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He forgoes the armor in favor of loose, casual clothes, soft garments designed for comfort, yet still they cleave to the strict, now-archaic standards of a world long-dead—when it suits him, for nostalgia's will is a specter coming in brief flashes and leaving strange, longing aches behind. No palace lounges await him now, not ten thousand decaphoebs after Daibazaal's fall, and his people's remaining nobility thrive only in the far corners of his empire, banished as the nuisances they are—no court necessary for an emperor who no longer bows to politics' whims. Only some strange brand of sentiment, one scarcely worth his thought, drives him to command his computers to recreate fashions long forgotten, ones no longer meant to seen, worn only so that in the solitude of his own chambers he might reminisce, might keep memory—all that remains—from at long last going unrecognized.
His adherence to tradition may run strong, but he long ago allowed traces of modernity to slip in, the sanctity of old ways abandoned for the sake of practicality and convenience. He wears a tunic with a cut merely reminiscent—not an exact replica—of the plainer clothes he might have owned when he was but an emperor of a mere century's experience. Whatever source designed these clothes—(an algorithm, in theory, as he left his personal sentries with instructions to produce them but provided no patterns from which to draw)—gives the odd impression of understanding the theory of Daibazaal's ancient lounges but never quite grasping the nuances, the details. Where he looks, he finds juxtapositions woven into the fabric, but not even nostalgia can convince him to care. He spares no more than a cursory judgment: Inauthentic—but they serve their purpose, looser garments than armor and undersuit, useful for allowing the body to relax in his idle vargas.
The Emperor is a creature of steel and armor and edges. The universe did not make him for comfort and plush couches... or so his people would say. But they forgot the lounges, did they not, integral to his people's culture though they once were? Another casualty of time. And he may still be a creature of austerity—his chambers are not a lounge—but they exist, just as he exists and the night exists and what once was still exists in memory.
Night-times are for thinking, but memory lingers too strongly tonight. He pushes it aside, for it rarely serves him well. In the quiet of his chambers, he performs routines turned rote long before any of this existed, putting hands and mind and body to use for no other purpose than keeping himself occupied, and lets his thoughts turn to the future instead—the immediate future, an impending visit.
At this, he permits the barest curl of humor through him, unfettered and accepted. His people, those very same soldiers for whom he portrays that unbreakable mien of strength, will find their knowledge of their own emperor lacking—in many ways. They do not even know he is a parent.
Yet despite his best efforts, rumor begins to spread... Connections form in the minds of his commanders, lightning-fast and all too soon...
A long, plain couch in his sunken seating area plays host to the cascade of thoughts that revelation brings forth. He never intended to keep the existence of a prince hidden. He meant to... to be proud of the child, publicly. But practicality delayed an announcement of the Empire's new heir-hopeful, delayed it too long, and then a mutual decision forestalled it entirely. Secrecy prevails, and he concedes its practicality—but the child cannot remain hidden forever, not if he means the Empire to give Lotor the respect a prince is due. This secrecy has only ever been, will only ever be... temporary. A stopgap.
A precaution.
("Let him grow old enough to wield a blade before every assassin in the universe knows who he is and where he dwells," Haggar had said, and his blood ran cold.)
Such thoughts leave him with an unsettled edge; he abandons them entirely and moves on. His favored holopad rests too far away to reach, but though he fixes it with a weary glare, he cannot muster the will to retrieve it.
The door hisses. He blinks. His ears prick and his head angles, back straightening from a discontent curl he would have chased from his posture had he noticed it sooner.
"Stop that," Haggar mutters, her voice muffled with distance, but the words are an odd juxtaposition of the Prime Galran language with her modern accent. His ear gives a single twitch. She is disciplined enough not to allow the mixing of eras, to return to the ancient language's cadence when speaking it... and more so is she insistent upon exactness when teaching its intricacies to a young, learning mind.
This is the verbal equivalent of arriving with her hair uncombed and hood askew—a striking, worrying anomaly.
When she steps into view, Lotor squirms in her arms and continues tugging insistently on said hair. As much as she perhaps wishes otherwise, her vocal structure cannot produce a Galran growl, but the ghost of the sound echoes so readily in Zarkon's ears, so plainly spoken by her posture and the sharp set of her jaw, that he sits numb and stilled by it as Haggar draws close and wordlessly deposits their child on his lap. Silent footsteps carry her away to the far viewport, her hands surreptitiously reaching to adjust her hood.
The tiny form balanced on one thigh, barely possessing enough weight to feel, draws his attention as it shifts closer, the weight of a too-keen gaze on him felt almost before he looks. Tiny hands curl into the silken fabric of his antiquated lounge trousers.
"Hi."
An ear quirks, a small sound curling in his throat as Zarkon looks upon the child in his lap. Lotor rocks forward and back, neck craned as he peers up, enough latent energy in his impossibly-miniature body that he may as well vibrate in place. Blue, faceted eyes stare up, almost too big for his face.
Zarkon runs a hand over his child's small head. "Hello, prince," he rumbles. Lotor has yet to learn what a prince is, but the fondness in the tone will be received.
Not responding, Lotor merely gives a wiggle and casts a glance around to his mother. Haggar remains at the viewport, unmoving, as stiff and rigid as a statue and likely pretending she does not have a child.
This mood will not last long. Give her a varga of Lotor pulling on someone else's hair and she will be pleased again.
Zarkon may not have hair, but the child is eager enough to be entertained by him that he makes himself his mother's exact opposite—unable to keep still. For the moment, Haggar will have whatever peace she desires.
Lotor reaches out, though his tiny arms prove inefficient for the task. His hands cannot stretch any farther than his own feet, said black-socked appendages curling as only Altean feet can.
Lotor redoubles his efforts, but with a huff, he sits back. He turns his gaze to his káren, light reflected in those gleaming eyes, and murmurs something just barely too low to catch. That and a greeting—the child is talkative tonight.
Zarkon watches as he tries once more, and when Lotor has himself bent nearly double with his futile efforts, an odd pose on such a rounded, infantile shape, he sits sharply again with a sound alarmingly reminiscent of the discontent wails his Altean heritage gave him to express himself. He turns his face to Zarkon, brows drawn and mouth set in a disconsolate pout, and stretches his arms out once more. Like a protest, as though it is Zarkon's fault he is so small, Lotor complains, "Sire!"
Zarkon blinks, his brows pulling together. That... is not the proper form of address. Not from his own child, whose greatest accomplishments to date are learning to walk and to (occasionally) speak, whose interest still lies exclusively in arranging his toys, never mind matters of rule and conquest. Zarkon's gaze drifts accusatorially to Haggar.
She is turned to him, her eyes narrowed.
You taught him this, he makes every effort to say without words, for Lotor is far too keen at understanding conversations around him for one so small (and one with such a fondness for chewing that which is not meant to be chewed).
Haggar blinks, but the gesture is not friendly. "He repeats what he hears," she offers, though calling her words an offer is more generous than they deserve. I will not be blamed for this, her eyes say.
But it is your fault, he thinks.
His own blink, however, is meant to soothe and amend, as she cannot help that she taught their child an inappropriate form of address. She turns from him, no longer stoic before the viewport, instead milling and pacing quietly nearby.
Give her time. She will find her peace again.
He looks back to his child. Lotor again grabs fistfuls of the loose fabric of Zarkon's pants, this time tugging it futilely to examine it.
This cannot stand. His wife may have a preference for overformality, but he will not risk his child growing up thinking of him as an emperor before all else.
(He is so small. Has he even learned what an emperor is?)
"I am káren," Zarkon corrects softly, his voice a quiet rumble.
Lotor blinks, his ears flicking, and abandons the fabric to reach out again. "Sire."
"Káren."
A tiny frown, the child's mouth twisting and his brows drawing together. Then he seems to understand in the ways only he can. Eyes bright, he reaches so vigorously that he falls forward into his own lap. With his tiny, awkward arms, he pushes himself back up. "Káren sire," he decides, as though the concepts are a simple matter of mathematics, of stringing words together to make them whole.
(The child is fond of mathematics.)
Zarkon's gaze drifts to Haggar again. For a brief tick, she holds it, then pointedly wanders off to examine a useless sideboard he is not certain why he had installed or when.
When he looks back, Lotor is still peering up at him, waiting.
He will let the matter lie... for now. But perhaps it is a lesson worth continuing. He rests his hand on Lotor's miniature head, the child blinking happily and wiggling, Zarkon's own fingers and claws utterly (terrifyingly) massive in comparison. Lotor's crown of white hair is soft to the touch, but the child attempts to twist up to—of all things—sniff Zarkon's hand. (Perhaps it is instinct. He inherited his mother's keen Altean senses.)
Zarkon brushes a thumb over the stray lock of hair at the child's forehead. "Lotor," he murmurs. "You are Lotor."
Said prince blinks up at him. "Sleep."
Now Zarkon blinks, frowning. He is tired? Had Haggar not mentioned in her communication that he was sleeping until only a varga ago?
When he raises his head, she is watching them. "He repeats what he hears," she says again, but this time her words lack the edge of before. "Often, his name follows an instruction of sleep." Then she turns away, drifting back toward the viewport, hands curling into loose fists at her sides.
He remembers now: Sleep, Lotor, uttered before she leaves him in his room to rest. He witnessed it no more than a handful of times, but it seems to be a habit. A small rumble of understanding curls in his chest.
"Sleep?" Lotor asks him, but the idea seems alarmingly likely to have him fussing if he thinks it is to be followed through with. He is clearly not tired.
"No sleep," Zarkon assures him. "Only Lotor."
As only children can do, he brightens in an instant. "Okay!" Then he twists, his gaze searching for Haggar again.
Since he last looked, she drifted over to her habitual place on the far couch, sitting with her knees drawn up. That curled posture... Perhaps sleep appeals more to her than her child.
His thoughts wrap around that like a logistical problem, a matter of troops and ships rather than parents and rest. No conquests may be at stake, but the matter is just as important. Could he give her that rest? Offer to keep watch over Lotor while she sleeps, even if only for a varga?
The trouble would be that she had not planned for it—and that any suggestion on his part will run headlong into the wall of her pride. It is no weakness to let him share a burden, to let him play his part in an already-mutual task, yet he can imagine the bright line of her narrowed eyes should he give voice to the idea.
The ability to choose one's battles is a skill of an emperor. Offending her is not worth the results, not now. Anger and bitterness are no cure for exhaustion.
He may be circumspect in his tactics, but neither is he quick to lift his gaze from her. Studying her as he is, somehow blessedly unnoticed by the subject of his attention, he pays no mind to two tiny hands tugging at one of his own. He only takes care to ensure his claws will not harm a clumsy, unwary child, but he straightens immediately, ears flattening back, at the feel of tiny, sharp teeth digging into his skin.
Even that slight motion draws Haggar's gaze, her eyes flicking to him in alarm. A low rumble of disapproval building in his throat, he removes his hand from his child's grasp. "No, Lotor."
Lotor tilts his head up, angling his ears down and widening his eyes. Innocent.
Zarkon's own eyes narrow, gaze sharpening into something decidedly not benign, that displeased rumble growing an edge. (A child must learn not to chew on his parents.)
Lotor blinks, his ears pinning back as he shrinks. Instantly, Zarkon drops the disapproving display, the message received, and he endeavors to let the child know it is not him Zarkon disapproves of, but the action. Lotor will not quite look at him, always a shade too sensitive, but he shifts closer in Zarkon's lap, leaning loosely against his front and allowing his káren's fingers to brush his short, soft hairs. Perhaps an apology lurks in both their actions.
A tiny hand gently pats Zarkon on his silken tunic—once, twice, thrice—and rests there, curling. At his almost amused, almost fond rumble, Lotor turns bright, curious eyes up to him.
Zarkon brushes over the softness of Lotor's hair again, the one disobedient strand at the front returning to its place almost instantly. A small, thin, almost comically high rumble of his own pulls from Lotor's throat—one of delight. He reaches for Zarkon's hand again, but Zarkon learned better.
Haggar eyes are on him—them. Something about her gaze, her posture, the look on her face—he cannot name it, but no longer does she look quite so weary. Again, he cannot drag his gaze from her (and something softens in him as well).
A tiny hand pats him for attention. "Sire."
"Yes, Lotor," Zarkon agrees, only half-aware of what he agrees to. A tick later, he realizes—and he lets it lie. The child's form of address will have to be corrected eventually, but his thoughts drift back to Haggar, something in him turning still and quiet as he watches a shade almost like amusement slip in behind her eyes.
Perhaps, right now, there is something relevant about the word. It is not only his soldiers who give him that name, after all...
Lotor will learn, but perhaps the matter can rest. Just for tonight, just for a moment. Zarkon is disinclined to think, just as Haggar is disinclined to do anything but watch them in idle silence.
And here, now... Let this moment last. Let the three of them simply... be.