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Chapter Text

Laurence staggered off of Temeraire’s back, pale even in the fading lights of the camp. Granby cursed himself even as he sprinted to his side; he should have known better than to allow the two of them off by themselves, peaceful as the skies seemed. A simple patrol, Laurence had claimed -- damn him, damn him . 

“See to Temeraire!” Laurence shouted hoarsely, but he was practiced in being heard even over crashing waves, and already the camp was waking back up again, midwingmen scrambling out of tents and lanterns being hastily lit. Granby caught him before he could properly fall, but already both their attentions were being redirected towards Temeraire, who had not yet spoken, his sides still heaving with exertion, eyes beginning to slide shut in delirious pain. Laurence’s face was savage with anger and fear alike, and he stumbled to Temeraire’s head as the surgeons began their work. 

“What happened ?” Tharkay demanded, appearing out of the dark at Granby’s side as if he had been there from the start. He was still thin and moving without his customary careless swagger, but his eyes were as bright and quick as ever. 

“A French patrol,” Laurence said bitterly, kneeling clumsily to stroke broad sweeps over Temeraire’s jaw with one shaking, bloody hand. “We had not expected them, so far north, and if not for their Fleur-de-Nuit, we might have been able to escape without notice.” He shook his head tightly. “There was no choice but to turn and fight, and one of the middleweights -- I could not see which -- raked Temeraire’s side badly. God above, they even tried to board us, although he shook most of them off before they could latch on.”

“Laurence?” Temeraire asked weakly, one enormous eye cracking open to peer blankly into the dark. At once, Granby handed his lantern over to Laurence, who took it left-handed and held it by his face so that Temeraire could see him. A great sigh of relief gusted over all three of them by his head, and one of the surgeons already perched on Temeraire’s side almost toppled off with the force of it. 

“Do not fret, my dear,” Laurence said, although his grave tone belied the comforting words. “You have brought us back.”

Temeraire sounded like a meek schoolchild when he took another breath and said, “I ought not to have flown so far afield…”

“I was the one who indulged you,” Laurence said immediately. “Pray do not blame yourself; focus only on resting for now.”

That soothed Temeraire enough to let his eye slide closed. Laurence handed the lantern back to Granby without looking away, and went back to stroking Temeraire’s jaw. It made Temeraire rumble deep in his throat, a sound Granby recognized as one of satisfaction, and then he only laid still for the surgeons to do their work. That alone spoke to how grave the wounds were.

Granby felt Iskierka’s hot breath on the top of his head before he saw her; he looked up and saw her craning her long neck over them all to get a better look at Temeraire’s prone form. In a voice that was likely meant to be hushed, she asked, “Granby, is it so very bad? Temeraire may not be as excellent a fighter as I am, but surely no cowardly patrol could do him in. How many dragons were there?”

“A heavyweight, two middleweights, and a lightweight,” Laurence said grimly, before Granby could wave Iskierka away. “They must have thought they could press their luck and attempt to map out the local landscape in advance of any battles.”

“Christ,” Granby muttered. “Iskierka, give us all some room, you’re only going to aggravate him.” Privately, he doubted Temeraire was conscious enough to be aggravated, but Iskierka only sniffed, bumped her nose into his shoulder proprietarily, and turned back.

Laurence hardly spoke after that for the next terrible half-hour, blind and deaf to anything around him that was not Temeraire or the surgeons. No one here would have dared try to persuade him away. Granby stood at his shoulder, useless, and Tharkay paced. 

Finally, the surgeons had something to say; Temeraire was gravely wounded, and had lost a great deal of blood, but the claws of the other dragon had scraped over his ribcage without puncturing his air sac or lung, the greatest danger in wounds of this nature. Although the injury was deep, the blood flow had been staunched sufficiently for now. 

“I would not go so far as to say the danger has passed,” O’Connor said. Although it was unwelcome news, O’Connor was not one to sugarcoat, and if he thought that Temeraire was not actively dying, Granby believed him. “His condition is still dire, but no longer critical. We will keep a close watch for the next day, and hopefully he will be able to eat sooner rather than later.”

Laurence, unsurprisingly, received the news with mingled relief and pain. His guilt was written all over his face, and Granby was all too familiar with the terror of an aviator who could not allow themself to believe their beast would recover. 

“You should rest,” he told him, although he knew the chances of Laurence actually following his suggestion were slim to none. 

Laurence was already shaking his head, but Tharkay jostled his shoulder. “If you cannot bear to leave him, at least let us bring a cot over for you,” he said in a low voice. Laurence didn’t appear to register either remark in particular, but Roland was already scurrying off to fetch him blankets, still splattered in black blood from helping the surgeons fasten the bandages over Temeraire’s wounds. 

“No,” Laurence said, but his voice was belated and weak. He attempted to stand from where he had been kneeling beside Temeraire, but his knees buckled beneath him as he fell with a low groan, and Tharkay was forced to grab his arm to keep him upright. 

For a moment, Granby attributed it to nothing more than exhaustion and having knelt so long in the Russian chill, then Tharkay said suddenly, sharply, “ Will ,” in an entirely different tone of voice, demanding and tense. “Where are you bleeding?”

Granby jerked around, bringing the lantern closer as Tharkay beckoned him; Laurence winced at the sudden light but Granby knew at once that unlike the blood covering Roland and the surgeons, the blood covering Laurence was red, not black. Laurence had had an arm wrapped around himself all this time, even while he stroked Temeraire with the other hand, and he still had not let go. It was not for comfort, or to shield himself from the cold, Granby could see now.

“Ah,” Laurence said, almost distracted. “The boarders -- as I said, Temeraire shook most of them off.” He made as if to lift his arm, then grimaced and held on tighter. “Forgive me. I do not think it would be wise for me to let go. I thought the bleeding had stopped, but--”

Granby turned, before he could say anything more, and began shouting for the least exhausted of the surgeons. 

“You are a fool,” Tharkay was telling Laurence behind him, vicious in his anger. “You must allow the doctors to see, are you trying to hide it still?”

“No,” Laurence said firmly. “Tenzing, do not insult me. It is only that I think my intestines may come out if I let go.” He grunted, sinking back on his heels. “I had not realized it was so serious. I did notice the fellow grazed me, but--”

“Stop talking,” Tharkay snapped, and then the remaining doctors were swarming them, still covered in Temeraire’s blood. Laurence gave himself up to them without protest, although Granby had to suspect it was from lack of strength more than anything else. 

The surgeons would not operate on him outside, refusing to bear more Russian chill for a man who could just as well bleed out inside than out, but Laurence would only go with the absolute promise from Roland -- who had the poor luck of being the nearest person he could catch hold of -- that she would not leave Temeraire’s side without setting another officer at the duty first. “And under no circumstances may any of you tell him the full extent of my condition if he wakes before myself,” he said. “His recovery will not be aided by distress for my sake.”

Laurence could not walk; at any rate, none of them would let him, so he had to be carried off to the tent by litter. Granby could not contribute with his hook, as he would have been just as likely to injure Laurence more, so he simply stood by. Damn him, he thought again, but with less fervor this time; only a fellow aviator or perhaps a parent could understand the kind of love for another creature that kept one from even noticing they had been eviscerated, and Laurence loved Temeraire as much as any man had ever loved a dragon.

Granby stayed behind with Roland for a moment. She was pale, but determined, and looked rather like her mother, albeit with a broken nose that had healed crooked instead of a scar. Granby had several younger sisters, a few even younger than Roland herself, and would have been glad to see them grow up as well as she had.

“I am well, Captain,” she assured him when she saw him lingering. “I doubt I will be able to sleep at any rate, so I may as well keep Temeraire company.”

“Very well,” he told her. “Don’t hesitate to find a replacement for your vigil when you do grow tired. Only, you know, pick another of Temeraire’s favorites. I think he would much rather find you or Sipho in Laurence’s place than Forthing.” He realized only a moment later that his comment could be taken the wrong way; Roland had startled and was looking up at him with wide eyes.

“Damn,” Granby said, having startled himself. “Laurence’s place watching over him here, I mean.” He cleared his throat guiltily. Dragons did, of course, take on second captains in the line of duty when necessary, and years ago it might have been him as first lieutenant who was expected to step into Laurence’s place in the event of his death, childless as Laurence was, but that didn’t make it any less blasphemy to talk about the terrible event, accident or no. Privately, he doubted that Temeraire would accept anyone as a replacement for Laurence, and so the question of children was most likely moot.

“Yes, sir,” Roland agreed, but she was subdued, and he felt obliged to add that they did not yet know the full extent of Laurence’s condition, and he might well be fine by morning.

“Nothing has killed him yet,” Granby said, trying to convince himself as much as her, and Roland managed a wan smile before turning back to Temeraire.

Laurence was not fine by morning. Granby managed a few fitful hours of sleep leaning on Iskierka between two of her spines, and then allowed himself to be persuaded to go aloft to make sure there was no more sign of the patrol. He needed to feel useful, and unlike Laurence and Temeraire, he and Iskierka stayed circling above camp in clear view of the night watch until the sun began to rise.

When they landed, Granby was met by Tharkay, nearly gray with exhaustion and displaying none of his characteristic amusement with the world. 

“They have sewn him up,” Tharkay said without preamble. “But they are not certain he will have the strength for recovery. The blade nicked his liver, and they fear sepsis.”

Granby swallowed. It was a wretched way to go, a fate he would wish on no one and certainly not a dear friend. “And Temeraire?”
“Still unconscious,” Tharkay said. “The prognosis is no better, but no worse.”

That was a mercy, Granby thought. Better to spare Temeraire the agonizing wait, particularly if he was in a fragile state himself. But he could not help but dread the idea of one of them waking to the other gone; either possibility seemed equally cruel.

Tharkay seemed to be thinking much along the same grim lines. “We had better hope,” he said in a low voice, “that their fate is shared, whatever it is.” His even tone was cool, calm even, but there was still an air of that fury from the previous night held in his tight frame.

They could not move further west, not without leaving behind Laurence and Temeraire, which no one wished to do, and Granby found himself at a loss for what to do. The camp was made up primarily of their own three crews; there was not a soul present who had not exchanged words with Laurence at the very least, or admired Temeraire’s elegant form swooping across the sky. Granby sat with Laurence awhile, and watched his chest rise and fall, then went outside to do the same with Temeraire. Temeraire had been the fifth dragon he served on, but it was by far the longest term of his service before Iskierka came along, and he hated to see him laid so low. Kulingile had laid down behind Temeraire, curved into a crescent around him for warmth, and he made Temeraire look smaller by comparison, more like the half grown creature he had been when Granby met him. 

Iskierka demanded to go flying again then, twitchy with the waiting atmosphere of the camp, and Granby could not deny her. When they landed, nearly two hours later, around noon, Roland dashed up to him. “Captain Laurence is awake,” she said, breathless, and Granby swung himself down at once.

When he reached the tent, however, he could already hear a conversation. Laurence was indeed awake, and he was saying, “Tenzing, I have no intention of dying.”

“For once,” Tharkay said, a bitter joke. “No, Will, do not look at me so -- I know it was not your doing.” He sounded so tired, still, and Granby wondered if he had slept at all.

“It was my fault,” Laurence said wearily. “The miscalculation--”

“It was pure ill luck,” Tharkay interrupted. “There is no one to hold accountable, unless you plan to track down your god with a pistol for daring to allow your dragon to suffer. Don’t answer that.”

Laurence managed something like a hoarse laugh before their voices faded to a murmur, something tenderer and much harder to hear through the canvas. Granby had not meant to linger so long, and nearly turned on his heel with the reassuring knowledge that Laurence was conscious enough to carry on a conversation, but then he made out a faint, “ Tenzing ,” in tones so intimate he was embarrassed to have heard it, and knocked loudly on the tent poles in a desperate effort to stop them doing anything more incriminating before someone else walked by.

The scene he entered, indeed, was not one he would have found suspicious in particular. Tharkay was leaning over Laurence’s cot, with a damp cloth pressed to his forehead, and if their hands were clasped together, then it was not in a way that could not be explained away, although Laurence let go as he stepped inside. 

“John,” he said, “perhaps you can explain to Tenzing that it is in everyone’s best interest for me to be allowed outside? Consider how upset he will be to find me gone.” 

“He will,” Granby allowed. “But he would be much more upset to find you frozen to death or dead of putrefaction.”

Laurence huffed, but even he could no longer deny the gravity of his condition. He had been stripped of his shirt to allow room for bandages to be wound tightly around his stomach, with a blanket tucked around his shoulders to keep him from catching a chill. If anyone else had walked in, they likely would have attributed the hand-holding to that same cause.

Laurence reluctantly gave his approbation to remain in the tent, although he insisted on dictating a message to Granby to pass along to Temeraire when he woke. Although it rather underplayed his own injuries and bade Temeraire not to worry overmuch, Granby had no doubt it would soothe some of the sting of waking up without his captain, and so he did not protest.

Temeraire woke the next day, listened anxiously to Laurence’s message, and demanded to know how badly Laurence was really hurt. There was no comforting way to say that his wound might yet prove fatal, and so Granby did not say that, precisely. The surgeons were hesitantly pleased with Temeraire’s progress, particularly because at Laurence’s plea in the note left for him, Temeraire managed to eat half a goat before falling asleep again. Laurence’s prognosis was not so simple; he had not become delirious, but a slight fever took him the following day, and he slept nearly as much as Temeraire.

Tharkay was more restless than any of them, and barely seemed to sleep at all. Just as on their first trip west, he often disappeared and reappeared at odd hours. On the fourth day, Granby went to consult Laurence on a map, and found Tharkay asleep at his bedside. Laurence seemed faintly embarrassed to be caught out, but not enough to wake Tharkay; Granby backed away and shut the tent flap behind him. 

On the fifth day, Granby woke in the middle of the night to the camp in chaos again. Tharkay had returned from the nearby mountains with news from a feral dragon he had bribed with a goat; the French patrol had returned, and doubled in number.

“She got close enough that there can be no doubt,” Tharkay said, and added, the nail in the coffin, “She was particularly taken with the shine of their eagle, and tried to steal it. They chased her away. I cannot imagine why they would return, if not to track our party down.”

They had gathered at the corner of the camp, leaving room for the crews to assemble their baggage, not far from Temeraire, whose eye snapped open at the words. Tharkay put a hand on his flank wordlessly.

“How far from here?” Demane asked, already stuffing supplies into a carrying bag.

“Two days’ flight, but she saw them yesterday,” Tharkay said. “They will be at our tails by morning, I expect. Noon at the very latest.” There was a familiar coolness in his voice, no panic beneath but certainly resignation.

“You must go,” Laurence said behind them.

Granby startled and turned; Laurence was most certainly not supposed to be on his feet again. Indeed, he had to hold himself up against the nearest tent, and he was ashen, either from the news or the effort of standing.

“Take my crew,” Laurence said. “I will remain with Temeraire. If we can hide in those mountains, we may evade capture; we will only slow you down. You must reach the capital in time to warn them of Napoleon’s changed plans.”

It was a wretched prospect, but Granby immediately saw the sense in it. Even Kulingile and Iskierka together could not carry Temeraire at a speed that would permit their escape, and this information could easily cost them the war. 

“Laurence,” Temeraire protested. “You must go with them. You look very ill indeed.” He had managed to lift his head at the sight of Laurence, and was looking him over with obvious fear. 

“I most certainly shall not,” Laurence said. He stepped closer, and Granby automatically offered him an arm to keep him steady. Laurence took it, and lowered his voice below what Temeraire could hear to say, “John, I have no intention of dying a coward, far from my dragon’s side. You cannot force me to go; you would not do me that disservice.” Beneath the steel in his tone, there was a hint of desperation; he was still weak as a kitten and if Granby had wished to simply sling him over a shoulder, Laurence could not stop him.

“I cannot,” Granby agreed grimly. 

“You are certain it was too many for us to fight?” Demane demanded of Tharkay, who nodded.

“I mean no insult to you or your beasts, but two against nine spells disaster,” he said. “I agree, you must go. I will stay.”

Although Tharkay had not raised his voice, and indeed spoke quite lightly, they all grew quiet at the words except for Laurence, who said firmly, “I think not, Tenzing.”

“I am not your subordinate,” Tharkay said mildly. “You may not order me anywhere. I do as I wish, and I intend to stay with you and Temeraire. If he has the strength to walk, we may find a cave in the mountains, and I can ask the ferals there for assistance.”

“I can walk,” Temeraire insisted. “I may even be able to fly, if it is only to those mountains--”

“ No ,” Laurence and Tharkay snapped in near unison. 

“I will not kidnap Tharkay for you, Will,” Granby said wearily. “If he wishes to stay, he has as much of a right as you.”

“It is settled, then,” Tharkay said, calmly. “Temeraire’s crew will fly with you two to the capitol, and we will catch up with you when Temeraire is well enough to fly us there.” He said it so reasonably that it almost sounded like a sensible plan, except that Granby was gripped with a sudden cold dread that he would never see any of the three of them again. 

Laurence plainly wanted to protest, but there was no more time to spare; fires had to be stomped out and bags had to be fastened to harnesses. Granby did insist on Tharkay taking the rest of the salt pork so they at least would not die of starvation, and as he was pressing it into his hands, O’Connor strode up and thrust a bundle atop it. 

“Bandages and laudanum,” he said. “Enough to kill a man.”

For a moment, Granby only thought he was using hyperbole, then he saw the thinning of Tharkay’s mouth and his tight nod. Good lord, Granby could not envy him. 

At long last, just after midnight, there were no more bags to be packed. Laurence’s crew was extremely reluctantly portioned out amongst the other two dragons, and Granby had heard at least two of them trying to insist on going with their captain, only to be firmly turned away. Granby thought he would have done the same, if he had not had Iskierka, but since he did have her, it was unthinkable even to consider. 

Granby went to find Laurence, strapped onto Temeraire’s back with Roland’s help, since he could not lift himself in his current state. Around the curve of Temeraire’s chest, in the dark, he and Tharkay must not have been able to see him, because they did not stop talking in low tones as he grew closer. 

“You cannot have actually intended to persuade me,” Tharkay was saying.

“I would continue to try, if I thought I could,” Laurence murmured back. The cloudy night allowed just enough moonlight for Granby to see them silhouetted against the sky, Laurence leaning back heavily on Tharkay’s chest for support, presumably having grown too weak to sit up under his own power, and Tharkay’s dusty coat draped over his shoulders for warmth. Granby’s chest ached with guilt, but at least, he thought, with Tharkay and his penchant for miracles, they might stand a sliver of a chance. 

“Will,” he called. “If I don’t see you in Saint Petersburg by next week, I’m reporting you to the Admiralty for desertion.”

Laurence’s laugh left him in a rough bark. “So long as you get there safely yourself, I shan’t complain.” He stroked a hand over the back of Temeraire’s neck. “My dear, can you stand?”

“I can,” Temeraire said bravely, although it was with great effort and some panting that he managed to do so. “Laurence, are you certain you oughtn’t go with Granby?”

“Entirely,” Laurence said gently. He caressed Temeraire’s scales again, which caused the coat to slip off his shoulders; Tharkay put it back up.

Granby turned away, rather feeling that he ought not to watch. He strode back to Iskierka, who was exceedingly and loudly put out at the retreat, and much more quietly, he suspected, also worried for Temeraire. He climbed up, latched on, and turned back to look at his crew, the handful of faces who hadn’t been there before. Laurence did not need to tell him to take care of them; he knew Granby would.

“Off we go,” he said. He turned around only once as ground fell away, and by then he could barely make them out; Temeraire’s great form, lumbering slowly away, looked like nothing more than a particularly dark patch of shadow.

Chapter Text

By the time they neared the base of the mountains, Tharkay was supporting the majority of Laurence’s weight, and if he thought it would be any more comfortable, he would have proposed that Laurence lie down against Temeraire’s back. But Temeraire’s breathing was growing steadily more labored, and with it they were jolted more and more; Tharkay did not care to risk Laurence being jostled off, even with a harness to catch him. 

Just when Laurence had grown so limp against him that Tharkay suspected he was finally asleep, despite the discomfort of being moved, he cleared his throat and called down to Temeraire, “My dear, you must take care as we enter the trees. I do not like to think of branches scraping against your injury.”

“I will,” Temeraire responded, although he was beginning to rasp with the effort of moving. Tharkay quietly decided that they had better find shelter sooner rather than later, and cast his eyes about their surroundings to determine if they were close to any of the caves he had spotted.

Temeraire’s size meant that they were nearly halfway up the mountain and the sky just beginning to lighten by the time that Tharkay managed to find a suitable candidate. It was damper than any of them would have preferred in the chill, and full of moss, and just barely deep enough for Temeraire to curl his great bulk inside, but beggars could not be choosers. Tharkay eased Laurence off Temeraire’s back, taking note of his increased temperature, and settled him as carefully as he could between Temeraire’s forearms. Laurence was still not quite unconscious, and roused when Tharkay unlatched him from Temeraire’s harness, gathering enough strength to brace himself against Temeraire’s uninjured side as Tharkay half supported, half carried him, although he seemed too exhausted to speak.

“Sleep,” Tharkay told him simply, and pressed a kiss to his too-warm forehead. There was no one else to see, after all, but Temeraire. Laurence’s eyelashes fluttered, already sliding shut, but Tharkay thought he felt him squeeze his hand.

Since the cave was a touch too shallow, Temeraire’s glossy black side could be glimpsed from outside. Tharkay slipped out of the cave after throwing his stashed blankets over Laurence, and dragged as many fallen trees and branches as he could find to cover the cave entrance. It would not bear up to close inspection, but from above at least they might escape notice. 

Laurence was deeply asleep by the time Tharkay returned, covered in sap and pine needles, but Temeraire cracked an eye open as he slid between two of the trees lining the cave mouth and said, “Thank you for looking after Laurence,” quietly, although his deep voice was particularly resonant in the confines of the cave. Laurence did not stir.

“If you wish to pay me back, get well quickly,” Tharkay said. “I will have to hunt in the forest, since you cannot leave here, and my efforts had better not go to waste.”

Temeraire rumbled in assent. “I am not hungry,” he said. “But I will try to eat whatever you might catch.” He held open a wing to invite Tharkay in beside Laurence. 

“I must decline, for now,” Tharkay said. “We have only a few hours left until the French will certainly be passing overhead, and I would prefer to be back by then.”

Tharkay’s luck was good; he returned two hours later at the crack of dawn with a musk deer over each shoulder. They were scrawny from eating only lichen all winter, between ten and fifteen pounds each, but would be good enough eating. Tharkay set them aside for the moment, trusting the chill to keep them from growing rancid too soon, and slid under the shelter of Temeraire’s wing. It was significantly warmer inside, and Tharkay could strip off his outer coat and boots without even shivering to slip under the blankets at Laurence’s side. It was impossible to tell how much of the dampness beneath was sweat or simply moisture from the cave floor, but Tharkay resolved to force Laurence to drink as much water as he could bear once he woke up; his skin was still too hot. 

It was midmorning when Tharkay woke to the feeling of cold air on his face. Temeraire had lifted away his wing, and was listening intently, his face close to the barrier of trees. “They are flying overhead,” he said, as low as Tharkay had ever heard him. “Close enough for me to hear their wingbeats, and that it is perhaps two or three dragons.”

Tharkay touched his forearm. “There is nothing we can do but stay quiet,” he said grimly, and offered Temeraire the musk deer to distract him, which made him put his ruff back and squint. 

“If it is a deer, why does it have fangs?” he asked, perturbed.

“Those are tusks,” Tharkay told him, amused, and picked it up to put in Temeraire’s mouth directly. It was hardly more than a mouthful for him, but Temeraire obediently ate it, and pronounced it to be a bit like wombat. “Would you care for the second?” Tharkay asked, but Temeraire was already shaking his head. 

“Laurence ought to eat, when he wakes,” he said firmly, but sighed when Tharkay pointed out that Laurence would rather have salt pork than raw meat, when they could not make a fire without attracting attention, and so Temeraire acquiesced. Tharkay thought it was a good sign, watching Temeraire lick the blood from around his mouth, although the two deer together did not quite equal the one goat he had eaten the other day in mass. 

Laurence woke only briefly that day, was coaxed by Temeraire to sit up long enough to drink water and to be reassured that Temeraire had eaten, and fell back asleep directly. Temeraire had heard the dragons flapping overhead twice more throughout the day, although he thought that it was only one at a time. 

“They may be splitting up to search,” Tharkay guessed, eating his own dinner of salt pork and flatbreads, the latter of which were so stale that they had become more like crackers. “It is possible they suspect you must have stayed behind.”

Temeraire made an uneasy noise in the back of his throat. “Do you think they will spend very long searching? We could have gone anywhere, after all.”

“There is no way to know,” Tharkay said, although he suspected they would linger, given evidence of the camp down the mountain and knowledge of how badly Temeraire had been wounded. He slept again in the late afternoon, more out of necessity than tiredness; Tharkay was already finding himself in that calm state of emergency that descended upon him in dire circumstances, where he could easily detach from the exhaustion of his body. He waited until well after sunset to go out again.

If not for the dragons hunting them down, it might remind Tharkay of how he had lived for those first few years after his father’s death, disgusted by society and determined to be on his own. Hunting had kept him alive then, as he roamed from one place to another, although then he had only his eagle for companionship instead of a dragon and whatever Laurence was to him now.

His luck was not so good that second night. He was able to kill one small creature with a slingshot; when he tried to examine its little body afterwards, he found it too broken from its fall from the tree to tell whether it were an ermine or a weasel. Tharkay thought he might use it as bait for something bigger, but the night was so wickedly cold that any animals with a lick of self preservation had tucked themselves away, and Tharkay was forced to return early with very little to show for it, and hardly any feeling in his hands, feet, or face. 

Laurence stirred this time, when Tharkay crawled beneath the blanket. “Tenzing?” he mumbled, and woke up enough to say, “Good lord, that is your hand. I thought you had brought a block of ice beneath the blankets.” Before Tharkay could protest, Laurence was drawing said hand closer, tucking it between his arm and chest, and bringing the other hand up to press against his neck. The cold sent a shudder through Laurence, but he had a hold on Tharkay’s wrist and would not allow him to pull away. “Put your feet on Temeraire’s scales, that should warm them,” he added, and Tharkay, seeing the sense in it, did as he was bid.

“I have braved much colder nights on my own,” he reminded Laurence wryly. “You need not treat me like a consumptive maiden.”

Laurence blinked at him. “Hardly,” he said. “Do you know how many men perish from the cold when sailing in northern seas? I am treating you precisely the same.”

“Oh, precisely,” Tharkay said, smiling. He stroked his numb thumb over Laurence’s stubble. “I should not feel special at all, I suppose.”

It was difficult, when Laurence was flushed with fever already, to tell if Tharkay was making him blush. That was a pity, as Tharkay liked to make a game out of it. Laurence only ducked his head, almost shy, and let Tharkay press a conciliatory kiss to the corner of his mouth, with frigid lips that made him startle and laugh and pull Tharkay beneath the covers entirely to warm him up. 

In the morning, Temeraire reported that he had not heard the dragons nearby since he woke up, and looked slightly disappointed at the meager results of Tharkay’s hunt, which Tharkay had decided in the daylight was in fact a sable. “That is more fur than meat, I expect,” Temeraire said, turning his nose up. 

“Temeraire,” Laurence said, “is your appetite returning?” He looked ragged but hopeful in the early morning light filtering through the trees, and even consented to eat a little salt pork if it would make Temeraire feel better. It had been a poor choice, though, as not an hour later he was throwing it back up at the mouth of the cave, and blood came up with the bile. Tharkay’s stomach clenched when he saw it, and Temeraire’s nostrils and ruff flared in unison as he could not help but smell the sour, acrid scent of vomit tinged with blood. 

Tharkay guided him back to the blankets as soon as the last of it was up, and pressed more water on him even when Laurence insisted weakly that he would only bring it back up again. Tharkay would have even risked the fire necessary to boil rice, if Laurence thought he could keep it down, but he did not, and only consented to drink the water in small, ginger sips. 

“Water, at least, we are not in short supply of,” Tharkay said. It had snowed early in the morning, and looked to snow again that afternoon; it was very easy to scoop up handfuls of the stuff into cups and melt it in the warmth of the cave. Laurence did throw it up, and it was even clearer to see now that it was coming up pink. 

Temeraire’s tail lashed tightly in the confines of the tight back of the cave, unable to sweep as it usually did. “Ought he not have eaten the pork?” he asked, when Laurence was asleep again, pale instead of flushed now.

“If he was bleeding inside, the pork would not have made a difference,” Tharkay said, unable to keep a certain bleakness out of his tone. 

“But,” Temeraire said, voice rising frantically, “I thought the doctors had fixed the bleeding, and he only needed to continue to heal.” He sounded betrayed, even plaintive. Tharkay could not look at him, and only swept the sweaty hair from Laurence’s forehead. Laurence did not stir, at the touch or the sound. 

“Sometimes it is impossible to know how bad it is until some time has passed,” Tharkay said. “I am hardly a doctor. It may have been old blood.” He did not think so. It had been too bright for that. “We will only know for sure that he is getting better when he is better.”

“Or,” Temeraire said, “that he is worse when he is worse, I suppose.” His voice had shrunk back down again, and he lowered his head to sniff at Laurence, as if he could divine the problem that way. 

“Are you hungry?” Tharkay asked. It was the only problem he could hope to solve. 

Temeraire dipped his head, clearly ashamed to be wanting food when Laurence could not stomach it, and Tharkay left at nightfall.

It was easiest to lose himself in the monotony of hunting, the cold stinging his cheeks. There was only one place in the nearby river that was not frozen over, and Tharkay positioned himself high enough up in a tree to go unseen with a borrowed pistol from Laurence, and waited. His eyes adjusted easily to the dark when the snow reflected the moonlight, and with his hands tucked inside his coat, he could wait for hours before the temperature would drive him back. 

Tharkay’s highest hopes had been for perhaps more musk deer; he was not expecting the herd of saigas that filed out from the trees when he had been tucked up in the tree for close on three hours. Tharkay watched them with a predator’s hunger; he too had been eating lightly for the past few days, on the same salt pork that Laurence could not keep down, and little more. The antelope snuffled at each other with their absurd noses as they moved into the clearing -- four, then six, then eleven of them, and two skinny, half grown calves. 

Tharkay had not waited so long for his patience to fail him now. He watched them diligently as they began to settle down, packed together for warmth. If he fired when they were still standing and alert, he might have been able to hit one, perhaps two. As it was, Tharkay caught two in the head, and a third in the breast, shocking it badly enough for him to drop down from the tree and break its neck while the other antelope, uninjured but frightened badly by the gunshots, scattered back into the forest. 

The three together were too much for him to carry, two of them smaller but the third quite large, certainly over a hundred pounds. Tharkay hoisted the first two up under each arm before the bodies had begun to grow cold, glad for the warmth on his sides, memorizing the way he had walked so he might come back for the last. There was something like triumph burning in his chest; if nothing else, at least Temeraire would not starve. 

Sure enough, Temeraire woke at the smell of blood before Tharkay had even breached the threshold, pushing inelegantly through the shielding branches with his prizes, and he ate the first antelope without a word as soon as Tharkay laid to before him, mumbling out thanks around the bones as he began to eat the second. 

Tharkay had thought, from his silence, that Laurence remained asleep, but when he looked over at him, Laurence’s eyes were open, and he was watching Temeraire eat with a look of relief plainly written on his pallid face. Tharkay made his way over to him, and knelt beside him, an odd reversal of how Laurence had kept watch at Tharkay’s own sickbed.

“Will,” he said, under the sound of Temeraire’s wet crunching. “How do you feel?”

“As can be expected,” Laurence said. His voice was rough from throwing up earlier, and Tharkay pressed the waterskein into his hands without a word. He could not make him drink, but although Laurence gave him a slightly pleading look at the prospect of trying again, he drank obediently. At the very least, the water Tharkay could offer him was clean and sweet. He looked back at Temeraire. “Tenzing, I can’t thank you enough for feeding him. I could not be gladder that his appetite has returned.”

“It is an excellent sign,” Tharkay agreed.

Laurence looked up at him. A few damp curls stuck to his forehead and his face was still unshaven. He could not have looked more different from the upright aerial captain Tharkay had met, years ago, and yet his face was so very dear. “I must tell you,” he said, “how very grateful I am to have you here. For Temeraire’s sake, in particular.”

Tharkay snorted. “You may dispense with those formalities, between us,” he said. 

“It is important,” Laurence insisted, closing his hands around Tharkay’s. They were so hot, and weaker than they should have been. “You must know, Tenzing.” 

It was an echo, intentional or not, of what he had said to Tharkay not so long ago, when Tharkay’s hands were only newly freed from their bandages. He had clasped them carefully then too, so as not to hurt him, and had said, very nearly choked, “You must know, Tenzing, the depth of my regard--” and Tharkay had kissed him, unable to listen to any more. So much of what had passed between them was only hands pressed together and dry, stolen kisses and sleeping in the same bedroll, but differently to how they had slept in the same bedroll before. Tharkay had thought, foolishly, that there would be more time, when they had more privacy than a tent, when the latest battle was won.

“You have grown maudlin in your sickbed,” Tharkay said lightly. “Of course I know. I could not be anywhere else.” The warm air, which had been welcoming as he stepped inside, had become stifling. He could not kneel here and pretend not to mind that Laurence was very likely dying for any longer; he squeezed Laurence’s hand and then released it, guiding it back beneath his blankets. “I must fetch the last antelope before it freezes to the ground.”

“There is another?” Temeraire asked hopefully.

“Be careful,” Laurence said, with a thin smile. Tharkay bent down to press a kiss to his lips; even close-mouthed, he could taste a hint of blood.

“I always am,” Tharkay said, and pushed back out of the cave without fastening up his coat completely, grateful for the freezing cold bleaching the damned feelings out of him. He bore it for a few minutes before doing up the buttons with numb fingers and trudging back to the riverbank. 

The saiga was where he had left it. But he had not left the wolf that was crouched over it, and he stilled as its eyes settled on him. It was a rangy thing, and looked to be alone, but did not cede ground at the sight of him, growling over its half eaten dinner.

He was too far to shout for Temeraire, and even if he could hear him, Temeraire’s returning appetite did not mean he should be flapping around a forest to frighten off a wolf when Tharkay could handle them by himself.

Instead, Tharkay took a deep breath and leaned down to pick up a fallen tree branch, then slammed it against the nearest tree. The cracking noise the frozen wood made was shockingly loud in the near silence of the forest, and the wolf that had been hunched over the antelope’s body flinched back, teeth bared. Tharkay stomped several steps forward and bared his teeth back. Then, he raised his borrowed pistol and fired the last shot.

If his makeshift club had been loud, this was almost deafening. The wolf leapt away almost as quickly as the antelope had, avoiding the bullet by a hair's breadth as it turned tail to run, although it still growled as it went. Tharkay was just considering whether it was still worth it to bring back the half eaten body and risk leaving a trail of guts back to the cave when he heard wings flapping above. 

Tharkay’s reaction was instinctive; he ran in the opposite direction from the cave. He might have hoped to hide under tree cover under normal circumstances, with the safe darkness of night to hide him, but he smelled like antelope blood and would be silhouetted against the snow. 

He should not have pushed his luck, he thought wryly; better even to wrestle a pack of wolves empty handed than be chased by three dragons. The trees were his only protection from attack from the sky, as the forest was too dense to allow any dragon bigger than a courier to comfortably land. But he might still be followed, and he would not lead them back to the cave. The snow had begun to fall again, thick flakes even through the tree cover, which at least might conceal his tracks.

The flapping was louder now, and he could hear faint voices above, too distant to make out but certainly French. Tharkay gritted his teeth, and shed his coat, which would carry the strongest scent of blood. With three layers underneath, he would not freeze to death as long as he kept moving.

It lightened his load, at least, and Tharkay darted up, deeper into the forest, feeling an abrupt sympathy for the antelope. At least they moved in herds; Tharkay could only account for himself. 

He would have kept running, except that the snow concealed obstacles on his path; he slipped hard on a hidden rock. The cracking of his ankle was so loud that Tharkay thought for a moment it must draw the French dragons right to him, except it was only so loud because it had reverberated through his body; he had sprained his ankle. 

It was not the kind of injury one could run on; even putting half his weight on it to walk made darkness begin to close around Tharkay’s vision, disorienting in the already low light. He limped on until he found a large pine tree blanketed heavily with snow, and dropped to his knees to slip underneath it. There was enough space between the lowest branches and the ground for a man to sit, if he did not mind the complete darkness. Tharkay stretched his injured leg out gingerly. His whole body felt raw from the cold; his heart pounded. He could not spare any clothing to bandage the ankle tightly, so he only slipped his boot off and held the foot between his hands, to keep it from going numb. 

The tree shook twigs and a dusting of snow down on him when the ground shook with the landing of a dragon. Tharkay just sat very still, and breathed as slowly and quietly as he could. The voices were a ways off still; the dragon was a heavyweight, if he could feel the impact from so far away.

He listened intently when the men were close enough to hear, despite the muffling effect of the snow, but there was nothing very interesting to their conversation, mostly complaints about the weather. 

“Damn this snow,” one of the officers said. “Even if that great black beast had died in the middle of a field, how would we know? It would just look like another snowy lump. Pass the brandy, will you?”

One of the other men obliged him, and they moved past Tharkay’s tree. Tharkay listened to them walk, no doubt trampling over whatever was left of his own tracks, and thought that at least if he was going to be chased, it was by fools. Even after the men returned to their dragon, Tharkay stayed, because he was not a fool. It would have taken him the better part of an hour to get back to the cave even without his ankle; with it, it would take a hideously long time. 

Tharkay counted, and each time he heard wings overhead, he restarted his count, flexing his fingers and squeezing his feet to keep them from freezing. By the time he had reached two hours with no sign of wingbeats, it was dawn. 

Tharkay could not bind his ankle properly, but the foot was not so swollen that he could not wrestle his boot back on and lace it up tight. It hurt, but it was a mundane kind of pain, and Tharkay found that he could put some weight on the ball of his foot without making it too much worse. He fashioned a fallen branch into a walking stick and crawled inelegantly out from beneath the tree. It had stopped snowing some hours ago, and the bootprints of the men were still stamped into the ground.

Light and sound were both strangely muffled through the layer of snow atop the close-packed trees, which was good, because no amount of careful stepping would have stopped Tharkay’s boots from crunching in the snow. He was forced to go slowly, feeling ahead with his stick for any frozen-over patches of ice, and even so he slipped twice on rocky inclines. He did not find his coat, which was just as well; it would be inconvenient to carry.

The sun was well risen by the time he had reached the clearing by the river, with the carcass of the antelope reduced to nothing but faintly pink lumps of snow. Judging from the claw marks, one of the dragons had found it after Tharkay drove the wolf away, and had not wasted the fresh meat.

Temeraire would still be hungry, Tharkay guessed, as he picked his way down the slope, bracing his free hand against the trees. With any luck, he might be well enough soon to hunt for himself again, although it would be much harder for him to hide from patrolling dragons. But as for Laurence… there was no telling what condition he might be in, after a night of restless, feverish sleep.

The muffling effect of the snow worked against Tharkay too; he had nearly made it back to the cave by the time he heard the dragons landing. Tharkay stilled, then hoisted himself into the nearest tree before any of them could catch sight of him. They were downhill from him, and he could see with some difficulty through the branches three dragons silhouetted against the snowy mound of the cave. There was a Petit Chevalier, looming over the entrance, a smaller Pou-de-Ciel, and a middleweight that looked like a very large Pascal’s Blue; a crossbreed of some sort, perhaps.

Tharkay held himself very carefully, wary of knocking any snow to the ground and drawing attention to himself as he shifted for a better view. One of the French dragons had raked aside Tharkay’s carefully laid trees against the entrance of the cave, and quite exposed Temeraire, who was hunched around Laurence, cradling him against his chest.

Tharkay’s mind raced. They would take Laurence to Paris, certainly, if he could even survive the journey, and Temeraire would be helpless to disobey them as long as Laurence was alive in their hands. Tharkay wondered if any of the nearby ferals could be persuaded to follow them, but--

“You must surrender,” said the captain of the Petit Chevalier, leveling a pistol at Temeraire. The bullet would do very little against a creature of his size unless he caught him in the eye, but Tharkay presumed the gesture was more symbolic than an actual threat. “If you hand your captain over, we will not harm him.”

“You cannot harm him,” Temeraire said, low. “He is already dead.” He curled more tightly around Laurence’s body, the misery obvious in every line of his frame, and made a low keening sound that reverberated deep in Tharkay’s chest.

Tharkay’s throat tightened, choking him. He ought not to have been gone so long, he knew, but that was a useless thought. There was nothing he could have done for Laurence except perhaps ease the passing with laudanum that Laurence likely would have refused, but he still went cold inside at the knowledge that he was not there, at the end. 

He ought to have been there. Laurence would have been at his bedside, if infection had taken Tharkay in China. Tharkay had allowed himself to hope despite himself that he still might recover, that Laurence’s strong will might have carried him through. He had not thought he was saying goodbye yet, and the thought stuck in his chest, making him more numb than the cold ever could.

It was with sick grief that he listened to the captains conferring amongst themselves, murmuring quickly, before the captain of the Pou-de-Ciel said, “Our deepest sympathies are with you. In that case, might we escort you back to France? His Majesty would certainly welcome you--”

“Just leave me be,” Temeraire said miserably. “Go away, or I shall use the Divine Wind on you. You cannot make me go with you, or make me more unhappy than I already am. And do not even think of trying to take me to your breeding grounds, because I will kill you and Lien and any dragon she wishes me to breed with, and then I will fly into the sea before I oblige you.”

All three dragons shifted uneasily at this pronouncement, no doubt having seen Lien use it before, or at the very least heard of its immense power. The Pou-de-Ciel’s captain tried once more, but before more than a few conciliatory words had emerged from his mouth, Temeraire took a deep breath and said, again, “Go away!” in a voice that was tinged with the deep power of the Divine Wind as much as with grief. 

At that, the middleweight visibly jumped, as if readying himself to leap away at once, and the Petit Chevalier’s captain only said, with finality, “You will always be welcome in France,” and looked over at his fellows before they all took off, one after another, back into the sky. 

Tharkay waited several long moments, watching them disappear into the clouds. He was, perhaps, putting off the inevitable. 

The ground was too cold and hard to dig a grave at this time of year, he thought absently. Temeraire might have to loosen it with the Divine Wind, if he could muster up the strength to use it. Tharkay rather thought he was bluffing, when he had threatened the French patrol; swelling out his sides in such a manner could only put strain on his healing wound. But perhaps Temeraire did not care about that, now.

Tharkay took a deep breath, and only then realized he was gripping the rough trunk of the tree hard enough to scratch his already scraped palms. He felt chilled to the bone, and could not feel it. Tharkay was not a religious man, but it must have been a comfort to those men who were, to think that the people lost to them were not entirely gone. Tharkay could not deceive himself, not even for the sake of that comfort, that Laurence was somewhere else. 

How much less painful would it have been, he had to wonder, if he had never met Laurence at all? If he had delivered his message and walked directly away, back to wherever he pleased? Tharkay could not hazard a guess what continent he would be on; he had had some thoughts of going to India awhile, and nothing planned after that. He would have been free, and completely alone. He might never have gone to Australia, probably never would have had his fingers broken, and never known what it was like for Laurence to brush his hair, or to kiss him, or how much easier it was to sleep when it was in his arms. He would never have that luxury again, but at least he knew such things existed.

All that was left, now, was to do what he could for Temeraire. That much he had promised Laurence, and he would fulfill it as best he could. Slowly, Tharkay picked his way down the tree. Temeraire had not seen him, hidden as he was, and he had ducked his head back under his wing, wrapped around himself and Laurence’s body both.

“Temeraire,” he called quietly, and Temeraire raised his head. 

“There you are,” he said, audibly relieved. “I thought something terrible might have happened to you.”

“My apologies,” Tharkay said roughly, and meant it. He did not intend to leave Temeraire entirely alone in the world. 

“It is just as well that you were not here, or they would have tried to take you for leverage against me,” Temeraire said, peering back into the sky to make sure the dragons were not returning. “I did not think they would leave us be without a fight.”

A faint groaning sound came from inside Temeraire’s wing. Tharkay thought he had misheard, for a moment, perhaps it was the creaking of a tree, but then Temeraire tucked his wing back down against his side and craned his head down to peer at Laurence’s body -- which was moving.

Tharkay stilled. Laurence was stretching an arm above his head, and was very much alive. “Laurence,” Temeraire said fretfully, “do be careful of your stitches.”

“You do not seem to be dead,” Tharkay said, choked, and then he stepped over Temeraire’s claws so quickly that his ankle throbbed to kneel at Laurence’s side, to press a hand against his forehead and cheek -- still warm, but no longer burning hot -- and stare down at him. 

“The deception was Temeraire’s idea,” Laurence said. He offered Tharkay a small smile, rueful and apologetic, as he pushed himself up. “He did not think they would try to harm him further, if they could not get ahold of me. And you must admit that I look very nearly dead.” He looked almost as wretched as he had the night before -- too thin with two weeks of wiry beard -- but alive, and some of his color had returned. “My part was easier than Temeraire’s; I only had to lie still. I did not realize you were such an actor, my dear.” He raised a shaking hand to pet Temeraire’s snout; Temeraire nuzzled into it.

“I have thought you were gone before,” he said, “and it was the very worst thing in the world, not something I could easily forget.”

Tharkay could not help but agree; he would not forget soon. But it was easy, in that moment, to allow Laurence to pull him down into a clumsy embrace and shake off the numb paralysis of unnecessary grief in the face of the reassuring beat of his heart when Tharkay’s ear was pressed to his throat.

“I hope you will forgive me,” Laurence said, “but I ate the last of your flatbread.”

“I won’t if you throw it up,” Tharkay said, relieved to hear that his own voice was level, but Laurence was already shaking his head, and Temeraire said happily, “It was hours ago, when we were worried about where you had gotten off to.”

“The third antelope attracted some trouble,” Tharkay said, shrugging.

“Are you hurt?” Laurence asked him, spotting Tharkay’s swollen ankle.

“Only a flesh wound,” Tharkay said drily, and tolerated being fussed over for the simple pleasure of watching Laurence, still alive, tutting over his makeshift binding.