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My spirit moans with a sacred pain

Summary:

Given how often and how far Dick Grayson and his brothers travelled, it was inevitable that one day someone would come up to them and say, "Count Vorwayne, sir?"

Roy's the one who drew fate's short straw.

Notes:

Title from the Killers "Goodnight Travel, Well."

Any lines you recognizes are from Lois McMaster Bujold's Cryoburn.

For Bat fans, "Vor" is a prefix indicating membership in the military caste that rules Barrayar, which is transmuted to Gotham here.

For subscribers looking for smut, I'm sorry.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Roy Harper looked like shit. The face in the mirror was wan and even his red hair looked pale and lifeless. His green and gray house uniform didn't help, lending a corpse-like cast to his appearance. Not a hair was out of place but he might as well have been dressed by an undertaker. He'd slipped into the refresher to make sure his appearance matched the gravity of his situation. Not at all to delay the inevitable moment when he had to inform the next Count Vorwayne of his elevation. He cursed the evil chance that put three of the Vorwaynes in his transfer station. At least they weren't all here.

They were halfway across the Wormhole Nexus which formed known space. Normally, he'd be insanely curious about what had made the Emperor's youngest Imperial Auditor call two of his brothers in for back up. Instead he was the harbinger of terrible news.

He left the refresher and set out for the concourse where the station's computer had told him his quarry waited. They were on an upper platform, tucked into a alcove that blocked line of sight from three directions. Their three armsmen were positioned perfectly to cover all the approaches. Armsman Fox must have noticed Roy's approach but was new enough not know that Roy never wore his house uniform.

The three Vorwaynes were laughing together. It was a rare enough sight that his steps slowed. Jason seemed to be telling them about a space fight. Or maybe those gestures meant something in five dimensional math. In either case, he wouldn't be nearly so cheerful once he saw Roy. In a burst of cowardice, Roy turned away and took one of the lifts blocked by the alcoves. Let them have a few more minutes of happiness. Since he was only going up one level, it wasn't a long grace period but it was better than nothing.

His approach at their level also took him into Armsmen Fox's field of view. This time Roy was close enough for Fox to see his face. The falsely relaxed posture of armsman in a known safe location melted as Fox recognized there was no way good news brought Roy marching towards them like an executioner. Jason quickly noticed the change in Fox's demeanour and looked over his shoulder to see what not-threat had caused it. Roy's heart squeezed when joy lit up Jason's face. It squeezed harder when understanding drained the joy away and Jason braced himself for bad news.

The table was quiet when Roy finally reached it. Three sets of blue eyes waited for him to reveal what tragedy brought him. The armsmen might as well have turned to stone. Roy took a deep breath, swallowed bile, and wished it could have been anyone else bringing them this news. He'd thought it would be better that they weren't faced with a stranger in this moment but with his typical weakness, Roy would have traded with that stranger in a heartbeat. He'd give anything if it meant he wouldn't have to say the three words he was about to say.

"Count Vorwayne, sir."

As a mercenary, he'd seen any number of soldiers keep going after taking wounds that would kill lthem. They kept fighting even as the life drained out them, they all had a look that said they knew they were dead. A lot of them got posthumous medals, it was easy to be a hero when your fate was already decided. He never saw that look on someone without a scratch on them. Life drained out of Dick Grayson, the Count Vorwayne. He'd looked better after taking a needle grenade to the chest.

Unable to escape his duty, Roy turned to Jason. "Lord Vorwayne, sir."

Jason didn't look like he was dying. He looked inanimate. His normally bright gaze had gone flat and expressive face was still. It was the same face Jason wore when their Gotham Irregulars weren't going to take prisoners. Roy ached to put his arms around him but his house green and grey and Jason's ImpSec uniform meant they had to stick to a certain level of decorum. Later, he could be there when Jason fell apart. Right now his job was to get them all on the way home.

"You have a courier standing by," Tim Vorwayne, still just Lord Tim, phrased it as a question but said it like a statement.

Roy nodded. He'd never been afraid of Tim before. Afraid for him plenty of times but never of him. Now he was caught in that falcon sharp gaze and understood better why Tim been made an Imperial Auditor despite decades younger than the usual retired admiral or bureaucrat. If only there was some way for Tim to fix this. Some secret mission could go on or a daring rescue he could pull off and put the world back to the way it had been before Roy had opened the coded message from Gotham.

Dick's armsman had to help him stand. Jason and Tim stood like they had someone pulling their strings. Roy turned away and led the party back down the concourse to where the courier ship was waiting. He had three of the most capable people in the Imperium at his back and he'd never felt so helpless. Bruce Wayne, Regent, Admiral, Count, Husband, Father, Viceroy, and hero of more than forty years of history was dead.

Fuck.

Notes:

If I was really industrious I'd do a bunch of drabbles to match the book but this is all you get.