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It felt like bricks were tied to his ankles. Every step was a straining effort. He could hear his heart beating loudly in his ears, feel the thrumming in his chest. He felt pins and needles prick his fingers, could feel the tell-tale sting in his eyes from unshed tears. His armor felt both too tight and too loose, shifting around him uncomfortably, making his head swim. He bit into his lip and flinched as his too-sharp canines broke skin. Filling his mouth with copper.
Between these walls, under the roof of the Lion’s mouth, he could hear the echo of his voice. Of his laughter. Of his might. Of his dying request.
Keith, if I don’t make it out of here, I want you to lead Voltron.
Why would you make me the leader?
Why me, why me, why me, why me–
Because I know what you’re capable of.
It felt as loud as a shout, barely above a whisper, yet nothing at all.
The seat was vacant even though it was still sidled up to the dashboard. Almost like someone was still sitting there. Invisible and silent. Perhaps fast asleep or long gone. The lights were out, washing the cockpit in deep violet shadows. The only pop of color was the Bayard, still jammed into the dash panel. Stubborn and impossible to remove, almost like the sword in the stone. There was no telling who could pull it free.
He sat on the pilot seat and reached toward the sticks before him. The seat felt like rough leather and surrounded him like a throne. Far too big for the present Paladin. The sticks were thick, carved for bigger hands. Made for a confident, born leader. It all felt wrong.
“I know you want this for me, Shiro,” Keith muttered with broken words. His hands shook with his grasp on the sticks. “But I’m not you. I can’t lead them like you.”
Emotion welled in his throat, gripping tighter and tighter. His arms felt numb and the world cracked around him. He shut his eyes as his mind went to battle. Desperate for a glimmer of light, desperate for the consuming shadows. Yearning for a voice to enter his head, yearning for his mind to quiet to nothing. Please, say nothing– please, tell me they’re wrong– please, light up– let me grant him his dying wish.
A growl rumbled in his head and his eyes flew open. He was slumped forward in the seat, gaze locked to the ground. Soft lights painted the lavender floors and the black metal plating. Images and thoughts bounded through his head, forming words that weren’t spoken.
You have your purpose, the silent voice echoed through his head. The right one will come, eventually.
Then it cut. Like shears cutting through fragile lint. An almost audible slice, a break, a tear. He couldn’t feel him anymore. The mischievous tint, the calming and powerful energy that swirled in his chest. The only thing that kept him moving forward.
He’s gone.
"Please, no..."