~Author's Note~

Hey everyone! So, I found out about this show through the fact that it's created (or something along those lines) by the same people who did Legend of Korra, and that was enough to pique my interest and now—low and behold—I have my first ever fic for Voltron: Legendary Defender!

I really like how the show isn't afraid to tread across the line or into darker things and undertones, and I'm actually really looking forward to how things progress and what happens next in the show. Anyway, enough with me babbling so that you guys can read. Please do not take the warnings below lightly because this is a darker fic.

Please leave a review if you liked, and constructive criticism is always welcomed (I had some difficulties writing at first, but things seemed to smooth out towards the end) so let me know how I did! Enjoy! :)

Rated High Teen for scenes of torture, violence, some language, blood/gore, as well as descriptive and serious injuries.

Notes: Takes place after Season Four.
Keith-centric, Keith whump, gen fic, no pairings.
The 'contraption' mentioned is that metal board seen in the show that's used by the Druids.

EDIT: Part Two, 106 Days, is now posted!

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32 DAYS

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Pain arches through his body and it's so powerful that his teeth slam together, the tangy taste of blood sour in his mouth. It lasts for only about five ticks but it's the longest five ticks of Keith's life. When the pain stops a groan escapes him, short and ragged and almost a whine, but he bites it back before it can go that far.

His head's hung, and he tries to focus on the blurry ground leisurely swaying below him. His vision's fuzzy from the pain, and he blinks a few times to try and collect himself with only little success. Haggar scowls from where she stands in front of him, disappointed from the lack of a scream. She lifts a wrinkled purple hand and drags a nail down his cheek, applying enough pressure that it leaves a bloody cut behind. Keith glares, struggling against the bonds locked around his wrists.

He jerks his hands one, two, three, four times, and the bonds creak on the fourth attempt but don't budge. A smile curls the witch's lips at the noise.

"They'll come for you eventually." She pauses, letting the words sink in. They smother him, cold and black and heavy. "When they do I'm going to kill every last one of them."

She cackles, and Keith holds back his wince. White hot anger swells from within. He stays practical though, composure steady and resilient. "They—w-won't risk it."

It hurts to talk. He's eighty-nine percent sure that two of his ribs are cracked, possibly broken, but he hasn't bled to death yet so he's optimistic. Haggar tilts her head to the side, a few locks of white hair falling in front of her eyes.

"Humans are predictable," she whispers, "they never leave one of their own behind."

Keith lifts his head, and his eyes hold pure fire, the flames licking and roaring and waiting to scorch everything in their path. A growl rips from low in his throat. "Screw you."

Haggar's expression doesn't change. "Scream for me, Paladin. Scream."

She lifts an arm and dark magic shoots from her hand, taking the form of electricity. It rattles his bones and sizzles his skin and crumples his composure and when he finally gives in and screams the pain only seems to multiply. The witch doesn't stop until he's unconscious.

When Keith wakes up he's back in his cell. He's thankful in a way. He's learned how the Galra work; their methods, the places, the torture. Everything they do starts with three simple choices and based on which out of the three they—most likely Haggar—choose, Keith can guess the rest.

If he's brought to the contraption he was in earlier, then it's either the Druids or Haggar interrogating him. If he's brought to the Dungeon, as he calls it, he's getting some long-lasting scars. And if he's brought to the Purple Room, he's not going to remember anything and he's going to have one hell of a headache the next time he wakes up.

Keith doesn't move from his spot on the ground, instead electing to just lay in the grime and wait for his body to stop hurting. His cell is dark, damp and dirty. He doesn't even have a cot. It's small too, if he lays fully stretched out on the ground his toes almost touch the far war. There's a rusty metallic toilet in the back right corner with a short, stumpy sink beside it. In the left corner there's nothing, and the same goes for the front left corner. But in the front right corner there's a small squared block jutting up from the floor, like a rip-off table.

They leave bandages and food there from time to time, just enough to make sure he survives. But even that is just barely. Finally, there's the door. It's secure, extremely secure. It's made from the same metal as the rest of the cell, but there must be a wall of locks on the other side keeping him in. When Keith glances over at the table with a half-opened eye, he sees a single roll of white bandage along with a loaf of wheat bread and a bottle of water.

Bland, human food as one of the Galra had called it.

He sighs and squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to stand. It's slow, painful, and it takes him a few doboshes to get on his feet. When he does he has to lean against the wall for support and then hobble over to the sink.

He reaches down and pulls out a hidden golden key, sharpened to a point. He had nicked it off a guard after he had first gotten captured. After finding out it didn't lead anywhere or unlock anything, he had sharpened it by using the walls so he could use the key as a sort of marker for his days there.

All the Galra used their bloodlines and some hard locks for access, and of course Keith would pickpocket the only key in the place that was just literally an antique key a guard had.

Exhaling hard, Keith limps over to the door and reaches high, dragging his calloused fingers across the other indents already there. The route of tally marks extends from the top left side of the door and heads towards the right, stopping abruptly about halfway through. With a shaky hand Keith carves an unsteady line next to yesterday's tally and then traces it with his thumb.

Day 13.

Keith hides the key back behind the sink and then sits down next to the square block and takes the loaf of bread with one hand and the roll of bandage in the other.

He can do this. He will survive this.

Day 19's torture is a special hello from Zarkon.

Keith's awakened at what feels like the earliest hour possible and then half-walked, half-dragged to the Dungeon. They throw him into a chair and tie his wrists to the arms. It makes Keith wonder if the Galra researched human torture methods to make him feel more at home. Just the thought alone disgusts him.

He's beaten relentlessly by a few Galra lieutenants with a bone to pick, and blood's gushing from his nose like a rushing waterfall after a practically rough knuckle to the face.

"Is that all you got?" Keith yells angrily, spittle and blood flying from his mouth. He yells again, a pained sound but it's not from any physical suffering but from a mental suffering; it's loud and echoes through the room. The closest lieutenant to him slams a forceful hand down on his shoulder, and a sickening crack comes after.

Keith howls, grimacing and kicking his feet out. His shoulder throbs painfully and something prickles his skin. His stomach churns at the thought of it being bone. Keith sees red—more anger than pain. "Is that all you got?" He screams again, voice bouncing off the walls. "Bring it on you—"

He's slapped across the face and his head lurches sideways, the cut on his cheek stinging in objection. One of them laughs. It's a sickening, warped sound. Another one jeers.

"You're ours now, Paladin." The Galra solider who broke his shoulder says ominously, breaking out into a smile that shows all his fang-like teeth. "No one's going to save you now." His sentence breaks off into a well-aimed punch at Keith's stomach, the strength alone gutting him. Keith gasps, falling forward and digging his fingernails into the arms of the chair to stay grounded.

Five more punches and four kicks later, Keith's saved by the door creaking open.

"What are you doing?" Haggar asks as she enters the room, speech strangely calm. Keith raises his head so he can see what's going on as all six of the Galra around him stand stiffly at attention.

"H-High Priestess," the Galran closest to her stutters, "w-we were just—"

"Silence!" Haggar hisses, shoving him aside hard enough that he stumbles. She stalks over to Keith and grabs his chin, checking him for injuries. When she runs her hand across his broken shoulder, her eyes narrow. "You broke his shoulder?" Every single one of the Galrans stay silent. "You two, take the Paladin back to his cell."

Two Galra approach Keith and start to undo his bindings as Haggar turns back to the rest of them. One of them gulps before bravely speaking up. "Emperor Zarkon told us it was okay to—"

"Zarkon is not in charge of this. I am." She retorts, loud enough that her voice booms. "Zarkon has better things to worry about. This pathetic Paladin is none of his concern. He's just bait for the rest of them to show up so we can finally get our hands on Voltron." The two Galra hoist Keith up and lead him out of the room, and he waits until they're out of sight from the Dungeon before thrusting his elbows back into their guts as hard as he can.

Both recoil and let go of him and as they try to recover it gives Keith enough time to knock them both out. They fall in a heap of limbs to the floor and Keith grabs a laser pistol from one of their side holsters before taking off down the hallway.

He hopes he can find his way out of here.

When he was caught, he was on a small cargo ship that just so happened to have every major Galra general in the solar system waiting on it. What was supposed to be a simple recon mission for the Blade of Marmora had turned into something far worse. Keith's just glad he had decided to take a small ship instead of one of the lions. He would've never be able to forgive himself if he would have gotten one of the lions captured along with him.

After, he was moved to Zarkon's main ship for 'safe-keeping', so Keith didn't know the exact layout.

But he had a slight idea.

He starts to stagger in his run after the third turn, but the walls behind the next robot sentries look familiar, and he thinks he's heading towards the escape pods and that's good enough for him. He nails the robots with a headshot each from his gun and cries out when he slides out of the way of one of their random shots and hits his knee wrong in the process.

Shaking it off, he keeps moving and relief floods him when hears the roar of ships pulling in and taking off close by. "Come on, come on, come on," Keith mutters as he places his hand on a keypad and waits for the door to unlock. It takes a few precious ticks, and apparently a few ticks is all the Galra need.

His hopes of escaping disintegrate as agony erupts in his back from a witch's spell.

Haggar smiles as she approaches from the shadows, and that's the last thing Keith sees.

The contraption is a board with white lights and purple bands that lock you into place. Keith thinks it can move down to turn into an experiment table if the Galra really wanted, and he hopes he doesn't get to become one of their twisted experiments. The purple bands go over both your wrists and your waist and some type of charged electric sprouts out whenever the Druids don't like your answer.

This time however, there's no Druids. It's just a Galra guard and Haggar. As he's forced to step onto the machine and the purple bands encircle him, he wonders what exactly is going to happen. Haggar stares intently for a tick, and then takes a step forward.

"Your friends are either going to try to save you, or you're going to rot here. You've been here so long already, young Paladin." Haggar flips her wrist and the Galran guard next to Keith leans over with a knife and slices his shirt clear down the middle, leaving the front of his chest bare. Haggar reaches out with her own hand and brushes her fingers against his pale skin, face disinterested.

"I think they should've been here already. Don't you?"

Keith stays silent, but his heart is hammering. They should've been there already. Since they aren't, Keith's hoping that he's right and that they're staying away. Coming to rescue him would be suicide anyway, and he wouldn't be able to take it if they came to try and save him and got hurt or killed instead. Keith's okay with his friends, his family, staying away. Staying away means they're safe. If they're safe nothing else matters. He'll take all the torture in the world to keep them safe.

"I don't think they're coming." Her hand glows purple and Keith winces as his chest starts to burn and he knows that's not a good sign of what's to come at all. "No Voltron," she whispers as the burning feeling intensifies, "but I still have one of the Paladins."

Keith cries out as the burning becomes unbearable, his skin searing like bacon in a pan. Haggar's hand is bright purple, and she doesn't flinch as he begins to struggle. He grits his teeth, but that doesn't help like Keith thought it would. "S-S-Stop—"

"You are going to suffer for the rest of your life." Her hand turns yellow unexpectedly, and all hell breaks loose as Keith screams. He's never screamed so loud in his life—but it huts like nothing else. It feels like his skin is withering away right then and there.

Haggar tortures him for six hours straight.

The key screeches as Keith makes another tally.

It's Day 24.

He shivers as a burst of cold air hits his back, lowering his arm slowly as he stares at the marks on the back of the door. All the carvings are jagged, and some look more like scratches rather than lines. Blinking, Keith stares for a moment more before turning around and walking back over to sink. He hides the key and then walks over to the opposite corner, sliding down the wall and dropping onto his butt.

The action strains his injuries, but he disregards it as he leans his head back against the cold wall. It's good that he hasn't been rescued yet. If they stay away, they stay safe. Keith's been trying to drill that thought into his head . . . and it was almost working.

A small part of him couldn't help but wonder why they hadn't come to save him yet.

A small part of him wondered—did they really just abandon him?

Were they still mad that he had chosen the Blade of Marmora over them?

If that's what they did think, Keith hadn't meant it that way. He cared about Voltron and his friends more than anything else—it had given him something worth fighting for; it was something to keep him going—and they would always take his first and foremost attention before the Blade of Marmora, every time, no matter what. But everything was going smoothly lately, there had only been a few hiccups here and there, and Voltron could function without him.

He could see it.

Allura absolutely loved piloting the Blue Lion, the spark of determination and pure joy in her eyes was undeniable. Lance seemed more than comfortable with Red, piloting the lion had brought out a new fervor in him, honing all his skills and teaching him how to be a leader—how to be an amazing second-in-command. And now Shiro was back.

Keith had felt the Black Lion's relief as soon as Shiro had returned, and also felt the uneasiness too. If Keith had to guess the reason why Black was so reluctant to let Shiro pilot again it was because he didn't trust him. Shiro had been gone for months, possibly brainwashed by the Galra, and the Black Lion wasn't stupid; he didn't want another Zarkon. But Keith knew that Black would trust Shiro again, all the lion needed was time and in time things were fixed.

Shiro was the leader again, Lance was now the Red Paladin, and Allura finally found what she had been looking for. So Keith had decided to take a step back and work with the Blade for a while. Finding out his family origins was important to him and if he was Galra then so be it. He wouldn't turn out like the mass of them. He would turn out like Kolivan—someone with a good heart but with the wrong roots. He wouldn't let the Galra blood inside of him ruin him; he would thrive instead.

Learning more about the Galra side of him also meant learning more about his mother. Keith's blade was from his mother to his father and then passed down to him, which had to mean that most, if not all, of his Galra heritage came from his mother.

Talking from outside Keith's cell disrupts his thinking, and he listens keenly as two Galran guards make their way down the abandoned hall. "Do you think they're going to rescue him?" Their footfalls are loud, but their voices are louder.

"No. If they were going to rescue him, they would've tried already."

Keith holds his breath as they pass the door to his cell, grateful when they don't stop and enter. "So what's going to happen to him?" The other solider laughs, the brash sound making Keith cringe.

"We both know what's going to happen to the half-blood. Is that even a question?" Their voices start to fade as they walk further and further away, but not before Keith hears the other guard's unsettling reply.

"You're right. Now that Haggar knows what he is, there's no way he's going to last long."

His hair stands on end and his face drains of all color. They knew he was part Galra? How did they find out? A shiver ripples down his spine at the thought of what they would do to him now and horrible scenarios flash through his mind like sudden strikes of lightning.

Abandoned, his mind taunts, you were abandoned.

"I wasn't abandoned," Keith mutters to himself, bringing his head forward and resting it on his knees. "They know it's too dangerous. That's why they haven't—"

They don't need you.

"They . . . "

His voice trails off, and he buries his head further into his knees. He jams his eyes shut when he feels the sting of oncoming tears in his eyes. He will not cry here. Not his emotions. Not his tears. He won't let the Galra take that away too.

Eventually, he drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

His nightmares are nothing peaceful.

It's only when his own luxite blade is piercing his skin that Keith realizes, though it was already painfully obvious before, that being Galra doesn't offer any perks. If anything, it just makes you bleed more. Haggar takes a sick pleasure in watching one of the Galra lieutenants stab Keith in the forearm, the blade tearing skin apart and ripping, ripping, ripping as the lieutenant drags it upwards towards his shoulder.

The pain is excruciating and Keith shrieks, unable to hold the sound back.

The Galran stops when he gets to the joint between Keith's arm and shoulder, and a cruel smirk occupies his features as he twists the small knife all the way to the right and then all the way to the left before removing it from his body, leaving a large bleeding gash behind. Keith gasps once it's removed, but the agony doesn't stop.

Haggar watches mutely as the blood trails down Keith's pale arm, running down each of his fingers and hitting the floor with loud, echoing plops that seem to explode in Keith's ears.

"Disgusting," Haggar finally says. Keith struggles to keep his eyes open as his blade is passed to her outstretched hand. She seems to scan his body for the right place to put the knife before settling on a spot right above his bellybutton. The tip of the knife pushes against his skin, beads of blood sliding down as Haggar holds it there.

"You shouldn't even exist."

The knife, his knife, begins cutting into his skin and Keith can barely hold back his tears.

It's been . . . it's been some ungodly amount of days.

Keith doesn't really know, or remember. He hasn't been able to reach his line of tallies for a long time. The last time he was able to mark one it was for Day 29—he thinks. He doesn't know how long it's been since then. He's in his cell and he aches, he knows that much. Anything else is foreign.

He's gingerly sipping at what could be water or poisoned juice; he's not quite sure. The Galra generously offered him some food and drink a few hours ago and though it wasn't much, Keith's been taking his time with it. He didn't feel hungry or thirsty and the thought of eating the green goo that was left for him made his stomach roll in anguish instead of growl in delight.

Afraid that eating too fast would make him sick, he took it slow, and was now nursing his drink like it was the last good thing he would receive in a while. (It probably was.)

As he drinks, Keith takes a quick assessment of himself. His black hair is crusted with blood and filth and his vibrant eyes are dull now, the fire usually held there now gone. His cheeks are thin and there's dark shadows under his eyes. There's a yellowed bruise next to his left eye, and a horizontal half-healed cut on his right cheek from Haggar's nail.

His nose is broken, has been for a while, and his left shoulder is broken as well.

He doesn't have much movement in either of his arms, though his left one is better than his right even with the shoulder being broken. When he was captured, he was in his Blade of Marmora gear, and the Galra were quick to dismantle and get rid of it all, leaving him in just the undergarments of the suit which consisted of a plain black muscle tee, a pair of boxers, and a pair of think black pants with no pockets. They were nice enough to leave his shoes alone.

Through the weeks of torture, the clothing held up well, until the Galra decided to cut it all up. Now his shirt was gone, removed when it became nothing more than a frayed strip haphazardly resting over his shoulders, though his pants were still intact, thank God. Keith's chest was an array of blues, blacks and purples, and to his knowledge the only internal injury that he had to worry about was the possible fractured ribs.

Any spot of pale skin that wasn't covered by a bruise or cut was covered in dried blood, and the front of his chest was far worse than his back. The worst thing on his back was a smaller slash covering his lower back, but it was nothing to be concerned about. The middle of his chest though was marred by a hand print, the shape disfigured and burned into blistering skin.

Above his bellybutton are the letters W-O-R-T-H-L-E-S-S, engraved by his own blade.

The cuts are scabbed over and yet still bleeding, and Keith thinks it's maybe some twisted magic that's made it that way. Both his wrists have bloodied lines, winding and zigzagging across the skin. His left arm doesn't have any serious aliments besides the chunk of skin missing on the underside of his elbow, but his right arm is in bad shape and most likely causing most of his blood loss.

His right arm suffered the most in his last torture session, a straight gash covering the middle of his forearm and leading all the way up to his shoulder junction. His right hand is stained from all the blood that had trailed down it and he's not sure the color will ever wash off. His legs are the only thing perfectly fine, and Keith thinks the Galra did that on purpose so they wouldn't have to drag him everywhere.

But he's still bruised, bloody, broken and unsure that he's going to last much longer.

A part of him begs for Voltron to split this goddamn ship in half and save him.

Another part of him says never mind.

The blood loss is too much.

The Galra hasn't bothered with him at all, and he idly wonders if even they know he's not going to make it any longer without some type of medical treatment. He's not some alien—he's human.

But the blood loss is too much.

It was probably Keith's fault that his end was quick approaching. He had to do the tallies. He had to mark them. He had to put them up there even if it caused his right arm to seep blood like nothing else. He had to write down his tallies, he had to. Now the bloody tallies are staring back at him as he lays on the floor, awaiting death. He can feel it pulling at him, like a child tugging at his foot, and he almost welcomes it.

Almost.

But then he feels a presence in his mind, and he nearly wants to laugh out of pure shock.

"Red," Keith murmurs as he fights to stay awake, and the lion roars at him, eyes glowing bright. Keith lips twitch into a weak smile. "I know buddy," he whispers in response, breathing shakily. "I know." He pauses, body shuddering—slowly shutting down.

"I'm sorry."

The Red Lion refuses to take that as an answer and roars again, growling softly. Keith does laugh quietly this time, a thin line of crimson dribbling from his mouth. "Thanks for everything, Red. Thank you." Everything doesn't hurt as much as it did before, and Keith sighs, content.

He didn't want to die here, but he didn't want to die in space either. At least they'll be able to put a 'where' on the gravestone. The Red Lion disagrees and goes frantic in his mind, trying to keep him awake just a little longer, just a little longer. Just a little longer.

Keith's eyes slide shut exactly seven ticks before the door to his cell is ripped off it's hinges.

The tallies carved on the back of it read 32 Days.