He squeezes his eyes shut. When is the last time he wept? He can't even remember. When they fast-pentaed him, he supposes, as part of his training. He'd wept hysterically then, snot dripping onto his shirtfront. But fast-penta crying isn't real crying. Before that...On one of his birthdays, he supposes. Yes. His third birthday after he'd left home, when he'd sat in his rented flat and not received a greeting from anyone. Not a single word all day. He'd sat and he'd cried and he'd drank. Woke up the next morning to a message from his cousin Donna, apologizing for not calling before he'd gone to bed.

He doesn't think that he'll being going to sleep and finding things are a little bit better when he wakes up. No. Things aren't going to get better. He swallows hard, pain behind his eyes.

"My offense," he says unsteadily, "was not against you. I broke with Barrayar. Not with you. The decision was...political."