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Canon

A.

[You may find yourself facing large, heavy gates. Behind the bars, you can easily see the enormous, austere residence spread both tall and wide against a backdrop of a lake, stables and a small, private cemetery. The unbridled horse grazing, unhitched beside a carriage, by a liveried servant is in direct opposition to an obviously futuristic lightflier not far from it.

Even the guard that narrows to nervous attention holds both a sword and a strange, small device.]

And you are?

[The voice comes from behind.

Aral, for his part, neither looks, nor feels the part of the lord. Having taken the long way, treacherous and unmonitored paths and foothills back to the residence, he smells of sap, a chemical tinge of smoke and the exertion it took to get back. His green dress uniform had survived in all but the pressed edges, looking as if he'd intended the slight look of disarray and set jaw.

He lifts a hand, stilling the guard from comment on him, and focuses all of his attention on this newcomer.]

B.

[The Counts and Minsters poured out of the building first. The debates of the evening being traded in words so sharp that they might as well have been blows. Aral followed much more sedately, having taken a bit of time to brief his intelligence officer and leave orders for the evening.

It's by chance he stumbled across a stranger, enough out of place to inspire both caution and curiosity in equal measures.]

You seem lost.

Mask or Menace

C.

[It helped to liken the city to a space station. It had the bustle of a large hub.. the rowdy clash and wild fusion of fashions and cultures that defied any easy identification of a trend or perhaps some anthropological hint as to the people - and species... intelligent and alien, the very thought sent his mind into fits of fantasy and planning at once. It was like water, as far as he could tell. Formless, impossible to grip, but could fill the air around you and sweep one far away should he let it. There were colors and layers fitting the ghem Cetagandan... lack of modesty known to the Betans... the maliable gathering of anything adorned by a Jacksonian mindset...

And yet, nothing that fit anything else.

There was only one way to begin. Diplomatically.]

Might I ask a question?

OTHER

[Pick your poison, or let me know and I'll cater a starter to you.]

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[ And of course Miles is here too, having worked things out with Aral (more or less) and past Cordelia's initial impressions too. He's ... honestly not sure which is worse, though one has left the more obvious mark. He's on the couch while Gregor cooks and talks to Aral, both shoulders bound up by casts; the left arm is in a full sling as well, having been the more badly injured of the two. He's desperately grateful to have healers who can take the worst damage away from him; this will all be gone tomorrow, once Lucy has had a chance to recover enough.

He's awful quiet, though. Mind still whirling, working through the enormity of the situation. Then he sees his mother standing there, apparently working through much the same thing. ]

Better give them a bit of space, I think.

[The pain, as sudden as it was acute, wrenches a breath, hissed between clenched teeth. Aral's grey eyes dull with the pain until, as Miles himself was doing, it was neatly set aside. Some cooler part of his mind remembered his own file, a link between liege-lord sworn, remembered the faint buzz earlier in the day... It was impossible.. but what madness did this world actually SHY from?

The expected revulsion never came, a mere satisfied expression and echoing emotion of relief (two toned- a clinical immediate one, and another followed by that surge of guilty joy. The doctors hadn't been able to promise his hips would ever heal properly. He'd been such a small baby...) The injury hadn't progressed to shock, or if it had, it hadn't decompensated. There was no insidious disappointment anywhere under the edges of regret and self recrimination that Aral was allowing himself. All of it was focus.

He has no tractor or medical stunner, no hypospray to offer any relief. On the field, he'd have given the mercy of a stunner blast without hesitation, but in this instant could not even bring the thought about.]

The right worries me. Stay there. I'm going to immobilize it.

[There's a hesitation, deep enough to be a stutter of the thoughts entirely. This boy, his child... introducing himself without the Vorkosigan name, passing himself as a clone rather than a son, that convincing vehemence about Lord Vorkosigan...

And now this, which he might as well have done with his own two hands. He looked at Miles, his own emotions stilling. The shattered self image, the challenge in the actions..

His tone is mild, almost supplicant.]

If you'll let me.

[He couldn't help it. His voice drops low, for her ears only, though his eyes only held laughter.]

I wonder what use we could find for that...

[ She turns to face him, startled out of the thoughts whirling through her head much like Miles just had; her eyes hadn't really been staring at Gregor and Aral so much as through them, imagining who knows what sort of scenarios of what's happened between them all.

With one last glance at the Emperor—And he would be by that age, wouldn't he? No longer that frightened boy I held close while fleeing—and her husband, she joins Miles in the main living area. There's a beat of hesitation as she decides how close to sit next to him, finally deciding on a distance that might give a total stranger a sense of unconformable proximity or a family member a sense of cool separation, her knees just a couple inches away from his.

Then she meets Miles' eyes, probably twinging a memory from him. She always did face everything head-on, eyes forward, meeting his gaze with a steady look. She searches his face—her own being so much younger than he can ever recall ... smoother, firmer, her hair a brighter copper with no hint of gray at all—and her lips part just slightly, letting out an awed sigh. ]

God, how could I have not seen it before ...

[ She takes back the brochure to smack him with it. ]

Later.

[ He keeps bracing himself for that revulsion to fall. Seems to waver, somewhat, when it never does. Should he be surprised? No - not by the father he knew back home, who had never done anything of the sort. (His grandfather, in few and unpleasant moments, maybe, but there was a whole 'nother world of complication he had no mental space to get into.) It's becoming clearer that the only confusion he had seen before was one of mistaken identity.

(The image is still burned indelibly into his brain.)

It's the nigh-supplicating tone that gets him to relax, finally, or at least to let go the worst of his tensions for now. In that, the blaze of pain along his shoulders is a help; it distracts him from the more complex emotional wounds being dealt with here and allows him to focus on the merely physical. Giving his father a short nod, he very gingerly lowers himself onto the couch. This, at least, is a familiar motion. He has broken his bones so many times in so many permutations that this hardly seems unusual in the slightest. ]

Please. [ Another pause. ] Normally I might have done it myself, but I seem to have hurt both at once this time.

[ He does not catch Aral's thought process about the Vorkosigan name; he's hesitant enough to explain, given the obvious implication about Aral's father. ]

There should be some medical supplies in the bathroom as well. Under the sink.

[ Steady he can manage, as long as he's on this familiar topic and doesn't look his father in the face. ]

[ It's cool separation for Miles; he'd thought he might be pulled into a hug immediately, and sorely feels the lack despite knowing it would only have hurt his poor broken shoulder bones. God, it really is his mother. Younger than he's ever seen her - it's desperately strange and bewildering, especially for her. Aral has always been a terrifying wall; his mother, never so distant she feels right now.

He swallows thickly. ]

I'll just take it as a compliment. So good at maintaining my cover that my own parents didn't know me.

You don't find it poor. [It's an observation, rather than a question. It's level, giving neither judgement nor sign of anything behind it past curiosity.

He'd seen - Had himself be the subject of the late Prince Serg's fits. Tantrums, he had called them, privately. But he'd also seen a child whose face lit at Drou or Cordelia entering the room - the chance to get away from his tutors - while Aral handled the demands of governance.]

The education this sort of life offers.

[There is a certain walk of a man who does not run in an emergency unless he's damn well being chased. It causes those around him to panic, regardless of his own mind.

Supplies found, the care is quick, competent, each move spoken clearly before it is done, so there's no surprises. Perhaps for himself as much as Miles, as each jolt reverberates across the connection. Oddly enough, there's less pain with each wave, and then almost none as Aral's expression pinches, complexion ashen, if uncomplaining. It's not conscious, it's not deliberate, but the abhorrence of suffering to a parent takes what it can.

In the end, Miles' arm is bound to his side. Not the best position, but the most immobile that field work can offer.]

Tell me there is some level of healing .. skill on in this world.

For even the most principled men, yes.

[ That doesn't feel half bad. It ... starts to feel downright good, partway through, and he's faintly dizzy with it. Were there painkillers inside that kit? Did Aral give him a shot of morphine or something without him realizing? No, he feels clearheaded otherwise. ]

Yes, in abundance. [ He's glad to have good news on that point. ] Queen Lucy usually tends to me, although I have a list in my comm --

[ He gestures, with the arm that was merely somewhat dislocated (and now worked back into his socket), to the phone sitting on the coffee table. A few inches to the right and Aral might have stabbed it too. There's not even a twinge of discomfort on his end of the link. What the hell. ]

-- Magic is the only way to go here. The medical tech is woefully incapable of much.

[Gregor really can't help himself here, though it prickles him simultaneously, aware he could be giving a very bad impression.]

Throwing off the yoke of the Imperium temporarily and living as a peasant, you mean? No, I'm quite enjoying it.

[He sounds mild in the extreme.]

Right. [He knows that well enough.] So even if they really do want to do right by us now... there's no telling how that will change in the future. They're probably hoping, with all this good will, that they don't have to make us help them out.

[ Cordelia shakes her head, but if it's denial of what he said or in disbelief, even she's not sure. My own parents, he says. She absolutely can see it now, the strong resemblance to Aral, pieces and parts of herself in those eyes ... She settles on the only question her mind can supply at that moment. ]

Why?

[He hums in response to that, pleased, an answering low fire in his eyes all but says he takes that for a promise.

It's put aside.]

There's more pressing matters. There couldn't have been a worse time for a transdimensional abduction if they'd picked it during the Pretendership itself.

[Transdimensional. Even to his own ears it sounded bizarre. Absurd, even.]

[ As a simple answer, he nods over to Gregor. ]

Because of him. I'd played with the Naismith persona a bit my first day, but I hadn't intended to keep it. But ... Gregor ...

[ He bites his lip a bit. ]

We couldn't tell anyone he's the Emperor of the Barrayaran Imperium. Everything else stemmed out from that single point.

Stemmed and ballooned from what Aral—your father and I could see.

[ Gosh that fumble was painfully apparent, wasn't it. She's clearly not used to saying such things yet. ]

[His attitude toward Cordelia entering is entirely different to anyone schooled in reading Gregor. He still seems distant, reserved, but he is much more openly shy, flicking glances over at her rather than forcing himself to meet her gaze directly or not at all.]

I'm not sure anyone else will be home for it, but you're welcome to eat with me once I'm done, [he offers immediately, aching a little with missing his foster-mother. But maybe this one will not be so different after all.

He can only find out. And she is the one he emulates emotional courage from, the ability to face himself.]

[ Very clear. He's gotten some bits and pieces from Aral - made his own best guesses - but hasn't sat down to talk shop yet. It seems bizarre to try doing it with the father he knew from back home, much less this mess. ]

Yes, well ... it seems to be a talent of mine. Things getting out of hand.

... How ... old am I for you?

Don't. [The word is clipped, expression almost sick at the sudden rush of pain at that. It's the sort that dissolves the vision in whites and reds, leaving him still unaware of Miles' uncanny relief. He continues after a steadying breath.] If you wont mind your injury I'll bind that arm as well.

[There's a fine tremor in his hand when he reaches for the communicator.]

[ The humor in her eyes dims fully away with that, replaced by worry. ]

For several reasons ...

[ But there's one reason that rises above the others in her mind. They'd only just birthed their son from the replicator a day or two ago. ]

[ He stills instantly - and then his eyes widen. He recognizes that flash of pain. It should have been his just now, but he hadn't felt anything at all, just sheer blessed relief.

A few more things snap into place. Liege relationships, was how the power had been described; Miles had been on the lookout for his own liegesworn without even considering who he himself had been sworn to. His father, of course. He's been feeling his father the whole time, and now he's --

He's gone completely white with horror. Taking care to not to move at all, he hisses: ]

Give it back.

[ She gives a faint snort, the corner of her mouth turning up slightly. ]

Wonder where you could have gotten that from.

[ Then her lips straighten into a line again, remembering the worry she felt earlier that day. She looks directly at Miles again, eyes a touch wider in their dull fear. ]

... Only days. You had just come out of the replicator.

Both of you, as far as I can tell ...

[ But mostly his mother. The "Naismith" appellation is appropriate on more than one level, oh yes. He frowns a bit in turn, trying to even parse that. His parents only know him as a baby. Not even a baby of one or two years, that might have given him some incredibly hazy memory to go off of. He has nothing. Letting all his breath out in one long exhale, he decides to attempt lightness. ]

Good news, then. I live to be at least twenty. However twisted the journey.

[There's a moment, another look of hooded evaluation, just before Aral's lips turn upward, just vaguely. For the reserved man Gregor knew, it was practically a guffaw.

Missing the teenage years, the struggles of early adulthood, the subtle wedge that settled itself during the accusation of high treason... they were all missing. What Aral had to establish himself, was these opening lines and his own sense of propriety, for what it was.

He gives a gracious turn of the hand towards the stove.]

I hope you can imagine the expression on some of those old bore's faces.

I imagine it will be an excellent spice.

Edited 2016-01-17 00:52 (UTC)

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