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[ Byerly, a handsome fellow with a hard-to-place accent that just sounds a bit different, is lounging on a couch. The angle isn't entirely flattering, since he's filming himself while laying supine, and so there's a view sort of halfway up his nostrils that is a little bit too much information. A bottle of brandy dangles from one hand, and his voice is slurring just a bit. This fellow seems quite drunk. ]

Bonsoir, you grunting peasants and cultureless rubes, and happy Winterfair to all. For those of you who are cultureless monsters, Winterfair is a time when gifts are exchanged and joy is had. My gift to you is that I won't call any of you peasants again for the duration of this broadcast. Winterfair was also the last Emperor's birthday, or thereabouts, which meant everyone had to give him their taxes for the year, but mine's not till later, so you don't need to pay me till then. I'll let you know when taxes are due. Start saving up now.

So what should you all give me instead? I suppose to begin with you could entertain me. What do you say, my cream puffs - a little game of two truths and a lie? You know the rules, since the rules are literally the name of the game. Go on, play with me, do. I'll start. I'm currently rightful Emperor of Barrayar, my great grandfather Pierre once showed up to a Winterfair ball soaked in blood to send a message, I'm terrible in bed.

Anyone who opts out of the game, I'm going to assume they're simply too in love with me to speak with me, so don't play at your own risk.

[ He winks, and then lifts the brandy to his mouth - and it apparently goes down at a bad angle, because he sits up, coughing and spluttering and getting alcohol down his front before he shuts off the feed. ]

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[ His sarcasm is likewise quick. Likewise defensive. ]

Ooh, and what are they? Please do share. Cuddling with fuzzy lambs?

[He exhales a frustrated sigh, but it doesn’t impede his ability to just start talking.]

You’re accommodating beyond what is necessary. You know how to lighten the mood at the precise time it’s needed. Though it might be for some cunning reason, you actually listen when someone says something to you, and you remember it so that they don’t feel so awkward later. You speak of good men fondly, and encourage them to have a good time. You have good taste, even if I can’t say that about your dress. I loathe to admit it, you’re funny, even if it’s at my expense— and I haven’t even gotten into how you’re still a sight for sore eyes even when one isn’t looking to fuck you. Your eyes when you smile, your laugh? Maker have mercy.

The family you speak of back home are the terrible, unlikable ones that no one should fall for. I’m not saying it’s something you’d seek to envoke in someone on purpose, but not ignoring it as a possibility is being blissfully ignorant.

[ The first part is bad enough. The second - Byerly can't control the flinch. Often, when he lets out little signs of vulnerability or fear or hurt, it's calculated - the emotion might not be feigned, but the decision to show it or not is a deliberate one. To win sympathy, or to lure someone into thinking they know some hidden truth. But this is a genuine flinch of hurt, of fear - and in the back of his mind, he spits at himself, rages at himself, for having been such an idiot that he provoked this conversation in public. Where people can see and hear. Amateur mistake, a fool's mistake, a child's mistake. Bad enough that he was sentimental enough that he gave Dorian one of the keys to his heart; now he's allowed that key to be distributed to anyone who's cared enough to listen along this far.

He struggles to cover it up. Fights to shoot Dorian a wry, devil-may-care smile. Tries hard to make himself look detached, disengaged - ]

My goodness. I feel ungrateful. What a litany. I wasn't searching for compliments, I give my oath.

[ He can't think of a way to dismiss the mention of his family. God. As if they have anything to do with all of this. Why even bring it up? ]

[As much as Dorian enjoys hearing the sound of his own voice and prides himself on his good word, he isn’t blind. He saw that flicker in his facade, and almost immediately a sense of guilt coursed through him. Somewhere along the way, he stepped over a line he shouldn’t have, and he’s said so much that he can’t pinpoint what it was. Did Byerly truly care so much for this image he’s made of himself? Or was it his family? Or both. Surely he’s told someone else by now, he’d thought foolishly. He wasn’t good at holding his tongue— he should have considered that with something so delicate.

Either way, it didn’t matter, he needs to clean his mess. He would be paralyzed if he’d been called out in such a way. He parts his lips with an apology on his tongue, but closes them to rethink his words. For once.]

Or... I simply got carried away with our game. Seven lies, one truth, wasn’t it?

[ That doesn't help, that clear remorse, because that means that Dorian knows he's hurt him. That means that Dorian feels sorry for him. He knows that it's stupid, that it's the Vor in him, that makes him so damnably prideful. It was the Vor in him that made him storm out of his father's home with nothing more than the clothes on his back, the Vor in him that kept him from returning even when he slept rough outside, the Vor in him that kept him from throwing himself on the charity of his cousins or grandparents. It's the Vor in him that makes his job a torment - that makes him wretched with guilt over his betrayed honor even as he acts in Barrayar's best interests. It is not a good thing, to be a Vor; the Vor in him bristles now at Dorian's guilt.

So his temper flares. He's much more cool-headed than he once was - back when he was the hot-tempered boy who raged at his father, who had his arm broken by his cousin, who provoked his teachers. But the boy isn't entirely dead, just dormant. The ferocity is visible in the flash in his eyes, the tightening of his lips, before he forces himself to settle down again. ]

Something like that.

[ He smiles, his lips just a little tight. ]

Though could you even come up with seven lies, my honest, earnest friend? I suspect your straightforward heart would burst from that much untruthfulness.

My heart isn’t so delicate.

[Now it was his turn for a response too quick, too defensive. The look in Byerly’s eyes was mild in compared to the words following it; He was used to such fury in the eyes of men, trained by his father, his mentor, his peers whenever he spoke his own mind. It would have been easy to brush off if it were only that, try and wrack his brain for a way to make it up to him. Instead, his jaw clenches.

He was just too prideful to let that slide. As stupid as his words were, it wasn’t as if he’d have spoken them if he knew they’d wind up here. His lack of malicious intentions isn’t something he tolerates being made fun of.]

Simply because I am not compelled to be untruthful every waking hour does not mean I can’t be convincing, dear Byerly.

Then convince me.

[ He smiles, polished as glass. ]

Show me how a good and honest man lies. Perhaps my untruthful soul will learn a thing or two.

I'll reveal them within the confines of our game, shall I? Two truths, one lie.

I haven't slept with less than a dozen men - the number is probably closer to thirty. I have slept with the same man I know more than once, and I didn't ask him to run away with me because he was to marry. I purposely didn't tell you my father was assassinated.

[ That last bit gets a little twitch, just the smallest reaction. But the reaction is there. ]

Your father was assassinated. [ Then - ] That's a request for more information, not my guess.

Ah, yes, that is the appropriate trade for all I've said, isn't it?

[There's a bitter tang in his tone, combating the fear-summoned anxiety over his tongue. So this is what he made Byerly feel like minutes ago- a raw nerve left naked and vibrating with an anxious need to find something solid.]

He was, recently. I had this wonderful dream of being in my homeland that I thought had just turned nightmare, but then! It wasn't a dream. I woke from stasis again to be informed my memories had been updated for the last two years before the Storm. I asked for proof, and now I carry this lovely little letter from the Magisterium congratulating me on it.

[ No offers of condolences. Just his eyes, narrowing slightly, as he surveys Dorian. ]

And how do you feel about it?

[Said with certainty, having dwelled on it long enough to keep his voice from wavering:]

I miss him. All the things he said to me, all the things he tried to do, and I miss him more than anyone in the world.

[ By's lips tighten. He doesn't enjoy that answer at all. But he bites back anything truly judgmental, and instead just grinds out: ]

How lucky for him. Better than he must have expected.

I couldn't say. I saw mother twice - drunk both times - and him once to send me off. The only thing I do know trouble was probably intended for me, and he took it all upon himself.

[He turns his head away, allowing himself a moment to cool off.]

I didn't mean to patronize you, Byerly. It was out of line.

I'm sure I don't know what you mean.

[ He bites that out. It's not angry, now, but it's still defensive. Guarded. Trying to reconstruct the narrative of this little spat, trying to make himself and everyone else believe that he genuinely doesn't give a damn about all of it. And he returns to the other issue, that of Dorian's father: ]

A single good deed doesn't make an unforgivable one any better. The past isn't ever undone.

[It's fair to move on, he knows. He won't linger. Still, he wishes he'd come up with something else to say, because By knows too much for Dorian to be able to say he's wrong.]

That's true. I haven't all but forgotten. But it isn't as if I can just ignore that he made some attempt to make up for it.

Why can't you?

[ A short sharp shrug. ]

Seems easy enough to me.

Because I'm tired. [There he goes with the honesty again. There's reluctance, and yet he still continues.] I'm tired, and I don't have anything else to hold onto. It hurts, yes, but carrying that with me isn't something I'm not used to. I'd rather feel something than just than just not care.

[ His lips tighten. ]

I fail to see the logic here. If you're tired, it seems that the best thing is not to care. No more energy wasted. Terribly efficient.

Allow me to elaborate on the nature of my exhaustion, then. I'm tired of shoving everything aside and getting through the day fueled by spite and anger. I accept it for what it is now, and eventually I can move on. If I pretend I don't care, I drink myself into a stupor, then I wake up in a cold sweat regretting I never confronted it when it began.

[Ironically, he's pulling a bottle from somewhere off-screen. His nerves are slipping into his tone more than he likes, but it's beyond his control.]

I have spent all my life alone, wondering if anyone truly gave a shit on whether I happen die the next day. Was he a terribly misguided man? Yes! But he was a good one, once. If I spend the rest of my life choosing to believe at least he didn't care, I might as well join him. I'll be fucking miserable.

[ And tighter still, with a bit of that simmering anger coming through his cool and detached facade - ]

A good man doesn't do that. [ Doesn't do what he tried to do to Dorian. ]

[Dorian frowns, occupying himself with opening the bottle rather than answering right away.]

I wouldn't be here without him.

[ Sardonically: ]

Oh, yes, merci beaucoup, pere, for your genetic material. A hundred thanks for giving life. And while we're at it, let's take a moment to burn death-offerings to the monkeys we all evolved from.

I don't know what you want me to say, Byerly.

[He leans back after a sizable sip of wine.]

It isn't as if I can flip a switch.

[ Byerly's jaw works a moment. Then he looks away and shrugs. It simply...It's not as though he's the sort of man who sees criminals going free and snarls in rage. Dorian's father was a rotten bastard, but so what? There's no cosmic justice; not everyone gets what should be coming to them; if he tore his hair out about that, he'd have been bald years ago. So - So what? Who cares? And it's not like he needs Dorian's permission to detest his own father.

But what sort of crime is it, really? Accusing your son of something terrible. Trying to use magic to destroy your son's mind and soul. The first is nothing, compared to the second. And if Dorian can just move past it, then why -

By takes an angry swig from the brandy bottle. A real one, this time, not just one for drunken show. ]

Nothing. There's not anything I want you to say. Never mind. So which one was the lie.

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