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Prince of the Fallen
(As always, any names you recognize are the property of WEP. And any you don't are the property of ME. Oooo...that rhymes...)

~Comments? Questions? Corrections? I'd love to hear what you have to say.~





"Out of the dusk a shadow,
	Then a spark;
Out of the clouds a silence,
	Then a lark;
Out of the heart a rapture,
	Then a pain;
Out of the dead, cold ashes,
	Life again."
		-John Banister Tabb

"I'm waiting."

Silence.

"Some time tonight, please."

Silence.

"It is your turn, you know."

Silence with purpose.

Lotor watched as his son finally leaned forward and reached for a chess piece, moving it a single square, then sitting back again. He looked fairly pleased with the move, justly enough since he had spent nearly ten minutes straight debating it. The pieces left on the board were fairly evenly numbered, as were the pieces already taken out of play on each side. Despite his young age, Tirion was a challenging chess player...just a very slow one. Of course, there was nothing truly wrong with thinking carefully about each move, but there was something to be said for finishing a game in less than a month.

After examining the board, Lotor picked up one of his own pieces and moved it, settling back in his chair to make himself comfortable while Tirion lapsed into another pre-move silence. He glanced across the table at the boy, dressed in his dark blue pajamas, his legs dangling over the edge of the chair, bare feet not touching the ground. The little prince's face was serious and scrunched slightly in thought. He reminded Lotor so much of himself at that age, so somber and intent on doing his best in front of his father, though Lotor had never done anything like this with his father. Zarkon had not exactly been one for games.

He reflected that he had not actually spent much time with his father at all during his own childhood. Zarkon was rarely around and, even when he was, he had no desire to look upon his young son. "What care have I for a smelly crying baby?" he had said. "He will be my son when he is a man."

After the death of his mother, Lotor had been sent immediately to the academy and from there on to his own conquest of the universe. Zarkon was good on his word, though. He claimed his son quickly enough when word of Lotor's success spread about the galaxy, his greed for more power giving him the smallest bit of paternal pride. But, how quick he was to discard even that when Lotor stumbled and failed time and time again against the forces of Arus.

Though Lotor had never truly thought about becoming a father himself, when he stopped to consider, he had promised himself that when the day finally came and he had a child of his own, he would not treat it as Zarkon had treated him. Many times since, he had asked himself if he could keep that promise. What did he know about being a father? Could it be that despite all his good intentions, he would end up like Zarkon, anyhow? When he learned Ysandra was with child, his fears were increased and with the fear came the anger that always arose when he felt confused and lost. By the time the baby was actually born, Lotor was almost convinced that he already hated it, even before he laid eyes upon it.

When the doctor had come to him and told him he was now the father of a healthy baby boy, he had been livid, having spent the long hours before hand pacing back and forth and cursing everything he could think of for making his life so much harder than it had to be. He refused to go and see the child at first, then, changing his mind, he had stormed into the room, fully prepared to despise the little mite without even a glance. Unfortunately, the midwife, in her excitement, deposited the blanketed bundle into his arms before he had the chance to argue.

Lotor smiled slightly in memory. Startled out of his initial anger, he had looked down at what he held, seeing only the blanket with a patch of white hair sticking out from the folds. Hesitantly, he had pulled the blanket back, revealing a small, sleeping face of a blue so faint it was almost a trick of the eye.

No storybook miracle happened — time did not stop and the earth did not shake — but, for the first moment in a long time, Lotor forgot himself. There had been children before (a hazard of his lifestyle), but this was the first he could truly claim. This was his baby. His son.

Tirion sat forward once again, his face grave but his pale yellow eyes alight with excitement. He picked up his queen and began to move it. The sound of someone quietly entering the room, however, interrupted him in mid-move. Lotor turned to see Oma, the prince's nanny, come in and shut the door behind her.

In the beginning, Lotor had been unsure about the woman. His mind, against his will, kept slipping back to that battleaxe nanny of Allura's in her silly white cap. Ysandra, however, had assured him that all royal children, even little princes, must have a proper nanny until they are old enough for tutors and butlers.

Lotor found the concept of ‘butlers' amusing. Growing up in the presence of slaves, he was not used to the idea of paying someone to do things they could be made to do for free. But, if there was one thing about Ysandra...she could be very convincing, especially about anything she really wanted.

"It is time for the prince to be in bed." Oma said, standing a respectful distance away, hands demurely clasped at her waist. She was a thin older woman from Ysandra's home world, her gray hair pinned in an orderly bun behind her head and her clothes always neat and starched. She was strict and no-nonsense, a terror, no doubt, to a mischievous child which Tirion was not.

Obediently, the prince set his chess piece back in its original position and slid down from his chair, nodding to his father and heading silently out the door. Oma lowered her head and turned smartly, following her charge. Lotor watched them go then turned back to look at the board. Thoughtfully, he glanced at his son's queen, his eyes following the invisible trail of where Tirion had been planning to set the piece down.

A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth and he picked the queen up and set it in the intended square. Unavoidable checkmate. The boy had won again. Slowly, Lotor began to put all of the pieces back on the board in their original positions. Next time, he would have to watch Tirion more closely. He could not have his little son thinking he could beat his father so easily. Chess was a game of strategy and patience and Lotor knew he was often sorely lacking in the latter, but still, Tirion was only nine. He had an overabundance of patience, but there was only so much he knew about strategy. Perhaps it was time he started to learn.


Twelve years later...

Tirion checked himself in the mirror for at least the twentieth time in the past half hour. He was encouraged to see that nothing had changed since the last time he looked — his hair was still neat and his dark uniform was still unwrinkled and dust-free. The wait was interminable, though, and he almost wished something had changed, then at least he would have something to do besides just stand there.

On the small table a few feet behind him sat an orderly pile of papers — notes and reminders — which had been straightened a number of times already. He briefly considered looking at them again, though he knew it would be pointless. He already knew what each of them said, and going back now would only be an excuse to mess the papers up just so they could be organized again. Even for him, that was a little too much.

Glancing at the closed door, the prince leaned back against the table with a sigh. He wasn't supposed to be here and he suspected he was being treated as such. His unwelcome presence had come as a rather large surprise to the gathered statesmen and planetary delegates who had come to discuss the New Alliance treaty on its 25 year anniversary.

Despite the amount of the treaty concerning Lotor, it was quite apparent that he was not meant to be there. The terms of his exile made no mention of any exceptions concerning renegotiation, and he had not even been notified that a conference concerning the treaty was taking place. Considering how many people were here, it was interesting that the only person who actually needed to have a say was the only one not invited.

Unfortunately for the Alliance, they obviously hadn't thought ahead quite enough. Though Lotor and all of those Drules who followed him were not allowed anywhere near this part of the solar system, no mention had been made of Lotor's children. Perhaps the Alliance thought that, when Doom fell, Lotor would just fade away and they wouldn't have to bother with him or anything remotely resembling him anymore.

If so, then Tirion's arrival had come as a rather nasty shock to them. And there wasn't a thing they could do about it. They couldn't not let him come and he hadn't given them time to think up a reason why he couldn't stay. Now it would have been bad manners and bad publicity to throw him out. He found the irony of the matter rather amusing. No one wanted him here, but they were all so worried about offending someone who might, that they didn't say anything about it. Not openly, at least.

They weren't exactly being the most courteous of hosts, either. In fact, Tirion thought they were acting more like spiteful children than respected leaders and politicians. Their entire attitude since his arrival had been one of: "Yes, so maybe we can't stop you from being here. But we can certainly make your stay as long and tedious as we possibly can." Like making him sit in this room for two straight hours, for instance.

I'm going to go insane if I have to look at this wallpaper for another minute, he thought to himself. It was dark blue with green and yellow paisley designs and was peeling at the corners which drove him crazy enough as it was. It made him want to pull it off when it was like that. I might even consider doing it, too, if I don't get out of here soon.

How long could it possibly take them to announce the other representatives? Obviously they were waiting until the last possible moment to bring him out, so, considering how long he had been waiting, they must be introducing all of the maids, cooks, pets and luggage, too. And now please welcome the beloved cat, Tabby III, of Lord Something of Somewhere. And here we have a lovely matching suitcase and makeup bag from the Planet Valise. He smirked at the thought.

A knock at the door startled him out of his daze and he looked over to see a gangly young man with an unfortunate skin condition and an even more unfortunate voice that seemed to crack every other word. He nervously informed the prince that his presence was now requested in the main hall.

Right, Tirion thought. Requested like a swift kick to the gut. He remained silent, however, nodding his assent and then staring the boy down until he scurried from the room in a flustered mess.

The prince took his time, milling about the room and poking through the papers on the desk. If they were in no rush to see him, then he was really in no rush to see them. Finally, satisfied that he had wasted enough time, he stepped out into the hall where the young man was waiting for him.

"Right this way, m'lord." he mumbled, staring down at the carpet as if it was suddenly the most interesting thing he had ever seen. He swallowed anxiously, his large adam's apple bobbing up and down in his skinny throat.

Tirion resisted a chuckle. It was unhealthy to feel empowered by the fear of others, but sometimes it was just so hard to resist.

Without another word, the boy turned and headed off down the hallway, his nervousness lending his gawky body a jerky motion that made him look more like a puppet then a person. The prince followed along behind, trying not to laugh.

Hold it back, he thought. It isn't proper. Not here. Not now. Just think about something else.

With a bit of effort, he turned his eyes and his mind to other things, letting the young man in front of him twitch down the hallway on his invisible strings.



The entire room was arguing.

Tirion sat back in his chair with a sigh, watching the fifty or so upper middle-aged beings bluster at each other. This had been going on for four hours, at the least. One delegate would make a suggestion and then everyone else would get their dander up and argue it, even if it wasn't an important point.

If they fight this much over the export price of echa beans, they're really not going to like what I have to say. he thought. And, judging by the way everyone kept finding ways not to look at him, that wasn't the only thing they weren't liking. But, he reminded himself, they didn't have to like him. He never expected or really needed them to. He just needed them to listen and attempt to be fair.

"...And that," concluded the prime minister of Narieth, finally sitting back down in his seat, "is the last of our addendums."

The last out of forty eight. It was truly insane how many nit-picky, pointless details the man had laid on the table. He had argued each vehemently, as if he expected each of them to be contested...which they weren't. But, apparently he had been building up his defenses for so long that he pretended they had been anyway. No matter. At least he was done.

Tirion glanced around, wondering which stuffed-shirt was up next. So many planets and so little time. Or too much time. To his surprise, after so long sitting in silence, the mediator actually announced him and not the five hundred consecutive titles of yet another planetary diplomat. It was about time.

"Tirion, the Crown Prince of Doom, now has the floor." the mediator said in a forced tone, coughing a little at the title.

The prince rose, accompanied by the sound of a room full of heads turning towards him at precisely the same moment. It was slightly unnerving. He decided not to correct the error of mentioning Doom. It didn't exist anymore, and hadn't really for 25 years but he hardly felt like wasting time by arguing the point. He looked over those assembled, seeing in most every eye the shadow of distrust and, in some cases, outright hatred. The fact that he was the youngest person in the room did little to help and he doubted it would lend much credence to his words. Still, his requests were reasonable enough, assuming they were willing to listen to reason.

"I have come on behalf of my family and people." he began, avoiding the mention of his father by name. The less they thought of him the better. "We have resided peacefully in the outer quadrant for a quarter of a century, obeying the terms of the treaty to the letter, paying what we were required without fail. In the past ten years, however, it has become an increasing struggle to produce what is necessary. Despite the relative economic stability of Tarune, my mother's planet, the high demands of payment towards our ‘war debt' have begun to drag it down. Currently, what we pay is more than what we bring in. Both Tarune and my home of Ursan are suffering and with no possibility of expanded trade routes, there is little we can do to change this."

"Drules suffering? No great loss." muttered one of the diplomats to another. Tirion glanced over at him, fixing his gaze with that of the other man. His pale yellow eyes stared sharply into the man's muddy brown. The somewhat overweight diplomat swallowed, his face and neck flushing dark red with embarrassment as he looked away.

One of the older statesmen, obviously a bit more respectful than some of the others, said in a calming tone, "Now, now. Let's have no racial sentiment here." Much of the room nodded, not surprisingly considering the number of aliens present. "Anyhow," he continued, "as I understand it, your mother and her people are not Drule, is that correct?"

Tirion gave a brief nod of assent. "Indeed they are not. And yet they must pay for something they had no part in. What was once a prosperous planet has become a world with dwindling resources and..."

"And what have you done with all of your money? Where's it all gone?" interrupted a thin, hawk nosed man dressed in one of the newly issued Galaxy Garrison uniforms. "Wasting it away on weaponry...some sort of arsenal, I'm guessing."

Raising an eyebrow, Tirion motioned towards the man's clothing. "That's a lovely uniform you have there, officer. Did you buy it?"

"Of course not. They were given out, obviously." the officer replied brusquely.

"And where do you suppose they came from? The sky?" A few people chuckled quietly.

"Don't be absurd. They were ordered and made specially for the upper ranks of the garrison."

"Made for free? As a favor?"

"Paid for." the man eyed the prince suspiciously, wondering where this was leading.

"Not paid for by you, as you already mentioned." Tirion said. "Labor...materials...fairly costly. The money had to come from somewhere. Your own taxes, perhaps? Doubtful. I don't think it would make the illustrious Galaxy Garrison very popular if the people's money wasn't going towards civic improvements as they thought, but towards officers' uniforms."

All of the present officers looked at one another uncomfortably. No one else seemed willing to interfere.

"So, you ask where all of our money has gone? I think it's fairly obvious. You're wearing it as we speak." Tirion paused for a moment to let that sink in. The faces around him were uneasy and uncertain. He placed his hands on the table and continued in the same calm and perfectly reasonable tone, "People are starving. I can assure you all that the last thing on our minds is weaponry." He looked around the room, trying to see if anyone else wanted to take a shot. There were two down, at least, and he hoped to all that was holy that he wouldn't have to go through this every single time he tried to say something.

The older fellow from before spoke up again. "Please, gentlemen, we should let him finish." He looked sternly at the others, then turned his gaze back to Tirion, eyes softening slightly. "So, what did you hope to gain from coming here?"

Tirion considered his answer for a moment. It was important to say this carefully. "At the least," he said slowly, "I hope for an easement on the reparations we have been forced to pay. And, at the most..." he steeled himself and pushed on, "...a total end to the reparations and the allowance to begin expanding trade routes."

The room hung in silence for a few moments before it exploded with conversation, everyone talking at once in angry affronted voices. With a quiet sigh, Tirion sat back down, folding his arms across his chest. The older delegate leaned towards him.

"You certainly know how to stir up the hornet's nest, don't you?" he asked, the barest hint of a smile showing below his bushy gray mustache.

The prince just shook his head, watching everyone argue at the top of their lungs and bang their fists on the table. This was definitely going to take a long, long time.


On to Part 3


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