maskormenacelogs | Lucifer vs. Vor master post

[ A thousand things flash through his mind. Pathetic things - You don't know what it's like, you can't stand up to him -Because Gregor knows exactly what it's like, and he'd stood up to Lucifer. Lasted days, where Mark hadn't even lasted an hour. Miserable things, I'm afraid and alone and no one's ever helped me - I didn't know, I didn't know it would be that, I thought he just wanted to hold you - I helped you, I did help you, in the end I helped you - I have intel, I'll tell you everything about the Komarrans, about Ser Galen's plot - It's not like you Barrayarans haven't done worse than this - I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry -

In the end, he says none of them. Not because he doesn't want to speak up in his own defense. Not because he doesn't think he deserves a defense. But just because he feels like there's a right answer and a wrong answer, and he's terrified to give the wrong answer. Because the Butcher is right there, and he can imagine...what the Butcher will do, if he hears a wrong answer. He just shakes his head. ]

[ Yes... that is the only safe answer, isn't it.

Gregor weighs the silence for a moment before saying, ] It is a tangled web between us. We owe each other quite a bit. You owe me in personal pain and lies, but We owe you as well, in Our failing to know of your existence and have you retrieved. Should you elect to claim your status as Barrayaran subject, all time spent in suffering in the plot created against Us, and against Count Vorkosigan, becomes an act of service. You never carried out your task, here or on Barrayar. You have never before been made aware that this creates a debt, from the Imperium to you.

I am making you aware of it now. It is your lies you would have to answer for as subject, not crimes you have not committed. And not crimes you were not party to, but victim of. This is irregardless of whether you claim your family name or not.

If you are not Our subject, however, that debt does not exist, and you have made yourself a potential enemy. In light of that, We will offer you one chance only to swear to Us -- binding, as you know it will be -- and accept Our judgement.

[ He doesn't quite understand. This is...Mark opens his eyes and looks up at Gregor, his confusion plain. Time spent in suffering becomes an act of service. That doesn't make sense. Even though logically he should be nodding fervently, saying yes, thank you, Your Majesty, for your willingness to take that into account, thank you, yes, I didn't ask for it, it's been a long few days. His brain can't quite keep up with what's smart. And so he finds his mouth saying: ]

Majesty...I was trained to kill you. [ He looks very slightly to the side, catches sight of the Butcher's fearsome face, and snaps his gaze forward again. ] And Count Vorkosigan. I wasn't just some...

[ Some harmless pawn. Because that has to be it, right? The Emperor thinks that he isn't deadly. That he's just a hapless piece that gets pushed around. Even now, unbidden, a plan flashes through his mind for how to kill them both (the Butcher first, he's almost certainly slow from the injuries sustained in the flight with Lucifer - get the plasma arc at his belt and use it to blow out his throat, no time for Galen's slow vengeance, then advance on the Emperor and end it quick before he can call for aid) which he quickly pushes to the back of his mind. Far to the back of his mind.

He hunches his shoulders in confusion. ]

I wasn't...held captive, Majesty. Or, at least - [ He was a captive, but not one locked in a room. He had control. He could order his captor-guards around. He had power. Or the illusion of it. ] I - was an active participant in hunting down Miles Vorkosigan. You shouldn't give me any credit. I...hated you.

[ Stop it. Stop talking. ]

[ It's strange how these words echo in his ears, distort:

I was an active participant. I loved her, or could've sworn I did. I was held captive but I was in control. Why is this so much easier to recognize as self-appeasing nonsense, a last desperate gasp for agency where there was none? Denial that one had ever been a victim, or risk facing the whole expanse of what had happened. It makes Gregor go quiet, and more ruthless. ]

Weren't you? You felt free to leave at any time? [ His gaze zeroes in on his self-protective, hunched posture. ] You had other options, other places to go, ways to refuse?

[ Was refusal ever something truly considered? There's a beat. ]

If that's the case, tell me, so I can reevaluate. But hatred, even of me or of Count Vorkosigan or of your father, if you choose to take that epithet, is not a crime either. I have plenty of people sworn to me who do so hatefully. I require loyalty and truthfulness, not love.

Edited 2016-05-30 22:54 (UTC)

[ He thinks to the one time he had a night to himself. The one time he slipped his guards. Things had been...so good, right up until that point. In the lead-up to that night, Galen had been satisfied and pleased with his progress. He'd thought of himself as a trusted comrade of the movement. Truly, as devoted, as central to the movement as Ser Galen himself. He'd thought that he had earned a bit of freedom, that he could just take it for himself and come back with a jaunty smile. Like one of the others, who all had nights off, who even at times came home smelling like perfume and talking about girls, something that was viewed with tolerance if not pleasure. He thought he had a place equal to that of the others. He thought -

He squeezes his eyes shut. His chest clenches as he struggles to shove away that memory. Not here, not now, he can't have a panic attack in front of Gregor and the Butcher... ]

I just - don't want you to think that - I'm owed pity. Your Majesty. [ But his voice shakes, and his non-answer to that question is answer enough. And a moment later, his voice small: ] I don't...hate you now. I don't hate any of you.

[ Fear, yes. He fears them all in different amounts. But he doesn't hate them. He can't hate them. ]

[ Gregor judges this carefully, but he allows his bearing to relent, a touch of humanity coming to him in the softness of his reply. ]

Good. That will make it easier. But it's not pity. [ He understands too well what it's like to endure something and refuse pity for it. It's not a sense of pride, but a desire for acknowledgement, that he was strong enough to last through it without crumpling. He tries to speak to that: ] You have survived more than I can ever understand, and on Barrayar when you do that in service, pity is the last thing you will receive. It's respect.

[ Respect? Respect...He looks up, and for just a moment his face betrays his hunger. Because he despises the thought of pity, of being this pathetic twisted little creature, shambling around, three-quarters crazy and ugly and wheezing. Paraded around by Miles. This is my little brother. And then, with voice a little more hushed - Take it easy on him. He's a little slow. The sort of man that they just made apologies and excuses for. He had a hard life. This is the best we can expect from him.

But respect, acknowledgment, is something...Oh, that's something enticing. And maybe it's not a lie. The tawdry tinsel of neo-fascism, Galen had called it. Bloodthirsty maniacs. Barrayar respects service, doesn't it? Blood shed for a cause. And Mark...Mark has shed blood. ]

It seems like that respect wouldn't extend to blood shed in service to a plot against your person, Majesty.

[ He opens a hand. ]

There are two separate plots. The older, as far as I understand it, never came to fruition even in the future. Becoming Our subject rewrites that scenario, as I explained.

The one here is another matter. I would appreciate-- personally-- an explanation of what led to the events that transpired. [ A trace of coolness returns. Gregor isn't so sanguine at heart about the sequence of events as he must portray as Emperor. Although it is something he'd like to know Imperially as well, in order to make his best judgement, to know what to have him swear to specifically if he decides to take that; or if he doesn't, what to do in response. ]

[ Yeah. There's no point in rehashing everything back home, not when it's this crime that really matters. Maybe respect was possible in the past, but he ruined it here. That's for certain.

He lowers his eyes. Yeah. ]

There's...nothing in the sequence of events you can't guess. Lucifer saw my face and decided that this was the best use for me. [ His lips thin, though he doesn't give voice to the bitterness he feels over the fact that that is the use he's always put to. His only value as a copy of Miles. ]

And bullied you into it? [ he asks succinctly, to be clear. ]

[ He looks off to the side. ]

He transported me to a desert and left me there. Until I agreed. [ A beat. ] I know someone else where he dropped him into a room with no door until he agreed. I guess that's one of the tricks he likes.

[ Another beat. ]

He didn't torture me or hurt me. Threats alone were enough.

[ Because he knows what threats can lead to, Gregor assumes. He doesn't know the details of Mark's upbringing, but his overall demeanor can lead him to some pretty horrific guesses. ]

You were coerced, [ he summarizes, resisting a detour into sympathy. ] I can't say that engenders trust. There will be terms to your oath, should you swear. As the terms will be unbreakable, you might even find them a comfort.

[ A short pause as he lets that rest before, implacably, ] I must have your answer on that before we can proceed any further. You may ask questions if you have any. [ And please God, Gregor hopes he just agrees, that he doesn't need to go to plan B of having Aral menace him. ]

[ Terms. Proceeding further. Suddenly this offer of oath-taking feels...very immediate. Very real. Mark looks at him, then resists the urge to look around at the Butcher.

Is this...really...? Is this going to be...his punishment? Swearing some oaths? ]

Uh -

[ He swallows against a dry throat. ]

What...sorts of terms?

[ His eyes are lidded as he looks at him. Privately, Gregor wonders what tremendously awful things Mark Pierre is imagining. But he can't afford to break his illusion of Imperial Taskmaster completely, much as he might like to. He must compromise, find some place in the balancing act that is even-handed, offering kindness where he can and sternness where he must. ]

So that you may not be used against Us in the future. Attempts at suborning you would be met with you promptly reporting them to either myself or Count Vorkosigan, at your discretion. For example.

[ That's...fair, he supposes. Better than fall on your sword. ]

Uh - okay. Yeah. That makes sense.

[ A moment. ]

I just...

[ Another moment, and then he takes a breath. He looks up at Gregor. ]

Don't...make me into a Jeeves or something like that.

[ He reverses again, back to a touch of humanity and softer words, Gregor sensing this moment teetering on the precipice of agreement. He hardly dares breathe wrong. ]

You've sworn to me already, Peter. Was it so terrible that time?

[ Good God, though, 'make him into a Jeeves'. He can interpret that well enough: make him into a doll, as so many clones are turned into brainless receptacles for their progenitors. Gregor is going to have nightmares about that, later. It had been nausea-inducing enough to learn about intellectually; knowing someone personally who thinks he himself might be capable of being a clone-user -- for what ethical difference would there really be between a brain transplant and turning Miles's clone into a mindless drone for his service -- makes it as immediate and sharp as the pain in his foot. ]

[ There's a slight flinch at the name Peter. Whoever he is, now, he's not that. He's cure of that much. But it serves well as a reminder of just what their history is, just how decent Gregor has been to him. Only one of the two of them has deceived the other. If anyone has earned trust, it's Gregor, not Mark.

So, finally, slowly, he shakes his head. And admits: ]

No. It wasn't.

[ He takes a breath. ]

I'll swear.

[ He doesn't dare relax yet. Not until it's fully done. But-- thank God, he thinks faintly, a pulse of relieved joy through him likely giving the game away to Miles and possibly Cordelia, listening in attentively over the link like ears to a door. Gregor had dreaded the thought of failing them, though he knows it would not be his failing, but just Mark's own decision. He's still pleased beyond measure to be able to deliver their son and brother to them in as sure a state as he's able, for them to make their pitch as family, uncomplicated by loyalties.

Gregor nods at him in acceptance, and then gestures him forward with the flick of his fingers-- the unbandanged ones. ]

Approach and kneel. Do you know the words to this oath?

[ It's one Gregor has received many times throughout his life, that of affirmed loyalty to him as Emperor. The first time had been the most memorable, as it had been followed by fifty-nine others in short succession, all at his grandfather's funeral. It was a time span that all blurs together now, but the feeling of it had always stuck with him: incomprehension at first, and slowly, over the years, a gradual understanding of just how much weight it had been. ]

[ He shakes his head just a little, blurts out: ]

Just the oath to be sworn in as a Count.

[ And then he tenses; his head swivels over towards the Butcher, and then turns away again before he can really register the man's expression. He'll lose his nerve if he looks too long, he suspects.

He comes forward and, awkwardly, climbs down onto his knees. Not the graceful gesture of a noble Vor. Just the stubby-legged clambering of a twisted little dwarf. ]

[During the whole negotiation, Aral had never swayed from where he stood. As it became more and more apparent that he wasn't going to be needed to tip the scales, he spent most of his attention watching the exchange, and all of the implications of it. Since that heated argument with Cordelia he'd been going over memories, conversations, trying to see Mark as he does Miles... as he does Cordelia.

Seeing the heavy breaks and fractures, muffled vulnerability and need to have the past in the open and clearly presented... perhaps he'd been looking for the wrong half of his genome...

Almost as strikingly... It was the first time seeing Gregor like that, commanding, even handed. At no point was he not directing the conversation. It was a bit like what Negri must have had of a view of his conversations with Ezar. The young man was just moved skillfully through the lines, pushed here, pulled there. But there was less... inhumanity behind it. In fact, Gregor was making no secret of what his pleasure was for the outcome.

Why try this hard? To cement a safer future? For the sake of the man kneeling before him, tight as a drawn bowstring, as fragile and deadly at the same time? ... Or was it the real reason he was in the room? Perhaps all of it.

Almost despite himself, he found himself watching with a deep intensity, hanging for the moment, on what name is offered with Mark's hands.]

[ Gregor has had plenty of feeble old men or injured veterans kneel to him, and every time he must suppress his reflex to tell them not to, to be kinder to their knees. He feels no such reflex now, for all of Mark's awkwardness. This is something that must happen. Unfair of him as it is, if he relies on the principles by which he knows Miles operates best, he suspects he needs a careful balance of firm boundaries and freedom. Gregor has grown used to the idea, slowly and over many years, that he can provide something by giving orders; stability, structure, certainty. They are concepts he thinks Mark Pierre has had very little of in his life.

On a more basic level, he simply can't allow him to have another opportunity to hurt them. Gregor knows it is not hubris to think that when he is hurt, the whole clan is hurt. It calls to action the entire sorry lot of them, and pulls in a horde of affiliated friends, as had been shown. He doesn't want to suffer anything like this ever again-- he doesn't want anyone else to suffer it, either, he thinks, mindful of Aral's injuries, Miles's broken legs, their house torn to rubble and who knows what else on those who'd been involved that he hasn't seen yet. He wants, too, for Mark not to be hurt by this again either. He can't protect him from everything, but he can at least protect him from indecision, cowardice, and torn loyalties.

He gravely holds out his hands, palms facing each other, with all the somber weight of someone who lives and breathes his oaths no less than any of his subjects. This power might be ironic-- it might be something Gregor is reluctant to, even slightly afraid of, using-- but it does suit him. ]

Put your hands between mine and repeat after me, [ he says. He makes a quick appraisal based on Mark's words earlier-- not denial but uncertainty as to his welcome, and gives him his full name. He would never force an identity on someone, but perhaps he needs a nudge in this, too, if that is his only protest. ] I, Mark Pierre Vorkosigan, do testify I am an unsworn freeman, and take service under Emperor Count Gregor Vorbarra as subject and liege-sworn, and will hold him as my liege-commander until death or he releases me. I swear furthermore that I will promptly report any attempts to suborn my loyalty to him, or to Admiral Lord Aral Vorkosigan; and I will not give violence or be party to it by passivity to my liege or anyone sworn to him except under orders or in self-defense.

[ He takes a breath. Even from the first moment, the first word, there are elements of this that leave him uncertain, adrift. What accent should he use? Barrayaran seems most natural, because he always learned these courtly functions and formal words as Miles. But Barrayaran will seem a mockery, won't it? Now that he's used Jacksonian? Emperor Gregor and the Butcher - and Admiral Lord Aral Vorkosigan - might well take that as making fun. ]

I, Mark Pierre Vorkosigan -

[ Only the second time he's spoken the name Mark aloud. The first time he's said the whole of it, the whole mouthful. It goes well. Mark Pierre. Mark Pierre Vorkosigan. Mark Pierre Vorkosigan. Since the first time he heard that name, coming from the Countess, it's haunted him. Peter Kane had been an alias, had always felt like an alias...Mark Pierre Vorkosigan feels like a name. It will always be his, he thinks. Even if he turns around and finds Aral Vorkosigan standing there, dangerous glint in his eye, the Emperor might have accepted you but you're no true Vorkosigan, even if he has to relinquish the name later, it'll always be his. And he'll always have had this glorious moment where he calls himself Mark Pierre, and where it's right. It's true. ]

Do testify I am an unsworn freeman -

[ Is he? He has loyalty to two madmen. Lucifer's grip is weaker, to be fair; it's newer, and Lucifer secured his cooperation more on the basis of his alikeness to Ser Galen than on his own frightening merits. Hatred for Lucifer is untempered by anything more complicated - there's only hatred and fear. That bond of loyalty is quickly set aside. That bond to Ser Galen, though...He owes his life, his miserable shadow of a life, to Ser Galen and to the leadership of Free Komarr. He owes his face and his twisted limbs and his shit-poor breathing and his inability to know what's right and what's wrong to Ser Galen. He owes the loyalty of a soldier to his commander to Ser Galen - the loyalty of a son to a father.

But: you had options? Ways to refuse? A loyal soldier isn't kept captive. A son isn't starved in the dark. Neither of them - neither of them are hurt so badly that they can't move, can't breathe. Ser Galen's bond of loyalty was...never earned. It was just the only option he ever had. He never had any other choice.

So I'm suborned. It's a fucking relief. ]

And take service under Emperor Count Gregor Vorbarra as subject and liege-sworn -

[ His eyes dart up to Gregor's face. Look at his shadowed, pained expression. Sorry. Sorry. ]

And will hold him as my liege-commander until death or he releases me.

[ A restless thought occurs to him - what about if he dies a temporary death? He could wiggle out of it that way...For some reason, that thought fills him with more melancholy fear than it does with hope. Wiggling out...isn't something he wants. ]

I swear furthermore that I will promptly report any attempts to suborn my loyalty to him -

[ That part added specifically for him, he suspects. ]

Or to Admiral Lord Aral Vorkosigan.

[ How does Aral Vorkosigan feel about this? What's going on behind him? To get an unwanted, unanticipated second son. One who's already hurt him, already hurt his son, his Emperor...For a moment, he thinks back to that moment during the battle, when the Butcher saved him from the teeth of that hellhound. He'd thought it was so he could finish him off later. But - was it...? Was it really to save him? Was that a father, rescuing his son? ]

And I will not give violence or be party to it by passivity to my liege or anyone sworn to him except under orders or in self-defense.

[ That last part is kindness. If their positions were reversed, Mark wouldn't allow that part for self-defense. There are ways to wiggle out from that, justify self-defense. Gregor is extending so much trust...Even as his mind jumps to ways to circumvent it, he also swears mentally that he never will. He's tried a number of new things since coming here to this world. He decides that he's going to try out loyalty. True loyalty. Try out...belonging.

He recites the last words of the oath. It clicks into place. ]

[Mark Pierre Vorkosigan. He had half expected a correction, as stubborn and fierce as any. As those moments where he'd forgotten himself in their phone conversation - those were both strange and made so much more sense now that he thought about them with the new context.

Mark Pierre Vorkosigan. The name sworn to the Emperor was his name in truth, by law, as deep and binding as anything on Barrayar. There were options, of course. He couldn't remove the name, but he could cut him from the household, from the line of succession. It wasn't common, but it wasn't entirely rare either. Not all families were happy ones. (Cordelia was so sure though.)

It helped, in some ways. A name, one sworn, removed him from the surly stranger with an uncanny face. Banished the thought of a twisted, transparent shade of his son before it could even manifest.

Under the privacy of Mark's stiff back and Gregor's full attention on his new subject, Aral Vorkosigan stared openly, as if the sight alone could tell him who the hell Mark Pierre Vorkosigan actually was.]

[ Gregor always starts with trust. Always, always. He learned statecraft from Aral but he learned people from Cordelia, and one he took to more naturally than the other, because it was satisfying when he got it right. He can close the loopholes later if need be, as he has with an oath or two for Miles, but Gregor has not forgotten 'Peter Kane' and his quiet insistence that he not allow him to cheat him. He assumes that mentality will hold true here-- he assumes too that showing kindness, tightening boundaries later only if he must, is more effective than starting from a presumption of suspicion. He assumes that because it has never been untrue before.

Now he can afford to be kind, with the deed done and his role almost closed. This is the important part, the leverage point on which all the rest must rest, and it had gone as smoothly as he could've hoped. Gregor squeezes his hands between his once, before answering in soft tones, ] I, Gregor Vorbarra, reigning Emperor of the Barrayaran Imperium, do accept your oath, and pledge you the protection of a liege commander; this by my word as Vorbarra.

[ As the lock clicks shut, he waits expectantly for the link to blossom into existence, and he neatly reaches out to snare it shut before more than the barest traces can filter through. It's not fair, not ethical, to have it open at all before he can inform Mark (Lord Mark, he realizes with some dazed pleasure at a job complete, seeing his acceptance of his name) of how to hold his end closed. Gregor has by now formed a set of working rules for how he operates with his links, so he doesn't need to think about how he wants to handle this. This is his fourth or fifth time doing it. ]

You may rise. I have one more thing to go over with you before you are released. Well, two.

[ By no coincidence has the formality of his speech patterns dropped off precipitously. ]

Uh...

[ So this is it. Kneeling as a nameless clone, rising as Mark. Lord Mark Pierre Vorkosigan, he realizes with some confusion - because this makes him Vor, doesn't it? It feels still like playacting. Because - him. With a home. With sworn loyalty. With a family. By this logic, the man sitting before him is no longer just the Emperor, but Cousin Gregor. Miles, standing outside the door, is brother. And the man at his back, the hatchet-faced man whose face had haunted his nightmares for years, is...

Father. The Count my Father. This can't possibly be right...Can it? That lock had snapped into place. Surely it's just a grand joke, but so far no one has started laughing. ]

Yes. [ He clears his throat. ] Yes, sire. [ He reaches up, rubs at his jaw; it feels like he's just been struck, but he cannot for the life of him find the spot where the fist would have landed. ]

What...is it?

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