[ Miles manages a brief spike of alarm - Gregor, help - before the link dies entirely, cut off in an instant in much the same way LACKEY had done it. Even if Aral hadn't surprised and pinned Miles so thoroughly, he would be dizzied by the loss. Agonized, really, as those fresh roots he'd just been setting to rights get pulled back out again, raw and bleeding. No small matter is the sudden rush of pain back into his joints too, stolen back from whatever Gregor was bearing. He has to gasp for a startled moment, just recovering ...
And by then he's inside. Hell. Not even enough mobility to turn his head and see his attacker, though he can tell from the hands that he's dealing with someone much larger than him. (An important distinction, if Kitty really had seen "Lord Vorkosigan" show up. He grits his teeth and struggles like a wildcat, determined to make this as difficult as possible despite the disparity in weight and size. With an agonizing twist - and an audible crack of bone - he turns against Aral, levering his smaller body to get just loose enough to turn the hand still clutching his grandfather's dagger. He curses loudly and stabs downward at any body part within reach. ]
[There's a moment where, in the instant after the crack, the large hand holding Miles' locked clenches and then loosens, as if taken with indecision. Whatever it was, it was enough. The dagger bites deeply, through bone to muscle.
It wasn't just pain that ate Vorkosigan's vision now, but a flare of rage, seeing THAT blade in this impooster's hands. The moment of hesitance is gone, and he lets himself drop as his leg buckles, forcing Miles with him in a controlled move, greater weight, the broken limb and leverage on his side. It's none too gentle way to meet the floor. The dagger is ripped from Miles' hand in an efficient twist, and a knee presses firmly, insistently on Miles' back.
The threat is clear. It wouldn't take much more weight.]
You have a chance to surrender, Admiral Naismith.
[The Barrayaran accent is audible, and the raspy baritone terribly familiar.
It wasn't much louder than a whisper, but held command in it.]
[ Another crack - smaller this time, from somewhere deep in his ribcage - and then Miles is down, fighting to get in a full breath. His face will be bruised quickly enough as well; he can feel where the only freshly healed scar across his face has split again from the force of hitting the floor. The result is agony, enough to knock him breathless even without this man's weight pinning him to the ground.
The threat, too, is quite clear. Shift a little to one side and Miles' delicate ribcage will be little more than fragments. For the moment, he decides not to struggle further. He just needs Gregor or Kitty to show up, and surely his emperor can't be far away ... He winces at the thought of steering Gregor directly into this trap as well, as desperate as he is for rescue.
Surely that's what this is, right? A trap - a trick. The man's voice must be playing tricks on his ears. So achingly similar to his father's, rasp and all, except he never heard his father quite so badly scarred ... His own voice comes out in a wheeze, having barely enough room to take in a full breath, much less talk. ]
[Vorkosigan snarls down at the imposter but doesn't shift. There's no retaliation, in fact, he lets go of the lame arm to keep himself steady. Instead, all of his focus is on the blade in his hands, marred by his own blood.
He pulls the cap of the pommel and curses at what he finds there.]
I'm hardly the one mocking the Vorkosigan name.
[The dagger comes down, driven in front of Miles.]
[ The blade is all Miles can focus on for a moment. Bloodied as it is by whoever it is he's just struck. Do angels bleed? He bitterly regrets not having grilled Kitty about Lucifer when he had the chance - he just doesn't know what he's capable of. Some kind of shapeshifting? Seems likely enough. But that voice ... Could Lucifer copy someone who would only be in Miles' memories? How? Why?
Something isn't right here. He can feel it. If he could just give his brain a moment to properly put the pieces together ...
He grimaces for now, the voice still grating on his ears. ]
[The Betan accent was flawless, affect and humor he'd seen on the network utterly convincing. But that blade... it seemed utterly incomprehensible that anyone could wrest it from his father.
The details like mentioning Bothari, the mountain range of their ancestral lands... He couldn't tell if it was a mockery designed to strike at the Vorkosigans or something else.
Confusion lifted his voice from the more deadly tones of rage.]
[ God, this man really sounds like his father when he says that, on such memorable occasions when Miles had led Ivan into something dreadfully stupid and had been forced to explain himself. But if he'd had a memory stolen, surely that would account for it? The tone and the voice and the knowledge of exactly what that dagger is ....
Plots within plots . MIles winds himself up twice over trying to get it to resolve. I wish I could just cut straight through this knot, he thinks. It's too confusing, it makes no sense, and his powers are nullified anyway so why persist -
That last thought make his heart stop. My powers are off, he realizes dizzily. If Lucifer had that capability, he'd surely have used it on the sub. Or been toying with Miles - but then there'd be no need for this elaborate revenge. What if his assumption is wrong. What if, instead of an impostor, this man is really ...
He strains again, more carefully than before, trying to get a better look up at him. ]
You - you have the truth already. I was given it. By my grandfather.
[ Gregor, of course, comes in with the full story, working at an advantage to everyone else as usual. Also as usual, he's been given this advantage by someone else, who'd done all the legwork and passed off the information to him. It's been over a month since he's had to walk in and divert a crisis by his mere presence alone, but Gregor finds he hasn't lost the knack.
He does have to stop just outside the door he can hear voices in, take a deep breath with his eyes closed, and descend the whole Imperial mantle over his shoulders. Just like with Metzov, he doesn't think it'll make a difference to Aral what clothes he's in when he holds himself that way, calm and upright and eyes flinty with the knowledge of how much power he holds. This one moment is all he can spare to calm his racing heart, jolted into a breakneck pace by the disappearance of Miles's link, pain of dangling wires where he'd been ripped out wrestled down.
But he thinks he understands now. Aral must have some power like Kitty's, able to shut others' off. It's all he has to go on. Anyway-- it's a secondary thing to solve. Priority is clearing up this mess. Gregor doesn't know what he's walking into, but when he sees Miles on the floor, who knows how many other things broken when he's not even healed in the first place, the dagger stuck in the floorboards between them, Aral standing over him--
He goes cold. Cold with anger. This is a situation Gregor can and will resolve with the force of his voice alone. ]
Lord Vorkosigan. You will release him at once. Miles, introduce me.
[ Because Emperors do not introduce themselves. Not and be taken seriously. ]
[The man Miles had been craning to get a look up at looked... far younger than any clear memory he had of his father. Missing the deep lines of stress, worry and laughter as much as the grey from his hair. Those steel grey eyes were fixed down on Miles, focus in rapid study-
When a new presence enters the room, filling it immediately with a certain pressure. He'd seen the man, by name of Greg Vorthys, but this incarnation of him was nothing like his brief research had allowed.
The strength of the command, the sudden, almost tangible force of the Imperium was enough to make Vorkosigan pause, a shudder crawling down his back. He moved, before he even had thought behind it, pressure off of Miles' back.
It's no relaxed stance, prepared to move, strike if necessary, a fiery gaze settled on Gregor, taking his measure in full.]
[ Gregor doesn't so much as bat an eyelash under this scrutiny. He'd been expecting it. ]
From, I would estimate, about twenty years in your future. The man you are subduing is your own son.
[ There's not one iota of emotion in his voice, but he calculates this revelation for devastating effect. Gregor doesn't even need to remind himself of priorities; he's too well-trained. Miles's injuries take second place to ensuring he doesn't acquire more. It burns him to make that concession, but Gregor will not be distracted by sympathy or sentiment. ]
[It felt like his mind was pouring down a wormhole jump in speed, but still too damn slow. That information made some of it make perfect sense, crystallizing and snapping into place with final clicks.
And some parts floated even further, or were simply dislodged from where they'd settled, tentatively.
Of all of it, there were two parts that stood out, far more true that the muddy sluice of truth and lies...
... The eyes staring up at him were startlingly like Cordelias...
... The set of Gregor's face matched a near-mute child he remembered guiding a small hand to a pyre...
If it was true... God. He remembers hearing the crack, feeling the give under his fingers, intentional or not... he marshals himself carefully.
Aral Vorkosigan stood up, almost entirely on the power of his good leg, locking the knee of the other to stay upright. The pain edging around his eyes and the blood staining the undress greens in a widening plume were otherwise the only hints of how bad it was.]
You'll forgive me if this seems to have gone from suspect to incomplete.
[ Miles, meanwhile, is getting his first good look at his father. His mind refuses to match the man in front of him with his father at first, at least until Gregor mentions twenty years and then it all clicks. The voice, freshly scarred - the title, not yet grown to Count with Piotr still alive - all the evidence Miles had been casting for being the result of a poor fakery are now undeniable pieces of evidence. Not even the most elaborate copy could fake that nuance of expression in his father's face.
Nuanced with pain, oh hell. Miles' gaze drifts down to the rapidly spreading bloodstain on Aral's leg. He did that. For once in his life, he's desperately glad not to be any taller - otherwise he might have stabbed Aral in the gut. There's a thought for nightmares right there. The entire encounter becomes horrifying in retrospect too. Aral had been terrifyingly fast. Could have killed Miles in an instant, if he'd chosen to.
Why hadn't his father recognized him? Was it just the age difference? A chill goes through him as he considers that his father might not even have a son yet. Either way he can hardly present a good picture, this fragile, shattered vision of the future. He tastes blood in his mouth, feels a painful hitch in his lungs from yet another cracked rib. And his poor maligned wrist is never going to heal straight at this point. ]
Why ... [ Fire in his lungs, fire in his brain from staring at Aral to long. ] Why didn't you ask?
[ It's not really an accusing tone. Just regretful, god. He stabbed his father with his grandfather's seal dagger ... ]
[ Good. Step one: remove potential for further violence, done. Step two is deescalate the emotions of the scene until facts can be cleared up. Step three was meant to be addressing physical injury, but Gregor abruptly does not care one single wit about step two and interrupts them both. ]
Lord Vorkosigan -- both of you -- are going to sit down and not attack each other until this is cleared up. Whatever you're doing to suppress his powers, [ and here his voice tightens to command, ] stop it.
[ Humanity is returning to Gregor from behind the Imperial mask, and he steps forward until he's at Miles's side, where he kneels down and puts his hands out, hovering.
Softly, ] Tell me how to help you up so that I don't hurt you further. [ Aral can take care of himself; indeed, Gregor knows that in about twenty minutes he would not thank him for fussing over him with Miles in such a bad state. One bloody knife wound is not going to stop Aral Vorkosigan. ]
[At the interruption, Aral swallows the answer to that. The soldier's - no, the Lord Regent's mask that was threatening to crack reinforces itself.
The personal crisis, the flooded feeling of a situation you can't walk back, suspicions, paranoias and a wrenching, growing fear. Those all were ancillary. They could wait. If he was going to fall apart, it wasn't going to be here.
He forced himself to look up from the young man on the floor, to the man kneeling beside him.
A moment passes, weighing, considering. He'd lived too long to not approach it like a potential trap. This was not Barrayar. And it was growing clearer that he had not even a fraction of the picture he needed. If they were enemies still and this another ruse, he gave to that side of his mind, they would give themselves to him.
He acquiesces to the order, cutting the mental bonds with a sharp motion of his hand.
He gives no other answer, no interruption that would impede Miles or Gregor, just shifted his balance carefully and waited.]
[ Faintly, Miles gasps as the link comes back on. He reaches out to Gregor instantly, verifying he's still there - and feels another presence. A roiling mass of emotions hidden behind that mask... His eyes go wide feeling it, tracking towards his father. He's not exactly surprised that they exist - although it is startling to know for sure - but more the fact that he has another link to begin with. Liege relationships. Right.
Miles strains to sit up properly. It's difficult with the arm and his ribs, sending small waves of pain out over both sides of the link as he feels it. No, he's not getting up by himself. He'd probably puncture a lung if he was unlucky enough. ]
I think... I think I want to lie down on the couch for a little while. Should be okay if you get me around my shoulders and don't touch my wrist...
[ No chance of attacking his father now, oh no. He'd never have tried if he'd known. Enough time for guilt later; he needs to think past the pain first before he can properly approach this. ]
[ Gregor has his link to Aral already squeezed shut, but he can feel it blossoming into existence in Miles's head through him. Worse, he gets all of Miles's pain reverberating through him, and even braced for it he takes a sharp, quick breath. He wants to offer to take some of it on himself, but he can't right now, not and be any use at all. Later.
Grimly, ] I'm carrying you, and no complaints. [ Gregor is in no mood to deal with pride. Gingerly, he slides an arm under Miles's knees and another under his shoulders, and as he stands up with him he goes slowly. Fortunately there's still a pile of blankets and pillows on the couch, not cleaned up yet, and he deposits Miles there with even more care than he'd picked him up with.
You really have to stop doing this, he whispers to him, all gentleness and no blame. Trying to defuse some of the situation. Lucy is going to scold us. ]
[There were poisons and toxins that you were infected with in the hierarchy of war, but there were some that the wars themselves left. When he'd felt an irrational spring of emotion that were keenly, rationally not his, he'd simply breathed, reminded himself of stress and a new world beside and shoved them as far from his consciousness has could be done.
He hadn't made the connection to the third, enigmatic power listed on the file he'd received, until now.
His son.
At once, the knot was cut. Tangles too twisted to find their origin or release simply fluttered away, meaningless now.
The waves of pain were indisputable, the only reason singular. (Somewhere, he can feel the sensation of the snap again under his fingers. Hear it. Echoed in the thin wail of a child so small he could have held him in one hand...) His son. What a complicated, greedy thing joy can be, to slide under the heavy patchwork of everything else racing through his mind.
His voice was hoarse, face abruptly so pale it might have been green for it, though he waited until Miles was settled, the show of incredible care played out.]
To ask was the plan.
Among talk of revenge, the hatred seemed honest. It would be a narrow window.
[It was strategic, sound, and so very pale and useless now. He hadn't meant to injure, but what plan survived first contact with battle?]
[ Poor Lucy, agrees Miles, allowing himself to relax just slightly at Gregor's gentle comment. Permits himself to be moved with no squirming at all, save to shift a bit once he's been settled on the pillows. (He realizes, belatedly, that he probably could have made himself a bit smaller and saved Gregor trouble... eh. Not important.
Now that he's laid back as comfortably as possible, he can turn his attention back to his father. Actual and real, no copy. Nothing his paranoid mind had conjured up. That is a relief in and of itself... Though not enough to do more than blunt the dark waves of concern and guilt starting to radiate out from him. How deeply did the knife go in? If he's done permanent damage...
But now they come to the reason this all happened. Miles curse himself for having been so damn convincing on the network. He'd never even thought he'd encounter a version of his family that wouldn't know the tale to be a lie on the spot. ]
I wasn't hating you, Father. Lord Vorkosigan was me.
[ Gregor can only imagine how awful it is for Aral to have this belated realization of who he'd hurt. It's too bad, because his anger is a low, simmering thing, undirected. It would be unfair to give it a direction, really-- they're all equally to blame, with their lies. At least he's used to removing anger from his management of situations.
And gosh, Miles, but implying you hate yourself isn't going to do much better. Gregor straightens up (impossible not to with his hyper-conscientiousness of this Aral meeting him for the first time as an adult) but remains standing beside Miles, not out of any protectiveness but because that's how the lines are unconsciously drawn out.
He needs to put to rest this whole confusion at once, in as few words as possible. ]
The issue was me, [ he says bluntly. ] For obvious reasons I cannot go around proclaiming who I am, but then we needed to explain why Miles would care about me. We based as much as possible on truth, but we'll sort out the threads later.
What's relevant now is that there is no clone, and neither of us have any issue with anyone Vorkosigan. [ A moment's pause, before he assures him more quietly, ] There is no rift.
[It was a quick, smart move of Gregor's pay, heading off the rift that could be made. It had been a passing concept, still too new and crowded to take root.
Aral took a breath in and let it out slowly. It did less than it could have.]
I imagine there are more than a share of stories behind a story that wild.
But I would have it wait until we've sought aid.
[He looks, finally, back up to Gregor, meeting his eyes. It's neither an entreaty or an order, but an understanding.]
[ Ah. Yes. Gregor is hitting on the really important things, as always. In his defense, he's a little distracted by the broken pieces inside him. That rib is no joke whatsoever ... His expression softens, though, as he manages to get himself settled enough not to hate his life every time he takes in a breath. ]
Gregor's right. [ Another slow, careful breath. ] It's all cover. If I'd realized it was you, I'd never have raised a finger. [ His gaze strays again towards where the stab wound is.
He opens his mouth to agree with his father ... and then stops. It's true they need a healer as fast as possible. But dammit, there's still a cover to think of too. ]
-- We can't. Not until we figure this out. [ Breathe, wince. ] What we're calling you.
[ Gregor meets Aral's eyes without flinching, priorities mutually aligned.
Then he shifts his gaze back to Miles and says with a note of warning in his voice, ] I am disinclined to let this get any more convoluted. I don't want another repeat of this. My suggestion is to go as close to the truth as possible.
Lord Vorkosigan is your Lord Vorkosigan's father. You've been careful to leave your parents free of implication of wrong-doing. There should be no difficulty.
Does that suit?
[ Gregor speaks levelly, not impatiently, but Miles can likely feel the thrum of urgency in him to get a healer over here. He is not willing to put this off much longer, feeling his pain like that; already he is instinctively trying to rope some over to him, enough so Miles can breathe comfortably. He's started to get the trick of detaching himself from the pain, instead of thinking it's coming from his own flesh and bone. Surely he can handle a little bit of it... ]
[Miles may catch a sense of disquiet from his father, but the man himself said nothing. He was not going to add complication or question at this juncture.
He'd rather watch them, for now, anyway.
He eyed a nearby desk and chair. Gauging it worth it, paced the short, limping walk it took to slide into the chair, immediately pressing the injury to slow its bleeding.]
[ It's odd feeling that disquiet. He wishes he could apologize - but the footing is still so uneven. so many things still unsure. Count Vorkosigan will hold until they have the healer in, and they can then strategize in earnest.
Besides, it's not as though he can resist Gregor when he's shot through with urgency like that. Gently, gratefully, he refuses Gregor's request to take on Miles' rib pain. His objection is purely practical: if he can't feel when he's hurting himself, he will absolutely puncture a lung. He'd prefer not to do that. ]
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And by then he's inside. Hell. Not even enough mobility to turn his head and see his attacker, though he can tell from the hands that he's dealing with someone much larger than him. (An important distinction, if Kitty really had seen "Lord Vorkosigan" show up. He grits his teeth and struggles like a wildcat, determined to make this as difficult as possible despite the disparity in weight and size. With an agonizing twist - and an audible crack of bone - he turns against Aral, levering his smaller body to get just loose enough to turn the hand still clutching his grandfather's dagger. He curses loudly and stabs downward at any body part within reach. ]
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It wasn't just pain that ate Vorkosigan's vision now, but a flare of rage, seeing THAT blade in this impooster's hands. The moment of hesitance is gone, and he lets himself drop as his leg buckles, forcing Miles with him in a controlled move, greater weight, the broken limb and leverage on his side. It's none too gentle way to meet the floor. The dagger is ripped from Miles' hand in an efficient twist, and a knee presses firmly, insistently on Miles' back.
The threat is clear. It wouldn't take much more weight.]
You have a chance to surrender, Admiral Naismith.
[The Barrayaran accent is audible, and the raspy baritone terribly familiar.
It wasn't much louder than a whisper, but held command in it.]
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The threat, too, is quite clear. Shift a little to one side and Miles' delicate ribcage will be little more than fragments. For the moment, he decides not to struggle further. He just needs Gregor or Kitty to show up, and surely his emperor can't be far away ... He winces at the thought of steering Gregor directly into this trap as well, as desperate as he is for rescue.
Surely that's what this is, right? A trap - a trick. The man's voice must be playing tricks on his ears. So achingly similar to his father's, rasp and all, except he never heard his father quite so badly scarred ... His own voice comes out in a wheeze, having barely enough room to take in a full breath, much less talk. ]
To w-whom? "Lord Vorkosigan"? A poor mockery.
Last should have been muscle to bone. Braaaainn
He pulls the cap of the pommel and curses at what he finds there.]
I'm hardly the one mocking the Vorkosigan name.
[The dagger comes down, driven in front of Miles.]
Where did you get this?
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Something isn't right here. He can feel it. If he could just give his brain a moment to properly put the pieces together ...
He grimaces for now, the voice still grating on his ears. ]
It's mine. I was given it.
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[The Betan accent was flawless, affect and humor he'd seen on the network utterly convincing. But that blade... it seemed utterly incomprehensible that anyone could wrest it from his father.
The details like mentioning Bothari, the mountain range of their ancestral lands... He couldn't tell if it was a mockery designed to strike at the Vorkosigans or something else.
Confusion lifted his voice from the more deadly tones of rage.]
I'm going to ask again.
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Plots within plots . MIles winds himself up twice over trying to get it to resolve. I wish I could just cut straight through this knot, he thinks. It's too confusing, it makes no sense, and his powers are nullified anyway so why persist -
That last thought make his heart stop. My powers are off, he realizes dizzily. If Lucifer had that capability, he'd surely have used it on the sub. Or been toying with Miles - but then there'd be no need for this elaborate revenge. What if his assumption is wrong. What if, instead of an impostor, this man is really ...
He strains again, more carefully than before, trying to get a better look up at him. ]
You - you have the truth already. I was given it. By my grandfather.
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He does have to stop just outside the door he can hear voices in, take a deep breath with his eyes closed, and descend the whole Imperial mantle over his shoulders. Just like with Metzov, he doesn't think it'll make a difference to Aral what clothes he's in when he holds himself that way, calm and upright and eyes flinty with the knowledge of how much power he holds. This one moment is all he can spare to calm his racing heart, jolted into a breakneck pace by the disappearance of Miles's link, pain of dangling wires where he'd been ripped out wrestled down.
But he thinks he understands now. Aral must have some power like Kitty's, able to shut others' off. It's all he has to go on. Anyway-- it's a secondary thing to solve. Priority is clearing up this mess. Gregor doesn't know what he's walking into, but when he sees Miles on the floor, who knows how many other things broken when he's not even healed in the first place, the dagger stuck in the floorboards between them, Aral standing over him--
He goes cold. Cold with anger. This is a situation Gregor can and will resolve with the force of his voice alone. ]
Lord Vorkosigan. You will release him at once. Miles, introduce me.
[ Because Emperors do not introduce themselves. Not and be taken seriously. ]
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When a new presence enters the room, filling it immediately with a certain pressure. He'd seen the man, by name of Greg Vorthys, but this incarnation of him was nothing like his brief research had allowed.
The strength of the command, the sudden, almost tangible force of the Imperium was enough to make Vorkosigan pause, a shudder crawling down his back. He moved, before he even had thought behind it, pressure off of Miles' back.
It's no relaxed stance, prepared to move, strike if necessary, a fiery gaze settled on Gregor, taking his measure in full.]
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This - this is Emperor Gregor Vorbarra. Of Barrayar.
[ And now, very slowly, he's turning to get his first look at his father ... ]
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From, I would estimate, about twenty years in your future. The man you are subduing is your own son.
[ There's not one iota of emotion in his voice, but he calculates this revelation for devastating effect. Gregor doesn't even need to remind himself of priorities; he's too well-trained. Miles's injuries take second place to ensuring he doesn't acquire more. It burns him to make that concession, but Gregor will not be distracted by sympathy or sentiment. ]
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And some parts floated even further, or were simply dislodged from where they'd settled, tentatively.
Of all of it, there were two parts that stood out, far more true that the muddy sluice of truth and lies...
... The eyes staring up at him were startlingly like Cordelias...
... The set of Gregor's face matched a near-mute child he remembered guiding a small hand to a pyre...
If it was true... God. He remembers hearing the crack, feeling the give under his fingers, intentional or not... he marshals himself carefully.
Aral Vorkosigan stood up, almost entirely on the power of his good leg, locking the knee of the other to stay upright. The pain edging around his eyes and the blood staining the undress greens in a widening plume were otherwise the only hints of how bad it was.]
You'll forgive me if this seems to have gone from suspect to incomplete.
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Nuanced with pain, oh hell. Miles' gaze drifts down to the rapidly spreading bloodstain on Aral's leg. He did that. For once in his life, he's desperately glad not to be any taller - otherwise he might have stabbed Aral in the gut. There's a thought for nightmares right there. The entire encounter becomes horrifying in retrospect too. Aral had been terrifyingly fast. Could have killed Miles in an instant, if he'd chosen to.
Why hadn't his father recognized him? Was it just the age difference? A chill goes through him as he considers that his father might not even have a son yet. Either way he can hardly present a good picture, this fragile, shattered vision of the future. He tastes blood in his mouth, feels a painful hitch in his lungs from yet another cracked rib. And his poor maligned wrist is never going to heal straight at this point. ]
Why ... [ Fire in his lungs, fire in his brain from staring at Aral to long. ] Why didn't you ask?
[ It's not really an accusing tone. Just regretful, god. He stabbed his father with his grandfather's seal dagger ... ]
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Lord Vorkosigan -- both of you -- are going to sit down and not attack each other until this is cleared up. Whatever you're doing to suppress his powers, [ and here his voice tightens to command, ] stop it.
[ Humanity is returning to Gregor from behind the Imperial mask, and he steps forward until he's at Miles's side, where he kneels down and puts his hands out, hovering.
Softly, ] Tell me how to help you up so that I don't hurt you further. [ Aral can take care of himself; indeed, Gregor knows that in about twenty minutes he would not thank him for fussing over him with Miles in such a bad state. One bloody knife wound is not going to stop Aral Vorkosigan. ]
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The personal crisis, the flooded feeling of a situation you can't walk back, suspicions, paranoias and a wrenching, growing fear. Those all were ancillary. They could wait. If he was going to fall apart, it wasn't going to be here.
He forced himself to look up from the young man on the floor, to the man kneeling beside him.
A moment passes, weighing, considering. He'd lived too long to not approach it like a potential trap. This was not Barrayar. And it was growing clearer that he had not even a fraction of the picture he needed. If they were enemies still and this another ruse, he gave to that side of his mind, they would give themselves to him.
He acquiesces to the order, cutting the mental bonds with a sharp motion of his hand.
He gives no other answer, no interruption that would impede Miles or Gregor, just shifted his balance carefully and waited.]
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Miles strains to sit up properly. It's difficult with the arm and his ribs, sending small waves of pain out over both sides of the link as he feels it. No, he's not getting up by himself. He'd probably puncture a lung if he was unlucky enough. ]
I think... I think I want to lie down on the couch for a little while. Should be okay if you get me around my shoulders and don't touch my wrist...
[ No chance of attacking his father now, oh no. He'd never have tried if he'd known. Enough time for guilt later; he needs to think past the pain first before he can properly approach this. ]
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Grimly, ] I'm carrying you, and no complaints. [ Gregor is in no mood to deal with pride. Gingerly, he slides an arm under Miles's knees and another under his shoulders, and as he stands up with him he goes slowly. Fortunately there's still a pile of blankets and pillows on the couch, not cleaned up yet, and he deposits Miles there with even more care than he'd picked him up with.
You really have to stop doing this, he whispers to him, all gentleness and no blame. Trying to defuse some of the situation. Lucy is going to scold us. ]
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He hadn't made the connection to the third, enigmatic power listed on the file he'd received, until now.
His son.
At once, the knot was cut. Tangles too twisted to find their origin or release simply fluttered away, meaningless now.
The waves of pain were indisputable, the only reason singular. (Somewhere, he can feel the sensation of the snap again under his fingers. Hear it. Echoed in the thin wail of a child so small he could have held him in one hand...) His son. What a complicated, greedy thing joy can be, to slide under the heavy patchwork of everything else racing through his mind.
His voice was hoarse, face abruptly so pale it might have been green for it, though he waited until Miles was settled, the show of incredible care played out.]
To ask was the plan.
Among talk of revenge, the hatred seemed honest. It would be a narrow window.
[It was strategic, sound, and so very pale and useless now. He hadn't meant to injure, but what plan survived first contact with battle?]
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Now that he's laid back as comfortably as possible, he can turn his attention back to his father. Actual and real, no copy. Nothing his paranoid mind had conjured up. That is a relief in and of itself... Though not enough to do more than blunt the dark waves of concern and guilt starting to radiate out from him. How deeply did the knife go in? If he's done permanent damage...
But now they come to the reason this all happened. Miles curse himself for having been so damn convincing on the network. He'd never even thought he'd encounter a version of his family that wouldn't know the tale to be a lie on the spot. ]
I wasn't hating you, Father. Lord Vorkosigan was me.
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And gosh, Miles, but implying you hate yourself isn't going to do much better. Gregor straightens up (impossible not to with his hyper-conscientiousness of this Aral meeting him for the first time as an adult) but remains standing beside Miles, not out of any protectiveness but because that's how the lines are unconsciously drawn out.
He needs to put to rest this whole confusion at once, in as few words as possible. ]
The issue was me, [ he says bluntly. ] For obvious reasons I cannot go around proclaiming who I am, but then we needed to explain why Miles would care about me. We based as much as possible on truth, but we'll sort out the threads later.
What's relevant now is that there is no clone, and neither of us have any issue with anyone Vorkosigan. [ A moment's pause, before he assures him more quietly, ] There is no rift.
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Aral took a breath in and let it out slowly. It did less than it could have.]
I imagine there are more than a share of stories behind a story that wild.
But I would have it wait until we've sought aid.
[He looks, finally, back up to Gregor, meeting his eyes. It's neither an entreaty or an order, but an understanding.]
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Gregor's right. [ Another slow, careful breath. ] It's all cover. If I'd realized it was you, I'd never have raised a finger. [ His gaze strays again towards where the stab wound is.
He opens his mouth to agree with his father ... and then stops. It's true they need a healer as fast as possible. But dammit, there's still a cover to think of too. ]
-- We can't. Not until we figure this out. [ Breathe, wince. ] What we're calling you.
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Then he shifts his gaze back to Miles and says with a note of warning in his voice, ] I am disinclined to let this get any more convoluted. I don't want another repeat of this. My suggestion is to go as close to the truth as possible.
Lord Vorkosigan is your Lord Vorkosigan's father. You've been careful to leave your parents free of implication of wrong-doing. There should be no difficulty.
Does that suit?
[ Gregor speaks levelly, not impatiently, but Miles can likely feel the thrum of urgency in him to get a healer over here. He is not willing to put this off much longer, feeling his pain like that; already he is instinctively trying to rope some over to him, enough so Miles can breathe comfortably. He's started to get the trick of detaching himself from the pain, instead of thinking it's coming from his own flesh and bone. Surely he can handle a little bit of it... ]
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He'd rather watch them, for now, anyway.
He eyed a nearby desk and chair. Gauging it worth it, paced the short, limping walk it took to slide into the chair, immediately pressing the injury to slow its bleeding.]
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[ It's odd feeling that disquiet. He wishes he could apologize - but the footing is still so uneven. so many things still unsure. Count Vorkosigan will hold until they have the healer in, and they can then strategize in earnest.
Besides, it's not as though he can resist Gregor when he's shot through with urgency like that. Gently, gratefully, he refuses Gregor's request to take on Miles' rib pain. His objection is purely practical: if he can't feel when he's hurting himself, he will absolutely puncture a lung. He'd prefer not to do that. ]
Who should we call? Lucy?
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Let me know if this is too soon
how about Gregor-Lucy for a few tags with Miles-Aral in a separate thread and then melding?
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