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.