Welly Fic: Give me Wings to Fly
NAME: Give me Wings to Fly
PAIRING: Wellington/Virgil
RATING: PG, Pre-Slash
WORD COUNT: 1450
WARNINGS: Crack, sexual innuendo
DISCLAIMER: My knowledge of Christianity and Virgil himself is kind of vague, so apologies if this offends anyone. I don't know if Wellington and Virgil ever had this conversation, but both were real people, so my hats are off to them, Wellington in particular.
SUMMARY: Virgil meets the Duke of Wellington. The question of wings is paramount.
NOTES: Written for latin_cat for her birthday, and also to commemorate the 158th year of Sir Arthur's passing, on September 14th. This was originally planned for his birthday in May, but I didn't have time to finish it. My first attempt at Welly fic, and the first time in a long time I've written something other than angst. No beta, because I didn't want to subject anyone to this craziness.
Please excuse the Dante. I have no idea what I was consuming when I wrote this.
*********************************
The message arrived as I was receiving a delightful back massage from my favourite lady, Livia Drusilla. Marsilius, my attendant, passed me the papyrus scroll. The wax seal and gold leaf left no question as to its origin.
I frowned in annoyance. This was supposed to be my day off, damn it! My current state of dissipation, and the warm rose-scented olive oil being lathered on my skin, was not exactly conductive to receiving and acting on a missive such as this.
Sighing, I unfurled the parchment. The message of the flowery script was more reticent than usual:
Virgilius -
Frontier. Now.
He is coming.
“Marsilius!” I called, throwing the scroll into the brazier.
“Yes, My Lord?”
“Did the Pope just die?”
“Not that I know of, My Lord.”
“Thank you.” I smiled up at him. “I need to go out for a few hours, but will you attend to me tonight?”
“It will be my pleasure.” His beautiful green eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Good. Julia my dear, that will be enough. Yes, I know my wings haven’t been brushed in two hours, but this is quite urgent. HE never sends such abrupt messages; whoever it is that just entered our gates must be someone of great importance. The greatest poet to have ever lived doesn’t get called to babysit anyone.”
Julia rolled her eyes and slapped the back of my head with her wings.
***
Ten minutes later I was trudging up a little path in a delightful field somewhere in northern Europe, though wish part precisely I did not know. My feet ached and I cursed the stupid law that prohibited flying, hovering and any other non-corporeal actions that may startle new arrivals. Apparently, one of the first cases that St Peter had to deal with was a man who had an unnatural fear of birds. Poor sod apparently decided he would rather go to hell than go any near St Peter.
I finally reached my destination, a conical, unnatural green hillock that dominated the idyllic rural landscape. There were some ugly looking sheep grazing nearby, and a few farmhouses scattered here and there amongst the odd cluster of trees. The man I had been sent to meet was sitting cross-legged on top of the hillock. His precise movements and the set of his shoulders immediately proclaimed him to be from the military. He was probably another one of those trigger-happy generals with not much in the brain in terms of intelligence or common sense. I sighed and started the long climb upwards. How boring!
The man stood warily when I finally surmounted the top, a little flushed and breathless and my hair in the most terrible state.
“Greetings, friend,” I gasped, clutching at my abdomen. “Thou, worthy warrior, hath arrived at His domain by way of your virtuous life and cleansed of your earthly sins. I am thy guide, and I am he who was Virgilius, sent to receive you.”
The man gave a little bow. “The Duke of Wellington, at your service.”
I’ve been listening to too much Hard Metal, I realised. “I’m sorry? What did you just - ”
“Sir Arthur Wellesley,” he provided.
I stared incredulously at the old man before me. “By Gabriel’s feathers! THE Duke of Wellington?”
The man smiled sardonically.
I laughed. “What a great honour it is to finally meet you, your Grace!”
The Duke looked bemused at my gushing enthusiasm. In my excitement, I had accidentally lost control of my human projection and reverted back to my true form. That was embarrassing. I haven’t done that since my second decade here.
The Duke stared at my flapping wings. “Considering the circumstances...”
“Your Grace is aware where he is?”
Wellington gave me a hard stare. “I am dead, yes? This is why I’m in bloody Belgium again.”
I looked around the surrounding countryside, and recognised the farmhouses from before as Hougoumont and La Haye Sainte. I grinned. “AH! I thought it looked familiar.”
Wellington frowned. “You didn’t put me here?”
“Your own subconscious recreated this place, your Grace. Now that your mind and soul are free from physical bounds… you can manipulate your surroundings to suit your inclination.”
Wellington looked impressed. “How about my appearance? This - “ he gestured to his face - “Victoria - poor darling she must be so upset at this moment - calls it distinguished but I look as ugly as sin.”
“How old do you think I was when I died?” I answered.
Wellington’s face brightened and his features screwed up into a look of intense concentration. Within seconds, the dry, scabby, venous skin had smoothed out and gained elasticity; his hair grew back and regained its mousy colour. The eyes - that piercing blue iris imbued with decades of wisdom and experience - suddenly lost its tired, clouded appearance and filled with a youthful sparkle.
“Impressive,” he said, looking at his reflection in a tall mirror that had suddenly appeared before us. “I could really grow to like this whole death business.”
I was startled by how quickly this man had grasped the methods of transformation. Usually it would take a week, or even a fortnight, depending on the intelligence of the person. But with Wellington… well, they don’t call him England’s greatest soldier for no reason.
“Clothes?” he asked, brushing his teeth. “Is there a dress code or something?”
“Pure whites only on formal occasions. The rest of the time, you can wear whatever you like… or nothing at all.”
Wellington grunted. “Good.” Within minutes, he was sporting black pants, leather boots, white shirt and cravat, along with a beautifully cut and fitted dark coat. It suited him very well and he looked quite the early 19th century gentleman.
I licked my lips in appreciation. “Very nice.”
Wellington shrugged deprecatingly. “It’s what I like. Anything else? Wings?” He gave my appendages a pointed, almost admiring, look.
“I’m so delighted you asked!” I declared with a smile.
“Oh?”
“I am - have been for the past fifteen thousand years - involved in the trials of every new model produced by the Trans-Ether Wings Corporation. I can make some suggestions, if you like.”
He nodded coolly. I flexed my back muscles and a slightly wider wing with a more serrated edge replaced my custom one. “You can change different aspects of the model to tailor more specificity for yourself, particularly wingspan and…”
“Too ostentatious,” said Wellington, waving his arms dismissively.
I changed again. “This?”
“You expect ME to fly around with feathers shaped like love hearts?”
“How about this one?”
“You look like a half-plucked chicken.”
And so it went, model after model. The Duke was a picky customer and quite particular in his tastes. I was starting to run out of options - and patience - when I thought of something that might appeal to someone of his nature.
It was a model developed by Leonardo a few centuries ago - slightly smaller than most wings, but quite elegant nonetheless. Relaxed, it was about half the physical body size in vertical length, but once that is extended, it is about two to two-and-half meters, with a wingspan of about six meters. It’s an unassuming and deceptively strong looking pair of wings, but not many people use it. I don’t know how many times I’ve told the new arrives. It’s not the size that counts; it’s how you use it.
Wellington appraised it and nodded firmly. “I want that one. How do I think it into existence?”
“Strip.”
Wellington blushed.
“I’m serious,” I said in what I hoped was an even tone. “I need to see your back muscles.”
The Duke shrugged and his forehead furrowed in concentration. It only took him a matter of seconds before he was bare before me and I was able to admire his lean, almost sinewy, figure. I took my time guiding him through the steps to adding his own wings. I pointed out muscle groups, nerves, and blood vessels that must be added to support the extra weight, which is almost a quarter of his current body weight. If I keep my hands against his skin for a little longer than was perhaps necessary, Wellington didn’t comment. In what seemed like no time at all, it was all done and I stepped back to view the results.
He was smiling shyly, forearms wrapped around elbows as he tried to balance himself against the added weight of the wings. I nodded my encouragement and he hesitantly started to move, extending and flexing his wings as he learned to use those unfamiliar muscles and bones.
I watched him try a variety of movements and admired the increasing grace and power of his wing beats. Sir Arthur Wellesley made a fine specimen of an angel. By the time word gets around that he had arrived, he will be swamped with past acquaintances and my role will be over, something I found quite unsettling. Slowly a plan began to form in my mind and I grinned at the simplicity of it. Perhaps I should do the friendly neighbour thing and invite him over for dinner, wine, music, and then… well, who knows what might happen after?
© Sir Thomas Lawrence
PAIRING: Wellington/Virgil
RATING: PG, Pre-Slash
WORD COUNT: 1450
WARNINGS: Crack, sexual innuendo
DISCLAIMER: My knowledge of Christianity and Virgil himself is kind of vague, so apologies if this offends anyone. I don't know if Wellington and Virgil ever had this conversation, but both were real people, so my hats are off to them, Wellington in particular.
SUMMARY: Virgil meets the Duke of Wellington. The question of wings is paramount.
NOTES: Written for latin_cat for her birthday, and also to commemorate the 158th year of Sir Arthur's passing, on September 14th. This was originally planned for his birthday in May, but I didn't have time to finish it. My first attempt at Welly fic, and the first time in a long time I've written something other than angst. No beta, because I didn't want to subject anyone to this craziness.
Please excuse the Dante. I have no idea what I was consuming when I wrote this.
*********************************
The message arrived as I was receiving a delightful back massage from my favourite lady, Livia Drusilla. Marsilius, my attendant, passed me the papyrus scroll. The wax seal and gold leaf left no question as to its origin.
I frowned in annoyance. This was supposed to be my day off, damn it! My current state of dissipation, and the warm rose-scented olive oil being lathered on my skin, was not exactly conductive to receiving and acting on a missive such as this.
Sighing, I unfurled the parchment. The message of the flowery script was more reticent than usual:
Virgilius -
Frontier. Now.
He is coming.
“Marsilius!” I called, throwing the scroll into the brazier.
“Yes, My Lord?”
“Did the Pope just die?”
“Not that I know of, My Lord.”
“Thank you.” I smiled up at him. “I need to go out for a few hours, but will you attend to me tonight?”
“It will be my pleasure.” His beautiful green eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Good. Julia my dear, that will be enough. Yes, I know my wings haven’t been brushed in two hours, but this is quite urgent. HE never sends such abrupt messages; whoever it is that just entered our gates must be someone of great importance. The greatest poet to have ever lived doesn’t get called to babysit anyone.”
Julia rolled her eyes and slapped the back of my head with her wings.
***
Ten minutes later I was trudging up a little path in a delightful field somewhere in northern Europe, though wish part precisely I did not know. My feet ached and I cursed the stupid law that prohibited flying, hovering and any other non-corporeal actions that may startle new arrivals. Apparently, one of the first cases that St Peter had to deal with was a man who had an unnatural fear of birds. Poor sod apparently decided he would rather go to hell than go any near St Peter.
I finally reached my destination, a conical, unnatural green hillock that dominated the idyllic rural landscape. There were some ugly looking sheep grazing nearby, and a few farmhouses scattered here and there amongst the odd cluster of trees. The man I had been sent to meet was sitting cross-legged on top of the hillock. His precise movements and the set of his shoulders immediately proclaimed him to be from the military. He was probably another one of those trigger-happy generals with not much in the brain in terms of intelligence or common sense. I sighed and started the long climb upwards. How boring!
The man stood warily when I finally surmounted the top, a little flushed and breathless and my hair in the most terrible state.
“Greetings, friend,” I gasped, clutching at my abdomen. “Thou, worthy warrior, hath arrived at His domain by way of your virtuous life and cleansed of your earthly sins. I am thy guide, and I am he who was Virgilius, sent to receive you.”
The man gave a little bow. “The Duke of Wellington, at your service.”
I’ve been listening to too much Hard Metal, I realised. “I’m sorry? What did you just - ”
“Sir Arthur Wellesley,” he provided.
I stared incredulously at the old man before me. “By Gabriel’s feathers! THE Duke of Wellington?”
The man smiled sardonically.
I laughed. “What a great honour it is to finally meet you, your Grace!”
The Duke looked bemused at my gushing enthusiasm. In my excitement, I had accidentally lost control of my human projection and reverted back to my true form. That was embarrassing. I haven’t done that since my second decade here.
The Duke stared at my flapping wings. “Considering the circumstances...”
“Your Grace is aware where he is?”
Wellington gave me a hard stare. “I am dead, yes? This is why I’m in bloody Belgium again.”
I looked around the surrounding countryside, and recognised the farmhouses from before as Hougoumont and La Haye Sainte. I grinned. “AH! I thought it looked familiar.”
Wellington frowned. “You didn’t put me here?”
“Your own subconscious recreated this place, your Grace. Now that your mind and soul are free from physical bounds… you can manipulate your surroundings to suit your inclination.”
Wellington looked impressed. “How about my appearance? This - “ he gestured to his face - “Victoria - poor darling she must be so upset at this moment - calls it distinguished but I look as ugly as sin.”
“How old do you think I was when I died?” I answered.
Wellington’s face brightened and his features screwed up into a look of intense concentration. Within seconds, the dry, scabby, venous skin had smoothed out and gained elasticity; his hair grew back and regained its mousy colour. The eyes - that piercing blue iris imbued with decades of wisdom and experience - suddenly lost its tired, clouded appearance and filled with a youthful sparkle.
“Impressive,” he said, looking at his reflection in a tall mirror that had suddenly appeared before us. “I could really grow to like this whole death business.”
I was startled by how quickly this man had grasped the methods of transformation. Usually it would take a week, or even a fortnight, depending on the intelligence of the person. But with Wellington… well, they don’t call him England’s greatest soldier for no reason.
“Clothes?” he asked, brushing his teeth. “Is there a dress code or something?”
“Pure whites only on formal occasions. The rest of the time, you can wear whatever you like… or nothing at all.”
Wellington grunted. “Good.” Within minutes, he was sporting black pants, leather boots, white shirt and cravat, along with a beautifully cut and fitted dark coat. It suited him very well and he looked quite the early 19th century gentleman.
I licked my lips in appreciation. “Very nice.”
Wellington shrugged deprecatingly. “It’s what I like. Anything else? Wings?” He gave my appendages a pointed, almost admiring, look.
“I’m so delighted you asked!” I declared with a smile.
“Oh?”
“I am - have been for the past fifteen thousand years - involved in the trials of every new model produced by the Trans-Ether Wings Corporation. I can make some suggestions, if you like.”
He nodded coolly. I flexed my back muscles and a slightly wider wing with a more serrated edge replaced my custom one. “You can change different aspects of the model to tailor more specificity for yourself, particularly wingspan and…”
“Too ostentatious,” said Wellington, waving his arms dismissively.
I changed again. “This?”
“You expect ME to fly around with feathers shaped like love hearts?”
“How about this one?”
“You look like a half-plucked chicken.”
And so it went, model after model. The Duke was a picky customer and quite particular in his tastes. I was starting to run out of options - and patience - when I thought of something that might appeal to someone of his nature.
It was a model developed by Leonardo a few centuries ago - slightly smaller than most wings, but quite elegant nonetheless. Relaxed, it was about half the physical body size in vertical length, but once that is extended, it is about two to two-and-half meters, with a wingspan of about six meters. It’s an unassuming and deceptively strong looking pair of wings, but not many people use it. I don’t know how many times I’ve told the new arrives. It’s not the size that counts; it’s how you use it.
Wellington appraised it and nodded firmly. “I want that one. How do I think it into existence?”
“Strip.”
Wellington blushed.
“I’m serious,” I said in what I hoped was an even tone. “I need to see your back muscles.”
The Duke shrugged and his forehead furrowed in concentration. It only took him a matter of seconds before he was bare before me and I was able to admire his lean, almost sinewy, figure. I took my time guiding him through the steps to adding his own wings. I pointed out muscle groups, nerves, and blood vessels that must be added to support the extra weight, which is almost a quarter of his current body weight. If I keep my hands against his skin for a little longer than was perhaps necessary, Wellington didn’t comment. In what seemed like no time at all, it was all done and I stepped back to view the results.
He was smiling shyly, forearms wrapped around elbows as he tried to balance himself against the added weight of the wings. I nodded my encouragement and he hesitantly started to move, extending and flexing his wings as he learned to use those unfamiliar muscles and bones.
I watched him try a variety of movements and admired the increasing grace and power of his wing beats. Sir Arthur Wellesley made a fine specimen of an angel. By the time word gets around that he had arrived, he will be swamped with past acquaintances and my role will be over, something I found quite unsettling. Slowly a plan began to form in my mind and I grinned at the simplicity of it. Perhaps I should do the friendly neighbour thing and invite him over for dinner, wine, music, and then… well, who knows what might happen after?
© Sir Thomas Lawrence