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An awkward silence prevails over the deck of the Reliant. The new dragon hatchling seems perfectly healthy – it is also, evidently, feral. Laurence looks between Carver and the little black creature with regret. The boy will not be a suitable captain – will not be a captain at all, it is clear. He does not have the courage to harness the beast, and the beast has no interest in either him or anyone else on the ship.
Claws clicking over the deck, and the dragon twists around as though catching this thought. His wide blue eyes stare at Laurence. Suddenly he stops moving. “”Why are you frowning?” he demands.
And Laurence -
The dragon is confused, concerned, ravenous in a distant and secondary way. Laurence does not understand how he knows these things. The dragon tilts his head, his reptilian features unmoving, and the world snaps like fractured glass. The sky flickers between startling shades of blue and off-violet, while somewhere the sea has become impossibly loud.
Yet he finds that all other sounds have stopped – utterly stopped.
“I beg your pardon,” Laurence finds himself saying. Inhaling slowly, he reaches up to adjust his neckcloth; it feels as though he is drowning in the air. “I did not mean to.”
The dragon twitches his head forward, thrumming with almost visible satisfaction – his eyes are the only solid color in the world, and Laurence stares at him.
Something here is horribly right, and also forever changed.
Temeraire – that becomes his name – feeds with his entire head in the food trough, squirming eagerly and searching for every scrap of bloody pork. His tongue scrapes against the metal with an ominous rattle when he laps up the blood. Nearby the cook's mate cringes against the door.
Laurence just sits and waits, cloth in hand. The scent of blood is cloying. He can almost feel it in the air, on his tongue. When the pig was slaughtered he had felt hungry. Now he sits patiently waiting.
Temeraire finishes and finally withdraws. He looks up when Laurence steps forward. Silently Laurence begins to wash the stains from the dragon's jaw and Temeraire bumps against his side affectionately.
“...Sir?” asks the cook's mate at last. He edges closer to the exit.“Shall I...?”
“As you like.”
“Yes, Sir.”
For the first few days Temeraire is small enough to fit in his lap.
Then he grows, and the dragon explores the captain's-cabin with great curiosity. Perched at the foot of his bunk, Laurence watches quietly as Temeraire sniffs at a roll of parchment set out on the writing desk. This is followed by a quill, a bottle of ink. Temeraire starts to nudge this last before pausing with a glance at Laurence. They stare at one another. Temeraire edges away from the ink carefully and then, standing straight on his hind-legs, leverages himself against the desk for balance as he stares down at a half-finished letter.
Laurence closes his eyes.
Temeraire hums in understanding. The desk squeaks when Temeraire leans closer, tilting his head at the shape of his own name. Without looking up Laurence smiles, and Temeraire glances back at him once, tail flicking.
When Temeraire grows bored of his explorations he scrabbles back up the bed and curls with his warm snout pressed against his companion's knee. Laurence reaches down to touch his leathery wings, fingers arching over the thin membranes between hollow joints.
Soon he will no longer be a naval-man. Soon his entire fate will be changed.
Temeraire shifts, snuffles. Raises one eye to look up at him.
And Laurence thinks, no; assuredly he is already an aviator.
For Temeraire the decks are full of new noises and sounds, but he is not permitted to investigate these spaces freely. The men still have to work, after all, and a ship is always busy. He watches with keen eyes as the crew go about their business.
There is little to do, but Laurence retrieves several books from Pollitt and sits reading them to Temeraire while the sea whispers beneath them.
Riley approaches on the third day of this.
“Are you that bored?” asks the acting-captain. “I did not know you spoke French.”
“I can pronounce it well enough,” Laurence says. “Temeraire can understand it.”
Riley frowns, brow furrowing in confusion. “I suppose he can?” he asks, like a question. “But you were not - “ He looks between the pair. Laurence waits, and after a moment Riley shrugs. “Well, I am glad you are keeping busy,” he says lamely. “ - Pray let me know if there is anything you require.”
Laurence thanks him and waits politely until Riley has left. Then he opens the book again, finds his place, and leans back to peruse the text in silence.
Temeraire lets out a pleased murmur.
“It is an excellent solution, of course; and you can get back to the sea. I trust, captain, you have no complaints?”
The admiral's tone says that of course Laurence can have no complaints; of course no complaints are possible. Words die in his throat as they so often have in recent days. Temeraire is this very instant sitting alone, slightly cold, and signs of rain thicken in the air as wind blusters every which way. Laurence clears his throat. “I suppose it is your right to try, Sir,” he says finally. This is somehow not the reception he has expected of England, but perhaps he has been naive. “But Temeraire will not be amiable.”
To this Dayes sneers. “You think he would prefer a seaman to an aviator?”
Laurence returns the lieutenant's gaze evenly and says nothing at all.
“No matter,” says the admiral; Laurence has forgotten his name and does not care to have it. “Temeraire is no longer your concern, Captain.”
In the navy he would no longer be a captain; doubtless Croft has already reassigned his ship. But he does not say this.
Dayes leaves when Laurence does, the man smiling in triumph. Laurence goes to a nearby pub, his head already aching, and indulges in strong liquor as though he can somehow ignore what is happening.
The place is crowded, loud; he finds a corner that seems less dirty than the rest and settles in with a drink. For many long minutes he sits, his hand steadily clenching tighter around the mug; eventually his hand starts to tremble.
“Lies,” he mutters quietly. “All lies.”
The trembling stops eventually. When he looks up the place is almost empty. A serving-woman is eyeing him with increasing unease. Laurence blinks, stands, pays. When he goes outiside the moon is huge and luminously white in the sky.
He finds a place to sleep and dreams of Dayes, his body sunken deep on his own claws and wordless in terror.
Another day passes – two – and Laurence is unsurprised when finally an aviator tracks him down at an inn, stands outside his door, and says flatly, “The admiral requests your presence.”
“I would prefer to see Temeraire first,” Laurence says, and the aviator frowns but does not argue.
They go to Temeraire's temporary field – a sad, drenched place where the dead bones of cows are a testament to recent meals – and a vaguely recognizable man and a little Grayling are already there. “You must be Captain Laurence,” says the man, devoid of any discomfort. The aviator with Laurence clears his throat but is ignored; “I'm Captain James.”
“Yes, I know,” Laurence says. “ - It is good to meet you.”
James blinks.
Laurence adds, “Hello Volly.”
Volly trots over to him and peers at Laurence with fascination. “Temrer is my friend!” He declares.
“I am quite glad.”
Laurence looks up at Temeraire, who is curled up silently and staring at him. Their eyes meet and the great dragon lowers his head with infinite delicacy. Breath huffs over Laurence as Temeraire nudges his shoulder once, pauses, and then moves away.
Laurence turns to the first aviator. “We may return now,” he says.
The admiral tells him formally – grudgingly, spitefully – that Temeraire is his. This is not unexpected. When he returns Captain James warns him that there will be things at the covert which cannot be discussed with laymen - secrets of the service that are not meant for the public.
This, too, is expected.
“I understand,” Laurence says.
But James says nothing more. Perhaps the secrets must wait to be shared. Or perhaps this is the revelation, the spaces in the silence. Laurence has a very good idea, now, of why aviators hold themselves apart. He cannot say he blames them.
It is late when they arrive at Loch Laggan and Temeraire sets down outside on quiet, careful wings. He inspects the place as Laurence steps down and James does the same; they are about to proceed when James gestures him aside. “I don't meant to imply anything,” he says. “But I first thought I should ask. It is only – your Temeraire, he seems very quiet. He is alright, isn't he? The hatching wasn't traumatic?”
Laurence stares at the young captain with blank confusion. “You heard him speak to Volly,” he says.
“Yes, but not to you or I.”
“To you, perhaps, but why would he - “ and Laurence pauses. Then, “He is quite well; I assure you he is well.”
James does not look so assured. “Well. As you say.”
They are waiting to speak to someone at Loch Laggan and Laurence is more convinced than before. A Malachite Reaper flies overhead chirruping cheerfully at his rider that “Yes, Johnathon, I am very certain I could take two sheep.” Meanwhile the black dragon near Laurence sits calmly – almost eerily still, in fact, if one is to view him from an outsider's perspective – and Laurence sighs.
Abruptly, Temeraire looks at him. Tilts his head.
“Yes, I am afraid so,” Laurence says aloud. “I must insist.”
Temeraire looks him in the eyes.
“I understand your feelings on the matter; but say it, Temeraire, if you will. We must not exclude James or anyone else.”
Temeraire sighs gustily. “Laurence, I do not see that we are excluding them at all. I shall certainly speak to him if my words are meant for James. He is not even here, and anyway, he should understand very well if we prefer to be quiet.”
“Perhaps.” Laurence has begun to have doubts. “But perhaps not; have you not noticed, Temeraire, that he and Volly speak to each other quite freely? Quite often, even?”
“ - Well, Volly is a bit unusual, or I should imagine it is so,” Temeraire says uneasily. “That is no fault, and it is no business of ours - “
“He commented on your silence, dear. I think he does not know. He does not understand. And he has lived his whole life in the coverts.”
It is the words unspoken that Temeraire hears; it is always the words unspoken. “But, Laurence – you do not mean they cannot talk as we talk? You cannot mean no one can?”
“I cannot say for certain. But it is a possibility we must consider. And remember, I have told you before that many men do not appreciate that which is different.”
There is a long silence. Laurence looks at Temeraire pointedly.
“Yes, I understand,” says Temeraire, startled back into speech by a mute prompting. He sighs. “Oh, Laurence – it is very hard. I do not like this at all.”
“I know, my dear. But we will become accustomed to it – we must.”
They do not.
They are welcomed warmly enough at the covert, where Laurence finds at least one secret the Corps have been hiding; female aviators. But is this the only secret? There is no mention of anything else, but surely even aviators are capable of discretion – they must be capable, indeed, to have tucked away the secrets implicit in Lily's baleful eyes and Captain Harcourt's abashed introduction.
He sits with Temeraire at the end of the day for hours, tired, and they watch the activity of the covert and discuss their new lot. The pair attract many glances and even more outright stares.
In the next clearing, a man named Berkley laughs in a booming voice and chides his dragon for laziness; the dragon teases him back. “I am only following a good example.”
A Longwing somewhere is whispering to her captain. A Yellow Reaper tells his companion to dress more warmly, please, and not to forget his scarf.
So many dragons. And all so loud -
“I know,” Temeraire says sadly. His throat works painfully. “I understand.”
Mutely, Laurence reaches out to touch his side. They sit together as the sun burns down under the horizon and the cacophony dims enough that, at last, they don't have to pretend.
_______________________________
Initially Lieutenant Granby does not seem fond of Laurence. After their first action, and the man's subsequent apology for his behavior, he seems much warmer; still, it is a few weeks until he stops looking at the pair askance.
Finally he tells Laurence, “I thought you were like Rankin and poor old Levitas at first, you know.”
“I fear that many thought the same, and I cannot blame them for the confusion.” Indeed Laurence still reproaches himself for his brief, ill-thought relationship with the man. Normally he would never speak ill of a fellow officer, however...
“It is not just that you associated with him,” Granby says. “Oh, I can see very well that you adore Temeraire; but it takes close watching, you know. It would not be hard for someone to think otherwise.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It is just – well.” Granby looks a bit red about the neck, now, as though he is sorry to have even spoken. “It is not for me to interfere, of course, but... you do not speak kindly to him often, you know.”
Laurence is dismayed. “Do I not,” he says blankly.
“Of course,” says Granby hurriedly, “It is quite different,” but that is not why Laurence is worried at all.
“No, no, of course,” he says distantly; Granby is still watching him with concern. “ - I thank you; pray do not worry you have offended me.”
When he finds Temeraire the dragon is being washed by Emily Roland after his latest meal. “Oh, I do know Laurence, but we do we not do quite enough?” The dragon asks so plaintively that Emily looks between them with confusion.
“No non-sequitors, dear,” says Laurence, which is, he knows, a bit of a non-sequitor itself. The reminder only makes Temeraire huff and mumble, but at least that is something. “Shall I fetch a book?”
“Oh, very well; I suppose there is some good from this nonsense,” and indeed this thought cheers the dragon greatly.
So Laurence reads to Temeraire from a rather exhausting text on Geography today (Temeraire, for his part, does not find it in the least exhausting, although he does consider some of the proposed ideas about the composition of the middle of the earth highly dubious) and when nearly all of their crew have wandered from the clearing the dragon asks very suddenly, “Laurence, surely other dragons get very lonely?”
“I suppose no one knows any different, my dear, just as you know nothing but what you do now.” Laurence pauses a moment at this idea. “Temeraire, if I should die - “
“Oh, but you will not,” Temeraire says.
“If I should - “
“Do not suggest it; not even for an instant, Laurence.” Temeraire curls up around him and shakes his head. “Pray read some more; I am certain that last section was entirely wrong, but maybe it is explained more satisfactorily afterward.”
But Temeraire cannot dismiss his concerns so easily; weeks later, after the visit of the Royalist-traitor Choiseul and the man's subsequent execution, Praecursoris' cries resound throughout the covert. Temeraire insists on having Laurence stay in his clearing that night.
“It would seem very like having nothing at all,” Temeraire says aloud, but indeed Laurence imagines this with the dragon's own horrific clarity; empty plains, and starless skies, and black oceans that contain nothing and no one till the ends of the earth. “Laurence, I would go mad; entirely mad; the other dragons tell me humans live so very briefly but that cannot be true. It is entirely unfair.”
“You will survive,” Laurence says. It is no comfort. The words strike flat, hollow, resounding off a steel surface of horror that has not dissipated since Captain Choiseul's death. “Others have.”
“They are not like us,” Temeraire says. “No one is. Perhaps no one ever has been.”
And to that, Laurence has no comfort to give.
Levitas dies and Rankin almost does not notice.
Would not, except that Laurence drags him to the little Winchester by the collar; would not, except that Laurence trembles with rage over the sheer idea, the sheer temerity of the man. How do those same wounds not burn along his ribs, choking out his breath? Levitas is scored around the neck, his scales torn open with clotted ichor; doesn't Rankin feel the stranglehold of that wound swallowing his air away, stealing his life?
He doesn't. Laurence watches the incomprehension on his face as Levitas heaves his last, gasping breath. He turns away for more than one reason. His heart pounds with adrenaline, fury, horror. And inside his chest he hears, distinct and unmistakeable, the sound of two separate rhythms.
After the Battle of Dover everyone wants to know more about Temeraire's ability. “Does it hurt very much?” Lily asks, poking her head over the trees between their clearings. “It sounds as though the force of such a roar would burst your chest.”
“Oh, it does not; but I can understand why it took so long to be able to do it. Perhaps I had to learn to hold my breath first, and of course to talk properly; it does not always come naturally, these noises, but I am better at it now.”
Lily tilts her head.
Laurence hurriedly intervenes. “Pray remember not to speak of it,” he says, and then stops, because he did not mean to say that. He did not mean to say that at all.
“I do not see why I must only discuss it quietly if you will not,” Temeraire reproaches.
Lily looks between them with great interest. “Whatever do you mean?”
Temeraire opens his mouth. “Nothing,” Laurence says. “ - I beg your pardon, Lily; nothing at all.”
But Temeraire twists his head defiantly. “Lily,” he says, “Can you not ask Harcourt a question for us? Right now?”
Laurence winces.
“Whatever do you mean?” Lily asks.
“If I asked you where she was – would you know?”
“I think she was going to have an early dinner and then have some card games with Captain Sutton and Captain Warren – but I saw them just lately, so perhaps that has changed.”
Temeraire shifts. “You must know,” he insists.
“But she is not here, and she has not told me differently,” Lily says logically.
“Temeraire,” Laurence sighs.
The Celestial droops his head. “Oh – nevermind, then,” he says lowly. Lily blinks her great yellow eyes, still puzzled, but to her credit only settles herself back into her own clearing to give them a semblance of privacy.
“Does no one really – “ begins Temeraire, and then, too aware of the illusion of secrecy in the covert, promptly falls silent.
Laurence puts a hand on his side. Together they sit until the sun has slid away and only Temeraire's eyes, shining and brightly blue, lend light to the gravity of the darkness.
The Chinese hate Laurence and he does not know why.
He can credit much of their rationale, of course. Certainly he is no Emperor; he is no man of their nation, either, though presumably if that were a concern they would have never sent Temeraire's egg to Bonaparte in the first place. Here on the decks of Riley's Allegiance there is little chance to conceal grudges, however, and in any case the foreign diplomats do not care to be discreet in the slightest. Prince Yongxing is open in his hostility, and most of his delegation are quick to follow this example.
He tries to teach Temeraire Chinese – and is even moderately successful at it – in an obvious attempt to both interest Temeraire in China and pull him away from England by preparing him for a different life. It rankles Laurence every time the prince, eyeing Laurence with condescension, talks to Temeraire like Laurence cannot hear them - “You will hear our poets at Peking and they will recite for you all night - “ “You will see, Xiang, how there is freedom for the dragons in China - “ “Xiang, would you not like a bigger ship? A more appropriate home? In China...”
In China, in China, in China.
Laurence is sitting with Temeraire a few weeks into their voyage when Granby, his face red with the heat, stomps over and collapses onto the deck under the shade of the dragon's bulk. “That prince gives me shivers,” he complains. “Oh, I did not mind so much the first day or too, but why does he just stare at Temeraire like a piece of meat? They mean something bad, mark my words.”
Laurence frowns. But when he turns Granby has his eyes closed, his head tilted up toward the sun, so Laurence just sits back and listens to the slow lap of waves against the even motion of the ship.
There is a Celestial in the Forbidden Palace, and Temeraire, quivering, says, “Laurence, this is my mother.”
Lung Tien Qian is black-gray, her wings and jowls turned sooty with age. But her eyes, bright as polished sapphires, gleam with a familiar curiosity that seems to be a family trait. Laurence walks forward to stand at Temeraire's side, ignoring Hammond's frantic reminders to bow, ignoring the irate guards nearby who are appalled at his Western decorum. Here, at last, is something familiar – something that will provide an answer. He can feel that answer in his bones.
Then Qian lowers her great head to stare at him. A gleam of satisfaction appears in her eyes.
Quietly, she says, Hello.
The Chinese apologize profusely for their misunderstanding; the British party is left agape at the sudden change. Laurence alone understands, of course; he understands everything now.
Prince Yongxing vanishes and is not seen by them again. Prince Mianning is the one who comes forward, accompanied now by his own dragon Chuan.
Chuan looks exactly, exactly like Temeraire; even their voices, layered and soft, reverberate with similar echoes.
The two dragons sit and stare at each other. Prince Mianning and Laurence sit down next to them, perfectly silent, and do the same.
“...Captain,” says Hammond after awhile. Nearby, an Imperial guard gives him such an affronted look that he snaps his mouth shut.
Laurence frowns. Shakes his head minutely. Temeraire turns to eye him hopefully; Mianning watches Laurence more intently. Chuan nods rapidly several times. A long pause. Laurence sighs, then stands and moves to stand near Chuan. The foreign dragon nudges him cheerfully and twitches his wings while Temeraire watches with every sign of pleasure.
Mianning rises fluidly and looks at Hammond. “We shall have the official adoption ceremony tomorrow and discuss terms of a treaty thereafter,” he says, and then leaves.
“I,” Hammond fumbles, staring, then turns helplessly to Laurence.
“This is an excellent place,” Temeraire tells Hammond earnestly.
Hammond is not inclined to question the adoption or the treaty once there has been a little further elaboration, so just a few days later Laurence walks with Prince Mianning in the palace now as a brother, and the title does not feel as strange, perhaps, as it should.
“Of course it must remain a secret,” Mianning says, and Laurence hears under the words: This Is Important. This is something worth saying aloud, with voices thick and solid in the air between them. “Your Western men would not understand; you know this, I think.” He pauses and Laurence realizes he is waiting for verbal confirmation.
“Yes,” he says, awkwardly.
Mianning has expected the answer. “Lung Tien are special. They are with the Imperial Family, always. They are our family. And they give us our strength and wisdom to rule.”
“We give them something, too,” Laurence says automatically.
“Yes. If you did not you would not be in the Palace still.” Mianning's gesture is casually menacing. “ - I welcome you, Brother.”
“I don't understand any of this,” Granby says warily. “Laurence. What's changed? What - “
Temeraire looks down at Laurence. His tails flicks, once.
“Nothing at all,” Laurence answers. “The Chinese merely misunderstood some things at first – they thought I had nothing to offer Temeraire - Pray do not give it another thought, Lieutenant.”
“Save your thoughts for your own dragon – for,” Temeraire adds earnestly, turning to Laurence, “I am sure she will hear Granby... I do not know why our friends insists they cannot hear their own captains, but I am certain that she - “
“She?” Laurence asks. Granby stares between them. “My dear, do you have some idea- “
“Oh, Laurence, please do not ask – she will be entirely insufferable.”