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The sounds of footsteps and belligerence drew Count Vorkosigan out of his private study to find his son arguing with Armsman Morel. The liveried man was trying to coax Lord Vorkosigan to go upstairs to his room but Aral was having none of it. The boy was unmistakably intoxicated but not drunk, Piotr decided, or at least not exclusively. Alcohol always took the boy's coordination first, and while he was definitely unsteady on his feet, he remained upright. Which probably meant Ges Vorrutyer had been feeding him pills again.
Watching the all-too-familiar scene unfold, Piotr considered his options.
Lately, Aral couldn’t be bothered to listen to reason when he was cold sober much less while off his face. All previous attempts to curb his outrageous behavior had been abject failures. He simply defied any order to confine himself to the House. Kicking him out and banning him from all Vorkosigan properties resulted in him crashing with that pillow biter Ges. Likewise, cutting Aral off did little good so long as Count Vorrutyer refused to cut off his son.
Perhaps something more direct was in order.
Piotr had rarely raised a hand to Aral as a child - and not at all since he had attained his adult height and strength - because a few sharp words were usually more effective than corporal punishment with him. But in his current state, a painful lesson might just sink in.
Lord Vorkosigan's voice was growing louder by the second.
“Aral!” Piotr's son turned slowly to glare blearily at him. “My study! Now!”
At first, Count Vorkosigan was certain the boy would argue, or ignore him. But despite his evident reluctance, he replied: “Yes, sir.” And stumbled in the direction he had been ordered.
The Count followed his heir into the study, closing and locking the door behind them. He took a rattan swagger-stick down from the wall display of his Cetagandan War memorabilia. Then, quick as a snake, he grabbed Aral by one arm – halting the boy’s progress toward the drinks tray – and twisted it up behind his back.
“What the fu…?” Aral yelped but Piotr ignored him.
Using the pressure of the hold, he forced his son toward the great mahogany desk and bent him over it. Then he neatly pinned Aral’s other arm with a hip.
“We need to have a discussion about your behavior, Lord Vorkosigan!” Piotr growled, cutting off another protest by jerking the captured arm higher.
Without further warning, Piotr brought the swagger-stick crashing down on Aral’s backside. A grunt was all the reaction he got from the boy, though the Count knew from personal experience that the rattan implement packed a real wallop, even over woolen uniform trousers. He raised his arm again and swung with greater strength. The impact wrung a scream from its recipient and that was… wrong. Stoicism in the face of pain was one of the boy’s few virtues. Piotr hesitated for a split second before shaking off his fleeting concern. He struck again – another scream – and again.
“Father, please!” Aral sobbed out after the fifth blow landed. “Please, stop! Please!”
Piotr froze. Even as a child, Aral would not cry when he was caned - and he had endured far harsher punishments than those few strokes - and never, not once, had he ever begged for mercy. Stunned, Count Vorkosigan released the pressure on Aral's arm, allowing the boy to slip from his grip and scramble away.
Aral threw himself bodily onto the nearby couch, curled up in a ball, and panted into a throw pillow.
After several long moments, it finally dawned on Piotr that Aral must have already been injured. And it was all too easy to deduce who had hurt the boy.
“What did he do to you?” Piotr asked very quietly.
“N-nothing!” Aral stammered.
“Bullshit! What did he do?” When the boy didn't reply, General Vorkosigan ordered: “Show me!”
His son frowned mulishly at him, but after a moment, he uncurled, stood up, and reached for his belt buckle. He dropped his uniform trousers, then his boxers unceremoniously.
Piotr drew in a sharp breath at the sight.
Aral’s buttocks, thighs and hips bore copious welts and bruises that the General's swagger-stick definitely had not put there. Merde! No wonder the boy had screamed. If Piotr had known….
“Have these been treated?”
His son shook his head infinitesimally.
“Right!”
Piotr marched to the door, unlocked and opened it, scanning the hallway for an Armsman. Coleson was nearby and came immediately at the Count’s beckoning.
“Bring me an emergency medkit!”
“Yes, m’lord”
The guard sprinted for the kitchen where a well-stocked medical pack was kept. Piotr closed the study door and returned to his son.
“You hurt anywhere else?”
“My back,” Aral confessed.
“Strip off!” Piotr ordered. Aral from long practice at obeying that tone, did as he was told.
More welts ran up the length of his back, ending just below his neck, not sparing the danger zones around his spine and kidneys. Piotr hissed angrily. He probably ought to call in his physician - God knew what more that sadistic queer had done - but Aral would not wish these injuries seen by anyone else. And honestly, Piotr did not want his son seen this way, either.
“Why’d you let him do this to you?” he asked before he could stop himself.
Aral shrugged, not meeting his father’s eyes. “Pain’s as good as alcohol for forgetfulness.”
Piotr rocked back. Well, he guessed he deserved that. He’d used nearly those exact words more than a few times in his son’s hearing, in the days after Mad Yuri’s War, when there were no more battles to distract him from the grief of losing most of his family. Again.
General Count Piotr Vorkosigan could not keep himself from thinking about how things would have been different if only….
Olivia, I could really use your levelheadedness about now.
Knocking broke his reverie.
“Lie down on your stomach, boy,” he commanded. Then thought to ask: “Unless there’s more on your front.”
Aral shook his head vehemently and lowered himself onto the sofa as ordered.
Piotr crossed to the door once again. His Armsman Commander stood there holding a large black case.
“Do you need Doctor Thomas?” he asked anxiously as his liege lord took the kit.
“No, I’ll handle this.” He didn’t explain and of course Holloway didn’t inquire.
Piotr set the case down on a table near his son. He opened it and searched within for Synergine and several different analgesics. General Vorkosigan had learned early in the Cetagandan Occupation the importance of posessng some medical knowledge of his own; medtechs were just as prone to dying as any other soldier.
“What are you on, boy?” he asked sharply. “And don’t lie to me. I need to know so I don’t accidently overdose you.”
“Durmalide.” A combination pain reliever and muscle relaxant, far too mild for the shape he was in. How like the boy, to use insufficient meds to control his pain. But Piotr was relieved; Aral’s, or rather Ges’, tastes usually ran to stronger stuff. And, to be fair, it had been working. Until Piotr added insult to injury.
“Have you been drinking tonight?”
“Some. Vodka. Maybe three shots.”
Piotr returned a couple of the vials to the case, thun loaded up the hypospray with doses he knew wouldn’t send the boy into respiratory failure. He pressed the injector against Aral’s arm and heard an immediate groan of relief. Dropping the used device into a medical waste container on the outside of the kit, he rummaged around again for an appropriate topical for the welts and bruises.
“This might sting a bit,” he warned, pulling on a pair of disposable gloves and dipping his fingers into the container of ointment.
Aral nodded acknowledgement.
Starting with Aral’s thighs, Piotr gently spread the medicine over the marks. There was surprisingly little broken skin – Ges Vorrutyer knew what he was doing with whatever implement he used on the idiot boy – but applying an anti-microbial seems prudent. The medication also contained ingredients meant to promote healing, something he hoped his son would appreciate.
Wretched anxiety flooded him. “You have to stop seeing him, Aral,” he said very quietly.
“I know.”
The reply – another first from his son – caused Piotr to freeze again. He forced himself to continue his ministrations immediately, hoping the boy didn’t notice the momentary lapse.
In a carefully neutral tone, he asked: “Can you promise me not to see him again?”
Aral nodded again, fervently.
“Will you swear it on our name?” The Count had never asked or demanded this oath of his heir before, largely because he suspected Aral would disobey him. Or end up dishonoring himself. Either way, it might have led to something they could only settle in one of the traditional, violent ways.
The young man tensed under Piotr’s hand and the older man feared that he'd pushed too far. But a few beats later, Aral sighed deeply and his body went lax again.
“I swear by my word as Vorkosigan,” he murmured, “that I will not see Lord Ges except as professional or social obligations require.”
Count Vorkosigan released a breath he had not realized he’d been holding. He redoubled his pace, still trying to be gentle but wanting to finish and get his son into his bed before whatever inspired this contrition and cooperation wore off.
“Alright, you can get dressed,” he said gruffly.
Piotr put the medkit to rights, while Aral did the same with his uniform.
“Thank you, Father,” the boy said when he'd finished tying his boots.
“Let me know if you want me to tend those again in the morning,” the Count replied without looking up from his task.
“I….” Aral swallowed whatever he was going to say. “Yes, sir. May I go, sir?”
The Count nodded a curt affirmative. Aral hesitated a few moments, then stood and crossed to the door. When he reached for the knob, Count Vorkosigan cleared his throat and said his heir’s name.
“Sir?”
Piotr paused, thinking of all the things he probably should say. That he was still worried for Aral's safety. That he really wanted this to be the last time they fought. That he loved him. Those words would not form.
Instead, he said:
“If you break your word, you and I will be having another discussion. And next time I won't stop 'til the lesson is learned. Understood?”
There was yet another long silence, but the expected pushback was apparently not forthcoming.
“Yes, sir.”
The door to the study opened and closed, leaving Count Piotr Vorkosigan alone with his regrets.