Chapter Text
Lake Abukir, Egypt – 21st March 1801, 3:25am
The darkness of the Egyptian night pressed in around the members of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers; there was no telling how close or far away the enemy were. At around 3am the call to arms had sounded and the various soldiers in the British expeditionary corps had formed a line near the ruins of Nicopolis.
Captain John Watson gripped the hilt of his sword, although he did not draw it, whilst squinting out over the lake in the hopes of seeing something. Anything. He could tell that the men surrounding him were nervous. Edgy. John had proudly fought alongside many of them for the past five years and knew them to be brave and unwavering in battle and yet currently they were quivering in their boots. And who could blame them?
He had yet to meet a sane man who wasn’t scared out of his wits at the prospect of facing a dragon. The deadly Fleur-de-Nuit which was capable of seeing in the dark, or the French Flamme-de-Noir which belched out gouts of roiling flame; John had seen a few in his time and fervently hoped that the British Aerial Corps would keep them at bay. Otherwise they were all going to die.
They were coming to the end of the bitter, bloody campaign to force Napoleon Bonaparte out of Egypt; this would just be one more battle in a series of savage skirmishes fought over the land. John hadn’t stepped foot in England for two years, serving first in Spain and now Egypt, and found himself longing for the green fields of his homeland. He didn’t want to die out here in the desert sands, far from the people he loved. But John was also a soldier and so he straightened his spine, removed his hand from his sword and tried to look as relaxed as possible. The men surrounding him, seeing his relaxed posture, made at least some attempt to steel their nerves – although John noticed they didn’t take their eyes off the skies. It was an old saying in the Army – keep one eye on the sky.
“Attention!”
The sharp cry rang out through the ranks, running from Major-General Sir John Moore’s position on the right flank, which had set up position upon the ruins of Nicopolis. John and his Regiment were positioned just behind the 28th North Gloucestershire Regiment of Foot, on the left flank, behind them lay two further infantry brigades and the cavalry. In the centre of the line was the Foot Guards brigade, and John reasoned that they would face the brunt of the assault. They had been told that French forces numbered around 20,000 whereas they were only 14,000 – although this didn’t bother John. He had been outnumbered too many times to allow it to frighten him anymore.
“Ready Muskets!”
John heard the men around him ready their weapons and the slither of steel as hundreds of swords left their scabbards simultaneously, urging him to draw his own weapon. As a Captain, John was armed with a pistol instead of the standard Brown Bess musket, although he preferred fighting with his sword; he was left handed and this tended to confuse his opponents for the vital seconds he needed. He felt a shiver of anticipation roll down his spine, blinking rapidly as adrenaline flooded his system. In front of him he could hear the faint sound of the French approach – mercifully absent was the tell-tale ‘whoosh’ of dragon wing beats.
For a few moments there was nothing but the menacing sounds of the French approach and the heavy breathing of the men around him and John pulled his pistol and cocked it, staring at the back of the head of the man in front of him, occasionally flicking his eyes up to look at the sky. Then he heard the cry go up to fire and took it up himself, ordering the men under his command to discharge their weapons, the noise deafening as hundreds of muskets were fired in the space of a few seconds. By now the enemy were within 30 paces of the front ranks and over the continuous rounds of musket fire John could hear the shouts of their commanders.
Within a few seconds of giving the order to fire the enemy had engaged with the 28th ahead of John’s position and he found himself pushed forwards inevitably as the line needed to be reinforced. As John stepped forward to take his place at the front of the line he became aware of the stifling heat pressing in around him, sapping his energy and causing sweat to build on his face and back. He discharged his pistol almost instantly before holstering it and barking out an order to the men under his command, parrying a thrust from an enemy musket as he did so.
“Fix bayonets!”
His voice was hoarse from shouting and he wondered how anyone could possibly hear his order over the sounds of battle – the screams of the wounded and dying, the conflicting orders from other commanders, the clamour of gunshots and the clatter of steel against steel. Somehow his order must have gotten through because the men on either side of him swiftly fixed the metal blades onto their muskets – just in time to meet an enemy charge.
John was barely distinguishable from NCO’s, the only difference being the arrangement of laces on his cuff. He was actually grateful for this, for commanders were usually targeted by the enemy in the hopes of sowing disarray within the ranks. John had lost track of the number of men he had killed during his time in the Army and had never hesitated to land a fatal blow – it was, after all, them or him and John wanted to live. He scored a hit on the shoulder of one Frenchman who had attempted to break through the line between John and the man to his left and parried the thrust of another, twisting the blade and sending it spinning out of his opponent’s hands. He was just about to land the final blow when he heard the sound of conflict – close by. And behind him.
For a few panicked moments the line around John was in disarray – how had the enemy gotten behind them? The line must have broken elsewhere and allowed the enemy to form a pincer movement on John’s already struggling men and for a moment it seemed they would buckle.
"Front rank stay as you are, rear rank about turn!"
John gave the order through gritted teeth, kicking one enemy soldier solidly in the chest to send him sprawling backwards where he was finished off by a well-aimed bayonet thrust. John then turned about and formed a second line behind the one in front, his order being taken up by men either side of him. The ground was slick with blood at this point and John nearly slipped over as he valiantly traded blows with a French commander twice his size, only succeeding in pushing him back by head-butting him before striking swiftly at his thigh, cutting to the bone. The regiment was now fighting in an orderly fashion and the sense of panic from before was gone; gradually the French were pushed backwards and finally broke under the constant pressure from John’s men.
It was only after the enemy that had broken through and attacked them from behind were dealt with that John had enough time to risk a glance to the right of their line and noticed that the main brunt of the enemy force was being brought to bear there. John paused briefly to wipe the sweat from his brow, squinting against the glare of the early-morning sun as it rose over the horizon. They had been fighting for hours now and although John had no clue as to exactly how long, he estimated that it was around 7am by the position of the sun. The French forces were clearly shaken and John’s line was holding their position, defending the outpost they had set up. He allowed himself a savage smile before once again stepping up into the front ranks – John strongly believed that an officer should lead from example.
It was then that the bullet hit him in the shoulder.
There was a sudden pressure and John jerked backwards, white-hot pain flaring through his shoulder as he stumbled backwards before going down, hitting the sand with his right hand clasped over his left shoulder, feeling the blood leak through his fingertips. He had seen enough wounds in his time – both as a doctor and a soldier – to know that it was a bad one and quickly found himself losing consciousness. As the world around him went black he looked up to the sky and saw the shadow of a great beast, opening its jaws and sending a pulse of energy directly at the French line. John may have mumbled something about dragons – he wasn’t sure – before he lost the battle for consciousness and let the darkness envelop him.
~~~*~~~
Suriname, South Africa – 5th May 1804
John slumped back against the tree, gulping down water from his canteen and breathing heavily, his left hand still holding his sword which was stained red with blood. It was the end of another battle, this time for control of the Suriname colony in South Africa. John supposed that meant he had now killed on three continents and found himself unable to drum up even the smallest amount of pride at that fact. This year marked eight years of service to his country – a country he hadn’t stepped foot in for five years.
The only reason John was still alive was because he had avoided contracting a fever whilst he was injured; a rarity, he had been assured. As it was he would bear the scar from the bullet that had almost killed him for the rest of his days – an ugly red mess that had gradually faded to a silvery-white. After a period of recovery, where he had sat listless in an Army outpost in Cairo bored out of his mind, John had re-joined his regiment before they had boarded the ship for South Africa. Today had been another victory – hard won though it had been – and John closed his eyes as he allowed himself to relax for the first time in hours. Soon there would be orders to give, men who needed a camp for the night and enemy soldiers to process. But for now John wiped the blade of his sword with a rag he kept for precisely that purpose and tried to rub away the headache that had begun to build behind his eyes.
“Captain Watson! Impressive performance as ever; you know I’ve heard from Colonel Harrington that – good Lord, Watson are you alright? You look as white as a sheet!”
The pressure that had been building for the last few minutes began to peak, gradually becoming worse until John’s vision blurred, seeing nothing but a sheet of white. Lieutenant-Colonel Moore, John’s superior and in his opinion a total arsehole continued to babble on beside him, totally oblivious to John’s condition.
“…happens to the best of us you know. I myself once – years ago, of course – found myself rather overtaken by – Watson! Bloody hell - your arm, look at your arm!”
John blinked past the terrible pain in his head, squinting like a blind man to see his arm, the veins pulsing red and standing out from his skin. Staggering upright he stared in horror as the red light travelled up his arms and towards his chest, the pain in his head peaking as he tore his shirt to stare as the light centred over the place where his heart lay. Eventually the pain became too great and he fell to his knees, clutching his head between his hands, barely aware he was howling in agony until the pain began to fade and he returned to himself with a jolt, blinking up to see a circle of worried soldiers surrounding him.
“Watson! We were so worried when you collapsed like that, but Jenkins here says it’s quite common given the…situation.”
John groaned softly and fought back a wave of nausea, pulling himself to his feet, ignoring the helpful pairs of hands which were offered to him.
“What do you mean my situation?”
John looked from face to face, trying to gauge from their reaction what was going on, a feeling of panic overcoming him despite his best efforts. What if he was coming down with some kind of tropical disease? They had been at sea for days, it was entirely possible he could have contracted something in the close quarters of the ship. He frantically scoured his mind for a disease that matched his symptoms – sudden and acute pain followed by – what, pulsing red veins? He wasn’t an expert in tropical diseases and it had been a number of years since he’d practised medicine and yet even he knew there was no infection alive that could cause that.
“Your palm Watson, look at your palm. It’s highly unusual to be Called so late in life though – I’ve certainly never heard anyone over the age of 25 hearing the Call.”
John stared blankly at Moore before staring down at his own left hand reluctantly, as he feared what he would find there. There was a shimmering circle of red on the palm of his hand, casting a faint light as strands of colour wove over his skin. John stared at it in horror, mouth opening and closing without making a sound, his mind finally catching up with what that light meant for him.
“The Call.”
His voice was flat and devoid of inflection, his blue eyes fixed on the palm of his hand which was beginning to shake. The Call was something that everyone in their teens feared – for it meant leaving your home and becoming an Aviator, dedicating the rest of your existence to becoming the trainer and rider of a fighting dragon. John had only ever seen members of the Aerial Corps from afar but had been told that they were hopelessly informal and dismissive of rank and, to a man, rumpled of dress. Becoming an Aviator was the end of any gentleman’s dreams to settle down and have a family – after all, the Corps largest covert was in Scotland called Loch Laggan, far from civilisation. Any Aviator who wished to have a family would have to keep the largest part of his life – his bond with his dragon – separate from his home life; John was unsurprised it was unheard of.
All of this was wandering through his mind as he stared at the mark on his hand; a mark which was usually only seen on children in their teens. Moore was right – it was unheard of for someone as old as John to be Called; dragons usually exclusively Called children of Aviators. It would be a grave insult for John to show his displeasure at the summons – Aviators of the Aerial Corps were officers in their own right and dragons were vital to Britain’s struggle against Bonaparte –and yet John found he could not entirely hide his displeasure. Gone were his plans for a family with Mary – the daughter of Lord Morsten, who had promised John she would wait for him – gone, too, were his plans to settle down to a quiet life of medical research after his service in the Army was done. Aviators were bonded for life to beasts that could reach up to 50 tonnes in weight – even during peacetime Aviators were needed to keep the dragons in check.
“The nearest Corps base isn’t far from here – I imagine you’ll get a ride on dragonback from there. Amazing, utterly amazing – and to think we were here to see it. A man in his thirties hearing the Call – unprecedented!”
John stared numbly at Moore, finding the man’s attitude even more grating now than before. He didn’t seem to care that this meant the end to all of John’s dreams and that he would be entering an isolated community of people who were infamously tight-mouthed and unfriendly to outsiders. He would have to write to Mary – inform her of the situation and hope she let him down gently. It would be selfish of him in the extreme to assume she would still want him now that he had been Called.
“Right. Quite right. Where did you say the nearest base was again?”
~~~*~~~
Dearest Mary,
It is with a heavy heart that I write to you from Aerial Command on this the 19th of May. Two weeks ago to the day, shortly after our victory in Suriname, I heard the Call. I am aware that this changes the basis of the promise you made me five years ago – indeed, the circumstances are so much changed that it is as if you made that promise to a different person entirely.
And so, dearest Mary, it is with great regret that I leave for Loch Laggan without delay. I had hoped to stop by to give you the news in person but I am informed that it is unwise to leave the Call unanswered. I wish you all the fortune in the world and hope that one day you will look on me without regret.
Forever yours,
John Watson
~~~*~~~
John fought back another wave of nausea as he was shown into an office in Aerial Command, situated in the countryside just south-east of Chatham, close enough to London to permit daily consultation with the Admiralty and the War Office. Aerial Command itself was under the governance of the Admiralty and as John entered the room he heard the sounds of a heated debate occurring through the door to his left.
“It is hardly news to you how badly we need him, given how our affairs stand!”
The voice was low enough to count as a hiss and dark with fury. John found himself thanking God that voice wasn’t directed at him – and he’d been through basic training. He had once thought nothing would be as bad as spending six weeks crawling through mud whilst some arsehole trainer shouted at you – how wrong he had been.
“Most of Bonaparte’s dragons are stationed along the Rhine, and of course he’s been busy in Italy; that and our naval blockades are all that’s keeping him from invasion.”
“Negotiations are still under way. The Treaty of Amiens-”
The second voice was quieter but held no less strength. John felt a little like an eavesdropper but it wasn’t as if he could help hearing. He’d been informed to wait out here until he was called into the Admiral’s office – the office which from which the voices were coming.
“The treaty didn’t even last a year! If you think Bonaparte is going to bow to some diplomat and march his armies home then you’re a fool. If Bonaparte gets matters arranged to his satisfaction on the Continent and frees up a few aerial divisions, we can say hail and farewell to the blockade at Toulon; we simply do not have enough dragons in the Med to protect Nelson’s fleet. He will have to withdraw and then Villeneuve will go straight for the Channel.”
“An aerial bombardment could-”
“There is no hope of that! None, not with the forces we have at present – which is exactly why it is a good thing this man – John Watson – has been Called. Nobleman or not, Aviator-raised or not, if men his age are Called then perhaps we can get more dragons in the sky.”
“Is there no way we could get an aerial division to drive Villeneuve out of his safe harbour?”
“The Home Division has a pair of Longwings which might be able to do it – but they cannot be spared. Bonaparte would jump on the Channel fleet at once.”
There is a sigh from the second man who had spoken and from what John had heard he had every reason to sigh – he’d had no idea from his, admittedly lowly, position as a Captain that things were going so badly for the Aerial Corps – and it was a well-known truth that if the Corps fell, Britain would soon follow.
“Ordinary bombing will not do – it is not precise enough at long range and no Aviator worth a shilling would take his dragon close to the fortifications – they have poisoned shrapnel guns at Toulon. There is a young Longwing in training, plus Sherlock and his dragon; perhaps together they might shortly be able to take the place of Regina or Ignis at the Channel, and even one of those two might be sufficient at Toulon.”
“But all of that takes time! And I don’t like the idea of this Army Captain harnessing the Winchester, I don’t like it at all.”
This was a new voice, one which John hadn’t heard before and he found himself tensing at the derogatory way that the man had said ‘Army Captain’. It was true that the Corps was clannish in the extreme and known to be unfriendly to outsiders but John had hoped he wouldn’t be automatically shunted simply because of his previous occupation – after all it was the dragon, and not John, who had pulled him into their world.
“You mean the John Watson who is waiting outside this office and can hear every word you say, Lieutenant? Perhaps we should invite him in before we start slinging insults around.”
John quickly looked down and tried to look like he hadn’t been listening intently to every word that had been said, glancing up as the door was swing open to reveal Admiral Granby; one of the most senior military minds in the country.
“Sir.”
John saluted smartly, aware that he was in his smartest dress clothes and yet still looked shabby and out-of-place – he had never been a rich man and recoiled at spending ridiculous amounts of money on clothes.
“Ah, I see the reports were not exaggerated. Captain Mycroft Holmes, Aviator, at your service.”
John stepped into the office and was confronted by two men – one tall and thin with dark brown hair and a neutral expression, the other slightly smaller with sandy-coloured hair and a face like thunder. John stepped forwards to shake the Captain’s hand, finding his own clasped in a tight grip, looking into the eyes of a man who was ice personified.
“Captain John Watson, Army, at yours.”
John introduced himself with his old title, aware that he didn’t yet count as an Aviator – his dragon hadn’t even hatched yet – and unwilling to let go of the rank that had taken him years of hard work to achieve. Mycroft Holmes had eyes that were like chunks of pure ice and although he smiled there was no warmth; John found himself wondering what had happened to this man to make him so cold. He’d seen that look before, in soldiers who had killed so many people and seen such dark things that they shut themselves off from the world rather than succumb to madness.
“It’s an honour, Captain Watson – or should I call you ‘doctor’?”
John found himself shaking the hand of Admiral Granby, wondering when his life had become so strange that he was in a room with one of the most powerful men in Britain. He didn’t know it at the time, but he realised later that Mycroft Holmes was by far the more powerful of the two men; John had in actuality been in the same room as one of the most influential men in the world.
“Captain’s worked fine for me so far. I actually left medical practise behind in order to join the Army – always thought I’d go back to it, though I suppose that isn’t an option now.”
He barely contained his dismay at that fact, turning his palm up to show the flare of red that had spread now throughout his entire palm. Captain Holmes leaned forwards and John resisted the urge to step backwards; it seemed Aviators didn’t have as much concept of personal space as the rest of the world.
“Extraordinary. Quiet extraordinary – a red Call right from the first, was it? The Winchester that called you was rocking the egg for days before it finally-”
“It is not to be borne! A Winchester in the hands of some untrained Army clodpole-”
John turned sharply to face the third man in the room, face reddening as the Admiral made a sharp gesture for silence. The man had been stopped before he could say anything more, yet the expression had been shockingly offensive, and John at once gripped the hilt of his sword.
“Sir, you must answer,” he said angrily, “that is more than enough.”
Captain Holmes slapped his hand on the flat of John’s blade, knocking it away from where it had pointed at the man’s chest before admonishing John sternly.
“Enough of that; there is no duelling in the Corps. Hawthorne, leave at once if you cannot at least be civil; I understand this is a grave disappointment but we all have our crosses to bear.”
He then turned to John and gestured with his hand, resulting in John reluctantly sheathing his blade whilst fixing Hawthorne with a steely glare. If he insulted John again he wouldn’t care about some rule against duelling – he would show exactly what an ‘Army clodpole’ could do.
“Hawthorne is merely upset because he resigned his post in the hopes that the Winchester – the dragon which Called you – would Call him. Unfortunately this means that he is unlikely to get another posting for some time – perhaps ever. However, he knew the risks; the important thing is to get you to Loch Laggan as soon as possible – believe me, if the Call is not answered soon that dragon is going to get rather impatient to hatch and you will feel the brunt of its displeasure.”
John turned to look at the glowing red mark on his palm, wondering for the first time about the dragon that was waiting in its egg for John to answer its Call. What kind of dragon was a Winchester? How big was it? How long would it take to grow to full maturity and would John be left sitting on his thumbs in the meantime? Before John could ask any of these however, Hawthorne stormed past him, roughly shoving him with his shoulder as he did so. Captain Holmes smiled wryly as John gritted his teeth and passed his hand over his sword again, resisting the urge to cut the man down.
“Welcome to the Aerial Corps, Captain Watson.”
~~~*~~~
John stared in wonder at the small, grey, unassuming egg that had been placed in front of him. Roughly equivalent in size to an ostrich egg, he had been told that only his touch would cause the egg to crack and the dragon hatchling to emerge. He stared down at his palm, the red light now spreading down each of his fingers and turning an alarming black – apparently the colour was normally green and changed depending on how long it took to answer the Call. According to Captain Holmes it was highly unusual for a Call to be so strong as to be a red right from the start.
“I guess you’re eager to come out, huh?”
John said to the egg – apparently dragon hatchlings had an incredible memory for languages during the first few weeks and learned to speak from the egg. Apparently he was supposed to place his hand on the egg, which would cause the dragon to hatch, give the dragon which emerged a name (apparently this was a very important part of the process; why, John didn’t know) and then harness it with the leather contraption he held in his right hand. This was very important because otherwise the dragon – small though it was – would fly away. After hatching he was supposed to feed it with the bucket of raw meat he had been given for just this task and then it was supposed to fall asleep. John had no idea what to do if one of these steps didn’t happen exactly as it was supposed to – he’d been left alone in the barn which housed seven small Winchester, Greyling and Grey Widowmaker eggs, apparently because it would ‘help him bond’ with his new charge.
“Right then. Here goes. Please don’t try and eat me.”
John took a deep breath and then placed his hand on the dragon egg, almost jumping backwards in shock when red cracks shining with light spread from his hand around the entirety of the egg. The egg cracked fully open with a violent jolt and the dragonet emerged, its small purple head – complete with a full set of sharp jaws – snapping at thin air. It was roughly the size of a small dog, wings already perfectly formed; even if they were currently wet with egg membrane.
“Hello.”
John startled at the voice – definitely male – which had come from the small dragon in front of him, kneeling down to meet its eyes as it reared up to peer at him curiously.
“Hello. My name’s John. John Watson. What’s yours?”
It was an answer born of familiarity and yet John didn’t have the time to curse himself as the young dragon yawned widely, displaying that impressive set of teeth.
“I don’t have one.”
The dragon sounded so sad that John reached out and stroked its head, watching in awe as it nuzzled at him curiously, wide brown eyes staring at him eagerly.
“Would you like me to give you one?”
He asked, holding his breath as he waited for the answer, having honestly no clue what he would do if the dragon said no.
“I suppose that would be alright.”
John grinned and licked his lips, mentally repeating the name he had decided on earlier. He had heard from Mycroft that it was a Corps tradition to name your dragon something extravagant in Latin, but John had settled on a simpler name.
“How about Hermes? His symbol is the caduceus, which seems appropriate considering I’m a doctor. Plus he’s the messenger God – and they tell me you’re the fastest breed of dragon there is.”
The dragon considered this for a few moments before nodding, flapping its wings and looking up into the rafters of the barn, attention pulled from John as quickly as it had fixated on him.
“Yes. I quite like that name; I’d really like to fly now.”
“Er, no,” John hastily said, his attention pulled to the harness held in his right hand, “perhaps it would be better if you allowed me to put this on first? Only, it would be dangerous for you to go off on your own. And here – I have some meat for you. You must be hungry.”
Hermes leapt eagerly for the food the second John had finished speaking, allowing John to fix the complicated harness as best he could whilst he was distracted eating. By the time he was finished, Hermes’s eyes were drooping, and it wasn’t long before he curled around John’s hand, snout just touching the red scar the Call had left behind.
“Captain John Watson, Aviator.”
John allowed himself to say the words aloud for the first time, smiling as he gently stroked over Hermes’s small body. And he found, much to his surprise, that he liked the sound of them.