[ He's glad they hadn't had to wait too long; Gregor's no less urgent than he was before, and having to sit on that was, well, something he's used to, but that doesn't make it comfortable. Plus there's Lucy, perfectly justified in being eager to get in there and heal, when he's the one who used the word emergency...
He's utterly sick of Miles being injured under his purview and he does want it taken care of. Gregor nods at her once, then leads her in, retreating back into his usual role as observer when direct intervention isn't called for. ]
[She comes into the room, and looks at Aral for a moment, but clearly she's not interested in him. She smiles at Miles, instead, her usual sunny disposition shining through. Her impatience seems to have vanished in a cloud of smiles.]
Admiral, I see you have caused me work once more.
[She sits nearby him.]
And what of my good work have you reversed on this day?
Lord Admiral, I think you mean to offend me and my abilities, if you think me so poor a healer as that. And please recall I accept no orders from the infirm, thank you!
[But then the warmth of her healing is spreading over his ribs, her hand touching just under his shirt for skin to skin contact.]
[ Miles reluctantly - but gratefully - subsides. Having that healing spread over him is such a glorious thing... He sighs as it seems to sink into his bones, knitting his ribs together in an instant. All too grateful to offer his wrist as well for a similar ministration. He still aches (and will continue to do so for a while), but it is manageable now; besides, the warmth seems to linger, after, continuing to comfort long after Lucy is done. He's so relieved.
(He opens some floodgate on his end, offering up his pain if Gregor wants to take it again.) ]
[Very young, but the "your majesty" and her entire bearing is not missed in the slightest. Regardless of her current garb, his own response is quite natural. When her attention turns, he inclines, a sitting bow.]
My apologies for the trouble, my Lady.
[Without delay, lifts his hand from where he'd been applying pressure. The wound is simple, uncomplicated, but deep, a single stab of a dagger to the upper thigh.]
[She gives him a nod back, and her hands are on his leg as she looks at the injury.]
You have the Lion's own luck, for the wounds such as this can kill a man far more quickly than any medic may heal.
[Her fingers find their way to skin, and the healing is almost instant; warm and soft, the wound closing up. She looks around a moment, and when she draws her hand back her fingertips are covered in blood.]
[ Gregor does not actually carry handkerchiefs in his casual clothes like this, but the house is small enough that he's able to quickly duck back into the kitchen and retrieve a cloth napkin, which he offers to her without comment.
[He combines his answer to both the luck and the danger of a few inches to the left in one amiable murmur.
In truth, most of his attention is on the healing itself. Easily the first magic he'd experienced since arriving, it was nothing short of stunning. Nothing like anything they could offer through science and study. Gingerly and with some wonder, he tests the site where the injury used to be with his fingers.]
[She cleans her hand and looks up a bit sharply when Aral says that, but there is gentleness in her look.
And something diplomatic, too. That is not an expression many see from Lucy. Everyone in Narnia calls it Edmund's small influence. When Lucy recognizes the merit of saying yes to a debt. It's not common.]
I will gladly accept such a thing from you, my lord, as freely given as it is.
[There's an aura of sweet blue light around her head, and she smiles at Miles, then, presses clean fingers to his cheek.]
I ask very dearly you come see me soon, without being stricken with any injury, so that I may enjoy your company, Admiral. Would you please?
[ He leans into it, practically glowing himself with pleasure. He likes Lucy; it's a shame he can't date both her and Tex at once, because he absolutely would. Ah, to have a wife like her one day ... ]
Of course. Perhaps you could show me the horses? I would like that very much.
[Aral's eyebrows raise, looking between his son and the young queen. There's no comment but there's a distinct spark of interest as he follows the conversation.]
[ Gregor recollects the napkin and then has nothing to do with it, blood-stained as it is, and supposes they'll have to throw it out. He has a moment of pure morbidity in which he wonders how good most Barrayaran housewives and laundresses are at getting blood out of fabric...
Right, okay. Focusing. He stands there lamely for a moment and then sets it out of the way on a side table to collect later. ]
You're both recovered? We should go over details. [ Mostly his question was directed at Miles, who Gregor is starting to wonder will ever be fully healed again. ]
[ Miles twists his wrist experimentally. A bit sore, but no longer broken; Lucy's magic has taken away the vast majority of his injury. What little is left will heal rapidly enough. He sits up then, no longer splayed against the couch helplessly; his ribs do not twinge. Perfect. All is well.
(Except the dim ache at his sternum that persists despite everything, but that is another matter.) ]
Yes, we absolutely should. I'm feeling much improved. What about you, Father?
[Aral is also focused on... and particularly relieved when Miles is able to sit up without issue or incident. It was a bit like releasing a breath he'd been holding.
And then there's Father. What a pleasant sound that had...]
[ Gregor is similarly relieved. He notices that ache still left in Miles's sternum as something persistent, but now is not the time to bring it up.
He glances between them once, then decides to direct the conversation. ]
First we should establish to what extent you'd like to be told, or not told, about your future. Some certain amount needs must be practical, but beyond that, I would not blame you for not liking to be told in advance. [ That there's another Komarran revolt is probably not news to just drop on him casually. ]
[Komarr may not come as much of a surprise as one might guess. He was not out of touch with the ripples that he of all Vor being appointed Regent made on THAT planet, nor was ImpSec blind to the propaganda campaign surging. But there was a keen emotional sense of responsibility nonetheless.
Though he turned the thought over. As a philosophical choice, there were, perhaps, some quandary about ethics or the place of man in fate... but in front of him it was suddenly a much easier discussion.]
If it were simple to separate a man from the history that made him, I'm sure the Betans would have that bottled too.
[Or the Jacksonians. He shakes his head.]
I don't think I can get a picture of either of you without it.
[Though... 20 and 25... He looks at both of them, the keen intensity in his eyes mirrored as a feeling of pressure to Miles.]
[ Gregor, personally, would rather not know of any forthcoming tragedies until they happened. The past and present seemed sufficient enough unto that for him. Here in De Chima it feels as if they have the luxury of eternity, and no consequences, though Gregor is aware that is ultimately going to be proven false; it's just that he's so free here, he doesn't want anything from home to entrap him.
One or two Vorkosigans is not entrapping, no matter what he's said (doubted) before. But he's not surprised either Aral would feel differently.
He doesn't need to feel that pressure to read it and understand it. Gregor knows who this question is directed at. His heart jumps into his throat at the thought of failing him on this answer, which is ridiculous because he hasn't failed him, Barrayar is fine-- Gregor looks perfectly somber physically. ]
Barrayar is fine. You delivered her to me on my twentieth birthday and nothing has fallen apart since.
In other words, it's still a nest of cannibalistic vipers, but it's our nest of cannibalistic vipers.
[ The comment is enriched with fondness, a sense that no one gets to talk bad about Barrayar except Barrayarans. For all that Naismith is (and will become) an outlet for Miles from all things Barrayaran ... he's still Vor down to his fragile bones. Nothing can remove that from him. ]
[Aral let himself unfold at that. He relaxed, almost melted into his chair, expression almost blank with relief and no little amount of wonder.]
Amazing. [The word was breathed. After a moment, he seems to martial himself. The look favored both of them, each in turn, lingered, possessive to some degree, proud to another.
[ In retrospect, Gregor can see how a man embarking on a twenty year colossal effort would want some reassurance it all worked out in the end. It was strange seeing Aral this young; his mental image of him growing up was all towering competence, impossible to live up to. It was a new thought, to see him with the same worries and uncertainties about the future as everyone else.
Gregor finds his own seat, taking the remaining armchair and leaving Miles to that couch. He still sits straight, not slouching, not casual, given the topic and who from. ]
We have. [ He inclines his head in a formal nod, hazel eyes dark but something soft behind them. ] And lest you think to worry on it, we have a positive relationship of the appropriate distance. [ One finger taps on the chair arm for just a moment, belying a bevy of hidden feeling. ] No one dares to question that anymore.
[ Gregor's reaction post-Vordrozda had quickly put paid to that. ]
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He's utterly sick of Miles being injured under his purview and he does want it taken care of. Gregor nods at her once, then leads her in, retreating back into his usual role as observer when direct intervention isn't called for. ]
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Admiral, I see you have caused me work once more.
[She sits nearby him.]
And what of my good work have you reversed on this day?
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Alas, my ribs are cracked again. That is the worst of it. The wrist can be put back into a cast if necessary.
[ His gaze drifts back towards Aral. ]
Please reserve enough for him too. I - ah - I stabbed him rather deeply.
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Whatever internal logic argued its part and won, he didn't share it. He gave a vague, dismissive gesture with one hand, but subsided.]
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Lord Admiral, I think you mean to offend me and my abilities, if you think me so poor a healer as that. And please recall I accept no orders from the infirm, thank you!
[But then the warmth of her healing is spreading over his ribs, her hand touching just under his shirt for skin to skin contact.]
Wrist, please.
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[ Miles reluctantly - but gratefully - subsides. Having that healing spread over him is such a glorious thing... He sighs as it seems to sink into his bones, knitting his ribs together in an instant. All too grateful to offer his wrist as well for a similar ministration. He still aches (and will continue to do so for a while), but it is manageable now; besides, the warmth seems to linger, after, continuing to comfort long after Lucy is done. He's so relieved.
(He opens some floodgate on his end, offering up his pain if Gregor wants to take it again.) ]
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And now you, sir, if you should please show me your would, I would be glad to give you my tender care.
[She looks very young. She is very young.]
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My apologies for the trouble, my Lady.
[Without delay, lifts his hand from where he'd been applying pressure. The wound is simple, uncomplicated, but deep, a single stab of a dagger to the upper thigh.]
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You have the Lion's own luck, for the wounds such as this can kill a man far more quickly than any medic may heal.
[Her fingers find their way to skin, and the healing is almost instant; warm and soft, the wound closing up. She looks around a moment, and when she draws her hand back her fingertips are covered in blood.]
A handkerchief, please.
[To whoever is quick enough.]
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[ Gregor does not actually carry handkerchiefs in his casual clothes like this, but the house is small enough that he's able to quickly duck back into the kitchen and retrieve a cloth napkin, which he offers to her without comment.
He's hardly about to let Miles up to do it. ]
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[He combines his answer to both the luck and the danger of a few inches to the left in one amiable murmur.
In truth, most of his attention is on the healing itself. Easily the first magic he'd experienced since arriving, it was nothing short of stunning. Nothing like anything they could offer through science and study. Gingerly and with some wonder, he tests the site where the injury used to be with his fingers.]
I would owe you a debt.
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And something diplomatic, too. That is not an expression many see from Lucy. Everyone in Narnia calls it Edmund's small influence. When Lucy recognizes the merit of saying yes to a debt. It's not common.]
I will gladly accept such a thing from you, my lord, as freely given as it is.
[There's an aura of sweet blue light around her head, and she smiles at Miles, then, presses clean fingers to his cheek.]
I ask very dearly you come see me soon, without being stricken with any injury, so that I may enjoy your company, Admiral. Would you please?
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Of course. Perhaps you could show me the horses? I would like that very much.
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[And that's when she leaves, matter of factly. She has work that she desperately needs to do.]
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Right, okay. Focusing. He stands there lamely for a moment and then sets it out of the way on a side table to collect later. ]
You're both recovered? We should go over details. [ Mostly his question was directed at Miles, who Gregor is starting to wonder will ever be fully healed again. ]
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(Except the dim ache at his sternum that persists despite everything, but that is another matter.) ]
Yes, we absolutely should. I'm feeling much improved. What about you, Father?
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[Aral is also focused on... and particularly relieved when Miles is able to sit up without issue or incident. It was a bit like releasing a breath he'd been holding.
And then there's Father. What a pleasant sound that had...]
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[ Gregor is similarly relieved. He notices that ache still left in Miles's sternum as something persistent, but now is not the time to bring it up.
He glances between them once, then decides to direct the conversation. ]
First we should establish to what extent you'd like to be told, or not told, about your future. Some certain amount needs must be practical, but beyond that, I would not blame you for not liking to be told in advance. [ That there's another Komarran revolt is probably not news to just drop on him casually. ]
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We do both survive to be twenty and twenty-five, respectively. And you and Mother are still alive.
[ That seems reasonable enough to establish straight off. ]
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Though he turned the thought over. As a philosophical choice, there were, perhaps, some quandary about ethics or the place of man in fate... but in front of him it was suddenly a much easier discussion.]
If it were simple to separate a man from the history that made him, I'm sure the Betans would have that bottled too.
[Or the Jacksonians. He shakes his head.]
I don't think I can get a picture of either of you without it.
[Though... 20 and 25... He looks at both of them, the keen intensity in his eyes mirrored as a feeling of pressure to Miles.]
And Barrayar?
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One or two Vorkosigans is not entrapping, no matter what he's said (doubted) before. But he's not surprised either Aral would feel differently.
He doesn't need to feel that pressure to read it and understand it. Gregor knows who this question is directed at. His heart jumps into his throat at the thought of failing him on this answer, which is ridiculous because he hasn't failed him, Barrayar is fine-- Gregor looks perfectly somber physically. ]
Barrayar is fine. You delivered her to me on my twentieth birthday and nothing has fallen apart since.
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[ The comment is enriched with fondness, a sense that no one gets to talk bad about Barrayar except Barrayarans. For all that Naismith is (and will become) an outlet for Miles from all things Barrayaran ... he's still Vor down to his fragile bones. Nothing can remove that from him. ]
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Amazing. [The word was breathed. After a moment, he seems to martial himself. The look favored both of them, each in turn, lingered, possessive to some degree, proud to another.
They settled on Gregor.]
So we've managed our war as well.
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Gregor finds his own seat, taking the remaining armchair and leaving Miles to that couch. He still sits straight, not slouching, not casual, given the topic and who from. ]
We have. [ He inclines his head in a formal nod, hazel eyes dark but something soft behind them. ] And lest you think to worry on it, we have a positive relationship of the appropriate distance. [ One finger taps on the chair arm for just a moment, belying a bevy of hidden feeling. ] No one dares to question that anymore.
[ Gregor's reaction post-Vordrozda had quickly put paid to that. ]
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