Chapter Text
Miles tried to remind himself of his sappy reflections from the night before as he arrived at the Residence the next day, but he found it extremely difficult when faced with a spate of last minute betrothal nonsense. His mood was helped not in the slightest by the splitting headache he'd woken with, which the usual painkillers had done nothing to alleviate.
"I can't take any more of those, I had some an hour ago," he told Ivan irritably when he offered Miles the bottle. "They're only any good when I take them before it really starts, and I woke up with this one." He leaned his head on his hand and rubbed his eyes.
"You need to eat something."
"If I eat, I will throw up," Miles said bluntly.
Ivan quieted for a moment. "That bad?"
"Yes."
"It's probably stress."
"Don't know why you would think that," Miles retorted. "My life is tranquility itself right now."
Dr. Ghale bustled in then, shone a light in both of Miles's eyes, and told him to take a tranquilizer and lie down for two hours.
"I don't have two hours," Miles snapped. "I'm supposed to meet with Lady Alys, and then I'm supposed to meet with Allegre, and then I'm supposed to dress, and then I have to - I just don't have two hours today!"
Dr. Ghale nodded and mmm-hmm'ed sympathetically, steadily preparing a hypospray all the while. Miles was just beginning to suspect the absent but overriding authority of Mother, or possibly Gregor, when Ghale turned and calmly pressed the hypospray against the inside of his bare arm. Miles yelped indignantly, but Ghale merely steered him towards the couch. "Two hours," he said.
"But Aunt Alys and Allegre . . ." Miles protested, already feeling groggy.
"I'm sure your Second can handle everything. Am I right, Lord Ivan?"
Ivan gulped, but said, "Um, sure."
"Yeah, right," Miles protested. But dammit, his brain was fogging up, and while his head hadn't stopped hurting, he didn't care as much. Two hours . . . he could spare a couple of hours . . .
He woke to his father gently shaking his shoulder. "Time to dress," he said.
Miles sat up, blinking blearily. "What's . . ."
"The betrothal's today," his father explained patiently. "You had a bad headache this morning."
"Oh. Right."
"Is it better?"
"Yes. Much."
"Good. Ivan and Gregor are still with Allegre, so I've been sent to help you dress."
"C'n dress myself," Miles grumbled. He eyed the suit, still in its garment bag. "Did they take off the ruffles? They better've taken off the ruffles."
They had, in fact, taken off the ruffles, but Miles hadn't realized what an obscene number of buttons there were. His father helped him with those, or it would have taken forever. Then he was forced to sit and be pinched, prodded, poked, and plucked for another hour and a half, by the end of which he was considerably grouchier. But then - finally - he was allowed out of his suite in the wing of the Residence farthest away from Gregor's rooms - as though their virtues could be violated by mere proximity - to be herded off to the Glass Hall for the ceremony itself, miraculously on time.
Just don't let me fall over. That's really all I ask. Really.
It was not a good thing, Miles thought, that he could see himself in the mirrors that lined the aptly named Glass Hall. He'd been avoiding mirrors of late, and with very good reason. He looked pasty and almost emaciated; the suit had needed to be altered at the last minute for more than just the ruffles. So he tried not to look, and also tried not to think about the hundreds of people, standing in concentric circles around them, craning their necks for a glimpse of him and Gregor - not to mention the millions of people watching the first Imperial betrothal ever broadcast planet-wide on holovid.
Gregor, he thought suddenly and with relief, look at Gregor. Gregor, in his parade reds and blues, looked handsome and fit and imperial as he stood across from Miles, with Kou and Drou and Henri Vorvolk flanking him. Someone must have hit him with a sleep-timer the night before, because the smudges under his eyes had faded to mere shadows. Gregor wasn't looking at anyone but Miles, with an intensity that made a faint blush creep up Miles's neck. He managed a small smile for Gregor's sake, and Gregor returned it, crossing one hand over his chest in the old, secret way.
The betrothal was thankfully brief, as Barrayaran Imperial ceremonies went. Miles's parents stood on either side of him, subtly ready to support him if he needed it, but his legs remained sturdy throughout the symbolic exchange of gifts and then the - Miles gave a mental snarl - Admonishments to the Bride, which, after much debate, had been renamed simply "the Admonishments." They had been rather heavily edited with an eye to gender, especially in the section on the Duty to Bear an Heir. Miles tried not to either frown or smirk too openly, lest someone suspect that he took these things with anything less than complete seriousness. The fact that Henri Vorvolk was the one doing the admonishing did not help matters, but Miles told himself that he was probably imagining the snide note in Henri's voice - Henri was almost never snide. He didn't have enough personality to be snide.
Gregor was starting to frown at him. He must be scowling - or maybe slumping. Or both. Miles straightened and tried to wipe his face blank. Gregor gave him a look, but then it was time for them to join hands - through Lady Alys - and say their promises, and there, that was much better. It was actually . . . quite nice, to stand up in front of all of Barrayar, and declare without reservation or explanation that they loved each other and planned to do so for the rest of their lives. Miles hadn't expected it to mean much to him - after all, they had made these promises to each other a long time ago. It would be at most, he had thought, a very satisfying step on the long journey he and Gregor had begun four years before. But he realized, as he listened to Gregor make his promises in his strong, clear voice, that it was a great deal more than that. They had found each other, and that was something worth celebrating.
And celebrate they did, for a very long time, with food and dancing and drinking. Miles got his dance with Ekaterin early in the evening, before Ivan bore her off permanently, and then danced a few slower waltzes with Gregor, who was watching him like a hawk. Then, sensibly, he sat for a while, watching everyone else and greeting people who came up to give him their congratulations and, usually, inquire not-so-subtly after his health.
His mother appeared, flushed from dancing. She sat down next to him, a glass of wine in her hand. "How are you doing?"
"I'm fine," Miles said, only just managing not to roll his eyes. He nodded toward the dance floor. "I don't think I've seen Da dance like that in years."
Her eyes sparkled. "He's trying to make up to me, I think." She smiled and shook her head. "I don't know that I've ever seen your father . . . exert himself in quite this way. He didn't have to work very hard to win me over in the beginning, after all. Part of me thinks I should tell him that he's not in nearly as much trouble as he thinks he is, but I'm rather enjoying myself, so I think I'll keep quiet for now.
Miles grinned. "Gregor said they talked."
A shadow crossed her face, though Miles didn't entirely understand why. "I know." She paused for a sip of wine. "How is Gregor?"
Miles didn't answer for a moment as he watched Gregor dance a mirror dance with Tatya Vorbretten. "Happy, I think. But tired. Still reeling."
"Of course. But," she added, a steely note in her voice, "you will both be on that wedding circle if we have to pour you there."
"I sincerely hope that won't be necessary. I just don't think he really believes it yet, if you know what I mean."
"I do," she said, nodding. "Sometimes, I don't quite believe it. I've had nightmares where . . ." She trailed off. Her eyes were suddenly far away. "It will just take some time, that's all," she finally finished. "You'll feel better, Gregor will stop being so afraid, and the nightmares will fade."
"I think today helped," Miles said. "Actually exchanging vows and promises." He took a deep breath, checked his energy level, then held his hand out. "Dance, m'lady?"
He danced once with his mother, and then decided that it was time to stop. Past time, apparently. The strains of music and buzz of voices were beginning to merge into one nearly incomprehensible sound in his ears. Miles blinked rapidly, trying to focus through the welter of varicolored gowns and house uniforms, their glittering variety suddenly overwhelming. He lifted a hand and pressed absently at his forehead, then took his time winding through the crowd, and, with care and a little guile, he made it to the promenade doors. It was really too cold to leave them open, but heat lamps had been liberally scattered across the patio and down the steps into the garden. Miles slipped out, inhaling deeply and hoping the chill snap of the air in his chest would wake him.
It was nearly deserted outside, despite the heaters, but Miles had taken no more than three steps when he heard the door behind him open and close again.
"You're hovering," he said, turning as he spoke. The words caught Gregor mid-step, and he paused, frowning. Miles saw now that he wasn't alone. The man with him wore parade reds and blues, and was eyeing Miles with a fixed, searching look. "Ah," Miles said, suddenly making the connection.
"Miles, this is Captain Alexis Avalos. Captain, Lord Auditor Miles Vorkosigan, my betrothed."
"My lord," Avalos said, bowing formally.
Miles shook his hand. . "So," he said as the three of them made their way over to a low stone bench. "I take it Gregor told you about my offer." A heater pulsed comfortably at their backs like a low fire, but Gregor, who had shown a remarkable ability to fuss recently, made Miles accept his light jacket as well.
"Yes, my lord."
"Are you interested?"
Avalos hesitated. "Yes, my lord, but I don't think . . ." He trailed off.
"You don't think you can do the job?"
"No, my lord, that's not it."
"Then what?"
"I don't think that I . . . am the sort of man suited for such a position."
Miles crossed his arms over his chest; he could see already where this was going. "What sort of man is that?"
"My lord." Avalos held his hand out. It was a very good prosthetic, Miles thought - he'd hardly noticed when shaking it.
"Because you're a crip, then?" Miles asked, his tone deliberately light.
"A Greekie crip," Avalos muttered, almost under his breath.
"I see," Miles said. "Well, you're going to have to come up with better excuses, because I don't accept either of those - for, I should think, obvious reasons."
Avalos flushed, stammering out a mingled apology and protest. The prosthetic jerked spasmodically in his lap, and he shoved it hastily inside his jacket. Oh, Captain. You'll learn to live in your skin again one day.
Miles gave him the stern, searching look that he'd perfected as Admiral Naismith. "If you don't want the job, that's one thing. I won't force you to take it, of course. If you think you can't do the job, that's a different thing, and I think you'll find otherwise. But if you won't take it because you think other people won't like it . . . well, Captain, that's a very silly thing."
Avalos nodded slowly, hooded eyes fixed on Miles's face.
"Take some time," Miles said. "Think about it." He smiled. "I know what I'd do."
"Thank you, Captain," Gregor said. Avalos stood, bowed, and made his way back into the ballroom, leaving the two of them alone and out of sight for the moment.
Miles sighed, tried to speak, then gave it up and just slumped sideways into Gregor. The fine fabric of Gregor's dress tunic was warm against his cheek. Gregor's heart beat steadily under his ear.
"Are you tired?" Gregor's voice vibrated pleasantly in Miles's skull.
"I'm exhausted," Miles said, sitting up. "How about you?"
Gregor nodded, and they sat in silence for several moments, listening to the subdued backwash of sound from the ballroom. Miles's head was growing heavier and heavier, and he let it rest against Gregor's arm with a sigh.
"Wake me in time for the wedding, will you?"
Gregor shook with a quiet laugh. "Oh," he said, something that could have been whimsy in his voice, "you won't sleep for half a year, will you? I'd miss you terribly." The lightness wavered at the end, trembling finely.
Miles looked up at him. Gregor's face was lit from below in an eerie, whitish-blue reflection off the ice and snow blanketing the gardens. He looked waxen, nearly gaunt. "No," Miles said gently. "I won't. So much to do, you know. At the very least, I have to appear at the Council in a week." It would be the first session of the new year, and the first order of business was the grim task of trying a Count on charges of high treason. Miles bit his lip while he considered biting his tongue. He was tired enough to fall asleep right here, and what the hell could he say, after all? "And on that topic," he began anyway.
Gregor stiffened. "It shouldn't take long," he said evenly. "They won't ask you many questions, I'm sure."
"Hmm," said Miles. "Probably not." The procedure for this sort of thing was simple and to the point. The Council would hear the facts of the case, and Vormoncrief would be allowed to answer for himself. The Council would vote on a verdict and, as a courtesy, leave the matter of sentence to Gregor. Barrayarans, Miles had discovered as his experience of galactic legal culture grew, did not believe in the idea of recusal. Here, the closer you are, the more right you have to get blood on your hands.
"So," said Miles softly. "You will have him executed, then?"
Gregor drew back a little. He inhaled through his teeth, then nodded.
Miles frowned. "Do you really want to see him every day, slowly wasting away under your decree?" he asked curiously. "Or, better yet, say we're not quite so barbaric about it and we simply remove his head from his shoulders - do you truly want to stand and watch, perhaps even close enough to smell the blood?"
Gregor's face shivered, then froze again. "A little bit," he said starkly. "A little bit, yes I do."
Miles believed him. "Well," he said quietly. "I guess that's it, then."
Gregor blinked. "That's . . . it?" he repeated.
"Yes," said Miles. "You wish it, so he dies."
There was a long moment of silence, then Gregor . . . squirmed. "You would plead for his life?" he said, voice suddenly rough around the formal words.
Miles mouth twisted wryly. "Well," he said. "At least one person should, and I don't think anyone else will dare."
"I have no mercy for him," Gregor said. "As he had none for you. He chose to -"
Miles lifted a hand. "You don't need to enumerate his crimes to me," he said. The hand moved, without conscious thought, to fruitlessly try and smooth away the headache gathering at the base of his skull. "When I was killed," he said slowly, "I don't remember this, of course, but I was told later - we were in the middle of a firefight. Elli took command and she ordered Taura to clear a way for us. And Taura did, in her own inimitable way." He picked idly at his trouser seam. The sleeve of Gregor's jacket flopped over his hand, overlarge but warm. "She ripped out their throats," he continued. "That's the only time I think anyone's ever been . . . executed, in my name."
"He kidnapped Ivan as well," Gregor said. "My heir. And he as much as killed the bastard who stabbed you. And the retainers he dragged down with him, not to mention his poor wife . . ."
"Yeah." Miles nodded. "I know. And an example must be made, I realize that. My point was more that . . . the decisions we make in the heat of battle are about survival. The decisions we make after, when we're still half-mad with the fear and the sickness and the anger . . . those are still about the fighting, but it's already over."
Gregor was perfectly still. "I've not been in battle," he said at last.
Miles reached up and delicately traced the shadow beneath his eye, still vivid even after several days of sleep-timers. "No?" he asked softly.
The prolonged moment was shattered by the intrusive buzz of Gregor's lapel com, followed seconds later by Miles's own. They let out simultaneous breaths, part exasperation and part relief.
"It's nearly midnight," Miles said, checking his chrono. "We've got to get out to the bonfire. The newsvid people will be annoyed if things get delayed." He heaved himself to his feet with an effort, then turned and laid both hands on Gregor's shoulders. Gregor eyed him, still tense and more than a little wary. "Hey," said Miles softly. "I kept my promise."
Gregor blinked, then dipped his head. "I did notice that, yes," he said softly.
"It was a lovely ceremony," Miles said. "If more than a little ridiculous. I . . . didn't expect it to matter this much, though. I mean, we've already made our own promises."
"I expected it," said Gregor.
Miles caught him under the chin and kissed him, a slow reclamation. Gregor made a soft, wanting sound and yielded, body and mouth suddenly pliant to Miles's every touch. He lingered a moment longer than he had intended, then a moment more, before pulling away.
"Come on," he said, sigh puffing out in a frosty cloud. "They're waiting for us."