The name for this story is a homage to Lois McMaster Bujold – it is the title of a book in the excellent Vorkosigan series.

This is the first, easy chapter; it involves known characters and a relatively easy to see situation. After this, it will get much more difficult as I have to design characters and situations from scratch. Feedback is always appreciated.


A parade. He made me sit through a Maker-cursed parade. I draw the line at waving, let alone catching flowers thrown by red-cheeked young women. I, of course, have to be wearing that damned armor. My soldiers turned it into a talisman after that battle, and like a fool I started wearing it all of the time. Maker's Breath, I'm an archer. In plate armor. By the end of the war, I barely touched a bow, though; I was either getting a backache leaning over a map table or giving some poor nag a backache, being a commander, in that blasted heavy armor. Somehow, Maric convinced me that it was good for the kingdom to let myself be pelted with wilting flowers while yokels cheer for we heroes.

After all that we've, that I've had to do, being thought of as a hero makes me ill.

And then he hands out medals and awards, and I know he's got something up his sleeve as I'm called into court, because he's got the irrepressible grin that defines Maric. He had that grin on his face when he made me a commander. At least that wasn't in front of so many people. Rowan isn't sitting beside him, at least; apparently it takes longer to plan a royal wedding than a coronation.

And like that, I'm a blasted nobleman, the Teyrn of Gwaren. Gwaren is more than half woods, where the only important city is a seaport. Yes, Maric, play a joke on the farmer's son, give him a teyrnir that's got no farmland to speak of.

I stay at the banquet as short a time as I can, sitting on his left, with Rowan to his right, with all three of us pretending that everything is happy, "for the people". We're poked and prodded for glorious stories of our battles with the Orlesians. Rowan looks more than a little worried when I finally speak up. I tell them of my first rebel plan, my masquerading as Maric and splitting the enemy army. My audience is quite enthralled until I start describing the deaths of each man under my command. I'm ashamed I can't give their names – that was the last time I allowed that to happen. The crowd begins to recover as Rowan and her cavalry arrive to rescue us. And then I describe the sounds as their horses pushed the enemy off the side of the cliff to their deaths.

The mood turns quiet after my story and Rowan glares at me like an old uncle that can't be allowed to drink unwatered wine. Pity, I was just getting warmed up.

Afterward, I put on the most worn, comfortable clothing I can find and go out and drink myself into a stupor. The tavern seems to have a great deal of veterans in it, maimed and scarred. They don't ask me a damn thing.

In the morning, I prepare to leave once I've dunked my head in some suitably cold water. I don't recall the last time I let myself drink that heavily. Sadly, I've accumulated more belongings than ever; I own a motley assortment of gifts – weapons, armor, household goods, "priceless" heirlooms. As tempted as I am to leave it all behind, practicality wars with practicality, particularly over the household goods. With a sigh, I go to find a cart and horse that I can purchase, but I know this will not go well.

Predictably, Maric is waiting for me in the stables. He's already made me a damned Teyrn, what could he possibly offer me to get me to stay? Though I shouldn't make the unlikely assumption he would like me to stay, I suppose. Cue the same old tune, anyway.

"I imagine you're leaving for Gwaren." He doesn't make it a question and I realize that he looks a great deal more tired, resigned even, than I've seen him in some time.

"Yes, I am," I drawl, determined to give him nothing soft on which to attach a conversation.

"I was hoping that you might stay longer. We can have a chance to talk more, mend things… It can be like old times." Maric is so hopeful, like a small child or a puppy.

"You would have me stay? For your wedding perhaps – I could give the bride away." Again. I almost say "again", but some small part of my brain stops me. If Maric were armed and I said that, he might run me through. Instead, he looks at the ground, expression equal parts sadness and anger. I walk over to him and clasp his shoulder.

"We can never return to what was, and you know that, Maric. I'm leaving, and you are not going to stop me, this time, and Maker knows that she won't stop me, either." He sighs, all of the air going out of him and nods. I walk towards the stable doors, leading my horse to the cart full of nothing waiting for me.

"Goodbye, my – king."

I am not his friend, not any longer, and I will remember it, even if he refuses.