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countdown At exactly five-oh-three and twenty-one seconds, the time, down to the nanosecond when, on this day many years before, Lotor made his first appearance in the Universe, Lotor's private rooms in Castle Doom were blown into atomic particles. The explosion leveled the entire wing of the castle and sent tremors felt on the other side of the planet. Two minutes later Lotor's private battleship, which was orbiting the planet per his commands, also exploded. The metal shards burned quickly when they entered the atmosphere, looking almost like fireworks to the planet's inhabitants who were still turned away from the sun. Lotor watched these pyrotechnics from a safe distance on one of Doom's six moons, his mouth twisted in a bitter grimace. He was thirty years old today and the only one who wasn't surprised that he was still living. Three hours later, which was the time when his mother killed herself after holding her son for the first--and last--time, Lotor's private court arrived aboard the lumbering salvage barge Lotor had refitted as his temporary command station three months ago. He had half-a-dozen such ships scattered about the Doom-controlled airspace. He hadn't been caught flat-footed on his birthday since he was ten, which was when his father first tried to kill him. "My Lord," his elderly chancellor said. "It's good to see you." And even though he didn't say it, everybody heard the 'alive' that echoed in the silence. Lotor just smiled and amused himself by wondering how many of the loyal men he surrounded himself with had made contingency plans just in case he hadn't survived the night. The meeting lasted just over two hours, a little longer than normal but given the unusual circumstances the extra length was not unwarranted. It ended, however, like every meeting with his private council had ended for the past five years, with his chancellor urging him to take a wife and father a son. Lotor smiled and said he would keep his options open, knowing that he would eventually bow to their wish and make a political marriage--quite possibly with Allura, given the relative importance of Arus in the stellarpolitical scheme of things. But not until his father was dead, of course, for the minute he had a brat of his own he would become even more expendable than he already was. Lotor wondered, briefly, what it would be like to celebrate a birthday without dread or fear. It must be...nice. The attack on Arus was set for two-thirty and it was a glorious a defeat. Lotor watched the explosions from the safety of his bridge, but he thought more about the last friend he had instead of how he would get through groveling for forgiveness. He had been twelve the last time he'd had a real friend (Heran had been his name, and he had been the son of a general), and still stupid enough to believe that his father still cared for him. But then there had been the execution, and even now he could still smell the blood and hear the dull echoing sound Heran's head made as it bounced on the hard packed dirt of the courtyard before coming to rest at his feet; and poor Heran's expression was still confused and unbelieving, as if he were waiting for someone to tell him that this was all a mistake and he was free to go on living. That had been some birthday. At four, Lotor pretended to be contrite as Zarkon screamed abuse at him, but he was secretly hoping that today would be the day that Zarkon's heart gave out and Lotor could stop cowering and cringing and waiting for that one assassin who managed to get past his defenses. There had been a close call ten years ago, when the girl he thought he loved had smiled at him and cooed and fucked him to exhaustion and then tried to stick him with a poisoned needle while he lay in post-coital bliss in her arms. He still missed her sometimes. At six Lotor had landed on a small life-sustaining moon that orbited a gaseous planet that was as far from Arus and Doom and the Alliance and the Drule Empire as possible. He was standing outside of a small, modest apartment, holding a plain brass key and suddenly he was more nervous now than he had been all day. He thought about the last six months when glaring hatred became something else, still full of fire but not of hate. How swift glances turned into lingering looks and the looks became longer and then the meetings, the hidden words, the brief, burning caresses. And now, this. Lotor. Alone. Separated from all of his defenses, from his escape crafts and guards and weapons. Just him and a small shuttle and plain clothes. He didn't know if he was ready. But Lotor had never been one to sit idly by. So he stuck the key in the lock and opened the door to a scene of pure domestic tranquility. Boring, mass produced furniture covered in cloth masquerading as something more expensive than it really was, and a table with two long, beautiful burning tapers in old silver candlesticks that softened the mediocrity of the surroundings. Lotor closed the door but kept one hand on the knob, and breathed in the heady aroma of a home cooked meal, of steak and vegetables and maybe some sort of pie for desert. He could hear the chef in the kitchen, humming an old song in an easy, off-key fashion. Then Keith came through the separating door, carrying a plate of steaks and wearing plain, soft, well-worn cotton clothes without the slightest hint of red, barefoot and smiling with an apron tied around his waist. "You came." Keith put the plate down and padded to Lotor's side. " Great! Well, dinner's ready, so sit down." He pulled Lotor over and sat him in one of the solid, comfortable chairs and planted a soft kiss on his forehead. "Smell's good." "Thank you." Keith's hand lingered as he took his own seat and smiled with guileless eyes. "Happy birthday. I know it hasn't gone very well so far, but, well, I hope it'll get better." Lotor looked up and realized, suddenly, that Keith meant what he said, that there was no hidden agenda to his words. For the first time in his life, Lotor thought that for once his birthday might be very happy indeed. |