He had a little girl, who had a little curl in the middle of her forehead.
Her name was Marlo and she had her mother's beautiful black hair and wide purple eyes that stared though Coran's soul, wrapping him around her little fingers. When she was born, she had the softest of skins and when Coran held her for the first time, he vowed that nothing would ever harm her.
He was so wrong.
Papa has to go work for the king for a few months, my little Marlo
Papa will be back before you lose your first tooth, Marlo
The last memory of Marlo was in his arms, she fit so perfectly in those arms, sucking her thumb with those bright purple eyes half lidded with tiredness. He pried the newly-earned medal from her soft hands, she must have grabbed hold of it when he wasn't paying attention, and gave Marlo to his wife, worry creased in the lines of her face.
And he never saw them again.
He supposed a proper ceremony for the dead would send their souls to peace, to stop their memories to swirling in his head when he should be focusing on the greater good, the paladins of voltron and not two girls who have been dead for ten thousand years.
My sweet Marlo, my beautiful Kaphra.
The lock of hair from his head was lit aflame, the paper scribbled with altean ink along with it.
Rest in peace my family.
He did not shed a tear. He walked out of the washroom like nothing important had happened, the ashes swept into a tiny glass vial tucked under his uniform, over his heart.