Disclaimer:  WEP owns Voltron.

Compensation

The small clock softly chimed the middle of the night.  Keen ears that tapered to graceful points heard the very first ‘ting’ and Lotor opened his eyes, coming awake immediately, as he had trained himself to do.

It was almost time.

After the bells stopped, Lotor lay in his bed for several long moments, alert for any untoward sound or movement from either within or without his quarters.  The heavy doors muted much of the noise of the rest of the castle, though, and he could hear nothing.  That was enough, he decided impatiently.  He rose.

In the darkness, he shrugged on a thick bed robe, scarlet trimmed with silver, then, by touch and memory, found the catch for the hidden drawer in his desk, sprung it open and carefully removed the vial from inside.  There were various other little secret nooks in his apartments, as well, each hiding its own treasure, but the contents of this particular one were . . . unique.  He smiled, his serpentine eyes narrowing to slits.

Lotor tucked the vial into one deep pocket, letting it go only reluctantly.  He wanted the reassurance that only touch would bring.  Once, he’d been careless, and the delicate glass had shattered, the liquid wasted.  And since the potion was obtainable so infrequently, life for the other inhabitants of his father’s castle had been distinctly unpleasant for several days.

They never knew why, though.

Silently, the Prince slipped out into the corridor.  The usual sounds of celebration echoed far away.  His father’s throne room would likely still be filled with revelers, he knew, and guards would be scarce in the halls.  That was often the case nowadays.

He hoped.  He did not want to get caught skulking through his own castle.

Luck- or something- was with him; he saw no one.  Deliberately, he made his path confusing to anyone who did happen to be following him, going up unnecessary corridors, across empty halls, looping toward the dungeons more than once, and finally making use of one of the many secret passages that riddled the structure.

This last was the one he wanted no one else to know about.  He wanted no one to know of the prize he kept concealed at the other end.  Another hiding place, for another thing well worth the hiding.

The passageway gave out onto a corridor that had long lain undisturbed.  Indeed, as he strode down it, the dust swirled, streaking the hem of his long robe, then settled back down in the footprints he left.  The new prints matched older ones in size and shape.  Only one person had used this hall.  He checked every night, and every night was confident that the cleaning droids and drudges had forgotten this place existed.

That was just how he wanted it.

He realized that he was walking faster than was his wont, and admitted his eagerness without shame.  He was a bit surprised that his interest had been held for so long.  Perhaps it’s the novelty, he thought, though I would have thought it would have long since worn off . . .

The corridor ended in a blank wall, except for the bricked-in shape that indicated a doorway had once existed.  Zarkon- or his predecessor- had sealed off the rooms that lay beyond many, many years ago, for some forgotten reason.

But just before the dead end, Lotor stopped, and faced the interior wall, opposite the last window.  Here, in bright daylight, the careful observer would see the very faint outline of a door, but in the night by the inconstant moonlight, there was nothing to indicate this was anything other than another section of cold stone wall.

He touched the center of the door, and it slid open without a sound.

The room beyond was blindingly bright; he had never been here when it had been anything less.  He was prepared for it, shielding his sensitive eyes with one hand while he groped for the light control with the other.  He was allowed to turn the intensity of the lights down, but he could not turn them off, nor could he draw the velvet curtains around the bed.  To do either was to send the occupant into screaming hysteria.

Sometimes, when the mood was just wrong, merely turning the lights down a shade too far would bring forth soft whimpers that were painfully beautiful to hear.  He’d done it purposefully more than once.

Once he’d dialed the lights down to a more bearable level, Lotor glanced around the chamber, past ancient fineries, to the high canopied bed.  A figure lay there, curled on one side, facing away, shivering despite the oppressive heat of the room.

I’ve cut it very close tonight, Lotor thought, as he made his way to the bed.  The apartment was cluttered with things, left behind by the last person who had dwelt there.

He stepped up onto the dais upon which the bed stood, and for just an instant, leaned against the bedpost, ignoring the dust from the threadbare draperies, to let his gaze drift over the trembling body.  The dark hair was growing long and unruly, he noted, curling over shoulders that despair had long since rounded.  He approved.

Looking down further, however, he frowned upon seeing, not for the first time, how thin the other had become, how the silken nightclothes billowed over the too-slight frame.  That would have to be addressed.  Again.

But overall . . . Knees drawn up, hands clutching opposite shoulders, head bent, shaking with what might be fear or shame or any of a hundred other things . . . beautiful, Lotor thought, smiling slightly.  He’s so lost in his own suffering that he never even heard me enter.

He removed the vial from his pocket, and set it carefully on the nightstand before crawling onto the bed.  The dark haired figure only noticed that someone else was in his room when that someone curled up behind him, spooning him.  Lotor greeted him with a sharp nip at the back of his neck, eliciting a startled yelp and an attempt to jerk away.  But the Prince had already trapped him, one strong arm wrapped around his waist.

“Hush.” 

The word gusted quietly over an ear, and put an end to the weak struggle at once.  In fact, the young man let out a breath that was more a sob of relief.  “I thought . . . I thought you weren’t coming . . .” he whispered.

Lotor chuckled into the black hair feathering over the other’s nape, amused by the oddly clipped sound of his speech.  “Why wouldn’t I?”  He relaxed his arm, and trailed his hand down to swirl over the boy’s hip, smoothing the soft material beneath his fingers.  He scowled at the prominence of the bone, its shape distinct despite the barriers of cloth and skin.  Searching out one of the blood vessels that ran close to the skin, the Prince could feel that his heart was beating like a trip-hammer, far too hard and fast.  His receptive ears could fairly hear it pounding, and he did not need that acute sense to be made aware of the harshness of his breathing, labored and shallow.

Much too close.

Abruptly, he uncoiled himself from about the thin form, and reached for the vial.  When he turned back around, he was met with pale cheeks and glazed grey eyes.  Before he unstopped the bottle, however, he remembered to ask, “Have you eaten at all today?”

He watched the other squirm, in equal parts discomfort at the question and the growing urge he was trying to quell.  No answer was forthcoming, and his frown deepened.

“Well, Sven?” His flat tone made his displeasure clear, and the over-bright gaze lowered in response.

“I tried,” Sven replied plaintively, his voice barely audible.  “I tried, but . . . I couldn’t.  I’m just not hungry.”  He closed his eyes.  Another shudder wracked him, and he folded in on himself again, though the near-fetal position did little to ease the spasms.  “I’m sorry . . .”

Lotor considered, his fingers toying lightly with the neck of the vial.  Food delayed the effect of the potion, true, but it delayed the onset of the after-effects as well, as if eating gave the body something to focus on other than the cravings.

But lack of appetite was one of the side effects of the fhalli.  Perhaps, he thought, almost irrelevantly, it converts the appetite for food into other appetites . . . Inwardly, he shivered to think that was true, and felt a new respect for those who distilled it.  Fhalli was the most powerful aphrodisiac known in the galaxy, banned on nearly every planet for its addictive qualities, and coveted for the same.

A well deserved reputation.

Lotor looked down at Sven, in the throes of a convulsion.  The cramps had strengthened while he was lost in thought, he realized, though the other had not made a sound.  It would be so easy to give him what he needs . . .

Except nothing was ever as simple as it seemed.  If taken too often, undiluted by food, the fhalli was even more addictive and dangerous, if that were possible.  Lotor was caught between wants- the immediate need to sate his desire for Sven, and the need to continue to do so.

After another moment’s quick thought, Lotor sighed and said, “One swallow, Sven.  No more until you eat.”  His amber eyes stared down at the quivering body next to him, and he forced a bit of iron into his tone.  “Understand?”

Sven’s nod was nearly indistinguishable from his shaking, and the apologetic grin was contorted into a grimace.  But he knew the boy understood.

Cautiously, Lotor worked an arm beneath Sven’s shoulders and maneuvered him upright, supporting him with his own body as he opened the vial.  One of Sven’s hands reached up to help support the bottle, but Lotor pushed it away.  With great care, he brought the vial to Sven’s mouth, tipped it slightly, and let the prescribed amount trickle in, then instantly pulled it back. 

Sven swallowed the liquid, eyes squeezed shut, gasping as it burned his throat.  Lotor watched him closely, to make sure he was all right.  At first, he had fought the taste and the fire, gagging and coughing, but now . . . it was clear he welcomed it, that the panting and shuddering were in pleasure.  The tingle in his throat would soon become a glow in his stomach and groin, and bring relief from the cravings.

Perhaps that was all he wanted from it, but Lotor decided that Sven also desired the attentions he received.  And maybe I’m fooling myself, and it really is just the fhalli, but I don’t care.  For now, I want him, and I want him willing.

Awkwardly, using only one hand, he capped the bottle again, then twisted around to set it back on the table.  Wrapping both arms around Sven, he eased them back down to the pillows.  Sven pressed close to him, his head tucked against Lotor’s broad chest, hands clutching the lapels of his robe.  Already his trembling was lessening.  The fhalli acted quickly.

Absently, Lotor’s large hands stroked his back, enjoying the slip of the material beneath his fingers.  It was also easier on Sven while coming down.  The potion made his skin almost unbearably sensitive as it wore off.  While Lotor wouldn’t have minded if his dark haired slave went naked, even if he wasn’t there to admire it, Sven had asked for clothing.  And the silk was luxurious to caress.

He pondered anew if it would be worth the trouble it would cause to have some drudge bring meals to the hidden suite, rather than rely on Sven’s uncertain hunger and the limited resources of the small larder.

Zarkon had no idea of his son’s dalliance, and would surely be very, very wroth when word reached him, as it no doubt would.

Nor could he himself always afford the time it would take to avoid the castle residents- much more annoyingly underfoot during the day- sufficiently to visit Sven and make sure he ate something.  Every day, there was a new world to conquer in his father’s name, though more and more were falling without a shot fired.  He could appoint a Viceroy or Vizier or some other grandiose position to accept all the surrenders for him.  Then he could spend all his time . . . here.

If he could get used to the heat and the light.

But he could torment Sven all the more.  The idea has merit.

Because Sven was so unbearably lovely when he suffered.

It was what had drawn him to Sven in the first place.  On a trip down to the Pit of Skulls, to dispose of a body, he had happened to catch a glimpse of a figure huddled in a corner.  The creature, clothed in dirty rags, had shied away from the torchlight, quite obviously blinded by the sudden glare in his dark world, even as he sought it out.  He had clung to the dark wall, eyes tearing, unable to face the unaccustomed light, unable to look away.

Despite the grime and bruises that marred his fine features, Lotor could see that the young man was utterly beautiful.  Striding quickly from the soldiers accompanying him, he approached the figure for a closer look.  When his direction and intent registered, fear claimed the young man and he tried to scuttle away.  Lotor stopped him, grabbed his chin and stared into wide grey eyes.

Eyes that confessed that sanity hung by a slim thread, if it had not already snapped.  Eyes that revealed the broken soul inside, with just enough slivers of himself left to realize he was broken.  Lotor coveted him from that moment. 

Some people were most appealing as they were being broken- their bodies welted and bleeding from the lash, their minds slowly destroyed by vicious games.  Once they snapped, however, they became witless creatures, and Lotor quickly lost interest in them.

Sven was an odd dichotomy- aware enough to realize that Lotor was caring for him, and to trust him implicitly, yet completely shattered enough to believe that he was back in the Pit if the lights dimmed too far.

Thus the intensity of the lights at all times, the tied back bed curtains.

I wonder if he ever dreams of being rescued, Lotor asked himself.

He was startled for a split second as he heard a soft whine.  A furtive movement caught his eye and he looked down.  Heated hands slipped inside his robe to lightly caress his chest, and he hummed appreciatively, arching into the hesitant touch.

Sven was watching him, grey eyes glittering now with fever, cheeks flushed.  He moved against Lotor’s hand, still on his back, and gave that faint whimper again.

Has it been that long? Lotor thought, moving his hand in response.  He had been so deep within his own mind that he hadn’t even noticed that the fhalli had taken full effect, that Sven was practically begging for a more intimate touch.

Seeing that he had Lotor’s attention, Sven pressed his lips to the pale blue skin he had exposed, while his hands fumbled to untie the sash of the robe.

Lotor grinned.  “Better now?”

Without stopping, Sven nodded.

He chuckled and drew the other’s face up.  “Good.”  Then he kissed him hard, delving into that hot willing mouth, while eagerly unbuttoning the silken top.

Afterward, while Sven kissed his chest and neck in gratitude, Lotor reflected that he probably no longer needed the fhalli as an aphrodisiac.  But it’s so lovely to watch as he goes through the withdrawal . . .

Inside, there was still some spark left of the person Sven had been before the Pit of Skulls.  As he did nearly every night, Lotor wondered if it would flare or gutter out forever, should he tell him that the war was over.

Would he break completely when Lotor described how Voltron had fallen?  How Keith had howled while under torture in the dungeons, how Haggar had taken the other boys for experimentation, how Allura, dressed in golden chains, danced for Zarkon in the throne room every night . . .

He felt Sven shift against him, as the fhalli urged new passion upon him, and smiled.  Not tonight, he decided, though it would make him gorgeous beyond compare.  Perhaps tomorrow instead . . .

***
June 15, 2003