[ closed ]

[latkje]

Who: Byerly (vorrutyer) & Nash (latkje)
What: Magic!
When: After the conclusion of the disease plot.
Where: On the road from Wyver to Olympia.
Warning(s): 504 Gateway Time-out

[ The road from Wyver to Olympia is well-travelled and well-packed, the long stretches of monotony preventing Nash from enjoying the landscape. Travel was supposed to bring variety, he thought, new sights, new sounds— not the same thing, over and over. It was hard to tell how far they'd come, at least in the physical sense. ]

At least we're done with that awful humidity. [ He runs a hand through his hair— short and wavy, it had gotten unruly in the heat. ] I have a northern constitution, if you didn't know. [ And a northern fashion sense, as Harmonian clothes tended toward the dour and conservative. Nash was also in the habit of wearing gloves. He's wearing them now, in fact. ] There are some things I just wasn't made for.

[ That hangs in the air a moment, then he turns to actually look at Byerly. ]

But you wanted to talk about magic.

Comments

[vorrutyer]

Ah.

[ Byerly's smile twists. Yes. That...That dilemma, he knows well. Ah, desperation. He and Nash - they're like the last two people in the bar, right before the lights come up. No one left to go home with, eh?

No - that's not fair to Nash. It's clear enough his new bedfellow is...rather more desirable than Byerly. Better at this game. Not a surveillance operative suddenly thrust into covert ops. Sort of covert ops. ]

Well. I'm certainly no secret agent, but I have - shall we say - watched quite a few holodramas. I know a thing or two.

[latkje]

[ It isn't the first time Nash has lost everything, though it does seem like the kind of thing that should happen to a young man, with many steps left in him for walking. Really, at this point in his life, Nash prefers not to walk at all. And yet, here he is, legs moving in a dull repeat. He makes a mental note to complain about it more.

(It's a lie, of course; he hasn't lost everything before, not like this, and his memories tell him so. There's a man standing in the doorway, his hands held in fists. "You have a home to go back to," he says. "That's something to be happy about."

But you can't stay married for very long without being able to ignore the little things that nag at you. )

He assumes "holodramas" are a genre of plays, or something like that. ]

Probably one or two things that I don't.

[vorrutyer]

Oh, I don't know about that.

[ He pushes his hair back from his head, lets out a sigh. What other choice does he have? The greatest secret he'll betray if he's honest is that he acts in the interest of Barrayar. And so what? Any clever man can deduce he works in the interest of Barrayar. So. ]

May I propose an alliance, dear maiden?

[latkje]

You're too late for marriage.

[ But he nods, a sort of sideways gesture. Some of his hair falls into his face. It does that. ]

[vorrutyer]

Alas. [ A drag from his cigarette. ] Then I can only pray that it will later turn into something passionate. May my handsome charm make you forget your wife entirely.

[ He sighs. ]

It seems likely that we two are working towards a similar goal. No?

[latkje]

[ Blandly. ] That would make both of our lives easier.

And what goal is that?

[vorrutyer]

[ A dry little smile. ]

The salvation of two worlds' worth of people who have no one else to speak for them.

[latkje]

Oh, that.

I'm not the High Priest. [ That's the correct title. ] But I prefer to work off the record, anyway.

[vorrutyer]

Still your goal, though, isn't it? Or are you indifferent to your homeland?

[latkje]

No. You've got me.

[ He puts his hands somewhere between a shrug and surrender. ]

[vorrutyer]

[ He tilts his head slightly to the side. ]

Hm. So what if we aligned strategies, dear fellow? Allied our two worlds for the time being? Unified our interests?

[latkje]

And what sort of alliance would this be? Defense? An entente?

[vorrutyer]

More the latter, I should think. After all, we're not under attack yet, hm? So. Information sharing. Common action.

[latkje]

I couldn't pledge you my sword, anyway, as I don't have one. [ Currently true. ]

But as to the rest of it… [ A pause. ] I accept.

[vorrutyer]

I certainly wouldn't want your sword. Or your service. A partnership, rather, of wits.

[ A cock of his eyebrow. ]

Unless you want to be named Vor? As Emperor, I do have that authority. If you wish the advantage of citizenship.

[latkje]

What's Vor?

[ He doesn't say that the way he usually asks a question— quicker and more clipped. Probably because he doesn't know the question. ]

[vorrutyer]

Mm. It's what I am. The military over-class. Hence my name - family name Rutyer, honorific name Vorrutyer. So you could be, what, Vor...?

[latkje]

Latkje. [ Clovis was for that mission only. He's had a few names like that. ] My father's name. [ Which is to say, the real one, but he's never liked that phrase. ]

[vorrutyer]

Vorlatkje. It sounds quite nice, actually.

[latkje]

No it doesn’t. [ A look. ] Don’t be blinded by my brilliant looks.

I make a terrible aristocrat.

[vorrutyer]

Really? But you're so fine-boned and well-spoken. You come off as a much better aristocrat than I am.

[latkje]

Yes, maybe, but you're trying to come off as a bad aristocrat.

[vorrutyer]

Me?

[ He blinks innocently - though there's something of a what-can-you-do shrug in his shoulders. ]

What a shocking accusation, dear Vorlatkje. I'm trying to be the absolute best I can be. A model to all the upstanding young Vor. Why, if I was a bad Vor - then no one would notice me or expect anything of me. And what possible advantage could there be in no one taking you seriously?

[latkje]

I'm not even going to dignify that with a joke.

"Military overclass" suggests a certain stoicism is expected in your kind. [ And not a delicate bone structure. ] But maybe that's less useful in young ladies.

[vorrutyer]

[ A dry little smile. ]

Ah. Yes. There is that. And also dignity. And modesty. And heterosexuality. I am lacking all of those. Hm.

[ A shrug. ]

What are your people supposed to be like?