Emperor Gregor rarely called upon Cordelia Vorkosigan for advice anymore. Most of his public life revolved around the ceremonies and duties of the Imperium, and if anything, she would be a bad influence there, by Barrayaran standards, given her general disregard for what Barrayar pretended was a sane government. His private life was... absent, or at least very well-guarded. But just before Miles had left -- off to rejoin the Dendarii Mercenaries, where he poured out the parts of himself that Barrayar couldn't accept -- he'd mentioned to his mother that she should expect a call from Gregor, to set up a meeting to talk about some personal history that was troubling him.
So now she waited for Gregor in one of his many offices. She sometimes missed the boy she'd help raise, the one who was almost as much a son to her as Miles was. Throughout his childhood, any number of people had allowed her or Aral to overhear their perception of Gregor as weak, and their doubts about his ability to grow into his Imperial duties. It was Aral's job to prove them wrong, eventually, by Barrayaran standards for Imperial abilities. Cordelia's job -- as she saw it privately -- had been to induce in Gregor a healthy distance between his sense of self and the job he'd inherited. She wasn't sure she'd done well enough at it, but he had taken the reins of the Imperium from Aral when he'd reached his majority, and so far, he'd put up with all the ridiculousness of it, and seemed relatively sane, if a bit reluctant.
Gregor entered the room, carrying a small wooden box. He looked... tired. Too tired for a 25 year old, in fact. He reached for a switch at his desk that she knew turned off the security monitoring in the room, which she took as a signal that whatever he needed to talk about was very personal indeed. He settled with a sigh on a small couch, and motioned to her to join him.
"Gregor," she said. She was one of the few who addressed him by his name -- who could -- anymore, even if only in private. "How are you?"
"Tell me about my father." There was a flash of anger in his voice, and a sense of bewilderment in his eyes that reminded her too much of his arrival at Vorkosigan Surleau, 20 years before, in a lightflyer piloted by a dying hero, who'd plucked the little boy from the chaos of his home at the start of Vordarian's Pretendership.
She'd expected him to ask, sooner or later. How many arguments had she had with Aral and his staff over protecting Gregor from the unofficial but truthful version of Prince Serg's life? She'd always backed down, even once he'd reached his majority.
She took a breath, and asked, "I assume you mean Prince Serg the private man, not Prince Serg the war hero cut down in his prime?"
"Yes," he answered with a shaky voice, seeming close to tears. "Miles told me you know... you would tell me..."
"His secrets," she finished his sentence for him, since he seemed unable to.
Gregor handed her the box. Quietly, he said, "The Escobarans gave this to me at Komarr. It was... his."
She opened the box; the contents were almost too much, even for the Betan in her: three wrapped human fetuses and a few flimsies covered with small, neat handwriting. She scanned one of the flimsies, and blanched at its contents, the careful, detailed, and highly pornographic description of how Serg had torn one of the fetuses from its mother. Gregor was watching her, saying nothing but clearly trying to see if he could trust her to... what?
"This is not... faked." she said. "Ges Vorrutyer supplied your father with pregnant women. He often used poor Bothari to, um, rape them, and then, when he'd finished his own... perversions, sent them on to Serg."
"Bothari? The woman who killed him, when he was with Miles..."
"Was Elena's mother, and Bothari's -- no, Ges Vorrutyer's -- victim. Your father never had a chance at her, though."
"I'd heard..." Gregor hesitated. "I'd heard a rumor that you were one of my father's intended victims."
"I am not even sure he knew I was available," she replied. "Ges Vorrutyer died so soon after he found me. And then Aral and Simon intervened."
"Simon sometimes uses the term 'vivid first impressions' in reference to you. Is it from that?" Gregor was detouring the conversation, not that Cordelia blamed him. They'd come back to Serg eventually.
"Well, when he and Aral stumbled across me, I was wandering around half-naked and bloody in Ges's quarters, and Bothari was in shock in the corner, and Ges's head had been neatly severed from his body. So... it must have been that, a vivid first impression."
"You killed Ges?"
"No, Bothari did. My poor loyal mad dog, even then."
Gregor pondered this for a moment. "Did you meet my father?"
"No... well, I saw him reflected in a mirror, in Aral's quarters on the General Vorkraft, but he didn't know I was there. He was very angry, and proud, and convinced he was bound for glory. That was right before the pl--- he went off to battle." She cursed herself for letting that slip, and worried immediately that Gregor was acute enough to catch the rewording.
She was astonished when he asked her nothing about it. She waited, patiently, until he took the box back from her and pulled another flimsy out. He couldn't look her in the eye as he did it.
She read Ges' words to Serg, and drew in a breath. This was worse than even she had known. Serg had wanted to kill Kareen, his wife, and kill his unborn son, Gregor. Ges had pushed him to postpone his fantasy. Cordelia wondered if Kareen had known.
"How did he die?" Gregor asked.
Cordelia went ahead with a passive-voice, entirely truthful but definitely edited version. This was not the time to start telling Gregor about Ezar's role in Serg's death, if he hadn't picked up on it already. There would be no good time, and she hoped that the secret would die with her and Aral's deaths. "He died like a hero, by Barrayaran standards. For the sake of the Imperium, it was probably the best thing that could have happened."
Gregor paused, gathered himself, and in a tiny voice, echoing that of his boyhood, asked, "Why?"
"Serg could not have ruled Barrayar... he was too insane -- look at this," she said, gesturing towards the box, "and too corrupted, and surrounded by 'advisors' who used his weaknesses for their own ends. Your grandfather had worked so hard to establish the most fragile peace here, he'd ruined himself. Serg would have destroyed it all, for his own vile fantasies."
Gregor blinked at her, uncomprehending, and stood up and turned away. He went to the window and stared out, blankly, for a very, very long time. She waited for his grief to subside. Finally, she rose, walked over to him, and turned him to face her, with his hands on her arms. The bleakness in his face was heartbreaking, and she could feel him shaking.
Finally, he took a deep breath. "I think... what if I end up like them?" She caught the shift, from just Serg to Serg and Ezar. He was acute, even if he hadn't asked for the details.
"Do you think you will?"
"I can't say. I mean, they are in me." Gregor paused for a moment. "I could end up like them, or like something completely different and... more monstrous than either of them."
"I disagree."
"How can you? They are in me." Gregor sounded angry as he repeated himself. He gripped her arms hard enough to hurt.
"Don't forget your mother. She's there, too." That came out a bit too sharp, but he released her arms as if they were on fire.
"I'm sorry... Did I hurt you?" The last word of his question was nearly a sob.
"There is the crux of it. You were hurting me, and my pain reflected back on you, and you stopped. And you asked after me, in a way that shows me you are conscious and careful of your actions. That is evidence enough that you are not like Serg. Or even Ezar... he just was a master of a different kind of hurt."
"Miles told me the same thing." Gregor's voice was low, but she sensed a tiny seed of hope in it. "That I hate hurting anyone or anything."
"As Emperor -- and as a mere human being -- you will have to, occasionally. But... you have limits, and that keeps you from their mistakes. You'll have your own set, but taking pleasure in hurting others, or using people so ruthlessly, probably won't be among them."
He sighed, sunk to his knees, and gathered her into a hug, much like a hurt little boy would, much as he had, when he was young and thought no one would see. It was still a surprise, a radical departure from his usual self-containment. So unlike poor Miles, whose grief makes him spill himself all over the known universe... But she knew, now, feeling the tension drain out of him, that he'd recover, for the good of this cursed planet, but also for himself.