Timeline notes: Set during season two, but an AU of about mid-late season

Warning notes: Some descriptions of violence, some may be slightly graphic, but nothing too terrible (for me). Minor character deaths.

xxx

xxx

Hope: The Truest Treasure

xxx

There were voices. Indistinct, mumbled.

Unfamiliar.

Light. He blinked his eyes open, wincing.

Too bright. So bright it hurt. He whimpered at the pain, closing them.

The voices grew louder, something cold pressed on his forehead.

That hurt too. He shifted, trying to dislodge it.

It pressed harder, digging into his skin.

He opened his eyes again, blurred figures in white appearing.

He did not know them.

His heart beat wildly as he took in more of the bright, white room.

Table. Syringes. Scalpel.

He moved.

Or.

Tried to. He couldn't. His arms were locked at his sides, his feet the same.

What was happening?

Where was he?

"–spiking, increase the–"

A sharp prick on his arm.

He moaned, the sound muffled.

Something was in his mouth.

He couldn't talk.

He pulled against the restraints. One of the figures pushed down on his chest, another indistinct mumble.

Where was he?

What was happening?

"Its species is resistant. Up the dose."

No. No please.

Another prick, ice flooded his veins.

It hurt.

He tried to speak but his tongue wouldn't move.

His entire body was growing heavy, his attempts to pull free sluggish.

Where was he?

He couldn't remember.

Why couldn't he remember?

His heartbeat thudded in his ears, louder than the voices.

What had happened?

Where was he?

Stop he tried to say. Please.

He barely made a sound.

The bright lights were dimming.

No.

That wasn't right.

He was closing his eyes.

They were so heavy. They hurt to keep open.

He struggled to do so.

The light hurt but the darkness was worse.

Where was he?

The voices were talking again.

Ice touched his throat, thin and hard.

Pain. Pain pain pain pain.

Stop. Please. Please. Por favor.

What was happening?

The light disappeared.

One last voice cut through the encompassing darkness.

"Begin devoicing."

xxx

Lance sat up with a breathless gasp, hands flying to his throat and ocean eyes blown wide.

His heavy pants echoed about the chamber and he buried his sweat-dampened face in his upturned knees to muffle the sound.

They didn't like it when the slaves made noise.

Just the thought had him trembling anew and a low garbled keen built in the back of his throat as tears stung his eyes.

It had been… been months since he'd dreamed about the devoicing.

It left him as rattled now as it had then.

Long fingers dug into his arms, pressing so hard tanned skin turned white and he bit his lip whole as though he could make everything disappear just like it.

No one came over to him though and he forced himself to heave out a breath and then another. He hadn't disturbed the night guard. He could at least be thankful for that.

When he finally pulled his face free though he caught the narrowed amber gaze of 1AW6 and he tried to muster up a smile of apology. She made a curt gesture with her clawed hand and rolled over on her narrow bedroll, large brown ears flopping with the action.

Lance's smile fell and guilt rolled his stomach. He knew how hard sleep was to come by, even as exhausted as they were most nights. He hated that he had disturbed hers but 1AW6 – or Amber, as he called her in his mind – was never happy.

Although were any of them, really?

He carefully laid back down, dragging the thin blanket up to his chin. The action made the manacle on his wrist clank against the chain as it lost its give and he curled up around it.

ID number L7S8. That was him. Or, well, he thought that was his name here. The seven looked more like a shepherd's hook and the S had a weird squiggle through it. It's not like they ever actually called him by it anyways; it just seemed to be how they kept track of the slaves for assignments each day.

His fingers ached and he had a sinking feeling it was back to actual mining with him tomorrow. Today. Whatever time they forced him to get up.

Lance liked the jewel sorting and cleaning days best. On those days he actually got to sit down, chained to the work table, and check each gem over for flaws and make them really shine. He'd learned though to not take advantage of the more sedate task early on. The deep scar that cut from his right shoulder across his back from the whipping when he had failed to meet their quotas multiple times had reinforced that lesson.

He'd had a lot of lessons enforced, some with more permanent reminders than others. The guards here were too easily provoked, too quick to strike. Even looking up and accidentally making eye contact could result in lashes or a beating.

Lance had at first tried to keep track of the days that way, as the sense of time was skewed down in the ever-dark tunnels and their meal schedule too repetitive to recall. He got five lashes for tripping and stumbling into the guard, that was Monday. Two days later he got five more lashes for breaking his pick-axe even though it hadn't been his fault. The black eye later was because he'd been moving too slow.

He made it he thought about sixty days before he stopped counting as bruises overlapped with cuts and he no longer remembered which one was the cause of what. The only untouched skin left on him really were his hands and feet outside of the wear and tear from work. The guards never struck there; to do so would be to slow down their work. As though having your back ripped open didn't count (and it didn't, not to them. You just got more lashes for being slow.)

But although he wasn't counting Lance knew he'd been here a long time.

A long, long time.

He wasn't sure if he was ever going to actually leave.

Well, alive. Everyone left eventually. They'd carted out Barney (44K8) – a large, purple alien who had gotten sick a week ago, just missing Doctor Day – and between the continued labor and lack of clean air his lungs had just given out. He'd looked peaceful when they hoisted him onto the trolley, despite the fact he'd died wheezing and shaking. Lance missed him already. It's not like he got to really know anyone down here but Barney would smile at him and it was brighter than any of the blood jewels they toiled for. Most other slaves just kept their heads down and he got scowls when he tried to say hello in a mixture of hand motions and smiles.

He'd finally just stopped trying although his heart ached at how lonely he was, even though he was surrounded by others.

It was better though that way. Maybe. Most slaves didn't last very long. The conditions were awful and although they were decently fed it wasn't enough after a long day of labor. At least this way he didn't get attached, didn't mourn and fall into despair when another body was carted out of the tunnels.

He wished he could leave the tunnels.

He wanted to see the sky. He'd forgotten what the sun felt like. He wondered if they even had sun here. He had no idea what planet he was even on. He did know for sure it was a planet; the mines the obvious clue. It had to be a big one too, as they dug deeper and deeper day after day and it never ended.

Lance found himself sometimes wishing the entire thing would just cave in.

He pushed those thoughts away most of the time, but hope was getting harder and harder to hold onto. It was more of a wish, a dream. He rarely dreamed anymore. Nightmares, sure, but the solace he'd found in his dreams had been slowly fading as his memories of them did too. He couldn't remember; had Allura's pupils been purple or pink? What direction did Coran's moustache twist in? What did food taste like? He'd even take food goo, he thought, over the substance they called food here.

It'd been months at least. Maybe a year. Maybe longer. He hoped not longer. But with every day that passed he found his hope waning. They'd have found him by now if they could, right? Surely they'd have rescued him. They missed him, right? They must miss him as much as he missed them. Hunk's hugs and Pidge's shoulder punches and Keith's rare soft smile and Shiro's warm hand on his shoulder and Coran's jubilance and Allura's bright gaze.

But they hadn't come.

And if they hadn't come then...

Then they weren't.

Not at this point.

He couldn't blame them, not really. The universe needed Voltron. Voltron need the Lions. The Lions needed Paladins. None of those except for the Paladins were replaceable.

He, Lance, had been a Paladin.

Therefore, he, Lance, was replaceable. He had to be. Because otherwise the entire universe was doomed. Zarkon had had ten thousand years to grow his empire unchecked and they needed to stop him.

Lance had given up on the team finding him because they were searching for him. But he did hold onto the sliver of hope that they would locate him when they came to this planet and saw the slavery and Allura's righteous anger and Hunk's compassion would take down the one called "King" and they'd free the slaves and find him and… and…

And what would they think?

He knew he looked different. He'd changed. And not for the better.

His face felt mostly the same and he had been able to set his nose (or at least it felt like he had) straight after one of the guard's had broken it. His hair was definitely longer, shaggier, and the doctors roughly cut it each time they saw him but not well. He had scars too, mostly regulated to his back and chest, a few along his legs and a jagged line in the center of his right palm from where he'd sliced it open on one of his first days before learning how to use the pickaxe.

He'd seen his reflection once; one of the guards had been on the transmission datapad – his entire back and carved in lines from the heated whip flared in remembrance of his failed attempted to retrieve one – and the light had caught just so on the black surface and it became reflective at his angle.

And Lance…

Lance had looked dead.

It was his eyes. He had to note that it was a black surface and the lighting still wasn't great, but there was no missing the dullness to them. The lack of spark, the ocean shades muted as surely as the rock dust covered his skin in a near permanent coat.

It had scared him more than anything else here had.

Because that was not him.

But… but it was.

And Lance was terrified.

He saw the same look now in all of the slaves and to know he was sending the same back out made him just want to close his eyes and never open them.

If only it was that easy to escape.

But there was no escape. Not from here.

The prisoners were shackled to the floor at night to sleep by their wrists. They were chained by the ankle in front of whatever section they were working on that day; be it carving into the tunnel or picking at the walls or shoveling debris away. Chains everywhere. His ankles were permanently scarred from the tight metal cuffs digging into flesh whenever he moved too far and the chain jerked him back.

And if the chains were not enough there were the guards. Unlike the slaves, a mixture of so many alien species Lance had been boggled upon first seeing them, all of guards were the same.

He'd taken to calling them Toads, although that was an insult to toads and he apologized to them for it. But they sort of resembled them; wide in girth with flappy jowls and pocked skin in the color from a sick yellow to a pale green.

They were large though, nearly Shiro's height, and each one carried a whip, a blaster and a device that at Lance's best description functioned as a cattle prod and they would shock slaves for their own enjoyment. Lance had lost count of how many times he'd been zapped while he was working and the back of his arms were covered in small burns.

The Toads were dressed each day in sharp boots that an unfortunate slave was tasked with shining instead of dinner that night even though they'd be caked with dirt and rock dust the next day without fail. Their uniforms were large green and black chestplates and cavalry skirts that only made them look even bigger. Some wore helmets, some went without, showing of their shiny bald heads and tiny little ears that stuck out like little plants. Broccoli, maybe, Lance thought.

The ones in charge had capes attached to their shoulders and they were particularly violent. Lance was glad they did not often visit; normally only when a new section of tunnel was determined to be excavated or there a particularly precious gem unearthed.

Compared to them the slaves may as well have been clothed in rags. Lance figured though there was no point in outfitting them with anything better. It's not like anyone else saw them.

He'd come to from the devoicing stripped naked and lying on the dirt-covered floor that he found was near the entrance of the mine. It was the closest he'd ever gotten to freedom and he hadn't known until it was far too late.

They'd given him a pair of ill-fitting pants, already torn and stained from the previous wearer and they ended at his calf. A cut off sleeve tunic in the same ugly brown had been the only other clothing item. He'd tried to ask for shoes around the pain emanating from his chest and neck and it was then he'd found two things.

One; the pain from before had been nothing compared to the agony that had alighted inside him as he tried to speak.

And two; he no longer had a voice.

The devoicing, that horrible, horrible operation he'd apparently woken up in the middle of prep for, had stolen his voice. He still didn't know what they did. Based on the pain for the first week whenever he tried to speak he had a feeling it had something to do with his vocal cords and voice box.

He could make sounds still in his throat, clack his tongue against his teeth and hiss out air. But his words had been stolen from him.

Everyone's had.

And the guards did not like it when the slaves made noises with their limited resources. Unless it was the breathless gasps and mangled screams some could still produce of a nature when they were whipped or beaten. They relished those noises.

He'd never gotten the shoes.

His feet were hard and calloused now, covered in so much dirt that he felt he may have actually grown a half inch from the accumulation. He had tried at first to clean himself up after work was finished for the day, using his allotted two dobashes of bathroom time – and bathroom was generous; a small hole in the floor that led somewhere and a trickle of water from an underground stream that had been rerouted and dripped down the stone wall and a guard cramped into the small room with him as though he was going to go anywhere – a day to scrub up.

The guards had laughed and laughed; a full-bodied croak that made their lips wobble and showed off a giant yellow tongue inside. Lance had understood their mirth within the week as there was no being clean here. There wasn't enough water, enough time. And having wet skin just seemed to attract even more rock dust and Lance generally was dirtier than when he went in.

The only time he was any semblance of clean was on Doctor Day. It had only happened four times since he was here – and that he could count, for it was such a rarity – but it was the best day there was.

Doctor Day as he was calling it was the only time that he felt like something resembling a person rather than a piece of property. It wasn't that the doctors were kind. They were a sort of tree-looking species wearing white coats and Lance was pretty certain they were the figures he'd seen from the operating table.

But they treated them. Not everything. That would be too much, but the gaping wounds, the incisions that had begun to show signs of infection from the lack of treatment and cleanliness, those they addressed. They slapped a foul smelling cold poultice on them but after the initial chill had been absorbed it was an almost pleasant tingle.

Bandages wrapped about those, protecting them for at least the day, sometimes a couple if you could avoid angering the guards and keep them intact. One time they'd forced Lance to drink something that had tasted as he imagined pond scum would, but within a few hours the harsh tickle and dryness that he had been stumbling through that week had cleared up and Lance realized had they not come then he probably would have succumbed to whatever illness it was within the next few days.

Like Barney.

Because despite clearly having access to doctors with a bevy of remedies, whoever ran this operation had money to spare and lives to waste. It was the only reason Lance could come up with as to why the doctors didn't come more often to treat them. An infection to an exposed deep whip lash or over exhaustion could kill an alien as the guards, when the slave collapsed and wouldn't wake to the cattle prods or the whips, they took their blasters and just...

Lance didn't like to think about it.

He supposed at least it was quick.

He wondered what they did with the bodies. Mass grave? Burned them? Sent them into space to float until they disintegrated?

He wondered if the team would ever find his body out there. He wondered if they'd even recognize him if they did.

Doctor Day had an added bonus too of new clothes. When you were constantly being zapped and whipped the threadbare clothes didn't stand much of a chance. Lance had gone nearly one whole week without a shirt after it had been torn into so many tatters it had just fallen off one morning and he hadn't had time to try and tie it together before he'd been ushered from his bedroll.

It had of course been disposed of when he came back that evening.

Then he'd gone and – he stopped the thought there, back aching again and he bit down the whimper of pain – but, well, he supposed he had lived by the grace of God as the doctors had come the next morning before he got a shot to the head and they had patched him up to at least being able to stumble and his own stubbornness had kept him on his feet. He'd gotten a new shirt too and he liked to pretend he could smell the rain-scented detergent his mamá bought special for him when he'd first slipped it on over his bandages. It was blood stained and tattered now though weeks – months? – later.

He wondered on really dark, long days if it would have been better if he'd just met his end there from his sickness. He wasn't sure what he was living – struggling – for at this point. There was no hope here. No smiles or laughter. If the slaves had been able to talk to one another, or at least convene and draw comfort maybe from a gentle touch or a shared pain, Lance wondered if it would have been better or worse.

Every day was the same. Roused from bed by the sound of the gong and given a cup of water that he had to somehow ration for the entire day. Find out what station he was assigned to that day and work until they said stop, back screaming and arms aching and head pounding. The only ever break from the work coming in the form of the guards' taunting and teasing and sick games, and as awful as it was when the guards turned their attention to their chosen victim everyone would pause as much as they dared, limbs trembling and trying to find their breath before they continued.

When work was over they were ushered back to their living quarters. Sometimes they stopped and the blood-stained pole and mesh net and forced to watch the punishments dealt out for the day. Lance used to flinch at every thwack of the whip or chains or implement of torture, even when it hadn't been against his flesh, but now he just stood there with the rest and waited for it to be over. The best days were when they were able to bypass it completely and they'd been on a lucky streak of two days without incident.

Then it was dinner, a larger meal at least of a mash that didn't even have a taste anymore and Lance shoveled into his mouth like a starving, rabid animal, interspersed with the trip to the bathroom. They were going to need a new bathroom and living quarters soon, Lance thought, as the trip to and from each from the current operation site was growing longer to walk as they tunneled deeper. They'd get the joy of digging it out themselves, he was sure.

After that it was to bed, chained where they had eaten. The beds shifted nightly as it all depended on what shift you had been assigned that day and when you came in. There were roughly fifty slaves at any given time and Lance estimated about ten of the pallets still had blankets intact.

He snuggled further under the one, threadbare and holey as it was, that he had been lucky enough to get that night.

But that was life. Rinse (but not really) and repeat day in and day out.

The worst was when a new alien came in and he had to watch the despair sink into their eyes until they became just as dull as the rest of them.

It never changed.

Everyone broke.

He didn't know why he was still holding on.

Lance cuddled his arms to his chest, pressing the blanket to his nose.

He didn't know why.

But he still was.

That had to mean something.

At least, he hoped it did.

If hope had any meaning any more.

Lance pulled the blanket up over his head, hiding himself.

And in the self-inflicted darkness he silently cried.

xxx

Author's Notes:

Commissioned chaptered fanfiction for the lovely owlbokuchaaan for 30k words (cough, it's almost 40k, I fail). I don't want to spoil the plot and resolution of the fic so won't give the typical commission order information, but it was to involve Lance as a slave and losing his voice. Thank you so much for the commission, hun. This was such a fun fic to do!

The fic will update weekly on Mondays. I hope to see many of you there! If you enjoyed it please please please do leave a comment below. I love to hear your thoughts on the fic; be it a favorite part, line of dialogue, overall impression, characterization, etc. Feed the author, please and thank you!