2 — "Spilled Milk"
Lotor awoke and, as with so many mornings before, he greeted the new day with an aching groan. For some reason, he found himself more stiff than usual and looked about blurrily to discover that he had never made it into bed the night before. He had slept the entire night sitting at the small table in his room, head resting against its smooth surface. Face first, actually.
He rubbed his cramped neck then, in slight embarrassment, wiped the drool from the side of his chin, looking around to make sure no one was around to see the rather undignified action. A wine glass lay on its side near his hand and he picked it up, peering cautiously inside. It was, not surprisingly, empty but for a few stray drops, the rest dripping from the table's edge and making a little pool on the floor. Part of him was relieved at this discovery, his head already beginning the sledgehammer pound of a massive hangover. Another part of him, the part that had led him to get grievously drunk in the first place, lamented the cup's emptiness, longing for just a little more respite from the real, sober, world.
"Allura." he mumbled in a muzzy voice, his mouth dry and cottony. He swallowed a couple of times to try to get things back in working order. Allura. Everything always went back to her. Sometimes she just would not get out of his mind and then there was nothing he could look at, nothing he could hear, nothing he could smell that did not remind him of her. Lately, it had been getting worse and worse. She was like the worst kind of drug...something permanently addictive after a single taste and then eternally out of reach.
Why can't she give me a chance? he thought, burying his throbbing head in his hands. Why doesn't she see how much I love her? It infuriated him to discover himself back on the same train of thought he had been on last night. And, still, he had no answers. The eternal cycling of questions through his head was making him ill, as was all the wine he consumed to forget them.
Since he had first met the princess, he had tried many things to get her out of his mind and, at first, they had worked. As his passion for her grew, however, so did his tolerance for anything that would replace her. After awhile, the only way he could think to escape was in sleep, and even then she plagued him, dancing through his dreams, always out of his desperate reach. And recently, he had turned to the wine, drinking himself into such a stupor that he would pass out. No dreams passed through this drunken blackness or, at least, none that he could remember. For that he was thankful. But he paid the price every morning after.
Feeling sick and growing increasingly angry, Lotor looked about for something within easy reach to throw. The only thing nearby was the wine glass which he immediately hurled across the room. It hit the wall then fell to the floor with a clatter, not even dented. It was a rather unsatisfying result. He pushed out of his chair and stood up a little too quickly, his head spinning and his back complaining fiercely at having to straighten up after spending the entire night in the same bent position. With a grumbled curse, he braced himself against the table until the room stopped moving about.
He put his hands on his lower back and stretched as slowly as he could, trying to work out the kinks without getting too dizzy. One of the only things that could make this morning even less pleasant would be to fall flat on his posterior. Or his face. Whichever hit first. Either way, he wasn't willing to risk the bruise.
At the far side of the room, the comm unit buzzed obnoxiously. Obviously, the privacy setting Lotor had put on last night was no longer in effect. Either that or it had been bypassed, which wouldn't have surprised him. "What?" he snapped, instantly regretting even the sound of his own raised voice.
"Prince Lotor," began the generically monotone voice of one of the robot servants, "your father requests your presence in the throne room..." The voice paused as if listening to someone, then added in a slightly cowed tone, "Now."
Wonderful, Lotor thought. This was the only other thing that could make the morning more awful — having to go before his father. Zarkon's abuse and insults were hard enough to take sober. They were utter hell when suffering from a hangover.
"I'm coming." he muttered, paying little attention to the soft click of the comm unit switching off. One day I will be free of this, he thought to himself as he went to do his best to clean himself up. One day I will rule this kingdom and never again have to run to my fool father's beck and call.
He wet a cloth and pressed it against his face, the cool water feeling better than usual to his aching head. Lowering the cloth, he raised his eyes to he mirror, looking himself over. His handsome face looked back, though its haggard state was hardly complimentary. He watched himself absently with bloodshot eyes as he carefully brushed his hair, making sure not too pull too hard. When I take this kingdom, everything will be better, he thought as he ran the brush slowly through his white tresses. I will no longer have to worry about Zarkon and Allura will finally be my queen, just as it is meant to be.
A vague smile crossed his face, his mind drifting on to the dreams he tried so hard to evade at night. It was alright to think about them in the day time because he could do something about them then. He could plan. With the strange sense of optimism that existed only when concerned with his beloved princess, he knew in his heart that he and Allura were destined to be together. All he had to do was make her understand. He would make her see. She would love him because she had no other choice.