stopped. The guards said he'd been killed in the arena. When Sam heard that, he had gone back to his bunk at the end of the day and wept. He wasn't ashamed of it.

Then he heard a whisper of something else. Shiro had escaped. The idea was too faint, too far-fetched for Sam to trust. But over time, the idea grew on him. What if it was true? What if Shiro had gotten away? What if he had made it back to Earth? Sam let the hope grow within him, though he knew it might be futile. It gave him something to hold onto. If Shiro could escape, maybe he could too. Maybe he would be able to see his family again someday. His son. That was when he started looking for methods of escape.

Soon after, he was transferred here to Berav'iv.

Now, he was filled with mingled elation and despair. To see Matt again so soon was beyond his wildest dreams. It would lend credence to the speculation that there was something special about humans, something Sam didn't understand, because why else would another random prisoner be transferred here, to the living crypt of conquered rulers and silenced dissidents? But if it was Matt, that would mean that he would be trapped here as thoroughly as Sam was, with all hope of escape lost.

If it was Shiro... That was almost worse. It would mean he was alive, which Sam had never quite let himself fully believe. But it would also mean that if he had managed to escape, the Galra had captured him again. And that would mean that the Galra's reach was truly inescapable. It might be even worse for Sam's already deeply despairing heart.

Sam could do nothing but wait. In a few hours, he would know for sure. The talk amongst the other prisoners gradually died down as they registered his silent panic and pain. A couple of the kindest came and sat next him, offering silent support. Zalyk, a Galra dissident who had once tried to tell her people what Zarkon was doing to the subjugated planets, and Kiran, a prince of a conquered alien race with pale, soft fur and large dark eyes. Sam appreciated the company, though he had nothing to say.

When the prisoner arrived, it was neither Matt nor Shiro. They heard his voice before they saw him, echoing through the cramped tunnels of the underground prison. The voice was light, somehow airy, as if the new arrival had conspired to drag a breath of fresh air and sunshine down below the rocks with him. Sam heard the strain in his light tone, though, as he playfully mocked the guards bringing him in. "Hey, do you work out? Those are some big muscles you got. Ow ow ow, you don't have to demonstrate, geez. I'm going, I'm going!"

That was the first thing Sam had heard in English, without passing through the translation chip in his head, for a long, long time. His heart jumped, and he found himself on his feet without remembering how he'd gotten there. Kiran put a hand on his elbow, and Zalyk stepped in front of him with an arm outstretched, keeping Sam from rushing to the bars. The guards would beat back anyone who was too close to the door when they opened it. Sam appreciated the gesture, distantly, but most him was concentrated on staring out through the bars to the anteroom where the guards stood, waiting for his first glimpse of the new prisoner.

They came through the door to the hall, the prisoner dragged between two big, indifferent Galra. He was dressed in a black jumpsuit and purple overshirt, like most of the prisoners, and his skin was medium brown, his hair a darker shade. He was slim, young. Younger than Shiro. Younger than Matt. Had the Galra started kidnapping children from Earth? What the hell was going on here?

"Oh, is that where we're going?" the kid said when he saw the large common cell where Sam and the other prisoners were kept. "Hey, you coulda just said. I'm sure I could have found my way here on my own."

"Shut up," one of the guards said, squeezing the kid's arm hard enough to make him wince. "This is where you will stay until you die. Get used to it."

The boy laughed, loud and obnoxious. Sam had the feeling that he was doing it on purpose just to get a rise out of the guards. Did the idiot child have a death wish? "Yeah, sure I will, big guy. My friends will bust me out in like two days, just you wait and see."

"That's what we're counting on."

Before Sam could parse that strange sentence, the guards who were already in the anteroom unlocked the cell door, and the ones holding the boy threw him into the waiting arms of the prisoners inside. The kid stumbled and went to his knees, and Sam stood where he was, staring at him. The door was locked again with a final-sounding clang, the escorting guards left, and that was that. The new arrival to Berav'iv was trapped with the rest of them.

Several pairs of hands helped the boy to his feet, and he dusted himself off and looked around at the large common cell, ringed with doors that led to isolation cells. He took in the dim lighting, the rocky walls hewn from the mountain itself, and the crowd of faces, gaunt and staring.

"Wow," he said, voice still airy and light. "I've seen some pretty medieval-looking stuff since I left Earth and all. Castles, princesses, even a dragon, the whole shebang. But this is the first time I've been in an honest-to-God dungeon. Can't say I'm all that impressed, really."

Sam laughed. He couldn't help himself. It was just...so strange. Everything about this boy was completely unexpected.

The youngster turned toward him, eyes going wide. Something about Sam's voice had sounded familiar, perhaps. Very few races laughed quite like a human. Zalyk's hand rested on Sam's back, urging him forward, and the prisoners parted to let him through until he faced the boy, still smiling. "Welcome to the dungeon, son."

The kid's eyes somehow got even wider. "Commander Holt!"

He snapped to attention, or something like it, arm rising to shade his face in a Galaxy Garrison salute. He swayed, though, and Sam reached out to grab his hand and pull it down, heart aching. As light as the kid was trying to make of it, Sam knew that his journey here had not been an easy one. This close, Sam could see the bruises on his cheek and his chin, the dark shadows under his eyes, the long cut that ran across his neck as if someone had held a knife there and was not careful.

"None of that, now," Sam said gently, folding the slim hand into his. The boy gripped back and stared into his face, still awed, still that shine in his eyes. "You know who I am? Are you...were you...a cadet? At the Garrison?"

The kid scoffed. "Of course I know who you are! Even if your name hadn't been splashed all over the news..." He bit his lip suddenly, cutting himself off, and looked away. Then back to Sam, as if unable to believe he was really here. "Yeah, I was a cadet. Long time ago, feels like. My name is Lance."

"Lance." He held his hand yet more carefully, more firmly. Sam felt the unexpected press of tears against his eyes. It was just...so unexpected. He had never thought to meet another human down here. He had never expected to see a human face or hold a hand like this one ever again. "It's good to meet you, son."

And. It was horribly, terribly selfish. But Sam was glad that neither Matt nor Shiro was here.

"Um...Commander Holt? Sir?" Lance's voice was sheepish.

"Please, call me Sam."

Lance blinked, but nodded easily enough. Depending on how long ago he'd left Earth, he might be used to being outside the Garrison's power structure. "Sam. Thanks. Could I...get my hand back, please?"

"Oh." Now Sam felt Lance's hand flexing in his, careful, not pulling away. Just reminding Sam that he was still holding it. "Ah, I must be making you uncomfortable. I'm sorry."

He let go, and Lance pulled his hand back and held it in the other. "No worries," he said weakly. "You've been out here for...a while, huh?"

Sam nodded. Still that press of tears on the back of his eyes, but he would not embarrass Lance by letting them fall. The boy had been through enough. He clearly looked up to Sam as an authority figure, maybe even a sort of hero, and Sam would be damned if he let him down.

"I think..." Sam's voice was thick. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I think we have a lot to talk about."

Lance nodded and looked around at all of the aliens watching him eagerly. The attention didn't seem to discomfit him at all. He smiled easily at all and sundry, then looked back to Sam. "I have a lot to tell you. A lot. I'm betting the Galra haven't let you know anything that's been going on lately, right? About the lion on Earth, and Shiro, and Voltron, and the Alteans. Any of that?"

The gasps in the crowd around them were answer enough. Lance looked around, an impish smile curving up his mouth. "Ha! I knew it. Oh, man, you guys. I have so much to tell you." He looked back to Sam and settled down, face going serious. "But I think I should tell you first."

Sam had not missed the way Lance said Shiro's name. As if he knew him. Sam's heart was in his throat, and he nodded. "I can't wait to hear it, son."

Their fellow prisoners were disappointed at having to wait to hear the news themselves—Sam could see it in their faces—but they didn't murmur. The group made way for Sam and Lance to tuck themselves into a corner where they could speak with as much privacy as the large, crowded room could afford. Sam lowered himself carefully to the ground, ignoring his aching knees, and Lance sat cross-legged in front of him. His hands were clasped in his lap, and his eyes were bright. He was all but vibrating with eagerness.

Sam gave him a nod and tried not to smile too obviously at this endearing boy. Lance was trying to be serious, so Sam needed to accept him in the same light. "All right. Go ahead."

Lance faltered. His face fell slightly, and he glanced away, then looked back to Sam. "Wow, there's...there's a lot. I don't know where to start."

"How about the beginning?" Sam offered. Lance was reminding him of Matt and Katie when they were excited about a project and wanted to share all the details with him at once. They both had a tendency to get tongue-tied and trip over their words. He'd found that offering a thread to grasp helped them untangle the ball of thoughts and ideas in their heads. "You said you were a cadet at the Garrison. How did you happen to leave?"

He braced himself, expecting to hear a story of alien abduction, trauma, and abuse. If the Galra had made it all the way to Earth to begin capturing humans for their endless expansion, things were a lot worse than he'd thought. But at least he would know for sure. He wouldn't have to speculate anymore.

But Lance did not seem haunted by the memory. He leaned forward, eyes sparkling. "Oh, man, it was so cool! It was the most amazing thing that's ever happened to me! But...I think I need to back up a little from there, okay? See, yeah, I was a cadet. I got into the fighter pilot track, like I'd been dreaming of and working toward for a long, long time. My buddy Hunk was assigned to be my engineer. And my communications officer was this kid named Pidge Gunderson."

Sam didn't know where this was going, but he nodded affably. "Go on."

Lance leaned back, suddenly apprehensive. "Ah. She might be kind of mad I'm doing this. Probably want to tell you herself. But you'll find out anyway! So, yeah, uh. Pidge Gunderson. Not her real name."

Then Lance told him the rest.

Sam was stunned. From the first revelation (Katie snuck into Galaxy Garrison as a boy?), he sat in silence and let Lance talk, eyes wide, mouth silent. He ceased to feel the cold of the rock beneath him, ceased to hear the quiet murmurs of the other prisoners trying to distract themselves from listening in. All he could see was Lance as he talked in a low, urgent voice, moving his hands to describe various actions, his expressive face showing excitement, fear, anger, heartbreak, and joy at the appropriate parts of the tale. All he could think about was the fact that both of his children were lost to him now, taken by opposite sides of a galactic war that had been waging for ten thousand years.

Lance was a sensitive boy. He picked up that Sam wasn't following the plot and slowed to a stop, his face worried. He sat back, hands falling on his knees, and tried to give Sam a reassuring smile. "So...yeah. That's it. Voltron is a giant awesome robot made up of five smaller, also awesome robots, and me and your daughter and Shiro and two other guys pilot it together. I...I'm sorry for springing all of this on you so suddenly, Commander Holt. Are you okay?"

Sam blinked, then smiled almost reflexively. He wasn't okay. Not remotely. But it would not do for him to worry this dear boy who had only meant to give him good news. Good news that there was a force for justice fighting in the universe, and his daughter was part of it. "I'm all right, son. Thank you for your thoughtfulness. And please, call me Sam."

"Ah. I'll try to remember." Lance rubbed the back of his head. "I just don't want to be disrespectful. You're a great man."

Sam shook his head. "Not so great out here. Just a prisoner of the Galra, that's all. Believe me, the best respect you can show me is to give me the honor of using my name instead of a title."

"If that's what you want. Sam." Lance smiled shyly. He seemed to understand that Sam needed some time and space to process, so he scooted back, his hands on the floor. "If it's okay, I'll tell everyone else now, all right? I think they'll all want to hear about Voltron."

"Yes, of course."

Sam watched silently, feeling detached, as Lance took the floor in the middle of the crowd again. He began to talk, slowly at first, then pick up in animation and expressiveness. The prisoners surrounding him reacted with great emotion, gaping and wringing their hands and in all ways focusing every last bit of attention they had on the young human. Lance soaked up the energy and returned it, his smile growing wider and wider.

His voice rose and modulated. His hands lifted and waved and formed shapes in the air. He moved from place to place, describing positions in some sort of battle or physical contest. He bunched his hands together then burst them out in an explosion, fingers wiggling. He laughed and roared and shouted and whimpered, but he never mumbled.

The crowd ate it up. Lance was performing for them, turning his own history into a dramatic story, and they loved it. There was laughter, applause. Tears, gasps. Starry eyes and broad smiles, expressions of wonder and delight in all of the various ways their bodies could show it.

Sam watched. He didn't hear a word. But he watched, and he thanked whoever was listening for the gift of this boy, so warm and bright in this dark, hopeless place. Sam was almost too jaded to feel hope, but as he watched Lance tell his story and listened to the tone of his voice, he felt something stir in his chest despite his efforts to quell it.

Maybe it was true. Lance believed it, that was clear. He believed hard enough for a hundred others, so it should be enough for Sam, too. Lance believed that rescue was coming, that his friends were on the way, that Voltron would crush this prison and scatter the enemy and bring them all home. Most of the prisoners were entirely taken in by his vision, morale raising to the rafters, though there were always a few holdouts so beaten down by the darkness of their circumstances that they could only respond to hope with cynicism and to encouragement with barbs.

Sam didn't want to be one of them. Certainly not. He didn't quite believe Lance, not yet. But for the first time in a very long time, he wanted to. He wanted to believe.

For now, he would let Lance carry him.