Metal Birds

Chapter 61: Changed

London, England, May 8 1944

He found himself in what was once his bedchamber. Small, a spare room, and all that he needed. The cot sat, cold and empty where it had resided pressed against the window and the right wall. A small, long retired vanity creaking as it decided whether or not it should come crashing to the ground. 

In the last seven years, he hadn't set foot here. At least, not to sleep. 

Newspaper clippings clung to the walls, sketches and notes and photographs framing a watercolor painting of somewhere quiet. Two tattered books -more like pamphlets- sat on the edge of the vanity to keep it from falling. An old copy of Sherlock Holmes, and a thin paged Pride and Prejudice. He'd read them through many times. A bin of papers, blank, sat under the vanity. Some had spread themselves to the floor. His bottom clothes drawer was left open from the last time he had been there, gathering his things. Retrieving a long broken radio, now replaced by the one at his hip. It had been bestowed the same shoulder strap as the previous. 

It was cold in there. He found himself shifting from foot to foot, his wings moving about him as if to block out the chill. It snaked through the holes and patches in his uniform, raking tiny pinprick claws across his nose and cheeks, filtering through the oaken window. It now hung sideways from the force of an explosion during the bombings. 

He could see nails and splinters and roof tiles, bits of them sticking out of what was once the outward facing shutter. 

Oh, how things had changed. 

He drifted inside. 

Arthur turned to the mirror. It was cracked, and the edges were beginning to become infested with mildew. 

Dark circles resided under his eyes. The scar beneath his left eye remained, a series of round, blister like marks now turned pale pink and peach. It wouldn't leave. His skin was a fading tone of tan, and his freckles seemed more obvious now than ever. His face was roundish, still thin. Tired looking. Dilapidated. His hair was wild, unkempt, and likely needed to be cut. His feathers were far better kept, his wings smooth and soft looking to the touch. The dark pairs of stripes were evident along the ends of his wings when he lifted them. Like a sea bird. His whole demeanor was quiet and uncomfortably content. 

He didn't know what to think. He had changed. 

For better, or for worse, he did not know. 

Arthur's eyes drifted to the rosary about his neck. It never left its place now, and he kept it there. He didn't want it anywhere else. In a way, he felt closer to Marie. 

He forced himself to take a step, one more, and finally sit on the edge of the bed. He put his head in his hands, and took a breath, his wings settling to lay on either side of the bed. 

Today was they day they had decided. There was a date now. June fourth, or the fifth, or the sixth. June fourth, fifth or sixth was to be the day they returned to France. Everything lined up perfectly. Low tides to spot underwater defenses, a a full moon to illuminate obstacles for the incoming paratroopers. He had received letters of confirmation from his brothers and Aarav. Alfred wasn't sure if he would be able to be there, with what was happening in the Pacific. He said he would try to be there for the first few days, but he couldn't leave for long. Leaving Jett alone would be no good. 

He wondered if he was going to see his training platoon again. 

It was almost an overwhelming thought. It was going to happen, finally. 

Arthur took a small breath and turned to the window. The view was collapsed. It wasn't the same. He definately didn't like that. 

Arthur found himself leaning against the back wall, taking a breath. He closed his eyes for a moment. 

"Are you alright in there?"

Dylan's voice sounded, and he found it almost startling compared to the silence that had been held before. Arthur blinked, his head turning to see his brother in the doorway. He looked exhausted, almost sickly due to the fact that the most recent aerial attacks had been in Wales. 

"Yeah." Arthur started quietly. 

Dylan went silent, staring about the place. His hand remained on the door frame, his lips pursed and his wings against the floor. 

"It's tiny."

"Yeah." This was accompanied by a small nod. 

"Do you ever miss it? The way things were before?" 

"All the time."

"You know... the woman, the old woman who cooked for me... she died." 

"...oh. I'm sorry, Dylan."

"No, no. It's alright. We both knew she had it coming. It's just... it makes you think about how much things have changed."

"I wouldn't walk up to your doorstep to save my life, wouldn't I?"

"No. Well, now maybe."

"Heh... maybe."

They went quiet. After a moment, Arthur spoke. 

"So... are you coming with us on the fifth?"

"Yeah. Its the whole lot of us. And your friends."

"We're supposed to be going in with the paratroopers the night before the big attack. So be ready by then."

"I'm always ready. Be sure to be back by dinner, alright?"

"Alright."

Before he could add anything, Dylan had vanished in a limp in the other direction. Away from the place. 

Arthur took a breath, and hoped inwardly that when it was over, he might come back to the place. To sit in the bell tower, and walk down the hall with Joshua, and read the mail with Elizabeth, and cook with Josie and Teresa. Because inwardly, he knew that was all he needed. 

Peace.