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Jan. 10th, 2026 05:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
iniquiticityDulce et decorum est pro patria mori. It is a sweet and proper thing to die for one’s country. Yuri (& Piotr &/or Ezar)
ed note: with great respect to wilfred owen, after writing this one about piotr i couldn't do anymore patriotism annihilates your life. So. Have this instead.
Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings
Ezar looked up at the threatening clouds above Vorhartung Castle. There was rain in the forecast. He closed his eyes and inhaled. I am the Emperor of Barrayar, he thought. The very planet should obey me. Rain in approximately two hours. Having given this vital order - what was more important than thematically appropriate weather for what was sure to be the graphic and lengthy execution of the previous emperor? - he went back inside, his armsmen folding in around him.
Down he went. Luckily the caves of the Dendarii Mountains had prepared him for the labyrinthine hallways of Vorhartung; the last thing he needed was Piotr (Count Vorkosigan) in his ear, in public, telling him how to get where he needed to go. The dungeons were, as expected, sufficient and vast, and they increased in complexity and creativity as he descended. Surely Negri had already done a full investigation of all the things that were down here and come up with some interesting ideas.
At the end of the hall, in the deepest level, was his prey.
Having to keep Mad Yuri from ending his own life had been a fascinating challenge. There had been an artificial coma for a moment, but laying him limp and sedated for the people to dismember wouldn't have the same effect. Worse or better, than it being a beautiful warm day that made one think of picnics? Equally unthematic. He'd have to be fully conscious, wide awake. Should they gag him? He wouldn't be able to bite off anyone's fingers, which had already happened to one of the guards. Was that unthematic? Come to think of it, it would actually be rather grand if someone's finger had to be reattached. Ungagged it was.
Ezar as not foolish enough to let his guard down no matter how intensely Yuri was restrained: presently strapped and bound to a gurney in an most crystalis-like format, his head exposed. The cell stank, naturally. His ordered rain would wash away some of the smell, which was good.
Yuri turned his head at the clattering of the armsmen and met Ezar's eyes as he came into the madman's view. There was a rather fascinating brightness to his gaze, no matter the dim light, no matter the sick, yellow cast to his skin, no matter how imprisonment, quite intentionally, left his eyes deep in their hollows and cheekbones starvation-sharp. He gave Ezar an enormous, yellow-toothed smile and then spat in his face.
Like a wave all the armsmen moved at once, and Ezar held up a hand, and they all stopped. He twisted his wrist, and a handkerchief was put there, that he wiped the dripping goo off his chin.
"Your weak blood embarrasses those colors," Yuri croaked up at him, "I'll take your flesh off slowly, cadet cousin. I'll let your organs rot inside you. I'll roast you hot in an oven. I'll let my men have you - oh, won't you like that, and I'll make Vorkosigan watch, and, oh, his son --"
Ezar shoved the filthy handkerchief in his mouth. Deep, too, picking up a stray end and tucking it in. Yuri made an inhumane noise behind it. The problem of teeth resolved, he took a step closer, his hand wrapping in a soft hold under his chin to tilt his head back. His skin was papery, thin, and hot, nearly flaking off. Yuri resisted the touch, of course, so Ezar unfolded his other hand, grabbed the sides of the man's face, and forced it instead.
"I know it has been a while since you have contributed anything positive to my empire," he said, softly, staring into those eyes and listening the animal noises of fury and madness, "But I hope that it brings you comfort to know your death will be uniquely patriotic. A true show of love to your country and your Emperor."
ed note: with great respect to wilfred owen, after writing this one about piotr i couldn't do anymore patriotism annihilates your life. So. Have this instead.
Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings
Ezar looked up at the threatening clouds above Vorhartung Castle. There was rain in the forecast. He closed his eyes and inhaled. I am the Emperor of Barrayar, he thought. The very planet should obey me. Rain in approximately two hours. Having given this vital order - what was more important than thematically appropriate weather for what was sure to be the graphic and lengthy execution of the previous emperor? - he went back inside, his armsmen folding in around him.
Down he went. Luckily the caves of the Dendarii Mountains had prepared him for the labyrinthine hallways of Vorhartung; the last thing he needed was Piotr (Count Vorkosigan) in his ear, in public, telling him how to get where he needed to go. The dungeons were, as expected, sufficient and vast, and they increased in complexity and creativity as he descended. Surely Negri had already done a full investigation of all the things that were down here and come up with some interesting ideas.
At the end of the hall, in the deepest level, was his prey.
Having to keep Mad Yuri from ending his own life had been a fascinating challenge. There had been an artificial coma for a moment, but laying him limp and sedated for the people to dismember wouldn't have the same effect. Worse or better, than it being a beautiful warm day that made one think of picnics? Equally unthematic. He'd have to be fully conscious, wide awake. Should they gag him? He wouldn't be able to bite off anyone's fingers, which had already happened to one of the guards. Was that unthematic? Come to think of it, it would actually be rather grand if someone's finger had to be reattached. Ungagged it was.
Ezar as not foolish enough to let his guard down no matter how intensely Yuri was restrained: presently strapped and bound to a gurney in an most crystalis-like format, his head exposed. The cell stank, naturally. His ordered rain would wash away some of the smell, which was good.
Yuri turned his head at the clattering of the armsmen and met Ezar's eyes as he came into the madman's view. There was a rather fascinating brightness to his gaze, no matter the dim light, no matter the sick, yellow cast to his skin, no matter how imprisonment, quite intentionally, left his eyes deep in their hollows and cheekbones starvation-sharp. He gave Ezar an enormous, yellow-toothed smile and then spat in his face.
Like a wave all the armsmen moved at once, and Ezar held up a hand, and they all stopped. He twisted his wrist, and a handkerchief was put there, that he wiped the dripping goo off his chin.
"Your weak blood embarrasses those colors," Yuri croaked up at him, "I'll take your flesh off slowly, cadet cousin. I'll let your organs rot inside you. I'll roast you hot in an oven. I'll let my men have you - oh, won't you like that, and I'll make Vorkosigan watch, and, oh, his son --"
Ezar shoved the filthy handkerchief in his mouth. Deep, too, picking up a stray end and tucking it in. Yuri made an inhumane noise behind it. The problem of teeth resolved, he took a step closer, his hand wrapping in a soft hold under his chin to tilt his head back. His skin was papery, thin, and hot, nearly flaking off. Yuri resisted the touch, of course, so Ezar unfolded his other hand, grabbed the sides of the man's face, and forced it instead.
"I know it has been a while since you have contributed anything positive to my empire," he said, softly, staring into those eyes and listening the animal noises of fury and madness, "But I hope that it brings you comfort to know your death will be uniquely patriotic. A true show of love to your country and your Emperor."