![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
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?
[Action]
I climbed down.
[After tipping over and catching himself as he fell. Not technically jumping.]
[Action]
[Action]
He doesn't reply. He hasn't told anyone about this before, and if she's only going to make smart remarks, he's not going to tell anyone now.
Of course, she'd be saying the same things as, say, Cordelia. Well, no, Cordelia would start psychoanalyzing him. Simon? No, Simon would be going white and getting some horrible look of dread. A suicidal emperor. What a nightmare for ImpSec. Aral might criticize his chosen method of suicide as inefficient, and if he's going to go for it, he should...]
[Action]
An opportunity taken? He wasn't left alone often. But he seemed too cautious to just leave if he was inebriated. Then again most things seem like a fantastic idea while drunk.]
I'm being blithe- and I am sorry for it. Heights...leave me uncomfortable. Even if only in discussion. The idea of anyone climbing down without a safe path or gear or. Anything. Terrifies me.
[Action]
[And he'd just been told a very convincing account of some of the things his father had been up to during the Escobar War.]
And I wasn't...greatly concerned with whether or not I made it down safely.
[Action]
[She chokes a bit on her wine at that. Has to take a moment to clear her throat and set her glass aside to breathe.
Why not just jump? Why climb?
The finality of jumping must be-
She can't even think about it without starting to tremble just a little. Adele's very still in her chair as she breaths past the discomfort.]
...because of the. Drunkenness or. Outstanding circumstances?
[Action]
The last time I slipped my security, I was five years old. I'd been Emperor for a few months already. They found me sixty seconds later at a wedding reception held in my house for one of my bodyguards. Illyan was furious, and I remember him demanding to know how they'd lost me. My foster-mother came up then and said no one had lost me. It was my home, and if I couldn't wander freely in my home what was my security there for? I was allowed to dance with the bride and eat cream cakes.
[He sips his wine.]
Most kids don't have to fight with an entire branch of the military just to do that, do they?
[It sounds so petty, saying it out loud. And maybe it is. But it's more than freedom. It's freedom to have self-identity.]
[Action]
[Because that's what seemed the strangest in this story. A ruler needs constant supervision, especially when they're a child because. It's so terribly easy to lose or harm a child. She can understand their consternation but at the very same time it's all so very bizarre. She mulls it over with a sip of wine and faint frown.]
I- no. No they do not.
[Action]
[It had been both feared and longed for, the age when Gregor could actually come into his own and start making decisions for the Imperium. The day the training wheels came off. But at age twenty, there was no going back. Not that there had been any going back before.]
[Action]
...it was a choice you could make for yourself. One way or another. The. Climbing. [Falling, jumping, dying-] When normally you would not have a chance to do so.
[Action]
[Action]
[She takes another sip of wine and freezes a bit.]
...Your. Bat...man?
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
Re: [Action]
[Action]
Re: [Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]
[Action]