Voice Testing Post

[use_everything]

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.]

Comments

going to skip initial meeting for impact later.

[vorbarra]

[It's intensely awkward.

There's really no other word for it. Gregor has the links to everyone but Miles shut down tight, though it's some strain on him to keep them so tightly closed. They naturally want to be at least a little open, leaking feelings piecemeal, but he patently can't handle that on top of everything else.

Here he is, making dinner-- nothing complicated, granted-- when Aral arrives home. He is abruptly hyper-conscientious that this is not an Imperial activity to be doing, in the way he never is with Miles. Hell, sometimes he enjoys how un-Imperial it is, and it's not like someone else is going to cook his food for him here. Miles is even more hopeless than him. Gregor has nothing to apologize for.

But all he can think of is Aral discovering his guilty midnight raids into the Residence's kitchens when he was a child and taking him to task for it, an event that had never happened but he used to live in fear of, at age twelve.

Gregor pauses where he is at the stove, glances over at him sidelong, and clears his throat. He quietly offers a,] Welcome home.

[use_everything]

[Aral had paused in the threshold himself. While years of command could keep such trivial emotions such as uncertainty from his face, that beast had no less of a hold on him.

The child he knew... It wasn't hard to recall how the hands he'd placed his own in barely could hold two each of his fingers. He'd seemed small, solemn and almost mute, unbearably aware of what was going on. Sharpened by the dizzying sequences of trauma, no doubt.

He no more knew what that young boy thought than the man he saw in adulthood here. That vague static of emotions he'd misunderstood and dismissed when he'd first arrived was now patently gone. What years he'd spent grooming this man was a mysterious future and an inscrutable past. There were no hints, no clues.

Some part of him wondered if he should offer a hand to the kitchen, but he didn't have the first idea of left from right in THIS battlefield. Ezar, you never mentioned this challenge. The old spirit was probably laughing hysterically.

Finding no answers in the pause, as it drew out, he offers a similar, steady,] Sire.

[An acknowledgement, a question and an answer at once.]

[vorbarra]

[God. Sire. And Gregor daren't say a word to convince him to call him aught else in private, for fear of how he might take it. The last thing he wants to do is give some signal to Aral that he doesn't accept and own his position, with rather more grace now than he ever has, really.

But it's certainly true that a somber-eyed child reluctant to express himself has grown into an adult much the same.

He hesitates a moment, but surely he owes Aral more than letting the man stew in confusion indefinitely about the nature of their relationship. His arrival had been such a whirlwind mess that Gregor has not really had a moment to be merely at peace with him.]

Would you like to join me? [A ghost of a wry, self-conscious smile. Surely he can afford to seem human this much.] Not a requirement, you understand. Though it feels very strange to have to say that to you.

[He wants it to be absolutely clear that he doesn't require anything of him.]

[use_everything]

Please.

[A strange tension, so diffuse he could hardly find its source or give it name, eased at that. Even one who so routinely ignored the definitions, lines and rules was by nature, comforted when they simply exist.

It wasn't a sketch but the first lines were beginning to be laid on what had been a blank page. Gregor knew the power of his words and was conscientious of them... It was enough to be a little hopeful for how long he'd stared at his own inadequacies in such a crucial role.

He lets some of that cautious reserve give as well. He remained as close to formal as he ever manages, but the chair he pulls from the table gets turned before Aral takes his seat.]

You've learned that here?

[vorbarra]

[It's such a familiar position for him to see Aral take that Gregor involuntarily glances over at him. The tiny smile makes another brief reappearance. Some subtle tension likewise eases in him, too.

There's no actual bad blood between them, now or ever, so why is this so damnably hard? Onward and through, Gregor reminds himself.]

Oh, yes. Some kind soul took pity on Miles and myself and taught us enough so that we wouldn't starve. It's been... educational, being here. [But Gregor does not appear disgruntled in the least by that; on the contrary, to an observant eye he can be read as bemused, even fascinated, as he idly stirs stir fry in a pan.]

[use_everything]

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.

[vorbarra]

[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.]

[use_everything]

[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.

[vorbarra]

[Ah. Maybe they really can do this after all. Relief pangs through him in an unexpected rush at seeing that sign of humor.

It's impossibly difficult for Gregor to fathom what he must seem like to someone who's missing all of that that ordinarily lies between them, ever unspoken but silently felt as immense weights.]

I like to picture Count Vortrifrani, personally. [The head of the conservative party in Aral's time, the reference transforming Gregor's continually mild words into a blatant joke. And, too, a silent message that Gregor is no conservative.]

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He has the most experience turning purple on the slightest occasion.

[He concedes, the wry mirth still apparent.]

Is he still banging the war drums... [His statement, uncharacteristically trails, as the simple magnitude and impossibility it all seemed.] How old are you now?

[keep_nothing]

[ Awkward is the word of the day, it seems.

Cordelia is barely half a step behind Aral when they come back inside; indeed, almost bumping into Aral from behind when he stops. She catches herself in time though, spared that small indignity in front of the men she's supposedly raised in the missing years she can't yet account for.

She stays to the background for now, watching the tension as if trying to figure out how to navigate it before taking the first plunge ... ]

[dendarii]

[ 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.

[keep_nothing]

[ 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 ...

[dendarii]

[ 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.

[keep_nothing]

[ 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?

[dendarii]

[ 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.

[keep_nothing]

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. ]

[dendarii]

[ 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?

[vorbarra]

[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.]

[keep_nothing]

[ She thinks she can read that in him, but really she's only guessing. Without the years that went in behind it, she's flying rather blind. The looks he's flicking over at her are encouraging though so she steps into the kitchen, keeping a good foot or two between them, but close enough that she can see what he's cooking. ]

I'd love to. Uh—Sire.

[ Smooth, Cordelia. Really smooth. ]

[vorbarra]

[Gregor is so startled he actually laughs briefly, a sort of choked off sound. A necessary release of tension.]

Oh, God, please don't. Not you, too. It just makes me picture you giving cool looks to my ImpSec babysitters about Sire needing a nap.

[keep_nothing]

[ His laugh and the image he conjures startles a laugh out of her too, the tension in her relaxing. ]

I think I actually heard Drou saying the same thing just the other day.

[vorbarra]

[He offers out,] I thought it was surreal enough being here, that first day, but this must be doubly so for you. An extra helping, finding Miles and myself drastically fast-forwarded.

[keep_nothing]

I'm still trying to wrap my head around it, honestly.

[ She leans her hip against the counter she's next to. It probably seems both foreign and familiar to Gregor: Cordelia relaxing around him, treating him as Gregor the man rather than Gregor the emperor; he might also remember her commenting every now and then on how restricting those Barrayaran court-ish clothes are (and then in the next breath gush about the new dress Aunt Alys had just gotten her, but that's besides the point). To see her now in native civilian clothing, relaxed enough to slouch ... ]

[vorbarra]

[He is much more used to her sweeping in like a traveling armada and ordering all the occupants of the room about to their places, it's true. But this seems weirdly natural on her, actually more natural, and it sends up a tiny pang of old bitterness at how much is sacrificed to the Imperial cage. Not just by him but by those around him.

His expression of sympathetic interest doesn't waver.] I can't blame you. I won't lie, I'm doing a bit of that myself. The two of you have always seemed very... [He waves the tongs vaguely.] Indomitable.