CHAPTER SIX - SHIRO

It was around three o'clock in the morning when Shiro burst out of bed, clapping his flesh hand over his mouth to stop himself from screaming and waking up the entire castle. Sweat was pouring down his forehead and his stomach was twisted into such tight knots that for a minute he was afraid he was going to throw up right there in his bunk.

He was practically hyperventilating as he pushed himself out of bed. His legs got tangled up in the sheets and he smashed into the floor. For a moment, he didn't move from where he had fallen in a trembling, crumpled heap. Impact with the ground sent fiery lines of pain racing through the overloaded synthetic nerves of his Galra arm.

He was clutching his sword in the arena, the cacophony of the audience thundering around him, above him, behind him. Far away, on the other side of the ring, his opponent laughed and snarled and raised his bloody claws into the air to make the Galra in the stands holler and scream for the violence to begin...

Shiro yanked his head up off the cool floor and gasped as the scar tissue around what remained of his right bicep burned fiercely. The more intense his nightmares were, the stronger his arm seemed to ache.

His shivering legs barely took his weight as he forced himself to his feet. He couldn't stay in this room, even the sight of his twisted sheets out of the corner of his eye made the images from his nightmares swim back into his mind.

The creature he was facing was covered in patches of hard green scales that gleamed like emeralds underneath the bright lights of the colosseum. His yellow eyes and forked tongue reminded Shiro vaguely of a lizard back from earth, although he had never seen a lizard with massive clawed fingers and three rows of teeth stained red from the guts of the last gladiator it had killed.

Shiro ground his hands into his eyes, trying to force the images out of his mind, as he stumbled out of his room and down the dark hallways of the castle. He didn't have any destination in mind. He just knew that he had to leave, that he had to escape before something terrible could happen.

The white hot pain pierced his arm again and it was all Shiro could do not to cry out as it pounded up and down, from his shoulder to his fingertips. Behind him, everyone else in the castle was still sleeping soundly. He hoped his footsteps had been quiet enough not to disturb anyone else.

He was almost at the end of the hallway when a bolt of lightning crackled through his arm with enough intensity to bring him to his knees. He just had to ride it out, he knew this would all be over in a minute. He curled into a ball, thudding his back against the wall, and clutching his arm to his chest as if that would make the pain go away. He couldn't help the choked noise that escaped from his throat as another wave of pain crested and broke over his body.

Dimly, he remembered that the other paladins were still nearby and that he had to get out of sight. Panting, he forced himself to his feet and staggered the rest of the way down the hallway and down the flight of stairs that led to the training deck.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice scoffed that he was being ridiculous, that he was overreacting to what really amounted to bad dreams. The pain in his arm was almost certainly psychosomatic. He had to pull himself together, if not for himself, then for the younger paladins at least. Their leader needed to be someone fearless, someone who didn't startle at shadows in the night. The least he could do was keep up the appearance of being strong.

The automatic door of the training deck slid open when its sensors detected Shiro's presence. He heaved a sigh of relief when the lights came on and there was no one inside. If someone saw him, he was relatively certain that the mortification would kill him.

Now that he wasn't in his room, it wasn't dark, and the pain in his arm had faded to a dull throb, he faltered on what he was actually here to do. His right arm was useless, so he couldn't just do push ups or lift weights until morning. His eyes fell on the rack of weapons he sometimes saw Keith training with. Maybe he would give some one-armed combat training a shot.

"Start training level three," Shiro said into the empty air, wincing when his voice cracked on the last word.

"Beginning training sequence." The disembodied voice coming from god knew where sent shivers down Shiro's spine, though he didn't understand why.

The ceiling opened up and the Gladiator dropped down, one hand holding a sword and the other held close to its body in a defensive position.

Shiro's Galra arm dangled uselessly by his side, so he grabbed a training sword from the rack and braced himself as the Gladiator lunged forward.

For the first few minutes, Shiro fell into natural defensive patterns to fend off the relentless attacks. Even though his right hand was his dominant, he had spent enough time practicing with both arms that it hardly made a difference to his fighting style.

Or, maybe practicing wasn't the right word for why he was comfortable fighting left-handed. Just as he fended off a jab from the Gladiator's sword, everything in his line of vision disappeared and he was staring across the sandy floor of the arena.

The alien shrieked and spit as he slashed his razor-sharp claws through the air. Shiro had to drop to the ground to avoid being decapitated. He came down hard on his right shoulder, which made a horrible popping noise as he rolled to avoid the claws tearing at him. Switching his grip on the sword from his right hand to his left, Shiro plunged the sword upwards into his opponent's knee. It screamed and twisted away, giving Shiro time to stumble back to his feet.

The scene faded as the Gladiator brought its weapon down hard into Shiro's gut and sent him skidding across the hard floor.

If his arm had been causing him problems before, it was nothing compared to what he felt now. Shiro would have shouted in pain if the blow to his stomach hadn't completely taken his breath away. As it was, he barely managed to wheeze out "end training sequence" before the Gladiator slammed its weapon into his chest.

The training simulation dissolved in the air. Shiro rolled onto his back, chest heaving as he fought to take a breath against the pain in his arm and his gut. When air ripped back into his lungs, he gasped and drank in as much as he could. It took him a few minutes to get enough air to make the black stars crowding in his periphery fade away. He closed his eyes and tried to relax enough to push through the aching pain demanding attention all over his body so he could get to his feet and make his way into the showers.

The light in the bathroom was softer than on the training deck, which Shiro was grateful for. It meant that, when he pulled his shirt off to check on the dark bruise he could feel blossoming underneath his ribs, the rest of his old injuries weren't thrown into such sharp relief.

Shiro glanced into the mirror on the wall that reflected back his bare chest and hissed involuntarily. Besides the red mark he could feel developing into a large bruise, he could see white scars crisscrossing everywhere across his body. Burns in the shape of Galra numbers branded across his collarbones. Jaw marks on his hip like something had bitten and shaken him like a dead animal. Claw marks across his shoulder and his side as if something had climbed up his back and tried to rip him in half. The worst, though, was the straight vertical line running from his breastbone to his navel, like he had been dissected.

He was so consumed in staring at his horrific reflection that he didn't hear the bathroom door open and slide shut behind him.

"Shiro?"

Shiro whirled around, his face draining of all color when he realized someone had caught him with his shirt off. He couldn't even bring himself to wonder what Coran was doing awake and on the training deck around the instant panic that clouded his head.

Distantly he was aware of his breathing hitching and becoming abnormally rapid as Coran grabbed him by the wrists and led him to the wall so he could slide down it and curl up as far away from Coran's eyes as possible.

Something in his head seemed to disconnect. His mind seemed to slip away and go to some dark, faraway place that felt strangely familiar while his body stayed behind. He liked it better in the dark place, away from peering eyes and sharp instruments poking into his arms and legs, away from the sound of a whirring drill and the sensation of a hand digging around inside him.

What felt like a long, long time later, Shiro felt like he was waking up piece by piece. First he was aware that he had collapsed on his side, based on the feeling of cold, cracked tile against his cheek. Then he realized that someone's hand was on his face, stroking his cheekbone in circular movements. The next thing to return was his hearing. A voice floated above him, making gentle shushing noises, and he couldn't remember why that was vaguely surprising.

He blinked, and his vision came back. Coran's orange mustache was the first thing he recognized before the rest of his face swam into view, and only the bizarreness of it all helped him stave off another tidal wave of panic.

"Coran? Wha' are you…?" He tried to finish the question, but Coran had already grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back up into a sitting position. The pressure against his Galra arm made him groan, which he quickly tried to bite back.

"Don't do that," Coran said. His voice was gentler than Shiro had ever heard it.

"Do what?" he croaked.

"Pretend like it doesn't hurt."

Shiro didn't know why his eyes started to water. "It… it doesn't. I'm fine." He finally noticed that Coran was staring at his marked up torso. A new burst of terror erupted in his chest. He grabbed Coran by the shoulders and shook him. "You can't tell. You can't."

Coran raised an eyebrow. "...I can't tell who?"

"The others. They can't know. You have to promise me you won't tell!" Shiro's voice pitched higher and his breathing started to pick up again.

Shiro couldn't decipher the sad look that flashed across Coran's face. "All right. I won't tell the other earthlings."

A noise like a choked sob of relief escaped from Shiro's throat. He dropped his hands from Coran's shoulders and leaned his head back against the bathroom wall with his eyes closed. He could hear Coran shifting to come sit alongside him, but he didn't react until he felt a hand touch his knee.

"So how old are you, really?" Coran asked.

Shiro didn't open his eyes. "I'm not sure. Never found out exactly how long I was gone."

There was a beat of silence. Shiro lifted his eyelids half way and stared at Coran, who was sitting cross legged against the wall next to him. "Why?"

"Well, maybe you could let me be the adult for a little while so someone can take care of you and tell you it'll be all right for a change."

Shiro was so stunned he felt like he had been stabbed through the heart. All the air in the room seemed to rush out the door and he couldn't breathe, once again. When was the last time someone had told him that? The realization of how desperately he needed comfort shook him like he had been struck by lightning. His hands shook and he could feel all the blood rushing out of his face while his eyes filled up with unshed tears.

Coran pulled him into a hug and whispered, "Everything's going to be okay."

That was all it took for his facade to crack. Shiro practically collapsed into Coran's arms and finally, finally let himself cry.