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Entry tags:
superstitions
A lot can happen to a legend over a period of almost a thousand years of isolation. Although the original settlers of Barrayar were Earth-born scientists-- leading even modern day Barrayarans to consider themselves atheists-- people are still people, and over time, the medieval level of technology they had been plunged into after the wormhole collapse had fostered superstitions. Old folk legends brought from Earth took on a life of their own, and warped.
It takes a while for Barrayarans to start being a presence around the Nexus even after contact is reestablished. They spent the first twenty years in a bloody, gruesome, guerrilla war, after all, and then lurching forward in tech development, using the scraps left behind by Cetaganda after they'd pulled out to launch themselves into space. This means it's not really until around the time of Gregor's father's generation that Barrayarans can be casually seen on space stations and other planets. Infrequently, and always out of place in their old-fashioned military uniforms or full skirts, but increasingly common if not accepted. Most of the city dwellers, probably, are not so prone to buying into superstition, but carrying death-charms around their necks was still fairly standard practice for servicemen and gone unquestioned.
The first time Jack probably notices anything different about the Barrayarans is when one of the country-bred ones looks directly at him on a space station somewhere and shrieks, leaping backward, clutching their chest where the death-charm is. This sets a trend: not often, but occasionally, a Barrayaran will see or hear him, and react dramatically. They are never very cooperative for interacting, though, and certainly not in public where they're trying to combat a galactic reputation of being backwater barbarians barely accustomed to indoor plumbing. (This is unfair; they've had indoor plumbing for a whole generation now.)
As for Gregor, he was one of very few Barrayarans raised by a scientist who is also a theist, and encouraged by her to think openly and freely about the universe around him. He also is prone to trying to make friends with his servants, feeling weird about living in the sprawling Residence with them while having them be quietly underfoot, and as a hungry teenager is similarly likely to sneak into the kitchens for snacks. His servants indulge him at this age, for the most part; and so he'd grown up listening to a good amount of these country stories, and had questions about the supernatural patiently and thoroughly answered by his foster-mother, who always maintained a position of informed skepticism but not certainty.
Regularly he can be found reading outside in the Imperial Gardens, a sweeping expanse of manicured land maintained as green rather than the native reddish-brown of Barrayar by painstaking effort. Gregor's favorite places to read are all off the pruned pathways and out away from easy eyesight, curled up against trees, sometimes doing his studying for classes and sometimes reading books of poetry, guiltily, and sometimes doing neither and wistfully daydreaming. Today is a daydreaming sort of day; he's a lanky, tall form not quite used to his height dressed in overly-expensive hand-tailored clothes, which he is getting dirty on the ground not out of carelessness but simply because he needs to do some things to keep himself sane.
It takes a while for Barrayarans to start being a presence around the Nexus even after contact is reestablished. They spent the first twenty years in a bloody, gruesome, guerrilla war, after all, and then lurching forward in tech development, using the scraps left behind by Cetaganda after they'd pulled out to launch themselves into space. This means it's not really until around the time of Gregor's father's generation that Barrayarans can be casually seen on space stations and other planets. Infrequently, and always out of place in their old-fashioned military uniforms or full skirts, but increasingly common if not accepted. Most of the city dwellers, probably, are not so prone to buying into superstition, but carrying death-charms around their necks was still fairly standard practice for servicemen and gone unquestioned.
The first time Jack probably notices anything different about the Barrayarans is when one of the country-bred ones looks directly at him on a space station somewhere and shrieks, leaping backward, clutching their chest where the death-charm is. This sets a trend: not often, but occasionally, a Barrayaran will see or hear him, and react dramatically. They are never very cooperative for interacting, though, and certainly not in public where they're trying to combat a galactic reputation of being backwater barbarians barely accustomed to indoor plumbing. (This is unfair; they've had indoor plumbing for a whole generation now.)
As for Gregor, he was one of very few Barrayarans raised by a scientist who is also a theist, and encouraged by her to think openly and freely about the universe around him. He also is prone to trying to make friends with his servants, feeling weird about living in the sprawling Residence with them while having them be quietly underfoot, and as a hungry teenager is similarly likely to sneak into the kitchens for snacks. His servants indulge him at this age, for the most part; and so he'd grown up listening to a good amount of these country stories, and had questions about the supernatural patiently and thoroughly answered by his foster-mother, who always maintained a position of informed skepticism but not certainty.
Regularly he can be found reading outside in the Imperial Gardens, a sweeping expanse of manicured land maintained as green rather than the native reddish-brown of Barrayar by painstaking effort. Gregor's favorite places to read are all off the pruned pathways and out away from easy eyesight, curled up against trees, sometimes doing his studying for classes and sometimes reading books of poetry, guiltily, and sometimes doing neither and wistfully daydreaming. Today is a daydreaming sort of day; he's a lanky, tall form not quite used to his height dressed in overly-expensive hand-tailored clothes, which he is getting dirty on the ground not out of carelessness but simply because he needs to do some things to keep himself sane.
no subject
That doesn't mean he isn't itching for something else. It also doesn't mean he's never done anything else-- maybe not lately, but when he was younger, Cordelia had been in charge of his education. And she had instilled more than a little sense of empathy in him, and much more deftness at handling emotional matters than is typical for Barrayarans.
"Not since Earth?" he repeats, aghast, picturing that as a thousand years ago until he realizes that might not necessarily be the case. Jack could go to Earth any time, presumably. Gregor hesitates. "Um, I don't know why I can see you-- I really doubt it's because I'm Emperor-- but you're welcome to hang around."
His fingers are starting to go a little numb, so Gregor carefully bends to rest the ice crown down on the grass before straightening up again, concern evident.
no subject
He only has to crook a finger for the wind to leap at his command, and he drifts a lazy circle around Gregor; his feet only just off the ground, trailing the crook of his staff along behind him and leaving frost in spiralling fern patterns across the grass. It's hard to keep still when he's so thrilled — something not like belief, but a happiness that bursts in his chest, his magic skittering sparks in him.
"You might regret that, though," he says, and he does sound like he's joking. "From what I used to hear, I'm kind of a pest." He sits in mid-air, crossing his legs, and cants his head to the side. It's a strange gesture, almost bird-like curiosity. "Especially in a place as boring as this! Do they let you have any fun?"
no subject
"You can't be more of a pest than Miles is," he says factually, undaunted. Then he shrugs, uncomfortable and a little awkward. "I do occasionally. I used to have more free time, but... I'd rather spend what I have out here than tracking down my friends. ImpSec has to follow me everywhere when I leave the Residence." He sounds glum about that, finally starting to get over the ridiculous incredulity of Jack Frost.
no subject
"And... what, you never give them the slip?" he asks, teasing. "Come on, be a rebel!" He hooks the crook of his staff playfully around the back of Gregor's neck, the hold of it loose, using it where another might tug with their hands. It's been a long time since he could bring himself to risk touching someone.
no subject
"It doesn't seem fair," he admits hesitantly. "They're only doing their duty. They get really upset if I go missing-- like, personally ashamed. And... there are real assassins."
A pause.
"But, um, I do. Give them the slip sometimes. Mostly with Miles." His voice turns dry and sarcastic: "Just so I don't go totally crazy cooped up in a house with portraits of my dead relatives."