4 — "The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men"
The throne room was long and cold, built, like the rest of the palace, in imported white marble. This particular marble had been acquired when a shipment to another planet was intercepted and subsequently "borrowed". Large ornately carved columns ran along either side, supporting the high vaulted ceiling, and more "borrowed" merchandise, colorfully woven tapestries, hung all around the room, though they did little to add any warmth to the setting. A raised dias sat at the far end, complete with three thrones, the largest in the center where the ruler would sit, the other two left for the royal consort and heir.
Though once grand, however, the large chamber had crumbled into disrepair. Since the enclosure of the palace and the subsequent death of most who lived there, the few remaining survivors had left their old quarters and moved what little they could into the throne room. There they huddled together for warmth at "night" and grouped during the "day", afraid to be alone in the place they once called home, but now was little more than a tomb.
The elegant hall had become a ragtag encampment of blankets, belongings, and people scattered about on the floor. It was dark for lack of candles and the marble walls and floor kept it always cold. The acrid smell of sweat and bodies pressed close together hung heavily in the air, though those gathered took little notice of it anymore.
Oddly, there seemed to be some sort of organization at the moment. Everyone was clustered around the throne platform, talking in hushed tones amongst themselves. Rumor had it that a discovery had been made of some importance, though no one knew what that might be. They had long since ceased any real effort to try and find a way out having, over time, gradually accepted this as an eventual death sentence. Despite this, however, even when most felt there was no chance of salvation, there was still the smallest hint of hope alive in the few, irrational though it may have seemed, that it would all work out, somehow, in the end.
It was this, and really only this, that kept Nakiva in existence. So often over the last few years he had felt himself waver somewhere between this reality and the void and knew himself to be too weak help himself one way or another. But that essential, tiny kernel of hope had always managed to keep him around, around to search for some way out.
He considered this as he walked to the throne room and passed through the small crowd, watching them part before him. It was to these people that he owed his continuing existence — to this ragged and motley few. If something was to happen to them, if they were somehow incapacitated, he would disappear like so much smoke in the wind. What better reason was there to want to help them? He needed them as much as they needed him...for now, anyway.
As for the people, their eyes followed his progress towards the throne with gazes both intent and afraid. At one time, the Elysians had known and reveled in the great power of the Seers, but that had been a long time ago — before many now present were born. Few still alive knew what the strange beings were capable of, the rest familiar only with stories and superstition. For the young who watched him pass, he held little reality and for the old he held...possibility. If he was anything like his predecessors, surely he could save them.
Nakiva stopped before the throne, inclining his head slightly but making no other show of respect. Such courtly gestures were mere frivolity in a time and place such as this. The Queen took no insult. She understood the emptiness of her title as well as anyone, though it had been decided before she came to ‘rule' that they would retain what structure they could from their crumbled government. Even the smallest hint of organization was a comfort to the people — it was a reminder of their old lives and better times.
Theodolinda (not her real name — but then all the queens of Elysia were Theodolindas whether they started that way or not) was the third queen to sit the throne since the palace was cut off. She was young still, just into her twenties, but like those around her, she was old beyond her years in spirit. Though she held no real power, she still felt somewhat responsible for ‘her' people and she had gradually become very familiar with the feelings of impotence and futility inherent in her situation. She understood little about the Seers and was uncertain about what help the man before her could offer. Truly, she had met with him rarely and had spoken to him less. All she knew was that he said he had news that she — that they would all — want to hear.
Straightening in her seat, the young queen tried to appear collected as she said simply, "Speak."
The crowd quieted, its attention falling fully on Nakiva who, instead of growing nervous, felt better than he had in years. Such intent, expectant focus revived hints of strength and power that had long been out of his grasp. He had been hoping...counting on such a thing happening which was why he had made this a public event instead of a private conversation with the queen and the few elders who spoke as her advisors. After so many years of inactivity, he felt it would be best to have as much help as he could get.
"Your highness," he began, "I have finally been gifted with a vision."
The queen frowned slightly. "A vision? Of what?"
"Of a moon some distance from here. I was unable to tell much about it from the vision itself, but since then I have studied our maps and records and I believe that I have identified it and its location." Before she could ask, he continued, "Its name is unimportant. What is important is the opportunity it represents. I believe that, if we act wisely, it could be the means by which we are finally freed from this prison."
A stream of murmuring flowed through the crowd at this in tones both disbelieving and hopeful. Many of those gathered had long been beyond such hope, but it had never been completely lost. The more skeptical among them withheld judgment for the moment though they listened just as intently as those who already believed there was a chance they could be saved.
Theodolinda made an effort to school her expression, trying to keep the cinder of excitement she felt in her stomach hidden. She had been born into the broken spirits of the people, but she was still one of the young and dreaming. The mere hint of salvation was enough to stir something deep inside. Still, it would be unwise, she thought, to raise false expectations if nothing came of this ‘vision'.
"Please," she said in a voice tight with control, "proceed."
Nakiva inclined his head in acquiescence. "I have been considering how best to do just that. Since the initial vision, I have endeavored to discover more of this moon and those who inhabit it, hoping to learn how best to use it and them to our best advantage. It has been difficult to study them for any extended length of time for what little I know has come to me in bits and pieces. However, I believe that it will be enough for now, and that I would be able to learn whatever else I needed in a more personal context."
The queen motioned for him to continue.
"There is unrest upon the moon between the ruler and what I assume is his heir. I believe them to be Drule – a race that was only beginning to show possible signs of intent to increase their power when this palace was shut in – and I believe that they have since managed to do so to a great extent. From what I can tell of the current conflict, however, these particular specimens are attempting to conquer another planet but have met continuing successful resistance from the planet's current occupants. Blame for this failure appears to perpetually fall upon the heir but I am, as yet, unsure of what the actual cause is of the failures themselves."
All present listened closely, but more than one shifted uncomfortably as the Seer continued to lay out his observations of the planet and its people. The discomfort came into them as gradually as cold seeped into the bones – initially unnoticed until extremities began to twinge. The source of the unease came not from what was being said, but from the voice that said it, something those familiar with the Seers had forgotten after so long away from them.
Part of the race's success arose from their ability to adopt the form and mannerisms of whomever they were currently dealing with. In their beginning, they had experimented with ways of showing their presence and power, searching for the form that inspired the most belief. After learning of religion, they took the shape of gods – separate and greater than the populace, unseen but evident through signs of power. In more primitive societies, this approach worked well – such people were easily impressed, easily made to fear and believe in something or someone above them.
However, in more advanced civilizations, the concept of gods and religion inevitably failed. "Enlightened" by science and technology, these people no longer believed in an overarching and unseen power. They desired proof positive of all things, including such outmoded concepts as invisible deities. In such places, the Seers found it necessary to try something new lest they fade into non-existence, deciding finally on the most obvious solution – become one of them. Take the form of those around you for they will find it easier to believe the existence of the man sitting next to them then some disembodied, ethereal spirit.
On the planets where this approach was applicable, the Seers first observed the inhabitants then created forms that embodied the build, movement, and traits of the beings around them. As this was a survival instinct, they did it with precision, incorporating the smallest details into their outward appearances to fit in. As a naturally formless species, however, they approached the creation of their bodies from the perspective of outside observers – they saw, but they did not understand. They noticed that eyes blinked, that chests rhythmically rose and fell – and they copied these carefully – but such traits were limited to the surface alone.
A Seer's physical form was merely a husk. They had no need to eat or drink, sleep or breathe. They had no knowledge or interest of what happened inside bodies – of blood and organs, of muscles and tendons – and thus they had none. Those with truly sharp eyes for minute detail added the faint lines of blood vessels to their skin but, if cut, nothing would come out. As with everything else, if put to the test, it was as if the lines were merely painted on.
Still, they mimicked outward mannerisms as well as they could, though such actions never connected to any biological motivation.
In passing, it was difficult to separate a Seer from anyone else. In some cases, they even found it necessary to give themselves some sort of marking or trait that pointed them out as a member of their race. To those who knew what to look for, however, there were two features that could easily identify them. The first was their eyes which, despite the great detail in both appearance and motion, remained flat and lifeless like those of a painting. And the second, which they had never successfully been able to fix, was their voices.
Nakiva's voice was not gratingly offensive or annoying. It was basically pleasant with a mellow pitch reminiscent of woodwinds. As with such instruments, however, there was an innate hollowness to the sound that became increasingly obvious as he spoke – and it was this that reminded those who listened to him that he was not truly one of them, and this that made them unconsciously uncomfortable.
"…and it is through the heir that I believe we have a way in." he concluded, finishing with the summation of the situation.
"How is that?" Theodolinda asked distractedly, struggling to assimilate all of the previous information.
For the moment, the Seer remained silent. Then, slowly, he smiled – a pull of the lips understood by him only as a tensing of muscles, though it was an expression that tended to come with almost instinctual ease to those of his kind. "He is in a position to inherit worlds…" he said finally, "…worlds that know nothing of my kind…but worlds that could be taught. If he succeeded in taking the planet that eludes them then succeeded in overthrowing the king, it would all be his – and the power to take down the barrier around us could be ours."
The queen sat back in her seat, dwarfed by the throne that was meant for someone both older and larger. "I assume, then, that you must be able to contact him somehow. However, you mentioned many ‘ifs'…and it all seems dependent upon the heir's success. If he was to help us, how could you assure his triumph?"
Nakiva's smile widened, looking almost natural. "He will succeed, your highness. He's going to have a little help — he just doesn't know it yet."
5 — "Through the Looking Glass"
Sunlight flashed like white fire down the towering blade as it arced through the sky. It flared once with its own blazing luminescence then sliced downwards, cleaving the grotesquely multi-armed creature neatly in two. The robeast's death howl echoed the shouts of victory from the five pilots of Voltron — and the crow of disappointed rage from Lotor in his command ship.
For a moment after his initial outburst, the prince was too overtaken by anger to move or speak. The robot crew, seated at their consoles behind the prince's chair, watched his rigid back in anxious silence, waiting for what they knew must come — what always came.
They did not have long to wait.
Regaining control over his tongue, Lotor shouted wordlessly then cursed until he ran out of breath. With his typical lack of impulse control, he grabbed the nearest throwable object and hurled it with all his strength at the view screen on which the smoking remains of Haggar's latest (and late) robeast could still be seen. As the metal goblet bounced harmlessly off the reinforced screen, the image suddenly changed, the field of failure replaced by something even worse — the king.
"Well, well, my beloved son." Zarkon said with the sarcastic cheerfulness that set Lotor's teeth on edge. Despite his overall annoyance at Arus' continuing success, the old fish seemed to make the best of the situation by finding his enjoyment in his son's repeated failure. "Another of Haggar's ‘unstoppable' robeasts stopped and another of your ‘unbeatable' plans beaten. What will the two of you try next? Actually winning for a change?"
Lotor glowered, unwilling to give his father the satisfaction of a temper tantrum. He held himself back with the calming and ever-so attractive vision of Zarkon dying slowly and in great pain, preferably at his son's hands.
As if he knew what the prince was thinking, the king's horrible smile widened. "How you ever plan to take my throne, I'll never know. Perhaps I should find a more worthy heir — Haggar's blue cat would do. At least it makes itself useful."
A muscle in Lotor's cheek twitched. Any self control he had was rapidly draining away, despite his intention to not give his father anything more to laugh at. His hands gripped the armrests tightly enough to make the metal creak and every part of his body grew as rigid as a steel bar in the effort to restrain himself. "What do you want, Father?" he managed to grit out through his teeth.
Zarkon fairly giggled with glee at his son's anger. "Oh, I just thought I'd congratulate you on another monumental failure."
"And that couldn't wait until I returned?" Lotor growled, well aware of the multitude of bodies behind him, trying to look like they weren't listening.
"Not at all." Zarkon chortled, but a red glint glittered in his eyes — a glimpse of the ire that lurked behind the cruel amusement. "I couldn't wait at all. But, don't worry. I have more to say to you in person." His tone hardened with menace. "Have no doubt about that. Come to the throne room immediately upon your return. Unless, of course," his smile twisted viciously, "you can't manage to find your way there."
Without waiting for a reply, the king disappeared and the view screen was once again filled by the land below — and a giant form approaching quickly from the ground, blazing sword still drawn.
"Voltron is approaching, your highness." one of the robots pointed out unnecessarily.
Rage boiling through his brain like hot tar, Lotor barely heard him. The mocking words of his father filled his ears and the sight of Voltron, the cause of his continuing failure, filled his eyes. The two came together in a cacophony of incoherence that threatened to do permanent damage to his already questionable mental state.
Hissing breath through his teeth, he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to force out the noise.
"Your highness?" another robot ventured nervously. "Your orders?"
With a final deep breath, the prince lowered his hands and said flatly, "Turn about. Return to Doom."
He didn't wait around to see his orders being followed with desperate haste, or how close the blazing sword came to splitting the ship in half just as easily as it had destroyed the robeast. Instead, he rose from his chair and left the command room without looking back.
He entered the room that served as his quarters onboard the ship and, for a moment, he simply stood in the doorway. In a single sudden movement, however, he lunged forward, drawing his laser sword from its sheath and slashing a nearby chair into singed kindling. With that done, the strength seemed to leave him and he dropped to the cot, his sword dangling loosely from one hand and his other arm thrown over his eyes.
Despite all efforts to keep it out, his father's voice gradually returned, whispering inadequacies and cruel jibes. And it was joined this time by another voice — a sweet, lovely beautiful voice, the voice of Allura — but her words were just as cruel, even more so because he loved her and all she had to offer him were words of hate.
Lotor rolled over onto his side, dropping the sword to the floor and folding the pillow over his ears as if it could block the voices from his mind.
It had to end soon. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take.
By the time the fleet returned to Doom, Lotor had pulled himself together. He'd gotten a little sleep, drunk a little wine, and he was feeling much more himself as he left the command ship and entered the palace. He ignored the guards who insisted on reminding him that he was expected in the throne room and went to his own quarters instead. The king was already angry. Making him wait would make about as much difference as adding a thimble of water to the ocean.
Hoping to further his slowly stabilizing mood, the prince poured himself another glass of wine and laid out a change of clothes. Leaving them on his bed, he crossed the room to the large, freestanding gilded mirror that sat by itself, apart from the rest of the furniture. He stood before it and looked at himself, trying to look past surface features to what lay below, to who he was. It was impossible to do. He had tried it before with the same result.
As always, his handsome face and form looked back at him but it was not what he was looking for. That was what everyone else saw and no one truly knew him — not his father, not Haggar, not Allura. So, what he saw in the mirror was not really himself. That was somewhere inside where others couldn't see it and where even he could only catch a glimpse.
He examined himself for a moment more then shook his head and sighed, taking a quick drink. This was ludicrous. He was Lotor, Crown Prince of Doom and conqueror of systems. He didn't need a mirror or anyone else to tell him that.
But then...why did he always come back to it? And why did it always feel like what he really wanted to see was beyond his reach?
"Because you've had too much to drink." he murmured, adding quietly after a moment's thought, "Or maybe not enough."
He lifted his goblet, looking over the rim at the mirror as he drank.
...And there he saw a face that was not his — not even close.
Pale skin, long purple hair, gray eyes as perfect and as empty as those of a china doll.
Then it was gone and Lotor's familiar and rather surprised countenance looked back at him. It had happened so quickly — in the blink of an eye — but the impression remained.
Did it happen at all? he wondered uncomfortably. Or am I seeing things now? That thought struck him as so intensely depressing that he leaned forward and rested his forehead against the cool glass, shutting his eyes.
It was because of this that he failed to notice that his reflection had not done the same.
The insistent beep of the comm unit roused Lotor from his moment of silence and he looked back at it, snarling with anger both at being interrupted and his personal frustration.
"What?"
"Lotor," came Zarkon's slightly amused (and thus viciously irate) voice, "I was under the impression that I told you to come straight to the throne room when you returned. How exactly did your foolish mind translate that to ‘Go to you room and get comfortable then come at your nearest convenience'?" Not pausing for an answer, he snapped (though Lotor could still picture him grinning), "Come now!"
The unit clicked back off and the prince ground his teeth. He put his free hand on the mirror's frame and pushed himself away from it with exaggerated effort, turning a much-abused expression on the glass and expecting to see it reflected back.
He was therefore rather startled to see his reflection smiling instead, as if it was enjoying a private joke. Lotor blinked to clear his vision and, when the reflection remained the same, he leaned forward to scrutinize it more closely.
As if it had been waiting for just such an opportunity, the reflection's smile brightened and, moving completely of its own accord, reached forward. To Lotor's further surprise, the arms were not stopped in any way by the glass. They shot through the mirror as easily as through the air itself, grabbing the prince's shoulders and jerking him forward.
Lotor tried to struggle. His hands flew up to the frame, trying to push away as he was pulled forward, but he was caught off-guard. The goblet fell to the floor and shattered, spraying wine and glass everywhere. His reflection grinned back at his fear and, with a final strong yank, succeeded in forcing Lotor against the glass — or would have if the glass had been a tangible thing. Instead of smacking face first into the mirror as he expected, it offered no physical resistance at all. His momentum drove him forward and he fell through, into nowhere.
Afterwards, the mirror stood as if nothing had happened. It was empty but for the usual reflection of the prince's chamber. The only sign of struggle lay on the floor — shards of glass in a puddle of blood red wine.
