Work Text:
Oh soon, and better so than later
After long disgrace and scorn,
You shot dead the household traitor,
The soul that should not have been born.
Right you guessed the rising morrow
And scorned to tread the mire you must:
Dust's your wages, son of sorrow,
But men may come to worse than dust.
--A.E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad
Laisa lay still, eyes open in the dark, as Gregor slipped quietly into their bedroom. His clothing rustled as he undressed. It took a while; he'd been in full Vorbarra House uniform. She hadn't watched him put it on -- she'd been making an appearance at a local school -- but she had been privy to the sartorial uncertainty over breakfast, when she'd last seen him, and he'd sent her a message later declaring what he'd chosen. It was probably the wrong choice, but he could hardly have asked Alys Vorpatril what to wear, not on this occasion.
The noises stopped, and she could hear only his breathing. "Are you coming to bed?" she said without turning over.
Silence. She turned over, then, and looked. He was standing by the window, naked, in the moonlight.
"You'll shock the neighbors," she said. The window was force-screened -- Gregor had been taught, from childhood, not to go near any glass that wasn't -- and unless a guard was patrolling the roof, no one stood a chance of seeing him. Except her. She had learned, over the years of their marriage, to seize and hold these few moments of illusory privacy. This was going to be one of the most difficult to grasp.
He wasn't coming to bed. "Well, I'm not sleepy either," she said, and got up, throwing a dressing gown over her nightdress, and fetching Gregor's as well. Not that she ever minded looking at his body, but this was not the time and he might be cold. She slid the robe around his shoulders, and he absentmindedly put his arms in and fastened it. He looked at her... through her was probably more like it.
"So, you wore the House uniform?" she said. Sufficient precision, though there were too many uniforms on this planet. Parade red-and-blues had been right out; he never wore ordinary dress uniform though he had some right to it as commander-in-chief; and... not the House mourning wear, not yet. Not, presumably, ever. The other choice had been a good suit.
"Yes," he said dully. At least he was responding to her. "I should have worn the suit."
"The suit being less" -- tribal -- "dynastic?" Not more anonymous: Gregor stood little chance of that.
"He seemed to think I was taunting him. Or making a joke." Gregor looked away, out the window, his jaw working. "He doesn't realize this is all just one, enormous... farce. Except I don't know what's funny."
"Don't start crying," she said sharply. "Your eyes can't be red tomorrow. You said you didn't want there to be any questions."
"Yes. Thank you." It was obviously an effort to get the words out, but he controlled himself. "I could wear makeup, I suppose. Being an actor." He let out a harsh sound that might have been laughter, and added, "He gave me tips. Based on his own experience of getting the giggles onstage. The key, apparently, is to not relax my lips or tongue, keep the teeth apart inside a closed mouth. Then nothing will quiver, and I'll merely look stern. Which is quite appropriate, for the execution of a dangerous criminal."
"It gave you something to talk about, at least."
"Yes. Otherwise there would have been a lot of silence. I was worried he might think I'd come with a pardon. He didn't seem to."
"Is he frightened?" she said gently.
"I think he's terrified. But unless he breaks at the last minute, he's not going to show it. That advice wasn't just for my benefit." Gregor's lips went tight. The technique, evidently, worked. "It might be worth expanding on," he went on, "acting lessons for soldiers, politicians... no, they don't need them. Vor lords. The great pageant of our class. That's a farce, if you will." Gregor turned abruptly away from the window and, apparently still dazzled by the moon, put out a hand to feel his way in the dark room; he stepped cautiously over to their little sitting area, and collapsed in the armchair. Laisa followed him, turning on a few soft lights on the way, and sat on the loveseat, waiting for him to go on. This was going to be an exercise in patience and understanding. Timing, picking up his cues... no doubt she needed those acting lessons too.
"The Council of Counts," he said, "what was it, three years ago now? Voted down any further change in the capital punishment laws. They enjoy getting their heads cut off with swords, it seems. At least we can shoot Serg. Prisoner X. Whatever we're calling him, it doesn't begin with Vor. I almost don't have to be there, except that part of his crime was against me, and we have to show the Cetagandans we take it seriously."
"But you do have to be there."
"Of course I bloody well have to be there," he growled. "Could I live with myself if I didn't go? Probably can't live with myself either way. One of us," he added with dark humor, "is going to have to move out."
"I thought maybe..." she began, and then gathered her courage and went on. "I was worried, today, that you weren't going to come back."
"Armsmen don't let you throw yourself in the river."
"No." Oh, love. "I meant... that you might give him the pardon after all. And... move out."
"You mean... skip town? Run off with my son the murderer and... roam the galaxy? Start a mercenary company?"
"So you've thought about it."
"Thought. Fleetingly. The insidious legend of Admiral Naismith, hm? I envied Miles the little Admiral. He even had different voices. All my voices are the same."
"No, they're not." She, among very few other people in the galaxy, knew Gregor when he'd shed the Emperor entirely; knew what he sounded like passionate, silly, sleep-stupid early mornings; knew the intimate murmurs and the gasps of ecstasy and the truly vile puns he didn't share in meetings. And she'd heard him sing to their children.
He was Gregor this night, too, but haunted by Imperial ghosts: his own shadow, and the shades of his parents and grandparents and Vorbarras from long ago. Pale and still in the dimness, he faded into an echo of all those portraits lining all those hallways. Wasted space, she still couldn't help thinking; ancestors on Komarr were relegated to holovids, and it made them no more or less gone. Gregor might have been a holovid, these last weeks, replaying the same words, facial expressions, political reassurances, all false. Or at least all short of truth. She hadn't seen, or heard, the real Gregor since before he'd met Serg, on that disastrous day that had been the beginning of this... end.
But at least he was talking to her. There was, at any rate, no one else in the room.
"You know I couldn't leave," he said, continuing the thought of a minute ago. "Shouldn't like to leave. Wouldn't be allowed to leave. Serg would be a terrible second-in-command anyway."
"I doubt he would have let you be in charge. From what I've heard." She had not been allowed to meet... her stepson. Her late stepson, as of tomorrow morning. She had very little sympathy for him that was not theoretical -- his age, his upbringing, the finality of his punishment -- and in fact would have been inclined to hate him for what he'd done to her husband, if Gregor's identification with him had not been so heartbreakingly clear.
"True," said Gregor. "And... we tried Miles for treason, you know, for collecting the Dendarii. I suppose if I left, and did all that, I'd be committing treason against Emperor Xav. Though they'd have to try me in absentia."
"Fleeting thoughts, you said?"
He didn't answer. Instead he said, pensively, "Treason. We gave Serg the death penalty for murder, and kidnapping the Emperor did not play in his favor, but... it didn't occur to me until Aral had left my office that day, that he'd accused him of treason. Which is technically impossible; treason is an intent to overthrow or otherwise do harm to the government of which you are a citizen or subject."
"And Serg is not a Barrayaran subject."
"Except by right of his kinship to me. So Aral was, by habit or not, giving Serg that status. Just as well he doesn't actually have it, of course, or this would all be far more public."
It was a lot of words for Gregor at once, these days; but Laisa was sure they came out of a well-rehearsed script in his head, and in fact when he ran out he subsided into silence again. "Will you try to sleep?" she said.
Gregor shuddered. "It's not the sleep I mind. It's the waking up." He shook his head. "That sounds... I'm sorry. I don't mean to..."
"Frighten me? Dearest one, I'm frightened for you all the time. Do I need to add black depression and suicide to the list, after assassination and coup d'état?"
"I'm sorry," he repeated. "You didn't sign up for this."
"Yes, I did." She put out her hand toward him; he touched her fingers for a second and then withdrew. "We'll stay up all night, then," she said. "Into tomorrow. And then... when it's over... I hope you can sleep. A little."
Gregor laughed. "Sleep? I'll have a day to get on with. Meetings, an important Council hearing, signing things. I need to spend time with the children, and we have a new baby coming in a few weeks. Until then, at least, I hope to sleep at night. I can mourn... in corners of time, when I find myself in them. Face first, so no one sees my red eyes. After all, why should I need time to mourn?"
She wanted to hold him, but if he shook her off, it would be the end of comforting him for the night. Let him come to her, when he needed to. "If you'd made it public... no. We will not have this argument again. All the options were unbearable, and you chose this one. Not because it was the least painful, but because it was what you felt was right."
"It was what Aral said I should do. And he was right, as usual."
"Not," said Laisa cautiously, "that you've told him so."
"He went back to Sergyar."
"Of course he did; his home and his work are there, and after Taura was safely born he had no reason to stay. If you wanted him to hold your hand during the execution--"
"Damn it! No. He knows he was right. He knows I decided to kill my son, and why. There's nothing to say."
Laisa decided to leave it; they could discuss Aral later. And they'd had the capital punishment argument, too, with and without Aral. It wasn't as though people didn't kill each other on Komarr -- that was an unfortunate part of human nature -- but Barrayar's institutionalized violence, from the glorified military to the judicial murder of death sentences, made killing a gut response, the simplest, clearest answer: a systematic horror that even as gentle a man as Gregor accepted without much quarrel. If not without personal agony. But it was Barrayar, and she'd signed up for that too.
"Well," she said, "I'll be with you there, tomorrow."
"Thank you," he said blankly, and then, realizing what she meant, "No. Not at the execution."
"You need someone. And don't you dare say women shouldn't see executions."
It was an unlikely response from him, really; he'd known a lot of tough-minded women in his life. "But," he said instead, "aren't you giving a speech? To that farmers' cooperative?"
Her heart lurched: with all this, he was keeping track of her schedule as well as his own. "Ekaterin can handle it by herself. In fact, we could cancel altogether; I'm sure she would be with you too if you need her."
"Oh, and how would that look? Lady Vorkosigan and the Empress attending the death of a common criminal."
"He's hardly common. And can't we just be bloodthirsty? He kidnapped Ekaterin too; it could be assumed that she wants to see him die."
"She's been a lot more cold-blooded about it than me," Gregor said. "All along. I think without her... I'm not sure. I'd be dead. Or deposed. Or he never would have caught me in the first place. Anyway, she rescued us. And then I let Serg go." He clenched his left fist; opened the hand. Laisa had the feeling there'd been an invisible dagger in it. "But no. I'll do this alone."
"Do you not want Ekaterin there because then she'll have to tell Miles?"
Gregor gave her a canny look -- why are we still discussing Ekaterin rather than you? -- and said, "I would prefer this remain a secret. Among as few people as possible."
"Miles won't blab."
"There is no point in telling him, or anyone else, now. It's... almost over."
It will never be over, love, if you don't want it to be. "Well... I'm going to cancel my speech. I'll be there with you."
Gregor shrugged. "A great loss to the farmers."
And no gain for you? Laisa felt very small, an insignificant flicker of light next to the looming black cloud of Gregor's sorrow. "They'll get over it," she said.
"Mm."
He made no other sound after that, other than slow, even breathing. The room was very quiet, the usual nightly noises of the city not penetrating its walls. As if, she thought fancifully, the world was mourning this secret loss along with Gregor. They could sit like this all night, or she could make observations to which he would not respond, or she could try to break his apathy.
"Reenie was a terror to get to bed tonight," she said. "I knew two was a tough age, but really she's been good till now. I think they're all a bit on edge. They sense something's wrong. Even though they've seen so little of you lately."
"Should I go to them?" he said, his voice still flat and neutral. Duty, responsibility: he could not ignore that conditioning, but it didn't mean he felt any desire to carry it out.
"Not tonight." Please, not tonight. You'll scar them for life. "When you can be their father again, that's when you should go."
It was a low blow, but with it she'd found a chink in the armor. Expecting another dull I'm sorry, an acceptance that he'd failed in yet one more way, she got instead a hint of real emotion, the banked fire of pride and anger.
"I am their father. Damn it," he said, and then, the fire kindling, "I'm the father of three fucking planets, aren't I? You'd think I'd know how to do it by now."
"Well, when you have to blow up Komarr, get back to me with that analogy," she snapped.
He stared at her for a second, and then laughed. "Sergyar, surely," he said.
The name, and: "Unexplored territory."
"Oh, God. Yes. And never to be charted, apparently." He leaned forward, face in his hands. "I made them promise they'd give him something tonight, to make him sleep. Told him I'd keep the vigil. Thank you for keeping it with me."
"Of course."
"I wish... wishing is useless. But I wish I'd been there at least once to sing him to sleep, as a child. It would have been a trifle ridiculous, tonight. Although we were quite alone."
"How'd you manage that?" His Armsmen, and ImpSec, were more protective than ever.
He waved a hand, the Imperial go-away-don't-bother-me gesture that did, on occasion, produce results. It had taken Laisa several years to master it. "He was chained. And they let me take in a weapon."
Rising, Gregor went to the wardrobe where he'd carefully hung his House uniform. He felt on the top and took something down, bringing it back. "This," he said, placing it on the low table in front of them.
Laisa took it up: a sheath, with the hilt of a knife protruding. She drew it; the blade shimmered. "Is this his?" she guessed.
"Yes. I cleaned the blood off."
The blood of Serg's mother, Gregor's long-ago lover, Cavilo. Laisa had not considered herself jealous, and still didn't, but she had caught herself quizzing Ekaterin in detail about the woman and recognized that she was... fascinated by Gregor's fascination. Well, Cavilo was dead, and Serg would soon be. She gave Gregor a little nervous smile and resheathed the knife, placing it back on the table.
"I was planning to give it to him," Gregor said.
"What? You mean... to kill himself?" She paused. "Or to kill you?" His lip quirked, an acknowledgment of folly. "Gregor, you idiot," she told him, "'let's see what happens' is not an acceptable jest with your own life. Were his hands chained?"
"I would have released them, if he'd said he wanted it. He didn't. Not making it easier on either of us. Giving the noble condemned prisoner a way out is a well-established Vor tradition."
"He's not Vor."
"I suppose not. Though he'd have been good at it."
"Maybe in the Time of Isolation. I think it means something different, these days."
Gregor shook his head a little, and stared at the sheathed knife. Very deliberately, Laisa picked it up and moved it out of his sight, behind her on the loveseat. "Look at me," she said.
He met her eyes. "You're looking very beautiful tonight."
"Prettier than a blade to open your veins with? More desirable?"
"Laisa." He sighed. "I know my duty. I know I have to get past this, and go on, and serve the Empire. And I will." She waited. "I wanted to do my son a kindness, allowing him that quiet release. Perhaps I ought to have done the job for him, but that's not the kind of courage I possess. He won't die by my hand. Neither will I. Even if I am... just as much a prisoner." He watched her carefully as she nodded and let out her held breath. "I did try to prepare you," he said, "before we married, for what you might be getting into. I'm sorry I couldn't predict everything."
"It's not that kind of contract. And I would have agreed to it all in any case."
His mouth softened into a smile. "Anything to be Empress, hm?"
"Anything to get into bed with you, I believe was my thinking at the time." He actually grinned a little. "Oh, and the real estate. Nice china, too. And I love you; that helped."
"I love you too," he said. "May I... sit with you? Over there?"
She wondered why he was asking, and then she remembered the knife. Dropping it and kicking it under the loveseat, she patted the spot where it had been. "Please."
He sat, arm around her, still tense but allowing himself to relax slowly. "They've kept Serg isolated," he said, "to limit the chance anyone spots the resemblance. He's attended by only a couple of highly-trusted guards; I don't know what story they were told. The other prisoners have never seen him."
"Is he cooperating with the secrecy?"
"Surprisingly, yes. It would be in his nature to make tomorrow into a drama... or a farce... but I asked him if he had any plans of that sort, and he said he would die anonymous. And I believe him. If I can keep myself from crying out--"
"I'll hold your hand. Tight. Do you really believe him? He's... not reliable."
"He wants to be able to give promises, and keep them. He doesn't have much left, but he does have his word. In that, I trust him. It will still be a performance -- that's what he's good at -- but he knows that poise and stillness draw in an audience as well as loud declarations. And I think..." -- Gregor's voice broke a little -- "I think he wants me to be proud of him."
"And perhaps the reverse. That coaching. He wants to be proud of you."
"Oh. Yes, perhaps. He... approved of the sentence. Never pleaded for his life. Wanted me to tell him what would happen -- the weapons the squad would use, the blindfold, all of that -- but then he just set his mouth and nodded."
"Has he ever said he was sorry for the murders?"
"No. He does know about the genetic test results. That Cavilo was in fact his mother. And that no one in the Cetagandan government made a plea for clemency. I thought he should know."
"Does he know you love him?"
Gregor's breath drew in, hard. "You're not supposed to let me cry," he told her from between clenched teeth. He took two ragged breaths, got himself under control, and said, "How does one express that, I wonder? I will be watching very lovingly when they shoot you tomorrow? I wish we'd had a chance to be father and son, but too bad you killed four people while trying to steal my throne? A puzzle, for sure." She reached for his hand, trying to stroke it; he clenched onto it like a man falling off a cliff. "I kissed him, on the forehead, when I left. I hope that was enough."
"I should think so." She drew him closer, bent his head to her, and put her lips to the same spot. "It seems to do the job," she said.
"Yes." He kissed her on the mouth, lightly; and then cupped the back of her skull in one hand and kissed her again as though, she found herself thinking in a confusion of time and place, the dome had opened to the sky and she was his last gasp of air. Barrayar had air enough for all. All but the condemned.
"Gregor--" she breathed out, as his mouth released hers and moved downwards. "Is this really what you... I'm here for you, but I thought--"
"Let me forget," he whispered. "In you. I want to be all you, nothing left of me. This is my corner of time; let me hide in it." He was still kissing her avidly, breast, shoulder, the hollow of her throat.
"We have all night." There were fewer hours left than there had been, but the dawn was far away. "You couldn't hide like that very long." Especially at this pace. Her heart had speeded and her body warmed to him; they were going to do this, it seemed, and then there would be guilt, and recriminations, and the whole evening's journey would have to be traveled over again. Or maybe he'd fall asleep.
She was deciding whether to push him away, or slip the robe off his shoulders and kiss him back with purpose, when his hands and mouth stilled, and he grew heavy on her, and she felt the tears on her skin. And then the sobs, racking him.
"No," he gulped, "don't let me... I can't. Oh, damn."
"Yes, you can," she said, tears starting in her own eyes. "It's all right; let it out. We'll stand there tomorrow, the red-eyed Emperor and Empress, and no one will dare ask us why." Mourn him, dammit. No one else is going to.
Gregor wept, clutching her, for minutes that seemed like hours; he never seemed to let go of his resistance entirely, and the crying looked like it hurt. She hurt for him; she couldn't manage to hurt for Serg, but Gregor's pain was awful enough to watch. Finally, he wiped his nose on the dressing gown sleeve, an unheard-of slovenliness, and sat up. "The Emperor and Empress of Barrayar," he said, "have the most terrible colds."
"I was at a school today," she told him. "Noses wiped on sleeves all over the place. It will do."
"It will do," he repeated. "Laisa, I don't know how I'm going to get through tomorrow. It'll get through me, I suppose; it always does. Everything passes, even..." He sat for a minute, slumped back against the cushions, red-eyed, sniffling. "We're going to have a baby in... twenty-four days, I believe it is."
"Twenty-three. It's tomorrow already."
"I had better be over... this cold, by then."
"I think you'll be past the worst of it. If you have relapses, though... I'm here."
He wiped his nose again. "Dr. Toscane to the rescue."
"Mm. Handkerchief?" she said; there was one in her pocket. He blew, thoroughly. "Gregor," she said, "can you sleep?"
"I might. If you lie down with me."
She led him to the bed. He ended up curled on one side with his face tucked next to her shoulder and one arm across her, and he did, finally, fall asleep. She lay with her eyes open, hoping that he would rest the night through, wishing that she could let him sleep long past dawn.