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Not even a moon's turn ago, the king of Voltraya passed from this life and into the Eternal Worlds — a place of many, where all good kings meet their ancestors and will long after forget their reign.

(You must always think on how you will be a good king, Allura tells him, whispering from outside the sick-chamber to King Coran's bed as he moans softly and in agony over the rising voices of the physicians, his reddish hair and mustache streaked with white hairs. She squeezes Lance's hands into hers comfortably when his belly roils with despair. As you have always thought of being a good son to him.)

It had been no evil debilitating curse or witchcraft. No poisoning or fall or treasonous blade to the heart. He died of natural causes. As natural as it was to die at the age of five-and-seven.

The stone masons worked on tirelessly on the crypt in the deep, dark bowels of the royal citadel, where labyrinthine tunnels required patience and knowledge to escape. A perfect trap of invaders and raiders. They assureed him and the rest of the king's wards that it would be glorious and gilded.

Meanwhile, they washed and laid out King Coran's body within a huge, marble tomb carved elaborately in his likeness, displaying him in the great hall for the members of the court. Both young and old.

Lance attends the funeral rites as permitted by the rulers of the Sept. He could grieve in silence and tremendous reflection for as many hours as desired — but only without any person to interrupt the process. The tailors dye his silks and satins into a richer, near blackened hue of blue, arranging the cuts of his jacket and a white arctic half-cape over Lance's right shoulder. To honor the king — there could only be the House colors of silvery white and various hues of blues. Golden accents. Golden as his crypt deep below them.

He used to be terrified of the great hall in Lance's youth. So many lurking and black-swirling shadows. It seemed to go on forever. Perhaps he truly believed it did — even the most vibrant of starlight could not penetrate through the ceilings above made of wrought iron and glass.

Now, Lance stands upon the lowest part of dais with his hands folded. He glimpses up at the tomb brought upon the center of the structure, lightly brushed by the glimmer of new and thinning cobwebs.

In the distance towards the flickering, dazzling glow of the torches, Lance can hear the sounds of his people feasting and laughing quietly, murmuring the king's name, and allowing themselves to become lasciviously drunk. Pear brandy, lyseni red and white wine, smokeberry brown ale, green nectar, and then dishes like shrimp and persimmon soup, lamb chops, roasted onion drenched in gravy and clotted creams mixed with berries and flavored, sweet mushrooms — they're all scents to fill up Lance's nose.

One of the most loyal knights among them, Shiro, paces down on the floor-level, guarding from outside the entrance and then joining his prince. Shiro had been one of the boys Lance had been raised with, as a royal ward to King Coran, but decided to take the knight's vow instead of the throne.

He bows his head stiffly, respectfully, or so Lance believes Shiro does out of the corner of his eye.

"Your highness…"

Nobody calls him Lance anymore. He can feel his tongue pushing between his teeth, dragging roughly, harshly as if punishing himself for the flares of internalized self-pity.

"The high lords say he was no mightier a king… none fairer of heart…" Lance resents how he can speak so empty with his own words, pensive and curt. It's not like him at all. Anyone who knew him would understand this. "He sought reconciliation for his past sins, not furthering a needless war."

Shiro nods, making a low, acknowledging noise. He sweeps a foot up the dais, nearly towering over Lance based on his height and muscle mass. Shiro's heavy and gold-encrusted ceremonial armor clatters.

"Our king left this world the same," Shiro declares. "Showing us what the divinity of peace truly is."

Lance isn't sure what he heard but it's not what Lance saw — King Coran gasped for air at the end of it, surrounded by loyalists and what he considered family, dying slowly, painfully.

"We do not go gently," Lance says, a tear spilling out of the corner of his eye. His face remains expressionless and turned on the marble slab in front of him. The urge to tear and claw at his own hair with both of his shaking hands and scream… it all builds like a surge of impossible heat in the back of Lance's mouth. "Our bodies are like the dying flamelight. We must cling on… but I am not ready to be him, Shiro. I cannot be the man he was when I have learned nothing."

Shiro's palm lands on him, touching over Lance's shoulder. For a moment, that heat vanishes. "No one is asking that of you," he tells Lance, offering a small, sympathetic gaze. "Not yet anyway. Come, your highness. I was told to fetch you when they're ready to serve your favorite."

"Leave me."

With reluctance, Shiro obeys and drops his hand. Lance waits until he's finally alone, draping his arms over King Coran's tomb and pressing his nose against the bitter-cold stone. His voice quivering.

"Father…"

More tears spills down Lance's face as he kneels, almost hugging the tomb. That's when Lance detects a sharp, steely pitch like a pair of blades crossing each other. A man stands wordlessly behind him, cloaked in dark wool and a hood, sheathing his weapons. Lance's panic increases as he jerks upright, opening his mouth. The man's animal-skin glove traps over his mouth, effectively silencing him.

"Don't worry, my lord," comes a gruff and yet calm voice. "I haven't come for you." The young, nameless man waits until Lance pries away his hand and frowns. "I've come to pay my respects."

"Who are you to King Coran?" Lance asks, partly curious but also regretting sending Shiro away.

The hooded man climbs up the dais, practically hip-to-hip with Lance. "An orphan… who needed a hearth to warm myself and guidance to mark my own path." A breathy, faint snort. "I remember you. The oldest and the noisiest of his wards at the time… Allura tried to insist she was oldest…"

Lance's jaw loosens, his blue eyes widening.

"Keith?" he exclaims, overwhelmed by emotions and rushing in, tightening his arms around him. "By the gods! They told me you were taken away by the Galran druids… …!"

"By my mother," Keith corrects him, solemnly.

The realization hits Lance. Their kingdom had been at odds with the Galran people — powerful and magical creatures that resemble humans and faithful to their druidic religion — for centuries. He remembers Keith. Remembers that Keith's mother had been alive but left him behind.

"She's…?"

"I was never meant to be here. To live in a castle or rule this kingdom."

There's so many questions running through Lance's mind, but he blurts out, smiling widely, "Do you remember when Shiro let us try his wine?" Keith doesn't say anything, pulling out of Lance's arms. "It had been sweetened with honey and fragrant with cinnamon and cloves. I asked the cook to make it for the feast." Lance wants to pull him in once more, to feel Keith's warmth and presence, basking in the memories. "We're having peppered boar. You said you would live off peppered boar and apricot fruit tarts once."

"I wasn't as ravenous as you were stuffing your face with venison pie…" Keith argues softly, bringing a chuckle to tickle against the surface of Lance's smile-thinning lips.

He hasn't felt this… good in a long time.

Embolden by his carefree disposition, Lance yanks back Keith's hood, peering over his features. In the lack of light, Keith's skin nearly appears violet-shining in its paleness. His canine teeth abnormally shaped and longer. The whites of his eyes a yellowish, dull glow.

Keith's throat clenches. "I am not meant for this," he repeats, sliding his hands up Lance's waist and over the front of his chest, as if touch-starved for him. "For you…"

"I'm of my own mind to decide that," Lance says firmly, cupping Keith's face and running his fingers over his ears, Keith's jawline and that dark, prickly stubble growing there. He wants to feel more, to taste the hoarfrost on the tips of Keith's curls and the mulled wine on his lips. Instead, he grasps onto Keith's hand, leading him from the dais and the shadows of nothingness.

Death belongs afore — not thereafter.

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Voltron isn't mine. AND WE'RE BACK! I've been hella sick but I got to do a pitch hit for Klance Poetry Exchange and for "ablantis" on Tumblr! They wanted something inspired by Do Not Go Gentle by Dylan Thomas and no side pairings so here we go! Think I managed something along those lines! I've been in the mood for period royalty/medieval royalty AUs with a dash of supernatural/fairytale! Hope you guys enjoy! Any comments/thoughts are very much appreciated for this sick writer!