tumblr drabbles + more drabbles (Assassin's Creed, Temeraire)
It Will Pass
Assassin's Creed
(PG, spoilers for AC: Brotherhood)
Desmond looks into the mirror and stares at it until he can imagine that it’s Altair who is looking back at him.
“It’s not your fault,” he says, but Altair’s haunted expression doesn’t shift. He leans in, laying his forehead against the cool glass, and says again and again, “It’s not your fault. It isn’t. Don’t blame yourself.”
He talks until his breath fogs up the mirror, but the last thing he sees is a small, sad smile, and maybe a tiny nod. It’s strange, to be comforting a person who is long dead, but Desmond can’t ignore the hurt he feels from Altair, the type of pain that won’t go away, even centuries after.
He wipes the mirror, wipes his eyes, and leaves the restroom to lay back down in the Animus.
Later, much later, after they make him go through Ezio’s hidden memories, Desmond finds himself talking to Ezio through the mirror too.
“Not your fault,” he says, even as Ezio stubbornly shakes his head. It takes a while, but the moment Desmond reaches out his hand, Ezio is reaching back, and he cries, quietly, into the cuffs of Desmond’s sleeves.
And maybe he should have expected this. This young and flighty thing when he looks at Lucy, like when Altair takes Adha’s hand in his, or when Ezio waits beneath Cristina’s window, throwing pebbles and whispering and laughing when he scrambles up to meet her. The feelings are similar; this odd, tentative spark of happiness where none should exist.
And it might take years before Desmond will stop waking up in the middle of the night, sick and tired of carrying the weight of three heartaches, when only one of them is his. He will get up from his bed, stumble into his bathroom and look into the mirror to see his own reflection. He’ll tell himself that it’s not his fault, and that he can’t blame himself forever-and if Altair and Ezio can get pass this, so can he.
Right now it hurts, but it’ll stop hurting, eventually. He’ll tell himself that it will be alright. It will, it will-
He never stops struggling, but he looks into her eyes and thinks, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Adha. Cristina. Lucy-“ and plunges the blade into her.
Telling
Temeraire
(PG, spoilers for Empire of Ivory)
Prompt: Jane receives news about Emily's pregnancy.
Emily came in just as Jane was about to send for her.
“Just the person I wanted to see,” she said, sliding aside her papers to clear room on her desk. It seemed as if all she did nowadays was paperwork, and Jane sorely missed taking to the skies with Excidium, but she suppose that was Emily’s job now, bless the girl. She made a fine captain, and wore her triple bars with pride and the assurance of her rank proper.
“Hello, mother,” Emily greeted. She only ever used that title when there was no one else around. The rest of the time it was ‘Admiral’ or, more recently, ‘prime minister’, though she would occasionally take on this with an amused expression.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you-“
“I have some news-“
They both fell silent for a moment, and started to speak at precisely the same time again. This repeated itself a few more times before Jane had to pull rank and waved for her daughter to take a seat.
“You first, dear,” she said, and it did not escape her notice how Emily appeared just the tiniest bit flushed.
“Oh, well, it is not very important news, nothing Parliament would be interested in, anyway,” Emily said quickly, misreading Jane’s intent expression. She sat down, drumming her fingers against her thigh before saying, “I am with child; that’s all.”
Jane blinked, shoving away that silly little image of a girl who used to sit in a similar chair with her feet barely touching the floor. “Oh, well, that’s splendid! You know, that was just the thing I wanted to talk about with you, but I am glad you’ve taken the initiative.”
“Ah,” said Emily.
“How far are you along, do you think? You hardly look any different.”
Emily gave a mumbled answer, and Jane nodded, “Good, good.”
They talked about other things after that. Jane did not think her daughter would be so bashful about the topic, but she nevertheless indulged Emily with choice stories about the mishaps of politics and bureaucracy, and kept away from the pregnancy; if Emily wanted to talk about it then she would, eventually.
And she did.
“Mother, are you not even going to ask who the father is?” Emily asked, finally, slumping back in her hair.
“Oh. All right,” Jane said. “Who’s the father?”
“Demane.”
“Yes, I thought so.”
“Really,” Emily replied archly.
“If it’s my blessing you want, then by all means,” Jane said, amused, and ignored how Emily groaned and buried her face in her hands. “Lord knows you two have been eyeing each other since Australia. It was about time something happened."
----
Since pitselly asked, I'm posting these old drabbles that were supposed to make one bigger story, but obviously I never finish anything, and I like to let things rot in my hard drive for years. TWO YEARS.
The drabbles are in chronological order from the series, based on scenes in the books, so there might be spoilers.
Rating: PG
Pairing: sort of Tharkay->Laurence in all it's glorious UST and pining.
Sometimes, usually on quiet nights spent alone under the stars and campfire light, Tharkay thought of himself as a wild bird of prey, with ability to fly far above the ground-free from the binds of anyone else. They were also majestic and beautiful creatures, but Tharkay supposed that he would only be flattering himself too much beyond the point, as Damla was quick to remind him with a piercing shriek that echoed all around the building of the East India Company.
“Now Damla, you wouldn’t see me making such a fuss. Keep still a moment and we’ll soon be gone,” Tharkay murmured, picking a language that meant nothing to English and Chinese ears. He kept his attention focused on the eagle, and ignored the wide-eyed expressions of the officers and staff with a private smirk. Damla, still spreading her wings threateningly, made him endure her baleful glare for several more seconds before settling down.
Though less vocal and considerably more patient, Tharkay was also restless, irritable from his journey, his current surroundings, and hopelessly wishing he was back in Istanbul, even though he could not possibly go back. He waited for another minute before standing back up to speak to a young man behind a small desk.
“Captain William Laurence is busy, as is Sir George,” said the aide, somewhat apologetically, for Tharkay was a painfully familiar messenger for the East India Company.
“Oh, I suppose I’ll have to wait then,” Tharkay replied in tones that suggested he would not.
“Well,” the aide began hesitantly, drawing out the word into two syllables, “They are in the middle of a meal-“
Regardless of what the officer was stammering, he went straight into the dining room without a preamble or proper introduction. Heads turned, each showing some form of surprise, outrage, or, in the case of Staunton, slight embarrassment. The room was filled with officers-- though the one wearing the green Chinese coat stuck out like a sore thumb in the mists of neckcloths and silver buttons. Unwilling let the chance slip, Tharkay assumed his best upper-class accent and proceeded to goad more jaws to unhinge with a display of amazingly basic English; he ought apologize to Staunton later, but the general was very likely enjoying the theatrics behind his mortified look.
He delivered the message, slightly amused to see that the recipient was the sore thumb himself, and made his leave.
Damla, perched on his arm and holding her head up high, seemed a little too smug.
“Well, you can hardly call it making a fuss. I wasn’t the one shrieking, after all,” Tharkay said, somewhat defensively, and was rewarded with a sharp nip on his outstretched hand.
---
Tharkay held Damla in his arms, a regretful pang in his chest and a vague sense of confusion growing in the back of his mind. He had told her to fly away, yelled even, shook his arm to dislodge her and succeeded. Still, she screeched at him and remained flapping shallowly over his head. Irrationally less concerned for himself, he frantically checked the tether cord, making sure that it wasn’t tied to her leg-- it hadn’t been.
Tharkay didn’t much understand why Damla stayed with him, when she could have easily escaped.
Captain Laurence, for once, did not rebuke him for going off on his own.
---
The captain personified the very idea Tharkay loathed about England; its slanted society, impregnable laws, and narrow minds. What made him say yes, initially, had been for the money and adventure. (And, quite possibly, to see Sara one last time.) Now as the weeks lengthened, he found that the captain was not a terrible person at all-that had been obvious with the first day, try as Tharkay might to convince himself otherwise-but merely ignorant, and horrifically so. It irritated him more than it should have. But he was, in a way, envious of Laurence’s black and white world, with all its painted lines and low ceilings and rotting wooden fences: honor, and duty, and laws.
The first time he left without word was carelessness on his part. Tharkay simply hadn’t known that he needed permission. It irked him, being brought under the captain’s restrictions; he was not a subordinate, more of an advisor if anything. It was perhaps childish of him to continue wandering off, but it served as a way of retaliation, a reminder that he was still free to do he wished, with no consequence on his part.
The second time, he came back with meat for the crew and the Celestial. The third, waited for them at the well. Forth, well, there had been raiders after them, what else was he to do? The fifth incident had been perfectly timed. In return, Laurence’s rage, and the sight of having it deflate so quickly, was nearly worth every minute he had to endure facing Mr. Maden and Sara again.
How all that ended in an oath of loyalty, he could not guess-with the stars shining above them, Laurence’s waiting hand outstretched and nothing but his earnest gaze to prove himself.
And Tharkay, with his heart still pounding from running through the streets of Istanbul, reached over and took it.
---
Madness, really. The ferals were proving slightly difficult to persuade, but all that time wasted in court hadn’t been lost on Tharkay. Nudging the deal further, he added, “And think of it-Temeraire would certainly be in your debt if you came to his rescue.”
“And you wish to come to the rescue of Temeraire’s captain,” Arkady said, startling Tharkay into opening and closing his mouth in wordless protest.
“Do we have an agreement then?” Tharkay asked, content to pretend the statement hadn’t existed. He was unwilling to spend another hour arguing with the dragon, especially on a baseless idea he wasn’t ready to concede to yet.
---
Despite all his initial reluctance, he had gotten a new bird. Deniz clawed at the field mouse, uttering a happy cry as his sharp beak tore through his meal. Tharkay sat back on the ground, quite amused to watch the harried aviators organize the ferals into some semblance of order. He had only just arrived back in England, and not a moment too soon, judging from the way he was met with genuine, if not slightly suppressed, gratitude. Having yet to report back officially, he idly noted the grimness of the whole covert, though with the war standing as it were, grim was a ready description for all of England.
He spied one of Laurence’s crewmen-- Dunne, he thought-- and asked for Laurence. Dunne hesitated, shook his head, and quietly explained that Laurence-noble, duty-bound Captain Laurence-had been convicted for treason and was expected to be hanged, if it were not for Temeraire.
When the midwingman could offer no more, Tharkay whistled for Deniz, and the kestrel, after defiantly finishing up the mouse, came back, gripping its claws like tiny sharp vices on his fingers. He winced as Deniz’s talons dug into the back of his hand; he had forgotten to put back on the leather glove he normally wore.
After hooding and caging the kestrel, Tharkay glanced at the reddening scratches. He sighed faintly.
“Laurence, what were you thinking?”
---
“I cannot even spare Miller or Hollin, let alone the captain of England’s only fire-breather,” the Admiral was saying to Granby.
Tharkay had only met Roland a few times and already held her in high regard. He lingered in front of the closed doors of her office, pretending that he couldn’t hear Granby’s protests, which did not last very long. Against his better judgment, Tharkay went in, finding Granby looking miserably silent but resigned, and Roland’s expression as equally drawn. Granby glanced up, acknowledging Tharkay with a nod, and took his leave, shutting the door quietly behind him.
“I could go,” Tharkay said immediately.
Just what Roland thinking, he could not venture to guess. Her face went blank and he thought back to their previous meetings-- how he still retained his aloof and slightly sardonic manner and now he just practically confessed himself an eavesdropper-- not the best impressions. Still, his mind was entirely too relieved to know that Laurence was, at the very least, alive. Roland, on the other hand, was now regarding him with a slight frown.
Several seconds rolled by before both he and the admiral spoke at the same time, “Laurence-“
Tharkay fell silent, caught off guard by their similar tones the single name brought. Through Roland’s voice, he heard in his own; the strain of anxiety, a quiet grief, and then something else that he was unwilling to indentify at the moment. Surprised, Tharkay felt his impassive mask slip a little; Roland was no longer wearing a frown, but a small, sad smile.
“Laurence,” she repeated, since Tharkay obviously did not mean to continue, “is a very dear friend of mine. Thank you, but it can’t be done. You need to be an officer; he is still a prisoner, alter all.”
It was out of his mouth before he could even think, “Then I will accept commission as a temporary captain.”
The idea probably had occurred to Roland, but she seemed rather pleased to have him offered first. Before he could even get another word in, she had drawn up the papers and handed it to him. “Bring him back.”
---
“You go through a lot for that man,” she said, conversationally, “One has to admire such devotion and love-- Oh! Do mind your grip.”
“What?” he exclaimed, hitching his foot back on the strap where he had slipped from, “That’s…. It isn’t quite like that.” In his haste, he was speaking in English, though it wouldn’t have made a difference if he had spoken Dunzurg, Chinese, or Tibetan-the sound of denial was quite clear to Gherni.
“True,” she agreed, if only to mollify him, “What I meant was, I’m in disbelief at your stubbornness and stupidity for sticking around for his sake.”
Tharkay frowned, eyes dropping downward to gaze at the ugly, battle-scarred ground of England and failing come up with a response other than, “Oh, well, I suppose you’re right.”
---
Tharkay could not count the number of times he had stood next to a pool of water, or a bubbling stream, oblivious to the fact that he could have been snatched up by a hungry bunyip at a moment’s notice. There was no point in speculating, as he was here, whole and alive, when poor Jack Blackwter was not. It was a curious thing to find Laurence’s hand curled tightly in his own, and Tharkay could not help but drop his gaze down for the briefest moment before lifting it back up.
Assassin's Creed
(PG, spoilers for AC: Brotherhood)
Desmond looks into the mirror and stares at it until he can imagine that it’s Altair who is looking back at him.
“It’s not your fault,” he says, but Altair’s haunted expression doesn’t shift. He leans in, laying his forehead against the cool glass, and says again and again, “It’s not your fault. It isn’t. Don’t blame yourself.”
He talks until his breath fogs up the mirror, but the last thing he sees is a small, sad smile, and maybe a tiny nod. It’s strange, to be comforting a person who is long dead, but Desmond can’t ignore the hurt he feels from Altair, the type of pain that won’t go away, even centuries after.
He wipes the mirror, wipes his eyes, and leaves the restroom to lay back down in the Animus.
Later, much later, after they make him go through Ezio’s hidden memories, Desmond finds himself talking to Ezio through the mirror too.
“Not your fault,” he says, even as Ezio stubbornly shakes his head. It takes a while, but the moment Desmond reaches out his hand, Ezio is reaching back, and he cries, quietly, into the cuffs of Desmond’s sleeves.
And maybe he should have expected this. This young and flighty thing when he looks at Lucy, like when Altair takes Adha’s hand in his, or when Ezio waits beneath Cristina’s window, throwing pebbles and whispering and laughing when he scrambles up to meet her. The feelings are similar; this odd, tentative spark of happiness where none should exist.
And it might take years before Desmond will stop waking up in the middle of the night, sick and tired of carrying the weight of three heartaches, when only one of them is his. He will get up from his bed, stumble into his bathroom and look into the mirror to see his own reflection. He’ll tell himself that it’s not his fault, and that he can’t blame himself forever-and if Altair and Ezio can get pass this, so can he.
Right now it hurts, but it’ll stop hurting, eventually. He’ll tell himself that it will be alright. It will, it will-
He never stops struggling, but he looks into her eyes and thinks, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Adha. Cristina. Lucy-“ and plunges the blade into her.
Telling
Temeraire
(PG, spoilers for Empire of Ivory)
Prompt: Jane receives news about Emily's pregnancy.
Emily came in just as Jane was about to send for her.
“Just the person I wanted to see,” she said, sliding aside her papers to clear room on her desk. It seemed as if all she did nowadays was paperwork, and Jane sorely missed taking to the skies with Excidium, but she suppose that was Emily’s job now, bless the girl. She made a fine captain, and wore her triple bars with pride and the assurance of her rank proper.
“Hello, mother,” Emily greeted. She only ever used that title when there was no one else around. The rest of the time it was ‘Admiral’ or, more recently, ‘prime minister’, though she would occasionally take on this with an amused expression.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you-“
“I have some news-“
They both fell silent for a moment, and started to speak at precisely the same time again. This repeated itself a few more times before Jane had to pull rank and waved for her daughter to take a seat.
“You first, dear,” she said, and it did not escape her notice how Emily appeared just the tiniest bit flushed.
“Oh, well, it is not very important news, nothing Parliament would be interested in, anyway,” Emily said quickly, misreading Jane’s intent expression. She sat down, drumming her fingers against her thigh before saying, “I am with child; that’s all.”
Jane blinked, shoving away that silly little image of a girl who used to sit in a similar chair with her feet barely touching the floor. “Oh, well, that’s splendid! You know, that was just the thing I wanted to talk about with you, but I am glad you’ve taken the initiative.”
“Ah,” said Emily.
“How far are you along, do you think? You hardly look any different.”
Emily gave a mumbled answer, and Jane nodded, “Good, good.”
They talked about other things after that. Jane did not think her daughter would be so bashful about the topic, but she nevertheless indulged Emily with choice stories about the mishaps of politics and bureaucracy, and kept away from the pregnancy; if Emily wanted to talk about it then she would, eventually.
And she did.
“Mother, are you not even going to ask who the father is?” Emily asked, finally, slumping back in her hair.
“Oh. All right,” Jane said. “Who’s the father?”
“Demane.”
“Yes, I thought so.”
“Really,” Emily replied archly.
“If it’s my blessing you want, then by all means,” Jane said, amused, and ignored how Emily groaned and buried her face in her hands. “Lord knows you two have been eyeing each other since Australia. It was about time something happened."
----
Since pitselly asked, I'm posting these old drabbles that were supposed to make one bigger story, but obviously I never finish anything, and I like to let things rot in my hard drive for years. TWO YEARS.
The drabbles are in chronological order from the series, based on scenes in the books, so there might be spoilers.
Rating: PG
Pairing: sort of Tharkay->Laurence in all it's glorious UST and pining.
Sometimes, usually on quiet nights spent alone under the stars and campfire light, Tharkay thought of himself as a wild bird of prey, with ability to fly far above the ground-free from the binds of anyone else. They were also majestic and beautiful creatures, but Tharkay supposed that he would only be flattering himself too much beyond the point, as Damla was quick to remind him with a piercing shriek that echoed all around the building of the East India Company.
“Now Damla, you wouldn’t see me making such a fuss. Keep still a moment and we’ll soon be gone,” Tharkay murmured, picking a language that meant nothing to English and Chinese ears. He kept his attention focused on the eagle, and ignored the wide-eyed expressions of the officers and staff with a private smirk. Damla, still spreading her wings threateningly, made him endure her baleful glare for several more seconds before settling down.
Though less vocal and considerably more patient, Tharkay was also restless, irritable from his journey, his current surroundings, and hopelessly wishing he was back in Istanbul, even though he could not possibly go back. He waited for another minute before standing back up to speak to a young man behind a small desk.
“Captain William Laurence is busy, as is Sir George,” said the aide, somewhat apologetically, for Tharkay was a painfully familiar messenger for the East India Company.
“Oh, I suppose I’ll have to wait then,” Tharkay replied in tones that suggested he would not.
“Well,” the aide began hesitantly, drawing out the word into two syllables, “They are in the middle of a meal-“
Regardless of what the officer was stammering, he went straight into the dining room without a preamble or proper introduction. Heads turned, each showing some form of surprise, outrage, or, in the case of Staunton, slight embarrassment. The room was filled with officers-- though the one wearing the green Chinese coat stuck out like a sore thumb in the mists of neckcloths and silver buttons. Unwilling let the chance slip, Tharkay assumed his best upper-class accent and proceeded to goad more jaws to unhinge with a display of amazingly basic English; he ought apologize to Staunton later, but the general was very likely enjoying the theatrics behind his mortified look.
He delivered the message, slightly amused to see that the recipient was the sore thumb himself, and made his leave.
Damla, perched on his arm and holding her head up high, seemed a little too smug.
“Well, you can hardly call it making a fuss. I wasn’t the one shrieking, after all,” Tharkay said, somewhat defensively, and was rewarded with a sharp nip on his outstretched hand.
---
Tharkay held Damla in his arms, a regretful pang in his chest and a vague sense of confusion growing in the back of his mind. He had told her to fly away, yelled even, shook his arm to dislodge her and succeeded. Still, she screeched at him and remained flapping shallowly over his head. Irrationally less concerned for himself, he frantically checked the tether cord, making sure that it wasn’t tied to her leg-- it hadn’t been.
Tharkay didn’t much understand why Damla stayed with him, when she could have easily escaped.
Captain Laurence, for once, did not rebuke him for going off on his own.
---
The captain personified the very idea Tharkay loathed about England; its slanted society, impregnable laws, and narrow minds. What made him say yes, initially, had been for the money and adventure. (And, quite possibly, to see Sara one last time.) Now as the weeks lengthened, he found that the captain was not a terrible person at all-that had been obvious with the first day, try as Tharkay might to convince himself otherwise-but merely ignorant, and horrifically so. It irritated him more than it should have. But he was, in a way, envious of Laurence’s black and white world, with all its painted lines and low ceilings and rotting wooden fences: honor, and duty, and laws.
The first time he left without word was carelessness on his part. Tharkay simply hadn’t known that he needed permission. It irked him, being brought under the captain’s restrictions; he was not a subordinate, more of an advisor if anything. It was perhaps childish of him to continue wandering off, but it served as a way of retaliation, a reminder that he was still free to do he wished, with no consequence on his part.
The second time, he came back with meat for the crew and the Celestial. The third, waited for them at the well. Forth, well, there had been raiders after them, what else was he to do? The fifth incident had been perfectly timed. In return, Laurence’s rage, and the sight of having it deflate so quickly, was nearly worth every minute he had to endure facing Mr. Maden and Sara again.
How all that ended in an oath of loyalty, he could not guess-with the stars shining above them, Laurence’s waiting hand outstretched and nothing but his earnest gaze to prove himself.
And Tharkay, with his heart still pounding from running through the streets of Istanbul, reached over and took it.
---
Madness, really. The ferals were proving slightly difficult to persuade, but all that time wasted in court hadn’t been lost on Tharkay. Nudging the deal further, he added, “And think of it-Temeraire would certainly be in your debt if you came to his rescue.”
“And you wish to come to the rescue of Temeraire’s captain,” Arkady said, startling Tharkay into opening and closing his mouth in wordless protest.
“Do we have an agreement then?” Tharkay asked, content to pretend the statement hadn’t existed. He was unwilling to spend another hour arguing with the dragon, especially on a baseless idea he wasn’t ready to concede to yet.
---
Despite all his initial reluctance, he had gotten a new bird. Deniz clawed at the field mouse, uttering a happy cry as his sharp beak tore through his meal. Tharkay sat back on the ground, quite amused to watch the harried aviators organize the ferals into some semblance of order. He had only just arrived back in England, and not a moment too soon, judging from the way he was met with genuine, if not slightly suppressed, gratitude. Having yet to report back officially, he idly noted the grimness of the whole covert, though with the war standing as it were, grim was a ready description for all of England.
He spied one of Laurence’s crewmen-- Dunne, he thought-- and asked for Laurence. Dunne hesitated, shook his head, and quietly explained that Laurence-noble, duty-bound Captain Laurence-had been convicted for treason and was expected to be hanged, if it were not for Temeraire.
When the midwingman could offer no more, Tharkay whistled for Deniz, and the kestrel, after defiantly finishing up the mouse, came back, gripping its claws like tiny sharp vices on his fingers. He winced as Deniz’s talons dug into the back of his hand; he had forgotten to put back on the leather glove he normally wore.
After hooding and caging the kestrel, Tharkay glanced at the reddening scratches. He sighed faintly.
“Laurence, what were you thinking?”
---
“I cannot even spare Miller or Hollin, let alone the captain of England’s only fire-breather,” the Admiral was saying to Granby.
Tharkay had only met Roland a few times and already held her in high regard. He lingered in front of the closed doors of her office, pretending that he couldn’t hear Granby’s protests, which did not last very long. Against his better judgment, Tharkay went in, finding Granby looking miserably silent but resigned, and Roland’s expression as equally drawn. Granby glanced up, acknowledging Tharkay with a nod, and took his leave, shutting the door quietly behind him.
“I could go,” Tharkay said immediately.
Just what Roland thinking, he could not venture to guess. Her face went blank and he thought back to their previous meetings-- how he still retained his aloof and slightly sardonic manner and now he just practically confessed himself an eavesdropper-- not the best impressions. Still, his mind was entirely too relieved to know that Laurence was, at the very least, alive. Roland, on the other hand, was now regarding him with a slight frown.
Several seconds rolled by before both he and the admiral spoke at the same time, “Laurence-“
Tharkay fell silent, caught off guard by their similar tones the single name brought. Through Roland’s voice, he heard in his own; the strain of anxiety, a quiet grief, and then something else that he was unwilling to indentify at the moment. Surprised, Tharkay felt his impassive mask slip a little; Roland was no longer wearing a frown, but a small, sad smile.
“Laurence,” she repeated, since Tharkay obviously did not mean to continue, “is a very dear friend of mine. Thank you, but it can’t be done. You need to be an officer; he is still a prisoner, alter all.”
It was out of his mouth before he could even think, “Then I will accept commission as a temporary captain.”
The idea probably had occurred to Roland, but she seemed rather pleased to have him offered first. Before he could even get another word in, she had drawn up the papers and handed it to him. “Bring him back.”
---
“You go through a lot for that man,” she said, conversationally, “One has to admire such devotion and love-- Oh! Do mind your grip.”
“What?” he exclaimed, hitching his foot back on the strap where he had slipped from, “That’s…. It isn’t quite like that.” In his haste, he was speaking in English, though it wouldn’t have made a difference if he had spoken Dunzurg, Chinese, or Tibetan-the sound of denial was quite clear to Gherni.
“True,” she agreed, if only to mollify him, “What I meant was, I’m in disbelief at your stubbornness and stupidity for sticking around for his sake.”
Tharkay frowned, eyes dropping downward to gaze at the ugly, battle-scarred ground of England and failing come up with a response other than, “Oh, well, I suppose you’re right.”
---
Tharkay could not count the number of times he had stood next to a pool of water, or a bubbling stream, oblivious to the fact that he could have been snatched up by a hungry bunyip at a moment’s notice. There was no point in speculating, as he was here, whole and alive, when poor Jack Blackwter was not. It was a curious thing to find Laurence’s hand curled tightly in his own, and Tharkay could not help but drop his gaze down for the briefest moment before lifting it back up.