It's cold out here in this purple-hued corridor. Or maybe Lance is the one who is cold. Ice-water coursing through his veins as hot blood hemorrhages out. You know, it's really tiring to lose a lot of blood. Lance rates this experience 1/5 stars, never doing this again. Galra spaceship: 1/5 stars; horrendous service and terrible atmosphere. Come on, these people are taking a devotion to the color purple to obsessive levels. They really need to work on expanding their color scheme. Go for some interior redecoration and renovation. Knock out a few walls (it's funny how a few walls can so totally isolate him from his team). Get some ambient music going on up here. He isn't really digging this whole thundering footsteps (those Galra sure run large and dense), whirring and glow of plasma swords and laser guns space-age chic.
Alone and bleeding out in a corridor, in an alcove, in a Galra spaceship, in the void of space was never how Lance thought he'd die. Helmet and comms crushed a while ago beneath booted feet. Battle suit smeared with blood—his and a Galra soldier's. Lance thinks maybe that Galra soldier nicked an artery. It's funny how the suit protects most of his legs but stops just shy of his femoral arteries. The things you sacrifice for movement.
It's only been a minute since he took that fateful, fatal hit to his thigh. Lance never expected the hit. He thought the soldier was down—down permanently (it's also funny the way he doesn't hesitate to take the killing shot anymore). Turns out that Galra run on pure spite, hence that soldier's last surprise hit.
The only hope Lance has left is the tracker embedded in his suit. Maybe now his team is fighting their way towards him. For a prison/slave ship, it has an unusual amount of soldiers occupying it. Suspiciously so. But Lance no longer has the time or energy to wonder.
His eyes are drooping shut and he can't muster the energy to reopen them. It's dark and delirious now in his mind. And all he can see is white sands and moonstone blue waters. Can see the Moon tugging on the waters. Rippling tides and waves. Smell the sharp, briny scent of saltwater. It's quiet out there in the way it never was when he was home.
Oh, when he was home. . .home in a town near Varadero Beach, home in a town where nothing was ever quiet, and home in a town where his family now lays him to rest. Lance has been with Voltron for a long, long while—long enough that it's likely his parents have given up all hope. They've placed all their hopes and memories into an empty casket. It's funny, Lance thinks, because now nobody has to pay for a coffin to bury him in, deep underground where the sun doesn't shine and the ocean doesn't shimmer. His family won't be disappointed when he never comes home alive and healthy. They'll only have to slide on the mantle of their grief like a well-worn coat, the sort of coat you slip on when the wind is too unruly and the air is too frigid. It warms them up with rotten-sweet sorrow.
There are no morticians aboard their castle-ship. Maybe they'll leave him here to rot on this godforsaken ship. Maybe they'll find a planet nearby with dirt enough to cover his rotting body. Maybe they'll find a planet nearby with an ocean big enough to be his watery grave. Maybe they'll preserve him on their castle-ship—stick him in a pod and when the going gets tough, they'll look at Lance and remember all that they've lost. Maybe they'll finally bring him home to Earth, where the stars don't change, the sun always shines, and the ocean glitters in the moonlight. Then they'll dig up his casket and leave him in his new home. They'll say pretty words and make him a martyr for their cause. And when they go back into space in this never-ending war, they'll think of Lance and fight. There is no glory in war, but they'll find their vengeance for sure.
If Lance dies, Lance knows that he'll leave a void in Voltron. There's always five Paladins of Voltron, not four. For all of Lance's insecurities, he knows that he's the one who lightens their moods with his antics. He's loud and boisterous. He draws their attention and makes them groan in exasperation. He makes them feel alive—feel like there's more to their life than just war and its unending violence. Lance and his Blue Lion are the Guardian of Water and every human is 2/3 water. They'll never escape the specter of his death, should he die. He's a part of them. Their quintessence and hearts bound together.
Without Lance, who will make them laugh? Who will make them smile? Who will exasperate them in a way that feels like a homecoming? Who will make them feel like family? Who will mourn with Allura and Coran the loss of their worlds? Who will listen to Coran's stories? Who will look and listen? Who will be Keith's friend and rival? Who will admire Shiro? Who will sink into Hunk's soul and carve out their own place? Who will goad and annoy Pidge in the time-honored way of older siblings?
You can fill in a crack with pretty, pretty gold but you'll still know the crack is there. You can't escape an absence for all you've tried to fill it up. You'll know there is an emptiness in you, no matter how big or small it is, you'll know. It's an open wound that you can't help but rip off the scab. Eventually, you'll feel like cauterizing this wound. You'll think that if you just keep on fighting, that your wound will close. Cauterized with the heated blood of your enemies. It all feels like fool's gold.
For all of Lance's delirious speculations, all Lance knows for sure is that he can hear a resurgence in thundering footsteps. They aren't as loud as they were and maybe that's a good thing. For all his eyes are closed, he can tell there's light—the sort of light that penetrates your eyelids and leaves your world caught up in red. And Lance wonders (he's always been curious).