FRay

It hadn’t been an unfamiliar scent.

The acrid smell of burning rot and smouldering sickness had long since made a home of his olfactory nerve to sneak down, unbeknownst to its war-scorned possessor, into his very soul.

He couldn’t tell you how he’d survived. There is, of course, no explanation. No sooner had the propellers of the plane been blown clean off, than the great machine had dropped from the sky like a lead weight.

Even now, he can’t recall whether it’d been screams or the rush of the wind that’d deafened him so, but his ears are still ringing. Will be for quite some time, he knows.

No one who hasn’t experienced it for themselves will ever know just what great kindling for fires bodies make. No one who hasn’t stood witness to the hellish gore will ever have to work through the devastation it lays on one’s mind.

Which is the main reason Edmund can’t sleep.

“Morning! Er, Mr Soldier, sir? Hello! Morning!”

He gets himself upright gingerly, exhaustion and pain weighing him down.

This is greeted by a snicker and the sound of old and heavy wood scraping along carpet.

At his door is a woman–– Nay, a girl. She cannot be older than 20. Hair long and tumbling down her shoulders in messy curls, sun-bleached from near-black to a coppery auburn in places, and skin definitely tanned, she cuts a rather carefree picture leaning against his door frame.

Around her neck hangs a wax-string necklace adorned with a piece of dull red and heavy-looking sea glass and she appears to be wearing a pale blue men’s work shirt tucked into fitted trousers.

All in all, not the worst wakeup he’s had to suffer through.

She’s smiling at him, amusement alight on her face and a glint of… something in her eye.

He tears his eyes away from her for an assessment of himself this time and finds a very erect protrusion tenting the bedding near his crotch area. Face aflame and blood rushing in his ears, he yanks a pillow out from behind himself and shoves it over his traitorous member.

This makes her laugh – a full, musical sound. She doesn’t even bother looking embarrassed or giving him any privacy; choosing instead to make him face the ordeal of speaking to her in his current mortification.

“I’ve been sent to inquire about clothes. Do you need any? Have you any civilian garments you’d like washed?” The eyes of molten gold trapped in amber resting on his blue are clear and direct, though the amusement does not fade from the lines around her pretty mouth.

“N-none with me, I’m afraid. The plan was always to fly back to base after my drop-off, but since I never made it that far…” he trails off, forcing his blood circulation back under control. He’s not a hormonal adolescent, for God’s sake. Besides, it’s only been a year––

Good Lord, has it been a year?

She nods exaggeratedly, as though his words only bore her. “We can send the boy for some. There ought to be something in the way of a meal in the kitchen. Follow the smell of burning pig fat. My name is Aures. If you require aid of any kind, do ring the bell at your bedside and I’m certain either Mummy or Daddy will assist.”

“I’m Edmund—” Bolton, he doesn’t finish as she promptly pushes away from the doorframe and disappears down the corridor beyond.

The curt, pretty girl – Aures, he reminds himself – on his mind, Edmund takes a moment to gather himself.

Truthfully, he’s not too severely injured. Well, not physically. His pride is another matter altogether.

After the frankly cowardly way he’d abandoned the downed medical plane he’d been flying to London, he doubts he’s going to feel 100% with himself for a while.

It’s not as if he’d intended to let four people die horrible and gruesome deaths at the behest of a fighter jet toting enough artillery to sink several battleships, turning all the crew and cargo into Swiss cheese.

Honestly, he should never have offered to fly the damned thing in the first place. He doesn’t even have a pilot’s licence. He’s had three months’ training, for crying out loud! And now four men are dead because he’d been obnoxious.

He almost doesn’t want to get back in touch with his CO; doesn’t know what he’d tell him. Not that he even knows how he’d contact anyone from here. An island barely bug enough to make a map is no place the military would ever even consider looking.

The kitchen does indeed smell of bangers when he finds his way to it.

At the table is the kindly man from the day before, reading the paper over a finished plate and looking like he’s been up a while. A quick glance about the place reveals a clock on the mantel above what appears to be an old cooking grate. It’s nearing 1 PM.

Edmund had been out for almost 24 hours.

“Edmund Bolton,” the kind man says, his voice warm and gentle, betraying the smile on his face before Edmund has the chance to see it. “We hadn’t expected you awake before this evening, dear boy! Are you rested up already?”

Edmund frowns at this. Hadn’t Aures said she’d been sent to ask about clothes…? Something in his gut has him feigning betterment instead of betraying her, however.

“I’d say almost a full day’s worth of sleep is enough, wouldn’t you?” He smiles at the man, probably Aures’ father, with his best and blankest smile.

“Well, then have a seat, son. Have a seat! We’ll get some food in you and then maybe you can tell us a bit more about yourself, eh?”

His accent, leaning more towards what Edmund reckons is Welsh, is curious, as it is not shared by his daughter, who has a very clear, very pronounced RP inflection.

Mr Wynne gestures for him to take the chair at the opposite end of the table while he rises to dish up. Edmund wants to stop him, to offer to dish up for himself, but right then is when Aures chooses to make a reappearance.

Her hair is windswept and her face caked generously in something rather akin to…

“Is that blood?” Edmund can’t stop himself from asking.

“Found the fox near the henhouse again. It won’t be back,” she announces to no one in particular.

“Did we lose any more of the fowl?” Mr Wynne asks, suddenly brisk and adamant to look anywhere but at his gore-streaked daughter.

If Aures notices, she appears unperturbed. “No. I also think Millie is rather close to hatching her chicks. She seemed quite adamant to remain seated through the ordeal.”

Mr Wynne sets a plate down in front of Edmund, along with a cup of tea.

To Aures he hands a separate cup before saying, “Well, that’s good, at least. Now, would you mind going to inform your mother that our guest has risen and then perhaps do something about the blood on your clothes before it sets? If any more of your things perish to bloodstains, I am certain your mother will have a conniption.”

With an exasperated sigh, she takes her cup of tea with her as she trudges up the corridor.

“Oh, dear,” Mr Wynne says, then, eyes on Edmund. “You mustn’t pay Aures too much mind. She’s a wilful, rambunctious girl and quite fearless, but she’s been acting out as of late. Marion and I, we aren’t quite sure what to do with her. Best to let sleeping dogs lie for now, I reckon.”

Edmund nods like he understands perfectly, around his frankly vicious consumption of the food before him. He hadn’t realised just how hungry he is and now he’s almost scared he might chew clean through the cutlery.

Mr Wynne only smiles at him, something like fondness in his eyes. Or maybe Edmund just misses his own parents. It’s hard to tell around these utterly delicious eggs.

“Mr Bolton!” a kindly female voice calls from the doorway. “So good to see you about. Gave us quite a turn yesterday.”

The woman, voice as curiously clear of her husband’s Welsh persuasion as her daughter’s, comes to sit down and now Edmund can see the familial resemblance: Aures has a lot of her mother in her, especially the directness of her gaze, despite the differing eye colour. Mrs Wynne has eyes the same deep arctic blue as the Atlantic, but with her soft clothes and her hair curling as messily as her daughter’s, Edmund finds he likes her just as much as her husband.

“Sorry about that,” Edmund apologises earnestly, momentarily ceasing his assault on his meal. “Got quite a scare myself when my propeller got blown off. I was just grateful to find you.”

“Of course, dear boy. So glad we could help. Tell me, is there anything you’re wanting for? Aures mentioned something about clothes?”

He won’t ever admit it, but having Mrs Wynne fussing over him is enough to send him back into his panicked crying from the day before. He’s not yet sure whether the intense reaction is out of fear or guilt. Truthfully, he’d rather not think about it too much.

“She went through his things?” Mr Wynne is saying, then.

The deep frown on his face is absolute disapproval, without a hint of disbelief.

“Apparently, she woke him up to ask,” Mrs Wynne shares.

“I was awake already,” Edmund puts in, no idea what’s spurring him on to defend the Wynnes’ daughter.

“She still had no right to bother you until you were ready to leave your room,” Mr Wynne insists, just as Aures takes a seat to Edmund’s right.

Mr Wynne turns to berate her, and Edmund’s blood chills at the lack of compassion in her father’s eyes.

“Aures, why on earth would you invade the man’s privacy? He has just been through a major trauma and needs his rest! What possessed you, silly girl?”

“No, Mr Wynne. It real––”

Aures glares him into silence before turning calmly back to her parents and saying in the most matter-of-fact tone, “I went to ask about necessities out of politeness, the way Mother has taught me. If this was a gross misinterpretation of the concept then I apologise, as Mother’s also taught me.”

In the ensuing silence, all Edmund can immediately note is that she does not sound sorry in the slightest. Aures is like no one he’s ever met, but he’s yet to figure out if that’s necessarily bad.

Her parents and Edmund quite speechless, Aures hops back to her feet.

“Sorry for disturbing the consecration of your personal space, Officer Bolton. I shan’t make that mistake again.”

She throws this comment over her shoulder on her way out the back door, grabbing sunglasses from the counter as she goes.

“She’s an odd duck,” Mrs Wynne tries to smooth over, but does not even herself sound convinced.

“I don’t know how long it will take for your people to come for you, but you are welcome to stay here as long as you like,” Mr Wynne says, then.

“Thank you, sir.” Edmund reaches out to shake his hand.

He does not, in fact, contact his CO that day. Instead, he mucks out the henhouse and lets Mrs Wynne correctly guess (uncannily so) his measurements for clothes.