Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The little girl was scraggly, scrawny, and starving, physicalities that in stood in stark contrast to the audacity and ardour that shone in her eyes. Her world had been desolated by the ravages of war, her parents struck down by the merciless onslaught of enemy advances. The stillness in the moted dustlight of dawn was a tentative peace made possible only by abject surrender.

He had awoken to a throbbing headache, which only worsened with the scintillating light of the new morning. There was, however, a cool rag on his head, cold enough to indicate it had recently been changed. The last thing he remembered was being shot from behind. And then he saw her. She was only a child, and the fear betrayed by her trembling body did not stop her from coming forward and offering him a dirty tin cup full of water.

For the next year, he would come to know her infectious laughter, her heart full of song, and her endless kindness. She climbed trees with the same dexterity and deliberation as his childhood cat, and she even pushed her head into his hand for affection.
He felt his chest tightening as fear gripped him.

Great peril was imminent. He must stop it at all costs, he could not let her…

Lotor awoke in a cold sweat. He hadn’t thought of Nueh in over a century. He had been powerless to save her from Zarkon’s wrath when her planet had been obliterated.

Chapter Text

Nymuë was a Garrison medic who often escaped to the rooftops to seek refuge from the swirling depths of darkness that sometimes threatened to submerge her. She was, however, adept at compartmentalizing her past when duty called. Her aloof demeanour outside of work was seen as brooding and unapproachable by most of her colleagues. Were it not for her prodigious skill and peerless acumen, her appearance and attitude could have threatened to undermine her career.

She and Pidge never became friends on the rooftop. They merely acknowledged each other with a nod when their starlit paths crossed. She couldn’t have anticipated her own careless insouciance when she joined the unlikely group of mavericks on their midnight jaunt, but regardless of her reservations about any type of relationship, she would never hesitate to save someone’s life. Life was sacrosanct.

Shiro had been secured from the alien ship and strapped down on the examination table when Nymuë arrived behind the rest of the medical team.

“You consummate clods! What the fuck do you think you’re doing strapping him down like that?” she growls.

“This is a security precaution! Iverson’s direct orders.”

“His arm’s been replaced by a cyborg prosthetic.”

“We need to sedate him until…”

“The fuck you will, you superlative spacks. Iverson can kiss my ass.”

Nymuë was in the midst of an escalating altercation when Keith arrived. Together they disabled the medical team and escaped with a conscious Shiro.

Many months later, she would find herself riding the descending lift to the detainment centre together with Shiro in silence. The sullen tension that permeated the air was felt by everyone. Everyone on the castle of lions was now beholden to Lotor; owing such a weighty debt to one’s enemy was incredibly discomfiting.

Nymuë’s first act of clemency would be to ensure the prisoner’s physical well-being and bring food to him. Shiro would not allow her to proceed unaccompanied and she would be unable to complete a standard assessment. As they approached via the gangway, Nymuë couldn’t help but notice Lotor’s posture indicated resignation. It was not what she would have expected were he a manipulative con artist. She had been very familiar with those. His gaze was distant and contemplative; she felt compelled by it before she had even met it.

“Prince Lotor,” she begins, “you’ve already met Commander Shiro. My name is Nymuë, and I’m the team medic. I’ve come to assess your health and treat any injuries you may have sustained.” She looks up to examine the energy barrier around his cell.

Lotor straightens himself but remains sitting. “I assure you, Nymuë, I am neither injured, nor am I in need of medical attention.”

She takes a moment to examine him from where she stands. His eyes are slightly sunken and she looked at his parched mouth as he spoke. There is an odd protrusion on the anterior aspect of one of his shoulders. She also noticed a fleeting wince when he repositioned himself.

“And I’m fucking Alice in Wonderland,” she says obstinately. Shiro coughs to suppress a laugh. Lotor looks at her with bemusement; her unassuming stature belied such temerity.

“You are dehydrated and likely have a minor headache right now as a result. There is also pain in your left shoulder from a recent injury. The inflammation and welting visible on your neck tells me you’ve recently been stunned by a weapon. The disruption to your neural pathways must be mitigated immediately before any residual damage worsens. I will also surmise that your recent trauma may preclude oral replacement of the fluid and electrolytes that you immediately require. Are you amenable to treatment in the medical bay?”

Both Lotor and Shiro look at her with amazement but Shiro interrupts, “Nymuë, your analyses are as sharp as always. However, it is too dangerous to release him.”

“Then I will go to him. I’ll treat him the old fashioned way.” Before Shiro can stop her, she bypasses the energy barrier.

“Where did you even get those supplies?” Shiro asks exasperatedly.

“I absconded with them. Fortune favours the prepared, bitches.”

Lotor amusedly raises an eyebrow at her insubordination but protests nonetheless. “Nymuë, I have a substantive regeneration ability and this is un…”

She suddenly cranks his left arm above his head and sets the arm down gently. “Prince Lotor, I’m sorry that I hurt you but I’ve just reduced your dislocated shoulder; keep the sling on for one quintant, ice it and I’ll reassess you tomorrow.” She removes her ebony sweater and slings his arm with it. His gaze is inexorably drawn to the innumerable tattoos embracing her arms.

Nymuë continues with pain management and rehydration therapy. Lotor is wordlessly compliant, his eyes never leaving her. His ultimate decision to trust her rested not on what she said but the way she looked at him. He had seen thousands of battle-hardened faces and he knew the murderous look of bloodlust. When he looked into her eyes, however, he saw not even the slightest hint of malice or hostility, but rather, compassion.

As Nymuë is packing up to leave, she asks how Lotor feels.

“Remarkably better. I must thank you for your kindness.”

“No,” she shakes her head and says softly, “We should be the ones thanking you. We wouldn’t be here without you. I’m sorry we’ve thrown you into this goddamn cell when you should be in the medical bay.” She meets his gaze in that moment. She had not considered him an enemy while she was with him; rather, she had seen in him the same darkness that she herself was fighting.

Lotor saw a glimmer of her fire in her eyes before it was again obscured. It had been many ages since he had seen a similar fervour.

Chapter Text

Nymuë felt particularly recalcitrant today. Even prisoners in her country were escorted to hospitals by guards should they require medical attention. Furthermore, leaving Lotor down there with the lights on was tantamount to solitary confinement. She did not know his state of mind was but she did know anyone could be broken by it.

And what the fuck did they expect him to sleep on? His shoulder needed to be elevated, damnit. She packed her own mattress, pillows and blanket with a new ice pack and covertly headed to the lower block after everyone had retired to their quarters. Lotor was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall; as she approached, she could see he appeared to be sleeping. He roused as soon as she stepped into the cell.

“Hey, sorry to wake you. I’ve brought you something to sleep on,” she says as she unrolls the mattress. “You need to keep your shoulder elevated to minimize the swelling too.”

“Nymuë, are your associates not concerned with you being alone with me?”

“The day Captain Ahab catches his fucking white whale is the day they’ll be able to tamp down my insolence. I’ve been disciplined so many times, I don’t even know why they keep me around.”

Lotor laughs a bit harder than she expected him to. Self-deprecation, being exceptionally rare among Galra ranks was actually exceptionally humorous to him. She files away that fact as she sets out the linen and pillows.

“I imagine it is because of your intellectual prowess.”

“Nah, they just love my fucking exceptional bedside manner. Right, you platitudinous quaiffuckers?” She yells into the distance.

Lotor asks through his chuckles, “Then from whom would you seek recourse should I attack you?

“Well, on a scale of 1-10 of moral turpitude and ferocity, I’d probably rank an exquisite -7, so you wouldn’t be able to handle me.”

More laughter on his part. After a while, Nymuë says quietly, “Before I became a Garrison medic, I was an army nurse. I’ve treated innumerable allies and enemy combatants alike. As such, I can anticipate whether I will be attacked by the way someone looks at me. Come sit up here. I’ll help you prop up your shoulder.”

“Thank you, Nymuë, again for your kindness.”

“It’s my pleasure,” she smiles, “get some rest tonight.” She turns to leave and pauses to say something but decides against it. The lull of sleep is difficult to ward off; Lotor is physically and emotionally spent. The scents of citrus and jasmine had enveloped him throughout the day due to Nymuë’s makeshift sling, bringing him a hazy comfort. She had literally given him the shirt off her back when he had been an enemy to her. His last thoughts are that the bedding smells like her as well.

Chapter Text

Nymuë had slept fitfully, curled up in a blanket on an improvised mattress. Nonetheless, she was up as early as she always was; sleep was a luxury that often eluded her. Fucking 5 am. She groaned. Five hours of sleep was better than no hours she thought resignedly.

She kept everyone at an arms length not for lack of trust or empathy. Her self-imposed isolation was to protect herself from corrosive heartache; she knew this well. Today, however, the silence within her deafening. ‘’Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all,’ is the distant thought that echos in her mind. ‘Fuck you, Tennyson,’ she thinks bitterly as she gets up for the day. The training automaton was going to get its winsome frankenwidgets beat out of it this morning.

After Nymuë clears level 7 and cleans herself up, she gathers her necessary supplies, as well as breakfast, heading down to see Lotor. 7 am now. ‘Yeah, he’ll be up. His demons keep him from sleeping as well,’ she thinks knowingly.

“Hey, Prince Lotor,” she says casually, “I thought you’d be up. How do you feel?” She notices the sling has been removed and has been neatly folded.

He pauses to look at her. She too, has been awake for some time, judging by the flush of exertion on her face. “I believe I am fully recovered, in no small part thanks to your efforts,” he says as he rolls his arm.

“What the god honest hell? I had nothing to do with that. It would take me 1-3 weeks to heal from that. Anyway, I’ve brought you something to eat.” Lotor accepts graciously as she continues.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you who it was who shot you,” Nymuë says as she sits cross legged to eat her own breakfast. “You are a superb military tactician, you are in top physical form, and you’ve read historical records copiously. As such, events often align to your whim. You would not so easily let your guard down.”

“Nymuë, how do you know all of that and from where do you draw your conclusions?”

“No, I’m the one asking the questions, damnit.”

Lotor smiles and shakes his head at her audacity. “My most trusted general shot me from behind after Zarkon declared me as an enemy of the state. Why do you wish to know?”

“Ah, an attack of the treacherous persuasion. I will answer you momentarily. How do you feel about your own father declaring open season on your life?”

Lotor pauses and she sees a flicker of darkness in his eyes. “It was inevitable. One of my generals had been a spy and they discovered my surreptitious plans.”

Nymuë decides not to push further even though he had not answered her last question. “I asked to assess your mental health. You’ve experienced some incredibly traumatic events. In case you are wondering, it is also why I am sitting here eating with you. So you don’t have to be alone.” She looks away.

Lotor studies her for a moment. Nymuë was somewhat of an enigma. She was standoffish to her peers and senior officers, abrasive, and disaffected. Her comportment would also suggest disinterest, accentuated by the raven locks partially obscuring her face, the intractable headphones and the monochromatic attire. And yet, every so often, she fails to conceal an incendiary fire within.

“Are you going to tell me how you know so much about me?” Lotor leans his chin onto his pronated hand and smiles wryly.
“I’ve been able to appreciate your military exploits since you assumed the throne. Such feats would not have been possible had you not spent inordinate amounts of time studying history, in particular, military history. ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.’ Some fucking dude named George Santayana wrote that.”

“I see little escapes your keen scrutiny. I remain curious as to the reason you have a unique disposition towards me. The rest of your comrades do not seem to share your …amiability.”

Nymuë stands to increase the physical distance between them but her heart remains tethered to Lotor’s gaze. “I could hold no prejudice towards someone who forgoes the use of contractions.”

Lotor gives her a bemused look.

“You, Prince Lotor, must also love literature or poetry,” she says reluctantly while inwardly chiding her mutinous heart.

“Why do you say that?”

“The way you so masterfully employ your words tells me that you appreciate the beauty they possess, for one cannot become a master without first having been an apprentice.” Definitely going back in time and tossing that treacherous heart into megalodon infested waters.

As Nymuë gathers her belongings, Lotor answers quietly, “I have, in fact, spent inordinate amounts of time, as you say, learning from historical archives. History is both fascinating and frustrating in its cyclical nature. I may also be partial to the cadence and intricacies of poetry.”

After she turns to reply, there is an incredulous gasp from the other side of the gangway.

Chapter Text

“Nymuë!” thunders an incensed Allura, “What in the name of the ancients are you doing consorting with the enemy?”
Both Nymuë and Lotor turn to see Allura and Shiro approaching. Shiro opens his mouth but is interrupted.

“Princess Allura,” Nymuë starts as she narrows her eyes. “A consort is a nautical term referring to various types of sea-faring ships. As all of you are aware, I don’t do ships.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Re-la-tion-ships. I don’t do fucking relationships of any kind,” she says sardonically. “But I happen to have a skill set that allows me to care for those in need of medical attention, so here I am. Noblesse oblige, friends. He was injured and didn’t even have a place to sleep. Incessant light exposure has extreme adverse health effects, so I gave him a mask. Lastly, I’m mitigating the detrimental effects of solitary confinement, which Charles Dickens likened to torture. Okay? Ghost of Christmas future, exeunt.”

Nymuë abruptly turns to leave while pointing menacingly to the door and dons her headphones. There was a stunned silence punctuated by a cough. Lotor wanted to laugh at her sarcasm and wit. Her accent seemed to break through when she was upset but only rendered her indignation more humorous.

Shiro sighs and shakes his head as he is already well acquainted with Nymuë’s obstinacy and does not intercede. Allura regains composure and calls after her, “What if he attacked you?”

Nymuë was already rocking out on the other side of the gangway. “Alors, un beau coup de grâce…” she calls out in a sweeping bow.

Chapter Text

Nymuë returns to the prison cell with an afternoon meal. Lotor had given the allies sufficient intel to organize their first sweep of enemy bases and they had departed, each with their respective missions. Lotor notices her somber mood as she eats in silence and decides to avoid any personal questions. Asking her about her coup de grâce comment would have to wait. He instead opts for a different approach.

“Nymuë?”

“Hmm?” She looks up from her food.

“Tell me about what I can only assume are literary references: Alice, Ahab and the Ghost.”

The light in her eyes tells him he has tapped through her gloom. There are glimpses of happiness as she excitedly gives an abridged version of each novel.

“The ghost reference was actually a subtle dig at the way they were treating you. Although he never speaks in the book, he portends a bleak future should nothing in the present change.”

Lotor smiles, “I will be fine.”

“It stems deeper than that though. You are resilient, yes. But what is it that is driving this deep animus toward you right now? You and I both know the answer.”

“This is not just about me, is it, Nymuë?”

“I…” she was unable to answer. She stands up and heads to the end of the cell to look into the distance.

“I don’t know why I know this, but you shoulder the same pain that I do…”

“Is that why you said it would be a merciful death if you were attacked?”

“I assumed everyone thought that was a joke. I’m always being an insufferable asshole.”

“You distance those around you so you will not have to endure the desolate anguish of loss again.”

“Yeah.”

Nymuë continues to stare into the distance with her arms crossed. She unplugs her headphones, however, and allows the music to fill the hollow silence that permeates both the room and her heart.

After a long time, she says with tears in her eyes, “They murdered my three year old brother in addition to my entire family. He was burned to death along with our house. I ran back in to save him but I couldn’t.” She holds up her arms, “I had third degree burns that are hidden with these tattoos.”

Her voice trembles but she continues. “We were the victims of discrimination and hatred. I was adopted into a family on the other side of the world where I vowed to break that cycle by dedicating my life to saving people. I never thought I would have to face those murderers again until one of them came to the humanitarian hospital I volunteered in, as a prison inmate in a medical crisis.

“I saved his life and I asked him if he remembered me. He said he would never see our kind as anything other than animals.”
Nymuë pounds her fist into the barrier. “Prejudice and hatred are a perpetual motion machine. Even if you pay with your life, it is insatiable. Câlisse! Maudit niaisseux!” She seethes and punches it again. She moves to punch a third time, but Lotor catches it.

“Your brother’s name was Lorien, then?” he says, looking down at the tattoos her arms.

“Yeah,” she says wiping away her tears.

“He was named for a land in the Lord of the Rings books and he used to call me Nuë because he couldn’t pronounce my name,” she said through a choked laugh.

“What did you say?” Lotor whispers fiercely.

“Uh, which part? Cause I’m not gonna lie, LOTR is almost your name.” She smiles through her tears.

Lotor sighs deeply and sits down. He also motions for her to sit. “Nueh was the name of the little girl who cared for me when I was knocked unconscious many ages ago. I looked like the enemy combatants who had mercilessly orphaned her, yet she still came to me trembling in fear while I was indisposed. I came to know her for over the next year as I assumed command of their world. Perhaps if I were to think upon it, I could characterize our relationship as a fraternal one. Their imperilled fate was sealed when my father destroyed that world and all its inhabitants on a rage-induced whim.”

Lotor loosens his armour and exposes his left forearm. “I wrote this for her, but it also soothes the effervescent sorrow accompanying her memory.” There were four simple lines of Galran in black ink tattooed on his inner forearm.

“Will you read it for me?” Nymuë would have revelled in his wildly creative imagery were the subject not so melancholy and were she not so mesmerized by a Galran poem.

“Asaana nan mit sal,
Tyrla nan mit engga;
Del na nan zambron,
Am hagg y altyrla.

“It means:
Moon of the night,
Star of the morning,
My sweet flower,
So beautiful a constellation.”

He smiles ruefully, “She loved the night sky.”

He only notices now that Nymuë still has her eyes closed. As they flutter open, she breathes, “What a beautiful and heart-rending tribute.” She meets his gaze and they both know he has spoken to her heart.

She freezes and suddenly realizes that her walls have been torn down, and she is achingly vulnerable. As her heart starts to race, she realizes that she can continue to run, or she can embrace her pain.

Lotor can see the panic flit across her face and seems to understand her internal struggle. Before he can say anything, however, she says with exasperation, “What the fuck is my life? I spend the majority of my life secluding myself from everyone and fucking today is when I let my guard down. C’est totalement ridicule.”

“You have never told anyone?” Lotor asks.

“Neither have you so shut the fuck up.”

Lotor laughed and then sighed. She had an uncanny ability to see right through him.

Chapter Text

Nymuë couldn’t believe her indiscretion but there was now a shift within her. The tides of change were upon her and yet, they did not threaten to consume like the waves of darkness always did. The most basic medical training involves assessing and reassessing the effectiveness of one’s interventions. How long had she licked her wounds in the same manner only to have them fester and re-open?

She was a bit of a disgrace, in actuality. And she purported to call herself a medical professional. It was some fucking dude she just met who painfully debrided her internal burns with his sharp questioning, bandaged them with his affirmation and soothed their pain with his vulnerability. What the fuck does he know about medicine anyway? More than she did, apparently.
And so she dragged her sorry ass back downstairs when it was time for dinner.

“Hey. How long have we known each other?” She asks as soon as she arrives at Lotor’s cell. He is sitting on the platform, elbows propped on his knees.

“One quintant, Nymuë. Why are you asking?”

“Well, you know how most people exchange their deepest, darkest secrets when they first meet each other? Particularly with someone as affable and charming as I am known to be… “ she plops down next to him after setting down her tray.

“Are you saying that we can henceforth broach any topic?” He smiles coyly.

“Honestly, anything else would almost be inconsequential small talk. Anyway, you’ve saved me twice now. I hadn’t fully realized I was drowning.” She lays back onto the mattress with her head cradled in her hands and stares at the ceiling.

“My bereavement has had a much longer …tenure than yours has had. Its long incumbency taught me to recognize your distress.”

‘Goddamn your brilliant personification’ Nymuë thinks furiously. “The poem that you wrote, by the way, resembles a type that we have. I use them solely to express melancholy since they are so poignant in metaphor and imagery, yet laconic by obligation. Fuck’s sake, I can’t believe I’m doing this quid pro quo. Who the fuck are you and what the fuck is your name again?” She rubs her temples with pseudo-agony.

Lotor chuckles as Nymuë stands and lifts her shirt to reveal her lithe abdomen. His gaze is drawn to a gorgeous bird of feathery fire, with the following words dripping vertically like tears.

“Larmes du phénix
Se brûlent d’amour éternel;
Flammes renaissantes,” she recites softly.

“Ancient mythological birds called phoenixes were said to spontaneously combust, die in said combustion, and reincarnate from the ashes.” She sweeps her hand over her arms, “and these are what you see on me. It means:

Tears of the phoenix
Burn of eternal love;
Reviving flames.”

Nymuë attempted to defuse any subsequent awkwardness with humour but Lotor seemed not to hear what she was saying anymore. The idea of a phoenix rising from the ashes was cleaving his soul in two at the moment. Did he dare consider this… was it too fortuitous to be anything other than fate? Yet he did not believe in such nonsense. Perhaps he should return to relishing the beauty of her poem. The language she spoke was elegant in its own right. If nothing else, he wanted to hear more.
Before he can ask, however, Nymuë ventures a question. “Hey, what do you do to quell the fusillades of emptiness and silence?”
Lotor smiles at the piercingly accurate imagery she used. “I plot the brutal downfall of anyone who dares to cross me.”

“Does it help?”

“Do you want the answer I tell myself or the truth that I have yet to face?”

Nymuë purses her lips and shakes her head. “Neither. I understand.”

After a moment, she grabs her headset and says, “I don’t wear these just for show.”

“Here, if you want to hear another French poem as much as I want to hear a Galran one, I’ve set the playlist to some 1940s classics. And we should eat before our food sublimates into oblivion,” she says as she turns it on.
Lotor chuckles at her hyperbole.

The rest of the evening is filled with casual banter, laughter and music. He asks her about life on earth and she asks about the quagmire of pandemic clusterfuck that is the Galra empire. He laughed way too much at that, she thought.

When it’s time for her to leave, Lotor thanks her and insists that she take back her own bedding.

“What? Pfff… it’s not mine.”

“It most certainly is yours.”

“Que? No puedo hablar inglès. No English,” she contends as she saunters away.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

With his spirits endlessly buoyed by the laughter and the engaging company of last night, it was perhaps the most restful sleep Lotor had had in a long time. He awoke feeling vitalized. He had been uncharacteristically forthright with her, although truthfully, it was she who had taken the biggest step. He could not have imagined a more improbable… comrade was perhaps the most apt descriptor. He knew she was not Nueh, but she compelled him in the same way. The phoenix analogy could not be more fitting. It was an unforeseen and unlikely gift.

As he got up for the morning, he wondered if the caliber of her staunch defences was directly proportional to the caliber of sensitivity in her tender heart. She was capable of great kindness.

Nymuë had a deep but again truncated sleep. Years of sleep deprivation are not so easily rectified. When she awoke, however, the serenity and stillness of the morning were almost jarring, they were so unfamiliar to her.

She went to the training deck and was surprised to find Pidge already there, tinkering with the program.

“Hey, Pidge, you have trouble sleeping too?”

Pidge startled and bonked her head on the console above her. She scrambled into an upright position and looked unnerved. “That is like literally the longest sentence you’ve ever spoken to me. Are YOU alright?”

“I’m sorry I’ve been so withdrawn from everyone. I’ve had my own struggles to contend with and it seems everything has come to a head.”

“Wow, ok, so you do talk! Actually, Nymuë, I knew you’ve had some rough shit to deal with, and that you might open up when you were ready.”

“I did blow off Shiro and Allura yesterday. I think I push Allura away the most because of all of the people here, she would understand my pain the best. I couldn’t risk that kind of vulnerability. You should have seen her face.”

Pidge chuckles. “Ok, you have to tell me what you said.”

“OH. MY. GOD.” Pidge cries after her explanation. “You did not… the ships part, so sarcastic but so funny.” Pidge exclaims in laughter.

“Yeah, I can be an asshole sometimes.”

“Nah, we all deal with loss differently. I heard how you helped Prince Lotor when none of us even wanted to go see him. That takes guts.”

“My family, they raised me to be kind even to enemies. I grew up with tales of a zen master who gave a thief in his home the shirt off his back. Perhaps if you speak to him, you will discover we are all more alike than we are different. When I spoke with him yesterday, he mentioned the societal inertia of prejudice that exists in the Galra empire. It was the most brilliant adoption of physics terminology I had ever heard. I thought you might appreciate it as well.”

“Oh my gosh, he said that? That is brilliant …while sad and deep at the same time.”

“I was going to bring him some breakfast after I trained with that godawful automaton. Would you like to come with me?”

“You know, I never thought I would but you’ve kinda convinced me.”

“It was nice having this conversation with you.”

“Yeah, anytime, Nymuë!”

————————

“Bonjour, Prince Lotor, I have a favour to ask,” Nymuë declares as she steps into his cell. “I’ll introduce Pidge later, this takes precedence.”

“Good morning, Nymuë, how can I assist you?”

“May we have your autograph?” She clasps her hands together and flutters her eyelashes.

“My what?”

“You know, your signature, your inscription, your John Henry, damnit.”

“Why would you need it?”

“Because we need a signed copy of ‘societal inertia’ to frame and hang on our fucking walls.”

“I do not understand what…”

“Take this piece of paper, write Societal Inertia and then sign it.”

“And Pidge, to whom I have not yet been introduced, would like one as well?” He asks incredulously. He looks over to her and she is in hysterics at the current exchange.

“Listen, Periwinkle Legolas,” Nymuë starts as she walks right up to him with her hands on her hips, “just sign the fucking paper.” Pidge is wiping away tears at her sheer audacity.

Lotor is not sure whether he complied because it was so absurd a request or because she was so brazen it bordered on hilarity. Her accent was quite charming in her faux indignation.

“Merci beaucoup!” She exclaims as she pats him on the arm. “It is my pleasure to introduce Pidge, green lion paladin, tech genius and physics aficionado. She also appreciated your wildly creative use of the word.”

Lotor and Pidge exchange niceties at which point he says, “You mean to tell me you requested my signature because you wish to laud random dialogue we exchanged?”

“Not random, Monsieur, absolutely sublime,” she sighs dreamily.

Lotor narrows his eyes, shakes his head and sighs. Nymuë was absolutely unpredictable. It was not lost on him, however, that her theatrics were meant to loosen any tension there may have been.

“May we join you for breakfast?” asks Nymuë.

“Of course. Welcome to my humble abode. As you can see, my abundant amenities are at your disposal.”
Since Pidge had already been primed with laughter, she shook with mirth, while Nymuë stifled a laugh.

“I have just the accompaniment for this lavish meal. Classics from the Baroque period. Sorry, one moment, sometimes this player is insufferable.”

“If it ain’t Baroque, don’t fix it!” quips Pidge.

The conversation was lighthearted and punctuated with laughter. Many lame physics puns were shared.

“Man, it’d be so much easier if you could just force choke the bad guys,” Pidge laments.

“Well, may the mass times acceleration be with you, then!” exclaims Nymuë.

“OH MY GOD. You are a nerd squared!” Pidge responds excitedly.

“Hey, you know why I’m friends with this guy?” She smacks Lotor on the shoulder. “I joined the dark side ages ago. They have cookies after all.”

“That was my injured shoulder, Nymuë,” he says dryly. She laughs and punches him several more times.

Pidge then looks at Nymuë with sudden inspiration and both turn their gaze to Lotor. “Wait a minute. Prince Lotor, have you ever had cookies?” Pidge asks slyly.

“I cannot say that I have. What are cookies?”

“Oh, we are so having a tea party at 1600 today. You’ll find out then.”

“I assume, Pidge, you are bringing Hunk then?”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way!”

Chapter Text

The paladins would be gone for most of the day on their missions, leaving Nymuë behind in the castle. She hadn’t anticipated the breakfast going so well, what with all Pidge’s family had endured at the hands of the Galra. Additionally, she had also spent a lot of time with Lotor and wondered if perhaps she was imposing upon him. Nymuë realized how much his company shined light into the darkness that was her existence. She did not want to go back into the shadows.

“Salut mec, are you tired of me yet?” she yells out from the elevator as soon as she steps off.

“Why are you yelling at me from over there?”

“Well, if you are sick of me I could just turn around.”

“Nymuë, you are ridiculous. Come over here and speak to me properly.” Lotor shakes his head.

“I’ve brought lunch which is as appetizing as breakfast was.”

“I appreciate all that you do for me. And I enjoy your company, so no, I do not tire of your presence.”

“Lotor,” she says as she sets down her tray, “Allow me to greet you properly. When we see each other in my country, we give a kiss on each cheek.” Nymuë brings his head down to her level and kisses him. “You are the first friend I’ve had in a very long time and I’m grateful for all you have done for me.”

“I can assure you that those sentiments are perfectly mutual.” He sets his hands on her shoulders.

Nymuë grins wickedly, “Are you certain I am not interrupting any sinister machinations?”

“I was, in fact, planning how to take over the Empire.”

“Ok, do you need any help?”

“I will probably need to get out of this cell first.”

“Consider it done,” Nymuë grins broadly. “I’m already working on it. I mean, I am fucking left-handed and everyone knows the root of all evil is sinistris.”

“Indeed. You are about as evil as the cat I used to have as a youth,” he says as he sits down.

“Oh, how so?” She sits next to him.

“He would allow me to pet him just so he could bite me. Your verbal claws are not unlike those of Kova.”

“Anytime, mec. I’m fucking here for you. Hey,” she asks softly, “will you tell me one more of your poems.”

Lotor unfastens his suit and allows her to see his chest, just over his heart. Her heart breaks to see his heavily scarred flesh as she looks at a familiar four lined poem.

“Vas engga masten sal,
Am hagg lus masten rath.
Vas asaa has myl,
Am lus yozanen vesh.

“As morning conquers night,
So fairest love conquers hate.
As space is all-encompassing,
So love welcomes you home.”

Tears well up in her eyes as her breath is stolen. As the depths of his soul were laid bare to her, any remaining bitterness she held was sweetened by his ambrosial words. Nymuë could not stop herself. On day three, she threw her arms around her enemy-turned-friend and buried her tears into his shoulder. He was taken by surprise but soon returned her embrace.
Ten seconds later she realizes her mistake and tries to clamber away as she apologizes for her heedlessness. But he holds her fast. “You don’t have to run, anymore, Nymuë…” he pauses for a long while. “And besides, if you think I will let you go before you have returned the favour, you are gravely mistaken.”

She smiled through her tears. “Alright, but only one. So don’t push your fucking luck.”

Lotor chuckles as she pulls her collar to reveal a poem that is also over her heart.

“Doux soleil berce
Les vagues de mélancolie;
La mer qui s’endort

“Gentle sun soothes
The waves of melancholy;
The sleeping sea

“I’ve been waiting for the sun to shine for a long time.”

Lotor had promised to let her go afterwards but he found himself holding her a bit tighter.

After a long time, Nymuë says, “Can I fucking bite you now?” He laughs as he pushes her away.

Chapter Text

Nymuë spent the afternoon making macarons and madeleines. She had saved a special package of tea for a celebratory occasion and it seemed this was a fitting time. Many of her comrades were returning as she brought out her masterpieces. Hunk had been the first to recognize the irresistible aroma originating from the kitchen.

“Wow, Nymuë, I didn’t know you baked! That smells so, so good.”

“Salut Hunk, yes, I worked in a boulangerie-patisserie while I was in school.”

“So Pidge tells me we are having a tea party with Prince Lotor. Is he, is he like actually a nice guy who won’t, you know, kill us all? Cause I’m not gonna lie, I wouldn’t mind having a few of your cookies.”

Nymuë chuckles. “You know, Hunk, Prince Lotor has never had cookies before which is why we are having this tea party. I think he has been misunderstood. He… the Galra have been exceedingly malicious toward him, so he hides the compassion within him. And you can walk him through the delicacies of pastries,” she replies with a genuine smile.

“Alright, let’s do this. Hey, Nymuë, glad to see you come out of your shell. You’re pretty cool.”

“It was a long time coming, Hunk. It’s been a pleasure getting to know all of you. Shall we find Pidge and go downstairs?”
———————-
Pidge, Hunk, and Nymuë approach the holding cell triumphantly with their afternoon treats as Lotor looks on with amusement. “May I present Hunk, yellow lion paladin, engineer extraordinaire, and connoisseur of fine cuisine,” Nymuë says excitedly, “This is Prince Lotor, lover of kitty cats, fine arts and history. Total hipster. He absolutely would listen to indie bands, wear vintage clothing and patronize fair-trade coffee shops on earth,” she continues as she gives his shoulder a shove and everyone shares a laugh.

“You neglected to mention railing against the establishment,” Lotor says matter-of-factly to their utter delight. Nymuë laughed as she leaned against him. He did notice that she broadly categorized their mutual penchant for poetry rather than candidly disclose it. It would remain unspoken between them as she met his knowing gaze in that moment.

The pleasant conversation drifted to discussion of all different manner of foods. Galra sustenance options were fairly limited, to the shock of no one. Hunk was more than happy to share his expertise. To Nymuë’s surprise, Pidge had never had macarons before.

“Then have you not had éclairs à la crème chantilly or choux-cakes either?”

“Ooo, I’ve always wanted to try those!” exclaims Hunk as Pidge shakes her head.

“I will ask Lance to help me obtain the milk for these pastries. Shall we have another tea party tomorrow if all of you are amenable to this?”

“Hell yes!” came the unanimous reply.

“Nymuë is my new best friend!”

“Man, I could use some more of that rooibos latte.”

Nymuë winks at Lotor and whispers, “Operation Sinistra is a go.” He looks at her in wonder. He did thoroughly enjoy the taste of good food and the pleasantries of conversation but had she ultimately been trying to unite them all along? It was difficult, in that moment, to categorize the type of affection he felt for her. He was looking forward to having dinner with her after they all left.

Chapter Text

“Bon soir, mon capitaine,” Nymuë says cheerily, “how goes it?”

“About the same as when I last you a varga ago,” Lotor replies.

“Ha ha, so funny.”

“Come sit with me, Nymuë.” She waits until he is seated and proceeds to push him to the very back of the platform.
“What are you doing?” He asks incredulously.

“I’m claiming at least ¾ of the platform like your cat.” She then lays down diagonally across it.

“You are ridiculous.”

“You fucking love it.”

Lotor chuckles and sighs. “Your strategy to win over the paladins has been fairly effective so far. For someone who has disavowed relationships for decaphebes, you have been quite adept at building them in merely a few quintants. Why the sudden reversal of heart?”

She sits up to face him. “Because I was already acquainted with my weakness, you were the necessary catalyst for me to confront it. And since catalysts are a reusable reagent, the subsequent reactions from the paladins might as well be credited to you.”

“You do not like to take credit for your accomplishments. Of this I am wary, even if you employ clever analogies.”

Nymuë shrugs her shoulders. “ ‘If I have seen further, it is because I have stood on ye shoulders of giants.’ One of the most brilliant scientific minds in our recorded history, Isaac Newton, said that. Fucking dude invented calculus during an all-nighter as a bet. When I stay up all night, I can’t even remember my own name. Anyway, I hope we can gain their trust and get you out of this cell soon.”

“I greatly appreciate your efforts, Nymuë.” He moves to lean back against the wall. “Speaking of names, is your name drawn from literature as well?” He asks, changing the topic. “It is a bit unusual.”

“Yeah, Nymuë is the lady of the lake from the legend of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. My birth parents were avid readers.” She leaves her spot to sit next to him and also leans back on the wall.

“Your name, Lotor, is Altean, isn’t it?”

Lotor is a bit taken aback. “How do you know that? I have not told you my lineage before.”

Nymuë shrugs her shoulders. “It is dissimilar from any Galran name I’ve encountered but it resembles male Altean names that I have heard.”

He ruffles her hair. “You truly are remarkably perceptive.”

She reaches to mess up his. “Nah. I just love language. And my god, I love your hair too.” She runs her fingers through it a few more times to his amusement.

The next several hours discussing literature, history, and their respective childhoods are thoroughly engaging, interspersed with humour and witty anecdotes.

Lotor recounts his childhood at her behest. “I was born shortly after the Galra declared war on multiple worlds and set in motion their quest for total domination. As is typical of warring worlds, resources are overwhelmingly diverted towards military use. I have no memory of my mother and only sparse recollections of the unchanging malice and contempt my father held for me. If there were good memories, they have long been forgotten. I was basically an oppressive tyrant in training, subject to strict and brutal discipline. The weak are left to die, while the strongest rise to power. The scars you may have seen on me were mostly a result of the times I wasn’t strong enough to defend myself. I do recall enjoyable moments of my own making, times spent pursuing… worthy causes, but invariably, as with everything else in this wretched empire, any whisper of happiness is strangled as soon as it begins to take form.”

Nymuë had a sudden realization and bolts upright.

“Are you alright, Nymuë?”

“Little Nueh… she was the only one who ever welcomed you back when you returned, wasn’t she?”

Lotor was silent for several moments. He didn’t need to respond. She already knew the answer. For the second time today, Nymuë wordlessly encircles his waist with her arms and lays her head on his chest. ‘This is utter madness, it’s beyond reason,’ she cries in her head. ‘Shut the fuck up, Polonius,’ her conscious brain yells at her subconscious brain before it can summon anything about method in madness.

He chuckles a bit. “I would not have anticipated a second embrace today from someone who is relationship-averse.”
Nymuë mumbles into his shoulder, “The heart knows reasons of which reason knows nothing. Words from some asshole named Blaise Pascal.”

Lotor decides to test the waters. “May I hear a another poem, then?”

She resigns herself and sighs deeply. “You are truly earnest about poetry. It’s kind of endearing. Anyway, I have yet to write a poem about anyone other than Lorien. This is the original language these poems were written in,” she says as she pulls out a screen and paints each character as she recites it.

雨の音
それは悲しみ
昨日の愛

“Ame no oto
Sore wa kanashimi
Kinou no ai

“It means:
The sound of rain
It is sadness
Yesterday’s love”

He was enthralled by the elegance and flow of this new language. She hadn’t been wrong; it immortalized poignant emotion with just a few brushstrokes. “Do you want to see something ironic?”
“In its parent language, this is the character for rain,” she says as she deliberately plants each stroke.
雨
She adds only a few more strokes, “if you do this, it becomes the word for snow.”
雪
If you add ‘woman’ to ‘rain’, it becomes ‘graceful.’
雯

“My adoptive name, Xuě-wén, is graceful snow. Not exactly befitting of this jerk, is it?” She laughs as she points to herself. “I can be pretty fucking rough around the edges but I do enjoy irony to no end.”

He thinks for a moment before he replies. “On the contrary, Nymuë. Each series of strokes can change the meaning of the root, yes. But they do not change the radical itself. You have been subject to untold misery and anguish in this lifetime, but your kindness has not been corrupted. As such, it remains every bit as graceful as the snows that fall.”

Nymuë’s first impulse is to flee but she falls off the platform unceremoniously and lands with a thud. Damn his poetic eloquence and depth of insight. Damn it straight to hell. If there was a war waged against her heart, she had just been defeated. There could be no retreat, there could only be surrender.

“Are you quite alright?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s nothing. Ow.” She says rubbing her head. “Your affirmation caught me off guard, that’s all.”

Lotor laughs out loud. “I fail to see how my response warrants such a violent withdrawal.” He moves over to help her up. But perhaps he did understand. Her biting remark was due anytime now.

He feels her take his hand and squeeze it tightly, instead. “That meant more to me than you realize. Thank you. Get some rest tonight, I’ll see you in the morning.”

Chapter Text

The clouds of regret and despair had receded, and Nymuë felt the warmth of a new sun when she woke in the morning. Since she was often awake before everyone else, she knew when they would be up. Lance was a late riser and she had three hours before he would be available.

She was about to head to the training deck when it occured to her that Lotor must be feeling pretty confined in that small cell. She had never seen him in combat but was certain that his skills eclipsed her own. She donned her uniform and decided to ask anyway.

“Salut, mec, did you sleep well?” Nymuë sets breakfast outside of the cell.

“Yes, thank you. And you?”

“Better than I have in a long time. Hey, we have two to three hours before I have to go, but would you like to spar with me? I am well aware that I would probably last 5 ticks in a real battle with you, but you are probably feeling restless. I was on my way to the training deck as usual but decided to come here instead.”

Lotor smiles. She was as unpredictable as ever. He hadn’t known her level of training and was eager to test her mettle. “The size of this cell necessitates hand-to-hand combat, are you comfortable with that?”

“My specialty,” she grins. Nymuë then bows to him with a traditional fist wrap.

Nymuë’s technique was unlike anything Lotor had previously seen. She absorbed his strikes and deflected or redirected, without any offensive assaults. He soon abandoned his restraint and attacked her with a litany of hand strikes. She was small and swift, deftly maneuvering in tandem with him, never allowing him to land a blow. His lingering thoughts were that she truly was as graceful as snowfall.

After 30 minutes, Lotor says, “Nymuë, that was much longer than 5 ticks.”

“You were holding back. You could have been reading War and Peace at the same time, which is more like a tome than a book.” She pokes his chest.

“Perhaps at the beginning,” he simpers.

“You haven’t broken a sweat and your breathing is already at baseline.”

“Nonetheless, you are a formidable opponent. I look forward to seeing your full potential. Why did not you attempt a single attack on me?”

“This style of martial art is solely defensive; it is for the protection of life, not the severing of it,” she says as she bows to him with her ritual salute. “My fist of power is covered by my open hand of peace; therefore, aggression is restrained by virtue.”
“Humans even have peaceful combat. We could learn much from your philosophy and wisdom.”

“Likewise. I’ve learned much from you as well. I would look forward to the day you assume the throne and bring peace to the empire. I will do what small part I can to assist you.”

After breakfast Lotor admits without hesitation, “I would like to train with you again, Nymuë.”

“Anytime, mec. I’m going to find Lance to help me acquire pastry ingredients! À bientôt!”

Chapter Text

Nymuë washes up and heads to Lance’s quarters. She knocks tentatively and awaits a response.

“Who is it?” Comes the sleepy reply.

“Hola, Lance, it’s Nymuë. I apologize, did I wake you?” She hears a sudden flurry of activity from within. In a few minutes, Lance opens the door with a debonair smile.

“Good morning, my lady. And to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I was wondering if you had time to help me this morning.”

“Of course I do! I mean, you’ve never said more than a few words to me before, so this must be important.”

“I apologize for that, Lance. I’ve had some … personal struggles to work through but things are better now. Would you have time after breakfast to help me obtain some milk? I’m making some French pastries for the tea party we are having this afternoon. You, of course, are invited to tea as well.”

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“Lance, I’ve just started making friends again after many years of isolation. Perhaps let’s start there?”

“Right, got it. Well, why don’t you join us for breakfast? We never see you around.”

“Of course! Muchas gracias, Lance.”

“Wait, how do you know I speak Spanish?”

“Do you not come from Cuba?”

“Well, yeah, but how do you know? I never get to talk with you.”

“I listen when I’m not talking. You have a large family that you miss terribly, particularly your mother, you have a favourite spot on the beach, and you like Latin music.”

“Wait, wha?”

“Why don’t we talk more in the dining hall?”

“Sure, and I’d be happy to help you afterwards!”

When they reach the dining hall, Pidge and Hunk are just starting to eat. Shiro and Allura have gone to gather intel from Lotor.

“Hey, guys! Wow, Nymuë, are you actually going to join us for breakfast?” asks Pidge.

“Yes, but I am here for the company. I actually ate breakfast a while ago.”

“Ok, so is tea still on this afternoon, because I’d reaaally like to try some eclairs!” pipes up Hunk.

“Yes, of course, which is why I’ve recruited Lance to help me. I will admit I do not know how to milk a cow.”

“It’s pretty easy, actually,” brags Lance, “nothin’ to it. So why are we having this party? What’s the occasion?”

“Well, actually, funny story, we all kinda had tea with Prince Lotor yesterday…” begins Hunk.

“WHAT?!” yells Lance.

“Turns out, he’s a pretty cool dude. Anyway, none of us has had French pastries before and Nymuë was a pastry chef so of course we are having another tea time.”

“WHAT?!” yells Lance again, “Oh, I am NOT going anywhere near that guy!”

“Lance,” Nymuë says softly, “you’ve known the affection of many siblings and the warm embrace of your parents. Now imagine if your father, who only ever looked at you with disdain and disappointment, betrayed you on a whim and demanded your life as penance. In place of a mother, your governesses and stewards were detached and brutal disciplinarians. Imagine returning everyday to a domicile filled with a droning silence. What would it be like if not a single person in your life ever welcomed you home? Do you know whose life I’ve just described?”

Pidge’s lower lip was trembling and Hunk was teary-eyed. She could see Lance’s fury being replaced with sympathy as she spoke. “Are you talking about Prince Lotor?”

She nods. “He hides it well, his pain. I was able to recognize it only because I’ve hidden my own as well. Perhaps let’s be kind and hospitable to him… and change the course of history by promoting peace. We should be the Hermione and Ron to his Harry.”

“Did he tell you all of that?”

“Only some, the rest I was able to infer. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry writes, ‘The most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or touched, they are felt with the heart.’ He actually conceals a deep well of kindness and introspection; I can only guess it is because the Galra see it as weakness.”

“Nymuë,” says Lance with determination, “let’s milk that cow for all she’s worth then.”

The sullen atmosphere was broken by resounding laughter.

Chapter Text

“Salut mec, ça va?” Nymuë is in an exceptionally good mood as she walks toward Lotor’s cell.

“Ça va bien, merci, et toi?”

“C’est formidable! I am impressed! You learn quickly.”

“Nymuë, I spend the majority of my waking hours with you. I would be remiss not to learn such a charming language. Incidentally, were you able to turn Lance to the dark side?”

She almost drops her tray of food because of his delivery. She sets it down and gives him a playful shove. “I am pleased to report all is going according to plan,” she laughs. “My strategy was always going to be Pidge or Hunk first. They are often together and it would be easier to convince the other to subsequently join.”

“Your cookie comment, then, was not simply casual banter?”

“No, of course not. Neither was my question about the éclairs. I needed a reason to solicit Lance’s help. He might have been more difficult to convince had I been less observant of my comrades. Perhaps I know them well enough to speak a resonant message to their hearts.”

Lotor was thoroughly impressed with her calculating sense of persuasion. He had a mild inkling she was directing the conversation towards a predetermined goal, but had not realized the entirety of her forethought. Her silver-tongue could lend itself to shrewd diplomacy if she so desired.

Nymuë noticed during their lunch that Lotor had closed the distance between them and often reached out to touch her. Her habitual response would have been to immediately recoil but for once, she felt comforted by someone else’s touch and returned his advances. Lotor was pleasantly surprised by her reciprocity; she was no longer as untamed and wild as she was at the beginning.

“Nymuë, I had meant to ask you previously, how serious were you when you spoke of a coup de grâce?”

“Existentialist philosophy influenced me heavily when I was younger, particularly after I read L’Étranger by Albert Camus.” She continues to give him a brief summary but qualifies her statements. “I might liken its temporary… what is ‘soulagement’ in English? Assuagement? It’s temporary assuagement to the psychosomatic effects of placebos. It took some time to realize it did not fully resonate with me.” She pauses to look unfocused into the distance.

Nymuë touches her heart. “I wrote this after I came to that realization. Although my heart remains tethered by an anchor that is obscured by the darkness and is difficult to see.”

Lotor was moved by her insight, intelligence, and ever artful turn of phrase. The relief he felt to know she did, indeed, value her life, however, soon gave way to an intangible longing. That he found her accent particularly fetching today did not help much to qualify his yearning.

Their meal was over too quickly and both regretted having to part ways.

Chapter Text

The paladins had returned from a successful mission thanks to Lotor’s continued cooperation (except perhaps for Hunk sideswiping of the narrow shafts.)They convened in the lounge to debrief as usual, but even before the meeting was adjourned, Pidge, Hunk and Lance made a beeline for the kitchen. It was 1610 and they were out of breath trying to get there on time. Nymuë was all smiles as she met them.

Their eyes widened at the tray of freshly baked croissants, éclairs, and choux-cakes. “Salut, mecs! Ça va?” She greets them happily. “How was your mission?” Everyone offered to help her bring the trays down while they updated her. Nymuë ensures she is the last to leave.

“Hey, Prince Lotor, what’s up!” Hunk waves as they approach the cell. “Man, are we all going to fit in there?”

“Welcome, friends. Allow me to look in the back for additional seating,” Lotor answers with a grin. Hunk responds with a chortle and finger guns.

Nymuë begins, “Lance, I’d like to introduce you to Prince Lotor, expert in swordplay, counterplay, and wordplay.” Lance offers his hand to Lotor who firmly shakes it.

“Please meet Lance, Voltron’s manus dextra, red lion paladin, cool ninja sharp-shooter and musical devotee.”

“Nice to meet you. You know, it has been a long time since I have heard music, save for the past three quintants. It is unfortunate that we, the Galra have abandoned it in favour of military pursuits.”

“What?” exclaims Lance, “Oh we have got to fix that, pronto. Nymuë!”

“Yes, what is it?”

“You have that weird Olkari guitar thing, you play for this guy.”

“You play as well. And you miss home and are aching to do so again.”

“What? How the heck did you know that?”

“When you goof around and play air guitar, you use real chords and fingerings.” Pidge and Hunk looked at each other and raised their eyebrows. They didn’t even know Lance played.

“Nymuë is adept at reading underneath the surface,” Lotor says simply.

“Which is why I brought it for you.” Everyone looks over in astonishment as she pulls out the guitar slung behind her. “Please help yourselves to the pastries while I tune it.”

Lotor was amazed again at her command of the conversation. “I’ve had to tweak it a bit, but it’s a standard tuning.” She hands it over to Lance.

“Sweet! I’ve been wanting to ask you… thanks! What should I play?” Lance heads over to the platform to sit down. He plays an introductory riff.

Everyone cheers at the song he chose and soon they have all joined in to sing along. Lance has jumped up on the platform while he belts out the lyrics. It is in this moment of unabashed ebullience that Shiro and Allura have stepped off the elevator.

“What the quiznack is this?! Have you all gone mad?” came an incensed cry.

Even Shiro was taken aback. “What on earth are you all doing in there?”

“Oh, well this is exactly what it looks like. Um, a musical tea party,” came Lance’s sheepish reply.

“The lot of you are having a tea party with the enemy? Are you absolutely insane? You are all to come out of there immediately. We need to have a discussion with Prince Lotor.”

“Why don’t you join us, Shiro, and Allura? It’s pretty cozy in here, actually,” Nymuë offers.

“Is this all your doing?” Allura crosses her arms. Lotor was looking forward to see how she handled this situation. Similar to how she diverted his physical strikes, she defused the energy of Allura’s indignation with an invitation.

“The merit belongs to the sages who came before me. Please, we have plenty of food. Come join us and continue your discussion here.”

“We are quite alright staying out here.”

Lotor notices that while the rest of the paladins were about to leave, Nymuë’s verbal manoeuvring stopped them in their tracks and allowed them to decide for themselves. They opted to stay put. It was quite sly on her part.

“Well, since everyone’s here, I had wanted to say that your intel checked out.”

“Do you still feign surprise?” Lotor, Shiro and Allura have a tense exchange of words. Although Nymuë feels her heart race at Lotor’s measured rebuttal, she felt it sink that the indoctrination of victory or death held such a death grip over him.

“If I may speak, princess”, Nymuë says as she walks over to Lotor, “emperor Zarkon has been systematically purging Galran ranks of weakness, kindness and kinship being particularly foul constitutions to be crushed by an iron fist. It must therefore be argued that it is not necessarily an innate factor that has compelled the continued bloodshed, but rather an artificial selection of cruelty and aggression. Human history, too, remains tarnished with war after war, entire swaths of people felled for the mere colour of their skin. Were I to be judged by the history of my species, I’d be guilty through and through. Because Prince Lotor is cognizant of the brutality and barbarism of the old regime, it is a first step to take the helm and effect momentous change. If you would kindly indulge me, our ancient military strategist, Sun Tzu, recounts that a successful military leader encompasses five attributes: intelligence, discipline, courage, credibility and benevolence. While I have no authority in your decisions, and have little military expertise, I can still recognize these qualities,” she reaches out to touch Lotor’s arm, “and must hasten to point them out before it is too late to act.”

“Credibility? He just admitted to resorting to the use of trickery,” retorts Allura.

“Prince Lotor mentioned the path of enlightenment. We also underwent a period of enlightenment on earth, called the Renaissance,” Nymuë turns back to catch Lotor’s eye and smiles. “Shakespeare, arguably one of the crown jewels of the Renaissance, wrote in one of his many works, ‘This above all, to thine own self be true. And it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not be false then to any man.’ As such, he has experienced extraordinary cruelty at the hands of the Galra, yet he has emerged from such fires, not twisted and charred, but refined and polished, albeit covered in soot. It is how I know he is trustworthy. I have seen the kindness within him.”

There is a moment of stunned silence. Nymuë, who rarely spoke, just drew her bow and struck each person’s heart with a resonant arrow. Lotor reaches to take her hand and look at her in awe. To everyone’s shock, she responds in kind and pulls him into a warm hug with her other arm. The dam breaks and with many a teary eye, the other three paladins join the group hug.

“We can’t keep him in here, anymore, it’s not fair!”

“Yeah, we need to be nicer to him after all he has done for us!”

“It’s too mean to keep him locked up!” came the chorus of wails and sobs.

“Nymuë, while we appreciate your insight, I’m still not sure we can trust him.” Allura frowns and furrows her brow.

“I admit, Nymuë makes a compelling argument,” Shiro starts. “She has a reputation for her encyclopedic memory and rapid analyses; she never makes a mistake. I am inclined to believe her. She doesn’t speak much, so when she does, people listen.”
Allura relented at this point, to the cheers of everyone.

“Hey, does that mean I get to finish my song?” cries Lance, picking up the guitar.

“Yeah! Do it!”

“Alright, everyone to the dining room!”

“Let’s blow this popsicle stand!”

Lotor and Nymuë are the last to leave. He has not yet relinquished her hand as he leads her down the gangway. A smile crosses his face as he thinks of how she is undoubtedly trying to take stock of the current situation. He grips her hand tighter and says quietly, “You are no longer the wild kitten I first met.”

Nymuë gasps as she clasps her hand to her mouth and remembers aloud, “In Le Petit Prince he writes, ‘You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed… “

Lotor glances back at her with surprise and affection.

Chapter Text

Dinner had been quite eventful. Lotor had been peppered with questions about being Galra, and he, in turn, told of his youthful gaffes to the amusement of everyone. A few strategic targets were spoken of with regard to the rebel coalition. Lance eagerly provided entertainment, jolting everyone out of their postprandial torpor. He tried to recruit Nymuë to play but she declined repeatedly.

After he is shown his quarters, Lotor visits Nymuë to return her bedding and feels a slight dismay when he sees what she has been sleeping on. The mild fragrance of citrus and jasmine gently waft around him as he enters. Her camisole and sleep shorts allow him an unhindered view and he has difficulty averting his gaze. He had always acknowledged her wildly creative intelligence and her ocean of kindness, but today he finds her doe-eyed beauty mesmerizing.

“Good evening, Nymuë. I wanted to return your belongings to you and thank you for your continued efforts to secure my position here.”

“Hey, please come in! If you just set them down, I can take care of it. I guess I’ve been pretty brazen lately but that is not unusual for me!” She laughs.

“You were breathtaking, Nymuë. You persuade with unparalleled articulacy and have thusly achieved your objectives in a relatively short time. It is...” he pauses to look at her and again finds his gaze drawn down to her lithe figure. “You are of inestimable value to me.”

She turns around to look at him as she is setting out her linen and giggles. “Tu es trop mignon,” she says in reference to the way he expresses gratitude. He was becoming uncomfortably aroused watching her bend over to straighten her bedding.

“I’m glad I could help you... it was deplorable to keep you locked in there like a criminal.”

As she stands up to face him, she finds he has already closed the distance between them as he draws her into an embrace. He runs his hand over her bare shoulder and down her arm, grazing her breast as he does so. Finally, he kisses her cheek and whispers, “I do not know what providence could have brought you to me but it seems too fanciful to be true.” As she was trying to rationalize the kind of affection he seemed to be expressing, he senses her inner turmoil and gently removes her doubt by tracing his fingers down the side of her face and tilting her chin to kiss her lips. Her eyes fly open and she gasps in shock. Nymuë freezes but he deepens the kiss until her eyes flutter closed and she relaxes into his arms.

He lingers for a moment to savour the sweet taste of her lips before he withdraws from her.

She is still so stunned she manages no more than a few incoherent words.
“Wha... You... did...”

He smiles as he cups her face with both hands this time and kisses her forehead. He had to stop now or he wouldn’t be able to.

“I will see you in the morning. Good night, Nymuë.”

Neither of them could have anticipated this development four days ago.

Chapter Text

Nymuë seems destined to forever forgo a full night’s rest. She couldn’t stop thinking of that goddamn kiss. Being enveloped in his scent all night only made it worse. Ok, sure, he was absolutely divine, and extraordinarily intelligent, and they did have some excruciatingly intimate moments together but... she was meant to be alone. She had always told herself this. She didn’t know if she had the strength to endure another loss. After a fitful rest of only a few hours, she heads to the training deck. What she wouldn’t do for a coffee this morning.

Nymuë could not focus. She was tired and distracted and the bot made a mockery of her. So she opted to clean the floor instead. She was just finishing when she hears the door open.

“Nymuë, I thought I would find you here but why are you cleaning the floor at this ungodly hour?”

“Um hi!” She squeaks. Of course it was Lotor, she groans. “I... couldn’t sleep.”

“Is there perhaps a new source of distress?” He smiles coquettishly and braces himself for some sort of vindictive retaliation. Instead, she appears conflicted for a moment and then sits down where she is and puts her head in her hands.

“Yeah. Never thought I would fall for anyone.” He looks at her in shock. He hadn’t been entirely certain their feelings were reciprocal. “I’ve always thought I was meant to be alone. I’ve been telling myself that I’m not the right one. That this is not the right time. That there is no way this can work, that...”

He waits for her to finish but she doesn’t. “You are afraid.”

She doesn’t reply and looks at the floor.

“I would never hurt you,” he says softly as he sits next to her and takes her hand.

“I know you wouldn’t, Lotor, but...” she is unable to finish.

He pulls her close and holds her head against him. “You have done remarkably well overcoming your fears the past few days. I believe you have it within you to vanquish them. Perhaps this is selfish of me, but I do not wish to return to the darkness that was my former existence. Having swallowed the bitterness of Galran dogma for my whole life, the first taste of your kindness was incomparably ambrosial. The happiness that is so fleeting and intangible in this empire, assumes permanence in you.”

She returns his embrace for a moment and smacks him when he is not expecting it. “You and your aristocratic eloquence and... and your profundity of thought are fucking infuriating, you know that? Fucking Mr. Darcy,” she mumbles at the end.

Lotor laughs at her petulance, but he understood what remained unsaid. They were inexorably drawn to one another. “Will you spar with me, Nymuë?”

“Yeah, of course.” She tosses him a training sword.

And so began an elaborate dance of thrusts, parries and ripostes. She rechannels and redirects in the same fluid vein that he discharges and dispels his attacks. In any previous fight Lotor had experienced, the will to crush and to conquer charged his assaults, until victory was claimed. This was the first time he had found a partner perfectly balanced with him; the harmony that he felt with her edified him.

Nymuë was unable to maintain her pace this time and he opted to stop when he noticed her begin to tire.

“I’m not much of an opponent today,” she says breathlessly.

“Nonetheless, I still found it galvanizing in mind and in body.” He pauses for a moment to look at her. She encompassed so much grace within and without, yet did not acknowledge it herself. He steps forward and wraps his hand around hers. “Nymuë, will you trust me?”

She looks a bit confused as she nods. “Of course, I trust you.”

“Come with me,” he says as he leads her out of the training deck and into the halls. She is still admiring his silvery white hair and broad shoulders when she realizes he has lead her into his quarters.

“There is no need to be afraid,” he whispers as he pulls her into a kiss, more passionate and fervent than the last. She returns his affection with abandon. “Nymuë, let me have you,” he says feverishly as he runs his hand over her chest. As the swell of desire and arousal have parted her lips and made her breathless, she meets his gaze and lowers the last of her defences.

Chapter Text

Lotor lays down beside her and draws her tightly to him. He brings her leg over his hips and caresses the length of her body. “Are you in any pain?” he asks softly.

She shakes her head but blushes and turns away from him. “I didn’t want to admit that to you. How did you know?”

He chuckles softly and doesn’t answer her question. “I am glad that you have only ever belonged to me.”

“I had no idea it could be like that...” she says breathlessly.

He smiles with satisfaction and strokes her hair.

She thinks for a long while as she rests her head on his chest.

She says tenderly, “You are the sun I had waited for so long,” she whispers as she brings his hand over her heart.

Lotor feels a swell of affection and protectiveness for her in this moment and leans in to kiss her. She falls asleep in the comfort and security of his arms as he feels enveloped by the warmth of what could only be love.

He watches her breathing even out and brushes the hair from her face. Her exotic beauty had always been striking but it wasn’t until now that he found her intoxicating. Any partners he had had in the past were ingratiating and selfish; he had always felt it was a power struggle and those liaisons never lasted very long. He had forsworn any such relationships long ago, having all but given up on the possibility of anything more. Nymuë, however, was an embodiment of love, simultaneously strong, yet soft, overflowing, yet never empty. The stark contrast seemed untenable in his mind. What was more, she had given herself to him so readily; the purity of her surrender seemed too surreal to be true.

He found his gaze drawn to the artistry on her skin. The longer he admired the intricate detail the more he saw it reflected the unique complexity and creativity that she possessed. He smiles at the realization that she must also have been the designer. She was an exquisitely rare jewel both in the Galra empire and likely in the human world as well. And she had tumbled pell mell into his arms.

It was approximately 45 min later that she awakens still in his arms. He brushes her cheek with the back of his hand. He was looking forward to more mornings like this.

“You stayed with me the whole time? How long has it been?”

“The longest you have allowed me to hold you thus far,” he says with a smile.

She brushes back his stray forelock and looks at him with great affection, pulling him into a kiss. She can’t help herself now from tracing kisses down his face and neck. Lotor moans softly when she finds a sensitive spot behind his ear. “Nymuë,” he breathes, “If you do not stop, I will be unable to hold back.”

“Please, don’t,” she whispers as she pulls him on top of her. He makes love to her with greater fervour this time, relishing her sensual pleas for more of him. Now that the floodgates were open, neither could contain the overwhelming rush of desire and passion. He would show her pleasure like she had never known, and make her beg only for him.

Chapter Text

Nymuë and Lotor are currently discussing impending strikes on the empire with the rest of the paladins in the lounge. Lotor is currently giving intel on commander Holt’s whereabouts but Nymuë interrupts.

“I imagine, Pidge, you will go on this mission regardless, but I do not believe he will be there anymore.”

“Why do you say that?” asks Shiro.

“Zarkon already has him and will be using him as collateral to force us to surrender Lotor.”

There was a collective, “WHAT?”

“Nymuë, how did you reach such a conclusion?” asks Lotor urgently.

Nymuë stands and paces the floor. “If this base was formerly under your command, then it stands to reason your generals also knew of commander Holt. Since they are also fugitives, after having lost you as leverage for clemency, he would naturally be the next, and arguably last resort. This is war, friends. We must think like our enemy. What does Zarkon want? He wants first and foremost to claim Voltron. He secondly wants to remove the heir to his throne.

“We also know that he knows we value each other’s lives. He will use it to his advantage. If I were him, I would first ask for Lotor in exchange for Pidge’s father. Then I would betray all of you after Lotor was secured, and use my clout to demand Voltron.”

“How could you possibly know all this?” demands Allura.

“Elementary. Zarkon is an extremely predictable foe. Lotor and Shiro are sitting here right now in agreement because they also know who we are up against. Now that the cards are on the table, you must use your reason and intellect to outsmart him. If you choose incorrectly, we stand to lose everything. Your king is about to be checked by the queen. Use your knight wisely.”

“What is this king and queen business you’re talking about?” asks Coran.

“She’s talking about a strategy game called chess,” replies Pidge. “Nymuë is a world champion chess player.”

“Then who is the knight you’re talking about?” asks Lance cautiously.

“A knight is the only piece that can jump over other pieces and confer a decisive advantage at a critical moment. Who do you think I’m talking about? Until now, he has been on the edge of the chess board, not utilized to his full potential.”

“You mean Lotor,” says Shiro.

“So what should we do then?” asks Allura.

Nymuë shrugs her shoulders and says nonchalantly, “I dunno. I’m just a medic.” She, however, winks at them all and sits next to Lotor as she dons her headphones. Nymuë can’t help wanting to be near him and it takes all of her willpower not to hold his hand or lean against him. Her concession involves crossing her legs to rest against him. He, however, makes no such concessions and grasps her thigh.

Lotor is realizing that by pre-empting Zarkon’s impending demands, she is not only minimizing a biased and emotional reaction, but also shrewdly persuading them to secure his safety. Despite their new ties of friendship, there is no justifiable way to demand his well-being over that of a fellow comrade and father. She had all but lead them to the most strategic course of action, but by allowing them to figure out the last step, they would take ownership of it. A top-down strategy disguised as a bottom-up one. It was brilliant.

Before they begin discussing strategy, however, Lotor says definitively, “You have the makings of a military leader, Nymuë. I would be remiss not to recruit your services.”

“I’d be honoured to be your aide-de-camp. It is prudent to keep an ace tucked in your sleeve in the current atmosphere.”

“Consider it done.” He was ever amazed by her intellect. She would negate any unwanted attention on her as an ‘assistant.’

Nymuë listened to their back and forth arguments. She had all but given them the answer, yet, they were still torn by their emotions and mistrust. She rubs her temples in distress. “Que vous êtes nuls,” she mutters and removes her headphones. Lotor suppresses a laugh; she had just included him in her insult..

“We are just going in circles!” cries Lance.

“The dialectic method is one of reasoned argument, intent on finding the best solution, often better than the one you had originally. Friends, come sit down.”

She opens a touch screen and draws a 3 x 3 grid. In the columns, she writes Forfeiting Sam and Forfeiting Lotor, while the rows consist of Complying with Zarkon and Complying on our terms. “Firstly, what are the counter arguments to rescuing Sam? Achieving peace, ending the war, and striving for the greater good? Let me ask you, do many lives outweigh one life? Does the end justify the means?”

“Not at the cost of my dad’s life.”

“Good. Neither do I subscribe to pure consequentialism.” She strikes an x through the row for forfeiting Sam. Lotor was interested in her next move as this clearly stood against his favour. Consequentialist thinking was the entirety of Galra doctrine. Fascinating, he thought.

“Now, if we forfeit Prince Lotor, in accordance to Zarkon’s inevitable demands, is this permissible?” Unusual choice of wording. Permissible by whom, he wonders.

“We have to get my dad back.”

“Ah, but that is not the question. Is it morally permissible, as paladins of voltron and as human beings, to forfeit his life? It is clearly rhetorical, friends, as I must say this: do not be lulled into complacency by an assumed cloak of goodness, because good and evil are not separate dualities.” She draws the symbol for yin and yang. “Just as there is some good found within evil, so can evil be found within good. If we voluntarily turn him in, let me be absolutely clear that we will be complicit in his murder. Is his life a mere trinket to be bartered, and are we so calloused to its intrinsic worth as to forsake it for our own gain?

Everyone shook their heads meekly. Her piercing moral argument did not even appeal to the life debt they owed him, while permission from one’s own moral standards was antithetical to everything he had ever learned. He had appealed to the value of his own life by the tactical advantages he could offer, whereas she had appealed to his life’s innate value. It was a very alien philosophy.

“Good,” she says authoritatively and strikes out that option.

In the last row under Forfeit Sam, she blacks it out, explaining that this option might as well not exist for the sheer risk it carries. However, in the column under Forfeit Lotor, remains an empty box. “What is our last option then? We take back the reins. He is our dark horse. Zarkon will not be expecting him to be a player. You tell me what you must do.”

“We agree to Zarkon’s terms but Lotor will be armed and ready,” says Shiro simply.

“We will also stand by him and support him in the fight. Are you all agreed, then?”

The response was unanimous. After light deliberation, it was agreed that Lotor would be armed with the black bayard; it was easily concealed and covert.

“If I may put forward some final suggestions, the enemy will let his guard down if he believes you to be divided and weakened. If you feign emotional distress and desperation, he will be less likely to suspect our ruse,” Nymuë concludes. “Additionally, run through simulations of every possible outcome so you can seamlessly function as a team. Time will be of the essence in such a perilous mission.”

Lotor takes her aside and says quietly, “It seems my kitten was a tiger all along. Your logical analyses and strategic acumen are truly exceptional.”

She playfully shoves him and stands on her toes to whisper into his ear, “Pretty sure I was a stray cat when you met me.” He laughed a bit too much at that one. She touches his arm for a moment. “I’m afraid that it was more of a didactic lesson and less of a dialectic debate than I would have liked but we will get there in time.”

Lotor suddenly brings her close, and slides his hand underneath her shirt up to her chest. “I would take you right now, kitten.” Nymuë gasps as he whispers in her ear, “It is a pity we are about to leave.”

There would be a short briefing before the paladins were assigned their next missions. Nymuë would also be leaving to assist with injured rebels and management of medical supplies. She brings Lotor with her to show him her field of work but to also consolidate support for him and build rapport among the rebels.

The day had been extraordinarily successful. Nymuë, as Lotor discovered, was a master orator. She could deftly weave any narrative, any experience into a banner of peace and an olive branch of friendship. People were easily wooed by her charm, her grace and her kindness and he soon found himself the unwitting friend of many rebel fighters.

Everyone retires to their chambers after dinner and Lotor finds her meticulously cleaning her room in the evening.

“Please come in, Lotor, I’ll be done in a minute.”

“You are troubled.”

She stops in her tracks. “How did you know?”

“You clean at odd hours when you are distraught.”

She sighs deeply and turns away from him. “I did everything I could today to optimize your safety but there are elements outside of my control. I... I don’t want Zarkon to harm you but he’s so powerful. I don’t want to lose you when I’ve just found you,” she says with a trembling voice and tears in her eyes.

He pulls her into a tight embrace. “Everything you did for me today was truly more than enough. I asked you this morning to trust me, and I ask you to do so again. Even more so than in my abilities, believe me when I say that I find my greatest strength in you. I have you to protect now and I will return to you.”

He bends down to kiss her gently but is soon overrun with passion. “Nymuë, allow me to stay with you tonight,” he whispers as he undresses her. “I have wanted you all day.”

Chapter Text

Thanks to Nymuë’s calculating foresight, the mission to retrieve Sam was flawlessly successful. Lance, Hunk, and Allura were already in their Lions awaiting word of Zarkon’s impending betrayal. Having practiced together in multiple simulations, they defeated the Galra fleet in a fraction of the time it would have otherwise required. Lotor had debriefed the team on the weaknesses of his generals. Consequently, Shiro, Pidge and Matt knew their respective targets, and having formulated a plan of attack, also defeated them quickly. With the shuttle secured, the team went to support Lotor and incapacitated Zarkon before any severe damage was dealt to the Galra Prince. In a final act of poetic justice, Lotor aptly delivered the coup de grâce with the black bayard.

After Zarkon’s defeat, the team arrives back at the castle of lions disheveled and exhausted. Everyone headed back to the dining area except for Lotor. The battle had taken a toll on him and he had no appetite. Nymuë had cleared everyone of injuries but Lotor was nowhere to be found. She decides not to search for him, knowing that he needed space to untangle his internal turmoil. She instead heads to the bridge with her guitar. Whatever the windows were made of, it was the most acoustically rich room she had ever experienced.

She proceeds in the darkness toward the centre console and sits on a step. Taking a moment to look at the vast expanse of stars above her, she then strums her first chord. Someone approaches from behind and silently sits beside her, staring ahead at the innumerable stars. Nymuë knows the sound of his footsteps and doesn’t need to turn her head. Instead, she takes a moment to rearrange the intended repertoire in her head and opts to fingerpick her songs.

Her medley is composed of the songs that had once given her solace and stillness when chaotic storms raged within. The gentle melodies imparted a calm to his battered senses and a salve to his wounded soul.

No words were exchanged that night as they watched the stars.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Lotor has requested an all hands meeting after having debriefed Nymuë on the matter. He was certain she could compel them should he be unable to do so and it was exceptionally pleasing to him that she was a such a highly proficient partner.

Lotor begins his address with an explanation of the Kral Zera and emphasizes that it is imperative to be in attendance.

Allura’s reciprocity remains lukewarm as she declares it too dangerous a mission. As Nymuë had predicted, the rest of the group follows suit, expressing their caution candidly. Shiro, however, disagrees and restates not only Lotor’s sacrifices for the coalition but also the legitimacy of his candidacy.

“So it’s 4-2 in the princess’ favour,” declares Coran confidently.

“This isn’t a vote,” retorts Shiro.

“While it is profoundly compelling to pontificate into perpetuity,” Nymuë interjects, the answer you should seek first is who said, ‘be just and fear not?’” Lotor notices that no one has realized she just fustigated them.

Silence fills the room as they turn to look at her. Lance is scrunching up his face. “Uh, Roosevelt?”

She smiles and says reverently, “No, but it remains apt nonetheless. Roosevelt said, ‘the only thing to fear is fear itself.’ Now this same person also wrote, ‘our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.’”

Still silence.

“To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength, gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foes. And so your follies fight against yourself,” she says with great conviction. “Still the same guy.”

“That bears striking resemblance to the words of Shakespeare,” says Lotor to the astonishment of everyone. Nymuë grasps his hand excitedly, and squeals, “Yes!” She was so impressed with his deduction and could not subdue a look of immense admiration on her face.

“We fear the unknown friends. So let’s shine some light into the situation. Why don’t we defer to Lotor again and see if he can provide more information about exactly who we are up against before we make a decision?”

Nymuë had intercepted the vise-like tension that threatened to cleave apart their group, and with her cunning, they were once more proceeding as a whole. Lotor felt an immense fascination at her gift of persuasion. As much physical beauty he conceded she possessed, it was in these very moments that he felt the most desire for her. He approaches the console and with Allura’s permission, accesses the database of Galra commanders, and debriefs on each one.

The reluctance to help Lotor was starting to abate. Hunk was starting to come around to the idea. Nymuë allowed them time to debate back and forth before she moved in with a decisive strike.

“What were the names of the Blade of Marmora who gave their lives to get us here?” She asks suddenly.

“Thace and Ulaas,” says Hunk ruefully.

“One third of the coalition rebels was exterminated a week ago. If any of these commanders assume the throne, the mass slaughter will continue. Le souvenir est porteur de paix et d’unité. It means remembrance brings peace and unity. Let us not forget their sacrifices nor allow them to be in vain. What is peace, friends? Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. These are the ideals that we fight for, even upon pain of death. So rise up, as paladins of Voltron, to be brave against evil and to be kind to all. I seem to recall Commander Holt saying if you worry about what could go wrong, you might miss an opportunity to be great.”

The room was again filled with silence, but a solemn one this time.

“Of course, you are right, Nymuë. Lotor and Shiro are also right. If we work together, we can plan the most strategic course of action,” Pidge was the first to speak.

“And make use of Lotor’s knowledge so he is not sitting at the edge of the chessboard,” adds Hunk.

Lotor meets Nymuë’s glance with an affectionate smile. Her crowning blow was a quote from Pidge’s own father. It was a well-calculated manoeuvre.

A consolidated plan was made therein after much deliberation. At Nymuë’s suggestion, the Blade was also contacted to negate any adverse conflicts that may arise from a covert strike.

Because of Lotor’s show of arms right from the beginning of the Kral Zera and from the support of the Blade, Sendak is successfully incapacitated by Lotor, but manages to escape. The fleets never have reason to fire on each other and upon seeing the incomparable might of their new emperor, many pledge their allegiance to him after he lights the flame.

It is a bittersweet victory, however, as the paladins would part ways with their newfound friends. Nymuë had pledged to serve as aide-de-camp to the new emperor and would fulfill her new role in the negotiation and delegation of peace from within central command.

Chapter Text

“I appreciate your willingness to accompany me immediately. I realize you did not have much time to bid farewell to your comrades, Nymuë,” Lotor says as he is wrapping up their tour of central command.

“Oh cheri, that is kind of you, but of course, I wouldn’t have it another way. I will keep in contact with them. There is so much to do, we must start as soon as possible.”

“And, thanks to your efforts, minimal casualties were sustained today; it was as propitious as I imagine it could have been.”

“Oh, it was nothing. Just doing my new job!” She laughs.

“No, Nymuë,” he says as he steps closer and grips her arm, “Had you not persuaded the paladins to accompany me with Voltron, we could have suffered disastrous losses today. This was a pivotal moment regarding the future of the empire and it was all thanks to you.”

Nymuë smiles and says softly, “I’m happy that I could help not just you, but the numerous lives that you now oversee.” She looks at him for a long time. There were still glimpses of darkness in his eyes after his battle with Zarkon. This time, she couldn’t tell exactly what was causing his distress but it was clear he didn’t want to talk about it.

She decides to ask him more about their tour. “What’s this wing for? It seems pretty quiet.”

“It is a nursery and school wing; reproductive rates have fallen over millennia as more and more of the general populace were recruited to military exploits. I’ve also heard speculation of the biological components of quintessence exposure that have yet to be confirmed.”

“Oh, am I allowed to visit the nursery wing?”

“I cannot see why not.”

As they step into the nursery, there were gasps of shock and panic in addition to the multiple cries of infants. “Emperor Lotor! Our deepest apologies! We were not expecting your arrival. The infants are particularly colicky today.”

“Be at ease,” he smiles, “it is merely an informal visit.” He proceeds to make introductions and allows Nymuë to look around. There were five babies in total, four of which were distressed beyond measure. “May I help?” Nymuë asks. “These two are uncomfortable and those two are hungry.”

“Pardon my impropriety, Miss, but they are babies. How can you tell?” Lotor was wondering the same thing.

“Babies have different cries for each of their needs.” Nymuë glances over all of them at once but heads instead to the quietest one because of his rapid breathing. She quickly assesses him head to toe.

“This one hasn’t been taking fluids or wet any diapers today, has he?”

They shake their heads.

“Has he been sick? Any symptoms?”

“He hasn’t been as active the last few days.”

Nymuë tries to wake the infant but it only manages a weak cry. “I’m taking him to the infirmary. He’s compensating right now but is going to crash without immediate medical attention.”

The nannies look at each other. “Pardon me, but we don’t treat sick babies. Emperor Zarkon forbade it. They are too weak to live among Galra ranks.”

The subsequent death glare they received from Nymuë even made Lotor step back. “Motherfucker, I’m only going to say this once, so listen carefully,” she seethes, “That feckless, shitwitted, aberrant shell of a fuckpeck wouldn’t know strength from weakness if it fucked him in the ass. Every baby’s life carries an intrinsic gravitas and I better not hear of another baby neglected unto death. Is that perfectly clear?”

The slack jawed caregivers could only nod. Never in their wildest dreams would someone insult the emperor with such brazen crassness.

“What is a fuckpeck?” Nymuë hears them whisper.

“Something a woman barely feels,” she says acridly, as she turns on her heel to face Lotor. “Now take me to the fucking infirmary. IMMEDIATELY.”

Their hands flew to their mouths to cover their mortified gasps. Such derogation was almost treasonous. She even ordered their new emperor around, to boot. If this was Voltron’s medic, what were Voltron’s paladins like?

For Lotor, that was the most scathing execration of his father he had ever heard. If ever there was a day where a constant stream of blistering profanities could act as a balm, today was that day.

Chapter Text

Nymuë has just slipped into bed with Lotor; as he strokes her he asks her quietly, “Nymuë, I am afraid I am somewhat uninformed of the life cycles of humans. If I were to guess, you must be several centuries old given your wisdom and depth of knowledge.”

She turns to him and smiles with amusement,” Que tu es mignon! You are cute,” she exclaims as she kisses the corner of his mouth. “Several centuries,” she laughs and nudges him, “that’s a good one.”

“I was not joking.”

She furrows her brows in confusion, “Wait, what do you mean? No one can live for centuries. Zarkon was a quintessence anomaly, was he not?”

Lotor’s chest tightens as he swallows a lump in his throat. “Nymuë, how long is your lifespan?”

“Our maximum lifespan is 125 years, barring illness, illicit drugs and ion cannons,” she laughs. “In actuality, I am 25 years old, but as I’ve mentioned before, any insight and wisdom I’ve gained comes from those who came before me. Why, how old are you? You don’t look a day over 35.”

Lotor is silent with shock. She was much more intelligent than he had originally surmised - that she could go toe-to-toe with him in wit and intellect was incredible for someone so young. However, he hadn’t realized how little time he had and it distressed him ceaselessly to think the greatest treasure of his life was already slipping out of his grasp.

“I am... many millennia old, Nymuë,” he admits. The exact number was no longer relevant. She looks at him in complete awe; yes, he was divine but this was truly on par with deity. “I had not realized how little time I have with you,” he says ruefully. She is paralyzed with momentary shock.

After swallowing her astonishment she scans him over and touches his face. “I ... I am sorry, I imagine that would be severely distressing to hear were I in your place.” She holds him tightly to her. “I can do nothing about how much time I have, but I can make each day count. I will love you with the purest love that is possible, for as long as you will have me. Je t’aime à la folie.”

He feels overwhelmed in this moment. He hadn’t been wrong; the immensity of love she was capable of mirrored the vastness of the stronghold she had built to protect herself. “I could want for nothing more when I am with you.”

His desire is passionate, powerful and possessive and he makes love to her with abandon. Her uncharacteristic docility and submissiveness to him, in turn, arouses him endlessly.

Lotor awakens in the morning with her curled in the crook of his arm, sleeping on his shoulder. He brushes his hand against her cheek and runs his hand down the length of her body. Waking up to her filled him with an immeasurable happiness. He had fallen in love with her in a matter of days; he, to whom love had been nothing more than a fanciful dream, he, to whom the foolishness of heartache was fastidiously kept at bay, and he, for whom baseless accusations of weakness would be returned a thousand fold with brutal vindication. It was a conundrum, how she so easily swept past his defences. Perhaps he could also say the same for her. He kisses her lips softly as she starts to rouse. He revisits his thoughts on fate but is interrupted by her caresses and kisses.

“Good morning, Nymuë.”

“Good morning, love.” She snuggles into him but pauses to look at him for a moment. “You look pensive, what are you thinking about?”

He is pleasantly surprised by her. She was the only one who had ever connected with him in such a way. It was unfathomable for any Galra to ask such a question.

“I’ve never had reason to believe in fate, yet now find myself questioning its existence. I’ve always forged my own path and wrested control from any obstacle that stood in my way. I even make love to you that way; you arouse an insatiable desire when you are surrendered to me. Domination is the way of my race and yet, I find in you a perfect balance, from when we spar to when we speak. It is almost as if... you are a sheath to my sword.”

“You are waxing philosophical first thing in the morning?” She cries with delight. “I love it.” Now Nymuë was fully awake and considering the weight of his words. He found her enthusiasm incredibly endearing and he had a particular fondness for her expression when she plunged deep into thought and resurfaced with a novel discovery.

I’ve never believed in fate either,” she begins. “I recall Arthur Golden writing in Memoirs of a Geisha, “If you keep your destiny in mind, every moment in life becomes an opportunity for moving closer to it.’ The smallest ripple can change the course of your future. You chose to save our lives. I broke protocol and became your friend. You chose to make yourself vulnerable to me despite the barriers you had erected. And I ended up doing the same. Had we made a single different choice along the way, we might not be having this conversation.

“Perhaps you think your tendency is to vie for dominance and control, but your actions tell me that is not always true. The part of you that houses compassion and mercy drew you closer to me, just as those parts of me entangled me to you. I do not believe the question is whether or not it was fate. The question is what is it that compels us? I believe it was love, a rope comprised of the strings of mercy, compassion, kindness, and good will.”

“You perceive the truth so fluently and intuitively, Nymuë. The thought of love seemed so distant and unobtainable for so long that I had forsaken it for folly. You’ve so easily unfettered those shackled recesses, while I still can hardly permit the thought of it.”

“Goddamit,” she cries, startling him out of his contemplation. “Do you have any idea how sexy you are when you open your damn mouth. Wane philosophical. Now.”

“What do you even mean? I have never heard of waning...”

Lotor is completely blindsided as Nymuë goes down on him. It was a euphoria he couldn’t have imagined; she keeps him at the brink of climax until he is completely undone.

“Wha... what did you just do?” He is finally able to manage.

“You’ve never had a woman go down on you?” She asks mischievously, although she already had a suspicion that fangs precluded any such thing.

“Ancient gods, no, Nymuë. How do you know...”

“Mon choux, you know I read books prodigiously. We have volumes of books, entire libraries dedicated to romance and sex. Do you not?”

“You can imagine the record keeping priorities of the Galra empire, Nymuë.” The implications of what she just said were staggering to him.

She smiles slyly. “That was just the beginning, mon amour. I will be happy to pleasure you in ways you’ve never imagined,” she purrs as she runs her hand across his abdomen.

Chapter Text

Lotor had arranged a meeting with his top advisors and commanders regarding the direction of the new empire. Nymuë had anticipated a tepid reception, at best, as his newly appointed peace delegate and advisor; there was, however, outright rejection, as she was not Galra. A particularly arrogant commander stood to challenge her. Lotor leisurely sat back and let Nymuë take the stage. She adopts an ingenue air and he is the only one who understands that this deception is but a prelude to her opponent’s downfall. He almost feels a hint of pity.

Morvok harrumphs. “What trickery is this? It’s an outrage to allow a weakling child to assume such a high-ranking position! She’s not even Galra,” he spat. There was some general consensus. Lotor smiles at the irony of his statement. The richly hued diplomatic ensemble he had commissioned for her had indeed been tailored down to a galra child’s size. Her small frame, milky complexion, and doe-eyes made for a trifecta of duplicity.

“Please define weakness,” she says steadily.

“Da hos yelma, d’Gal! (You are weak, non-Galra)” He yells, drawing his sword, and moving to strike. He was expecting to merely frighten her into resignation.

“His de? (Am I?)” came her reply in perfect Galran, “has del vrepit yelma?(Is my victory weak?)” Nymuë is so swift, the commander cannot even follow her movements. Morvok is disarmed and on his knees within a matter of seconds, while his own blade is now held to his throat. “Emperor Lotor is merciful, unlike his father, so you struck at me, knowing nothing about me. Such impertinence and impulsiveness.” Nymuë tsks at him. “Care to tell us why you attacked an unarmed diplomat?”

“I... I don’t know, I just reacted.” He was unable to acknowledge his steep bias.

“If you know neither yourself, nor your enemy, you will succumb in every battle. I would ask everyone present to adjudicate this as a definition of weakness, rather than the prejudiced non sequitur we heard earlier.”

The officials present were stunned, and Nymuë’s intellect gave them pause. Her precision and cunning were as sharp as the blade she now held, while her small stature and demure demeanour belied such fluidity, speed and strength.

“I was handpicked by Emperor Lotor. Yet you attempt to arrogate authority from his appointment with such insipidity that I’m already weary of your anemic rabble-rousing. Tell me, can a commander of the Galra empire afford such massive hemorrhaging of devotion, discipline, and discernment?” Her face is now full of disgust and disinterest, and she opens her hand, allowing the sword to clang noisily to the floor. The disgraced commander retreats without a reply and any would-be support from his comrades dissipated instantly. Lotor is speaking quietly to his guard and Morvok is formally removed.

In this war of words, Nymuë was the clear victor. Lotor was very impressed with her rapid adaptation; she had accurately gauged their temperament and levelled her attacks accordingly. He loved how her inventive imagery unequivocally castrated her opponent’s rank and reputation.

Lotor stands as Nymuë salutes him with a formal “Vrepit sa”, and returns to his side. “Now, if there are no more invidious attempts at dissent, there is much to discuss,” he says with authority.

The ensuing silence was pregnant with awe and capitulation. They would not have dared to demur to Lotor’s unmatched intelligence and now, next to him stood an advisor, equally shrewd and calculating. They’d better shape up or ship out. And what the hell were non sequiturs and invidiousness anyway? Some of them tried to covertly look up definitions as the meeting progressed, Nymuë observed. “Non sequitur means ‘it does not follow’ in Latin. Therefore, it is a nonsensical reply. Invidious stems from the Latin root invidere, meaning to envy, but this archaism now gives way to mean unjustly discriminating. Arrogate is derived from the past participle of the Latin verb arrogare, meaning to seize or to appropriate without justification,” she states neutrally to their mortification.

Nymuë often found herself taking the lead during their discussions. Her sharp questioning pierced through the rotting remnants of the old thinking that was spearheaded by hardened commanders. Because she was surprisingly familiar with their history, their culture and their language, she was able to successfully rebut their arguments and compel them to abandon failed strategies. She would guide them through the intricacies of maintaining diplomatic relations and enacting peace treaties within the empire, while Lotor would focus on meeting their quintessence demands to quell infighting. By the end of the session, Nymuë had gained much of their respect, an unprecedented feat by a non-Galra. There were still some who remained wary of her, however, but given time, she would would eventually win them over.

Nymuë finds herself waylaid by a handsome Galra commander at the end of the meeting. He blocks her exit by leaning against the wall with one arm.

“Are all humans as smart and strong and beautiful as you are, little one? Why don’t you show me if you are just as talented in bed?” he asks as he tries to grab her around the waist.

“Thy words are blunt and so art thou,” she says nonplussed, deftly twisting his arm behind him. The bewildered commander turns around to find Lotor smirking at him. “That was a relatively tame Shakespearean insult. At least she did not refer to you as a three inch fool.”

Lotor ushers her out with him, and he can’t help complimenting her intellectual vigour. “You’ve devoted much of your time to studying the Galra empire. I was most impressed with your command of our language.”

She shrugs. “I’m just doing the job you assigned to me. Galran hasn’t been difficult to learn but I still have a long way to go.”

Lotor sighs. She never liked to take credit for anything.

“What will happen to that guy who attacked me?” she asks.

“Demoted and relocated. There will be no absolution and he will never have the luxury of seeing you again. I would have preferred a much harsher sentence for attempting to harm you but you would have convinced me to commute it anyway.”

“Huh,” she replies, “well, his fuckwad of racism will molder incommunicado into perpetuity and he’ll have to throw himself out everyday.”

Lotor stifles a laugh. Her excoriating hyperbole was ceaselessly funny to him.

“We have one hour until our next appointment,” he says to her as he looks at her with affection.

“What do you want to do until then?”

He pulls her inside his quarters. “You.”

Chapter Text

Lotor had summoned the the Voltron paladins to central command to begin his search for Oriande. Nymuë greeted all of them with a hug and kisses when they arrived. After Lotor and Allura leave, she joins her friends on their prank-laden escapades. To their delight, Nymuë shows them a few secret places from which to ambush people. Unfortunately, their little jaunt catches the unwanted attention of a certain commander.

“What do we have here? Our new little diplomat running around with a scraggly group of mischief makers.”

“Commander Thrakol, have you met my friends?”

“No, and I don’t think you should sully yourself with the likes of them. Emperor Lotor will not be pleased to hear of your pranks.” He pauses to look at her lasciviously. “Of course, I could keep it a secret with the right... motivation.” The commander thinks he has cornered her because it is at this moment that Allura and Lotor are approaching.

“Do you know what rhymes with Thrakol?” she asks suddenly.

“What?” Whatever answer he was expecting, it was not that.

“Fractal.”

“What does that have to do with anything? Isn’t that a non sequitur?” He’s super proud of himself for that one.

“Your fractal wrongness is approaching singularity,” Nymuë says dryly. There were wild hoots of laughter from Pidge, Hunk and Lotor.

“My what??” Thrakol cries indignantly.

Pidge manages through her wheezes, “It means you are wrong on every conceivable level, in every reality, into infinity.”

Chapter Text

Lotor and Nymuë find themselves welcomed back on board the Castle of Lions as preparations are made to pursue the Oriande realm.

Coran and Lance remained sceptical of its existence but it seemed there was a large shift in Allura’s trust in the mystical land and in Lotor’s words. Nymuë finds it necessary to step in, prior to departure, as she had often been apt to do.

“May I ask something of you, Allura?” Everyone perks up as she speaks.

“Of course, Nymuë.”

Nymuë starts to pace and becomes deeply contemplative. Lotor falls in love with her a little bit more each time he sees this expression.

“I feel that more information is needed, out of our pitiable lack of an Oriande guidebook,” she starts to the amusement of everyone. “Perhaps we are not giving sufficient credence to the legends you grew up with. Prior to the advent of written language, ancient people passed on knowledge via song and storytelling. Is there any lullaby, song, poem or children’s story that you can recall learning specifically from your father that seems special to you? Take your time.”

“I don’t know,” Allura begins, “my father didn’t tell me bedtime stories. It was my mother who told me of the life givers and the magic of Oriande. Father used to sing a song but I can’t remember all of it. The first phrase was, “Under skies of blue, travel the few...”

Nymuë’s eyes light up with recognition and after a moment, recites the following lullaby:

Under skies of blue, travel the few
Righteous swords do they eschew,
And from within will light imbue,
A child of life, reborn anew.

She seemed to have a habit of leaving people speechless. Pidge was the first one to figure it out. “You’ve been studying Altean history, haven’t you?”

“Mais oui,” she winks. “I’ve devoted much of my time to folktales recently to help that guy over there.” She nods at Lotor who was watching her intently.

“Thank you, it was lovely to hear it again. How does it pertain to our mission, I wonder?”

Nymuë closes her eyes for a moment to connect all the fragments of information she has uncovered. When she opens them again, she proposes her theory.

“Do you remember when I spoke of noblesse oblige before? It is the moral obligation of the noble, the powerful and the wealthy to protect and serve those less fortunate. By the same token, learning the secrets of the life givers would grant unfathomable power and therefore, commensurate responsibility. One’s worthiness to wield such power must come with a price. Do you know what such a price would be?”

Even Lotor was at a loss, this time. He hadn’t ever heard of paying a toll for gaining alchemic secrets. Quite honestly, he had been so focused on acquiring them, any sort of moral obligation had never crossed his mind. It was not the way of the Galra. He was immensely grateful for Nymuë’s purity of heart and once again, her deductive reasoning.

“I cannot give any of you the answer this time. You must come to the conclusion as it must be your own utmost conviction.”

“Aw, man, at least give us a hint,” pouts Lance.

“Think of the type of man King Alfor was. What is the true purpose of the king in a kingdom? It would probably be a good idea to figure out the answer before we plunge into uncertain death; if the Petrulian zone is as perilous as you say it is, I imagine those who fell prey to its power answered incorrectly.”

Everyone sits back down in their chairs to ponder this new riddle. Lotor turns to look at the Olkarion sky. Nymuë resumes her studies of Oriande; she has been poring over not just Altean logs but all of Lotor’s research as well. It is a big relief to her that they were not simply rushing headlong into an unknown situation.

Lotor is considering everything he just heard. It was nearly an untenable contradiction to the dogma of victory or death. A galra emperor was omnipotent, never deigning to fraternize with the weak, let alone protect them. He, however, was not his late father, who had abused and conflated the concepts of weakness and strength. If falling in love with Nymuë had taught him anything, it was that his strength came from protecting her. It follows that the moral obligation she spoke of must be that a king protects his subjects! Unfathomable power with a commensurate responsibility, he repeats to himself. And it suddenly became clear. King Alfor gave his life to protect his people. An Altean worthy of the secrets of alchemy must be willing to lay down his own life to protect those around him. It was so foreign a concept to him, he knows he would have failed the test had Nymuë not provided such wise guidance. He looks back at her with incredible affection, at the way she scrunched her face when she was concentrating on the matter at hand. He realized in this moment he loved her enough to give his life for her. The sudden emancipation from the veil of darkness that had enshrouded him his whole life sent reverberations through him.

“Nymuë,” he and Allura say at the same time. Lotor looks up at Allura and smiles. They had come to a conclusion simultaneously. Nymuë looks up at them with intense pride and elation. “You have both found the answer.” She smiles.

“Wait, how do you know that and are they going to tell the rest of us?” Lance asks with exasperation.

“John Keats wrote ‘truth is beauty, beauty truth.’ I would add that it liberates you and the freedom it confers cannot henceforth be compromised or stolen. It is a beautiful thing that the legacy that King Alfor leaves will continue through not just Allura, but Lotor as well. Is it not obvious that they have found what they sought? You must also travel that path yourself, as Voltron’s right hand.”

“It would have been impossible without you, Nymuë. I am immensely grateful to you.” Lotor says as he smiles at her. There is a general consensus around his statement.

“It would be prudent, friends, to have a contingency plan, regardless. I remain concerned that this ship’s graveyard has more dangers than we have anticipated. We must be prepared for all possible outcomes.”

“Coran and I will lead the effort to make the necessary preparations, then,” says Shiro. “We will depart in two hours.”

Lotor walks up to Nymuë and says quietly, “Come with me?”

As soon as they have left the bridge, Lotor takes her hand and walks beside her. Nymuë notices this subtle change as he is usually leading her somewhere. “You never cease to amaze me. I would have been lost had we gone to Oriande without your astute analysis.”

“I am faithfully yours, love, and it is my pleasure to help you. But I am truly sorry it has been such a long journey for you to get here. The corruption of the empire has left irreparable damage and for you to be so resilient to it all is still amazing to me. You had a much more convoluted path to find the answer and yet you found it at the same time Allura did.”

“No, in actuality, I believe she and I started at the same point.”

Nymuë looks up at him in surprise. “Why do you say this?”

“Do you not know? Your love had already broken the bastion of indoctrination set within me, torn down the walls of lies and deceit, and forged a path towards enlightenment.” They end up exiting the ship and heading to a nearby grove of trees. It was a sunny day and the warm breeze rustling through the trees was rejeuvenating. He pulls her close to him and brushes back her hair. “Perhaps words are wholly inadequate but I could not have known love like this was possible,” he whispers and bends down to kiss her. Nymuë finds herself melting in his tenderness but the moment was interrupted by a small voice.

“What are you doing?” asks an Olkari child. They break apart and turn in surprise to the direction of the inquiry. A moment of awkward silence ensues but Nymuë giggles, crouches down to the child’s height and says, “Well, when you love someone, you give them kisses.” Lotor chuckles at her blunt reply.

“But isn’t he a bad guy? Why do you like him?” Nymuë finds the subsequent pout on Lotor’s face absolutely adorable. “Why, indeed,” he mutters, to which Nymuë laughs out loud and embraces him affectionately.

“Oh my sweet little one, come sit with me. Let me tell you a story.”

Her eyes light up and she squeals, “I love stories! Mama is too busy to tell them to me these days.” The three of them sit down and the child ends up crawling in Nymuë’s lap. There are several more children who, having hidden themselves behind the trees, abandon caution and join in. The smallest of the five wanted a lap to sit in, and being too young to know friend from foe, immediately plops herself into Lotor’s lap. He was surprised but soon ends up cradling her in his arms. Nymuë decides to tell them a Passamaquoddy legend of how the fearsome Chenoo was redeemed by the kindness of a little girl. There is wild laughter at her exaggerated storytelling and funny voices. She intersperses the story with several sweet songs from her own childhood. The children are not the only ones mesmerized by the charm of her story and song. Lotor is captivated by her, and starting to feel a new longing. Finally, she asks them, “what is more important, what a person looks like on the outside or what they are like on the inside?”

The child in her lap exclaims, “Inside!”

“Oh, how bright you are little one. Let me introduce you to the Emperor Lotor of the Galra empire. He is not like the enemies that you have met. He is beautiful both within and without, and will do what he can to protect you from danger, my little ones.”

There was a round of gasps. “You mean he cares about us?” Lotor also has a simultaneous epiphany. His importance as emperor was secondary to the lives of those he was protecting, the precious lives of children such as these. He catches Nymuë’s gaze and feels a renewed affection for showing him the beauty of living.

It is in this moment that Allura comes looking for them and finds Lotor laughing while buried under a crush of children; Nymuë was beside herself, shaking with mirth. Allura had started to see a new side of Lotor but had no idea that he could be so sensitive and tender. She was starting to wish she had been the first to reach out to him. Perhaps it was not too late to consider “an alliance” of royalty as he put it. He had now extracted himself from all of their clutches save for one. The smallest one who he had put on his shoulders was tightly grasping his silver hair while squealing with delight as he ran around with her. “Go, Wotoh, go!”

“Hello to all of you! I’d love for you to be able to continue to play, but I’m afraid we will have to be going soon.”

There was a chorus of a disappointed “Awwww,” from the children. He bends down to their level and says, “I do not want to leave either but I promise I will come back to see all of you. Will you tell me your names so that I can find you again?”

The children were happy to depart with promises of more songs, stories and time with Nymuë and Lotor.

As they all head back inside, there is an unprecedented gentleness in Allura’s voice that shocks both Nymuë and Lotor. “I didn’t know you were so good with children. And I just wanted to say I am so sorry that I misjudged you at the beginning.” To their utter astonishment, she throws her arms around him and says, “I hope you can forgive me.”

Nymuë smiles and winks at Lotor while he is still frozen with shock. He regains composure as she quietly slips away to allow them some time.

“I admit, Princess, I had not expected an apology from you. I hold no ill will toward you and am glad that we can henceforth work together towards peace.”

“Thank you, Lotor. I still can’t help feeling badly about the animosity I held, I...”

“Is it alright, Allura. You lost your home, your family, and everything that you held dear at the hands of my father. I am well acquainted with the blinding effects of rage that are coupled with anguish and loss. You have done remarkably well, all things considered, and accomplished laudable feats for the coalition. Let us continue, then, and focus on our next task.”

As Lotor heads to the bridge with Allura, she finally realizes everything that Nymuë has said about him was true. He did conceal kindness and empathy beneath the surface, and that despite ages of exposure to brutality, did not diverge from it. She finds herself longing for him as she takes in his confident stride and regal grace.

Lotor, on the other hand, was oblivious to Allura’s first advances and was simply happy that everything was proceeding so well. He had envisioned much more resistance and even potential failure without Nymuë. What was more, although he had never seen her interact with children before, it wasn’t unexpected that she could enchant them as well. He hadn’t actively thought much about having them in the past, but now he wanted her to be the mother of his children; this revelation was the most earth-shattering of all. He actually stopped walking momentarily causing Allura to nearly bump into him.

“Are you alright?” She asks with concern.

“Yes, quite alright, thank you. I have had some weighty realizations today.”

“I understand, I have had several myself as well,” she laughs. “What were you just realizing?”

Lotor, as unsuspecting as he had been, says without hesitation, “I never imagined I wanted children until now.”

Allura felt her heart race a little as they approached the bridge.

The Oriande mission was extraordinarily successful. Thanks to back up generators, they had several quintants of power when the main power went out. Lance never insulted Lotor’s recollection of the ancient poem while Nymuë relished every moment of it. He met her affectionate gaze then. The paladins rallied to solve novel problems rather than bicker with Lotor. The pièce de résistance, however, was that both Lotor and Allura passed the final test and were now bona fide Altean alchemists. Lotor was absolutely ecstatic and couldn’t hide the elation on his face. Allura was starting to feel growing affection for him after seeing his true colours and spending so much time with him, not knowing his heart already belonged to another.

Chapter Text

“Nymuë, can I speak with you?” She had been reading some of her favourite poetry just then, and turned around to see Allura walking into the lounge.

“Of course, princess.” She smiles gently.

“You seem to know Lotor better than the rest of us and I was wondering if you could tell me more about him.”

It is at this moment that Lotor approaches the entrance and momentarily freezes at the mention of his name. He is loath to do this but he is compelled to listen. Was Allura still suspicious of him?

“What would you like to know? I mean, you could always hang out with him and ask him about himself. Christ on a unicycle, that boy is funny sometimes; he makes me laugh until I cry,” she shakes her head and sighs. Lotor smiled.

“Well, true, and I hadn’t known he was humorous... ah, it’s a bit difficult, you see. I... think I am in love with him.”

“Huh?” After a moment of stunned silence, she replies softly, “Oh, I see.” Lotor is thanking the ancients that he remained where he was; that was so far removed from the realm of possibility to him that he wasn’t sure he heard correctly.

Nymuë felt conflicted. Allura does not love him. Sure, he was attractive. Oh sugar, she thought, who was she kidding? He was as divine as Lord Alfred Tennyson’s poems. But she had seen how her sheer contempt of him only subsided after a terrible cost to him and an incredible gain to her. It seemed in stark contrast to her own coup de foudre.

She sighed deeply and set aside her reading.

“I was reading the poetry of love, just now, actually. ‘Love’ is constrained in the English language, isn’t it? It has numerous meanings that are expressly dependent on context.”

“Yes, indeed. In Altean, we have different words to express familial vs romantic love, for example.”

“That is not dissimilar to ‘love’ in the Greek language. There are different words assigned to describe the affections of friendship, passion, and family. The fourth descriptor is one that denotes love of a selfless nature. One way we have circumvented such confines, is with the subtleties of poetry. Take this for example:”

She closes her eyes and pauses briefly.

“Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

“Lotor has grown up without knowing the affections of a mother or father. His familial bonds consisted of ceaseless condemnation of the impurity of his bloodline and his compassion only drew scorn and derision from the empire. He’s had a lifetime of the shifting sands of deception and manipulation; he is long past due to know a love that is quintessentially enduring and steadfast.” Nymuë smiles and gets up to squeeze her hand before she leaves the room.

Allura hears an astonished squeal at the door after she leaves but turns around to see no one. She takes time to ponder the sincerity of those words before realizing a moment later that truly, Nymuë had spoken directly to Lotor, and not for her. She had had no inkling of any romantic feelings between the two of them until now. Perhaps if she made an effort to... Allura stopped cold. She suddenly realized the mercurial nature of her own heart. Nymuë had won.

Lotor had watched her recite the sonnet with such conviction and devotion that he felt his heart swell. Approaching the door, he grabs her hand, swings her into the nearest utility room and locks it. Nymuë didn’t even know what was happening until he was kissing her fiercely and ripping off her clothing. Easily lifting her up and pushing her against the wall, she again finds his incredible strength beguiling. She feels him fumble with his pants as she automatically wraps her legs around him.

“You don’t know what you do to me, kitten,” he breathes as his sudden intrusion causes her to cry aloud. The intensity and heat of his desire was overwhelming; he made her cry louder than she ever had before. Still stunned by the turn of events, Nymuë breathlessly holds him close for several moments.

Finally she asks, “Um, Lotor? Why are we in a closet? I don’t really understand...”

He leans his forehead against hers and smiles coyly, “The heart has reasons of which reason knows nothing.”

“Oh. Okay?” Her brows are still furrowed. She had once said that to him but she still didn’t understand.

“The depth of your affections continually astounds me.”

“OH. OKAY.” The dawn of realization washes over her. “Oh, you... you heard all of that? I’m sorry you heard that in such an unromantic way.”

“Nymuë.” He says sternly. “Many men spend their entire lives never knowing that kind of love, yet I’ve basked in it, been embraced by it and drawn strength from it. You are not to apologize for it even if your people are known for their apologies.”

She giggles at his pseudo-reprimand and brushes away his stray lock of hair.

He smiles and continues, “I’m infinitely curious why you didn’t tell her about us? I imagine I would have been jealous had I been similarly approached and wouldn’t have hesitated to disclose my claim over you.”

“Why? Why, indeed.” She mused as she kissed the corner of his mouth. “I... want you to be loved for who you are. Can one’s loathing so suddenly be tempered and wrought into adoration? Perhaps I arrogantly assumed she was merely besotted by you because she doesn’t even know you. I therefore did not perceive her infatuation to warrant my jealousy. But I also didn’t want to crush her heart... so I illustrated the vast chasm between ἀγάπη, a selfless love and ἔρως, a superficial love. Persuasion is greater than force.”

He brushes her hair back and caresses her cheek. How beautiful she was in that moment...

“And besides, quand je t’ai fait connaissance, ça a été le coup de foudre.” She plants another kiss on the corner of his mouth. “It means I fell madly in love with you when we met.” She pulls him into a passionate kiss.

Lotor breaks apart briefly to say, “Damnit, Nymuë. You are coming with me to my quarters. Immediately.”

Chapter Text

Having graciously thanked team Voltron for their vital role in the Oriande mission, Lotor and Nymuë returned to central command. She had taken her leave of him to check on the sick infant while he attended to the pile of duties awaiting his return.

In the wake of their absence, a not-so-elaborate scheme was being planned by none other than Commander Thrakol. He was not accustomed to refusal or rejection. In the centuries he had spent serving under Zarkon, he rose through the ranks, or rather, clawed his way through the ranks by any means necessary: extortion, malfeasance and outright betrayal. At the height of his power, no woman ever said no to him. And now this lowly human wouldn’t even give him the time of day. It was infuriating beyond measure, and it fuelled his obsession endlessly.

It had been difficult to obtain any information on humans. A select few of his peers knew of the Champion but that didn’t help him at all. He had no idea what she was like, or what her weaknesses were. She couldn’t be coerced, because she was too smart and she couldn’t be overpowered, because she was too agile. So he resigned himself to following her. He had managed to find out today was the day of their return and waited for his chance. It was definitely his lucky day; she was heading off by herself.

Alright, first stop, medical wing. Why was she here? He watches her speak with the medical personnel and walk right into the treatment centre. Zarkon’s ruthless regime had built a small sick bay that was only to be used for the most worthy. Very few of the elite Galra had the luxury of being treated when they were ill or injured. Even fewer outsiders were allowed where the medical personnel worked.

“Looking for someone in particular, Commander?” Thrakol whirls around to find Lotor scrutinizing him. He was going to lie but inspiration suddenly struck. If Emperor Lotor had chosen her, he had to know her well. Perhaps he could tell him something useful about her.

“Yes, sire. I was looking for your new diplomat. If it’s not too forward of me, can you tell me something about her?”

“Well,” Lotor smiles impishly, “Nymuë is quite fond of literary devices, not the least of which is dramatic irony. She also lent me this book of poems - I was, in fact, just reading this one by John Keats about unrequited love.”

Lotor watches the oblivious knob nod his head eagerly. Thrakol couldn’t believe how obliging his superior was. He decides to press on. “Is there anything else she likes?”

“She is adept with an array of weaponry but favours hand-to-hand combat to deter unwanted advances.”

This prospect was extremely tantalizing. He loved hand-to-hand combat. A flurry of untoward desires passed through his mind. “Do you think I have a chance with her? Did she mention me at all while she was gone?”

Lotor was growing weary of the conversation as a whole. He realized he had an opportunity to be as gracious as Nymuë had been earlier. He, however, resigns himself to jealous ignobility.

“I cannot attest to her ever mentioning you,” he grins wickedly. “She spends much of her time screaming my name when she is with me.”

Lotor abruptly turns to leave his sucker-punched commander in the dust.