[Fanfic] Against the Sky Ch. 3 - The Gravity of Choice
Title: Against The Sky
Author: nightblink
Rating: T
Warnings: Violence, some minor gore, and crossover material. No America in Chapter 3, alas.
Notes: Posted in two parts due to LJ's character limit. Can also be found on FF.net.
Summary: Hetalia/Temeraire crossover. Chapter three - first update in about a year.
"“What are you?”
Kirkland’s gaze bored into his own, and Laurence felt the world drop away from under his feet.
As people were raising concerns over the length of the pre-fic Author’s Note (more of a preface, really, as it was a Word-doc page long), I’m cutting it out and summarizing. I hope this makes things easier.
Oz’s got a bit more of a temper than I’d generally write him with - penal colony in this time period, whut. This hasn’t been Britpicked, so I apologise for any Americanisms, blatant or otherwise. The whole thing is set during the last battle in Victory of Eagles, for all you Temeraire people - Hetalians, basically just know that France/Napoléon has invaded England and the Brits are in the process of kicking them back to the continent. Also for Hetalians, Laurence - one of the two main characters of the series and a generally upstanding British Captain - is very (justifiably) woe-is-me right now ‘cause he saved all the dragons of the continent, but in a way that made him a traitor to his country. And then he nobly went back to face the music, which means that he’s going to be executed when he’s outlived his usefulness.
Theme music for the chapter is as follows. Battle: “The Gravity of Choice” from the Pillars of the Earth OST. Laurence and Arthur’s ‘conversation’: “Freedom Fighters” by Two Steps From Hell. Many thanks to Red Hot Holly Berries and saxon_jesus, who betaed. Much love, guys.
.o.O.o.
Chapter Three - The Gravity of Choice
-
“There was little enough Laurence could now do, to repair what he had done; he could not restore the lives of the slain, or raise up ships from the Channel floor that had been sunk, or make recompense to all the ordinary countrymen whose livelihood and possessions had been raided away by an invading army. He could not repair his father’s health, or the King’s, or Edith’s happiness. But he had already stained himself irrevocably with dishonour, for the sake of an enemy nation and a tyrant’s greed; he could stain himself a little more for the sake of his own, and shield with his own ruined reputation those who yet had one to protect.” - Victory of Eagles, Naomi Novik
.o.O.o.
The great black bared its teeth and dove down, claws spread wide. The French dragon banked and soared upwards with powerful wingbeats, royal blue scales gleaming in the sun. The two crashed in midair, snarling and slashing, dropping through the clouds. Entwined, they twirled out of control, heedless of any other danger as they rent deep gouges in one another, scales cracking and blood flying. Temeraire could still hear the fading roars of pain and vicious anger as his concentration was abruptly pulled back to his own surroundings, and banked to the side, mirroring Requiescat as Gentius spat his corrosive acid at the oncoming French dragons.
He roared, a roar devoid of the destructive power of the Divine Wind, as he crashed into the left end of the enemy formation, Requiescat on the right, both using size and weight to barrel through. Temeraire’s crew was ready, a steel volley launching from rifles and pistols alike as they shot past the other dragons. Temeraire and the Royal Copper nearly brushed wingtips as they crossed and then Gentius, Ballista, and several Reapers and ferals came from the front in much the same manner, using the commotion caused by the heavyweights’ break-though to single out opponents and engage them, the ferals banding together to go after a Roi-de-Vitesse.
As the two largest dragons looped around for a second pass, the two that had been the black giant’s wingmates joined the fray, stooping like sea-eagles from above. Temeraire caught but a glimpse of them before they disappeared into the melee, and then Laurence was calling him. Swinging his head around, he returned his full attention to the battle, snapping at a Papillion Noir that had drifted within range. The other dragon’s crew let off a few frantic shots and the dragon dove, hoping to escape the Celestial’s range for a few precious seconds; they did, but diving straight after them through the regrouping of the British formation was a young middleweight, hardly old enough to be in the battle, and it was unharnessed. A feral?
Wings folded, it dropped like a stone, swooping underneath the fleeing Frenchdrake and raising its complement of considerable spines, snarling. The Papillion lunged, snapping its jaws forward, and caught a faceful of spines. The young dragon howled as teeth rent its flesh, but it struck upward with the spikes on its tail. The Papillion Noir pulled back, hissing, to avoid the spines and to allow its crew a few potshots, but its wings were slowing, missing beats. The dragon’s body shuddered and its wings half-folded, going limp, and it dropped from the sky. The little spined one roared its triumph and beat towards the rest of the battle as well as its companion, who had inserted itself much more smoothly into the battle by being an extra wing in a formation that had lost a heavyweight to a cannonball. Temeraire shook his attention from them and back to the battle, making sure that Cantarella and Chalcedony were keeping the other Yellow Reapers in line. I can worry about strange allies later.
.o.O.o.
There was a bone-jarring thud as Britain and France collided, falling in one roaring mass of black and blue. They were almost equal in size, though that mattered little as they plummeted towards the forested hills, their battle fought with fang and talon and long centuries of bitter experience behind them. France had gotten his teeth firmly lodged in Britain’s shoulder-scales and kept his grip even as the island roared and tore viciously into his side. The continental Nation replied in kind as Britain snapped and bit at his neck in an attempt to dislodge the fangs trying to wrest their way through his dark scales. A particularly vicious slash left France reeling in pain, pushing himself from Britain as Arthur swiped at him again with a bloodied silver-grey paw, and the two banked apart as their descent brought them perilously close to the hillside. Not one to give up the chase, however, Britain angled his wings, and with the agility born of long experience, barely clipped the treetops as he swerved into a trajectory that brought him up into France’s side. Caught off guard, the blue dragon roared in pain as Britain crashed into him, bowling him over and knocking him out of balance, tumbling him from the sky.
Britain dove for where France went down, but he was breathing heavily and his shoulder ached, the cracked scales pinching viciously. Damnation, I’m not healing as fast as I should...! Knowing that his strength may not be up to an extended fight with his ancient rival due to the state of invasion, Britain reached for the Empire-Colony bond that tied him to Canada and Australia, the colonies engaged in the battle above, having left the Nations to their own fight. I’ll be damned if I lose to France, but even so... It was a chance, and only that, but even so he sent a blast of wounded-help-come up the link and hoped that they would feel it.
France was ready for him when he came down, so instead of knocking the other empire off of his feet as Britain had hoped, Francis executed a graceful dodge to the side, and Arthur had to brake his descent, almost crashing into the ground. He backwinged furiously, barely making his landing, and had to spin around as fast as he could to meet France’s charge. They hit shoulder-to-shoulder and toppled, blue over black, and rolled, slashing and biting, France almost puncturing Britain’s eye, Arthur nearly breaking a few of Francis’ ribs.
Breaking apart and scrambling to their feet, Britain braced himself as France lunged, ducking his head so that the other dragon’s teeth caught on the crown of horns extending back from his head, then twisted, fangs scraping against horn, and then one caught, puncturing a hole in the roof of Francis’ muzzle. The Frenchdrake reeled back, whimpering in pain as blood leaked from his mouth and narrowly avoiding Britain’s following strike, his jaws flashing towards France but clamping uselessly on thin air.
Undeterred, Francis snapped forward again, grazing past Arthur’s defences and going for the shoulder he had already injured. Steel-trap jaws had broken and dislodged scales the first time around, and now France’s teeth found those chinks in the armour and sunk in deep, through scale and flesh alike. Britain keened, pain lacing the high-pitched cry as he struggled, trying to throw off the royal-blue dragon, but France only dug his teeth in further, bracing his paws against the ground, his claws tearing great furrows into the soil. Unable to wrench his neck around without helping France tear him apart and risking toppling from loss of balance if he struck with his foreclaws, Britain had few options, most of them painful.
Steeling himself, Arthur pulled his wings in tight and lashed out with a quick, controlled strike. The delicate wrist joint of his wing slammed into the base of Francis’ neck with bruising force, causing the continental Nation to wheeze as his airways compressed. Twice more Britain struck before France relented, loosening his jaws. Taking the window of opportunity, Arthur wrenched his mangled shoulder back and brought his opposite forepaw around in a short but strong blow to the side of France’s head. France went cross-eyed for a moment, stunned, but the torn muscles in Britain’s shoulder failed, unable to hold his weight, and he collapsed forward before he could catch himself, landing painfully as his flesh began to knit itself back together. The less-injured France recovered more quickly, shaking his head to clear it and baring his bloodstained teeth. Gathering his weight on his haunches, Francis sprung forward like a hunting cat, claws outstretched. Britain clenched his jaw and tried to struggle to his feet, white-hot pain flashing through his nerves as France filled his field of vision.
Suddenly - no more France. He was knocked aside - two smaller figures dropping from the sky without warning, one then the other crashing into the heavyweight’s side, the three slamming into the forest floor, flattening more than a few trees before they skidded to a halt.
Britain heaved himself to his feet as the two Colonies recovered from the impact. They heard; they came, they came. Little Australia, spined and poison-fanged and venom-clawed and altogether deadly despite his youth and small stature, mauled Francis a bit more than he already had, just for good measure, then jumped off to the side, hunching his wings and back and hissing impressively. Canada laid himself bodily on the larger heavyweight, who was starting to twitch and stiffen from Australia’s toxins.
“The battle is over! You have lost, Empire Français, and your troops are retreating. Leave, or we cut you down, and when you heal, your lines will be far from you.”
France growled, but appeared to concede the point. Britain and France alone were generally an even match, but the presence of the colonies tipped the scales heavily in Britain’s favour, and it was indeed true that his troops were in retreat. He gave a last discontented snarl in Britain’s direction and limped off toward his lines, too venom-stricken to fly.
For his own part, Arthur was glad for his Colonies’ presence, but it did mean that he, as their master, had to maintain a strong front, which was becoming increasingly hard to do as the fight’s adrenalin receded and exhaustion set in, both from the physical exertion and the drain from healing. Grey crept in around the edges of Britain’s vision as Canada and Australia came to stand beside him and minuscule tremors wracked his frame.
“Very... well done, lads.” And it was, both in the main battle and in their timely intervention. He managed an affectionate nuzzle for both and was rewarded when Canada stood straighter, head raised, and Australia ruffled his wings with pride - look, I helped save Britain! - but even that little bit sapped even more of his energy and he shuddered. Blood seeped through rents and gashes that were closing but slowly - France’s invasion had indeed been taking its toll.
Canada, worried, watched him falter. “Britain? Arthur, you are badly wounded! Let...” The western Colony hesitated, unsure if he was being too bold. “Let us carry you back to camp. There you can at least rest and regain your strength.”
Great Britain stared at him for a long moment, and Canada felt very small under the intimidating gaze of the huge dragon. Then the moment was broken as Arthur shifted, settling his weight on his less-injured foreleg. “I suppose that may be for the best.”
Space and mass shifted as the island’s body compacted in on itself, pale skin forming from pitch scales, wings and talons and horns vanishing, clothes reappearing. Red spots on the fabric immediately started to appear as his wounds bled liberally. One arm hung limp and lifeless, the other pressing a hand to his ribs as Arthur gathered his strength for a moment, eyes closed and back painfully straight, his face carefully devoid of emotion or pain, before nodding to his Colonies. Canada laid his paws upon the ground, palms upturned and talons open, delicately closing about his Empire’s battered frame before lifting off, heading back to the British forces.
.o.O.o.““But if we have more liberty than we ought,” Laurence said after a moment, struggling through, “it is because they have not enough: the dragons. They have no stake in victory but our happiness; their daily bread any nation would give them just to have peace and quiet. We are given license so long as we do what we ought not: so long as we use their affections to keep them obedient and quiet, to ends which serve them not at all - or which harm.”
“How else do you make them care?” Granby said. “If we left off, the French would only run right over us, and take our eggs themselves.”
“They care in China,” Laurence said, “and in Africa, and care all the more, that their rational sense is not imposed on, and their hearts put into opposition with their minds. If they cannot be woken to a natural affection for their country, such as we feel, it is our fault and not theirs.””
.o.O.o.
Temeraire tried to sit as still as he could as the surgeon got between his scales to remove bullets that had lodged between them and those that had punctured deeper, into the meat of him. Ensign Roland was by the doctor’s side, learning over his shoulder as he worked, and supplied a fast hand to wipe away the dark blood that dribbled from the small punctures. Every now and then he would wriggle, for it was quite uncomfortable, and the surgeon would grace him with a sharp word. All in all, he did not care, for though the battle was won, Laurence was looking fairly miserable. He had not been injured, Temeraire was certain, so the Celestial figured that it must be the impending doom of execution that weighed upon his mind.
His talons involuntarily clenched at the thought. They will not! I shall not allow it! Laurence is a hero, plainly said, and the Admiralty has done not even half as much as any naval midshipman against Napoléon - ‘tis they who should be hung... he continued to grumble furiously to himself in the privacy of his own mind, ignoring the crewmen that noticed his evident agitation and skirted him widely. Of course, Laurence stayed, dear Laurence, who had a hand against his muzzle in a comforting gesture. The surgeon finally pronounced him done and went to clean his bloodstained hands and tools in a washbasin.
Laurence smiled and scratched one of Temeraire’s eye ridges, into which he leaned with a grateful rumble. “There you are, my dear. Now, shall we get you cleaned up? There is a lake not far from here where we might wash away the grime.”
Temeraire was all for this. Gunpowder, pepper-gun residue, and blood still clung to his scales and it would be a relief to be properly scrubbed again. Perhaps it might even take Laurence’s mind off of the looming future, which would be a blessing.
A great flutter of wings was heard and wind pressure suddenly increased as a pair of dragons Temeraire only vaguely recognised banked almost directly overhead, landing in a small, secluded clearing near theirs, separated only by a very sparse line of trees and brush. His own was towards the edge of the camp - Most likely no-one wishes to associate with ones so recently named ‘traitor’, he thought glumly. Maximus, Lily, their old formation, and many of the unharnessed dragons from Pen Y Fan were settled nearby, but closer in towards the main camp where it would be a better walking distance for their crews. He craned his head upwards, trying to see why they would be coming in so fast but were landing so far from the centre of camp.
His eyes widened as he saw the big red - Though not as big as myself, he noted offhandedly - carrying a man in his talons. The coat the man wore was dark, dirty, and bloodstained; Temeraire could not tell if the original colour was the Corps’ bottle-green or the Navy’s blue. The red heavyweight settled his forepaws upon the ground and the injured man rose, albeit with some veiled difficulty, sliding from the larger dragon’s palms to steady himself on the proffered foreleg of the smaller one. Straightening his back and steeling his shoulders, the man removed his hand from the smaller dragon with a pat of thanks and began a steady, if slow, pace towards camp.
This, Temeraire would not let stand. How could those two just stand there when someone who was obviously in pain needed to get to the medical tents as soon as possible? He felt his neck ruff rising with indignance at this slight. They’d carried him in from the field, so it seemed, and they could not take him just the little bit further into camp? The nerve!
“Excuse me,” Temeraire interjected, his tone icy, “but the medical building is in the centre of camp. I suggest you go there, rather than here, if help is needed.”
The two dragons looked up and over at him, startled, and the Celestial could feel Laurence jolt, surprised, from where he leaned on his foreleg. The human turned his head, fixing Temeraire with an unreadable gaze. “You. Dragon. Are you suggesting that I am not fit enough to walk into camp on my own?” The stranger’s tone was equally cold, though Temeraire could detect a bare hint of pain beneath staid British resolve, but the rudeness of it still rankled him. Dragon, indeed! Still, Laurence was always lecturing about compassion...
Acting on impulse, he scooped Laurence into his paws and with a hop and a few wingbeats was over the small trees to the other clearing in but a moment. Upon landing, Laurence let out a stifled gasp of “Good God, man!” and rushed to the other’s side, supporting him as he threw the man’s uninjured arm around his shoulders. The other hung uselessly, and its attached shoulder had the most blood of anywhere on the coat. The dragons that had brought him in had given a sudden start, protectively moving in to cover their wounded - charge? Captain? - from Temeraire, and the smaller one bristled, made all the more intimidating with spines extended. The heavyweight puffed out his chest and mantled his wings, the leathery membrane semitransparent in the sunlight. “This is none of your business, good sir, and we must respectfully ask that you return to your encampment.”
“Bollocks,” Laurence snapped, and Temeraire blinked in surprise at his captain, who would normally never condone the use of such language, least of all use it himself. “He needs medical attention now, and if you are unwilling, I shall take him myself.”
The injured man growled at that, the sound so draconic Temeraire almost mistook from whom it came. Apparently it startled Laurence as well, as he swung his head around to stare. “While I may not seem perfectly all right, I can assure you that my wounds are not as threatening as they appear. I am not in need of assistance, thankful though I am that you have offered.” He began to remove his arm from Laurence’s shoulders, but the captain caught his wrist before he could do so. They were two of a kind, much the same build - average height but broad-shouldered - and despite protestations, one of them was weakened. Even as they spoke, Temeraire could see a dark stain transferring itself from the side of the stranger’s coat to Laurence’s.
The aviator had evidently noticed as well. With the quiet stubbornness that kept his head held high despite everything, he strengthened his hold on the injured man and started marching him in Temeraire’s direction. “You are suffering, and though I would normally be inclined to respect a man’s decisions, the magnitude of blood that your coat alone seems to have wicked is enough to convince me otherwise. So pray be silent, sir, and allow us to bring you to where you may be treated.”
Still rumbling with that odd, draconic growl, the man forcibly wrenched himself away from Laurence, seemingly as easy as though the aviator were no stronger than a mere boy, but the effort seemed to cost him and he stumbled, dropping to one knee. A grunt of pain escaped him, hurt flashing over his features. “Leave me,” came the low snarl. His coat had fallen open, and Temeraire could see the enormous red stain that almost covered what he could see of the white linen undershirt.
Temeraire made a snap decision. The little spined dragon looked about ready to fling itself upon Laurence in defence of the stranger, and he could not leave his captain in such peril. However, he couldn’t very well leave the strange man behind either. Though he had been quite rude, it was obviously because of the pain and Temeraire had to admit that injuries were indeed trying on one’s patience. He would have to grab them both. It was good that they were so close together.
In a split-second flurry of paws and wings, the Celestial shot forward and scooped both humans into his grasp, bunching his hindquarters and launching himself skyward. Angling for the middle of camp, he put on as much speed as he could - a muted roar resounded from the clearing and Temeraire knew without looking that one of the dragons had leapt into flight behind him. The quick, light wingbeats told him that it was the smaller, more excitable one, not the red heavyweight.
He beat faster, hoping to outpace the young middleweight. The flight was a sprint, not long and drawn out where he would have the advantage of greater stamina, and the littler one was empowered by rage and who knew what else. Temeraire skimmed over the treetops, passing over the clearings of other dragons that looked up to see what all the commotion was. A quick glance over his shoulder showed that the spined dragon was keeping up right behind him, and the red had taken flight as well, bearing down upon them from behind its smaller companion.
They are quick, Temeraire thought grimly, though hopefully not quick enough, and they are tired - their wings were shaky as they set down. Unfortunately, so are mine. Just a little bit more... His tail clipped the top of an evergreen and sent needles and cones rattling to the ground in a pine-scented rain. Soldiers cursed and scattered below as the Celestial’s black form swooped lower, almost to the open area near one of the few buildings in the area, a two-level structure that had been commandeered by the army and turned into a makeshift hospital, surrounded by tents for the housing of those in less-critical shape. The cleared field where no tents stood was just barely overlarge enough, having been kept uncluttered with a few middleweights in mind - it had not been thought that a heavyweight would be ferrying the injured. I will still be able to land, though I must watch my tail... And suddenly he noticed that his tail must need a little more watching than he thought, for a roar from behind shook his scales. They’re catching...!
A trio of powerful, air-displacing backwings and then his hindpaws hit the soil, nearby tents straining at their posts and tethers from the wind. Hurriedly, Temeraire laid his forepaws down to release the two he held in his grasp. The injured one, despite his bloodied condition, was not in the least amused or accepting of this treatment - even from his high vantage point, the dragon could see the tensed muscles, the wild, narrow eyes, and he worried for his Laurence as his captain attempted to bodily haul the other man to the building, though it was a battle to even get the stranger to budge but a little. At least he was not being so rude anymore, just stubbornly not quite ready to resign himself to the healers - for whatever reason, Temeraire knew not. Luckily, a physician from inside the hospital saw them - or, more likely, Temeraire - and a trio of men ran out to help Laurence, and none too soon.
The middleweight landed.
It was a tight fit, even though the other dragon was young and small, but there was just enough space; it barrelled down in a snarling, spitting rush of claws, spines, and dark bronze-brown scales, crying something in an accent, perhaps even a language, that Temeraire failed to comprehend. Whatever it said was unimportant, what was important was that he was headed straight for Laurence. Temeraire roared and swiped at it, but it was too close to him to properly aim - he missed, barely. A panicked call - “Laurence!” - and the captain and doctors turned...
“Hold.”
The way the smaller dragon slammed to a halt was almost comical; all four paws dug into the ground and his tail as well, many of the spikes on the end thudding into the dirt as it almost faceplanted into the ground in its effort to stop its own forward momentum. The humans looked shaken, and Temeraire would have pinned the earth-toned youngling to the ground save for that it was already prone, meek under the glare of the injured one - and I remember how that Papillion Noir fell from the sky after being pierced. The effort had cost the man though, and he slumped, finally at the end of his strength, putting up no more complaint as the physicians hauled him off, save the irritated expression that never left his face. Laurence followed them into the building with one last apologetic glance back at Temeraire, who was now once again worried about the spiny little dragon now that its captain was gone. For it must be his captain, it has to be, else why would he react so?
The other dragon turned to him, having extricated itself from the ground, the long spines ripping up chunks of dirt. The expression on its face was murderous and it bristled angrily. It would have spoken, probably, but at that moment the heavyweight that had accompanied it made an appearance overhead, banking to turn in a wide circle around them. “Return, Pyropus!” it called, obviously addressing its companion, “He will be safe.” The little one was not convinced in the slightest, apparent by the way it hunched and hissed, yelling up to the big red in a lilting, almost musical language that in normal circumstances would have Temeraire intrigued. As it passed over him, it called down to the Celestial, “And I would have words with you as well. Please, follow us back - we may go to your clearing if you might feel more at ease doing so.”
A relative compromise. Very well. “I accept.” Still wary of the spiny one but reassured by the way the other stranger was willing to approach Temeraire on what was relatively his ‘own’ grounds, he rose, going aloft and angling back towards his edge of the camp as the heavyweight banked to follow and an earthy glint of bronze scales below signalled the young middleweight’s presence as well. They flew back to Temeraire’s clearing, and the other two circled as the Celestial landed, informing his crew that he was entertaining visitors - and would they please find Gong Su and ask him if he might make tea? The two overhead descended as the remnants of his crew scattered to make room.
Temeraire watched them as they landed, he himself curling his tail neatly around so that he might appear elegant and in control, despite the fact that he still hadn’t had a wash after the battles earlier. The strangers were much the same, smelling of metallic blood and acrid gunpowder, and Temeraire hoped that the tea would come soon so that he could at least focus on the soothing taste. The large red settled itself to Temeraire’s front, wings mantling and showing off their sunset colouring for a moment before folding properly, and the little one kept next to its larger companion, pacing in a frustrated circle for the while, agitation keeping it from sitting still. Temeraire arched his neck, displaying his ruff, though not in a threatening manner - moreso to display his status as one of the rarest and most valued dragon-breeds alive. I do hope they can appreciate that, though with the young one’s coarse manners it is hard to believe that he would even know what China is. He cleared his throat.
“Now that we are settled, I believe it is time for some issues to be explained. You wished to speak with me?” He tried his best to emulate Laurence at his most patient; it simply would not do to appear anything less than composed in front of these strangers.
The heavyweight nodded its head gracefully, purple-tinted muzzle dipping fractionally with ease and confidence, and Temeraire sat up a little straighter. Where are you from? You have the cultured bearing much as some I met in China, but I do not recognise your breed. When it spoke, Temeraire tried to place the odd close-but-not-quite-British accent, but was unable to do so. “I did. It appears that some matters are in need of explanation. Before we talk though, I must introduce myself. Hriðhige is what I am called, and this is Pyropus.” The little bronze middleweight had finally stopped moving and laid down, but was still being insociable, giving the Celestial a hard look and pointedly not speaking to him, so Temeraire decided to ignore him outright. Honestly, so rude! Perhaps he gets it from his captain.
Temeraire nodded in return to the heavyweight, acknowledging. “And I am Temeraire. Now, I am curious to know - what were you doing, bringing an injured man into camp so far from help?”
At that moment, Gong Su and several of Temeraire’s ground crew returned to the clearing, laboriously carrying with them an enormous pot that smelled of black tea, and three great bowls, one smaller than the other two, and the Chinaman oversaw the pouring of tea for each dragon, prostrating himself before serving Temeraire, as usual, but also delighting as the other two accepted their tea graciously, even Pyropus, expressing their surprise at being served and at the deliciousness of the tea. As the humans retreated from camp, Temeraire delicately set down his still-steaming, half-full bowl and looked expectantly at Hriðhige. The red dragon took another sip of his tea before carefully placing it on the grass before him; beside his larger companion the little bronze hadn’t even bothered to use its paws to raise the bowl, content to drop its head and sip instead - Temeraire noted then that it did not have opposable claws with which to grip the tea bowl.
“Well then, I suppose you would appreciate having your question answered,” the heavyweight began. “The fact of the matter, in its simplest terms, is that his injuries were not of a severity that required medical attention, despite how it may have seemed from your limited perspective of the situation. As you should know, serving in the Corps as you do, supplies during wartime are limited and must be saved for those that need them the most. Come morning, he would have been up and about, fit as any here and ready to do his duty, all without an extended visit to the physicians. You must have noted for yourself his reluctance to comply with you.”
And he did remember, but that was entirely beside the point, and more importantly they had brought up a sore spot that forever rankled the Celestial. Duty. Temeraire hissed, and damn if he didn’t remember every single word of his conversations with Laurence about duty to one’s country, duty to the people, duty to one’s superiors, and how insensible it all had seemed. It was more of a love for Laurence and a respect of his captain’s love for his country than any true sense of duty that had brought him out of Pen Y Fan in command of a misfit draconic army. Duty had thrown his life into shambles. “Duty. Duty would have good men make traitors of themselves, sacrificing all for those that do not deserve their loyalty. Duty kept Laurence and I apart, with him in danger of walking willingly to his death! What has duty ever done in return for those who have served the concept their whole lives? Is that all you care about, this man - your captain - merely be able to ‘do his duty’? It is as bad as that awful Rankin, in its own way, when he abused poor Levitas, save that now it appears that the reverse is true, where we who should protect our men don’t even care enough to see them safe!”
Pyropus, who had previously been content to be silently hostile, exploded with vitriolic fury. “An’ who are you t’be lecturin’ t’ us about the value of safety and duty? ‘Tis obvious you ‘ave no sense o’ the former, and th’ only one’s safety you care abou’ is your captain. What abou’ the people of your Country, eh? ‘ave you no care for their safety and freedom? Oh, tha’s righ’, you don’t care about duty, or responsibility, or the liberty of your Country, or --”
“Pyropus.” Hriðhige’s quiet voice was deeply displeased, but the smaller dragon snapped back at the larger, increasingly incensed and caustic. “No! Do not order my silence; I care no’ if you are th’ favoured one. I shall say whatever I wish!”
“That you will not. You cannot watch your tongue, and would embarrass our lord.” Hriðhige’s tone was all crackling brimstone, though its fires were banked, and his tail twitched from side to side behind him in annoyance. The two stared each other down, a silent battle of wills, before Pyropus relented, obviously still unhappy, and the red heavyweight’s attention fixed back on Temeraire. “Forgive him, sometimes he does not remember that he should not challenge outright in this time of war,” he continued on in his quiet voice, but the baleful eye that he turned to the Celestial was anything but merciful. “However, that does not excuse you, and your blatant disrespect.”
Temeraire pulled his head back, his ruff instinctively flaring. “I only speak of what is true. Sensibility seems to be put aside in favour of concepts such as duty, and patriotism. England--” he almost spat the word, and offhandedly felt a mild gladness that Longwings were generally even-tempered, “--would slaughter the dragons of Europe, and even China, if it would ensure their victory over Napoléon! They blame him for a multitude of evils when they themselves perform an act more heinous than any I have ever heard attributed to the French. And when one good man would put a stop to their...” he paused, searching for a word, the rising fury that was clouding his mind keeping the proper vocabulary from him, until he settled upon one that Laurence had once read and then explained to him, and gone quiet when he did so, “...genocide, then they would put that man to death, for he thwarted their plans. Tell me then, why should I show respect to such a nation, when men such as the Admiralty show such decay of reason?”
Violet eyes narrowed with veiled anger, but to a specific slight or to his tirade in general Temeraire knew not. The quiet voice held, never raising in volume, but Temeraire felt a chilling prickle under his scales when Hriðhige spoke next. “And such would a malcontent say when discussing the government, and at some times such malcontents are indeed necessary, but the government alone does not a Nation make, and sometimes one evil may be needed to combat another--No!” Hriðhige bared his fangs at the Celestial’s immediate hiss and wing-mantling. “I do not abide their decision! Do not make that mistake! For an evil act it was; there is no denying such, save for those that made the decision and deny it to themselves so that they may sleep more easily. But what you do not seem to realise is that sometimes there must be sacrifices made - it is a testament to the willpower of your captain that he would willingly choose the path of his own ruin so that he might save others, but in your contempt of the government you belittle his sacrifice! Yes, I have heard of you, Temeraire, and of your captain, and I know of what you did. Laurence would suffer so that the dragons of Europe might live, he serves so that he might protect the people of this, his Country, and safeguard Britain from its enemies, both within and without. What do you fight for, other than your captain? Britain will remember Captain Laurence for years to come - the aviator who defied his own Nation, but loved it so much that he would return to face its judgement. He will go down in history for his loyalty. You? For all of your intelligence, you cannot seem to comprehend the concept of self-sacrifice for the greater good - or, as said concept is commonly known as, duty." The red heavyweight bared his teeth deprecatingly, wings ruffled and hunched over his back.
Temeraire bristled at the insult, his talons flexing in anger and digging furrows into the dirt, his last efforts at keeping civility crumbling away. How dare he speak as if he knows me! “I would sacrifice myself for love of Laurence, and that is enough for me! What do I care if history remembers me or not so long as my captain is there with me to see it happen! If we are thrown from Britain, or even refused by China, or any and every other government of the earth, as long as Laurence lives I would be content. You may ridicule me for it, but considering that you would let your captain suffer for the sake of your precious duty, I am not entirely sure that you would understand such singular devotion.” The Celestial drew his head up, gaining superior height over the smaller heavyweight, and flared his ruff. “As for loyalty to a nation, be as it may, the fact of the matter remains that men - and dragons! - bleed and die for their people, for their country, but the country does not bleed for them in return. The people might show their gratitude, but the nation just lumbers on, unconcerned as ever when good men like Laurence would be brave and loyal or when horrid men like those of the Admiralty would slaughter every last dragon in Europe for a chance at superiority!”
Unable to remain silent any longer, Pyropus, who had been pacing like a caged beast next to his larger companion, snarled violently, spreading his wings, spines standing up stiffly. When he spoke, it was with barely-restrained fury, but his eyes caught the Celestial’s and held his gaze, and for a moment Temeraire felt lost, engulfed by something the enormity of which he had no ability to describe, and then it was gone, sensed for no more than a moment. “You have no idea how much your Nation bleeds for its people. Even for you.” The little dragon, trembling with fury, gathered itself on its haunches and launched itself up, almost immediately disappearing over the tree line.
Temeraire growled at this retreat as he watched the young middleweight go, but swung back to Hriðhige when the red dragon raised himself up, evidently to follow the other. “I believe this matter has been discussed to its fullest, for the moment. Now, if you will excuse me--” his voice was brittle, but still unfailingly polite in that odd accent of his, “--I must go and ensure that your blundering has not caused a major incident.” And he was off, leaving Temeraire seething in his backdraft, alone in his clearing.
.o.O.o.
Part II: http://nightblink.livejournal.com/15441.html
Author: nightblink
Rating: T
Warnings: Violence, some minor gore, and crossover material. No America in Chapter 3, alas.
Notes: Posted in two parts due to LJ's character limit. Can also be found on FF.net.
Summary: Hetalia/Temeraire crossover. Chapter three - first update in about a year.
"“What are you?”
Kirkland’s gaze bored into his own, and Laurence felt the world drop away from under his feet.
As people were raising concerns over the length of the pre-fic Author’s Note (more of a preface, really, as it was a Word-doc page long), I’m cutting it out and summarizing. I hope this makes things easier.
Oz’s got a bit more of a temper than I’d generally write him with - penal colony in this time period, whut. This hasn’t been Britpicked, so I apologise for any Americanisms, blatant or otherwise. The whole thing is set during the last battle in Victory of Eagles, for all you Temeraire people - Hetalians, basically just know that France/Napoléon has invaded England and the Brits are in the process of kicking them back to the continent. Also for Hetalians, Laurence - one of the two main characters of the series and a generally upstanding British Captain - is very (justifiably) woe-is-me right now ‘cause he saved all the dragons of the continent, but in a way that made him a traitor to his country. And then he nobly went back to face the music, which means that he’s going to be executed when he’s outlived his usefulness.
Theme music for the chapter is as follows. Battle: “The Gravity of Choice” from the Pillars of the Earth OST. Laurence and Arthur’s ‘conversation’: “Freedom Fighters” by Two Steps From Hell. Many thanks to Red Hot Holly Berries and saxon_jesus, who betaed. Much love, guys.
.o.O.o.
Chapter Three - The Gravity of Choice
-
“There was little enough Laurence could now do, to repair what he had done; he could not restore the lives of the slain, or raise up ships from the Channel floor that had been sunk, or make recompense to all the ordinary countrymen whose livelihood and possessions had been raided away by an invading army. He could not repair his father’s health, or the King’s, or Edith’s happiness. But he had already stained himself irrevocably with dishonour, for the sake of an enemy nation and a tyrant’s greed; he could stain himself a little more for the sake of his own, and shield with his own ruined reputation those who yet had one to protect.” - Victory of Eagles, Naomi Novik
.o.O.o.
The great black bared its teeth and dove down, claws spread wide. The French dragon banked and soared upwards with powerful wingbeats, royal blue scales gleaming in the sun. The two crashed in midair, snarling and slashing, dropping through the clouds. Entwined, they twirled out of control, heedless of any other danger as they rent deep gouges in one another, scales cracking and blood flying. Temeraire could still hear the fading roars of pain and vicious anger as his concentration was abruptly pulled back to his own surroundings, and banked to the side, mirroring Requiescat as Gentius spat his corrosive acid at the oncoming French dragons.
He roared, a roar devoid of the destructive power of the Divine Wind, as he crashed into the left end of the enemy formation, Requiescat on the right, both using size and weight to barrel through. Temeraire’s crew was ready, a steel volley launching from rifles and pistols alike as they shot past the other dragons. Temeraire and the Royal Copper nearly brushed wingtips as they crossed and then Gentius, Ballista, and several Reapers and ferals came from the front in much the same manner, using the commotion caused by the heavyweights’ break-though to single out opponents and engage them, the ferals banding together to go after a Roi-de-Vitesse.
As the two largest dragons looped around for a second pass, the two that had been the black giant’s wingmates joined the fray, stooping like sea-eagles from above. Temeraire caught but a glimpse of them before they disappeared into the melee, and then Laurence was calling him. Swinging his head around, he returned his full attention to the battle, snapping at a Papillion Noir that had drifted within range. The other dragon’s crew let off a few frantic shots and the dragon dove, hoping to escape the Celestial’s range for a few precious seconds; they did, but diving straight after them through the regrouping of the British formation was a young middleweight, hardly old enough to be in the battle, and it was unharnessed. A feral?
Wings folded, it dropped like a stone, swooping underneath the fleeing Frenchdrake and raising its complement of considerable spines, snarling. The Papillion lunged, snapping its jaws forward, and caught a faceful of spines. The young dragon howled as teeth rent its flesh, but it struck upward with the spikes on its tail. The Papillion Noir pulled back, hissing, to avoid the spines and to allow its crew a few potshots, but its wings were slowing, missing beats. The dragon’s body shuddered and its wings half-folded, going limp, and it dropped from the sky. The little spined one roared its triumph and beat towards the rest of the battle as well as its companion, who had inserted itself much more smoothly into the battle by being an extra wing in a formation that had lost a heavyweight to a cannonball. Temeraire shook his attention from them and back to the battle, making sure that Cantarella and Chalcedony were keeping the other Yellow Reapers in line. I can worry about strange allies later.
.o.O.o.
There was a bone-jarring thud as Britain and France collided, falling in one roaring mass of black and blue. They were almost equal in size, though that mattered little as they plummeted towards the forested hills, their battle fought with fang and talon and long centuries of bitter experience behind them. France had gotten his teeth firmly lodged in Britain’s shoulder-scales and kept his grip even as the island roared and tore viciously into his side. The continental Nation replied in kind as Britain snapped and bit at his neck in an attempt to dislodge the fangs trying to wrest their way through his dark scales. A particularly vicious slash left France reeling in pain, pushing himself from Britain as Arthur swiped at him again with a bloodied silver-grey paw, and the two banked apart as their descent brought them perilously close to the hillside. Not one to give up the chase, however, Britain angled his wings, and with the agility born of long experience, barely clipped the treetops as he swerved into a trajectory that brought him up into France’s side. Caught off guard, the blue dragon roared in pain as Britain crashed into him, bowling him over and knocking him out of balance, tumbling him from the sky.
Britain dove for where France went down, but he was breathing heavily and his shoulder ached, the cracked scales pinching viciously. Damnation, I’m not healing as fast as I should...! Knowing that his strength may not be up to an extended fight with his ancient rival due to the state of invasion, Britain reached for the Empire-Colony bond that tied him to Canada and Australia, the colonies engaged in the battle above, having left the Nations to their own fight. I’ll be damned if I lose to France, but even so... It was a chance, and only that, but even so he sent a blast of wounded-help-come up the link and hoped that they would feel it.
France was ready for him when he came down, so instead of knocking the other empire off of his feet as Britain had hoped, Francis executed a graceful dodge to the side, and Arthur had to brake his descent, almost crashing into the ground. He backwinged furiously, barely making his landing, and had to spin around as fast as he could to meet France’s charge. They hit shoulder-to-shoulder and toppled, blue over black, and rolled, slashing and biting, France almost puncturing Britain’s eye, Arthur nearly breaking a few of Francis’ ribs.
Breaking apart and scrambling to their feet, Britain braced himself as France lunged, ducking his head so that the other dragon’s teeth caught on the crown of horns extending back from his head, then twisted, fangs scraping against horn, and then one caught, puncturing a hole in the roof of Francis’ muzzle. The Frenchdrake reeled back, whimpering in pain as blood leaked from his mouth and narrowly avoiding Britain’s following strike, his jaws flashing towards France but clamping uselessly on thin air.
Undeterred, Francis snapped forward again, grazing past Arthur’s defences and going for the shoulder he had already injured. Steel-trap jaws had broken and dislodged scales the first time around, and now France’s teeth found those chinks in the armour and sunk in deep, through scale and flesh alike. Britain keened, pain lacing the high-pitched cry as he struggled, trying to throw off the royal-blue dragon, but France only dug his teeth in further, bracing his paws against the ground, his claws tearing great furrows into the soil. Unable to wrench his neck around without helping France tear him apart and risking toppling from loss of balance if he struck with his foreclaws, Britain had few options, most of them painful.
Steeling himself, Arthur pulled his wings in tight and lashed out with a quick, controlled strike. The delicate wrist joint of his wing slammed into the base of Francis’ neck with bruising force, causing the continental Nation to wheeze as his airways compressed. Twice more Britain struck before France relented, loosening his jaws. Taking the window of opportunity, Arthur wrenched his mangled shoulder back and brought his opposite forepaw around in a short but strong blow to the side of France’s head. France went cross-eyed for a moment, stunned, but the torn muscles in Britain’s shoulder failed, unable to hold his weight, and he collapsed forward before he could catch himself, landing painfully as his flesh began to knit itself back together. The less-injured France recovered more quickly, shaking his head to clear it and baring his bloodstained teeth. Gathering his weight on his haunches, Francis sprung forward like a hunting cat, claws outstretched. Britain clenched his jaw and tried to struggle to his feet, white-hot pain flashing through his nerves as France filled his field of vision.
Suddenly - no more France. He was knocked aside - two smaller figures dropping from the sky without warning, one then the other crashing into the heavyweight’s side, the three slamming into the forest floor, flattening more than a few trees before they skidded to a halt.
Britain heaved himself to his feet as the two Colonies recovered from the impact. They heard; they came, they came. Little Australia, spined and poison-fanged and venom-clawed and altogether deadly despite his youth and small stature, mauled Francis a bit more than he already had, just for good measure, then jumped off to the side, hunching his wings and back and hissing impressively. Canada laid himself bodily on the larger heavyweight, who was starting to twitch and stiffen from Australia’s toxins.
“The battle is over! You have lost, Empire Français, and your troops are retreating. Leave, or we cut you down, and when you heal, your lines will be far from you.”
France growled, but appeared to concede the point. Britain and France alone were generally an even match, but the presence of the colonies tipped the scales heavily in Britain’s favour, and it was indeed true that his troops were in retreat. He gave a last discontented snarl in Britain’s direction and limped off toward his lines, too venom-stricken to fly.
For his own part, Arthur was glad for his Colonies’ presence, but it did mean that he, as their master, had to maintain a strong front, which was becoming increasingly hard to do as the fight’s adrenalin receded and exhaustion set in, both from the physical exertion and the drain from healing. Grey crept in around the edges of Britain’s vision as Canada and Australia came to stand beside him and minuscule tremors wracked his frame.
“Very... well done, lads.” And it was, both in the main battle and in their timely intervention. He managed an affectionate nuzzle for both and was rewarded when Canada stood straighter, head raised, and Australia ruffled his wings with pride - look, I helped save Britain! - but even that little bit sapped even more of his energy and he shuddered. Blood seeped through rents and gashes that were closing but slowly - France’s invasion had indeed been taking its toll.
Canada, worried, watched him falter. “Britain? Arthur, you are badly wounded! Let...” The western Colony hesitated, unsure if he was being too bold. “Let us carry you back to camp. There you can at least rest and regain your strength.”
Great Britain stared at him for a long moment, and Canada felt very small under the intimidating gaze of the huge dragon. Then the moment was broken as Arthur shifted, settling his weight on his less-injured foreleg. “I suppose that may be for the best.”
Space and mass shifted as the island’s body compacted in on itself, pale skin forming from pitch scales, wings and talons and horns vanishing, clothes reappearing. Red spots on the fabric immediately started to appear as his wounds bled liberally. One arm hung limp and lifeless, the other pressing a hand to his ribs as Arthur gathered his strength for a moment, eyes closed and back painfully straight, his face carefully devoid of emotion or pain, before nodding to his Colonies. Canada laid his paws upon the ground, palms upturned and talons open, delicately closing about his Empire’s battered frame before lifting off, heading back to the British forces.
.o.O.o.““But if we have more liberty than we ought,” Laurence said after a moment, struggling through, “it is because they have not enough: the dragons. They have no stake in victory but our happiness; their daily bread any nation would give them just to have peace and quiet. We are given license so long as we do what we ought not: so long as we use their affections to keep them obedient and quiet, to ends which serve them not at all - or which harm.”
“How else do you make them care?” Granby said. “If we left off, the French would only run right over us, and take our eggs themselves.”
“They care in China,” Laurence said, “and in Africa, and care all the more, that their rational sense is not imposed on, and their hearts put into opposition with their minds. If they cannot be woken to a natural affection for their country, such as we feel, it is our fault and not theirs.””
.o.O.o.
Temeraire tried to sit as still as he could as the surgeon got between his scales to remove bullets that had lodged between them and those that had punctured deeper, into the meat of him. Ensign Roland was by the doctor’s side, learning over his shoulder as he worked, and supplied a fast hand to wipe away the dark blood that dribbled from the small punctures. Every now and then he would wriggle, for it was quite uncomfortable, and the surgeon would grace him with a sharp word. All in all, he did not care, for though the battle was won, Laurence was looking fairly miserable. He had not been injured, Temeraire was certain, so the Celestial figured that it must be the impending doom of execution that weighed upon his mind.
His talons involuntarily clenched at the thought. They will not! I shall not allow it! Laurence is a hero, plainly said, and the Admiralty has done not even half as much as any naval midshipman against Napoléon - ‘tis they who should be hung... he continued to grumble furiously to himself in the privacy of his own mind, ignoring the crewmen that noticed his evident agitation and skirted him widely. Of course, Laurence stayed, dear Laurence, who had a hand against his muzzle in a comforting gesture. The surgeon finally pronounced him done and went to clean his bloodstained hands and tools in a washbasin.
Laurence smiled and scratched one of Temeraire’s eye ridges, into which he leaned with a grateful rumble. “There you are, my dear. Now, shall we get you cleaned up? There is a lake not far from here where we might wash away the grime.”
Temeraire was all for this. Gunpowder, pepper-gun residue, and blood still clung to his scales and it would be a relief to be properly scrubbed again. Perhaps it might even take Laurence’s mind off of the looming future, which would be a blessing.
A great flutter of wings was heard and wind pressure suddenly increased as a pair of dragons Temeraire only vaguely recognised banked almost directly overhead, landing in a small, secluded clearing near theirs, separated only by a very sparse line of trees and brush. His own was towards the edge of the camp - Most likely no-one wishes to associate with ones so recently named ‘traitor’, he thought glumly. Maximus, Lily, their old formation, and many of the unharnessed dragons from Pen Y Fan were settled nearby, but closer in towards the main camp where it would be a better walking distance for their crews. He craned his head upwards, trying to see why they would be coming in so fast but were landing so far from the centre of camp.
His eyes widened as he saw the big red - Though not as big as myself, he noted offhandedly - carrying a man in his talons. The coat the man wore was dark, dirty, and bloodstained; Temeraire could not tell if the original colour was the Corps’ bottle-green or the Navy’s blue. The red heavyweight settled his forepaws upon the ground and the injured man rose, albeit with some veiled difficulty, sliding from the larger dragon’s palms to steady himself on the proffered foreleg of the smaller one. Straightening his back and steeling his shoulders, the man removed his hand from the smaller dragon with a pat of thanks and began a steady, if slow, pace towards camp.
This, Temeraire would not let stand. How could those two just stand there when someone who was obviously in pain needed to get to the medical tents as soon as possible? He felt his neck ruff rising with indignance at this slight. They’d carried him in from the field, so it seemed, and they could not take him just the little bit further into camp? The nerve!
“Excuse me,” Temeraire interjected, his tone icy, “but the medical building is in the centre of camp. I suggest you go there, rather than here, if help is needed.”
The two dragons looked up and over at him, startled, and the Celestial could feel Laurence jolt, surprised, from where he leaned on his foreleg. The human turned his head, fixing Temeraire with an unreadable gaze. “You. Dragon. Are you suggesting that I am not fit enough to walk into camp on my own?” The stranger’s tone was equally cold, though Temeraire could detect a bare hint of pain beneath staid British resolve, but the rudeness of it still rankled him. Dragon, indeed! Still, Laurence was always lecturing about compassion...
Acting on impulse, he scooped Laurence into his paws and with a hop and a few wingbeats was over the small trees to the other clearing in but a moment. Upon landing, Laurence let out a stifled gasp of “Good God, man!” and rushed to the other’s side, supporting him as he threw the man’s uninjured arm around his shoulders. The other hung uselessly, and its attached shoulder had the most blood of anywhere on the coat. The dragons that had brought him in had given a sudden start, protectively moving in to cover their wounded - charge? Captain? - from Temeraire, and the smaller one bristled, made all the more intimidating with spines extended. The heavyweight puffed out his chest and mantled his wings, the leathery membrane semitransparent in the sunlight. “This is none of your business, good sir, and we must respectfully ask that you return to your encampment.”
“Bollocks,” Laurence snapped, and Temeraire blinked in surprise at his captain, who would normally never condone the use of such language, least of all use it himself. “He needs medical attention now, and if you are unwilling, I shall take him myself.”
The injured man growled at that, the sound so draconic Temeraire almost mistook from whom it came. Apparently it startled Laurence as well, as he swung his head around to stare. “While I may not seem perfectly all right, I can assure you that my wounds are not as threatening as they appear. I am not in need of assistance, thankful though I am that you have offered.” He began to remove his arm from Laurence’s shoulders, but the captain caught his wrist before he could do so. They were two of a kind, much the same build - average height but broad-shouldered - and despite protestations, one of them was weakened. Even as they spoke, Temeraire could see a dark stain transferring itself from the side of the stranger’s coat to Laurence’s.
The aviator had evidently noticed as well. With the quiet stubbornness that kept his head held high despite everything, he strengthened his hold on the injured man and started marching him in Temeraire’s direction. “You are suffering, and though I would normally be inclined to respect a man’s decisions, the magnitude of blood that your coat alone seems to have wicked is enough to convince me otherwise. So pray be silent, sir, and allow us to bring you to where you may be treated.”
Still rumbling with that odd, draconic growl, the man forcibly wrenched himself away from Laurence, seemingly as easy as though the aviator were no stronger than a mere boy, but the effort seemed to cost him and he stumbled, dropping to one knee. A grunt of pain escaped him, hurt flashing over his features. “Leave me,” came the low snarl. His coat had fallen open, and Temeraire could see the enormous red stain that almost covered what he could see of the white linen undershirt.
Temeraire made a snap decision. The little spined dragon looked about ready to fling itself upon Laurence in defence of the stranger, and he could not leave his captain in such peril. However, he couldn’t very well leave the strange man behind either. Though he had been quite rude, it was obviously because of the pain and Temeraire had to admit that injuries were indeed trying on one’s patience. He would have to grab them both. It was good that they were so close together.
In a split-second flurry of paws and wings, the Celestial shot forward and scooped both humans into his grasp, bunching his hindquarters and launching himself skyward. Angling for the middle of camp, he put on as much speed as he could - a muted roar resounded from the clearing and Temeraire knew without looking that one of the dragons had leapt into flight behind him. The quick, light wingbeats told him that it was the smaller, more excitable one, not the red heavyweight.
He beat faster, hoping to outpace the young middleweight. The flight was a sprint, not long and drawn out where he would have the advantage of greater stamina, and the littler one was empowered by rage and who knew what else. Temeraire skimmed over the treetops, passing over the clearings of other dragons that looked up to see what all the commotion was. A quick glance over his shoulder showed that the spined dragon was keeping up right behind him, and the red had taken flight as well, bearing down upon them from behind its smaller companion.
They are quick, Temeraire thought grimly, though hopefully not quick enough, and they are tired - their wings were shaky as they set down. Unfortunately, so are mine. Just a little bit more... His tail clipped the top of an evergreen and sent needles and cones rattling to the ground in a pine-scented rain. Soldiers cursed and scattered below as the Celestial’s black form swooped lower, almost to the open area near one of the few buildings in the area, a two-level structure that had been commandeered by the army and turned into a makeshift hospital, surrounded by tents for the housing of those in less-critical shape. The cleared field where no tents stood was just barely overlarge enough, having been kept uncluttered with a few middleweights in mind - it had not been thought that a heavyweight would be ferrying the injured. I will still be able to land, though I must watch my tail... And suddenly he noticed that his tail must need a little more watching than he thought, for a roar from behind shook his scales. They’re catching...!
A trio of powerful, air-displacing backwings and then his hindpaws hit the soil, nearby tents straining at their posts and tethers from the wind. Hurriedly, Temeraire laid his forepaws down to release the two he held in his grasp. The injured one, despite his bloodied condition, was not in the least amused or accepting of this treatment - even from his high vantage point, the dragon could see the tensed muscles, the wild, narrow eyes, and he worried for his Laurence as his captain attempted to bodily haul the other man to the building, though it was a battle to even get the stranger to budge but a little. At least he was not being so rude anymore, just stubbornly not quite ready to resign himself to the healers - for whatever reason, Temeraire knew not. Luckily, a physician from inside the hospital saw them - or, more likely, Temeraire - and a trio of men ran out to help Laurence, and none too soon.
The middleweight landed.
It was a tight fit, even though the other dragon was young and small, but there was just enough space; it barrelled down in a snarling, spitting rush of claws, spines, and dark bronze-brown scales, crying something in an accent, perhaps even a language, that Temeraire failed to comprehend. Whatever it said was unimportant, what was important was that he was headed straight for Laurence. Temeraire roared and swiped at it, but it was too close to him to properly aim - he missed, barely. A panicked call - “Laurence!” - and the captain and doctors turned...
“Hold.”
The way the smaller dragon slammed to a halt was almost comical; all four paws dug into the ground and his tail as well, many of the spikes on the end thudding into the dirt as it almost faceplanted into the ground in its effort to stop its own forward momentum. The humans looked shaken, and Temeraire would have pinned the earth-toned youngling to the ground save for that it was already prone, meek under the glare of the injured one - and I remember how that Papillion Noir fell from the sky after being pierced. The effort had cost the man though, and he slumped, finally at the end of his strength, putting up no more complaint as the physicians hauled him off, save the irritated expression that never left his face. Laurence followed them into the building with one last apologetic glance back at Temeraire, who was now once again worried about the spiny little dragon now that its captain was gone. For it must be his captain, it has to be, else why would he react so?
The other dragon turned to him, having extricated itself from the ground, the long spines ripping up chunks of dirt. The expression on its face was murderous and it bristled angrily. It would have spoken, probably, but at that moment the heavyweight that had accompanied it made an appearance overhead, banking to turn in a wide circle around them. “Return, Pyropus!” it called, obviously addressing its companion, “He will be safe.” The little one was not convinced in the slightest, apparent by the way it hunched and hissed, yelling up to the big red in a lilting, almost musical language that in normal circumstances would have Temeraire intrigued. As it passed over him, it called down to the Celestial, “And I would have words with you as well. Please, follow us back - we may go to your clearing if you might feel more at ease doing so.”
A relative compromise. Very well. “I accept.” Still wary of the spiny one but reassured by the way the other stranger was willing to approach Temeraire on what was relatively his ‘own’ grounds, he rose, going aloft and angling back towards his edge of the camp as the heavyweight banked to follow and an earthy glint of bronze scales below signalled the young middleweight’s presence as well. They flew back to Temeraire’s clearing, and the other two circled as the Celestial landed, informing his crew that he was entertaining visitors - and would they please find Gong Su and ask him if he might make tea? The two overhead descended as the remnants of his crew scattered to make room.
Temeraire watched them as they landed, he himself curling his tail neatly around so that he might appear elegant and in control, despite the fact that he still hadn’t had a wash after the battles earlier. The strangers were much the same, smelling of metallic blood and acrid gunpowder, and Temeraire hoped that the tea would come soon so that he could at least focus on the soothing taste. The large red settled itself to Temeraire’s front, wings mantling and showing off their sunset colouring for a moment before folding properly, and the little one kept next to its larger companion, pacing in a frustrated circle for the while, agitation keeping it from sitting still. Temeraire arched his neck, displaying his ruff, though not in a threatening manner - moreso to display his status as one of the rarest and most valued dragon-breeds alive. I do hope they can appreciate that, though with the young one’s coarse manners it is hard to believe that he would even know what China is. He cleared his throat.
“Now that we are settled, I believe it is time for some issues to be explained. You wished to speak with me?” He tried his best to emulate Laurence at his most patient; it simply would not do to appear anything less than composed in front of these strangers.
The heavyweight nodded its head gracefully, purple-tinted muzzle dipping fractionally with ease and confidence, and Temeraire sat up a little straighter. Where are you from? You have the cultured bearing much as some I met in China, but I do not recognise your breed. When it spoke, Temeraire tried to place the odd close-but-not-quite-British accent, but was unable to do so. “I did. It appears that some matters are in need of explanation. Before we talk though, I must introduce myself. Hriðhige is what I am called, and this is Pyropus.” The little bronze middleweight had finally stopped moving and laid down, but was still being insociable, giving the Celestial a hard look and pointedly not speaking to him, so Temeraire decided to ignore him outright. Honestly, so rude! Perhaps he gets it from his captain.
Temeraire nodded in return to the heavyweight, acknowledging. “And I am Temeraire. Now, I am curious to know - what were you doing, bringing an injured man into camp so far from help?”
At that moment, Gong Su and several of Temeraire’s ground crew returned to the clearing, laboriously carrying with them an enormous pot that smelled of black tea, and three great bowls, one smaller than the other two, and the Chinaman oversaw the pouring of tea for each dragon, prostrating himself before serving Temeraire, as usual, but also delighting as the other two accepted their tea graciously, even Pyropus, expressing their surprise at being served and at the deliciousness of the tea. As the humans retreated from camp, Temeraire delicately set down his still-steaming, half-full bowl and looked expectantly at Hriðhige. The red dragon took another sip of his tea before carefully placing it on the grass before him; beside his larger companion the little bronze hadn’t even bothered to use its paws to raise the bowl, content to drop its head and sip instead - Temeraire noted then that it did not have opposable claws with which to grip the tea bowl.
“Well then, I suppose you would appreciate having your question answered,” the heavyweight began. “The fact of the matter, in its simplest terms, is that his injuries were not of a severity that required medical attention, despite how it may have seemed from your limited perspective of the situation. As you should know, serving in the Corps as you do, supplies during wartime are limited and must be saved for those that need them the most. Come morning, he would have been up and about, fit as any here and ready to do his duty, all without an extended visit to the physicians. You must have noted for yourself his reluctance to comply with you.”
And he did remember, but that was entirely beside the point, and more importantly they had brought up a sore spot that forever rankled the Celestial. Duty. Temeraire hissed, and damn if he didn’t remember every single word of his conversations with Laurence about duty to one’s country, duty to the people, duty to one’s superiors, and how insensible it all had seemed. It was more of a love for Laurence and a respect of his captain’s love for his country than any true sense of duty that had brought him out of Pen Y Fan in command of a misfit draconic army. Duty had thrown his life into shambles. “Duty. Duty would have good men make traitors of themselves, sacrificing all for those that do not deserve their loyalty. Duty kept Laurence and I apart, with him in danger of walking willingly to his death! What has duty ever done in return for those who have served the concept their whole lives? Is that all you care about, this man - your captain - merely be able to ‘do his duty’? It is as bad as that awful Rankin, in its own way, when he abused poor Levitas, save that now it appears that the reverse is true, where we who should protect our men don’t even care enough to see them safe!”
Pyropus, who had previously been content to be silently hostile, exploded with vitriolic fury. “An’ who are you t’be lecturin’ t’ us about the value of safety and duty? ‘Tis obvious you ‘ave no sense o’ the former, and th’ only one’s safety you care abou’ is your captain. What abou’ the people of your Country, eh? ‘ave you no care for their safety and freedom? Oh, tha’s righ’, you don’t care about duty, or responsibility, or the liberty of your Country, or --”
“Pyropus.” Hriðhige’s quiet voice was deeply displeased, but the smaller dragon snapped back at the larger, increasingly incensed and caustic. “No! Do not order my silence; I care no’ if you are th’ favoured one. I shall say whatever I wish!”
“That you will not. You cannot watch your tongue, and would embarrass our lord.” Hriðhige’s tone was all crackling brimstone, though its fires were banked, and his tail twitched from side to side behind him in annoyance. The two stared each other down, a silent battle of wills, before Pyropus relented, obviously still unhappy, and the red heavyweight’s attention fixed back on Temeraire. “Forgive him, sometimes he does not remember that he should not challenge outright in this time of war,” he continued on in his quiet voice, but the baleful eye that he turned to the Celestial was anything but merciful. “However, that does not excuse you, and your blatant disrespect.”
Temeraire pulled his head back, his ruff instinctively flaring. “I only speak of what is true. Sensibility seems to be put aside in favour of concepts such as duty, and patriotism. England--” he almost spat the word, and offhandedly felt a mild gladness that Longwings were generally even-tempered, “--would slaughter the dragons of Europe, and even China, if it would ensure their victory over Napoléon! They blame him for a multitude of evils when they themselves perform an act more heinous than any I have ever heard attributed to the French. And when one good man would put a stop to their...” he paused, searching for a word, the rising fury that was clouding his mind keeping the proper vocabulary from him, until he settled upon one that Laurence had once read and then explained to him, and gone quiet when he did so, “...genocide, then they would put that man to death, for he thwarted their plans. Tell me then, why should I show respect to such a nation, when men such as the Admiralty show such decay of reason?”
Violet eyes narrowed with veiled anger, but to a specific slight or to his tirade in general Temeraire knew not. The quiet voice held, never raising in volume, but Temeraire felt a chilling prickle under his scales when Hriðhige spoke next. “And such would a malcontent say when discussing the government, and at some times such malcontents are indeed necessary, but the government alone does not a Nation make, and sometimes one evil may be needed to combat another--No!” Hriðhige bared his fangs at the Celestial’s immediate hiss and wing-mantling. “I do not abide their decision! Do not make that mistake! For an evil act it was; there is no denying such, save for those that made the decision and deny it to themselves so that they may sleep more easily. But what you do not seem to realise is that sometimes there must be sacrifices made - it is a testament to the willpower of your captain that he would willingly choose the path of his own ruin so that he might save others, but in your contempt of the government you belittle his sacrifice! Yes, I have heard of you, Temeraire, and of your captain, and I know of what you did. Laurence would suffer so that the dragons of Europe might live, he serves so that he might protect the people of this, his Country, and safeguard Britain from its enemies, both within and without. What do you fight for, other than your captain? Britain will remember Captain Laurence for years to come - the aviator who defied his own Nation, but loved it so much that he would return to face its judgement. He will go down in history for his loyalty. You? For all of your intelligence, you cannot seem to comprehend the concept of self-sacrifice for the greater good - or, as said concept is commonly known as, duty." The red heavyweight bared his teeth deprecatingly, wings ruffled and hunched over his back.
Temeraire bristled at the insult, his talons flexing in anger and digging furrows into the dirt, his last efforts at keeping civility crumbling away. How dare he speak as if he knows me! “I would sacrifice myself for love of Laurence, and that is enough for me! What do I care if history remembers me or not so long as my captain is there with me to see it happen! If we are thrown from Britain, or even refused by China, or any and every other government of the earth, as long as Laurence lives I would be content. You may ridicule me for it, but considering that you would let your captain suffer for the sake of your precious duty, I am not entirely sure that you would understand such singular devotion.” The Celestial drew his head up, gaining superior height over the smaller heavyweight, and flared his ruff. “As for loyalty to a nation, be as it may, the fact of the matter remains that men - and dragons! - bleed and die for their people, for their country, but the country does not bleed for them in return. The people might show their gratitude, but the nation just lumbers on, unconcerned as ever when good men like Laurence would be brave and loyal or when horrid men like those of the Admiralty would slaughter every last dragon in Europe for a chance at superiority!”
Unable to remain silent any longer, Pyropus, who had been pacing like a caged beast next to his larger companion, snarled violently, spreading his wings, spines standing up stiffly. When he spoke, it was with barely-restrained fury, but his eyes caught the Celestial’s and held his gaze, and for a moment Temeraire felt lost, engulfed by something the enormity of which he had no ability to describe, and then it was gone, sensed for no more than a moment. “You have no idea how much your Nation bleeds for its people. Even for you.” The little dragon, trembling with fury, gathered itself on its haunches and launched itself up, almost immediately disappearing over the tree line.
Temeraire growled at this retreat as he watched the young middleweight go, but swung back to Hriðhige when the red dragon raised himself up, evidently to follow the other. “I believe this matter has been discussed to its fullest, for the moment. Now, if you will excuse me--” his voice was brittle, but still unfailingly polite in that odd accent of his, “--I must go and ensure that your blundering has not caused a major incident.” And he was off, leaving Temeraire seething in his backdraft, alone in his clearing.
.o.O.o.
Part II: http://nightblink.livejournal.com/15441.html