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Chapter Text

First came the whippings, each lash like a brand, the lashes not counted in the single digits, but the tens.

Tharkay did not bother to count. He braced his hands against the rough wooden pole, and in his head snarled out every profanity he knew in nine languages.

Next they drowned him, or at least, went through the motions. Vampires did not need to breathe. But their lungs still remembered it, still yearned for it, and somewhere after the tenth dunk, they gasped for breath regardless, and the water rushed in like consumption, choking.

Tharkay occupied himself listing every species of bird he knew across four continents.

Afterwards, they broke his hands. One finger after the other, alternating between right and left. Each time pausing, promising the pain could stop, that blood would be his, if only he gave the confession they desired.

Tharkay did not give it. He barely listened. He was naming every constellation he had ever seen spread across the night sky.

The sky. He missed the sky. He wondered if he would ever see it again.

His captors gave him time to recover between each session, though of course no true recovery would ever be possible, with him so starved. Intermittently they fed him— perhaps every few days, perhaps once a week, perhaps less, he could not reckon. A soupy porridge of rice and blood meal; all a vampire could need, in a single bowl.

It was never enough. It was never anywhere near enough. And as the confinement and the beatings and the demands continued, Tharkay felt his whole world narrowing, thinning to a razor's edge, him balanced upon it, teetering—

He did not fall. Where was there even to fall to? His primary captors were also vampires, at least at first. As he weakened they traded them out for less valuable human guards, wearing peach wood necklaces and carrying jujube seeds and garlic in their pockets. In this state, those tokens were more than sufficient to repel him. He was not sure if he could have fought them even had they been naked and unarmed.

There was no prey here.

"The opium," someone yelled at him; they jangled a scroll in his face. "Confess, tell us you brought it."

"No," Tharkay said.

They hauled him to his feet. Half pushed him, half carried him, through a warren of dark tunnels. He tried to count the turns, as he had the birds and the constellations, but the numbers slipped out of his mind. As he tried to recount them, he realised it was abruptly becoming much brighter.

It seemed he would see the sky again, at least one final time.

There were a multitude of supernatural skills a vampire could cultivate over the courses of their half-lives. There were vampires capable of lifting entire laden carts above their heads, and those who could spin a trance for hours. Since he had been turned, Tharkay had dedicated almost all of his attention and power to one skill over all else: survival.

It was for that reason and that reason alone, that for half a breath there was no pain, only brilliant blue overhead and a gentle warmth, like a caress on his cheek.

And then it began to burn.

Tharkay closed his eyes, for all it accomplished literally nothing, and began to list breeds of dragons in his head.

His spine cracked. His muscles spasmed, contorted. Screamed. His vision went red, then white. The sun was above him, only above him, yet he felt it through his body entire. His rags may have well have burned away. His rags, his skin, his tissue, flayed to the bone. He screamed, he screamed.

He did not even reach 'C' for 'Celestial' before—

Blood.

Sweet, salty, vitalblood.

It filled is mouth, and overflowed, dribbled down his lips, his chin. It buoyed him, rejuvenated him, revived him.

But no. No, something was wrong. Where had the blood come fr—

From Sara.

She seemed to glow in the candlelight, her eyes warm brown pools, her smile gentle and her neck slender, the two red pinpricks marking her as his—

But no. No, that had never happened, he had never drunk from Sara.

Then who? Where had the blood come from?

Nowhere. There was no blood. Not truly. Just a few diluted drops in water. He was dying in a cave somewhere in China—

No. Not dying. Dying would be a mercy.

Tharkay was dimly aware of people moving, people speaking. Sometimes he could even follow their conversation, or respond to them. But more and more, the physical world seemed unreal. His mind was consumed by visions, hallucinations, and even knowing what they were it was hard to resist—

"But you must, Tenzing," Laurence said, clasping his hand. "After all that you have accomplished, surely you will not give up now?"

"I can''t," Tharkay croaked. "I am took weak."

"Then let me give you strength." With those words, he produced a knife, and scored the back of his hand in a single deft gesture. Reverently, like a man at prayer, Tenzing lifted Will's hand to his teeth and drank and drank and drank—

Someone laughed. "Pathetic creature. Look at you." He held out a glass vial, bright red. "Do you wish for blood?" He dangled it above his head.

Tharkay blinked at it. Slowly, he rose to his feet. Though he knew it was foolish, he stumbled forward, stretching out his hand—

The captor laughed, and kicked his legs out from under him. He fell to the floor.

The visions took on a different tint, after that. Darker. More savage.

He was no longer the helpless victim, curled up in the corner, mewling piteously. He was standing tall, strong, at the height of his power—

No. More than his height; at a peak previously never before reached. Had he not always flinched away from it, cowered? Always he had placed checks upon himself, balances. Always pay for his blood; do not take it by force; never drink too fast, or with too much urgency—

To what end?

All those rules, all those manners, they had been for nothing, ultimately.

Now he would take what was his.

He would spring forward— he would break the bars— they would snap just as easily as his captor's spines— they would scream, and they would be the helpless ones. They would try to run, but he would pin them with his gaze. Hold them there, frozen, as drank each of them dry, one after the other. Fangs plunged into unwilling flesh, their blood alive with their final rush of fear and desperation.

Oh, he saw it. The contempt in their eyes, still. Every time they looked at him. But he would find a way. All it would take was a single mistake on their part, a single forgotten open wound. Then he would have them. Then he would kill them all.

"Oh, but Tharkay, that does not sound very much like you at all," Temeraire said, nosing him with his massive muzzle.

Tharkay stiffened, looking away. "You deny that they deserve to die?"

"Not in the least. They have treated you most abominably, and so of course is only natural you should defend yourself." Insistent, the dragon drew him closer. "But there is self-defence, and there is joyful cruelty, and it is important for one to remember where one draws the line."

He was not certain how the massive dragon had fit himself into such a small space; he did not much care anymore. Tharkay leaned against the soothing warm leather of Temeraire's leg, fighting to keep his eyes open. "I do not know what other choice I have."

"Why not fly away?"

"I cannot."

"Yes, you can. We can. Together."

And suddenly Tharkay was aboard Temeraire's back, and the sky was a vast fault of silver stars, and with great massive wing-beats, they were rising, rising, far away from all of this—

He came very close to dying, that time. They spared an entire thimble of blood, to revive him.

"There will be more blood, cups of it, hot and fresh." A gentle hand against his head, close enough to hear the rush in the arteries. He flinched back. "You need only confess. Will you confess?"

"...Yes."

They did not lie to him, not on that score. They gave him blood, a whole spoonful this time, enough that the bones in his shattered hands stitched back together. Which was the intent, for now he could hold a quill again.

"Sign."

For the first time in— in longer than he could name— his vision was steady. He was able to read what was in front of him, the neat characters, black upon white. The quill was light and easy in his hand. Just write his name, on one page, then the next, and the next. Simple. A few strokes, nothing more. And then this pain could all end.

Tenzing Tharkay abruptly recalled himself.

He dropped the quill, and in a single gesture, tore the paper in half.

Even the latest round of beatings Tharkay sustained in punishment was not enough to wholly diminish the rejuvenating effects of the blood they had offered him. His hearing was therefore still keen enough that they could hear his captor's discussion, even through the metal door and down the end of another hall. "—ould have broken by this point. He is useless, a waste of resources."

"Best to kill him now, be done of him," agreed a second.

A third drummed their fingers against the wall. "No. There is still one last thing he might be useful for."

Tharkay rolled over on the palette, and did what little he could to cover his ears.

A pointless gesture, of course. But Tharkay only realised how truly futile everything had been when they pushed none other than William Laurence into his cell.

Chapter Text

Laurence's head throbbed.

It was that throbbing which acted as an anchor, roused him, drew him to the surface. He felt great steady wing beats below his body, and for a moment thought he was aboard Temeraire— but only for a moment. Their weight and cadence was wrong, a far smaller beast than he was used to. That was when he tried to open his eyes, and found this accomplished absolutely nothing, as he had been blindfolded.

The memories came then in a rush. A late night walk at the edge of camp, to clear his head; looking on after a knot of British aviators who had gotten far too drunken for his preference, but wondering if he had any standing now to intervene; the ambush.

It had gone in a rush, as battles often did, leaving only a series of impressions behind in his mind. Clearer than anything, he remembers one of those very soldiers he'd thought to unbraid pulling him into shadows. "Quickly, sir," he had said, forcing Laurence to swap jackets and swords. "We are outnumbered."

It was the last thing he had said before a sword had gone through his gut.

The man had not been a member of his crew. Laurence had not even been certain of his name. It had began with a V, he thought.

Now he was dead in Laurence's stead.

Laurence was grateful for the sacrifice; he merely hoped it had not been pointless. He had taken a blow to a head and been trussed up like a turkey. He did not know where he was being taken, but he had some guesses as to what he would meet when he arrived.

These predictions were proven correct. After some unknown stretch of time, an hour perhaps, the dragon landed, and Laurence was pulled down none-too-gently from the silk harness, still bound and blindfolded. There were voices all around, in Mandarin, most of which he understood, though he pretended not too. He did not begin moving forward until a rough voice by his ear barked in English, "Move!" and something shoved him in the back.

Wherever he was taken was cooler. A cave, he thought, from the scent of stone and torches. The path wound down, and Laurence kept tripping on an uneven floor he could not see. Something was tripping from his scalp down the side of his face. Sweat, possibly; quite likely blood as well. His mouth was very dry.

After a long walk with many twists and turns, he was finally forced to sit. Finally his blindfold was removed, and he was met with an older Chinese man with eyes like flint.

Everything that followed was predictable. They wanted his name and his rank; Laurence gave a pseudonym. They called the British dogs who were corrupting China from within, but offered leniency in exchange for cooperation. Said cooperation meant confessing that they had been behind the illegal opium trade.

"No," Laurence said, steady and unflinching.

"You need convincing?" the commander asked.

"No," Laurence replied, even. 

They ripped off one of his fingernails.

He roared with pain, bucking in an instinctual attempt to get free of his restraints. Even so, he did not falter. He had already betrayed his country once; he had no intention of doing so again.

The commander peered down at him, stroking his beard. "You do not believe you will go further. Let me prove our seriousness."

Laurence met his gaze. "That is unnecessary." He could fully well believe what they were capable of.

Nonetheless, he was once again blindfolded and hoisted to his feet. Again, he was led down, down, into the mine system, the air growing chillier the further they went.

They came to a stop, and the blindfold was removed. Before him was a heavy metal door. "This your punishment, should you continue to refuse to admit guilt." The door was wrenched open, and Laurence shoved inside.

The scent was an assault in of itself, choking enough that Laurence had to fight back a swell of bile. A small cell, or perhaps a pair of them, bisected by bars. On the other side, in the corner, lay a corpse. Despite the vileness— or because of it— he was overcome by a temporary sense of being in two places at once. Somewhere dark, and damp, the bite of smoke— and someone coming for him—

Grief seized him suddenly, a terrible horror that this person was dead.

Then they shifted, and it was replaced with a horror that he was alive.

The man's skin, where it was recognisable as skin, was raw and red. Elsewhere it more was like a singular open boil, oozing with greyish pus. His hair was matted, and seemed somehow receded into his scalp. Something white stuck out of the man's left arm, and with a shock, Laurence realised it to be exposed bone.

He looked like a corpse. He should have been a corpse.

Yet the captive pulled himself upright, mouth gaping in horrified shock, revealing twin fangs, and Laurence saw the truth of it. A vampire, withheld blood and allowed to hover at the brink of death.

"Dear Lord," Laurence breathed.

"Yes, you see." The captor holding him did not smile, but there was nonetheless something pleased in his tone. "You will confess to your crimes, or else we shall feed you to the vampire. It is very hungry, you see."

"No," the vampire hissed.

The threat of death should he not comply had been self-evident since he had woken. They could have delivered that threat with the weight of a blade or a whip, or even one of their own loyal vampiric soldiers. As a method of execution, predation by a blood-starved vampire had little to recommend itself.

But its very savagery was the point. To place a mortal man in a cage with a starving predator could inspire panic in a way very few other threats could induce.

Indeed, Laurence himself was not immune. His heart hammered in his chest; his palms became slick with sweat. But soldiers and gentlemen both had to master their emotions, and he took his terror by the reigns now. As the captors continued to hurl threats, promises, and other inducements at him, Laurence found it remarkably easy to keep his head high, his gaze not so much as twitching towards the vampire waiting on the other side of the metal gate.

The conspirators' leader sneered. "Very well," he said. "Let us see how you feel after some hours with the demon."

The guards filed out, the door making a heavy clang behind them. And then man and vampire were left alone together.

Due to the logistical challenges presented by life on the oceans for one of their condition, there were not many vampires in the navy. Nonetheless, Laurence had met vampires over the years, some military, some civilian. Of the latter half, they had primarily been friends and acquaintances of his parents. Lords and ladies of fine manners and dress, some of whom had personally held their lands for centuries.

This vampire was about as far a cry from them as any could have imagined, dressed in rags so blackened and foul one could barely even tell where fabric ended and skin began. He stank, of blood and piss and disease.

Yet, despite all of that, the vampire did not act like the rabid animal the conspirators were clearly attempting to degrade him to. He did not immediately throw himself at the bars in a feeding frenzy, did not scream or howl to claw. He very slowly levered himself up onto his feet, and when he spoke, it was in an English accent which would not have sounded out of place in Wollaton Hall. "What are you doing here?"

"The same thing as you, I'd imagine," Laurence said, somewhat rueful.

The vampire made a sound, somewhere between a low snort of laughter and a wince of pain. Shuffling forward half a step, he said, "Laurence, is that truly you?"

The name was like missing a step on a flight of stairs in the dark of night.

A sickening sense of falling; the knowledge that something which should be there was not. This vampire, this other man, recognised Laurence, and it was clear from the keen desperate look on his face that he expected to be recognised in turn.

Laurence's lips thinned. He wanted to answer in the affirmative. If this man recognised him, even if Laurence did not do so in return, then the chances were that he was an ally. Indeed, he felt a natural fellowship for the other captive, clearly so abused and mistreated.

But the captors may very well be listening, at the door. Even if they were not, there could be no assurance this vampire may not betray his identity, even against his own will. The only thing protecting Laurence and the alliance which rested upon his back was his anonymity.

So instead of answering with the full truth, he said, "I am a friend."

The vampire's eyes closed, briefly.

Laurence was seized with the urge to reach out, to offer a gentle hand of comfort. Only that would be foolhardy in the extreme, and the vampire had kept his distance, regardless.

The least Laurence could do, surely, was to admit he did not recognise him, and ask the captor's name. But before Laurence could find a way to phrase the question, the man spoke, this time in French. "It is not safe for you here."

"No doubt," Laurence agreed. The vampire himself painted a very illustrative picture of the kind of treatment he could expect to receive.

The vampire shook his head, emphatic. "No, no. It is not— this cell— or rather, I am not safe—"

Laurence had assumed the other captive had remained tucked against the far wall as a consequence of his clear weakness, or else the metal chain bound him too tightly. If the hunch of his shoulders and the occasional flinch of his expression suggested fear, that could only be expected after such vile torture. Now it occurred to Laurence that the source of the vampire's fear was not his fellow prisoner, or even his captors, but apparently himself.

"I appreciate the forewarning," Laurence said, after he had drawn a grim breath. "I shall keep your concerns in mind, and I bid you tell me if there are any precautions we can take to minimize the hunger. But I am under no allusions of who the true threat here is, and it is the armed soldiers outside with clear cruel intent, and not my fellow captive who plainly does not wish me ill."

The vampire seemed to have no good response to that, though after a very long moment, he managed a nod.

There were some precautions they could take, however. With trembling hands the vampire made a makeshift mask out of the remains of his shirt to drown out Laurence's scent. Laurence, under his direction, stood away from the feeble draft that came from the corridor under the door, which afforded the starved creature some measure of relief.

While somewhat more stable, the vampire's expression remained clouded with fever and pain both. There was nothing Laurence could offer for relief besides distraction. "How did you come to be here?" Like a rope thrown to a sailor tossed overboard, the question gave the vampire something to cling to, and he was able to straighten a fraction as he delivered a report, remarkably coherent given the circumstances. He had been sent from England to China by Admiral Roland to deliver to the formation urgent news regarding the war. Napoleon intended to march upon Russia come June, with what he was calling La Grande Armée, a force 300 dragons strong with one million men to match.

Laurence thanked the vampire for the delivery of such vital intelligence with all the gratefulness it deserved, even as he privately despaired. It was more crucial than ever that they not both die underneath this mountains, the intelligence with them.

The vampire read his expression regardless. "Is there any chance of rescue? The formation— Temeraire— are they—?"

"They were all well, last I knew, and no doubt they are searching, by now." He did not wish to speak aloud how futile the search likely was. Even this single province of China was large, and with General Fela actively sabotaging the search, it could be very difficult for any of their party to actually find where they were being held.

Laurence's heart clenched. Even knowing how high the stakes were, even knowing his first and only concern should be securing China's support for the upcoming invasion of Russia, his mind went back to Temeraire. If he died here, that would be his greatest regret, even more than the treason. That his last conversation with the dragon had been an argument.

Voice softer than expected, the vampire began, "Laurence—"

He broke off; both of them jumped. There were sounds from out in the hall; footsteps, raised voices. Their time was limited.

Risking a step closer, Laurence whispered fiercely in French, "Do you know anything of their forces, their schedules?"

"Some," the vampire said, dubious, and gave what intelligence he could. He had interacted regularly with at least six men, two of whom were vampires, though the latter he had not seen in some time; presumably the conspirators had found tasks more urgent for such valuable assets than guarding a prisoner. Any other details, however, were hazy, and no true weight could be placed upon them.

But what choice did they have? The voices were only growing louder.

Steeling himself, Laurence stepped forward. "A vampire can recover from even the greatest extremity by the consumption of blood, yes?"

"Yes, but, we have no b—" The vampire stopped, his dull red eyes widening. "You cannot be suggesting—?"

Laurence gripped the bars. "Would it work? Would give you some opportunity to overcome our captors?"

The vampire stepped backwards. His fangs were barred. "Yes, once I have drunk you dry!"

"Do you have any intent to do so?"

"Of course I do not, Will— sir." Laurence felt another pang of guilt as the vampire corrected himself. "But at this level of desperation, intent does not necessarily overrule instinct, and if I were to inflict permanent harm, then I could never—"

"Then you will not," Laurence said, and the certainty in his voice was a shock even to him.

Nonetheless, he was certain. Surely it was natural for any mortal in this situation to be overcome with fear for what a starving vampire might do, and yet Laurence felt only the anticipation for the coming action. It was like standing before Temeraire: even on that windswept Japanese cliff, the Celestial diving in from the sky with a mighty roar, his body had seemed unable to summon any true fear.

Whoever this vampire was, Laurence was beginning to suspect he was more than a mere acquaintance.

There was a bark of laughter, right outside the door, and an answering call.

"Come," Laurence beckoned. The vampire obeyed, taking a step closer, then another, his chain rattling.

But when Laurence tilted his scalp wound forward, the vampire shook his head. "Too shallow. My fangs would not find purchase."

Laurence pressed closer against the bars. "Then bite where you must."

"I do not think—"

The click of keys in the lock behind them.

"Bite where you must."

He meant his words. Even if worse came to worse, Laurence would prefer a swift death by fang compared to drawn out torture.

Quicker than he could have imagined, the vampire's hand whipped out between the bars, pulling Laurence in with a grip as strong as iron and just as cool. Just as the cell's door slammed open, the vampire's fangs pierced the tender flesh of his neck, and Laurence knew him. Knew him, and knew himself.

Chapter Text

Captain William Laurence. Tharkay could not believe it.

He did not believe it.

How could Laurence have come to share the same prison as him? In some anonymous hole dug deep under one of China's ten thousand mountains?

Yes, this man looked like William Laurence, and spoke like William Laurence, and even moved just like William Laurence. Yet surely if the anti-Western faction of Chinese government had gotten its hands of the Emperor's adopted son, they would not have gone through the song and dance of a forced confession, but executed him immediately.

No. No, Tharkay had already been plagued by days of hallucinations, perhaps weeks. This was more elaborate than some, but surely still a hallucination, merely build around a skeleton of truth to give it more depth.

And oh, how alluring a fantasy it was, Tharkay reflected, as the man wearing William Laurence's face beckoned him closer. That the one he would yearn for most in all the world would appear here, like a shining knight from Arthurian legend. That one of the handful of people he was assured would not begrudge him their blood would appear, and urge him to drink his fill. What a beautiful lie to soothe a guilty conscience.

"Then bite where you must," the man urged, his throat moving as he spoke.

Tharkay fought the urge to run his tongue over his teeth. To run his tongue over the fellow's throat. To dig in and—

Direct feedings need not be fatal. Most were not.

Many were not, at any rate.

The guards were at the gate. Tharkay's hearing was diminished, but he could still make out every word in three. The words "discovered" and "feeding" and "quickly" were among them.

If they did not do something, they would both surely die here.

"Bite where you must."

Summoning his courage and praying to any god who would have him that he was not making a mistake, Tharkay lunged.

It was too fast for the captive to react. He stiffened under his grip, and despite having offered himself up, instinct still drove him to struggle. The vampire's instincts just as surely drove Tharkay to grip tighter, and somehow made it all the sweeter. For an hour or more now, he had been going half-mad, taunted by the warm salty scent of his prey's sweat and dried blood, clothes and skin and arteries, and this was his reward for his long privation.

Tharkay's fangs plunged direct into the jugular.

Blood.

Sweet, salty, vital blood.

Instantly, it filled him. Filled him as nothing else had not for weeks, for months, for years. The top emotions were the most obvious— the anticipation and the fear, yes, but the courage too. Beneath were the deeper notes, anger and determination and hope. There was a great roiling tide of love, one which would have threatened to send one drowning, if not for the firm bedrock of duty that rested beneath.

Tenzing would know this blood anywhere.

It was Will, after all.

Will, who was no longer struggling, but leaning into his touch. Will, whose breathing was fast and frantic beneath his teeth. Will, whose blood was revealing more and more fascinating layers, the deeper Tharkay drank, relief and wonder and something else—

Will, who would die if Tharkay drank him dry.

With monumental effort, Tharkay withdrew his teeth, still dripping. Laurence gasped, falling upon the cell bars for support.

The cell bars? Ah, yes. They had been captured.

Had been captured, past tense.

Framed in the doorway were three of their captors. Two were backing away, screaming. The third was not so fast; he was merely standing there, mouth agape. Tharkay remembered him now, with vivid clarity. He was the one who had held his head under the water.

As he had drunk deep of Will's life blood, time had seemed to slow. Now it went very, very fast, as Tharkay tore the cell bars apart, and lunged.

Laurence had been braced for pain.

And it had been painful, two short pricks, plunging deeper than he could have anticipated. But even then, that pain had felt like a minor thing, like a single rain drop in a storm of sensation. There was impossible grip on his arm; the cold metal bars pressed tight against his chest; the prickle of hairs down the back of his neck; his breath caught in his throat; the air gone from his lungs in a rush; a pooling sense of heat; the twin desires to push himself away, and to simply lean in and allow himself to be taken entire.

Despite the enemy at their backs, the moment seemed to last forever. And yet, when Tenzing drew away, it felt somehow much too short.

Tenzing. Laurence remembered the name; remembered the quiet joy when it had been shared with him, aboard The Allegiance, bound for Australia.

Laurence remembered.

Screams, a great tearing, an awful wet thump. A fight. Laurence moved to join it, but as he turned the world went spinning. He found himself half-clinging to the metal bars, out of breath. Not just out of breath, but out of vitality, every thought and movement as if caught to the knees in mud.

Gradually, he recovered himself. He raised a hand to his neck. It was damp, but not as much as he would have imagined, nor half as painful.

Laurence swallowed.

He stood, and surveyed the damage. He was the only soul left in the cell. The prison bars had been crumpled, an entire section throw across the room. The sill of the doorway out into the tunnels was marked by a great puddle of blood. Laurence stepped over it carefully. Beyond it was a body, slammed against the wall. It had not been beheaded, but it was a near thing. A second soldier lay face down upon the ground, impaled upon her own sword. The third guard was not dead, nor did he seem injured at all. Nonetheless, he was sitting slack against the tunnel wall, his eyes blank and staring, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth.

Laurence picked up the blade from where it had tumbled from the guard's hand. He did not so much as blink.

Even in this warren of mine tunnels, it was not difficult to figure out where to go. Had the distant sound of fighting had not led the way, the blood would have made a clear trail. Laurence moved cautiously but quickly up the sloping tunnels, braced for action. He found it quick enough. Two soldiers were waiting at a branch ahead, and they lunged at him as soon as they heard his footsteps.

Laurence was spent, from exhaustion and blood loss both, but he was older than these two soldiers, and more experienced. One caught him in the shoulder; he recovered and knocked the blade from her hand. Her fellow attempted to come at him from behind, but Laurence swept his feed out from under him. "Surrender," he said in Mandarin, and they obeyed, or at least ran off deeper. Perhaps they hoped to escape.

That was certainly Laurence's plan, and he continued onwards and upwards.

Not five minutes later he encountered the next group of soldiers. The tunnel air was thick with black powder smoke and the crack of gunfire. Laurence slowed, and pressed himself against the tunnel wall, approaching slowly. The conspirator soldiers had his back to him as they shot down the tunnel; Laurence heard familiar voices beyond them. He decided to take a risk.

Moving swiftly, Laurence sprung out of the dark, plunging his sword into one soldier's back, and kicking another to the ground. A couple men screamed; several turned in alarm. Laurence was already retreating, jumping back out of their range. The distraction had served its purpose, and it gave the crown forces the chance to break the line, and come swarming down.

Crown forces, with British aviators among them. "Captain!" Lieutenant Forthing cried, falling onto his left side, while Mr. Ferris took his right. Laurence was fortified by their presence. Together they forced the knot of conspirators into submission.

Even with their enemies subdued, Laurence could not stop, not yet. "Tharkay," he said, "have you seen Th—?"

"Yes, up ahead!" Ferris answered, waving his arm, and Laurence followed him at a pell-mell.

Some forty yards ahead, they found him.

The bodies of ten or so enemy soldiers laid around him. Some were dead. Some were not.

"Tharkay!" Laurence cried, "Tharkay, are you well?"

"I am— much recovered," he said, and Laurence could see it was the truth. He was still dressed in soiled rags, yes, and he was still much too thin by far. But what flesh he did have was renewed. His blisters and open wounds here gone, the skin the shiny pink of new growth. He was standing taller, and his gaze was clear and focused. It was enough that Laurence nearly missed the dark red stain around his lips. "But Laurence, what of you?"

"Also well, pray, do not be concerned," Laurence said, quickly.

Tharkay looked as thought he might say something to that, but he was cut off by Forthing interjecting, "I am not so sure of that." It was only after the lieutenant latched his arm underneath Laurence that Laurence realised he had been swaying, somewhat.

Ferris stepped up, and after half a breath of hesitation, similarly offered Tharkay support as well. He had been swaying too. No doubt a consequence of the tremendous display of power, he had just displayed.

Laurence had not realised, after all their years travelling together, just what Tharkay was capable of.

More and more crown soldiers were pouring in as reinforcements, now, and their small group had to step out of the tide. "The exit is up ahead; come, Temeraire is waiting," Ferris said, and none of them needed any more in the way of encouragement. Supported on either side, Laurence and Tharkay walked together to freedom.

Chapter Text

The sun hurt.

Not unbearably so. It did not burn or blister. But it ached, nonetheless, like a cup of tea taken when the water was still too close to a boil. Tharkay did all he could not to flinch, and was immeasurably relieved when he reached the sanctuary of Temeraire's shade.

It was still beautiful to watch the sun set as they flew, from the safe vantage of a dragon's silk belly rigging.

Over the years, Tharkay had had the dubious pleasure of visiting more war camps than he could count. The Chinese royal legions organized things very properly, as such things were measured. Within a half hour of arrival, attendants already had a hot bath prepared for Tharkay. He was perhaps too hard on his newly-healed skin with the soap, but he could not help it. He scrubbed, and scrubbed, and scrubbed, as heavily as he dared, trying to work away the long months of road and sweat and filth. Even after the water had long grown cool, he was not entirely certain he had succeeded.

Nonetheless, he felt better once towelled off, and in proper clean clothes. He was led to what was to be his tent, and already, a meal had been set out. A light soup of vegetable broth, a tall glass of yellow wine, and an equally tall glass of red blood.

The blood, no doubt, had been sourced by one of the crown's professional letters. Its flavour was neutral, emotions deliberately subdued, and for once, Tharkay did not mind. He did not think he could have stood anything richer, just then.

No sooner had he finished than Captain Harcourt appeared at the tent's entrance. Tharkay bowed his head to her; she was, technically speaking, his superior officer. Tharkay was glad for the opportunity to deliver his intelligence, suspecting now he may have rather muddled the details in his earlier report.

The two of them had met only briefly in the past, and while Tharkay half-felt he knew Captain Harcourt from Granby and Laurence's tales, he was well aware how inaccurate such impressions could be. Nonetheless, it seemed the aviators had been well founded in their assessment of Harcourt's character. Despite her youth, she was measured and to-the-point. She asked what needed to be asked, and did not dwell on the more lurid details.

"Thank you, Captain Tharkay," she said, and he nearly smirked at the use of the title; it did not feel particularly well-earned, considering Arkaday's fate. "You have gone above and beyond."

Gratitude of any measure had been far too thin in his life for Tharkay to brush this aside with ease. Solemnly he replied, "You are welcome."

Harcourt stood up and straightened her jacket. "Your services are appreciated, and will continue to be, should you choose to offer them. But I think it might be prudent to say that after such monumental effort, you are more than entitled to a chance to recover."

Tharkay raised an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting I holiday at the coast?"

"The coasts, the capitol, Timbuktu! Anywhere you choose, as long as you allow yourself time to rest."

In a single easy motion, Tharkay stood as well. "That time spanned the length of a bath and a meal. I am quite fit now, I assure you."

"There are some injuries that are not writ on the skin," Harcourt said, in a tone beyond her years. "But I am certain you know that well enough, and I will not press you. Take care." With that, she departed.

Granby replaced her not long after, just as Tharkay was beginning to sort through the small packages the Chinese imperial physicians had given him. Herbs and creams, primarily, but also a set of jade bracelets which were pleasantly cool against Tharkay's fingers. "What are those supposed to do?" Granby asked.

"Improve the flow of chi I receive from blood and therefore stimulate recovery."

Granby's eyebrows raised in speculation. "Does that work?"

"Truly, I have not the faintest, but I doubt it can hurt."

"Fair."

Tharkay tossed him one line of beads, which Granby caught. "For your arm," he said. "Perhaps it shall grow back."

"Ha." Granby paused, assessing him. A great deal had passed for both of them since they had last parted ways on the shores of Australia, and they both seemed at a loss at where to pick things back up. "Fancy a game?"

And truly? Tharkay did.

On their pevious travels together, Granby had sworn off playing chess with Tharkay entirely after complaining he was essentially unbeatable at the game. In recent months, the aviators had apparently been introduced to Go, and so it was this they played instead. When Tharkay's skill at this game became apparently as well, Granby reacted with a kind of good-natured resignation.

Nonetheless, he quite cheerfully agreed to switch to cards when captains Little, Berkley, and Cherney came searching an hour or so later, all of them leaving the tent behind for the space and light afforded by a campfire. By Granby's place at the table was a little curved wooden holder for any additional cards he could not manage with a single hand. There was wine flowing, and the cheerful conversation, no small part of it congratulations and praise for Tharkay's adventure and continued survival, which Tharkay could not admit preening a little under. And if anyone should ever ask too keen a question on how he had managed that survival, it was easy enough to shift the topic by remarking on whatever hand had been plaid or a complaining about the deal.

Eventually Harcourt re-appeared as well, Cherney pulling up a chair for her as Little poured her a drink. The sense of camaraderie was stark compared to the many lonely nights he had recently withstood, enough that it almost seemed like a dream. As if he might blink, and wake up again in that dark cave.

As warm and comfortable as it all was, however, there was a notable absence. It had been near six hours since they had arrived at the camp, and Tharkay had not seen Laurence since.

This could not be considered unusual, Tharkay reminded himself. Laurence had been injured, and unlike him, such wounds could not be erased by a few sip of blood. He was a military captain, and a prince besides, and had just received crucial intelligence. No doubt he had been trapped in quite a gauntlet of meetings, and it would be foolish to read anything else into his absence.

Nonetheless, he was more pleased than he could say when Temeraire' dark shadow descended from the air and Laurence slid down the dragon's side.

The pair of them both proceeded to inquire after Tharkay's health, which was more than a little ridiculous, considering the many bandages wrapped around Laurence's head. Laurence at least conceded that easily enough, but it was not enough to immediately satisfy Temeraire, who had a tendency to play nursemaid and felt quite entitled to sniffing Tharkay all over, searching for signs for any remaining injury or weakness. Tharkay bore this all with some strange bemused feeling in his chest he was afraid to examine too closely.

Replenished with blood, Tharkay's ears were now keen enough to hear the aviators conversing even over Temeraire's fussing. "You two have it all settled, then?" Granby was asking Laurence in a low voice.

"Yes," Laurence said. "I am only damned sorry to have upset him so in the first place."

Whatever that meant, Laurence would not appreciate him asking after it, and so Tharkay merely filed it away for later.

Finally satisfied, Temeraire bid them to return to their game. Laurence took a seat and was dealt in.

Cheerful conversation rose back up among the aviators, although Tharkay himself was subdued. Much of his attention was occupied covertly surveying Laurence. Sure enough, the man seemed hale enough, given the circumstances, with none of the lingering frailty that could be one of the more dangerous effects of an overgenerous feeding. There was a perfectly tied cravat of clean white linen tied around his neck. In someone else this might have been a deliberate attempt at obfuscation, perfectly understandable even nder the best of circumstances; but here, it was simply Laurence's usual preference for formality. His serious demeanour was at first enough to also give Tharkay pause, but it melted easily enough over the course of the next few hands. That too, it seemed, had only been Laurence's regular stiffness.

Tharkay played a royal flush, to much groaning and complaining from the table at large. Laurence, however, merely met Tharkay's gaze directly with a smile. "Well played."

Tharkay grinned in return, perhaps too broadly for a creature of his nature, but he could not help it. The relief was too sweet.

He could not honestly say he would have preferred to lose his life over William Laurence's enduring respect and friendship, but it was a near thing. He was very glad to say he had lost neither.

Conversation once again drifted to the topic of Tharkay's impressive journey across the continents and near-miraculous rescue. Though they had already been at the topic for some hours like a dog at a bone, Laurence's appearance encouraged people to ask for it all over, this time from his perspective. Tharkay had no worry of the man being indiscreet. It became apparent that he credited his own survival mostly due to a combination of others' skill and sacrifice, and dumb luck on his own part.

This painful humbleness was not unusual for him. Tharkay felt he deserved to have the record set straight. "I must apologize, Laurence," he said. "I underestimated you."

Will tilted his head slightly. "Yes?"

"On which score?" asked Berkley, slapping his friend on the back.

"I did not credit you to be such an excellent actor," Tharkay said, taking a sip of his wine.

At this, Laurence produced a most rewarding blush.

"Do tell," said Little, leaning in, grey eyes alight. 

Tharkay was more than happy to oblige. They had all heard now, of course, how Laurence had passed himself off as a common British soldier; they had already made a toast to Mr. Vance, who had sacrificed his own life in Laurence's stead. Now Tharkay impressed upon all of them how convincing Laurence's acting had been. "It was enough to make me even question if it was truly him; he seemed to have not known me at all."

By now Laurence's blush threatened to devour his entire face, which would not have been endearing, if not for an expression suddenly far more severe than passing embarrassment. "Yes, well," he began, "on that score..." And he trailed off, apparently uncertain to go.

Harcourt gasped and looked at Tharkay. "Oh goodness. Did none of us tell you?"

Her horror was spreading across the faces of all at the table. Tharkay asked, "Tell me what?"

Granby opened his mouth to supply an answer, but Laurence beat him to it. "I suffered a terrible bout brain fever, and for the past four months I have operated lacking near a decade of memories."

For once, all of Tharkay's skill at languages quite failed.

This of course derailed the conversation quite entirely, with a recounting of the disastrous storm off the coast of Japan, and all that had followed. All he could do was shake his head; how did such things always seem to happen whenever he turned his back on Will and Temeraire?

It was so stunning that it took a few minutes for the true implications to sink in. It took all Tharkay's restraint to gape outright. "Do you mean to say you do not remember me?"

"Ah. Well. I do now."

At this, every head at the table swivelled to look at Laurence direct.

Harcourt gave him an assessing look. "You said you had been operating without your memories," she realised. "You have recovered them?"

"For how long?" Granby demanded.

"Since the rescue," Laurence admitted. "Or thereabouts. And not quite all of them, I don't think, but certainly the majority."

Tharkay still could not stop himself from staring, no matter how damnably rude it was. "When did you recall? From the start?"

"No," Laurence said, quietly. "It was shortly after we began executing on our plan."

Tharkay did not need to guess at what that meant. Judging from the expressions around the table, most of the aviators were able to deduce it as well. The arithmetic of their escape was not difficult, even if half of them had not seen Laurence's wounded neck earlier that day.

Which meant that Laurence had offered his throat to a starving vampire he had not even known.

Cherney coughed. He had placed his cards flat on the table. "Run of five," he said, and that set the game in motion once more, the topic dropped.

The next few days passed in a blur for Laurence.

Primarily it was a haze of endless meetings; with Lung Mei, with General Chu, with Hammond, and with some other dozen parties aside. On one front, they were busy ensuring the evidence of the treason was as airtight as possible, to ensure there was not the least bit doubt of their innocence. On the other, they were marshalling a force to match Napoleon's in Russia. All of this had to be done while actively travelling back to Peking for final preparations. It was more than enough to make Laurence's head spin.

Despite the demands of his schedule and the ever-present concern for the campaign ahead, Laurence felt himself nonetheless buoyed. Part of it was the initially sense of manic relief so often felt after surviving a brush of death, but it was so much more than that. It was joy of having regained his memories, and with them, his sense of self; it was the palpable relief of knowing who Temeraire was to him, and having made strides in repairing the damage he had done to their relationship over these past few months.

It was also the reassurance of having Tharkay back with their party.

The strength of the feeling took him by surprise; but then many things did, these days. Hardly more than a handful of hours could past without him recalling some long-past moment with vivid intensity, casting new lights on all manner of relationships and situations which surrounded him.

He recalled now the many nights he had spent in Tharkay's company. He recalled, as well, the lengths the other man had gone for their cause, and for him specifically. He recalled the sorrow when Tharkay had informed him he would be departing Australia.

He had resigned himself to the fact they were unlikely to meet again for many years, and he could only count it a stroke of great luck they had reunited much sooner than they could have ever expected— even if that meeting had not saved both of them from near-certain death.

Not that anyone would have guessed it, seeing Tharkay now. He was as whole and hearty as one could expect of a vampire, and had already thrown himself to their cause, spending every night and not an inconsiderable amount of each day at work at errands. While he followed orders when asked, he for the most part did not need to be asked; he simply anticipated any future needs, and took the initiative to address it, handling it all with the easy competency that Laurence had learned was Tharkay's hallmark.

All of this was so natural for the man that it only gradually dawned on Laurence that they had not exchanged more than a handful of words in the four days since the card game, and his joyous mood at last began to deflate.

The concern chewed at him for the entirety of the next day's ten hour flight. Even after all that, he was not certain how to even begin addressing the topic.

Nonetheless, address it he must.

He had anticipated using the walk to Tharkay's tent as an opportunity as a chance to marshal his thoughts. The chance was denied to him, however; not even a third of the way there, he found Tharkay engrossed in a heated discussion with a knot of red dragons, speaking in such rapid Mandarin that Laurence could only make out one of every word in three.

"Is everything alright?" Laurence asked, when the discussion was concluded, and at last the dragons had flown off in a great cacophony of wing beats.

"Well enough," Tharkay said, with a dismissive gesture of his hand. "A minor disagreement over supplies."

It had not seemed minor, and if there was one front Laurence could not fault the Chinese Imperial Legion, it was on the matter of supply lines. But as a commander Laurence had learned when one had to trust the judgment of his reporting officers to handle things in his stead, and if Tharkay was not quite that, he had at least learned Laurence's trust half a dozen times over. Instead he nodded, and was pleased when Tharkay fell into step with him on the way to the tent.

Their silence was easy, comfortable. Laurence was reluctant to break it. But all too soon they reached the tent, and could delay no longer.

"I would speak to you on—" Laurence began, and then broke off, as he was seized with an overwhelming sense of deja vu, a doubling of circumstances. He nearly laughed at realising he was inadvertently echoing himself, but that would have quite undermined the tone he was aiming for. Instead he changed course and said, "I would apologize to you, on several scores."

Tharkay's brown eyes were assessing; one eyebrow was raised. "I would say there is nothing for which you apologize, but I know you well enough it is best to simply allow you to get it over with."

Laurence grimaced at that, partially due to the truth of his words. But he followed Tharkay to his tent, declining the offer of tea, and deciding to cut right to the quick. "First, Tenzing, I am sorry for having lied to you."

His brow furrowed. "When did you lie to me?"

"It was a lie of omission," Laurence said. "You asked after me by name; I deliberately misled you. "

The furrow deepened. "I was not certain that had actually happened," he admitted, a murmur. Then he shrugged. "Nonetheless, it does not signify. You did not know who I was; I cannot fault you for not divulging your identity to the first stranger you met, given the circumstances."

"Nonetheless, it caused you distress." Laurence had known that even then, and felt guilty; it was only worse now that he had the full measure of the man.

"Will, think nothing more of it."

Laurence let out a quick breath. "I am glad to hear it." He had half expected the response; nonetheless, it was still a relief. But he was not yet done. "More than that, though, I must apologize for pushing you to such extremity." At Tharkay's blank look, he clarified; "To practically force you to take my blood, direct from the vein— I can understand if it was a step too far, even given the circumstances, and will not blame you if you feel I have stretched the proper bounds of friendship beyond what it can endure."

Tharkay's expression looked rather as though he had swallowed an entire lemon.

It was gone in an instant, replaced with its usual unflappable cool expression as Tharkay stepped back. "The apology is all mine, for having forced you into such an untenable position. I shall strive to ensure it does not happen again." He began to turn.

With a lurch in his stomach, Laurence immediately stepped forward and caught his arm. He was aware he had made some faux pas, but not being sure where, he was not sure how to correct it. "You need not apologize," he said quickly.

Tharkay did not twitch. "Nonetheless," he said, still turning.

Laurence's grip tightened. Though the vampire could have easily pulled free, he allowed himself to be caught. He turned back to Laurence and met his gaze. So soon after feeding, there was still a fading tinge of red in his normal deep brown. It was only this close than one could see it.

He needed to ensure Tharkay understood this.

"You forced me to nothing," Laurence said. "I chose to give you my blood, and would do so again."

The tension in Tharkay's muscles released a fraction, but not completely. "I am unkind. I must be grateful to any friend who would bear that for me."

No, no. Still Tharkay was not hearing, or not allowing himself to hear. "I did not simply bear it, Tenzing, I—" The words were difficult to find, or to voice, or both. "It was rather thrilling. If the circumstances had not been what they had, I might go so far as to say pleasurable."

"Pleasurable?"

Laurence swallowed. He had not intended that word's more suggestive associations. "Pleasant, yes." But in spite his intent, it was somehow the synonym which rang false. The truth of the matter was that Laurence's mind had slipped back to the memoryof the feeding far more than was warranted, often in the depths of the night, in some curious warm space between dreaming and waking.

Tharkay began to walk in a lazy circle around the perimeter of the tent, his hand trailing against the canvas. Laurence could not stop his gaze from following him. There seemed to be even deeper red in his gaze now; surely just a trick of the dim candlelight.

"Do you know, Will," he purred, "what quality within the blood it is that vampires feed upon?"

"No," Laurence answered, an unaccountable shiver going down the back of his neck. Not fear, surely, not after all of this. "I had assumed it was the same vitality found in any food. Or drink, as the case may be."

"If it were so, then any creature's blood would do, or even their flesh." Tharkay shook his head, the movement causing the silky black of his hair to fall over the bronze of his neck. "What we feed upon, as far as I can tell, is emotion."

"Emotion?"

"Emotion," Tharkay confirmed. "One can discern the layers of it, like the notes in a fine wine."

A heat rushed though Laurence's entire body, and he was certain it spilled out as a blush upon his face. "Tenzing, do you mean to say that you could... Taste what I was feeling?"

Tharkay tilted his head. "More or less. I suppose I should have told you, when you first offered, back in Australia. I am sorry," he said, and grinned, a flash of white fangs. "There, we have both apologized now."

"No, that is— quite unnecessary—" Laurence said, and meant it, but nonetheless still disarmed by the realisation of the implications. By how very laid bare truly had been. "Does that mean you—?"

In the space of a blink, or a breath, Tharkay was suddenly very close to him, very close indeed. "I tasted a great deal of your soul, Will. Some of it, I thought, I had mistaken in my delirium. But..." He reached out, fingers cool where they slipped underneath Laurence's necktie. "Perhaps not?"

Laurence seemed unable to move, hardly able to breathe. And yet, he found himself murmur, "Perhaps."

A deft twist of Tharkay's hands, a tugging at the cloth, and then Laurence's throat was laid bare and exposed.

Tharkay was not restraining him, nor did his eyes glow with enthrallment. Laurence could leave right now; he was quite certain that Tenzing would not stop him. But with a sudden rush, he realised he did not want to leave. If anything, he was leaning forward, near-quivering in anticipation, as Tharkay bowed his head in, the sharp twin pricks of his fangs grazing his skin...

...grazing, but not piercing. "Ahh," and Laurence could feel Tenzing's sigh, so close he was. "But it would be too soon, Will. Best not."

From the rationing in Australia, Laurence was well aware of the logistics involved in a vampire's feeding. At most, a man could let the necessary blood once per month; two or even three months were preferred. They had been very careful in their rotation to ensure no one gave so much that they would fall ill. Tharkay had drunk from Laurence only a matter of days ago, and that was not even counting the blood loss from his head wound. To let for Tenzing again now would be unwise in the extreme.

Yet some part of Laurence was feeling unwise, indeed, because he found his hand gripping Tharkay's shirt as the vampire began to pull away.

"Will," he said.

"Tenzing," Laurence answered. "I doubt that blood is the only thing I can supply you."

Tharkay opened his mouth to draw breath, but whatever he might have said was lost, since for once Laurence was faster than the vampire as he pressed his lips firmly against his friend's.

He was rewarded by a gasp. Normally Tharkay was rigid— not just in his bearing, but in the most literal sense, a vampire's skin and flesh stronger and more resilient than any mortal man's. But after a moment's hesitation, he went rather soft, leaning into the kiss with an eager hunger that was not unfamiliar to Laurence, not anymore.

This was a sin, he knew, a perversion. But it was a sin to betray one's country; it was a perversion to allow a vampire to feed on one's blood. Both of these he had now committed out of necessity. This was not a necessity, was as far from it as possible. Yet Laurence could no longer deny he desired it. Desired Tharkay's company, his touch, his entirety.

Not when he knew that Tharkay himself had tasted the truth of it so plain.

With one last token protest, Tharkay stopped to ask, "Will?"

"You bought me back to myself," Laurence said, bringing up his hand to gently caress Tharkay's cheek. "Let me show you my gratitude."

And after that, Tenzing seemed quite enthusiastically willing to allow him to do just that.