use_everything | Voice Testing Post

Voice Testing Post

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.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[There's a moment where it become clear that his father honestly HAD no idea, nor intent in what he was doing. The startled note is clear across the connection, now unfogged by Miles' own pain.

As well as a racing mind, making connection after connection. There's a serenity that fills in the gap despite the phantom fire radiating from his shoulders through his whole skeletal system, and the heavy slam of iron resolve is almost in tandem.

There a message, and an answer, both apparently to Lord Vorkosigan's satisfaction.]

Aid should be here relatively quickly.

[Completely ignoring the demand as ridiculous, he gets up to knock the wedge out of the door.]

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

[ No. No no no, that horror spikes instantly, to the point where he's tempted to jolt straight to his feet. Only a quick realization of how much that would hurt his father keeps him trapped in exactly the same position. (That, in and of itself, is a testament to their actual relationship, not what Aral might think it is right now - he doesn't so much as flinch out of fear that he might cause his father more pain. And not even a hint of threatening Aral to stop, either. ]

It's not yours to bear, Father. [ Chin up sharply, defiance in his eyes. ] Give it back. I can handle it.

[Father. It stills him more than any wave of pain ever could. The contented note rang pure, untouched by the muddy cacophony of internal conflict. His son.

It was not that he couldn't feel the horror. It wasn't that he couldn't make his own guess to where the defiance came from and why. He'd seen the same on Koudelka's face and knew every last bitter root of it.

His eyes fell pointedly on Miles' collar, and he drew himself up, hands clasps behind his own back as if he was above the agony of it.]

I have no doubt you bear it well. I've seen how much you tolerate without a sign.

[Now that he's looking, now that that damning, enfeebling rage had left, there's lines around Miles' eyes, around his mouth.]

Thirty minutes. [Enough time for this magical med tech to arrive and see the injury through. The injury he gave to his own son, regardless of how Miles thinks of him.] Allow me an apology, please.

[ Miles hesitates. More than anything, that Allow me an apology, please rings true. Between that and the note of contentment his defenses are utterly shot. God. He nods, weakly, after a moment. ]

Give it back afterwards. All of it. [ And then, more softly: ] Please.

[There's a hesitation. His own stubbornness could be as difficult as his temper, especially when let away from himself.

The please is what ends it.]

My word on it.

[With a THWOCK of a strong hit, the wedge is dislodged and the oldest of locks broken. He moves to sit again, tiredly. Every joint, ones even a round with Bothari had overlooked complained as if he'd sprained them.]

[ Miles does jolt at that - with the accompanying flash of pain, sorry Aral - and looks at him with new eyes. That ... is a surprisingly human side of him, one he only rarely sees even now. Feet of clay, he reminds himself. This is still the same man who begged for Miles' life at Vorhalas' feet not so long ago.

He just nods again, to start. Thirty minutes is fine; thirty minutes is a relief, knowing what he'll be going back to soon enough. Beyond that ... he ought to say something. What? How? Where does he begin with a gulf of twenty years between them?

There is one thing he ought to clarify to begin with, he supposes. Being careful not to jostle his shoulders, he bows his head. ]

I never meant to drag your name into it. The only one I thought I was smearing was myself.

[There was a look, that traditionally heralded a sardonic comment in Miles' direction that even this young version of his father summoned. Who else would Lord Vorkosigan be?

Even without the connection, the surprise seemed to empty the animation from Aral, leaving only something smaller, a bit lost. He looks at the dagger, some distant part of his mind commenting that he'd best free it before Cordelia found them. It was easier to focus on than the complicated knot of surprised grief, lingering anger, hurt, old and new.]

I suppose.. by then, I would be a Count.

[ It's so weird. He instinctively works himself up to respond to a sardonic quip when he sees the cue coming - and then the bottom falls out all at once. It's so bizarre to be out of step with his father like this. Their relationship has always been complicated, but not ... like this.

Should he comfort his father? Is that what he should be doing right now? ]

Only recently, if that's any comfort. I ... killed him.

[ There's a little sardonic twist of his own, one that would normally signal that there's more to the story on his end. ]

[The cue is lost to the twenty years between them. Here merely considered them against the devastating lack of self esteem, and the grief faded entirely out of the equation.]

I had hoped with time... meeting you, he'd have come around.

[There's no judgement, merely that level understanding that one offers self-defense.]

[ No, that's not - he flinches a bit, both at the missed cue and his father's understanding. A little pain for his heart too; he'd known most of the history, some of it from Piotr himself, but to see his father accept that Miles could have killed him in self-defense ...

God, how toxic that seems. ]

No, I - disappointed him very badly. Failed my physical exam for Imperial Service. All I wanted was to make him proud.

[ It all swirls with with complicated undercurrents. Miles' relationship with Piotr was hardly easy, but he loved the old man all the same. ]

[That seemed to throw the older man off guard yet again. He wasn't sure it was safe to hope, or dare to breathe a sigh. From the very moment he first heard of Admiral Naismith, he'd had nothing but assumptions.

He felt the aftermath of at least one of those acutely. He marshaled his emotions strictly, and again pushed back on the pain fogging his mind.]

I think I should begin the more civilized route: talking.

Can you tell me about it?

[ That damn pain. Miles won't exactly relish taking it back, but he will be glad once he has it. It feels wrong for his father to be clouded even a little. A man like Aral ought to be clear and sharp, always.

Softly, he blows out a breath. ]

It beats the alternative.

[ Black, black humor, that. He very lightly leans his head back against the couch, careful not to jostle anything. ]

The test? Or Grandfather?

[It gets a wry upward tug at the corner of Aral's lips, but the edges of that humor was turned subtly inward.]

The latter.

... Though I'd like to hear of the test as well. Unless I've changed so much, my first plan for the Service was to squash preferential treatment.

[Which meant he made it to that point on his own merit and skill.]

[ He decides to tackle the test first, despite Aral's direction; it's the simpler topic. ]

It has. Or it is in the progres of doing so. Precisely why I absolutely could not lean on you to pass me through.

[ It would have been abhorrent to his stubborn pride, but he admits to being sorely tempted at times. ]

I passed the written exam with flying colors, but the physical ... I shattered both legs on the first wall. Should have gone around and lost the points.

[He keeps the sympathetic wince from surfacing, though he feels it, acutely.]

Hindsight is maddening.

Yes, well ... It's a good idea in principle. I'd have hated to use nepotism anyway.

[ Hates it, in fact. But that's all he has to say on the test; time to go back to the actual topic at hand. His emotions swirl again, complex, uncertain of which thread to pick out first. ]

I ... adored Grandfather. Perhaps more than I should have. I wasn't aware of the full history until later on in life. He'd doted on me with the horses, and I admired his military record ...

[ He swallows a bit. ]

He did tell me, eventually. What he'd tried to do.

[He considered a gentle correction, that he meant the test, not the reforms...

And decides that Miles' pride was the more important one here.

He stills, watching Miles under heavy, drawn brows. He doesn't refute the last, the frustration and hurt was still new. Not many more days from yesterday to Aral.

Carefully, as if afraid he would break it - this - again, he answers,]

He gives - gave - neither adoration nor scorn in half measures. There's no shame in returning what you were given. Were it not wholehearted, you'd have found no trace at all.

[He takes a breath, the next simply finding its way out. Pain made some men curt and irritable. For Aral, it had a tendency to loosen his tongue as much as drink did.]

It seems beyond me. He was so impossibly large.

[ Pride is clearly fiercely important to Miles. It would have had to be for him to survive on Bararayar; it leaks over now in every word he says and movement he makes. Even with his movements stilled to nothing he feels the need to take up as much space as he can, to stand up to this terrifying vision of his father.

This ... terrifyingly human vision of his father. God. Either the intervening years have solidified Aral's personality into diamond or he just got better at hiding this part of himself. (Feet of clay.) ]

I am ... I am glad to know that much. [ He had wondered, sometimes. Impossibly large seems a good description for him. ] You and he seemed on better terms, but there was always something between you. [ Miles himself, it seemed. ]

Indeed, there always was something.

[There are undercurrents of something here, deep, and even at this age, polished smooth from frequent handling. There's no marks, nor memories or words to give it any identification. Aral himself seemed to be deciding when a knock comes from the door.

Before he's even stood to see to it, the composure is back, his face inscrutable. He sets a booted foot on the table for leverage and the dagger pulled free from the depth of the wood.

He hesitates at the second knock, and lays the blade beside Miles.]

[ Wells and wells of it, so deep Miles can't see the bottom. (Or layers worn smooth, in this case.)

The knock comes at a good moment, then. Miles hardly knows what to say; he's relieved to have the healer here so that he can claim his pain back and not have to watch his father deal with it.

The blade, then, is unexpected; he'd assume it would remain in the table for a while, Miles himself too reluctant to claim it. That his father is already giving it back to him, having only heard a few details of Miles' story. That this Aral is already reclaiming Miles as his son despite everything. ... Relief and awe in equal measure, poured straight down his own bottomless pit of self worth issues. God. What a mess this all is. If he could pick it up without jostling his shoulders, he would.

Later then. After the healers have taken the worst of the damage. Whoever comes in, he's obviously familiar with them - and they have done something similar for him before. Some worry, surely, and pointed questions about how this all happened. Miles deflects them by saying he only did it to himself, really (no lie in that). He settles down to let them work. ]

[It isn't missed.. and he can't help but wonder what their relationship truly is, how damaged. But for how little he knows this man, his son, the treatment is for the damage he put there himself. It was the third time in threee months he'd nearly killed his own son.

No wonder.

While the healer works, Aral stands to the side, watching carefully the familiarity and interplay. His expression darkens a moment, a stab of remorse clear between them, as Miles takes the blame for the incident himself. But he doesn't correct it either - there's no gain to that.

As supplies are set out, soft casting material and slings, Aral interjects.]

I assume you have acquired spirits of at least passable quality for our guest. The kitchen?

[ Miles looks up at that. Does his father want privacy? To preserve the illusion that Miles has set up? To simply not have to watch his son get treated? Doesn't matter. Miles himself will be grateful enough for a moment away from him. To catch his breath. ]

Yes, on the lower shelf. And a bottle in the fridge of red wine.

[ He'll let his father do what he needs to. So Miles can focus on what he needs to. ]

Perfect.

[With an easy bow to the healer, Aral excuses himself. The wine took no time at all to locate, the glasses could wait, as he could hear the healer's conscientious warnings. He found a chair at the kitchenette and simply prepared to wait.]

Edited 2016-01-17 12:58 (UTC)

[ It's easy enough to track the healer's progress - the screaming pain of bones being set and shoulders being prodded back into shape washes through and past Miles easily, to dump directly on Aral like hot lead. Then, mercifully, that agony abates and relief begins to set in as the healer's magic begins to takes the edge off it. Not a full heal - with bones broken the badly, Miles will need a second session - but the immediate agony fades to something controllable.

In contrast, the perpetual fiery ache of miles' bone aches is abruptly more pronounced. Like a tension headache in his whole body, thick and leaden and too warm. It isn't even touched by the healer's ministrations. Worsened, even, by the prodding and pulling needed to get his broken bones back into place.

All stills after a moment, as the healer takes their leave and Miles sags back against the couch, exhausted. ]

[There was no sound, no sign from the kitchen through the whole ordeal. If it wasn't for the eerie lack of pain, it might have been as if he was gone.

The wonderful thing about the mind is its robust share of defense mechanisms. While he was hardly the veteran Miles was to broken bones, his hadn't been a calm life.

His own mind simply blanked, a gap in memory during the worst. Finding himself folded over, forehead nearly touching the modest table, Aral merely took a few long, fortifying breaths, forcing control and composure back along all of his nerves.

Aral hadn't quite intended to finish the facade of fetching the wine - to offer a glass to Miles now would only emphasize the injury and loss of motion. Instead, he pours out a splash for himself and downs it summarily, barely tasting it. Fortification against the background pain welling up through his bones.

When he returned, it was will full composure, closed but terribly pale.]

Efficient, though a shame it couldn't be seen through entirely.

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