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Chapter Text

Will doesn’t like his father’s parties. Most of them are just excuses for political machinations, where he’s supposed to be seen and not heard, and it’s not like Father looks at him during them anyway, unless it’s to say, “Yes, my youngest; he’ll be going into the Church, of course.”

He doesn’t want to go into the Church. He studies his Bible when he’s told and everything, and that’s all well and good, but he doesn’t want it to be his life. But no-one’s ever asked him if he wants it, and when he said so to Mother she just looked sad so he didn’t bring it up again, but. He doesn’t want to.

So no, he doesn’t like the parties.

This one is uncommonly easy to slip away from. There are more people than usual, because his father has invited several new prospective allies to the cause as well as his long-established partners. They’re all mostly interested in talking about politics, and after introductions have been made, he knows no-one will actually want a nine-year-old boy around, so he carefully fades himself into the background, and then he leaves.

The best hiding place, during this sort of event, is the gazebo a few minutes down the forest path behind the house. It’s small enough and far enough off the path that no one will stumble upon it accidentally, but close enough to the house that he won’t be scolded for wandering away into the woods. He thinks George knows he comes here, but he’s never been bothered, and Father certainly doesn’t know, he thinks as he climbs the few steps that separate the platform from the ground.

Then he stops short, because there is someone else here.

It’s another boy, probably a couple years older than Will. His skin is brown, and his hair is hanging stiffly around his face in a manner that suggests it’s just been freed from its queue. He’s sitting cross-legged on the platform, his back against the wall and his eyes closed. Will thinks he might have seen him arrive with one of the men Father invited, but that doesn’t explain what he’s doing here.

The boy opens his eyes, apparently unsurprised to see he has company—Will supposes he was not very quiet on the stairs—but does not seem inclined to speak, or even to move. Will shifts uncomfortably. “I’m sorry—Are you hiding here?”

He immediately wants to wince; he’s almost certain that was rude. But the boy only tilts his head a little, considering him for a long moment. “No more than you are, I think.”

Will feels his eyes go wide, and his wrist seems to burn beneath the smart leather cuff he wears, because he has known those words all his life.

Only—

Well, his mother gave him specific instructions on what he was to do, when he recognized his soulmate. “You must let your father and I know at once, so that we can speak to her parents and determine if a match can be arranged,” she told him, smiling faintly as she re-fastened her own cuff. “A soulmate is a very wonderful thing, and we will ensure you can be married to her if it is at all possible.”

But there’s no her involved, so Will’s pretty sure it’s not at all possible, and he has been given no instructions for what to do if he hears his words from a boy.

All he can think to do is continue the conversation he started like he usually would, so he does.

“That would mean you are hiding,” he says, and sits down across from the boy. “Who are you?” It’s not the right way to get someone’s name, but there’s no one here to make introductions.

The boy seems to consider him again, and Will tries not to squirm. He’s used to the feeling of being appraised, but this feels somehow different, like this boy is weighing something entirely separate from what Father always finds wanting. “Tenzing,” he says eventually, before tilting his head in the direction of the house. “George, in there.” He says the name with faint contempt.

Will doesn’t quite get why he’d have two such different names, but does think that Tenzing suits this boy better than George, even if it’s a little strange. “I’m Will,” he returns, though he wasn’t asked. Then, trying for humor, “William, in there.”

Tenzing’s mouth twists in the kind of half-smile that makes Will feel like he’s not in on something, but he’s used to that, and this smile doesn’t feel mocking, at least. “And why are you hiding, Will?”

He flounders for an explanation that doesn’t make him feel small. He doesn’t find one, though, and settles on the truth. “They don’t want me in there,” he says, looking down. “Not really. I’d only get in the way.”

Tenzing’s eyes seem to pierce right through him. “It’s best I stay away, too,” he says, “though for different reasons, I think. And it’s usually more interesting outside, anyway. Did you know you have frogs here? I was listening to them.”

It won’t occur to Will until he’s in bed tonight that Tenzing seems to already know that this is his home. “They’re in the pond, a little that way.” He gestures to his left, further from the path.

Tenzing stands. “Show me,” he says.

They spend an hour or so by the pond. It’s not too hard to find the frog, though it dives into the water the moment they get close. But Tenzing is much better at skipping stones than he is, and he’s willing to show him the technique. Will is able to get his stone to skip three times before the other glances up at the sky.

“My father will be leaving soon, I think,” he says. “Can you show me the way back?”

Will’s pretty sure Tenzing could get back just fine himself, but he’s grateful to be asked. He rinses his muddy hands off in the pond as much as he can, without much hope that his brown fingernails will pass muster, before leading the way back to the gazebo and then up the path.

Tenzing stops just as they emerge from the forest. “Will you write to me?” he says, not meeting Will’s eyes in that way that seems to mean someone’s not saying something, though Will doesn’t know his new friend well enough to guess at what that is. “I live at Strathvagan House, in Scotland. Though I suppose you’ll have to address your letter to George.”

“Oh!” says Will. “Yes, I certainly will.” It seems like the proper thing to say, and he hopes it isn’t overly enthusiastic, because he still doesn’t know what to do with a boy soulmate, but he thinks he’d want to be friends with Tenzing anyway.

Will has been told before that he ought to write someone, but he’s never been this eager to follow through. He goes back to the pond each day in hopes of finding something worth writing about, and is triumphant on Wednesday, when he spots not only the frog that evaded them but also a smaller one that he thinks must be its mate. Armed with something worth talking about, he writes to Tenzing, sharing his speculation, and thanking him for teaching him to skip stones. (There’s no-one to show off the skill to, but that’s not really what Will’s thanking him for.) At the end, suddenly a little nervous that Tenzing was only being kind with his invitation to write and won’t respond, he asks if there are also frogs at Strathvagan House, and if they are of the same sort they saw at the pond.

When he’s finished the letter, he stops short, realizing he doesn’t know how to address it—Tenzing gave him his apparently disliked legal name, but not a surname. He frets over it for a while before realizing that he’d need help to send the letter anyway.

He quickly decides that Mother is more likely to help him, and she always knows all the names of the guests who come to Wollaton Hall.

“Mother,” he says carefully, “I was speaking to someone during the party,” by which she will know he means while hiding from the party, but she won’t call him on it, “and he said that I should write to him, only I’m afraid I did not catch his surname.”

She eyes him with some surprise. “Why, that’s wonderful, my dear,” she says. “I don’t know that you’ve ever made a friend I didn’t push upon you. I will certainly help if I can. What do you know?”

“He lives in Scotland, at Strathvagan House,” he says, possibly too quickly, “and his first name is George, but he doesn’t like it at all.”

Mother’s smile is tinged faintly with relief. “Oh, Mr. Russell’s son? He’s somewhat shy, by all accounts, but quite clever. Your father will approve—he hopes to do some work with Mr. Russell this upcoming season. Would you like me to send the letter for you?”

Will isn’t sure that shy is the right word for Tenzing, but clever certainly is, and it’s beside the point, anyway. He gives her the letter and tries to calculate how long he can expect to wait for a response.

It takes three weeks, and he has no sense of whether this was unusually slow or fast, but it doesn’t matter, because a letter addressed to him does arrive, and when he opens it, it’s written in a graceful script as familiar to him as his own.

The words on his arm are not so specific that no one else could possibly say them to him, but as he looks at Tenzing’s handwriting and compares it to the mark, he realizes that he hadn’t ever doubted that the words belonged to him. In the scant hours they spent together, Will had absolutely accepted that the other boy was his soulmate, even as they seemed to have very little in common. He’s interesting, and funny in a dry sort of way, and easier to talk to than anyone except maybe Mother.

It’s easy to write to him, too. Will always responds within days of receiving a letter, and never has to wait more than a month, usually less. He tries to contain his eagerness whenever the post comes, but Mother notices and jokes that he has struck up his first real correspondence. Father doesn’t comment on it, which means he approves.

He feels like he can put more truth in a letter than he knows how to say out loud. He writes about Father’s decree that he will go into the Church, and about the way the idea makes his stomach sink. He tells Tenzing about how hard he finds it to learn what is expected of him, and to embody that. His friend never makes him feel silly about it, sending back carefully worded questions about what Will wants to do with his life, questions he doesn’t know how to answer but still feel strangely freeing to at least be asked. Tenzing mostly writes about the hawk he is training, and the wilderness surrounding Strathvagan House, and never, ever about his family. It feels like Will shouldn’t ask about that, so he doesn’t.

The summer that Will is eleven, the family spends the season in London as his father and his allies campaign aggressively for their upcoming push for abolition. Tenzing writes that he and his father will be in the city for the same reason, and when they arrive, Will is delighted to find that the house Mr. Russell keeps is not too far to walk to, though of course he is not allowed to go alone.

Their fathers spend long hours cloistered in the study with half a dozen other men, studying parliamentary theory and holding mock debates, and Will and Tenzing become adept at slipping away. His governess will sometimes give him a severe look when he cuts it a little close in returning in time for supper, and is positively despairing the day he returns soaking wet, but Miss James has always had a soft spot for him, and, knowing that he’s running off to see Mr. Russell’s son, she has every reason to think that he’s still adequately supervised, and so long as his studies do not suffer, she does not raise the issue with his parents.

He doesn’t correct her assumption, because if he did, he would have to admit that they’re breaking the rules when they sit talking in Tenzing’s father’s library, impatiently waiting for old Mrs. Irving to fall asleep in her armchair, as she unfailingly does, so that they can disappear out into the streets of London.

They spend much of that summer exploring Hyde Park. Will still has studies to complete, or his father will notice, but he takes the books with him, and sometimes Tenzing is able to explain something in such a way that he finally understands it. And when he’s done with his work, there is plenty of time left for them to scramble up trees for a better look at the military encampment, or for Will to watch in fascination as Tenzing tries to train a feral pigeon. (He has only a little success, but many enjoyable hours are given to the attempt.)

But Hyde Park is so far from a true wilderness, and various well-dressed people sometimes cast looks at them. When they pass by closely enough, Will notices that they’re casting looks at Tenzing, specifically. His friend eventually notices him noticing, and offers a wry smile.

“At least they don’t say anything,” he says. “It’s more than my cousins can manage.”

Will feels off-kilter. Tenzing has never mentioned any cousins, ever, and he supposes he understands why, except in all the ways he doesn’t. “What would they even say?” he asks. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

On that first day when they met last year, and then many times this summer, Will has had the distinct feeling that Tenzing is weighing him in some obscure way, peering into his soul and choosing what to say based on what he finds there. Never has that feeling been so intense as it is now. The moment feels important, so Will makes the effort to meet his eyes, though he can’t see right through Tenzing the way Tenzing can him.

He thinks he might have passed some sort of test, because Tenzing says, slowly, “None of these people would say it, but what I am doing wrong is existing as I do, where they can see me.” He mercifully breaks off eye contact, instead looking out after the older woman who’d glared so rudely. “If they knew my history, their specific complaint would be that my father chose to marry a Nepali woman, and to present the son she bore him as a member of respectable British society.”

Will doesn’t at all know what to say to that, and he has enough understanding of Tenzing by now to think that nothing he could say would be especially welcome, so he stays quiet.

Tenzing’s eyes are fixed on a cloud now as he continues. “My cousins do know my history, and make it clear they don’t think I belong here at every opportunity. They do everything short of openly reproaching my father for bringing me here after my mother—”

His voice falters, and his mouth snaps shut.

Will has spent many hours in his friend’s company, this summer, and thinks he’s come to know him pretty well. He knows that Tenzing can identify any of Britain’s birds on sight, and is better at Will’s Latin homework than Will himself is, and when he feels uncomfortable—usually in the presence of their fathers’ political allies—he starts talking like he’s trying to sound more grown-up than he really is.

He’s never heard Tenzing break off like that, he’s never seen him look like this, and he has to say something, something real, and all he can think of is—

“You do belong here.”

Tenzing’s eyes flicker towards him only briefly. “Do I?” he says, like Will’s answer might actually matter to him.

“Yes,” he says. “Because—because you were supposed to be at that party, and accuse me of hiding.”

Neither of them have mentioned the marks before. They haven’t even alluded to them. But when he looks back at Tenzing, he finds that his eyes are directed downward, locked upon the cuff on Will’s right wrist. He looks down himself and realizes with some surprise that he’s clutching it with his left hand.

“It was not meant as an accusation,” Tenzing finally says, and Will sees with relief that he’s almost smiling.

“I know,” he says. “Neither was mine.”

Will is twelve, and he’s expected to be just a little more visible at parties now—not real parties, like they have in London, but the ones Father holds at Wollaton for his political allies. He’ll be able to slip away soon enough, but he spends half an hour silently hovering by the wall, where he can be briefly greeted but easily forgotten.

That’s where he’s standing when Tenzing and his father arrive. His friend is dressed in fine clothes in keeping with the current fashion, and it suits him very well indeed, but now that Will knows to look for it, he can see the way most of the adults’ eyes seem determined to skip over him. Tenzing catches his eye and winks, so subtly he might have missed it, before falling in with his father, allowing himself to be greeted by people who visibly don’t want to acknowledge his existence.

Someone greets Will then, and he’s obliged to spend an awkward minute answering questions about his schooling before the man feels he’s adequately flattered his host by paying attention to his son and wanders off. When he looks back, he finds that Tenzing has vanished, though at fourteen he might be expected to stay longer. Will counts the minutes until his father will expect him to make himself scarce, and once they have passed he leaves as quickly as possible, barely restraining himself from running down the forest path.

He’s inordinately relieved to find Tenzing sitting in the gazebo, because if he chose to come here, it means that even if he’s hiding from everyone else, he’s not trying to hide from Will.

(The thought warms him in a way that is as pleasant as it is unfamiliar.)

He’s on the floor with his back against the wall, exactly as he was when they first met. Will says the first thing that comes to his mind, which is pretty much only alright when he’s with Tenzing. “I don’t think you’re supposed to sit on the ground in nice clothes like those.”

Tenzing laughs, the sound somewhat hollow. “The appearance of my clothing doesn’t make a difference to them.”

He’s probably right. “Well, I think you look good,” he says, because it’s true. His clothes aren’t nearly as nice, and Mother says he’s going to grow out of them soon anyway, so he drops down to sit on Tenzing’s left.

“You’re very kind,” his friend tells him, “but the sentiment would mean little to those people, except to lower their opinion of you as well.”

The feeling that surges up in Will’s chest is foreign and fiery. “I don’t care what they think,” he says, and maybe it’s not fully honest, because what they think of him will get back to his father, but he wants to mean it, because it is an injustice, the way they refuse to look at Tenzing, who he thinks is the best person he knows. And without quite making the decision, he pulls at the little buckles on his wrist cuff and lets it fall into his lap.

He knows there’s a right way to do such a thing, and it isn’t like this. But the right way involves the kind of formal courtship that they cannot ever have, and this feels right. And when he gets the nerve to glance over at Tenzing, his eyes are fixed on the bared mark. No more than you are, I think. Will has always rather liked that the words mark them as equals, in spite of all that is different about that. Now, he watches Tenzing’s hand just barely begin to reach for the mark, before he remembers and instead reaches for his own right wrist.

His heart pounds in his ears when he sees his words on his soulmate’s skin, though of course he’s known they must exist for years. Knowing is different from seeing, and when he sees, he’s suddenly very sure of something that before now he hasn’t even been consciously contemplating.

“I want the bond,” he blurts. Tenzing goes very still beside him, and he feels himself turn red. “If you do,” he adds belatedly.

Falteringly, Tenzing says, “That would not be—” and then stops.

Will knows it would not be... well, whatever way Tenzing meant to finish that sentence, it would have been true. If he broke the rules of propriety just by showing his mark, then asking Tenzing to touch it and activate the empathic bond, unbreakable except by death, would surely make his mother go faint. But if there’s a proper way to do this between boys, he’s never heard about it, and he knows much better than to think it would be a good idea to ask. They can’t be married, so why should they wait until such time as they would be married if one of them were a girl? The rules must be different, and if anyone wanted him to follow those rules, they should have taught them to him. As it is, their matching marks are a sign from God or nature or the universe, depending on who you ask, that they are meant to be close to one another, and he’s known Tenzing long enough to decide that he agrees.

Tenzing must be thinking something similar, because he finally says, “If you are certain,” and then, eyes fixed intently on Will’s face, he extends his right hand.

It’s less of a handshake than a clasping of arms. Each of their hands closes around the other’s wrist, against the marks, and then it’s like a part of Will’s mind that he never even knew existed is waking up and screaming that it is empty.

His hand tightens on Tenzing’s wrist, and he vaguely feels the answering squeeze, but he barely feels present in his body, instead reaching out into the strange chasm in his head. In his mind’s eye, he shouts into the darkness, reaching out with both hands—

Until someone is reaching back, and then the chasm is gone, filled up with a blinding joy that feels distinctly separate from his own. Will opens his eyes, not having noticed them closing, and the first thing he sees is Tenzing, whose mouth is only barely curved into a smile.

It’s so incongruous with the enormous sense of completion and gratitude and happiness still flooding the bond that Will has to laugh out loud, unable to contain his wonder. There is so much more inside of you than you show the world, he thinks, and is thrilled and honored by the knowledge that he’s being allowed to see it anyway.

It’s only two months later that Will wakes up in the small hours of the morning to a bond flooded with grief and a face damp with tears. He breathes through them until they stop, then wipes them away and burrows into his blankets, deeply worried and at a loss for what to do about it. Something is clearly wrong with Tenzing—he always instinctively knows which emotions belong to him and which are carried through the bond, and anyway, Will has nothing to be half that sad about—but he has absolutely no way of finding out what it is, let alone finding a way to help.

The feeling doesn’t lessen at all over the course of the day, and Will’s worry deepens. If something terrible has happened, the news has no hope of reaching him in England until at least a week has passed, unless, he supposes, it’s on an important enough scale that the Corps would send a courier. They don’t, of course, and he has no excuse to ask his parents if something is wrong with Tenzing, because he should have no way of knowing that there is.

After the first day, it somehow gets worse, because the grief doesn’t fade at all, but is joined by a steadily growing anger mingled with fear, and Will has to act like everything is normal, as though he isn’t at any given moment seconds away from making a break for the stables and riding for Scotland, knowing he’d never make it.

In a little under two weeks, a letter arrives from Tenzing, saying very little other than that his father has died. Looking at the short note, Will abruptly realizes that this was sent simply because Tenzing knew he would feel his grief, and perhaps felt his answering worry, and despite his misery made the time to reassure him that he was not in danger.

But the letter explains none of that mixed-together fear and anger, and his worry does not lessen, especially when the awful feeling spikes, and then resolves into a grim resignation that sits heavy in his stomach It turns out he’s right to worry, because a week after that—only days after Will has sent an answering letter with his sympathy and attempts at support—his father calls him into his study, where he finds his mother also waiting.

Father is holding a letter, and his face is blank. Mother looks worried. “Sit down, William,” says Father.

Will sits, heart in his throat.

“I regret to tell you,” Father says, “that your friend George will no longer be writing to you. Mr. Russell passed away some weeks ago, and in the aftermath, several of his relatives petitioned the courts to award all inheritance directly to themselves, citing irregularities in Mr. Russell’s marriage and questions about his son’s legitimacy.”

There’s a sort of roaring in Will’s ears, and, caught up in it, he forgets to hold his tongue the way he usually does in this room. “But that isn’t right,” he says, indignant. “It isn’t fair.”

His father, for once, does not reproach him for speaking out of turn. “No, it is not,” he agrees.

“Then what can we do about it?” Will demands.

Apparently this is testing his father too much, because his eyes go flinty. “As far as I can determine,” he says, “George has already left the country. There is nothing more to be done, regardless—the courts have spoken.”

The courts were wrong, he wants to scream. More than that, he wants to yell that his father is Lord Allendale, and he taught Will all he knows about justice and honor, and surely allowing this to happen violates every principle he’s ever touted—but he knows better than to challenge that look in his father’s eyes. He stands, jerkily. “May I go, sir,” he says, and by the way his mother’s eyes widen he’s sure his tone is all wrong.

But his father only nods, and Will all but flees the room.

He doesn’t stop until he’s reached the forest gazebo and sunk heavily onto the steps. He’s shaking, he recognizes distantly, but it’s not with sadness—this is anger of a kind he’s never felt before, a kind he knows might fade but will live in him forever. It’s almost like what he felt from Tenzing, a week ago, but there’s something else in it, something all his own.

Very little about the world has ever come naturally to Will. He recognized this years ago, not so very long before he met Tenzing, and began the painstaking work of teaching himself the things his parents said were important—how to interact with Society; what is appropriate to say, and when, and to whom; the rules that govern honor and duty and righteousness. He’s learned what is important, until it felt important in his bones. He’s listened to the way his father and his allies speak, and believed those things were important in their bones, too.

Honor is important.

Justice is important.

How can his father let this happen? How can everyone let this happen?

He thinks of Tenzing, listening to his complaints over his father’s plans for his future, and asking what he wants. He’s never had an answer born of anything more than an interest in adventure and a desire to see more of the world. He adds now to that list: he wants to be among people who take their principles seriously, and he must be far, far away from his father.

Quite unbidden, a memory floats to the surface—a snatch of a song he heard in a play in London. To honor we call you, as free men not slaves, for who are so free as the sons of the waves?

A small part of him wishes he could remember more of it. But the rest of him is rooted to the spot by the idea.

Honor, he thinks, and then, longingly, freedom.

His mind is made up by dinner. His parents seem to think nothing of his silence—even if it were not his custom, it would be quite explained by the news he’s had. Before he goes to bed, Mother pulls him aside to hug him tightly and kiss his head. He’s glad to have that moment, but it does not change his resolve.

He packs two changes of clothes and his best boots, and by morning he is gone.

Chapter Text

Laurence gives the dragonet a name, and lets his world end.

As he buckles the harness around the small body, he thinks only of Temeraire’s comfort, because this creature is now his responsibility and he will not allow him to suffer. His duty is clear, and that much, at least, is easy. As he offers the prepared meat and then turns over his epaulettes, he is thinking of Riley’s future, and the smooth transition of command, and that is less easy, but it is still the clear course of action.

But when he’s sitting in the cabin that isn’t really his anymore, staring at a sleeping dragonet, and there is nothing left to distract him from the storm inside him, he despairs.

First and foremost, there is the matter of his own future. Laurence likes the Navy, and he likes being a captain. He knows he’s considered to be a good one, and if perhaps he hasn’t found quite as much commitment to principle here as he’d hoped for as a boy of twelve, he can at least ensure that honor and duty count for something on his ship. It matters very much to him that, if nothing else, he has proven by his own example that principles need not be compromised in order to rise to a captaincy, and there are any number of other captains of whom he could say the same. He has heard enough of the Aerial Corps that he has low hopes that the same will be true there.

His father, of course, will be very unhappy. Laurence doesn’t care quite as much about this as he knows he should. He’s known for decades that Lord Allendale’s sense of justice ends where it ceases to be convenient. He has no intention to apologize that the same is not true of his own sense of duty. And his mother, he thinks, might understand his choice, even if she will weep for it.

But there’s also...

Well, he supposes most would consider it silly to be thinking of a person he last saw decades ago in this moment, but he is. He has not spoken to Tenzing since they were both boys, true, but surely it counts for something that he feels his emotions every single day? Fate may have written the words upon their skin, but they chose to reach for one another, to claim their bond, and Laurence has since that moment considered himself committed, insofar as one man can be committed to another. He has never given up on the hope that he might find his soulmate again, or on the admittedly childish idea that if only he can accumulate enough fortune and respect, no one will be able to comment on who he makes his home with.

An absurd notion, of course. He’s learned that no matter what he does, there will always be someone who objects, and he really has no way of knowing whether Tenzing would even want that. It’s just that he always hoped he would at least have the chance to find out what it means for them to be soulmates, so long after that chance was stolen.

That chance must be considered lost, he supposes. He doesn’t know very much about the life of an aviator, but from what he’s read, becoming a dragon’s captain will require him to give so much of himself to Temeraire that there will likely be very little left to offer anyone else.

Tharkay has, on his bitterest days, thought of his bond to William Laurence as a haunting.

Oh, not usually, and certainly not in the beginning. He’ll never forget the incandescent rage that flooded the bond around a week after he reached the continent, or the comfort he found in the idea that it was on his behalf, but then it had resolved into a steely determination, and he’d tried and failed not to distract himself by wondering what Will had decided to do.

The answer he’d received, five years later and staring down at the notice in a borrowed British newspaper of Lord Allendale’s son William achieving the rank of Navy lieutenant, had stung him worse than anything since the moment of his father’s death. He had anticipated his cousins’ betrayal, though perhaps not its success. The idea of Will learning what had happened to him and immediately devoting his life to the protection of the institutions responsible—and it must have been immediate, it’s the only thing that lines up with that determination, and all the stress and excitement that followed—hurt him all the worse for its unexpectedness.

And Tharkay didn’t even have time to be properly angry with him before the emotions coming down the bond became extremely concerning. He spent the next three months growing increasingly certain that his soulmate was going to die, because the dull fear and abject misery were growing impossibly worse and worse, and no-one in Spain was willing to tell a foreign-looking young man if there was any news of a Royal Navy ship called Shorewise. (He still doesn’t know what he’d meant to do, if he found out where the ship was. It wasn’t as though he had the funds to charter another ship to chase her down. He’d kept asking anyway.)

Finally, after three months, the bond flooded with such dizzying relief that Tharkay had surely sent the same emotion back. It was in the aftermath of that awful episode that Tharkay first thought of himself as haunted. Because really, why should he have spent three months wracked with worry over a boy he hadn’t seen in years, with whom he was angry, and who he couldn’t even tell he was angry in a way more distinct than raw feelings down a bond stretching out into the sea. Will Laurence was as good as a ghost to him, he told himself then, someone he was bound to but who he could never again so much as touch.

It probably isn’t healthy, but Tharkay reads every British newspaper he can get his hands on, just for the sake of the section that tracks Navy promotions. He knows that Laurence—not Will, if he calls him Laurence he can at least pretend to some distance—is currently captain of HMS Reliant when the nature of the haunting changes.

Tharkay has never been in love, but the sense of affection and devotion that comes pouring down the bond, somehow more powerful with every passing day, can surely be called nothing else. It’s so much worse than any of the anger or fear that Tharkay has grown used to ignoring, or the occasional feeling of victory that has often prompted him to search for a paper.

It’s worse because he feels angry, and he has absolutely no right to do so. Furthermore, Laurence has no right to his anger—why should a man he has not seen in decades, and who he will never see again, have the ability to make him feel like this? He’s angry at Laurence, and he’s angry at himself for being angry at Laurence, and he’s angry at Laurence again for making him angry at himself. He would never have expected this to have such an effect on him, and he’s frustrated at the proof that he hasn’t distanced himself emotionally nearly as well as he’d thought.

It’s his own fault, he thinks. He should never have taken the boy’s hand. There’s a reason most people only seal the bond upon marriage—you’re never supposed to have to experience your soulmate feeling like this about someone else.

A contact offers him a copy of the Times. He turns it down. He knows more than he wants to, just now, about William Laurence.

“Laurence,” Temeraire asks one day at the lake near Loch Laggan, “what is a soulmate?”

The runners freeze in their scrubbing of his scales, and Laurence supposes he knows who to blame for the question. They must have been gossiping about their marks where Temeraire could hear—wholly inappropriate, if Emily was present, but far from the greatest impropriety that Laurence has found amongst aviators. Still, he would very much prefer they had not discussed such a thing around his dragon, because it is a conversation he has been hoping to avoid.

But Temeraire will of course insist on learning the answer, so Laurence says, “Most humans have, marked upon their arms, the first words that a particular person will say to them. Such people are called soulmates, because it is said that God crafted their souls to match one another, and to be life-long companions.”

Temeraire blinks, and then asks, “Do you have a soulmate?”

“I do,” says Laurence, his stomach sinking.

The dragon looks stung, just as Laurence feared he would. “But you are my captain,” he says, and his voice has not sounded so small since he himself was small.

“And so I always shall be,” Laurence assures him. But he can see that further questions will be forthcoming, and they will be questions he cannot answer in front of the runners, so he adds, “This is a topic best not discussed in company, my dear. Perhaps later?”

Temeraire is terribly quiet for the rest of the evening, and then all the next day. Laurence’s heart aches to see it. When he harnessed Temeraire, he had thought his world was ending, not knowing that it was in truth beginning. The depth of what he feels for his dragon is beyond anything he could have imagined, and he would not give it up at any price. He will always wish for his soulmate, but as long as Temeraire is in his life, he does not think it could ever feel lacking.

On the third day, Temeraire is in unexpectedly high spirits. Laurence is glad to see it, and agrees easily when he asks if they can go alone to the lake that evening. After only a brief swim, he settles on the shore to be wiped down and says, “Laurence, tell me about your soulmate.”

Laurence pauses. He’d thought Temeraire must have moved on from the issue. “Not everyone knows who their soulmate is, my dear,” he says, not liking to evade Temeraire like that but not wishing to send him back into his melancholy.

But Temeraire is not diverted. “You do. It was obvious when I asked about it.”

Laurence isn’t sure how he came to that conclusion, but will not lie. “Yes, I do. We met when I was nine years old.”

“But that is so long ago! You must know one another so well, Laurence, why have I not met her?”

He closes his eyes and briefly leans his forehead against the warm hide. “I will tell you, but Temeraire, it is something you must not repeat to anyone, ever.”

“Because it is private?”

“Yes.” He hesitates—Temeraire has very little sense of privacy, and that might not be enough to stay his tongue. “But also because there are those who would object very strongly, and there are laws against it. You cannot speak of it where anyone might hear.”

Temeraire, perhaps predictably, is indignant. “There are laws against what is on your skin? But you did not put it there. I am certain you did not do anything wrong, and I will not let anyone say you did.”

Laurence can think of nothing to say to that, so he ignores it. “Even so, you must not let anyone know. You see, my soulmate is a man.”

“Oh,” says Temeraire thoughtfully. “Well, I don’t see why he shouldn’t be, but I will not tell anyone if you say I must not. What is his name, and why have I not met him?”

“His name is Tenzing,” says Laurence, “and I am afraid I do not know where he is.”

Temeraire presses for an explanation. Laurence gives it.

Temeraire is furious.

“But it is not right, at all!” he insists, as Laurence is forced to try to calm him. “Oh, we must do something!”

“There is nothing to be done,” Laurence says, and abruptly hates himself for it, his father’s words echoing back over the decades. “My dear, it was a terrible miscarriage of justice, but you do not even know Tenzing—”

“You are mine,” says Temeraire. “If he is yours, then he is also mine, and we must find him. I would like to see someone say he must leave again, if I am there,” he adds with satisfaction, quite unaware of the way Laurence is staring at him.

He can’t imagine anyone but an aviator being pleased to be so claimed by a dragon, but he cannot bring himself to correct Temeraire, not when this seems to be the alternative he has found to brooding jealousy. He certainly won’t be telling Temeraire that he doesn’t expect Tenzing will want anything to do with him, having given his life away to a dragon—Temeraire will either be very guilty or grow angry on Laurence’s behalf.

It won’t ever come up, he tells himself. There is no harm in letting Temeraire think of Tenzing as his. (There might be some harm in the anger against the British justice system he has just formed, but Laurence would be a hypocrite to try to chide him for it.)

“I am sure I could find him,” Temeraire adds, and Laurence does have to talk him down from that. A bit of righteous anger is one thing. Desertion in wartime is quite another.

Tharkay carries a message to Basra for Avraam Maden, and brings the response back to Istanbul. Maden is a good man, and has more work for him in the city, so he stays a few months. He does not read any paper originating in Britain. He hears nothing of William Laurence.

The adoration, somehow, continues to grow. He would not have thought it possible.

(He tries to tell himself that it’s a good thing. He hadn’t thought he was carrying any hope that they might one day have one another, but it seems he was wrong. Now, at least, it is impossible to forget that they have no future together.)

It takes long months, and an introduction to Maden’s lovely and clever daughter, for it to occur to him that, if Laurence can achieve such depth of emotion outside the bond, there is every possibility that Tharkay can, too.

There is no great risk, he tells himself when Sara smiles at him across the table. It is unlikely Maden would ever consider allowing a marriage between them, so he will have no expectations, and if it goes wrong, well, it cannot hurt him worse than this.

It’s not actually possible to shut off a soulbond—there’s a reason they have to be chosen, and you can’t un-choose. But Tharkay imagines himself doing so.

And then he makes the decision to fall in love.

Laurence cannot even think of denying Temeraire anything, these days, not when there is a sinking feeling slowly growing in his chest that when they reach China, he might truly lose him. So when Temeraire asks if they can go flying a bit earlier than is their habit, he agrees easily, and it does not occur to him that there is a particular reason for the request until the Allegiance has already shrunk away to nothing in the distance, and Temeraire clears his throat in an almost suspicious manner.

He knows this is not an attempt to flee—Temeraire wants to see China. But he can’t think what else it could be, either, and has no choice but to wait.

“Laurence,” Temeraire finally says, when they’ve been aloft for some time, “is Nepal very far from China?”

He blinks, quite startled. “Well, China is a large country,” he says. “Parts of it are fairly close to Nepal, but other parts are much farther. Why do you ask?” he adds, though he has a suspicion.

“I was only remembering,” says Temeraire, “that you said Tenzing’s mother was from Nepal, and thinking that perhaps he has gone to stay with her people.” Temeraire always refers to him as Tenzing, which is inappropriate considering they’ve never met, but Laurence cannot bring himself to chide him for it. He consoles himself with the fact that he wouldn’t know what else he should tell Temeraire to call him—Tenzing lost the legal right to use his father’s surname, and Laurence doesn’t know what he might be calling himself now. “Do you suppose we will be able to go and see if he is there?”

Ah, Laurence thinks. “My dear, I’m afraid we’re most unlikely to be given leave to fly off to another country while on a diplomatic mission, with hardly anything to guide us in our search—especially as we could not even explain what we were searching for! Regardless, from what I can tell, Tenzing is leading a far more exciting life than I would expect to find in a small village in Nepal; I do not think we would find him, even if we knew where to look.”

“Oh,” says Temeraire, disappointed, but then he twists his head around to look at Laurence as he flies. “What do you mean, from what you can tell? I thought you didn’t know where he was.”

Laurence belatedly realizes that he never explained the possibility of the empathic bond between soulmates, let alone the fact that he has one with Tenzing, and at least that conversation is effective at distracting Temeraire from his notion of haring off in search of the man.

But as they return to the Allegiance, he cannot shake the sense that Temeraire has no intention of letting the matter go.

The time that Tharkay and Sara spend together is not, strictly speaking, appropriate—there is no formal chaperone, and her parents don’t know about most of it—but no one can say they are doing anything wrong, and Tharkay cares about Sara’s opinion on the matter more than anyone else’s. He walks with her on the days she goes to market, and he discovers that it can still be easy to talk to another person, even if it is about nothing at all.

Her mind is sharp and her words are gentle, but her heart is guarded—less so than his, perhaps, but that isn’t saying much. She has nearly as many reasons to be careful in this world as he does, and the decision to be reckless together is as exhilarating as anything he has ever known.

(He ignores anything that comes down the bond. He will know if Laurence dies, he’s sure, and so there is no point worrying over the fierce and fast sensations of battle. As for the rest—the dread and hurt that comes more and more often—well, it cannot be over what he is feeling from Tharkay. Laurence is in love, after all. Any objections to Tharkay’s own joy would be utterly unjust.)

He buys her a bracelet, one day. She lets him slip it around her wrist, smiling, and then takes his hand.

Tharkay is not in love, but he now knows that he can be. In fact, he thinks, he is going to be, very soon.

A month later, Tharkay is invited to dine with the Madens, which is not especially unusual. But there are more people there than usual, several business partners of Maden’s, and their wives, and the food is more lavish, and when Maden stands to give a toast, he is beaming, and raises his glass towards Sara. “My daughter,” he declares, “has met her soulmate.”

Tharkay drinks the toast automatically, feeling suddenly very far away. He cannot help looking at Sara, and the small smile she gives him is very sad but not regretful. He doesn’t blame her for not telling him herself—she will be more heavily chaperoned, now that she is entering a proper courtship, and it would only have been a painful conversation for them both.

Once he is alone, he curses his own foolishness. He remembers thinking that the impossibility of a real future with her would protect him from hoping for one. He remembers thinking that there was no real risk, and that nothing that happened with Sara could possibly hurt him worse than the open wound that was his soulbond.

He was wrong, and has no one to blame for the way he feels now but himself.

He must have been wrong also about not being in love, because this can only be heartbreak. (Concern reaches down the bond. He thinks viciously that he does not want it.)

Over the years, Laurence has occasionally experienced the strange sense that his life was reflecting that of his soulmate. He’s felt the distinctive thrill of a fight in the part of his mind that is not his own even as he himself was fending off a boarding party, and the familiar fatigue of weathering a storm once floated down the bond three days into a dreadful gale. Those moments have always made him feel closer to Tenzing, even as they reminded him that his soulmate was leading a life no easier than his.

What begins perhaps a month after the Allegiance leaves England, and builds slowly to a fever pitch by the time they are crossing the Indian Ocean, does not feel like a reflection, and it makes Laurence feel farther from his soulmate than he ever has. The affection he can sense on the other end of the bond becomes adoration, and it brings him more sorrow than he would have expected.

He knew, when he harnessed Temeraire, that he was likely forsaking any remote chance he might have still had at a future with Tenzing, but he can admit that he had still privately considered himself committed. And, well, it’s not like he’s ever felt anything like this from the bond before, so perhaps he can be forgiven for half-believing it was the same for Tenzing. But, of course, Temeraire changes everything. The news is surely well-circulated by now—after Dover, it could hardly be kept quiet. He imagines Tenzing, probably somewhere on the continent, learning he has bound his life and future to a dragon, and quite reasonably concluding that Laurence has nothing left to give. Even before, he could not have begrudged his soulmate seeking happiness elsewhere, let alone now.

Likely it hurts worse under the current circumstances, as he is forced to reckon with the possibility that he will not be able to remain with Temeraire. It would be easier to let go of the idea of his soulmate, if he knew he would always have his dragon. But that is not Tenzing’s fault, he reminds himself, and tries to be happy for him.

On the day the Allegiance reaches Macao, though, something very different comes down the bond, sorrow and devastation and hurt all bound up together, nearly overwhelming in its magnitude. It hits so hard and so abruptly that it takes a moment to catch his breath.

Heartbreak, he thinks, and his sympathy and regret are sincere. He had almost begun to comfort himself that even if he was forced to leave Temeraire, at least one of them would be happy.

Maden sends Tharkay a message at his lodgings, asking to see him at his earliest convenience. He goes at once.

It’s unlikely to be about Sara, he thinks. He has made no issue of himself, and hardly seen her at all—Maden was surely aware of his interest in her, but there is no reason for him to wish to talk about it now. This knowledge does not ease the tense worry that he might.

He’s shown immediately to the office upon his arrival, and Maden greets him as warmly as he ever has. He offers him a seat and a drink, and then he gets to business.

“I’ve been helping Ambassador Arbuthnot to broker a deal,” he says. “A purchase of dragon eggs.”

Tharkay lifts his eyebrows—such a purchase will be nothing less than a coup for Britain’s Aerial Corps, if it goes through, but... “And what would I have to offer to such proceedings?”

“The deal is complete,” says Maden. “The issue has now become transportation. To send them by sea would be an enormous risk, and Arbuthnot isn’t willing to trust them to foreign hands—he wants British service members.”

“It is my understanding that His Majesty’s Aerial Corps is spread perilously thin,” says Tharkay neutrally.

“Just so,” says Maden. “It seems there’s only one dragon and crew that will do, and Arbuthnot has secured orders from an Admiral Lenton that they are to fly to Istanbul without delay, but there are certain circumstances that will make their delivery difficult.” He gestures to a sealed envelope on his desk. “I told Arbuthnot I know a man who can make the journey."

Ah, he thinks. Not about Sara, then, but still removing him from the city. “Why were these orders not simply sent by courier?”

Maden grimaces. “Too far for any British courier, overland. I’ve heard a few versions of the story, but the gist of it is that they’re in China, trying to convince the court to let them keep the Celestial.”

Tharkay blinks in real startlement. “How, exactly, did the Corps come to have a Celestial?”

“Arbuthnot says the egg was captured on a French prize.”

That is actually a little alarming. “How did the French come to have the egg?”

Maden spreads his hands. “I do not know. Nonetheless, the matter of these eggs is urgent enough that the British are ordering the captain to abandon the endeavor in China and come retrieve them at once. Their transport should already have arrived in Macao, and Arbuthnot supposes you will find them either there or in Peking. I know it is an arduous journey, but he will make it worth your while. Will you go?”

He glances at the envelope. It might be better, he thinks, not to be in Istanbul. “To whom would I be delivering these orders?”

“The dragon’s captain is William Laurence,” says Maden.

Tharkay stops breathing for a moment, then forces himself to continue, slowly and evenly.

He supposes this is what he gets, for ending his habit of checking the progress of Laurence’s career. But still, he knows how the Corps is viewed in Britain. What does Laurence’s great love think of this?

However absurd the idea is, it feels true. Nonetheless, he has to be sure.

“Would that happen to be Captain Laurence, lately of the Reliant?”

Maden is visibly taken aback. “Why, yes—that is the name of the ship that took the egg, and Arbuthnot mentioned it was her captain who harnessed the dragonet. How did you know? I’d thought you weren’t keeping up with the British papers.”

“We were acquainted in our youth,” says Tharkay, staring at the letter on the desk.

“Truly?” Maden grins. “Well, then it will be a reunion.”

He speaks as though this seals Tharkay’s acceptance, when in reality it means he should be running in the opposite direction. Getting closer to that all-encompassing love can only hurt him.

But recent events have proven he’s likely to get hurt regardless of his decisions. And, well. He’s always known he’s more curious than is good for him.

Knowing that it’s against his better judgement, Tharkay takes the letter. “I suppose it will,” he agrees.