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[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]
Date: 2012-06-27 01:34 am (UTC)From:Are you planning to do something for the people who fell in those battles yourself, then? If you are, if it's alright, I'd like to help in that.
[Voice]
Date: 2012-06-27 01:40 am (UTC)From:[Voice]
Date: 2012-06-27 01:41 am (UTC)From:[A memorial garden... but that might not be possible in the village's current state. A tablet or statue or monument of some sort, maybe?]
[Voice]
Date: 2012-06-27 01:44 am (UTC)From:[He didn't mean it to sound that way, sorry Ami.]</small.
[Voice]
Date: 2012-06-27 02:08 am (UTC)From:Maybe it wasn't the best choice. But no matter what it is, won't it remind them of their suffering?
[Personally, she would have been - well, embarrassed, but also secretly gratified if someone had remembered her that way when she died. But the embarrassment would have been strong, and maybe some people would hate the reminder.]
[Voice]
Date: 2012-06-27 02:12 am (UTC)From:[Voice]
Date: 2012-06-27 02:20 am (UTC)From:It's sort of like Luceti. Ami had been lucky when she died here. She'd had people to help her.]
It's alright. [She's quick to reassure him on this point at least:] It's why it's good to discuss things with people. We make sure to think about a lot of different things.
[Voice]
Date: 2012-06-27 02:23 am (UTC)From:[Voice]
Date: 2012-06-27 02:43 am (UTC)From:[Voice]
Date: 2012-06-27 03:00 am (UTC)From:[Voice]
Date: 2012-06-27 03:11 am (UTC)From:[It won't be a gravesite, but she should still pay respects.]
[Voice]
Date: 2012-06-27 03:18 am (UTC)From:He remembers watching the blaze and asking her, "Are they going to kill me, too?" He doesn't remember being afraid. He'd just wanted to know. Cordelia had held him to her side and told him she wouldn't let them.
For all those who died in the battle, it would take more space than he can clear and more dry wood than he can find to build a proper offering. Especially when you consider lives don't add as integers. Cordelia believes souls are immortal. By the time Ami arrives, he has done what he can.]
[Action]
Date: 2012-06-27 03:39 am (UTC)From:I didn't know, exactly, what would be appropriate, so I thought... maybe flowers would be alright.
[Action]
Date: 2012-06-27 03:41 am (UTC)From:[Action]
Date: 2012-06-27 05:35 am (UTC)From:My hair? [Absently, she fingers a lock of it.] Do you have a knife or scissors?