Chosen and Fools

by Cheezey

After the happenings in "A Ghost of A Chance," an unexpected turn of events leaves Haggar to reflect upon the past.

Chosen and Fools

By Cheezey

After several hours, the ride back to Doom from Arus was nearly over.  Once again Zarkon's crew had suffered a defeat, although the king himself was not involved in the failed scheme.  The one in charge of that failed mission had been Queen Merla, but once she had taken Princess Allura captive it had been only a matter of time before Prince Lotor had stepped in to take over the show himself. 

Both the witch Haggar and Commander Cossack had also been involved in the fiasco, although neither were particularly enthused about or pleased with the plan—the witch because she disliked Merla's presumptuousness and arrogance, and the commander because the seventh kingdom queen had stuck him in her torture machine, the Cosmotron, earlier that day in a demonstration to impress Zarkon.  Cossack and Haggar both took mean-spirited pleasure in seeing Merla's little scheme fail and had spent much of the ride back to Doom alternately grumbling about Merla and making snide remarks at her expense.  Since Merla had chosen to fly back alone with her dwarflings in her star-cutter, and Lotor had decided to brood about losing Allura again in his private quarters, it made it all the easier for them to do so freely as well.

The looming sphere of the dark planet called Doom appeared on the viewscreen as their craft approached their home world and prepared for landing.  Content to let the robots handle the technicalities of the procedure, Cossack leaned back in his chair and swiveled it to face Haggar.  "Almost home.  I wonder if Zarkon will find Merla so impressive now.  Seems to me like she's a lot more talk than action, except when it comes to pushing us around," he finished, and stretched.

As he did so, Haggar noticed some light markings on Cossack's blue-skinned arms, and peered at him curiously from beneath her hood.  "Cossack," she said as she leaned over, "did you manage to bruise yourself just piloting the ship?"

"No, I don't think so," the commander answered with a puzzled frown, and followed the witch's intense gaze down to his left arm where he saw several purplish-red lines upon the surface of his skin.  "What the…" He rubbed the skin lightly and his frown deepened to an irritated glare when he felt a stinging sensation.  "Feels like some kind of sunburn or something.  I didn't think we were out on Arus that long."

"Let me see it," Haggar rasped insistently, and grasped the commander's arm, pulling it toward her.  She ran her cold and bony finger across the markings.  "That is not a natural burn," she stated after a moment of silent inspection.

"What is it then?  Where'd it come from?"

Haggar's eyes narrowed as she met Cossack's puzzled gaze.  "Where do you think?" she hissed contemptuously, although her disgust was not aimed at the commander whose arm she examined.  "Merla."

When he heard the witch's answer, the commander's expression hardened as well.  "You mean the Cosmotron did this?"

Haggar nodded.  "And her oh-so-charming charmed quarks.  It would seem exposure to them has a rather ugly side effect in addition to the pain the procedure induces."

When he heard that, Commander Cossack's hand tightened into an angry fist.  He'd thought it bad enough that Merla blatantly abused her power in embarrassing him in front of King Zarkon and treating him like a guinea pig—even if he had volunteered—but for her to not even have the courtesy to warn him about the effects afterward?  Volunteer or not, he was still Zarkon's high fleet commander, and he was due a certain level of respect.  But in the short time Merla had been a guest of the royal house of Doom, she had not bothered to show much of that to anyone except the king whose blue hindquarters she kissed every chance she got.  "That bitch," Cossack snarled indignantly.  "I ought to take her by that braid and shove it—"

"Shhh," Haggar interrupted, her voice barely a whisper as she placed her finger to her lips for effect.  "We're landing and her ship is already in the bay."  The witch pointed to the view screen, which showed that Merla's star-cutter had already docked.  "Until we know more about the range of her telepathic powers, it would be wise to keep our overtly… hostile… thoughts shielded and unspoken."

Cossack growled angrily once more, but conceded to Haggar with a nod.  "You're probably right.  But she still won't get away with this.  Cossack the Terrible doesn't forgive and forget."

"Nor should he, or I for that matter in her rudeness to me," Haggar agreed as their ship came to a full landing and the robots signaled that it was safe to disembark.  "But be patient.  She will have her time of humbling."

* * *

Alone in her chambers several hours later, Haggar heard a timid knock on the door.  The witch was not expecting a visitor, so she made her way over to the door feeling rather irritated at being disturbed.  Her mood was already foul from the nonsense earlier with Merla and being pestered at such an hour did not help matters.  She had no idea who was calling upon her other than it was likely not King Zarkon or Prince Lotor, for neither of them would have bothered to knock to begin with. 

When she opened the door, she saw the figure of a female clad in slave linens standing before her, bowing her head to the witch in a gesture of fearful respect.  At a closer glance Haggar recognized the dark-haired woman as the servant that tended to Cossack and his quarters.  Still annoyed but now also somewhat curious, Haggar stared intently at the slave.  "Yes?" she demanded.

"My apologies for bothering you, Lady Haggar," the slave murmured in a humble tone.  "But I did not know where else to go.  Commander Cossack is ill and I am concerned for him."

Haggar sighed irritably, having little patience for the foolishness of Cossack's help.  "Slave, did it not occur to you to go to the medical bay or seek the castle healer instead of disturbing me?  I am a witch, child, or do you not understand what that means?"

The slave's bow deepened.  "I am sorry, my lady.  I—I already went to see Master Thaileus, but he is having very little luck with the commander.  I had thought that perhaps with your magic you could—"

"Could what?" Haggar snapped, her shrill voice taking on a ragged edge in its impatience.

"Help him, wise witch."  The slave lifted her bowed head to meet Haggar's eyes somewhat imploringly.  "Master Cossack thinks highly of you, my lady, and I thought that perhaps if I came to you…"

At that Haggar could not help but chortle.  "Cossack thinks highly of me?  And what gave you that idea?"

The slave straightened, relaxing slightly now that she was relatively certain she had not roused the witch's ire.  "He speaks well of you—in his way of doing so."

"Does he?" Haggar replied, turning back into her room so that she could retrieve her staff.  "And what does he say about me, slave?"

"Er… I can not recall the words exactly," the slave hedged, knowing that repeating verbatim some of her master's more colorful statements about Haggar, backhanded complements that most of them were, could very well land her in the Pit of Skulls or worse at the hands of the witch's magic.  "But surely knowing him as well as you must, you understand the commander's… unique way of letting one know how he feels.  He does not hold back.  And while he has of course made remarks, I have yet to hear him refer to you or our rightful rulers in true contempt."

Although hearing that Cossack had a high opinion of her was nothing terribly important to the old witch, Haggar did feel a measure of satisfaction from the slave's statement, mostly in what was left unsaid in the polite omission of Queen Merla's name.  With her staff in hand, the witch then joined the girl in the hallway and began to walk with her toward Cossack's quarters.

The slave bowed again in gratitude.  "Thank you for coming, Lady Haggar."  Like most slaves that survived longer than a week in Castle Doom, Haggar noticed that one was careful to clearly show respect to her superiors in every gesture and spoken word.

Less impressed by the flattery and show than those with larger egos might have been, Haggar eyed the girl with a touch of curiosity.  "What is your name, slave?"

"It is Almika, Mistress."

"I see," Haggar acknowledged.  "Well, Almika, you are surprisingly loyal to your master for a slave.  You must fear his wrath considerably."

Almika shook her head meekly and answered the witch in a low tone, as if fearful of being heard by anyone but Haggar.  "If I may be honest with you, wise witch, it is not his wrath I fear but what my fate would be if the worst happens to the commander."  When she finished speaking, she glanced at the floor while they continued through the darkened hallway.

Haggar found the slave's statement somewhat curious.  She could tell that the girl was well broken and conditioned, for she was as timid as a space rodent and nervousness radiated from her very aura.  That pleased the witch—when it was required to deal with the slaves, she preferred ones that knew their place and were not impudent or requiring of any discipline.  Haggar had neither the time nor patience for such mundane hassles.  She cast the girl a stern look.  "Don't you think it's rather foolish to not fear the wrath of your master, child?  You must know Cossack the Terrible's reputation."  Of course, much like the rest of the royal court of Doom, Haggar herself hardly feared Cossack "the Terrible's" wrath—in fact, she found the idea rather amusing—but she also knew that the fleet commander's subordinates did take his reputation for ruthlessness seriously, and with good reason.  Despite Cossack's snarky attitude and impetuous nature, the witch knew full well that one did not get as far as he had in the Doom military without a considerable measure of tactical skill and brutality. 

"Master Cossack is not so terrible if I don't anger him.  He treats me well if I do him the same, and that is why I do not want to see harm come to him," Almika confided in the witch.  "I never want to go back to the position I served before I was given to Commander Cossack.  It's far preferable to serve one man in a position of power than it is to be forced to submit to many who wish they were in one but aren't."

"You came from the soldiers' bordello, then?" Haggar guessed, and the slave confirmed her speculation with a nod.  The witch made a distasteful face at the thought of enduring the crude and licentious advances of the average Doom soldier.  "Then I can see why you would not want to return.  Poor child.  Had you been blond, you might have caught the eye of Prince Lotor.  But then again, his ladies have a way of winding up in the Pit of Skulls or having unfortunate accidents when he tires of them, so perhaps you were lucky to have been given to one more easily satisfied than our fickle prince," she finished as they rounded the corner and reached Cossack's quarters.

As the pair made their way inside to the commander's bedroom, the drule healer Thaileus heard their approach and looked up from his patient.  Cossack himself was unconscious on the bed, clearly in a fitful rest.  Sweat covered his blue forehead and matted his hair, and the reddish streaks that had been present on his skin earlier had multiplied and become more angry and pronounced.  "He has gotten worse," Haggar remarked as she walked over to the sleeping commander's bedside.

"The slave said something about him being put in a Cosmotron belonging to Queen Merla.  You were present for this?" Thaileus questioned Haggar.

"Yes, she used Cossack to demonstrate her weapon—her silly 'charmed quarks' as she called them."

"Charmed quarks are a nasty form of radiation that does specific cellular damage," the healer informed the witch.  "But few experiments have been done with them.  It's a rather unstable form of energy from what I've been told.  Devices that use them tend to have issues with spontaneous explosions."

Haggar let out a sarcastic chuckle.  "Knowing Cossack's affinity for bombs, it's almost fitting in a sad way."  And perhaps if he recovers, he would enjoy helping Merla's machine have a not-so-spontaneous explosion with the help of one, she added silently.  She knew she would certainly not mind seeing the uppity queen's plans turned upside down with a big bang.  In fact, she would be happy to make a bomb-bearing indoor robeast for just such an occasion.

"Anyway, there is very little I can do except to let it run its course.  There are no real treatments other than topical salves and pain medication.  I've taken the liberty of giving Commander Cossack a hefty dose of delbinium, so you can expect him to sleep for a while.  Unless, of course, you were to use healing magic," Thaileus finished with a clear note of condescension in his tone at the notion.

"Keeping King Zarkon's constitution strong is one thing, but treating the ill is another.  My magic is not specialized in that discipline."  She paused and eyed Thaileus evenly.  "Which is fortunate for you, considering that healing is your job."

Thaileus bristled at the insult, but he held his tongue for he also knew how unwise it was to risk Haggar's wrath.  "Then I will leave you to work your magic then, witch.  I'll be back later," he stated huffily, and strode out of the room.

"Officious little worm," Haggar muttered once the door clicked shut, signaling the healer's exit.  "I never liked him.  Marguil was much better."

Almika looked over at the witch curiously.  "Who is Marguil, Lady Haggar?"

"A healer we once had on staff here.  He retired long ago, far before your time."  She glanced at the slave.  "You are dismissed.  Leave Cossack to me for now."

Almika bowed.  "As you wish, wise witch," she said, and slipped out the door without another word, leaving Haggar alone in the room with the sleeping Cossack.

She reached down and laid her fingers upon the ailing Cossack's arm, eyeing the ugly reddish marks that marred his skin with disgust.  Although one could hardly call Haggar a compassionate soul, she certainly had no love for the arrogant pink-haired queen that had done that to Cossack, granting him a considerable measure of her sympathy by default.  Still, even without benefit of Merla's viciousness, Haggar likely would have felt a touch of concern for him.  Odd as it was and equally difficult for her to explain, she was genuinely fond of the blue buffoon of a commander and in her own way, she was protective of him.  But why that was so was a complicated issue and a long story that had its roots far in the witch's past, in a time many years before the commander's birth…

* * *

"Take me to him," Haggar demanded, struggling to sit upright in the plush sheets of her bedding despite her condition.  She was alone with Marguil in the dark chambers that were her quarters—quarters that were still hers to that very day in the future where she stood at Cossack's bedside—alit only by the soft light of her skull and wax candles and the eerie glow of her scrying globe on the pedestal of the west wall.  The witch, far younger then and still more a beautiful woman than hag by appearance, shoved with what strength she could muster against the drule healer's restraint.  His proved mightier, however, and he held her in place on the bed.

"Until you calm yourself and cease this tirade I will take you nowhere," Marguil stated firmly.

"You will," the witch hissed viciously, "or else!"

Marguil dropped her arm and eyed her coolly, unfazed by her theatrics.  "You'll what?" he challenged.  "Turn me into a reptile of some sort?"

The witch swung her legs around, off of the bed and stood on the dark tile floor in her bare feet.  She was clad in a flowing nightgown that she quickly covered with a robe that hung upon her bedpost.  "I can do far worse to you than that if I so desired, either with my magic or a whispered word to Zarkon," she retorted, tucking her once honey-colored hair—now turning gray prematurely from the stresses of her chosen lifestyle—and tucked it beneath the hood of her robe.

"Oh, Haggar," Marguil said with a sigh.  "You and I have known one another many years now, so let's not play games.  You know as well as I do that your influence with Zarkon is not, shall we say, what it once was.  Especially now that—"

"That I've been replaced?" she snapped, turning to eye the healer sharply.  He frowned, but did not challenge her statement, and instead only gave a silent and subtle nod.  "Only as his consort, Marguil.  His need for my magic is stronger than ever."

"As his highness will undoubtedly expect the potency of your magic to be, and what it will lack if you do not allow yourself the rest needed to recover from what you have been through."

"I will rest when you get out of my way and let me see him."

"Your son?" Marguil said with a defeated sigh.  "I sympathize, but you must understand that he is not well—as you are not after such a difficult delivery.  It was insanity to let this go as far as it did.  Zarkon's blood does not mix well with that of your kind.  Do you know how few children of such a cross live past their fifth birthday?"

Haggar ignored Marguil and took her staff from where it leaned against an altar.  Normally she carried it as a means with which to amplify her magic, but that night she needed it as a walking stick as well.  "Zarkon would have had both me and Sivich eliminated if he knew the child was his.  That's why only you know that.  Kings do not like illegitimate heirs cropping up out of nowhere to usurp them, and kings of his station do not marry lovers not of royal birth."

The healer shook his head in disbelief.  "And even still you named the boy?  You couldn't even bother to think of a name for his alleged father, and that sordid little tale will last longer in the court's memory than your child is likely to live if left to nature alone."

The witch paused in her labored gait long enough to meet the healer's gaze.  Haggar had never planned on conceiving a child by Doom's ruler, but she had been irresistibly attracted to Zarkon's power and the allure of being the consort of the king of an empire had been too much for her to resist.  She supposed she had become careless, but when she learned that her child would be born during the Tozrayn alignment—a planetary configuration that occurred only once every few centuries that was astrologically significant to those that followed her dark spirit masters—Haggar had taken it as an omen that the Ancient Ones were rewarding her for her diligent service to them, and she imagined that one day the child would grow up to be strong and powerful. 

Of course, in order to secure the child's safety she had been forced to fabricate a tale as to his parentage and once Zarkon heard it, he had been finished with the witch as a consort for good.  After all, there were plenty of attractive women, much younger and prettier than she after many years in the monarch's service, that were all too available and willing to satisfy his physical needs without him having to share.  Royal egos did not take such things well, and it was only because Haggar had shown such skill in magic that Zarkon did not dismiss her entirely.  The rejection had caused the witch almost as much anguish emotionally as bearing the child had on her physically, but she was nothing if not a resourceful woman and in time she knew she could control and harness those raw emotions into something more productive.  Dark magic was wonderfully efficient for that.

"You really don't think he will live, even with my magical intervention?"

"I am your friend, Haggar, and because of that I will be honest with you," Marguil told her bluntly.  "His chances are very slim.  I urge you not to get attached to that child."

Haggar closed her eyes and began to walk again.  "Then I should hurry to see him while I can, shouldn't I?"  When no answer was forthcoming from Marguil, the witch quickened her pace as best she could in her exhausted state and pushed open the door to the room that served as the nursery for the newborn.

"I don't think it's in my power to stop you," Marguil replied, watching her make her way over to the crib that held the tiny blue son of her and Zarkon.

Haggar gently picked up the child and held him against her.  She sensed a frailty about the boy as soon as she touched him and felt an uneasy coolness in his flesh.  He let out a soft cry, weaker than it should have been, and relaxed against her.  "He is not warm as he should be, and his cry is weak," Haggar said, turning toward Marguil.  "But he was born on the apex of the alignment—it should have made him at least a little stronger."

"Sometimes nature holds more power than that of magic and mysticism," the healer suggested, not arrogantly, but only as a statement of fact.

The witch's expression hardened.  "We will see about that."

Marguil raised an eyebrow.  "What do you have in mind?"

"A talisman," Haggar replied.  "Drawn in the most powerful blood I can find.  The snake symbol of the spirits will protect him from harm.  The Ancient Ones watch over their chosen and fools."

"Which explains why you've been so lucky thus far in hiding the truth about this boy from King Zarkon," the healer responded smoothly.  His eyes shifted from Haggar to the infant and then back to the witch, who smiled with a devilish determination to cheat fate.  "Should I be worried about this notion of yours, Haggar?"

Haggar held her child close for one more long moment, kissed his forehead, and then replaced him gently in the crib, carefully covering his tiny body so that he would not catch an additional chill.  "Not unless you continue to ask questions," she rasped mysteriously.  She smiled down at the baby, who had already settled into sleep, and brushed her fingers against his forehead.  "Sleep well, my Sivich.  Soon you will be out of easy reach of death."

With that she took up her staff, smiled confidently at Marguil, and started back for her chambers, her emboldened resolve strengthening her enough physically that one who had not known the circumstances might not have noticed the witch had been ailing at all.

* * *

The remainder of the night passed without incident, and a good portion of the following day as well went on with only passing notice given to Haggar's absence.  The witch was holed up in her quarters, working on a potent talisman of strength and stamina for her suffering child.  She had many of the ingredients it required on hand already in her laboratory, and had the concoction simmering in the eerie magical fires of her creation as it awaited the final ingredient, the one that gave the formula all of its power. 

The ancient spell called for strong blood, and Haggar intended to use the strongest she could get to save the boy.  While the blood of any strong slave or soldier in Zarkon's service could have worked well enough, the witch intended to take no chances.  Had she trusted her own blood to be stronger she would have used that, but she knew that while her magic was strong, her constitution was weak and it would do Sivich no favors.  He needed far more potent, vital, and tenacious blood for that.  Her son's talisman would be tempered in blood from one who could, and would, live longer than most mortals, one who was being sustained and strengthened through the powers of dark arts himself—his father's blood.  The blood of King Zarkon.

Haggar wrapped her cold fingers around a silvery vial and slipped it into her robe.  Taking a sample of Zarkon's blood would be easier said than done.  The king was suspicious and certainly she could not simply walk up to him with a sacrificial knife and ask him if he would mind a little scratch.  While he might be willing to offer her blood for magical purposes that served him, he did not require any sustaining treatments in the near future and she did not want to be in a situation that posed inconvenient questions, not when she did not have the time to plan it out properly.  No, she had to act quickly.  If Marguil's prediction was an accurate one, Sivich's young life depended upon her timeliness.

Fortunately she had an idea in mind for a quick way to acquire the vital fluid she needed and although it would likely be messy, it would be efficient.  Glancing at the nearby timepiece she knew it to be the hour of the afternoon when Zarkon usually indulged in a goblet or two of fine wine, and that was always served in crystal decanters.  Fine, sharp crystal that shattered quite easily and formed jagged pieces that could leave quite a nasty cut if one was unfortunate enough to handle it improperly.  A cruel and calculating smile flickered across the witch's features as she scooped up her familiar in her arms and left her chambers, bound for the throne room.

When Haggar reached the grand hall of Castle Doom she found Zarkon seated on his throne as usual, speaking with a governor from a conquered world in the empire.  She saw two servants off to the side with a cart that held the spirits and crystal they would serve to the king when he gave the order, likely when he was finished speaking to his visitor.  She eyed them for a moment, until they averted their eyes and bowed their heads in respect to the witch.  Casually she stroked her familiar's head, and then she leaned down to whisper to it.  Those observing would mistake it for affection when in truth it was merely her instructing her cat on what to do to help her get what she needed.  When she finished, the feline began to purr, and she looked up toward Zarkon with a mild smile on her stress-worn features.

The ruler of Doom looked up when he saw her approach.  "What do you want, witch?" he demanded gruffly.

"Merely to discuss with you some of the progress I've made on that robeast prototype you asked about recently," she lied.  "But if you're busy, it can wait."

Zarkon eyed her coolly.  "I'm surprised you finally got around to it with how slow you've been about other things as of late."

"My apologies, sire, my health has not been the best as of late," she said, lowering her head not so much as a gesture of humility before her king but more so to hide the flash of emotion that she felt at being spoken to so coldly and contemptuously by him.  In the months that had passed since she had fallen out of his favor she had grown used to it and had come to accept it, but time had yet to fully heal the wounds he had left on her heart to the jagged scars that they would later become.

"I'm not interested in your excuses, I'm interested in results."  Zarkon then turned to the visiting delegate.  "Have we covered everything you came to discuss?"

The alien governor nodded and then bowed to the monarch.  "We have, sire."

"All right then," Zarkon said with an authoritative nod in the slaves' direction.  "Pour the three of us some wine and let's hear the witch's report."

The slaves nodded back to the king and pulled out goblets for those assembled.  Unaware of Haggar's sinister intentions as she innocently set her familiar on the floor, they poured generous portions of the fine vintage for Zarkon and his guests.  Meanwhile, Coba padded softly to the foot of Zarkon's throne and rubbed against the monarch's feet with an affectionate purr.

Zarkon glanced down at the cat.  "Haggar, your cat better not leave fur on my good robe."

"He's merely fond of you, sire," Haggar offered sweetly.  "But I keep his shedding to a minimum through my magic, so your attire should be suitably regal even if he does show you loyalty in his way."

"If you say so," Zarkon said with a shrug as he took the crystal goblet one of the slaves handed him.  Haggar kept her eyes fixed on Zarkon except for the briefest glance at Coba as the other slave handed her a wine glass and then moved on to serve the alien governor.  No one noticed the subtle nod the witch gave her familiar as Zarkon's fingers closed around the stem of the goblet.

In a flash Coba was at the slave beside Zarkon's feet, and a moment later his feline fangs and claws sank painfully into his calf with more force than a mortal cat of its size should have been able to inflict.  The slave, a human originally from the recently conquered planet Tyrus, screamed in pain and clenched at the delicate crystal goblet with adrenaline strength, causing it to shatter in his hands.  Just as Haggar had hoped, the sharp shards not only cut the hands of the slave but fell onto Zarkon's arm and made a long cut across the back of his wrist.  By the time the slave recovered, Coba had quickly returned to Haggar's side as though he had never been at the top of Zarkon's throne.  Through benefit of her illusory magic, Haggar also managed to conjure an image to conceal the slave's wounds from sight.

Zarkon meanwhile let out a shout of pain and glared with unbridled fury at the slave.  "Clumsy fool!" the king bellowed angrily.

"I—I'm sorry your highness," the slave whispered in horror, knowing full well what terrible fate could await him after hurting the king, even inadvertently, in such a manner.  "The witch's cat attacked me and—"

"Liar!" Haggar hissed contemptuously, fixing her cruel glare upon the horrified slave as she set her goblet down and scooped Coba into her arms for a moment to console him from the insult.  "My cat is right here.  Swift as he is, he could not have attacked you viciously enough to cause that.  Are you even bleeding?" she accused as she set her familiar back down onto the floor and ascended the steps of the throne, the perfect picture of concern.

"He attacked my leg, I swear!" the slave exclaimed defensively, eyeing Zarkon with clear fear.

The alien governor glanced suspiciously at the slave.  "He is not even cut from what I can tell from here."

Zarkon scowled at the slave.  "You dare to do this and then lie to me?"  He held up his bleeding arm to the slave's face, while Haggar came to his side with a linen napkin taken from the wine cart that she immediately pressed to the wound.

"The cut is mostly superficial, my liege," the witch assured him softly.  "His attempt to harm you in rebellion was as inept as his service."

"That's not what happened!" the slave wailed in protest.  "I didn't do it on purpose, sire!  Her cat—"

"That's enough!" Zarkon bellowed authoritatively.  "Had you been only incompetent and offered a suitably humble apology for your clumsiness I might have forgiven you, but to lie to me is something I consider unforgivable.  Guards!  Take this worthless wretch to the Pit of Skulls!"

The slave went pale in terror and fell to his knees.  "No, sire, please!  I'm sorry, I beg you…"

The other slave, feeling sorry for his partner, looked up at the king imploringly.  "King Zarkon—"

Zarkon ignored the offender's last minute pleas for mercy and cast a glare down at the other slave, unnoticing of how carefully Haggar wrapped the cloth around his bleeding wound, soaking in as much of his vital fluid as possible.  "Do you think I'm wrong in my decision, slave?  Did you see my witch's cat attack him?"

Holding her hands tightly around Zarkon's cut, Haggar cast a threatening look down at the other slave.  "You didn't actually see Coba attack, did you?  Were you not pouring the Governor wine?"

The other slave swallowed hard.  He had seen a blue flash he thought was the witch's cat coming back to her side from near the king's feet, but he had not actually seen him bite his partner—and furthermore, he could tell a threat when he saw it.  The truth he knew would not be enough to spare the other slave's fate, and if he made a conjecture that displeased the king he could very well wind up in the Pit of Skulls beside his unfortunate partner, or subject to something horrific at the witch's hands if she did not like his answer.  Life as a slave on Doom was difficult enough, but he had no desire to leave it through a painful death either.  He lowered his head in fearful respect.  "I did not, and I was," he said quietly, his voice holding an apologetic note for the other slave.

Haggar turned and looked up at Zarkon.  "Clearly then he was lying to cover himself," she said, indicating the other slave.

The king let out a grunt of acknowledgement and nodded to his guards, who had already ascended the stairs and surrounded the unfortunate slave.  "Take him away.  I want him out of my sight.  And for the gods' sake, get the healer in here to bandage this.  It's bleeding like a do-gooder's heart."

"As you wish, sire," one of the guards replied as they secured the slave in their grasp and took him, screaming in protest and begging for forgiveness in vain, out of Zarkon's throne room.

"Marguil's skill will assure that this leaves no unsightly scar, my lord," Haggar whispered sweetly as she applied more pressure to the wound.  Very subtly she slipped the vial beneath the folds of the napkin to squeeze some of his blood directly into it.  She was fairly certain she would be able to extract enough from the linen itself, but the more she got in its liquid form, the better.  Zarkon was too angry at the situation to notice, and just as she heard Marguil's voice in the doorway Haggar slipped the vial back into her sleeve and casually stepped aside to allow the healer to tend to their ruler.

Marguil hurried to King Zarkon's side immediately and tore the blood-soaked cloth away to examine the wound.  "This is ugly, but certainly nothing to worry about for someone of your constitution, sire," the healer assured him as he reached into his bag for an antiseptic.  As he did so, he noticed Haggar snatch the discarded napkin quickly and had a dark flash of realization, but as Haggar's friend and confidant and also as one loyal to the monarch he tended to, he remained silent.  Whatever Haggar's scheme was, he wanted no part of it.

Haggar meanwhile smiled innocently at Marguil and Zarkon as she stepped backward, the bloody cloth concealed behind her back and the vial with the king's blood already capped and hidden in her sleeve.  "I'll leave you to tend to him, Marguil, and I'll discuss the robeast with you at a better time, King Zarkon."  When the king acknowledged her with a distracted nod, she quickly slipped out the door with her cat behind her.

Once out in the hallway, Haggar's concerned expression melted into one of cruel satisfaction.  The bloody linen in one hand and the vial in the other, she hurried in the swiftest pace she could manage toward her laboratory.  She now had everything she needed for the talisman, and it was only a matter of hours—the time it would take the magic formulation to brew to full potency—before she could ensure that her son would not only survive, but live as strong and long as his father.

* * *

Six hours later, Haggar was nearly out of her mind as she paced the cold stone floor of her laboratory waiting for the magical potion to brew to potency.  The texts from which she had taken the spell were specific about the fact that it had to simmer in magical fire for at least that long to be at full effectiveness, so she waited restlessly as the time passed, but the wait had become maddening to her. 

She had gone to visit Sivich a short while ago and when she had held his frail, cold infant body against her own she had almost felt her own heart breaking, for his increasing weakness had become far more evident in just the last few hours.  The labored cough that the boy had let out in the midst of a coo haunted her like the most relentless of specters, and she prayed to her dark masters with all the fervor she could muster that her talisman would be strong enough to save him.  Despite having traveled a spiritually dark path for many a season, the witch's heart was still not fully hardened to the concept of love, and she had spent the last long months after which Zarkon had rejected her affections channeling her spurned love into that of her newly born child.  If she were to lose him…

As she waited, Haggar glanced for what must have been the hundredth time at the scorched remains of the blood-soaked napkin she had taken from the throne room earlier that day.  The once white and crimson cloth was now little more than scraps of burnt linen, with every last trace of Zarkon's blood burnt off of it in the fires of a magical extraction.  Although she had been able to collect some of his blood in its raw form, she had not collected quite enough for the formula so she had been forced to get the rest from what had been soaked into the cloth.  It had been time consuming and cost her another forty-nine minutes—she knew, for she had tracked the numbers upon the timepiece obsessively from the beginning to the end of the spell—but it had been a necessary step.  The cloth had provided ample supply to try a second potion if necessary, but she hoped in the name of the Ancient Ones themselves that she would not need it.  She had no confidence that the child had that much time, and Marguil's well meaning but entirely too practical advice to not get attached only deepened her worries.

After what felt like an eternity, the numbers on the timepiece read the time that she had been waiting for.  Without wasting even as much as a second, the witch snatched the flask from the azure fire in which it incubated in one hand and her staff with the other, and set off down the hall toward the quarters that held her infant son at a swift walk.  Soon, my Sivich, she thought determinedly.  Soon this will all be nothing more than a miserable memory for the both of us.

Clenching the vial tightly in her bony fingers, she ascended the few steps leading to the hall that held her son's room and for a brief moment, felt her blood run cold.  Deathly cold.  Her heart pounded in her chest and for the briefest moment she paused, as if stopped by an unseen force that felt in that instant like an insurmountable barrier.  The delay troubled her only for a second, however, and with a strengthened resolve she thrust her staff forward as if to push it away physically and strode into the room, clutching the vial of life-giving potion in defiant victory.

What she saw, however, was not the solitary and peacefully sleeping form of her son in his crib, but Marguil and a nursemaid slave standing over it instead.  As soon as she came into the room, Marguil looked up and met her eyes with a somber—and was it sympathetic?—expression that the witch would never forget in all of her long years.  "Haggar," he began quietly, and then let go of the side of Sivich's crib and stepped toward her.  "I'm so sorry."

The witch's eyes went wide and she in turn stepped forward, wildly in denial of the ominous aura of death that permeated the very atmosphere of the room.  "I have the talisman!  Hurry, I need to—"

The slave nursemaid let out a startled gasp, not knowing what she should or should not say both out of a feeling of sympathy for the witch and a sense of self-preservation knowing her reputation.  Marguil on the other hand came to Haggar's side and put an arm around her in a genuine attempt to be comforting.  "No, Haggar.  Don't.  You don't need to see him.  There's… there was nothing any of us could do.  I'm sorry."

Even as the cold reality of her child's fate flashed through her like a thunderbolt, Haggar stared at the healer in belligerent desperation, not yet ready to accept it.  "Let go of me!  I need to use this before it's too late!"

"It's already too late," Marguil replied softly.  "The nursemaid called me here twenty minutes ago fearing the worst, and despite my best efforts he's already gone.  I know what he meant to you, Haggar, but—"

Haggar stood there for several moments shaking in the throes of emotion—grief, outrage, fury, resentment, and loss—all at once before she spoke.  She stared fiercely at Marguil.  "I want to see him."

The drule healer met the witch's eyes with a measure of compassion, but also firmness.  "Your son is dead, Haggar.  I do not think you want to see that."

The witch stifled a sob as the harsh truth of Marguil's words hit her and that time, began to sink in.  "I have to," she rasped insistently, and wrenched out of his grip.  Marguil let out a sigh as she shoved past him, and the nursemaid also stepped back and away from the crib to give Haggar her space.  She tried to prepare herself for it, but even though she had seen many an unspeakable horror in visions while serving her dark spirit masters over the years, not even that was quite enough to prepare her for the terrible sight—the painfully close to her sight—of the still form of her infant son in the crib.

She set the vial of life-strengthening potion down in the crib beside Sivich to free her hand while gripping her staff tightly with the other to keep her balance, and then extended her fingers to the fair azure skin of the child's face.  He was cool to the touch, cool enough that she knew instantly that the hand of death had indeed touched him, but still with enough of a trace of warmth to know that she had missed his final breath only by minutes.  It was that realization that hit the witch the hardest—that if she had just been that much faster…

"No."  Her voice was barely a whisper, choked up with and overcome by emotion.  She fell forward against the side of the crib, her weight partly supported by it and the rest of the way by her staff.  Marguil reached her side first, followed by the nursemaid slave a moment later, and they kept her from falling completely.  "Too late," she murmured miserably.  "I was too late."

"You mustn't blame yourself, Haggar," Marguil tried to assure her.  "It was nature's choice.  There was nothing you could have done.  You must know that."

"If I had been that much faster… if he had bled that much sooner… if I had taken someone else's first…"

The slave tightened her grip on the witch, but she temporarily lost her strength and slumped over in their grasp as dead weight.  "Lady Haggar," the nursemaid said softly, "you should rest."

Marguil nodded.  "She's right.  Come, Haggar, I can help you sleep.  It won't make it any easier, but staying in here will only make it worse.  We can take care of what needs to be done."  The healer hoisted the witch gently to her feet.  He noticed that she still murmured to herself, whispers of both blame and sorrow, almost as if she was no longer even fully aware that he and the nursemaid were there.  "Come with us now," Marguil urged quietly, and guided her toward the door.

It was only when he actively tried to move her that Haggar snapped out of her grief for a moment.  "Not yet," she insisted, and turned back to the crib one last time, her strength regained.  She took a long and final look at Sivich's still form before she scooped him up one last time, as if to confirm without a doubt that there could be no mistake.  Tears welled up in her normally hardened eyes as she fully came to terms with the reality that he was beyond her reach, and silently she said her goodbyes and lamentations to him before setting him back down in the crib.  As she tucked the blanket back around him, she wondered why the Ancient Ones had given him to her only to take him away again, and tried to understand their reasons, but she supposed that would be something she would only truly know when she encountered them directly in the afterlife.

As she withdrew her hand, she spied the potion for the life-protecting talisman that she had gone through such efforts to obtain now sitting uselessly amidst the baby blankets.  All the protection and strength of the Ancients this grants, but giving life where none dwells is a power beyond it even with the blood of your father, Haggar thought bitterly as she scooped the flask up in the palm of her hand.  Though it was not a healing spell, the talisman was promised to grant the full grace and protection of her masters to whomever it was drawn upon, and the formula, once made, would keep forever—and the one she intended it for was completely out of its reach, also forever.  The cruel realization was enough to make her want to hurl the magical matrix across the room and splatter it forever against the stone wall out of spite… but, while insulting the masters that had given her the power to save the one they would take from her before she could have the chance to do so would be undoubtedly gratifying, she suddenly knew somehow in her grief that it had all been a test of theirs, a test to see if her spirit truly had what it took to serve them as they demanded. 

Would it spite them more to prove them right? Haggar wondered for a moment, and she knew her answer as she felt herself clutching the vial tightly.  Yes.  Yes it would.  I will not break that easily, she resolved darkly.  I will not waste my powers and dishonor Sivich's memory by doing so in such a way.  Someday this will have a use, even if that day takes a thousand years to come. 

Finally ready to leave, she met Marguil's concerned gaze with a coldly accepting look as the emotional stone that surrounded her heart to that day so many years later began to form a new and impermeable layer.  "I'm ready to go now."  Marguil nodded back to her without a word, and with the help of the slave nursemaid, escorted the witch back to her quarters for a well-deserved rest.

* * *

Countless years later within the shadowy confines of Cossack's quarters, a deep scowl lined the haggard features of the aged witch as old and painful memories she did her best to keep locked away in the mists of time flashed through her mind.  After her child's death Haggar had thrown herself wholeheartedly in her work and service to the Ancient Ones.  Anger and grief had fueled her body into recovery and over time the demands and distractions of her work not only honed her power to new strength but also gave her plenty of resolve to move past the situation over the long and lonely years that followed.  She never spoke of it again to anyone, not even Marguil, who wisely left the witch the space she needed to deal with the matter.

It had in fact been many months since she had last thought at all about Sivich and the unpleasant memories associated with him.  As she looked down at Cossack in his fitful rest, it occurred to her that it had been the commander who had inadvertently dredged it up then, too, but she held no malice toward him for that.  If anything, the reason for it piqued her interest and drew her to him.  Although he was quite ignorant of the fact—like he was of so many others, Haggar thought amusedly for a moment—Cossack had something in common with her lost son. 

The witch's thoughts then began slipping back through time once more.  Not to the distant past of her early days with Zarkon however, but to a memory much more recent, one from barely a standard year prior.

* * *

King Zarkon was in a foul mood as he dismissed his three surviving military advisers from his throne room, leaving him alone with the witch Haggar.  The king had just managed to re-establish his authority on Doom after a nearly successful but ultimately failed takeover by his son, king-for-a-day but prince-once-again-and-for-a-good-while-longer Lotor.  "First Lotor goes above my head to the Drule Empire and tries to have me overthrown, and then he shoots himself in the foot by failing himself.  Damned fool that he is," Zarkon ranted for what was close to the fiftieth time to his loyal witch.  "I should have had him executed, but then I wouldn't have an heir at all."  He snarled in disgust.  "Though remind me why that's a bad thing if I'm going to stick around another thousand years."

"No one can live forever, sire, and even though I can sustain you for countless years, we are mortals and our powers are finite," the witch replied.  "Besides, Lotor might one day grow into a fine king.  He is brash and immature, but one day he may," she smiled knowingly, "mellow the way you have."

Zarkon let out a chortle despite his sour mood.  "Perhaps so.  I could just ground him for another twenty years, but I fear that won't be long enough to make him grow up.  Besides, I don't think we have enough slaves on staff right now to withstand the tantrum he'd throw."  He glanced at the floor of his throne room, finally clean of the corpses and bloodstains strewn about it and left there after Lotor's expulsion from the throne.  "I can't believe that idiot slashed through half of my advisory court and my high fleet commander just because they told him 'no'," he said with a shake of his head.

Haggar glanced at the floor, recalling the grisly sight of bodies that had been there when they had first returned, and then met the king's gaze.  "It might be for the best that Mogor was eliminated, sire.  After how easily he sided with Lotor against you, only to then turn on Lotor, it is clear that his loyalties were only to himself and perhaps to his house.  I only served ex-King Lotor as I was forced to by law, but Mogor assisted him in his coup.  Had he survived Lotor's rage I would not have trusted him or any member from all of house Garat'eth in such a position after such treachery."

"Yes, you're probably right, old witch," Zarkon agreed.

"I usually am," she countered with a satisfied smile.

"But that doesn't solve the problem that I'm out a fleet commander, and after the latest nonsense, I'm not putting Lotor alone in charge of things again.  We all know how that turned out the first time.  No, I'll need to promote someone else."  Zarkon shook his head in disgust and frowned thoughtfully.  "Find me one of my administrative advisors—provided Lotor didn't kill them all—and get me a list and performance records of every officer in my forces from any of the nine high houses of Doom."

"As you wish, King Zarkon."  Haggar bowed obediently to the monarch and then made haste to set his orders into motion.  Three hours later the witch returned to the throne room with a stack of papers in hand.  "It took some hunting, but it seems Advisor Litos was out to lunch when Lotor exercised his powers of dismissal, so he was able to assist me in compiling these for you.  I barely got a chance to look through them to make any suggestions, though, for I hurried to get them to you as fast as I could."

Zarkon acknowledged Haggar with a nod and took the papers from her before she could finish her sentence.  Immediately he started skimming the top page and then let out an aggravated groan.  "Oh, it figures," he muttered irritably.

"What?  Who is it?" Haggar inquired.

"Guess who our first candidate on the list is?  Galohar of Garat'eth.  Mogor's brother.  Apparently he's got command of one of the units out in the south rim of the galaxy.  I ought to demote him on principle, but I've got other things to worry about first.  Next!"  The king turned the page.

Haggar let out a chortle and shook her head.  "Let me guess, house Tonorm'oith is on the next page?"

"Oh, don't tempt the gods, please," Zarkon grumbled.  "I can do without another Yurak.  But if my memory serves correctly, Lady Kuryaki is the matron and high seat of that house, and Yurak was her only son.  She only deals in interplanetary contracts anyhow."

"May I see some of the printouts, sire?  Perhaps I can help you read through them more efficiently and weed out the clearly useless ones to save some time."

"Fine," Zarkon replied absently, handing her a chunk of paperwork from beneath the one he was reading.  "Ugh, give me a break!" he exclaimed, rolling his eyes as he finished reading the sheet in his hands.  When she heard his outburst, Haggar looked up from the page she had been given, but he answered her curious look before she could say anything.  "This house has an officer, except he's eighteen standard years old and just joined the fleet last month.  Thanks, but I'll pass on someone even less mature than my beloved idiot of a son."

Haggar glanced down at her printout again, which listed an eligible candidate from house Aldar'ach.  The officer was of appropriate age and rank for promotion, and he had an excellent record—at least in so far as performance in battle and listed achievements went.  Apparently he had enough of a reputation for brutality that he had earned himself an unofficial title in honor of it among the fleet he was force captain of.  Haggar also noticed that there was a side note regarding his decorum with fellow officers, but it mentioned nothing indicating mutinous or rebellious behavior, rather, it was a statement about 'brash personal demeanor'.  The witch was about to set the page aside as a possibility when she noticed the date of the officer's birth—he had been born during the last Tozrayn alignment.

Though the time for another of those alignments had come and gone between the one most significant to the old witch and the one in which the first son of house Aldar'ach had been born, the date of any Tozrayn configurations would always serve to remind her of what could have and perhaps should have been, but was not.  Its personal significance to Haggar aside, however, she knew it to be a favorable blessing to be born or wed in such a time and she had the thought that it might be a message from her masters as to what course to advise King Zarkon—one of the Ancient Ones' chosen through the sustaining treatments given to him by the witch—to pursue.

"Sire, look at this one," Haggar said, thrusting the paper on top of the one the king was in the midst of reading.  "He shows great promise."

Zarkon glanced at the witch with an annoyed look, but took the paper, mostly because there was nothing outstanding in the candidate he had just been reviewing anyway.  He got as far as the officer's name before he blinked dubiously at Haggar.  "'Cossack the Terrible?'"

"The file says it's an unofficial title given to him by his fleet in recognition of his ruthlessness," Haggar explained.

"Eh, well ruthless is a good quality in someone who'd have to deal with Voltron on a regular basis," Zarkon conceded as he began to skim down the page.  "'Cossack the Terrible, first son of house Aldar'ach and high seats Tadyk and Visycka,'" he read, and then looked over at Haggar for a moment.  "Old witch, do you have any idea how glad I am that they used the abbreviated versions of the names on these printouts?"

"Oh, we'd be here all day and night otherwise," Haggar agreed.  Although she was not originally from Doom, she had become used to its nobility and their cumbersome habit of having their names and titles seemingly extend into infinity.

Zarkon nodded and continued to read through the page.  "This Cossack seems the most promising of the ones we've seen so far, but I think we should look at the others."

Haggar gave the king a nod of acknowledgement, but pursed her lips in respectful disagreement.  "Sire, I doubt you will find one more qualified unless there is another in the choices given born on a Tozrayn alignment."

"A what?"  Zarkon's tone was incredulous. 

"It's a planetary alignment favorable to the Ancient Ones that occurs rarely, only once every few centuries.  Fortune smiles upon those born under it, especially if they follow or are anointed with the grace of my masters," she explained.  For a brief moment her thoughts flashed back centuries to Sivich, but she dared not linger on that depressing notion lest very old and unwelcome feelings long buried come to the surface.  She shook the thought off and focused on the matter at hand once more.  "I believe a fleet commander born during a Tozrayn alignment would be a promising choice for one such as you that has been strengthened by the magic of the Ancient Ones."

"That sounds like a lot of superstitious mysticism to me, but your magic has served me well over the years," Zarkon agreed after a moment of consideration.  He glanced at the door.  "Have someone send for this Cossack of house Aldar'ach to meet with me, and I'll finish going over the rest of these candidates just in case I find something that changes my mind."

"You won't," Haggar assured her king as she headed out the door.

* * *

Less than an hour later, a gleaming black metal shuttlecraft bearing the royal skull insignia of King Zarkon's empire docked in the landing bay of Castle Doom.  The robot piloting the craft turned to the passenger inside, Force Captain Cossack, who sat in the plush seat with his arms folded, pondering why it was that King Zarkon had summoned him.  The royals did not call such meetings lightly, especially to officers below the rank of admiral, unless something was going on. 

Cossack wondered if it had something to do with the political unrest as of late and if Zarkon wanted to see him about some matter involving that and his house.  However, that sort of thing was usually handled by one of the high seats—his parents—rather than him, so if that were the case Cossack would have been surprised unless for some reason the king wanted to speak to a fleet officer from house Aldar'ach on business.  That would mean him, for his parents and two closest siblings in age dealt in the family business—the overseeing of the family Doom grape plantations and wine business—rather than the military.

The force captain then had the thought that Zarkon might have sent for him in regards to the recent matter of the destruction of the Biatash-Tor, one of the newer high-tech prototype ships his unit had been given.  The explosion had officially been ruled an accident for which no one was at fault, and rightfully so in Cossack's opinion.  After all, no one had told him the lazon gun unit's power core was an experimental design and might have an issue with overheating from excessive use.  His soldiers needed training in marksmanship, and what better way to do that than blasting asteroids in a backwater galaxy to improve their skill on a slow day?  Besides, Admiral Vardash had already chewed him out about that matter at length, and Cossack liked to think the king had better things to do than rail on a force captain about a lost ship—even if it had been the only functioning prototype.

"You may disembark, Force Captain Cossack," the robot informed him as it pressed the button to open the hatch.

"Ok.  Thanks for the ride, tin-head," he replied as he got to his feet and stepped outside, where he was promptly greeted by a group of four more robots that saluted him respectfully in greeting.  Cossack nodded to them in acknowledgement, and they indicated for him to follow them to the throne room.  The sentries fell into formation around him and they made their way through the halls at a swift pace, as the king did not like to be kept waiting and Cossack was eager to find out what was going on.

"So, uh, you know what this is about?" Cossack asked the robot in the lead.

"King Zarkon wishes to speak with you," the robot replied.

The force captain frowned.  "I know that," he said, mildly insulted at the robot's insinuation that he had failed to grasp the obvious.  "But what does he want to speak with me about?"

"He did not state his intentions, sir, our orders were simply to retrieve you and bring you to him for a meeting," was the sentry's response.

"Great," Cossack mumbled back, and then lapsed into silence as they ascended a short carpeted staircase that led to the grand hall outside the throne room.  Cossack had only been in Castle Doom a handful of times, usually to attend a ceremony of some sort, but never to speak one on one with a member of the royal court—especially not the king himself.  He glanced down at his uniform.  It was neat enough, but it had been worn all day and had some light wrinkles, and he noticed traces of asteroid dust on his boots.  He tried to casually brush it off on the carpeting without tripping as he walked.

Soon the assembled group reached the door to the throne room and the robot in the lead stepped in.  "Your highness King Zarkon, we have brought you Force Captain Cossack the Terrible, first son of house Aldar'ach and high seats Tadyk and Visycka, as per your request," it announced, and then finished with a bow.

As Cossack joined his accompanying robots in a respectful bow to the king of Doom, he smiled to himself.  Wow, they used my title and everything.  Maybe this is good news after all, he hoped optimistically.  Not every head honcho in the fleet acknowledged him as Cossack the Terrible, especially not his direct superior Admiral Vardash.  It pleased him to know that the robots had heard it and used it to introduce him to King Zarkon.

From his seat Zarkon nodded regally and motioned for the group to come to the foot of his throne.  Atop the platform and standing beside the throne was Haggar, with her blue cat at her feet.  Cossack had never encountered her personally before, but everyone on Doom knew of Zarkon's favored witch, and he recognized the hooded figure instantly.  Haggar was reputed to be among the most if not the most powerful—and ugly—sorceresses in the galaxy.  Furthermore, like all of those in the higher circle of command, Cossack was also aware of the witch's hand in the former fleet commander Yurak's untimely end. 

Turned into a robeast and sliced and diced by Voltron, what a way to go, Cossack thought as they made their approach.  The force captain had known Yurak on an acquaintance basis, as most of Doom's nobility of the first circle knew one another in passing or at least by name.  Yurak had been a few years older than he, and when Cossack had first joined the fleet, Yurak had been a captain above him for a brief time in the same unit before being promoted out.  As Cossack recalled, Yurak had also been rather arrogant, and in Cossack's humble opinion he'd had no sense of humor, even if he had been a skilled fighter.

Mogor had been promoted to Yurak's old position shortly after that scandal hit, and it had been the talk of the military and noble circles for weeks.  And now ol' Commander Mogor's gone too, Cossack mused, thinking that the recently departed fleet commander had lasted even less time in the position than Yurak.  Oh well, he was kind of a weenie anyway.  Mogor was someone Cossack had never interacted with much, but he'd always struck him as a little too quiet and a little too much of an ass-kisser for his liking.  In a way, Mogor had reminded him of Admiral Vardash, except that unlike Mogor, Vardash was never quiet.

Shifting his attention back to the situation at hand as they reached the base of the throne, Cossack stood tall and remained silent until the robot in the lead turned to face him.  "Force Captain Cossack, I present you to his most honored highness King Zarkon of Dar'skel'Ayr, royal house of Doom."

"Greetings, sire," Cossack addressed the king, removing his helmet and offering a second bow to Zarkon.

"Robots, you're dismissed," Zarkon stated authoritatively, waving them off.  Obediently the robots retreated, leaving him alone with his witch and his guest.  As it had turned out, none of the other candidates on paper had shown any quality exceptional enough to supercede Haggar's original recommendation of Cossack, so Zarkon went forth with the plan to interview him as soon as possible to make a final determination.  The king was eager enough to have a competent fleet commander again that he'd decided that if he liked him and Cossack seemed competent enough for the position, he would offer it to him. 

Besides, it was a mark in Cossack's favor to Zarkon that house Aldar'ach was completely uninvolved in any of the recent political nonsense with Lotor's failed takeover and the Drule Empire's mercurial whims as to who should be in charge of Doom.  As a bonus, the house's monopoly of Doom's wine industry could mean a significant discount on Castle Doom's wine bill in exchange for promoting their first son, and that was no small tab with how much of the stuff Lotor went through. 

Zarkon fixed his commanding stare upon the officer at the foot of his throne.  "Force Captain Cossack, do you know why I summoned you here?"

Cossack met the king's gaze somewhat nervously.  Although he had seen Zarkon before at ceremonies and such, and he'd known was tall, but up close and standing right before him, the ruler of Doom seemed twice as intimidating.  "I don't, sire," Cossack admitted honestly, and then wondered from the king's serious expression if he had been summoned about the matter with the prototype ship after all.  If so, Cossack reasoned, perhaps it would be better for him if he brought it up first and apologized to him directly.  Besides, even if it was not about that, an apology to the king was never a bad idea.  As a general rule, royals soaked in all of that stuff like a robeast did lazon.  "But if it has anything to do with the explosion of the Biatash-Tor," the force captain continued, "I offer my sincerest apologies.  I had no idea—"

Not expecting the answer that Cossack had given, Zarkon frowned a moment as he tried to recall the name he'd mentioned, until Haggar leaned over to remind him.  "That experimental ship with the unstable lazon core," she whispered.  "The one that exploded out in the asteroid belt."

"Oh, that," Zarkon said with a dismissive wave, one that did not go unnoticed and came as an immediate relief to Cossack.  "It was a design flaw that did that ship in," Zarkon went on to explain.  "Actually I recommended to Admiral Vardash that whatever officer was in charge of that vessel be given a commendation and consideration for a promotion.  I'd rather my prototypes be tested and find out that way that they're weak when dishing out or receiving heavy fire as opposed to causing Doom to lose face and equipment against Voltron or any other Galaxy Alliance idiots."

Cossack blinked in surprise, and then his expression darkened considerably as the realization hit him that if what the king said was true, it meant that Vardash had screwed him out of a commendation and a possible promotion.  Immediately afterward, Cossack also realized now with considerable anger that when the short and huffy admiral—who had given him attitude since day one under his command—had stated that Cossack would never see a promotion as long as he served under him, that Vardash had not been merely talking out of his ass as Cossack felt he generally did.  "Hmm, I guess I didn't see that draft of the report," he said quietly after a moment of thinking about how nice it would be to demonstrate to the shifty admiral up close and personal just how he had earned his unofficial title.

Noticing the shift in his guest's mood, Zarkon sat up a little straighter and eyed him curiously.  "So how were you involved in all of that, anyway?"

"Actually, sire, I was the force captain of the Biatash-Tor," he answered honestly. 

Smiling pleasantly, Zarkon relaxed a bit and folded his hands together.  "Oh, that was you?  Well-handled, force captain, although being that you still have the same rank, I see that you haven't been promoted yet." 

Cossack thought again of Vardash and about how he wanted to do him serious bodily harm, but not only would that seriously jeopardize his career, it would certainly not win him any brownie points with the king who had called him in to speak with him and still not told him why.  Cossack did hope, however, that if the king would be satisfied with whatever it was he had called him in for that he might later mention something to Vardash to get him off his back.  He shook his head slightly and answered Zarkon's question in a low and polite tone that took some effort for him to manage considering how furious he was at Vardash.  "No, not yet, my lord." 

Zarkon raised an eyebrow, annoyed that one of his royal recommendations had been ignored by a considerably lower-ranking officer.  Although it had been phrased as a consideration and not an order, as a king he was not used to having his suggestions judged unnecessary.  He stared intensely at Cossack again, and he was pleased to see the force captain straighten respectfully, but not shrink back.  He liked that.  He had no need for a sniveling sycophant for a fleet commander.  He had enough admirals and high admirals that sadly fit that bill already in his opinion, and there was a reason he was not eager to promote any of them.  "I do hope that Admiral Vardash at least passed along my commendations to you?"

Unable to contain his contempt for Vardash any longer and certainly not terribly concerned that he was going over his superior's head and possibly putting him in hot water by what he was about to say, Cossack cocked his head to one side and let loose with a good dose of honesty.  One had to honor the wishes of one's superior officer, and it didn't get much more superior than King Zarkon.  "Well, sire, unless your commendation was to have him pull me into his office and call me an ass and a reckless idiot without the sense the gods gave a dirt-worm, then I would have to report that something must've gotten lost in the memo transfer."

Stunned by both Cossack's blunt candor and the fact that an admiral under Zarkon had been brazen enough to so blatantly disregard a statement from his king, Haggar looked from the force captain to Zarkon to watch his reaction.  She also supposed that she had just been witness to an example of that "brash personal demeanor" Cossack's file had mentioned.  If so, she did not feel it was necessarily a bad thing, so long as it was kept in check.  

Zarkon meanwhile had no issues at all with the direct phrasing of Cossack's response, but he had plenty with the fact that Admiral Vardash had insulted him in such a way.  While Zarkon personally did not give a whit about the force captain, he took great offense at the fact that an admiral, and not even a high admiral at that, dared to ignore his opinion on any matter, no matter how trivial.

In a tone barely hiding the contempt he felt for Vardash, Zarkon rose to his feet and descended the steps of the throne until he stood on even ground in front of Cossack.  "In that case, let me apologize personally for the inept manner in which my words were handled, and rectify the error by giving you the promotion that it seems you're overdue for, Fleet Commander Cossack."

Cossack's eyes went wide in utter shock when he heard Zarkon's words, and he felt his breath catch in his throat.  Fleet commander?  Had he heard the king correctly, addressing him with the highest rank in Doom's military, well above his current and even above admiral and high admiral?  The same rank held formerly by Commanders Yurak and Mogor?  Cossack stared in dubious amazement at King Zarkon and numbly took the ruler's now extended hand.  "S—sire?" he coughed out in disbelief.

"Are you hard of hearing, Commander?  Do I need to repeat myself?" Zarkon asked, while Haggar smiled quietly from beside the empty throne, clearly pleased with Zarkon's decision to choose the candidate she had selected.

Immediately Cossack shook his head a vehement no and grinned with unashamed pride and gratitude at the king.  "No, sire," he babbled in a rush.  "I'm just surprised, King Zarkon, but thankful—very thankful," he assured him, and then added after taking a moment to regain his composure, "I just kinda expected to wake up in a minute, that's all."

At that, Zarkon let out a hearty laugh.  "No, that was why I called you here to begin with, Commander.  You were a candidate under consideration for the position, which as you know was unfortunately vacated recently."

"Yes, I heard about what happened to Commander Mogor.  Messy," Cossack replied, making a slight face to accentuate the statement.

"In more ways than one," Haggar agreed as she descended the staircase to Zarkon's throne to join them.  "Congratulations, Commander Cossack.  I am Haggar.  It was I that recommended you to King Zarkon."

The newly promoted fleet commander, still basking the realization that it was real and not a dream that he was now the head of Doom's fleet, turned and gave a dramatic bow to the hooded figure.  "Thank you, witch Haggar, and nice to meet you!" he greeted her enthusiastically.  "I've heard a lot about you and your magic.  Impressive stuff, especially those robeasts!  I can't wait to handle one of those on command," he finished with a grin.

"Oh, there will be plenty of time for that I'm sure with how often we run into Voltron," Haggar assured him with a pleased smile, quite pleased with her choice and Zarkon's decision to promote him.  Rough around the edges or not, Cossack already struck her as more personable than either Yurak or Mogor, although as one who had never cared much for Yurak to begin with, the first requirement had not been a tough order to fill.  The lore of the Ancients could not be denied, the witch thought satisfactorily, although she would be the first to admit she did not understand them at times.

"Indeed," Zarkon agreed with his witch.  "I do have a question for you though, Cossack."

Cossack smiled amiably at the king.  "Shoot."

Zarkon blinked, not quite used to being addressed so casually, but he brushed it off for the time being.  "There was a note in your file about 'brash personal demeanor'—I assume that's not anything I'll have to worry about?"  Although the king's tone was still pleasant, it also had a distinct no-nonsense edge to it.

Cossack folded his arms across his chest and shifted slightly where he stood so that he faced both the king and Haggar.  "Oh no, sire, of course not.  I have nothing but the ultimate respect for you."  He smiled at Haggar.  "And you too of course, Witch Haggar."

"Good, then we shouldn't have any problems," Zarkon replied, satisfied by the answer, "which leads me to my first task for you, incidentally."

"Sure," Cossack replied, eager to tackle it and prove his worthiness in the lofty new position he had been given.

"Your fleet gave you the name 'Cossack the Terrible' in honor of your brutality in battle, correct?"  Cossack nodded an affirmative, and Zarkon continued.  "I want you to show me an example of your reputed 'terrible' nature by dealing with Admiral Vardash's rudeness in ignoring my royal commendation."  A devious smile lit up the king's features as he reached into his robe and withdrew a silver-colored personal communicator decorated with the emblem of Cossack's newly acquired rank, and handed it to him.  "Give him a call while this robot here," he motioned for one of the silent royal sentries across the room to come over, "fits you with the appropriate upgrades to your uniform.  Oh, and feel free to use as much of your 'brash personal demeanor' as you wish.  Have fun with it."

Cossack matched the king's smile with an impish one of his own.  "Right away, King Zarkon.  I'll be more than happy to have a word with Admiral Vardash on your behalf and let him know what I think."

A chortle came from the otherwise quiet Haggar as the robot took Cossack's force captain helmet and retouched it with the proper design for his new rank.  "This ought to be interesting."

"And it couldn't happen to a nicer jackass," Cossack replied sarcastically, and then smiled at the witch as an afterthought in the hopes that he hadn't offended her.  Although he generally was not someone who cared about rubbing others the wrong way, he did legitimately want to stay on her good side as well as that of King Zarkon.  The latter could send him to the Pit of Skulls while the other, well, after hearing some of the things he had heard about Haggar's magic, he would rather not ponder what could happen to him if he got on her bad side.  Besides, she had recommended him for this new position for whatever reason.  Cossack had no idea what she knew of him that she found so favorable, but he was not about to look a gift horse—or witch as the case might be—in the mouth.

Zarkon watched as the robot replaced Cossack's helmet and fitted a new cloak and ivory insignia around the fleet commander to complete his uniform and smirked with amusement.  "That Vardash is a sniveling little worm, isn't he?  I remember that Mogor liked him.  That figures."

Grinning with anticipation like a cat that just eaten the proverbial canary, Cossack flipped open the communicator and punched in the frequency of Admiral Vardash's office.  It only took a moment for the plump-cheeked officer's face to pop on the screen.  "Hello Admiral," Cossack greeted his former superior smugly.

Vardash's face twisted to an irritated scowl when he saw Cossack's smirking visage on the other end.  "What do you want, Cossack?  This had better be good.  I don't have the time for your nonsense today."

"Oh, I think you have time for this, Vardy-kins," Cossack replied.  "It won't take long to tell you the good news.  I've been promoted, so worrying about how I run my unit won't be a problem for you anymore."

The admiral's glare deepened at the commander's flippancy.  "Firstly, Force Captain, you will address me with the respect my position deserves, or you'll find your wise ass scrubbing the decks of my primary battleship for the next six weeks.  Secondly," he growled irately, "you will find out that bothering me with your idiotic brand of wit—as a promotion for you couldn't be anything but a joke—will land you in position that will make you wish I had only ordered you to scrub floors.  How does an extended involuntary expedition to the frost planet Azuit sound?"

"Well now, that sounds cool, but I'm afraid my new boss might disagree with your orders," Cossack snapped back, unfazed.

"Boss, and what boss is this, pray tell?" Vardash scoffed in disgusted disbelief.  "What idiot would promote you?"

Fully enjoying Vardash's huffy theatrics, Cossack blinked in mock innocence and subtly turned up the volume to the communicator's speaker so that both King Zarkon and Haggar would be able to hear Vardash loud and clear.  "What was that, Admiral?  Would you mind repeating that?"

On the other end of the line, Vardash let out an exasperated snarl.  "I said, you toad-pond born parasite, that I know you're full of shit because only a complete and utter fool would even consider promoting a disgraceful loser such as yourself beyond the rank you've already got for gods know whatever reason."

"Your faith in my skills never fails to amaze me, Admiral, you know that?" Cossack said, sighing dramatically as though the admiral's words had touched the depths of his soul.  "But you know me, despite being such a disgrace to all of Doom with my high kill ratio, awards and commendations for my piloting skills, and even the honorary title from the boys in my fleet, I never know when to quit, do I?"

"That would be the first and last thing you and I will ever agree on, Cossack," the admiral retorted in unbridled contempt.  "So before I demote your ass back to captain and send you out to Azuit on a permanent station, by all means finish your little joke and tell me exactly what your new title from this little promotion you're babbling about is."

"Guess."  When Vardash made no verbal response but only deepened his glare, Cossack pressed onward.  "I'll even give you a hint.  It's higher than yours.  Can't you figure it out by my shiny new duds?"  Cossack then shifted his head to an exaggerated pose of regal stuffiness to show off the shine of his retouched helmet. 

At that, the admiral let out a hearty laugh.  "You've got enough balls to go down in a blaze of glory, I'll give you that much," the unamused Vardash snorted incredulously.  "The day you see so much as even admiral, much less anything above, I'll screw myself with a rusty three-tiered spear."

"Oooh, painful," Cossack answered, his eyes wide with feigned shock.  "You better be careful what you say, Vardy-kins.  A disgraceful parasite like me might hold you to your words."

The admiral narrowed his eyes.  "I'm sure you would, if you were superior to me anywhere other than your deluded little mind," he snapped back sarcastically.  "But you still haven't shared who it was that promoted you, Cossack.  By all means, do tell me what dumb-assed fool was stupid enough to promote you to this fictitious little position and please, tell me what rank you've supposedly made?"

Having heard enough from the admiral that had already managed to rouse his disfavor before Cossack placed the call, Zarkon edged in beside the newly promoted fleet commander so that his face would loom on the communicator screen behind him.  "That would be fleet commander, Vardash, and I'm afraid that no, my beloved son was not the one responsible for Cossack's promotion."

The oh-shit look that flashed across Admiral Vardash's face when Zarkon addressed him in his stately tone was one that Cossack would remember fondly for the rest of his days.  He leaned close to the speaker and flashed the now quite pale admiral a look of false sympathy.  "Maybe you should have addressed him as king dumb-assed fool."

Vardash was too busy trying to save his hide to even bother coming up with a reply to Cossack, who basked in every second of the arrogant admiral's humiliation as Zarkon continued to address his former superior.  "Perhaps if he had, Commander, Captain Vardash would not be having such a bad day."

Hearing his instant demotion caused the scrambling former admiral to squirm visibly.  "Sire, my humblest apologies," Vardash babbled, tripping over his words in an attempt to appease the clearly displeased monarch.  "I had no idea Commander Cossack's call was legitimate.  He has always had a rather inconsistent manner about him and I just assumed—"

Cossack held up a finger in a tsk-tsk motion.  "What's that old saying about assuming, Vard-ass?"

Vardash forced the humble look to remain on his face as he glanced at Cossack, but found it incredibly difficult to do so.  His anger, frustration, and a new and rather unsettling feeling of fear came to a head as the reality of his demotion, and the fact that someone he had spent the last several months going out of his way to make miserable was now several levels above him in rank, began to sink in.  "My apologies to you too, Commander," he said, sputtering out the title as if the word itself was distasteful to him.

Commander Cossack beamed.  "Oh Vardash, do you know how long I've wanted to tell you what I thought of your command skills?  Now that you're at a level I was once quite familiar with, I'd like to tell you that although you really don't seem like you've got a clue as to how to run… well, anything about a unit, I will say that I've noticed in my time serving with you that you do have unparalleled talent at the time-honored skill of ass-kissing.  So, Captain, it is with the greatest pleasure that I you give my first order in my new position, that being to please kiss my ass."  Cossack then glanced over at Zarkon and quickly amended his words.  "That is, as soon as you're finished puckering up for King Zarkon, of course."

"If it were me, I wouldn't want his lips anywhere near it," Haggar muttered from behind the pair.

"Nor I, old witch," Zarkon said with a shudder before returning his full attention to Vardash.  "As for you, Vardash, consider yourself lucky you still even have a job anywhere but as a decoration in the Pit of Skulls after the grievous insults you've made to me."

"I'm sorry, sire, but like I told you, I had no idea that Commander Cossack was serious, I swear!" Vardash whined.

"My fleet commander can deal with you as he sees fit for your insults to him, but your stupidity here today is only a part of my problem with you and your incompetence.  There's also a little matter of a commendation I recommended that got lost in the paperwork," Zarkon pressed.  From beside the king, Cossack nodded in full agreement, the smug smile still on his face.

Vardash grabbed madly at papers on his desk, more out of nervous habit than out of any actual need to find any.  "Sire, I realize you weren't concerned with the destruction of the Biatash-Tor, but I was.  I was looking out for you, for your best interests.  The sort of recklessness that got that ship totaled is exactly the sort of stupidity that Force Captain—I mean, Commander," he amended with a grumble, "Cossack has always engaged in.  I respect your thoughts on the matter, but I humbly disagree that his aggressive and impulsive nature should be encouraged.  In all my years of service—"

"In all your years of service you've done your best work sitting at a desk filling out paperwork!" Zarkon roared angrily, furiously that the demoted captain was continuing to argue with him.  "So you can finish it filing it for Admiral Mordelroth, Lieutenant.  Now get your ugly face out of my sight before I decide that your incompetent hide belongs in with the common soldiers and robots on the front lines.  Am I making myself clear?"

"Crystal, sire," the defeated former admiral and now lowly lieutenant answered meekly as he slumped his head over onto his desk and reached for the button to hang up.  "Vardash out." 

"Oh, wait a moment, Vardash," Cossack interrupted.  "There is one more thing."

The demoted lieutenant stiffened visibly and looked up in utter misery and dread.  "What?"

A toothy and sadistic grin of victory spread across Cossack's blue face.  "I'll have that rusty three-tiered spear messengered over posthaste.  The robots that deliver it will make sure that you keep true to your promise as to utilize it in the matter you described earlier, and should you not be flexible enough to manage it on your own, don't worry, they'll be under orders to help you out and make it happen.  Have a wonderful day, lieutenant.  Commander Cossack the Terrible out!"  He savored the horrified look on the former admiral's face for a moment before he snapped the communicator closed and looked to King Zarkon and his witch expectantly, eagerly awaiting their reaction to his performance test.

Zarkon let out a hearty laugh while Haggar smirked amusedly and chuckled from beneath her hood.  "A fine display, Commander," Haggar commended him warmly.

"Yes," agreed Zarkon.  "I see your savagery isn't underrated.  Good.  It looks like the next order of business is to have the sentries get your things to the fleet commander's quarters and have you properly set up.  This robot will show you to them while Haggar and I finish some business."

"All right, King Zarkon, and thank you again," Cossack stated with a respectful bow to the king before joining the robot's side.

Zarkon held up a hand as Cossack and the robot started for the door.  "Oh, I did have one other question for you, before you go."  Cossack stopped immediately and turned toward Zarkon with a nod to proceed, and Zarkon eyed him with a curious look.  "Vardash mentioned something about you being born in a toad pond?"

A distasteful look flickered across the commander's face for a moment.  "With all due respect, sire, I don't like discussing that."

Haggar blinked in surprise.  "But I thought it was just an insult."

"I wish," Cossack muttered.

"You mean you were?" the witch pressed, clearly surprised.

Cossack sighed.  "I'm surprised my parents never blabbed it at one of the big nobility blowouts you were at after a few too many bottles of wine, 'cause I know most of them have heard it," he explained resignedly, his demeanor indicating that it was something he'd had to do—and endure—far more times than he ever wanted to.  "When I was born, my mother went into labor on a shuttlecraft that ran out of gas over the swamplands between two of the family's grape plantations.  My uncle had to deliver me, and guess where the nearest water to ease the birth was?"  The commander made a face.  "You got it—a toad pond."

"And here I just thought Vardash was full of crap, who knew?" Zarkon said with a shrug. 

"Oh he is full of crap, or at least he will be until the robots dislodge it," Cossack replied, brightening.  Somehow thinking of Vardash in extreme pain and humiliation made even talking about the toad pond not so bad for the commander.  "Will there be anything else, sire?"

"No.  You're dismissed.  Go on to your quarters and tell the robots anything you need changed or taken care of.  We'll have a slave assigned to you and your quarters sent up as well.  Any preferences?"

Cossack quirked his head thoughtfully, not expecting but certainly liking the professional perk of having a personal slave on the royal tab.  "Hmm, well I wouldn't complain about a girl that looks hot in a maid outfit."

"Easy enough.  Consider it done," Zarkon told him.  "Enjoy the rest of your evening, Commander."

"You too, sire, and thank you again," Cossack replied with a bow.   "And you as well, Haggar." 

The witch nodded back to the new commander in acknowledgement, and then turned to Zarkon once Cossack and the robot departed, leaving them alone in the throne room.  Haggar was about to inquire as to Zarkon's specific thoughts about their new head of the fleet when a loud and victorious shout of "yahoo!" followed by a declaration of, "wait 'till I tell Mom this one!" from the hallway interrupted her momentarily. 

After the outburst, she and Zarkon exchanged stunned looks until the witch broke the silence.  "So, what do you think of him?"

The king straightened and turned his golden scepter over in his hand.  "Well for starters, he's brash and obnoxious.  He's obviously missing a few screws upstairs, and he's got a damned mean streak to boot," Zarkon said bluntly, and then broke out into an evil grin.  "I like him.  I'm glad I picked him out of all those candidates."

Beside him Haggar nodded, also pleased that the Tozrayn aligned, toad-pond-born candidate that she had chosen had worked out so well, and offered a knowing smile to her ruler.  "Yes, you always did have good taste, sire."

* * *

The second trip down memory lane, curious a ride as it might have been, left Haggar with the slightest hint of a smile on her face.  Although Cossack could be a trying buffoon at times—all right, much of the time—all things considered, he had worked out well enough.  Granted, he'd had little luck against Voltron, but Voltron was a thorn in all their sides, and Zarkon knew that.  None of them had fared much better, and at least unlike Mogor—and in the case of King Zarkon personally, Prince Lotor—Cossack had never given any of them reason to doubt his loyalty.  She supposed that Yurak, too, had been loyal, and had Zarkon known then what he knew now of Voltron, he probably would not have been so harsh on him.  But since she had never cared for the arrogant Yurak anyhow, she did not mourn his loss.  Much like she felt about that snooty healer Thaileus when compared to her old friend the long retired Marguil, she liked Cossack much better. 

Besides, the ailing commander that lay in front of her had been born on the Tozrayn alignment, and like all seasoned disciples of the Ancient Ones, Haggar truly believed that to be significant.  Especially since, discounting the ones she knew only historically and whomever she might have met by chance or in passing unaware, in all her long years Haggar had encountered only two souls born in such a time, and one was long gone and the other beside her was well on his way there from the looks of things.  The witch was the first to admit that she did not understand the logic of the Ancient Ones at times, but she was wise enough to chalk it up to the fact that there some things that were simply not to be questioned, for perhaps there was no answer that would make sense to a mortal, and to merely accept it—which was why she could not accept or allow someone like Cossack to meet his fate in such an inglorious and wasteful manner.

Haggar's expression darkened as she watched him shudder in his sleep, and she touched her finger to his forehead and found it burning with a hotter fever than before.  She noticed the syringe and the bottle of delbinium upon the stand beside his bed—next to a battered time-clock and alarm unit which she guessed had been smashed or thrown a few times, but that apparently still functioned—and picked it up.  The bottle was a third emptied, and although she was no expert in the finer points of pharmacological science, she did know that the drug's main effect was a painkiller and a tranquilizer.  Unfortunately it seemed to have little effect on Cossack's fever if his worsening condition was any indication.

"He's even more useless than I thought," Haggar muttered, referring to the healer.  "You should be glad your little slave came to me in time, Cossack.  Left to Thaileus, you'd have burned yourself out by morning," she said, and she set the bottle back down on the nightstand pondering the best course of action. 

In her vast magical knowledge Haggar knew of some spells specific to healing, although as she had stated to the healer earlier, it was not her area of expertise.  She expected that to find a spell fully effective against the fever specific to quarks or radiation, she would have to do some research, and she feared that there may not be enough time for that before Cossack's condition worsened to a state in which her magic would be useless altogether.  The possibility of tracking down a healer versed in magic rather than science was also out of the question, not only because she was not entirely sure if she could find one on such short notice, but also because there was no way she would give Thaileus the satisfaction seeing her concede that she could do no better than he. 

It was then, as she lifted her eyes from Cossack and stared off pensively into the darkened corner of his dimly lit chamber, that the ideal spell for the situation came to her.  A talisman drawn in blood…

Her thoughts flashed between memories centuries old and the sustaining talismans she had drawn on Zarkon and others who had secured and earned the favor from her over the years.  Although she had performed the spell many times since the one where fate had thwarted her from doing so, even after all of those years she had never been able to bring herself to use that now ancient vial that had once been intended for her lost son.  For Zarkon's talismans she always used the same formula, one utilizing the blood of a sacrificed enemy such a political prisoner of war or a slave, as she found it significant that he be strengthened and empowered by blood he had spilt.  Sivich's potion on the other hand had too many reasons—practical and emotional—for her to ever entertain the notion of using it on Zarkon, of all the talismans she had done for others, none of them had been important enough to her for her to even consider it.

Until then.  Haggar straightened and turned toward the door, deliberating the notion of using that ages-old vial of Zarkon's blood on Cossack.  Despite the passage of so much time, the witch knew it would still be just as potent as the day it was brewed, if not somewhat more so, having had the chance to age like a fine vintage of wine.  The treatment would not exactly make the commander immortal, but it would reinforce his constitution beyond normal means, making him considerably resistant to the ravages of age and disease not unlike she and King Zarkon were.  Although the talisman of the ancients was not a healing spell per se, if drawn properly it would make his body strong enough to throw off the effects of the fever and radiation and heal him that way.

Haggar turned back toward the sleeping Cossack for a moment, her old eyes fixed on him in meditative reflection.  Was her strange compulsion to help him the will of the Ancient Ones?  Had they had her keep that old potion all those long years, stored in the back of a cabinet with other vials of spell components and odds and ends, just so that she could save a wisecracking oaf of a fleet commander centuries later?  Odd as it was, in her unquestioning faith to her masters, she knew the answer to be yes.  Even if it was in a muddy toad pond in the back woods of a Doom grape plantation, he was still born under the grace of the Tozrayn—just like her son.  Of course Cossack the Terrible, first son of house Aldar'ach and high seats Tadyk and Visycka, was not and never would be her lost son, Sivich, unrecognized son of King Zarkon of Dar'skel'Ayr, but the connection was reason enough for her.

And with a sigh and that realization in mind, Haggar shook her head, calling herself an old fool and assuring herself that she'd gotten soft and perhaps a little batty in her advanced age, she reaffirmed her grip on her staff and made her way quietly back to her quarters.

It only took Haggar a matter of a few moments to locate that ancient flask.  It sat inconspicuously and unlabeled among a sea of other vials and jars, its glass now dark and smoky with age and the cork atop it dry and brittle.  As the witch reached for it with her aged hand, she felt the familiar warmth of her feline familiar rubbing against her legs.  Looking down at her cat with a slight smile, she retrieved the potion and then bent down to scratch his head affectionately for a moment.  "No treats right now, kitty," she told her pet, and then stood back up and locked the cabinet securely shut again.

In her countless years of experience Haggar knew the incantations and symbols of the talisman by heart, so since she needed nothing but the medium from her laboratory, she reclaimed her staff and set off for Cossack's quarters, that time with Coba at her heels.  It only took her a few minutes to reach the commander's room once more, and she found it still vacant as she had left it when she had left, and she was glad of that.  She did not want Cossack's slave, or even worse, Thaileus, interrupting her before she was finished.  She had no patience for those who did not understand the intricacies of her dark magic and who might pester her with questions or remarks.

Haggar approached Cossack's bedside once again while Coba leapt up on the nightstand beside her.  After sniffing curiously at the bottle of delbinium, he stuck his tail high in the air and then hopped off onto the bed, positioning himself on Cossack's softer pillow.  Somehow Coba always knew when his mistress needed him to focus her magic.  While he waited for her to begin her spell, he pawed playfully at a strand of Cossack's hair. 

Haggar meanwhile uncurled her dark and bony fingers and stared, her yellow eyes intense with concentration, at the ancient vial that she had not opened or even touched, except to dust it, in decades upon decades.  And so the time has finally come, she mused as she pulled the cork from the flask.  It was so dry-rotted and old that it crumbled to dust in her fingers as she pulled it free, and as she shook it off, she caught a waft of the unmistakable aroma of the potion's dark magic, still as potent as ever after all those years. 

With her free hand Haggar then reached down and pulled the light linen bed sheet aside and tossed them to the floor.  The commander was barely clothed, save the minimum necessary for modesty, at the orders of the healer as a means to prevent his fever from worsening.  His chest heaved in labored breathing and his body was slick with the sweat of the quark-burn fever.  The motion of the sheet being torn away immediately snapped Coba to attention.  The blue cat dropped the tuft of hair in his claws and sat up straight behind the exact center point of the unconscious Cossack's head, and then fixed his luminous eyes intently on his mistress. 

Ready to begin, the witch closed her eyes for a moment and poured a small amount of the potion into the palm of her hand.  It was unnaturally warm to the touch and radiated an aura of dark power that tingled her senses down to the bone.  She then gently set the flask down and dipped her finger into the viscous pool in her palm.  Carefully she drew an arcane symbol of strength and vitality above his heart, and then proceeded to decorate him with related symbols at other mystically aligned points of his body.  By the time the witch was nearly finished anointing the commander, much of the ancient potion had been used up save the final bit.  Had anyone looked in on him at that moment, the unconscious Cossack rather resembled a sleeping drunk whose comrades had taken him to the nearest tattoo parlor as a prank—and had Haggar been in a less serious frame of mind, she might well have thought it herself and deemed it oddly appropriate for him.

Once she finished drawing a symbol upon the sole of his left foot, Haggar paused a moment to examine her work and ensure its thoroughness before she reached for the flask one last time and poured the last of the liquid, save the traces that remained in the bottle, into her palm.  It held just enough to draw the final and most significant symbol of the talisman.  Taking care to draw it as neatly as possible, the old witch pressed her finger to Cossack's forehead and inscribed the double serpent symbol of the Ancient Ones upon his forehead, murmuring the accompanying prayer-chant invoking their grace and protection as she did so. 

An eerie aura filled the room as the witch's spell completed, and for the briefest moment an unearthly glow surrounded the commander, the witch, her cat, and even the bed.  The unconscious Cossack rolled over in his sleep unaware of what was happening as the dark graces of Haggar's masters filled his mortal form and took root, filling him with renewed vigor that would soon throw his now trivial quark-burn fever to the wind forever.

As the glow diminished, Haggar withdrew her hand and eyed the sleeping commander satisfactorily, knowing in the full faith she had in her masters that he would pull through just fine.  "The Ancients watch over their chosen," she whispered, and smiled at Cossack knowingly.  "And fools."

The End