Concept draft - this is entirely ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
philomytha's fault.
Aral and Ezar discuss the Escobar plan.
"No," Aral said. He wasn't even aware that he had slammed his fist into the table and shoved his chair back, until he found himself on his feet, pacing up and down the length of the green room. "I will not condone such an utter, extravagant waste of life."
Ezar shot him a look. "Better the waste of life now, than the civil war that will sweep over Barrayar later. How many lives will be lost then?"
"We don't know that," Aral snarled.
"The evidence is clear, Vorkosigan," Ezar said sharply. "Do you not think that I have considered every possibility, every angle - do you believe I desire this any more than you do? Believe me, I draw no joy from this either." For a moment, he glanced aside, and Aral saw an old man - a father - worn and grieving.
"We cannot judge Serg for what he has not done. There is good in him yet - it may still prevail," Aral said, softly. "And we cannot ask an entire fleet to sacrifice themselves on his funeral pyre."
"And what would you do?" Ezar snapped. "Do you have some better plan? Some brilliant strategy that will save the day?"
"I don't know," Aral replied. He reached the end of the room and turned, his footsteps silent in the plush carpet. Everything was muted here, in this room of death. "But I'll find one. There has to be something we can do, someone who can reach out to him, turn him around."
"We dare not risk another Mad Emperor Yuri," Negri said, very quietly, from the corner that he was seated in.
"And are we any better than Yuri, if we send all these men to their deaths?" Aral cried. "Were we any better when we put Yuri to the sword? Let him who is without guilt cast the first stone, Negri!"
His words bounced off the walls, were swallowed into the oppressive silence. He felt trapped, choked, strangled. His feet brought him all the way to the other end of the room. He turned. Walked back. His thoughts writhed with him, twisting around his heart, throat.
Finally, when he thought he couldn't bear the silence any more, Ezar spoke. "My days are numbered. Oh don't give me that look, Negri. You know it's true. There will come a day - sooner rather than later - when I will no longer be around to restrain Serg. Who will be his surety then?"
Aral glanced over. "You can't seriously be--"
"You will not accept the responsibility of his blood on your hands," Ezar cut him off. "You argue for his life. Will you be responsible for the consequences of this choice, Lord Vorkosigan? Are you willing to descend into whatever hell he falls into, and drag him out of the burning abyss?"
He could feel all the blood draining out of his face. "You-- that is not.." fair, he wanted to say.
Ezar's gaze bored into him. He would find no clemency there.
"Damn you," Aral said.
"The choice is yours," Ezar countered.
"Damn you, old man," Aral said again. The words came out a whisper. "You leave me no choice at all."
philomytha's fault. Aral and Ezar discuss the Escobar plan.
"No," Aral said. He wasn't even aware that he had slammed his fist into the table and shoved his chair back, until he found himself on his feet, pacing up and down the length of the green room. "I will not condone such an utter, extravagant waste of life."
Ezar shot him a look. "Better the waste of life now, than the civil war that will sweep over Barrayar later. How many lives will be lost then?"
"We don't know that," Aral snarled.
"The evidence is clear, Vorkosigan," Ezar said sharply. "Do you not think that I have considered every possibility, every angle - do you believe I desire this any more than you do? Believe me, I draw no joy from this either." For a moment, he glanced aside, and Aral saw an old man - a father - worn and grieving.
"We cannot judge Serg for what he has not done. There is good in him yet - it may still prevail," Aral said, softly. "And we cannot ask an entire fleet to sacrifice themselves on his funeral pyre."
"And what would you do?" Ezar snapped. "Do you have some better plan? Some brilliant strategy that will save the day?"
"I don't know," Aral replied. He reached the end of the room and turned, his footsteps silent in the plush carpet. Everything was muted here, in this room of death. "But I'll find one. There has to be something we can do, someone who can reach out to him, turn him around."
"We dare not risk another Mad Emperor Yuri," Negri said, very quietly, from the corner that he was seated in.
"And are we any better than Yuri, if we send all these men to their deaths?" Aral cried. "Were we any better when we put Yuri to the sword? Let him who is without guilt cast the first stone, Negri!"
His words bounced off the walls, were swallowed into the oppressive silence. He felt trapped, choked, strangled. His feet brought him all the way to the other end of the room. He turned. Walked back. His thoughts writhed with him, twisting around his heart, throat.
Finally, when he thought he couldn't bear the silence any more, Ezar spoke. "My days are numbered. Oh don't give me that look, Negri. You know it's true. There will come a day - sooner rather than later - when I will no longer be around to restrain Serg. Who will be his surety then?"
Aral glanced over. "You can't seriously be--"
"You will not accept the responsibility of his blood on your hands," Ezar cut him off. "You argue for his life. Will you be responsible for the consequences of this choice, Lord Vorkosigan? Are you willing to descend into whatever hell he falls into, and drag him out of the burning abyss?"
He could feel all the blood draining out of his face. "You-- that is not.." fair, he wanted to say.
Ezar's gaze bored into him. He would find no clemency there.
"Damn you," Aral said.
"The choice is yours," Ezar countered.
"Damn you, old man," Aral said again. The words came out a whisper. "You leave me no choice at all."
