A/N: This fic was inspired by this passage:
Dear Madame Vorsoisson, it began. I am sorry.
This is the eleventh draft of this letter. They've all started with those three words, even the horrible version in rhyme, so I guess they stay.
Her mind hiccuped to a stop. For a moment, all she could wonder was who emptied his wastebasket, and if they could be bribed. Pym, probably, and likely not. She shook the vision from her head, and read on.
(A Civil Campaign, chapter 11)
I'm a truly terrible poet, as you'll see. It's an awful poem. Fortunately, it says right there in canon that Miles is also a terrible poet.
So here it is: what Ekaterin might, if things had been slightly otherwise, have been able to bribe Pym to steal from Miles's wastebasket.
Dear Madame Vorsoisson,
I am sorry. I should not have tried
Base subterfuge to keep you at my side.
You were not a ship to be hijacked,
But I did not think such a crooked-backed,
Ugly, hyperactive, dwarfish man
Could justly earn the honour of your hand;
Some better man would sweep you off your feet,
Ivan, Zamori – at least not Vormoncrief! –
And I would have no brave Ekaterin
To be the next Lady Vorkosigan.
Seeing you smile beneath the open sky,
I wanted to rebuild what was destroyed;
To own the gift of your unerring eye
That calls up beauty from the formless void;
And to possess the honour of your heart,
Courage that broke conspiracies apart
And would have made the final sacrifice
To save Barrayar from that vile device.
Fearing to lose you, body, mind and soul,
I didn't want to see the enormous hole
In my great plan: that victories can't be gifts.
Your garden could have been, to me, a gift
That was a victory; instead, I made
Your heart's desire into a snare for you.
For this, as well as sorry, I'm ashamed.
I love you. No doubt it's too late to say
How much, how well – how earnestly I pray
That as you spread your wings and find your place
I might again be blest to see your face.
Yours to command,
Miles Vorkosigan