Three lines of thought crackled simultaneously. The first was easiest to examine and put aside. Oath or not, an assassin flushed out was an assassin no more. A threat, perhaps, if he made himself to be one, but that was a different term entirely.
The second stretched, as it often did now, into politics. The ramification of Gregor's words and actions did more than merely protect himself and his family. More than protect this clone who had the misfortune (or fortune) of turning up before his prey unprepared... It was law. Barrayar's laws were strung together mostly on code and precedent - obscure, ridiculous and traditional at once. In the yawning hole that was any precedence on clones, it was a resounding ruling. This boy was a Barrayaran, liegesworn as a Vor would be. Barrayaran by citizenship. Vorkosigan by right.
In those simple, softer words, it was as strong a lance of protectiveness than the one he could feel blazing from Miles.
Which left... himself... Uninhibited by the bonds of grief and duty that would chain his future self, what was left was a tangle he hardly understood himself. Hope? Anger? Confusion? Repulsion?
How much does he look like Miles? Miles' own face was new to him, achingly so. But his wholehearted emotion had taken no time in wrapping around it in memorizing it, trying to fish out missing history in every line of it. God. To look like Miles without the soltoxin... Miles was right, there would have been unaccountable tortures of the body. And colder still, the mind... To create one willing to strike after all of it, to be able to pass mentally as well... He could doubt there were any happy lessons. Any unbiased ones, either.
Rejoice, Vorhalas, you've had your revenge now on both of my sons. One for each of yours. He fancied the man would weep, despite himself.
But son... His own mind hiccuped over his own thought. Is that.. person. (Another hiccup, regarded and soothed) Is he?
He can hear Cordelia plain as day, so sharp and definite that it bleeds over to Miles. "If I've lost my agency in his birth and my say in his upbringing, then by god I'll see him a future."]
A second son... [The decision was little more than a whisper. Voice stronger as he finally focuses on the other two in the room.] You haven't mentioned his name.
no subject
Three lines of thought crackled simultaneously. The first was easiest to examine and put aside. Oath or not, an assassin flushed out was an assassin no more. A threat, perhaps, if he made himself to be one, but that was a different term entirely.
The second stretched, as it often did now, into politics. The ramification of Gregor's words and actions did more than merely protect himself and his family. More than protect this clone who had the misfortune (or fortune) of turning up before his prey unprepared... It was law. Barrayar's laws were strung together mostly on code and precedent - obscure, ridiculous and traditional at once. In the yawning hole that was any precedence on clones, it was a resounding ruling. This boy was a Barrayaran, liegesworn as a Vor would be. Barrayaran by citizenship. Vorkosigan by right.
In those simple, softer words, it was as strong a lance of protectiveness than the one he could feel blazing from Miles.
Which left... himself... Uninhibited by the bonds of grief and duty that would chain his future self, what was left was a tangle he hardly understood himself. Hope? Anger? Confusion? Repulsion?
How much does he look like Miles? Miles' own face was new to him, achingly so. But his wholehearted emotion had taken no time in wrapping around it in memorizing it, trying to fish out missing history in every line of it. God. To look like Miles without the soltoxin... Miles was right, there would have been unaccountable tortures of the body. And colder still, the mind... To create one willing to strike after all of it, to be able to pass mentally as well... He could doubt there were any happy lessons. Any unbiased ones, either.
Rejoice, Vorhalas, you've had your revenge now on both of my sons. One for each of yours. He fancied the man would weep, despite himself.
But son... His own mind hiccuped over his own thought. Is that.. person. (Another hiccup, regarded and soothed) Is he?
He can hear Cordelia plain as day, so sharp and definite that it bleeds over to Miles. "If I've lost my agency in his birth and my say in his upbringing, then by god I'll see him a future."]
A second son... [The decision was little more than a whisper. Voice stronger as he finally focuses on the other two in the room.] You haven't mentioned his name.