Warning! References to child Abuse!

Zarkon scoffs, pulling away, realizing that his threat of bloodshed would not give him what he wants "Playing the victim does you no good, Lotor. You lacked discipline, I responded accordingly, but it seems to me no amount it has cured your petulance" Lotor sniffed before looking away then. 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night” he dismissed him “Now, if you're done being ridiculous, I’d like to take my leave. I have places to go, things to do” 

“An odd way of saying-cowering in the shadows like a spineless twit” Lotor rose from his chair. 

“Whatever you say.” as he made way for the exit “Oh, by the way-” 

“What?” The question was on the tip of his tongue-for a brief moment he thought to ask, but then reconsidered it. 

“Nothing,” Lotor shakes his head before leaving the War room. Zarkon stood, glaring at the sliding door, watching his son’s backside disappear from his sight. It did not take a genius to know that Lotor was up to nothing good-or at least nothing good that benefited him. 

The spiteful brat! Continuing to be difficult. 

-but,-the question will always remain the same-up to what? He narrowed his eyes, his teeth and fist clenching. He turned away from the door to look out the window, staring off into the endless depths of space. The door hisses open again, he smells her long before he sees her reflection in the window before him. Yet he cannot seem to shake the feeling that something was amiss about her. He debates on whether not to pry into the matter-

“Sire?” her voice-cold, raspy-so, different from the warm, passionate one that he had come to be intimate with. Zarkon growled lowly under his breath-why was he thinking of such? The past? Reminiscing about the woman that his wife-advisor was-he was not sentimental in the least. These thoughts only seem to come to him when that brat of his lingers around him for longer than he liked. Always looking at him with the eyes and face stolen from his mother. Inquisitive, sharp, observant-like Honerva reborn. It’s moments-when he casts him looks reminiscent of his dead mother that Zarkon is grateful that Lotor has his complexion and the color and silt of his eyes. Galra eyes. 

Him and Alfor’s damn daughter. The only other person living that causes him to feel such insignificant sentimentalities-Princess Allura. The fact that she continues to breathe is a light against him in every way-prattling on about peace and unity-talking the way Alfor used to talk of idealistic fantasies. 

Sapphire-kaleidoscopic eyes, brimming with fire.

He glares at nothing but the reflection imprinted in the glass.

“Sire?” Haggar spoke again. Once again he’s filled with an indescribable desire to touch her face-like he did once before. Instead he clasp his hands behind his back in typical galra fashion and does not turn to look at her.

“Lotor is up to something” 

“Then I will see to it-” 

“No.” she stops in her tracks, her robes whishing along the smooth floor “ we’ll wait this time-let him make the first move” 

“And if were too late-” 

“You distrust me, Haggar?” 

She pauses for a long moment, a moment longer than Zarkon liked “No, sire. I have complete faith your judgement” 

"Well,"

she quirks a brow, amused.

Lotor swallows a growl. There’s inches of glass between him, and yet he felt further from her then he ever had. 

“What is your game, Witch,” 

She scoffs “Witch,” he motions her drabbery “Witch of what. As far as I know, I am no longer a high priestess of anything, but a torn empire,"

"Don't test, me,"

"With what,"

“I’m well attuned with your games, Haggar,” 

“Are you now,” she leans forward, her head draped in her palm. Her gaze was lazy, half-lidden, as if carrying on a causal conversation. Lotor went rigid. He wasn’t sure how to deal with this version of herself, a version cleansed from quintessence. Her skin was no longer that of lavender hue, but one that was reminiscent of her youth. Her enlongated marks, are far more striking, and clearer to see. This isn't the Haggar he had grown up with during his youth.

“What are you up to,” 

“Who’s to say,” 

“You are captured, your cards are up,” 

“Like I said, who’s to say. Anything can happen at the drop of a hat. You should know that well, my son,”

Her eyes flicker over his shoulders. The rest of the insufferable morons were outside the integration room, though they can see what is going through the glass that separates them. Lotor was unsure if they can hear or not. at this point it matter little. 

“Do not call me that,” 

“Hhhm, is this how you treat your mother, lock her in cage,” 

“Enough,” he stood up, he was growing weary of this “Consider yourself lucky, you deserve far worse than a simple cage,” 

“Nepotism, is it,” 

“No,” 

“No,” she mimcks, before shaking her head. 

“I’ll ask you a- 

“Or what. You’ll do what? Torture me," he goes still, his breath stills. He exhales through his nose, shutting his eyes, calming himself. He opens them, turning not to met hers, but the other altean woman through the glass.

He reluctantly, turns back to her, his mother, who’s brow crinkles, and her frown hardens. Lotor is unsure what has suddenly upset her. He swallows. As her harden features soften, and she laughs, her voice low. 

“Oh, how quaint,” she mutters, shaking her head once again “And here I thought you’d be smarter, “ 

It’s Lotor’s turn to feel puzzled. 

“Alfor’s daughter, surely I thought you had better taste,”  

“You will not speak of her,” he snarls.

“I say what I want, and I’ll say it again,” her head still hasn’t left her palm. “Is this another one of your idyllic fantasies,” 

“No, Allura is so much more than that, than some fantasy,” 

“Why, you seem, so fond of fantasies my child, why give it now,” 

“You speak nonsense,” 

“Am I,” he chuckles, when Lotor is unable to speak. This time she lifts herself from the chair, her head tilts up. He cannot fathom what her expression, for it has taken on something softer, and more akin to that of a motherly gaze.  he takes a step back, involuntarily swallowing.

“You are quite fond of fantasies, idols, fantastical stories and idealisms. You idolize Altean, even though it is no longer. You idolize me, even though you know not thing of what I one was. you idealize a past that you have no part in, and kept your head in story books, and legends. and you what to know why? Because you are a child, a sad pitiful child. It does matter what crown you stick onto that head of yours, whether it be emperor or prince, it doesn’t matter how much you try to make yourself larger than life. You are nothing but, scared little boy, trapped inside the body of a man, trying to be king. You try so, hard to change things that cannot be changed. You deny me, your mother. And defied your father. You do so in the hopes that you can free yourself of your own blood.

But, you can't.

And you know why. Blood is etched in stone. You cannot change blood, the liquid coursing through your veins.

You cannot change for you are you.

Do you know why-

You are Lotor.

Lotor, prince of the Galra. Lotor the Emperor, Lotor the child of Honerva and Zarkon, Lotor the half-breed, Lotor the outsider, the exiled.

You are Lotor.

That is something that cannot be changed with storybooks, and idols, fantasies, and princesses trapped in castle. you can not run from what you are. There is no cure for that.