[As you wish it. There's a brush of respect, like a breeze, here but in passing. This close, his own is similarly partitioned, flat stone between him and everything else.
He finds in him that knotted, complicated concept and unpacks it. It's not organized, the way words are. There's no sentences and verbs carefully picking out meaning and context. The grammar of this is different, far more raw.
--It the concept of being Vorkosigan. There's the heavy maple leaves, lush districts, winefields and a barren, radioactive scar, twisted, unhealthy plants taking root there and reclaiming. There's the hillfolk, his people, rural, plain and ferociously loyal, upright as the trees. The horrible sickly sweet taste of maple mead and the blurring rush of it's wicked alcoholic burn. There's the fire of adrenaline, whipping a flying machine through a gorge in the dark, memory more than vision... there's the complicated, threads towards a man, white, deathly white in a bed, the bond is laced red with raw pain of a trust abused.. there's a tall, wirey man, distant, scornful, the link is a deep, impression jagged and broken, but a deep, unshakeable loyalty between the two of them was tested and unbroken, a young man, Gregor, the resemblance to the creature kept alive in the bed uncanny, a new trust there, a loyalty offered and laid open to see what will return--
It unfolds further.
--Men in brown and silver, uniforms pressed, pride evident. There were the deep backcountry dialect as well as the urban tones of the educated cities. Flashes of a man fetching him as a child from a tree. The view of older brothers, with wives, families of their own, the gossip of affairs, the games in the hall. A new young man from the city who was truly HIS more than his fathers, decorated and earnest, determined to make a DIFFERENCE in his district, to his lords. Another, a hatchet-faced man with a complicated, deadly air, holding Miles with the gentleness of a father. He was a protector, but also the tiny child's freedom. No danger got closer than the dark man's long, long arms--
And once more.
--There are no images at this depth. It's a simple feeling, loyalty beyond all other bonds. Trust that goes to the bone. Identity that comes of family. Removed of all of the images, lord and sworn alike, these lines, silver webbing, remain true and untarnished--]
no subject
He finds in him that knotted, complicated concept and unpacks it. It's not organized, the way words are. There's no sentences and verbs carefully picking out meaning and context. The grammar of this is different, far more raw.
--It the concept of being Vorkosigan. There's the heavy maple leaves, lush districts, winefields and a barren, radioactive scar, twisted, unhealthy plants taking root there and reclaiming. There's the hillfolk, his people, rural, plain and ferociously loyal, upright as the trees. The horrible sickly sweet taste of maple mead and the blurring rush of it's wicked alcoholic burn. There's the fire of adrenaline, whipping a flying machine through a gorge in the dark, memory more than vision... there's the complicated, threads towards a man, white, deathly white in a bed, the bond is laced red with raw pain of a trust abused.. there's a tall, wirey man, distant, scornful, the link is a deep, impression jagged and broken, but a deep, unshakeable loyalty between the two of them was tested and unbroken, a young man, Gregor, the resemblance to the creature kept alive in the bed uncanny, a new trust there, a loyalty offered and laid open to see what will return--
It unfolds further.
--Men in brown and silver, uniforms pressed, pride evident. There were the deep backcountry dialect as well as the urban tones of the educated cities. Flashes of a man fetching him as a child from a tree. The view of older brothers, with wives, families of their own, the gossip of affairs, the games in the hall. A new young man from the city who was truly HIS more than his fathers, decorated and earnest, determined to make a DIFFERENCE in his district, to his lords. Another, a hatchet-faced man with a complicated, deadly air, holding Miles with the gentleness of a father. He was a protector, but also the tiny child's freedom. No danger got closer than the dark man's long, long arms--
And once more.
--There are no images at this depth. It's a simple feeling, loyalty beyond all other bonds. Trust that goes to the bone. Identity that comes of family. Removed of all of the images, lord and sworn alike, these lines, silver webbing, remain true and untarnished--]