Author's Note: I realize it's kinda like my Autobiography of a Nation, but not quite. I changed the angle a little. And yeah, it's short.
Losing My Religion
Dorkus had never liked children. They were bothersome pests, always demanding attention and affection. In his childhood, he had never received it and he loathed the demanding creatures who craved it. Normally, in his line of work, he could ignore the common children and focus on his job. That was, until the Emperor's son appeared.
Dorkus already loathed Princess Oom, who flitted about the palace and insisted on following people around, asking them incessant questions and making a nuisance of herself. To make matters worse, her brother had taken the Empress out of the picture and it appeared as though the son had the same disease as his mother. Pale and sickly, he required numerous cordials and exercises in order to make it through the day. The Emperor was beside himself, determined to keep the child alive and determined to enlist Dorkus's aid.
The child swallowed all of the Emperor's time. It was disgusting how much affection and attention the Emperor lavished on his son. Whenever Dorkus brought up an important matter of state, the Emperor shooed him away so as not to affect his son's "delicate constitution". Dorkus had served the family faithfully for years and this was his response? It was maddening.
The entire planet was besotted with the son, too. People came from distant stretches of the continent to pay tribute to him and the Emperor and wish him well. Dorkus was often ignored, shunted aside, and Pinter, it seemed, had caught the mania. He didn't know whether Pinter liked children in general, or the Emperor's children in particular, but it made Dorkus want to wring the eyeball's neck. If he had a neck.
No one would notice if the son got sicker. The Emperor was inclined to wave off any real trouble, like he always did. He always saw the best in people, in every situation, and ignored the truth even when it was smacking him in the face. He was deluded. No matter what anyone did, the Emperor could ignore it if the person acted repentant. He couldn't believe anyone would wish him or his family ill, despite his high position and naysayers. Then again, perhaps there really weren't any besides him. They weren't making themselves known.
This planet was entirely too cheerful and good willed.
Every night, Dorkus mixed the son's cordial. And every night, he grew a little sicker. He couldn't rush the process too much. His mother had lived into her early twenties before she had died. It wasn't uncommon for the illness to grab children in their formative years, but too quickly might arouse suspicion. He wanted the son gone, and then perhaps he could encourage Princess Oom to take up a rather dangerous hobby, ridding himself of her too. Then, when the Emperor was beside himself with grief, Dorkus could be there to advise him, as he always had been in the past. And the Emperor would realize Dorkus was the only one he could depend upon, the only one worth knowing. No mere child deserved the attention and praise.
Dorkus waited, long, painful months. The child grew sicker, although his physicians couldn't see what was wrong. They tried all sorts of things, although it was already far too late. And Dorkus waited…while he did, Pinter grew more and more agitated.
"You can't help him, can you?" he asked him one day.
"Pinter, there's nothing left to do but to let nature take its course," Dorkus said. "Science can only go so far."
"But surely, you can do something! You're always helping him."
"I can do no more than I already have done," he said solemnly.
The son died a month later. Pinter was beside himself, distraught over the child's death. But Dorkus had known it would happen, had been waiting. The Emperor, now lost and miserable, welcomed Dorkus back into the fold and encouraged his opinion. His schedule, with wide gaps, accommodated Dorkus whenever he wanted it, no matter what he wanted.
And as Princess Oom grew, Dorkus grew more confident and hopeful. He let his pride get the best of him and hope that nothing would come to interrupt his security. In time, the Emperor would fall and he would reap the benefits.
Until the child had come. That stupid child from Earth, that everyone adored like they had adored the royal heir. And Dorkus saw red. He would stop at nothing to destroy him, because nothing would stand in his way.
Besides, what was the appeal of children, anyway? Dorkus would rather pitch him over a cliff and be done with it.
And eventually, he would be rid of him. One of these days, his plan would work.
Pinter would never know. He was almost as stupid as the child. Dorkus smiled. Stupid henchmen, naïve enough never to realize he was making it a business to murder children, were in short supply and high demand.