A/N: This fanfic is heavily based on Blood of Tyrants, so beware of spoilers!
Disclaimer: I don't own Temeraire, and sadly not even Laurence. Naomi Novik does.
Thanks to Michael for the beta!
I Regret Nothing
Napoleon was coming. At least, that was the news circulating for days now, and still, nothing had happened but a few skirmishes between patrols on both sides. So far Bonaparte had only moved south along the Kaluga Road and set camp mere miles from that of the Russian-British-Chinese allied forces. But he had not attacked.
Every day Russian ferals were seen flying circles nearby, heavy-weights especially, their huge bulks casting intimidating shadows on the snow-covered plains, their roars keeping awake even the most exhausted soldier. But that was all it had been: intimidation.
Bonaparte was still lying in wait. For what exactly, no one knew: perhaps for a day with better weather conditions, perhaps for the supplies of their enemy to run out completely. Or perhaps – the Russians kept repeating hopefully – the rumours that the emperor was gravely ill were not without foundation. Reports came from time to time that some saw the Corsican ride out for short distances, some claimed, however, that another person of similar stature had been impersonating him while he himself lay in fever in his tent.
No one knew for sure what to think.
Laurence did not know either, but he had a strong suspicion that Napoleon was playing another game of tactics: a game of driving the enemy crazy with not attacking until they sank into a stupor after so many hours spent alert in vain. Whatever his purpose was, it seemed to be having just the desired effect on the Russian army: the shortage of supplies and nerves on edge were indeed taking their toll on the allied forces.
And still the battle was not coming.
One evening, however, Temeraire spotted a huge white mass glide over the equally white plains – to most it had appeared nothing but a low-floating cloud nearly melting with the snow – and he said, indignantly, "So she's not taking care of Napoleon's son, after all. I so knew she would appear sooner or later…"
"Lien," Laurence muttered, an icy feeling sinking into his stomach. Was this what the emperor had been waiting for? For his pet Celestial to arrive?
"I believe, Laurence, tomorrow we are going to see battle at last," Temeraire said, not even trying to hush his words, and his voice carried over the camp, making several dragon heads rise, and several soldiers jerk awake from their slumber.
Murmurs spread like wildfire and in a minute orders were being shouted, sending most of the soldiers and dragons to sleep in order to reserve their strength for the upcoming day.
"Why, it is only late in the afternoon," Temeraire complained. "Even if it looks like night."
"You are right, but I hardly think Napoleon is going to strike in the dark with all those ferals, so the best we can do now is get a long rest. Tomorrow is likely to be the day, and we must be prepared." Laurence patted Temeraire's foreleg. "Get some sleep, my dear."
"Well, I hope tomorrow is really going to be the day, we have waited long enough," replied the dragon, and added, somewhat wistfully, "I would be glad if you stayed out here with me, but I am afraid not even my body heat would offer you enough warmth in this awful weather. Your tent will be warmer, I presume."
"Perhaps a little," admitted Laurence, thinking longingly of the hot coals burning in the centre of it. It was not as cosy as the crook of Temeraire's foreleg, but it undoubtedly offered more protection from the icy wind and snow than even Temeraire's wings. "Good night, my dear."
oOo
The tent flap fell in place behind Laurence, and he crouched down next to the coals, stretching out his near-frozen hands over them. He had had experienced cold days both on land and sea, but nothing compared to the Russian winter. Thankfully the locals had adapted to the cruel conditions and the tent they had placed at Laurence's disposal proved far more resistant to the elements than any he had ever used before. It was not only waterproof but made of a heavy material that kept the wind from blowing through it and the warmth from escaping. The only other such tent Temeraire's crew had received Laurence had offered right away to Mrs. Pemberton and Roland which the girl had outright refused but the woman had accepted without a second thought.
As circulation returned to his fingers, Laurence recalled Emily's near tantrum at his attempt to pamper her again and Mrs. Pemberton rolling her eyes behind her ward's back. His lips tucked into a smile at the memory.
As though fate had guessed where his thoughts had wandered, the flap of the tent opened and the young midwingman stuck her head in. "May I enter, captain?"
"Of course, Roland. Has something happened?"
"Not really," she said awkwardly, and Laurence was quite taken aback by the realisation that she indeed looked and sounded awkward. That must have been a first. Her expression of embarrassment might have been a mere trick of the candlelight, but he doubted it.
"Then…?" he arched an eyebrow at her, and she sank down next to him, her look of uncertainty lingering.
"I have heard that Lien has arrived, sir, and that very likely tomorrow we're going to have the battle at last."
"Yes, it seems likely."
"Sir, I must ask for your true opinion. Do you see much of a chance of our victory?"
"My true opinion, Roland?" Laurence swallowed. "My true opinion is that one must always have faith, even if the circumstances appear grave."
"And they do appear grave, don't they?"
"Yes," he replied. "Even with the Chinese on our side, we will be seriously outnumbered, especially if we take into consideration that the harnessed Russian dragons, few as they are, might not want to fight properly against their feral fellows, out of sympathy. I do not know, Roland. The Russian ferals are great in number and even greater in savageness, and should Napoleon manage to bend their sheer brutality under his command, to control them enough to use them as a real military force, then we can only pray. But pray we must and faith we must have to the last."
"I see, sir, and I agree with you," Emily said, though her voice didn't sound very convincing, nor did she look convinced that he was right.
"Is there something else you wish to talk to me about, Roland?" he asked, suspecting she had not come to hear how little chance of victory they had.
"Yes, sir," she replied, and heaved a deep sigh, as if bracing herself for something difficult. "Sir, I know you will disapprove of my talking like that, and so would Alice, but I will say it nevertheless, because this might be my last chance to say it. The only thing I truly regret in having parted ways with Demane is that I never had a chance to go to bed with him."
Laurence blinked. He had expected her to say anything – anything but this. Her words sounded shockingly out of place in this tent with the Russian winter raging outside, and despite her being Jane Roland's daughter, despite her having said many outrageous things over the years, these words still managed to appal him.
"Roland, you surely–" he began, but Emily cut in, an impertinence surprising even from her.
"Please let me speak, captain." She fidgeted, tucking a lock of sandy hair behind her left ear. "I did like Demane. Perhaps even loved him, but that feeling has waned since I last saw him, leaving only a sense of need behind. A sense of need… for that. Not for him in particular, but…"
"God, Roland, please…"
"Sir, I must have a chance to try it! We might all die tomorrow, and to think I never even tried…"
Laurence ran a hand across his hair, hopelessly tousling it. "I do understand you… from a certain point of view, Roland, but you still mustn't talk like that."
"That's what Alice said too, but I can't help it, sir. I must speak my mind… and I must act on my instincts! Just this once."
He sighed. "And why… why exactly are you telling me these things? Me of all people? Me who hired a chaperone for you just to make sure you wouldn't act on any such instinct?"
"Haven't you guessed, sir?" she chuckled, nervously but with true amusement.
"Not really," he admitted. "If you are here to ask for my permission to seek out someone, then… well… You are no prisoner, Roland. I cannot chain you till morning comes or even set guards upon you, but this is exactly why I hired Mrs. Pemberton. To talk some sense into you in such cases. I assume you haven't consulted her on the matter…?"
Emily shrugged. "Of course not. She was in the medical tent, tending the wounded of yesterday's skirmishes. I offered to help her, but she sent me to bed, saying I needed to rest before the battle."
"And that you should do."
"And that I will do. Once I've got what I wanted."
"Roland, if by God's grace we survive this upcoming battle, you will have plenty of time to get intimate with… well, a deserving gentleman, but–"
"But what if God isn't graceful this time?" she countered. "Then my last thought will be how I regret having missed the only chance I had!"
"You are only sixteen!" he said, aware that his voice sounded almost whiny, pathetic. He had never had problems managing his young gentlemen aboard his ships, but this slip of a girl had from the very beginning offered him more trouble than all those young navy officers put together. "Sixteen!" he repeated, as if a number meant anything.
"I have turned seventeen today, sir," Emily said with a sad little smile. "It could be a 'happy birthday, Emily' gift, you know," she added, almost pleadingly. Laurence frowned: pleading was an act she had not often exercised. Why would she plead with him if not…?
As the realisation struck Laurence, he felt a wave of dizziness wash over him, and swayed even in his crouching position. He put out a hand to stabilise himself, only to burn his left hand on the coals. Hissing, he sucked on his injured fingers.
"Is your hand okay?" Roland asked, and Laurence angrily felt around for a handkerchief in his pocket to wrap his index- and middle finger in it.
"You are not here to ask for my permission to pursue some random boy… are you?" he said heavily. She would not ask for his or anyone's permission if she decided to do that, of that he was quite sure.
"No, sir," she shook her head. "I have thought it over and over, and have not found anyone around more suitable and deserving than you."
Laurence opened his mouth to say something, but words failed him, so Emily carried on, more vigorously now as though she felt encouraged by his silence, "I have heard horror stories of first times, sir, of rude approaches that meant more pain than pleasure. With you, I am sure I would not have to fear that."
"Sure… are you?" Laurence muttered. He could not believe his own ears. Could not believe that such a conversation was taking place between him and Emily Roland – his subordinate, his ward, his comrade in arms for seven whole years!
His mind whirled. Had truly seven years passed since he had first spotted her at Loch Laggan, mistaking her for a boy?
As he chanced a look at her, he could not but be surprised by the recognition that indeed, seven years had flown by, and she looked nothing like a boy now. She was a young woman, pretty, clever, fierce in battle and loyal – the only remaining member of his first aviator crew – and she wanted him. Him, of all people in a camp full of younger men; men with no stains on their honour. She had not considered any of them, but had placed her fate in his hands, trusted him alone.
"I am perfectly sure, sir," she said, her voice still unusually timid, but her expression full of hope. "You are every bit the gentleman I need now."
These words that should have filled him with pride sobered him up instead. "You are telling me you need me now. But what of tomorrow? Or the day after that? Pray do not only think of tonight, not only of the possibility of not surviving tomorrow. Think of your future, Emily. Could that future bear the gossip it may start if someone found out…?"
"Oh please, sir!" she snapped. "I don't give a damn about my so-called honour!"
"You might not, but I do!" he stood up and began pacing, as much as the tent's size allowed for it. "I do care for what people might think and say of you! What Demane would say if he ever heard!"
"Well, I do not," she rose to her feet as well. "If he truly loves me, he will understand, and if not, he does not deserve me."
Aviators and their curious views of the world… Laurence knew he would never fully understand them.
"But if Demane were here… you would not have come to me," he said, lowering his voice, puzzled why the thought made him feel just a tad wretched. It should not have.
"I might still have," she replied. "He isn't as much of a gentlemen as you are, neither as experienced."
He stopped in his tracks and looked at her, dumbfounded. This was not about aviators and their odd ways. Not in the least.
"You do not love him. If you did, you would not talk like that."
"Oh I don't know," she shrugged, "but you might be right. I have sometimes thought I probably felt only drawn to him, physically, and such attractions fade quickly once they're no longer nurtured. Apparently you know my feelings better than I know them."
"I have only guessed. The ability comes with age… and you are so young, Roland. Too young for this all. Only seventeen."
She set her jaw out and replied, "Yes, but I might never get to be eighteen. Consider that, sir."
Laurence looked around in the tent, as if searching for a way to flee, but he found none.
"What if I say no?"
"Then there are two options, captain. The first is that you tie me up and set a guard on me, preferably a couple of burly men with weapons so that I cannot overpower them. And old ones so that I wouldn't try to seduce them. Or inverts. Or eunuchs, whichever you like. But be sure that if I spend a whole night tied up, I will not be able to fight well tomorrow. Cramped muscles, you know," Roland said with an almost vicious light in her eyes that suggested she knew she was playing with fire, she knew she was rebelling, blackmailing her own captain, even. "The other option is that you let me go, and I will just seek someone. Baggy would surely be happy to oblige me, but if you do not want my first experience to be like those in the horror tales, you might as well help me yourself. It is up to you. I will not beg."
Laurence felt cornered. No matter which path he chose, either led to doing wrong to someone. To Emily, to Demane, to the Corps, and last but not least, to himself.
Like a man about to drown, he desperately reached out for a frayed rope storm-tossed on the waves, his only hope to escape without further sullying his already stained honour and ruining Emily's reputation. "I should feel like the lowliest sort of villain if I agreed and had to face Mrs. Pemberton afterwards," he said. "How could I ever tell her that after having paid her to guard your chastity I went and deflowered you myself?"
"In English, I suppose?" she grinned sheepishly. "But I hardly think she ought to know. She will be quite busy all night with the invalids to notice my cot hasn't been slept in… and it will stay dark long enough to make sure no one would realise it's me who leaves your tent in the wee hours of dawn."
Laurence had to sit down. He was getting too old for such cheek.
"That is exactly it," he grunted, knowing he was running out of arguments, "you must rest now like everyone else. No staying up till the wee hours of dawn, or you will surely get yourself killed tomorrow!"
"I never said I wanted to stay up. I'd rather lie down," she cocked her head. "And it is not even seven o'clock, barely even evening. There's still loads of time to sleep. I might even make it back to my tent before nine or ten... depends on you. Baggy, on the other hand, would surely keep me awake till dawn, knowing his hunger for–"
"Fine!" Laurence cut in, not in the least wanting to hear about Baggy's appetite. "God, I am going to regret it, but I shall do it," he added with a sigh of despair.
"You are angry now," Emily remarked.
"How could I not be?" he barked. "You have no right to play with people like this, Roland!"
"And yet you are a willing victim," she observed. "I knew you would be. Five years without any intimacy… that must be unbearable for a man like yourself."
"What?" his eyebrows jumped high. "Have you kept a record on my…?"
"Oh, it was plain math, sir. I expect the last woman you ever had relations with was Mother, before the treason. That was five whole years ago."
Laurence pressed his lips tightly together and turned to stare at the softly glowing coals.
"Do you still regret it?" he heard Emily's voice, sounding hesitant.
"I think I never truly did," he replied under his breath. "When I had that annoying memory lapse and Temeraire let slip what I had done, I felt I could not take it, as I had no recollection why I had done it in the first place. When my memories returned, I no longer felt any regret. I would do it all over again."
He suddenly felt a soft hand on his shoulder.
"That's what I like so much about you, captain."
He slowly turned his head to be greeted by a pair of eyes radiating nothing but warmth. Emily had crouched down next to him, and her face was only a few inches away. Her breath tingled his neck. "You like me because I turned traitor?"
"No. I like you because you let your heart guide you, despite everything. And I hope now your heart tells you that you mustn't be too angry with me…" she lifted her hand from his shoulder to his face, running her fingers down his cheek, "because I need you so."
Laurence felt his breath quicken, his heart hammer in his throat, and as she began unbuttoning her own aviator coat, he sighed and caught both her hands. "For heaven's sake, at least let me do it. Let me do all of it. Properly."
oOo
The dream he had that night was as nice as a dream could be before an all-deciding battle. When he awoke, it took him several minutes to remember where he was and to ascertain that he had not got married overnight.
Disappointed, he stretched under the covers, closing his eyes, half-hoping that at least the pictures that had filled his dormant mind would return and linger a bit. But the image of the blonde girl before the altar was fading, her hand that had only recently rested in his was slipping from his grip, and the last shreds of bliss dissolved at the sound of a cannon shot echoing across the camp.
Laurence disentangled himself from the covers, chastising himself for allowing such futile hopes to infect his mind in the current state of war, and only after a few moments did he begin to wonder why he had slept unclothed in minus several degrees.
The tent was chilly now, the coals had long lost their heat, and the freezing winter air began seeping into the tent through invisible seams, rousing his sluggish brains. As his mind started working again, it began piecing fragments of memories together, at first mixing them up with ones left from his dream, deceiving him into believing that he and Emily Roland had got married and had spent their wedding night in this very tent. Then the recognition struck him that no wedding had taken place, the one he had seen had been part of a dream, a wish never to come true.
Ignoring his still throbbing fingers, he began pulling on his things, trying to push from his thoughts everything that had happened between the two of them, and concentrate on the imminent battle only. Facing Napoleon required a clear mind, one that was not addled with either stupidly romantic sentiments, nor with pangs of remorse.
And yet, he could not help but admit that he had developed romantic feelings for Roland the previous night. Feelings that had come out of the blue, and despite all expectations had not vanished come morning.
He trotted out of the tent to see that Forthing and Ferris were already giving orders to the rest of the crew to get Temeraire fully rigged out, and there was Emily, hurrying up and down the dragon's back, a ball of energy bursting with a desire to prove herself useful.
He allowed himself a small smile. She would do all right today, more than all right. The French had better be afraid.
Knowing that if they survived today's battle, he would need to face the consequences of his actions – and hoping that the only consequence would be pangs of remorse –, he clambered into Temeraire's outstretched claw to be lifted onto his place on the dragon's neck. For the time being, however, he had to let go of all guilt and all hope, fixing his mind on one thing only: delivering a decisive blow against Napoleon.
Emily was approaching on the harness, her face all smile and confidence, and as their gazes met, he once again saw her in a veil and felt her hand in his own, a golden band on her ring finger. A dream, an illusion, nothing more, yet, probably some day it might become real. For his part, he was more than willing to make the first step towards making it real.
As she passed by him, he rose from his sitting position as if examining the harness-straps, and said to her in a voice barely more than a whisper, "Just so that you know, I regret nothing."
She presented him with a tiny smile, and replied, "Neither do I. Let's go kill some French, shall we, captain?"
"By all means, Roland," he nodded, then, in a much louder voice said, "Are you ready, Temeraire?"
They lifted off the snow-covered plains with the Chinese forces surrounding them as bees would their queen, facing north where the enemy was awaiting them.
"Yes," Laurence murmured just to himself, suppressing a grin. "Let's go kill some French."
FIN
A/N2: reviews are most welcome.