Disclaimer: WEP owns Voltron and all characters therein. (Toei Animation owns Hyakuju Oh Go-Lion.)
Harem
The torches flickered low in the wall sconces. Some had guttered out entirely, leaving long stretches of corridor lost in the shadows, illuminated only by faint starshine through the high windows. Harel was edgy as he paced off his allotted shift near the sultan’s suite, more so when faced with the lightless halls. The sultan’s rooms have a fine source of light that never sputters or dies, he thought plaintively. Why won’t they just use it in the rest of the palace? It’s so much more efficient than these dull, smoky . . . burnt out torches. Taking a deep breath, he strode on, one hand resting on his sword. It isn’t that I’m afraid, he thought quickly, feeling his muscles stiffen as he left the last bit of red-tinged light behind. It’s not that at all. I’m just . . . nervous. That’s it. Nervous. I can’t really see if there’s anyone in the shadows. Can’t do my duty properly . . .
Even in the chill desert night, he could feel sweat trickling down his spine. What if there was someone lurking in the dark? he wondered. The hairs on the back of his neck started to prickle, and he spun about to catch who was following him . . .
No one.
Now I’m scaring myself. Sheepishly, Harel smiled at his actions, running a hand through his shaggy hair, uncovered for once. At least inside I don’t have to wear the damn turban. For some reason, the loose trousers and billowing shirt beneath his armor felt . . . odd. Another thing he could not explain was the uncomfortable feeling that he didn’t belong here. Not just at the sultan’s palace, as a member of his guard, but on this world. He put a stop to that line of thought before it could develop into the inevitable pounding headache. To stave it off, he made himself trace the path of his route in his mind. I go down this corridor, right at the next intersection, and then I will have finished half of my circuit . . .
Circuit . . . An impossible image filled his mind and he couldn’t shove it away fast enough. The throbbing began to center just behind his eyes. But he forced himself on, breathing a sigh of relief when he reached the dim glow of lit torches.
An hour later, he’d nearly completed his second round, and was heading back to the sultan’s rooms. The party- or exhibition, or whatever it was- that had been roistering there earlier seemed to have finally quieted. Trying to tread softly, Harel took a deep breath as he paced the length of hall by the sultan’s suite, and released it gustily when he turned the corner. Even though the noise had died down, that didn’t mean the sultan was asleep, and he was not above pulling the guard on duty in for . . . entertainment, especially if his harem or whoever else was with him had left him unsatisfied.
Harel had caught the sultan’s eye once before while on guard duty. He shivered.
Gods, I hate this place.
The torches that had been lit on his last trip had all burnt out, and he hesitated briefly before squaring his broad shoulders and marching on. He held the hilt of his sword in a death grip. Though he knew that the corridor was empty, having passed through it, he thought he could feels eyes boring into his back at every step.
The sputtering torch ahead was a beacon, but he made himself maintain his even pace. Having seen no one for so long, it was rather a shock to see a body just beneath the light. Cautiously, ready to draw his blade, he approached. The figure lay half in and half out of the waning circle of light, flickering dimly on pale skin. Harel slowed further the closer he got, eyes darting to the shadows, ready for an attack. But no one was hiding, and he returned his attention to the prone form before him.
It was a young man, laying facedown on the floor, arms outflung over his head. In the uncertain light, it was impossible to determine the color of the tangled hair that flowed over his shoulders. From those slim shoulders, his body tapered to a narrow waist. His long legs were sprawled. Except for a brief loincloth, he was naked. Harel frowned at the curious marks high on one of the boy’s shoulders, stark purple bruises against the white flesh. Deciding that the boy was no threat, Harel relaxed his grip on his sword, and was about to keel to shake him awake when he noticed the golden armband around one firm bicep. His lips twisted in disgust as he recognized the gemstones that marked him as a member of the sultana’s harem.
He prodded the figure none too gently with the toe of his boot. “Hey, pretty boy,” he growled. The youth groaned softly, but did not move, even as Harel nudged him again. His frown deepened, and he knelt beside the boy anyway. “C’mon, you can’t just litter up the hall . . .” He reached out to shake the boy, but recoiled from the chill flesh of his shoulder. He’s been laying here for some time if he’s this cold, Harel thought, concerned in spite of himself. Or he’s injured . . . He could see no obvious wounds, and nothing appeared to be broken. But the boy’s breathing was rapid and shallow, the pulse in his neck weak under Harel’s thick fingers.
Harel leaned back, considering. One of the sultana’s boy toys, out and about . . . and obviously in some kind of trouble. He sighed. I can’t just leave him here. I’ll have to carry him back to the sultana’s rooms . . . and hope to all hells that my captain doesn’t ream me a new asshole for abandoning my post. I wonder what he’s doing here, anyway . . . Steeling himself to touch the cool skin again, he rolled the boy over. The long limbs flopped bonelessly as Harel scooped him up.
Despite being slim, the boy weighed slightly more in his arms than he expected. Glancing down, from the corner of his eye, he could see the definition of muscle in the other’s chest, could feel it in the legs draped over his arm. He could just barely make out more bruises on the boy’s chest and neck. He couldn’t keep his lip from curling in a sneer of revulsion, and walked faster. The sooner I get him back to the sultana, the sooner I can get back to my post and be done with it, he thought.
Pausing in the maze of corridors to readjust the limp burden in his arms, Harel was startled when the boy murmured something unintelligible. Again, he spared a fleeting look at the boy, his head now resting against Harel’s wide chest instead of dangling over his arm. In the flickering light and shadows, he was surprised at the maturity of the boy’s face. He isn’t a boy, Harel realized. He’s only a little younger than me.
Sighing as he stepped into a welcome pool of light near the sultana’s suite, he shifted the other’s weight again. “Almost home, now,” he said, not unkindly, and looked down again.
A knife, sharp and hot, tried to split his skull open. He staggered against the wall, unconsciously crushing the young man harder against his chest. He barely heard the clatter and scrape of his sword against stone, staring down at the handsome face in disbelief.
Oh, gods. I know him.
As if from a great distance, Harel could feel his mouth working, trying to form a name, right on the tip of his tongue . . .
But it wouldn’t come.
The sound of a door creaking open invaded his hearing. The sultana’s door. He belonged to the sultana . . . Through the renewed pounding in his head, he forced himself upright, away from the wall. It wouldn’t do for one of the guards to be caught like that, he thought vaguely. He managed the couple of steps to the open door.
A boy- of about 12 or 13, but certainly no more- stood in the doorway, blinking up at him. Even fogged and rumpled from sleep, he was just about the prettiest boy Harel had ever seen. His mid-brown hair curled into his eyes, over his milky shoulders. A master artist had placed each feature into his face. He, too, wore the jeweled armband that denoted him as part of the sultana’s harem, a short loincloth, and a few other adornments that the one in Harel’s arms did not.
“What d’you want?” the boy yawned. Then he focused on the figure Harel carried, and his emerald eyes widened, one small hand covering his mouth.
“Please.” Harel had a hard time finding his voice. I know him. I know these boys . . . “Please go get someone . . . I think he’s sick . . .” He closed his eyes against the view of these lovely boys he should scorn . . . boys in the forbidden harem of the sultana . . .
Boys he knew, though he could not say how . . .
“I said, bring him in!” Warm hands tugging on his arm snapped Harel back to himself. The child’s face was frantic, and it would have been laughable to see him trying to move a man more than twice his size . . .
. . . if it weren’t for the blinding pain in his head . . .
Harel carried his burden into the sultana’s quarters. He was trembling all over, but he knew it wasn’t from the physical strain.
“What did you do to him?” the small boy demanded, then bit his lip, as if frightened of the answer. He led Harel through the dark chamber, to another door.
“I . . . I didn’t,” Harel protested. “I found him like this, in one of the corridors outside of the sultan’s suite . . .”
“The sultan.” The boy’s voice was emotionless, as flat as the darkness in front of him.
Suddenly, there was brilliant light, a flash very like the one in the sultan’s rooms. Harel swore softly and stood still while his vision cleared, not wanting to harm the young man in his arms by falling on him. When the spots had disappeared, he saw a small room, hung with velvet and silks and tapestries in blue and green. A thick carpet in the same shades covered the floor, and was strewn with an abundance of pillows and cushions in many sizes. Then the boy was at his side, pointing and saying, “Put him down over there.” Carefully, he laid the unconscious form on the soft cushions as directed. “Good. Now get out.” The child was staring at the still figure, and his eyes were hard and glittering in the bright light.
Harel couldn’t wait to comply. His head pounded so he could hardly think. But he was unable to stop himself, and peeked back over his shoulder. The boy knelt down near the pillows to take hold of one limp hand. Very clearly, he heard him whisper, “My lady, why do you let him? He only hurts them . . . the others haven’t even come back yet . . .” There were tears in his tone now, and he bent to cradle the cold hand against his cheek.
Harel fled, nearly running back to the now familiar and welcome darkness of the sultan’s wing.
But the disjointed images in his mind were inescapable.
***
Voices.
Floating in the blackness.
“ . . . a trap?”
“I agree . . .”
“. . . can you say that? Those people need . . .”
“. . . what do you say?”
Long pause.
“Let’s go.”
Crack of doom.
***
“Harel? Harel!”
The voice calling his name was newly familiar. Groaning, his head feeling like it would fall off his neck, he managed to prop his eyes open. Frowning, he asked, he thought quite reasonably, “Why are you upside down, Zalen?”
The other guard snorted. “I should be asking why you’re on the floor, but I won’t. You look horrible.”
Harel blinked up at him. The floor? He managed to work out which direction his head should go and sat up, leaning against the wall. What in all the hells had happened? Then he remembered. Those two beautiful boys . . . the sultana’s boys . . .
“I won’t report this to the captain, because you’re obviously sick.” Zalen made no movement to help him. “Go, tell him you’re not feeling well, and have him take you off duty tonight, so you can recover.”
“No,” Harel said quietly, closing his eyes as the word echoed painfully in his head. “No, I’ll be fine by tonight.” He didn’t want to get into trouble, not so soon after having been given his post.
He heard the clank of Zalen’s armor as he shrugged. “As you please. Just get going before someone else comes. I don’t want to have to report you.”
Harel levered himself to his feet. “Thank you,” he said, then staggered away, past the sultan’s door, in the faint pink light of the sunrise. With no guidance from his mind, his feet took him through the winding corridors, out into the courtyard. Steadier now, he crossed to the guardhouse, his only thought to find his doss and sleep. He could not react fast enough when the guardhouse door opened, and nearly ran over the man who exited.
It was his captain.
Harel snapped to attention. “Beg pardon, sir!” Captain Yurak had the sultan’s ear and favor, because he knew his job and did it well. The last thing Harel wanted was to be brought to the sultan’s attention. Again.
The captain frowned severely at him. His sharp black eyes missed nothing, and his weathered face showed nothing he didn’t want to show. “Harel? Are you sick? You look pale.”
“No, sir. I’m fine.” Harel stared over Yurak’s left shoulder, unable to quite face him as he spoke the lie.
The captain studied him, and Harel could feel himself start to sweat. If he asks if something happened last night, I’m not going to be able to lie, he thought frantically. He didn’t know why it was so important to keep the encounter with the sultana’s boys a secret, but suddenly, it was. But he kept his face as impassive as he could, and wished like hells that the captain wouldn’t ask.
And for once, it seemed that the gods were on his side, as his captain nodded briefly and strode away. Relief flooded him, and he nearly collapsed. Before he could do more than sag, he quickly made his way inside, and found his bed.
But the sleep he desired eluded him. The shift had just changed, and the guardhouse became a beehive of activity, as the guards just relieved returned and sought a meal. Then they all tramped into the bunkhouse and divested themselves of their armor, clanging and banging. Through it all, Harel kept his eyes closed, breathing deeply, willing sleep to claim him. But the boys haunted him, even after all fell quiet.
After the other guards had fallen asleep, Harel opened his eyes. Sleep was a lost cause, as it so often had been since he’d arrived here.
He wished he could remember if it had been a problem before.
He wished he could remember back before the two or three months he’d been here.
But thinking like that would merely bring back the headache that had receded to a very dull throb. Maybe some activity will make me tired enough to sleep, he thought. But he knew it wouldn’t. It hadn’t worked yet, any of the times he’d tried. Quietly, he got up, and pulled on his boots. His sheer size made it impossible for him to tiptoe out of the bunkhouse, but he stepped as softly as he could, holding his sword so it wouldn’t clatter.
The bright morning sun made him blink. The day was already uncomfortably warm, and it would only get hotter. The white walls of the palace offered some shade but little relief. The relative coolness inside the dark halls of the palace itself was welcome. He walked, paying no attention to the myriad of servants fetching and carrying around him. The walls all looked the same. He was lost in his thoughts . . .
And he found himself outside the sultana’s door.
What am I doing here? he asked himself, mindlessly studying the pattern carved on the door. Why did I come back?
But he knew the answer.
I have to find out more. I have to find out who I am. All of the strange things in my head . . . are they real? Do I really know those two, even though the little one didn’t seem to know me? Can they help me remember my past? He forced the pain in his head away, tried to ignore the sharp edges it cut into his mind as it returned.
Straightening his shoulders and absently tucking his shirt into his sash, he knocked.
Within moments, the small boy had opened the door. Recognition and dislike flashed in his eyes. “What do you want?” he asked coldly.
There was a faint tinkling of small bells behind the boy, and he suddenly looked slightly ashamed. A woman spoke, her voice low and sensual. “Angel, you need to be more polite.” She sounded amused.
“Yes, my lady,” the boy- Angel?- mumbled, looking down. It suited him, Harel thought, through the pounding headache.
“Now, say you’re sorry, and ask him to come in.”
“Yes, my lady.” He looked up at Harel, his expression less than graceful. “I apologize for my rudeness,” he muttered grudgingly. “Please come in.” He stepped back, opening the door wide enough to admit Harel.
Gravely, Harel replied, “Thank you.” He managed to enter the sultana’s rooms without stumbling, a major achievement, he thought, considering the pain he was in.
The woman laughed, and he shivered. She didn’t sound cruel, but her voice was the kind that always set men to trembling, a voice as smooth and rich as . . . butterscotch.
Butterscotch? What in . . .
“That didn’t sound like much of an apology to me, my Angel,” she teased, resting one hand on the boy’s narrow shoulder. “You’ll have to practice.”
“Yes, my lady.” The boy’s eyes were resentful, and he stood staring at the floor, anywhere but at either the woman or Harel. She smiled down at the one she called “Angel”, seemingly content just to look at him.
Harel could easily see why she’d want to. The boy was even more appealing by day than by night. Curling brown locks, cheeks pinkened from embarrassment, long, almost girlish lashes framing eyes the color of a forest . . .
The woman, too, was young and beautiful. Her hair was the color of the finest sand, flowing down her back in waves, except for the braid coiled on top of her head like a coronet. She had an anklet of small golden bells, visible over one dainty slippered foot, and a necklace, but no other jewelry. She wore red, red silk and a red gauzy veil, perhaps not the best choice, for it did not really suit her complexion. Blue would have been a better choice, blue to match the icy shade of her eyes. But her eyes were warm and sparkling as she gazed at Angel. She wasn’t much taller than her harem boy, though she was older. She finally tore her eyes away from the boy, and her glance flickered to Harel. Her face froze momentarily.
Belatedly, he realized that the woman was the sultana, and bowed low. “My lady,” he said by way of apology. “I have been assigned to your quarters today.” He straightened as soon as was respectful, before he fainted.
Harel knew, from having overheard the captain’s complaints one evening, that few guards wanted to take the duty in the sultana’s rooms. They didn’t want to watch the amusements she demanded from her harem. But the guards were ordered expressly by the sultan, to make sure nothing untoward happened, and of course, no one could refuse the duty. Harel knew, though, that if he were to take the duty from the guard already stationed there, there would be no complaints, and he might even be owed a favor. That could come in handy . . .
He wondered why she still had said nothing, why she still studied him with that odd expression in her cold eyes . . . almost fearful. He waited uneasily. It was almost as if she was deciding the best way to react, he thought.
“There is already a guard,” she said finally, her tone scornful. “Does my husband no longer think one guard is sufficient?”
“No, my lady, not that.” He thought fast, difficult as that was becoming. “Perhaps the captain has a more important task for your current guard.” Smiling shyly, he continued, “I have only been here a little while; perhaps he thought this duty would be suitable for someone so new.” He waited again for her response. Why was she so suspicious?
Her knuckles were white on Angel’s shoulder, and he could see the boy trying not to wince in pain as her nails dug into his flesh. Then her hand relaxed, and she smiled, but it was cold and brittle. “Of course. Guard!” she called. Harel did not recognize the armored man who appeared from another room, the doorway hidden behind a drape. “This man has been sent to replace you.” Then she turned away, pulling the boy with her.
The guard looked at him doubtfully. Quietly, Harel said, “I’ll take this duty. You take mine tonight. All right?” The other nodded, and made good his escape. Such trades were commonplace, and everyone knew to stay out of the captain’s sight.
“So, guard.” The sultana’s voice startled his attention back to her. She had seated herself on a cushion, drawing the boy down to half sit, half sprawl over her lap. She ran her fingers through his brown hair, but she was not paying attention to what her hand was doing. She was watching Harel very closely. “Has Captain Yurak, in his infinite wisdom, told you what you are expected to do while you are here . . . protecting me from my harem?” Her tone was scathing.
Shaking his head was definitely out of the question. “No, my lady, he did not.” He fell easily into the waiting stance of a soldier, wondering what she was going to do next.
The boy’s eyes were wary as he looked up at Harel though his thick lashes. He wore a collar today, Harel noticed, made from thin links of gold, long enough to trail down his back. The boy trembled whenever the sultana’s fingers brushed it. His loincloth was of light green, made of silk, he guessed, and his armband was too small to be a bracelet for Harel’s thick wrist. It bore the jewels that the sultana had chosen to mark her harem: one sparkling iridescent and one glowing gold, with a band of dark brown down the center. The boy did not move at all as the sultana stroked his head, as if he knew it would be useless to resist, but he did not seem to enjoy it, either.
“Very well, here is what I expect you to do.” She continued to play with Angel’s hair, but her voice was very sharp. “I expect you to do the duty my husband has demanded, without complaint, but above all, without interfering in what I wish to do.” Her eyes were truly icy now as she stared up at him. “I was raised a princess. I know my duty, distasteful though it is, and I would not compromise it, despite what he thinks. It is only through me that he controls this planet, in any case,” she added, almost to herself. She shook her head, and continued, “This is my domain. I expect you to treat my lovelies well, and if you are caught abusing any of them, I will have you flogged. Or worse. Is that understood?”
Harel swallowed. “Yes, my lady.” This was looking like a bad idea more and more. Then his resolve firmed, despite the agony that was his head, despite the subtle glare the boy in the sultana’s arms gave him. I need to know. “I understand.”
“Good.” She hesitated, perhaps not having expected his ready agreement. “There is a chamber back there,” she pointed in the direction from which the other guard had come, “where you may wait. My other lovelies have not yet awoken.” When he did not move, she snapped, “Do you think you need to watch me with my Angel? With a child?” Harel saw the boy flinch.
“Of course not, my lady.” Harel bowed again, and made his way in the direction of the waiting chamber, walking very carefully, trying to betray no weakness. He could feel her eyes on him the entire way, until the swish of the drape hid him from view.
Once out of sight, he slumped against the wall, gasping at the pain in his head. It had taken every ounce of his will to speak with her, with that boy sitting in her lap. Angel . . .
“Angels,” he murmured, as the blackness creeping in at the edges of his vision overwhelmed him.
***
“I don’t like it.”
He sighed. “I know you don’t. But Keith has made the decision . . .”
Arms wrapped around him from behind, and he leaned back into the embrace. “I have such a bad feeling about this . . .” The words were whispered into his back, and his heart froze at the fear in them.
He turned around, looking down into the other’s bright blue eyes. “Hey, don’t say that,” he said, cupping one cheek. “You’re scaring me . . .”
“Not as much as I’m scaring myself . . .”
***
“Angel, love . . .”
“My lady?” The boy responded instantly to the sultana’s thoughtful call.
“I . . . what do you think of this guard?” She spoke quickly, as if she were afraid of the words coming from her own mouth.
“I don’t like him.” The distaste in his voice was evident.
She seemed surprised. “Why not?” She stopped playing with his hair, and looked down into his beautiful face.
“I don’t know. I just don’t.” He frowned, rubbing his forehead.
“Are you afraid of him? He is quite a bit bigger than some of the other guards . . .”
He shook his head. “No . . . no, my lady, that’s not it. I don’t know why.” His frown grew more intense.
“I wonder why Yurak assigned him here,” she mused, staring at the floor. “I thought the witch told him . . .” She shook her head. “Has she been here yet, to look at them?” Her voice was bitter.
“No, my lady.”
“Damn him!” she ground out. “He had no right . . .”
“My girl, as your husband, he has every right.”
The sultana’s eyes flew up at the soft voice. She urged the boy off her lap, and stood, glaring. “You took your time, witch.”
The witch shrugged, which just incensed the sultana further, and well she knew it. She didn’t look much like a witch, but the sultana could feel the electric shiver of mystic power rolling off her. She was of about medium height, with long, very straight milky blond hair, some of which fell forward to frame her face. Her skin was also very pale. She wore a short-sleeved dress of some indeterminate color between tan and gray, and carried a gnarled and twisted staff as tall as she. She would have been pretty, except for the slightly pointed canine teeth that protruded over her pink lips, and the cold, absolutely yellow eyes, without iris or pupil.
“I sent for you hours ago,” the sultana said slowly, trembling with her rage. “Where have you been? They need you!”
“I came when I could, my lady.” She mocked the title, making it sound a farce. “Where are they?”
Jingling, the sultana led the way to the small chamber allotted to her harem, hung with draperies in calming blues and greens. She had taken hold of Angel again, and was dragging him along, forcing him to trot to keep up. “Despite your warnings, he gave them alcohol! The guards had to carry them back here. I . . . I’m not even sure if there’s anything else wrong with them, they haven’t woken up at all.”
The witch shrugged again, limping after her. “Well, if they die, it’s no loss.”
The boy turned white, and tried to slip from the sultana’s grasp, but she tightened her grip almost instinctively. He stopped struggling, and looked down at the floor, trying to hide his face.
The sultana fidgeted at the side of the cushions, as the witch knelt down to examine the three young men who lay there unconscious. Two of them had thick midnight hair, one’s long and unruly, the other’s slightly shorter and neater. The third youth was different, his hair a rich chestnut color. All were handsome, though each was different. They all lay shivering, even in the growing heat of the day, their faces pinched in pain. When one twitched and touched another, both moaned in pain. The witch studied them, feeling the chill of their skin. She opened one’s eyes to look at his pupils, then snorted and stood. “They’ll be fine,” she said, and started toward the door. “Just let them sleep it off, and I’ll tell my prince not to give them any more alcohol, but otherwise . . .”
The boy could contain himself no longer. “How can you do this!” he shouted, his outrage echoing in the small chamber. “Look at them! Look at their bruises!” Indeed, all three had black and blue marks all over their bodies. “They’re not fine! They’re sick! They need help!” He turned to the sultana, tears in his eyes. “My lady, help them,” he whispered hopelessly.
The sultana’s face was stricken, and she could only stare at her lovely boys, chewing her lip. The witch snorted again, and left.
“Haggar!” the sultana called angrily, making her decision. “Haggar! Come back here!” But the witch was gone, the outer door closed.
“My lady?” She turned at the small voice, teary and scared. Her heart broke at the tears in her Angel’s eyes, the fright on his face. “Will . . . will they die? Please, my lady, don’t let them die!”
She immediately embraced him, holding him to her tightly. “No, Pidge, my Angel, I won’t let them die.”
Neither of them noticed the tall shadow in the doorway, stepping back, eyes locked on the three prone figures on the cushions.
Harel had found himself on the floor, in the small room to which the sultana had directed him, tears running down his face. He couldn’t say why, couldn’t remember the dreams he knew he’d had, and it made him upset. Damn it, that’s why I’m here! he thought. I need to know who I am . . .
Angry voices, not too far away had brought him to his feet. The young harem boy was yelling, then the sultana herself. He stumbled toward the door, through which he’d carried the young man he’d found last night.
Saw the three young men there now.
Heard the sultana’s words.
Pidge.
His eyes traveled desperately over the three pale faces on the cushions. Names popped into his mind.
Keith. Sven. Lance.
He sagged against the wall of the main room in the sultana’s suite, overwhelmed by the names, but not knowing why.
“I know them,” he whispered, almost soundlessly. “Oh, gods, I know them all. How?”
***