He strokes his hand along the sleek black flesh, burying his face against it. Temeraire doesn't turn back to him, his face to the wind, eyes closed. There's the rustling movement of the air around them, even perched here on the cliff face, poised to fly, thought Temeraire's talons mark the ground beneath them, as if he doesn't wish to burst against the sky with the graceful push of muscles, the silken flap of wings.

Laurence lets his hand slide lower to the thin gouge that mars the line of the dragon's neck, tracing the edges with careful fingers. The pulse of the blood is stronger here, though its long stopped flowing. Temeraire's low growl is almost gentle, a warning and a need all in one. Laurence moves his fingers slowly, molding the skin in on itself. The edges seem shallow, though the bite of the cut goes deep enough to see the flash and hint of bone when the light meets with the tilt of Temeraire's head.

"My dear," Laurence whispers, letting the wind carry the sound where it will, unneeded as the words are between them. He can sense Temeraire relaxing, trusting as he leans into Laurence's touch. He plies the skin with slow strokes, easing torn edges together as if he can make flesh and bone knit and heal with just the press of his hands.

The swipe had come during a close fight, grappling in the sky after much of the crew had boarded another dragon. Laurence had watched a man fall, puncturing the fading plumes of smoke surrounding the ships below, his own distraction proving nearly fatal as a shriek came from above. Temeraire remained steadfast, but Laurence had jerked back, losing his footing and distracting his dragon from the task.

The Poux-de-Ciel had scored the long rip in Temeraire's neck as it had zipped past them in a quick bombing dive. Temeraire had jerked back and held firm in the air, but not fast enough, and the rough movement had unsettled the remaining men aboard him, all of them left scrambling, many hanging in their harnesses.

Laurence had watched Temeraire hold his position, the muscles in his neck quivering from the urge to give chase, the need to fight and the trembling flow of blood. He had reached out, stroking his hand carefully over the tail end of the mark, until someone had pushed past him with the thick bandages to staunch the bleeding.

They made it through the battle, a French dragon scored as prize, its aviator half dead on his back. The trip back to the covert was somber, even for their victory. He rested his head against Temeraire's neck, mourning far too many of their own men dead in the Channel.

"It is not so easy is it, Laurence?"

"What is that, my dear?" He rubs his fingers once more over the edges of the gash before carefully replacing the bandages, so stark against the black.

"Winning. Losing." He turns his head, his eyes shadowed slightly. "War."

"No, Temeraire. It is not easy. And the price-" He sighs and stares down at his hands, the blood worked into the whorls and ridges of his fingertips. "The price is always more than you think you'll ever have to pay."

"Then why do we pay it? Again and again?"

"Duty," Laurence informs him softly. "Honor. And because the cost of not doing so is higher still, and one we cannot ever afford."