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Chapter Text

Arranging a party for even a small number of dragons was a feat of logistics.

Not that this was a party, per say. They simply had not managed to think of a better term for it. 'Meeting' was too stiff and formal; 'reunion' was too maudlin. So party was what they called it, for all it was stretched over nearly a week and was rather subdued all told.

Dragons began trickling in on the Monday; Messoria and Maximus first, and the rest over the two following days. They did not always manage to get the whole formation together, and while this one had been looking likely, poor Nitidus had not managed to make it— he had hurt his wings a few weeks ago digging out some mountainside, and was under strict orders from his physician to stay put. So you had best enjoy yourself in my absence! he had written.

And they did. Or they tried.

There was no strict order to their days. They breakfasted, on meat or porridge and preference suited. Mornings were often occupied by flights over the Strathvagen estates and surrounding lands, with idle conversations in the afternoons; though like as not they might reverse it. Twice, on particularly fine days, they made it to the lake, and splashed about in it like they were hatchlings again.

Not Lily. Lily sat upon the shore, and did not even watch, only stared passed them.

They attempted to occupy her, of course. Every evening they had some sort of entertainment planned. Temeraire had engaged a local string quartet; Messoria displayed her new gramophone, and they all thumped their tails appreciatively at her growing collection of records. On Thursday, Young Tom read out a collection of articles from the latest issue of the English Mathematical Journal, and much rousing discussion was have, with even Lily contributing a few sketched equations upon the sand tables. She was much more despondent after Friday evening's sermon from a Reverend— but then, who could blame her, Temeraire wondered. While enduring souls in Heaven did all sound very reassuring, Christian philosophy on a whole had so many inconsistencies and gaps one could not be wholly convinced by it.

Not that he said as much, of course. Maximus had found such unexpected comfort in the Church these past years. And of course, Maximus had not said anything to Temeraire about the seances, even after the last one had ended in such disaster.

Sipho came and sat with Temeraire, afterwards, and slept in the pavilion with him. It had been very good of him to arrange for his travels so that he could be here for this. That was no small feat, Temeraire was aware, and he had been invaluable all week, ensuring their guests were comfortable, and fed, and helping polish all of Temeraire's jewellery. Though even Sipho was not as limber as he had used to be, and there were shots of silver through his otherwise dark hair.

So perhaps it was no true surprise that when Saturday dawned overcast and grey, there was a distinct shift in the mood.

No one had spoken of it directly, yet. For all their conversations had ranged far and wide, from the crowing of the new Tsar to the new lightbulb design coming from Japan to the particularly that popular novel series from America, never once had the words tuberculosis or aneurysm or bullet-wound been raised. Spoken around, carefully. Not even their captains' names had been spoken.

But it was the last day. Temeraire had asked the servants to bring out the brandy, whole barrels of it, from the cellars. On her second bowl, Dulcia said, "My Cherney did always enjoyed a proper brandy."

"My Berkley, also," said Maximus. "Though he liked a scotch, too. And a red wine. And—"

Messoria snorted. "Was there any food or drink your captain did not like?"

Maximus scratched behind his ear. "He was not particular fond of oyster, as I recall."

There was an uncomfortable pause. Into the silence, Temeraire said, "While Laurence would eat oyster, when offered, he was not fond of it, on account of how often he had to have it raw after getting ship-wrecked."

"Sutton always said seafood as a whole was over-rated," added Messoria.

"Gerald, my first captain, very much agreed," said Immortalis. "Though Augustine, his nephew, was a fiend for the stuff. It is strange how their opinions can vary so."

In a very quiet voice, Lily said, "Catherine's favourite food, more than anything in the world, was a raisin scone with jam and clotted cream." There was a terrible sound in her voice, terrible and choked, but also like a clogged drain at last coming loose, after two long terrible years.

And it was not only Lily. It was as if her voice had released something in all of them, and it came like a flood— stories, anecdotes, recountings of old battles, everyone's favourite outfits, 'Do you remember when?'s and 'Can you believe how's, and again and again and again, my captain, my captain, my captain.

Dragons could not cry. Temeraire had considered this fact with envy more than once over the past twenty years; he had thought it seemed very cathartic. How it might be a way to just get the grieving over and done with. One proper cry, and then you could fold it away in a trunk, like a beloved golden chain that did not fit you anymore.

But in truth, he did not want to end with the grieving. Not completely, not truly. He preferred this. Preferred remembering, and sharing in those memories, with those who would understand.

They carried on for hours, well into the night. All of the barrels of brandy had been finished, and it was very nearly morning, before they fell asleep, all in one great coiled pile over one another, a tangle of wings and limbs and tails, the deep resonance of one another's breathing keeping them company, so that one almost did not miss the company of their first captains.

Chapter Text

Even before all this, William Laurence had not been a particularly vain man.

He had owned a hand mirror. It would not have done to have himself ill-kept, particularly when meeting with other officials; but beyond cleaning his face and tidying his hair, he had not much dwelt at what he saw in the looking glass.

Like most of his possessions, he was not entirely certain where that mirror had gotten to in the wake of his arrest. Even if he had, he would not have bothered bringing it to Australia.

There were few other opportunities to stumble across one's reflection, here. While they had come into some sort of an accord with the local bunyips, it did not do to linger by the watering holes.

So it was quite an accident, and only a momentary one at that, when Laurence— in one of his periodic visits for re-supply in Sydney— briefly caught sight of himself in one of the few glass window-frames in the entire settlement.

His figure still thinner than recalled. Or perhaps, simply the wrong shape, without the familiar shape of his uniform. Terribly under-dressed, even for civilian attire, to better stand the continent's unrelenting heat. A straw hat draw half-over his face for the same reason. A beard, scraggly, over his chin; Laurence had not realised it had grown quite so wild.

He blinked at himself, took another step, and it was gone.

He could have gone back, taken another look. No reason to. He had fresh produce to collect, and some new volumes for Temeraire to read, and he wished to pay a visit upon Demane and Sipho still.

Laurence walked on.

Chapter Text

Temeraire's courtyard in the Winter Palace is quiet when the imperial messenger arrives. The dragon half raises his head, and raises it a fraction higher when the messenger hands it to Tharkay to read aloud. It is in English.

Tharkay hesitates as he stares down at the parchment.

"What does it say?" Temeraire prompts, at last.

"I am sorry," Tharkay says, voice gentle. "Laurence has passed, this last November."

The deep rumble of grief that emerges from the dragon is low and muted, like a distant earthquake.

It was a bullet to the ribs, that did it, caught in a battle on the Channel. Or not the bullet itself; the physician was able to remove it. He was merely unable to dispel the infection which settles in shortly after.

Laurence feels himself waning. His appetite is nearly nonexistent. His breathing in shallow and raspy. Every time he attempts to write, his hand shakes terribly. That is half the reason he has abandoned every letter he has attempted to write.

The other half is cowardice. But he has become well accustomed to that. 

"I am sorry," he says, to an empty room.

It is twilight, and Tharkay is standing on the edge of a cliff, surveying the rocky landscape and preparing to return to the fire when a dark shape flies across the setting sun. He squints. Looks back at the sleeping tangle of dragons behind him. All his current band of ferals are accounted for; is this one of their friends? Or a local, coming to defend their territory?

It is neither.

"Temeraire?" Tharkay exclaims, for once unable to hide his surprise. How he has been found over this nameless stretch of Alps, he cannot know—

"Tharkay! Oh, Tharkay, thank goodness I found you," Temeraire says, curling and coiling, ignoring the chittering demands of half a dozen ferals— who are you, where have you come from, you better not think you can take our food! "I need your assistance— I cannot pay you, not yet at least, but I am sure my Mother— once they understand— the mushrooms— you must help bring me to Africa, to the Tswana—"

Mushrooms? Africa? But there are more pressing questions. Tharkay notes the wild expression in Temeraire's eyes, his empty harness. Placing a hand upon the dragon's foreleg, he asks, "Temeraire, where is Laurence?"

“It is treason!” Laurence says. Temeraire stops mid speech, the wind abruptly stolen from his lungs, and looks down at his captain. Never he heard Laurence more exhausted. “It is treason. Not disobedience, not insubordination; it cannot—there is no other name which it can bear. This Government is not of my party; my King is ill and mad; but still I am his subject. You have sworn no oath, but I have.” He pauses. “I have given my word.”

The path is very clear to Temeraire suddenly, as clear as it is terrible, like a bright silver wind current in the sky.

“Then I must go alone,” Temeraire whispers. “I will go alone.”

And Laurence— his Laurence, who harnessed him, who read to him every night, who sailed across the world for him, who said he would rather Temeraire than any ship in the navy— takes a step backwards, away. "Yes," he says. "I suppose you will."

Chapter Text

Though she has seen many grand places in her travels, from palaces of gold to waterfalls wreathed in rainbows, as she stood on the highest tower of the Dover covert, Emily Roland reflected that she still thought there were few views in the world as fine as these white cliffs.

As she sat there, breeze in her hair, admiring the waves and she passing ships, she almost did not hear the footsteps behind her until they were directly upon her. However, when she turned, she was not entirely surprised to find Admiral Laurence; nor surprised to find him carrying two steaming mugs.

"Pardon my intrusion," he said with a smile. "I thought you might be wanting for some hot cocoa, and perhaps some company?"

"I would be much obliged by both," she said, reaching out to take the mug. It was warm in her hand. The first sip was mellow and rich.

Laurence settled in besides her, not quite touching. With an almost painful surge of recollection, Roland felt as though she is nine again, and scared, so scared she forgets to be embarrassed by the captain's attention.

He had seemed very tall, then. He still was tall, objectively; it was only that Roland nearly matched him, now. 

They sat in companionable silence, tracking dragons as they soared and dove before the setting sun. The temperature grew colder with the twilight, and their mugs emptied, but neither of them motioned to go inside.

Laurence had a question to ask her, she thought, though of course he would be far too stiff and polite to ever voice it. She opened her mouth to answer it, regardless; but somewhere between her throat and her mouth it changed, and the words came out as a question of her own: "Do you think I am ready?"

He continued staring out at the horizon, steady. "Your mother does, and Excidium; and I think his opinion weighs the heaviest, in this case."

Roland did not sigh, it was a close thing. Her family's trust in her is a bolstering force; but equally, a burden. There is nothing she fears more, she thinks, than letting them down.

But to say no, not yet would be to let them down, also. Mother is tired. She does not say as much aloud; her pride would never allow it. Nonetheless, Emily sees, and certainly Excidium does also. The grey in her hair, the extra moments she takes when standing from a chair. The mountains of paperwork do not help; she barely has any time to spend in the sky, most weeks. The guilt gnaws at her.

Why, then, does it still feel as though she is taking something from both of them?

"I was not so much older than you when I was first given command of a ship," Laurence continued, at length. He paused for a particularly cold gust of wind. "At thirty-one years I was older, certainly, when I harnessed Temeraire; but I did not know even a tenth of what you know regarding the station's responsibility."

"Yes, but—"

Laurence turned to face her, though it was difficult to make the details of his expression out in the fading light. "While I think, even then, Temeraire's intelligence far outpaced mine, he did not know what service promised him either. Excidium, by contrast, is perhaps the most experience soldier in the corps. His judgment—"

"That is precisely the problem!" Roland interrupted, cutting him off. She fumbled, pausing, expecting a rebuke. None came. Laurence simply continued to watch her, patient. "Excidium is as equally matched to be an Admiral as mother! He hardly needs a new captain; he could just as well be his own!"

"Excidium does not need a captain to lead him, or order him, or bring him to heel: this is true. But he requires a companion who values his opinion. Who can handle those things which a dragon cannot." Laurence smiled. "I am confident there is no other officer in Britain better prepared to do so than you."

In the fifteen or so years that Emily Roland had known William Laurence, she had more than once thought him to be the most frustrating man in the world.

It was endlessly tiresome how fixating he was on everyone always being dressed to the nines. Even worse was how he relentlessly pressed her and the other kids to always be doing schoolwork, even when there were far more interesting things going on. And of course, he had never quite understood what it meant to be a women in the corps, to the point where he had forced a chaperone upon her— a chaperone!

But in the end? It turned out that people did afford you more respect if your clothes were done up all proper, even if there were some who would insult you regardless of whether you wore trousers or skirts. And Roland's neat handwriting served her very well when writing reports, and her arithmetic was invaluable when it came to logistics and supply. And if Alice Pemberton had proven to be next-to-useless as a chaperone, she had also turned out to be an invaluable friend, and a half-decent shot to boot.

Which was to say: Laurence was very nearly always right. So Roland supposed she would just have to hope he was right on this score too. "Thank you, sir."

"I am retired," he answered, amused. He laid a warm heavy hand on her shoulder. "And tomorrow you are to be a captain; I think you are entitled to call me Will."

Though it was not a joke, she laughed. "Well then, Will; shall you help me carry these mugs back to the kitchen?" She thought she was done hiding from her future for the night.

Chapter Text

Shore leave upon England was supposed to represent a rest; a reprieve. Laurence was beginning to question this premise.

This at least was not so unpleasant a shock as his return four year's previous, whereupon he had found Edith engaged to another man.

While he had been crushed at the time, he could not blame her for it, in retrospect. For months he had been stranded upon a deserted island, presumed dead. It was only expected that a promising young lady like Edith had gone looking for another suitor while her prospects were still at their height. By the time of the news of his survival had been carried back to England, the engagement had been formalized. Edith had been terribly sorry upon his return; sorry, and guilt ridden, but he had told her not to be, and very nearly meant it.

So no, he could not resent Edith Woolvey for breaking their informal engagement. He could, however, resent his parents for entering him into a new one without his knowledge or permission.

'It is not Official,' Laurence's Father had written. 'You are not Beholden to to the arrangement, such as it is. Indeed, it is not a Match I would have chosen, except that it is politically Prudent. There are a great deal of eyes upon this matter, and our cooperation will reflect positively upon ourselves cause. Which is to say it may sway some votes to the Cause at the next Parliamentary season. For this reason at least I implore you, if you are not moved by requirements of Duty to your family, to least meet with the lady and be seen considering her.'

Mother's letter had been shorter, but at least more sentimental. 'She is unorthodox, to be certain, but you are rather unorthodox yourself. I think you may like her.'

For all their encouragement, Laurence could not call himself optimistic.

The letters had been delivered by courier dragon only a matter of days before his ship had docked in London, and so he had barely processed this news when he had stepped onto the dock and been nearly immediately whisked away by members of the Admiralty pressing him to meet with the eligible lady that very night.

"I shall have at least a day to arrangement my affairs," Laurence had said, with as much dignity as he could muster, "and to make myself fit for Society before organizing an engagement with any lady, particularly one with whom I have not met." He may only be a lieutenant yet, and the third son of a Lord, but he was a gentleman, and surely must be afforded at least that much respect.

So for all his parents' encouragement, Laurence could not see himself to be the least bit optimistic. In fact, he was downright dubious. It was in the hasty way this all was being organized, the lack of details provided, and indeed the smirk on the paper-pusher's face when he had insisted in making himself presentable; the one which had said he did not much think this lady would care, one way or another.

No. Clearly, this Jane Roland had gotten herself caught in quite a scandal. The matter of that scandal, or why the Admiralty seemed preoccupied by it, Laurence did not know. But he did not much intend to be played as a pawn in some unclear political game.

In the three hour ride to the Pentworth Estates, Laurence was so deeply engaged in the stew of his thoughts that he did not even register the scent of smoke until the carriage very suddenly rocked, the horse rearing upon its legs and whinnying in distress.

Throwing himself to the window, Laurence saw the cause immediately: the town they were passing was very in flame, and would very shortly be ablaze if action was not taken.

These were not Laurence's crew; not crew at all, but civilians, many panicky. But they were looking for someone to take charge, and with a clear strong voice that be could even over a gale, Laurence took charge. Soon he had a line formed, bails of water being carried up the creek to the flames, while other parties directed the evacuation of livestock, and an older woman— evidently the village's midwife— ushered children and expectant mothers onto the carriage Laurence had evacuated.

How he would get to his destination after all of this was a question Laurence could answer after the crisis was resolved.

Which despite their best efforts, might not be soon. It was an unseasonably hot summer, the sun bright overhead, and yet a fierce driving wind. While that had been able to rescue at least the southern side of the city, if they did not contain it soon, there was every likelihood it would catch the neighboring forest, and from their it could easily be carried, carried—

"Faster!" Laurence said, hoisting up a bucket himself now that he had seen the children safely away.

Faster they went, but there were limits to any man. They had no hope of carrying a sufficient volume of water to douse all the flames before—

A great shadow drifted over them like a veil.

Startled, Laurence looked up, fearing a dark bloom of smoke. It took him a moment to recognise the shape for what it was.

A dragon. A heavyweight dragon.

Someone screamed. For a few terrible moments, it seemed as though their fragile order would be fractured by newfound panic.

"Hold the line!" Laurence bellowed, and the line held, bucket of water being passed from hand to hand.

Though those buckets seemed paltry in in comparison to the truly massive volume of water the dragon dumped not even a minute later.

"Good Lord!" one man cried.

"The beast is helping!" yelled another in response, a woman. "Let it!"

A wise sentiment, and a necessary one, for twice the dragon had to come to the river-side to fill its makeshift bucket— evidently a commandeered canal boat— and twice more the bucket line had to hold their nerve. It became easier for them, though, when they saw how the great influxes of water subdued the flames. It was enough to to allow them to be more precise, to stomp out the remaining patches of fire with smaller volumes of water and dirt.

Within twenty minutes the immediate disaster had been averted. It took another three quarters of an hour to ensure that all the flames had been well and truly doused, to take stock of the damage, and to begin seeing to the wounded. While no one had died, thank God, a great many men and women had sustained injuries ranging from the small to the substantial.

The upside to all of this was that everyone was so thoroughly exhausted that no one put up a fuss when the dragon landed directly among them.

"Well," the beast said, surveying the blackened structures which had once been houses. "A damned shame."

Laurence stared. Stared, and then snapped his mouth shut. "Yes indeed," he agreed. Even knowing intellectually the dragons could speak, he had been taken aback, though more so by it noticing and deciding to comment on such destruction. That was no reason to be rude. "Though the destruction would have been much worse if not for your timely intervention, I think."

"Just so," a new voice agreed, sliding down the dragon's side. "It was a jolly good show for you to catch sight of that smoke, Excidium, or else we might not have gotten here in time." The dragon rumbled wordlessly rumbled in response. The figure— the dragon's captain, Laurence gathered, judging from the bottle-green riding coat— clapped his hands and looked at Laurence. "I do not suppose you would know where to find a cow around here, or at least a sheep?"

Laurence did not, or at least, did not not have the authority to commander such a thing; but he did know where the town's mayor was, and the owners of the cattle. Indeed, not all the animals had managed to escape the flames; one had the dairy cows had panicked and broken her neck. After the aid the captain and her beast had rendered in keeping the rest from perishing, the herdsman did not even complain about handing over the meat for free to captain—

"Captain, ah," Laurence trailed off, realising he did not know the man's name.

"Captain Roland," the fellow finished, shaking the herdsman's hand as his dragon— Excidium— descended upon his meal. Hopefully he had not noticed the flash of recognition upon Laurence's face.

So the dragon was given his just rewards for a day's work well done, and certainly ate better than the men. With a significant portion of the town's stores burned, and its kitchens in disarray, Laurence and Roland were lucky to be supplied with a mug of mead each, some nuts, and a couple pieces of cheese. The two of them sat upon only a few steps away from the massive dragon, devouring their partly meal in silence.

In between bites, Laurence studied the captain. He was about his age; perhaps a few years older. Medium height, stocky, but well muscled, with dark brown hair and matching eyes. Not unhandsome, Laurence thought, as unequipped as he was to judge; certainly he cut a fine figure in his coat. He could not help but wonder how such features would translate to his sister.

Captain Roland caught him staring, and tilted his head. "You did very well today," Laurence said quickly, embarrassed. "It was very resourceful, using that boat in such a way."

"Yes, it was," Roland agreed, taking the compliment easily. He swallowed another gulp of mead. "You did well yourself; I saw you directing the bucket line. Things would have been much worse without it. Is this your town?"

"Ah, no, just passing through." Laurence hesitated. "I was on the way to meet with your relative, in fact. Lieutenant Laurence of The Goliath, at your service." Since he was sitting, he bowed his head rather than make his step.

Captain Roland's face went peculiarly stiff. "Ah. Yes. I have heard of you."

So he was aware of the odd circumstances, then. Aware, and not particularly pleased by them, Laurence had to guess.

A strained silence descended.

It was something of a relief when a great row broke out behind them, and they both stood to attend it.

A man had accused another man of using the chaos to loot. While they were not law officials, the two captains had enough authority to keep things from getting out of hand. From there, there were half a dozen minor issues to see to, not least of which was writing messages to arrange for places for a dozen misplaced families to sleep. Laurence could see reports looming in his near future.

"We can house at least four of them at Pentworth Estates," Roland said. "Lord knows all the space there would be better put to some purpose." It was a neat and tidy solution, and certainly the families seemed pleased by it.

Pleased, at least, until Roland offered to carry them there by dragon back.

"It would take barely a quarter of an hour," Roland explained. "And we have sufficient spare harnesses."

No one took the offer. They would rather wait for the spare carriages, no matter how long it would take.

Captain Roland waited to to turn away from them before rolling his eyes.

"I do not know what I expected," he muttered. "What about you?"

"Me?" Laurence said, surprised.

"I do believe you said you were headed to the Pentworth Estate?"

Indeed he had. Even if he would now be a good six hours late for their lunch meeting, at least he would have a good excuse. More than that, there was a challenge in Captain Roland's eyes. "You will have to show me how to correctly don a harness," Laurence replied.

"Ah, well, I glad you found at least one sensible man among the bunch," Excidium greeted, while Captain Roland rummaged around in the packs for a spare harness. The buckles were intimidating, but not so difficult to secure for all of that.

Nonetheless, Laurence's grip was tight when, with a great coiling of muscles, the dragon launched himself into the air.

Twilights were long in the summer. There was more than enough light by which to see the beauty of the English countryside laid out before him, like a golden quilt.

Laurence's breath caught in his throat.

Roland looked at him sidelong. "It is quite the view, isn't it?"

"Yes," Laurence said, distantly, still admiring it. And he had thought the topsails high! "Yes, it is."

For a long long moment, the pair of them stared, silent. Measure by measure, Laurence relaxed, his grip slackening. The Excidium flapped, turned, and the view was briefly snatched from view. Laurence shook himself, and forced himself to attend his manners. "Your beast," he said, "is a longwing, yes? I confess myself no expert on dragon breeds, but their colouration is distinctive."

"A longwing indeed," Roland said, expression lighting with pride, and they spent the rest of the flight engaged in discussion of aerial tactics.

Laurence was dissapointed when at last the flight ended, the warm lights of a stately home swimming into view below. If things did not go well, he would have little choice but to stay the night; to eat breakfast here tomorrow; it all had such potential to be dreadfully awkward. Perhaps he should have begged off the flight and waited until tomorrow to call, after all.

Well, there was no turning back well. Laurence put his mind to dismounting the massive longwing without making a fool of himself.

He was nonetheless much slower that the aviator captain, who slid down with a practiced grace. By the time he reached the ground Roland was already crouching to embrace a child who had throw herself at full tilt into his arms: "Mother!" the girl shouted. "You are so late! You missed lunch. And supper!" Her tone was scandalized.

Laurence, meanwhile, was horrified as the dragon lowered his face— his great massive face, equipped with poisonous bone spurs— directly besides the child and said, "There was a fire, Emily. We had to help put it out."

"A fire?" the girl said, immediately fascinated, not the least bit afraid.

"A fire, indeed," Roland said, straightening. "We will tell you all about it— if you will run along, and tell the servants to draw us a couple of baths, and to heat up our suppers."

The child frowned for a moment, as if prepared to argue, and then nodded. "Yes, Mother!" and went running off back towards the manor.

Which gave Laurence the opportunity, at last, to process her words.

... Mother?

Slowly, he turned, and looked at Captain Roland. Looked, and examined. Reconsidered the curves in his— her— figure which he had previously not paid any mind.

Jane Roland raised an eyebrow. "Well, try not to look so stunned, man," she said, and began down the path. "Are you coming in or not?"

"It has been a great much ado about nothing," Roland said, an hour or so later at the supper table, glass of scotch in one hand. Despite her earlier bath having wiped away all the dirt and soot, she was still wearing blouse and trousers. "Hardly my fault if we caught an invasion attempt right above a gala! Took a bullet to my chest." She gestured. Laurence hardly wanted to be reminded of her chest, and looked down at his plate. "The physicians had to undress me and tend the injury then and there, if they wanted to stop me from bleeding out. Someone saw something; I suppose it was only a matter of time. You cannot hide two hundred women soldiers indefinitely, without someone finally catching wind of it." Hundreds, Laurence thought dully, now almost beyond the horror of it. "Someone at The Times got a hold of a story, sent a reporter to go sniffing. Suddenly there was a front page story."

"Women Captains In the Corps," Laurence said, guessing at the headline.

"Woman captain, singular," Roland corrected. She paused to spear a piece of steak upon her fork and eat it. "They are trying to make me out to be an exception, rather than the rule. More than that, trying to make me seem acceptable. They wish to find me a husband, right quick, I suppose to show that I am not running wild." She sighed, suddenly looking very tired. "I suppose they think a military captain will be better able to handle the realities of an aviator wife." She sighed again. "I am very sorry to have gotten you caught up in it."

"I am sorry too," Laurence admitted, "but sorrier that you should find yourself in such circumstances in the first place." While he had balked at the realisation at first, from what he had learned over the meal it was a necessity. Longwings, the backbone of British aerial strategy, would not take male captains. Roland herself had been raised to the life; from what he had heard and seen since, Laurence thought herself impressively suited to it, given her sex. It seemed terribly unfair that this should be he reward for loyal service. "I would not wish to have you forced into an engagement against your will."

She gave him a lopsided smile. "I cannot be forced. Or more to the point, Excidium cannot be. If he does not like the fellow, or thinks I do not, he will not stand for it, and there is little that can force a fifteen tonne acid-spitter to anything."

"I can imagine," Laurence conceded, taking a sip of his wine.

"But," Roland conceded, "I will confess that the Admiralty can make our lives very difficult in the meantime. I would not like to see us assigned to some distant rock, not with Bonnie snapping at our heels."

"No, indeed." Laurence swirled the wine around his glass, considering. It seems callous to explain what brought him to this; but Roland has already shared so much of her own situation, and he thinks she deserves the transparency. "My father put me to this meeting," he admitted. "He thinks he can leverage my cooperation in this arrangement for votes for his upcoming Bill."

"Ah," Roland said, nothing more. But her gaze was assessing.

They ate the next few bites in silence.

"Well," Roland announced. "We agreed to meet; we have met. That ought to silence them, for at least a little while. For tonight, we can enjoy our meal, and perhaps you can tell me a little bit of life in the Navy."

"Yes," Laurence agreed. "If you will tell me more about life in the corps." He had only ever known aviators at a distance, and admittedly, had thought of them a rather unruly and bohemian lot; but now having met one, he could not help but be rather fascinated.

I think you may like her, his Mother had written, and seemed that she may have been correct.

Chapter Text

Three months at sea. Three!

Little hates travelling by ship. Who wouldn't? Seasickness, cramped quarters, dull repetitive meals, and dragons complaining of all of that besides, and one can hardly blame them, when they have it twice as bad as any of the men.

He reconciles himself that at least John has had it far worse than himself, with his impromptu trip to Australia, and then back again, and then on to Brazil.

So yes. There are a great number of hours to while away when travelling by dragon transport, and Little entertains himself with thoughts of their reunion. With thoughts of John. John's face, splayed with freckles; John's ass, entirely bare aside from his leather harness; John's voice, letting out those quiet muffled moans of his; John's clever fingers, trailing down Gus's chest and waist and—

— And sure enough, when he arrives in Brazil, Little finds John in bed, but not in the way he hoped.

He is propped up with pillows. His skin is two shades too pale. One arm lies loosely in his lap; the other empty from a dangling sleeve.

"It is not so bad, now," John says. "I am awake more than I am asleep, and I can walk without difficult, which is more than some can say!" He is being flippantly cheerful, which is his way, but Little can not ignore the lingering scent of laudanum.

He reaches out and take's John's remaining hand. John squeezes. They are in a public medical ward; the gesture does not last long. They take what they can.

But soon enough, they will have privacy again. If John must conserve his strength, no matter; Little will take the lead. And John still possesses members enough for Augustine to lavish his attention upon.

Chapter Text

The silence within the courtyard was deafening.

Temeraire was so still, he could have been carved from obsidian, a masterful statue in which every curve radiated barely restrained anger. His eyes almost seemed to glow in the torchlight.

In a voice too low to be called a growl, he said, "Read it again."

"Temer—"

"Read it again."

Tharkay took a moment to marshal himself. When he spoke, his voice was even as glass. It did not take long: the message was short. 

"To the 'Esteemed' Member of Parliament Temeraire,

We have your captain. If you wish to see him alive, you shall vote against the Bill proposed in your upcoming parliamentary sessions; you are advised to ensure the rest of your so-called faction does likewise."

The letter was not signed. It had, however, come with a bloody neck-cloth. Tharkay had recognised the pale blue floral pattern beneath its stain; Temeraire had recognised Laurence's scent, unmistakable.

With a very very monumental effort, Temeraire marshalled himself, and stopped the mounting rage in his chest from boiling over and destroying the entire hotel around them in a single heave of his lungs. 

This was his fault. His fault. Everyone knew one could control a dragon by taking their captain hostage; he had been a fool to think that retirement from the service would have altered this simple truth.

"Temeraire," Tharkay said again, gripping his fore-claw, and again it took far too much effort not to fling him aside. "There is yet four days before the vote— do not give up hope, we have resources, we may yet be able to find him."

"Yes. Yes, we will find him," Temeraire vowed, because of course they would. He would not allow Laurence hurt.

He would not allow Laurence hurt.

So of course they would find Laurence before the vote. Before the deadline. But if they did not...

Temeraire did not have the slightest of doubts of his course.

Chapter Text

Temeraire— oh what a fine name that was, he could not stop repeating it to himself— considered the cabin before.

It was not nearly so large a space as The Reliant's deck, but that was not precisely a negative, he thought. Its enclosed nature reminded Temeraire greatly of the shell which he had left only hours before, comfortable with its dimmed lighting and the susurration of the waves against the hull. Though it only reminded him in the good ways, Temeraire was quick to clarify to himself, for the egg had been so small that one could not move, and with nothing interesting to look at or touch.

The egg also had not had Captain Laurence.

Sitting patiently with his tail curled around his forelegs, Temeraire watched with interest as Laurence unfurled a great length of rope, tied together into a complex pattern of repeating diamond shapes, and hung it up besides where a similar construction already hung. "It is called a hammock," Laurence explained, when Temeraire inquired. "It is where men sleep when they are aboard ship."

"I see. Where do men sleep when they are not aboard ships?"

Laurence looked down at him. "In beds, generally." He described them; flat padded mattresses stuffed with straw or feathers, placed on a sturdy wooden frame.

"Why do men not sleep on them when aboard ships as well?" Temeraire asked.

"You are a curious thing, aren't you?" Laurence asked, but in soft voice Temeraire had to strain to hear. More clearly he explained, "Cots like this are far more space efficient, and can be rolled up if necessary."

"That makes a great deal of sense," Temeraire declared.

Laurence undressed then, taking off his fine blue coat with the gold bars, and dressing in what he called his 'sleeping shirt' when Temeraire asked. There did not seem to be such a thing as a sleeping harness, as he did not undress Temeraire similarly.

Perhaps it was for the best, as by then, Temeraire was struggling to keep his eyes open. Which was not fair, for there were so many interesting things in the cabin, shelves and a chest and implements and all laid out, and Temeraire wanted to ask about every one of them! But he knew in his heart of hearts that he would not be able to listen to the explanations, and not as they deserved, and so he permitted Laurence to pick him up and lay him in the hanging hammock.

The sensation was very strange. The whole world bucked and swayed with the motion of the ship, and Temeraire's wings kept springing out of their own accord in an attempt to balance him. Furthermore, when he attempt to reposition himself into a more comfortable shape, he merely succeeded in having one of his paws fall through the netting, forcing Laurence to come help him get free. After that, it seemed more trouble than it was worth to try again.

"Are you," Laurence began, and then paused. Temeraire blinked up at him. "Are you comfortable?"

"Yes, I am well," Temeraire sad, and consoled himself it was mostly not a lie. He would become accustomed soon enough, he was sure. 

Laurence nodded. Without another word, he turned, and in an impressive display of grace, climbed into his own hammock. He lay upon his back, staring up at the ceiling.

In the egg, before departing, the voices when had spoke to Temeraire though the shell had said Bonsoir! each time before leaving. Temeraire wondered if there was any like phrase in English, and intended to ask; but drifted away on a current of sleep before he could.

It was a balmy night, or so it had seemed as Temeraire had rode a thermal across the Scottish highlands. Yet as he swirled into his descent and landed on the grassy lawn of the manor, a chill settled over him.

No matter. The pavilion had been designed with such nights in mind. Humming softly to himself— the music at that night's outdoor concert had been lovely, he would need to look into more of the composer's work— Temeraire nosed at the lever which would automatically activate the stove which warmed his pavilion's pavements.

"May I help with that, my dear?"

"Laurence?" Temeraire said, surprised. "No, pray, I have it." Flames crackles to life behind the little glass window."What are you doing up at such an hour?" It was well past midnight. Laurence had begged off the evening to instead to assist Tharkay in reviewing the proposed plans to repair a bridge which had been damaged in the spring floods, and Temeraire had expected him to retire early.

Shaking his head, Laurence said, "I am afraid to confess that I have been tossing and turning for some hours now. I thought perhaps I could simply use some company."

Temeraire angled his head so as to better examine his captain. He had simple pulled a jacket and boots over his night clothes. His hair was dishevelled, and the pronounced circles showed the truth to his tale. "Of course, Laurence," Temeraire said. "Though I am afraid I do not think I will be particularly entertaining company." He yawned enormously. "I am not long for bed myself."

Laurence patted Temeraire upon his hind-quarters as he went to drawn the easterly curtain's against the breeze. "Do not fear. Simply having you besides me will be a balm."

Temeraire rumbled, half from pleasure, half from alarm. As he paced himself in a circle he asked, "Pray, is everything alright?"

"Yes. There is no reason to fret," Laurence said, as he fetched the blankets from the dressing-room portion of the pavilion. Under Temeraire's anxious gaze he admitted, "I simply had the dreams again tonight, that is all."

Ah. The dreams, yes. They all had them from time to time. Even Maximus and Lily.

There was very little any of them could do for it, unfortunately. But Temeraire could do this much at least, holding his left foreleg still as Laurence laid the blankets upon it.

Objectively, the weights of the blankets were hardly anything. Even Laurence climbing underneath the duvet should have been almost nothing at all. Certainly, Temeraire had been so acquainted to people climbing up and about his body from such a young age that it no more registered to him than the motion of a rocking ship or the chatter of song birds. Nonetheless, Temeraire was keenly aware of it; a sort of radiating warmth which he did not think he could have ignored even if he wished to.

Temeraire laid his head upon the smooth slate floor, the tiles of which were already becoming very pleasantly warm. Laurence reached out to pet his nose, that most comforting and familiar of gestures. "Did you enjoy the concert tonight, my dear?"

"Oh yes, it was lovely. It was not a full orchestra, but it was very close. The string section in particular was in fine form..." And so Temeraire was, describing the performance to the best of his ability, though of course his words felt quite inadequate compared to the music itself.

Laurence did not mind. He listened intently, occasionally interjecting with questions and comments. Gradually those comments trailed off. Laurence's body shifted from his back onto his side. Temeraire trailed off in his recitation, and listened carefully as Laurence's breathing slowed, becoming deeper. Even. 

Only then, once he was sure his captain was asleep, did Temeraire close his eyes and join him.

Chapter Text

Edith Woolvey was in London the day it was invaded by France, and she was in London a month later when England officially surrendered.

What a strange, terrible day that was, as if caught in a nightmare one could not wake from. The French soldiers parading down the streets, uniforms white and red and blue, their trumpets sounding victory. English huddled in their doors, watching. The smart or the cowardly said nothing. The brave or the foolhardy attempting some defiant show, and were killed for their troubles.

Mostly. Edith heard one commanding officer shout "ARRÊT!" before his private's gun could fire upon the young Englishman at his feet.

While she had been no great scholar, she had been diligent enough in her studies as a girl, language among them. She knew enough of French to understand what the officer was saying: We will begin our rule in a demonstration of peace.

She could laugh.

She did not. Perhaps she was a coward, but she had a baby in the crib upstairs, still recovering from fever.

Bertram wrapped his arm around her waist, and she leaned into him, and did not cry. That night they shared a bottle of scotch, and toasted England.

Two days later she saw Napoleon as he entered the city.

Not the Palace. She was not one of those who flocked to Buckingham to make a great show of deference of their new emperor. But she stood in the house's tidy back garden, and looked up, and watched the dragons flocked in. Dozens of them, dozens, almost more than the mind could conceive, like a great banner in the sky. At the fore were two dragons, long and serpentine, white and black.

The white dragon was Napoleon's steed, or so they say. Yet Edith's eyes were locked its black shadow.

She had seen it— him— once before. At a distance, out through a window, carrying William Laurence away from the life they might have led.

Was he carrying Laurence now?

Many rumours say he must be. For if there is one thing that French pronouncements and English whispers alike agree: the black dragon Temeraire was instrumental in the French victory.

("And it's no wonder," whispered one woman at the bakery that morning. "With a name like Temeraire, what could you expect?")

They say that Temeraire mad every last dragon in Britain a turncoat. Said that the French promised them fresh meat and treasure beyond their wildest imaginings. Some say those dragons threw off their own captains and grew in a fit of greed; others say the captains were equally enamoured by the bribes. They say Captain Laurence put his beast up to it; that his return had been meticulously planned, a Trojan horse, to sew dissent from within.

This Edith could not believe. That Laurence would commit treason? Yes. But not that would attempt to subvert his own sentence.

So, no. She favoured the rumours that said William Laurence was dead. Killed by a British admiral (or captain, or general, the story changes) right in front of his very dragon. His dragon, who was driven mad with grief, and sought revenge against what he viewed as his captain's murderer, the entire nation of Britain.

Do dragons feel grief? Edith was not certain. Something similar, certainly. But she wondered if Temeraire could grasp just how little Laurence would have wanted this ill-conceived revenge. How much he would have mourned his nation's defeat.

"Edith?" Bertram called, from the door.

Did Bertram know the direction of her thoughts? He must. She wondered if he resented Laurence even now, resented his hold over here. He shouldn't.

If so, he spoke nothing of it. Only said, "Come inside, darling. Supper is on the table."

So Edith turned inside, went to supper, and tried to push the traitor dragon who shared her grief out of mind.