1.

In the end, it wouldn't be the burning blow of a Galra weapon that carried Shiro to his oft-delayed end, nor would it be a moment of bravery and heroism. Arrogant, to have assumed that being away from Earth would have stripped him of any of humanity's weaknesses – of his humanity. Shiro watched the console of his stolen escape pod blur and warp.

He had escaped the Galra twice. It would have to be enough. They'd torn holes in his body and his mind, but his soul was unbroken – if Shiro believed in souls, that is. He hoped he did. His thoughts were as unfocused as his eyes, showing him grey, grey, nothing other than the uncaring blackness waiting to consume him. He closed them.

His memories burst with color, bright splashes of light and vivid pigment, as if they'd been retouched and enhanced in post-production. They, too, faded at the edges, drifted into obscurity and deep pits he didn't see until he stumbled into them, but the castle ship was nowhere in sight: they were all he had.

Shiro didn't think of Earth, but he thought of home. Their faces floated in his dreams.

2.

Keith's eyes burned, and for a moment, Shiro feared that the flames would gutter and die. He reached – for words, for Keith, to bridge the distance he could never seem to cross – but his fingers skimmed across its edge. Keith turned away.

He wanted to join the Blades, Shiro told himself, trying not to feel as lost and breathless as he had in the tiny escape pod.

And, after all, the gap between them would feel no larger than it already did.

3.

"As many times as it takes," Shiro growled. "Isn't that what you said, Keith? If I'd known you meant blowing yourself up because you'd rather be a martyr than work with a team-"

"There was no team," retorted Keith. His voice was held in place with steel bands, quivering under the strain. "There was no time. If the barrier didn't come down, no one would have made it out. That would have been it. Game over, Shiro."

He was wrong. This was wrong. Shiro wondered if the Galra had managed to take out some intrinsic part of him as neatly as they'd removed his arm – the part of him that would have let him talk to Keith, to explain that it wasn't intention but the unacceptable result that was the problem. He would have been able to, before. He tried to remember the easy care they'd shared, before, when Keith would have fallen and trusted Shiro to catch him without a second thought. Now, he could only see Keith's slender frame shaking behind the curves of his fight-hardened muscles – fear and adrenaline and desperation were waged in a war of attrition.

Someone cleared their throat. Shiro dismissed it reflexively. It was a merely a distraction from what was important. The arena had quickly taught him to ignore the crowd's heartless cheers and focus on the bloodshed before him. That much, he remembered.

"What's with you, Keith?" he demanded.

Keith's mouth twisted. "I could ask you the same thing," he shot back. "You used to trust my decisions. You wanted me to lead Voltron, remember?" The words cracked as they fell from his lips, dropping to a whisper. "I spent so long looking for you. I feel like I still am."

"Paladins," Allura cut in, a smooth, cool warning that drifted through the air. The caution in her voice was warm compared to the figure that stood beside her. Lotor was tall, made of calculating edges and hidden blades. His every movement crackled with danger.

"This isn't your paladin," Lotor said, slicing through the thick tension without dispersing it. "That one is my mother's work."