Chapter Text
In one month, Gregor will be Emperor of three planets. Gregor hasn’t spoken to his mother in almost two weeks. This second fact has been preying on his mind far more than the first. Miles, being Miles and so perceptive enough to be annoying, had pointed out that he already was Emperor, and it’s unreasonable to be too caught up in worrying about the official start of his reign, since he’s been aware that it’s been coming since he was four years old.
Luckily, Miles had to share this breezy attempt at cheering him up from over the console. Beta Colony is far enough that even he hasn’t been able to figure out what has really been bothering him. Gregor has always been glad that there are no vid cameras allowed close enough to let people who know them notice the unusual distance between the Princess-Dowager and her son-the-Emperor. Miles is also preoccupied with his own troubles, not that he would admit that anything is wrong in his dramatic ‘anthropological study’ of the differences between Barrayar and Beta Colony, complete with a compilation of news presenters seeming a slightly confused at the concept of Emperors. He’s good at filling up space, but Gregor knows how to read the things he doesn’t say. Miles can be annoyingly clever, but he hasn’t learned how to hide all his tells just yet. Gregor can track the fewer and fewer mentions of school and wonders if he was as obvious at fifteen. He keeps his worries out of his dry response, because there’s nothing else you can do with Miles.
Gregor’s well aware that his worries about Miles are in part a distraction, in some ways a more effective one than Miles active attempts. It’s familiar. He knows Miles’ words, just as Miles knows his silences. But it’s not enough to stop his mind from circling back, just with new words. If Miles were home, he would notice the distance, but not understand. Miles, who doesn’t know how not to fight, probably finds it stranger that Gregor so rarely has any conflict with his mother. Gregor tries not to linger on that old jealousy. Miles always throws himself against limits, heedless of the lines Gregor has to be painfully aware of. Miles struggles against his parents attempts to keep him safe, even as they do their best to give him as much freedom as possible. Gregor has never been to Beta Colony. He has barely been anywhere, he’s too important. Gregor has his mother, and he dreads losing her. He has always been selfishly glad that she has all the protections and limitations of the royal family, so it’s unfair to complain that he has to live in them too.
Now, he wonders if the nightmares of his mother fading away had been a premonition instead of a just the old childhood fear. If he was destined to lose her not by either of them being taken by outside force, but by his own actions. The child’s assumptions that her absence had to have been caused by his own failure to be good enough turned into a truth now that he’s a man with responsibility for his own actions. That’s what had started this.
To say that Gregor hasn’t spoken with his mother in weeks veers towards the exaggerated dramatics he usually doesn’t allow himself to indulge in. They’ve maintained normal relations in public. He sits and listens to the discussions on the ceremony to mark the end of Lord Vorkosigan’s rule as regent and the normal meetings that have increasingly been part of his life over the years. He can even spend most of them thinking on what’s being said, or even trying to imagine what it will be like to hold them in his own right.
Despite the occasional joke, this is not the first time he’s fought with his mother. Usually he would take the lack of frosty correctness of titles as a good sign. He wishes he had to sit through one of her overly polite reprimands, that he could gauge her thoughts. He could even wish for one of the worn thin talks about new responsibilities. He has been Emperor for as long as he can remember, and well used to discussions on what that meant, even when the final choices weren’t in his hands. He doesn’t know if he’s ready, but he had been told he shouldn’t be. He has always been told about the dangers of overconfidence, of reckless assumption of power.
Gregor isn’t stupid. Outside of bland histories – even inside of those histories – there are few mentions of his father. He can’t remember his mother ever speaking of him in private. Neither Lord Vorkosigan nor Aunt Cordelia mention him either. The excuse that they didn’t know him seems to apply to everyone Gregor has met. He has had lessons on the Escobarran War free from patriotic spin. He could have guessed at something. He had guessed something, enough to claim he was old enough to demand the truth, heart full of certainty that he was in the right. And his mother had told him. And the way he had responded –
Understanding his mother’s schedule as he does now, Gregor is even more impressed that she had always carved out time to spend with him. She had carved out a space just for them with a ruthlessness few imagined the Princess-Dowager possessed. She had read to him, taught him games, been there as silent company in a time where he was just Gregor and she was just his mother. She had been a guide to his duties, firm but always explaining why something was expected. She had never added her voice to those who talked about the importance of ensuring royal succession as quickly as possible.
He had thought he could take the knowledge that that his father had been a poor husband, a reckless prince who had more dreams than sense. He had even wondered if it would make him feel more or less guilty for his flashes of jealousy that Lord Vorkosigan would never be his father. Everyone knows his Lord Regent’s dark secrets. Everyone still respects him. He had thought he was ready for an unflattering portrait, but when he’d been given what he asked for, he proved unable to take it.
Gregor had told himself he was prepared, but maybe that was just another lie. There are plenty of other reasons for silences. Sorrow leaves voids filled with unspoken names. Prince Serg had died bravely – even if only by what Cordelia would call the most foolish Barrayaran definition of the word. He had fought a war, unaware of the technology that would change its entire course. He had left behind a wife already incline to quiet. Gregor can say that he had been ready to hear of a villain, but he suspects he might have really been longing for a hero to fill the gap. He had wanted to be told of a man his mother had loved so much that she still couldn’t bear to speak of him, sixteen years later. A child’s dream of a father, a romantic image of mourning.
That dream had been killed by quiet words just as fully as Serg had died in the reflected blast of his own weapon. And he’d proved that all his pretensions of being old enough to know the facts obscured in a simplified version of history were a lie. He had shown himself that his assurances that he didn’t listen to the whispers about the truth of Vordarian’s Pretendership. He had been given a monster, and he’d thrown back his own. He has seen his mother’s cool response to accusation, he had never before seen her freeze. He hadn’t stayed to watch her take in the truth of who he is.
Aunt Cordelia brings the end to the ripple of silences moving outward, as maybe only she could. Gregor has been avoiding her, aware that she was letting him. He could imagine one of her headshakes at Barrayaran ridiculousness, he hadn’t wanted to replace that image with the truth. When she knocks at his door, he could barely face opening it. The only thing worse is the idea of telling his guards to take her away. It’s too easy to imagine.
“Lady Vorkosigan.” She takes a seat with a wry expression. “I was just listening to Miles’ message. I don’t think he’s getting along as well with his classmates as he hoped.”
Cordelia gives him a Look, the type that only she could manage, as it erased even the slightest doubt that she was even taking talking to the Emperor into the equation. “I’m not here to talk about Miles.” There’s a reassurance in her firmness, he knows that she would know that something was wrong just as easily as he did, but the proof is a relief to some of his worries. “Come on, kiddo, out with it.”
“I asked mother about Prince Serg.”
“I know.” Her response is steady, and as he meets her grey eyes he’s tempted to ask why she never said anything, why she had lied – but he remembers his mother’s face. It’s a question he won’t be able to ask until later.
“About Vordarian –” The lecture he expected (wanted) doesn’t seem to be coming. He can imagine Aral’s reaction. The contained anger that he deserves. He isn’t a disappointing in the face of his father’s legacy but living up to it. A monster as my father was before me.
Cordelia sighs. “There are times when you and your mother are far too similar. Both of you feel responsible for everything. And you don’t talk about it. Not that you’ve had the best role models there. Talk to her, Gregor. You need to.” Gregor can’t think of many people who could argue with that look, he can’t summon up the will to be one of them. Not when it’s what he wants. The immediate response to his message is a spark of hope that he isn’t the only one.
Gregor takes his mother’s arm as they walk through his grandfather’s gardens. It still feels strange to stand taller than her. The Princess-Dowager’s hair is still dark and thick, though Gregor is one of the few to know that there are covered strands of grey. He knows too the planned changes in hair style and clothing she’ll adopt when he fully takes on his role. She’ll become the staid elder with a son old enough to take up his proper mantel with the same grace she’d worn the responsibility to appear young and strong as the ruling generation. She had taught him the shifts in hair styles and clothes that marked power plays in the capital. She had taught him how to listen, how to watch, how hold onto the image of control when everything depended on you.
“I’m sorry.” He says.
She reaches up to brush back a strand of hair from his forehead. “You aren’t the only one who needs to apologize. She reaches up to brush away a strand of hair. “You aren’t the only one who needs to apologize. You were right, I should have told you sooner. Found some better way.”
He shakes his head, acceptance that he had done something needing apology not enough. “I was just trying to hurt you.”
The words leave a sick feeling his mouth at the truth of them, but it eases a little at the look of stern amusement only he gets to see. The look reserved for her son. “I know what you were trying to do. If it worked, it was just the same way that it hurt when you locked me out when you weren’t allowed on some trip. It’s the truth that carries weight.
“Is bring up embarrassing stories your revenge?”
It’s a weak try at a joke, but there are times when his attempts to lighten a mood are enough to warm a woman whose shadows never seem to fully leave her. It doesn’t work now, and he watches the play of light on her serious faces. He thinks again on Cordelia’s words, on the similarities between them. He wonders if his guardians hunt for those comparisons to avoid seeing anything of his other parent in him.
“I wouldn’t have many to use. You were not allowed many embarrassing childhood stories. You will have more power than most can ever dream of, and we’ve always expected you to live up to the duties that come with that honor. Vor serve, an Emperor even more so, but that doesn’t make it always easy for a child.”
“There are far worse lives.”
“There are. It was important that you always knew that. Perhaps it was important that you knew this truth too, but that can’t be changed.” They go forward. Sometimes he can’t tell if the voice in his head is his mother’s or his Regent’s, the words are often similar. The directness even more so. He doesn’t think he lets through any sign of acknowledging it as true or not. His mother shakes her head. “But when should I have told you? As a child, who already had too many responsibilities? You feared failing enough without adding more stones to crush you. You needed to know before someone else told you, but when would’ve done the least damage? Was it worse to have to ask or think that I felt there was a reason you had to know?”
He’s not sure if the questions are rhetorical or not. He doesn’t know the answers. He had asked to know. He doesn’t want to imagine learning and knowing that she had lied to him. He doesn’t know what he would’ve done if she’d simply not answered. Would he have gone digging, or would he have told himself it wasn’t important? He can’t make himself ask.
His mother turns fully, completely ignoring the image presented to distant watchers to cup his face. “I don’t have to say this is proof you’re nothing like him, I have known that for years.” She speaks with a certainty even harder to argue against than Cordelia’s. The words he needs to hear, from someone he can believe.
Gregor lets himself feel relieved as his mother holds him. He lets himself trust her. He is not his father. But knowing who he’s not doesn't answer the question of who he is.