[Author's notes: I do not own Lotor. I do not own Voltron. I am, in fact, using them without permission. So if you really think that I'm going to be making money off this, go ahead and sue my pantaloons off. But be warned that you won't get a damn thing. Ha!

Ah yes. "Seiligh" and "Unseiligh" are respectively pronounced "SEE-lee" and "un-SEE-lee." Those of you who know anything about Celtic stories of the fae may proceed to laugh yourselves silly now.

Ahem. On with the fic.]

A FAERIE STORY: PROLOGUE

There are two types of Lower Faerie: the Seiligh and the Unseiligh.

You can generally tell them apart by their coloring, most especially by their eyes: the gentle, noble Seiligh, the Light Elves, have eyes as pure blue as heaven, their hair spun-gold silk as bright as the sun, and skin as translucent as mother-of-pearl; the Unseiligh, the warlike and selfish Dark Elves, have eyes as brilliantly and unblinkingly golden as a cat's, hair as pale and frosty as a merciless white diamond, glittering hard and cold, and skin bluer than frost.

Both races have delicately-pointed ears. I mention this merely in passing, although if you think it important you may note it down for later reference.

Remember that. The Seiligh, the Light Elves, are blue and gold and white, lovely and good; the Unseiligh, the Dark Elves, are blue and gold and white, cold and unkind.

That's very important.

Prince Lotor Kessanarit ev'Zarkon, Grand Admiral of the Dark Fleet, the Wrath of the Gods, the Scourge of Hell, was the son of Zarkon Kessanarit ev'Dharses, and incidentally was also the son of an Unseiligh queen named Iranis.

His skin was pale blue, the blue of heaven, and his eyes were brilliant deep gold, the gold of the sun. His hair was the color of mist and his smile was the slice of mirth most commonly seen on a cat before it uncoils to kill its prey.

He had no mercy. He had no pity.

Some said that he had no heart, and this was true; what heart he had had was now in the possession of another.

He was hard. He was cold.

Some said that he was brittle, although they were wrong; he was as strong and as annealed by his battles as tempered steel.

Shows what they knew.

By the age of fifteen, he had conquered twelve entire systems. By the age of twenty-one, he had expanded this number to two hundred fifty-seven. He had also executed more than two hundred seventy-nine noble lords who had ventured to suggest that perhaps it was not quite polite to be conquering everyone and his cousin. Lotor as a general rule held that manners were excellent things for other people to have, although he considered that he himself was much too busy to bother with them.

The word got around and everyone withdrew his objection to Lotor's uncanny discourtesy in conquering people. He didn't care -- what born soldier cares for the opinions of armchair generals and politicians? -- but he did find it convenient that he didn't have idiots shouting at him all the time.

At the age of twenty-six, he threw all decorum to the winds and decided to go headlong after the entire Galaxy. After all, there are only about nine hundred zillion, nine hundred ninety-nine trillion, nine hundred ninety-nine billion, nine hundred ninety-nine million, nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine systems in a Galaxy's single spiral arm; how hard can it be to conquer that many planets?

Since Lotor was, actually, very good at arithmetic, he soon gave up on this plan. 999,999,999,999,999 times six or seven systems is a bit much to set one's cap for, even if one is a dark prince, a son of the Unseiligh and lord of many arcane powers.

He decided merely to settle for what he could get -- that being what he had conquered so far, plus a little more to keep his hand in. After all, he had spent all of his life up to this point on campaign for his father, the Emperor of Doom and King of the world Dartarus. Surely he could spend the rest of his life in battle. Nothing too hard about it; kill the other men and then have someone arrange for the spoils to be shipped back to Dartarus and Daddy.

This was honestly how he lived. Sad, isn't it? Say what you like about the glory of battle and the renown given to the men of the bloody sword, I think it's a disgrace to society that we need warrior princes like this. Sad, sad, sad.

Ahem. In any case.

When Lotor Kessanarit was twenty-seven, shortly after he had conquered his three hundred and ninety-third planet (he was just itching to get out there and conquer seven more so he could break four hundred; that's how Unseiligh people think, I'm afraid -- always more, more, more), he was recalled to his father's capital world of Dartarus. Coincidentally enough, "Dartarus" sounds a lot like "Tartarus," which was ancient Terran Greek for "Hell," so of course everyone called the planet Dartarus "Doom." There's logic for you.

The reason for his recall was not because his father liked him; Zarkon didn't. In point of fact, no one could remember Zarkon ever liking anyone, although I presume he was rather fond of Lotor's mother, the Unseiligh queen Iranis. I couldn't imagine Iranis being too fond of Zarkon. Liking, loving -- that sort of thing is just far far too below a Dark Elf, even one who's going slumming in a lower plane of reality for the decade.

No, the Crown Prince and the Grand Admiral (they're the same person, dummy, namely: Lotor) had been called back to the main world because his father had heard something about how successful his son was, and wasn't he just the boy to be proud of? And yes, I admit that there was that little bit about Yuraq's defeat. But then, no one really expected Yuraq to come out to much; even as a child he couldn't quite get the hang of pulling the wings off flies. So Yuraq had been defeated by the Voltron force (bunch of bullies in lion ships, that's what I always say), and as a result had to be made into a robeast, so naturally Zarkon had to find someone to push the button and say cute things like "End it now" and "Voltron will be destroyed!"

You see what I mean, don't you? Zarkon needed someone to be in charge of defeating Voltron, which was a losing proposition any way you put it, so of course he yanked his highly competent and intelligent son, who was by the way lining the Imperial Treasury with a lot more than Zarkon ever had even at his finest, off of doing what he did best (that was conquer planets, for anyone who's taking notes out there) and put Lotor in charge of defeating the undefeated and undefeatable robot.

Well. Some people simply never learn.

Yes, mm-hmm, so Lotor came home, and what a lovely sight he was -- tall, handsome, laughing and bright. His eyes shone like those of a lynx or a well-fed cat, his blue skin was clear and fair as heaven, and his misty white hair had luckily no blood in it from the assassin he had killed a few moments before entering his father's council room. Yes, Lotor Kessanarit ev'Zarkon looked every inch a Crown Prince, a conqueror of worlds, and although the ferally keen golden eyes gave him away as Unseiligh spawn to anyone who knew anything about the Higher Races of the Universe, no one wanted to draw Lotor's attention to the fact. After all, somehow people had forgotten to tell him that he was son of a Dark Elf queen -- silly Lotor, he had gotten the impression that his mother was merely human; isn't that droll? -- because perhaps one day Lotor might wake up to the mighty sorcerous blood running through his veins and then who knew what might happen?

Certainly not Zarkon, and he didn't want to find out. Only sensible thing he ever did, in my opinion.

And why describe the homecoming? You've seen it, I assume -- how Lotor smiled and greeted his father, how they embraced and how Zarkon actually admitted to being proud of his martially-inclined son. So nice. So heartwarming.

And then Lotor, the son of the Dark Elf queen, Lotor Kessanarit ev'Zarkon, half Drule and half Unseiligh (such an unfortunate combination, I can't help thinking -- at least both races had blue skin, there's some consolation that Iranis' beauty was at least passed on to Lotor instead of his father's fishy features), donned his war helmet and flew to greet his enemies, thinking to give them the salute of the victor.

And then he saw her.

Her.

HER.

Oh, you know to whom I refer --

Princess Allura Jalian, daughter of Alfor Janusz, of the Royal Arusian House Iridian, which some whispered had been touched by the Seiligh queen Jalian at the founding of Arus, was going to be crowned Queen of Arus when she was twenty-five, the traditional age of adulthood.

They called Allura the Rose of the Sun; they called her the Angel of Arus.

She could've truly been either, you know; as befits a Faery princess, she was tall, blonde, blue-eyed, with skin the color and density of cream with just the right hint of peaches. O, she was lovelier than summer, and every bard and spacesinger who knew one chord from the next sought to describe her beauty in every language known to the Universe.

She was graceful and kind, gracious and queenly; the fire of thought was in her glance and the mists of wisdom were in her demeanour.

And of course there was no way in any of the Galaxies that she would be allowed to wed for love; she was the queen, the lady, the angel of Arus, and her blood, the sacred blood of the House Royal and of the Seiligh lords, must be kept pure and untainted by ... let us say by lesser blood.

Between you and me, of course, what the magisters and counselors really meant was someone who might be a socialist or a dummy or someone who didn't bow at precisely the right angle; they wanted, of course, the perfect Prince Consort to their angel, which meant someone who was handsome, kindly, competent, and naturally who wouldn't ever argue with his regnant wife.

That's why the British system fell down, I expect; they weren't like the Arusian House of Iridian, which of course treated its royalty like politic racehorses and bred accordingly for what they regarded as desirable. Sensible, that's what I call it; and even if Zarkon didn't know it he was doing the same thing by marrying an upscale Higher Being, to wit, Iranis.

Where were we? Oh, yes, the princess.

She was brave and sweet and always concerned for others, she liked mice and other small furry critters, she loved to sing and dance, and in general she was the sort of girl that would always be elected Homecoming Queen in a normal society. Everyone loved her and those who didn't were rightly regarded as creeps.

Her father had been killed in the battle of Zohar, Zohar which means in ancient Terran Hebrew "Glory." Her mother had died years before that, when she had been kidnapped by King Coba of Polux and forced to serve as his bride; she had borne Coba a daughter and a son before succumbing to the eventual sickness that overcame her.

Allura was tall and proud and vociferous in the defense of her people; she flew the Blue Lion of Voltron and she used every inch of her sweet diplomacy to defend her planet 'gainst depredations of the word. As was to be expected, she was a well-educated princess -- she could add, subtract, and multiply like nobody's business; she could recite poetry while hawking; she knew exactly the correct depth with which to courtsy to a clerical nuncio; and she could be reasonably expected to know how to salute one's captor in precisely the proper manner.

She had it all, standing tall and proud and golden, shining remotely like one of the Seiligh queens sillouetted against the sun.

A day before, the Voltron Force had defeated their justly-hated enemy, Yuraq the Cruel, Yuraq the one-eyed minion of King Zarkon. With Yuraq's defeat, they reasoned, Zarkon had no more admirals to send against Arus, and the world of the Dawn was safe again. Well, of course, the other planets around there might not be safe, but they weren't Arus and didn't really count. Unless Voltron wanted them to count. Voltron was wonderfully selective that way.

But in the meantime, Yuraq had been defeated, Voltron had been showcased in his glory, and all was right with the universe.

Of course it had to be spoiled by the fact that Castle Control immediately broadcast the fact that there was an unidentified enemy craft approaching the Castle. There is simply no pleasing some people.

Allura watched narrowly as the black ship drew closer and closer. It was not one of the Doom warships, nor yet one of the droidships that still occasionally made stabs at the Arusian people. No, this was a finely-made one-man fighter, a ship so completely and utterly black as to vanish when it passed under a shadow.

Her eyes met those of the pilot.

Him.

HIM.

Oh, by now if you don't know the guy I'm talking about, you're better off reading something by Celeste Goodchild. Away with you.

Needless to say, that fateful day the princess and the prince made a connection that was unbreakable. As if you couldn't see that one coming from a lightyear off.

The dark prince paced back and forth through his quarters. Every now and then, he would pause in order to kill someone or throw things, but for the most part it was straight back-and-forth pacing. He had always thought best when he was moving, that is if he thought at all; the dark prince was notorious for letting his emotions rage unchecked and thinking about it later, if at all. In fact, there was a popular saying around the Palace: "King Zarkon thinks sitting, Hagar thinks standing, droids think while marching, and Lotor thinks afterwards." And he was thinking very hard this evening, yes indeed; images flitted through his brain at speeds too great to allow conscious identification. The only thing he recognized was the ever-present image of the golden-haired angel, standing proud and defiant there on the balcony, staring into his soul with eyes of celestial blue. The angel was the only thing that mattered anymore to him, and he was mentally walking around the consideration that to his lord father the world belonging to the angel was more important by far.

He was quite seriously considering suicide.

Or he thought he was, which isn't nearly the same thing; the dark prince was the sort of person who did not enjoy death or pain for their own sakes, but for the sense of peace that flooded him when he wielded the power to deal out death or pain. The concept of his own death was curiously unreal to him; he never for a moment seriously believed that he could stop existing, although life might have been much easier for him if he had.

There have been about nine hundred fifty-four thousand cases of grand obsession since the Universe was kick-started, and the fascination of the dark prince for his golden-haired angel would have to rank right up there at spot number fifty-nine, or possibly fifty-eight since we've checked the history of Abelard and Heloise and they don't really count anymore.

He paused in his pacing, picked up his sword from where he had left it lying in a puddle of blood. Normally you cannot make a sword out of crystal because the damn thing will shatter as soon as someone else hits it, but it had been an heirloom of his mother's house, and everyone knows that the Unseiligh swordsmiths are the best crystalmancers in the Universe. Lotor had no idea where his mother had gotten an Unseiligh crystal sword (you will remember that he believed her to have been human, since of course no one wanted to tell him otherwise), but he didn't waste too much time thinking about it. It was his now, anyway, and that was what mattered.

The dark prince thoughtfully hefted it. It was a bastard sword, a hand-and-a-halfer -- too long and heavy to be wielded with merely one hand, too light and maneuverable to be a greatsword. The blade itself glowed and burned with an unquenchably cold white radiance; the pommel was capped by a snarling dragon; and all in all it was a sword of which to be profoundly afraid.

He liked it very much, in fact he liked it more than he liked a great deal of people. Not a people person, was the dark prince; but then he was the son of a Drule and of an Unseiligh, were you expecting perhaps Mr. Limpet?

He regarded the blade calmly, quietly; the unseen watchers who had been detailed to observe his rages and if possible stop him from killing someone irreplaceable grew uneasy. Prince Lotor was not a man noted for his calmness or his silence. In fact he was rather noted for the opposite of either of those two qualities.

"End it now," he said quietly, musingly, and placed the blade's tip over his heart.

The unseen watchers proceeded to go postal.

Thirty seconds later, a drove of droid guards came bursting into the dark prince's chambers, each intent upon stopping the dark prince and making him put the sword away.

They found the dark prince sitting on the end of his bed, the sword lying quiscient beside him. He looked up at the guards, said irritably, "Go away. I am thinking."

"Forgive us, Highness," the captain replied, bowing. "We feared for Your Highness' safety."

"How extremely thoughtful. Now get out."

"Forgive us, Highness," the captain persisted, "but we were sent to make certain that Your Highness did not suicide."

No one has ever said that droids are not brave.

Lotor gazed at the creature for a moment with such malevolence that it was a wonder the thing didn't short-circuit on the spot. "Get. OUT," he repeated with no inflections.

The troop marched back out again three seconds later. Lotor resumed thinking, and by and by went out to go conquer Voltron again.

His plan failed, naturally, but you can't fault him for trying.

This was by no means an isolated incident, in the dark prince's youth. There can be no doubt that he was profoundly in love with the Princess Allura.

However, youth is headstrong, and youth is capable of believing that everything lasts forever.

How silly of them. Nothing lasts forever.

Eventually, of course, Zarkon failed.

Lotor became king.

Moved his home planet to Ursan, declared that Dartarus/Doom no longer existed.

Wed a lovely princess of the planet Tarune, the Lady Ysandra, who bore him a son and a daughter.

Settled into an uneasy accord with everyone and his cousin.

And still and all, forever through his reign and his son's childhood and his daughter's blossoming into witchcraft, Lotor never quite forgot the Angel of Arus.

Until, of course, the day his half-sister arrived, and Lotor soon found himself with an entirely different problem on his hands.

Before things go much further, we ought to stop the narrative and do what we really ought to have done at the beginning: map out a few things for our convenience.

We shall posit that no one likes Lotor.

Granted; even now that he is King of Ursan and wedded to a lovely bit of a thing who seems to have never hurt a fly in her entire existence, no one much trusts the half-Drule, half-human (ha) Scourge of Hell.

Also, let us suppose that his son, Crown Prince Tirion Kessanarit ev'Lotor (to give him his full, rather tiresome name), is, in addition to being as handsome as his father, as charming as his mother and as intelligent as both.

Stipulated. Lots of people like Tirion. He's so pretty.

We might even go on to set down that Lotor's daughter, Raven Kessanarit vor'Ysandra, seems to have evoked her long-dormant Unseiligh blood by contact with the crystal sphere of her grandfather's witch, the sorceress Haggar.

This is true, most indubitably true: in Unseiligh halfbreeds, the sorcerous blood can sometimes flare into near-full Unseiligh power, no matter how far between the generations between the bloodholder and the original Unseiligh ancestor.

And finally we shall say that the races of Lower Faerie, the Seiligh and the Unseiligh, have not had a war between them for nearly a thousand years.

This is trouble; the Lower Faerie realm directly overlaps our own primary plane, and regrettably most wars between the Light Elves and the Dark Elves seem to overlap into this plane, too. Tales are still told of the Seiligh queen Jalian letting loose her final spell upon the Unseiligh lord Oaoinre, and the resultant mess which ended in totally decimating the world of Dartarus (which goes a fair piece towards explaining Dartarus' noxious condition even a thousand years later, wouldn't you say?).

There is this for you to remember: the Seiligh and the Unseiligh always take care of their own -- and they both count as their own any person who shares the least drop of their blood.

Have enough to last you for the day? Good. We'll go on, then.

We will see what happens when an Unseiligh lady of full royal Dark Elven blood is exiled to the primary plane, and what she might do if she finds her kin on her mother's side to be... a bit more than what she had expected. And when she finds one of her kin still obsessed with, of all things, a Seiligh spawn, of the blood of the hated Jalian of Arus.

Sounds like fun, doesn't it.

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