nysalogs | [open] channeling angels in a new age, now.

[It's not as if he hasn't known that Byerly paints one image of himself over the outlines of something quite different. He's just been willing to take that duality as enough truth for now - never tried to push too far beyond the sketch of feckless dissolution to exactly what it masks.

There's something so startlingly earnest about an oath.

Prior thinks, unbidden, of Louis, and his love for their flawed, fucked up and - in his belief - ultimately fixable fatherland. Maybe Louis' own vision of his country was never really America at all but some idealized possibility. And it wouldn't count, would it, if telling anyone who'd listen meant they got the same version of Barrayar as they do of Byerly.]

I tell people I care about. The stories that mean something to me. So I know they'll be taken care of in return.

[It does mean you have to care about people. Perhaps a fatal flaw.

Softly.]

Were you a soldier?

[ Byerly answers him with a soft laugh. Not humorless, but not exactly amused, either. Just quietly thoughtful. ]

Why do you ask that in the past tense, dear fellow? Were you. Do oaths end? [ Then: ] No. Not a soldier. Or at least not a regular one.

[ A moment. ]

Are you trying to...get people to feel sympathy for them? The people you know? Is that why you tell stories? It's canny, if so.

I fear you'll be sadly disappointed in my lack of guile. No, I mean that I tell stories that are important to me to people who are just as important. Perhaps part of it is the art of picking true guardians, but it's more that they're who I want to know me best.

[Whatever drowsiness was tugging him down into the pillow has been displaced now. He pushes himself up further.]

As for oaths, we have entire legal processes dedicated to dismantling them. What does an irregular soldier do?

Haven't I been transparent enough about my skill set already?

[ Why's he telling Prior? He's not getting anything in return. No extra information, no revelations of his own. This is sharing with no advantage. Maybe it's because he knows that Prior can find out anyway, with his odd little powers. Controlling the flow of information. Maybe - maybe it's because the building of trust is advantageous in some way. Or - Oh, hell, he doesn't know. It just feels right. ]

I listen and I report. [ So that there can be no ambiguity: ] I work as a high-level surveillance operative in the employ of Imperial Security. [ And, a little quietly: ] It was our job to see this coming. This...storm. And we didn't.

[ Perhaps that's why. Because that's a secret agony that's eating him from the inside out. And he hasn't been able to voice it to anyone. ]

The skill set you've been so transparent about - [A little murder - not ambiguous at all.] did I miss where that included weather forecaster? A galaxy of planets didn't see this coming. No one did.

[Except.

The fabric of the sky unravels. Before life on Earth becomes finally merely impossible, it will for a long time before have become completely unbearable.

Prior rests a hand, palm flat against Byerly's chest.]

What could you have done, if you'd known?

[ By doesn't meet Prior's eyes. It's painful to admit this, but something in him eases. It's selfish, of course - what is Prior, his damned Betan therapist? But it helps. Somehow. ]

Doing is not my department. I outsource that to the handsome young men of action. My job is knowing.

[ But - ]

Humanity figured out wormhole travel, terraforming...Our brightest minds might have been able to do something about this.

[Prior's quiet for what feels like a long time. It almost helps that Byerly isn't looking at him. He studies the lines and angles of his face.]

April 18th, 1906. The day of the great San Fransisco Earthquake. Over 80 percent of the city crumbled. Fires raged out of control. People who escaped the tremors crawled onto rooftops and begged to be shot before they burned. Thousands of people lost their lives in multiple, horrible ways.

[He pauses, chewing down his lip with the flat edges of his teeth.]

People learn from experiences. So after 1906 we developed a scale to measure these things by. Ways to predict them. The city rebuilt, and the buildings were reinforced to protect against the next time. And we still don't know that next time won't be just as devastating. Not until it happens. Your brightest minds might have needed a storm to hit before they'd have known how to prepare for one. You can't eat yourself up over might-have-beens.

[April 18th, 1906. Storms in heaven. They warned him.]

[ It's...logical. And so By is quiet a moment, then admits: ]

Maybe.

[ Maybe. Maybe they wouldn't have. But. ]

But it was our job to know. To give them that chance. [ A beat, then a bitter smile. ] I always did get reprimanded for thinking I could do everything, though.

Far more people don't think they can do anything. The reverse isn't the worst trait to have. Exhausting as it sounds.

[And lonely. Well, he knows a thing or two about that.

His hand curls lightly in Byerly's shirt, for lack of other occupation.]

...I don't think anything you could have done or known would have prevented this. There are worlds more advanced than yours - still gone. But-

[He almost asks-

And he thinks better of it. Shakes his head.]

But something of it survived. At least there's that. You.

[ By's hand strokes Prior's knuckles gently. He presses his temple against Prior's crown. The least of it survived. A disinherited, dissolute gossip-monger. A million men more worthy than I am, and they chose me. ]

And now I am Emperor. Responsible for all those men and women and children up in stasis. I was never quite prepared for this.

[Why would they choose me? How was I supposed to save anyone, I can't even save myself. Prior presses into the touches, shamefully needy.]

And I'm a prophet, supposed to help rewrite the order of the universe, or something. We're quite the pair.

[ That draws a little laugh out of him. ]

God help us both. Or at least someone all-powerful and God-adjacent. I suppose your relationship with God himself would be rather complicated, no?

Non-existent, actually. [Without looking up, he gives a nonchalantly regal little wave.] He abdicated. Careful or someone may offer you that position, too.

Ah, I'd pass on that one. I owe nothing to the heavens. Wouldn't be obligated to take on anything on God's behalf. Still, seems rather lazy for a god to do.

It does seem tedious. You'd have to spend all your time helping, damning or forsaking people, imagine. Although I do enjoy the hymns. [As to the reasons for it... long to go into at this hour, and more than he wants to say. It would come too close to a confession of what he's been given to prophecy and after tonight admitting that seems... not best advised.]

Ah, no. I wouldn't enjoy that part one bit. See, I adore music - [ He gestures to himself. ] But only when I get to be the one performing it. It's all about being looked at.

[Byerly Vorrutyer you know not what you've done.]

Darling you have a missed vocation in glitterballs and heels. Find yourself an instrument and I promise you'll have a captive audience - though do you sing? I like singing the best.

Ah, a bit. I was never the talented one at singing. [ A small shrug, a wry smile. ] Piano and violin.

And violin the most, I know. [Noting that there was a talented one without asking who. He could guess, but they've settled long enough on loss for now.] You can still sing. It's not as much about talent as enthusiasm.

Having had a three-month fling with Vorbarr Sultana's top prima donna - I think it's a bit about talent, too.

[Prior rolls his eyes, whether at the Prima Donna or the protests. There's a spot just below the lower rib where most people are ticklish. He tests it with a light pinch.]

I meant here, not on stage at Madison Square. Stop asking for perfection, no beautiful thing is.

[ Dammit. Byerly jumps just a bit, letting out a little grunt of protest. Dammit, Prior. He slaps the fellow's hand away. ]

Don't do that. But yes, fine. What are you proposing, a night of karaoke?

[A little victory: Prior beams at the slap before attempting to revert to innocence. Though, genuinely-]

I could be, I suppose. It sounds intriguing. What is it?

[ Byerly gives a little huff, trying to return to his prior illusion of debonair, suave confidence. Squeaking when you're poked is decidedly un-suave. ]

What's karaoke? Do you Terrans not have that? I don't know whether to envy or pity you. It's grand - you drink to the point of self-confidence, cram into a booth with your fellows, and sing off-key. While drinking more. A license for bad behavior and shameless preening.

[Squeaking when poked is refreshingly human, just a little endearing, and Prior only looks more pleased about it as Byerly tries to unruffle his feathers.]

If we do, then nobody has yet told me. Though it sounds not unlike a hundred house parties I've been to - I'd go. [Lets never pretend that parties and preening are things to endure rather than embrace - though his social life has involved both less social and less life for some time.] But I mean nothing so organized. I just mean singing, Byerly. Don't you ever sing just because?

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