"The Bitter Truth" Author:Zvezdo-vzlet Rating: gen, PG, contains descriptions of abuse Writen for the Winterfair Open Exchange on the prompt: "anything about Gregor". Summary: Gregor on Komarr Translated from Russian ("Горькая правда") by philomytha

The conference was unbearably boring, worse than his most modest hopes. All the more so since Gregor had been anticipating it hopefully--his first galactic journey, his first wormhole jump. But it all turned out to be even more prosaic and mundane than he had imagined. He'd barely felt the jump, not counting a little dizziness. And there was nothing to like on Komarr. The damned domes closed around him claustrophobically, and the endless meetings and debates, with ill-disguised hostility on both sides, made him even more depressed than meetings of the Council of Counts. He dutifully sat at the head of a long table, listening with a straight face to bickering Barrayaran generals and Escobaran civilians, dutifully signed the agreements reached at the end--and didn't participate in the slightest. When Count Vorkosigan forced him to read these examples of legal casuistry, Gregor managed to hold back his grimace of disgust and genuinely tried to understand the words, but nothing but a hodge-podge of terms and paragraphs upon paragraphs of references were left in his memory.

Time crawled by like a turtle, and the week-long visit seemed like forever.

They did, of course, try to spice up his stint on Komarr--he went on a tour of Solstice and visited the Museum of Terraforming, and Count Aral insisted on visiting the Memorial, but the scores of guards and the police cordon set up on the empty streets his motorcade passed through did little to improve his mood.

The only entertainment that could be considered pleasant was a review of Barrayaran troops stationed on Komarr. But now the morning parade was over and the gala dinner was approaching--an event hardly more entertaining than the talks had been.

As Gregor walked down to the reception for the Solstice mayor, he sensed a growing tension. Many people had gathered, mostly Komarrans he didn't know. He constantly found himself the target of curious, wary, appraising glances, and although most of them were not as openly hostile as those towards Admiral Vorkosigan, they didn't let Gregor relax for an instant.

He went into the gallery edging the reception hall, hoping for at least a couple of minutes to be alone and to catch his breath. But before he could lean on the balustrade, watching the lights and neon signs, in the corner of his eye he saw someone approaching. Swearing under his breath, Gregor turned. In the dim light the person's face was hardly discernible, but he was clearly in civilian clothes.

Oh hell, another Komarran. What have I done to deserve this? Gregor thought in growing irritation.

"Good day, sire. I am Stephen Trisby, the chairman of the Commerce and Industry Association."

Gregor recognised him then as one of the negotiators, who had held one of the most intransigent and hostile positions.

"Yes, I remember you, Mr. Trisby. What can I do for you?"

"If I may, I would like to ask you a few questions, sire."

Gregor nodded. It's not going to be easy to get away from one of this type, he thought ruefully.

"Since you, sire, have only recently come to the throne, my colleagues and I are very interested in the question of what policy you are going to favour towards Komarr."

Gregor stifled a sigh as the man justified his worst fears. "I will continue the course of integrating Komarr into Barrayaran society, as the Lord Regent did during his reign," he said, reciting the memorised phrase without a pause.

The Komarran gave a scarcely perceptible smile and looked searchingly at the Emperor. "Well," he said, nodding, "we are generally satisfied with such an approach." He hesitated for a moment. "Permit me to speak frankly, sire. I have been watching you all week, and have come to the conclusion that your reign may not be too damaging to our planet. At any rate, you are very much preferable to us, and, I think, to the Imperium as a whole, than your father would have been."

Gregor was taken aback at this unexpected turn of the conversation. "My father? What do you mean? What harm would his reign have done?" He barely kept his face still. Was this going to be more of that idiotic innuendo that sometimes came to his ears on Barrayar?

Trisby's eyes narrowed and his lips curled in a nasty smirk. "We thought as much," he said after a moment's pause. "Your guardians and advisors are keeping you ignorant. And it seems to us that you, your majesty," from his tone, the title sounded like a joke, "fully deserve the right to know the truth."

You should call your security, he's provoking you, Gregor thought by reflex, but his curiosity overcame his prudence. After all, it was unlikely that he would ever in his life again get a chance to learn more of the deluded accusations against his father. He could always call the guard later.

"The truth about what? And who do you mean by 'we'?" Despite his growing excitement, his voice remained firm and cold. "And how can I believe that your stories have at least some relationship to the truth?"

"The truth about Prince Serg. 'We' are Komarran patriots. As for your proof, allow me to present you the facts, sire, and you can draw your own conclusions."

"Tell me." Gregor nodded with an icy smile.

And the Komarran began to talk, in a calm voice, as if reciting a memorised lesson. At first Gregor listened skeptically, prepared for an utterly false story and unfounded accusations. But Trisby dispassionately presented facts, nothing but dry facts: the names of victims, dates, circumstances, eyewitness testimony of survivors of orgies, madnesses and excesses. Gregor was gradually engulfed by ever-increasing horror, a cold sweat breaking out on his back and his knees weakening. The avalance of atrocities committed by his father seemed to swallow him, he felt he was choking as the roof of the dome seemed to crush him, the walls around him closing grimly...

The news that Prince Serg twice tried to kill his own father shocked him even more deeply.

And the story about how his father abused his mother finally pressed even the air from Gregor's lungs. The Komarran's details, of course, he could not have known, but it was enough that he had repeatedly noticed bruises and burns on her face and hands.

And then, as if someone had suddenly turned a tightly closed tap, Gregor was flooded with old memories, memories he had mercifully erased before: his mother, dishevelled and prostrate on the floor in a torn dress, her face twisted with fear and stained with tears, her eyes bulging and her hands trying desperately to guard herself from attacks by iron-shod boots, and her hoarse, breaking, unearthly cry. He remembered himself, curled up in a ball in the corner, paralysed with fear, small and helpless...

Gregor swayed, the world around him swimming before his eyes, his pulse throbbing loudly in his temples. From far away came the worried voice of Trisby, "Sire, are you all right? Would you like me to call a doctor?"

Gregor shook his head minutely. "No. Go away... please..."

The Komarran looked at him thoughtfully for a second (and Gregor saw a hint of sympathy in his gaze), then nodded, turned and walked into the hall.

Gregor leaned heavily against the rail of the gallery. He felt absolutely devastated, as if everything around him was devoid of meaning.

He did not know how long he stayed there. It could have been five minutes, or several hours.

An Armsman came and gently touched his elbow. "Dinner is beginning. You are invited to the dining room, my lord."

The Emperor nodded. The thought of eating made him want to vomit.

What I need right now, he sadly thought, is to drink myself half to death. If only Miles were here...