Author’s Note: Angst. And, once again, I’ve twisted canon to suit my own needs.

Disclaimer: WEP owns Voltron. I’m just borrowing.

Punishment

The planet was far from home, and it was deep into the local night. The base was asleep, though he was awake. His chamber was dark. The only light came from the flickering viewscreen, on which was replayed the events of the battle for his perusal, kindly forwarded by his father.

His first thought, when he recognized what was happening onscreen, was actually more of a silent plea. ‘No. Oh, please, no . . .’

His second was, ‘He found out, the bastard, he found out, and this is his way of punishing me . . .’

Lotor sat watching, cat-like eyes wide in disbelief. He was dressed for leisure, his soft white shirt open at the neck, trousers loose and comfortable, feet bare. His long white hair he had tied back into a tail. He was completely without armor.

His hand trembled, causing the wine in his goblet to ripple in tiny dark waves. The bowl of the cup was slowly becoming deformed in the pressure of his fingers, from round to oval. He never noticed.

Dread coiled in his belly, a cold serpent of bile and fear. ‘No, oh, no . . .’

He knew how it would end, how the battle always ended.

He simply could not tear his eyes away, though his heart threatened to stop beating at any moment.

And the very worst part, even beyond the certainty of the outcome, was the knowledge that it was already done. This battle had taken place days, or even weeks, ago. He could not save him . . .

His eyes prickled, a strange sensation. Distractedly, he lifted his free hand to his face, and was surprised to feel dampness on his cheeks.

Before the end of the battle, before Voltron could strike the killing blow, Lotor paused the recording and flung himself out of his chair. The goblet fell, unheeded, to puddle its wine on the soft pile of the carpet. It had nearly crumpled closed. He paced savagely, with no more restraint than a caged animal.

But even as he asked himself, he knew the answer.

Arms crossed over his broad chest, as if trying to hold in some violent emotion, Lotor raised his face to the dark ceiling, eyes closed. He bit his lip, to keep himself from sobbing aloud, while tears streamed unchecked down his cheeks. A sound nevertheless managed to escape his throat, an odd cross between a whine and a growl.

The sense of loss was overwhelming. Even the dim flicker of anger that tried to rise couldn’t fight its power.

After a moment, he opened his eyes, staring sightlessly upward, trying to breathe deeply.

Once . . . once, the man had been one of Zarkon’s most decorated generals. He’d been a brilliant tactician, a strategist without peer. Almost through his efforts alone, the Doom Empire had conquered the entire sector. If Zarkon ground worlds beneath his boot, it was Yurak who had brought those planets to their knees.

And Zarkon had respected him. Perhaps he’d even feared him, but Yurak was nothing if not ferociously loyal. "For the glory of Doom!" was his war cry. Personal aggrandizement was simply not in his nature.

Though he’d been young, Lotor could remember the grand feasts for nearly every victory. Yurak was always seated at Zarkon’s right hand, resplendent in his armor, medals and decorations heavier for each celebration. He could better remember sitting in on his father’s war councils once he’d turned 13. How rapt he’d been, how impressed by Yurak’s ploys and counterploys, the traps within traps. He’d sit in silence, listening in awe as the general would outline grand plans to Zarkon and the other war leaders . . . and then show how they would become reality.

Once, Zarkon had laughed in appreciation of one of Yurak’s subtler schemes, then turned to his son and said, "Listen well, Lotor. You will have no better teacher than General Yurak!"

Yurak had flushed at the praise, as he always did, his face taking on a purple cast through the short blue fur. "Thank you, Your Majesty," he’d managed, before quickly turning the conversation back to the battle being planned. Another triumph was in the offing.

It seemed none could stand in his way.

And then . . .

In his dim chamber, Lotor hugged himself tighter.

It was his secret shame, his belief that he’d begun Yurak’s downfall, and he could ask no one to either refute or affirm it. Whether it was his fault or not, his father would kill him. Keeping silent about it was so ingrained now that it was unthinkable to speak.

It had started innocently enough, just a simple case of hero worship. Lotor had feared his father too much- his violent temper, his quick fists- to really admire him. Yurak had never been much more than absently kind to his liege’s son, but even those small kindnesses had filled some need, and combined with his talent for victory, it was all too easy to magnify it into something greater. And that’s where it should have ended.

Lotor could never pinpoint exactly when it was that he first wanted to feel the softness of Yurak’s pelt. He could just remember wanting to know if it was as velvety as it looked, if the muscles it covered were as firm as they seemed. He remembered fantasizing about running his fingers lightly over the general’s tufted ears, which, in his dream, would make the older man tremble, and kiss him . . .

After he lost his virginity to one of the kitchen slaves, Lotor’s fantasies became more vivid, lurid with knowledge and feeling. He wondered what it would feel like when he was in the inferior position, taking the slave’s part, as he simply could not imagine Yurak in that way. Those female slaves with whom he amused himself did not always seem to enjoy his attentions, and he knew better than to experiment, especially that way.

He was almost- *almost* - content with his dreams, even knowing they would never become real.

Then Zarkon decided to send his son away to the Drule military academy.

Lotor had come as close as he dared to arguing with his father. "I thought you said that Yurak would be my best teacher!"

His father had looked uncomfortable, and replied, "Well, haven’t you learned from him all these years? It’s time to broaden your knowledge, my son. Besides, the Drules do have fine generals as well. It will do you well to learn from many different sources."

Lotor knew now that he’d been expected to form an attachment to a wealthy Drule warlord’s daughter and wed. But that aim had never been stated, and he’d never made any permanent friends at the academy in any case.

The celebration for Lotor’s send off coincided with the planned departure of Yurak’s fleet for another round of conquest. Lotor slipped out of the feast early, unnoticed, and ran to the general’s command ship. Finally, finally, he had found enough courage to tell Yurak of his feelings, his desires.

He’d surprised Yurak relaxing in his quarters on board the ship, surprised him even more when he’d spilled all that was in his young heart. Yurak had merely sat, goblet forgotten in one hand, yellow eyes wide.

What he had expected in return, Lotor didn’t know, but it hadn’t been the stern glare he’d received. "My prince, did it occur to you that you might be giving me a grave insult?"

Yurak’s deep voice sent tingles down his spine. Lotor had swallowed. "Yes, sir."

"You do realize that the relationship you seem to desire is against regulations in most military units, and furthermore, would be doubly dangerous should your father find out?"

"Yes, sir," he whispered again.

"Then why?"

"Because . . ." And he’d stopped, and looked up, considering the tone in which the last question had been asked, then finished his reply in a firm voice. "Because that’s the way I feel. If you don’t feel the same, I understand, but it won’t change the way I feel. Sir." He stood, heart in his mouth, and waited.

Yurak still sat impassively in his chair. "Come here, my prince."

Lotor had obeyed, stopping just in front of him, waiting for his punishment.

Instead, he had nearly fallen in astonishment when the general had reached up to lightly caress his cheek. "You are temptation itself," Yurak breathed. "Tomorrow, I might feel foolish for falling for the charms of someone so much younger. But now . . . I am willing to be tempted." And then he had knotted his hand in Lotor’s hair, long and white even then, and pulled him down into a fierce kiss.

That night was not exactly as Lotor had imagined it would be. It was different, yes, but it was real, and that was enough. And if he’d walked a bit carefully the next day, no one noticed in the pomp of the dual departures.

Lotor glanced back at the screen for an instant, at Yurak the ro-beast, then swiftly away. It hurt to see him like that, *hurt* in ways he could barely fathom.

And no small part of that pain was his own sense of guilt.

He shuddered now, recalling the way he’d reveled in what he’d taken for a compliment. "You are a fine distraction," Yurak had murmured against the back of his neck as they lay sprawled in the aftermath. The resonance of the deep tone made him tremble, as did the large hand moving slowly, lightly, up his flank. "A very fine distraction . . ."

And he knew that was what had happened. Knew that if he hadn’t gone to Yurak that night, hadn’t distracted him, the general would probably have devoted more thought to his upcoming battle, would have anticipated the counterstrike the defenders had raised in their desperation.

Would have been able to avoid the shell as it exploded.

Lotor had been several weeks on the Drule homeworld when he finally heard news of the battle. He’d risked expulsion and his father’s wrath to stow away aboard a ship bound for Doom.

Then he wished he hadn’t.

After managing to steal into Yurak’s sick room, he’d gasped at the sight. Shrapnel had torn the general’s face, had destroyed one of his eyes. While his face was bandaged, Lotor could see something red gleaming where the eye should be, and knew with a sinking heart that Haggar had worked magic on him. The red glow was a mystic replacement for the eye Yurak had lost, though it had probably not yet integrated well enough to be any use. The other eye appeared to have a milky film over it.

"Who’s there?" Yurak blinked blindly in the vague direction of the door. His voice was thin and weak, and Lotor had had to bite his tongue hard to keep from crying out. It was *wrong*, wrong for Yurak to sound like that, quavery and helpless.

"It . . . it’s me, Yurak. It’s Lotor," he’d whispered, unable to move away from where he’d stopped, just inside the door.

"Lotor?" Yurak had asked, puzzled. "Oh. Sorry, Your Highness. I . . . I’d forgotten your name."

"Th-that’s all right, General," he responded, almost automatically, while his blood froze in his veins. Yurak had forgotten him? "Just rest now."

Yurak had nodded, and drifted back into fitful sleep, and Lotor had fled.

He’d never asked the witch what was wrong with Yurak. He already knew her response. She would shrug, and reply, "Black magic is not healing magic, Prince Lotor. And there is always a price."

Yurak’s long downfall had begun.

Gone was the strategist who coolly and calmly planned each battle. In his place was an excitable reactionary who favored throwing bodies at the enemy until they succumbed. When other generals decided to bypass him and use his old plans, they discovered that each had been uniquely suited to the planet thus conquered. Modifying the plans was risky at best, and Yurak could no longer offer assistance.

As the failures started to mount, Zarkon stripped Yurak of most of his decorations and honors, and of his rank, demoting him to serve under those he had once commanded.

The saddest part was that Yurak could not remember ever having received the accolades, could not remember the hundreds of feasts in his honor. It was as if they had happened to a different person. All he was aware of was defeat after ignominious defeat, and Zarkon’s withering scorn. All he could remember was his battle cry. "For the glory of Doom."

Lotor had not seen Yurak since that secret visit. He’d returned home after two years at the academy, had immediately taken the half of the fleet that his father had given him and spent the last three years conquering worlds in Zarkon’s name.

The thought of Yurak as he had been that night, and as he was now, with no memory of it . . . He sometimes wished Yurak had died, that Haggar had not worked on him, rather than see him like that.

In the years since, he’d never reconciled himself to the "new" Yurak, though he thought he’d deduced what had happened to his memory. The piece of metal that had ruined his eye had worked its way deep into the socket. From there, Haggar’s magic had probably slowly pushed it into his brain. When she had created the false eye, the metal had been sealed into his brain, and was poisoning him little by little, leaching away his mind.

And Lotor hadn’t been able to face it, couldn’t face *him*.

Now he had to. ‘If only to ask forgiveness . . .’

Had to face as his lover, his first *real* lover, was offered up as a ro-beast sacrifice to Voltron, to Zarkon’s greed.

Walking back around to face the viewscreen again, Lotor stubbed his toe on the goblet, forgotten on the rug. Absently, he picked it up, startled to see he’d crushed it. He turned it over and over in his hands, studying it without seeing it. Then he seemed to reach a decision.

Though he knew what was going to happen, he sat back down in his chair and started the recording again. Punishment though it was, torture beyond anything he’d ever known, he forced himself to watch the battle through to completion.

When Voltron’s sword bit into the ro-beast Yurak had become, Lotor was unsurprised to once again feel tears streaming down his face. And when Doom’s greatest general disappeared in the explosion, Doom’s prince shot to his feet and hurled the deformed cup at the screen with all his might, shrieking curses. The screen shattered, smoking and belching flame, but Lotor didn’t move, staring at the dark hole as if it would provide the answers he sought. It didn’t.

After a minute, he became aware of sounds outside his quarters. Someone was pounding on his door, calling, "Prince Lotor! Prince Lotor!" Distantly, he swiped at his cheeks with the back of one hand, then decided he didn’t give a damn if the soldier saw his tears, and strode to the door to open it.

"Your Highness! Are you all right? I heard an explosion . . ." The soldier trailed off, seeing the smoking remains of the viewscreen.

"Make ready my ship," Lotor ordered softly. "We’re returning to Planet Doom as soon as possible."

"Your Highness?" The soldier gaped at him.

"We’re leaving, you imbecile!" Lotor snapped. "We’ll leave a garrison here, and take the main fleet back with us. Go!"

Afraid for his life, seeing the prince’s eyes blazing with his rage, the soldier scuttled away.

‘I’m coming home, Father,’ Lotor thought, turning away from the door. ‘I’ve seen what you wanted me to see, taken the punishment you’ve given me. I hope Yurak has forgiven you for everything you’ve done to him. I will not.

Staring at the scorched components littering the floor, in the darkness of his chamber, Lotor felt his lips curve in a cold, bitter smile.

"For the glory of Doom."

***

July 18, 2002

© randi (K. Shepard), 2002.