[Fanfic] Against the Sky Ch. 3 - The Gravity of Choice (Part II)
Part II of Against the Sky: The Gravity of Choice, picking up directly from where the first part left off at the break.
““But Laurence,” Temeraire said, at once glad and baffled, “it was my fault, surely: it was my notion we should go to France in the first place. Only, I did not know that they should take your capital, and your rank; and I am sorry--”
“I am not,” Laurence said. “I should give more than that, and count it cheap, to preserve my conscience; I am ashamed to have submitted to despair so far as to ever have thought differently.”
Temeraire did not wish to argue in the least: Laurence sounded like himself again, if still drawn and perhaps unhappy, and that was worth anything; but privately he could not help a certain resentment that a conscience seemed to be so very expensive, and yet had no substantial form which one might admire, and display to one’s company.”
.o.O.o.
Laurence was expecting continued resistance once they landed, and was not disappointed, but after the terrifying instant when he thought the strange dragon might well kill them but instead was rebuked, the other man was strangely compliant - no, resigned, more like - so when the physicians rushed to take him from the aviator, careful of his injuries, he accepted their bracing hands with only minor grumbling. With a glance over his shoulder to be sure that Temeraire was all right, sure that he would be able to handle himself against the little feral, Laurence followed on the heels of the men guiding the injured man - is he an aviator? His coat, it’s green under all that blood… He wasn’t about to leave this strange man alone, without even knowing who he was.
One medic called for a doctor as the other two steered their patient to a room with an empty cot, the others all filled with other soldiers, some more wounded than others. Seeing this, the man stiffened in their grasp, but, undeterred, they manhandled him expertly over to the cot, one immediately stripping his coat, another going for supplies. Quick hands worked under the unsettling gaze of the stranger, and as they stripped him, Laurence noticed something odd as the medics removed the man’s clothing. There’s no rips or tears; no bullet holes or even a blade rip. Nothing. So where is all this blood coming from? His face paled as his answer was given with the loss of the undershirt and trousers, and even with all his experience at sea and then with the Aerial Corps, he could feel sick bile rising in his throat at the sight. Dear heavens…
The pale ivory of bone, unbroken but visible, peeked out from tremendous gashes that rent the man open from ribs to mid-thigh. A group of slashes on one side looked to have come dangerously close to severing his quadriceps and the main leg artery - instant death on the battlefield, where he would have bled out almost immediately. And those dragons that brought him in expected him to walk on that leg?! Inconceivable! Ignoring, of course, the fact that the stranger indeed managed to start walking before Temeraire had, with his usual unflappable disregard, barrelled into the situation; he shouldn’t be able to stand at all. It was obvious why his shoulder was as limp and useless as it was - not only was it dislocated, but whatever had rent his flesh - Laurence could not believe a man possible of this… this savagery - had utterly shredded everything that lay between bicep and neck. White splinters of collarbone lay amidst the rest of the oozing gore, starkly pale against the red background.
Laurence wasn’t quite sure how this man was still alive.
Apparently the medics were of Laurence’s opinion, though they hid it better. Clean water and bandages were laid out as they cleaned away blood, both dried and wet, and dirt, one of the three delicately handling a pair of tweezers and removing the larger bone slivers from the man’s shoulder. Throughout it all, Laurence saw with stunned amazement, the stranger remained under their ministrations with only a mild look of discomfort and pain. When he caught the aviator watching, he merely raised one bushy eyebrow, a corner of his lips twitching upwards with dark amusement. Footsteps approached from behind, and Laurence turned to see an older man, with salt-and-pepper hair and a small pair of spectacles perched upon his nose, and heard one of the men behind him say to the patient, “This is the surgeon; he will help you as best he can. We are going to give you liquor now, so you won’t--”
“That will not be necessary.” The command came from two directions, confusing Laurence for a moment. What…? The surgeon’s lips pulled into a thin smile - it was he and the stranger who had both spoken and Laurence saw the blond man motioning at the elder to continue with his good hand, despite the noise of protest from one of the younger physicians. The surgeon strode forward purposefully, retrieving the tweezers from the man who held them and waving the trio away. “One of you, stay. Be useful and start in on those pads and bandages.” They froze only for a moment, likely as confused as Laurence, before one nodded the others off and went to retrieve the gauze and wraps as instructed. The surgeon gave a low chuckle, deftly plucking splintered bone from meaty pulp. The patient rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to do this for me, Harper.”
The surgeon, Doctor Harper, just shook his head. “Call it a favour, for whatever you were doing to get yourself so bloody thrashed.” More shards of red-spattered ivory-white fell into the sterilized bowl. “And what are you doing here, at all? I thought it was your policy to avoid this place as much as possible. After all, it’s not often that you ever need the services of a man such as myself.”
A glower, though not as venomous as before, shot towards Laurence. “I was… forcibly redirected.”
Harper laughed outright at that, and followed the gaze over to where Laurence still stood. “And you brought him in then, eh? Probably snarling like a feral dragon and resisting all the way, I would bet. Brave of you to put up with him. Still, it was for the best you did.”
The stranger’s head snapped up. “How can you--!”
“And you would have liked to keep this mess in your shoulder, mm?” The tweezers waved a particularly long and needle-like sliver in front of the man’s nose.
Green eyes blazed as the patient snapped at the doctor. “Your skills and supplies could be put to better use elsewhere; it is not as if suffering and I are strangers--”
Harper interrupted yet again. “No, merely very old acquaintances with a long and unhealthy relationship. Now budge up, so Yates here can get these bandages in place.” The surgeon stepped back as the younger medic stepped in, done wrapping the long, unstitched gashes with gauze pads and linen bandages and now moving on to the shoulder, obviously quite unhappy about not giving any further treatment to a man who rightfully should have been on his deathbed. The elder man raised an eyebrow at the one on the cot. “Now, you’re getting moved to a private room and will sleep for a while. For you, rest should do more good than anything else I can offer. Oh, don’t give me that look.” He shook a finger at his recalcitrant patient. “And no visitors either. I don’t care if the king himself waltzes in - you’re not entertaining and certainly not leaving until I give my say-so.”
The blond man was about to retaliate when the medic took his arm, Doctor Harper on the other side with a careful hand, and together they marched him out. Laurence stared after them in bemusement, wondering if he should follow. If nothing else, he should remove himself from the sick-ward - the sight and stench of injured men was enough to unsettle many a soldier, and though Laurence kept his head better than most, he was not unaffected. A few steps out the door, though, and he was stopped by a hand on his arm. Turning, he questioned, “Yes...?”
It was the surgeon, Doctor Harper. “If I might beg a moment of your time, good sir?” Laurence nodded and the two stepped out, away from the injured and their attending physicians. The surgeon drew him over to a window - not particularly secluded, but at least there was a small gift of fresh air, a blessing in a crowded building such as this. Harper turned to him, expression unreadable. “I wanted to thank you for bringing him here... Captain?” Laurence nodded in affirmation. “As you undoubtedly heard, the stubborn man does his best to avoid hospices at all cost, but more often than not, he does not need them at all. You noted the state of his injuries?”
Laurence’s eyes narrowed. “It was impossible to miss. Sir, I served in the Navy before I was an aviator, and have seen men lose their lives to far less than what this man appears to regard as no more than a slight inconvenience - how is it possible? You know him, and he seemed familiar with you; can you explain why this is?”
“It is not my place to say.” Harper shook his head, the lenses of his glasses glinting with the movement. “However...” he gave Laurence a penetrating glance, grey eyes sharp and knowing, “he might be willing to tell you himself, considering the circumstances.”
The aviator quirked an eyebrow, entirely disbelieving. “Considering his hostility towards me, sir, and the fact that I did bring him here against his will, I doubt that he would be willing to tell me anything, much less the reason why he can survive a... a mauling such as what he suffered.”
Chuckling lowly, the doctor clapped a hand on Laurence’s shoulder. “You’d be surprised, Captain. You’re stubborn; if you really want to know the mystery behind the man, come back in, oh, three hours, and I’ll let you ask your questions of him. Until then, I’m sure a Corps lad like you has better things to be doing than getting in the way of my medical team, and I’m not letting anyone in to see Kirkland for that long at least.” A pointed look, and Laurence, assured of a chance to ask the questions that plagued him, took his leave, intent on getting back to Temeraire.
Kirkland. If nothing else, I now know this stranger’s name.
.o.O.o.
“...and then they just left! ‘The matter has been discussed to its fullest.’” Temeraire snorted indignantly, the tendrils on his muzzle waving in the breeze and the surface water of the pond where he had finally gotten his bath kicked up a few ripples that might more accurately be described as small waves. “I certainly was not finished, not in the least. It was all extremely rude, and I had even offered them tea beforehand.” Laurence stroked the dragon’s cheek back to the base of his ruff, trying to comfort him as the Celestial ranted about his two ‘visitors’.
“Well, I shall be going to talk to this ‘Kirkland’ fellow in a little while. Perhaps he will tell me about this Pyropus and Hriðhige, and why they acted as they did.” And why they think like they do - I have never even heard of dragons that actually have a sense of patriotism! Duty is understood by some, but mostly a dragon will follow their captain, nothing more.
“From what you said, their captain was just as rude.” Temeraire cocked his head to the side. “I wonder why he captains two dragons? Or perhaps one is just a feral that follows them around. Or perhaps they are like the dragons from Pen Y Fan and grew bored of the breeding grounds, though why the little one would be there is odd - he is much too young to be giving eggs to females. Perhaps there is some other reason.”
Laurence sighed and scratched Temeraire’s eye ridge as the dragon pondered. He was both anticipating and dreading going back to the hospital building to face the strange man. Temeraire was right; he had been quite unpleasant, but a man who by all rights should have been on his deathbed could be allowed a measure of irritability. Still, Laurence expected nothing less than brusqueness when he confronted the stranger.
.o.O.o.
“It’s good that you could make it.”
Laurence shrugged as Doctor Harper turned and motioned for the aviator to follow. “I do have questions, whether he is willing to answer them or not, and some of them I bring from Temeraire about the companions that brought him in.”
“Companions of his?” The physician gave Laurence an odd glance. “Would these companions have been army lads, perhaps a little younger than would normally enlist?”
Confused, the Captain responded, “No, not at all - he was accompanied by two dragons, a heavyweight and a young middleweight, of what breeds neither I nor my dragon could recognise. They carried him to the encampment, presumably straight from the battle, and would have left him on the far edge of camp near the furthest-sited dragons had Temeraire not intervened.”
“Ah, I see.” Laurence could not fathom the understanding that came over the surgeon’s expression. Did he know the dragons that appeared with the stranger? And why did he expect his patient to have been returned from the field by overly-young soldiers - army, at that, since Kirkland had been wearing a bottle-green Aerial Corps coat. All to be answered soon, Lord willing.
Doctor Harper turned and stopped before a heavy door on the second floor of the building. Raising his hand to knock, he first turned to Laurence. “Sir Kirkland has been awake for half an hour at most, but I am not sure of how much his disposition may have improved. He is generally agreeable enough, though somewhat abrasive and prone to fits of cold temper. I would suggest, Captain, to be diplomatic in your phrasing.”
Laurence’s eyebrows shot upwards in shock before he managed to rein his expression under control. Sir Kirkland? A member of the Chivalry? The more I learn about this man... But Harper made no further comment and rapped his knuckles upon the door before opening it, the wood swinging inwards with a miserable creaking noise. The mysterious stranger, Kirkland - Sir Kirkland, as it were - regarded them from where he sat on the bed, sheets pulled up to his hips. “I was wondering when you were going to arrive, Harper. I must thank you for leaving the window open - it would have been a sight stuffier in this little room otherwise.” His gaze shifted over to the aviator, and Laurence felt the hairs at his nape prickle. There is something very strange about you. “Captain William Laurence. A surprise, to be certain, though not one wholly unexpected.” A nod to the surgeon. “A moment, if you would, Harper.”
He had given a slight start at the use of his full name and the man’s knowledge of it, but recovered as the doctor spoke. “Ever at your service, sir. I’ll leave you to your privacy.” Harper nodded to Laurence on his way out, the door shutting with a sound much like its previous protest. Turning, he appraised the other man. He didn’t look all that threatening, despite his harsh manner earlier and the odd thrill up the aviator’s spine upon meeting his eyes. Just another man, on bed rest for being injured in war - except that wounds like his were not the type to be recovered from.
At a nod of invitation, Laurence approached the bedside, unsure of where to begin. The patient sighed. “You have no doubt already heard my name from Doctor Harper, the illustrious attending physician of this place, but allow me to introduce myself, as previous circumstances had not permitted me to do so. Arthur Kirkland.” A nod, fairly courteous, but as equally rough as graceful. You do not mention your title, or rank; why?
Laurence returned it. “Captain William Laurence, of the Aerial Corps.” A pause, loaded and trembling in the silence. “Though you already knew that, did you not, sir?”
One of the bushy eyebrows rose. “Indeed - though not just for your more recent... accomplishments-” With effort, Laurence kept his expression still and calm at the mention of his treason, for though the other’s face was nigh-unreadable, there could be no doubt of what he spoke. “-of which I will keep my opinion to myself, as I am quite divided on the matter, so do not worry that I would condemn you. I know that you have served England, and Britain as a whole, in service with both the Navy and the Corps. An unusual combination, to be certain, though not unique. Your dragon, though, certainly is.”
“Aye, that he is, though for as different as he is amongst the dragons I have known, I have never seen or met the like of those you yourself arrived with. Their breed I can only guess at, but that is not what baffles me.” Laurence clasped his hands behind his back, his shoulders stiff, and asked that which had been disturbing him ever since he had heard it from Temeraire. “They are loyal to their country, not just their captains - you, I am assuming, though they were unharnessed when you arrived - and they understand the concept of duty, even have quite the sense of it themselves apparently, when many only know an attachment to their keepers and value only their possessions, be it people, trinkets, or capital. You must understand my surprise when I returned to Temeraire and heard of this.”
A corner of Kirkland’s mouth quirked upward with humour. “And here I thought you had come to ask about me.” A low chuckle, but then his face slipped back into its firm set, eyes hard, and Laurence hoped that the civility he was currently being shown would not devolve back into the unpleasant rudeness of their first encounter. “No matter. You asked about Hriðhige and Pyropus. As to their breeds, I can answer that easily - they’re mongrels, of no certain type more than another. Hriðhige is from the North American colonies, though holds some traits of European dragons, and Pyropus... well. Though heavily British-influenced, he is from Australia, and though no dragons have been found there, something in his breeding gave him the spines you saw.”
“And their values? Though I have tried to instil in Temeraire a sense of moral obligation and he certainly may feel driven to protect fellow creatures, the only connection to this, my country, our country, that he feels is not to the nation itself, but to me, because I love it so - did I not insist that we return to England, he would have been perfectly happy to stay in China. Perhaps it is because he is a Chinese dragon, but I have not known any other transplants to feel the difference. Temeraire, though...” Shaking his head, Laurence continued with a heavy heart. “It does not matter as much now, certainly, since he may very well not remain in Britain once my sentence is carried out, but even so, I would like to think that someday he may come to regard this nation with some measure of fondness, even if he does not stay.” Looking up, he met Kirkland’s gaze, and his breath caught in his throat. Cold, opaque green had become startlingly fiery, and the intensity with which the other man held him in regard reminded him of nothing so much as a dragon’s close scrutiny, weighing him, judging.
“And you would try so hard to give the beast values you hold so dear... why?” Eyes narrowed and brow furrowed, the injured man turned toward him, legs over the edge of the hospital bed, resting his elbows on his thighs and lacing his fingers together, all the while keeping his attention fixated on the aviator.
Cold anger rose in Laurence, at the offhand dismissal of dragons as ‘beasts’ from someone who was supposed to be an aviator of all people - perhaps he is another of Rankin’s ilk - and the continued disrespect and mistrust of him and Temeraire both - though fully justified - had worn thin his nerves. “Because the dragons are as much people of Britain as you or I! Not human but British people nonetheless,” he snapped. “And with how intelligent they are, they should be respected as people, but until such time as they are able to make a place for themselves and society as a whole accepts them, they should still be able to take pride in themselves and their country, and know that through their lives and deeds they may make their nation safe, and proud. Why should they not take pride in where they come from, in their people, their accomplishments? Britain may not be China, but I’ll be damned if I call myself anything but an Englishman - was it too much for me to hope that Temeraire could someday share that pride?”
The expression on the man’s face changed, the corners of his thin mouth curling up, baring a glint of teeth - I cannot say if that looks more threatening or amused - and the deep rumble of his laugh sounded more draconic than human, much like he had seemed back at the clearing near Temeraire’s, and Laurence thought for a moment that he could see a black shadow darken Kirkland’s exposed skin. “Your staunch defence of your companion and his kind are admirable, but your character shines through other words. ‘Damned if you’d call yourself anything but an Englishman’? My my, Captain Laurence; for a man convicted of treason, you certainly are patriotic.” He looked up, eyes locking with the aviator’s, and nothing in Laurence’s power could have broken that link. “Your country is lucky to call you its own.”
Something unidentifiable flashed, snapped, near-tangible power crackling through the room like the ozone of an oncoming storm. A vision - a memory swept through Laurence’s mind, as real as if he was experiencing it again: himself as a young boy, just entering into the Navy’s service, walking down through the docks surrounded on all sides by ships-of-the-line, war-vessels, and the all-encompassing awe and wonder at the strength, power, and beauty of these, the ships, cornerstone of an Empire - and in but a moment the vision was gone but the feeling remained, yet somehow older, more weary, but no less potent, centred entirely on Arthur Kirkland, and Laurence could feel whispered words coming from him, even though he had not consciously given them voice.
“What are you?”
Kirkland’s gaze bored into his own, and Laurence felt the world drop away from under his feet.
All anger having fled him, he stood in shock, staring. The aviator’s mouth went dry - drier than any stretch of desert he, Temeraire, and the crew had crossed on their way back from China; the moisture all but fled him and his tongue felt stiff, unable to speak as he stared at the man in front of him. Sir Arthur Kirkland. Arthur. The light filtering in through the infirmary window threw a light relief on the bandages wrapped liberally about his sturdy frame, covering the recent injuries - though probably not his worst, as amazing as that thought may seem, Laurence surmised, having seen before the vast scarring strewn across the other man’s body, some that by all means looked to have been fatal.
“Are you the king of legend, sir, come back from Avalon to aid Britain in our darkest hour?”
Arthur (King?) chuckled with a wry, lopsided twist to his lips, gazing down at his hands, folded in his lap. Laurence could see the skin of his palms and a detached part of his mind recognised the old calluses that could only have come from long, hard years on a ship at sea. Still looking down at his hands, the man replied simply “And if I was?”
Laurence swallowed through the dryness. “I am not a superstitious man, but there is something about you that I simply cannot grasp. King Arthur you may be, but I have a feeling that there is more to this situation than the possibility of old legends manifesting in reality.”
“It is good for you then that I am not King Arthur, but merely share the name. Beyond that…” His hands spread as if in supplication, gaze now raised to meet Laurence’s own, “what is it about me that you cannot understand? What is it you see, William Laurence, that leaves you so unnerved?”
Words sprung unbidden to the aviator’s tongue, nearly escaping before he could call them back as he gazed down at this man who was somehow more than a man. In your eyes I can see the hills around Wollaton Hall, the mountains surrounding Loch Laggan. Your blood is your people’s; its pathways, rivers. In your right arm I see the law, in your left the church. In your hands are the army, the navy, the corps, all the land’s labourers. Your bones are mountains and architecture, from the lowliest pebble and pig farm to the grandest cathedrals and snowy peaks. Your skin is history’s parchment, marked with every deed true and foul - the passage of time beyond the scope of mere mortals.
“I…” he faltered, eyes wide, nearly poleaxed by the revelation, the sudden understanding of what exactly this... creature... was. “…you - you are Britain.”
Blond hair shifted as the impossibility before him tilted its head - was it the Anglo-Saxons that made you so, or were you always meant to be crowned in gold? “An interesting theory, to say the least.” Bandages and scars moved as muscle tensed and released. “Though how would one go about being an entire country? It seems quite unlikely that such a thing would be possible.”
Laurence’s brow furrowed. “Impossible though it may be, I feel no need to change my conclusion, sir. It is not, perhaps, a rational conclusion, but though I like to think myself a man of reason, this falls more towards the realm of faith. I choose to believe in what you are, in what all of my soul is telling me.”
A tight smile, challenging. “And here I thought that a man such as yourself would demand evidence, rather than functioning on faith alone for such a claim.”
“I believe in the truth of God, for which there is no proof.” Laurence felt his resolve rising with each passing moment. “How is this much different, that my beloved country could stand before me in the shape of a man?”
“Because there is proof to be had, for my kind. A Nation is not a god, and so may fall prey to mortal ill and injury - just not succumb to it.”
Arthur’s hand rose to his chest, and Laurence started forward, afraid that some injury had reopened. However, the other man waved him away, beginning to unwrap the bandaging from around his body. The captain’s eyes widened as linen strips fell away to reveal healthy skin, save for some small cuts that remained constantly seeping - nowhere was there evidence of the deep gashes and punctures that Laurence had seen before, save for his shoulder, which now appeared only slightly mangled.
Arthur (Britain) affixed the bandages back to his still-open wounds with a smooth, practiced efficiency. “Despite his invasion, the Corsican has not done much harm to the land and cities.” He glanced up at Laurence. “Such are the wounds that remain. They will close within a few months, possibly a year or so.”
Wounds to the mortal body - gone and healed quickly. Wounds upon the land… Laurence looked him over again, seeing the scarring that littered his frame and refrained from asking further. “You were bleeding quite heavily when we brought you in to the doctors. Why did you not come here at first?”
“Invasion, occupation, war - these take a toll on the body, as does simple exhaustion. Had France not taken as much control as he did, they would have closed sooner. Normally, even terrible wounds can heal in a span of ten minutes to almost immediately.” He finished securing the last of the off-white wraps. “Though I was not lying about wasting medical supplies on me, I will admit that it was not foremost in my reasoning. Appearances must be kept and I cannot afford to reveal myself to the general populace. You must admit, two captain-less dragons with a single injured man would have caused quite the stir in the middle of camp, much less an injured man that should by all accounts be dead from severe mauling and blood loss.” A baleful stare fixed itself upon Laurence. “Not that such a scene was avoided anyway...”
The aviator winced. “I-I apologise, sir. I can only hope to claim ignora...”
“Oh, do hush. Had I been human, your actions would possibly have saved my life. As it stands, I must deal with a minor inconvenience, and some irritating rumours - nothing that hasn’t happened before.” He waved Laurence away and stood from the bed to slip into a clean, folded undershirt and waistcoat, fiddling with the plain silver buttons. A beryl glance flicked to the doorway. “And tell the boys to come in. They have been waiting quite a while.”
The aviator blinked, surprised, and moved to open the door. As soon as it creaked inward, a mass of brown barrelled in through the entry. The captain caught a glimpse of dark, wild hair over eyebrows as thick as Britain’s own before he was shoved aside by an adolescent boy who could hardly have been older than twelve or thirteen.
“Father!”
Laurence gaped.
In a flurry of gangly limbs, the boy had thrown himself into Arthur's arms, chattering loudly. "They said you'd be all right, an' o' course ya are, but they said you needed rest an’ quiet an' they wouldn' let us in! Ah told 'em that you'd want us 'ere with you and they said that is wasn' th' place of a lad like meself to be goin' aroun' expectin' 'em to let me all ‘round wherever I pleased an' ooooh but if'n I could only get my 'ands on one o' them..." He seemed to suddenly remember Laurence standing over near the doorway, and spun to face the aviator, who almost recoiled at the scowl on the lad’s face. His eyes were narrowed and the impressive brows furrowed; he pointed at Laurence with an accusing finger, damning as the spearhead of Areadbhar. "An' you! Bloody tosser, This’s all your fault, an' your dragon's, snatchin' 'im up and away from us like that..."
"Cody," the sharp reprimand came, "manners, boy. Mind your tongue. Do I need to sit you down for lessons again?"
Chastised, the boy relented. "Sorry, Father."
Arthur turned to Laurence, who was highly confused, first at the boy’s manner of address for his country, and then for the words he spoke. Snatching him up and away from us? Before he could ask the new questions that tripped to the fore of his tongue, Arthur nodded to him - no, beside him, to where another boy stood, though this one was closer to being a young man.
Light-skinned and blond-haired where the other was tanned and brown-haired, he appeared to be in his mid-teens and was an inch or two taller than Laurence himself, and by extension Britain. He was dressed as a simple army man - sans hat - but had a blue naval coat, decorated much like a serving-admiral’s, draped over his arm. Laurence was startled to see the boy there, as he had neither heard nor seen his approach, had not even known that another stood beside him. There was something odd about him, as there was with the first, but Laurence could not place it.
“Matthew.” Arthur’s voice was aloof, but with a hint of warmth that bespoke of tender regard.
“Arthur--” the young one’s voice did not keep the same stoic reservation, and held the same respect and familial love that the other boy’s did when he cried Father, “--are you well mended? The physicians would not tell us much, and even then...” Blue-violet eyes flicked sideways to Laurence, who was struck for a moment with déjà vu, wondering where he had seen them before. Arthur’s lips pulled into a thin line that quirked upward at the edges knowingly.
“It seems I have the opportunity to answer two unasked questions at once. Yes, Captain, these are my sons - no flesh of mine but my sons nonetheless.” He clapped a hand down upon the shoulder of the younger lad. “Australia.” A fond nod to the boy beside Laurence. “Canada.”
And suddenly Laurence knew what that odd feeling was that he was receiving from the two. The atmosphere in the room changed instantly. A tension that Laurence had not noticed drained from Matthew’s - Canada’s - shoulders, and he wondered how major an issue it was for these beings to tell mere mortals like himself what they actually were. Did they tell their kings, their leaders? Apparently they fought in battles and wars - so, did they tell their generals? How difficult must it be for them to put on a human façade around all the people that they met, only to express themselves freely in the private company of their own kind? Australia - dear Lord, I have incurred the wrath of the manifestation of an entire colony - still stared at him and fumed though, shifting from foot to foot like he wanted nothing more than to leap at Laurence and strangle him for stealing away his master - his father.
“Well, Captain Laurence.” Canada said coolly. “It seems you are a privileged man...”
But Britain shook his head. “A perceptive one, Canada. It has been known to happen,” he spared Laurence a critical glance, “though not often. True to your country beyond what many shall ever be, you are. Even so, not all would put the proper name to what they felt.” Looking at the lone mortal in the room with a glimmer of new understanding, Canada nodded deferentially. Britain nudged Australia, who moved begrudgingly to the side, and reached for the naval coat that Canada offered to him.
Even before he put on the coat his demeanour returned to the man that the aviator had first seen in the clearing, wounded but holding himself straight and prideful. The Nation’s face hardened and gone was the paternal regard with which he beheld his Colony-sons, even Laurence himself to a degree - for we are all children of our nation, are we not? - and the coat snapped shut with the ease of long practice. It was an arrogant, regal gaze that swept over them all, his posture its equal. Those eyes landed on Laurence once more, and again he felt that sense of overwhelming presence, his mind overcome with memories and sensations of every bit of his country that he had ever known, from southern beaches to northern reaches. A brief thought of the calluses that he had seen on Britain’s palms flashed through in but a moment - even at sea, you ever have been with me - and was gone.
“I do believe I shall be seeing you again, Captain William Laurence,” his Nation said as he swept past. “Though if I do not, make me proud, will you?” And then he was gone. In a second, the colonies of Canada and Australia followed, leaving a stunned Laurence in their wake.
.o.O.o. “Laurence, I will do you credit; I have never in my life met any man more desirable to hang, and less convenient.” - Wellesley/Wellington, Victory of Eagles
.o.O.o.
End Notes:
Doctor Harper came out of nowhere. I don’t know a whole lot about him other than that he knows about the Nations - Britain and some of the colonies at least - because sometime in his stint as a field medic, back when he was just a young’un, he was scurrying about, doing his job, trying to keep men alive, when suddenly he’s got Arthur with bullet wounds and the man is healing right before his eyes. And then he was stubborn enough to find Britain and keep pestering him until he got the truth.
They did not have anaesthetics during the Napoléonic Wars. They barely had what we would recognise as surgery during said time period - mostly it was still cauterization and amputation. I almost made a blunder and assumed there was anaesthesia, then the random thought that I should probably look that up hit me, and I’m glad it did. Instead I figured they’d just give a man a healthy swig of something with a high alcohol content to dull the pain and used that instead. Safe bet, I think.
On names - Laurence notes in His Majesty’s Dragon that most of the British Aerial Corps dragons have Latin names like Maximus, Volatilus, Celeritas, Excidium, and Caesar, to name but a few. There are a few exceptions, like Lily (I’m not going into Iskierka right now; she’s in a class of her own in just about everything anyway), but not often. So, for Australia and Canada, I’m giving them Latin and Old English names, respectively. ‘Pyropus’ is Latin for ‘bronze’, referring to Australia’s colouring; ‘Hriðhige’ is bastardized, internet-researched Old English for ‘snow-heart’ - if anyone knows anything better on the subject, please forgive and correct me.
Areadbhar is a living, poisoned spear from Irish mythology, and did not need to be physically wielded to wound - it was naturally bloodthirsty and the spearhead was generally tipped in some sort of sleeping potion to keep it from going on a rampage.
““But Laurence,” Temeraire said, at once glad and baffled, “it was my fault, surely: it was my notion we should go to France in the first place. Only, I did not know that they should take your capital, and your rank; and I am sorry--”
“I am not,” Laurence said. “I should give more than that, and count it cheap, to preserve my conscience; I am ashamed to have submitted to despair so far as to ever have thought differently.”
Temeraire did not wish to argue in the least: Laurence sounded like himself again, if still drawn and perhaps unhappy, and that was worth anything; but privately he could not help a certain resentment that a conscience seemed to be so very expensive, and yet had no substantial form which one might admire, and display to one’s company.”
.o.O.o.
Laurence was expecting continued resistance once they landed, and was not disappointed, but after the terrifying instant when he thought the strange dragon might well kill them but instead was rebuked, the other man was strangely compliant - no, resigned, more like - so when the physicians rushed to take him from the aviator, careful of his injuries, he accepted their bracing hands with only minor grumbling. With a glance over his shoulder to be sure that Temeraire was all right, sure that he would be able to handle himself against the little feral, Laurence followed on the heels of the men guiding the injured man - is he an aviator? His coat, it’s green under all that blood… He wasn’t about to leave this strange man alone, without even knowing who he was.
One medic called for a doctor as the other two steered their patient to a room with an empty cot, the others all filled with other soldiers, some more wounded than others. Seeing this, the man stiffened in their grasp, but, undeterred, they manhandled him expertly over to the cot, one immediately stripping his coat, another going for supplies. Quick hands worked under the unsettling gaze of the stranger, and as they stripped him, Laurence noticed something odd as the medics removed the man’s clothing. There’s no rips or tears; no bullet holes or even a blade rip. Nothing. So where is all this blood coming from? His face paled as his answer was given with the loss of the undershirt and trousers, and even with all his experience at sea and then with the Aerial Corps, he could feel sick bile rising in his throat at the sight. Dear heavens…
The pale ivory of bone, unbroken but visible, peeked out from tremendous gashes that rent the man open from ribs to mid-thigh. A group of slashes on one side looked to have come dangerously close to severing his quadriceps and the main leg artery - instant death on the battlefield, where he would have bled out almost immediately. And those dragons that brought him in expected him to walk on that leg?! Inconceivable! Ignoring, of course, the fact that the stranger indeed managed to start walking before Temeraire had, with his usual unflappable disregard, barrelled into the situation; he shouldn’t be able to stand at all. It was obvious why his shoulder was as limp and useless as it was - not only was it dislocated, but whatever had rent his flesh - Laurence could not believe a man possible of this… this savagery - had utterly shredded everything that lay between bicep and neck. White splinters of collarbone lay amidst the rest of the oozing gore, starkly pale against the red background.
Laurence wasn’t quite sure how this man was still alive.
Apparently the medics were of Laurence’s opinion, though they hid it better. Clean water and bandages were laid out as they cleaned away blood, both dried and wet, and dirt, one of the three delicately handling a pair of tweezers and removing the larger bone slivers from the man’s shoulder. Throughout it all, Laurence saw with stunned amazement, the stranger remained under their ministrations with only a mild look of discomfort and pain. When he caught the aviator watching, he merely raised one bushy eyebrow, a corner of his lips twitching upwards with dark amusement. Footsteps approached from behind, and Laurence turned to see an older man, with salt-and-pepper hair and a small pair of spectacles perched upon his nose, and heard one of the men behind him say to the patient, “This is the surgeon; he will help you as best he can. We are going to give you liquor now, so you won’t--”
“That will not be necessary.” The command came from two directions, confusing Laurence for a moment. What…? The surgeon’s lips pulled into a thin smile - it was he and the stranger who had both spoken and Laurence saw the blond man motioning at the elder to continue with his good hand, despite the noise of protest from one of the younger physicians. The surgeon strode forward purposefully, retrieving the tweezers from the man who held them and waving the trio away. “One of you, stay. Be useful and start in on those pads and bandages.” They froze only for a moment, likely as confused as Laurence, before one nodded the others off and went to retrieve the gauze and wraps as instructed. The surgeon gave a low chuckle, deftly plucking splintered bone from meaty pulp. The patient rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to do this for me, Harper.”
The surgeon, Doctor Harper, just shook his head. “Call it a favour, for whatever you were doing to get yourself so bloody thrashed.” More shards of red-spattered ivory-white fell into the sterilized bowl. “And what are you doing here, at all? I thought it was your policy to avoid this place as much as possible. After all, it’s not often that you ever need the services of a man such as myself.”
A glower, though not as venomous as before, shot towards Laurence. “I was… forcibly redirected.”
Harper laughed outright at that, and followed the gaze over to where Laurence still stood. “And you brought him in then, eh? Probably snarling like a feral dragon and resisting all the way, I would bet. Brave of you to put up with him. Still, it was for the best you did.”
The stranger’s head snapped up. “How can you--!”
“And you would have liked to keep this mess in your shoulder, mm?” The tweezers waved a particularly long and needle-like sliver in front of the man’s nose.
Green eyes blazed as the patient snapped at the doctor. “Your skills and supplies could be put to better use elsewhere; it is not as if suffering and I are strangers--”
Harper interrupted yet again. “No, merely very old acquaintances with a long and unhealthy relationship. Now budge up, so Yates here can get these bandages in place.” The surgeon stepped back as the younger medic stepped in, done wrapping the long, unstitched gashes with gauze pads and linen bandages and now moving on to the shoulder, obviously quite unhappy about not giving any further treatment to a man who rightfully should have been on his deathbed. The elder man raised an eyebrow at the one on the cot. “Now, you’re getting moved to a private room and will sleep for a while. For you, rest should do more good than anything else I can offer. Oh, don’t give me that look.” He shook a finger at his recalcitrant patient. “And no visitors either. I don’t care if the king himself waltzes in - you’re not entertaining and certainly not leaving until I give my say-so.”
The blond man was about to retaliate when the medic took his arm, Doctor Harper on the other side with a careful hand, and together they marched him out. Laurence stared after them in bemusement, wondering if he should follow. If nothing else, he should remove himself from the sick-ward - the sight and stench of injured men was enough to unsettle many a soldier, and though Laurence kept his head better than most, he was not unaffected. A few steps out the door, though, and he was stopped by a hand on his arm. Turning, he questioned, “Yes...?”
It was the surgeon, Doctor Harper. “If I might beg a moment of your time, good sir?” Laurence nodded and the two stepped out, away from the injured and their attending physicians. The surgeon drew him over to a window - not particularly secluded, but at least there was a small gift of fresh air, a blessing in a crowded building such as this. Harper turned to him, expression unreadable. “I wanted to thank you for bringing him here... Captain?” Laurence nodded in affirmation. “As you undoubtedly heard, the stubborn man does his best to avoid hospices at all cost, but more often than not, he does not need them at all. You noted the state of his injuries?”
Laurence’s eyes narrowed. “It was impossible to miss. Sir, I served in the Navy before I was an aviator, and have seen men lose their lives to far less than what this man appears to regard as no more than a slight inconvenience - how is it possible? You know him, and he seemed familiar with you; can you explain why this is?”
“It is not my place to say.” Harper shook his head, the lenses of his glasses glinting with the movement. “However...” he gave Laurence a penetrating glance, grey eyes sharp and knowing, “he might be willing to tell you himself, considering the circumstances.”
The aviator quirked an eyebrow, entirely disbelieving. “Considering his hostility towards me, sir, and the fact that I did bring him here against his will, I doubt that he would be willing to tell me anything, much less the reason why he can survive a... a mauling such as what he suffered.”
Chuckling lowly, the doctor clapped a hand on Laurence’s shoulder. “You’d be surprised, Captain. You’re stubborn; if you really want to know the mystery behind the man, come back in, oh, three hours, and I’ll let you ask your questions of him. Until then, I’m sure a Corps lad like you has better things to be doing than getting in the way of my medical team, and I’m not letting anyone in to see Kirkland for that long at least.” A pointed look, and Laurence, assured of a chance to ask the questions that plagued him, took his leave, intent on getting back to Temeraire.
Kirkland. If nothing else, I now know this stranger’s name.
.o.O.o.
“...and then they just left! ‘The matter has been discussed to its fullest.’” Temeraire snorted indignantly, the tendrils on his muzzle waving in the breeze and the surface water of the pond where he had finally gotten his bath kicked up a few ripples that might more accurately be described as small waves. “I certainly was not finished, not in the least. It was all extremely rude, and I had even offered them tea beforehand.” Laurence stroked the dragon’s cheek back to the base of his ruff, trying to comfort him as the Celestial ranted about his two ‘visitors’.
“Well, I shall be going to talk to this ‘Kirkland’ fellow in a little while. Perhaps he will tell me about this Pyropus and Hriðhige, and why they acted as they did.” And why they think like they do - I have never even heard of dragons that actually have a sense of patriotism! Duty is understood by some, but mostly a dragon will follow their captain, nothing more.
“From what you said, their captain was just as rude.” Temeraire cocked his head to the side. “I wonder why he captains two dragons? Or perhaps one is just a feral that follows them around. Or perhaps they are like the dragons from Pen Y Fan and grew bored of the breeding grounds, though why the little one would be there is odd - he is much too young to be giving eggs to females. Perhaps there is some other reason.”
Laurence sighed and scratched Temeraire’s eye ridge as the dragon pondered. He was both anticipating and dreading going back to the hospital building to face the strange man. Temeraire was right; he had been quite unpleasant, but a man who by all rights should have been on his deathbed could be allowed a measure of irritability. Still, Laurence expected nothing less than brusqueness when he confronted the stranger.
.o.O.o.
“It’s good that you could make it.”
Laurence shrugged as Doctor Harper turned and motioned for the aviator to follow. “I do have questions, whether he is willing to answer them or not, and some of them I bring from Temeraire about the companions that brought him in.”
“Companions of his?” The physician gave Laurence an odd glance. “Would these companions have been army lads, perhaps a little younger than would normally enlist?”
Confused, the Captain responded, “No, not at all - he was accompanied by two dragons, a heavyweight and a young middleweight, of what breeds neither I nor my dragon could recognise. They carried him to the encampment, presumably straight from the battle, and would have left him on the far edge of camp near the furthest-sited dragons had Temeraire not intervened.”
“Ah, I see.” Laurence could not fathom the understanding that came over the surgeon’s expression. Did he know the dragons that appeared with the stranger? And why did he expect his patient to have been returned from the field by overly-young soldiers - army, at that, since Kirkland had been wearing a bottle-green Aerial Corps coat. All to be answered soon, Lord willing.
Doctor Harper turned and stopped before a heavy door on the second floor of the building. Raising his hand to knock, he first turned to Laurence. “Sir Kirkland has been awake for half an hour at most, but I am not sure of how much his disposition may have improved. He is generally agreeable enough, though somewhat abrasive and prone to fits of cold temper. I would suggest, Captain, to be diplomatic in your phrasing.”
Laurence’s eyebrows shot upwards in shock before he managed to rein his expression under control. Sir Kirkland? A member of the Chivalry? The more I learn about this man... But Harper made no further comment and rapped his knuckles upon the door before opening it, the wood swinging inwards with a miserable creaking noise. The mysterious stranger, Kirkland - Sir Kirkland, as it were - regarded them from where he sat on the bed, sheets pulled up to his hips. “I was wondering when you were going to arrive, Harper. I must thank you for leaving the window open - it would have been a sight stuffier in this little room otherwise.” His gaze shifted over to the aviator, and Laurence felt the hairs at his nape prickle. There is something very strange about you. “Captain William Laurence. A surprise, to be certain, though not one wholly unexpected.” A nod to the surgeon. “A moment, if you would, Harper.”
He had given a slight start at the use of his full name and the man’s knowledge of it, but recovered as the doctor spoke. “Ever at your service, sir. I’ll leave you to your privacy.” Harper nodded to Laurence on his way out, the door shutting with a sound much like its previous protest. Turning, he appraised the other man. He didn’t look all that threatening, despite his harsh manner earlier and the odd thrill up the aviator’s spine upon meeting his eyes. Just another man, on bed rest for being injured in war - except that wounds like his were not the type to be recovered from.
At a nod of invitation, Laurence approached the bedside, unsure of where to begin. The patient sighed. “You have no doubt already heard my name from Doctor Harper, the illustrious attending physician of this place, but allow me to introduce myself, as previous circumstances had not permitted me to do so. Arthur Kirkland.” A nod, fairly courteous, but as equally rough as graceful. You do not mention your title, or rank; why?
Laurence returned it. “Captain William Laurence, of the Aerial Corps.” A pause, loaded and trembling in the silence. “Though you already knew that, did you not, sir?”
One of the bushy eyebrows rose. “Indeed - though not just for your more recent... accomplishments-” With effort, Laurence kept his expression still and calm at the mention of his treason, for though the other’s face was nigh-unreadable, there could be no doubt of what he spoke. “-of which I will keep my opinion to myself, as I am quite divided on the matter, so do not worry that I would condemn you. I know that you have served England, and Britain as a whole, in service with both the Navy and the Corps. An unusual combination, to be certain, though not unique. Your dragon, though, certainly is.”
“Aye, that he is, though for as different as he is amongst the dragons I have known, I have never seen or met the like of those you yourself arrived with. Their breed I can only guess at, but that is not what baffles me.” Laurence clasped his hands behind his back, his shoulders stiff, and asked that which had been disturbing him ever since he had heard it from Temeraire. “They are loyal to their country, not just their captains - you, I am assuming, though they were unharnessed when you arrived - and they understand the concept of duty, even have quite the sense of it themselves apparently, when many only know an attachment to their keepers and value only their possessions, be it people, trinkets, or capital. You must understand my surprise when I returned to Temeraire and heard of this.”
A corner of Kirkland’s mouth quirked upward with humour. “And here I thought you had come to ask about me.” A low chuckle, but then his face slipped back into its firm set, eyes hard, and Laurence hoped that the civility he was currently being shown would not devolve back into the unpleasant rudeness of their first encounter. “No matter. You asked about Hriðhige and Pyropus. As to their breeds, I can answer that easily - they’re mongrels, of no certain type more than another. Hriðhige is from the North American colonies, though holds some traits of European dragons, and Pyropus... well. Though heavily British-influenced, he is from Australia, and though no dragons have been found there, something in his breeding gave him the spines you saw.”
“And their values? Though I have tried to instil in Temeraire a sense of moral obligation and he certainly may feel driven to protect fellow creatures, the only connection to this, my country, our country, that he feels is not to the nation itself, but to me, because I love it so - did I not insist that we return to England, he would have been perfectly happy to stay in China. Perhaps it is because he is a Chinese dragon, but I have not known any other transplants to feel the difference. Temeraire, though...” Shaking his head, Laurence continued with a heavy heart. “It does not matter as much now, certainly, since he may very well not remain in Britain once my sentence is carried out, but even so, I would like to think that someday he may come to regard this nation with some measure of fondness, even if he does not stay.” Looking up, he met Kirkland’s gaze, and his breath caught in his throat. Cold, opaque green had become startlingly fiery, and the intensity with which the other man held him in regard reminded him of nothing so much as a dragon’s close scrutiny, weighing him, judging.
“And you would try so hard to give the beast values you hold so dear... why?” Eyes narrowed and brow furrowed, the injured man turned toward him, legs over the edge of the hospital bed, resting his elbows on his thighs and lacing his fingers together, all the while keeping his attention fixated on the aviator.
Cold anger rose in Laurence, at the offhand dismissal of dragons as ‘beasts’ from someone who was supposed to be an aviator of all people - perhaps he is another of Rankin’s ilk - and the continued disrespect and mistrust of him and Temeraire both - though fully justified - had worn thin his nerves. “Because the dragons are as much people of Britain as you or I! Not human but British people nonetheless,” he snapped. “And with how intelligent they are, they should be respected as people, but until such time as they are able to make a place for themselves and society as a whole accepts them, they should still be able to take pride in themselves and their country, and know that through their lives and deeds they may make their nation safe, and proud. Why should they not take pride in where they come from, in their people, their accomplishments? Britain may not be China, but I’ll be damned if I call myself anything but an Englishman - was it too much for me to hope that Temeraire could someday share that pride?”
The expression on the man’s face changed, the corners of his thin mouth curling up, baring a glint of teeth - I cannot say if that looks more threatening or amused - and the deep rumble of his laugh sounded more draconic than human, much like he had seemed back at the clearing near Temeraire’s, and Laurence thought for a moment that he could see a black shadow darken Kirkland’s exposed skin. “Your staunch defence of your companion and his kind are admirable, but your character shines through other words. ‘Damned if you’d call yourself anything but an Englishman’? My my, Captain Laurence; for a man convicted of treason, you certainly are patriotic.” He looked up, eyes locking with the aviator’s, and nothing in Laurence’s power could have broken that link. “Your country is lucky to call you its own.”
Something unidentifiable flashed, snapped, near-tangible power crackling through the room like the ozone of an oncoming storm. A vision - a memory swept through Laurence’s mind, as real as if he was experiencing it again: himself as a young boy, just entering into the Navy’s service, walking down through the docks surrounded on all sides by ships-of-the-line, war-vessels, and the all-encompassing awe and wonder at the strength, power, and beauty of these, the ships, cornerstone of an Empire - and in but a moment the vision was gone but the feeling remained, yet somehow older, more weary, but no less potent, centred entirely on Arthur Kirkland, and Laurence could feel whispered words coming from him, even though he had not consciously given them voice.
“What are you?”
Kirkland’s gaze bored into his own, and Laurence felt the world drop away from under his feet.
All anger having fled him, he stood in shock, staring. The aviator’s mouth went dry - drier than any stretch of desert he, Temeraire, and the crew had crossed on their way back from China; the moisture all but fled him and his tongue felt stiff, unable to speak as he stared at the man in front of him. Sir Arthur Kirkland. Arthur. The light filtering in through the infirmary window threw a light relief on the bandages wrapped liberally about his sturdy frame, covering the recent injuries - though probably not his worst, as amazing as that thought may seem, Laurence surmised, having seen before the vast scarring strewn across the other man’s body, some that by all means looked to have been fatal.
“Are you the king of legend, sir, come back from Avalon to aid Britain in our darkest hour?”
Arthur (King?) chuckled with a wry, lopsided twist to his lips, gazing down at his hands, folded in his lap. Laurence could see the skin of his palms and a detached part of his mind recognised the old calluses that could only have come from long, hard years on a ship at sea. Still looking down at his hands, the man replied simply “And if I was?”
Laurence swallowed through the dryness. “I am not a superstitious man, but there is something about you that I simply cannot grasp. King Arthur you may be, but I have a feeling that there is more to this situation than the possibility of old legends manifesting in reality.”
“It is good for you then that I am not King Arthur, but merely share the name. Beyond that…” His hands spread as if in supplication, gaze now raised to meet Laurence’s own, “what is it about me that you cannot understand? What is it you see, William Laurence, that leaves you so unnerved?”
Words sprung unbidden to the aviator’s tongue, nearly escaping before he could call them back as he gazed down at this man who was somehow more than a man. In your eyes I can see the hills around Wollaton Hall, the mountains surrounding Loch Laggan. Your blood is your people’s; its pathways, rivers. In your right arm I see the law, in your left the church. In your hands are the army, the navy, the corps, all the land’s labourers. Your bones are mountains and architecture, from the lowliest pebble and pig farm to the grandest cathedrals and snowy peaks. Your skin is history’s parchment, marked with every deed true and foul - the passage of time beyond the scope of mere mortals.
“I…” he faltered, eyes wide, nearly poleaxed by the revelation, the sudden understanding of what exactly this... creature... was. “…you - you are Britain.”
Blond hair shifted as the impossibility before him tilted its head - was it the Anglo-Saxons that made you so, or were you always meant to be crowned in gold? “An interesting theory, to say the least.” Bandages and scars moved as muscle tensed and released. “Though how would one go about being an entire country? It seems quite unlikely that such a thing would be possible.”
Laurence’s brow furrowed. “Impossible though it may be, I feel no need to change my conclusion, sir. It is not, perhaps, a rational conclusion, but though I like to think myself a man of reason, this falls more towards the realm of faith. I choose to believe in what you are, in what all of my soul is telling me.”
A tight smile, challenging. “And here I thought that a man such as yourself would demand evidence, rather than functioning on faith alone for such a claim.”
“I believe in the truth of God, for which there is no proof.” Laurence felt his resolve rising with each passing moment. “How is this much different, that my beloved country could stand before me in the shape of a man?”
“Because there is proof to be had, for my kind. A Nation is not a god, and so may fall prey to mortal ill and injury - just not succumb to it.”
Arthur’s hand rose to his chest, and Laurence started forward, afraid that some injury had reopened. However, the other man waved him away, beginning to unwrap the bandaging from around his body. The captain’s eyes widened as linen strips fell away to reveal healthy skin, save for some small cuts that remained constantly seeping - nowhere was there evidence of the deep gashes and punctures that Laurence had seen before, save for his shoulder, which now appeared only slightly mangled.
Arthur (Britain) affixed the bandages back to his still-open wounds with a smooth, practiced efficiency. “Despite his invasion, the Corsican has not done much harm to the land and cities.” He glanced up at Laurence. “Such are the wounds that remain. They will close within a few months, possibly a year or so.”
Wounds to the mortal body - gone and healed quickly. Wounds upon the land… Laurence looked him over again, seeing the scarring that littered his frame and refrained from asking further. “You were bleeding quite heavily when we brought you in to the doctors. Why did you not come here at first?”
“Invasion, occupation, war - these take a toll on the body, as does simple exhaustion. Had France not taken as much control as he did, they would have closed sooner. Normally, even terrible wounds can heal in a span of ten minutes to almost immediately.” He finished securing the last of the off-white wraps. “Though I was not lying about wasting medical supplies on me, I will admit that it was not foremost in my reasoning. Appearances must be kept and I cannot afford to reveal myself to the general populace. You must admit, two captain-less dragons with a single injured man would have caused quite the stir in the middle of camp, much less an injured man that should by all accounts be dead from severe mauling and blood loss.” A baleful stare fixed itself upon Laurence. “Not that such a scene was avoided anyway...”
The aviator winced. “I-I apologise, sir. I can only hope to claim ignora...”
“Oh, do hush. Had I been human, your actions would possibly have saved my life. As it stands, I must deal with a minor inconvenience, and some irritating rumours - nothing that hasn’t happened before.” He waved Laurence away and stood from the bed to slip into a clean, folded undershirt and waistcoat, fiddling with the plain silver buttons. A beryl glance flicked to the doorway. “And tell the boys to come in. They have been waiting quite a while.”
The aviator blinked, surprised, and moved to open the door. As soon as it creaked inward, a mass of brown barrelled in through the entry. The captain caught a glimpse of dark, wild hair over eyebrows as thick as Britain’s own before he was shoved aside by an adolescent boy who could hardly have been older than twelve or thirteen.
“Father!”
Laurence gaped.
In a flurry of gangly limbs, the boy had thrown himself into Arthur's arms, chattering loudly. "They said you'd be all right, an' o' course ya are, but they said you needed rest an’ quiet an' they wouldn' let us in! Ah told 'em that you'd want us 'ere with you and they said that is wasn' th' place of a lad like meself to be goin' aroun' expectin' 'em to let me all ‘round wherever I pleased an' ooooh but if'n I could only get my 'ands on one o' them..." He seemed to suddenly remember Laurence standing over near the doorway, and spun to face the aviator, who almost recoiled at the scowl on the lad’s face. His eyes were narrowed and the impressive brows furrowed; he pointed at Laurence with an accusing finger, damning as the spearhead of Areadbhar. "An' you! Bloody tosser, This’s all your fault, an' your dragon's, snatchin' 'im up and away from us like that..."
"Cody," the sharp reprimand came, "manners, boy. Mind your tongue. Do I need to sit you down for lessons again?"
Chastised, the boy relented. "Sorry, Father."
Arthur turned to Laurence, who was highly confused, first at the boy’s manner of address for his country, and then for the words he spoke. Snatching him up and away from us? Before he could ask the new questions that tripped to the fore of his tongue, Arthur nodded to him - no, beside him, to where another boy stood, though this one was closer to being a young man.
Light-skinned and blond-haired where the other was tanned and brown-haired, he appeared to be in his mid-teens and was an inch or two taller than Laurence himself, and by extension Britain. He was dressed as a simple army man - sans hat - but had a blue naval coat, decorated much like a serving-admiral’s, draped over his arm. Laurence was startled to see the boy there, as he had neither heard nor seen his approach, had not even known that another stood beside him. There was something odd about him, as there was with the first, but Laurence could not place it.
“Matthew.” Arthur’s voice was aloof, but with a hint of warmth that bespoke of tender regard.
“Arthur--” the young one’s voice did not keep the same stoic reservation, and held the same respect and familial love that the other boy’s did when he cried Father, “--are you well mended? The physicians would not tell us much, and even then...” Blue-violet eyes flicked sideways to Laurence, who was struck for a moment with déjà vu, wondering where he had seen them before. Arthur’s lips pulled into a thin line that quirked upward at the edges knowingly.
“It seems I have the opportunity to answer two unasked questions at once. Yes, Captain, these are my sons - no flesh of mine but my sons nonetheless.” He clapped a hand down upon the shoulder of the younger lad. “Australia.” A fond nod to the boy beside Laurence. “Canada.”
And suddenly Laurence knew what that odd feeling was that he was receiving from the two. The atmosphere in the room changed instantly. A tension that Laurence had not noticed drained from Matthew’s - Canada’s - shoulders, and he wondered how major an issue it was for these beings to tell mere mortals like himself what they actually were. Did they tell their kings, their leaders? Apparently they fought in battles and wars - so, did they tell their generals? How difficult must it be for them to put on a human façade around all the people that they met, only to express themselves freely in the private company of their own kind? Australia - dear Lord, I have incurred the wrath of the manifestation of an entire colony - still stared at him and fumed though, shifting from foot to foot like he wanted nothing more than to leap at Laurence and strangle him for stealing away his master - his father.
“Well, Captain Laurence.” Canada said coolly. “It seems you are a privileged man...”
But Britain shook his head. “A perceptive one, Canada. It has been known to happen,” he spared Laurence a critical glance, “though not often. True to your country beyond what many shall ever be, you are. Even so, not all would put the proper name to what they felt.” Looking at the lone mortal in the room with a glimmer of new understanding, Canada nodded deferentially. Britain nudged Australia, who moved begrudgingly to the side, and reached for the naval coat that Canada offered to him.
Even before he put on the coat his demeanour returned to the man that the aviator had first seen in the clearing, wounded but holding himself straight and prideful. The Nation’s face hardened and gone was the paternal regard with which he beheld his Colony-sons, even Laurence himself to a degree - for we are all children of our nation, are we not? - and the coat snapped shut with the ease of long practice. It was an arrogant, regal gaze that swept over them all, his posture its equal. Those eyes landed on Laurence once more, and again he felt that sense of overwhelming presence, his mind overcome with memories and sensations of every bit of his country that he had ever known, from southern beaches to northern reaches. A brief thought of the calluses that he had seen on Britain’s palms flashed through in but a moment - even at sea, you ever have been with me - and was gone.
“I do believe I shall be seeing you again, Captain William Laurence,” his Nation said as he swept past. “Though if I do not, make me proud, will you?” And then he was gone. In a second, the colonies of Canada and Australia followed, leaving a stunned Laurence in their wake.
.o.O.o. “Laurence, I will do you credit; I have never in my life met any man more desirable to hang, and less convenient.” - Wellesley/Wellington, Victory of Eagles
.o.O.o.
End Notes:
Doctor Harper came out of nowhere. I don’t know a whole lot about him other than that he knows about the Nations - Britain and some of the colonies at least - because sometime in his stint as a field medic, back when he was just a young’un, he was scurrying about, doing his job, trying to keep men alive, when suddenly he’s got Arthur with bullet wounds and the man is healing right before his eyes. And then he was stubborn enough to find Britain and keep pestering him until he got the truth.
They did not have anaesthetics during the Napoléonic Wars. They barely had what we would recognise as surgery during said time period - mostly it was still cauterization and amputation. I almost made a blunder and assumed there was anaesthesia, then the random thought that I should probably look that up hit me, and I’m glad it did. Instead I figured they’d just give a man a healthy swig of something with a high alcohol content to dull the pain and used that instead. Safe bet, I think.
On names - Laurence notes in His Majesty’s Dragon that most of the British Aerial Corps dragons have Latin names like Maximus, Volatilus, Celeritas, Excidium, and Caesar, to name but a few. There are a few exceptions, like Lily (I’m not going into Iskierka right now; she’s in a class of her own in just about everything anyway), but not often. So, for Australia and Canada, I’m giving them Latin and Old English names, respectively. ‘Pyropus’ is Latin for ‘bronze’, referring to Australia’s colouring; ‘Hriðhige’ is bastardized, internet-researched Old English for ‘snow-heart’ - if anyone knows anything better on the subject, please forgive and correct me.
Areadbhar is a living, poisoned spear from Irish mythology, and did not need to be physically wielded to wound - it was naturally bloodthirsty and the spearhead was generally tipped in some sort of sleeping potion to keep it from going on a rampage.