Chapter Text
The egg is no small thing, near the height of a grown man’s hips and half that across. Their ship’s surgeon inspects it critically, tapping the black leathery skin of it every so often. There’s a frown on his face when the man withdraws.
“No way to tell when it would hatch, Captain, I’m afraid to say,” Politt says, “I’m given to understand the things harden, before, but I’ve found little to indicate development beforehand one way or another.”
Which is troubling enough - the egg is large enough to suggest a bigger breed of dragon, even to someone as inexperienced in these matters as Laurence himself, which can only be valuable to England - but the worth of the beast depends, of course, on it being taken into harness. They have little in the way of hope to manage such a thing themselves, should the creature hatch while they are at sea, no aviator on board and the ship’s surgeons book-knowledge the only thing to go off.
Well. Laurence will endeavour to reach port as soon as they can, without abandoning post, and hope that the creature has patience enough inside their shell to make it to the proper hands yet. It suits well, he supposes, given that they must accompany the Amiti é to port anyhow.
Laurence thanks Politt anyhow, who, it turns out, is not quite finished yet.
The egg, delicate as it is at this stage, must be stored appropriately, with the proper padding and no chance of damage. This puts most of the belowdecks quarters right out of consideration, given how cramped they naturally are shipboard; the storage rooms on the Reliant lay right beside the combuse, and Laurence is reluctant to submit such a fragile thing as the egg to the constantly shifting temperatures there. And, of course, the Reliant has no formal treasury at all.
Then the surgeon adds that it would rather be beneficial to speak to the egg, too, given that dragons may learn languages while still in the shell. After all, they hardly want the beast to hatch knowing only french. It seems unwise to place the egg aboard deck, where it may learn only the cursing of sailors; and it is such a strange duty that Laurence is reluctant to ask it of any of his officers. So the egg remains in his own quarters, just barely spacious enough to accommodate the padded crate.
This does not change how ridiculous Laurence feels, speaking to the empty air. He begins, hesitantly, to narrate the letters he is writing. It is correspondence mainly on the matters of the war, of course, postings and battles and the like, neither secret nor particularly interesting. Laurence has not quite gleamed if the dragon will remember what it hears, too, or if it retains only the language; the first notion certainly seems so unlikely as to be prodigious.
Still, he feels somewhat guilty on behalf of the dragonet if that should be the case, given that such a creature of the air could hardly be expected to care for naval movements.
So, even feeling patently ridiculous, he begins reading out-loud from his sparse collection of novels for a few minutes every day. The candle-light flickers orange against the sliver of the egg that is visible through the slim opening in the crate when he does, and the rock-like surface seems almost alive.
When he runs out of reading material, closer to port, Laurence returns reluctantly to his recollections of naval battles, dredging through his paltry recollection of the Aerial Corps’ involvement. He tells the dragon of the battle of Gibraltar; of the fire-spitting dragons of the Spanish, and the French, of the nonetheless clear superiority of the English forces; how he knows this dragon would be a credit to their country. Too, grown somewhat fond of the odd, silent company, Laurence tells the dragon that he wishes they may fight together one day, should the dragons’ formation be called to support one of his postings.
“Of course,” Laurence finishes, “you will hatch, and have your captain amongst the aviators - and it seems quite foolish to expect you to keep any recollection of me, never mind that you should wish to make an acquaintance of a naval captain at all.”
The next morning, Politt exclaims in a rather displeased manner during his routine examination when he finds out the egg has now begun to harden. When the surgeon has gone, Laurence rests a hand on the surface of the egg himself, ridden by some strange impulse. HE has avoided the impulse so far, aware of the delicacy of the thing, as such, he finds himself surprised at how warm the egg is beneath his fingers.
The discovery leads them to make all reasonable haste pushing toward port. It is their Duty to see the dragon reach England so it may be harnessed, even if the taking of a heavyweight did not come with the sort of prize money that sends the crewhands whispering; they are set to reach the port in the same week. The Reliant’s route doesn’t allow them to send a message ahead, so when they make land little but a week later Laurence sees a messenger sent to the covert at Dover as soon as he can, requesting their attendance as some matter of urgency.
The very next morning, there's an aviator approaching their dock. The man comes in flying on a small grey dragon which is little bigger than a horse and he blinks at them a few times at a rather alarming rate before seeming to gather himself a little and standing at attention.
“Oh, I see. We didn’t quite believe the message, given how fantastical it sounded, but - you really do have an egg, I see. Well, lets pack him up then,” he finally says, already bustling towards the egg, brushing a hand across the surface.
“Oh yeah, really no time to waste there anymore - how long has it been since the surface started changing?” he asks of Politt, Laurence dismissed with a distracted ‘ sir’ .
The egg is loaded up onto the small dragon even while the aviator continues their conversation, interrupting occasionally to direct the sailors.
“Well, it was good of you to make an effort to have it learn the language - of course the beasts don’t remember any of what they hear in the shell, and a month is too little time even for most dragons to learn a language entirely - we will have to find a captain with some level of french for them, I think,” the man continues, “but it was a well-made attempt.”
He turns to Laurence then.
“I suppose you will have post on behalf of the admiralty, regarding the prize; likely after the dragonet hatches, when their species is better known. It is like to be less than a week, now; so you fellows shant have to wait long.”
The man is off with another distracted thanks, accompanied by a sloppy salute. The entire encounter doesn't necessarily improve Laurence's impression of their nation’s aviators, even as it leaves a distinctly hollow feeling in his stomach.