Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Shiro’s pit stop for fruit is, quite frankly, a catastrophe.

“Excuse me! Sorry! Coming through!” Shiro yells as he dashes through the opposing rush of bodies. They part for him not because he asks, but because he is a six foot tall teenager with broad shoulders that runs with the force of a bull.

All Shiro wanted was some fruit. But then he had to go and knock a whole wall over. He didn’t mean it, of course not; but it was either the wall or tripping over a small Arusian woman. Shiro chose the former. Unfortunately, his choice shouldered an entire pillar from its base.

The stone columns of the round courtyard topple over one another like dominoes, sending up a cloud of dust with each loud and painful crash. People run from the marketplace stalls, shrieking and clutching their goods or their children close. Vendors abandon their wares and some booths are unlucky enough to be crushed by the heavy stone blocks.

Shiro can only scramble to fix it. He sprints the inner perimeter in wide leaps, chasing the path of destruction from which others flee. Despite his determination, the youthful panic on his face does not instill any confidence in bystanders. One, two, three, four, five columns down before Shiro is close to the destruction point. He quickly slips between a tipping column and the next; a dangerous place to be. Shiro plants a foot behind him, holds his breath, and stretches out his arms. Gasps and screams fill the courtyard in anticipation of watching some poor, reckless young human get crushed for his folly.

The two ton column stops. It still tilts, mid fall, but is rendered immobile at Shiro’s hands.

The muscles in his arms tense and shift but the feat is, admittedly, effortless for him. His sandals press deep indents into the ground from the pressure, but there is no sweat on his brow. Pebbles and dust shower down from above and he coughs, shaking the debris off with a toss of his head. The column shifts with the movement and he reigns in his concentration in a panic.

Shiro has a problem to fix. Stopping the column was one thing. Now he has to figure out what to do with the thirty foot battering ram in his arms.

He looks to and fro, over his shoulder both ways, considering the best course of action. People have huddled on the far side of the yard as stunned observers. They look on with wide eyes and Shiro can hear the sounds of awe that ripple over the crowd over the crumble of stone. This isn’t a sight they see everyday. But Shiro doesn’t ever let it go to his head. Because, inevitably, his gift turns on him.

Shiro decides the best course of action is to toss the column in his arms safely aside, catch the next previously fallen column, and work his way down the line. Easier said than done. He widens his stance, steadies his body, and lifts. The column rips right out of the ground without hesitation. Shiro thinks he hears someone curse aloud. An optimistic thought passes through his mind: maybe his plan will work after all.

Unfortunately, just as he is about to twist and throw it away from the crowd, a particularly large chunk of marble falls down and conks him on the head with a resounding THUMP!

Stars, what he wouldn’t do for a normal day.

Shiro lurches the opposite way, loses his grip, and the column goes flying — right toward the herd of bystanders.

He looks up just in time to watch the column take to the air in slow motion. The height it gets is astounding, blocking out the sun like some bizarre solar eclipse. People’s expressions twist into terror and a collective, guttural scream erupts as they scatter away from the incoming hazard.

“Watch out!” Shiro cries. The next column in the line up nearly crushes him while he is distracted. It clips his leg but, ultimately, he dodges in time. He rolls into the dirt shoulder first and feels like he twists something wrong. The column falls, knocks its neighbor, and the destruction has momentum again.

With his head spinning and shoulder aching, Shiro stumbles to his feet and looks up — the situation is worse than before. The upside is that everyone seems to have escaped being crushed by the flying column. The downside is the flying column has hit the other end of the courtyard and has created another chain reaction. By the time he can even fathom the calamity that surrounds him, everything topples down from both ends. Shiro is powerless to stop it. He’s strong, but he can’t be in two places at once.

He cringes as the last two columns fall over one another, leaving the entire courtyard in shambles. Stalls damaged beyond repair, produce strewn about, artisan goods crushed, an entire architectural structure raised to the ground — and Shiro standing in the middle of it. He feels nauseous.

Then comes the inescapable:

“What is wrong with you?” someone yells. They close in on him from all sides — merchants and patrons alike — and Shiro puts up his hands in defense. The remorse and pain in his expression doesn’t deter their anger.

A woman pulls her little girl close. As if he would hurt the child too. “Were you trying to kill us?” she demands.

“No! Of course not, it was a mistake!” Shiro insists. “I didn’t mean to — “

An Unilu trader brandishes a cleaver at Shiro and he takes a step back. “Make me lose a whole week’s wages?” she sneers.

The angry mob closes in around him and Shiro, gentle soul that he is, only keeps apologizing. They wave broken melons in his face, scream demands, and threaten to call authorities.

This plays out over and over again. It is part of the inevitable cycle that is Shiro’s life. He is always well intentioned, but his extraordinary strength almost always turns around on him. The harder he tries, the worse the outcome. No good deed goes unpunished, he supposes. Year after year, Shiro grows stronger and stronger and, try as he might, he doesn’t know how to control it. Neither did his parents. Now they are gone and Shiro is left to fend for himself. He can’t even buy an apple without leveling a town.

“He’s too dangerous to be around normal people!” someone screams. Shiro has heard that before too.

“I don’t wanna see your face around here again!” the Unilu cries. The crowd mumbles in agreement; they allow the Unilu the final word as their collective wish. Shiro chances a look around the circle and meets not a single set of kind eyes.

He gently elbows his way through the crowd — the last thing he needs to do is lose his cool and send some poor people flying like the column. With a ducked head and an empty stomach, he makes for the open road. Shiro holds himself tall, like he always does. He hears his father in the recesses of his mind, Don’t let them get to you, Shiro. Always be the bigger person. Shiro picks up the travel sack he dropped at the courtyard entrance and drapes the shawl his mother gave him around his neck.

One of the bystanders throws something at his back and it splatters against his tunic. He doesn’t even flinch. His patient demeanor holds strong. But he does double his pace.

When he was younger, the treatment bothered him more. Now, he understands why they do it. They are scared of him; of what they don’t understand.

It still stings.

He takes to the wide, dirt road and heads up a hill to the left. The pathway slopes and curves with the hilly countryside. It is green and beautiful, dotted with scattered olive groves, cypress trees, and the occasional farm or cottage.

The sight brings him no joy. He is tired. Defeated. Shiro thinks maybe he should just give up his journey altogether. Like he would find any answers at the Temple of the Gods. He should just pull himself up by his sandal straps and deal with his lot in life. Maybe he could find a way to use his strength in the Voltron Games. Even worse, the Galran Coliseum. It might pay well, at least.

When Shiro can no longer hear the jeers and chatter of the mob, he turns and looks down at the mess he created. The rubble of the town center lays in a depressing, flattened circle and the crowd has dispersed to assess the damage. A whole agora destroyed in a matter of minutes. He sighs, too heavy and tired for such a young man. He takes a moment to brush the stone dust from his hair and rub the back of his sore head. He doesn’t feel a crack, but it still throbs something fierce.

“That was impressive,” says a youthful voice.

Shiro turns, ready to confront another angry resident, and is taken by surprise when he comes face to face with two children: a Galran and a Balmeran. They sit together, in a gnarled oak tree off the side of the road. Their little legs dangle off the side of a wide branch and their hands and pockets appear to be full of apricots. They are an odd, but sweet pair.

He is not in the right frame of mind to entertain children, but he can’t possibly ignore them. He sighs and asks, “What was?”

“You are very strong,” says the Balmeran girl, with a voice that is light and sweet. She swings her legs back and forth. “You tried to help.” Shiro’s expression softens. Tried.

The Galran boy with large, pointed ears and white hair shakes his head at his friend. “Not that. You leveled the market with one stroke. You’re powerful.” His stance on the matter is very...Galran. The boy is strangely excited when he leans forward and asks, “What is the heaviest thing you ever lifted?” It’s more like a challenge than a question.

Shiro stifles a chuckle because he thinks the Galran boy would take it as an insult. He thinks maybe he shouldn’t answer; he could cut their meeting short and be on his way. But then he thinks: what harm could it do? They are just kids.

He thinks for a moment. Then says, “A battle cruiser.” He didn’t lift it persay, more like pushed it out to sea — one of the few instances he did not destroy someone’s property.

His answer delights the children. Their eyes go wide as saucers and they make varying sounds of wonder and admiration. Shiro smiles and watches them confer to one another about the heaviest things they have ever lifted. Like a vase full of water or a parent’s broadsword or an entire basket of potatoes. The Galran boy insists he is stronger. The Balmeran girl concedes. Shiro has a feeling she is actually stronger and that she knows it.

The boy’s curious, yellow eyes turn back to Shiro. “How did you get so strong? Who did you train under?” the boy demands. He’s got spunk.

“I was born this way. I’ve never trained with anyone,” Shiro explains softly. He omits the part where he was found abandoned on a mountainside as an infant. How his loving parents took him in and raised him on a farm miles and miles away. How he felt cursed by the burden of his gift.

Shiro always assumed that was why he was discarded — because he was cursed.

But the children don’t need to know that.

“Impossible,” spits the boy.

“Most wonderful,” chimes the girl.

Shiro’s eyes brighten. He is charmed by the complementary pair. They have their own strange little agendas, but speaking with them lifts his spirits. Shiro decides he hasn’t given up on innocence and kindness in the world. Not by a long shot.

“Something on your back,” says the Balmeran girl.

“Oh, uh,” Shiro stumbles and attempts a look over his shoulder. Children, more than most, understand the concept of bullying. But he doesn’t feel up to an explanation.

The young Balmeran’s earrings jangle together as she jumps down from the tree. She walks right up to him, no hesitation, and carefully brushes away the remnants of bad produce from his clothes with her large claws. She steps back and smiles, “Much improved.”

“Here,” says the Galran boy. Shiro turns just in time to catch three perfectly ripe apricots.

The gesture takes him by surprise for, as far as he knows, the Galra are not known for their generosity. Or general kindness. But, then again, humans are not well known for their strength. Shiro smiles through his surprise. “Thank you very much.”

The boy just shrugs and turns his nose like it means nothing, but his pointed ears shyly flatten close to his head.

Shiro places the apricots in his satchel just as the Balmeran girl confesses, “They are stolen.” She smiles proudly, but sweetly, and Shiro just blinks back at her. They are, undoubtedly, a very odd set of children.

“You’re not supposed to tell him that,” hisses the boy.

Shiro picks up the young Balmeran, light as a feather, and easily sets her back into the tree beside her friend. “It’s okay,” Shiro says, “I won’t tell. But maybe ask next time. They might taste sweeter if you’ve earned them.”

The duo looks sheepish, and the lesson may have gone over their heads but it was worth a try. Shiro looks at them for a moment, letting them stew in the wisdom, before reaching over and shaking the big branch they sit on. Meaning, he barely jiggles it and the whole tree trembles. The children cling to the tree and laugh, like it’s some sort of ride or a new game the strongman has just taught them.

The heavy cloud above Shiro’s head dissipates. When he pulls his hand back and hikes the satchel higher up his shoulder, the children are in a fit of giggles.

“Keep out of trouble now,” he says and turns to the road with a warm heart.

“Healthy travels!” chirps one.

“Vrepit sa,” says the other.

Shiro knows he is close to his destination from the silhouette of mountains in the near distance. The big range of ashy hills and valleys is imposing and dark but Shiro has never been one to scare easily. If he keeps his pace, he knows he can make it by sundown.

Beyond his destination stands Mount Voltron. A sharp, singular peak reaching far above the bright clouds and into the heavens. He has only ever used it as a point of reference when travelling because its greatness can be seen for miles and miles. They say the summit, paved with gold and ancient magic, is the home of the gods. Perhaps. Shiro has always been a man of science, so he remains skeptical.

That being said, the Temple of the Gods is his aim. It is the last place he thinks he can find some answers. Maybe. Shiro doesn’t know why, but he feels drawn there. Just as his eyes are always drawn to Mount Voltron; ever present, the compass with which he guides his way.

The countryside road is easy. The trek up the mountainside is hard. It rains off and on in what appears to be a timed pattern. Shiro wonders if it is a scientific anomaly. Or maybe it is magic. He has no scientific explanation for his strength so he is willing to entertain any hypothesis. The path is steep, rocky, and rarely travelled. Shiro’s sandaled feet slip out from under him repeatedly and the ash permanently stains the knees of his pants. The sun sets long before he sees the temple.

When he does, it takes his breath away.

The structure is a colossal pyramid of ivory stone, stark and bright against the dark mountain ash. The designs cut into the stone look Altean. Some curves and lines even appear to glow. The base of the pyramid is the only place where anything green and lush grows — juniberries coat the ground in a striking blanket of bright purple. Shallow steps lead the way to a tall, open entrance that is flanked by two imposing lion statues. At least, they might be lions. The temple looks particularly warm and inviting after a long journey.

As he draws nearer, footfalls sluggish from exhaustion, Shiro spots a figure at the temple’s entrance. A red haired man in Altean ceremonial robes sits crouched at the base of one of the two lion statues. He reaches for something in the crevice between the pedestal and the statue.

“Oh quiznak,” the man curses in his struggle.

“Need a hand?” Shiro asks, lingering at the foot of the stairs. The Altean startles, glances at Shiro, and his struggle increases four fold, like he has been caught in an indecent situation.

“Oh no, no, don’t be silly! Just have to twist this way and give it a good yank that way and maybe give it a shove that way and I think if I just — “ the man rambles. He braces his feet against the statue’s base and pulls back hard. The undertaking is almost comical.

Shiro realizes the Altean is not reaching — his arm is stuck under the lion statue.

After a long bout, the Altean pauses his struggle and catches his breath. Apparently, this has been going on for some time. The man tries one more strong pull before giving up and greeting Shiro with a smile.

“Hello, pilgrim! My name is Coran and I am the guardian of this temple! What brings you here today, young one?” It feels scripted. Apparently, Coran realizes he is not going anywhere. So this is how introductions are going to happen. Shiro approaches and notices Coran has quite a mustache. And a very genial, approachable demeanor. Shiro likes him from the get go despite his inherent silliness.

“Uh, hello Coran, my name is Shiro. I’ve come a long way to seek council and — are you sure you don’t need any help?” Shiro asks, genuine alarm in his expression. Coran has continued to try and remove his arm without Shiro noticing but the Altean’s face is beet red from exhaustion. So Shiro can tell.

Coran officially gives up the fight and sighs, “Well, I suppose you’ve caught me in a bit of a conundrum. I dropped something down here, reached in to get it, and now I’m in a pickle. That’s how you humans say that, yes? A pickle?”

Shiro nods. His confusion overshadows his weariness.

“Yes, quite the pickle I’m afraid! Perhaps you could find something to pry this statue up just a bit. Or if you happen to have any olive oil in that bag perhaps — If only I had a case of the slipperies right now. I wonder if I can trigger slipperies,” Coran says. Shiro doesn’t know what that means and he decides not to ask.

Shiro shuffles awkwardly. He knows what he can do. But after the market fiasco, he is terrified to offer. Shiro imagines the worst possible scenarios: crushing Coran’s arm under the statue’s weight or throwing the lion into the pyramid because a fly gets in his eyes. It is always a gamble. But when someone needs his help, Shiro’s palms itch and his body becomes restless. He can’t help but answer the call; like it is programmed in his bones. He climbs the next couple of steps and grips the lip of the lion statue with one hand.

“Oh, you won’t be able to lift it. It’s very — SWEET MOTHER ALTEA!” Coran’s eyes pop out of his head.

Shiro lifts the statue with one hand, no hesitation. It weighs like nothing in comparison to a stone column. He holds it over his head and Coran is stunned to the spot, arm still outstretched over the lion statue’s base.

“You might want to — “ Shiro starts, nodding his chin.

“Oh! Right! Right!” Coran says and pulls his arm to his torso.

As gently as handling a butterfly’s wing, Shiro puts the statue back on its base. It takes a long time to do so and Shiro’s face is purple with focus by the time it finally touches down. The lion drops the rest of the gap when Shiro slips his fingers out, but the angle isn’t right.

The right paw snaps clean off. The stone piece tumbles down the temple steps with a sickening clatter.

Shiro is mortified.

“Oh my,” he hears Coran say.

Shiro rushes down the steps and quickly retrieves the piece. A little section crumbles off. Not good. Very not good. Shiro guiltily offers the head sized paw to the Altean man. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he says. For the millionth time that day.

Coran takes it, lurching forward with the sudden weight, and looks it over. He expects Coran to scream at him; to turn him away because he has disrespected the gods and destroyed an ancient religious artifact. Instead, the man is calm. He frowns in deep reflection, shrugs, and tries to shove the piece back into place. The paw sticks for a moment — before rolling off the pedestal again. Shiro’s stomach drops.

Coran waves a hand. “Not to worry, I’ll deal with it later!” he announces, with honest ease.

Shiro is bewildered. “Are you sure?”

“Of course, my friend! Allura above, I once knocked off a head and lived to tell the tale!” Coran laughs like his joke is the funniest in the world. Shiro is so rattled but he manages a nervous chuckle in return as Coran knocks Shiro with the back of his hand. Unfortunately, hitting Shiro anywhere on his body feels like hitting solid diamond. Coran winces and not so covertly shakes out the pain behind his back.

Shiro is out of his depth. He can’t understand why Coran takes his mistake so gracefully, but the tension eases away from Shiro’s shoulders all the same. He can’t remember the last time someone said one of his mistakes was okay. Maybe his parents.

“You have quite a gift, Shiro,” Coran says, casually inspecting the knuckles of his soon to be bruised hand, “I’ve seen many things in my time, but I haven’t seen anything quite like that before.”

It’s what everyone says. Until Shiro ruins their house or uproots their entire garden or floods their town by accidentally breaking a dam. But Shiro isn’t in the mood to debate, especially when Coran is being so nice.

He turns toward the temple guardian. “It’s why I’ve come here, Coran. To see if the gods know why — why I have this,” Shiro says and looks at the palms of his strong hands.

Coran’s eyebrows shoot toward his hairline and he sticks a forefinger up in the air. “Oh, you are seeking your destiny.” He says it so mystically. Shiro doesn’t really believe in fate or destiny. He doesn’t think anyone really does. Maybe Coran does. But, nice as he is, the Altean seems like he might be a few crystals short of a full cavern.

Shiro shrugs, “Or maybe they can take my strength away. Make me normal.” Deep down, he doesn’t want that. But if it would make his life easier, he would take the option; for the good of everyone around him.

Coran is struck silent. He looks at Shiro for a moment before asking, “Oh, my boy, why ever would you want that?” He looks so sad.

The young man wavers. Then admits, “So I stop hurting people.”

The temple guardian looks at him for a long time. Shiro can finally see the signs of age on his face when he isn’t smiling. Coran considers Shiro’s answer with great scrutiny, even turns and mumbles to himself. Or perhaps someone? Shiro isn’t quite sure. It has been a strange day, Shiro is willing to roll with anything. Coran nods when he turns back to Shiro. A decisive, confident nod. “I think you will find the answers you seek here, pilgrim.” He seems like an actual sage now. He holds his shoulders with great certainty.

“It’s late in the day, so you are the only visitor. Take all the time you need,” Coran says and stretches his unstuck arm out wide, gesturing to the temple’s grand, open entryway.

Shiro swallows hard. Strange nerves hit him like static electricity. He knows he looks a mess, probably not appropriate for a place of worship. He is sopping wet from head to toe, smells of sweat, and is covered in smudges of volcanic ash. He shakes out his wet two-tone hair and attempts to wipe the dirt from his tunic. His efforts only smear the grime around.

“It’s okay, the gods don’t judge by appearances,” Coran says. Then pauses with a finger on his chin, “Actually, one might. But I don’t think that’s the one you’re going to appeal to today.”

“Who should I appeal to?” Shiro asks and his youth is more apparent in his wide eyes. He has never done this before.

Coran just smiles. “Ah, a newcomer. You will know. You will feel it.” The man places his hand over his own heart. The notion is very unscientific.

Shiro takes a deep breath and gazes up at the pyramid. His gray eyes are unsure. But that is what bravery is, isn’t it? Standing strong in the face of fear. “Okay,” he says. Shiro takes the stairs one at a time and clutches his bag closer. The air closer to the temple feels charged, buzzing with something Shiro cannot understand.

He stands before the entrance, shoulders square. The entryway towers above him like a gaping maw, ready to swallow him whole. He looks back at Coran one last time, the man waves, and Shiro enters the temple.

Now alone, Coran hums to himself. He picks up the fallen stone paw and fits it to its rightful place once more. “He didn’t mean it, old girl,” he says and pats the lion’s head.

The stone piece holds. A light shines from the crack where it severed. Then, the break is gone entirely. The lion statue is whole once more.

Coran is unphased. As if that exact miracle has happened dozens of times before. He sits down on the steps. He could go into the temple, but Shiro seems like the type to need quiet, contemplative space. The Altean holds up a bottle, the fruits of his labors. “At least he helped me get my nunvil back.”

Coran’s pointed ears perk up. He looks to the statue as if listening. A moment passes before he smiles and says, “Oh yes, I like him too.”

The inside of the pyramid looks impossibly larger than the outside. The long, main room stretches the entire length of the temple and Shiro can’t remember visiting a structure so grand in all his nineteen years. The interior is open and warm, lit by glowing torches and wall braziers of pure energy: a type of technology humans have not learned how to harness yet. The walls are tall and windowless, made of the same ivory stone blocks as the exterior. Shiro eyes a blue crystal in the center of the hall. It carries the volume of a sizable boulder and sits on a wide pedestal, pulsing like a heartbeat. One day science will explain everything. For now, he chalks it up to ancient magic.

Five enormous stone statues line the walls. Three on one side and two on the other.

A sixth alcove where another statue should be sits vacant.

The hall is eerily quiet save for his own echoing footsteps and the wind whistling through cracks in the walls. He feels anxious. Shiro pulls his shawl closer and approaches the first statue.

A robust man with a wide smile sits with both feet planted firmly on the ground. His throne is surrounded by stone food containers and barrels. He cradles a large wheat bundle in the crook of one arm. His other arm is bent, a hand over his heart. The base of the statue is littered with offerings — tiny shards of blue crystal, fruit, glass bottles, or rolled scraps of paper that are weighed down by small pebbles. Shiro looks down the line and realizes all the statues have offerings. He did not come prepared. He looks at the carving at the base:

Shiro likes him. He has the face of someone kind and who listens well. But Shiro thinks he is not the right choice. He moves on.

The next is much smaller in stature. She has a clever, confident look about her. She sits with her legs pulled up and crossed over a throne carved with blocky, Olkarion designs and wrapped in gnarled vines. An open book rests in one hand and in the other: a simple cube. Shiro could be mistaken, but the cube appears to float above her hand. At the base are books, small potted plants, and pieces from machinery like cogs and bolts. The plaque at the base says:

Still not right, but Shiro likes what she stands for.

Rather than sitting in his chair, the next god lounges. The lithe, sharp faced young man has an ankle hooked on the opposite knee and leans back in his throne, relaxed and, albeit, a little smug. One elbow is propped on the armrest and his jaw rests on his fist. A bow and quiver of arrows leans against the side of his throne which is carved with aquatic designs Shiro thinks he’s seen from ancient illustrations of mer-folk. His outstretched hand holds the stem of a rose. Coins, roses, bits of mirror, and smooth pieces of sea glass have been placed as offerings. Shiro steps closer:

It says humans but...Shiro knows this is not the one.

The next is Galran. He is an imposing figure, larger than any of the gods thus far. He is dressed in battle armor, seated with pride on a throne made of sharp points and carved with the Galra symbol. He holds the hilt of a sword in one hand, blade pointed downward into the floor, and his other outstretched palm, clawed fingers splayed, holds a blaze of fire. His face is void of emotion. The offerings for him are plentiful: knives, shards of flint, chunks of metal, animal fangs and bones, and small vials that glow. Shiro gently moves aside a jagged blade to see the plaque.

Definitely not what Shiro wants. That, and he feels unsettled when he looks up at the statue’s face.

The next space is vacant.

So that leaves only one.

She is a strong, beautiful figure. Her stance is graceful, head held high and proud. She sits forward in her Altean marked throne at the ready, feet set close together on the ground. In one hand she holds the stem of a juniberry and the other is open and empty, reaching out. The base of her throne is carpeted in juniberry flowers. In an enclosed space, the smell of them is sickly sweet and overpowering. Among the other gifts laid are pieces of jewelry, small olive branches, and small tokens engraved with depictions of mice. He reads the plaque:

She is the one. Whatever Coran was talking about, Shiro feels it. He should have picked a juniberry when he was outside. Too late now, to exit the temple for one would be mildly embarrassing.

Shiro takes his bag from his shoulder and rifles through the meager belongings he brought on the journey. He pulls out the last apricot, small and bruised, and places it near the statue’s feet. It was a gesture of good will — of mercy, perhaps — from the children. So Shiro thinks it may be appropriate, though it dwarfs in comparison to the other gifts laid for her.

Shiro takes a few steps back and regards the Goddess Allura again. He isn’t entirely sure what to do.

“Um, hello,” Shiro says and the voice that echoes back startles him. He got used to the quiet.

Shiro lowers to one knee and sets his bag on the floor. He sucks in a breath. The hum under his skin intensifies. He felt it the moment he stepped foot in the temple and now his body practically reverberates with it.

Here goes nothing.

“Goddess Allura,” he says and bows his head, “Please, I’ve come here seeking answers. Why do I have this gift? There must be a reason. Tell me what to do with it. Please, tell me where I belong.”

He waits.

Nothing happens. The wind blows.

Of course nothing happens.

“I guess, give me a sign or something. Send me in the right direction — “

A roar breaks through the quiet like a crash of thunder and startles Shiro to his feet. He thinks he has imagined it for a moment, before the temple lights dim and reignite themselves in a pink hue. Out of the corner of his eye, Shiro sees the large central crystal burn brighter and brighter, humming like the feeling under his skin. He covers his face with an arm when it practically blinds him.

Suddenly, the glaring light shatters and a beam of cool blue shoots out from the column base. Shiro can see again and he watches the light line zig zagging along a groove in the floor like a lightning bolt. It draws nearer and nearer, but Shiro feels he doesn’t have to be afraid of it. The glow dashes between his feet, up through the juniberries, and into Allura’s statue.

The light crackles and expands, branching off until an entire network of thin, crystal lines covers the surface of the statue. It’s dazzling. Shiro has never seen anything like it.

He thinks he is hallucinating when the statue’s outspread fingers twitch.

They twitch again and Shiro supposes maybe he is hallucinating. He falls back when the fingers clench into a fist with the crunch of stone on stone. The statue’s eyes break open, glowing bright and infinite. Shiro scrambles backwards on all fours, but he doesn’t get all that far before the goddess’s eyes turn toward him and he is petrified to the spot. It’s a look that can bring down empires; that burns with the strength of the sun.

Shiro is out of his depth.

Gradually, the light in her eyes fades and is replaced by an icy blue and purple — almost Earthly. She blinks once, twice, knocking pebbles from her eyelashes. Shiro is struck by her smile.

“I can do much better than a sign, my dear Shiro.” Her voice is level, but loud. She is an enormous statue, after all.

Shiro stares. His eyes are wide open. His chest is heaving. Do juniberries cause hallucinations? Is that possible? Maybe he has finally cracked. Every fibre in his body wants to run from the temple, but he is impossibly frozen to the spot. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water.

The Allura statue holds up her free palm. “Take your time. I agree this is a lot to take in,” she says.

The understatement of a century, Shiro thinks. He looks around. No sign of Coran. No immediate help. If the statue decides to smite him for breaking her lion statue, Shiro just has to outrun her — a terrifying thought. Allura patiently waits, watching Shiro’s expressions shuffle through different stages of shock and bargaining.

When Shiro finally finds his voice, he can’t help but ask, “Does this... always happen when people come here?” He is still sprawled on the ground, halfway between the imposing figures of Allura and Sendak.

She smiles and laughs. Shiro is sure she intends for her laughter to be soft and polite. Instead, it booms through the cavernous space like the crack of waves against a cliff. “No, you are special. I have been waiting for you for some time. We have been waiting. You have grown up so well, Shiro.”

He is alleviated by her smile. She doesn’t make any sudden movements. If anything, the statue appears confined to her throne; with her motions limited to her arms and head. Allura has a calming energy about her and Shiro trusts it. Her eyes look familiar. He can almost hear the tinkling of her earrings, like a memory.

Shiro stands. “Waiting? I don’t understand.” There are a lot of things he doesn’t understand right now.

Allura’s chest raises with a deep breath. “You were born on Mount Voltron,” she says. The notion is so absurd, Shiro doesn’t completely process it. He looks up at the goddess blankly, little gears in his head turning and turning. Allura seems alarmed by his lack of response, her expression exceptionally human. “Shiro, you are our brother.”

The rubble from the column hit him harder than he thought. That’s what this was. “I think you’ve got the wrong person,” is the only thing Shiro can think to say.

“No, I’m quite positive,” says the goddess.

Shiro reaches up and runs his hands through his hair. He tries to keep up with the waves of thoughts and questions that flood his brain. He speaks his thought process aloud, “But that would make me — “

“ — a god,” Allura finishes. She looks very concerned for his well being.

Shiro has had enough for today.

“I, uh, I’m sorry — That’s — I think I need to sit back down.” He crumples on the spot, stumbling onto his rear like he has forgotten how to walk.

Allura smiles, almost guiltily. “Not exactly what you expected, is it?”

Shiro shakes his head.

The goddess holds up both hands — both free and bearing a juniberry — and waves them. “Surprise!” It’s her attempt to soften the blow. Shiro is still reeling.

His whole life. His whole life Shiro believed he was some sort of freak. Cursed. A scientific impossibility. A natural anomaly. But never, ever, ever did he consider the possibility that he was a lost god. Shiro doubted his parents knew. Which brought him to the next thought bouncing around in his overstimulated head: “What happened? Why am I not with you? Did I do something wrong?” he asks, eyes troubled.

Allura looks physically pained. “Oh, Shiro, no. You were a child. You were wonderful in every way,” she smiles sadly, like she knows. As if, in her omniscient wisdom, she has seen the grief and torment Shiro has experienced as an outsider all his life. Shiro feels a pang in his heart: wonderful in every way. His mother once told him that.

Allura continues, “But someone stole you from us. We don’t know why. They made you mortal and only gods can live on Mount Voltron. We couldn’t bring you home.”

The sadness in her eyes makes Shiro sink. He feels so young, so small in comparison to Allura and the tale she weaves; like it must be the story of someone else. “So, that's...it then?” he asks. Shiro can only dare to hope.

Allura’s face brightens. “There is nothing we can do, but you can.”

Shiro scrambles to his feet, that dangerous hope bubbling in his chest. “I’ll do it. Whatever it is,” he says.

He doesn’t want to be a god. Not really. Shiro is too afraid of power to ever bring that kind of burden down on himself. But when he looks at Allura, so resplendent in presence, so sure of the being she is and the adoration she receives and deserves — Shiro wants that. He wants to know his place in the universe.

“Shiro, if you can prove yourself a true hero on Earth then your godhood and immortality will be restored,” she explains. It sounds so simple in those terms.

Shiro steps forward. He isn’t afraid of her towering figure anymore. “A true hero? How do I do that?”

“First, you must learn how to utilize your power.” Shiro’s expression must falter because the goddess shakes her head. “You must not fear it, Shiro. Your power is a responsibility and a gift. Not even the person who took you from us could rob you of it. You must be proud. Training will teach you how to harness it, to use it to its full potential. To do good.”

“Okay,” Shiro says. He doesn’t believe it, but he says it a second time to convince himself. “Okay. So what do I do? Is there someone — “

“His name is Yorak,” the glowing statue says. She has the name at the ready like she has been itching to tell him. With a name like that, Shiro imagines a towering, mean looking man with tattoos and a mace.

“He is the former trainer of many champions in the Galran Coliseum — the best there is. He lives on an island in the Dalterion Sea. Something of a hermit these days.” Shiro doesn’t know how he feels about that. A towering Galran with tattoos, a mace, and a sour attitude. Later, he would find only one aspect of his mental image to be correct. “Under his tutelage you will undoubtedly prove yourself a true hero. Then, you can reclaim your place with us on Mount Voltron. You can come home, my dear Shiro.”

Home. It is almost too fantastical to be true. A place to belong is all Shiro ever wanted. His chest feels so full. He feels like he could lift the entire pyramid with one arm.

“I won’t let you down,” he promises.

Allura smiles. “I know you won’t. Come. Your journey is long. And it will be very difficult. The least I can do is give you a head start.” The statue leans down and offers her open palm. Shiro doesn’t hesitate. He has second guessed himself his entire life. It was time to take some chances. Shiro doesn’t know what the universe has in store for him next, but he faces it with a heart full of courage and hope. He grabs his bag from the floor and steps up into her palm.

“Any advice?” he asks. She lifts him high in the air with an alarming amount of force and he staggers from the movement. But Shiro isn’t afraid.

“Don’t let Yorak scare you away. His destiny is intertwined with yours,” Allura says. Shiro nods and feels like she means something more than mentorship, but he doesn’t have the mind to ask. The goddess brings him level to her face, breathes in deep, and blows.

Stardust pours out from her lips in a shimmering cloud. It floats and surrounds him, and, suddenly, he glows with the same power of the crystal below. His heart skips beats. The lock of hair against his forehead floats. Made up of stardust, he feels almost invincible. Shiro wonders if that is what he will feel like when he becomes a god.

“Good luck, Shiro,” Allura smiles.

Suddenly, he is gone. His glowing body rushes out of the temple doors and into the night sky like a shooting star. Coran, still sitting on the steps and idly chatting to the lion statue, has no idea what to think of the phenomenon.

Allura sits in the silence for a moment and then lets out the tension in her stone shoulders with a sigh. “Family meeting,” she calls to the hall.

The crystal burns bright again, the illumination shatters, and several bolts of light shoot out from beneath the base.

Hunk comes to life first, shaking out a shiver. Then Pidge, with a yawn. And then Lance who looks at either shoulder and cringes before wiping away mounds of bird poop with his free hand. Their awakenings are surprisingly unceremonious and ungraceful, but no one is there to judge. Being a god is a lot of pomp and circumstance and whatever chance they get to be casual is gladly taken.

Everyone’s eyes turn to look at Sendak's motionless statue. “Yoo-hoo. Sendak. You home?” Hunk calls.

No answer. Lance picks up a piece of sea glass, just a speck in between two huge fingers, and flicks it at Sendak’s face. No response. They let out a collective sigh of relief.

“Well, I think that went well,” Pidge says, twirling the floating cube above her fingertips.

Allura rubs a hand against her temple. “It almost didn’t happen at all. Good idea to send those children, Hunk. He was about to give up.”

Hunk smiles, big and proud, “No one can resist their big doe eyes. No one.”

Lance leans over and looks to Allura. “You think it’s a good idea to send him to Keith? Humans and Galra aren’t on the best terms right now,” he says.

“They could just tear each other apart,” Pidge nods.

Hunk, always the optimist, says, “I think Shiro might have what it takes. He’s got a strong heart.”

Allura twirls the juniberry between her fingers. “I agree. And a very tenacious spirit. Besides, Keith will never come to us on his own. And what is that human phrase? Hit two birds with one rock?”

“Stone,” says Lance, “But same difference.”