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Fourth Cream Cake: [Action/Voice]
[It has been some time since he did this.
Tonight, Gregor is behind CH7 with two large aluminum bowls. He places them on the ground.
One, he fills with sweet-scented bark and sage leaves. The other, with twigs and dried paper.
His hair has grown too long anyway. Carefully, he snips two locks of raven-black hair from his head. One for each bowl.
He kneels in front of the second bowl, the one filled with ordinary fuel, and tosses a tuft of hair in. Then, he strikes a match and sets fire to the contents. As it burns, he quietly adds a slip of paper with his signature written on it in his best handwriting. His official Imperial signature.
He says nothing as the death offering for his father burns. He's done this many times, at the guidance of Lady Alys. There had been no funeral offering for Prince Serg but the one which had filled the sky of Sergyar.
He returns to the first bowl, tenderly adding the lock of hair, a slip of paper with an invisible kiss, and, of all things, a child's shoe. As the offering burns, tears glisten in his eyes. When he's sure no one is around, he curls to the ground and quietly weeps.
He's aware of the limited privacy, but he'll whisper a few words over each offering. Anyone clever enough to sneak up would have to come very close indeed to hear them.
It is supposed that the burning of these offerings helps to drive away ghosts.
When that's over, he simply sits with his back to the wall and speaks into his journal. It's soft and hesitating--he's certainly not the "inspiring speeches on a dime" sort of ruler back home, but writing in the dark is ill-advised. His voice is somewhat rough.]
On Barrayar, we burn offerings for the dead. People died on the draft, but generally, the usual rites don't apply if they're coming back. It's limbo. What do you do?
Um. Could...someone give me a haircut?
Tonight, Gregor is behind CH7 with two large aluminum bowls. He places them on the ground.
One, he fills with sweet-scented bark and sage leaves. The other, with twigs and dried paper.
His hair has grown too long anyway. Carefully, he snips two locks of raven-black hair from his head. One for each bowl.
He kneels in front of the second bowl, the one filled with ordinary fuel, and tosses a tuft of hair in. Then, he strikes a match and sets fire to the contents. As it burns, he quietly adds a slip of paper with his signature written on it in his best handwriting. His official Imperial signature.
He says nothing as the death offering for his father burns. He's done this many times, at the guidance of Lady Alys. There had been no funeral offering for Prince Serg but the one which had filled the sky of Sergyar.
He returns to the first bowl, tenderly adding the lock of hair, a slip of paper with an invisible kiss, and, of all things, a child's shoe. As the offering burns, tears glisten in his eyes. When he's sure no one is around, he curls to the ground and quietly weeps.
He's aware of the limited privacy, but he'll whisper a few words over each offering. Anyone clever enough to sneak up would have to come very close indeed to hear them.
It is supposed that the burning of these offerings helps to drive away ghosts.
When that's over, he simply sits with his back to the wall and speaks into his journal. It's soft and hesitating--he's certainly not the "inspiring speeches on a dime" sort of ruler back home, but writing in the dark is ill-advised. His voice is somewhat rough.]
On Barrayar, we burn offerings for the dead. People died on the draft, but generally, the usual rites don't apply if they're coming back. It's limbo. What do you do?
Um. Could...someone give me a haircut?
[Voice / Action]
[It's not that long of a walk, even if she takes her time. Three flights up and she knocks on the appropriate door.]
[Action]
I have sandwiches and cream cakes.
[Action]
[It is best to be up front with these things, though she does wait until she's inside and has set the chardonnay to chill before quirking a brow at him.]
[Action]
It's a pleasure to accept them both. Perhaps you'd like to try a Barrayaran red while I answer your questions. [A Vorkosigan district vintage turned up in the item shop, and he'd snagged it while no one was looking. That stuff is gold. Wine and maple syrup, that's the Vorkosigan district contribution to the Barrayaran economy. Also, lots of radiation. He wonders if the old capital has stopped glowing.]
[Action]
...So you are, in fact, Gregor Vorbarra?
[She doesn't ask why he hid this. Paranoia was an acceptable enough assumption here, but beyond that? It wasn't hers to ask unless he volunteers it freely. She was curious, but has a right to nothing here.]
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Should I treat you any differently than I already have? Here you are not emperor, so I see no reason to do so; but. It is up to you.
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[His shoulders slump just a hair.]</small.
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[Not that she has issues with authority, well. She does, but they are limited in scope. If she respects who she must obey, she does without complaint. The trouble is finding a superior that has her respect.]
How many others know?
[Action]
[Another sip of wine. Damn it, this is the good stuff, and you can't just guzzle down the good stuff to get drunk. Even though getting drunk usually only makes Gregor more saturnine than usual.]
[Action]
[A slow sip, and while she does not normally care for reds? This is an excellent wine. She commends Gregor mentally for his good taste and sighs, massaging the bridge of her nose.]
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If their intent was ransom of any sort they would have made some kind of negotiation years ago. Our value here is our use in their war and in their experiments. For the time being, that's it. I'm not entirely certain a change to the current standard would be beneficial to anyone in the village, let alone yourself.
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She'll get over it.]
It's liberating, is it not? Letting go of that constant worry in favor of enjoying your life for a change.
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[He lounges like a college student- then again he's in that age bracket, isn't he? She's not certain. Sometimes he seems wary and paranoid enough to be older than he looks.]
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[He was a lot drunk.]
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[This time she does laugh. A soft snort that's drowned out by a sip of wine.]
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