Work Text:
For seven years,
Nothing diminished that feeling of fear.
And I learned to laugh at it,
And I left a drop of wine
And crumbs of bread for the one who every night
Scratched like a dog at the door
Or peered through the low-set window,
While we, keeping still, tried
Not to see what was happening behind the mirror,
Under whose heavy tread
The steps of the dark staircase groaned,
As if pleading dolefully for mercy,
And you said, smiling strangely:
"Who are they dragging down the stairs?"
Now that you're there, where everything is known -- tell me:
What else lived in that house besides us?
-- Sixth Elegy, Anna Akhmatova, tr. Judith Hermshemeyer
All day long, she had pretended to be tired, pardoning her unenthusiastic demeanor with vaguely murmured excuses; now that it was night, the night before her husband's funeral, she found she couldn't sleep. And if she made a mistake tomorrow, would anyone care how weary she was?
What was that story about the girl who cried wolf? Ekaterin roused herself from a stupor long enough to move a few plants in her virtual garden. This was a new one, and not shaping up to be a good one, but it was something to do. Something to keep her hands and mind busy, working around the strange, inexplicable pain in her gut.
She wasn't grieving -- at least, she didn't think she was. She had felt grief before and this wasn't it. But she was beginning to realize that a whole chapter of her life had come and gone, and this time there would be no excuses, no adults, no men to shoulder the blame. Solitude, which only weeks ago had unlocked the exhilarating well-springs of freedom in her mind, was beginning to feel like a new cage.
Let it go, she thought, let it go. One step at a time. One damn thing after another. . . .
"Mama?"
Ekaterin looked beyond the projection and found her son, the left side of his face flushed and sleep-creased, his pajama top slipping off one shoulder. His body, still round and padded with puppy fat, was just beginning to acquire a new, self-conscious teenage lankiness. There was a thin line etched between his brows.
"Nikki," she said, standing and shaking out her skirts. "I didn't see you there. What are you doing up?" Automatically, she guided him from her room and down the stairs, ushering him quietly past the Professor and Professora's dark room. “Couldn’t you sleep?”
"No," he said, once they were in the kitchen and the lights were on. "I'm not tired."
"Mm," she said, noncommittal. His face gave the lie to his words; beneath his sloppy fringe of brown-blond hair, his eyes were rimmed with red. Had he been weeping, crying alone in his new, unfamiliar bed? Her heart wrenched in her chest and she suddenly felt very unsteady.
"I'm not tired, either," she said truthfully. "Do you want some spiced milk? I was just thinking about making some."
He nodded and clambered up into a chair. Ekaterin busied herself with the familiar motions of measure, pour, stir; gradually the smell of cinnamon and warm milk filled the room. No words of brilliance came to mind. She wished she'd asked the Professora for advice.
"Are you nervous about the funeral tomorrow?" she asked, setting down two oversized mugs.
Nikki's small hands strained to wrap around his. "No," he lied.
"You'll do fine, you know," she said, ignoring the obvious untruth. "We already practiced what to say and do; it'll be over after just a few minutes. Nothing to worry about." Then why are you so worried?
Nikki mumbled an affirmative and took a cautious sip. Ekaterin followed suit, beginning to get a little desperate. She had to comfort her boy, she couldn't just pack him off to bed where he would toss and turn in lonely silence, and she didn't want to be alone.
"Do you want to come play games on my comconsole?" she asked.
His eyes widened and he sat up straighter. "Really?"
"Sure." She found herself beaming and worked to keep the expression calm and reassuring. "I can't sleep, either. We might as well stay up together."
Nikki agreed happily, and they snuck back upstairs and settled in front of her desk, Nikki in the chair, Ekaterin perched on the edge of the bed. Her gaze fogged, watching the projection over his shoulder as he chattered happily (but quietly), and she could have wept with the aching futility of it all.
But she went on.
~
The day dawned misty and chill. Ekaterin roused Nikki from where he'd fallen asleep on her bed and marched him into the bathroom, where the Professor took over, already neatly dressed in an unusually well-fitted suit. The Professora met her in the hall, carrying a plate of breakfast in one hand and Ekaterin's new uniform – gray bolero and skirts in the best Vor lady's mourning – laid over the other. Ekaterin could have kissed her.
Dressed and combed, they took themselves off to the funeral. Ekaterin watched through the tinted glass as they approached, marshaling her inner forces for a long day of defensive battle. People clustered in groups, chatting lowly, free to smile and laugh, if quietly. They didn't have to pretend to grieve for a man who'd sucked the life out of them.
No, she should be fair. Theirs had been a marriage – Tien had been the greater of them, in the eyes of the law and most men, but she had done her share. She should mourn, at least for today, and oddly enough it wasn't hard.
She remembered him as he'd been when Nikki was born. When Nikki was still very young. Could she muster some sorrow for that dark-eyed man, the one who'd made her laugh, who'd opened the world to her for such a brief time? Dead and in the ground he was, taking the dreams they'd shared with him . . . oh, but to be honest, he and they had been gone so long. . . .
Privately distressed. Ekaterin didn't notice Madam Vorsoisson until she was right in front of her. She stopped, feet and mouth united in clumsy folly. "Madam! I – how, how are you?"
"Ekaterin." Tien's mother bobbed her head in a nod. "I'm holding up. How are you?"
The old woman's face was pale and grave. Ekaterin gathered the shreds of her composure and hoped her cluelessness looked like grief. "The same. Nikki, dear—" Unfair to hide behind her son. Too bad.
"Hello, Grandmama." Nikki clutched Ekaterin's hand and stood before her, a small, playful wind whipping her skirts about their legs. He'd been stiff and uncomfortable all day, and grew tight-lipped at the crowd of people.
Madam Vorsoisson mustered a smile for her grandson. They mouthed a few more cordial pleasantries and then parted with palpable relief, Ekaterin attaching herself gratefully to her aunt. And the entire day would be filled with meetings like that, each one more excruciating than the last. Doing it the second time was always easier, Lord Auditor Vorkosigan had said to Nikki, as he coaxed him out of the bathroom just a few weeks ago. Afterwards, I always wished I could start with the second time. But you have to do it the first time first.
Indeed. Another deep breath, an attentive look, and she thanked the stars that she didn't have to smile. The expression would be nightmarish.
Hugo and Rosalie found her next. Immediately, Rosalie wrapped her in a hug, one hand coming to cup the back of Ekaterin's head, like she thought her sister-in-law would weep into her shoulder. With an effort, Ekaterin swallowed a surge of bitter laughter and gladly stepped away.
"Ekaterin, sweetheart," Rosalie said, with a warm, rueful smile and sympathetic eyes. "How are you holding up?"
If she was really distraught, would Rosalie's manner be comforting or cloying? "I'm doing all right," she said. "Are the kids with you?" Nikki, still clutching her hand, brightened at the prospect.
"Oh, yes, they're just over here. . . ." Rosalie bore off her nephew and Hugo stepped into her place. Their hug was mercifully brief. He began talking about the cemetery, weren't those lovely trees, and did she know what they'd look like in bloom? Ekaterin could have kissed him. Small talk! Small talk about gardening, small talk she could play along with! She agreed warmly.
Rosalie returned, threading their arms together. With the Professor and Professora trailing, exchanging remarks with the Vorsoissons and hugs with their own family, Ekaterin made the rounds, feeling more and more drained of life with each offer of condolences. No, don't pity me, I've just gotten my life back. Pity Nikki. Pity Tien. It all seemed unbearably far away.
She spotted Nikki once, playing hide-and-seek with his cousins and telling them about his trips on the jumpships. He sensed her gaze, and turned, looking suddenly anxious. Ekaterin approached.
"Having fun?" she asked quietly, smiling. He nodded, that little line appearing on his forehead again. She wished she could read his thoughts. Was she alleviating his distress, or increasing it? "Good. Make sure you don't get your clothes dirty, okay?"
"Mmkay," he mumbled. She kissed his forehead, ignoring his squirm, and released him back into the wild.
"Kids," Rosalie said, approaching gradually. "They're tough. They can bounce back from anything."
Thank God, Ekaterin thought, watching her son.
"Kids aren't the only ones who are resilient," the Professora said, taking Rosalie's place at her side. "Come, my dear, I believe Vassily Vorsoisson wishes to speak with you. . . ."
The day wore on. They went in, an elaborate building built just for ceremonies like this, ornate with gold-and-white detailing, perfumed by fresh, fat flowers. Did the dead appreciate such luxury? Did the living? The room was claustrophobic with scent and made her head throb. Her aunt and uncle closed her and Nikki in on both sides, like the lion bookends in her aunt's study. Her father sat by her uncle, her step-mother beside him.
Nikki squirmed self-consciously. Ekaterin bowed her head to murmur to him, "Remember what we practiced."
His dark eyes caught the light as he looked up and nodded. For a moment, he looked so much like Tien that her heart skipped, and she smoothed his hair unnecessarily.
"Madame Vorsoisson?"
Her head flew up, cheeks coloring as a little gasp escaped her. "Lord Auditor Vorkosigan! You made it!"
Lord Vorkosigan was dressed in one of his impeccable gray suits, a small, slightly strained smile on his face, both hands held behind his back in a posture that looked a lot like parade rest. He inclined his head – for once, as she was sitting, he was taller.
"You look tired," he said, and somehow, coming from him, it wasn't the usual suffocating sympathy. "Is it the ceremony or the relatives? Having some experience with funerals, I'd say both are equally tiring."
Uncle Vorthys snorted. Lord Vorkosigan's smile was suddenly stiff and apologetic, like he thought he'd offended her.
"It's probably a little bit of both," she admitted ruefully. He was obviously tense; no one would dare be rude to him, would they? Rural Vor could be downright heinous when they wanted to, and his physical disabilities were painfully apparent against the backdrop of well-grown men and women, all similarly attired.
"We were up playing video games all night," Nikki said quietly, the first thing Ekaterin had heard him volunteer to an adult yet.
Lord Vorkosigan turned his attention to the boy. "An excellent strategy," he said. "I shall keep it in mind. You look sharp, Nikki." A rueful glint, deep in his slate-grey eyes. "Only a little more and you get to go home."
Nikki nodded in obvious relief. Ekaterin claimed her son's hand and nodded to the little Lord Auditor. "Thank you for coming, Lord Vorkosigan. I appreciate it."
He made an embarrassed little gesture. "Think nothing of it," he said. His eyes flicked behind her, inspecting the gathered crowd. Everyone was filing to their seats. "I'd better go sit down. Madame." His eyes grew serious, and more intent; her breath caught as the rest of the room fell away. "Is there anything at all you need of me?"
He sounded almost desperate. Her heart sped onwards in strange, lurching beats. "No," she heard herself say, as if from a great distance. "No, thank you. Lord Vorkosigan."
He inclined his head gravely, eyes lowered, and disappeared rapidly into the crowd. Ekaterin craned her neck to watch him go.
Aunt Vorthys touched her arm. "It's starting now, dear."
And then the ceremony. She placed a lock of her hair, and of Nikki's, and guided his hand; the flames caught and surged, the force fields shimmering faintly, dancing and holding nothing -- no secrets, no mysteries, no absolution. The offering warmed her as nothing else had; she imagined she heard the clatter of chains on the marble floor. Her eyes burned and she blinked twice, hard.
She and Nikki returned to their seats. Her head felt empty and clear.