Altea would not have allowed this. They were a fair people. Just in their laws, reasonable but not cold- sympathetic to the blight of others less fortunate. They would have never allowed Voltron to be turned solely against one race, Voltron was not a weapon, it was a symbol of peace- a symbol of peace. A nice sentiment. A sentiment worth dying for even.
Allura is bitter. She can taste in on her tongue, feel it burning behind her eyelids, pulsing achingly with her heart. Allura is not like her people, she is not like her father. If it were him who had survived he would have wept for her absence, with enough tears to drown out the universe, enough sorrow to fill a black hole. Allura feels nothing. In this metaphor, she supposes, she is the black hole. Sucking and straining and clawing at the universe, but empty all the same.
She knows this is wrong. She knows that her commands kill, that her pointed finger burns lives away, flame consuming candle wax much, much too fast. She remembers old lessons, balance, peace- equality between all, tranquility in the air. Breathe in with the universe, breathe out- Quintessence shared, linked with ever living creature. Breathe in breathe out.
The Galra ship falls, fire pouring from every lilac crevice, metal tearing itself apart, gravity throwing people into shards of glass, like a god decided to bite down, like a hurricane of flame and death. Allura feels a pang of satisfaction. Breathe in breathe out. The universe is dying.
Allura is still a child. She knows this abstractly, in star charts and calendars, and she knows it personally, in Coran's eyes, his downturned smile, despair painting its way onto his face when he thinks she is not watching. She is always watching. Her people would be horrified, a child in command, making plans and vividly checking every angle of attack, paranoia pounding deeper and deeper into her skull. She can practically feel their disappointment, their worry, their horror, as she points the ships cannons at a Galra settlement and fires. Altean rules are always fair. She wonders if she is old enough in their eyes to be convicted. Would she be a criminal in law as well as in action?
They are all children. The paladins, so small and frail, bones made of glass, skin like eggshells. They are the universes warriors, soldiers on every front, killers a thousand times over. Their eldest is twenty-five, still practically a teenager by Altean standards. Pidge is fourteen. Allura is too tired to cry, but she can feel something in her hurt at this revelation- as her littlest paladin gazes up at her, patting her arm tentatively.
She had done this to them. She knows, she knows there is no other choice- but sometimes it feels like anything else would have been better.
Allura leans into Coran's side, a brief moment of weakness. She remembers when these halls were filled with noise and movement and color. Her people are naturally vibrant, the walls are plain so they do not clash with the castles lively inhabitants. But now they are just white. Now they are just cold. Nothing. A bleached black hole. Allura wants to scream, she wants to fight, she wants to pound her fists and cry and rage and rage- this isn't fair- this isn't right-why her- why- why- why- she is silent. She puts her head on Coran's shoulder and sighs. She closes her eyes to quiet empty walls of white.
Altea would not have allowed this. But it is gone. And she is still here. Still.
Allura falls asleep wishing she wasn't.