A Voltron Christmas Carol

Chapter 2: A Ghostly Visitation

A half dozen assassination attempts, three botched missions by Lotor to retrieve the seized action figures, and one close brush with a mistletoe and candy cane toting Hagar later, Zarcon quit the throne room in disgust. Pulling his robes tightly around his thoroughly majestic frame, the King of Doom descended regally into his silent throne room, trying in vain to pretend that the lack of fawning courtiers was actually a nice change of pace. He slipped into the corridor with no fanfare, since even his personal guard had fled following the afternoon's outburst.

Zarcon took in the newly emptied corridors with a smug smile. Every trace of the festive attempts at Yuletide cheer had been removed precisely as ordered. The gloom of the castle was back to its oppressive norm, the musty darkness broken only by the glow of distant flames filtering through the defensive arrow slits to serve as a constant reminder that this Christmas foolishness was not going to be tolerated.

The flickering red glow of the fire gave the black stones a decidedly hellish appearance, Zarcon decided with satisfaction. It wasn't that he had issues with interior decorating per se- the correct placement of the skulls of vanquished foes and implements of torture could work wonders towards ensuring that underlings were kept in the right frame of mind- and the cold firelight burning the hopes of goodness of the masses made the evening positively cheery. He was whistling his favorite Drule funeral dirge by the time he reached his quarters, located deep in the bedrock of the planet.

Despite the total chaos currently reigning in the castle, a considerate or at the very least extremely frightened slave had remembered to lay out a quiet dinner and bottle of wine in the fire-warmed sitting room. Dropping his crown and scepter on an empty table, Zarcon sank gratefully into a plushy cushioned armchair. He was getting much too old for days like this. Things had been so easy in his empire's infancy; all one had to do was land on a world with a nice display of explosions and the populace ran screaming towards the safety of the slave ships. Today everything was a battle.

His dinner gone, he relaxed, at least as much as he was capable of relaxing, and reflectively stared deeper into the comforting blood-red shade of his wine. He was just beginning to doze off into pleasant dreams that in no way, shape, or form involved dancing sugarplums when a faint noise pulled him back to the land of the living. Instantly alert, Zarcon held himself very still as his eyes darted around the circumference of the room. His favorite chair was backed directly against one wall- the better to nip those pesky assassination attempts in the bud- so nothing impeded his view of the room. There had been something, something out of place…

There it was again!

Zarcon's hand edged towards the hilt of his sword as the faint noise filtered through the thick stone walls. Chains, that was it. Someone was clinking chains in the hallway. There was only one possible explanation: some slave had mustered the audacity to escape the slave quarters amidst all the turmoil and had gotten lost in the twisting corridors beneath the castle.

Zarcon leapt out of his chair with a snarl. As exciting as the end of Christmas and Arus' imminent destruction were, that was no excuse for laxity in the slave quarters. One of the masters- the one with the handcuffs and cat o' nine tails most likely- was going to pay for this with his life. The door sprang open under his hand. He raised his sword in anger and…

And we all know what he found, don't we? There was, of course, no runaway slave in the corridor outside his sitting room. There was not even a multitude of runaway slaves backed by the cursed Voltron Force, a sight that Zarcon would have greeted with more aplomb than the specter before him. No, it was, of course, just that. A specter. A ghost. It was…

"Yurak?" Zarcon gasped. Only years of skill kept the heavy blade from slipping through his suddenly numb fingers.

His former commander stood in front of him, his once proud frame stooped under the weight of coils and coils of heavy steel chains. Yurak slowly raised his head at the sound of his name, the red gem that replaced his right eye winking from his gray misty features. Zarcon continued to gape wordlessly, at a loss yet again. He didn't think he could take too many more shocks like this today. Maybe Lotor had given up on poison and was opting instead to attempt to give his father a heart attack. Yeah, that sounded plausible. Sure it did.

Yurak shifted impatiently. "What? Aren't you going to invite me in? It's drafty out here."

Zarcon slowly shook his head. This was definitely a joke of some kind. Someone's idea of sick revenge for his cancellation of Christmas stroke of genius. That was definitely the explanation. Clutching his sword hilt with renewed resolution, Zarcon attempted to block the doorway.

Yurak sighed in exasperation and a cool breeze carrying a musty scent reminiscent of the deepest dungeons wafted across Zarcon's face. Kind of pleasant, actually. He was just about to say so when Yurak shifted his chains and stepped into the room, directly through Zarcon's solid unyielding body. For one endless moment the entire world consisted only of a soul-deep chill and the odd flash of disembodied pain from the coiled chains, trailing at least four feet beyond the ghostly figure. Regathering his wits, Zarcon narrowed his eyes and pulled the door shut on the now empty corridor.

"How do you know the corridor's drafty? You're dead. Aren't you?"

Yurak looked at him from a spot dangerously close to the fire. Some of the flames appeared to be actually leaping through him. "Oh, I can't feel it anymore than I can feel the warmth of this fire, but I can remember. Death is cold, Zarcon, endless cold. Are you ready to face it?"

Zarcon backed against the far wall, still brandishing his useless sword. "Is that what this is about? You've come to kill me?" He smiled coldly. "You tried that more than once, I remember. I think you won't find the task any easier now."

Yurak smiled back. "I didn't come to kill you. I came to warn you. As much fun as my life was, I'm paying forever for every mistake I made. If I could do things over…" His voice trailed off as a flame licked through one hand, temporarily lighting the misty gray form to a healthy pink. Yurak turned his hand with a wistful expression that faded into anger as the chains rattled with the sudden movement.

"To warn me?" Zarcon snorted and dropped the sword. "What, you decided to repent after Voltron kicked your sorry butt all over Arus and hurried back here to convert me? You have got to be joking. Of all the overdone…"

Yurak swung to face him, the movement grotesque under the weight he carried. "You think this is a joke? Look at me. LOOK AT ME!" The chains rattled ominously as he spoke. "This is my hell, Zarcon. Each link of this chain represents a wrong I committed in life. I'm doomed to carry them with me for all eternity as a reminder of my evil ways. But you, Zarcon, oh you should see what they have planned for you!" He broke off with a cold laugh, his one good eye glinting evilly in the firelight.

"This is supposed to frighten me? I've heard better threats from Cossack!"

Yurak raised one finger and pointed directly at Zarcon's heart. "Mock me if you will, but heed my warning. Your life has reached a crossroads from which all decisions about your future will be made. You've made plans this day that must be atoned for before the damage is done. Three ghosts will visit you this evening. Three ghosts before the sun breaks the far horizon. Learn well their lessons, my king, for the fate of your soul rests on the outcome of these visits."

Zarcon shook his head in disgust. "Look, Yurak, if it's about the chains, I can talk to Hagar. Maybe those dark spirits of she serves can do something."

Yurak suddenly sprung off the floor, flames licking from his good eye and mouth. A howl of rage tore from his throat as he sprang at Zarcon, the chains whipping through the air behind him. Zarcon reflexively dove into his bedchamber, slamming the door between them. As he leaned against the heavy wood, a single whisper filtered through to his ears.

"Three ghosts. Heed their lessons well, lest you suffer a fate even worse than mine!"

His heart pounding in his chest, Zarcon forced himself to stand and bar the heavy door. He was not afraid. He was most certainly not afraid.