[Allura's expression flickers as JJ hits a little too close to home with that comment, tension replaced with sadness. The memory of her father laughs behind her as her younger self braids flowers into his hair. It's bittersweet. Many of her father's memories that he'd left behind on the ship centered around scenes like this, too. As a king, and a defender of the universe, quiet moments like this were cherished, when he could simply be a father.
Allura watches the memories wistfully, but she's already had to say goodbye to her father twice, had to come to terms that no image of him could replace the great man and father that he'd been. She wonders what he'd think of her now, how she handled the war in his stead, handled Voltron. At this point the images feel oppressive. Like carving open a wound she'd already stitched up.]
I think I'd prefer to keep my memories to myself
[Bending down, she plucks a single Juniberry from the ground and, after taking one, last, long look at the familiar fields around her, presses it near her nose.
The sweet fragrance is absent, instead she smells fresh grass, and the ozone of the storm still around them. In light of the inconsistency, the image starts to break apart, the bright pinks of the flowers fading, and then disappearing entirely. The image of her father stands up, folding the child's hand in his, ”Come, Allura, lets go home,” before fading into nothing.]
sure sure
Allura watches the memories wistfully, but she's already had to say goodbye to her father twice, had to come to terms that no image of him could replace the great man and father that he'd been. She wonders what he'd think of her now, how she handled the war in his stead, handled Voltron. At this point the images feel oppressive. Like carving open a wound she'd already stitched up.]
I think I'd prefer to keep my memories to myself
[Bending down, she plucks a single Juniberry from the ground and, after taking one, last, long look at the familiar fields around her, presses it near her nose.
The sweet fragrance is absent, instead she smells fresh grass, and the ozone of the storm still around them. In light of the inconsistency, the image starts to break apart, the bright pinks of the flowers fading, and then disappearing entirely. The image of her father stands up, folding the child's hand in his, ”Come, Allura, lets go home,” before fading into nothing.]