Chapter Text
Tension has settled on the imperial household like winter snow. Thick and heavy, with the lingering threat of another storm hitting at any moment. The smooth blanket hiding treacherous holes for the unwary to fall into while walking across what could appear to be safe ground. Tiring to slog through at the best of times, with only the hope of the eventual melt to keep you going. Grisha nobly restrains the urge to send a message to Professora Rufina asking whether she was absolutely certain she couldn’t use his help after all. But he would add far too many security concerns to the conference to be balanced out with whatever help he could provide. And he does want to support his family. He has reminded himself of that more than once since he’s been home.
Ezar and Serg are fighting as they haven’t since Serg grew out of his somewhat… turbulent teenage years. Really, that’s not an entirely fair comparison. There isn’t any shout or slamming of doors. For the most part. Emperor Ezar likes to keep fights in low voices and with a cold reserve, a trait that Serg had either copied or grown into. Grisha has witnessed several of their disagreements over the years. But this is the most sustained fight they’ve had for almost a decade, as far as he’s aware.
When the Emperor and Crown Prince fight, few would dare to intervene. The Empress has declared that they’re both too old for her to serve as mediator. Though Grisha knows that she has spoken to both of them in private. As for Grisha, he can understand both his father and brother’s sides. In this case, it’s easier than usual for him to understand his father. Grisha doesn’t want his brother off fighting, either. Even with a plan in place that shouldn’t put Barrayaran troops in much danger and with the Crown Prince’s security a matter of utmost importance.
Father, of course, can’t just say that he’s worried. Not to Serg. Instead, he couches his worry in terms of security. He talks of the potential struggle the men might face if torn between obeying their commander and their duty to the Crown Prince. The people that would have to be diverted to maintain the required security. Serg doesn’t argue the second point, directly, but he doesn’t appreciate the implication that he would be a dangerously fragile ornament or the suggestion that he would have such poor military discipline as to disagree with the man the emperor has appointed to led them. That Count Aral Vorkosigan is that man brings its own issues.
Serg isn’t wrong, either, to argue that the image this gives off can’t be ignored. The man who will someday command every soldier, not being part of perhaps the most important war of Emperor Ezar’s reign. Grisha knows that Serg actually enjoys the infrastructure projects their father has entrusted to him, and not just because of what they represent in terms of trust. He believes they’re important, has given Grisha several unnecessary lectures about their importance, but that doesn’t change that they’re not particularly glamorous. He’s right that the people need something more exciting than The Prince Who Paves Roads. Slow, incremental work to improve the lives of the many doesn’t have the immediate appreciation given to a respected soldier and, likely, soon to be war hero.
That Padma had been allowed to go had not improved his mood, and Grisha knew better than to point out that the situations don’t match particularly well. It’s not really about their position in relation to the imperial family, it’s about Count Vorkosigan. Grisha respects his half-brother and is quietly relieved that he doesn’t feel anything more than that.
Still, despite the tension, Grisha is happy to be home. He loves Vorbarr Sultana University in a way he knows none of his family really understands. Serg had gone to the military academy, of course. Grisha had no interest in following in his footsteps. Perhaps the university had started as another way to clearly mark the difference between heir and second son, but Grisha had found much more. His educational experience might not be quite the same as other students, but even with his, not always well disguised, bodyguards in tow and the various precautions that had been laid down as conditions for his attendance and thus been carefully stuck to, it was – is – a much freer life than he has anywhere else. And he’d found his passion.
He’s not sure he was able to convince Serg that his pursuit of a PhD in art history isn’t a further attempt to make absolutely sure no one would mistake him as intending to take the throne, but Serg has a problem tackling what guilt is reasonable. Grisha loves his brother and is glad that their relationship has improved again as they’d grown into themselves. He has also learned that all he can do in these situations is to be clear and then do his best not to make Serg’s problems his own. He knows his own mind. His own heart.
But the imperial residence is still home. The place he grew up, filled with the memories that have made him who he is. Where he can find his family. It’s also home to a fascinating collection of artworks that few have the opportunity to see. Over the years, Grisha has managed to form a friendship with Kareen, built on exploring and discussing various pieces. It allows him to pull out a more personal side of his socially adept but usually more emotionally reserved sister-in-law.
There’s a picture they’d found that captures a snapshot of a castle blanketed in snow. It gleams in the sun, even as the clouds suggest that it’s just a momentary break in the storm. It’s not the current imperial residence, of course, or even Vorhartung castle, whose name betrays its much older providence. There’s some debate over whether it was based off any true castle at all, the building design is not a familiar one. Was it based off stories? Were those stories brought by the colonists, passed down through the time of isolation, or had they built new ones during those bloody years? An artist might still dream of something grander than the fortresses that were given the name ‘castle’. A lord might still want to commission something more delicate than the thick walls that served as his protection from the world.
Prince Grisha, patron of the arts. It’s a title he likes the sound of. Grisha has never really argued with his father. He had never had Serg’s anger or, later, the closeness built between emperor and heir. He likes to think it’s a distance built on divergent tastes, not lack of affection. Still, he holds on to the memory of one of their few almost arguments, on of their more personal conversations. When the emperor had asked him why this was what he wanted. When his father had asked.
“‘Galactic’ shouldn’t be a dirty word, but hopefully ‘Barrayar’ doesn’t have to be either,” Grisha had said, part of him wondering if that was surprise at his passion that he saw in his father’s eyes, even as he was enthused enough not to be paying too much attention. “The Conservatives shouldn’t be the only ones allowed to claim that we have a history that matters. They shouldn’t be allowed to claim their narrative of what it was, just because the future is important. The time of isolation, the bloody centuries, we remember their violence, but they weren’t without art. Without beauty. Modernization is important, vital, but the new Barrayar doesn’t have to erase the old to survive. We can be stronger than that.”
His father has never fully lost his slightly ironic tinge when they discuss the matter, but Grisha doesn’t doubt his support. Just as he appreciates that the emperor is carefully to let him make his own path, as much as that’s possible for a prince. Proof that he pays attention on multiple fronts.
Art is also a safe enough discussion for especially tense family breakfasts, providing a cover that prevents interruptions and covers sulking. Besides, his mother likes to hear about his interests, and it allows Kareen to join in. Grisha likes to think that Piotr is coming around to certain appreciation of the subject.
Piotr is another reason Grisha doesn’t regret his return home. Mother had put her foot down, claiming it had been too long since she’d seen her grandson. An argument based on ‘a grandmother’s prerogative’ had to be used as looked at a different way it’s the empress demanding the presence of Lord Vorkosigan. It would be a rather flimsy shield against political implications, but it’s not an angle many would attack, at the moment. Grisha wonders if she ever thinks of the last Lord Vorkosigan, killed by Mad Emperor Yuri. It’s a comparison no one would dare to draw. He knows that she wants Piotr close because she worries. No one comments out loud that the worry certainly couldn’t be about whether he’ll be able to cope with his father gone.
Piotr is one of the most reserved eleven-year-olds Grisha knows, not that there’s a long list these days. Serg had been angry and Grisha maybe a little clingy, but neither of them could’ve been called reserved. He tends to come off as haughty and rather aloof, but Grisha’s sure that part of that is simple shyness. Or, at least, not being used to dealing with people. Grisha has found that Piotr blooms under genuine interest, seeming much more his age as he enthuses about hockey and his favorite dramas.
With his parents, Grisha suspects he doesn’t experience such attention with any frequency. The Vorkosigan’s marriage has been fraught for so long that it’s no longer even in the realm of interesting gossip. No one is surprised that they only managed to have one child. They’re more likely to joke that he must have been conceived on their wedding night. Grisha doesn’t know how often Piotr has seen his father, who seems to have invested all his interest in his military career. When they’d met, Grisha has found Countess Vorkosigan to be an intelligent, strong-willed woman, a good conversationalist, and the partner you want whether at a card game or a dance. How her time with her son is spent is something he can’t comment on.
The empress might not be able to fix her oldest son’s marriage, or take charge of her grandson’s raising, but Grisha is almost sure that she had used it as a weapon when dealing with Serg’s. While it still doesn’t always look entirely natural, Serg does make a concerted effort to talk to Kareen. Grisha’s time at university had let him experience a great deal more about people and relationships, and he’s not sure that ‘can hold a conversation’ should be held up as particularly impressive. But no one could deny it’s an improvement.
Serg and Kareen do seem to be getting along better these days in general. Grisha, now that he has a chance to watch them in close quarters, notices the difference. He also can’t help but wonder if Kareen is pregnant. He doesn’t ask. He’s well aware - and likes to think he would be even if Kareen hadn’t worked out her feelings while polishing silver - how much Kareen hates the not subtle comments about when they’re expecting, how so many people believe they have a right to speak on the subject.
He’d also learned that she and Serg had decided, together, to wait to give their marriage a solid foundation before bringing a child into it. Grisha admires the choice, and that they’ve stuck to it, even with the pressure on them both.
Grisha suspects that Kareen is also relieved that Serg is firmly on Barrayar, though, at least in even the semi-public of family gatherings, she lends her quiet support to her husband. Which doesn’t help him either way in figuring out whether he’ll be getting another nephew (or niece, as much as that concept seems not to have even crossed most Counts’ minds). The nice thing about suspicions is that they allow things to remain in shadow instead of being dragged into the light. He suspects his mother would like a match between him and Lady Alys, but as long as no words to that effect are spoken directly, he doesn’t have to disappoint her. Not that he would deny that Lady Alys is a pleasant and personable young woman (with only a little extra emphasis on young), but his role grants him certain freedoms that Serg never had. There are places where Grisha firmly takes full advantage.
With all the other tensions at play, his mother isn’t in the mood to bring up marriage at all. Grisha does his best to lighten her worries, but he has to admit, privately, that the lack of comment on his relationships is a relief. Another reason he’s less ready to try to flee back to school than he had been last time he’d been home. There aren’t undercurrents getting in the way of enjoying the company of people his good mood makes him feel like he sees too rarely. Even if there’s still enough tension to remember why that is.
The mood at the breakfast table, and Serg’s simmering fight with their father, isn’t helped by the updates they receive. Though it’s a relief to know that they’re still both getting them. Grisha has very little interest in military matters, though he conscientiously sits through the briefings that have been deemed appropriate for him. They always come at a reasonable time, often with a few details he does find interesting, as they’re curated for his taste. The emperor gets news as soon as it arrives, and Serg finds out at some hellishly early hour.
Grisha can tell immediately that something has gone wrong. As the projected breaking news was to be details about their full victory, he almost wishes that someone had told him, even though it was likely there would be nothing he could do. When Serg’s eyes flicked to Piotr, the range of his worries expanded.
The actual news turns out to be rather beyond what even his healthy imagination had brought up as possibilities.