au: pro patria mori

darthfar  asked:

Strikhedonia. ;) Temeraire. Or, if you're up to it, Temeraire x Les Mis crossover!

Strikhedonia— the pleasure of being able to say ‘to hell with it.’ (From this AU.)

“Orders to fly to Algeria?” Lieutenant Courfeyrac looked at his father in mute disbelief. “What?”

"The dey hit our ambassador in the face with a fan three years ago,” said Admiral de Courfeyrac, tapping out a military tattoo on the pommel of his sword. He was more agitated than Courfeyrac ever remembered his father being. 

"I’m sure he deserved it,” retorted Lieutenant Courfeyrac.

“Careful now, or I’ll cite you for insubordination!”

A low rumble came from outside the building, and an enormous reptilian eye blinked at the window. “He’s still too newly out of the egg for you to send him to Algiers.”

“Phèdre, my treasure, I am not sending Patria in the first wave.” Admiral de Courfeyrac stalked over to the map of the Mediterranean on the wall. “It’s a good plan for invasion, developed under Napoleon in 1808, much better than anything Charles X could come up with. It’s what, June now? We’ll be in Algiers in three, four weeks. Then Patria will fly over to keep watch over the city while our division pursues the Turkish dragons. A very safe assignment indeed.” The Admiral turned and abruptly mussed Lieutenant Courfeyrac’s curls, just because he knew how much it annoyed his son. “Nepotisim and favoritism at its best, eh?”

“I’ll hand in my commission!” threatened Lieutenant Courfeyrac, darting away from his father.   

“No you won’t." Phèdre let out a low rumbling laugh. “You are breed to the service, you will not leave it. Learn now, egg, that part of being in the service is obeying orders we do not agree with because they are orders. And if Patria wishes to protest with all the force of her Neo-Jacobin rhetoric, she may come to me to be set straight. Go inform your captain and await for our call.”

"You heard the lady.” Admiral de Courfeyrac play-shoved his son out the door. “Await orders and prepare for Algeria! Buy a hat, it’s very sunny there.”

“I have a hat,” replied his indignant son. “Er, had.”

“Buy several.”

Lieutenant Courfeyrac was sulkily counting the ten hats his father had ordered on his behalf when two messages arrived for Captain Enjolras. Marius Pontmercy, on his little courier dragon, arrived with a message from Admiral de Courfeyrac in Algiers, along with a note for Lieutenant Courfeyrac reading, “Get over here boy.” The runner, Gavroche, came with the second, while Lieutenant Courfeyrac was still scowling over the first.  

Captain Enjolras quietly held out his hand to Gavroche, as Marius fought with his courier dragon (“No, Josephine, you must not headbutt Patria, it will end badly for you!”). He read the note with quiet attention, and a stillness so profound that Lieutenant Courfeyrac began fidgeting on his behalf. 

“We have orders to go to Algeria,” said Lieutenant Courfeyrac, waving the unopened packet.

“And I have news that the printers have risen in revolt of Charles X’s ordinances against freedom of the press.” Captain Enjolras smiled broadly. “Patria, what do you say about our orders to Algeria?”

“To hell with it,” replied Patria. “I much prefer a revolution.”

pilferingapples  asked:

I always want to read more of your Les Mis Temeraire verse, if you're up for it! <3

Here’s something tenlittlebullets and I wrote years ago. It was meant to be a chapter but we never fleshed it out. Background– Captain Enjolras et all are being punished for their republicanism by really grueling training, random court appointments to their officer list, and a surprise battle against a bunch of monarchists. Enjolras is captain of Patria, Sadi Carnot is captain of Messidor, and Musichetta is captain of Manfred. They fight and train together. 

Keep reading

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!– An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.–
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,–
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

— 

Wilfred Owen/ Dulce Et Decorum Est

One of my favorite poems EVER.