#....perhaps i should read temeraire

[boltlightning]

landfall: chapter 2

On a bright fateful morn, Jack Sparrow brings rumors of the Black Pearl and her crew of the damned to Port Royal. In theory, the ship should be no match for the dragon Tempest and his Captain Norrington — but the Pearl harbors dangerous shadows of her own. or: potc, but temeraire, multi-chapter wip. sequel to windfall

A flash in the water catches her eye. The spine of a large fish breaks the surface. She peers closer and — no, it is not a fish, but Barbossa’s dark dragon, miraculously keeping pace with the Pearl. Lookout swims just below the surface of the water. His colors — black-blue scales with stark white dappling — make him nearly invisible to the untrained eye. Elizabeth watches him swim, entranced, her stubbed toe forgotten.

At midday Lookout finally bursts from the water. He circles the Pearl once, his wingbeat not unlike the snapping of sailcloth, then lands on the deck directly in front of the captain’s quarters. There is just enough space for him to curl around the capstan — his tail drapes over the side of the ship into the water, yes, but it must be comfortable enough, for he closes his eyes against the sun and relaxes to nap. The crew steps over his thick tail like he is a minor obstacle, clearly used to such behavior.

Elizabeth holds her breath. Perhaps the crew placed Lookout here to deter her from escaping (as though she has anywhere to go). They could not know that Elizabeth has spent most every day of the last three years in the immediate presence of a much larger dragon. With a rational amount of fear and not a mote more, Elizabeth crouches before the doors to the cabin and pushes one open, just slightly.

“Lookout? Can you understand me?” Elizabeth whispers.

Lookout’s ears flick irritably. “Yes,” he says. He opens his mouth only enough to growl the word.

“Then help me,” Elizabeth pleads. She inches forward. “I can offer you treasure beyond your imagination, amounts beyond what fits in a ship’s hoard.”

“Leave me be. Every human lies to get what they want. You are no different.”

(read here on ao3!)

#pirates of the caribbean #james norrington #elizabeth swann #*fic #james and the giant lizard #or: the one where i have to rewrite some of the most iconic scenes in modern cinema :—)

[cadmusfly]

More Dragon Marshalate AU Stuff

Post 1 Post 2 Soult's ADCs snippet napoleonic marshalate dragons au chronological tag

Answering questions because I love the sound of my own typing and then some nattering about psychic dragons which get funky because you should never trust me with worldbuilding

i'll write dragon snippets for the other dragon marshals i just am easily baited into writing stuff based on what people say to me

@impetuous-impulse

If Desirée is a dragon, then her sister Julie and her niece, Honorine Anthoine de Saint-Joseph, would also be dragons. This would mean that Joseph Bonaparte and Marshal Suchet both married dragons.

Checks out! I think if we do turn a bunch of people into dragons but leave a bunch of people as human, and we don't want to break history too unbelievably in this era, we are probably going to have to treat dragon-marriage as equivalent to human marriage. But then some of the humans can also be simultaneously dragon married and human married probably.

Also, thinking of the Clary clan as some kind of urban dragon family is kind of funny.

i also love the idea of urban dragons, they'd have to be fairly small but yes

but also im going to babble a bit about psychic powers and how urban dragons miiiight work maybe

Other question: are the dragons ladies subject to similar constraints as human ladies in this era?

I want to say nope! Which probably raises more questions about the ladies that we've turned into dragons, but as I've written, dragons have no physical sex, any two dragons can make eggs, both dragons get sleepy and broody after having eggs.

---

@josefavomjaaga

Also, now I wonder if maybe, this whole "shapeshifting into a human" thing is something that all/most dragons might be able to learn. […] Unless of course they want to be closer to their favourite humans… Okay, so admittedly I just want to see Soult getting desperate over trying to learn shapeshifting so he can be with Louise 😋.

The younger and smaller dragons can learn enough dexterity with their claws to flip the pages of a book, to manipulate a quill, to peruse their own correspondence privately. The larger ones boast more strength and fire, flying higher but not further, but their claws that can take down horses and monsters with a single slash lose the precision for such delicate affairs.

Perhaps that is why the dragon Soult, once called "Jean-de-Dieu" by his family, admires the paintings he is so well known for collecting. No dragon as he can craft such deft and delicate brush strokes.

It is in the presence of these paintings that he asks his ADCs to place the letters before him, so he may read with eyes as sharp as an eagle's sight. But he must ask them to turn the pages, and he must ask them to draft his replies, and ever since the dragon grew beyond the size of a horse he has been so very frustrated with this lack of privacy.

But he must do with what he can.

Today it is Saint-Chamans at his side, and Saint-Chamans can hardly hide his confusion as he reads the letter. "Your excellency, this is a children's tale- why are you asking after such things?"

The great maroon dragon lets out a huff of hot air. He is not interested either in fairy stories and children's games, but… There is a line of inquiry I am pursuing personally.

He does have his valet perform this job for him, often. He does not strictly need the ADCs to do this.

But the valet is friendly with Louise, and he cannot have her worry.

And if there is a chance that one day he may come up to her and embrace her as an equal, then he must pursue it.

----

Thought process here:

Dragons in Pern are telepathic as in they communicate by speaking in your head -> to really differentiate this AU from Temeraire, we can focus more on Weird Magic but not to the extent that it's Extremely High Fantasy -> telepathy can be extrapolated to other things -> how do we get large dragons participating in city life????

So

Dragons here can telepathically communicate with people that they can see and that are in a small radius around them, equivalent to shouting at them

Dragons with their favourite people can extend that reach further and can communicate with them even without seeing them in that extended reach

Berthier Dragon is a weirdo who has managed to have a very large range with people he isn't connected to and can also multitask a little bit so he's. like a phone operator. yes this does change a bunch of things to have that instant feedback but I think both he and Napoleon are aware of the dangers of relying on a single tiny dragon

(obviously berthier dragon is. in love with madam visconti. and has a shrine to her.)

But what if dragons with their favourite people can not just pass on their communications but other senses

It may depend on the dragon? Some can send impressions of the emotions they feel, some can send sensory information, but also it might be fun if the human can send stuff back

this is a little funky but I am imagining that some dragon-human pairs can have this weird kind of consensual possession thing going on where the dragon "rides" along with the human's senses

So human cities are not really built for really large dragons - the edges of the city do have dragon and human accommodations, but only dragons horse sized and smaller can really go into the middle of the city

The "riding along" or weird possession thing is basically, large dragons who are too big to go into cities and ballrooms can "ride along" with their favourite people and experience things like extremely expensive balls

To prevent this from being used for spycraft too much, maybe the possessed person's eyes turn the colour of the dragon's

this is kinda creepy and weird but i think it can be romantic, and of course the possessed person can stop the possession at any time, the dragon doesn't actually have control over the human's actions and can only just experience sensory input and telepathically speak to them, so the human has to convey what the dragon's saying

#cadmus rambles #cad rambles about dead frenchmen on main #marshalate dragons au #dragons as cavalry au #cadmus writes

[daisychainsandbowties]

This Dragon/Temeraire AU is driving me feral (half-intended).

Okay, so with Bea, are you thinking her parents are both Chinese, or just one of them?

Because I'm thinking maybe only her mom is from China, and yeah she's a diplomat, and her dad is British diplomat. And so that creates a tension of her mother thinking it's okay for Bea to be working with dragons, but her father will never like it.

But also, they could both be Chinese diplomats stationed long-term in the UK. If Bea had grown up in China, she would probs deserve one of the more important dragon breeds, but not an Imperial or Celestial.

So, in Britain, they kind of let Bea work with Temeraire because he's a Celestial. But maybe they also low-key hate it because why is Bea working with a crew. That's so... debasing.

Temeraire, on the other hand, loves Bea. I am thinking, this story would be set maybe a decade after Laurence has passed away (rip)? And Temeraire loves his crew now, but you know how the British Dragon Corps is, they're kinda rough and tumble. Then along comes Bea who's very proper and reads Chinese books with him (perhaps, Bea even respectfully gives him a present of a book when they first met) and she reminds him so much of Laurence sometimes, and he is all starry-eyed over her for it.

Then when Bea makes captain, her mother uses her influence so that Bea gets Temeraire's hatchling. But also! Temeraire helps her mom with it because he loves Bea and it's the only way he would let her go LMAO.

So yes, Bea comes into this Celestial thinking she doesn't deserve it. And maybe most of the other people in the British corps thinks the same thing too, but it's not like any of them could stop both Temeraire and an important diplomat.

Bea is a conundrum to them, and it's even a relief when she's sent away. The only one who has a hard time accepting that she has to go away is Temeraire.

oh same! the temeraire dragons are my favourite way of doing dragons in anything ever. 

with bea yeah i am thinking that her mum is from China & her father is British. & they argue at length about the optics of sending their 7y/o to work with dragons, but since it’s tem & it isn’t far from their estate, he agrees, so long as she also recieves a classical education. which is how we end up with a beatrice who should, by all rights, be half-wild, but who is also taught manners and etiquette and fencing and, thanks to tem and his & laurence’s library, she also learns advanced mathematics and physics and aeronautics and philosophy and poetry and a kind of eclectic mixture of disciplines. 

BUT she also works on tem’s crew and flies with him & listens to him for hours talking about his adventures. & she dreams of seeing the world on dragonback too. so she’s in this weird position of working a dragon crew, but tem clearly likes her more than a normal crew member, meanwhile she’s also educated and wealthy and not like the children she grows up with. so she ends up slightly isolated, quite lonely.

& tem, seeing this, decides that bea is going to have a celestial, & nobody can change his mind about it. he adores this deeply formal and stuiously proper girl who shows up the first day with a book which she reads to him standing at attention and then gradually falling asleep against his wing. & she’s very like laurnce because she’s a fish out of water & very stiff & mannered but also indescribably warm and genuine. 

so yeah, even though, barring exceptional longwing circumstances, Nobody makes captain at eighteen, he just insists on it, and the corps want a celestial so they shrug. but then, ofc, Something Happens with bea and her parents do not want her in the corps so they strongarm the ocs into laying claim to her (bc yes they DO need celestials) and they assign lilith as her lieutenant while lil waits for Halo to secure the succession. (i love the idea of a tem & beamom tag team where no they don’t like each other but YES they will work together for nepotism purposes. neither of them give a damn about the fairness of it, & tem knows that beatrice deserves it anyway)

so now bea is in this strange organisation with a legendary dragon and a legacy hanging over her (& her secret, which in 19th century Britain could get her in serious trouble). it’s perfect i love her and meddlesome tem. 

#going so feral fr about this #i have like the first part of it outlined in my head #(i see ur three other gorgeous amazing asks but i'm going hiking right this second so i will reply later) #this au!!! #wn temeraire au

[captainsupernoodle]

Goodreads is finally keeping me on the straight and narrow re: remembering books that I want to read and am in fact currently reading but it'll only list specific books so other things on the tbr list:

Finish the Temeraire series hopefully while being able to remember what happened in the first like two or three books

That Earthsea anthology that's been sitting on my shelf and also Ursula K. Le Guin in general

While I'm at it, watch the earthsea movie

I need to look into the Vorkosigan saga??

U know what I should try Abhorsen again too

I am CURRENTLY making headway here!! But in case i forget again the Witcher series

Finally finished feet of clay and I can start hunting for a copy of the next city watch book (thud?? Jingo?)

Also perhaps eventually the rest of the discworld books, there's a copy of monstrous regiment at the library

Vathara has me curious about the Valdemar series and the name Mercedes Lackey keeps scratching at my brain like did I see something that looked really good or are her books just everywhere or does her name just sound like a fantasy author

More c.s. lewis essays, of other worlds and an experiment in criticism have me hooked

More Tolkien essays too while I'm at it and le guin's essays are always on the list

Do I want to get into the rest of the enders game books? Unkown

Victoria Goddard, just in general, the hands of the emperor is on my top faves list

I wasn't hooked by The Thief but I have been informed that it's not the strongest book in the series so PERHAPS the other Meghan whaler thief books (queen's thief series??)

All those free books from the tor book club

Perhaps more asimov

OH YEAH William Gibson

On a general level I want to look for more sci-fi and fantasy written by women, I'm very curious to compare with "classic" spec fic written by white men bc I've noticed some common elements (kind of more "zoomed out" pov, generally srs face tone, lots of world building but perhaps in specific areas? It's not something I've quantified it's just ~vibes~) and inquiring minds want to know if that's influenced at all by the gender of the writer. You know, by that same thought, I should look into classic sci-fi/fantasy by poc and literally anyone not from Britain or America. Witcher is Polish. What else is going on with Slavic and East Asian and Middle Eastern and African literature. I got into xianxia recently and was hit over the head with the incredibly obvious fact that western spec-fic is, in fact, not the end-all be-all of people writing about magic and monsters and the future. I think I heard a lady in Japan wrote a very important piece of literature that qualifies as one of the earliest novels??? I need to do some research.

AH the master and commander series

#to read #single greatest challenge of my life is remembering what i want to do long enough to do it #noodle speaks #a microcosm of my thought process: i have an idea #start the idea cant remember parts of my idea get distracted in the middle and suddenly #remember what i was trying to think of earlier

[tamaras-random-little-corner]

Goodnight

Just a random thing I wrote, hope you enjoy!

Laurence was laying on Temeraire's forearm under a warm blanket. The breeze had become chilly in the evening, rushing through the trees. Temeraire had insisted on the warmest blanket they had in the pavilion despite the newly added screens to keep out the wind and the heated flooring. The were reading one of the newer books that Tharkay had purchased for them when he was on business in Edinbrugh. Laurence only barely managed to stay awake through the latin calculations, Temeraire nudged at him when he paused too long for the second time on the same page.

"Laurence, perhaps you should retire." Temeraire said, he comfortingly rubbed his nose against his back, his tone apolegetic. "It is only that you seem rather tired and you keep nearly falling asleep."

"I do apologise, my dear." Laurence patted the dragon on the nose. "I suppose it has been a long day."

"It was a rather exciting day wasn't it." Temeraire said looking out over the house. The lights were twinkeling invitingly in the windows. "I never thought helping the tenants could be this rewarding. But Laurence you really should go sleep. Tomorrow we do have an early start."

"Very well" Laurence laughed, rising. He folds the blanket and puts it in the chest.

"Good night, my dear." Laurence said warmly he leaned against the dragon's warm nose for a moment, Temeraire rumbles affectionately and Laurence is gratefull that their days of fighting are over and that they could have these moments of leisure, without having to worry about what the next morning might bring.

As Laurence entered their room Tharkay is already in the bed, a candle burned on the nighttable and he had a book in his hands. The fire of the candle is reflected in Tharkay's much hated reading glasses. Laurence smiled at this image and Tharkay gives him a glance with one of his eyebrows raised. Laurence still thought the oval spectacles looked rather endearing on him, he chuckled, remembering the first time Tharkay had put them on, chagrined that he had needed them in the first place. Another eyebrow was raised at the sound of his chuckle. Laurence simply smiled at him, he took some delight in the way Tharkay's eyes narrowed at him while he moved across the room to prepare for bed. Tharkay made an appreciative sound behind him when Laurence undressed, Laurence blushed, throwing an embarrased look over his shoulder. Tharkay had taken off his glasses, and put them aside with his book. He was smiling a bit too smugly. Laurence pulled his nightshirt over his head, behind him Tharkay shifted onto his side and before Laurence could move into the bed Tharkay opened the blanket for him. Laurence slid gratefully under the covers, immediately he wrapped his arms around Tharkay. Together they settled, both of them comfortable next to eachother.

"Will, you have release me or I am afraid the candle will have to keep burning."

Laurence tightened his hold on Tharkay smiling into his neck.

"Let it burn." Laurence whispered into Tharkay's neck, he could feel the resulting shiver travel through Tharkay's body with how closely they were entwined. He felt Tharkay's chuckle more than heard it.

"There is still two hours left on that candle."

"Hmmm, but you are so nice and warm."

"Oh you, I am not your personal bed warmer mr. Laurence." Tharkay said a laugh in his voice.

Laurence loved these moments, the moments where they laughed together about nothing at all, where just laying together was enough. No wars to worry about, no figthing to be had in the morning. Just the sun waking them up and steaming cups of tea beside their papres in the morning. Laurence buried his face in the curve between Tharkay's neck and his shoulder, smelling his skin. Tomorrow the three of them would fly to the village to speak with the farmers about the land, but before that they would break their fast in the pavilion with Temeraire. But at that moment they were content together in the light of the flickering candle, talking to eachother quietly until eventually the candle burned out and they both drifted off into sleep.

#Temeraire #wilzing #william laurence #tenzing tharkay #My fic #post canon #laurence/tharkay #fluff #wholesome

[werewolves-are-real]

Ooohhh I have some smol prompts if you want them:

Laurence stupidly getting himself hurt and Tem is def not being a nursemaid.

Just Laurence being a dad

Temeraire and Granby learning of Barstowe (Laurence is already regretting ever mentioning him)

Temeraire has questions about love and if Laurence has ever been in love and with who.

For the Laurence gets wings au, maybe Tem teaching Laurence some tricks? Or Volly trying to teach Laurence some tricks?

Use these at your own leisure! Have fun writing whatever it will be.

For #1, i am very drunk so I apologize if it makes no sense:

“My dear, I have told you - “

“I am not fussing!” Temeraire insists, nudging Laurence. He winces but pretends this contact doesn't hurt. “It is only that you should take better care of yourself; you cannot complain if I point it out, when you seem to be so careless.”

“He has a point,” comes Tenzing's helpful response.

Laurence only frowns. It's just a broken arm, and gained through the most embarrassing circumstances imaginable; one of Tenzing's cooks slipped and dropped a pie, and in attempting to help her Laurence floundered himself. He'd slipped through the wet filling, crashing against a statuette and down the stairs in a ridiculously farcical fashion. He is heartily glad that no one else saw; but the injury is harder to ignore.

“Accidents do happen, Temeraire. Pray do not fret about it.”

“Oh, of course I will not; but perhaps you should hire an assistant,” the dragon suggests, nudging Laurence again. “Or a doctor. Or - “

“I think I shall manage,” says Laurence dryly.

Temeriare harrumphs, plainly unsatisfied, until Tharkay assures him that he will watch over Laurence “with all the diligence you might imagine.”

Which is purely fiction, Laurence hopes. He surely cannot warrant any real looking-after.

Except that the next day Tharkay brings his luncheon already cut, asking if he needs help with his shaving (a situation that Laurence has entirely ignored). When they retire outside to read to Temeraire, Tenzing asks whether he should turn the pages of the book, as though this is some laborious tasks.

When Laurence was a midshipmen on the USS Triumpant he broke his arm and was resoundly despised by his fellows for being such an inconvenience. He cannot help but blush when Tharkay insists on holding the book for him to read.

“I suppose it is alright you broke your arm,” Temeraire concedes at last, looping his tail around them both, “Since you are still whole, and able to speak; and of course we are here to listen and help you.”

And if Laurence finds it a bit hard to reply, through the weight in his throat, Tenzing doesn't say anything.

[wind-come-calling]

On Temeraire’s Dragons

Perhaps it’s because winter puts me in a melancholic mood, but I have begun re-reading the Temeraire series.                                                                       To my joy, the books remain every bit as good as I remember them: this is curious enough, for the basic premise of Temeraire is the Napoleonic Wars(with dragons!), and I don’t hold many “dragon-rider” novels in a very high esteem.

The concept itself is very interesting, but most of these novels tend to neglect the worldbuilding aspect: the logistics a dragon-riding force would need to be operative, the impact creatures such as dragons would have on a society and the world around them(specially if they are sapient), or the dragons themselves aren’t explored much.

And then there is how whole pages are dedicated to discourses about the intrincancies about their place in the world, the exceptional nature of the bonds that join rider and dragon(be they based on trust, camaraderie, magic... or a mix of the three), and the equally exceptional reasons for it, that’s just the issue; they tell, don’t show. The narrative always ends up turning around to the riders: the riders are who are properly fleshed-out, the ones who get to grow as characters, who develop new relationships, whose personalities are explored; the riders are who carry the plot.

Yes, the dragon is there, and they advise and protect their charges with all their wisdom and prowess, but if there aren’t any interactions beyond that, both the relationship and the character fall flat. They are nothing but a prop, a conduit through which the qualities of the riders can shine through all the brighter: indeed, there are some tales that seem to be less about the relationship between dragon and rider and more about showing how great the protagonist is, to have gained the loyalty of such a being.

The knot of the question is this: perhaps that’s the reason I enjoy the Temeraire books so much: not only there is a sound attempt to explore the logistics of dragon-handling, but the series makes a point of showing how the presence of dragons inluenced the different cultures around the world.

And finally there are the dragons themselves, who these works depict as individuals, who don’t do things just because “they are dragons, and that’s what dragons do”, as they have their own tastes, ideas and opinions. In the second book, Temeraire even wonders what would happen should he decide not to fight for England!

However, that’s not to say dragons think and act exactly the same way humans do: indeed, one of the highlights of Naomi Novik’s dragons is how their minds work. Their emotions are recognizable enough for the reader to easily empathize with them, but they have preferences, criteria and thought patterns that mark them as distinctly other.

Tl;dr: On the Temeraire series, it matters that dragons are dragons, while in other novels, there are times  it seems like you could put talking horses in their places without any issue.

#Literature #Books #Worldbuilding #Creature Design #Dragons #Temeraire Series #temeraire #Naomi Novik

[icecolddreamer]

Temeraire

I almost feel as though I should belch loudly, and possibly indecently. Perhaps exude a brief puff of flame as well, twould only be appropriate.

So, when I do read, it tends to be both voraciously and eclectically. While I tend to return to the three pillars of fantasy, science fiction, and horror, I do like a nice cozy mystery on occasion, or a nice naval piece set at the tail end of the 18th century. You can thank Richard Bolitho for that last one.

So it surprises no one that if you take Napoleon and Nelson, and liberally mix in a few dragons that I would not at least be tempted. It surprises people even less that having already expressed a fondness for the cadence and style of Naomi Novik’s writing that I devoured Her Majesty’s Dragon within the weekend.

It was delightful. Now I just need to distract myself until I can procure the next book in the series.

#Naomi Novik #Temeraire

[vintage1der]

What separates these works from the Harry Potter fanfiction you find online may come down to snobbery. There is an undercurrent of misogyny in mainstream criticism of fanfiction, which is widely accepted to be dominated by women; one census of 10,500 AO3 users found that 80% of the users identified as female, with more users identified as genderqueer (6%) than male (4%). Novik has spent a good deal of time fighting against fanfiction’s stigma because she feels it is “an attack on women’s writing, specifically an attack on young women’s writing and the kind of stories that young women like to tell”. Which is not to say that young women only want to write about romance: “I think,” Novik says, “that [the popularity of fanfiction amongst women is] not unconnected to the lack of young women protagonists who are not romantic interests.” Devotees of fanfiction will sometimes tell you that it’s one of the oldest writing forms in the world. Seen with this generous eye, the art of writing stories using other people’s creations hails from long before our awareness of Twilight-fanfic-turned-BDSM romance Fifty Shades of Grey: perhaps Virgil, when he picked up where Homer left off with the story of Aeneas, or Shakespeare’s retelling of Arthur Brookes’s 1562 The Tragical History of Romeus and Juliet. What most of us would recognise as fanfiction began in the 1960s, when Star Trek fans started creating zines about Spock and Captain Kirk’s adventures. Thirty years later, the internet arrived, which made sharing stories set in other people’s worlds – be they Harry Potter, Spider-Man, or anything and everything in between – easier. Fanfiction has always been out there, if you knew where to look. Now, it’s almost impossible to miss.

In the last few years, fanfiction has enjoyed something of a rebrand. Big-name authors such as EL James, author of the Fifty Shades books, and Cassandra Clare, who has always been open about writing Harry Potter fanfiction before her bestselling Mortal Instruments series, have helped bring it into the mainstream. These days, it’s fairly common knowledge that some people just really like writing about Captain America and Bucky Barnes falling in love, or Doctor Who fighting demons with Buffy. The general image of fanfiction has brightened somewhat: less creepy, more sweetly nerdy.

But the divide between fanfiction and original writing holds strong. It’s assumed that if people write fanfiction, it’s because they can’t produce their own. At best, it functions as training wheels, preparing a writer to commit to a real book. When they don’t – as in the famous case of Fifty Shades, which one plagiarism checker found had an 89% similarity rate with James’s original Twilight fanfiction – they are ridiculed. A real author, the logic goes, having moved on to writing their own books, doesn’t look back.

“Here’s the thing,” Naomi Novik explains over the phone from New York. She is the bestselling author of the Temeraire books, a fantasy series that adds dragons to the Napoleonic Wars, and Spinning Silver, which riffs on Rumpelstiltskin. “I don’t actually draw any line between my fanfiction work and my professional work – except that I only write the fanfiction stuff for love.”

In between writing her novels – or indeed during, as she admits that fanfiction is one of her favourite procrastination techniques – Novik is an active member of the fanfiction community. She is a co-founder of the Archive of Our Own (AO3), one of the most popular hosting websites, and a prolific writer in the universes of Harry Potter, Game of Thrones, Merlin and many more.

And she’s not the only professional at work. Rainbow Rowell, the bestselling author of Eleanor and Park and other novels, once told the Bookseller that between two novels, she wrote a 30,000-word Harry Potter fanfiction. “It’s Harry and Draco as a couple who have been married for many years, and they’re raising Harry’s kids,” she said. “It’s them dealing with attachment parenting and step-parents and all these middle-aged issues.”

The divide between a fanfiction writer and an original fiction writer can look very arbitrary when looking at authors such as Michael Chabon, who once described his own novel Moonglow as “a Gravity’s Rainbow fanfic”. Or Madeline Miller, whose Orange-prize winning The Song of Achilles detailed the romantic relationship between Achilles and Patroclus, and whose latest novel Circe picks up on the witch who seduces Odysseus in the Odyssey. Miller said she was initially worried when one ex-boyfriend described her work as “Homeric fanfiction” but has since embraced her love of adapting and playing with Greek mythology. The tag could also be applied to classics such as Jean Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea, reworkings of Shakespeare by the likes of Margaret Atwood and Edward St Aubyn in the Hogarth series, and a spate of parodies: Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, or Android Karenina.

What separates these works from the Harry Potter fanfiction you find online may come down to snobbery. There is an undercurrent of misogyny in mainstream criticism of fanfiction, which is widely accepted to be dominated by women; one census of 10,500 AO3 users found that 80% of the users identified as female, with more users identified as genderqueer (6%) than male (4%). Novik has spent a good deal of time fighting against fanfiction’s stigma because she feels it is “an attack on women’s writing, specifically an attack on young women’s writing and the kind of stories that young women like to tell”. Which is not to say that young women only want to write about romance: “I think,” Novik says, “that [the popularity of fanfiction amongst women is] not unconnected to the lack of young women protagonists who are not romantic interests.”

Others may find it odd that published authors would bother writing fanfiction alongside or between their professional work. But it’s all too simple to draw lines between two forms of writing that, in their separate ways, can be both productive and joyful. Neil Gaiman once wrote that the most important question an author can ask is: “What if?” Fanfiction takes this to the next level. What if King Arthur was gay? What if Voldemort won? What if Ned Stark escaped?

“I believe that all art, if it’s any good, is in dialogue with other art,” Novik says. “Fanfiction feels to me like a more intimate conversation. It’s a conversation where you need the reader to really have a lot of detail at their fingertips.”

For writers still wobbling on training wheels, fanfiction offers benefits: the immediate gratification of sharing writing without navigating publishers; passionate readers who are already interested in the characters, and a collegial stream of feedback from fellow writers.

“There was an audience of people who wanted to read my writing,” says young adult author Sarah Rees Brennan, who wrote Harry Potter fanfiction in her teens and twenties before she published her own novels, the latest of which, In Other Lands, was a Hugo award finalist. “Here were all these people online who wanted stories about familiar characters. Audiences were pre-invested and waiting.”

For writers, whether already published or on the path to being published, this instantaneous readership functions as a writer’s workshop: Novik calls it a “community of your peers”. Spending hours thrashing out the details of Draco Malfoy’s inner life can’t help but function as a crash course in character motivation. And the limits and constraints of working within a pre-existing world, with its own characters and settings, is a unique challenge.

“Fanfiction is a great incubator for writers,” Novik says. “The more constraints you have on you at the beginning, the better. It’s why people do writing exercises, or play scales. That kind of constraint forces you to practice certain skills, and then at a certain point you have the control to bring out the whole toolbox.”

Once some writers get those tools, they never look back. Rees Brennan no longer writes fanfiction. “I had a friend say it’s like the difference between babysitting kids and having children of your own,” she says. “With a world you built yourself, and characters you built, there’s this sense of deep, overwhelming love.”

But Rees Brennan is still a fan of collaborative writing and shared universes, as in the short stories she writes with Cassandra Clare about characters from Clare’s Mortal Instruments universe. “It’s amazing to gather around a kitchen table and yell at each other excitedly about what’s going to happen to mutually beloved characters,” she says. “I want that for every creative person – a chance to find their imaginative family, wherever it may be.”

Novik scorns the idea that published authors should turn their back on fanfiction. She recalls being on a panel where one member said he couldn’t understand why someone would waste their time writing it over an original work: “I said, ‘Have you ever played an instrument?’ He was like, ‘Yeah, I play piano’. I said, ‘So, do you compose all your own music?’”

“When I was first published, I deliberately went to my editors and said, ‘Yes, I’ve been writing fanfiction for 10 years. I love it.’ It was non-negotiable for me. As soon as you do that, by the way, it turns out that like half of the publishing industry has read or been involved in fanfiction,” she laughs. “Shockingly! It’s amazing how all these women who like storytelling have some connection to the community.”

For Novik and many other writers, fanfiction is a fundamental a way of expressing oneself, of teasing out new ideas and finding a joyous way to engage with writing again after the hard slog of editing a novel. The journey to become a published writer isn’t a straight line; it’s a spiral, as we grow older and continue to explore the characters and tropes we love. There’s so many stories waiting to be told – perhaps one or two of them could involve getting Captain America laid. God knows he needs it.

#creative writing #books #culture #fiction #fanfiction #The Guardian

[boltlightning]

landfall

On a bright fateful morn, Jack Sparrow brings rumors of the Black Pearl and her crew of the damned to Port Royal. In theory, the ship should be no match for the dragon Tempest and his Captain Norrington — but the Pearl harbors a dangerous shadow and a wicked ally of their own. or: potc, but temeraire, multi-chapter wip. sequel to windfall

“Well, well. Jack Sparrow, isn't it?”

Norrington flicks his eyes up. Sparrow pulls his hand free and cradles it to his chest. “Captain Jack Sparrow, if you please.”

“I don’t see your ship, Captain,” Norrington says, and looks about the harbor for dramatic effect.

“Perhaps I’ve got one of these dreadful beasties all for meself, lying just around the cliffs here.” 

He gestures to Tempest, who sets his ears back, affronted and hissing.

“No respectable dragon would ever ride with pirates,” Tempest insists.

“Ah,” Sparrow says, smiling sourly, “but they would. Just because you’ve never encountered something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist, savvy? Like the Black Pearl,” with a nod at Murtogg and Mullroy, who pale at the acknowledgement. Sparrow continues, smug, “It’s like what all your charts say — here there be monsters, ‘nd all that.”

Murtogg puts in, “The original Latin phrase translates to Here be dragons, actually, so it’s even more appropriate.”

Mullroy elbows Murtogg to shut up. Sparrow pipes up, “Thank you kindly! Your man has a point, Captain. You never know what lies beyond the edge of the map.”

Norrington narrows his eyes. Sparrow is rather insistent on this point, and even raises his eyebrows at Norrington, waiting for someone to ask a question. Norrington says instead, “Enough hearsay. Captain Gillette, I believe this man falls under your purview.”

(read on ao3 here!)

#pirates of the caribbean #james norrington #*fic #james and the giant lizard #1734's hottest single dad is BACK #h-here we go 🥲 #hopefully these ALL won't take three months to write #(who am i kidding. of course they will)

[thenarator]

Cisco and the Loyal Dragon

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @hedgiwithapen! if you’ve been reading my little flash/temeraire crossover thing and are expecting more fluff, you might want to brace yourselves because this falls a little more on the angsty side. it’s still cisco and a very protective dragon however, so if that’s what you came for then you’ll like this.

If you’d told Cisco Ramon five years ago that one day he’d be making the rounds of every butcher in Central City buying them out of ground turkey, he’d have laughed in your face. Nobody liked turkey, which was why people only ate in once a year. It was dry and gross and it cooked weirdly, and only weird people ate it if given the choice to eat something else.

It was also, as it happened, the cheapest type of meat to buy, barring undesirable cuts of chicken. So if you needed enormous quantities of raw meat on the regular but didn’t have the money to slaughter a cow every week, ground turkey was the way to go. Not for the first time Cisco wondered how this had become his life as he paid for the seventeen and a half pounds of ground turkey that was all the butcher had left at the end of the day. He’d already hit up every other butcher in the city, so this was his last stop.

“What do you need all this for?” asked the woman on the other side of the counter, who looked like she could break Cisco in half without much trouble.

“I’m one of those people that likes to spoil their pets,” Cisco told her honestly. He did not mention that he had only one pet, that it was more like he was her pet, and that she happened to be a dragon.

The woman gave him an understanding smile and Cisco tried not to imagine the collection of vicious dogs he suspected she was picturing, perhaps somewhat reminiscent of her own. He walked out of the shop, laden with turkey and thinking about what he’d recently read about Chinese dragons eating cooked meat rather than raw. He wondered how he would theoretically cook this much turkey without it drying out, his brain immediately beginning to construct a device similar to the revamped slow cooker he’d constructed for his mother, and he only dimly noticed the unmarked black van parked directly outside.

He noticed it more however when the side door slid open and four men in full combat gear leaped out. Instinctively Cisco dropped the turkey and put up his hands, but this turned out to be the wrong thing to do. Immediately two of them grabbed him, kicking his legs out from under him and dragging him toward the van. Cisco yelled, but there was no one nearby, and he found himself hoisted inside by strong hands, unable to even struggle to free himself. He yelled again even as the door slid shut behind them, but then there was a crackle of electricity and a searing pain in his side.

The last thing he saw before he blacked out was the word “Army” on the chestplate of one of his attackers.

***

One of the things that Gussie was thankful for was that Cisco was not generally given to being late.

Cisco liked being at the lab. He loved working, he loved the people he worked with, and he loved spending time with Gussie. The lab was literally his favorite place to be. He did not stay away for long periods of time if he could help it. He did not come in late. And he certainly did not do either of those things without telling someone.

“Where is he?” Gussie asked no on in particular as she paced agitatedly around the cortex.

“He’s usually here by the time I leave on patrol,” Barry said, sounding somewhat concerned himself. He was already in his Flash suit, but he was waiting on Cisco before going out.

“He’s not answering his phone,” Caitlin said, holding up her own phone demonstratively. If Gussie squinted she could see a lot of outgoing text messages, but none in response.

“I’m going looking,” Gussie announced, striding purposefully towards the door.

“Bad idea,” Barry was suddenly standing in her path. “Remember what happened last time you went off looking for Cisco?”

“Yes,” said Gussie. “I found him.”

“You found Iris,” Barry corrected, “who still hasn’t forgiven me for lying.”

“That,” Gussie snapped, “is your problem.”

She made to go around Barry, but he was suddenly in her way again. She tried to go the other way, but once more she found him directly in front of her.

“Barry’s right,” Dr. Wells piped up, drawing Gussie’s attention off Barry and onto him. “We don’t even know that anything’s wrong, and it’s not yet fully dark. The last thing we need is more blogs like Miss West’s talking about sightings of dragons.”

“I do not care,” Gussie’s tail lashed. “I want to find Cisco.”

“I may be able to help with that,” said a voice from the doorway.

All three of them turned, to find a man dressed in an army uniform standing just outside the entrance to the cortex. Immediately Barry’s mask was on and he was racing to place himself between the soldier and the rest of the room’s occupants, and Gussie dropped into a crouch, preparing to spring at the man if he threatened anyone.

“I presume General Eiling sent you,” guessed Dr. Wells, turning his wheelchair to face the newcomer. “What information do you have about Mr. Ramon?”

“I can take you to him,” said the soldier, not looking at Dr. Wells or at Barry, but rather at Gussie over Barry’s shoulder. “But this offer is one time only, and only for the dragon.”

“You’re nuts if you think-” Barry began.

“Deal,” said Gussie, without hesitation.

The soldier nodded, turned, and marched off down the hallway.

“Gussie you can’t!” called Caitlin, getting hurriedly up and running after Gussie as she took off after the soldier.

“I am going to find Cisco,” Gussie said. She did not see why Caitlin seemed so upset. “I will bring him back here, and everything will be alright again.”

“You honestly think they’re just going to let you?” Barry easily kept pace with her as Caitlin began to fall behind. “You think-”

“I know they will let me, because I am much bigger than them and can breathe fire,” Gussie explained patiently. “They will not have a choice.”

“I’m coming with you,” Barry insisted.

“The offer only stands if we go alone,” the soldier said over his shoulder.

“Stay here,” Gussie ordered Barry. “I will get Cisco, and we will be back soon.”

***

Gussie flew behind the soldier’s car as he led her out of the city. It was not yet entirely dark, so Gussie could keep track of the car even at the height she had to maintain to not be seen. She had very keen eyes, which Cisco said came of having ancestors that lived on mountains and had to see human bandits coming from a long ways away. Sometimes the man changed direction unexpectedly, and sometimes he even went back the way he had come, but eventually they made it out of the buildings and into the forest.

It was harder to track the car through the forest, with its dense trees, but there was only one road to follow, and that was where the trees were thinnest. She followed the road all the way to a wall, which surrounded a collection of small, squat, ugly buildings. A gate in the wall opened to admit the car, but Gussie simply flew over the wall and landed in an open space just past the gate.

“Where is Cisco?” she demanded immediately, as the soldier stepped out of his car.

“All in good time,” said a voice Gussie had not heard before. She turned, to see an older looking man with greying hair and deep wrinkles on his face. He was dressed like the soldier who had brought her there, but the soldier stood at attention when he approached.

“Who are you?” Gussie asked as the man approached her, tail lashing. “Where is Cisco?”

“I’m General Wade Eiling,” the man introduced himself, “and your friend Cisco is inside. I’ll bring him to you, once I’m certain you understand your position.”

“You should understand your position,” Gussie hissed angrily. “I am very big and I can breathe fire. You should give me what I want.”

Eiling, of all things, chuckled. “I thought you’d say that.”

Suddenly, from everywhere at once, there came a horrible piercing scream. Gussie flinched, knowing Cisco’s voice when she heard it, but she could not tell where it was coming from.

“Cisco!” she called, turning circles as she tried to pinpoint the source of the screaming. “Cisco, where-”

The screaming stopped, and Gussie whirled to face Eiling.

“Where is he!” she snapped. “If you have hurt him-”

“I have hurt him,” Eiling admitted, surprisingly her, “and I’ll hurt him again. Over and over until you understand your place, monster.”

“I’m not a monster,” Gussie said, “I’m a marvel, and you-”

The scream came again, louder and more pained than before.

“Cisco?” Gussie screeched, turning this way and that as she tried to tell where it was coming from. “Cisco, I am coming, I am-”

“You are not in any position to correct me,” Eiling interrupted once the screaming had stopped. “I can hurt your precious Cisco as much and as often as I like, and the only way you can stop me is by doing what I say.”

“Where is he?” Gussie asked. Asked, rather than demanded, because as much as she did not want to admit it, she was afraid. She was afraid for Cisco, and what it was that was making him scream. She did not want to hear the sound of Cisco screaming every again.

Eiling smiled, cold and cruel, then held up a small black box to his mouth. “Bring him out.”

The door to the building behind Eiling opened, and out came a trio of soldiers. In the center of the group was Cisco, one of them holding each of his arm and the third one walking slightly in front of the other two. His stumbled as they dragged him outside into the open space, coming to a stop a few paces behind Eiling.

“Gussie!” Cisco said in surprise when he saw her.

“Let him go!” Gussie howled. “Let go of him, you-”

“Shut up!” Eiling shouted, at a surprising volume for something of his size.

The soldier who had been at the front of the procession turned around. He looked at Eiling, and when Eiling nodded the soldier drew back his hand and punched Cisco with what looked like a considerable amount of force. Gussie screeched but stayed in place, not daring to breathe fire at the soldier for fear of hitting Cisco too.

“Will you do what I say?” Eiling asked. Cisco shook his head at Gussie, eyes wide.

“No!” Gussie snapped petulantly.

Eiling nodded to the soldier again, and he drew back his other hand and hit Cisco again.

“Stop!” Gussie’s feathers were fluffed up as high as they would go.

“Will you do what I say?” Eiling asked, louder this time.

“Never!” Gussie flared her ruff at him, but Eiling did not back down.

This time the soldier took something from his belt, and when he placed it against Cisco’s neck Cisco screamed again.

“Stop it!” Gussie clawed at ground but did not attack, still afraid of hurting Cisco. “Stop it, stop it!”

“Will you do what I say!” Eiling shouted.

“No!” Gussie insisted, “I will not, I will-”

The soldier pulled his gun from its harness and pointed it at Cisco’s head. Cisco stared down the barrel of the gun and swallowed, then looked at Gussie and shook his head again. No.

“Will you do what I say?” Eiling asked, voice quiet and deadly calm.

Gussie hesitated a moment, looking into Cisco’s fearful, pleading eyes. There was only one possible answer.

“Yes.”

***

Gussie was not back soon.

They waiting for over an hour, but Gussie did not return and no one received a call or text from Cisco. At Dr. Wells’ insistence Barry went out of patrol, but nothing could take his mind off his missing friend. This would be the second time Cisco had been kidnapped and Barry hadn’t been able to do anything, hadn’t even tried to do anything, to save him. He couldn’t help but feel like a horrible superhero, and a horrible friend.

“Any sign of them?” Barry asked once he had come to a stop in the cortex.

“Not yet,” Caitlin shook her head.

Barry stripped off his suit and changed back into normal clothes in the blink of an eye. “What about the news, any word about a fire breathing dragon going on a rampage?”

“The news networks and blogosphere are all quiet,” Dr. Wells told him.

“You know,” said Caitlin suddenly, “Gussie does have a tracker in her collar.”

“Is it active?” Barry demanded, racing over to stand next to Caitlin. “Where is it?”

Caitlin tapped at her tablet a few times, then turned it to display a map of Central City. The map zoomed in on the forest to the west of the city, until a collection of buildings surrounded by a thick wall came into focus.

“There’s an army base just outside the city,” Caitlin told him. “The tracker’s sigal is coming from in there.”

“Perhaps we should-” Dr. Wells began, but Barry was back in his Flash suit and out the door before he could finish.

***

The army base was surprisingly easy to get into. The gate was open when he arrived, no guards stationed on the wall spotted him, and there did not seem to be anyone in the courtyard created by buildings on three sides and the gate on the fourth. Everything was quiet, and under cover of darkness Barry stopped and wondered which of the three buildings to look in first. The central building seemed to be the biggest, probably the place where Eiling might hide a captive dragon, and the massive front door was ajar. It was almost too easy.

Exactly why it was too easy became apparent when the courtyard was flooded with light.

“Hello Flash,” said Eiling, stepping out of the shadows to stand squarely in Barry’s path. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Barry get out of there,” came Dr. Wells’ voice in his earpiece.

“Where are Cisco and Gussie?” Barry demanded, ignoring Dr. Wells to focus on Eiling.

Eiling signaled to someone behind him. “Let out the beast,” he barked.

From the shadows of the open doorway to the central building, out stepped Gussie. Her wings drooped, her feathers were flattened to her skin, and her head hung down as though in shame. She was not wearing the collar Cisco had made her, but rather a heavy black harness that looked to be made of kevlar.

“Gussie,” Barry called urgently, “let’s get out of here! We’ll find Cisco-”

“Fire!” shouted Eiling.

Gussie opened her mouth and let forth a jet of flames. Barry just barely made it out of the way without getting scorched, and she followed him with the fire until he was backed into a corner of the courtyard.

“Gussie!” Barry cried frantically. “It’s me! I’ve come to help you-”

“You can’t help,” said Gussie shakily, “I have to do what he says.”

“No you don’t!” Barry argued.

“Fire!” Eiling shouted again.

Gussie inhaled deeply and then fire was pouring once again from her mouth. Barry ran in the opposite direction this time, and thankfully by the time he reached the opposite corner she was out of breath.

“Gussie, why?” Barry asked plaintively.

“Because he’ll hurt Cisco if I don’t,” Gussie groaned pitifully. “You don’t know . . . you don’t know . . .”

“Fire!”

***

“Barry’s vitals are dropping,” Caitlin announced, bent over her workstation. “I think he was hit.”

“Caitlin,” said Dr. Wells calmly, “would you be so kind as to take a van and get as close to the base as you can? I think Barry made need a ride home after this.”

“But-” Caitlin started to protest.

“I’ll handle things here,” Dr. Wells assured her.

Thus mollified, Caitlin turned and left the cortex at a run, leaving Dr. Wells alone at the comms.

***

The comms were fried.

Everything was fried.

Barry could feel his bare chest knitting itself painfully back together, but nothing could repair the damage to the front of his suit. Gussie’s fire was hot enough to melt titanium, and certainly hot enough to burn away even Cisco’s reinforced tripolymer fabric. He struggled to sit up, but suddenly he felt hot breath wash over his face.

“I’m sorry,” said Gussie as she positioned herself over Barry, pinning him down. “But they will hurt Cisco.”

“I understand,” Barry said hoarsely. “You have . . . . to protect . . . “

“Finish him!” Eiling commanded.

“No!” Gussie howled, looking over her shoulder at Eiling.

Eiling lifted a radio to his mouth and said, “Bring him out.”

There was a sound of something being struck and then a punctuated cry, and Cisco stumbled out from around the corner of the central building. His hands were bound behind him, and he was flanked by two soldiers carrying assault rifles. He had a black eye, a split lip, and what looked like an electrical burn on his neck.

“Cisco!” Barry yelled.

“Cisco!” Gussie howled.

“Enough!” Eiling barked. “Finish him, or Ramon dies!”

One of the soldiers raised his gun and pointed it at Cisco’s head. Gussie turned back to Barry. Barry closed his eyes.

In hindsight Barry wished he had not closed his eyes, because then he might have understood what happened next better. There was a whooshing sound to his right, a cry of alarm from the direction of the soldiers, and then Cisco’s voice above him screaming for Gussie to stop. His eyes popped open to see Cisco standing beside Gussie, his arms thrown around her neck, face pale and sobbing into her feathers.

“What . . .” Barry began in bewilderment, but he was ignored.

It took Gussie a moment to realize what had happened. That Cisco was no longer with the soldiers, a gun to his head, and that he was instead beside her. Once she did realize it however she rammed her nose into Cisco’s stomach, crooning joyfully and nuzzling him fiercely.

“Cisco!” she managed, in between wordless noises of affection.

“I’m ok!” Cisco said, over and over. “I’m ok, I’m ok, I’m-”

Suddenly Gussie wrenched away from him, one foreclaw pushing him toward Barry. Cisco looked stunned for a few seconds, until Gussie turned to face Eiling.

“Gussie no,” said Cisco, face pale and horrified. “Gussie stop, Gussie-”

Gussie did not respond to him. She spread her wings and leaped, gliding the distance between where she had been standing and where Eiling was now backing towards the open doorway in alarm. Cisco shouted for her to come back, and Eiling screamed for her to stand down, but Gussie had decided on her next course of action and she would not be dissuaded.

It was oddly quiet in the courtyard as Eiling’s first scream split the still night air. His second scream was a bit gurgly, owing to the fact that Gussie’s front claws were embedded in his lungs. His third strangled, soft scream was cut abruptly short as Gussie bit into his neck, and that was the last sound General Wade Eiling ever made. His body made a few more noises, sickening squelches and visceral tearing sounds as it was reduced to its component parts by sharp talons. In the end though, when Gussie was through, there was silence.

***

They’d had a hell of a time cleaning Gussie off.

Eventually they’d had to just take her down to the parking garage and spray her down with the hose. It dislodged a few feathers, but there was no other way to get all of the blood off of her before she went upstairs. There was simply no getting all of it off the roof where she’d landed, and the hallway where she’d tried to come inside would have to be power washed as well, but eventually they got her clean enough for Cisco’s lab.

Caitlin treated what wounds Cisco had and checked him over for further injuries, of which there were none. Cisco did not say anything about going home, and Gussie did not mention it either. Barry also didn’t want to go home, and in the end only Dr. Wells returned to his own house for the evening. Iris and Joe were called to spend the night as well, and Gussie slept soundly with all of them cuddled against her side. Cisco lay with her head in his lap, and when she awoke during the night with a mournful croon he scratched at her feathers until she could lay her head down again.

The next day people had to go to work however, so Joe and Iris and Barry had to leave. Caitlin went back to her own lab, to her own work and her own projects, and Gussie and Cisco stayed in the workshop. Cisco tried to work on his machines, but his hands were shaking a bit too much, and in the end he and Gussie ended up watching an old Charlie Chaplin film projected on the wall.

“Why is this funny?” Gussie asked, despite the fact that she was laughing also.

“Timing,” Cisco said simply, wiping tears from his eyes. “It’s all about timing.”

Gussie nuzzled him affectionately, then laid her head in his lap. She could only watch the film out of one eye like this, but that was alright.

“Gussie?” Cisco asked, voice quiet.

“Yes?” she replied, just as quietly.

“You shouldn’t have attacked Barry,” he said.

“Eiling would have killed you if I had not done it,” Gussie told him, knowing the truth of it deep in her bones. “I could not have let him hurt you.”

“You can’t hurt people just because-” Cisco began, but Gussie cut him off.

“Yes I can,” she said firmly. “If it will keep you safe I will burn this city to the ground. You may tell me not to if you like, but I will not obey you if it puts your life at risk.”

There was a pause where Cisco did not say anything, and Gussie waited nervously for his reply. Then his hand came up to stroke the feathers on top of her head.

“I know,” he admitted, “and I know that’s in your nature, but I have to at least try to stop you.”

“You have tried,” said Gussie, as though humoring him. “If you want to stop me from hurting people to protect you, then I suggest you stop being kidnapped.”

“I’ll try,” Cisco said, and it came out somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

“Good,” Gussie concluded, then closed her eyes and nuzzled into Cisco’s belly.

#the flash #cisco ramon #cisco and the dragon #hedgiwithapen #angst

[thatgirlonstage]

I have read, watched, and listened to a vast number of stories in my life. I have been devouring books since I was old enough to understand my parents reading them to me. I have binged my way through dozens of TV shows. I have seen more films and plays than I can possibly count or remember. In recent years, I discovered podcasts and added a handful of them to my diet of stories as well. If I pictured the vast collection of every story I have ever consumed in my life as a massive library, there would probably be only a single, relatively small shelf, high up at the back, that contains a collection of media that I have FELT change me - as a storyteller, and also probably as a person. Every story has an effect, of course, but there are a few that have caused a sort of tectonic shift, noticeable before I'd even finished the story. There are a few that transcend the typical boundaries of storytelling to become something more than what they are. Lord of the Rings is up there. I think Bleak House by Charles Dickens is up there. Shakespeare's body of work as a whole is probably in the center of the shelf. There are many stories I love dearly, that mean something very special to me, but aren't quite THAT kind of story, not for me. Harry Potter occupies a very special and very important place in my life, but I don't think it's on that shelf. Neither are the Disney films I cherished as a child, although that may be only because I can't remember watching them the first time. Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood is there. So is Avatar: The Last Airbender. So, I think, is Gravity Falls. They are stories that make me want to be better, to do better, especially as a writer and an actor. They make me reconsider the way I tell stories and the way I bring them to the people around me. Every story does that - if only to say, "I hated that and I never want to put it in my own writing" - but there's something almost unquantifiable about the way these stories touch and shape me. I can't explain it, only that THESE are what I go back to when I need a reminder of the way that stories should be told. These remind me of everything I aspire to do. The Book Thief by Markus Zusak is up there. Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman is there, next to at least one of Terry Pratchett's Discworld novels. A performance of Hamlet I saw at the American Shakespeare Center is represented by a program or a ticket, as is a production of Taming of the Shrew at the Globe, and a production of Arcadia I saw in New York some years back. And honestly, while I'm probably forgetting a couple things, that's... pretty close to all of it. For all the many stories I have heard in my life, not many have hit me this way. If they had, it wouldn't be as significant. The shelves around it are occupied by all sorts of stories that hold extraordinary importance to me, for one reason or another. Harry Potter, Mulan and the Lion King and the Little Mermaid, Steven Universe, Rick Riordan's books, Sense8, the rest of Dickens' and Pratchett's and Gaiman's books, Moonlight, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers, Welcome to Night Vale, the Temeraire series, Homer's Iliad and Odyssey and Aeschylus's Oresteia, a book called Mara: Daughter of the Nile... this list could stretch out for miles. But it comes down to this idea of the stories I go back to - not for comfort or love or appreciation, because that's everything I just listed, but for INSPIRATION. To be reminded of just how deeply a story can move me. I can't make this judgement for sure just yet. I have to wait, and recover a bit emotionally from the finale, and see where I land when I can look at it with clear eyes. But The Adventure Zone FEELS like one of these stories that changes me. It feels like the kind of story that leaves me a better person than it found me. It makes me want to just sit quietly and watch the world for a while, because the journey it took me on mattered. I feel INSPIRED, so much so that I almost want to write the McElroys a thank you note for giving us this show. Perhaps I'm being overdramatic. Perhaps with a day or two of emotional recovery TAZ will join the giant bookcase of stories I love and cherish, but no more. But the feeling I got listening to the closing music is the same feeling I got closing Neverwhere the first time, or watching the credits roll on the last episode of Avatar. This show was something DIFFERENT than normal. Something that mattered tremendously. And I am so, so grateful that it exists.

#personal #taz

[drcolumbosnotepad]

Being Mortal | When Breath Becomes Air | How We Die

The Fighting Temeraire  -  J.M.W. Turner 

Introduction  

Prelude III: Mortality – Santiago Wu

 At the break of dawn begins a new day,

Now I am one with the world,

To be part of something greater, I pray.

All of us part of the same mystery unfurled.

 Time past and time future,

Everything that came before,

To everything that follows.

All my love to long ago,

And my hopes for days to come.

Heart selfless, soul mindful.

Live, laugh, love —this  the meaning of life?

My candle burns at both ends.

All the places I’ll never see,

All the people I’ll never know.

This might be how it ends.

 Memento Mori - Remember that you have to die. 

Vanitas – Philippe de Champaigne

Death is inextricably entwined with life, hidden in the shadows patiently waiting to take us on the day we take our last breath.  Reading the accounts of dying men and women is truly humbling, whether it be in their twilight years or prematurely - death comes for all of us. All their stories and memories of human life and emotion: all the joy, love, laughter, tragedy, sorrow and regret willing us all to live more fulfilling, meaningful lives. 

If I were a writer of books, I would compile a register, with a comment, of the various deaths of men: he who should teach men to die would at the same time teach them to live.

That to Study Philosophy is to Learn to Die – Michel de Montaigne

 I think you always know the moment when you finish a book whilst digesting the last words and the text as a whole, its impact and importance in your personal life. The books I am writing about all discuss mortality – a taboo topic normally hushed about and swept underneath carpets. To read and understand the writings of these books in such a raw and honest fashion was a welcome albeit overwhelming change in gear. These books have had a massive impact personally and have formed an epoch in my life and attitudes to life and death. Being Mortal by Atul Gawande When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi and How We Die by Sherwin Nuland are books which have the rare privilege of being read more than once, truly understood, annotated to grasp every fragment of detail of wisdom shared in their pages. The authors are doctors (American surgeons, all sons of immigrants). These men had the privilege and the burden of looking after and treating people with fatal illness in their daily practice. Their accounts are beautifully written, one from the perspective of a doctor looking after patients in their end of life and the other written as a patient facing his own death and one written in his twilight years recounting his medical practice and patients and sickness and death. I have heavily quoted all three books because I believe they offer profound wisdom which is literally life-affirming, in fact I have written this for myself as much as my reader in order to truly understand the essence of the lessons of what these three books and their themes can teach us.

I was first introduced to Atul Gawande from the 2014 Reith Lectures on BBC Radio 4 which were a series of four excellently given speeches on life, death and medicine. His deep research on medicine for the dying draws upon many different threads with a surgical precision. His striving to be better and to constantly improve is remarkable and sets a paragon of medical practice. I was humbled by his admissions and failures and his striving to be a better surgeon. The lectures provided a grounding to my burgeoning clinical experience and taught me to never take anything for granted – never to be complacent of my abilities because to have another human being’s life in your hands is a huge privilege which some say is playing god with a small ‘g’. He understands the fine line between offering false hope and deciding when to cut your losses which is never a clear choice. I immediately related to Paul Kalanithi’s love of literature. It is rare in medicine to meet someone who loves literature so much – stories of humanity, emotions ranging from highest peak to lowest ebb… I can tell this deep affection directly influenced his writing and indeed his medicine and approach to life. What made him unique was his relentless quest to search for life’s meaning. With his juggling of both art and science, I immediately remembered my own decision for choosing to enter medicine. Art reflects the universe whilst science explains it. Medicine married the two together. Though in modern medicine, science is king – like Paul Kalanithi, I have a strong affection for my first love of literature which I’ve come to realise expresses and sometimes even explains the universe in better ways than science can. Sherwin Nuland’s ground-breaking book How We Die has been mentioned in circles of medical humanities and referenced by Atul Gawande as the quintessential book on the medical viewpoint of death and mortality. It is easy to see why this book, though nearly thirty years old is still as relevant as ever today. The art of medicine has been revolutionised and become more efficient by multiple progressions and innovations in science and technology but at its heart remains the doctor-patient relationship which Sherwin Nuland writes about in a philosophical and humane way. He marries both medical science and the stories of his patients which from a medical point of view was an utter joy to read. Funny how things have changed since 1994 when Sherwin Nuland wrote his book and also how much they remain the same – sobering to know how despite our scientific and technological advances in medicine, our attitude towards death and dying patients is still primitive and myopic. In How We Die, Sherwin Nuland details the most common causes of death in the developed countries: cardiovascular disease, old age, stroke, infection, murder, HIV/AIDS, cancer in individual chapters with case studies based on his own patients or his family members.

The theme of death and mortality explored in these books led me to think a lot about them especially in my early medical career. When I first started this blog, I wrote of great figures in human history that have sadly left us and their medical conditions. From a great fighter to an entrepreneur to a musician, all were unique human beings with different qualities but what united all of them – and also us, is death. Death is something that is often misconstrued in our modern lives, whether we euphemise, sugar-coat or indeed fear it. The old saying of De mortuis nil nisi bonum or ‘Do not speak ill of the dead’ and Requiescat in pace or ‘Rest in Peace’ pervades our lives even today. We feel sadness when great figures die because of the finality of death – there is no return, we will never know what would have come next. We are reminded of our own lives and within our limited time we too are able to achieve something great. Of course, it is foolish to be able to condense every reference and understand them completely, that will take more than a lifetime to study, a Sisyphean task – death and ars moriendi (the art of dying) being perhaps the biggest and most universal theme of human life across all cultures. There are still works by Heidegger, Nietzsche, the Bible, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, I Ching, the Mahabharata, the Vedas, the Quran, countless poets, novelists, philosophers, scientists etc. that I haven't been able to read in this time, this of course is a study over generations upon generations who still are uncertain about the question of death. I cannot answer these questions death poses, there are mountains upon mountains I will need to ascend in order to catch the slightest glimpse of an understanding. I myself cannot even expect to offer the slightest bit of eloquence of my own voice – I elect instead to let great men and women do that for me for may I learn from them and one day pass on this knowledge. After spending the past year contemplating on death and mortality and reading around the topics from great accounts by humanity, I am certain that what this teaches us is the appreciation of life now in the present. None of us knows when we will die, only we know for certain that we will die. In our cycles of time, this is our time on Earth, our time to live. How we come to peace with death and our mortality is focus of these books I have mentioned and the lessons we can all learn from them.

As I child, I had devoured the Roald Dahl books like any other kid in school I loved his dark wit and unpatronizing creativity in his novels where they provided the first forays into my love for books and imagination. One thing always struck me in his books that I never truly understood until my youth, was his motto that preceded each and every one of his novels. I had a much loved, battered double copy of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory & Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator which I had read several times over. The motto that perplexed me well throughout my childhood was:

My candle burns at both ends it will not last the night. But oh my foes and ah my friends, it gives a lovely light!

How apt of Roald Dahl! Even in children's novels he never hid death from them – didn't the twits shrink away into nothingness and didn't James' parents get squashed by a rhinoceros? It's a beautiful motto, the transience and beauty of life condensed into four lines. When I look back over my life, over petty arguments, being let down and hurt by others, showing loved ones my worst side – I am deeply humbled. Life is short, I don't want it to be marred by acrimony and bitterness and regret. Those are the things that don't matter, the bitter pill you stow away at the back of the mind to learn a cruel lesson from and yet cringe at who you could be and hopefully were. There isn't room for such sourness, when you read the accounts of the dying – there is often the bittersweet feeling of regret and missed opportunity as seen in Top Five Regrets of the Dying by Bronnie Ware, a palliative care nurse.

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2012/feb/01/top-five-regrets-of-the-dying

Here we must focus on the important things – the old sayings of ‘letting the little things go’, and ‘don’t sweat the small stuff’ are true. Do we hold a grudge to everybody who has wronged us? If that’s the case then we’d only hold a grudge to everybody because as Bob Marley said “The truth is everyone is going to hurt you. You just got to find the ones suffering for.” Life is too short for all of the pettiness and trivialities. Forgive and love, it’s the best antidote to bitterness and the best steps to self-love for through only loving ourselves can we love others.

Wherever your life ends, it is all there. The utility of living consists not in the length of days, but in the use of time; a man may have lived long, and yet lived but a little. Make use of time while it is present with you. It depends upon your will, and not upon the number of days, to have a sufficient length of life. Is it possible you can imagine never to arrive at the place towards which you are continually going? and yet there is no journey but hath its end. And, if company will make it more pleasant or more easy to you, does not all the world go the self-same way?

That to Study Philosophy is to Learn to Die - Michel de Montaigne

The Starry Night - Vincent Van Gogh 

Medicine and death

The Doctor – Sir Luke Fildes

“To me, the subject will be more pathetic than any, terrible perhaps, but yet more beautiful.”

Being mortal is about the struggle to cope with the constraints of our biology, with the limits set by genes and cells and flesh and bone. Medical science has given us remarkable power to push against these limits, and the potential value of this power was a central reason I became a doctor. But again and again, I have seen the damage we in medicine do when we fail to acknowledge that such power is finite and always will be.

             We’ve been wrong about what our job is in medicine. We think our job is to ensure health and survival. But really it is larger than that. It is to enable well-being. And well-being is about the reasons one wishes to be alive. Those reasons matter not just at the end of life, or when debility comes, but all along the way. Whenever serious sickness or injury strikes and your body or mind breaks down, the vital questions are the same: What is your understanding of the situation and its potential outcomes? What are your fears and what are your hopes? What are the trade-offs you are willing to make and not willing to make? And what is the course of action that best serves this understanding?

             The field of palliative care emerged over recent decades to bring this kind of thinking to the care of dying patients. And the specialty is advancing, bringing the same approach to other seriously ill patients, whether dying or not. This is cause for encouragement. But it is not cause for celebration. That will be warranted only when all clinicians apply such thinking to every person they touch. No separate specialty required.

             If to be human is to be limited, then the role of caring professions and institutions – from surgeons to nursing homes – ought to be aiding people in their struggle with those limits. Sometimes we can offer a cure, sometimes only a salve, sometimes not even that. But whatever we can offer, our interventions, and the risks and sacrifices they entail, are justified only if they serve the larger aims of a person’s life. When we forget that, the suffering we inflict can be barbaric. When we remember it the good we do can be breathtaking.

             I never expected that among the most meaningful experiences I’d have as a doctor – and, really, as a human being – would come from helping others deal with what medicine cannot do as well as what it can. But it’s proved true, whether with a patient like Jewel Douglass, a friend like Peg Bachelder, or someone I loved as much as my father.

Being Mortal – Atul Gawande p259-260

 Having the medical perspective of death is something strangely inhuman. The first death with everyone is upsetting and everyone reacts in their own way. Yet witnessing death on a daily occurrence begins to offset this shock to the system, becoming a routine to which medical professional need to learn how to cope with death. Doctors and nurses in A&E departments don’t stop with each death, rather they move onto the next pressing case to attempt to succeed where they failed before. Paramedics share dark humour about death and gore in order to deal with what they see every day. Porters transporting the recently deceased to the morgue don’t cry over the tragedy. Pathologists inspecting the corpses of patients to determine a cause of death don’t become overwhelmed with grief. This desensitisation to death is a double-edged sword, it allows us to function when it should overwhelm us with grief yet does it detach us from our common human empathy, forgetting or indeed denying to ourselves what it feels like? Indeed, I remember my first deaths I saw as medical student, I have always been too guarded and perhaps too detached to cry but the spectre of death haunted me where I felt its presence after seeing a failed cardiac arrest or whilst on an ambulance shift seeing an old man surrounded by his family slowly stop breathing until there were no more breaths. Often, I have reminisced and dreamt about these experiences, I still remember them freshly and yet I still do not know my own thoughts and feelings on them.

As Atul Gawande shows in the second chapter aptly named Things Fall Apart – named after the Chinua Achebe novel which consequently was named after a line in the W.B. Yeats poem The Second Coming ‘Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;’ When we look at death as a cross sectional timeline we tend to map it in certain ways.

The first is the classic model of how we perceive our lives and death. The classic timeline of good health until old age – when health begins to deteriorate until death.

Advances in medical practice have allowed for previous fatal chronic diseases to be treated and hence the ebbing and flowing of improvements and exacerbations in health until senescence takes place. As each second becomes a minute, as each minute becomes an hour, as each hour becomes a day, as each day becomes a month, as each month becomes a year, as each year becomes a decade, we are all ageing with time. Senescence is defined as biological ageing – the gradual deterioration of function. If disease does not take us, then old age surely will.

 The third graph Atul Gawande shares with us is the graph of old age, so often medicalised given the plethora of diseases that occur in one’s twilight years. Old age and dying is the primary subject matter of his book where our medical fiddling of patching over the punctures of disease becoming a long, slow fade towards death. How then can we prepare for the inevitable? With every new wrinkle and grey hair, we know we are inching towards old age. With the 150,000 people who die on earth each day, two-thirds are due to old age. In essence, it is a miracle that medical progress has taken us this far, as proposed by Abdul Omran an epidemiologist, quoted by Dr Jonathan Reiner in Dick Cheney’s book Heart, there are three progressive stages of population longevity in the USA: age of pestilence and famine, age of receding pandemics, the age of degenerative and man-made diseases. In our modern age, instead of infectious diseases being the predominant source of mortality in developed countries with the dawn of scientific breakthroughs such as vaccinations and nutritional improvements, this modern post-industrial age presents itself with ischaemic heart disease as the number one most common fatal disease – our new sedentary, calorific lives alongside the meddling of tobacco companies have surely contributed to this. Indeed, as Montaigne wrote in the late sixteenth century. “To die of age is a rare, singular, and extraordinary death, and so much less natural than others: it is the last and extremest kind of dying”. During Montaigne’s time the average life expectancy was nothing to the years we clock up in our modern times with the average age of death now in the UK as 81.60 years.

DNAR stands for Do Not Attempt Resuscitation, it is a form filled out that I have seen in hospitals for patients who are approaching the end of their life or if they are about to have a high risk procedure. The number of times I have seen the form filled out is countless and seeing it from the doctor's perspective as a medical necessity but seeing it from the, often, elderly patient's perspective you note a sign of resignation, fear and sadness. For these patients, they are forced to confront with what might be the end. Patients who are dying will often grieve over their borrowed time left.

 The desensitisation of the significance of death from being in the medical field is an odd feeling. When something becomes routine, we become normalised to it. Countless times I have seen doctors and nurses, sign away the paperwork and send the patient to the morgue. My first time seeing someone die was indeed difficult – a cardiac arrest but there’s now a commonplace lack of novelty around death I have often wondered if I was losing my humanity.

                 I had started in this career, in part, to pursue death: to grasp it, unclear it, and see it eye-to-eye, unblinking. Neurosurgery attracted me as much for its intertwining of brain and consciousness as for its intertwining of life and death. I had thought that a life spent in the space between the two would grant me not merely a stage for compassionate action but an elevation of my own being: getting as far away from petty materialism, from self-important trivia, getting right there, to truly life-and-death decisions and struggles… surely a kind of transcendence would be found there?

               But in residency, something else was gradually unfolding. In the midst of this barrage of head injuries, I began to suspect that being so close to the fiery light of such moments only blinded me to their nature, like trying to learn astronomy by staring directly at the sun. I was not yet with patients in their pivotal moments, I was merely at those pivotal moments. I observed a lot of suffering; worse, I became inured to it. Drowning, even in blood, one adapts, learns to afloat, to swim, even to enjoy life, bonding with the nurses, doctors, and others who are clinging to the same raft, caught in the same tide.

When Breath Becomes Air P80-2

 This level of detachment I see from colleagues is understandable when we realise the alternative is to open ourselves up to our patients’ pain where we share their grief and predicament. The sheer heat of emotions we experience will also cloud our judgement that we may not be able to serve others who need our care in the best possible way. I remember a session on being taught ‘breaking bad news’ to patients where one horror story came from the doctor breaking down in front his patient and was in turn comforted by the very person he was meant to comfort. The abode to be cruel to be kind is commonplace in medicine, administering a vaccination to a young child, inserting needles to take blood from patients, using scalpels to open the flesh in surgery. There’s a lot of pain in medicine and being swamped and desensitised to it, to an outsider looking in, may see us as cold or inhuman. Indeed, I believed that too as a young medical student but now I realise, it’s just the only human response we can have.

 But it is so very difficult to tell your patient that there is nothing more that can be done, that there is no hope left, that it is time to die. And then there is always the fear that you might be wrong, that maybe the patient is right to hope against hope, to hope for a miracle, and maybe you should operate one more time. It can become a sort of folie à deux, where both doctor and patient cannot bear reality.

…

I have learned over the years that when ‘breaking bad news’ as it is called, it is probably best to speak as little as possible. These conversations, by their very nature, are slow and painful and I must overcome my urge to talk and talk to fill the sad silence.

…

I drove away in a turmoil of confused emotions. I quickly became stuck in the rush-hour traffic, and furiously cursed the cars and their drivers as though it was their fault that this good and noble man should die and leave his wife a widow and his young children fatherless. I shouted and cried and stupidly hit the steering wheel with my fists. And I felt shame, not at my failure to save his life – his treatment had been as good as it could be – but at my loss of professional detachment and what felt like the vulgarity of my distress compared to his composure and his family’s suffering, to which I could only bear impotent witness.

Do No Harm – Henry Marsh P151-3

It is a horrible feeling, that somebody’s life is ruined and is at its near end, but we still have patients to treat, our own lives to lead and life goes on…That is the burden of our professional detachment. It’s a delicate fine line to balance upon, I do not suspect that doctors signing DNAR forms find it easy – whether they empathise with the patient’s resignation or whether they are starkly reminded of their own mortality. It is never easy, but the only way is to keep moving forward.

In the medical field, we have the enormous privilege of being with our patients in their lives from cradle to grave – at their strongest but also at their weakest, where the fear of their lives are in our hands. We are bound by a sacred confidentiality to protect our patients and our duty upheld by the four pillars of ethics: respect for autonomy, benevolence, non-maleficence and justice.

Sometimes it is forgotten the fear of what patients go through whether it be a simple medication, routine operation, or terminal diagnosis. The Kübler-Ross model is an oversimplified form of the stages of grief that patients will go through when faced with a terminal diagnosis though not necessarily in this order:

Denial

Anger

Bargaining

Depression

Acceptance

Although oversimplified, the stages give an indication and ballpark figure to gauge what emotions patients are feeling during this difficult time. This is a difficult time for all involved, one of the most if not the most testing time in our lives. This is because we are confronted the cruel finality of death. There won’t be another story following this, this is it – the final chapter. Atul Gawande interviews various medical professionals working in the field of palliative care – the specialty of terminal end of life care. Both Atul Gawande and Paul Kalanithi mention how doctors can bombard patients with information in order to provide informed consent – as both authors say “Doctor informative”, yet both realise the limitations of this approach where the anxiety of patients can be exacerbated by flooding of information when they still do not know how to compute the diagnosis just given.

             The options overwhelmed her. They all sounded terrifying. She didn’t know what to do. I realized with shame, that I’d reverted back to being Dr Informative – here are the facts and figures; what do you want to do? So I stepped back and asked the questions I’d asked my father: What were her biggest fears and concerns? What goals were most important to her? What trade-offs was she willing to make, and what ones was she not?

             Not everyone is able to answer such questions, but she did. She said she wanted to be without pain, nausea, or vomiting. She wanted to eat. Most of all, she wanted to get back on her feet. Her biggest fear was that she wouldn’t be able to live life again and enjoy it – that she wouldn’t be able to return home and be with the people she loved.

             As for what trade-offs she was willing to make, what sacrifices she was willing to endure now for the possibility of more time later, “Not a lot,” she said. Her perspective on time was shifting, focusing her on the present and those closest to her. She told me uppermost in her mind was a wedding that weekend that she was desperate not to miss. “Arthur’s brother is marrying my best friend,” she said. She’d set them up on their first date. Now the wedding was just two days away, on Saturday at 1:00 p.m. “It’s the best thing,” she said. Her husband was going to be the ring bearer. She was supposed to be a bridesmaid. She was willing to do anything to be there, she said.

             The direction suddenly became clear. Chemotherapy had only a slim chance of improving her current situation and it came at substantial cost to the time she had now. An operation would never let her get to the wedding, either. So we made a plan to see if we could get her there. We’d have her come back afterward to decide on the next steps.

Being Mortal P234-5

 In medicine, the aim is to minimise mortality. We aim to stay up to date with research and novel techniques in order to gain a more positive outcome for all of our patients through the use of scientific data. The Kaplan-Meier curve is an estimator of survival from lifetime data. It is used in medical research, it is used to measure the fraction of patients living for a certain amount of time after treatment. In both Being Mortal and When Breath Becomes Air, the Kaplan-Meier curve was referenced citing both its usefulness but also, its limitations. The Kaplan-Meier curve is purely an estimator and the trends it gives are too general for individual cases. For instance, who's to say that our patients will not fall in the unlucky few that the trend ignores? As seen in Paul Kalanithi's account:

 The word hope first appeared in English about a thousand years ago, denoting some combination of confidence and desire. But what I desired – life – was not wat I was confident about – death. When I talked about hope, then, did I really mean, “Leave some room for unfounded desire?” No. Medical statistics not only describe numbers such as mean survival, they measure our confidence in our numbers, with tools like confidence levels, confidence intervals, and confidence bounds. So did I mean “Leave some room for a statistically improbably but still plausible outcome – a survival just above the measured 95 percent confidence interval?” Is that what hope was? Could we divide the curve into existential sections, from “defeated” to “pessimistic” to “realistic” to “hopeful” to “delusional”? Weren’t the numbers just the numbers? Had we all just given in to the “hope” that every patient was above average?

When Breath Becomes Air P133-4

Kaplan-Meier Curve example

Patients when faced with their terminal diagnosis usually do not want to discuss statistics and outcome data. The flawed approach of medical practice is often being in a medical echo chamber where we are within a bubble without yet realising there are patients who do not understand with what exactly they are going through. Most patients haven’t gone through medical training and are not well versed in medical jargon, the bombardment of information can flood the senses and alienate them.

Both Being Mortal and When Breath Becomes Air allude to a future of medicine that is more patient value driven. Of time becoming short and death imminent, what are your values? If you had a bucket-list - what would you place in your top 10, and which ones would you resign away and yet be okay if you didn’t get to complete them? Atul Gawande alludes to Daniel Kahneman’s fantastic book Thinking Fast and Slow which I cannot recommend highly enough. Here he refers to what is termed the Peak-End Rule where upon asking patients to recount an event whose memory has become blurred with time, what is remembered follows this rule. The ‘peak’ or the most memorable part of the event – i.e. a incredibly touching moment, a beautiful goal scored, a worst painful moment of a procedure, and the ‘End’ where we remember the concluding moments of the event. For example, during the 2002 World Cup qualifiers – I remember vividly David Beckham scoring the equalising goal against Greece to send England into the finals. The game had its moments but was a poor performance from the England team. Greece were leading England 2-1 into the 93rd minute and it looked like England were out of the World Cup. Then England were awarded a free kick, and what happened next was history. Even as a seven-year-old, my memories of watching that rather drab football match were elevated considerably in literally the dying seconds of David Beckham scoring that free kick. Atul Gawande notes the story we write ourselves – the narrative of our life. For human beings, life is meaningful because it is a story. A story has a sense of a whole, and its arc is determined by the significant moments, the ones where something happens. We distinguish our experiencing self – which is absorbed in the moment with the remembering self – recognising the peaks of joy and valleys of misery but also how the story works out as a whole. As we know from all stories, endings matter. And no more so than the ending of our lives.

In Abraham Maslow’s A Theory of Human Motivation, it is proposed there is a hierarchy of needs with basic needs for physiological survival, and safety at the bottom, above this is the need for love and belonging, and above this is the desire for growth – attaining personal goals, mastering knowledge and skills, recognition and reward for our achievements. At the crest of the pyramid of this hierarchy of needs is what Maslow terms ‘self-actualization’ – self-fulfilment through pursuit of moral ideals and creativity for their own sake. This is all good and well when we believe we are invincible – everybody wants to live forever but once faced with death – what then becomes important to you?

 How we seek to spend our time may depend on how much time we perceive ourselves to have. When you are young and healthy, you believe you will live forever. You do not worry about losing any of your capabilities. People tell you “the world is your oyster,” “the sky is the limit,” and so on. And you are willing to delay gratification – to invest years, for example, in gaining skills and resources for a brighter future. You seek to plug into bigger streams of knowledge and information. You widen your networks of friends and connections, instead of hanging out with your mother. When horizons are measured in decades, which might as well be infinity to human beings, you most desire all that stuff at the top of Maslow’s pyramid – achievement, creativity, and other attributes of “self-actualization.” But as your horizons contract – when you see the future ahead of you as finite and uncertain – your focus shifts to the here and now, to everyday pleasures and the people closest to you.

Being Mortal p97

 We need to discuss what is important to a patient who is dying with the utmost importance, we know what one wants at twenty will be drastically different to what one wants at sixty. Similarly, what one wants now may be completely different to six months down the line, all of this even more important now that time is running out and its finite sands trickling away.

 Arriving at an acceptance of one’s mortality and a clear understanding of the limits and the possibilities of medicine is a process, not an epiphany.

 ...

“I wish things were different.”

“If time becomes short, what is most important to you?”

Being Mortal P182

 We so often deprive the elderly of choice with regimented medication schedules and restriction of even going outside the house for fear of them falling of injuring themselves. Even in this age of patient-centred care, what hasn’t been realised is what the patient wants. It is this failure in health to recognise that the sick and aged have priorities beyond merely being safe and living longer; that the chance to shape one’s story is essential to sustaining meaning in life.

 Wants are fickle. And everyone has what philosophers call “second-order desires” – desires about our desires. We may wish, for instance to be less impulsive, more healthy, less controlled by primitive desires like fear or hunger, more faithful to larger goals. Doctors who listen to only the momentary, first-order desires may not be serving their patients’ real wishes, after all. We often appreciate clinicians who push us when we make shortsighted choices, such as skipping our medications or not getting enough exercise. And often adjust to changes we initially fear. At some point, therefore it becomes not only right but also necessary for a doctor to deliberate with people on their larger goals, to even challenge them to rethink ill-considered priorities and beliefs.

Being Mortal p202

It is this independence and autonomy that gives a patient their dignity – their freedom and their choice to do how they wish. I think everyone wishes to be treated with respect and have their own freedom in their end of years, it is only human to do so. All it takes is basic human empathy to realise how we treat our elderly patients and elderly family members and friends and understand the golden rule in religion: Treat others how you want to be treated.

 Medicine, now no less than then, is the art of nurturing the sick to a state of health and recognizing when it is impossible to do so. Should that be the case, ways must be found to de-medicalize the final weeks or days, to nurture the dying and those who love them, and by this means to nurture ourselves. The real truth of healing lies in the nurture.

How We Die P288

 All we ask is to be allowed to remain the writers of our own story. That story is ever changing. Over the course of our lives, we may encounter unimaginable difficulties. Our concerns and desires may shift. But whatever happens, we want to retain the freedom to shape our lives in ways consistent with our character and loyalties.

             This is why the betrayals of body and mind that threaten to erase our character and memory remain among our most awful tortures. The battle of being mortal is the battle to maintain the integrity of one’s life – to avoid becoming so diminished or dissipated or subjugated that who you are becomes disconnected from who you were or who you want to be. Sickness and old age make the struggle hard enough. The professionals and institutions we turn to should not make it worse. But we have last entered an era in which an increasing number of them believe their job is not to confine people’s choices, in the name of safety, but to expand them, in the name of living a worthwhile life.

Being Mortal p140-141

The Dance of Death

Unity of death

Michel de Montaigne, a figure so renowned he earned his place in history as one of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Reputable Men thought deeply about death and mortality amongst other topics and emphasises this point with profound eloquence. His Essay “That to Study Philosophy is to Learn to Die” is a serene meditation of death and life that expresses the contemplation of death far more eloquently than I could ever do it justice.

—let us learn bravely to stand our ground, and fight him. And to begin to deprive him of the greatest advantage he has over us, let us take a way quite contrary to the common course. Let us disarm him of his novelty and strangeness, let us converse and be familiar with him, and have nothing so frequent in our thoughts as death.

That to Study Philosophy is to Learn to Die – Michel de Montaigne

Each of us is facing the same fate; all of us united in the face of death. To death, none of us knows how to react really. Yet we know it's there hanging before us, like Cicero's account of the Sword of Damocles. Nothing in life is ever guaranteed. Our memories of the past and our hope for the future. To our love to long ago and our love for days to come.

I began to realise that coming in such close contact with my own mortality had changed both nothing and everything. Before my cancer was diagnosed, I knew that someday I would die, but I didn’t know when. After the diagnosis, I knew that someday I would die, but I didn’t know when. But now I knew it acutely. The problem wasn’t really a scientific one. The fact of death is unsettling. Yet there is no other way to live.

When Breath Becomes Air P132

Across all cultures from the Mexican tradition of Dia de Muertos (All Souls Day) and Hallowe’en – a contraction of All Hallows’ Evening, Chinese tradition of the Ghost Festival (盂蘭節), Pitri Paksha (पितृ पक्ष) or fortnight of the ancestors, the Japanese term mono no aware (物の哀れ) or the pathos of things. The veneration of the dead where descendants pay their respects to their ancestors is shared across all cultures, no matter the difference in our tongues.

We all strive to understand the mystery of death, where do we go after we die? Will this love survive of us? Was my life a life well spent? These questions are universal and unanswerable. The only thing we know for certain is the only time we have is in the present.

The fear in life is to live a life unspent. Regret is the cruellest wound, like in T.S. Eliot’s narrator in The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock, the stings of missed opportunities and paralysing neuroticism tinges the poem with the bitterness of living a life like his.

“We bones, lying here bare, await yours.” in Capela dos Ossos

 Vita brevis breviter in brevi finietur,

mors venit velociter quae neminem veretur,

omnia mors perimit et nulli miseretur.

Ad mortem festinamus peccare desistamus.

 Life is short, it will end; Death comes quickly and respects no one, It destroys everything and has no mercy. To death we are hastening let us refrain from sinning.

 Ad Mortem Festinamus from the Llibre Vermell de Montserrat

 There is our fear and loathing against death – like Beethoven shaking his fist at the thunderstorm on his deathbed, or Dylan Thomas’ plea to his dying father. How many of us have been deprived of our future and dreams by lives cut short. Life is never fair when the good may suffer and the evil may revel. We’re all victim to death’s blind snatching of us.

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Do not go gentle into that good night 

- Dylan Thomas

The final monologue of Pozzo in Waiting for Godot notes the cruelty of ephemeral life and a resounding cry against death and old age in his final lines in the play:

POZZO:

(suddenly furious.) Have you not done tormenting me with your accursed time! It's abominable! When! When! One day, is that not enough for you, one day he went dumb, one day I went blind, one day we'll go deaf, one day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second, is that not enough for you? (Calmer.) They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more. (He jerks the rope.) On! Exeunt Pozzo and Lucky. Vladimir follows them to the edge of the stage, looks after them. The noise of falling, reinforced by mimic of Vladimir, announces that they are down again. Silence. Vladimir goes towards Estragon, contemplates him a moment, then shakes him awake.

Waiting For Godot – Act 2 – Samuel Beckett

Such in life, what we make of it is how we live. We cannot be overwhelmed by life's brevity, from the Buddhist concept of anicca (impermanence) there is still meaning to be found in life with our families and friends and our fellow human beings. Do resign ourselves to the disillusionment with the disregard of the cosmos like Meursault in Albert Camus’ L’Etranger? We can be all too paralysed with a myopic view upon death where we creep ever deeper into the rabbit-hole of existential crisis, unable to see the wood for the trees. Being inevitable, countless philosophers and wise thinkers have argued our fear of death is pointless. There is a fine line one treads between accepting death resignedly and passively overwhelmed by the indifference of the universe or fearing death.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KXxw-zXRqOs

And which of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life’s span?

Luke 12:25

Yet death is scary, it’s terrifying in fact. It’s the finality of death that makes it so powerful and why it has been feared by our ancestors generations and generations before us. Being aware of our death makes us fearful of how we wish to live, what we wish to achieve, the opportunities we see hanging before us – the most powerful impulse in our life. We cannot escape it through fear because death is the one thing we cannot run away from. Though fear remains, it isn’t the fear of the mystery of death rather the fear of what we may not be able to do, achieve, live in our limited time on Earth.

Such is the importance of the philosophy of how we decide to live our lives, whether it is through religion, philosophy, family, community etc. we need to find meaning in our lives because our days are numbered and we need to make them count.

As Matt Haig argues in his beautiful book Reasons Not To Die “We can just use it in life. For instance, I find that being grimly aware of mortality can make me steadfastly determined to enjoy life where life can be enjoyed. It makes me value precious moments with my children, and with the woman I love. It adds intensity in bad ways, but also good ways.”

Reasons Not To Die – Matt Haig

 No matter how brief our lives are, we can still find beauty in its brevity like mayflies rising and falling where we can choose to make it a life well spent. I think all of us face this existential question at some point in our lives where we feel the sands of time trickling away or facing abject boredom as Heidegger describes facing anxiety over your life’s meaning: “Profound boredom, drifting here and there in the abysses of our existence like a muffling fog, removes all things and men and oneself along with it into a remarkable indifference.” It is this boredom when we feel the fear of a conditional life never spent. Boredom I feel is the directionless passivity of allowing yourself to be swept up by the tides and waves of time. That’s why it’s so important to have a purpose, values in life that can steer yourself to a destination where you want to reach. Carpe Diem as the old saying goes, “I am not throwing away my shot!,”

 So teach us to number our days, that we may present to You a heart of wisdom.

Psalm 90:12

 “The universe is not pregnant with life nor the biosphere with man…Man at last knows that he is alone in the unfeeling immensity of the universe, out of which he emerged only by chance. His destiny is nowhere spelled out, nor is his duty. The kingdom above or the darkness below; it is for him to choose” 

Jacques Monod

  Ageing and growing old

People want to share memories, pass on wisdoms and keepsakes, settle relationships, establish their legacies, make peace with God, and ensure that those who are left behind will be okay. They want to end their stories on their own terms.

Being Mortal p249

I’ve spoken to elderly patients in the hospital who are simply waiting, waiting to be seen, waiting for treatment, hopefully waiting for the family and friends that never visit. I’ve found myself guiltily detaching myself from the history taking after an hour and a half which I’ve allowed to go on for so long (the history is expected to be taken in less than 10 minutes) because I simply know that they have no one else to speak to, and I may be the only comfort they have in a place that’s too busy for them. It’s a pitiable state and I tried not to realise myself in their situation too much because I very much fear that – the loneliness of existence, your children not even bothering to pay a visit and the doctors and nurses too busy for you, may be me one day. I remember when I was volunteering at an elderly care home on every Sunday afternoon during my teenage years, this being the same care home my Grandmother went to during her twilight years, I always remembered the staff being especially friendly whenever we visited Granny and in volunteering there I hoped I could give something back to their support they gave her. Stepping into the care home, after a few months of volunteering a strange realisation dawned on me. I had never seen any of the residents’ relatives. Of course, this might be down to chance on a Sunday afternoon window where I may have missed them but the look on the residents’ faces betrayed that. They were always ecstatic (which admittedly unnerved me a little initially) whenever I came always eager to share their stories with me. Some weeks they would forget who I was briefly then the slow recognition of who I was as I handed over their tea. I saw the cruelty of dementia threatening to deprive them of their memories and realised then why they wanted to pass on their stories so eagerly so that they may never be forgotten. I met wonderful people there including one Joan Regan who struck me as a woman who was very beautiful in her prime. Joan recounted stories of her youth and her singing career with joy as I listened eagerly. Then one day after locking my bike and getting ready to serve the tea and biscuits, I realised that there was one person missing from the round. Joan wasn’t there. I heard from one of the nurses that she had passed away earlier in the week. The surprising snatching of life at death’s hands came once again, the void Joan left in that room was never filled again.

The specialty of geriatrics is the care for elderly patients i.e. all patients over the age of 65 and gerontology which is the study of the ageing process itself. The care for the elderly is in itself its own specialty given the increased complexity of the decreased physiological reserve the elderly have which in turn presents with increased complications with problems and disease. Many of these elderly patients are on polypharmacy – on a number of different drugs, many of which are to treat the side effects of a certain toxic effect of another, as Paracelsus said: Alle Dinge sind Gift, und nichts ist ohne Gift, allein die Dosis macht dass ein Ding kein Gift ist. All things are poison, and nothing is without poison, the dosage alone makes it so a thing is not a poison. The drugs which treat are also poisonous and hence strict monitoring of the medication is needed for fear of pushing a patient’s condition into a worse state by iatrogenic problems – problems caused by medical interference.

How we monitor the care for the elderly is measuring their activities of daily living (ADLs), a group of eight markers of basic physical independence: toileting, eating, bathing, grooming, get out of bed, get out of a chair, walking. After often a prolonged stay in hospital, the worst thing to do would be to discharge a patient unable to perform these ADLs independently and hence cause themselves further harm. A study by the University of Minnesota found elderly patients under the care of a geriatrics team were a quarter less likely to become disabled and half as likely to develop depression. This is remarkable, and it is clear why, geriatric teams have set out especially to treat the needs of the elderly and the problems of ageing which other specialties overrun with political and economic burdens on their health systems may overlook.

…In almost none does anyone sit down with you and try to figure out what living a life really means to you under the circumstances, let alone help you make a home where that life becomes possible.

This is the consequence of society that faces the final phase of the human life cycle by trying not to think about it. We end up with institutions that address any number of societal goals – from freeing up hospital beds to taking burdens off families’ hands to coping with poverty among the elderly – but never the goal that matters to the people who reside in them: how to make life worth living when we’re weak and frail and can’t fend for ourselves anymore.

Being Mortal p76-77

The values we see in young children and values which have been handed down over the years: filial piety, mutual respect, treating your neighbour as if you wish to be treated yourself, kindness, gratitude etc. These values are old and they count for something important for they teach us how to live meaningfully. The Japanese have the terms Hanami (flower viewing) where the cherry blossoms start to bloom and Momijigari (leaf peeping) in which the flowers of summer turn into a deep autumnal maple red. There’s a dignity and great beauty in entering the autumn of our years. Such are the seasons of time, we rise, and we fall for the new generation to take its place.

In our ageing population, where in the UK over 10 million are aged 65 or over, these values have never been more important. The elderly population face the trials and tribulations of old age which is a slow frustrating taunt where you slowly become more and more aware of your limitations of your failing body. The circle of life where you are dependent as a child, growing into an independent adult at our zenith, only to become reluctantly dependent in old age. As our grandparents and parents enter their autumnal years, it is key that we are always there for them. Though they may walk a little slower, stoop in their posture, their hearing and eyesight slowly diminish, they are still our heads of our family – the wise voices from the past who have learnt from experience and mistakes as they learnt from their forefathers passing on valuable advice for us in our generation now so that we may pass it on to our future generations.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VkoDUFNRqpw&feature=youtu.be&app=desktop

The fear is being in the predicament of those poor, elderly patients I have seen in hospital all alone. I cannot help but feel an indignant anger towards their children, how they have failed in their duties as children. And how we have failed as a society that we allow the old to die scared and lonely? Have we become a less compassionate world? I see the arrogance of the young, a contempt for the old and sick by princelings and little princesses spoiled into becoming narcissists who only care for their own needs? When we evaluate how we treat our elders in society and family, our lack of empathy and the lack of dignity we give them is appalling in many cases. The medicalisation of ageing where we sedate them with drugs and try to quiet down their ‘delirium’ whilst worst of abandoning them to isolation whereby we blame their limitations on them.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ww8CH62FZB0

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RFc19I3flJM

The elderly still have a lot to offer us, they are not castaways who no longer have any use in society – that is false. We are entering tumultuous, fearful times ahead in our world, we need their patient guiding hands to show us the way who have gone through difficult times themselves. In our age of nuclear families, we have slowly cut off from our parents and grandparents in the extended family model. This deprives us of an extended kinship that grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, family friends that can provide vital support to the family. No man is an island after all. Young men and women will speak with their grandparents and know that one day the same fate of ageing awaits them, a humbleness to forces greater than all of us and that we all want the same thing – a meaningful life well spent.

When we take photos, record in a diary, compile an album, we are trying to save the moment, whether it be a child’s first steps, a wedding, a graduation, these are the accumulation of memories that may fondly remembered for future days. Nostalgia and poignancy colour our past days so that we can affirm to ourselves that our days were not in vain.

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.

Meditation XVII – Now, this bell tolling softly for another, says to me: Thou must die - John Donne

Time and Life

What a ridiculous thing it is to trouble ourselves about taking the only step that is to deliver us from all trouble! As our birth brought us the birth of all things, so in our death is the death of all things included. And therefore to lament that we shall not be alive a hundred years hence, is the same folly as to be sorry we were not alive a hundred years ago. Death is the beginning of another life. So did we weep, and so much it cost us to enter into this, and so did we put off our former veil in entering into it. Nothing can be a grievance that is but once. Is it reasonable so long to fear a thing that will so soon be despatched? Long life, and short, are by death made all one; for there is no long, nor short, to things that are no more.

That to Study Philosophy is to Learn to Die – Michel de Montaigne

 Did we lament the fact we weren’t alive during the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Enlightenment, or Woodstock? Do we lament that will not be alive when the futuristic flying automobiles and hoverboards of Back to the Future II will finally be available? It is a fool’s errand to do so. How lucky we are to be living in our times, over the course of history this is our time to live and breathe – how wonderful it is to feel this gratitude of being alive now? As in Lin Manuel Miranda’s smash hit Hamilton, in the song The Schuyler Sisters – there are words that leave their mark on this gratitude of the present tense. “Look around. Look around. At how lucky we are to be alive right now!”

You were dead for billions of years before you were born, and it didn't bother you one bit. You will be dead for billions more. Your life is an aberration. Enjoy it.

- Mark Twain

 “The race of men is like the race of leaves. As one generation flourishes, another decays.”

- Homer

 “There is a ripeness of time for death, regarding others as well as ourselves, when it is reasonable we should drop off, and make room for another growth. When we have lived our generation out, we should not wish to encroach on another.”

-Thomas Jefferson

 Old men must die; or the world would grow moldy, would only breed the past again.

- Tennyson

 It is through the eyes of youth that everything is constantly being seen anew and rediscovered with the advantage of knowing what has gone before; it is youth that is not mired in the old ways of approaching the challenges of this imperfect world. Each new generation yearns to prove itself – and, in proving itself, to accomplish great things for humanity. Among living creatures, to die and leave the stage is the way of nature – old age is the preparation for departure, the gradual easing out of life that makes its ending more palatable not only for the elderly but for those also they leave the world in trust.

How We Die P87

  “Give place to others, as others have given place to you.”

- Michel de Montaigne 

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=4&v=yRJBuNwQwzc

How lucky we are to be alive, and what a privilege it is to pass it on. No one can live forever, we should not lament that fact but rather seize life and live it – carpe diem before our time ends.

Everyone hopes to die peacefully and painlessly – I remember even as children we asked each other the question what would be the best type of death? And as morbid eight-year olds that we were, we all agreed to die in one’s sleep would be the ideal departure from this earth. So then with the increasing life expectancy and improved medical care from the dawn of the miracle of modern day medicine, our lives have become more stable as a result and the chance infection or illness to snatch away our lives is now much less common. This presents with a new set of challenges that Atul Gawande talks about namely the notion of how we die. This view has been romanticised and dramatized that our own expectations of the nature of our deaths has become something of a myth.  Death presents itself as one of the factors beyond our otherwise controllable lives and this places a much larger emphasis on ars moriendi – the art of dying.

Sherwin Nuland suggests:

“Death with dignity” is our society’s expression of the universal yearning to achieve a graceful triumph over the stark and often finality of life’s last splutterings.

                  But the fact is, death is not a confrontation. It is simply an event in the sequence of nature’s ongoing rhythms. Not death but disease is the real enemy, disease the malign force that requires confrontation. Death is the surcease that comes when the exhausting battle has been lost. Even the confrontation with disease should be approached with the realization that many of the sicknesses of our species are simply conveyances for the inexorable journey by which each of us is returned to the same state of physical, and perhaps, spiritual, nonexistence from which we emerged at conception. Every triumph over some major pathology, no matter how ringing the victory, is only a reprieve from the inevitable end.

How We Die P10

 The patient dies alone among strangers: well-meaning, empathetic, determinedly committed to sustaining his life – but strangers nonetheless. There is no dignity here. By the time these medical Samaritans have ceased their strenuous struggles, the room is strewn with the debris of the lost campaign, more so even than was McCarty’s on that long-ago evening of his death. In the center of the devastation lies a corpse, and it has lost all interest for those, who moments earlier, were straining to be the deliverers of the man whose spirit occupied it.

How We Die P41

 When we begin to focus on death, there is an ethical slippery slope of the myth of the good death. In certain societies such as in Holland and Switzerland who have legalised assisted dying there is the worry is that this normalise euthanasia and medicalises old age – where we’re left with a dystopian Logan’s Run scenario. There is no clear answer like any other ethical question, Sir Stephen Hawking himself who said “Where there is life, there is hope” has also said “To keep someone alive against their wishes is the ultimate indignity,” and has spoken out in support of assisted dying. There is no clear answer. In the UK, euthanasia is illegal – but there are so many levels of this question it is impossible to have a complete blanket law for everyone because all cases are not the same.

Our ultimate goal, after all, is not a good death but a good life to the very end.

Being Mortal p245

 Assisted living is far harder than assisted death, but its possibilities are far greater, as well

Being Mortal p245

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dV6fDJi_6ns 

When afflicted by disease and ageing, dying becomes less in line with dignity. We lose control and may forget who we are, we become incontinent, forgetful, weak, short of breath and in pain. Sherwin Nuland argues dignity in death is very rare, there’s the view we’ll be stoic and transcend our circumstances but within the destructive effects of disease this becomes near impossible.

Though the hour of death itself is commonly tranquil and often preceded by blissful unawareness, the serenity is usually bought at a fearful price – and the price is the process by which we reach that point. There are some who manage to achieve moment of nobility in which they somehow transcend the indignities being visited on them, and these moments are to be cherished. But such intervals do not lessen the distress over which they briefly triumph. Life is dappled with period of pain, and for some of us is suffused with it. In the course of ordinary living, the pain is mitigated by periods of peace and times of joy. In dying, however, there is only the affliction. Its brief respites and ebbs are known always to be fleeting and soon succeeded by a recurrence of the travail. The peace, and sometimes the joy, that may come occurs with the release. In this sense, there is often a serenity – sometimes even a dignity – in the act of death, but rarely in the process of dying.

                  And so, if the classic image of dying with dignity must be modified or even discarded, what is to be salvaged of our hope for the final memories we leave to those who love us? The dignity that we seek in dying must be found in the dignity with which we have lived our lives. Ars moriendi is ars vivendi: The art of dying is the art of living. The honesty and grace of the years of life that are ending is the real measure of how we die. It is not in the last weeks or days that we compose the message that will be remembered, but in all the decades that preceded them. Who has lived in dignity, dies in dignity.

How We Die P268

  Themes of death and mortality place life in perspective. Everything that is good is appreciated anew and all the bad and negativities don’t leave their impact that they used to. Not sweating the small stuff and letting the little things go comes from seeing the big picture. When we’re confronted with our mortality, we realise time is limited and that comes with getting the house in order, making sure what we leave behind will be better than before and our loved ones will be okay when we’re gone.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XTvTLGkWYMU  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xuGwJs6NLw4

It’s the lesson of life to always be humble. The measure of a person is not how much they know but their confession of how much they do not know. Being humble is the key to constantly improving and striving to make things better for the future. Arrogance and pride can lead to a wave of egocentric complacency which blinds them to the crash that awaits them. By admitting our limitations to greater forces, admitting our own positions as mere mortals can we then realise the folly of playing god. Like the woman in Bob Dylan’s Like a Rolling Stone, karma is a cruel punishment for the proud.

`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings: Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away".

Percy Bysshe Shelley

 No one knows when their time will be cut short. In When Breath Becomes Air and Mortality by Christopher Hitchens. Both men were afflicted with the emperor of all maladies: cancer. The age-old question of why death comes prematurely denying one of a peaceful death – Why me? The answer: Why not?

In Jean-Dominique Bauby’s poetic and moving account The Diving Bell & The Butterfly, where he is afflicted with locked-in-syndrome – due to a brainstem lesion leaving him unable to move or talk, imprisoning him in his own body. It is something that I can imagine that would be like a living hell. He communicated through blinks to write his memoir and not a word was wasted. It is a beautiful book filled with pastime memories, regret and the daily routine of his new life. Life isn’t fair especially for these men, but their message they leave, is never to take anything for granted for human life is fragile and nothing is guaranteed, and your fortunes may change in an instant.

This examination of mortality has been since the times of Thomas Browne’s Religio Medici (The Religion of a Doctor) a hugely influential book that showcased his own thoughts and philosophy of medicine that elevated the profession to an art.

…this is indeed not to feare death, but yet to bee afraid of life. It is a brave act ofvalour to contemne death, but where life is more terrible than death, it is then the truest valour to dare to live, and herein Religion hath taught us a noble example: For all the valiant acts of Curtius, Scevola or Codrus, do not parallel or match that one of Job; and sure there is no torture to the rack of a disease, nor any Poynyards in death it selfe like those in the way or prologue unto it. Emori nolo, sed me esse mortuum nihil curo, I would not die, but care not to be dead. Were I of Cæsars Religion I should be of his desires, and wish rather to goe off at one blow, then to be sawed in peeces by the grating torture of a disease. Men that looke no further than their outsides thinke health an appertinance unto life, and quarrell with their constitutions for being sick; but I that have examined the parts of man, and know upon what tender filaments that Fabrick hangs, doe wonder that we are not alwayes so; and considering the thousand dores that lead to death doe thanke my God that we can die but once…

Religio Medici Section 43– Thomas Browne

In modern medicine, we have lost the fundamentals of what it is to treat the sick. We have forgotten what it means to have the privilege to speak with and treat our patients. Sometimes have to look back to remember how to realise the future. The age-old duty-bound Hippocratic oath of medicine and its interpolation of Primum non nocere – first do no harm, embedded in a sacred duty for our patients which is at the very centre of medical practice.

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/body/hippocratic-oath-today.html

In modern malpractice, the fellow humanity of our patients is often forgotten and eroded away to meet the target of cold political drives. The NHS (National Health Service) remains a remnant of the post-WWII desire by Aneurin Bevan to establish a brave new world – a better future for all of humanity to never face the horrors inflicted again. Free healthcare to the point of care where healthcare is a right not just a privilege for the few. I am proud of being part of the NHS and yet fearful for its future. What foundation of this wonderful system laid out in The Citadel by AJ Cronin and the fight against corruption before the NHS. I was gifted this wonderful novel by my Argentine school tutor who always was there to support me through quite a tumultuous time during my schooldays. I am very grateful for all his support and how teachers like himself are so rare nowadays, it is fitting he left me such an inspirational book to carry me forward. Seeing the NHS in crisis by political machinations makes us all realise what a special thing we have and something we should all fight for.

This anxiety and disillusionment I can see with my own eyes the day to day dismantling of what was a sacred institution and to witness the very best of humanity. In medicine, the litigation and blame culture has demanded nothing less than perfect in a beautifully imperfect human service during this consumerist age where the customer is always right because they are ‘entitled’ to the service and profit is always prioritised over people. Atul Gawande and Sherwin Nuland note this in America where Medical professionals concentrate on repair of health, not sustenance of the soul and an experiment in social engineering, putting our fates in the hands of people valued more for their technical prowess than for their understanding of human needs. When I first enrolled in medical school, I was full of giddy excitement which was soon replaced with shock then anger then disillusionment. Many of the medical students I have encountered have been difficult to say the least, of course there are countless that are lovely, beautiful, amazing human beings, yet I cannot help but feel the new age of medicine is recruiting technocrats and vastly intelligent, bright individuals yet lack basic human empathy and humility. Some of the arrogance I have witnessed has been disgusting, the blatant disrespect to others, the objectification of a patient as a mere lump of flesh by others has left me seething and wondering how and indeed why these people choose to become doctors? Unfortunately, this is something I think will only continue, the admission process can only be measured in certain ways – examination scores, grades, yet what is not and cannot be measured is the human behind the paper. The very same predicament is happening with the health system, overrun with middle men and managers who clock and measure every shred of data in order to assess performance. As Sherwin Nuland wrote in his coda to How We Die in 2010 shortly before he died:

Much of the reconfiguration of health care has been hijacked by economic needs.

…

In this New medicine, everything must be measurable. It must come in the form of a datum, to be commingled with other data in order to make the entire group of facts susceptible to quantification and analysis. Empathy, autonomy, caring, and simple unhurried kindness are not measurable and so become swept away as encumbrances to quantifiable efficiency. The individual patient, along with the complexities of his medical and human problems, is rendered invisible and inaudible by being hidden under the collective weight of some researcher’s or bureaucrat ’s protocol. Nowhere is this suffocation more effective than in stifling the care, counsel, and decision-making of those who are dying.

How We Die P279

I see some of my peers and the immense pressure they’re under – whether it be familial or institutional and often give them the ‘benefit of the doubt’ but finding myself under the same pressures I, in a lapse of my own better judgement when I forget who I’m speaking to could be my family member or a close friend, a fellow human being, and instead as mere tools to fulfil checkbox ticks proving my ‘competencies’. Whenever patients wanted to talk more about something but finding myself more preoccupied with looming examinations and hence not giving them the time I should have, or being frustrated a patient executing their right to not be seen and examined after having countless other medical students and doctors looking at their pathology. I am deeply ashamed of myself that I myself have fallen into this trap of forgetting the humanity of medicine – becoming Tolstoy’s stereotype of a doctor.

At the end, we and those who surround us cannot allow ourselves to fall victim to the imposed conditions of regimented men and women who would have us die under the unnatural conditions of a medical, economic, and bureaucratic order in which humanity and love have no place.

How We Die P282

 There was no likelihood of guidance, or even understanding, from Harvey’s doctors, who had by then shown themselves to be untouchably aloof and self-absorbed. They seemed too distanced from the truth of their own emotions to have any sense of ours. As I watched them strutting importantly from room to room on their cursory rounds, I would find myself feeling almost grateful for the tragedies in my life that had helped me be unlike them.

How We Die P226

 The doctor said that so-and-so indicated that there was so-and-so inside the patient, but if the investigation of so and-so did not confirm this, then he must assume that and that. If he assumed that and that, then…and so on. To Ivan Ilych only one question was important: was his case serious or not? But the doctor ignored that inappropriate question. From his point of view it was not the one under consideration, the real question was to decide between a floating kidney, chronic catarrh, or appendicitis… From the doctor’s summing up Ivan Ilych concluded that things were bad, but that for the doctor, and perhaps for everybody else, it was a matter of indifference, though for him it was bad. And this conclusion struck him painfully, arousing in him a great feeling of pity for himself and of bitterness towards the doctor’s indifference to a matter of such importance…He said nothing of this, but rose, placed the doctor’s fee on the table, and remarked with a sigh: “We sick people probably often put inappropriate questions. But tell me, in general, is this complaint dangerous, or not?…” The doctor looked at him sternly over his spectacles with one eye, as if to say: “Prisoner, if you will not keep to the questions put to you, I shall be obliged to have you removed from the court.” “I have already told you what I consider necessary and proper. The analysis may show something more.”

The Death of Ivan Ilyich - Chapter 4

 We offer patients hope in medicine, whenever they are anxious, scared or pessimistic. There is always the possibility things can improve and get better. “Hope is itself a species of happiness, and perhaps the chief happiness which this world affords,” - Samuel Johnson. We must never allow our patients and loved ones lose hope – that we learn early on especially when dealing with patients who are dying. However, when we talk about death with a loved one or a close friend or a patient, and when knowing the condition is terminal, by offering white lies and false hope – we are doing them a disservice. But when there is nothing else to be done, instead of another investigation or procedure that will certainly prove to have the same result – the preparation and openness to talk about death is needed. Death after all is an event, we all must experience it at some point sooner or later. By not being open with our patients and loved ones, we are doing them a disservice – depriving them of their last wishes, their legacies they want to leave behind and the comfort of their loved ones when they go. It is this abandonment that Ivan Ilyich so feels when he is lied to from his doctor and his family about his fatal condition, being kept in the dark and helpless with no one to understand or help. Sherwin Nuland talks about one of his patients who is dying and the preparation of one last Christmas that meant everything to him. The last time to see family and close friends and tie off loose ends, and share that last moment of joy. Medicine with its goals, is not just to prolong life but also about so much more. Doesn’t everyone deserve this frank and open discussion, our preparations for death allow us to live a more fulfilling life to get everything we wanted done, complete our bucket-lists and set our priorities straight.

What tormented Ivan Ilych most was the deception, the lie, which for some reason they all accepted, that he was not dying but was simply ill, and the only need keep quiet and undergo a treatment and then something very good would result. He however knew that do what they would nothing would come of it, only still more agonizing suffering and death. This deception tortured him — their not wishing to admit what they all knew and what he knew, but wanting to lie to him concerning his terrible condition, and wishing and forcing him to participate in that lie.

The Death of Ivan Ilyich – Chapter 7

 Death comes for all of us. For us, for our patients: it is our fate as living, breathing, metabolizing organisms. Most lives are lived with passivity toward death – it’s something that happens to you and those around you. But Jeff and I had trained for years to actively engage in death, to grapple with it, like Jacob with the angel, and, in so doing, to confront the meaning of a life. We had assumed an onerous yoke, that of mortal responsibility. Our patients’ lives and identities may be in our hands, yet death always wins. Even if you are perfect, the world isn’t. The secret is to know the deck is stacked, that you will lose, that your hands or judgment will slip, and yet still struggle to win for your patient. You can’t ever reach perfection, but you can believe an asymptote toward which you are ceaselessly striving.

When Breath Becomes Air P114-5

 Death is in an old man’s door, he appears and tells him so, and death is at a young man’s back, and says nothing; age is a sickness, and youth is an ambush;

Meditation VII - The physician desires to have others joined with him – John Donne

 You return man to dust and say, “Return, O children of man!”

Psalm 90:3

 Josiah Royce, a Harvard philosopher wrote a book The Philosophy of Loyalty which tries to answer what is it that we need in order to feel that life is worthwhile? Simply existing and eating, sleeping and in comfort seems to be empty and meaningless. Royce believed that we all seek a cause beyond ourselves – to him, an intrinsic human need.

The only way death is not meaningless is to see yourself as part of something greater: a family, a community, a society. If you don’t mortality is a horror. But if you do, it is not. Loyalty, said Royce, “solves the paradox of our ordinary existence by showing us outside of ourselves the cause which is to be served, and inside of ourselves the will which delights to do this service, and which is not thwarted but enriched and expressed in such service.” In more recent times, psychologists have used the term “transcendence” for a version of this idea. Above the level of self-actualization in Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, they suggest the existence in people of a transcendent desire to see and help other beings achieve their potential.

Being Mortal p127

To find meaning and a cause in your life is the question that countless philosophers and wise sages have asked since the dawn of time. What is the meaning of life?

To die takes courage. Ernest Hemingway described courage as grace under pressure and I think that’s not too far off. Atul Gawande mentions Plato’s Laches where Socrates asks ‘What is courage?’ Atul Gawande then writes how he derived the definition: courage is strength in the face of knowledge of what is to be feared or hoped. Wisdom is prudent strength. He goes further where he mentions two types of courage required in aging and sickness. 1) the courage to confront the reality of mortality – the courage to seek out the truth of what is to be feared and what is to be hoped. 2) the courage to act on the truth we find. He ends by posing One has to decide whether one’s fears or one’s hopes are what should matter most – A truth to live a good life itself. Such with my own experience, much of life is a choice. During the 2 weeks of the London 2012 Olympic Games, I remember my time during the Olympics could either be spent indoors or outside visiting the various events organised during that fortnight during a rather uncertain time for me personally. It was my choice to either experience the atmosphere of the games or rather mope inside. This is a truth that is shared with much of life, life is what you make of it – and no one can take that away from you.

Conclusion

Tempus fugit – time flies

Ultima forsan – perhaps the last [hour]

When I remember my first encounters with death, I was only a young child, but their impact left a clear mark on me. There are always things I wish I did more of and said, I am regretful that I was too immature to understand how precious time was then and took things for granted as a result especially if it was someone who loved me as much as my Granny. She was a truly remarkable woman who the more I learn about the more I am humbled of her ability to overcome hardships and struggle. Her story is for my Dad to tell, to whom she passed on her best qualities and is the best person to pass on her story. The family friends we lost too soon who were amongst the kindest and best people we ever knew. Their stories are also for my Dad to tell who knew them through loyal friendships and unselfish kindness.

The lessons learnt from all of this is to never be complacent with time and death, love each other and appreciate the goodness and kindness in life, all the other negativities are just minor trivialities that have no impact in the bigger picture. To always be humble, to always be kind to each other and to yourself and to be patient with others. To count your blessings and have the courage to deal with life’s trials and the striving to make your life and the lives around you better and to be the master of your own destiny to fulfil God’s work. To be thankful of our opportunities we have been given and to make the most of them. All of this sounds like a cliche but in the face of death, this means everything. And one thing we can be certain of, is that we will die. What we make of life is how we live it. These final extracts voice the beauty of life and the pathos of farewell in the most beautiful and touching ways. I hope these words will resonate with you as they have done with me and hope that they will inspire you all to live your lives to the fullest and most meaningful so that by the time we are at death’s door we will share the same serene gratitude for our lives and hope for the future.

 Yet I was still intensely moved and grateful to have gotten to do my part. For one, my father would had wanted, and my mother and my sister did, too. Moreover, although I didn’t feel my dad was anywhere in that cup and a half of gray, powdery ash, I felt that we’d connected him to something far bigger than ourselves, in this place where people had been performing these rituals for so long.

             When I was a child, the lessons my father taught me had been about perseverance: never to accept limitation that stood in my way. As an adult watching him in his final years, I also saw how to come to terms with limits that couldn’t simply be wished away. When to shift from pushing against limits to making the best of them is not often readily apparent. But it is clear that there are times when the cost of pushing exceeds its value. Helping my father through the struggle to define that moment was simultaneously among the most painful and privileged experiences of my life.

             Part of the way my father handled the limits he faced was by looking at them without illusion. Though his circumstances sometimes got him down, he never pretended they were better than they were. He always understood that life is short and one’s place in the world is small. But he also saw himself as a link in the chain of history. Floating on that swollen river, I could not help sensing the hands of the many generations connected across time. In bringing us there, my father had helped us see that he was part of a story going back thousands of years – and so were we.

             We were lucky to get to hear him tell us his wishes and say his good-byes. In having a chance to do so, he let us know he was at peace. That let us be at peace, too.

             After spreading my father’s ashes, we floated silently for a while, letting the current take us. As the sun burned away the mist, it began warming our bones. Then we gave a signal to the boatman, and he picked up his oars. We headed back to the shore.

Being Mortal P262-3

  Everybody succumbs to finitude. I suspect I am not the only one who reaches this pluperfect state. Most ambitions are either achieved or abandoned; either way, they belong to the past. The future, instead of the ladder toward the goals of life, flattens out into a perpetual present. Money, status, all the vanities the preacher of Ecclesiastes described hold so little interest: a chasing after wind, indeed.

               Yet one thing cannot be robbed of her futurity: our daughter, Cady. I hope I’ll live long enough that she has some memory of me. Words have a longevity I do not. I had thought I could leave her a series of letters – but what would they say? I don’t even know if she’ll take to the nickname we’ve given her. There is perhaps only one thing to say to this infant, who is all future, overlapping briefly with me, whose life, barring the improbable, is all past.

               That message is simple:

               When you come to one of the many moments in life where you must give an account of yourself, provide a ledger of what you have been, and done, and meant to the world, do not, I pray, discount that you filled a dying man’s day with sated joy, a joy unknown to me in all my prior days, a joy that does not hunger for more and more but rests, satisfied. In this time, right now, that is an enormous thing.

When Breath Becomes Air P198-199

 I feel grateful that I have been granted nine years of good health and productivity since the original diagnosis, but now I am face to face with dying. The cancer occupies a third of my liver, and though its advance may be slowed, this particular sort of cancer cannot be halted.

It is up to me now to choose how to live our the months that remain to me. I have to live in the richest, deepest, most productive way I can. In this I am encouraged by the words of one of my favourite philosophers, David Hume, who, upon learning he was mortally ill at age sixty-five, wrote a short autobiography in a single day in April of 1776. He titled it “My Own Life.”

…

Over the last few days, I have been able to see my life as from a great altitude, as a sort of landscape, and with a deepening sense of the connection of all its parts. This does not mean I am finished with life. On the contrary, I feel intensely alive, and I want and hope in the time that remains to deepen my friendships, to say farewell to those I love, to write more, to travel if I have the strength, to achieve new levels of understanding and insight.

This will involve audacity, clarity, and plain speaking; trying to straighten my accounts with the world. But there will be time, too for some fun (and even some silliness as well).

I feel a sudden clear focus and perspective. There is no time for anything inessential. I must focus on myself, my work, and my friends. I shall no longer look at NewsHour every night. I shall no longer pay any attention to politics or arguments about global warming.

This is not indifference but detachment – I still care deeply about the Middle East, about global warming, about growing inequality, but these are no longer my business; they belong to the future. I rejoice when I meet gifted young people – even the one who biopsied and diagnosed my metastases. I feel the future is in good hands.

I have been increasingly conscious, for the last ten years or so, of deaths among my contemporaries. My generation is on the way out, and each death I have felt as an abruption, a tearing away of part of myself. There will be no one like us when we are gone, but then there is no one like anyone else, ever. When people die, they cannot be replaced. They leave holes that cannot be filled, for it is the fate – the genetic and neural fate – of every human being to be a unique individual, to find his own path, to live his own life, to die his own death.

I cannot pretend I am without fear. But my predominant feeling is one of gratitude. I have love and been loved; I have been given much and I have given something in return; I have read and travelled and thought and written. I have had an intercourse with the world, the special intercourse of writers and readers.

Above all, I have been a sentient being, a thinking animal, on this beautiful planet, and that in itself has been an enormous privilege and adventure.

My Own Life – Oliver Sacks

Further Reading:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b04bsgqn - Reith Lectures 2014

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/frontline/film/being-mortal/ 

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2012/feb/01/top-five-regrets-of-the-dying 

https://www.nytimes.com/2014/01/25/opinion/sunday/how-long-have-i-got-left.html?mcubz=1

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Danse_Macabre

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Memento_mori

Gratitude - Oliver Sacks

Do No Harm - Henry Marsh

Reasons to Stay Alive - Matt Haig

Mortality - Christopher Hitchens

Nausea - Jean-Paul Sartre

Waiting for Godot - Samuel Beckett

Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions – John Donne

The Wasteland, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, The Hollow Men, Four Quartets – T.S. Eliot

In Memoriam: Poems of Bereavement introduced by Carol Ann Duffy 

Essays, That to Study Philosophy is to Learn to Die - Michel de Montaigne

Randy Pausch’s Last Lecture https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ji5_MqicxSo

Steve Jobs’ Stanford commencement speech https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UF8uR6Z6KLc&t=1s

Virgil – Georgics

How We Die – Sherwin Nuland

The Death of Ivan Ilyich – Leo Tolstoy

The Citadel – A.J. Cronin

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dV6fDJi_6ns House speech on dignity

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mjQwedC1WzI

https://www.philosophersmag.com/opinion/18-close-encounters-of-the-cancer-kind

https://www.philosophersmag.com/opinion/17-death-and-its-concept

https://philosophynow.org/issues/27/Death_Faith_and_Existentialism

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/series/reports-of-my-death Clive James

https://www.theguardian.com/culture/2015/mar/15/clive-james-interview-done-lot-since-my-death

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Capela_dos_Ossos

http://www.online-literature.com/tennyson/718/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Dream_(Rousseau_painting)

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0825232/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Livingstone#Stanley_meeting

http://www.parliament.uk/business/publications/research/key-issues-for-the-new-parliament/value-for-money-in-public-services/the-ageing-population/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Veneration_of_the_dead

Josiah Royce – The Philosophy of Loyalty

https://people.umass.edu/biep540w/pdf/Stephen%20Jay%20Gould.pdf

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KXxw-zXRqOs

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Dgn97v3q28

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MhxJ1EzKUoM

http://www.lifehacker.co.uk/2017/09/09/what-it-feels-like-to-die

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death

http://psychclassics.yorku.ca/Maslow/motivation.htm

https://archive.org/stream/philosophyloyal00roycuoft/philosophyloyal00roycuoft_djvu.txt

https://www.jstor.org/stable/3349959?seq=1#page_scan_tab_contents

http://classics.mit.edu/Plato/laches.html

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rDjmDHiSTm8

https://archive.org/details/IkiruToLive

http://penelope.uchicago.edu/letter/letter.html

Calvary

Momijigari

Day of the Dead

Grapes of Wrath – John Steinbeck

Tibetan Book of the Dead

War and Peace, The Death of Ivan Ilyich – Leo Tolstoy

For Whom the Bell Tolls - Ernest Hemingway

In Search of Lost Time - Marcel Proust

To Calvary (Gagulta) – site of Jesus’ crucifixion, Place of the skull

#death #mortality #rip #restinpeace #momento mori #tempus fugit #life #living #halloween #carpediem #be humble #humility #gratitude #thank you

[shockcity]

HP #3A - Temeraire Crossover

Rating: T Summary: Harry finds himself stranded in an alternate universe in which the Napoleonic Wars are fought with dragons. Yeah. He thought it was weird too. Category: M/M Pairing: John Granby/Harry Potter Warnings: none

THIS IS PART I

Note: this is long (SO LONG) and full of tropes and silliness. I wrote this on and off for years, and finished just after Crucible of Gold was published, so this has been sitting around while I hemmed and hawed about whether or not it was worth posting, until I finally just decided to put it in the junk drawer with everything else. It doesn’t incorporate Blood of Tyrants and League of Dragons, mostly because I’m lazy but also because I haven’t read the last book yet *is sheepish*, so this is in four parts and is considered finished, for now. Also, this isn’t beta’d *cringe* so…uh…enjoy? Yikes.

—

Part I

.

“There you are,” called a voice, and a dragon landed in front of him with a heavy thump. Its claws tore at the earth, kicking up dirt and grass into Harry’s face. “I have been looking everywhere for you!”

Harry slowly wiped away the dirt with his sleeve, staring.

“Oh, sorry!” said the dragon. “Didn’t mean to get you!”

There was nothing else to do but shrug. The sudden arrival of a talking dragon was the least alarming thing to happen to him lately, on account of him not knowing where he was, exactly, and really any sign of magic (even the dangerous kind) was welcome. He’d woken in a forest, cold and confused, and after sitting around and waiting for someone to find him, had decided to trudge onward and seek some answers for himself. And so he’d trudged, for about a day and a half…with no sign of any people, anywhere.

There were no towns or villages, no cars or roads. Not even a light on the horizon. Signs of life were limited to a few startled rabbits and a mangy fox, who had eyed him amusedly before trotting off. He had thought, at first, he might be in the Forbidden Forest, but surely there would have been a centaur by now, or, Merlin forbid, an acromantula?

Harry had just decided that he was hopelessly lost (and maybe dreaming, or hallucinating, whatever) when the irritated dragon had arrived. He’d thought the situation couldn’t possibly get any stranger, but then, well– such was his life.

Besides the fact that it was talking to him (Norberta had never spoken English, as far as he’d known, and the Hungarian Horntail hadn’t been talkative but then she’d been trying to incinerate him at the time and was obviously busy) ridiculously enough, the dragon had an accent and sounded rather unused to speaking English. If Harry didn’t know any better he would say it were French. Could dragons be French? Bollocks.

“Well,” it huffed. “You haven’t a harness and you’re all bloody. Have you been hurt? I’ll be happy to kill what’s hurt you, capitaine. Capitaine?”

Captain of what? What? Harry scratched the side of his head, gaping with tremendous rudeness. “Sorry,” he finally managed to say. “I have no idea what you mean. Do you know where we are?”

“Oh. Britain.” The dragon nodded decisively. “We are in England. Almost Scotland, I should think, if we keep on north. I’ve come from France to you, so that you may be my capitaine.”

Harry licked his lips. “Yes, but–” He paused, until at last he admitted, “I’m really confused. I’m not where I– well. I’m…really confused.”

The was dragon was comfortingly unconcerned. “Alright,” it said. “You tell me what you remember, capitaine, and we’ll sort out this mess.”

So Harry did. He began with the battle, the end of the Dark Lord, and his long sleep, which lead him to this forest and his wandering about, looking for other people. The dragon listened with earnest eagerness, and when Harry stopped speaking, he took a moment to observe the creature in kind. It was small, barely the size of a large dog, with deep blue and iridescent green markings across its sleek, black body. He thought for a moment of the dragon’s voice, and was careful to correct his use of pronoun; it was he, a young he, if he were to guess.

“I think you may have to tell me all of it,” the dragon demanded, coiling his tail around to sit. “You have come from a battle! I want to hear everything.”

He blamed his still present confusion and perhaps shock for the ungainly, babbled recital of his past deeds. As the story progressed, at parts when Harry was hurt or even confessed to being very frightened, the dragon growled and trembled, touchingly angry on his behalf. Finally, when Harry was sat and quite burned out for talking, the dragon said, “Oh, I’ve the finest capitaine in all the world, I am sure!”

Harry had no comparison with which to disagree, though he thought he was maybe the most confused captain in all the world, rather than the finest. And what was this captain business anyway?

The dragon saw his expression and sighed, “I suppose I had better tell you what’s happening. You are in the year of seventeen ninety-eight, and we are at war. I have come from the Armee de l'Air, where Commander Napoleon would have me fighting the country where my true capitaine is! I have hatched two days past, and I am a baby, of course, but I shan’t be for long if you are worried. I’m not hungry, either, there was a bunch of cows south from here that I ate, though the man in the fields was saying some not-very-nice things to me when I left with them!”

“Sorry, you said– Napoleon?”

“Oh yes. Very presumptuous. He spoke to me, before I left, you know. Said I was to be no use but for breeding. So I escaped and came here to you. And you shall harness me and we shall battle, because you are so very good at it, already, and Commander Napoleon was so very rude to say I am worth naught!”

He ran a hand across his face, a desperate, slightly crazed motion that made the dragon nuzzle him worriedly. “I suppose you are in a different world, if there is such a thing,” the dragon surmised. “I am sorry if you left behind those you love, but you have me now, and I have you!”

It was a thing to say, to a boy who had never had much to start with. No family. Close friends, perhaps, but certainly not the sort of companionship this dragon was proposing. And he was a lovely, darling creature– and Harry was already very fond of him.

He had never thought himself predisposed to affection or even the assumption of it between him and others, but this dragon would have him without even really knowing him, and Harry wanted to return the favour. He had also shown remarkable loyalty already, coming all the way from France and flying around all of England, just to find him.

“But how did you know I was here? How could you possibly know where to look?” he asked.

The dragon nuzzled him again. “Just knew,” he said, and if Harry were a normal young man this explanation would never have been enough. But he was used to the unexplainable. Used to magic. “They took me from capitaine to capitaine, to harness me, but I was decided already! You were here, and I had to find you. So, I just knew.”

Then…dragon companionship was normal here? Harry suddenly remembered the dragon mentioning an army. Armee, something… de l'Air? “You mean to say there’s an army composed of…of dragons?”

“Oh, yes.” He proceeded then to explain the Armee de l'Air, or His Majesty’s Aerial Corps in Britain. It was a fantastical idea, even for a wizard. And speaking of, the dragon was very keen on seeing some magic for himself, and nudged Harry into floating some branches away from their makeshift clearing. Reminded of his magic, he gazed down at the Elder Wand that was still upon his person, aghast at having it when he meant to be rid of it in Dumbledore’s tomb. Yet the dragon’s pleasure was contagious, and he put it out of his mind for now.

“Very good! Oh, splendid,” he cheered, drawing Harry closer to him; which oddly did not frighten or unsettle Harry in the least. “You will be my capitaine, and a great one, I am sure.”

Harry leaned his head against the long neck and sighed. This was so strange. He wondered if it were not a dream. “What now? This is mental,” he muttered, and then yawned. He was finally warm and terribly exhausted.

“We shall go to one of your coverts. I asked a little dragon about it, on my way here, though he was rather confused, I think. And we should go in the morning, perhaps, for it is getting dark now and you are tired. May I…may I have your name?”

Harry made a face at his own horrible manners. “Sorry,” he cringed, drawing away to stare up at the dragon. “I’m Harry.”

“Harry, my Harry. Yes, that will do nicely,” the dragon said. “The man in your story…Remus. I like his name. He was a hero, was he not? Like you.”

“He was,” Harry agreed, though sadly.

“I will be Remus, then. In honor of him. Though you may call me Remy, for that is French and no matter how rude Napoleon was, I am a French dragon.”

Remus. Remy. Harry thought it was fitting. He would not think too deeply about Remus though. The nickname rather helped in that regard. Remus was lost, and Tonks, and their son he had left behind, by no choice of his own but abandoned all the same. Sensing his melancholic turn, Remy coiled around him and bade him to sleep.

As strange as it was, to be in so new a place without any warning, Harry was oddly comforted. And Remy, having flown so far for his capitaine, was proud of his intuition and forwardness to find him. His Harry needed him, and Remy needed and admired him too. He was the best capitaine of the lot, for what others had saved the world? There was none that could compare, and Remy was satisfied.

::::

“I escaped from France!” Remy was telling the tiny dragon by the name of Volatilus. “I didn’t like Napoleon, or any of the capitaines they wanted me to have, so I came to England to find my Harry. That’s him there, Volly. That’s Harry.”

Volly turned his head to gaze at him, although there wasn’t much understanding in his perpetually cheerful eyes. “Rem’s Ree!” he cried happily.

“That’s right,” James said, patting his dragon affectionately. “But this is extraordinary! A Papillon Noir up and leaving for England! I’d laugh if I weren’t worried one of ours would mutiny so.”

James and Volly were escorting them to Loch Laggan, a bit of fortune fallen into Remy and Harry’s hands, according to James, who was often set in the opposite direction and unable to divert. He and his little dragon served as a courier, of all things. Harry would be surprised had the last few days not been comprised of the ridiculous and bizarre. Royal Mail by dragon seemed a small thing, really.

Lucky though it was, James’ heading to Loch Laggan was a double-edge sword. They now had a very nice escort to the closest covert, but James was very interested in not only Remy’s story, but Harry’s.

This brought him to the startling revelation that he was in another world entirely, forced into service by a dragon on the lam (James had said the French would seek out the missing dragon, and be positively furious when they learned Remy had defected to the enemy) and with no proof of his existence to the main and might, he would need a cover story that wasn’t crazy enough to get him thrown in Nick. And who was to say they would let Remy keep him? Though he’d like to see them try to separate them, it would be amusing up until their execution, to be sure.

He sighed. James cast him a narrow look but pressed, “This is entirely extraordinary. Where are you from again, Potter?”

“London,” Harry hesitated. “Around abouts.”

Could he perhaps pass for a homeless man? His clothing, both strange to James’ eyes and manky enough, would lend a bit of truth to his tale. Perhaps if he didn’t say much about a home? A traveler, maybe a vagrant with no ties to any land at all? But his accent wasn’t uneducated. He had adopted, unfortunately, the slightly elevated speech of middle class London, rather than the guttural informal vernacular of a street boy. And caravaners, for as little as Harry knew about them, had an distinct voice of their own.

And then it hit him. There were times when Dudley attended Smelting’s, when Stonewall news came to Little Whinging, when a boy sick of exams and prefects and A-levels with no care for sixth form and a future, had run away from a proper school to live on his own terms. It wasn’t often that parents would put out a boy for it, but Harry was sure it was acceptable in seventeen ninety-eight. A runaway he would likely be, to these Aerial Corps…or a spy, which wouldn’t end well. So, he would have to be on the lam with his dear Remy.

He would be careful not to mention the name of his school or a headmaster. It wouldn’t do at all for officials to correspond with the unlucky headmaster he named out of idiocy and be caught in a lie.

And when on earth did he decide to up and involve himself in another war? He cast a look at Remy, who was telling Volly all about the battles he would soon fight.

“I’m supposed to be in school, sir,” Harry confessed, picking at his cottage pie woefully. They had stopped to eat and wash (mostly for Harry’s benefit) before the thirty kilometer flight ahead of them. Harry hadn’t wanted to leave Remy alone, so James accompanied him outside where they sat in chairs provided by the tea room, thankful, perhaps, that the dragons were not to wait unattended in the streets. “Please don’t send me back.”

James blinked. “If your family is missing you–”

“They aren’t,” Harry said quickly. “My parents are dead. It’s my Aunt and Uncle. They…well…please don’t send me back.”

“If you’re in school at your age, Potter, they’re likely to make a fuss when they find out what’s happened,” James pointed out, and Harry nearly cursed himself aloud for a fool.

Surely only the very well-to-do boys in England went to private apprenticing schools. Most, probably, joined the regiment, or earned their living through honest toil and a specified trade. Harry, at seventeen (though he would try to pass for younger, if he could) wouldn’t have been still studying unless his family were peerages or particularly in clovers as scholars. He could pass for a lawyer’s kid, maybe, or churched affluence, but many of those people were acquainted with particular circles. There would be hell to pay if a presumptive heir or scholar’s boy were lost to vagabondage. Yet there was nothing for it, he had made his bed.

“Please,” Harry tried again. “They never cared for me besides to send me to school, because my parents would have wanted it. I don’t want to go back. Remy says we’re to fight the French, because I’m his captain now…is it true?”

And this would work in his favour soon enough. Harry might request liberty (he wasn’t quite sure how the military gave a day off, but neither was he ignorant of things; Primary and Hermione, respectively, made sure his knowledge was not all magic) and go to “make peace” with his fantasy relations, which would perhaps satisfy the officials, when in actuality he could use this excuse to check for magical landmarks. He would have to see if the wizarding world existed, for there was no way he would rest without knowing. And probably, (after concluding that there were no people in the forest and he was not anywhere near Hogwarts) that would have been next thing he had done, but then Remy had come and, well….

Harry would not go home without his dragon, if it were even possible to go home at all. He had a strange feeling that he would not find the Leaky Cauldron here, nor the Alley, the Ministry, or any magic places at all. There was something in the current here…the air didn’t quite buzz like it did at home. Harry suspected that missing thrum was magic.

“Alright,” James was saying. “I won’t say anything about going back. England needs fighters enough that I won’t complain. Admiralty might, if they know your family and they’re in arms about a missing boy.”

Harry shook his head. “My Aunt and Uncle have an heir. I was only a burden on them. I doubt anyone knows them much at all. Or would admit to it.”

James was still suspicious, Harry could see it clearly, and so could a very keen Remy, of course. “Harry’s been through an awful time of it, Captain James,” Remy said, cutting off Volly’s nonsensical rambling. “He’s not a spy, if that’s what you’re thinking. Who would want to fight for the French? Their Commander was very rude. Did I tell you what he said to me, Volly?” and was off again, seemingly unworried that adorable little Volly could hardly keep up.

James laughed. “Well, he’s told me!” He slapped Harry on the back and handed his leftovers to Volly. Harry did the same with his own pie. “We will have to sort it out, in any case. Shall we go?”

Happy his story was settled (and unhappy he was just as good a liar as Aunt Petunia always said) Harry went atop Remy and tied his makeshift strap tighter. It was no harness, but he was safe enough, he supposed. Remy was just big enough (after another two days of trudging and eating stolen cows) to hold him. He wasn’t stupid enough to think the matter closed, however. There was the Admiralty, as James had called them, to convince…and if he were found out a charlatan, he had a hope that England was as desperate for fighters as they seemed. Perhaps upon his confession of dimension travel, they would still let a madman fight in their war? He could only hope.

:::::

It turned out that the sole authority Harry had to answer to was Celeritas, a keen old dragon and respected veteran of the Corps. Harry wasn’t at all surprised at a dragon training-master, given Remy’s quick command over his well-being and their future plans. He was a bossy creature, and Harry surrendered to him easily.

Celeritas listened to their tale, mostly told by an overly excitable Remy, who, being wonderfully wily, went along with Harry’s lie without a hitch. Their hushed conversation about the subject, before Celeritas had asked for them, went a bit like this:

“But why can’t you tell them the truth?”

Harry stroked Remy’s green speckled nose and said, “They’ll lock me up in a loony bin if I do. Normal people don’t just travel to other dimensions, you know.”

“I shan’t let anyone lock you up,” Remy growled. That sudden, protective violence Harry was getting used to sparked in his bright blue eyes. “I’ll bite them first. But I suppose you are right. You are a little strange.”

This teasing remark actually made Harry laugh, which shocked him for a moment. When was the last time he had laughed?

“Well, I suppose you’ve got your hands full with him, Captain Potter,” Celeritas was muttering, his eyes on Remy, who had gone over to another dragon in the crowded clearing. Harry heard Napoleon’s name and stifled a laugh. He reminded himself never to insult Remy in any way (as if it were possible, he thought affectionately) for his dragon knew very well how to hold a grudge.

“Am I a captain so soon?” Harry asked. “Don’t I have to–” he wanted to say earn it, but stopped himself. “–move up from a lower position?”

Celeritas stared at him, and Harry was surprised to see an odd sort of smile in his eyes. “The others will likely think so. You’ll have to deal with a fair amount of jealousy, sure. But Remy’s tale will put it out quick enough. His awareness of you is strange, pardon me for saying, Potter.”

Harry had assumed it was, even for military hired dragons. However, after a short time he could respond with nothing else but, “I am glad he found me.”

Celeritas snorted. “He seems glad enough for the both of you.”

“–and that is my capitaine over there. He’s the best capitaine in the whole world, and we’ll win lots of battles and take many prizes because those other capitaines and Napoleon are rather stupid and we are very, very smart.”

“Skinny, isn’t he,” the other dragon said, chewing on the leg of something that was not much flesh but all bone. “You’ll have to fatten him up if you want to fight. And you’ll have to learn the formations.”

“We know them!”

The other dragon frowned. “But how can you? How long since you’ve hatched, anyway?”

Remy hesitated. “Four days bygone,” and at the dragon’s scoff he said, “But I was born quite clever. I’m sure I’m smarter than you.”

Harry, who had been moving toward them, began to move quicker. “That’s not very nice, Remy,” he chastised, rushing up. “I’m sorry for him.”

The other dragon was amused rather than offended, however. Remy nudged him as if to reproach Harry instead as the dragon said, “He is very young. No harm in him, I think. I am Excidium, you’ll be in my formation soon enough.”

“Harry,” he introduced himself. “Good to meet you.”

“He is my capitaine, Excidium, no matter how big you are,” Remy announced possessively.

Embarrassed, Harry stroked the side of Remy’s neck and muttered, “I’m sure Excidium has his own captain, dear one.”

“So long as he knows.”

::::

Loch Laggan covert was big and busy. The courtyard where most of the dragons slept was large, perhaps unnecessarily given how the dragons piled on top each other. The quarters for the captains were homey and spacious, especially for a boy who went from cupboard to dorm-room to tent. Harry was glad of the hospitality, mostly for the baths he immediately indulged in and the hand-me-down, if not comfortable uniform. He was certainly able to blend in better after he was cleaned and redressed.

It seemed only an hour was good enough for the news to spread. The man who had shown him around, a Lieutenant Faversham, was cordial but stiff. Harry could not tell if it was simply his character or if he was one of those jealous men that Celeritas had warned about. In any case, his priority after bathing was to eat, and he figured the mess hall could not be avoided for long. When he entered, there was a small suspension of chatter, something he was tired of but used to in his short life.

Faversham abandoned his duty then, and Harry didn’t much mind for all the conversation he was good for. Not much of a talker himself, Harry sat at a lonely table and floundered a bit until the cook came out and gave him a hearty meal of milky soup and a warm heel of bread. His disregard was an offense to the other officers, all except for a young man who sat at Harry’s table without introduction.

“So the Papillon Noir is yours? Is it true he left France to find you?”

Harry wiped his mouth, feeling suddenly mischievous. “Remy is a brat, and he just showed up and wouldn’t leave. Have you seen him yet? He’s the prettiest one.”

This casual affection in his voice seemed to endear him to the young officer. “Lieutenant Granby, your servant,” he introduced, and Harry shook his hand. “There’s a fair few officers who have approached Remy already, so don’t blame him for telling them tales.”

Harry put down his spoon. “Approached him?” he asked.

“Well–” Granby flushed.

“I see,” he realised. “They thought Remy might take a different captain.”

Granby was sorry to have said anything, judging by his expression. “You’ve got to understand…aviators wait for a long time until they get their own. Some never do, really. Mates of mine have cut straps having never been a captain. Civilians not in the Corps don’t normally go near a hatchling at all. Or any dragon, to be sure. You may find it new and exciting–”

“But it’s insulting to a trained Lieutenant, yeah.” Harry sighed. “I would want the best for Remy. If that meant a captain who knows more, and could do better, then I would try to convince him. But he’s–”

“He’s greedy and out for blood, is what the others are saying,” Granby laughed. “I can’t argue with someone with so much conviction. And he’s quick to gloat about his ‘capitaine’, so I came to meet you.”

“I am sorry for taking the chance from another British officer, but not the French,” Harry gambled. He presumed the rivalry between countries, and his own participation in it (however new) would assure Granby of his character.

It worked. “Well, what’s to do about it, I say,” the man shrugged. “And it’s the funniest thing we’ve ever heard, a turncoat hatchling.”

“And why aren’t you upset with me?” Harry asked curiously. Granby was outright friendly, so far as he could tell.

Granby grinned. “I haven’t been waiting as long as the others,” he said, gesturing behind him to an older crowd of officers who were muttering darkly. “Just made third Lieutenant. I’m still a scrub, really.”

“Oh.”

“They will be sulking until you prove you’re up to it, make no mistake. It will be hard to convince them that you’re little but a ham-handed civilian.”

He understood, and was grateful for the warning. He was an outsider to Granby and the others, however apologetic the young man seemed about it. Yet Harry couldn’t help but smile, for this world of theirs, of fantastic beasts and abnormal being normal, didn’t hold a candle to the magic he’d seen and performed. Despite their knowledge and training, this dragon fighting wasn’t anything compared to where Harry was from and what Harry could do.

Perhaps Remy’s bragging wasn’t so much of an exaggeration after all.

He could not help but laugh and say, “I’m afraid I’m not a normal civilian.” And at Granby’s questioning expression he merely confessed, “I have the feeling I might adapt quicker than you think.”

:::::

Formation training under Celeritas, who was a taskmaster but an exceedingly capable one, was hard work for Harry and Remy. Despite Remy’s boasts of innate knowledge of formations, the little dragon was often complaining of how difficult the flying was. Until, of course, it was mastered, and then the grousing was of how boring flying about in the same circles and turns were day after day. Harry himself was weary of flag signals and maths, breeds and proper Aerial Corps modus operandi.

He was told that Remy was a Papillon Noir, a breed which he had recently learned about. The name was French for black butterfly, and fitting, given Remy’s dark hide streaked with blue and green. Remy was a middleweight, among the categories ranging from light to heavy, at either end being the Winchesters and Regal Coppers. The Longwing who Remy had harassed on their first day here, was a breed that would only take women as captains, which did not alarm Harry in the least, despite Granby’s expectant looks.

James and Volly made two returns while Harry trained. Volly, a Winchester, was a bit slow but no less efficient at his job. Remy was quite taken with him, to be sure. Excidium’s captain, Jane Roland, had introduced herself a day after his arrival. She was a lovely, slightly plump woman of twenty and some, often holding the hand of a very young child named Emily; her daughter. Auctoritus, a Bright Copper whose Captain was named Danvers, was quick to laugh and not often at Loch Laggan, but when grounded took to Remy for their similar characters. Danvers was middle-aged but unprejudiced toward young captains, and showed no disdain for Harry’s previous status as a civilian.

Crescendium, or as Jane called him “Cressy”, was a lively thing that had hatched a year prior. His formation training had just ended, and he felt smug enough to tease Remy about how he had quite a long way to go before he was up to snuff. The rivalry between the two middleweights was friendly and amusing, to most of the captains at least. Cressy’s captain Gregson was a man without laughter, though he was cordial enough.

Once training was done, Harry would join Excidium’s formation, as Celeritas had confided. Yet training was brutal, and often Harry could not even dream at night for how tired he was each day. This was fortunate, given his inability to sleep soundly since he was fourteen. Most often he slept next to Remy in the clearing, surrounded by dragons and all the better for it. He was oddly prone to seek them out for advice, rather than the captains in his upcoming formation, though none of them begrudged him it and were all suitably friendly. Jane and Danvers, especially, as well as Granby.

They had made fast friends, against all odds. Granby was a few years his senior. Harry also outranked him, and was a living reminder of Granby’s lack of dragon. Yet he was quick to find humour rather than exasperation in Harry’s many moods, and often times easily drew Harry into the sort of friendly chatter he had only ever known with Ron.

Another unexpected friendship came with his meeting a very young girl by the name of Catherine, who spent most days schooling for her eventual promotion to captain. This nepotism was very much the way of life in the Corps, but Harry was glad of Catherine’s shy but empathetic way of forgiving him for cheating others out of a dragon.

In the meantime, Remy grew. And grew. And grew. As a middleweight, he wasn’t as big as the other dragons, like Laetificat; a Regal Copper who Granby was currently assigned to. Despite Remy’s small size in comparison, nothing could quite beat the dragon’s prodigious ego. Remy was well known, very quickly, for being argumentative and arrogant, despite his age. This amused the older dragons and captains greatly, most unfortunately.

Harry tried his best to temper Remy, but the dragon was sure Harry was simply grossly modest. He didn’t balk at orders, thankfully, and often looked at Celeritas and the other captains with respect and youthful awe. It was only the other untried dragons at his mercy, really.

This attitude was also fortuitous at sieving out the best officers to assign to Remy’s crew, when the time came. Some rather stuffy men were wary of being included, and did their best to profess in the dining hall their intentions to join so and so’s crew soon enough, waylaying Harry’s regard for them. Though being put on Remy’s crew would be a promotion, certainly, Remy wasn’t at all as serious as the others. He was a riot, according to talk, endlessly jesting with dragons and captains alike, and with so forward a personality some were disapproving of his cavalier personality. It was a small consolation that Harry was withdrawn and disturbingly serious for his age, when Remy was so very precocious.

Eventually a crew was put together, those included being in good temper and affectionate with Remy. The protectiveness his dragon was known for was not only for his captain, but also for his crew. Remy treated them all like dear friends, and so Harry did as well, and he was probably terribly informal with them but didn’t much care.

Among them was Lieutenant Faversham, who Harry learned was always quiet but for the times when discipline was needed. He was a vastly capable first Lieutenant, to make up for Harry’s rather tolerant nature, and Harry was happy to have him.

Then came a welcome surprise. Laetificat lost a third Lieutenant in Granby, who came to Harry one morning and said, “Well that’s torn it, I’d be happy to be on your crew, if you’ll have me.”

Harry would have him, and he said as much when he was done gaping. “But Bee,” he said, using Remy’s nickname for him. “You were happy on Laet’s crew!”

“Celeritas is worried your training will have to be cut short,” he explained. “And he wants two proficient officers on board. Faversham is good, but you’re scared of him–”

“I am not!” said Harry indignantly, though he knew Granby was teasing.

“–and I know you’re considering Scarborough for second, but he’s a bit…silly, I say with your pardon. Celeritas wants you in good hands.”

Harry grinned. “And you’re good hands, are you Lieutenant?”

Granby puffed himself up. “I should say so, sir.”

“Well, then.” Harry bowed to him with good humour. “I dub thee my second. Silly-Willy Scarborough can be third. Bless him.”

So on all accounts, everyone was satisfied. Though Laet was annoyed at the loss of one of his crew, and it didn’t help when Remy informed him, with an air of smugness, that if Granby wanted a different dragon, he was welcome to choose the best. They had a mild spat about it, though it was rather half-hearted since they both knew it was Celeritas who had made the change and nothing else. As for the nearly full crew, they were quite happy to initiate Granby into the fold, though their rowdy celebration was cut short by a strict but sympathetic Faversham.

As the months passed, Harry learned more and more, and Remy complained more and more but was learning too. The days were short and the work hard, but time went on peaceably until the month of July came to an end. With it, Harry’s eighteenth birthday passed uncelebrated, as Harry was wont to do since things had gone to hell in his own world. On that very day, he was lucky enough to receive liberty for his crew, and requested one for himself upon learning that Volly and James were among the officers with an upcoming furlough. Harry tentatively asked if James were going round about London, and with a nod of understanding the captain agreed. Harry put in for the day with Celeritas, who was surprised to be asked given Harry’s clear record of attendance from the moment he’d come to Loch Laggan. He allowed the trip, however, and Harry had a little battle with Remy to be able to go, before the dragon finally conceded to Volly’s taking him.

It was time to inspect England for magic, and with it, decide his future definitively.

:::::

James left him to his business two blocks from Whitehall, just a bit south of what he supposed would be a modern Charing Cross. The buildings were new to be so old, in his strange eye. They lacked the age of his London, but the architecture was antique in the same turn. Harry walked in what he thought was the right direction, for the streets were unnamed, largely, and there was no Victoria or Trafalgar to guide him. Much less an Underground or even a bus to take him there.

The streets were coarse with stone and loud when struck by hoof beats. Carriages were the only form of travel here, besides walking, and most of the pedestrians stared back at him; gawking. So far, Harry had not seen much historical garb besides the white trousers, stockings and buckled shoes of the Corps. Now, here, there were long skirts and high collars, bowler hats in the fashion of Fudge and was that…was that a powdered wig? Harry himself was a source of entertainment as well, it seemed. His bottle green coat with gold bars that betrayed him as a captain were quite shocking. James himself had garnered a few scandalized looks before he had left with Volly.

He did his best to ignore them and finally came upon a sort of familiar street. Charing Cross was mostly shop fronts at this time, and largely unmarked. A trained eye went from each shop to where The Leaky Cauldron should have sat, and there he found nothing. This was less of a surprise than he thought it would be.

Another walk back toward Whitehall and one more length to what should be Downing provided all the necessary answers he had asked for. Obviously there would be no phone booth, stark red and modern in these times, but neither was there an indication of some wizardly-type entrance. There was no loo where he, Ron and Hermione had entered the Ministry in disguise, no wonky signs queer in their clues to an underground government; no nothing… no Ministry of Magic.

He sat upon a stoop leading to the side of some consulate, and sighed. If ever he had speculated where his magic came from, he was now sure. The lack of it, in the air and in physical proof, betrayed that magic itself was exclusive to him alone. He was sure the dragons had to be a form of magic, but perhaps they were a consolation to a world without wizards and witches? There was no doubt he could use his own wand, so this lack of practitioners meant he was the only human with that capability.

But then he thought. What if the government had yet to be established? There might be wizards and witches in hiding, completely separated from the Muggle world. After all, this dimension was strange enough, what was to say they did exist, but absolutely and completely in hiding? He was sure he had walked half of Scotland in those first few days here, and there had been no Hogwarts. But the school might never have come to pass, if something had made the Wizarding world withdraw permanently. Perhaps the witch hunt had been worse than usual? But then the lack of magic in the very earth told otherwise.

And Wizards would never let dragons be known to Muggles, that much was certain. So, maybe not a very secret, very silent magical community, then. There was likely, however, to be many sole practitioners. They would probably be more frauds than anything, but perhaps the world was scattered, unorganized and based on this assumption– somewhat less than what it was in his world. But Harry didn’t have the time to go about England seeking every person even slightly interested in wizardry, nor the patience to deal with Trelawney-like men and women convinced of their own trickery.

Annoyed, and more sad than he would have suspected, he continued to think upon it until it was close to his rendezvous time with James. And he had made two decisions since:

One, and it was an obvious one, was that Harry would not give up looking for the slightest proof of other magics while in this world. Not for any real hope of getting back (what had he left? Mourning and Ginny and Teddy, perhaps. His best friends. Yet all could take care of themselves bar his godson, who Harry often thought of, worrying if he was safe and happy) but for an end to the mystery of his being here. His second decision was an obvious one, and would drive him forward on a new path.

Harry would train as hard as he could so that Remy would not be in danger of any of his amateurish mistakes. And he would fight, because he was lucky enough to be sent to a dimension where a good purpose had basically dropped into his lap. He would take care of Remy, as best as he could, and though never having been too patriotic, he would fight for England against Napoleon and make sure they won. He laughed. It seemed so very silly to be here, in this world and this time, but now his options were narrowed down and his decisions decided. There was no use in sulking about, and so he wouldn’t.

Perhaps later he would think about what was left behind.

It was a good thing, then, that he was early, because James and Volly were as well, and looking harried upon their arrival.

“Oh good,” James said in regard to him being there. “We have to go. The Navy’s caught up with the French; They’re mucking about in Egypt and mean to take the river. Excidium’s formation has been called.”

Harry gaped. “But we haven’t finished training yet!”

James gave him a short, desperate grin. “You’ll have to do. We’ll get that bloodthirsty beast of yours and you’ll be off. I wouldn’t worry. Celeritas cleared it with the Admiralty, so he must think you’re up to it. Just be cautious with Remy, he’s still very young.”

Harry was worried, and very excited, though he wouldn’t show it and look like a proper scrub in front of the other aviators. This would be his first aerial battle, and hopefully not his only one. His decision to stay and fight was now being put to the test– It was time to see if his heart still had that certain mettle that had earned him a place in Gryffindor.

:::::

Excidium’s formation came upon the battle at Akoubir Bay just as the fighting started properly. Remy, positioned at Auctoritus’ flank, moved easily with the group despite Harry’s own worries of him possibly wandering. The sound of cannon fire was loud, smoke hovering in the air and debris splashing into the water. The line of French ships had halted in a long, curved line, and around the fleet came the British Navy from the north.

Their formation moved toward the dragons hovering in the no man’s land. Harry bade Faversham to signal 'make ready’ in response to the beginnings of Excidium’s offensive maneuver. His heart pounded, and though the motions of this battle were different, the fluid, water-like fog of action was a very familiar feeling. Remy beat his wings at a quicker pace in his excitement.

He could hear the clamouring and the shouts of the men beneath Remy’s belly, even over the howling wind of their speed. 'Engage the enemy closer’, the ensign signaled, and they made the pass at a Chanson-de-Guerre as a round of musket fire burst outward. The Chanson screeched and lilted away from the onslaught, making to scratch at Remy’s wing, which missed the dragons head by a hair’s breadth.

The gap in their formation filled in as the aviators reshaped. They were allowed one more pass until a shadow fell upon them, and a Grand Chevalier dropped into the formation heavily and broke it.

Harry cursed as Remy dipped and looped around instinctively, Auctoritus following suit and the others of their formation fleeing in various states of distress. Only Excidium remained unmoved in his flight, alone in their broken team. He engaged the Grand Chevalier instead, and the sharp stench of acid permeated as he spat and hit the dragon’s flank. It ate away at the straps, sinking into the tough hide as the beast screamed in pain.

They had drifted off course, and the fighting and the engaged dragons of their formation were far from them. A rush of wind hit the side of Harry’s face as beside them came another Papillon Noir, coloured similarly as Remy but with striped patterns. To Harry’s shock, the dragon spoke to Remy in French, but they did not fire.

And Harry realized that they thought Remy was with the Armee de l'Air. Not an entirely foolish assumption, but foolish all the same. The Papillon Noir repeated her call to Remy, who was silent in shock along with the rest of the crew. Still they did not fire, but Harry did.

The volley of bullets took out most of the crew, stinging the side of the Papillon Noir’s wing and tearing through it brutally. Her wail of agony was nothing compared to Harry’s triumph at seeing his men shoot straight and true, motivated by their lucky ruse. The Papillon was hurt badly, and unable to fly. She dropped down onto the nearest French frigate instead of fleeing, and Harry’s men cheered but soon fell silent at Faversham’s shout. Harry gave the signal to change position, and they flew around and north, where a new set of dragons were fighting.

They circled without engaging, and soon another dragon, a Pecheur-Couronne (so brilliantly blue that Harry stared), came about to fly with them. They fired again, and again, and the attack was less successful but drove the dragon to retreat after a flash of Remy’s talons to its chest. They were able to use this strategy once more, though the last engagement was unbalanced between them and the Grand Chevalier. Injured but still fighting, the Chevalier turned about to crush Remy with its weight, but the spit of musket fire interrupted the likely fatal assault. Laetificat’s formation had come.

They tore away from the crossfire quickly, and behind them there were signals from the French captains, warning the others that Remy was not theirs. He was disappointed the French had caught on so quickly, but forgot about it when he caught sight of a British ship in peril. Their staysail was tangled with an enemy frigate called the Tonnant. The frigate was coming under heavy fire, and would not hold out unless Harry did something. He thought quickly.

“Mr. Faversham, inventory of grenades?” he shouted.

“Nine, sir.”

Harry frowned. “Remy, we need to help. Fly low and fast–”

“Shall I use my claws?” Remy asked with enthusiasm. Harry smiled grimly.

“Yes,” he said. “Mr. Faversham, aim the grenades for the hull. Remy will clear the way.”

Faversham did not argue, though he likely would have were there time. Remy would be flying directly into the path of the cannonade, and it was admittedly a very risky maneuver. Yet Harry would not let Remy or his crew be massacred (the discovery of his magic be damned) and the men on British ship slaughtered and the ship sunk; sending two hundred men or more into the deep. They swooped so low and so fast, a mist of foam gathered in their wake, and then Remy’s claws were sinking into the side of the Tonnant and ripping away the hull with a horrible screech. The grenades were tossed in quickly, and just as they flew clear and circled around the British ship (without cannon fire, thank god, for the French sailors could hardly believe their daring and stood in shock) the crackle of explosions shook the ship, and it arched upward upon the water.

There was a great shudder and a sound like the creak of old bones, and the ship dropped and started to sink. Their frigate was untangled in the movement, jib boom free but damaged, and finally able to return fire, the Tonnant took rather unnecessary cannon fire as it sunk.

“Brilliant, Remy! Brilliant,” Harry said over the cheering, patting the dragon’s neck.

And then they were meeting another Pecheur-Couronne head on. Remy yelled as claws seared his forearm, and Harry jolted at the sound. The Pecheur-Couronne aligned with them then, and Faversham shouted, “'Ware boarders!”

Harry looked back at the struggle, but did not move back from the dragon on Harry’s hurried order. Instead, Harry patted Remy and said, “Shake them off, Remy, and then fly straight. I’m going to do something stupid.”

Remy understood. “Be careful. I don’t want you hurt, but I do so like prizes! Tell Granby to keep count.”

“'Ware boarders!” came again from Faversham, who showed upon his usually emotionless face that he could not quite believe Harry’s refusal to come away. There were eight French boarders atop Remy, and Harry bade him a rough turn.

Remy had the audacity to laugh as he turned sideways and completely upside down. Harry felt weightless for a moment, and the rush made him laugh as well. The straps had, of course, held their crew in the loop, if not dizzied them, and where there were eight men now there were only two. Harry kept Remy steady and unbuckled himself. He stood.

“Sir!” Faversham yelled, but his strangled shout did not stop Harry from bending his knees and flinging himself off of Remy’s neck.

He hit the side of the Pecheur-Couronne with a gasp, before hauling himself up swiftly and fluidly enough that even he was surprised at how well it was done. He shot the lieutenant in front of him and put his pistol to the completely astounded captain’s head.

“I think you’d better land,” Harry said, as Remy crowed in victory.

They came about on a British ship, depositing the captain into irons, and left with the wind bursting through Harry’s hair. Strapped in once more, Faversham, showing a lack of composure he had never seen, said, “Madness! Sir, what–?”

“I was in a position to capture, lieutenant,” Harry smiled.

“We do not board when boarded!” Faversham gasped. “And we most certainly don’t risk a captain!”

“I don’t see why not,” Harry remarked. “Everything was under control.”

“That’s one, sir!” Granby bellowed. The men were laughing (laughing!) behind him. Faversham face was red. It seemed that the lieutenant had only just now realised that Remy’s captain and crew were barking mad.

The battle quickly turned in their favour. The British fleet had a wiser Admiral than the French. Remy engaged twice more and took one more; a Chanson-de-Guerre to the men’s loud cheers and Remy’s pride. Harry’s daring and unprecedented boarding came in handy once again (causing Faversham apoplexy, but no matter).

And then the French l'Orient, which had been in the thick of it– exploded. It burst apart with a tremendous boom and a flash of light. In the wake of the explosion, and amidst the cheers of the British sailors, the closest ship to the l'Orient struck its colours. Another one soon followed.

Two frigates escaped the melee of the French defeat. Harry and Remy flew back into Excidium’s formation, finally, but one of the Chequered Nettles of their team, Basilius, was badly clawed and moved slowly. They acclimated to that weary pace and surrounded the wounded from further attack, but the retreat had sounded, and most of the dragons had fled into the horizon. The French Navy had lost.

Remy turned to his captain and said, “I knew I chose right with you, mon capitaine. That was–”

::::::

“–possibly the most dim-witted, harebrained, ridiculous thing I’ve ever had the displeasure of witnessing!” Jane Roland was yelling.

Newly promoted Admiral Lenton, stationed at Dover where they had stopped on the way back from Akoubir, seemed to have permanently misplaced his eyebrows at the top of his hairline. Jane continued her ranting, yelling at Harry and Faversham respectively, while they stood stiff and browbeaten in the Admiral’s office.

“–and the danger presented to your dragon, who is the first priority for a captain, is absolutely unacceptable! Damn near negligent, sir!”

“I would never risk Remy!” Harry burst out, unable to help himself. “Never! I’d bloody well die first!”

“And what good would that do, but to have Remy suffer your death enough to want to die himself?”

Harry backed down. They didn’t understand. Harry would never risk Remy, that much was true, and he had his own arsenal to prove it. The Elder Wand in his pocket shuddered at Harry having thought of it. They didn’t understand and he could not make them, and by all accounts Harry deserved this dressing down. But he would not have them think he was dangerous to Remy.

“My reckless actions I take full responsibility for,” Harry said, speaking out of turn and outraging them further. “But I would never want Remy hurt. You can count on it. I’d die first. I’d shoot myself. I risked my own body more, today, and for that I apologize, but only myself was in any danger. And you insult Remy by accusing him, in his own enthusiasm, of stupidity. He is ridiculously clever, and understands risks for the benefit of the whole. He will not change his character, and though I may find it hard, I will try to change mine. And I beg you not to blame Lieutenant Faversham for my recklessness. He tried to stop me.”

Jane and said nothing for a time, seething silently. Admiral Lenton, who had not spoken since Jane had started to tear into him, said, “Well. Well,” and turned to Faversham, “Lieutenant, do you wish to be reassigned?”

Harry started. He knew Faversham hadn’t agreed with the maneuver, but hadn’t realized the man might want to be away from the rash captain and his dragon. Faversham was red, and had been since the Nile.

“Sir,” he began, “I-his…” he cleared his throat. “Captain Potter’s strategy goes against everything in my gut.”

Harry looked down at his feet.

“But I cannot deny it was a masterful tactic that was both foolish and amazing to behold. I would be a right scrub to not want a part of that, even if only to council the captain against his– penchant for bravura in future,” Faversham concluded.

“Oh, I’ll listen, Mr. Faversham, I will,” Harry promised. He liked Faversham’s solid dauntlessness, and perhaps should have listened about the boarders, if this lecture were the consequence. But it would be hard to change Harry’s knee-jerk recklessness. Faversham would have a job on his hands, yet Harry could not imagine a better officer for it; he was the sensible one in their company, the unshakable man at his back. Battle always made Harry respectful of his fellow fighters. Always.

“I hope you will, lad,” and there was a strong note of chastisement in Faversham’s tone, but he looked at his captain with a certain fondness Harry likened to Moody’s dry disapproval, when Harry put his wand in his back pocket.

“Well,” Lenton nodded. “That’s settled. Lieutenant Faversham, or Councilor Faversham, as it were, will stay on your crew. Though I have no doubt you mean the best for your dragon, Captain Potter, I don’t want to hear of anymore dangerous maneuvers.”

Harry bowed slightly in accord.

“But a frigate down and three captures,” Lenton continued, sighing. “You’ll keep on with that ingenuity, I think, but without the carelessness, eh?”

He was startled at the compliment for a moment, and then bowed again, belatedly. Faversham heard the dismissal and turned to leave, Harry following at a slower pace. To his surprise, Jane caught up with him as he walked toward the courtyard and to Remy.

“Poppycock,” she said. “But according to everyone else you were famous.”

Harry halted and bit his lip. “Jane,” he started, “I hope you’re not too angry–”

“I’m furious,” she told him, but her eyes smiled. “I’ve never seen that sort of gall, that sort of absolute stupidity before. Not in the Corps, who have intelligent and cautious men and women in service.”

“I’m sorry–”

“I’ve also never seen a braver man, nor a more ingenious one. Much less in our youngest captain. I’d have you clapped in irons for it, if you were not worth ten aviators alone.”

And with this parting statement, she left, leaving Harry baffled and flushed with both shame and pleasure. He gathered himself and looked about, glad that he was alone in the corridor. If her words got back to Remy, his head would grow so big he’d probably float away.

::::::

Remy’s jewels glittered in the sun. The large lavalliere around his neck was set with a giant ruby, surrounded by tiny crystals. It blazed silver and red in direct light, blinding everyone as it shined. Of course it clashed terribly with the smattering of blue and green on black that was Remy’s hide. Harry hadn’t thought about that when he’d bought it, and he wouldn’t dare tell Remy that it clashed and was maybe a bit…garish.

All he had noticed was how it sparkled, and he was enamored enough with his dragon that in order to properly spoil him rotten, certain sacrifices must be made. Like taste. And expense. This lavalliere was certainly not the only one Remy owned. And of all of them, the ruby pendant was perhaps the least tacky.

“–and Cressy was very jealous this morning, because I showed him my chest, you know, with all my jewels–”

The chest full of garnets and sparkling things were what Harry had spent all his hard-earned money on; enchanted by some terrible curse as he bought countless trinkets for the silly creature.

“–and I said to him, 'it’s no fault of mine that Gregson hasn’t got you a chest of sparkles, you have more than Excidium in any case’–”

Harry sighed and tilted his head to look at Faversham, who as actually listening raptly, the sod.

“–and he told me that Jane doesn’t have to get Excidium anything because he’s more sensible and doesn’t want to show away like I do, but I don’t show away when I’m just so very much more impressive–”

“You tell them, Remy, mate!” their midwingman, Mr. Tracey, yelled from Remy’s underbelly.

“–thank you, Tracey. And so I said…oh! There they are. Laetificat is hurt. Shall we battle, Harry?”

Harry came to attention. The British ship was surrounded by two French frigates and three dragons, their reinforcement of five welcome to Laetificat’s lone struggle. “Yes, love, I think we should.”

“I’ll finish my story later,” Remy said, quickening his pace. “Because I simply have to tell you what Dulcia said then!”

Harry sighed.

:::::

They were in Dover when word reached them about a dragon egg captured on the sea. Harry’s furlough, the first one in three years, was scheduled for after his immediate return to Loch Laggan; their temporary station for the last few months while relieved from patrol on the channel. Harry and Remy were quite happily looking forward to the time off, if only so Harry could get some much needed sleep after three days of frustrating skirmishes.

Unfortunately, Harry had to drop his crew off in Scotland before going back south. With their latest capture of another French frigate, just two days prior, Harry had managed to save up enough that he could be off to London again almost immediately, with a little left over for a new trinket for Remy. Sometimes Harry thought he’d eaten some if Romilda Vane’s cauldron cakes, since he could not really help himself and continued to buy Remy sparkling things. He’d need another treasure chest soon, and that was just sick.

Their reputation for balking at the rules and their ingenuity in battle was famous now, and a source fond frustration for the seniority. Lenton and Celeritas had given up on the both of them, and oftentimes their lectures trailed off with resigned sighs and tired mumbling. Harry was always apologetic, but also not really.

He and Remy were known for their captures, and Remy had a reputation for showing away amongst the other dragons. Harry, however, was something of a joke among aviators.

Granby had a million anecdotes by now, and they were often retold over cards. Playing Old Harry was something of a common idiom at Dover and Loch Laggan. Which by definition meant that someone was doing something very risky, and very stupid. Sometimes it just meant being particular wily, too. Jane simply said it meant he had “a lot of guff” and seesawed between shouting at him about maneuvers and worrying over him after each successful bout. 'Playing Old Harry’, she said, was 'the equivalent of dying young’.

Harry liked Jane. She tried her very best to talk sense into him, and to take care of him, when he let her. Emily too, was very like her mother. Harry would test her on her sums (which she was dreadful at, poor thing) when he saw her, and give her sweets and bobbles after he’d been shopping in London. He had a weakness for children and Remy, of this there was no doubt. Her mother was away often enough, like Harry, who was sad for her, though she was not very melancholic at the lack of a constant parent. She was something of Excidium and Remy’s pet, anyway, and between them received loads of affection.

Through the years, he and Granby remained close. The period of peace in eighteen hundred and one was tentative but welcome, and allowed time for Harry and Remy to finish their training properly with Granby’s help. They had dined together every night to learn and sometimes modify maneuvers, and from then on were seldom away from each other’s company.

Harry disregarded Jane’s warning that 'familiarity bred contempt’ and knew that though he should not, in truth, be best mates with his underling, he didn’t put much stock in strict leadership most days. Faversham took care of that anyway, the old tyrant.

Harry and Granby were good fun and beloved by their crew, yet Harry’s confidence and ability meant his men were quick to obey when Harry gave an order. He was a good captain, and a good comrade, scandalous informality aside.

Remy was another thing entirely. Still young, but old enough to have ceased his silliness by now, Remy defied expectation, ignored all the words of wisdom from the older dragons, and remained charmingly unchanged. The crew adored him, and though Excidium often spoke sharp about Remy’s showing away, the other dragons were usually affectionately exasperated and not truly cross.

Remy toed the line, often. He was an incurable gossip and an irredeemable rogue. He was also a vicious and valuable fighter and as bold as brass; capable of anything he set his mind to. Like convincing Harry to buy things for him.

“He was wearing gold! Gold! With his yellow colouring?” Remy said to Harry, in regards to Cressy’s new trinket. “Gold looks awful. I don’t know what he means by it. I despise gold. Do you think I’d look good in gold?”

Harry surmised what he would be buying that day in London, against the screaming denial of his funds.

“Cows, Remy, cows,” Harry drew his attention, hauling the animals closer. The farmer he had bought them from had already fled into his house and bolted the door. “I’ll be back soon, dearest, don’t get into trouble.”

Remy nuzzled him before saying loftily, “I recall and shall recite some common phrase you have used oft: pot and kettle.”

Harry laughed and made his way toward the city, a mile or so walk that he didn’t at all mind. He went to a jewelry shop there, when in London, for Remy’s trinkets. Often times he went another way, just to look into other shops. It wasn’t often he got leave, and he liked to spend it well. He went a new route today, and came upon a curiosity.

In the back of his mind, he often kept an eye out for places like this in his unending and unhurried search for magic. It was not a settlement, but a caravan, outside in the street just west of the farm Remy was stopped in. The gaudy colours of the caravan and the tinkling bells on the back of its carriage were not what drew his gaze, though they were splendid. He was not gaping at the horses, who were large and mottled as they whinnied and tossed their hairy heads at the ladies gawking in the streets; their manes tied in braids with beads and bells and ribbons. The caravan was very impressive, but the sign on the back of it was what really caught his attention:

“MADAME BIDDY - PSYCHIC” Apenny a Reading

He moved toward the door and knocked without hesitating. It slid open, and with two thumps he walked up the steps and journeyed in, ignoring the whispering bystanders outside. The woman before him was obscured by smoke and tapestries. They were as colorful as the outside of the caravan, and jangled as he moved them aside.

Who he assumed was Madame Biddy sat at a rounded table with her hand splayed across a deck of cards. A smoking pipe, smelling strongly of earth and cannabis, titled in her long-fingered grasp. She was a sunken-eyed, dark woman, older than Jane but not by much. The dress she wore was not one a society lady would approve of, for her bust was bulging obscenely enough to make Harry blush. Her long, coiled hair was done up much like the horses, braided with bobbles that tinkled as she gestured to the chair in front of her.

“A reading for you?” she said, her accent thick and landless. “A penny,” she held out her hand.

Harry gave her the toll. With a flourish, she put down her pipe and grabbed up the cards, her many rings clinking together as she shuffled them. “I tell you your future, but none of it is certain.”

His mouth twitched.

“It changes like the sea, and man cannot tame the sea,” she told him as she held the deck out to him. He touched it without her asking, and her gaze narrowed. The cards went down onto the table. With a muttered word, the first one flipped over. “A happy jester,” she read, whispering loudly. “Unlimited possibilities, my dear.”

Her rings clicked together again. “The lovers. An affair,” she intoned. “And a tower for disruption. Unlucky,” she huffed.

Another card flipped over. “A world like no other. The world for you,” Madame Biddy muttered, pinching her lips and gazing at him. “Eternal life.”

She went quicker, seemingly enraptured with his reading. “Death, but not death–” her words stopped. “Death as a friend?”

The last card she uncovered made her sigh. “Man upon the rope. A needless sacrifice. Perhaps one. Perhaps many.”

Harry smiled and stood. “Thank you,” he said. He was done here. He had sensed no magic from her. The tapestries rustled, her bells rang behind his back.

“You have death with you.”

He stopped and nodded, frowning.

Madame Biddy gazed at him, her eyes dark and curious. “You are different.”

“Yes,” he said, seeing no reason to lie.

“Very different. Not from here.”

He watched her back, now. There was still no magic, no buzz around her, no heady senses besides the overwhelming scent of cloves and smoke. He wondered, for the first time, if she was something like Trelawney, who didn’t so much practice magic but stew in it. “Have you ever been a prophet?” he asked.

Her eyes widened. “Once. A long time ago.”

Harry smiled. “Have you got a prophecy for me?”

She looked away. Her silence lasted a long time, but Harry was patient. “It is not enough,” she said, finally, “what powers I possess–”

Harry nodded in understanding, and the Madame eyed him carefully. “I have never met a God,” she said.

He could not help but laugh. “I doubt you ever will,” he snorted.

“The reading will be true,” she told him. “That much is certain. Though nothing is certain.”

Harry grinned bitterly. “Yes. Good day.”

“Good day.”

The warm sunlight did not lift his sagging spirits, although being out of the miasma of smoke and vapors helped to halt his growing headache. He moved away from the street, feeling sad, though he didn’t regret going for a reading. The woman was unlikely to be a fraud, and most likely using a magic he did not understand. Muggles had a magic of their own, and this world had it’s own laws of nature. Just because Harry could not see it, did not mean it didn’t exist.

There might be magic here, but it was probably true that there was no one quite like him. He might be the only wizard in the world. Harry laughed suddenly. What a perfect place for an unbeatable wand, he thought, where no other wands exist.

::::::

“I would like to meet the dragon who escaped from France like me,” Remy was saying, after much excited gushing and nuzzling when Harry returned and presented him with a gold brooch. “They say his captain is a Navy man! Like that Nelson fellow we met!”

Harry winced as he adjusted Remy’s harness. He couldn’t imagine Admiral Nelson standing for anyone addressing him as 'that Nelson fellow’. Their one meeting with the man had been brief and awkward.

After the Battle of the Nile, Nelson had expressed an interest in meeting the captain that took so many prizes and saved a British ship, and with much pomp and circumstance, publicly shook Harry’s hand but barely spoke to Remy. Harry knew he was a mastermind, a legend in Naval warfare, but he was too puffed up for Harry’s taste. And he didn’t much gush over Remy, when everyone else did and should, so something must be wrong with him.

This news about the Navy captain turned aviator was interesting though. “Are they assigned yet?”

“Volly says they’re to train with Lily’s formation,” Remy said. “We haven’t seen Catherine or Lily yet, by the way.”

“We’re leaving in a moment,” Harry consoled him.

“Oh, good. Bee says it’s a right shame,” Remy continued. “Dayes, you remember him, he’s been waiting and waiting for an egg, and Bee said that the French dragon refused him, and would not be separated from his Navy captain. Quite right, I said, because they tried to do the same to you and I, as you must recall, and that wasn’t on.”

Harry frowned.

“But Bee says Navy captains are stiff-necked and don’t take to dragon company, and think only that we consort with the hoi polloi, as aviators, and he won’t belong at all, so he’d best give up the young one and go back to his ship.”

“Remy,” he interrupted, feeling a horrified rage bubble up inside him. Granby had said what? “That’s not fair at all, Remy!”

“Oh? Why?” he asked.

“Because we don’t know him! Granby has no right to judge…I can’t believe…he was never like this with me.”

Remy sighed. “He queued for an egg two years go,” he reminded his captain. “It went to stupid Rankin. And there hasn’t been one since.”

Harry was aware of Granby’s disappointment over Levitas, a dragon Harry had not seen for quite a while, and according to Remy, Rankin was horrid to his dragon on top of it. It was a sorry situation, as distressing as it was not surprising, given Jeremy Rankin’s awful personality.

Harry hated him, and he hated Harry just as much, ever since the incident in the dining room when he’d been showing away about getting an egg and Harry had tripped him. Accidentally, of course. As the son of some Earl or what have you, Rankin had shoved poor Granby out of the running for the promotion, and had been insufferable about it as well. Which called for revenge.

Even though his bitterness remained strong and had probably grown some, and Granby had every right to be disappointed, Harry could not approve of Bee’s words. “That has nothing to do with the new captain,” Harry said sternly. “He could not have expected Dayes to succeed, when no one succeeded with you. Besides that, this Navy man none of us knows, and we’ve no right to think badly of him. I expected better of Bee.”

Remy looked suitably chastened. “Are you cross with him?”

“We shall have words, I imagine,” Harry grunted, tightening the straps on his packages. “And you, dear one, will do your best to introduce the new dragon to your friends, won’t you?”

“Of course I will!” Remy said. “He won’t be an outcast at all, Harry! And neither will his captain. I shall inform everyone the moment I return!”

Harry had no doubt he would, and the other dragons would likely heed him, if not to get Remy to stop badgering them about it. He was unsettled and angry as they left, and bade Remy not to worry that he was cross with him. No, it was Granby who had to be put to rights, though Harry had no blasted idea of how to go about it. He hoped Jane hadn’t been right about their friendship. He hoped there would not be contempt between he and Granby at all.

He was never one to be overly optimistic.

:::::

Remy landed and called out to Crescendium, first and foremost, “Look at my gold! It is much better than yours.”

“Remy, really,” Harry muttered as the good-natured squabble began. They were interrupted, however, when a sinuous black dragon landed in the clearing. His blue eyes took in the new arrival with curiosity and a certain wariness, and his tongue flickered out to taste the air.

The dragon was a gorgeous species Harry had never seen before. He glanced at it with an appreciative eye as he unloaded Remy’s belly netting of its sweets and a bracelet for Emily, and other articles he had been ordered to acquire by his crew and a few other captains. Remy jolted at the arrival of the dragon and then was off, leaving Harry’s work unfinished. He threw his hands up and rolled his eyes.

“Bonjour!” Remy said to the dragon. “I am Remy and you are black like me!” He glanced quickly at Crescendium. “Do you see, Cressy? Only the best dragons have our colours!” He turned back to his new companion as Cressy grumbled mutinously, and then cocked his head in surprise. “But you are not French at all!”

“I’m an Imperial, that’s Chinese,” the dragon answered, looking taken aback at Remy’s enthusiasm but with a hint of surprised pleasure. Harry thought, sadly, that because of his captain’s ostracism the dragon probably hadn’t made many friends of his own. “Are you French?”

“I’m a Papillon Noir, and I escaped Napoleon so that I could be with my capitaine, who is English. Harry! Harry! Come meet my new friend!”

Harry did not refuse him. As if he could. “What is your name?” Remy was asking the dragon as he approached.

“Temeraire, and my captain is Laurence. He won me in battle,” the dragon introduced.

“What a lovely name! My capitaine has been in many battles. He’s a hero. And your capitaine is too! My, we must be the best in all the Corps, I’d say,” he concluded loudly for Cressy’s benefit. “This is Harry.”

Harry bowed with a smile. “A pleasure to meet you. Temeraire, was it?”

“Yes,” Temeraire said. “The pleasure is mine.”

“I like your pendant!” Remy interrupted. “That’s a pearl, isn’t? I haven’t any pearls yet.”

Harry gazed at him and sighed. “Perhaps another frigate, dearest, and we’ll get you a pearl.”

Remy perked up and said to Temeraire in a conspiratorial hush, “My capitaine is really very easily won over, and I never want for anything. But I do adore my Harry, however soft he is.”

“I can hear you, Remy,” Harry pointed out. “How are you settling in, Temeraire?”

“Quite well, sir, thank you,” the dragon said, smiling at Remy with a solid, quick fondness. “You are welcome join us down at the lake for swimming later, after we eat.”

Remy was entirely baffled. “Swimming!” he gasped. Temeraire hunched a bit, as if wary of acting outlandish to his new friend. “What a capital idea! Why haven’t you taken me swimming, Harry?”

Harry scratched at his head. “Uh…sorry? I’ve never seen a dragon swim.”

“Which just means we should do it, of course. Really, Harry, you’re so adventuresome, normally!”

“I wasn’t refusing–”

But then Remy was off and hadn’t heard him at all, telling Temeraire about their various exploits. He excused himself just as Temeraire was telling of his capture in battle by his captain, and passed Cressy and Maximus coming toward them with interest; peeved at being left out.

The problem of Temeraire’s acceptance into the covert settled, Harry made his way to his rooms to wash up before lunch. He changed into his fatigues and unpacked his purchases, before resolving to bathe after the lake outing. Or perhaps he would swim as well.

Harry came into the corridor before the dining hall in time to catch a disturbing exchange indeed. Granby saluted a stiff-backed man with spiteful mockery, saying, “Sir,” as if it were the last thing he would call the man even in formal company.

To the man’s credit, he replied merely, “Mr. Granby,” and continued on his way toward a table. He did not sit alone, but did not speak with any other.

Harry frowned as he lingered by the door, assuming that the slighted man was the new captain. He was tall and slim, laced with wiry muscle obvious even in his too formal attire. His full head of blond hair rested gracefully (Harry observed with envy) atop a smooth forehead which framed a handsome face. He certainly held himself with decorum, though Harry could sense no maliciousness in his posture. Having met Temeraire first helped, for bar Captain Rankin, a dragon often told much about their captain’s character, and vice versa.

He sighed and came away from the shadows, waylaid very suddenly at his entrance by Emily, who sat with the other children and had been looking out for him.

“Harry! Harry!” she called to him exuberantly, hugging him around the middle. Emily did not ask for her booty, but simply held out a hand.

He laughed. “You brat,” he teased. “What makes you think I have anything at all for you?”

“What’s behind your back then?”

“My hand.”

“And what’s in your hand?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

She sighed with unending patience, as if he were a little child, and said, “Harry, really–”

He handed her a bag of sweets and the little bracelet, laughing again at her enthusiastic perusal of his gifts. Emily pronounced herself satisfied and with one last hug, marched herself off to show off her treats. Harry had not forgot the others and followed her to put a bag of sweeties on the table, to which they scrambled through immediately, chewing with piping thank yous. Emily looked put out by his lack of favouritism, but indulged in the other sweets as well.

“Hello, Father Christmas, what do you have for me?” Berkley said, coming up to him. His parchment and pens, as requested, as well as money left over exchanged hands. Harry gave Faversham his new buckles, amidst much teasing from the others and handed out the various items for the officers present.

“Did you buy another trinket for your vainglorious beast?” Cressy’s captain, Gregson yelled from across the room.

Harry shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry, mate.”

“Damn!” Gregson cursed, turning back to Captain Warren. “I’ll be bankrupt in a fortnight with Cressy’s complaining.”

Granby was standing at their usual table. Harry smiled at him, tightly, and with a terrible turning of his stomach, made his way to Captain Laurence instead. “May I join you?” he said without preamble.

The captain was surprised, but not unwelcoming. “But of course. Captain William Laurence, on Temeraire, at your service.” He held out a hand.

Harry gave it a firm shake. “Captain Harry Potter, at yours, on Remy. You’ll not have met Remy yet, but I’ve just had the pleasure of speaking with Temeraire. I should warn you, Remy has found a fellow conspirator, and now they shall never behave.”

Laurence smiled. “What would they be planning, I wonder?”

“Most likely how to make us hand them the world on a silver platter. My spoiled beast will have your Temeraire expecting all manner of luxuries soon enough. How do you find Loch Laggan?”

“I find it very well,” Laurence said politely and quickly as Harry’s meal arrived. Harry knew this to be a falsehood, but admired his manners anyway. “Temeraire has been comfortable, but I am glad to hear he’s made friends with yours.”

Harry grinned. “More like Remy’s made friends with him. Didn’t give Temeraire much choice in the matter. You’re training with Lily’s formation?”

“We are.”

“Celeritas have you run jolly ragged? My first few months were ghastly, and Remy complained day and night of endless formation flying.”

Laurence was surprised by this knowledge, for some reason. “Oh yes, Temeraire is just the same. He is very clever, far more intelligent than I, I’d say. He has an insatiable appetite for knowledge, and so I am often reading to him. I was never one to appreciate books but now I suppose I will become scholar for his benefit.”

“You read to him?” Harry said, smiling. “I tried once with Remy, but he doesn’t sit still for long and he’s well…you’ll see.”

“Are you normally stationed at Loch Laggan? I know many captain‘s more often in the air than on land.”

“Dover. But we’ve been mostly patrolling these last few months, and besides a skirmish or two and a ship in peril, there’s not been much action. No great battles, to be sure, like the Nile.”

“My word!” Laurence said. “Were you in the Corps then?”

He nodded with a smile. “Three months into our training and we receive word that we’ve been called to battle as is. I was scared out of my wits, not being fully trained.”

“He lies,” Berkley suddenly said, popping over to lean on Harry’s chair. “Lad went and flew his dragon as close to the sea and near enough to eat a cannonade as he could get. Had Remy claw open the hull and sink it. The bravest and stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. I was on Auctoritus then, as Lieutenant. Absolute madness.”

“You are the captain with the French defector!” Laurence said in realisation. “I saw that happen as well! I was first Lieutenant on the Goliath.”

Harry gaped and Berkley began to laugh. “Is that what they call Remy? The French Defector?”

“I beg your pardon,” Laurence apologised, for no reason Harry could surmise as it was only a case of good-natured ribbing. “It was news six or seven years bygone, and that was indeed what he was called.”

“Remy will love that. Now we have a name for both of you,” Berkley chortled.

“Mad Old Harry on the Runaway Frog,” one of the men shouted.

Laurence looked nonplussed but amused at the slagging Harry was getting and said, “Whatever do they mean?”

Harry made a face at the noise and waved them away. “Scrubs, the lot of them,” which started a new round of teasing. “Temeraire invited us to the lake after lunch, if you don’t mind us joining you. Remy’s cross with me that I’d never thought to take him swimming before, though I shall never know how I was supposed to think of it.”

“Of course,” Laurence said gladly. “We would be happy to have you.” He sobered for a moment. “I beg your pardon, may I ask your age? You were at the Nile, I know, and that was not long ago, but please excuse me… you look very young.”

Harry was amused by Laurence’s tentative informality, ever so polite and cautious despite his friendly nature. Harry liked him.

“Four and twenty,” he answered with a smile. “Remy found me and made me a Captain at seventeen.”

Laurence bowed his head slightly. “I imagine it was quite a shock,” he said immediately, so not to seem like he was insinuating anything.

Harry leaned forward to continue their conversation in a hush. “Captain Laurence, it was more shock to find me so hated for my luck. The Corps is a different sort of place, I find, but once properly acclimated there can be no service better. While it was hard dealing with the unfriendliness, I found Remy a solid comfort, and the companionship of my second Lieutenant, Mr. Granby.”

“Oh,” Laurence said seemingly before he could stop himself. He curbed his tongue quickly over what he might have said next, however.

“Yes, I know,” Harry went on, looking sorry. “I have never known him to be disagreeable, though I am too informal with him, I suppose. I would apologise for him, though despite how it looks, he is not an ill-behaved child.”

Laurence was uncomfortable, Harry could tell. “I would not wish you to assume responsibility for others, sir,” was all he responded with, but his tone was grateful.

“I won’t,” Harry assured him. “It’s far too late for me to amend my status as his superior officer and not always his friend. And I am no sir, everyone just calls me Harry.”

This overture, Harry observed, seemed to take Laurence aback greatly. He, like Harry, did not assume affection quickly. But Harry really did think this man was spot on. “I beg you call me Laurence, as I am addressed by my comrades.”

Friends, then, Harry corrected internally. He did not know that Laurence had had a very similar thought.

::::::

“I don’t know what you mean by it!” Granby was shouting at him.

Harry’s jaw tightened. “And I gave you my answer. It is our duty to accept new captains and make them welcome! You could have brought yourself to our table if you’d liked, nothing was bloody stopping you–”

“Besides Captain Laurence or sir, as he likes!”

“He is your superior, Granby, whether in the Navy or in the Corps, and worthy of respect for his experience and at the least his manners! Which you seem to not possess at all!”

Granby went bright red. “So you like stuffiness, do you? Toffee-nosed captains who steal promotions from other more deserving men?”

“You certainly don’t seem deserving at the moment! And no one has stolen anything! And I would appreciate you not telling Remy your ignorant opinions about people you don’t even know!”

They had started the conversation civilly, if not with some hovering tension. Granby had come to him on his way from bidding Remy goodnight with more hurt than anger in his expression. Harry had wanted him to confide, and had listened while coming up with a strategy on how to point out Granby’s wrongdoing. Granby had started with the disappointment of Dayes and his own bitterness, until he’d sharply diverted his tone all of a sudden, and asked Harry angrily what he had meant by slighting Granby’s company. Harry had professed his need to make Captain Laurence welcome. Granby had scoffed. Harry made him out to be the rudest scrub he’d ever met, and the fight had dissolved into the mess it was now.

“Then I take my leave of you, if I am so far beneath your regard,” Granby spat.

“Oh, belt up, Bee!” Harry yelled. “You were rotten to him and you know it!”

“I would have thought my closest companion would remain true in an strop between gentlemen– your loyalty quickly changed from me to Captain Laurence, I say!”

Harry nearly screamed in frustration, wanting to punch Granby right in the face and be done with it. But he didn’t want to hurt Granby– he just wanted him to listen. “I cannot condone your behavior,” he said, absolutely seething. “You have disrespected a superior officer–”

“This again? Shall I call you sir and salute you…shall I bloody curtsy since you think you’re His Majesty himself?”

“You are insubordinate–”

“And you have never cared for rules or authority, Harry, never! You cannot tell me otherwise when you do what you like, even if it’s damn risky for Remy and your own bloody crew! If you’re too selfish to change then I’d rather be shot of you so I won’t have to risk my neck protecting some careless dodger!”

Granby stopped himself abruptly and paled.

Harry nodded, feeling his insides churn. “Fine. Be shot of me. I’ll inform Celeritas in the morning.”

He left quickly, and Granby stood there for a long while, ghostly white and cursing. He didn’t mean any of that, damn him–

“Well that’s torn it,” the ground crewman said with a laugh, coming back from the courtyard. “You handled that well, lad.”

Granby called him something not very nice at all and fled.

:::::

Harry did not sleep that night, restless as he was due to both fury and melancholy. He hated being at odds with anyone, most times, and the last person he had fought so heartbreakingly with was Ron, his best friend left behind in his journey to this new world. But this quarrel was both different than and similar to his and Ron’s infamous disagreements.

During both the trouble in his fourth year and while camping in search of Horcruxes, Ron’s jealousy had been the source of the problem. It seemed Granby was of a mind that Harry’s defense of Laurence was disloyal, as well as an abandonment of their friendship. His jealousy was queer in that where Harry could understand Ron’s fear of being overshadowed by Harry’s fame, this was simply a matter between two seemingly ordinary men over the acquaintance of another. If Harry had befriended anyone outside of Hermione and Ron, he wondered if Ron would act the same as Granby.

Yet he could not see Ron taking it to heart. His jealousy had not extended to Neville, who Harry was often in confidence with, or Fred and George, his mischievous brothers. Not when Harry had been with Cho or Ginny, not even when Harry went off alone to avoid Ron and Hermione’s bickering. No, his jealousy was of the envious kind, for Harry’s fame and fortune. Or, in the case of Granby, it could not be jealousy at all, now that he thought about it.

There was a truth to his crime of disloyalty. He had not spoken to Granby before slighting his table at lunch. Harry belatedly realised he should have. But there was no telling how Granby would have reacted to the chastising. He had seemed absolutely furious at Harry’s talk of superior officers and respect, and really, Harry truly was a hypocrite, due to his own informal relationships and balking of orders. He should have gone to Granby and asked why he held Captain Laurence in so little regard, and then soothed Granby’s irritation after he was assured of Laurence’s character.

The remonstrating voice in his head sounded an awful lot like Hermione, who he imagined would simply say, “Boys. Honestly.”

His temper had got away with him again. But in his defense, Harry had grown to expect tolerance and companionship in this world, for he had found it in the Corps and had wanted…well, he wanted to show off the friendliness, the welcome the Corps was capable of. To contradict the hostility that he had had to endure when he had first arrived. He wanted to be Laurence’s Granby, and be the leader in acceptance, to hurry along the inevitable really. Like Granby had done for him.

Harry was soft for the Corps now. They were his comrades…his fellows. They were the only people he knew in this lonely world and the Corps was now something like a home. He knew others who had accepted outsiders with little hesitation; Mrs. Weasley, her children, Mr. Weasley, Hermione, Neville…Granby, and he promised to himself that when the time came to reciprocate with others that he would be the one to welcome them. Harry wanted to be that person.

Yet his stupid self-righteousness and distemper had messed everything up again. Harry sometimes hated his awful habit of jumping headfirst into situations he had not thought through. While at times it turned out well, in contrast (mostly when his brashness collided with sentiment) he was also known to royally bollocks things up. Like now.

But Granby owed him an apology as well. Harry was fuming over his words, which were, excusably, said in the heat of quarreling. Yet it still merited an apology, and Harry would not give his own unless Granby recognised that the blame was mutual. He fussed and fretted over the matter all night, until he gave in and went to Remy, who was sleeping beside Temeraire.

Remy woke as he climbed in between his shoulder and forearm, nuzzling him with concern. “Harry? What ever is the matter?”

“Nothing whatsoever,” Harry said, more sharply than intended. “Go back to sleep, dearest.”

The dragon obeyed and Harry did as well, finally warm and calm enough to sleep.

:::::

In the morning things did not look better. Granby was with the ground crew when Harry left for his rooms, looking tired but unwilling to approach him. Harry ignored him in return and went to bathe. During breakfast, he sat with Captain Laurence, who, despite Harry’s grumpiness, was very politely concerned though he did not press when Harry refused to talk about it. Harry did manage to cheer up a bit after agreeing to another journey to the lake that afternoon.

When they went out to the courtyard together, Remy and Temeraire were speaking in low tones to each other, heads bent in secrecy.

“Oh, they’re thick as thieves already,” Harry groaned. “Now we’ll have mutiny and chaos. Just see.”

Laurence laughed. “Temeraire possesses a curiosity for the laws of property. He is often professing his outrage that stealing cows from unsuspecting farmers is prohibited. I am torn between amusement and concern that he will be locked away for treason. ”

“Remy is just the same. He thinks cows should be free and orders are silly, and though he doesn’t disobey, usually, I see the rebellion that lies in wait. What are we to do with them, I wonder?”

They had made it to the two dragons by then, and so his words were heard. “You’ll have to love us despite it, I suspect,” Remy told him promptly. “Now what’s this about you and Granby fighting?”

Harry went red with mortification. “A minor disagreement, Remy,” he answered lowly, avoiding Laurence’s questioning gaze. “Should we watch Temeraire’s flying today? I’ve heard he’s quite good.”

If dragons could blush, he supposed Temeraire would be bright red with how bashfully he dipped his head and said with pleasure, “I’ve heard that you and Remy are the best.”

“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” Remy told him. “If we’re both so good perhaps we can have a formation to ourselves.”

Temeraire looked absolutely ecstatic over this proposal, much to Harry’s horror. They had little regard for orders already, and he imagined changing the fundamentals of Celeritas’ formation training would have them sent to Coventry so fast their heads would spin. Thankfully, Laurence helpfully intervened.

“The training is well enough for us, my dear,” he said to Temeraire. “We would not want to be an imposition to Celeritas or Lily’s formation.”

“If we’re better than the rest it really isn’t our fault, Captain Laurence,” Remy argued. “Though I suppose you are right. We will simply propose it slowly, so Celeritas can get used to the idea.”

Temeraire thought this was a perfect plan and Harry winced. “Remy, perhaps when we’re not so…busy with Napoleon,” he offered, glancing at Laurence apologetically.

“You’ve two more days of liberty,” Remy reminded. “We can create some maneuvers before then, and show them to Celeritas, who will be very impressed. You’ll see.”

Harry gave in with a helpless shrug to an amused Laurence. They made their way to the training grounds with Temeraire and Remy conspiring ahead of them, most alarmingly, in Harry’s opinion.

“I beg your pardon,” Laurence addressed him, apologising first, as he was wont to do. “I do hope your quarrel with Lieutenant Granby was not due to me. I would not wish to cause dissension among your men.”

Harry looked at him. “Our quarrel is necessary, I’m afraid,” Harry said at length. “Granby has been spoiled with a crew and a captain that usually forgive him anything. I will admit that I did not handle it as well as I should have, though nor did Granby. I beg you not to worry, Laurence, that you have caused any problems I did not make myself.”

Laurence still seemed concerned, and Harry thanked him again but they did not say any more on the matter, for Temeraire was about to fly. He truly was magnificent in the air, smoother and more effortless than Remy’s controlled fits and starts. Unfortunately, Remy had Celeritas’ ear as Temeraire did his formation flying, and suspiciously, when Temeraire landed he bid Harry and Remy to go up with them. Laurence was smiling from the harness, amused at Harry’s grumbling. They flew the formation tactics together, Remy finally finding Temeraire’s pace and moving like liquid with him. They were close together, closer than most formations flew, and even Harry had to marvel at their grace.

When they landed, Celeritas said as much. “If there were more time, I’d suggest a single formation with you two,” he told them thoughtfully, and Remy nudged Temeraire happily. “Though Captain Potter will have to control himself.”

Harry flushed. “He likes to cut straps and traipse about on a flying dragon,” Celeritas answered Temeraire’s request for an explanation. “Boards as well, against all order and reason. Never seems to fall off, I’ll credit to him. Unless it’s intentional.”

“I’d always catch Harry,” Remy proclaimed. “As if he would need my intervention. He’s a flier just like me. He’s supposed to be in the air–”

“Please, dearest, no boasting today,” Harry cut him off quickly. He knew Remy would never give away his past, but the dragon was always so enthusiastic, and often got away from himself. Most of his chatter was considered irrelevant, but Harry was sure even tales of broomstick flying and air sports would be taken seriously enough that there would be some uncomfortable questions.

They left after Temeraire mastered a few more maneuvers and all chatted amiably on the way to the dining hall. Harry belatedly realised he hadn’t talked to Celeritas about Granby, and sighed, knowing very well that for all his pride– he simply wouldn’t.

:::::

It turned out that Harry didn’t have to, for on his last day of furlough Granby did it for him. They had not talked, and avoided each other quite effectively. Celeritas called for him and informed him of the change, introducing a Lieutenant Eastaway to be his second. Eastaway was an open and friendly young man, but still very young. Harry liked him, but wondered how well he would work with the formidable Faversham, and whether he would stand up for himself like Granby had, to earn Faversham’s respect.

And it looked as though Granby was well shot of him.

Harry tried not to be angry or show any of his hurt feelings to Eastaway. He shook the man’s hand and introduced him to the rest of the crew, who were welcoming but bewildered. He suspected they all knew of he and Granby’s row, yet had not expected Granby being replaced. Once the introductions were over, Harry excused himself. His bellman, Morrow, stopped him briefly to ask, in a whisper, “Are you alright, sir?”

The concerned faces of his crew were welcome, but a bit too much for Harry at the moment. He merely nodded, his head down, and left.

::::::

They departed for patrol the next morning. With his furlough over, Harry and Remy were put to work and seldom grounded. He saw his fellows briefly, and kept to Laurence’s company or Chenerey’s, who was aware and saddened by his and Granby’s silence. He did his best to cheer Harry when he saw him, and so in between his patrolling Harry was not too melancholy.

Temeraire and Remy continued their plotting, to Harry’s mortification. The talked about maneuvers hadn’t quite happened yet, to Harry’s relief, as they were run ragged enough without more training.

In June, Harry came off a long patrol that had taken him from Dover to Falmouth on account of a fair number of attacks and distress calls. He heard about Victoriatus being injured, having been in Aberdeen where the news had come in very quickly. Temeraire had done brilliantly in getting Clark’s dragon home, and of the crew temporarily serving Temeraire, Granby had been one of them as first Lieutenant. Harry did not know what to think of this.

“I would not want us to be at odds, Harry,” Laurence was saying, unusually familiar with him in his consideration. “He is an excellent Lieutenant, as you said.”

Harry nodded. “By all means, Laurence, please place him,” he finally said. “It was his decision to leave us, and I won’t have him suffer for it. He’s a good man. You can trust him.”

Laurence bowed solemnly. “Lieutenant Granby did indeed work efficiently,” he agreed. “But his abandonment of you was hasty, and entirely disrespectful.”

Harry was shocked at Laurence, who normally spoke kindly of everyone or was silent in the face of those he disapproved of. He shook his head.

“We are both to blame, and it shall be resolved sooner or later.” He had no real hope it would be, though, but did not want to worry Laurence. “In the meanwhile there are more important things. Lieutenant Eastaway is just as capable on Remy, and you need a good man at your back.”

Laurence told him about his troubles with Rankin as well, who was neglecting Levitas quite terribly. Harry commiserated with him, disapproving of the unspoken rule that other aviators should not interfere with a captain and his dragon. They spoke of Temeraire’s plans for maneuvers, many of which included Remy, and bemoaned their fate as the overseers of such mutinous creatures. They did not speak of Granby again.

As the time flew, for patrolling was both boring at times and eventful at others, Harry came to Loch Laggan one afternoon to find Temeraire gone. Celeritas informed them that orders had come, and Temeraire and Laurence were reassigned to Dover with Lily’s lot. Harry and Remy were moved to Middlesbrough as well, away from Excidium’s formation for nighttime patrol. Remy enjoyed the chance for any prizes, but was sad to be away from his companions.

Their departure was quick and their months tiresome, for it was a long while until they saw their friends again.

:::::

The call to Cadiz was for all of Excidium’s outfit. Harry had not seen Jane in a while, and when they met at Falmouth to rendezvous, Harry was very happy to see her.

“Emily’s ensign for Temeraire, did you know?” she said as the crew put their equipment up in preparation for a long journey. “And Granby too.”

Harry liked Jane but did not want to speak of the fight anymore. She sensed this, and seemed to agree, because she let it be. “Laurence told me enough,” Jane said at his lack of response.

“How are Laurence and Temeraire? Remy misses his best mate.”

“Quite well,” she answered. “Captain Laurence is a good man.”

One of Jane’s ground crewman suddenly said, “Is he, Cap'n?” with unconcealed innuendo.

Harry burst out laughing as Jane thanked her crewman for providing them with so far unlearned information. “Oh, Jane, really?” Harry laughed. “You’ll ruin him!”

She scowled. “What do you mean?”

“He’s a gentleman, Jane.”

“And an aviator,” she reminded.

“But a gentleman first and foremost. You want just an aviator, something to warm your bed, but he’ll go on fancying you and only you until death do you part.”

Jane gave Harry a narrow look. “I happen to like that he’s a gentleman,” she said.

Harry patted her on the back. “Just be careful with him,” he told her. “Oh, poor Laurence,” and dissolved into laughter again.

She seemed to find this funny as well. “I can promise nothing,” she admitted. “But I like him more than any other I’ve had relations with.”

“Poor, poor Laurence,” he repeated, then was set off again with giggles. She tussled the back of his head in response.

:::::

By October it seemed that Remy and Harry battled awake and asleep, if they got any rest at all. Their skirmishes with the Spanish were long and at times brutal. Hayes, Remy’s surgeon, spent most nights when they finally set down after hours of flying and fighting, digging musket balls out of poor Remy’s hide, who fussed terribly. They had been lucky so far, only one of Remy’s topmen, Wansley, had been injured with a clean break at the knee when Remy had shook off a few boarders and his strap had caught. He was sent back to England in fever, but Harry was assured he would live.

Excidium’s formation remained strong as ever, if quite tired. Mortiferus was made to rest for a week after a slash to his breast had torn him open to the bone, but besides endless complaining of being grounded, he seemed well enough. Jane and Harry both wrote to Laurence while gone, and Remy put in his own news for Temeraire. He was homesick, and Harry agreed with him silently, not having the heart to whine to as well, as Remy did better when at least one of them stayed strong. Jane helped to distract them with her easy companionship, and Harry’s crew was as resilient as always. But it was a hard few months all the same, and if Harry never saw Cadiz again it would be too soon.

And then the French attempted to set sail for Naples with thirty-three French and Spanish frigates and ten dragons. Nelson, in pursuit, called for the fleet to make ready for battle, and Excidium’s formation at Cadiz was included. Pushed back south, to Cape Trafalgar, the fleet sprawled across the coast in an uneven line as Nelson made for them.

In those early hours of preparation, and upon arriving at the coordinates, Harry was aware of the immensity of this day. He marveled at being a part of it, and his sharp grin and Remy’s joyous enthusiasm raised the morale of his crew quite contagiously.

He saw the stratagem high in the clouds as their formation came to battle. Instead of fighting at close parallels, as most Naval warfare had maintained, the British fleet was severed into two lines, and Harry was able to see them cut through the blockade, splitting the fleet into three. Excidium signaled Remy, Auctoritus, engage enemy flag ship and Harry smiled in anticipation. Seeing the Naval mastery of Nelson was much better than meeting the puffed up man in person, he thought as they made for the ship responsible for flag signals.

Remy howled happily as they came down, his claws outstretched to wreak havoc on the mainsail. Auctoritus engaged a Petit Chevalier to keep him away from Remy as he swiped his tail, knocking men clean into the water and toppling the mast. He was too quick to shoot at, though their safety would not last long. The French were likely warned of Remy and Harry’s outlandish tactics, and would adapt.

A man on the prow jumped over Remy’s tail, but was unlucky enough to trip and fall upon a another, who, having finally made ready a shot, accidentally turned his musket upon another man and shot his hat off.

“Sorry!” Harry shouted down at them, feeling ridiculously giddy. The crew laughed.

Their harassment of the flag ship continued until Auctoritus crowed in victory as the Petit Chevalier fled, bleeding from the chest. Nelson’s line had suffered direct fire for his strategy, but now the French and Spanish fleet was broken. They engaged the three clusters of separated ships as the enemy flag ship suddenly caught fire. Harry looked at Remy briefly, to see if somehow they had caused this, but saw to his amusement a Flecha-del-Fuego, who had intended to hit Remy but missed. The colours struck on the French ship, and the British 'Defiance’ aligned and boarded them amidst cheers as Remy swiped at the fire breather.

“I don’t care that you can breathe fire!” Remy yelled at the Flecha-del-Fuego. “You are small and silly. You missed me!”

His taunting had the dragon after them, and Harry ordered Remy toward the British lines. They lured the dragon into the crossfire and a well-aimed cannon grazed its belly and toppled most of its crew into the sea. The Flecha-del-Fuego roared in pain, and very suddenly let loose a barrage of flame. It caught the Victory’s foremast on fire, burning fast, until the whole lot fell to the deck amidst the startled yells of the sailors.

“Whoops,” Harry muttered over the wind. Unfortunately, the Flecha-del-Fuego retreated when Laetificat came at him with claws outstretched, its crew unwilling to give England a fire breather. There didn’t seem to be too much damage to the Victory, to Harry’s relief. He didn’t have time to worry, though, as a Parnassian came at them almost too quickly for Remy to dodge.

“Mr. Brindle, what was that?” Harry bellowed to his lookout.

“Dead, sir,” Scarborough informed him.

Harry winced and ordered Remy to engage. Remy tore at the Parnassian with a viciousness Harry knew to be anger at the loss one of his crew. The Parnassian managed a strike to Remy’s shoulder, where the bleeding gouge had him howling in pain.

“Remy! Remy!” Harry shouted.

“I’m alright!”

“Not deep, sir,” Faversham said.

“Have at them, then!” Harry ordered with narrow-eyed fury.

Remy laughed and drew close to the Parnassian. His boarding crew lunged over and onto the beast under Harry’s close eye, and Harry tapped Remy’s shoulder to let him know his next move. And like the Admiralty had forbade him, and like how the French had probably been warned about but didn’t quite believe it, Harry unstrapped and jumped right onto the dragon’s captain. His pistol was at the man’s head in one quick moment, as his own boarders pushed the Lieutenant over the side to clear is back.

“Non bien,” Harry said in perfectly awful French. The Frenchman cursed as his dragon balked at the threat. “Oui. Bollocks,” he commiserated cheerfully.

He gave the captain over to the boarding crew, who would direct them to England. All of the sudden, he heard Remy cry out as a shadow fell upon them. The Chanson-de-Guerre had shocked Remy into dipping away from the Parnassian, and Remy was almost three kilometers below him now.

The Chanson did not engage, but hovered close to them in defiance, looking to separate Remy and Harry. “Lower, lower, fly,” his boarding crew beseeched the Parnassian, shoving the pistol hard enough into the French captain’s head that he cried out. The dragon obeyed, but before he could make it back to Remy, the Chanson intercepted them with a roar, using his large body as a blockade. Remy flitted closer and the Chanson swiped at him again.

Harry supposed this stalemate would not last. That they would try and board Remy and force Harry to surrender to their captured Captain. The Chanson began to fly lower, doing exactly as Harry had expected. But Harry would not let this happen, and there was a clear shot down to Remy if he was daring enough.

“Signal Remy to remain. Tell him not to move,” Harry ordered one of his crew.

“But sir, he must flee–”

Remy would not flee with his Captain aboard another dragon. Perhaps this was what Jane, Granby and the Admiralty had meant by recklessness. Yet the maneuver had worked time and time again, and the French had prepared for him, so Harry would only have to think again, and outsmart them a second time. He grinned into the wind as his ensign signaled affirmative from Remy’s back.

“Take them to England,” Harry ordered.

“Sir–”

Harry jumped. The free fall froze him through with cold wind and his own adrenaline. He had never done this before, but angled his body like an arrow toward Remy instinctively. The distance was not much, and he cut through the path of the Chanson without too much speed, spying the shocked faces aboard. He laughed into the fall, reaching out a hand to slow himself down with a spark of power. Remy was directly below him, a few meters, closer, then–

He caught the dangling strap of his own harness tie and swung up and around, using the wind, a little magic which burst from him happily and his own momentum to arch around Remy’s neck and back to his harness. Harry sat with a thump and exhaled as Remy laughed in appreciation. Strapped in again, Harry smiled at the rush and looked to his crew, who gaped back at him.

He had enough time to see, with the utmost satisfaction, that the captured Parnassian was well on its way to England, before the Chanson suddenly came about beside them. His crew snapped out of their stupor, thankfully having loaded their guns, but the Chanson was not close enough to board, and the men did not fire.

The French captain stared at Harry. “Monsieur,” he said, tapping his cap with a nod of admiration. His shocked face would make Harry laugh later, as well as the memory of seeing it mirrored in his dragon and their crew. Harry grinned back at him.

The Chanson departed, possibly unwilling to tangle with that sort of madness or conceding to their brilliance (perhaps both?) and Harry looked around to take stock of the battle. Twenty French and Spanish ships ran white in surrender; out of the thirty-three there were two still under fire and one sunk. Nelson’s strategy had held.

And then it was suddenly over. The Battle of Trafalgar, a decided British victory. Harry and Remy got back into formation. Jane grinned at him as the cheers rose well above the ocean and the canon fire, above the heavy wing beats of the dragons and into the sky where they flew.

:::::

“Yes, I heard about Nelson,” Jane was saying. “For all his strutting I suspect he’ll be happy to wear his medals where he will never lose them.”

Harry winced but said nothing. They had not made it to Dover in time for the battle, much to Remy’s disappointment, though ever since they’d heard of the turn of the tide with Temeraire’s surprising roar, Remy was telling everyone all manner of made up tales about the Imperial. As a friend to Temeraire, Harry suspected his dragon was basking in the glow of his companion’s victory with very little shame. If any. Probably none.

The lot of them, Maximus, Lily, Temeraire and Remy, along with their other accomplices were enjoying a concert Laurence hired for them in the courtyard. He had never heard of dragons enjoying Beethoven, but supposed it wasn’t too strange, when he really thought about it.

Luckily, Jane had not seen Remy’s taunting of the Flecha-del-Fuego, so the blame for the Victory’s catching fire was not on Harry’s shoulders. He made a face anyway, at hearing of Nelson, who had been injured in the event; the medals upon his Admiral’s coat now permanently melted into his skin. Laurence caught the look and raised an eyebrow curiously, but Harry widened his eyes and smiled innocently, much to Laurence’s amusement. Remy would laugh at the news, and with all his bragging, sooner or later everyone would know that Harry had almost incinerated a revered Naval commander. Fantastic.

“Sir,” Faversham suddenly said, coming over to the captain’s group and handing Harry a glass of wine.

The celebration due to the combined victories of Trafalgar and Dover was a mixed society of revelers. Harry and seen Laurence speak with a haughty woman and a gentlemen by the wine tables earlier, and though he could not begrudge anyone the chance of a celebration, he wished it was only the Corps here, and that Jane would not feel so uncomfortable in her mandatory frock.

The Lieutenants and some of the topmen joined them in the hall, but most of his ground crew and the others took to a livelier party in the barracks. Harry wished he could have joined them instead. He had espied Granby in company with a few other Lieutenants across the room, and they glanced at each other in some sort of strange, shy exchange, unwilling to commit to a glare. Jane had already caught them at it and scoffed, but said nothing so far.

Harry gazed up at Faversham and took the glass, skeptically looking at the dark red wine. “Why thank you, Faversham. Is it poisoned?” He made a show of looking into it suspiciously.

Laurence coughed to hide his laugh but Berkley and Jane had no such composure and guffawed at poor Faversham. “Sir, only, I’d like to say something,” Faversham continued, as unruffled as always.

Harry swallowed. “Oh.” He looked about for an escape. “By all means.”

“I would like to simply say that you are mad,” Faversham told him, going on even though the captains were gaping. “Mad and brilliant and if you should do it again I will cut straps and retire and go to my grave still entirely befuddled as to how you pulled it off. Sir.”

Harry was glad that was all he was going to say. “Well,” he said, hesitating. “I wouldn’t blame you. And it won’t happen again. I promise.”

“Harry, what on earth does he mean?” Jane asked, adjusting her skirts and leaning forward. “What have you done now?”

Faversham left and suddenly it was Granby in his line of sight. “Is it true?” Granby demanded of him. “Did you jump from a dragon?”

“What?”

“They’re saying they split you and Remy up when you boarded and you jumped an impossible distance to him?”

“What?!”

Harry put his glass down. “I think I’ve had enough lectures for the night. Pray, excuse me.”

“Now, what does he–”

“Harry–” Granby started, but Harry pushed past him and out of the hall. He could hear Jane interrogating Granby in that horrified, disappointed tone of hers. She would reveal later what she thought of him, no doubt.

:::::

“Madness,” she said, after Granby reluctantly told her what Harry’s crew was saying. “Only he would…good God.”

Laurence had left to see to Temeraire, and Berkley and Catherine had fled at the first sign of Jane’s temper. Granby looked as if he would have liked to follow suit. “I didn’t want to–” he began, but Jane waved him off.

“I know you didn’t mean to get him in any trouble, and I suppose he has learned his lesson about boarding, in any case. Or he’ll come up with some equally mad scheme to shock me worse. That lad,” she shook her head. “The both of you give me griping pains.”

“Sir–”

“Don’t sir me,” Jane said. “This strop you’re in with Harry is ridiculous. I suppose you know by now that Laurence and I have relations, due to the mouthiness of the crew.”

Granby looked away. “I do know, yes,” he replied softly.

“Well, your overtures leave something to be desired. To be jealous so quick was foolish, I’d say. And Laurence is a gentleman, as Harry has told me. He would not have thought of it.”

“Neither would Harry, I should say,” Granby said sulkily. “He was promised to a girl once.”

Jane scoffed, downing the rest of her wine. “There has been no such romance since, and though I do not think he has considered it yet, with time I do believe he will come to his senses. He holds you far too close for a man who prefers women. And he did not ever notice Catherine’s attentions, when she was hopeful.”

Granby lifted a shoulder. “She did not make them sincerely plain.”

“And neither have you,” she told him curtly. “Go to him and make peace. You must repair your friendship if there is to be anything else.”

He bit his lip as Jane stood, wrestling to her feet with her dress twisted about the ankles. “Are my affections so well-known?” He asked nervously. He did not worry that Harry would know, apparently as the officers did, for the man was anything but observant.

Jane frowned at him. “Of course they are, Granby, you are absurdly transparent to us all. Though not to your Captain, I imagine, he is worse than Harry at times, when noticing the romantic entanglements of others.”

Granby could not help but breathe a sigh of relief. He was on good terms with Laurence now, and admired the man. Harry had been right about him. “We do not think ill of you,” Jane continued. “Pray, do not think we are mocking you. This quarrel has gone on too long for jesting. Only, if you think it prudent to fall in love with a captain who springs from dragon to dragon mid-air like a frog upon a lily pad, with neither concern nor fear for his own neck, then I say good luck to you and I wash my hands of you both.”

She left him then and Granby waited only a moment to commit to his resolve before leaving as well. It was time to talk to Harry.

:::::

“Come in,” Harry said, putting aside his coats. He hadn’t had the time to unpack just yet, and was doing so now. He would not admit he was hiding. From Jane or Granby.

Expecting Laurence, who would likely want to hear about the battle first hand, Harry was quite shocked to find Granby entering with an anxious expression upon his face.

“I would apologise to you,” Granby said before Harry could get over his surprise. “Harry–” he paused and swallowed audibly. “Harry, I am sorry. I was wrong to say those things to you and wrong about Laurence–”

“Bee,” Harry interrupted. “Bee, I was disloyal to you, and–”

Granby flushed at the nickname, his lips twitching as he stopped himself from smiling ecstatically. “No, I was out of line and you should have knocked me about because I deserved it–”

Harry grinned. “You would not want to brawl with me, I think.”

Granby grinned back. “No,” he conceded. “No, I would have been soundly trounced. I happen to care about my own skin enough to avoid madmen like you.”

“Suppose you’ll want to know about that, then,” Harry said. “Sit down, will you? Have some wine. I boarded a Parnassian after the Victory caught fire–”

“Why do you have that look about you? I know that look. What did you do now?”

“Honestly, Bee, we didn’t mean to melt Nelson’s medals to him, it was an accident!”

And Granby laughed.

.

End Part I

Go to Part II

#Hp fic #crossover #temeraire fic #hp3a

[goddess-in-the-stacks]

Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by That Artsy Reader Girl – you find a list of all the blogs participating on her page!

This week’s topic is series you’ve given up on ever finishing.

The first series I’ve given up on is Laurell K. Hamilton’s Anita Blake series. Book #26 comes out this August – TWENTY-SIX. I’ve read eighteen. Even though they seem to be bending back towards what they were like in the beginning – mystery crime novels with supernaturals – I’m just done. The middle of the series was solidly werewolf and vampire porn, which I’m not exactly mad about, but it wasn’t what I expected from the series, so it felt like a bit of a bait-and-switch.

Similarly, I’ve also given up on Laurell K. Hamilton’s other series, the Meredith Gentry series. There’s only nine books in that series, and it appears that I’ve read the first eight, so perhaps I should revisit that just to finish the last book. It was published in 2014, so maybe that’s the end of the series? I don’t know.

This one’s hard for me to admit, but I think I’m giving up on The Dresden Files. Don’t get me wrong, it is a great series and I really love Jim Butcher’s writing. But to start that series again I’d need to re-read all of it, because everything that happens feeds into the rest of the story. I enjoy plotlines like that, but I’ve forgotten so many details that I can’t just pick up where I left off with that series, I wouldn’t understand what was going on. I’ve read the first – six or seven, I think. He’s up to fifteen now. I have too much other stuff to read.

I’ve stopped reading most of Christine Feehan’s series – I’d still like to keep up on the Leopards series, as that was always my favorite. But the Carpathians and the Ghostwalkers and Sea Haven – I just don’t have time.

Similarly, Sherrilyn Kenyon’s Dark Hunters series. I don’t even know how many books it’s up to now – I own a bunch. (I own a lot of Feehan, too.) But it’s time to move on from that world.

Jaqueline Carey’s Kushiel series. I adored the first trilogy, but couldn’t get past the first book of the second trilogy.

Barb and J.C. Hendee’s Noble Dead saga intrigued me at first – I own the first 4 or 5 – but they just got boring. And they’re up to I don’t know how many now, but they’re divided by phases, and I saw “Series 3 Book 2” and I’m just done.

For a throwback, I’m gonna toss in The Black Stallion series. A lot of people never realized this was a series, but it was. The Island Stallion and The Black Stallion And Flame were two of my favorites, but there was also The Black Stallion’s Blood Bay Colt and The Black Stallion And The Girl and so many others. There are at least twenty Black Stallion books written by Walter Farley between 1941 and 1983, and more written by his son after Walter died. I grew up on these books.

Naomi Novik’s Temeraire series was great to start, but, like so many of these ultra long series, just started to bore me eventually. I still like Novik – Uprooted was AMAZING and I’m really looking forward to Spinning Silver.

Another series I’ve given up on is the Buffy comic series. I’ve seen all the TV shows, and I own the first season or two of comic books, but I stopped subscribing at one point and never kept up with them after that.

Honorable Mentions – These are two that I’ve given up hope on, not out of not wanting to finish them, but we’ve been waiting on the next book on each of them FOR YEEEEAAARRS and I’m starting to doubt we’ll ever GET a next book.  George R. R. Martin’s Game of Thrones, and Patrick Rothfuss’s Kingkiller Chronicles.

TTT - Series I've Given Up On Ever Finishing - plus two I don't know if the AUTHORS will ever finish! Top Ten Tuesday is hosted by That Artsy Reader Girl - you find a list of all the blogs participating on her page!

[jamjamwriting-blog]

And so 2017 draws to a close. I for one can not be more relieved.

This year has been a tumultuous one indeed: I moved countries, got married, began a new day-job, bought my first car, and moved again (domestically this time); I said goodbye to my Grandmother, a second mother who raised me alongside my own; and lost two public figures (Chester Bennington and Kim Jonghyun), who have been a source of love, comfort and inspiration, to this terrible illness called depression, of which I also chronically suffer. It really has been all over the place–I have been all over the place. Personal rollercoaster aside, though, and my writing career(?) has been a pleasantly stable fixture. Let’s take a look.

  Chester Bennington: A musician who understood me…

Kim Jonghyun: And one who comforted me.

  THE YEAR THAT WAS

What I Read:

Admittedly, I fell short of my reading goals for this year. Twenty-five titles in 12 months for a snail who averages one book every three was perhaps a little lofty. I’d like to blame my lack of reading on all the reasons previously mentioned but a great deal of my free time (that which doesn’t go to writing) is lost to video games and tumblr. I am human after all.

Of the twenty-three titles I actively attempted, seventeen were completed; four were started then chucked into the read-again-at-a-later-date (maybe) pile; and two were straight-up DNF–John Gwynne’s tediously written mantasy epic Malice, and Lian Hearn’s bitterly disappointing The Tale of Shikanoko. I do hope to finish Interview with the Vampire in the future–I was listening to an audio version–but am not 100% committed to The Bane Chronicles, Prince of Thorns or Left Hand of Darkness. I have a feeling Ursula leGuin and I are not going to be the best of friends and, while there was nothing wrong with Prince of Thorns, I didn’t like any of the characters so I wasn’t overly compelled to find out what happens to them. As for The Bane Chronicles … what can I say? My love for Harry Shum Jr as Magnus Bane in the horridly trashy yet strangely addictive Shadowhunters TV show does not transcend into the written word. I don’t particularly care for Cassandra Clare‘s prose nor does the character shine as much as he does on screen. Disappointing.

Moving on to the books I did stick with to completion and I’m pleased to say it was a fairly decent year, averaging a respectable 3.5 stars, made of up some truly wonderful reads and some far less ones. I’m actually struggling to pick a favourite title this year because when the books were good they were good. To make things easier for myself by excluding books part of a series I’m yet to complete, I am left with three: Uprooted, the Golem and the Djinni and the Darkest Part of the Forest. All written by female authors, I might add–go girls, go! I can honestly say I adored each and every one of these books and the stories and their characters are still with me now at year’s end. But, gun to my head, and I’d have to say the Darkest Part of the Forest takes home the accolade due to the outrageous speed my slow-arse devoured it. Holly Black has been a great discovery for me in 2017 and, having received Coldest Girl in Coldtown for Christmas and eagerly awaiting her soon-to-be-released Cruel Prince, I feel this relationship is only going to heat up in the year to come.

I finished 2017 in the middle of three titles:

His Majesty’s Dragon (Temeraire) – Naomi Novik 62%

Puppet Master, Vol 4 – Miyuki Miyabe 46%

The Obelisk Gate – N K Jemisin 45%

Technically, I have also started Gathering of Shadows (Shades of Magic #2) and Kings Rising (Captive Prince #3) but haven’t touched those for months and will no doubt restart from the beginning once I conquer my current reads.

You can see My Year in Books over on my Goodreads page.

What I Wrote:

As of December 31st, the second draft of Garden of the Gods sits at 46 563 words, which is approximately half-way through the rewritten manuscript. Despite my initial plans to have had this draft with beta readers in November, I’m not entirely disappointed with my progress. The major plot and structural changes I had to make to Book One, now tentatively titled Torn Sky, are finally coming together and I’m really getting excited for beta readers to jump in and shoot off some external feedback. The prose is tighter across the board compared to the first draft, which I had been working on for three years prior to completing it November 16 2016. So things are moving slowly. But they are moving.

In addition to the progress made on Garden of the Gods I published a handful of book reviews and the following short stories:

[teaser 01] the morning of

[teaser 02] the collector’s lost things

[short story] the cottage on peppercorn tree hill

A number of other short stories and additional teasers are in the works and should be published here throughout the course of 2018.

  THE YEAR THAT WILL BE

I’m not one for making goals as I hate failing and my own expectations are often hard to meet. One of the big changes I hope to implement in 2018 is to make myself accountable for my own achievements. I’m going to set deadlines for my work and I’m going to reach them, not shrug them off because I only have myself to answer to. In my personal life, I hope to live by a simple More/Less structure:

move more/eat less

read more/watch less

write more/play less

smile more/worry less

Career-wise I have given myself far less ambiguous goals as I have mapped out the entire year and where I want to be with my writing. Because life happens, I didn’t want to be so rigid in setting specific dates and times for things to happen so have instead broken the year into quarters and assigned actions I wish to take place in them:

Q1

Finish Torn Sky

Build online presence (that means more content for this bad boy!)

Decide between traditional and indie publishing options

Q2

Send Torn Sky to beta readers (now seeking volunteers)

Begin work on Book Two: Blood of Demons

Continue rolling out blog content

Q3

Consolidate returned beta comments

Address feedback and complete final edits of Torn Sky

Begin querying/approaching graphic designers

Q4

Continue Book Two–aiming for 80% completion of first draft

Publish Torn Sky teasers on blog

All of this is building to my ultimate goal of being a published author–however that may occur–before November 2019, when I will turn dirty thirty. If everything flows smoothly along my desired trajectory, then books two and three will be released in 2020 and 2021 respectively.

In addition to all this writing and work on making myself known I have pledged to read 20 books in 2018, most of which I intend to be finishing series I started in 2017. This includes but not limited to Shades of Magic (VE Schwab), Mistborn (Brandon Sanderson), The Witcher (Andrzej Sapkowski), The Raven Cycle (Maggic Steifvater), Puppet Master (Miyuki Miyabe) and The Broken Earth (N.K Jeminsin). Stand alone titles on the TBR this year include They Both Die at the End (Adam Silvera), Cloud Atlas (David Mitchell) and The Handmaid’s Tale (Margaret Atwood).

It’s going to be a busy year. But (currently) I am positive! I’m not going to have the same issues with books two and three of Garden of the Gods as I have had with Torn Sky. I don’t intend on rewriting entire manuscripts from scratch after completing the first draft, as I have done with the first installment. There were serious plot and character issues that came to light the more I worked on Torn Sky and so rather than start again again (again-again-again: this story has been with me since 2004) I pushed through just to get to the end. I am confident this time (I hope) I now have everything where I want it to be and have set up the through-line to carry the rest of the series.

Having taken the effort to put a timeline in place (albeit a rough one) I hope I can stay motivated enough to actually follow it through. With everything that happened in 2017, I’ve learned nothing if not life is short; that passion can drive you anywhere; and that just because my mental illness tells me I’m a untalented piece of rubbish, doesn’t mean the world will agree with it.

Come at me, twenty-eighteen.

  j.a.m

    So long, 2017! [blog] The year that was & the year that will be #amwriting #writer #fantasy And so 2017 draws to a close. I for one can not be more relieved. This year has been a tumultuous one indeed: I moved countries, got married, began a new day-job, bought my first car, and moved again (domestically this time); I said goodbye to my Grandmother, a second mother who raised me alongside my own; and lost two public figures (

#anxiety #book #brandon sanderson #captive prince #chester bennington #creative writing #depression #fantasy #fiction #Garden of the Gods #holly black #indie author #indie writer #kim jonghyun #literature #mental health #mistborn #naomi novik #novel #personal #shades of magic #thoughts #torn sky #ve schwab #writer #writing #YA fantasy #young adult