Arcaan and Thexan: an Emperor's heirs. An Emperor who has no love or burning hatred, but only icy rage. With a father as monstrous as Valkorion, what can he possibly feel for his children? Can he love even them?
A Father's Love
"Leave us."
The deep, commanding voice of the Eternal Emperor rang out around the chamber. Plated with golden armour, the two Zakulian guardsmen -resembling a pair of dogs in their loyalty more than highly trained warriors- straightened from their already stiff positions, bowed, and left the room in synchronised motions.
Valkorion stood utterly still as the door thudded close behind him. For a fraction of a moment, he stood completely still. Not even a breath rattled from the cage that was his body. He looked at the beings in-front of him.
Pathetic, gurgling sacks of flesh, not even aware of the power that could one day be theirs.
Arcann, the youngest child, and Thexan, older by a scant few minutes. His children. How ironic.
He almost laughed at the absurdity. After everything he'd been through in his long life, all he'd had accomplished -and would proceed to accomplish- and he was, finally, a father. It felt… unique, he would admit.
He reached out with a hand towards Arcann. The baby had a hair out of place; Valkorion's hand hovered next to the stray locks, and his index finger twitched. Arcann's wails tore out of his throat as an unseen force grasped hold of his small hand, and manuvered it north. His palm slapped to his forehead and swiped to the side. The hair was now righted.
These children were contingencies, ones which would never come into use. His plans were flawless and irreversible, strengthened by centureies of conflict and years of galactic war. No matter what his enemies would attempt, the damage they would inflict upon the mighty Sith Empire -weak, antiquated, a means to an end- his plans would unfold. They would unfold like they were always going to.
However, he would not give into arrogance; it had already cost him enough. The enslavement of Revan and Malak to had been a masterstroke. Had they succeeded in their quest for the Star Forge, his ritual would have been charged three centuries ago, and they had.
If only he hadn't underestimated them. If he hadn't, reality itself would have been his, and he would be free to be anything. Free to be… anyone. An eternity of infinite possibilities awaited him, and eternity was worth the wait. He would not be caught unawares, he would not stir in the shadows for centuries when the opportunity for victory was right there in front of him.
He would not leap at the chance, he would stalk towards it. He would prepare for anything and anyone, so that even if his ritual failed he would have plans in motion to compensate and, in time, right his error. Zakuul -ignorant, untrustworthy, a powerful weapon with too much potential to be wielded by any but him- was a blade to be harnessed against his foes, and in time all he sought would be achieved, with the Empire or without.
Arcaan's wailing quieted as Valkorion's cold hand brushed the top of his head, turning into gurgles of contentment under his father's attention. Foolish creature- it did not know the power that was hidden beneath those ancient fingers, did not know the damage he could enflict…
Or perhaps it did, and it just did not care. The thought troubled him, contemplations being entertained and discarded one after the other. He pulled his hand away, and Arcaan's soft sounds increased in their volume and irritation. Valkorion straightened, his hands clasped behind his back. With a silent command, the Zakuulian guardsmen re-entered the chamber.
The Emperor gazed over his children one last time, and left.
The End
Happy May the Forth!
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