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Crown Prince Lotor of the Galra Empire, Exiled
Lotor watched Ezor all-but-flee from him down the corridor to the cabin he’s assigned her. He had done his best to ignore her burgeoning crush on him, but her gratitude and youth had made things complicated, and he sighed as he strode back to the bridge of his small vessel. He’d rescued the child from a highly illegal slave camp which lured prospective half-Galra with promises of being a school where they’d be taught the skills needed to enlist and gain their citizenship; it was a tactic that worked and popped up every few decades, taking advantage of desperate half-breeds less fortunate than himself.
At least his father had recognized his claim to Galra citizenship since his birth; it was irrevocable and even Zarkon couldn’t take it away from him, for all that Lotor was permanently in exile in the shrinking parts of the universe yet to be claimed by the Galra Empire. The half-breeds left in the wake of conquest were a stain on Galra honor, especially absent soulmarks. The fact that half-breeds often wound up with corrupted soulmarks, genetics weaving destruction through two or more incompatible biological mechanisms intended to guide one to their destined mate, worsened the perception of half-breeds in general among the Galra.
How could you trust a mark-claim that looked wrong or could be open to interpretation?
Ezor’s marks were ostensibly the bands of color on her skin, but her species was gone and she’d grown up not having anyone to help decipher what the bands meant or if they were too different with Galra patterning to be legible.
Lotor’s lips flattened into a line as he studiously ignored the faint pang of despair that filled him whenever he considered the vaguely green smear on his hip. It was utterly worthless, devoid of any distinguishing characteristics the way Altean marks usually were, and in the wrong spot; if his soulmate touched it, perhaps it would respond normally, flaring with bright hues that would signal the mark-claim.
Perhaps not.
In either case he would have to trust someone enough to undress and let them touch it, and he couldn’t imagine ever being that vulnerable without some sort of guarantee. Worse, the internal compass that all Galra had, that sense that pulled them across space to find their soulmates, was apparently too weak to guide Lotor anywhere.
Short of his soulmate being a species that had a blatant soulmark that couldn’t be interpreted as anything other than LOTOR stamped across their face, he couldn’t see his soulmark as anything but a false hope that would lead nowhere.
After all these centuries it was getting easier to pretend it didn’t matter, and the bitter longing only lasted brief moments now. He imagined in a matter of decades it would scarcely matter at all, just another mark on his skin like the cluster of moles on his thigh that had faded with age.
He checked the navigation system for their next stop; they needed to rendezvous with Acxa and pick up some supplies. He doubted Ezor would emerge before then, and he was looking forward to having Acxa back on board to help the young teenager navigate the post-confession embarrassment.