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Entry tags:
July [OTP23]
Title: I planned to walk this road alone
Fandom: Temeraire
Characters/Ship: Laurence/Tharkay, Laurence & Temeraire & Tharkay
Word count: ~5k words
Summary: The one where Tharkay is the dragon captain and Laurence is the support.
Notes: The prompts: vacation together | power swap | enemies to lovers | “batman won’t like this” | stars | coffeeshop au. I'm going to be real with you: this was not what I intended to write at all. I was totally going to go the coffeeshop AU route. I don't know what happened.
Thanks to VervetCadet for the beta! All remaining mistakes are mine.
“It is such luck, isn’t it?” says Téméraire, listening once again to the story of his hatching. It’s admittedly a rather dramatic tale—well-suited to the dragon’s bloodthirsty tastes in literature. “Just think, if there hadn’t been all that fuss in Mumbai”—a coup, he is talking about a coup—“you might have been able to catch the ship you’d originally booked! And then you’d never have crossed paths with that French ship, what was it called—”
“I never did find out,” says Tharkay thoughtfully. It’s a lie, of course, but the information had been sealed almost immediately by British intelligence.
“—And if they hadn’t lost most of their cargo—other than me, obviously—in a storm, then they wouldn’t have been desperate enough to attack an East India Trading Company ship—”
Tharkay shakes his head. “It really is incredible, what some people will do for a cup of tea,” he sighs.
“—Which they were ultimately horribly overwhelmed by, even though it was a merchant vessel. And, of course, when that merchant vessel pulled over the small amount of cargo remaining to the French ship, that included me, and then I heard your voice on the other side of my shell, and so of course I wanted to meet you when I hatched—”
“To my eternal honour and joy, yes.”
“ —And if it hadn’t been for such a strange twist of circumstances and coincidences, I should very likely never have met you at all!” Téméraire turns his great head to look down at Tharkay earnestly. “Oh, Tharkay, I cannot bear that thought!”
Tharkay looks up at Téméraire and quirks a smile. “I would not have been your captain, it’s true, but it doesn’t follow that we would never have met. Who knows? A different set of coincidences may just as well have led to our meeting there. And I know I would have loved you, captain or not.”
Téméraire settles, appeased, and continues narrating the story from there as Tharkay listens, nestled comfortably against his forearm.
He isn’t really certain why he chose the name Téméraire when the dragon asked him for one. He had only thought, at the time, that a French dragon—for that was what they had supposed at the time—should have a French name. And a great beast of the sea, land, and air, needn’t be chained by human weaknesses and mores like caution or prudence. No, he should be free from all that, and free from those expectations, and so Tharkay blurted the first word to occur to him: Téméraire, reckless.
In retrospect, Tharkay considers, looking up at his dragon fondly, Téméraire is exceptionally well-named.
“—And now we are in China, and we have even learned that you are descended from royalty on your mother’s side—”
“Certainly a clever invention of Prince Mianning and Sun Kai,” says Tharkay, unbothered. “I’ve visited my mother’s family, and if they’re royalty, I’ll eat my hat.”
“What hat?” asks Téméraire curiously.
“If it comes to that, I’m sure I’ll be able to find one.”
“I suppose so. And now you’ve been adopted by the emperor, and you’re a prince in China as well!”
Tharkay makes a face. It’s true that there’s little he wouldn’t suffer to remain as Téméraire’s companion, but couldn’t it have involved more thumb screws and fewer elaborate silken robes?
“And now we are to take a ship back to England! It seems like such a roundabout path. Will it really be better to take the sea rather than head back over land? Though I admit, travelling through the desert was somewhat unpleasant.”
“Bhāi, if we never see another camel again, I’ll only be too thrilled,” says Tharkay darkly. To think that he used to take that route for fun. Things really were different, travelling with a dragon.
“Do you know the captain who will be escorting us back?”
“I do not know him, no.” Except in that way where Tharkay had met many arrogant Englishmen over the years, and could already predict their every interaction, starting from the first sneer and upturned nose. “We’ll meet him soon enough.” And then they’ll have to put up with him for months.
William Laurence of the HMS Allegiance fits so perfectly into Tharkay’s expectations that for a moment, Tharkay thinks he’s a parody. Despite the recent long sea voyage and the subsequent trip through the boisterous markets of Macao to reach the compound currently housing Tharkay and Téméraire, Laurence’s pale, blond hair remains in a perfect queue, his blue coat lies straight and unwrinkled across his broad shoulders, and his neckcloth is tied tightly even in the heat.
He greets Tharkay with a surprisingly polite nod, and then he asks to speak with the captain of the dragon Téméraire of the British Aerial Corps. He even presents Tharkay with his card, as though they’re in a blasted parlour talking over tea cakes about the latest hunting horse they’ve purchased.
Well, if he wants to pretend that’s the case, Tharkay is well-trained to oblige him. He’s capable of as many accents as he is languages, and though he tends to lean more into his Scottish heritage when he’s with the aviators, Tharkay pulls out his best Eton schoolboy English for the occasion. “I am Tharkay,” he says, accepting Laurence’s card. “I am Téméraire’s captain. Captain Laurence, I presume?”
Laurence is unflatteringly surprised, though he hides it quickly. “Captain Tharkay, how do you do,” he says evenly.
Now is typically the time that Tharkay would be accused in various roundabout ways of lying, and so he does Laurence the favour of addressing the topic himself. “I’d offer you identification,” he says, tilting his head to one side and allowing his hair—tidy, but still with some black strands fighting to escape from their ties—to fall to one side. Laurence’s eyes follow the movement, seemingly against his will. “But the best proof that I am who I say is Téméraire himself. Dragons are not parted from their captains easily, after all, and dishonesty is not in their nature.”
Different creatures have different advantages and disadvantages. Tharkay knows this well. He’s certain there must be some area in which humans are superior to dragons rather than the other way around, but he hasn’t found it yet.
“Indeed,” says Laurence stiffly, managing to sound both offended and relieved. Ah, Tharkay has been too direct for him, and now his feelings are hurt because Tharkay has suggested that Laurence believes him to be a liar. “I am sure it is as you say, Captain Tharkay. When will you be ready to depart? I was not given a strict timeline in my orders, but I understood the matter to be urgent.”
Tharkay raises his eyebrows. “Is it? It seems you’ve been given more information than we have, then. Come, let us speak with Téméraire and the ground crew to be certain, but I believe we should be ready to leave at your earliest convenience.”
Laurence follows him with visible reluctance, and they exit the building Tharkay has been given through the back, into the massive courtyard housing Téméraire’s pavilion. “M'eudail,” Tharkay calls, “meet Captain Laurence, who will kindly be escorting us back to Britain.”
Téméraire turns to them. Ah, it seems he himself is hosting as well—Lung Qin Mei looks up from her delicately painted, tub-sized porcelain teacup and bows her head to them courteously.
Tharkay bows to her in the Chinese manner, and Laurence hesitates for only a fraction of a second before following suit with an English courtier’s bow.
“Captain Laurence! How nice to meet you,” says Téméraire brightly in English, translating in Chinese for Lung Qin Mei as he goes. “Do come in. Isn’t this pavilion lovely? Look at these paintings that Mei has brought for me—aren’t they exquisite? And all by dragon artists, you know! Why, I hadn’t any idea before we left Britain that dragons could be artists!”
Laurence clearly has no clue how to reply, but he is rescued by Mei’s distress. “Do you really wish to return to that place?” she asks Téméraire urgently. “It sounds as though dragons are treated no better than horses!”
Laurence, predictably, bristles at this when Tharkay helpfully provides him with a translation. Really, the man has likely never been to a covert or seen a dragon up close before, and here he is ready to defend his nation with no notion of the truth or falsehoods of that claim.
More truth than falsehood, as far as Tharkay is concerned.
“It’s not so bad as all that, though there is certainly room for improvement,” Téméraire agrees. “But how will things improve, if I am not there to fight for them?”
Laurence blinks at him, evidently taken aback.
“You’ll have to forgive Téméraire, Captain Laurence,” says Tharkay without a hint of apology in his tone. “He’s rather an abolitionist.”
Laurence’s pale complexion turns red. He is not, Tharkay is disappointed to note, one of those people who flushes in blotches. The red-with-fury colouring is an unfortunately good look on him. “Is he?” asks Laurence, and then he turns back to Téméraire pointedly. “Then you are in good company, sir. My family have long been prominent supporters of the abolitionist movement.”
“Splendid!” cheers Téméraire as Tharkay reels from this unexpected news. Well, there had to be at least one way that Laurence would break the Perfect Posh Prat mould, he supposes, or else admit that he’s a caricature rather than a human. He expected something smaller and more amusing, of course, like a secret love of lobster. “Then you can explain to me different ways to get started with a proposal to take to Parliament.”
Laurence adjusts his neckcloth unnecessarily—it was already perfectly straight, somehow—and clears his throat. “I’m afraid that I’m no legal expert—”
Admitting that he doesn’t know something, and to someone he views as a lower class, no less? Tharkay is sure he must be mishearing this. Or perhaps this is his way around agreeing to provide help for a cause he doesn’t believe in.
“—But perhaps we can find some books on the subject here, or at one of the ports on our journey.” Laurence gives Téméraire a very small smile. It’s devastatingly attractive. “There will be plenty of time for us to educate ourselves on the topic before we make port in Dover.”
Tharkay narrows his eyes at Laurence. Perhaps he’s not a rich Englishman after all, but a changeling.
“That would be very helpful,” agrees Téméraire thoughtfully. “I’m sure I could find some books on British law here. Would you read them to me, Laurence?”
Laurence seems startled by this, as though it hadn’t occurred to him that a twenty-tonne dragon with talons for hands would have difficulty turning the pages of a human-sized book.
“Certainly, my dear,” he says, the endearment seemingly pulled from him automatically. “I’d be happy to, when my duties don’t interfere.”
“I’m sure we have books of that nature, Lung Tien Xiang,” says Lung Qin Mei hesitantly. “But some may only be written in Mandarin.”
“Tharkay can read me those,” says Téméraire carelessly.
Lung Qin Mei looks at Tharkay doubtfully. “I believe these books may use rather… sophisticated language,” she hints gently.
“You are correct that Mandarin is not my first language—nor my second, nor my third,” says Tharkay to her in her own language. He would usually be insulted by her doubt, and indeed, if she were a human, he likely would be. But looking up at Lung Qin Mei’s earnest concern, and recognising that the Chinese method of writing can be very challenging for anyone more accustomed to a phonetic script, he can’t bring himself to feel offended. “But I assure you, this will not be the first legal text I’ll have read in Chinese. It is not my idea of a pleasant afternoon of relaxation,” he adds dryly, “but I am capable.”
Lung Qin Mei dips her head in acquiescence, probably more because she is unwilling to argue the point than because she believes him.
“Captain Laurence inquired earlier about an estimated time of departure, Téméraire,” Tharkay says, changing the subject.
“I believe we should be ready right away, except for these books,” says Téméraire.
“I will acquire them for you, Lung Tien Xiang,” says Lung Qin Mei, rising. “They will be ready for you before you leave.”
“Thank you, Mei, that’s too kind of you,” says Téméraire.
As Lung Qin Mei departs, they begin discussing the logistical points of their trip, with Laurence occasionally making surprisingly helpful suggestions. Their discussion continues through dinner, and by the time Laurence returns to his ship to make preparations now that they have a hard departure date set, Tharkay’s attitude toward their upcoming voyage has entirely shifted.
Before, he anticipated a long period of entertaining Téméraire through the boredom and monotony of the trip while ignoring the sneers and mutterings of the ship crew and trying to keep his own crew of aviators from starting any fights they couldn’t finish. A mixture of pleasant leisure with his dragon and irritating interactions with the humans, as usual.
Now, he must still face all of that, but do it in the presence of an increasingly, infuriatingly attractive Captain William Laurence.
Perhaps they should try to tackle the desert again after all.
Lung Qin Mei must have torn through the whole of China to find as many legal texts in western languages as she did, though a number of them are in Dutch, Portuguese, and French rather than English. Still, it’s an impressive number to add to the sea chest containing their little travelling library, and in their final days before launch, Tharkay spent some productive time in the local markets finding other books he thought Téméraire might enjoy, and a few indulgent stories for himself.
In a tiny, out of the way shop, he even finds a storybook about dragons written in Khas Kura that he purchases on a whim. Téméraire is hardly a child, and the story will likely not much appeal to him, but when Tharkay returns to the compound and runs his fingers down the cheap paper covered in stylised illustrations and fluid Davanagari script, something in him feels alternately tightly wound and buoyant. He hides the book within the dry pages of Principia Mathematica, which he purchased as a joking threat to use against the midwingmen who try to avoid studying their numbers, and he closes the chest securely.
The day of their launch is clear and bright, with a strong wind, and they make good time as they speed through the South China Sea.
Laurence seems to be in a terribly good mood as he moves about the ship, barking orders and shouting approval. Tharkay has met a number of high-ranked British navy men who never managed to find their sealegs, but Laurence steps along the swaying deck with the same grace he’d shown on land. Tharkay finds this aggravating, for no good reason, and he distracts himself and his temper by once again telling Téméraire stories of his infancy on a ship, and how he’d loved to swim and eat fish.
He doesn’t realise Laurence is listening until the man says, “If you’d like to go fishing now, out beyond our nets, it’s likely a good time. You’re confident you can keep up with the transport?”
“Oh yes,” Téméraire assures him. And then the awful creature adds, “Would you like to come along, Laurence?”
Laurence glances at Tharkay as though for confirmation that this is acceptable. In the moment between Tharkay being irritated at the idea of sharing his rare private time with Téméraire and Laurence turning to him, something occurs to Tharkay: the image of Laurence dripping in seawater from Téméraire’s enthusiastic dives has tremendous merit. With this in mind, he inclines his head and says, “Certainly. If you have the time, you should join us, Captain Laurence.”
So Laurence, evidently curious about dragonflight, is buckled onto the harness beside Tharkay using some spare carabiners, and off they go.
Téméraire does a few showy turns in the air, but when Tharkay glances over to see how the sea captain is fairing, Laurence looks the very opposite of frightened. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes are bright, and his long blond hair is finally starting to tug free of his queue from the force of the air around them.
The picture he presents is distracting in all the wrong ways, so Tharkay turns to stare out at the endless blue horizon. He still prefers land travel to long sea voyages, he thinks, but there is something incredible about this feeling that they’re the only people in the world, that any direction is open to them.
When Téméraire’s sharp eyes spot a fish, Tharkay recognises the bunching of his muscles and turns to warn Laurence, and he finds that Laurence is staring at him. He has to stop himself from raising a hand to his face and hair—no doubt he does look a mess, if even Captain William Laurence’s hair is escaping its queue.
“Close your mouth,” he tells Laurence, leaning down to press his chest flat against Téméraire’s back.
Laurence pulls back sharply, “I beg you pardon—” he begins, and Tharkay drags him down against Téméraire’s scales as the dragon dives sharply.
When they breach the surface again with Téméraire announcing gleefully, “This is a big one!” as he swallows some unidentified sea creature whole, Laurence’s eyes are wide, pupils blown, and he’s panting. Tharkay laughs at his expression and tries ineffectively to wipe off his face with his soaking sleeve.
Laurence blinks at him slowly, shaking off the seawater. And then, does this strange captain yell at him, or threaten him, or try to hit him? No, Laurence seems incapable of behaving the way Tharkay expects, because instead of doing any of those things, he looks at Tharkay’s laughing face, and he laughs, too.
Tharkay hasn’t seen him laugh before. His entire face lights up, and he almost seems to glow.
It’s terrible.
“That was very interesting,” says Téméraire as Laurence closes the legal tome with evident relief. “I had no idea that English laws are so poorly designed and written.”
Laurence frowns and opens his mouth, probably to argue in futile defence of their nation’s laws, when Téméraire adds, “But it is early yet, is it not, Laurence? What other books are there?”
And so Tharkay watches idly from his perch on Téméraire’s forearm—Laurence has claimed the other forearm, which Tharkay has graciously permitted—as Laurence climbs down and returns the book to their library chest, digging carefully through it as he does. “Ah, here is one we haven’t read yet,” he says, and then his face falls hilariously as he reads the title. “Ah, this one is in Latin,” he says, his eyes jumping around evasively. Tharkay freezes. “And—it does not appear to be topical.”
“But you know Latin, Laurence! If you did not, how would you be able to tell whether the book is on topic or not?” reasons Téméraire, and at any other time, Tharkay would be smirking. “What is it called?”
“Principia Mathematica,” Laurence admits in a low voice, probably hoping not to be heard. He has, it seems, learned enough about Téméraire to know that the title will not be the deterrent for him that it would be for Tharkay’s midwingmen. “It—” he opens the book, and seems surprised when another falls out. “Oh,” he says, picking it up. “And this other one is—I am not familiar with this script, but it does not seem to be Chinese. The illustrations in this book, though, are of dragons.”
“Dragons!” says Téméraire, delighted by perhaps the sole topic that could have distracted him from a treatise on mathematics. “Could you hold it up for me? Tharkay, can you read this book?”
Laurence obediently holds the book up as close to Téméraire’s peering eyes as can be managed, and he looks over at Tharkay inquiringly. He must be expecting Tharkay to come down and join him, to inspect the book to determine if it is indeed in a language that he knows.
Of course, he doesn’t need to hold the book to know.
“Yes, I bought it in Guangzhou,” Tharkay admits quietly. “I do not know that you will like it, Téméraire. It was written for small children, and the plots and characters are very simple. I only purchased it because it is written in my mother’s mother tongue, and some of the stories are ones she told to me when I was very young, before she passed away.”
Laurence is staring at him now, his expression unreadable.
Dragons, of course, are only rarely caught by sentiment. “That is in Khas Kura, which you speak to me sometimes?” asks Téméraire. “I suppose it might do for language practice, but it is a pity that the stories are so silly.”
“Temeraire!” exclaims Laurence, apparently shocked at his callousness, but Tharkay laughs. Dragons do not have mothers, after all, not in the same way humans do.
“Our captain is worried that you might have offended me, bhāi,” says Tharkay easily. “You see, even if the stories are silly, they are important to me, because they remind me of my mother. My captain, if you will.”
Téméraire startles at that comparison. “She has been gone for a long time? Do you miss her very much?”
Tharkay smiles at his dragon. “Yes, and I do. But having you as my friend never fails to make my life brighter.”
Téméraire settles, as he always does when reassured of Tharkay’s affection, and he says imperiously, “Well, let us read these stories, then. Perhaps we may think of ways to improve them.”
Laurence’s mouth twitches at Téméraire’s declaration, and he passes the book up to Tharkay. “Please,” he says softly. “It would be an honour.”
It has been pleasant—very, concerningly pleasant—to listen to Laurence’s smooth voice read, despite the unengaging content. It has even been pleasant to listen to his and Téméraire’s ethical, moral, and legal debates, for neither is an immovable participant—Laurence listens seriously to Téméraire’s arguments, and when their discussions lead him to see an issue in a new, unconsidered light, he looks upset, and frustrated, as though his whole worldview is morphing. But rather than shutting it down and reverting to his easy beliefs, he lets his understanding change after a period of brooding. And sometimes, his rebuttals are so strong, so clear and cogent, that it is Téméraire who must fit his mind over a new idea of justice, or a new idea of duty.
Tharkay feels somewhat embarrassed to be following this precedent with a children’s book, but he opens it with a sigh and reads, first directly, and then with his own impromptu translation.
Téméraire huffs in irritation through every story, but Laurence shushes him. He seems utterly transfixed, for no reason Tharkay can determine.
As their voyage continues, they work their way through each book in the chest, and every new book they find when they’re stopped at port, but as often as Téméraire asks for Laurence to reread the Principia Mathematica, Laurence asks Tharkay, quietly, gently, to hear the book of Nepalese fairytales.
It’s hard to believe, but even with the torture of Laurence’s increasingly handsome face, the voyage passes quickly.
When they make to part, Laurence clasps Tharkay’s hand warmly and promises to write. “We each have our duty in this war,” says Laurence with considerably more respect in his tone at the duties of the aviators than he’d had at the onset of their journey, “but the war will not last forever. I will see you again, my friend.”
Tharkay’s traitorous heart is beating wildly in his chest as he looks up at Laurence. “Yes. I will see you again.” He smiles crookedly. “I look forward to your letters, Will.”
Tharkay has learned to expect the unexpected from Laurence, because he is unsurprised when, rather than reeling back with offence at this new, uninvited intimacy, Laurence brightens instead. “And I yours, Tenzing,” he says. And then he looks up over Tharkay’s shoulder. “Until we meet again, my dear,” he calls to Téméraire.
Téméraire, though eager to greet their friends at the covert, is deeply unhappy at leaving Laurence behind. On several occasions, when Laurence was not quite far enough away to be out of earshot from a dragon’s idea of a whisper, Téméraire has asked variations of, “Are you sure it would qualify as kidnapping? I’m sure he would be much happier with us.”
“Goodbye, Laurence,” says Téméraire mournfully now, but at least he doesn’t rehash his old arguments.
Tharkay clips himself to Téméraire’s harness, and they’re away. He can’t help but watch as the tiny dot of Laurence grows smaller and smaller in the distance.
Well, perhaps England does have one good human citizen after all.
Years pass, and the war ends. The world doesn’t quite seem real, after.
Tharkay lazes his days away on the grassy fields of the Loch Laggan covert, watching Téméraire play and plot with the other dragons, and he wonders what he’s expected to do with the rest of his life now.
“Right this way, captain,” he hears Tully say jovially. “It’s not often we get one of you Navy fellows out this way!”
Tharkay sits up sharply. He reaches up to his hair to pick out the grass.
“No,” he hears Laurence’s voice say. “I’d imagine that you don’t. Thank you very much, Mr Tully, I see him now.”
“Good day!”
Tharkay stands to greet Laurence. Though he may not hold himself quite to Laurence’s level of pressed and starched perfection, he typically does take some care with his appearance, and it’s upsetting that Laurence should find him here looking so dishevelled, with his coat and neckcloth discarded, and his hair all askew.
Laurence only smiles at him as he approaches, though. “Tenzing, it’s good to see you,” he says softly.
Tharkay clears his throat. “You as well,” he admits. “Letters haven’t been quite the same.”
They have run into one another a few times, usually in highly dramatic ways, such as when Laurence came flying (well, sailing) up the coast with a cure for the dragon illness, but it still seems to have been lifetimes since Tharkay last laid eyes on Laurence’s unnervingly beloved face.
“No,” agrees Laurence, and then they’re simply staring at one another.
Why are they staring at one another?
Tharkay knows why he is staring at Laurence, of course, he knows what the awful heat in chest, the lightness in his stomach, the joy and the fear, he knows what all of those mean.
But Tharkay also knows from careful, roundabout conversations and one, terrifying indiscretion from Iskierka that Laurence holds fairly traditional ideas about marriage and sex. So why is he staring at Tharkay with his blue eyes so warm and soft and happy?
Tharkay raises his eyebrows inquiringly, and Laurence shakes himself, tugging at his neckcloth sheepishly. “Pardon me, Tenzing. I’m simply very happy to see you. And—” he fidgets, causing Tharkay’s eyebrows to rise even higher. Laurence is not typically a fidgeter. “And I have a proposition for you. If you—that is, I don’t know what your plans are now, of course. But I have saved up quite a large sum of prize money over the years, and an estate has opened up for purchase in an area that carries a Parliamentary seat for dragons. I can afford it. It will take some time to raise the funds to build a pavilion for Temeraire, but—”
“That lizard can pay for his own pavilion,” says Tharkay, raising his voice so that Téméraire, who had spotted Laurence and swooped over, could hear. “He certainly collected enough prizes of his own.” He smiles up at Téméraire, in part because he loves smiling at Téméraire, but also to stop himself from smiling at Laurence.
“There’s no need to be so rude about it,” says Téméraire huffily. “But yes of course, Laurence, I can certainly afford my own pavilion. I have some wonderful ideas for it. We’re just looking for a place to build it.”
Laurence looks to Tharkay questioningly. Of course, if he addresses the question directly to Téméraire, the dragon will agree instantly. He won’t understand the weight of the offer, nor the rumours that will spread if two bachelors set up house together with no foreseeable end date.
“Laurence has an idea about that,” Tharkay tells Téméraire. “It sounds like a very elegant solution to me.”
Laurence glows.
Tharkay sighs at the lovely sight of him as he turns to describe the estate and its Parliament seat to Téméraire. The two are acting like giddy children as more and more possibilities occur to them.
The war is over, Tharkay’s friends are alive, and his two most beloved people are in front of them, planning their life together.
Tharkay supposes, in retrospect, that it’s probably for the best that they took the sea route back to Europe all that time ago. If only to avoid the camels.
End note:
“Tenzing,” says Laurence one evening as they settle down in his study. “I have always meant to ask you. Why did you choose to name Temeraire after a ship of the line? It doesn’t seem like you.”
Tharkay blinks at him slowly. “I didn’t. Is there a ship named Téméraire?”
“I—Yes,” says Laurence awkwardly. They stare at one another. “It was the first ship won from the French in the war,” he adds. “I thought it was symbolic.”
“I see,” Tharkay nods. “No, that doesn’t sound like me at all. I named him in French, as we thought him to be French, but not after a ship.”
“Ah.”
“Would you care for a translation dictionary?” asks Tharkay helpfully. “I’m sure I have one in here somewhere, though I, of course, do not need it.”
Laurence scowls at him balefully, but he nods. “Please.”
Tharkay leaves him with the dictionary and goes to fetch more wine. As he walks down the hall, he hears the bark of Laurence’s laugh, and he smiles.
It is a good name for their dragon, after all.
Fandom: Temeraire
Characters/Ship: Laurence/Tharkay, Laurence & Temeraire & Tharkay
Word count: ~5k words
Summary: The one where Tharkay is the dragon captain and Laurence is the support.
Notes: The prompts: vacation together | power swap | enemies to lovers | “batman won’t like this” | stars | coffeeshop au. I'm going to be real with you: this was not what I intended to write at all. I was totally going to go the coffeeshop AU route. I don't know what happened.
Thanks to VervetCadet for the beta! All remaining mistakes are mine.
“It is such luck, isn’t it?” says Téméraire, listening once again to the story of his hatching. It’s admittedly a rather dramatic tale—well-suited to the dragon’s bloodthirsty tastes in literature. “Just think, if there hadn’t been all that fuss in Mumbai”—a coup, he is talking about a coup—“you might have been able to catch the ship you’d originally booked! And then you’d never have crossed paths with that French ship, what was it called—”
“I never did find out,” says Tharkay thoughtfully. It’s a lie, of course, but the information had been sealed almost immediately by British intelligence.
“—And if they hadn’t lost most of their cargo—other than me, obviously—in a storm, then they wouldn’t have been desperate enough to attack an East India Trading Company ship—”
Tharkay shakes his head. “It really is incredible, what some people will do for a cup of tea,” he sighs.
“—Which they were ultimately horribly overwhelmed by, even though it was a merchant vessel. And, of course, when that merchant vessel pulled over the small amount of cargo remaining to the French ship, that included me, and then I heard your voice on the other side of my shell, and so of course I wanted to meet you when I hatched—”
“To my eternal honour and joy, yes.”
“ —And if it hadn’t been for such a strange twist of circumstances and coincidences, I should very likely never have met you at all!” Téméraire turns his great head to look down at Tharkay earnestly. “Oh, Tharkay, I cannot bear that thought!”
Tharkay looks up at Téméraire and quirks a smile. “I would not have been your captain, it’s true, but it doesn’t follow that we would never have met. Who knows? A different set of coincidences may just as well have led to our meeting there. And I know I would have loved you, captain or not.”
Téméraire settles, appeased, and continues narrating the story from there as Tharkay listens, nestled comfortably against his forearm.
He isn’t really certain why he chose the name Téméraire when the dragon asked him for one. He had only thought, at the time, that a French dragon—for that was what they had supposed at the time—should have a French name. And a great beast of the sea, land, and air, needn’t be chained by human weaknesses and mores like caution or prudence. No, he should be free from all that, and free from those expectations, and so Tharkay blurted the first word to occur to him: Téméraire, reckless.
In retrospect, Tharkay considers, looking up at his dragon fondly, Téméraire is exceptionally well-named.
“—And now we are in China, and we have even learned that you are descended from royalty on your mother’s side—”
“Certainly a clever invention of Prince Mianning and Sun Kai,” says Tharkay, unbothered. “I’ve visited my mother’s family, and if they’re royalty, I’ll eat my hat.”
“What hat?” asks Téméraire curiously.
“If it comes to that, I’m sure I’ll be able to find one.”
“I suppose so. And now you’ve been adopted by the emperor, and you’re a prince in China as well!”
Tharkay makes a face. It’s true that there’s little he wouldn’t suffer to remain as Téméraire’s companion, but couldn’t it have involved more thumb screws and fewer elaborate silken robes?
“And now we are to take a ship back to England! It seems like such a roundabout path. Will it really be better to take the sea rather than head back over land? Though I admit, travelling through the desert was somewhat unpleasant.”
“Bhāi, if we never see another camel again, I’ll only be too thrilled,” says Tharkay darkly. To think that he used to take that route for fun. Things really were different, travelling with a dragon.
“Do you know the captain who will be escorting us back?”
“I do not know him, no.” Except in that way where Tharkay had met many arrogant Englishmen over the years, and could already predict their every interaction, starting from the first sneer and upturned nose. “We’ll meet him soon enough.” And then they’ll have to put up with him for months.
William Laurence of the HMS Allegiance fits so perfectly into Tharkay’s expectations that for a moment, Tharkay thinks he’s a parody. Despite the recent long sea voyage and the subsequent trip through the boisterous markets of Macao to reach the compound currently housing Tharkay and Téméraire, Laurence’s pale, blond hair remains in a perfect queue, his blue coat lies straight and unwrinkled across his broad shoulders, and his neckcloth is tied tightly even in the heat.
He greets Tharkay with a surprisingly polite nod, and then he asks to speak with the captain of the dragon Téméraire of the British Aerial Corps. He even presents Tharkay with his card, as though they’re in a blasted parlour talking over tea cakes about the latest hunting horse they’ve purchased.
Well, if he wants to pretend that’s the case, Tharkay is well-trained to oblige him. He’s capable of as many accents as he is languages, and though he tends to lean more into his Scottish heritage when he’s with the aviators, Tharkay pulls out his best Eton schoolboy English for the occasion. “I am Tharkay,” he says, accepting Laurence’s card. “I am Téméraire’s captain. Captain Laurence, I presume?”
Laurence is unflatteringly surprised, though he hides it quickly. “Captain Tharkay, how do you do,” he says evenly.
Now is typically the time that Tharkay would be accused in various roundabout ways of lying, and so he does Laurence the favour of addressing the topic himself. “I’d offer you identification,” he says, tilting his head to one side and allowing his hair—tidy, but still with some black strands fighting to escape from their ties—to fall to one side. Laurence’s eyes follow the movement, seemingly against his will. “But the best proof that I am who I say is Téméraire himself. Dragons are not parted from their captains easily, after all, and dishonesty is not in their nature.”
Different creatures have different advantages and disadvantages. Tharkay knows this well. He’s certain there must be some area in which humans are superior to dragons rather than the other way around, but he hasn’t found it yet.
“Indeed,” says Laurence stiffly, managing to sound both offended and relieved. Ah, Tharkay has been too direct for him, and now his feelings are hurt because Tharkay has suggested that Laurence believes him to be a liar. “I am sure it is as you say, Captain Tharkay. When will you be ready to depart? I was not given a strict timeline in my orders, but I understood the matter to be urgent.”
Tharkay raises his eyebrows. “Is it? It seems you’ve been given more information than we have, then. Come, let us speak with Téméraire and the ground crew to be certain, but I believe we should be ready to leave at your earliest convenience.”
Laurence follows him with visible reluctance, and they exit the building Tharkay has been given through the back, into the massive courtyard housing Téméraire’s pavilion. “M'eudail,” Tharkay calls, “meet Captain Laurence, who will kindly be escorting us back to Britain.”
Téméraire turns to them. Ah, it seems he himself is hosting as well—Lung Qin Mei looks up from her delicately painted, tub-sized porcelain teacup and bows her head to them courteously.
Tharkay bows to her in the Chinese manner, and Laurence hesitates for only a fraction of a second before following suit with an English courtier’s bow.
“Captain Laurence! How nice to meet you,” says Téméraire brightly in English, translating in Chinese for Lung Qin Mei as he goes. “Do come in. Isn’t this pavilion lovely? Look at these paintings that Mei has brought for me—aren’t they exquisite? And all by dragon artists, you know! Why, I hadn’t any idea before we left Britain that dragons could be artists!”
Laurence clearly has no clue how to reply, but he is rescued by Mei’s distress. “Do you really wish to return to that place?” she asks Téméraire urgently. “It sounds as though dragons are treated no better than horses!”
Laurence, predictably, bristles at this when Tharkay helpfully provides him with a translation. Really, the man has likely never been to a covert or seen a dragon up close before, and here he is ready to defend his nation with no notion of the truth or falsehoods of that claim.
More truth than falsehood, as far as Tharkay is concerned.
“It’s not so bad as all that, though there is certainly room for improvement,” Téméraire agrees. “But how will things improve, if I am not there to fight for them?”
Laurence blinks at him, evidently taken aback.
“You’ll have to forgive Téméraire, Captain Laurence,” says Tharkay without a hint of apology in his tone. “He’s rather an abolitionist.”
Laurence’s pale complexion turns red. He is not, Tharkay is disappointed to note, one of those people who flushes in blotches. The red-with-fury colouring is an unfortunately good look on him. “Is he?” asks Laurence, and then he turns back to Téméraire pointedly. “Then you are in good company, sir. My family have long been prominent supporters of the abolitionist movement.”
“Splendid!” cheers Téméraire as Tharkay reels from this unexpected news. Well, there had to be at least one way that Laurence would break the Perfect Posh Prat mould, he supposes, or else admit that he’s a caricature rather than a human. He expected something smaller and more amusing, of course, like a secret love of lobster. “Then you can explain to me different ways to get started with a proposal to take to Parliament.”
Laurence adjusts his neckcloth unnecessarily—it was already perfectly straight, somehow—and clears his throat. “I’m afraid that I’m no legal expert—”
Admitting that he doesn’t know something, and to someone he views as a lower class, no less? Tharkay is sure he must be mishearing this. Or perhaps this is his way around agreeing to provide help for a cause he doesn’t believe in.
“—But perhaps we can find some books on the subject here, or at one of the ports on our journey.” Laurence gives Téméraire a very small smile. It’s devastatingly attractive. “There will be plenty of time for us to educate ourselves on the topic before we make port in Dover.”
Tharkay narrows his eyes at Laurence. Perhaps he’s not a rich Englishman after all, but a changeling.
“That would be very helpful,” agrees Téméraire thoughtfully. “I’m sure I could find some books on British law here. Would you read them to me, Laurence?”
Laurence seems startled by this, as though it hadn’t occurred to him that a twenty-tonne dragon with talons for hands would have difficulty turning the pages of a human-sized book.
“Certainly, my dear,” he says, the endearment seemingly pulled from him automatically. “I’d be happy to, when my duties don’t interfere.”
“I’m sure we have books of that nature, Lung Tien Xiang,” says Lung Qin Mei hesitantly. “But some may only be written in Mandarin.”
“Tharkay can read me those,” says Téméraire carelessly.
Lung Qin Mei looks at Tharkay doubtfully. “I believe these books may use rather… sophisticated language,” she hints gently.
“You are correct that Mandarin is not my first language—nor my second, nor my third,” says Tharkay to her in her own language. He would usually be insulted by her doubt, and indeed, if she were a human, he likely would be. But looking up at Lung Qin Mei’s earnest concern, and recognising that the Chinese method of writing can be very challenging for anyone more accustomed to a phonetic script, he can’t bring himself to feel offended. “But I assure you, this will not be the first legal text I’ll have read in Chinese. It is not my idea of a pleasant afternoon of relaxation,” he adds dryly, “but I am capable.”
Lung Qin Mei dips her head in acquiescence, probably more because she is unwilling to argue the point than because she believes him.
“Captain Laurence inquired earlier about an estimated time of departure, Téméraire,” Tharkay says, changing the subject.
“I believe we should be ready right away, except for these books,” says Téméraire.
“I will acquire them for you, Lung Tien Xiang,” says Lung Qin Mei, rising. “They will be ready for you before you leave.”
“Thank you, Mei, that’s too kind of you,” says Téméraire.
As Lung Qin Mei departs, they begin discussing the logistical points of their trip, with Laurence occasionally making surprisingly helpful suggestions. Their discussion continues through dinner, and by the time Laurence returns to his ship to make preparations now that they have a hard departure date set, Tharkay’s attitude toward their upcoming voyage has entirely shifted.
Before, he anticipated a long period of entertaining Téméraire through the boredom and monotony of the trip while ignoring the sneers and mutterings of the ship crew and trying to keep his own crew of aviators from starting any fights they couldn’t finish. A mixture of pleasant leisure with his dragon and irritating interactions with the humans, as usual.
Now, he must still face all of that, but do it in the presence of an increasingly, infuriatingly attractive Captain William Laurence.
Perhaps they should try to tackle the desert again after all.
Lung Qin Mei must have torn through the whole of China to find as many legal texts in western languages as she did, though a number of them are in Dutch, Portuguese, and French rather than English. Still, it’s an impressive number to add to the sea chest containing their little travelling library, and in their final days before launch, Tharkay spent some productive time in the local markets finding other books he thought Téméraire might enjoy, and a few indulgent stories for himself.
In a tiny, out of the way shop, he even finds a storybook about dragons written in Khas Kura that he purchases on a whim. Téméraire is hardly a child, and the story will likely not much appeal to him, but when Tharkay returns to the compound and runs his fingers down the cheap paper covered in stylised illustrations and fluid Davanagari script, something in him feels alternately tightly wound and buoyant. He hides the book within the dry pages of Principia Mathematica, which he purchased as a joking threat to use against the midwingmen who try to avoid studying their numbers, and he closes the chest securely.
The day of their launch is clear and bright, with a strong wind, and they make good time as they speed through the South China Sea.
Laurence seems to be in a terribly good mood as he moves about the ship, barking orders and shouting approval. Tharkay has met a number of high-ranked British navy men who never managed to find their sealegs, but Laurence steps along the swaying deck with the same grace he’d shown on land. Tharkay finds this aggravating, for no good reason, and he distracts himself and his temper by once again telling Téméraire stories of his infancy on a ship, and how he’d loved to swim and eat fish.
He doesn’t realise Laurence is listening until the man says, “If you’d like to go fishing now, out beyond our nets, it’s likely a good time. You’re confident you can keep up with the transport?”
“Oh yes,” Téméraire assures him. And then the awful creature adds, “Would you like to come along, Laurence?”
Laurence glances at Tharkay as though for confirmation that this is acceptable. In the moment between Tharkay being irritated at the idea of sharing his rare private time with Téméraire and Laurence turning to him, something occurs to Tharkay: the image of Laurence dripping in seawater from Téméraire’s enthusiastic dives has tremendous merit. With this in mind, he inclines his head and says, “Certainly. If you have the time, you should join us, Captain Laurence.”
So Laurence, evidently curious about dragonflight, is buckled onto the harness beside Tharkay using some spare carabiners, and off they go.
Téméraire does a few showy turns in the air, but when Tharkay glances over to see how the sea captain is fairing, Laurence looks the very opposite of frightened. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes are bright, and his long blond hair is finally starting to tug free of his queue from the force of the air around them.
The picture he presents is distracting in all the wrong ways, so Tharkay turns to stare out at the endless blue horizon. He still prefers land travel to long sea voyages, he thinks, but there is something incredible about this feeling that they’re the only people in the world, that any direction is open to them.
When Téméraire’s sharp eyes spot a fish, Tharkay recognises the bunching of his muscles and turns to warn Laurence, and he finds that Laurence is staring at him. He has to stop himself from raising a hand to his face and hair—no doubt he does look a mess, if even Captain William Laurence’s hair is escaping its queue.
“Close your mouth,” he tells Laurence, leaning down to press his chest flat against Téméraire’s back.
Laurence pulls back sharply, “I beg you pardon—” he begins, and Tharkay drags him down against Téméraire’s scales as the dragon dives sharply.
When they breach the surface again with Téméraire announcing gleefully, “This is a big one!” as he swallows some unidentified sea creature whole, Laurence’s eyes are wide, pupils blown, and he’s panting. Tharkay laughs at his expression and tries ineffectively to wipe off his face with his soaking sleeve.
Laurence blinks at him slowly, shaking off the seawater. And then, does this strange captain yell at him, or threaten him, or try to hit him? No, Laurence seems incapable of behaving the way Tharkay expects, because instead of doing any of those things, he looks at Tharkay’s laughing face, and he laughs, too.
Tharkay hasn’t seen him laugh before. His entire face lights up, and he almost seems to glow.
It’s terrible.
“That was very interesting,” says Téméraire as Laurence closes the legal tome with evident relief. “I had no idea that English laws are so poorly designed and written.”
Laurence frowns and opens his mouth, probably to argue in futile defence of their nation’s laws, when Téméraire adds, “But it is early yet, is it not, Laurence? What other books are there?”
And so Tharkay watches idly from his perch on Téméraire’s forearm—Laurence has claimed the other forearm, which Tharkay has graciously permitted—as Laurence climbs down and returns the book to their library chest, digging carefully through it as he does. “Ah, here is one we haven’t read yet,” he says, and then his face falls hilariously as he reads the title. “Ah, this one is in Latin,” he says, his eyes jumping around evasively. Tharkay freezes. “And—it does not appear to be topical.”
“But you know Latin, Laurence! If you did not, how would you be able to tell whether the book is on topic or not?” reasons Téméraire, and at any other time, Tharkay would be smirking. “What is it called?”
“Principia Mathematica,” Laurence admits in a low voice, probably hoping not to be heard. He has, it seems, learned enough about Téméraire to know that the title will not be the deterrent for him that it would be for Tharkay’s midwingmen. “It—” he opens the book, and seems surprised when another falls out. “Oh,” he says, picking it up. “And this other one is—I am not familiar with this script, but it does not seem to be Chinese. The illustrations in this book, though, are of dragons.”
“Dragons!” says Téméraire, delighted by perhaps the sole topic that could have distracted him from a treatise on mathematics. “Could you hold it up for me? Tharkay, can you read this book?”
Laurence obediently holds the book up as close to Téméraire’s peering eyes as can be managed, and he looks over at Tharkay inquiringly. He must be expecting Tharkay to come down and join him, to inspect the book to determine if it is indeed in a language that he knows.
Of course, he doesn’t need to hold the book to know.
“Yes, I bought it in Guangzhou,” Tharkay admits quietly. “I do not know that you will like it, Téméraire. It was written for small children, and the plots and characters are very simple. I only purchased it because it is written in my mother’s mother tongue, and some of the stories are ones she told to me when I was very young, before she passed away.”
Laurence is staring at him now, his expression unreadable.
Dragons, of course, are only rarely caught by sentiment. “That is in Khas Kura, which you speak to me sometimes?” asks Téméraire. “I suppose it might do for language practice, but it is a pity that the stories are so silly.”
“Temeraire!” exclaims Laurence, apparently shocked at his callousness, but Tharkay laughs. Dragons do not have mothers, after all, not in the same way humans do.
“Our captain is worried that you might have offended me, bhāi,” says Tharkay easily. “You see, even if the stories are silly, they are important to me, because they remind me of my mother. My captain, if you will.”
Téméraire startles at that comparison. “She has been gone for a long time? Do you miss her very much?”
Tharkay smiles at his dragon. “Yes, and I do. But having you as my friend never fails to make my life brighter.”
Téméraire settles, as he always does when reassured of Tharkay’s affection, and he says imperiously, “Well, let us read these stories, then. Perhaps we may think of ways to improve them.”
Laurence’s mouth twitches at Téméraire’s declaration, and he passes the book up to Tharkay. “Please,” he says softly. “It would be an honour.”
It has been pleasant—very, concerningly pleasant—to listen to Laurence’s smooth voice read, despite the unengaging content. It has even been pleasant to listen to his and Téméraire’s ethical, moral, and legal debates, for neither is an immovable participant—Laurence listens seriously to Téméraire’s arguments, and when their discussions lead him to see an issue in a new, unconsidered light, he looks upset, and frustrated, as though his whole worldview is morphing. But rather than shutting it down and reverting to his easy beliefs, he lets his understanding change after a period of brooding. And sometimes, his rebuttals are so strong, so clear and cogent, that it is Téméraire who must fit his mind over a new idea of justice, or a new idea of duty.
Tharkay feels somewhat embarrassed to be following this precedent with a children’s book, but he opens it with a sigh and reads, first directly, and then with his own impromptu translation.
Téméraire huffs in irritation through every story, but Laurence shushes him. He seems utterly transfixed, for no reason Tharkay can determine.
As their voyage continues, they work their way through each book in the chest, and every new book they find when they’re stopped at port, but as often as Téméraire asks for Laurence to reread the Principia Mathematica, Laurence asks Tharkay, quietly, gently, to hear the book of Nepalese fairytales.
It’s hard to believe, but even with the torture of Laurence’s increasingly handsome face, the voyage passes quickly.
When they make to part, Laurence clasps Tharkay’s hand warmly and promises to write. “We each have our duty in this war,” says Laurence with considerably more respect in his tone at the duties of the aviators than he’d had at the onset of their journey, “but the war will not last forever. I will see you again, my friend.”
Tharkay’s traitorous heart is beating wildly in his chest as he looks up at Laurence. “Yes. I will see you again.” He smiles crookedly. “I look forward to your letters, Will.”
Tharkay has learned to expect the unexpected from Laurence, because he is unsurprised when, rather than reeling back with offence at this new, uninvited intimacy, Laurence brightens instead. “And I yours, Tenzing,” he says. And then he looks up over Tharkay’s shoulder. “Until we meet again, my dear,” he calls to Téméraire.
Téméraire, though eager to greet their friends at the covert, is deeply unhappy at leaving Laurence behind. On several occasions, when Laurence was not quite far enough away to be out of earshot from a dragon’s idea of a whisper, Téméraire has asked variations of, “Are you sure it would qualify as kidnapping? I’m sure he would be much happier with us.”
“Goodbye, Laurence,” says Téméraire mournfully now, but at least he doesn’t rehash his old arguments.
Tharkay clips himself to Téméraire’s harness, and they’re away. He can’t help but watch as the tiny dot of Laurence grows smaller and smaller in the distance.
Well, perhaps England does have one good human citizen after all.
Years pass, and the war ends. The world doesn’t quite seem real, after.
Tharkay lazes his days away on the grassy fields of the Loch Laggan covert, watching Téméraire play and plot with the other dragons, and he wonders what he’s expected to do with the rest of his life now.
“Right this way, captain,” he hears Tully say jovially. “It’s not often we get one of you Navy fellows out this way!”
Tharkay sits up sharply. He reaches up to his hair to pick out the grass.
“No,” he hears Laurence’s voice say. “I’d imagine that you don’t. Thank you very much, Mr Tully, I see him now.”
“Good day!”
Tharkay stands to greet Laurence. Though he may not hold himself quite to Laurence’s level of pressed and starched perfection, he typically does take some care with his appearance, and it’s upsetting that Laurence should find him here looking so dishevelled, with his coat and neckcloth discarded, and his hair all askew.
Laurence only smiles at him as he approaches, though. “Tenzing, it’s good to see you,” he says softly.
Tharkay clears his throat. “You as well,” he admits. “Letters haven’t been quite the same.”
They have run into one another a few times, usually in highly dramatic ways, such as when Laurence came flying (well, sailing) up the coast with a cure for the dragon illness, but it still seems to have been lifetimes since Tharkay last laid eyes on Laurence’s unnervingly beloved face.
“No,” agrees Laurence, and then they’re simply staring at one another.
Why are they staring at one another?
Tharkay knows why he is staring at Laurence, of course, he knows what the awful heat in chest, the lightness in his stomach, the joy and the fear, he knows what all of those mean.
But Tharkay also knows from careful, roundabout conversations and one, terrifying indiscretion from Iskierka that Laurence holds fairly traditional ideas about marriage and sex. So why is he staring at Tharkay with his blue eyes so warm and soft and happy?
Tharkay raises his eyebrows inquiringly, and Laurence shakes himself, tugging at his neckcloth sheepishly. “Pardon me, Tenzing. I’m simply very happy to see you. And—” he fidgets, causing Tharkay’s eyebrows to rise even higher. Laurence is not typically a fidgeter. “And I have a proposition for you. If you—that is, I don’t know what your plans are now, of course. But I have saved up quite a large sum of prize money over the years, and an estate has opened up for purchase in an area that carries a Parliamentary seat for dragons. I can afford it. It will take some time to raise the funds to build a pavilion for Temeraire, but—”
“That lizard can pay for his own pavilion,” says Tharkay, raising his voice so that Téméraire, who had spotted Laurence and swooped over, could hear. “He certainly collected enough prizes of his own.” He smiles up at Téméraire, in part because he loves smiling at Téméraire, but also to stop himself from smiling at Laurence.
“There’s no need to be so rude about it,” says Téméraire huffily. “But yes of course, Laurence, I can certainly afford my own pavilion. I have some wonderful ideas for it. We’re just looking for a place to build it.”
Laurence looks to Tharkay questioningly. Of course, if he addresses the question directly to Téméraire, the dragon will agree instantly. He won’t understand the weight of the offer, nor the rumours that will spread if two bachelors set up house together with no foreseeable end date.
“Laurence has an idea about that,” Tharkay tells Téméraire. “It sounds like a very elegant solution to me.”
Laurence glows.
Tharkay sighs at the lovely sight of him as he turns to describe the estate and its Parliament seat to Téméraire. The two are acting like giddy children as more and more possibilities occur to them.
The war is over, Tharkay’s friends are alive, and his two most beloved people are in front of them, planning their life together.
Tharkay supposes, in retrospect, that it’s probably for the best that they took the sea route back to Europe all that time ago. If only to avoid the camels.
End note:
“Tenzing,” says Laurence one evening as they settle down in his study. “I have always meant to ask you. Why did you choose to name Temeraire after a ship of the line? It doesn’t seem like you.”
Tharkay blinks at him slowly. “I didn’t. Is there a ship named Téméraire?”
“I—Yes,” says Laurence awkwardly. They stare at one another. “It was the first ship won from the French in the war,” he adds. “I thought it was symbolic.”
“I see,” Tharkay nods. “No, that doesn’t sound like me at all. I named him in French, as we thought him to be French, but not after a ship.”
“Ah.”
“Would you care for a translation dictionary?” asks Tharkay helpfully. “I’m sure I have one in here somewhere, though I, of course, do not need it.”
Laurence scowls at him balefully, but he nods. “Please.”
Tharkay leaves him with the dictionary and goes to fetch more wine. As he walks down the hall, he hears the bark of Laurence’s laugh, and he smiles.
It is a good name for their dragon, after all.