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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?
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[She takes another sip of wine and freezes a bit.]
...Your. Bat...man?
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Of course that only makes me worry more. When something happens, and it will be when rather than if considering the luck this village has had as of late, it has the potential to divide the village.
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