One Hundred and Twenty Seconds.

Two minutes.

To remember all conflicts past and present. To remember all those who died in service to their country. To think of all those left behind: spouses, parents, children, Captains and dragons.

He doesn't though.

He knows it's inconsiderate, thoughtless—not that anyone would tell him if they knew of course. Millions of people who lost their life and millions more who grieved their loss and he can only think of one man. A traitor to some, a hero to others. But to him he was his Captain, his friend, his world.

Captain William Laurence. The naval Captain who took a Celestial from the French. The Briton who became the Chinese Emperor's adopted son. The aviator who helped to find the cure for the Dragon Plague. The criminal who took the cure to France. The traitor who fought during the invasion of England. The hero who perished at Waterloo.

He, Laurence and his remaining crew (Allen, Roland, Sipho, Fellowes, Blythe and Dorset) had been in England for him to mate with females specified by the Admiralty when the news that Napoleon and Lien had escaped from the isle of Elba had reached them. After much persuasion on their part and several of the other Captains', most notably Granby's, they had been allowed to rejoin the Aerial Corps temporarily. When the dragons of the former 81st Regiment, now the 1st Non-Captained Aerial Squadron, had heard of him being authorised to fight, they had made quite a ruckus until he had been assigned to them, quickly being re-commissioned to Commodore by Admiral Roland when she had noticed that he had become the unofficial Commanding Officer. Laurence was re-commissioned very shortly after that.

The battle was unlike any they had been in before. Although the battle on the ground didn't start until around about noon due to it being awfully muddy from the horrendous rain the previous night, the battle in the air started just before dawn broke. The Dragons on both sides, it seemed, had been split roughly into two halves, just like the British had done at the battle of Shoeburyness: the 1st Squadron being one half with the very, very few dragons from the other Anglo-allied nations, the rest of the Aerial Corps the other. They spent hours alternating, outnumbered constantly, but still they fought, each side in deadlock. Several times both sides tried to dive on the other's lines, but each and every time they were thwarted. Lien and her Honour Guard had not shown up yet.

Although the Corps' half were losing dragons, mostly through capture, the 1st Squadron's half had the most losses, the majority deaths of Non-Captained dragons. First came Moncey: mauled to death by a Grand Chevalier. Minnow wasn't too long after that: she had drifted too far away from the main body and had been swarmed by several nearby Chasseur Vocifere. Reedly, Canterella, Dirigion, Laculla. Many more of his friends dead. Armatius had been too badly injured to continue, along with Majestatis. The 1st had gone from being about sixty five dragons to forty three; the Corps had been reduced from about seventy to fifty eight. Soon enough Lily's formation had been drafted into the 1st Squadron's half. The French dragons had been reduced from about one hundred and fifty to about one hundred and twenty. The odds were soon starting to even. If they were able to last a couple of hours they would be reinforced by the Prussian dragons and able to defeat the l'Armée de l'Air.

The battle on the ground had been raging for about two hours when everything changed. The exhausted 1st Squadron had come in to rest in the covert established about half a mile behind the Anglo-allied lines nearly half an hour earlier when the cry of "Wings to south-east! Celestial!" went up. Lien and her Honour Guard of four Petit Chevaliers were flying straight into the thick of it.

"Laurence!" he had shouted. He knew he couldn't not engage Lien, despite being tired and she fully rested. He felt it his duty, since none other had the Divine Wind.

"I'm here, my dear!" was Laurence's reply.

As quickly as he could he had gotten Laurence onto his back, ordered the 1st Squadron to "wait for the signal, do not follow me!" and had taken off, without his crew; the adrenaline pulsing through his body and the stew he had eaten not too long ago giving him the energy to race towards the Corps' frontlines to try and intercept Lien before she could unleash the Divine Wind.

It was not enough.

He was nearly two hundred and fifty feet from the front when Lien fell upon Mortiferus' formation of the Longwing and two Yellow Reapers. The two Reapers had tried to get in front of the Longwing in order to shield it from the main brunt of the attack but were too slow. The Divine Wind had smashed into the formation leader with deadly effect. Blood gushed out of the nostrils and mouth, wings buckled and Mortiferus fell, impacting a patch of empty ground with a loud crunch that was drowned out by the roar of artillery. The two Yellow Reapers were also hit but nowhere near damaged to such extent; they retreated to the covert for medical attention.

The Aerial battle stalled somewhat, all shocked by what had happened. He had used this to his advantage and powered through the British lines, smashing into Lien before she could use the Divine Wind again.

His memory is fuzzy after that moment. All he can remember is both himself and Lien ordering those around not to interfere; the dark, warm, sticky blood that covered them both; the pain that flashed through him every time Lien landed a blow on him; the roars that didn't quite utilise the Divine Wind; and the faint cry of "the Prussians are here!" followed by cheering after what had seemed like hours.

He was sagging, exhausted, unable to continue fighting and he had known it. Laurence had known it also, for he had cried out for him to return to the covert and rest. But he couldn't, he had told himself, he had to finish off Lien once and for all. She too was tiring and if he retreated she could get away and cause more mischief in the future.

Oh, how he wished he had taken Laurence's advice.

After shouting out some orders to the French dragons, Lien attacked. As quickly as he could he had back-winged from the blow that was aimed at his head and prepared to attack the white dragoness, but before he could she struck forward again, her jaws around his neck, not strong enough to pierce the scales and rip out his throat but still enough to throttle.

He had tried to struggle out of her grip, but was too weak. Before he could enter the darkness of unconsciousness, and then the coldness of death, however, he had felt someone—Laurence— jump off his shoulder. The sound of a gun shot followed not long after, along with the pressure from his neck being released. When his vision had cleared somewhat he could see a pile of white with a large red splotch falling through the air before crashing into a battalion of French troops.

Exhaustion finally caught up with him then and his wings gave out. He remembers crashing into another dragon before impacting the ground and the single wrenching thought that ran through his mind before falling into unconsciousness:

Laurence didn't jump back.

He was quickly brought out of his sombre remembrance by the slight tap on his leg by Commodore Henshaw to remind him that the two minutes were up.

"Squadrons dismissed!" His loud voice echoed through the silent clearings of Dover. As soon as he finished speaking the air was abuzz with the noise of hundreds of dragons and aviators moving about and flying away.

"Admiral Temeraire, Sir?"

He quickly brought his head down to look at the dark haired human. "Yes Mr. Henshaw?"

"Would you like to come for a flight with me and Minimus, Sir?"

"I thank you for the offer but I think I will go to my pavilion instead in order to rest before my meeting with the Prime Minister at four O'clock."

"Yes, Sir."

As he settled down in his pavilion he couldn't help but think about his achievements in his long life with no Laurence by his side. He was unequivocally important in establishing Dragon Rights. He had become the first dragon in history, during World War One, to become an Admiral, or the equivalent rank. Near the beginning of World War Two he had helped to establish the Admiralty of Dragons, made up of both aviators and dragons alike; one year later he became Admiral of the Air. Six months after America joined the war he became Supreme Leader of All Dragon Forces. He had published a successful novel, entitled Ruler of the Skies, as well as many pieces of poetry. He had helped found the education of dragon hatchlings.

He was a well know figure of history, influential in the creation of the modern day society. He was studied by students and professors alike. He was respected by a great many.

And yet, despite all he had achieved, all the greatness he had received, he still thought his early years of life with his Captain by his side were the greatest. And he would give everything up, if it meant that he would be able to spend one more day with his beloved Laurence.

Laurence, I hope you are proud of me.

Dedicated to those who serve(d) their country, and the families left behind when they don't return home.

A/N: Tell me what you think.

Until we meet again.

W-S.