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It has been phoebs since Keith was last seen.
Phoebs since he vanished without a trace, leaving the team desperate, lost. Because his disappearance simply made no sense. Keith had just gone off alone, as he often did, armed with sheer determination and spite, and never came back.
When no signal came through from his comm, the team knew something was wrong – of course they did. Everyone on the team had done everything they could to search for him, scouring every corner of space, trying to follow any possible clue that might lead to their lost friend, even going as far as raising an alert, not caring one single bit about endangering the secrecy that inevitably surrounded Voltron.
Shiro, even now in his fairly new role as the leader of the Atlas, had desperately fought for answers, engaging in abuse of power according to some – more as a brother than a commander, the team thought.
Yet, Keith was not found.
For the first five phoebs, they all kept searching every planet, albeit small or presumably inhabited; they captured as many Galra sentries they could, interrogated them, almost tortured them – but nobody seemed to know anything at all about Keith.
And so, six, seven, eight phoebs went by without a word from or on Keith.
The team mourned. They cried and gritted their teeth through the anguish and mourned, because if Keith was nowhere to be found after so many phoebs, if nobody in the universe seemed to know anything about him either, then it could only mean that Keith, their teammate, their Paladin, their friend – was gone.
Moving on was out of the question, but it couldn’t be helped either. The universe needed Voltron, it needed the team to be focused on protecting the innocent, on fighting for those who couldn’t, and so gradually, quintant after quintant, movement after movement, Keith’s name disappeared from their mouths, and was only whispered when no one was listening, within the four walls of cramped bedrooms or cockpits.
Unknown to them, Keith had not simply wandered off on his own, nor had he fallen victim to some stray misfortune as they’d speculated.
Taken by Honerva, subjugated to unspeakable torture, Keith had fought on for a long, long time. The witch had kept the secret well, and it was no wonder that the sentries nor the generals even knew about his presence.
And Keith, oh, he’d never admit it had he had anyone to talk to, but what Honerva put him through – his was a fate worse than death, for the darkness Honerva wielded was not just physical. It reached into the very heart and soul, manipulating the mind and breaking down every defense Keith had ever relied on.
He’d fought and screamed and kicked, foaming from the lips like an animal, willing his mind not to wander, his will not to yield, and it was all to no avail in the end.
Now, all that is left of what he once was is a pitiful shell, filled with thoughts and hopes and desires that aren’t his. He is a puppet, and nothing more.
He kills and mauls, blindly obeying Honerva’s orders.
A decaphoeb has passed since his disappearance, and the witch keeps using him. Weaving her sick web of power through him, making him her right hand.
And the team – of course they didn’t forget about him, of course, but they did stop looking, because there is absolutely no clue that Keith is still intact, still alive, still somewhere.
Melted in acid, torn apart and sold, disintegrated – they thought about everything, and regretfully moved on when no answers could be found.
But Krolia – Krolia has never stopped searching, never stopped hoping, she can’t, she won’t. Giving up hope is not something she can do, not when it comes to her son – she’s been skipping meals, avoiding sleep, frantically analysing everything and interrogating everyone she thinks might be connected to her Keith.
Though theìr relationship had been indubitably strained at first, Keith is still the baby boy she gave birth to, the baby boy she had to leave behind for his own good, the only thing she has left of the human she once loved and whose memory she cherishes dearly.
Seeing the posters alerting the universe that Keith was missing, seeing her son’s face displayed on bright screens on every planet she visited, seeing people whisper his name, falsely claim to have spotted him somewhere – Krolia had bared it all. She had investigated every lead, questioned every charlatan, searched desperately the whole time ever since the moment Keith was declared missing.
So there is Krolia, flying solo in the depths of the universe, blinking slowly through the exhaustion, gripping the controls tightly as her ship zips through the dark, empty expanse of space, a slight hum from the engines is the only sound filling the cockpit.
Kosmo is beside her – he’d made his way back to her once Keith left without him, and unfortunately even he couldn’t trace Keith. Krolia and the team had desperately tried to find someone with the ability to read animals’ thoughts, but unfortunately Kosmo genuinely had no clue regarding where his friend could have gone off to. So he’s been travelling with Krolia ever since, loyal and just as antsy.
The view outside is a vast, unsurprisingly bright stretch of nebulas, distant and too silent. She’s been traveling for vargas, her mind sharp despite the lack of proper sleep and nutrition, ever watchful.
And she knows it’s not just her to feel that something is off.
Kosmo has been pacing back and forth the tiny cockpit ever since they took off a couple of quintants ago, restless, disappearing then reappearing after a few doboshes at most.
“I know,” she murmurs, glancing at the space wolf, “I can feel it too.”
He just woofs once. She smiles, tender.
Their journey proceeds. One, two, three vargas go by without anything happening. Krolia even dozes off briefly, promptly awoken by Kosmo licking her cheek. But the unsettling feeling is still there.
Krolia knows she shouldn’t second-guess herself. And good thing she doesn’t.
Because she’s thoroughly checking the quadrant map on the dashboard when, without warning, the ship lurches, a burst of static flares up in the comms, and the lights flicker before going out entirely. It even zaps her finger that was touching the pad. The power drops, and the entire ship falls into a haunting silence, floating lifeless through space.
Krolia’s hands instantly move to the console again, trying to restart the systems, but everything is dead.
“Damn it!” she seethes, frowning while Kosmo barks loudly in the background. “Come on, come on, not now. Please–”
And it’s only a dobosh later when her ship shakes violently, Krolia’s body violently thrown from her seat, her arms instinctively shooting out to grab hold of anything they can find.
She crashes against the metal walls, her head snapping back as a sharp pain shoots through her skull, a faint scream making its way out of her throat.
The cockpit spins for a moment, physically and metaphorically, before everything settles. Dark, purple-ish blood trickles down her forehead, and she winces, bringing a hand up to her forehead. When she pulls it away, her fingers are stained red.
“Quiznak.” she growls, Kosmo licking the blood away, whining and walking in circles.
“I’m fine, hey, I’m okay.” Krolia tries, patting the wolf’s big head, “Shh, it’s just a shallow cut, pup. It’s–”
A massive shadow looms across the cockpit, and the word ‘okay’ never leaves her lips. Krolia may be struggling to focus due to her head wound – and maybe it’s more than a cut, she thinks – but there’s no mistake, no, what’s in front of her is indubitably a Galra jet, seemingly materializing out of nowhere.
“Bastard must’ve cloaked the jet.” she grunts, her fist instinctively hitting the dashboard as she stares at the enemy.
The power drain was their fault, no doubt. She briefly wonders how her ship didn’t pick any of that up, but time is everything now so with a forceful shove, she stumbles back into her seat, eyes darting over the control panel.
“Okay, my friend, do your thing.” she whispers, sliding a hand under the dashboard to activate the emergency power generator.
The low hum of the backup systems flickering back to life is the best sound she’s ever heard now. The cockpit lights dimly glow, and Krolia sighs in relief. The Galra ship hasn’t made a move yet, but Krolia knows better than to assume it’s just a warning.
She has to move, and she has to move fast.
The planet she was close to before the blackout looms large in her view, a rocky, desolate orb – she already explored it twice, looking for clues of any sort, to no avail.
But she’s painfully aware that she doesn’t have a choice, so after a brief assessment of the backup system, Krolia straps into her seat and pulls the ship into a rough dive.
Kosmo instantly teleports somewhere else, and for a split dobosh Krolia envies his ability to just flee like that. Going through that planet’s atmosphere is turbulent, her ship lurches and tumbles mercilessly as it fights against gravity.
The enemy ship dives after hers, chasing at a dangerously close distance. She grips the controls tightly as the dark tunnel entrance looms ahead, carved deep into the planet’s crust by the Galra themselves, back when they thought that this planet had useful resources hidden below the surface, near its core.
Krolia expertly navigates the narrow paths, the enemy ship close behind as she cusses under her breath. There's a small hypogeal open space ahead, and that's where she's going to have to eliminate the enemies for good – doing it above the surface is out of the question, because she knows that more Galra ships are going to come for her if she takes down one of theirs in the open.
Obviously, the landing in that tunnel is far from smooth, the ship screeching as it crashes into the rocky, hostile terrain.
Pain shoots through Krolia’s shoulder as she’s thrown against the restraints, her body jerking forward, and a sharp, agonising pain lances through her left arm. She grits her teeth, cursing under her breath, tears of exertion wetting her eyes as she frantically attempts at blinking them away.
A quick glance at her left arm, limp at her side, makes it clear she has to reset it, and she has to do it now. And even though she’s suffered from far worse injuries, having to reset a bone in such a situation is certainly not helping.
Yet, with practiced precision, Krolia reaches for her shoulder, using her right hand to gently pull the dislocated joint back into its place with a sickening crunch.
She fights through the nausea, breathing shakily through it.
Kosmo’s back, now, whining and jumping on her, desperate. She doesn’t have the strength nor the time to calm him down.
It takes a moment, but the nausea abates, so Krolia pulls herself up from the seat, vision still blurry. Her temples throb, and she remembers about the wound from before – she brings a hand up to her head, then glances at it, slick with dark blood. She hisses.
“Alright. I got this.” she exhales, slow, “I got this.”
Krolia opens the hatch, taking in the air. It’s breathable, she knows already. The atmosphere is thick, but not toxic enough to require a rebreather. Her Marmora blade is still securely at her side, and so’s the wolf.
From the distance, the hum of the enemy jet’s engines grows louder, and she turns just in time to see it land in front of her. It’s sleek, angular, with a dark purple hue, a fighter jet like many she’s both piloted and shot down throughout her life.
Surely, it’s not big enough to host more than three, maybe four people, so at least there’s that, she thinks.
The hatch opens, and a masked figure steps out.
Krolia crouches low, breathing steadily, dagger tight in her hand. She stares at the unmoving figure before her, cloaked in shadow, their face and head hidden.
And she knows that striking first is a deadly mistake, so she doesn’t dare move. And it’s only a matter of ticks, because the figure before her, standing tall and silent, finally moves at last.
Krolia’s breath hitches as the enemy, instead of reaching for a weapon, pulls back the hood on their head.
No.
She freezes, her breath catching.
Before his mother, Keith stands motionless, eyes glowing sickly yellow, face empty and distant.
And Krolia – she can’t tell what she’s feeling. Relief, because that’s her baby. Fear, because that’s not her baby anymore, no, anger, because that’s not her baby anymore.
His jet-black hair is cut short, and his eyes – vacant, foreign.
Her heart twists.
“Keith.” she calls, weak, tears prickling at the corner of her eyes.
He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even seem to acknowledge her presence. Keith simply stands still, gaze devoid of any feeling or thought. And that’s – that’s not right.
Krolia’s claws flex, blind rage swelling in her chest as another figure emerges from the enemy jet.
“You sick bitch.” Krolia seethes.
Honerva smirks. “You’re in the way of something far greater than you can comprehend.” she starts, annoyingly proud.
And Krolia – again – knows that attacking first means certain demise, but she has no control over her body as it surges forward in a blur of motion, a guttural scream being torn from her throat as she strikes with a downward blow, blind with rage.
“Go be with Keith.” Krolia says to Kosmo. The wolf hesitates briefly before teleporting to his friend’s side.
“How cute.” The witch laughs, her form vanishing in a blur, only to reappear several meters away in a flash of dark energy. “You can’t stop me. You never could.”
Krolia’s eyes flick to her son once more, then instantly snap back to Honerva as she grins with cruel satisfaction. Kosmo whines, pawing at Keith’s leg, but Keith remains motionless, his gaze distant, completely unresponsive to the desperate plea.
“Give up.” Honerva taunts. “Just like he did.”
With a snarl, Krolia lunges, her claws outstretched, her dagger sharp, but Honerva teleports again.
She looks around panicked for an instant, realising just in time that –
Honerva violently kicks her in the back, and Krolia tumbles forward. The witch laughs once more, disappearing for a moment before reappearing in front of Krolia, delivering a blow to her ribs as the latter hisses in agony.
“Pathetic.” Honerva smirks. “Although, blood will tell. He used to be just like you.”
Krolia stands, enraged, panting. Her head hasn’t stopped spinning ever since she hit it before the fight even began, and her shoulder’s screaming in agony. She grits her fangs.
The witch’s arms extend in a blur, slashing the air as tendrils of shadow shot toward Krolia.
She barely dodges, a tendril slicing through her side, not cutting deep enough to damage anything internally, but deep enough to sting.
Krolia, despite herself, yelps in pain.
And of course her very first reaction is to look at her son, heart sinking. His gaze is hollow, dark, unbothered by the pain his mother is being subjected to, unbothered by what he himself has been made into. Despite Kosmo whining, rubbing his big head against Keith’s side, the latter remains still, gaze unresponsive.
This isn’t Keith.
“You should’ve stayed out of this.” Honerva’s voice echoes as she teleports again, bringing her back to the present as the witch closes the distance between her and the other. “This is the price of your meddling.”
Krolia spins around with a growl, delivering a slash which only cuts a short strand of Honerva’s grey hair.
The witch grins, amused.
Honerva teleports directly in front of her, then, hands outstretched. Shadowy vines erupt from the ground, wrapping around Krolia’s limbs and neck. She struggles, breath caught in her throat as her side and temples throb, her injured arm spasming under the hold, muscles strained as she fights desperately against the binding power.
“K-Keith–”
“It’s over,” the witch interrupts with a sick smirk. “You did this to yourself.”
And again, Krolia looks at Keith, desperate.
Keith – her boy, her baby boy, with his laughter, the warmth of his small hand in hers.
Her head hurts. She’s choking, gaze flickering, the edges grey as she struggles to keep awake, feet kicking weakly.
Keith – the wonderful person he grew up to be, caring and determined and rightful.
Krolia’s vision blurs, breath shallow and ragged. It hurts.
Keith – now an empty shell, broken.
No. No!
Honerva’s manic laughter is deafening to Krolia’s ringing ears.
She can’t, she can’t give up, she can’t die there, because if she does, then nobody else will save Keith. She can’t leave him, not again, not again.
Shaky hands raise to grip at the dark vine around her neck, jaw clenched, lungs burning.
And it happens in an instant, really.
In one swift motion, Krolia sinks her claws into the black strand and rips it from her throat, hands instantly reaching from her dagger again.
“What–”
Blood – black and thick – stains her blade, dripping down the helm and her wrist and elbow.
Krolia falls, Honerva’s tendrils dissipating as the witch staggers backwards, clutching at her chest, white uniform drenched, a stain of black getting bigger and bigger. Honerva falls to her knees, eyes wide.
She glances at the dagger still jabbed into her ribcage. Kosmo barks, scared, but doesn’t leave Keith’s side.
“Y-you–”
Krolia stares. The witch gasps, body convulsing, eyes as vacant as –
“Keith!” Krolia breathes out, spinning around to see Keith falling to the floor in a heap. And Krolia wants nothing more than to run to him, to cradle him in her arms and never, never let go. But Honerva, she –
“You b-bast…” she slumps on her side at last, lifeless, her form dissolving into dark mist.
Krolia stands still, panicked, eyes darting between where Honerva once was and Keith’s passed out form, breathing heavily. And then she runs, flinging herself towards him, tears in her eyes.
“Keith!” she yells, Kosmo trying to rouse Keith, licking his face and hitting him with his head.
She skids on her knees at her son’s side,
Krolia holds Keith tight, her tears soaking into his hair as she cries softly. His body feels warm against hers, but he stirs, blinking slowly through the haze.
Confusion clouds his eyes, the yellow glow gone. “M-mom? Wolf? I f-feel... sick.” he mumbles, dazed.
Krolia chuckles weakly, her voice breaking. “I’ll explain everything, I promise. Just rest.”
She doesn’t let go, her grip tightening as she presses him closer, kissing the top of his hair. Kosmo whines softly, curling his large body around them, his tail enveloping them in warmth.
Krolia smiles through her tears, brushing her son’s hair gently.
“We’re going home.”