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Temeraire visits sporadically during the Parliament season- there is so much do to, he says, with Parliament in full swing; only an MP with wings might be able to dip back for a quick few days in their Scottish abode, though with couriers becoming more common it was becoming more feasible.
“It is nice to sleep in the pavilion,” Temeraire said. “After so much work getting it built. Though I am sad to have missed Tharkay” Who had travelled down to Edinburgh for some business. He seemed particularly miffed that he had paid for a courier, insisting, “I would’ve been far faster, had I been here.”
“Of course, my dear,” Laurence said. “The simple fact is that you were not, and we mere men must get around somehow. This is the new one, yes?” He held up a small text, one Temeraire was not particularly enthused about.
“A novel,” he sniffed. “One of the maids recommended it.” Temeraire, of course, pestering every member of the staff who ventured out to his pavilion for work. When one of the maids finally responded to Temeraire’s love of literature, the social boundary drilled into her being rather weakened by the incongruity of a giant lizard who loves books, mentioning a text she recently enjoyed. Of course it should be procured immediately, and Temeraire was determined to finish the entire thing.
“No matter how silly it might be,” he admitted, curling around Laurence. The novel was rather silly, Laurence admitted, though more engaging, to him at least, than those mathematic textbooks Temeraire held so dear. It was a romance, with Temeraire asking questions at nearly every page.
“I really cannot understand it,” Temeraire said. “She gave him a trimming from her hair? Whatever should he use it for, he can’t even eat it! A cow seems a much better gift, or treasure.”
“Well, you see,” Laurence struggled to explain- this was precisely the sort of sentiment that came least naturally to dragons, for anyone besides their captain that is. “Its very much like a sort of treasure.”
“A treasure!” Temeraire exclaimed, before contemplating. “Hair does not seem much of a treasure. Of course your hair is nice, Laurence, it looks rather much like gold, but I cannot see how one would prefer it to actual gold.”
“It is one of the most personal things someone can give, usually reserved for for- ah, here we go.” Laurence had been fumbling with the fabric around his neck, and managed to finally produce the chain from under his many layers. Temeraire peered insistently as Laurence found the small locket which popped open to reveal a small lock of dark hair.
“It is something only he might’ve given me,” Laurence said. “Even when Tenzing has only gone to Edinburgh, I may see it, feel it, and be immediately reminded of him.”
“When you explain it so, it sounds rather nice,” Temeraire said, to his credit with only a hist of wistfulness. “I suppose it is only for humans, then.”
“Dear, I can’t imagine what a 20 ton dragon such as yourself might do with such a small thing,” Laurence said fondly. “You’ve the genuine article, besides. No matter how far, you need only fly to me and I will be here for you.” And Temeraire made a noise reminding Laurence of nothing so much as a rather large cat’s purr, and he could do nothing but smile even as he was pestered for the rest of the evening with question that would make him blush- although Laurence would sooner get a latin tome than struggle through another romance with Temeraire.
—
The idea came to him during his evening routine, of how to obtain a lock of hair large enough for a dragon, as Laurence undid his queue and combed it through. There was a slight trepidation as he ran his fingers through the ends, bleached out by long years on dragon back (it had been too long for even the ends to have been there during his navy years).
He had already given those years to Temeraire, gladly and of his own volition. It should be no great thing, then, to give him a token that reflected it.
He was deliberate that morning in his ablutions- carefully braiding his hair, selecting one of his finer ribbons. Then, with the ease as if he had done it every morning, he brought scissors to the base of his hair and cut it clean off. Fortunately, they had been sharpened recently, and the queue was removed with minimal fuss.
The giant lock of hair in his hand was rather neatly done, but the hair left on his head was not. A hat would be necessary to not die of mortification, thought Laurence, as he examined his work in the mirror- jagged, lopsided, though salvageable if given to a barber with moderate skill.
He was rather lucky, Laurence supposed, that hair cropped short had been perfectly fashionable for many years now.
—
“I’m afraid Temeraire has insisted he take me flying, after seeing the courier drop me off,” Tharkay stepped into the front room, barely sparing a glance to the seat by the fireplace where Laurence read the Gazette, tugging off his traveling gloves and pushing them into his pockets. “Forgive me for being so presumptuous in assuming you’d want to join, you have no plans this afternoon?”
Tharkay finally turned to Laurence. The only sign of his surprise was that he had gone preternaturally still.
Laurence knew Tharkay was not angry, and yet he still felt as if he were a child caught with a pilfered sweet, or more accurate to his own childhood, caught halfway out the window running away to the navy by his mother. At least Tharkay had returned after the barber had done his work, and not before.
“I expect you’ll tell me what you’ve been up too,” Tharkay finally said.
“Is this not the fashion in London?” Laurence said innocently. “I merely thought I should catch up with the times.”
“I might believe that,” Tharkay said evenly. “Were you not still wearing your breeches.”
“Its rather convenient, while flying.”
“I cannot imagine whatever possessed you to do it,”
“Temeraire learned recently of the tradition of keeping a loved ones lock of hair,” Laurence explained. “You do not like it?
“As I should’ve guessed,” Tharkay ignored the final question, instead opting to run his hands over Laurence’s scalp, testing this new hair. Laurence knew he had been inordinately fond of the old; on kinder days when his hands pained him less, methodically weaving the strands together, only to later pull that work apart in passion.
“I do intend to grow it back,” Laurence finally relented.
“You will grow it back,” Tharkay repeated firmly. “You romantic old fool. Don’t be upset when all that grows back is grey.”
“I should only be happy that I have made it long enough for it to do so,” Laurence said. “There are a great many men who don’t get a retirement half so fine, with the ones they love.”