Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Ivan was five, he wanted to be Emperor. It seemed really neat – Gregor was forever getting the best toys as presents from planetary heads of state and other important people, and in just a few years he would get to go away to the preparatory academy. And if Ivan were Emperor, he knew he could make Cousin Miles tell him how he won every single game of Cetagandan Invasion they ever played.

Except then Miles's father started pulling Gregor away to sit for hours on end while he explained stacks and stacks of papers, and when Gregor came back he had books about history and money and other things to read. And Ivan decided that, considering it came with homework, being Emperor probably wasn't nearly as fun as he'd thought.

When Ivan was eight, Conrad Vormuir asked Cousin Miles during school if he was a mutant, and Miles punched him in the face. He gave Conrad a split lip and himself multiple fractures. Miles got a talking to about how it wasn't Sergeant Bothari's job to stop people saying mean things, even if they were untrue and libelous (which was Miles's new favorite word) and he really needed to develop more productive methods of coping with these difficult situations. Ivan didn't get a talking to at all, but he was left with the indelible impression that his mother firmly believed the whole thing was his fault because he hadn't stopped it. Something seemed wrong with that logic to Ivan, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

When Ivan was ten, he fell in love. He could tell because whenever Gwendolyn Vorhavis said hi to him, he said something like "hi to see you nice" back. So he did the proper thing and got a baba to ask her to marry him.

"He's a pretty nice fellow," said Miles, after he'd backed her into a corner of the schoolyard. Gwendolyn looked a little frightened. Ivan, hanging over Miles's shoulder to observe, started chewing his fingernails.

"Ivan and Gwendolyn thitting in a tree," chanted Byerley Vorrutyer, appearing suddenly.

"A bit of a lummox, maybe," said Miles, who did an awful lot of reading and kept dropping words that Ivan didn't know into conversations, so that he was never sure when he was being insulted and when he wasn't.

"Hey," he said on general principle, and because being insulted was usually the best bet.

"Kay-i-eth-eth –" said Byerley.

Miles turned to glare at him. "Shh," he said with slow precision, and Byerley decided instantaneously and correctly that he was being made fun of. Ivan stepped hastily between them, and Byerley began pounding on his back while Miles hopped around and made provocative "Sss, shh!" noises.

"Marry me?!" Ivan shouted over the noise.

Gwendolyn stared at the lot of them. "M'mother says I'm throwing myself away on anything less than a Count," she said, and walked away.

When Ivan was thirteen, Joseph Vortinde called Miles a "mutey freak" and Ivan punched him in the face. Joseph got a missing tooth, Ivan got sore knuckles, and Miles got a case of the ravening crazies.

"You idiot," he snapped, bouncing up and down in that furious way of his which only made him look shorter.

"Hey!" said Ivan. "I was defending your honor!"

Miles's lip curled back from his teeth. "Well don't," he said. "I certainly don't need you to."

"Oh right," said Ivan, stung. "It would have been much better if you'd slugged him yourself and broken your arm."

"No," snapped Miles. "It would have been much better if a livestock control shock collar was mysteriously sewn into his holoball gear, and I had the remote control."

"Uh . . ." said Ivan, feeling vaguely that this was not exactly what was meant by 'more productive methods.' "You can do that anyway?" he offered.

Miles grinned toothily, drawing a hand out of his pocket to show a small, black device. Ivan gulped. "Stop defending me," Miles said, turning to stomp away.

"Right," said Ivan, thinking he would probably get in trouble if he wasn't there when Joseph stopped twitching and figured out who was to blame.

When Ivan was fifteen, he fell in love. He could tell because he wanted to sleep with her. So he did the proper thing and asked her for a date. She said yes, and Ivan's mother insisted on riding along when he went to pick her up on the way to the Vordavon's opening season party. They had a great time anyway, and Ivan discovered that it was completely different to dance with a girl who you'd specifically asked beforehand to come with you, even if she would have been there anyway. It all went perfectly, in fact, right up until he tried to kiss her in the coat closet and she laughed at him.

Ivan nursed his broken heart for a few days, then decided there was no point in not living the life he had just because she didn't love him. He had better luck next time and the time after that, and the one after that was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

When Ivan was sixteen, he realized that Cousin Miles was actually serious about wanting to go to the academy, and that no one but Ivan himself had noticed the flaw in the plan. He thought about bringing this up with Miles, but the very idea made him sort of queasy, so he went straight up the command chain to the highest authority. Because there was just no getting around the fact that, well . . .

"He's, you know, short," Ivan said, gesturing. "And with his bones. I mean, he broke his leg last summer just sliding off his horse wrong. How's he going to run the obstacle course?"

Lady Vorkosigan sighed. "Oh, he's not," she said. "Or at least not very well."

"I mean, he always beats me at the tactical sims," said Ivan. "And the history. And even the math – and he hates math. But I mean . . ."

"Yes," said Lady Vorkosigan gently. "We know. But do you want to tell him he's going to fail?"

"No," said Ivan convulsively. "That's why I'm talking to you!"

"Ah," said Lady Vorkosigan. "You'd like me to talk some sense into my son, yes? It's a nice thought, were it possible."

"But you could stop him," Ivan said, wondering why he was beginning to sound so desperate. "So he doesn't go and make a complete idiot out of himself in front of everybody."

Lady Vorkosigan winced and inhaled carefully. "I think," she said softly, "that's the only thing that will stop him."

When Ivan was eighteen, there was a funny rumor that Cousin Miles was building up a personal army. Ivan laughed it off – Miles was not the treasonous sort, both because he was Miles and because he was just not that stupid. Also, what would he need with a personal army – that's what Bothari was for.

And then Ivan was dispatched on his first off-planet mission, snatched right out of bed in the middle of the night and shipped off all hush-hush. And though he got a little sidetracked, when he finally arrived he found that Cousin Miles had acquired a personal army. By accident. It nearly got Miles executed, and Ivan spent the next decade cycling between being appalled by the very thought of the work involved, and unspeakably envious of the whole thing.

When Ivan was nineteen, his mother started talking about how he ought to get married. Well, that wasn't true – she'd been steering particular girls his way for at least three years, but now that he was living away from home and nearly an officer, it seemed like she actually blamed him for still being single. Ivan tried to tell her that in reality he wasn't single at all, and even when he was it usually didn't last more than a few days. This made her press her lips into a tight, straight line, and it suddenly occurred to Ivan that this was exactly what Countess Vorkosigan meant when she talked about "the generation-culture divide." And it wasn't like he wouldn't get married. He just didn't see the point in settling down with one particular girl before he tried out his options. All of them. He was actually being very responsible, when he thought about it, though Mother was singularly unimpressed with that argument.

When Ivan was twenty-three, he was sent off to Eta Ceta. The less said about the whole thing, the better.

When Ivan was twenty-five, he was shipped off to Earth for "cultural expansion." This was not unexpected as it was the usual sort of thing for an up-and-coming young officer, and it seemed like all Ivan had to do to be up-and-coming was show up on time and not get caught with anyone's wife. Besides, the girls of London, England, Europe, Earth turned out to be delighted to have their culture expanded by him.

It was all perfectly cozy, in fact, right up until Captain Galeni appeared unexpectedly in his doorway in the middle of the afternoon, just as Ivan was trying to knock over his wobbling tower of disks by blowing really hard.

"I've got a Vor Lordling in my office," Galeni said, without preamble. "Supposedly."

"Uh," said Ivan, straightening hastily. "Sorry?"

Galeni turned on his heel and strode off, and Ivan scurried to catch up. "You all know each other," said Galeni over his shoulder. "That's the point of the whole incestuous little system, after all. I need you to confirm his identity for me."

"Sure," said Ivan, grinning. If someone from back home had landed himself in the head of ImpSec Earth's office under mysterious circumstances, there was bound to be a good story. "Who's he say he is?"

"Vorkosigan," said Galeni flatly.

Ivan pulled up short. "Uh," he said. Galeni kept on for several feet, then turned back, frowning.

"Yes, that Vorkosigan, apparently," he said.

"Um," said Ivan. "Are we talking about yea high –" he gestured demonstratively "—gray eyes, prone to frothing at the mouth?"

Galeni's eyebrows quirked. "That is . . . startlingly apt," he said.

"Oh, God," said Ivan, and started walking again.

Later, when he was trapped in a pump station and waiting for the water to come and drown him, preferably before it battered him to death, Ivan made a lot of lists: things he hadn't done yet, places he hadn't visited, girls he hadn't diddled, people he'd most like to see right now, people he hated the most. Miles was at the top of the last two lists, and when the hatch above opened and his cousin called down to him, Ivan had what felt like a momentary psychotic break.

Later still, when the whole mess was sorting itself out and Miles had blown out of orbit on a vital rescue mission, Ivan returned to his little office and his data terminal and his pile of disks. It took him a full week to realize that the crawling, nervy feeling jumping beneath his skin when he woke up every morning was claustrophobia. It would pass, he told himself. Just a nasty leftover from the time in the dank, black pump station waiting to die. He bet Miles wasn't feeling claustrophobic out there wherever he was. Though then again maybe he was, maybe he had the worst case of it a man could have, maybe the whole damned nexus was barely big enough for him. Which might explain a lot, Ivan thought, shivering. He resolved to wait out the stifled, caged feeling, and to count himself lucky for the life he had.

When Ivan was twenty-eight, Cousin Miles got himself killed. A big hole blown right through him, in fact, though Ivan didn't get that particular detail from his mother.

"There's been a message," she said when her summons yanked him out of Ops at the end of the day and straight up to her Residence office. "Your cousin was killed in action. His body was placed in cryo, but the chamber was lost."

"Oh," said Ivan. "Uh. How are his parents?"

He flinched then, seeing her winding up to deliver one of her looks. But then she took a quick breath and her face shivered briefly through a welter of emotions that left Ivan feeling much worse than the look would have. "Dreadful," she said. "But still hoping. This is not for public discussion," she added more firmly.

There was a job for him, which was of course why he was told at all, though this didn't occur to him for several days. But at that point the job had arrived, and Ivan was faced with very-much-not-Miles. They spent a lot of time together, and Ivan unwillingly found himself . . . liking him wasn't quite right, but neither was pitying him. Not-Miles was just as crazy as his progenitor, but in ways that made you want to get him some professional help, rather than just beat him about the head yourself. That, and Ivan had to acknowledge the fact that Mark was standing between him and the Vorkosigan bloody Countship, which was no small thing.

It was also in his wake that Ivan found out exactly what had happened. His options were severely limited by the secrecy, and when Ivan ran down the list of people who knew what he wanted to know, he found he was unwilling to get within ten feet of most of them these days, let alone talk about Miles. The Count and Countess were only the most subliminally terrifying of the lot, and Ivan was left with just one option.

"I want to know," he said, shifting from foot to foot. "What happened to him?"

Gregor turned away from the windows, his face washed in afternoon sunlight. "Ah," he said. "I suppose you do, at that." He clasped his hands behind his back. "He was shot in the chest with a grenade," he said, and then stopped talking.

"A grenade," said Ivan. "That's . . . that's really, really dead, isn't it?"

"It is beginning to seem that way, yes," said Gregor, not remarking on the stupidity of that. He considered Ivan, then nodded to himself and leaned over to retrieve a data disk from the top drawer of his desk. Ivan saw his knuckles whiten briefly as he gripped it. "Please return it when you're through," he said, extending his hand.

"Oh," said Ivan, and accepted the disk. "Thanks." Gregor turned away, and Ivan stepped back to the door. "Um," he said before he left. "Since I probably won't see you later, happy birthday."

"Thank you," said Gregor, into the bright fall day outside his windows.

Ivan read the disk through twice before returning it. Later that night, he got very very drunk at Gregor's birthday party. It was funny, he reflected as the carnival spun on around him and the world grew blurrier and blurrier, that the things a young Vor Lord did for fun were also the things he did when he was fucking miserable. Miles would have something witty to say about that, no doubt.

He got drunk again when Miles came home – the two of them did, in Ivan's tiny living room.

"You're a son-of-a-bitch," Ivan said, a few hours before dawn.

"Yeah," said Miles, head down on the table. "I know. Promise not to do it again."

When Ivan was thirty, Cousin Miles fell in love and punched him in the face, not in that order. It rather came to the same thing, though.

When Ivan was thirty-five, he fell in love. He could tell because he didn't want to sleep with her. Well, he did – desperately, at various points – but somehow it seemed more important to make her smile. Which was probably why it took so long for him to figure it out. Oh, he knew she was attractive, certainly, but the only real symptom of something more deeply amiss was the way he kept wanting to say "but this time I really. . ." whenever Miles started in on him about the whole thing.

But it was really no wonder he didn't notice, as he was thinking of other problems at the time. That was nearly all he did through the long, stifling days of the vigil as snow blanketed the lake, the servants passed like silent ghosts, and the Vorkosigans slowly went to pieces. Ivan slept less and less as the days got shorter. He started spending his nights down in the glassed-in porch at the back of the house; just him, a bottle, and a lot of panic.

The Count joined him there one night, barely acknowledging Ivan as he came to lean against the glass and stare out into the snowscape. A single tree stood sentinel just down the slope, bare branches a jagged cutout against the moon-bright sky. Snow piled there, and every few days a branch would snap off under the weight with a sound like a rifle shot.

The Imperium was turning here, all unknowing, on a hinge of chance and blood and vicious damned irony. Ivan could feel it coming, slow and ponderous and far too heavy to land on his shoulders, of all people. He was no Admiral Lord Aral Vorkosigan; he would not catch the whole package neat as you please, then field it on up into the future and safely into the hands of the next poor blighter. He was just Ivan-You-Idiot, and Ivan-You-Idiot was about to get squashed flat.

"Um," said Ivan. "Look. I know you don't . . . but we really should talk about, um. I have no idea what I'm supposed to do."

The Count turned, blinked uncomprehendingly at him. "Do?"

"I'm going to need you," Ivan said, and was taken aback by the sudden firmness in his voice. "Gregor won't be – we're just going to have to manage, and I'm going to need to count on you. I'm completely unsuited, but you've done this before, you'll know what to do."

The Count stared at him for a long, silent moment, and then shook his head. "No," he said tonelessly, "I took my turn under that whip, and I'm far too old to do it again." He turned away, and Ivan swallowed down a swell of unreasoning anger. He wanted to grab the man and shake him, make him see through his personal pain to remember that Barrayar needed him now more than ever, and that knowing it might just be the only way out for any of them. "Your suitability doesn't matter," the Count said, walking away. "And someday you're going to have to stop deciding just how badly you're going to screw up everything you try before you start. You want my advice – I suggest you make it now."

"It's idiotic," Ivan snapped to his back. "I'll be a galactic disaster."

The Count turned in the doorway. "You know, you're probably the only one of us who's managing to worry about that right now," he said.

Ivan flushed hotly. "I know it's selfish—"

"I meant," said the Count, "that perhaps you're much better suited than you think." His mouth twisted as he turned to go. "And what is the alternative, after all?"

Ivan seethed, forgave, and drank some more. And somehow, as the moon rose and the wine waned, it all became suddenly, irrevocably real. They were going to make him Emperor someday. That day might be soon, depending on just how badly – God. Ivan scrubbed at his face, sick at the very thought. They were going to make him Emperor, and the Count was right, there were no alternatives. He'd be in charge of everything, and he'd either screw it up irreparably or . . . or . . . not. The thought was strange, slotting uncomfortably into his mind. People didn't generally count on him for anything; they new better. Ivan was startled to find, along with the expected nauseated terror, that it was also rather . . . bracing. People expected mediocrity from him and he could deliver faultlessly – could excellence be so hard when that's what was wanted?

The Count was back without warning, appearing in the doorway and gripping the frame. His face, half in shadow, was galvanized with wild energy. "There's a call," he said, and jerked a decisive, commanding thumb back towards the stairs. "Go get him and come to the study."

Ivan obeyed, and it was all a blur after that. And weeks later, when the dust was just starting to settle, Ivan discovered he was in love. Suitability didn't matter – nothing much seemed to matter but the stunned realization that he was actually capable of something like this. And that was the easy part.

When Ivan was thirty-six, they named the next Emperor after him.

"Wait wait, what?" he said, taking two giant steps back.

"Ivan," Miles repeated, following him and still proffering the reddish, squirming, unhappy-sounding package. "Though we'll have to call him something else privately – too damned confusing."

"I'm sure he'll find an appropriate name for himself," Gregor said. He was following Miles just half a step behind, and looking rather dazed.

"Uh," said Ivan. "I don't think . . ."

"Here, sit down if you're afraid you'll drop him," Miles said, and before Ivan knew it, he found himself in an armchair with a strangely squishy weight on his lap. They hovered on either side of him, grinning with terrifying dopiness down at the brand new bundle of familial neuroses just waiting to develop.

"Um," said Ivan. The little guy had dark hair, unsurprisingly, and a lot of it already – or so Ivan thought, in his nonexistent experience of infants. He was going to rule three planets some day, though at the moment he seemed to be having a hard time getting his finger into his mouth. Ivan unthinkingly reached down and helped him line up properly.

"You're naming him . . . after me?" he said faintly.

"Sure," said Miles. "It's not a bad name, really. And, well, who else?"