Alteans marks are the source and subject of many legends. Cellica, they are called. Babies are born with skin entirely unadorned; the cheek marks are the first to appear about the same time the babies begin to sit up. They start as lighter patches of skin that quickly develop the stiffer, smoother texture ofĀ cellica. When the cellica develop to their full fledged color, the baby is taken to the local Priestess for their Naming Ceremony, where they are officially recognized as part of Altea. Throughout childhood and into the beginning of puberty, other marks appear. Along their arms, down their back, over their legs and hips. Although most cheek marks look the same from Altean to Altean, the others vary. The general placement and symmetry remains the same, but some are rounder, some more angular. Some come in continuous lines while others are broken up in patterns.
Thereās a lot of superstition about cellica. Only those found on the cheeks are shown to the publicāthe rest are reserved for partners, family members, andĀ very close friends. There is an old superstition that the shape of your cellica reflect the shape of your soul; to see oneās cellica is to see the essence their soul. Old wives tales and folk lore talk of evil alchemists using the shapes of oneās cellica to cast spells on them. Those tales are considered works of fictions these days, but the general beliefāthat these are something personal, private, to be shared only under the conditions of greatest trustāremains. The most personal marks are considered to be those that reside on the inside of oneās wrist. These marks tend to be slimmer, more delicate and intricate, and even the most brazen Altean who many be willing to walk with both their arms bare for the viewing will cover their wrists with bands or bangles. Hands are no longer so very scandalous as they once were, but most Alteans will still wear gloves. Even Alluraās fingerless gloves were considered risquĆ© by certain members of the court when she first donned them, but she considered them quite old fashioned.
But other superstitions are more fun.Ā There is a whole market of books and holo-vids and lectures claiming toĀ āinterpretā cellica ranging fromĀ personality to romance and destiny. The scientific community agrees that cellica are merely the result of random genetic variation and seem to serve a purpose in channelling and keeping oneās quintessence at a healthy level. While this is generally known by the public, is has done nothing to stop the public interest in cellica readings, rather like the Altean equivalent of horoscopes. Sure, everyone knows itās basically nonsense, but itās fun to imagine, is it not?
And the most persistent and enticing superstition is that the shape of your cellica will match thoseĀ of your soulmate. Skeptics will point out that the definition of a match is leftĀ so vague and the variation between marks so common, that it is possible to claim any two peopleās cellicaĀ āmatch.ā Which, indeed, is exactly what happens. Some poor souls spend their whole lives chasing the perfect match or believing they match anyone they come in contact with. But most often, partners choose each other first and then find the similarities thatĀ āproveā theirĀ cellica compatibility later, thus perpetuating the legend. There are a multiple schools of thought theorizing which marking styles are compatible, which complement each other, which ones should never go together. And thus it is entirely possible for any combination of partners to confidently claim they wereĀ āfated.ā
Like most children, Allura grew up imagining of the day she would share her cellica marks with someone special. She had little interest in courting and romance now, caught up as she was in studying and training and all the other duties that came with being a princess, but later (whenever laterĀ happened to be) she dreamed of baring her arms to someone she loved while they did the same and tracing out the similarities drawn in their skin.Ā
But then there was the Galra and the warāeven if she hadĀ wanted to court, she didnāt have the timeāand then waking up ten thousand years later to a people who were gone and a war that was still waging. Any thoughts of soulmates and romance were completely wiped from her mind, replaced by righteous fury, vengeance, and the need to survive.Ā
Allura keeps busy: planning battles, training the paladins, and most of all, trying to develop her new skills with quintessence. Alchemy had always been something other people did. Allura was more interested in fighting or flying or even law and diplomacy. But now her magic is essential to their survival and all she has to go off of are vague memories and Haggar. She is determined and desperate, racing to learn as much as she can because what she doesnāt know could be what gets someone killed.Ā
(ā¦one of the paladins killed. Allura had never thought of finding family outside the one her blood gave her, never thought sheād need to, but they wormed their way in and they canātāshe can not lose them now.)
Allura may not know much about alchemy and magic, but it doesnāt take long for her to realize one of her cellica have changed. Where once was a delicate half-moon of shimmery pink inside her wrist is now a disfigured blob, duller and smeared like spilled oil. Horror strikes sharp pain in her sternum that works its way into something heavier and colder as she remembers Haggarās red and jagged marks.Ā In a sick way, it makes sense.Ā Cellica have always been connected to quintessence, and she has been using more and in ways she had never imagined. Perhaps if she had someone older, someone knowledgeable and experienced to guide her, she could learn the tricks or skills or whatever it is to avoid it. But she doesnāt. Sheās completely alone, the only other alchemist being Haggar, and sheĀ has to learn because otherwise innocent people will die.
Allura will never run away from the people who need her. Not again.
So she fights, and she learns. She battles Haggar to a standstill and tries so, so hard not to look at her arms. But sometimes she canāt avoid it, and she can hardly bare what she finds. The delicate, intricate cellica on the insides of her wrists are shattered now. Some splatter like spilled numvil, others have gone dull and sickly grey. New marks, disfigured and without symmetry smear over her arms and into her palms. They look like dead things, pressed into her skin and now a part of her. Some marks start out pink but turn grey-white and misshapen, and thatās somehow worse.
Allura tells no one. She knows thatĀ cellica are simply a quirk of genetics, that they have no bearing on the worth or character of a person, and that there had been those when Altea was still alive with disfigured or missing cellica who lived perfectly happy, valuable lives. ItĀ doesnāt change how she feels. Tainted, defiled, broken. She canāt even bring it up to Coran, the shame too much for her to bear. It was well known that when an Altean loved someone, truly loved them, and in moments of greatest intimacy, their cellica could light up like a personal galaxy. Allura has known since she first woke up that she will likely never have someone to glow for her, but she must now face the fact that she will never be able to glow for anyone else. Not without looking more patchy than starry and highlighting the broken and dead places where her cellica should be. The idea of it repulses her. Sheās incapable of love like she wantsālike she shouldāand she feels so broken, tainted and alone.Ā
But she canāt stop. Whatever she does, she wonāt stop until the Galra are defeated and the universe is free again. If the personal cost is her marks and her soul, so be it. It is no oneās burden but hers.Ā She wears her sleeves long and tight, says nothing, and carries on because that was what she was built to do.
Or, at least, that was what she meant to do. But the paladins are nothing if not unpredictable and perhaps no one more so than Shiro. Heās patient and thoughtful. Strong enough to survive the arena, the Galra, and everything they throw at him. And stronger still to remain kind through it all. Heās her strongest ally (tied with Coran), and over time becomes her closest confidant. They discuss the war and the strategies they need to survive, but their conversations frequently turn to something more. Shiro is curious about Altean history and culture and willing to listen no matter how long she babbles on. And although heĀ doesnāt ask and she certainly doesnāt mean to tell, she ends up retelling old folk tales which leads to myths and cellica.
āThereās this old superstition that your cellica will match those of your soul mate,ā she says.
āIs it rude to ask someone what their cellicaĀ look like?ā
āYes,ā says Allura. She remembers her ownĀ cellica, damaged and meaningless now. She sighs.āThough perhaps not in my case.ā
āBecause youāre the princess?ā says Shiro, looking adorably earnest and confused.
Allura almost laughs at him, but she canāt. Instead, she wraps a hand around the wrist where the damage is greatest.Ā āNo,ā she says.Ā āBecause they wonāt match anyone anymore. Even if I did findĀ more Alteans. Theyāreātheyāre ruined.ā
āOh,ā says Shiro. He doesnāt quite reach out for her, but his face emotes empathy.
And AlluraĀ doesnātĀ know why she does it, but she removes her gloves and pushes her sleeves up. The sleeves are too tight to get past her elbow, but itās enough. Her ugly, shattered and disfigured cellicaĀ are on display. She holds them out to Shiro saying,Ā āTheyāre supposed to be pink. AndĀ symmetricāā symmetry had always been important, no matter who you askedĀ āāand not like this.āĀ
Shiro takes her hands, eyebrows pulling together as he scans over her arms and then back to her face. āIs this from the war?ā
āFighting Haggar,ā Allura confirms.Ā āThe damage has stopped spreading mostly, butā¦ā But it was there, irreversible, the price paid.
Shiroās expression is sad but too deep to be pity. And he doesnātĀ tell her she shouldnāt have done it: he as well as anyone knows the costs of war.Ā āIām so sorry,ā he said softly instead.
āItāsā¦ā Allura means to sayĀ āitās fine,ā but Shiro is gentle and here,Ā and it all comes tumbling out. The stories and the fear, the superstitions, the glowing and how she will never be able to show someone her love without also reminding them of how she was broken, and the way she feels tarnished, less of a person.
Shiro listens through all of this, his eyes moving between her face and her arms and back again. Heād asked if it was all right for him to touch her marks, and Allura hadnāt said no, but she hadnāt quite said yes either, so heĀ remained, only holding her hands and gently squeezing her fingers.Ā
Eventually, Allura removes one of her hands to wipe at her eyes. She feels exhausted and heavy, and while sharing has lifted some of the burden, itās also opened wounds she had been trying so hard to ignore.
Shiro hasnāt spoken in a while. Finally, he gets up, and Allura has the sudden, irrational fear that heās leaving.
āClose your eyes,ā he says.Ā āOr justā¦ā he hitches his shoulders uncomfortably,Ā ādonāt look.ā
He turns his back on her, but then Allura realizes heās messing with the hem of his shirt and she immediately looks away, cheeks hot. The idea of Shiro taking off his shirt, even if she isnāt looking, even if humans have very different standards of privacyĀ is horribly embarrassing. She can hardly bare to hear the rustle of his clothes.Ā
Shiro huffs a soft laugh.Ā āOkay, you can look now.ā
Heās sitting in front of her again. His shirt is off, but he still has on the vest he normally wears on top of it, thank the Ancients. Allura is in no way ready to see all the skin of his chest right now.Ā
Allura is so distracted by her embarrassment, it takes her a minute to notice that Shiro is holding out his hands to her the same way she had to him earlier.
āI know itās not the same, butā¦ā He trails off, his lip caught between his teeth like heās nervous.
It occurs to Allura that sheās never seen Shiroās bare arms. She never questioned it before. He was the oldest of the paladins, and though Allura now knows that humans donāt have marks or any reason to cover their arms as they get older, it simply made sense to her that Shiroās would be covered.Ā But theyāre bareĀ now, and Allura is looking. Most noticeable, of course, is the Galra arm, the silver metal that she had seen before, though now she could also seen the red, scarred, and puffy skin where the metal meets flesh. The sight pains her.
But the other arm is possibly worse. There are scars running from a shiny welt behind his thumb to the gnarled knot over his shoulder. They come in all shapes and sizes, some patterned like claw marks, others smears as if entire chunks got melted or burned away. Still others arc and fracture like electricity. Thereās a whole world of pain and endurance and torture in just one arm, and Allura has to be mindful of her strength so that sheĀ doesnāt crush his hands in her fury.Ā
āJustā¦ā says Shiro when she doesnāt respond. He shrugs uncomfortably, looking both nervous and tentatively hopeful.Ā āIām not symmetric either.Ā We match.ā
We match. Alluraās eyes meet his. His smile is nervousāno, embarrassed.Ā His shoulders hunch in even as he holds his arms out to her, and Allura realizes he keeps his scars covered for the same reason she hides hers. Because they feel shameful, tainted, and reminders of pain and trauma.Ā
And yet Allura doesnāt see Shiro as broken. She canāt. He is the strongest person she has ever known, and she takes a certain, vicious pride in knowing he was strong enough survive thisāthat he came back to them and leads and fights with them now. The scars are proof that the Galra tried to destroy him. But they didnāt. Shiro is still here, noble and determined as ever, and lending his strength to keep them going every day.
Allura looks down at where their hands rest between them, both covered in random, ugly and disfigured marks. Shiro is right: they do match. Not because of any lore, but because they have both foughtāand lost and suffered and picked themselves up and kept fighting because they refuse to be defeated. These are marks they wear so that others wonāt have to.Ā Marks of sacrifice, of love and determination.
Both of them would die to save the universe. But they havenāt. They have lived.
Allura gently squeezes Shiroās fingers. She doesnāt have words, but sheĀ doesnāt have to because Shiro understands. For the first time since her firstĀ cellicaĀ changed, sheĀ doesnāt feel so very alone.
āThank you,ā she says softly.
āYou donāt need to thank me.ā Shiro takes his arms back, tucking them against his chest. His cheeks are red, and he ducks his head.Ā āI know it isnāt pretty.ā
Allura places her hand on his shoulder. Seeing the same emotions in Shiro and reflected back at her is strange but also freeing.Ā āShiro,ā she says.Ā āNothing about you is ugly or shameful. I promise you.ā
Shiroās eyes look over-bright for a moment, but he still smiles.Ā āThe same is true of you, Allura. A million times over. We are so incredibly lucky to have you.ā
Itās Alluraās turn to blush, and a few spots among her ruinedĀ cellica lighten, a disjointed attempt to glow. But this time, next to Shiro who has scars and loss of his own, sheĀ doesnāt feel so very broken.
Allura still wears her sleeves long. She will probably never show her cellica to anyone, even though Coran and the paladins are as good as family. The loss is still deep. But when she looks across the bridge, Shiro is there, with his own dark sleeves and hidden pain, and when he catches her looking, his eyes gleam with determination.
They may not both be Altean, but they have clearly been marked by the universe in their unique ways. They match, and perhaps thatās all cellica and soulmates are about in the end: a promise neither one of them is alone.Ā
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