"Name and species?"
"Samuel Holt. Human, or T-" He coughs harshly into the palm of his hand, abused lungs spasming painfully as another coughing fit hits. The alien's expression is hidden by the mask they're wearing, a stylized version of an alien face, but their posture is concerned as they quickly pass him a foil drinking packet of water. He sips gratefully, the cool liquid clearing some of the dust from his throat and reducing the coughing to ragged gasps as he tries to get his breath back. "O-or Terran." He finally manages to choke out weakly, draining the rest of the pouch and taking a slow breath. The water helps.
The alien passes him another packet, and he takes it and settles it in his lap while they type his information onto a transparent tablet and he focuses on catching his breath. "We'll get the doctor to take a look at those lungs before we take you home." They promise, and he thinks he hears a reassuring smile in their voice. He nods, he's seen beings that couldn't be anything else making the rounds of the rows of newly-liberated prisoners resting in the ship's warm cargo bay, and while he's a bit leery of trying medicines that may or may not be safe for Humans, the thought of leaving his lungs untreated after-months? Years?-of inhaling mine dust is worse. Sam knows what sort of damage those sorts of conditions can do. Then the other half of their words sinks in and he jolts.
"I can't go home yet." He tells the other being, sitting up straighter. "My crew. I have to find my crew." Another cough tries to bubble up in his throat and he fights it down. "Matt, Shiro, I have to find them. We were captured together but we were separated…" This time the cough rips free and he doubles over again, hacking. By the time it subsides he's trembling, and the alien is beside him, rubbing his back while another waves some sort of scanning device over him. "I have to." he gasps. And he hates the desperation in his voice, but god, he can barely walk or talk without collapsing. How is he supposed to find them? Where would he even start?
This time there's no mistaking the sympathy as the first alien nods, even with the mask, tinged with a sorrow he doesn't quite understand. "Of course. Do you know when and where you were captured?"
No. He's long since lost track of the days on that barren moon, and he doubts the names Earth or Sol would mean anything to anyone but another Human.
"Do you know who captured you?"
A Galra. He never saw their face.
The two aliens exchange looks, the doctor pulling something out of a kit and injecting it into Sam's chest before he has a chance to protest. Whatever it is seems to help, the persistent aching of his chest easing slightly for the first time since he came to the mines. The relief must show in his face, because the doctor gets up and moves on.
The other alien, though, stays. "If you'd like, you could stay on with us instead of going home. We can always use more hands to run things, and maybe we'll find your crew in another prison raid." They let out a soft sigh. "With no leads to start from, it might be your best bet."
"It is?" He's not sure how to feel about that. On the one hand, the offer of a place to stay and a way to search is more than he'd dared hope for. On the other… "...just how many prisons are there in the Galra empire? How good are my chances of finding them?"
Instead of answering, his new friend sets their tablet on the floor in front of him. A few touches of the screen brings up a holographic projection, and Sam's heart sinks right through the floor. Those are galaxies, not stars, entire superclusters marked out in crimson that can only mean Empire territory. Each galaxy filled with trillions of stars and god only knows how many alien prisons.
He closes his eyes, unable to look at that stark indicator of an answer any longer. Slim chances, indeed.
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They call themselves the Tol Ma-vel, he learns: Avenging Spirit, rebels against the Empire, united by a cause of vengeance for the lives lost to the Galra, lives commemorated in the masks they wear, the faces of parents and children, siblings and partners, friends and colleagues, and sometimes entire worlds, worn for all to see and proclaiming their cause to the Galra even as they kill any soldier who crosses their path.
Those like Sam, with no masks at all, are too painfully few. None of them are warriors. The masked ones are driven in a way the mask-less are not.
Despite this, he manages to make a place for himself. A listening ear for the troubled, a calm head in tactical discussions. He's old enough to be respected for his wisdom in more areas than one. And if his chest aches a little more, his heart a little heavier with each prison and ship they raid with not one Human to be found among their former captives, well, the burden feels smaller held against the weight of grief some of his new comrades carry.
He makes a habit of patrolling the ship during the night shift, because sorrow boils to the surface more easily in the dark and solitude of a cabin than by day and duty and not all of those who need someone are so willing to ask for help. So he's not surprised the night he sees lights from one of the small workrooms and finds one of the strategists poring over videos.
"Hey. You okay?" He asks softly, and Oltek jumps, the light glinting off the faded faces of his father, sister, two children, husband on his mask. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."
Oltek nods, posture relaxing, and gestures to the screen in front of him. From this angle, Sam can see what seems to be a large room where two small figures are charging each other. "Yeah. I'm good. Was just studying old arena broadcasts. The druids like turning gladiators into robeasts sometimes, so I thought I'd better get familiar with some of 'em in case we ever end up facing one." Sam's non comprehension must show in his face, because Oltek chuckles. "You have no idea what I'm talking about."
"No." Sam admits, and he can feel his cheeks burning. There's so much to learn, still so much he doesn't know about the world out here. He takes a seat beside Oltek, and now he can see the two figures are wearing prisoner purple, which isn't unusual, and armed with swords, which is. Both sport bloody wounds, and the marks of their battle are scattered across the sandy pit around them. "Explain it to me?"
Oltek nods, and gestures to the screen. "This is the arena. You may have heard of it before." Sam has, in fearful whispers, but all he knows is that to be sent there is certain death, and says as much, getting another nod from the tactician. "Pretty much, yeah. Most of those who get sent are just blood fodder, to get the crowds riled up and let the real fighters show off before the actual match between two gladiators. But even the gladiators die eventually. If they're lucky, an opponent kills them or they die of injuries gone bad. If they're not…" His voice goes soft and grim. "The druids take them for their experiments. Those are the ones we need to worry about, since they get used against resistance groups like us."
"I thought you said they died."
"The ones who get experimented on are worse than dead, trust me. There's no coming back from that" A bitter note in his voice tells Sam that he doesn't want to ask.
They fall silent after that, watching video after video together. These are old battles, Oltek tells him, from the last three years. Older than that and any robeast would probably already have been used. And apparently there were some very powerful gladiators during this period, someone told him, which is why he started looking in the first place. Powerful gladiators could become dangerous enemies.
Oltek checks the label on the next file. "Hunter versus Champion." He tells Sam. They're only watching each fighter once, enough to get an idea of what they can do. But this time when the video plays, Sam's heart seems to stop in his chest.
One fighter is a large reptilian, six limbs, mechanized upgrades, and too many inches of claws, stained crimson from countless battles.
And facing him down is Shiro.
He's not the Shiro Sam remembers, all soft smiles and gentle bearing. This Shiro is baring his teeth at his opponent, a half-healed wound raw across his face and a mechanized arm glowing purple as he lunges straight for the reptile's throat. He's ruthless, efficient, and swiftly, perfectly deadly.
The fight is already over before Sam realizes he's hyperventilating. Oltek is grabbing him by the shoulders, trying to talk him down, but he can barely hear him over the blood roaring in his ears. "Shiro." He chokes out. "That was Shiro. My pilot. The one I'm looking for." He's crying, he realizes. God, what happened to that poor boy? The video has ended, the last still frozen, with Shiro raising his metal arm in triumph toward the crowds over the fallen body of a being six times his size. The Shiro he remembers could never, would never, do anything like that.
"He is?" Oltek's grip slackens in shock and the alien turns away, leaving Sam to fight for some semblance of self-control as long fingers fly over the keyboard. "The victor… he'd be Champion, then…" he mutters. "Fighting like that, he could still be alive…." More files roll across the screen, more broadcasts, all labelled with the name Champion, he realizes. Hope that Shiro might still be alive wars with nausea at the sheer number of battles represented here.
Scrolling down to the bottom of the list, Oltek freezes. When he lifts his head, the smooth surface of his mask does nothing to hide the utter sorrow that radiates from his posture.
"Last broadcast of a battle featuring Champion was almost six months ago."
Just like that, the flicker of hope is snuffed out.
Aghra finds him in his room the next morning, staring at the wall in the darkness. He knew she'd come eventually, she seems to have decided he's her special charge ever since she invited him to stay all those months ago for all he's fairly sure he's nearly three times her age. "I just heard." She tells him, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"News travels fast." He mutters. Everyone knows everyone in the Tol Ma-vel, knows whose faces their comrades wear, and the faces they might still have to add to their masks. There's no one who doesn't know about the lone Human's missing crew that he's been searching for all this time.
He feels her shift, probably nodding. "I'm sorry." She murmurs. "I know it doesn't help the pain, but we're here for you."
It's his turn to nod. "I was too late to save him." The guilt is a weight in his chest. Six months ago he was still labouring in a mine. There's nothing he could have done. But that doesn't make it any easier to bear.
A hesitant sound from behind him, then, "I have something for you." Aghra reaches over him, and sets a cool weight in his hands. Even in the dim light of the room, there's no mistaking what it is. A mask, a blank one, smooth and hard and white, ready to be painted with the face of someone taken from him by the Galra. "I have the paints here. Whenever you're ready." One more pause, and a sympathetic caress of his hair. "We'll help you avenge him, Sam."
Then he's alone in the room.
He lays there for a while, staring at the mask in his hands. Finally, he pushes himself upright and reaches for the box of paints. His efforts are clumsy, but the materials are forgiving, and by the end of the day, the mask is done and he gazes at it where it rests in his hands.
Shiro's face stares back at him from it. Soft black hair framing the face, dark eyes that reflect the stars. A gentle smile, lips quirked with the wonder of exploration. No scar, no shock of white hair. He'll remember Shiro as he was, not what the arena turned him into.
As he slips the mask into place, he thinks of his son and prays.
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Time passes. The rebellion grows.
The Tol Ma-vel make new allies, other resistance groups fighting to bring the Empire down, and trade resources and information with them to where they can be best used. Sam gets used to the sight of strangers with odd uniforms and no masks (or at least not masks like theirs) aboard the ship and lost in conversation with his crewmates. He works around them, helps when asked, and ignores the strange looks from people who've never seen a Human before.
Until the day one of them has.
On his way to the bridge, he nearly falls when a being in orange and blue grabs his arm in passing, their expression hopeful and apologetic all at once as they brace him and their words shock him to silence. "Sorry, sorry. But-I have to know-you're not Human, are you?"
They're still babbling apologies when Sam manages to find his voice, hope rising in his chest like a wave and all other duties forgotten. "You... you know Humans?" He asks. There's only one other out there now. If Matt's safe with a rebellion like he is, it'll be more than he ever dared pray for. And if he isn't, well, it's still more of a lead than Sam's had all this time.
And to his joy, they nod, quickly, eagerly. "One of our officers." They tell him, gesturing to their uniform. "Haven't seen him in quite a while, but I promised to keep an eye out for anyone of his species. Here." They press a device into his hand and grin. "Take my transponder. You can use it to track his and it'll take you right to him."
He can't thank them enough, and they wish him luck as he races off through the halls. Aghra is as overjoyed as he is, and it doesn't take them long to prep a small travel pod with supplies and get permission from the leaders for the journey, granted gladly. Good news for one is good news for all in the Tol Ma-vel, and word spreads like wildfire before they even leave. Sam can't keep the smile off his face, or keep his heart from racing as they launch.
They fill the journey with chatter, Sam reminiscing about his son and daughter and all the trouble they used to get into, and Aghra countering with stories of herself and the twin brother whose face adorns her mask, but all too soon it fades as they touch down on a barren planetoid shrouded grimly in grey clouds. The transponder in his hands says they're close, but something about this place feels wrong. Looking around, Aghra points out a low shape on the horizon. "I think that's a building. Must be a base."
It's not.
It's very much not.
The monument looms over them, carved rebels wearing the same armor as the visitor from their ship. And a single carved block rests in the space between, marked with words about freedom and sacrifice that wash over him like a wave and refuse to make sense in his head. It can't be. This can't be what he thinks it is.
Then he's running, sprinting down the corridor between high smooth walls, the transponder beeping his proximity to Matt's in his hand, he's so close, he has to be, he can't be, this can't be how it ends-
The red eyes of a hundred thousand grave markers stare back at him from the hillsides on the other side.
He can't breathe, thinks he might throw up, doesn't hear his own whispered denials in his ears or Aghra shouting after him. The transponder points him onwards, deeper into the memorial, and he follows, praying against the terror that chills his limbs and stills his lungs. Maybe he's just visiting, Sam's timing is just poor, anything but the sick dread creeping up his throat. He can't have lost his son too. He can't have failed them both.
He stops. Matt's name flashes at him from a marker in front of him and a sob tears free from Sam's throat and takes his air with it. He barely registers the painful jolt as he drops to his knees on the rocky ground.
He's gone.
Matt's gone. Just like Takashi.
The days that follow are a blur of grief. He doesn't remember Aghra dragging him back to the ship, flying him home in silence, the sympathetic sorrow that greets what had been planned as a triumphant return. His mind is filled with a red-lit grave marker and his own anguished scream echoing inside his ears and the knowledge that he will never see his beloved son again. He locks himself in his quarters and wails his sorrow and guilt to the walls.
When he wakes from his agony, there's a new mask on his bedside table.
He picks it up, studying it in the darkness of the room through red-rimmed eyes. Shiro's face covers only half it now, the other half wiped clean and repainted by understanding hands. Orange hair, a dusting of freckles under a bright amber eye, and a joyful grin to match Shiro's softer smile. He's not sure how they got the picture of Matt to craft it from, but it's him, just as Sam remembers.
He doesn't put it on just yet. Instead he cradles it to his chest and cries.
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He find himself flinching when people call him by name.
It takes him a while to realize why but it hurts to be Samuel Holt now. That name has too many titles attached to it. Husband, father, scientist.
Commander.
What kind of commander is he if he couldn't protect his crew? He failed them and they're dead and it's only him left.
"Sam-"
"Don't call me that."
The words burst out before he can stop them, this time, the thought so close to the surface, and Treciniat blinks at him in shock, halted mid-sentence. Sam falters, starts to apologize, but then they simply nod. "Yes sir." The words come easily. He's not the first to discard a name. "Is there something else you'd rather be called?"
He hesitates, feeling his cheeks burning under the masks. "I don't know." He admits. He feels foolish but he can't stand the sound of his own name, can't stand the associations in his own mind anymore.
Treciniat, though, simply shrugs acceptance. "If you think of something, just say. But you're needed on the bridge. Tactical meeting. The Voltron alliance is planning an assault and they've put a call out for fighters."
Nodding, Sam heads for the bridge, but his mind is elsewhere: a name. What name could he go by that would carry the weight of his grief, his guilt? That wouldn't seem to mock him even as it's said with respect?
He turns a corner, passing a long expanse of window. Beyond, the stars are drifting by in solemn silence. Once he would have been fascinated. He used to love the stars.
I have loved the stars too truly to be fearful of the night. An old poem, one he used to hold dear to his heart. He used to joke that he was the old astronomer, Matt his apprentice. They both loved space with everything they had, and he taught his son everything he knew. When they set off with Kerberos it was with the joy of reaching for those same stars, taking mankind's longest step yet out into the void.
But he knows what dangers the night holds now, monsters that conquer and kill, monsters that took his son and snuffed out two lives much too young and much too painfully. The apprentice who loved the stars along with him is dead now, and the old astronomer is left behind alone, hating the stars whenever he sees them.
Old Astronomer. He laughs bitterly. A fitting name for him now.
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"Astronomer? We're almost ready outside."
"Be there in a minute. Thank you."
It's over. He can hardly believe it. They've been fighting for so long, a network of resistance wrapping around the universe, that their victory seems too sudden to be real. It's been almost a week, though, since the last battle was fought on the same lonely planet where their ship now rests. A week of genuine peace, only the first of many.
Looking out the command deck window, their ship is not the only one there. Spacecraft of all shapes and sizes are scattered halfway to the horizon, set here to lick their wounds and allow the reality of their success to sink in. Fleets belonging to their allies, and their allies' allies, and still more distant parts of the alliance that the Tol Ma-vel never worked with directly before that final, desperate fight. The home base of the Voltron Paladins is a white spire in the distance, and he can't help but be awed by how many people answered their call in the end alongside themselves.
A flare of light from the ground catches his attention and he turns away from the window. He needs to get going before he's late. The corridors of the ship are empty as he makes his way down. The entire crew are already outside.
The crackle of a bonfire greets him, soldiers and crew parting in front of him until he stands at the front with the other leaders. Beyond, on the other side of the fire, their allies stand gathered to bear witness as the Tol Ma-vel mark the end of their long struggle. They're not the first group here to gather and give tribute to their dead. They won't be the last, either. He can make out the clusters of different groups despite the darkness and glare of the fire: purple Marmora Galra, orange and blue of the same rebels Matthew died for, and in the center, the bright white of paladin armor, such a small group to be able to command so much power and rally so many people to the victory they honour now.
The first of his warriors steps up to the edge of the fire, and a hush falls.
Odh-Venla pulls off his mask, holds it high, the smooth brown faces on it reflecting the firelight. "Ten-Khla," his voice cracks as he names his dead uncle, the one who raised him until his death. "My uncle, killed in the conquering of Almashet." He takes a deep breath and continues. "Mohl-Venla, my brother, died for our cause. Rakha-Vol, my cousin, dead in a prison factory. And Shora-Ghet, my cousin, dead in a prison mine." Another deep breath, before he hurls his mask into the fire, which leaps up crackling to accept it. "May your spirits rest. You are avenged." He steps back in silence, before another warrior takes his place.
One by one, the Tol Ma-vel step up to the fire. They proclaim the names of the dead for whom they fought, the faces they wear on their masks, and lay them to rest at last in the fire. Their voices and the crackle of flame are the only sounds under the silent stars, their kin and allies watching in quiet solidarity.
A pause, and then the first of the current leaders steps forward. "Alstri Ulmcal Toc, brother of my blood, killed by soldiers for defending his home." Aghra calls, and he can see the tears on her pale, bare face as she proclaims her brother's name to the sky. "May your spirit rest. You are avenged." Her mask joins the others in the flames, cracking and blackening in the heat as she steps back into line with with her fellows. Her hands are shaking, but her head is held high.
Oltek goes, then Marikhan, and then abruptly it's Sam's turn at the fire. His hand shakes as he lifts his mask from his face, holding it high, and it seems fitting to turn it to face the bright stars overhead.
"Takashi Shirogane," His voice falls into the quiet. "My son by spirit, his blood was spilled to the arena's sands." He feels old, so very old, remembering the moment when he knew a talented young man was lost for the entertainment of cruel, uncaring eyes. "Matthew Tiberius Holt, son of my blood." The son he'll never see again, who he didn't find in time. Who he failed as a father never should. "Died for another rebellion's cause."
It's harder than he expects, to throw the mask into the fire. It's all he has left of them. But he does, and stares into the glare as it cracks, just once, along the line where the two faces meet.
"May your spirits rest. You are avenged."
The ceremony is over. He turns and slips away into the dark.
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The paladin finds him sitting against the base of an alien tree, gazing up at the stars. "There you are." They say softly, settling down next to him. "Been looking all over for you."
The man who once called himself Sam Holt keeps his gaze fixed on the sky. "I wanted to be alone." It's an unspoken reprimand. He's not the first leader to seek solitude in the aftermath of the consecration of victory, needing time to come to terms with the end of their burdens and all the lives they failed to protect.
The paladin winces at the rebuke and nods, blue helmet bobbing. "Sorry. I know. We didn't-couldn't wait. Needed to talk to you. It's important." They add, turning slightly to look at him.
Their face looks oddly Human in the dim light, and he swallows against a lump in his throat. He's never been this close to one of them. Has no idea what their species even is. "We as in Voltron?" They nod again, and he sighs. Without Voltron there would have been no victory. The least he can do is see what they want, even now when he'd rather be left alone to remember what he can of his family's faces. He pushes himself upright, old joints aching in protest. He's so tired. "Let's go, then."
The paladin bounces quickly back to their feet, one hand going to the side of their helmet. "I got him, guys. Meet you all back at the bonfire." Talking to their teammates, he realizes. They must have spread out to look for him. Why is he so important to them all of a sudden? The Tol Ma-vel and Voltron never even worked together directly. Well, he'll have his answer soon enough.
The bonfire has dimmed to red embers and ashes when they come around the side of the ship, here and there the smouldering remains of a mask still recognizable in the pit. The watchers have dispersed. Only a handful of figures stand by it now. The other paladins, the Princess, and, surprisingly, one of the rebels, one of Matt's old allies. He averts his gaze from the orange and blue, looks at the back of his escort's armor instead. "What's all this about?"
The blue paladin pauses, and he thinks they glance back at him, although it's hard to tell with the light glaring off their helmet visor. There's no mistaking the grin, though, curving their lips in a smile. "You'll see. We'll explain everything." They turn away and jog forward again. "But trust me," they call, "you'll thank us."
He's still trying to figure out what to make of that as they reach the group and Princess Allura steps forward, clasping his hands in hers with a deceptively strong grip. "Samuel Holt." She greets him, and he starts, the name almost unfamiliar to his ears.
He frowns at her. "How do you know that name? I haven't gone by that in a long time." He glances up at his ship, largely lost to the shadows of the night, and gives a small shake of his head. "I go by Old Astronomer now."
Someone in the group curses softly, and Allura's smile saddens, although they can't possibly know the story of the name. "I know it because we've been looking for you. I'm sorry it took us so long." She gestures to the others beside her. "Your family has told me a lot about you."
He turns, following the movement, and the air seems to solidify in his lungs.
The black paladin has pulled his helmet off, and there's no mistaking that scar, that shock of white hair, and that small, gentle smile below deep, dark eyes. The former have haunted his nightmares, and the latter he wore over his own for years. It's a face he last saw in an arena broadcast, Hunter versus Champion, when he learned that Shiro was six months dead and Sam would never see him again.
Beside him, the rebel's silver mask is gone as well, and amber eyes are shining with tears. His hair is longer than the locks that used to edge one side of Sam's mask, but his grin is just as broad. There's a few small scars that are new, but otherwise he hasn't changed much from his memories, from the image on a transponder screen that guided him to a monument for the dead and a pillar that proclaimed Matt's sacrifice to the low-hanging clouds.
And between them, grinning fit to burst, the green paladin, with a face he's longed to see again, but never here, never like this. She's a little taller, a lot stronger, with confidence and pride in her stance that is somehow more jarringly different than the short hair or the vibrant armor. He always knew Katie would do great things, but saving the universe isn't quite what he'd had in mind.
He staggers. The world seems to have turned on its head, and he can't find his balance anymore as reality stares him in the face, at odds with everything he's known for the last several years.
"Whoa, easy, easy!" The blue paladin is bracing him, alarm obvious in his voice as they steady him down into a sitting position. "You couldn't think of a gentler way to do it?" He hollers over his shoulder at the others, who now look worried and chagrined. "You could've given him a heart attack!"
For reasons he can never quite make sense of later, it's the blue paladin's concerned outrage that puts Sam back on an even keel. Suddenly he's laughing, and if it has a slightly hysterical tinge to it, well, he's pretty sure he can be forgiven for that. The confused glances Shiro and Matt exchange over Katie's head only make it worse, and he's doubled over wheezing by the time someone has the presence of mind to shove a water pack into his hand. A few sips help him get his breathing back under control enough to look back up at them, and his heart swells with joy.
They're alive.
He doesn't know how. All this time, the arena, the monument, there must be a thousand stories in how they should be dead, he knew they were dead, and yet they're here, standing in front of him. Shiro, watching him with a fond smile so like before. He's still Shiro, even if he carries Champion's scars. Matt, crouching down beside him, hovering like he wants to hug him but he's worried Sam will break. He was always protective. They've missed him as much as he missed them, he realizes, and lifts his arms to welcome them.
Katie beats them both to it before they can move, knocking the wind right out of him and his arms fold around her automatically, pressing her to his chest. "I can't believe you." She's grumbling into his shirt. "We've been looking all over the damn universe for you and you were leading one of our allies this whole time?"
Sam laughs softly, kissing the top of her head as something loosens in his chest for the first time in years. He can't remember when it was last this easy to breathe. "Sorry, sweetheart. But I'm here now."
He lets her help him to his feet. She's stronger than he remembers, but her grin is joyful and she still chatters away like she always has. Matt folds himself against one of his sides, Shiro bracketing him on the other. "You two owe me a story, I think." Sam murmurs to them, and Matt winces apologetically. Maybe he's already guessed why his face adorned his father's mask, isn't looking forward to explaining himself at all.
"It's a long one." Shiro tells him, as they start to walk away from the fire, the lights on their armor guiding them through the darkness toward the white spire of the Voltron ship.
Sam smiles. The stars are bright overhead, and for once they don't make his chest ache to see them. Instead he breathes deeply. "I know. I'm not going anywhere."