2019 Voltron Whumptober Collection

15 Scars

Who- who was this?

He didn't know.

Why didn't he know?

Shouldn't- shouldn't he know who this is?

Who he was?

What had happened to him?

He- he couldn't remember.

His eyes caught hold of what he was wearing then and in a mad scramble to get the unfamiliar thing hugging his body off, fingers began grasping at the zipper nestled on his back. His fingertips just barely grasped it before, sliding it down, pulling his arms and legs out of the sticky white thing before kicking it aside, watching as it fell to the ground with a sticky plop, the cool air of the room now assaulting his skin and making him shiver.

He'd noticed the scars then.

Lots of scars.

Small scars littering his chest, crisscrossing across his arms, making some sick collage of pale flesh, some even disappearing below the waistband of his boxers.

A particularly large one traced down his left leg.

A thinner one ran across his neck.

Dammit, why couldn't he remember?

He was supposed to remember, wasn't he?

Why?

Why couldn't he remember?

He backed up against the wall then, head hitting it as he slid down to the floor, thin, bony arms going to grasp his knees to his chest as he rocked back and forth on the cold floor, goosebumps covering his arms and legs by this point, but he just didn't know what to do.

Should he cry?

Scream?

Yell?

Was yelling even the same thing as screaming?

If he knew who he was, would he scream, or just sit numb on the floor like he was doing now?

He didn't know.

He- he didn't know.

He couldn't remember.

Why couldn't he remember?

He startled as he ran his fingers aross his upper arm, fingers brushing against something that wasn't the smooth, pale flesh he'd been feeling. With a small inhale of breath, he uncurled from his little ball just enough to notice a thick, jagged scar running across his upper arm, it didn't look as clean or as sharp as the others, the edges instead looked wobbly and uncertain, small dots lining the sides every few centimeters, the skin looking unsure of how it healed over the faded wound.

Was that- stitches?

Did he get stitches?

It looked- familiar for some reason.

But why?

Why would it be familiar?

He gasped as something sharp pricked his conscious before a memory (oh God, an actual memory) flowed into his head. He could remember riding over desert sand, with someone, the wind whipping through his hair, the feeling of freedom that came with it. He remembered the jerk of the handlebars, the fall onto rocky ground, the pain, the stitches, Shiro, holding his hand while they sewed his skin back together-

Shiro.

He mouthed the name, the action feeling familiar over his tongue like he'd been saying that name his whole life. He- he knew that name. He could feel the sense of security that came with it, the feeling of comfort and safe and trusting.

And then his thoughts snapped together as his mouth opened in shock.

Shiro he'd- he'd fallen into Shiro when he was released from the thing-

No.

Not thing.

A cryo pod.

A cryo pod in- in a castle. In space.

He was in space.

And all those people standing around them, they- they were his family. Pidge, and Hunk and Lance, Allura and Coran, and Shiro.

They were there for him.

He- he remembered who he was now, he recognized the scars littering his body, the fights they won and lost, traveling the universe as paladins of Voltron, defeating the Galra, and taking down anyone who challenged them. They protected for the good of the universe-

And Red-

Amethyst eyes widened as he felt her presence fill his head at the thought of her, the warmth of her fire, the heat of her strength, the need to protect much like his own-

He- he remembered who he was now.

He-

He was the red paladin of Voltron. A defender of the universe, a hard-headed teen who never gave up, and would always fight for what's right.

And his name, he-

He was Keith.